Chapter Text
The Snow of Winterfell:
Much could be said of the North, of its austere people and unforgiving nature, but few would dare boast it was utterly without beauty. A sentiment so plainly discernable from the cold and wet forest of pine in which he currently found himself sheltered.
In truth, Aemon could not claim to know all the lands contained within the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, but he was proud to be among the daring few who had braved the ancient evergreen forests of the wolfswood time and time again. It was one of his few great joys; to be relieved from the stares and whispers that oft accompanied his status as an acknowledged royal bastard, to be wild and free as the howling wolves of the woods.
Uncle Brandon, distant as he was, would stamp out such whispers when he could. Yet the Lord of Winterfell’s attention could only stretch so thin, and such limitations existed for even the natural son of his beloved late sister. He shouldn’t complain, he knew, it was far better than bastards usually got, royalty or no. Despite Uncle Brandon’s aloofness, he had seen him homed and fed and loved... stunted as the latter may have been.
Aemon had been tutored by the finest men of the North, from arms and armor to coin-counting and history. If truth be told, he shirked his scholarly pursuits in favor of the martial more often than not, much to Maester Luwin’s dismay. Though, he suspected that Luwin’s dismay had more to do with his absconding of Willam during such ventures.
Willam, eldest son of Brandon Stark, was brother to him in all but name. And that alone was why Aemon found himself willing to entertain his foolishness more oft than not. “I can see your tail tucked betwixt your legs, brother,” Will had taunted with a teasing grin the night before. “’Tis a sorry thing to see, a craven standing in wolf’s place.”
“Bugger yourself, cunt,” Aemon had replied, offering his arm. “At the feast, then.”
“Aye,” Willam had agreed, clasping his arm with a laugh that shook the walls of the Smoking Log.
Most evenings with Will ended with Aemon stumbling, reeling from drink, while Will emerged unscathed. That was the part that vexed him most.
“A lord does not sip and tell, little pup,” Will would chastise in an eerily accurate impersonation of the late Lord Dustin when questioned. Willam had inherited charm from Uncle Brandon. And most all of Lord Stark's looks too, save for his Tully blue eyes. Those were one of the few aspects of her firstborn son that Catelyn Tully could truly claim as hers.
In some respects, Lady Stark was an even greater outsider to the House of Stark than he. Though she bore the name, she lacked the northern constitution, favoring gods, customs, and sensibilities so very foreign to the hardy sons of winter. Not an easy life, he knew, to be as a stranger in one’s own home.
Scullery maids would gossip that Uncle Brandon favored the now Lady Dustin over his betrothed, even after their hasty marriage was consummated. Uncle Brandon never acknowledged the whispers, but he never stamped them out either. Another point in the rumor’s favor, or so the scullery maids whispered. Though their marriage was not what one might call ‘warm,’ he could say with certainty that Uncle Brandon had never dishonored her. Ignored her, mayhaps, but never dishonored.
Focus, he was brooding again.
He shook the musings from his mind, refocusing on the hare at his feet. As he gutted it, he felt eyes upon him. Aemon tensed, hair bristling, gooseflesh blooming. Somewhere among the pines, a shadow lingered.
A long moment passed. And then another. No shadow came, so he shook off the rest of his restless paranoia. Old Nan’s influence, he expected. She delighted in tormenting them with tales of dark and dangerous things as her needles clacked and clacked. He was no boy to fear for shadows. Not anymore.
Aemon gathered the rest of his things and turned, catching the sight of a lone raven perched upon the branch of black brier bush. It studied him with equal intensity.
“Caw, caw, caw,” it cried harshly, then took wing, deeper into the soldier pines.
“Only a bird,” he muttered, unclenching his hands.
He untied his garron and rode south for Winterfell.
Hours passed over forest, brook, hamlet, and field before the grey walls of Winterfell rose on the horizon. Snow lingered atop the tallest towers, but below, green fields swelled with hardy wildflowers and brush.
The Year of the False Summer had given way to a short winter, brief and mostly painless, and now to an unusually long spring and summer, a season the Citadel claimed to be the longest on record. Northmen knew better than to grow lax with summer. Winter always came.
He lingered a moment before pressing on through Hunter’s Gate. Hullen, master-of-horse, greeted him as he delivered his hare and secured the garron.
“Well?” Hullen asked tersely.
“He’ll do, fast and sure-footed. Enough to see Uncle Ned to the Wall and back in one piece. Doesn’t spook easy either.”
Hullen’s mouth frowned but his eyes smiled.
“He’s a hardy one, he is.” The master-of-horse said proudly, patting the snout of his garron with a loving hand. “Raised 'im from a wee foal.”
Aemon offered a lazy salute in response and ventured past the stables into the Great Keep before bumping into Osric, the younger of Uncle Brandon’s sons.
“Aem!” He shouted with the glee of a small child. “Look!”
The boy brandished a small, bloody tooth and grinned triumphantly.
“Another?” Aemon asked, amused. Lady Stark’s superstition that lost teeth brought luck had Osric counting carefully. Aemon had not the heart to tell young Osric that such a superstition only existed to forestall his tears.
“I’ll be a man soon," Osric lamented. "Mother will make me dance with girls.” Aemon snorted at that and ruffled his wild auburn hair.
“You’ve some years yet, little wolf. Best enjoy them, aye?”
Osric’s grey eyes lit up in glee. His boyish smile returned in force.
