The library of Castle Black was one of the few places within the cold fortress that still carried a faint sense of knowledge and warmth. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and the crackling of the hearth. Towering bookshelves, crammed with scrolls and tomes, held records of Westeros' history, healing arts, and secrets long buried by time.
Maester Aemon Targaryen, wrapped in a thick woolen robe, sat in a chair near the fire. The flickering light of the flames danced across his misty, gray-white eyes—blind for many years—but it could not reveal any vision.
A cautious knock sounded at the door.
"Come in, Clydas."
Maester Aemon's voice was gentle and calm, recognizing the footsteps of his steward. Clydas, now nearing sixty, hunched as he entered, holding a letter tube. His voice trembled with urgency.
"Maester, a raven just arrived from King's Landing. It's an urgent message for the Lord Commander."
Clydas carefully placed the tube in Aemon's hands. The cold touch of metal made the old man flinch slightly. Maester Aemon sensed the steward's panic and offered a small smile.
"Clydas, speak freely…"
Though blind, Aemon relied on Clydas to read all his correspondence aloud. Clydas inhaled deeply, then began to speak the contents of the letter.
"Impossible…"
A weak murmur escaped Aemon's lips, laced with disbelief and horror. Clydas had never seen the wise, composed Maester Aemon so shaken. He took a step back in alarm.
"Maester? What... what's wrong?"
Aemon did not respond. It felt as if his entire world had crumbled upon hearing the words.
"Jon Snow is the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. The Iron Throne commands Castle Black to immediately arrest Jon Snow and wait for the Gold Cloaks to escort him back to King's Landing…"
Rhaegar—his dear great-nephew, the Prince of Dragons who had shone like a morning star in his letters, the one he had believed to be the Prince that was Promised. He had fathered a child with that Stark girl from the North.
Maester Aemon recalled the boy, Jon Snow. The silent youth, with sad eyes and the distinct Stark features—his black hair. He was the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna?!
Rhaegar's bloodline still existed?! And right here, at the foot of the Wall, within his reach?!
A wave of emotions crashed through Aemon's heart. After the shock came grief—an overwhelming sorrow for the boy's fate. The moment Jon's true lineage was known, he would face the wrath of the Iron Throne. Rhaegar's child would not escape Robert's fury.
If all of this was true, Jon was his kin. Maester Aemon's mind raced. What could he do?
He longed to run to the boy, to protect him, to tell Jon the truth. But the vows of the Night's Watch held him fast. He had long since renounced his Targaryen heritage. He was just a maester of the Night's Watch now.
A deep pain twisted his aging face, a despair that could only come from watching a loved one fall into an abyss, unable to stop it. His frail body trembled in the chair like a leaf in a cold wind. A single tear, cloudy and unnoticed, slid down his wrinkled cheek, falling onto the parchment.
"Clydas... help me to the Lord Commander..."
Maester Aemon's voice was hoarse. He knew what he had to do: deliver this news to Jeor Mormont, even if it meant condemning Jon to the executioner's block. It was his duty as a maester, his last stand in keeping the vows he had sworn to the Night's Watch.
…
The main hall of Castle Black was now enveloped in a rare warmth. In the massive stone fireplace, thick pine logs crackled and popped, their dancing flames banishing the chill. The long wooden table was crowded with rough-hewn Night's Watch men clad in coarse black garments. The clamor of conversation, the scraping of wooden spoons against bowls, and the satisfied sounds of chewing mingled together, temporarily easing the harshness of the Wall.
Tonight's feast was the "masterpiece" of Three-Finger Hobb. This chef, disabled yet still capable of culinary wonders in the kitchen, worked "magic" with limited ingredients.
The table held crispy lamb chops roasted with garlic and herbs, garnished with sprigs of mint, alongside a medley of turnips, onions, and carrots. And a bowl of butter-soaked yellow turnip purée. Hobb also prepared a salad of spinach, chickpeas, and turnip greens, followed by bowls of icy blueberries and sweet cream.
The long wooden table was piled high with rye bread still warm from the oven. Each bowl was heaped with a generous scoop of stew, accompanied by a thick slice of bread. This was a rare feast at the foot of the Wall.
