“Alliser Thorne’s cold voice cut through the air.
“The Lord Commander is waiting for you in the commander’s tower.” His eyes held nothing but open contempt and dislike for Jon.
Bastards faced less open scorn in the hard North, but in the south where the Seven held real power, things were different.
Southern nobles like Thorne carried a bone-deep hatred for bastards.
It was pure hypocrisy.
Men chased the thrill of stolen women without a second thought, even when those women weren’t their wives.
They took the pleasure, then turned on the children that pleasure created, dumping every sin and shame on the mother and the innocent bastard.
The Faith’s fine words were just a convenient cloak these lords used to dodge responsibility and keep their blood from ever reaching for their lands.
Jon gave a small, calm nod.
He swung down from his horse without hurry, ran a gentle hand along the animal’s neck, and handed the reins to a passing brother.
Then he fell in step behind Thorne, hood still low over his face.
He watched the man’s back as they walked.
Thorne was unpleasant as hell, but he moved like a real fighter—balanced, steady, every step precise and controlled.
Jon filed that away and kept walking.
He had no interest in flattering the man.
Thorne disliked him?
Fine.
Jon had bigger things coming.
In the future he planned, men like Thorne would be the ones lining up to beg.
The arrogant thought made him smile inwardly.
He’d spent too much time with Queen Rhaenys and Queen Visenya.
Their influence was showing.
Rhaenys had loved being the center of attention, especially the jealous looks from other women.
Visenya had been pure steel and pride, answering to no one.
In their own ways they had become the mother and father he’d never really had.
Rhaenys showed him the world.
Visenya armed him for it.
For a boy who had lived two lives without ever feeling real parental love, those two queens were the closest thing he had.
They climbed the tall tower in silence.
The spiral stairs were dim.
At the top Thorne knocked once, respectfully.
A deep, commanding voice answered from inside.
“Come.”
Jeor Mormont, 997th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, sat behind a heavy desk.
The old Bear of Bear Island had grown ancient.
His head was shaved clean.
A thick, untamed gray beard hung down to his chest.
He wore a heavy black bearskin cloak over a plain black wool doublet fastened with a silver bear-claw clasp. New chapters come out on g.com first.
On a perch near the desk a large raven watched them with open arrogance.
“How’s Lord Stark these days, boy?” Mormont’s voice was rough but carried easily.
“Five healthy children running around,” Jon answered with a touch of dry humor, “and a sixth already on the way.”
Mormont’s deep laugh filled the room.
“Looks like the Starks won’t have to worry about heirs for a good long while.”
The laughter faded quickly.
Jon caught the flicker of old pain in the commander’s eyes.
No great intelligence was needed to guess who he was thinking of—his only son, Jorah, exiled across the Narrow Sea.
Jon steered the conversation away from the wound.
“I heard your niece Lyanna is already a strong, clever little thing. Lord Stark even sent her a warhammer himself.”
Mormont’s face lit up at once.
Pride replaced the sadness.
He had received the raven from his sister Maege.
The thought of that three-year-old girl—already more serious than most grown men and fiercely loyal to House Stark—receiving a warhammer from the Warden of the North filled him with fierce satisfaction.
“Ha!” The old man’s laugh boomed again.
“That girl’s got pure Mormont blood in her veins!”
His eyes softened as they rested on Jon.
The bastard of Winterfell was no longer quite so unwelcome in his sight.
Jon kept his face polite while his mind noted the lesson Visenya had drilled into him: when you stand before a lord, praise his children and his line.
Nothing warms a lord’s heart faster than hearing his family will endure.
In this brutal world men would die without hesitation if it meant their blood lived on.
That single belief was what kept the great houses standing for thousands of years.
“Lord Stark sent word,” Mormont said, still in good humor.
He tossed a handful of corn to the raven.
“Your room is ready. You’ll take your meals with us while you’re here. Fair warning, boy—the food at Castle Black won’t match what you’re used to at Winterfell.”
Jon nodded.
He truly didn’t care.
After years of hospital food in his last life, simple fare was nothing.
“Alliser,” Mormont said without looking up, “take Snow to his quarters.”
Thorne answered stiffly.
“Yes, Lord Commander.”
Outside the tower Jon spoke at once.
“Ser Alliser, where is the library? I need to look through some records.”
Thorne’s reply was cold and superior.
“You’ll need Maester Aemon’s personal permission to enter the library.” He pointed at a distant tower without slowing.
“That’s your room. The clean one’s yours.” He turned and walked away, black cloak snapping behind him, clearly finished with the conversation.
Jon watched him go and muttered, “Hot-tempered bastard. At least now I know where to find the maester.”
He found the room easily but didn’t bother settling in.
He respected the old man deeply.
How many men had the strength to refuse a crown?
How many could put love for family above the Iron Throne itself?
Aemon represented everything Jon admired—unbreakable will and true honor.
He stopped a brother passing by.
The man was tiny, barely five feet tall, with a nearly bald head and only a few lonely strands of hair.
He had almost no chin and rounded, stooped shoulders.
Yet his eyes were the most beautiful Jon had ever seen—dark pink, like polished gemstones.
“I need permission to enter the library,” Jon said plainly.
The short man—Clydas—nodded at once.
News of the visitor had clearly spread.
“Follow me, Snow.”
They walked toward a quieter corner of the castle.
Jon kept pace a few steps behind.
“Any rules I should know before meeting Maester Aemon?” Jon asked, keeping his tone respectful.
Clydas glanced back.
“He hates loud voices and people who don’t respect books.” The short man’s voice carried real reverence.
Jon understood at once—Clydas knew exactly who Aemon really was.
After decades of caring for the old man, how could he not?
They stopped before a plain wooden tower that looked no different from the other rundown buildings.
The harsh cawing of ravens came from nearby—the ravenry was close.
Clydas pushed open the door.
The smell of old parchment and ancient books washed over them.
Inside, the room was simple to the point of being poor.
No luxury at all.
It suited neither a Targaryen prince nor the bloodline Aemon carried.
Yet in a strange way it fit the man who had chosen quiet exile over a crown.
Jon’s purple eyes found the old figure at once.
Maester Aemon paced slowly, a heavy book cradled in his arms.
The heavy chain around his neck shifted and clinked with every step.
Jon needed no introduction.
He knew this man better than most.
Aemon Targaryen.
Son of King Maekar I.
Brother of King Aegon V—the little knight king.
Uncle of King Jaehaerys II.
Great-uncle of the Mad King Aerys II.
The last true dragon still wearing a maester’s chain.