After settling the affairs of his domain, Eddard set out for the Wall with several of his most trusted household knights.
Along the way, he met up with his younger brother Benjen, and together they continued north.
There was only one purpose to this journey.
To see Maester Aemon.
Jon’s recurring dreams, together with the white dragon’s recent strange behavior, had made Eddard realize that he needed to understand exactly what connection existed between Targaryen blood and dragons.
And in all of Westeros, there was likely only one man capable of answering that question.
An old man who had lived for nearly a century.
Long before Eddard Stark was born, Aemon Targaryen had already become a Maester of the Night’s Watch.
Few in the Seven Kingdoms knew that the blind old man who had spent so many years secluded at Castle Black, surrounded by yellowed ancient books and ravens, carried within him some of the purest Targaryen royal blood in all of Westeros.
Half a century earlier, during the Great Council that decided the succession to the throne, he had been given the chance to wear the crown and sit upon the Iron Throne that countless men coveted.
But he refused.
He cast aside the honors of a Prince and the supreme power that lay within his grasp, willingly donned the black, and chose to spend the rest of his life upon the Wall, frozen beneath an endless winter.
Decades of bitter wind and snow had long since buried the events of those days.
The world had forgotten “Prince Aemon.” All that remained was a frail, stooped, blind old man.
…
The top floor of the Maester’s tower.
Dry pine logs burned quietly in the hearth, occasionally giving off a sharp crackle.
The cramped room smelled of old parchment, medicinal herbs, incense, and dried moss.
Benjen Stark stood in the shadows of the corridor with one hand resting on his sword, guarding the only way in.
After arriving, Eddard had used his authority as Lord to order the entire Maester’s tower sealed.
No one was permitted to approach without permission.
Lord Commander Mormont had asked no questions.
In The North, any secret grave enough to make the normally stern Eddard Stark take such precautions could hardly be a trivial matter.
Maester Aemon sat beside the hearth, warming himself by the fire.
The old man’s eyes had long since been covered by a gray-white film, leaving him almost entirely blind.
Though age had taken his sight, it had sharpened his hearing considerably.
When heavy boots struck the stone floor and snow slid softly from a cloak, Maester Aemon tilted his head.
“Mormont, have we a visitor?”
“Yes, Maester Aemon.”
Jeor Mormont rose and stepped aside.
“The Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark.”
A trace of puzzlement appeared on Aemon’s aged face.
He clearly had not expected his visitor to be Eddard Stark.
“Eddard Stark…”
He murmured the name, and memories surfaced of a Northern boy he had known many years ago, before the boy had even reached manhood.
“What brings you to Castle Black?”
Eddard removed the heavy cloak from his shoulders and shook the snow from it.
“Maester, there are certain matters I must ask you about in person.”
Eddard glanced around to make certain no one else was present, then spoke slowly and deliberately.
“Four years ago, at the Tower of Joy…
I found my sister Lyanna.
She left behind a child.”
“A boy.”
Eddard’s expression grew solemn as he revealed a secret capable of shaking the Seven Kingdoms.
“Rhaegar Targaryen’s own son.”
The room fell silent.
Standing beside Maester Aemon, Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear, drew in a sharp breath.
Rhaegar’s blood!
Rhaegar Targaryen, once heir to the Seven Kingdoms and ultimately slain during the War of the Usurper, had left behind a living son.
Maester Aemon shakily gripped the arm of his chair and pushed himself to his feet, his aged body trembling violently.
“You…
speak the truth?”
“I swear it by the Old Gods and by a thousand years of House Stark’s honor.”
Two trails of hot tears slipped from Aemon’s clouded eyes.
His voice trembled.
“The child…
what is his name?”
Eddard answered gravely, “Jaehaerys Targaryen.
He now lives at Winterfell as my bastard son.”
The old Maester nodded firmly, relief washing over his face.
Something within him that had long since turned to cold ash seemed to kindle again with the faintest spark.
“If you had come only to tell me about a Targaryen child, you would not have chosen this moment to do so,” Aemon said slowly.
“Because Jon was not the only miracle born that day…”
Eddard drew a deep breath, then spoke words that could plunge all of Westeros into fire once more.
“A dragon.”
“A dragon that hatched amid the flames and blood of the Tower of Joy…”
The revelation struck like a thunderbolt.
Jeor Mormont completely lost his composure, though he still struggled to keep his voice low.
“A dragon?!
That is impossible!
The last dragon died more than a hundred years ago!
How could another dragon have been born in Westeros?!”
Even Maester Aemon, who had weathered nearly a century of turmoil, froze as though struck by lightning, disbelief written plainly across his face.
“Where is it…
Where is it now?!” The old man’s voice rose with a sharpness that bordered on panic.
“I hid it deep within Gorne’s Way beneath the Wall.
There are scorching veins of magma there, along with hot springs and underground rivers.”
Eddard’s expression became grim.
“But now there is a problem…
Some kind of connection seems to have formed between it and Jon.”
“The dragon has grown restless.
It keeps calling out for something.”
“And recently, Jon has begun dreaming of it again and again.
In those dreams, he crosses a thousand miles and sees the dragon.
He can even feel the affection and attachment it holds for him, something that seems to come from the very depths of their blood!”
Eddard clenched his fists, his voice hoarse.
“Jon can remain hidden in The North under the identity of a bastard, but the dragon cannot!”
“It is growing at a terrifying pace.
If it ever appears before the world and people learn of its existence, I dare not imagine what might follow.”
Eddard stepped forward, his gaze fixed intently on the last great Targaryen scholar.
“Maester Aemon, I need to know why Targaryen blood can form a connection with dragons.”
“More importantly, I need to know how we can keep this from going any further.
I must protect that child.”
Aemon remained silent for a long time.
“According to records I once read, there is indeed some form of blood connection between dragons and the blood of the Dragonlords.” The old man paused.
“I would advise allowing them to meet as soon as possible.”
His voice was low and hoarse.
He said nothing further.
Eddard Stark looked at the old man and replied gravely, “I have considered the same thing.
Once Jon is a little older, I will bring him here and place him in your care.”
At the doorway, Benjen’s face remained half hidden between firelight and shadow.
Ever since learning the truth of what had happened at the Tower of Joy, guilt had weighed heavily upon him.
He had known about Rhaegar and Lyanna from the very beginning.
He had even helped conceal their relationship.
If he had stopped them then, perhaps Lyanna would not have died.
He knew such thoughts served no purpose now, yet he had never been able to let them go.
Listening to the muffled conversation from inside, he finally made his decision.
He pushed open the door.
“Ned, I intend to join the Night’s Watch.”
“That way, I can remain near the Wall.
Winterfell is simply too far from here.”
The room went quiet.
Eddard turned toward his younger brother and fell into thought.
Everyone present considered the proposal.
Mormont remained silent for a moment before speaking.
“If you require the help of the Night’s Watch, you need only ask.
But I must be certain that this dragon will not pose a threat to the Watch.”
Aemon nodded faintly, his aged voice hoarse.
“It has not yet truly reached adulthood.
It still needs more time to grow.”
Eddard spoke then.
“This is the best arrangement available to us.
We cannot hide a dragon forever, and its master is only four years old.
He cannot possibly control it yet.”
Aemon said nothing more.
He simply raised his head and looked quietly toward Eddard.
His violet eyes glimmered faintly in the firelight.
It was a color that seemed to belong to another age, like the last ember of a flame that had not yet gone out in the blood of the Targaryen royal line.
“The fate of House Targaryen and of Westeros may now rest in your hands, Lord Stark,” the old man said softly.
Silence settled over the room once more.