Jon Snow sat between Pypar and Grenn, his spot near the hearth bathed in warmth. He dipped bread into the rich, savory broth in his bowl, listening to the Night's Watch brothers beside him recounting a corny joke with animated gestures. A faint smile touched Jon's lips.
The gloom from his recent clash with Ser Alliser Thorne seemed to lift in the warm atmosphere and the laughter of his companions. The shadow cast by his bastard status, which had troubled him for years, felt less heavy among these brothers, themselves outcasts from the world.
"Hobb's cooking could open a restaurant in King's Landing!" a Night's Watchman slurped up the gravy, his praise muffled.
"Yeah... yeah, it's... it's delicious."
Jon chuckled, about to agree, when the heavy oak doors of the hall burst open. A blast of bone-chilling cold swept in, instantly drowning out the room's clamor. The towering figure of Lord Commander Jeor Mormont appeared in the doorway, clad in a thick bearskin cloak, his salt-and-pepper hair and beard still flecked with unmelted snowflakes. His expression was grave, his weathered, piercing eyes sweeping the mess hall with a weighty authority. More striking still was the elderly Maester Aemon Targaryen standing beside him. Wrapped in a thick woolen blanket and supported by two stewards, the old man wore a profound sorrow upon his face.
The lively atmosphere in the hall cooled instantly, leaving only the crackling of the hearth fire and the uneasy breaths of the assembled men.
Commander Mormont stepped to the hall's main seat and proclaimed in a loud voice:
"Brothers, I have an urgent command from the Iron Throne in King's Landing to announce..."
He paused, his gaze sweeping the assembly once more before settling on Jon. The look in his eyes was complex beyond words.
"By command of His Grace Robert Baratheon and the Small Council, it has been determined that Jon Snow, member of the Night's Watch, is not the bastard son of Great Lord Eddard Stark, but the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lady Lyanna Stark! Eddard Stark, for concealing and raising a descendant of the Targaryen, is charged with treason and imprisoned in the dungeons of the Red Keep."
BOOM—!
The news exploded like thunder across the hall. Everyone was stunned. The sound of gasps echoed in waves. Countless eyes—filled with shock, disbelief, bewilderment, and even a hint of awe—turned to Jon in unison.
Jon felt his mind go blank with a sharp buzz. The wooden spoon in his hand clattered onto the table. He didn't even notice the scalding broth splashing onto his skin.
He never imagined the truth behind the bastard status that had haunted him for thirteen years would be this. He was the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna?
Aunt Lyanna—the aunt his father never stopped thinking about, the aunt King Robert went to war for?
No. If Old Bear was right, his real father was that Targaryen Prince, the one painted as a kidnapper and rapist?
Jon felt a wave of dizziness.
But then, rage surged through him.
Lord Eddard was imprisoned by the king? Accused of treason! All because of his existence.
A torrent of absurdity, pain, and injustice instantly breached his defenses. His eyes instantly reddened, his vision blurring. He wanted to cry—for this cruel truth, for the silent sacrifice of his "father" Eddard, for his mother Lyanna's fate in childbirth, and for himself. Why was fate so unjust to him? He only wanted to be a Night's Watchman, a brother warden of the realm. Why?!
Mormont's voice rang out again, silencing all commotion:
"By the sacred vows sworn by the Night's Watch, we sever all ties with the Seven Kingdoms' strife. We should not intervene in this matter, but... the Watch's supplies, the delivery of criminals, even the very survival of the Wall itself, all depend on the Iron Throne's support. The Iron Throne commands us: Immediately place Jon Snow under arrest, awaiting the Gold Cloaks sent from King's Landing to escort him south!"
The Lord Commander's gaze fixed on Jon once more:
"Snow. Rise."
Jon's body was as rigid as an ice sculpture. He rose mechanically, his legs feeling as though they were not his own. He could feel the weight of the surrounding stares.
Mormont ordered a tall ranger beside him:
"Take Snow to the holding cell. Keep him under strict guard. No one is to approach him without my command."
The ranger acknowledged the order and approached Jon with an expressionless face. Jon offered no resistance, nor did he speak. He only cast one last, lingering look at the black-robed brothers gathered in the hall.