Maester Aemon entered the room with Lynn's support.
His blind eyes—though seeing nothing—turned precisely toward the hearth.
He could feel the heat. Just like his heart right now.
There, an ice-blue dragon egg rested quietly amid roaring flames.
"Lynn."
Maester Aemon's voice carried the rasp of accumulated years, but more than that—barely suppressed excitement.
"I can feel it."
"It's... calling to me."
Lynn's heart skipped.
Aemon is a Targaryen. Dragon blood. Special sensitivity to dragon eggs—not surprising.
But this late-night visit isn't just to "feel" it.
"Maester, it's late. What brings you here?"
Lynn asked calmly, though wariness rose within.
Maester Aemon didn't answer.
He simply extended a trembling hand, groping toward the dragon egg.
Lynn instinctively moved to stop him.
But seeing that wrinkled face—written with devotion and longing—he froze.
Aemon's fingertips finally touched the scalding shell.
In that instant, the old man shuddered violently!
An invisible connection—as if spanning time itself—formed between him and the egg.
Aemon's lips quivered. Two lines of cloudy tears rolled from his blind eyes.
"The prophecy... the prophecy is real..."
He whirled around, "looking" at Lynn with those hollow eyes, voice carrying near-mad resolve.
"I can hatch it."
Lynn's pupils contracted sharply.
Hatch?
Of course he wants it hatched!
Dreams of it!
Owning a dragon—Lynn knew better than anyone what that meant.
The ultimate weapon to overturn the entire continent of Westeros. To truly sit atop the pinnacle of power!
But...
"Maester, how would you do it?"
Lynn suppressed his wild joy, asking coolly.
He knows hatching dragon eggs is no simple matter.
House Targaryen's dragons went extinct over a century ago.
Countless attempts—all failures.
The only success: future Daenerys.
And she traded four lives for three hatchlings.
What does Aemon intend?
"Blood magic."
Aemon forced out those three words through clenched teeth.
Lynn's heart sank.
Of course!
"Ancient scrolls record it."
Aemon's voice turned low and mysterious.
"Dragons are magic incarnate. Born from flame and blood."
"Ordinary fire cannot wake sleeping dragon souls."
"Blood magic's inheritance is severed now. Only three crude methods remain to hatch dragon eggs."
Aemon extended his branch-like hands, voice carrying chilling fervor.
"These three ways: the wisdom of sages, the blood of kings, true dragon blood."
"Satisfy any one—and the egg will hatch."
Lynn understood perfectly.
Aemon Targaryen.
Not just a maester of the Citadel—possessing a sage's wisdom.
Once a legitimate heir to the Iron Throne—possessing a king's blood!
And a member of House Targaryen—true dragon blood.
Aemon alone satisfies all three hatching methods.
Meaning—if Lynn had three dragon eggs, Aemon alone could hatch all three simultaneously!
"You intend to..."
Lynn's voice came out dry.
"Precisely."
Aemon nodded.
His face showed a smile bordering on liberation.
"Use my blood. My life. To hatch it."
"Lynn, you received the Old Gods' guidance and found this egg."
"And I, Aemon Targaryen, will use my life to complete this final ritual."
"This is my destiny."
"No!"
Lynn blurted out without thinking.
Are you kidding?
Trade Maester Aemon's life for a possibly uncontrollable dragon?
That's a terrible deal!
And what would others think of Lynn?
More importantly—his Targaryen identity was itself a massive trump card.
A living Targaryen prince with legitimate inheritance rights—how valuable in future political maneuvering?
Lynn could barely imagine!
Trading his full support for supreme status—completely viable!
He's not insane yet.
"I absolutely refuse!"
Lynn's attitude—unshakeable.
"Maester Aemon, you're far more important than this egg."
Aemon seemed to expect Lynn's refusal.
His wrinkled face showed no surprise. He simply shook his head, voice carrying bitter amusement.
"Lynn, you don't understand."
"A hundred-year-old man. A blind waste. Clinging to life in this frozen corner—what meaning does that hold?"
"I can feel it. My life has reached its end."
"If I can use this last flicker of light to hatch this young life, to ignite flames bright enough to illuminate the Long Night..."
"That would be my life's greatest glory."
Glory again! Damn it!
Lynn felt irritated.
Do people in this world think of nothing but honor? Eddard Stark's like this. This old maester too!
"Maester, this isn't about honor!"
Lynn tried to calm him.
"Alive, you can do far more than dead!"
"The Night's Watch needs your wisdom!"
"Wisdom?"
Aemon laughed self-mockingly.
"Can my wisdom stop the White Walker army?"
"Can my wisdom burn those undead wights?"
"No, Lynn. None of that."
"But a dragon can."
Aemon "gazed" at the dragon egg.
His eyes held unshakeable resolve.
"This is our only hope."
Lynn wanted to argue further.
Just then—
Creak—
The door opened. Jeor Mormont entered.
He'd clearly heard the commotion, face showing puzzlement.
"Maester Aemon, Lynn, it's so late—what are you..."
When he saw Aemon's resolute expression and Lynn's grim face, Mormont's words stopped.
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