“Years! I have years!” He shouted gleefully. “‘Bye Aem!” He shouted once more, scampering off in the direction of the godswood.
'Smart as whip and fickle as a hen,’ Ser Martyn Cassel, Winterfell’s master-at-arms, would despair. How fortunate for Ser Martyn that one of the few things able to keep the boy’s attention was the sword.
Aemon turned from the sight of Osric’s retreating figure and ventured further into the warm granite halls of the Great Keep toward the direction of his chambers. Rather sparse chambers to be sure, but he preferred them that way. Willam soon appeared in the doorway, grinning
“There you are! Slipped out like a ghost. Must you be so quiet, brother?” Will questioned, sighing like a mummer.
“One of us must be.”
Will barked a laugh. “For the best, I should think. Lady Alys claims rest begets beauty and I’m nothing if not beautiful, brother.”
Aemon snorted.
“I shall see to it that bards sing of Lord Willam the Vain. Or, mayhaps, you prefer Lady Willam? What say you, my lady?”
Will shot him a surly look, cuffing his shoulder. “Bugger off. Seen Oz?"
“Missing another tooth," Aemon nodded. "And headed in the direction of the godswood last I saw.”
Will ran a hand through his boyish stubble. “Gods preserve us. Mother will tan his hide for running off again. At least it’s only the godswood this time... Remember how wroth she was when she caught the little bugger climbing about the First Keep?”
Both chuckled at the memory of Osric dangling from a gargoyle, even Brandon Stark had feared then. So much so that he expressly forbid the sullen Osric from climbing that high anymore.
“Well, I’ll give the little wolf another hour before I tell Mother. He deserves that much at least. Gods know he’ll rue running off tonight. Speaking of, you haven’t forgotten our little wager, have you brother? It’d be such a shame…” He trailed off, grinning.
“I’ll not be called craven in my own chambers. Off with you, grant me peace before you humiliate me tonight.”
Will laughed loudly, already halfway down the hall. “Uncle Ned’s arrived! He mentioned the crypts! Best be quick, before Father steals him away!”
Will might’ve mentioned that to start with. He stored his things and set back out in the direction of the First Keep, making it halfway through the ancient lichyard before noticing that the faded ironwood door of the crypt lay ajar. His uncles were likely well into the tomb by now, paying their respects to the late Lord Rickard or… his mother.
Something raw and uncomfortable forced its way past his heart and to his throat, constricting it ever so slightly. Aemon clenched his hands and buried the unwanted feeling as quickly as he could before steeling himself and creeping down the, thankfully lit, winding staircase of stone.
It wasn’t as if he hated Lady Lyanna, he reasoned. How could he hate someone he’d never known? A deep and shameful part of him wanted to hate his mother, for birthing him and then leaving him all alone. Lady Stark had been kind to him despite his status. Not motherly per se, but kind. It wasn’t the same. He envied Will that, to have a mother who clearly loved him so. To have a name...
What would his life be like had she lived? She died so young and still the specter of Lyanna Stark hung over those she’d left behind. Would she be proud of him if she could see him now? Would she love him? He hoped so, but he’d never voice it. He buried the boy who would down here with the Kings of Winter, silent and solemn.
Aemon felt his throat clench again, so he forced his eyes out into the darkness of the crypt until they adjusted enough to see the vaulted stone ceiling above. Stone kings of yore watched silently as he walked, bound to their thrones with long-rusted blades. When he was younger, he’d dream he was trapped within the dark crypts, clawing at the old unyielding stone fruitlessly.
“Dragonspawn,” they’d whisper from the dark.
“Bastard.”
“Usurper.”
Mother’s statue would be standing at the head of them, more lifelike and somber than he’d ever seen before.
“You’re no blood of mine,” she’d accuse quietly. “Begone, bastard.”
And suddenly, he would be a boy of nine namedays again, weeping quietly in the dark.
He...
“…better now.” Uncle Brandon’s voice sounded from the far end of the crypt. Aemon paused and slid into the shadowy alcove that contained the tomb of Artos the Impeccable to listen.
“We’re... speaking,” Uncle Brandon admitted hesitantly.
“You know well enough I never cared for her, not as Father meant when he struck his bargain with old Hoster, grasping Tully cunt that he was.”
Uncle Ned scoffed. "You never did know when to hold your tongue, brother."
“Ah Neddy,” Uncle Brandon said with a smile in voice, “you never change. Next you’ll tell me that old fish had honor for the 'ser' in front of his name. I have a 'ser' in front of my name, I’ll remind you, and I’m still a cunt.”
“I know you are.” Uncle Ned said slyly. “I only take issue with you speaking ill of the dead. I’d rather not wake to find myself haunted by Hoster Tully too.”
“Better him than Lya.” Uncle Brandon retorted bitterly.
“How is he?” Uncle Ned asked softly after a moment. “Her son?”
“Hale,” Uncle Brandon grunted dispassionately. Silence, then a weary sigh.
“Gods Ned, there are times I look at the boy and see her so clearly. You’re right, his laugh is hers and his hair. His eyes crinkle just like hers too. You remember? When she’d tease Ben, pretending to be some ghoul from Nan’s tales. But other times... Other times I look at him and see his sire. He’s got the cunt’s eyes, clearer every year. Indigo. Too pale. Too haunting. His face is Targaryen too. Refined, the maids call it. Easy on the eyes, or so they say before they hike their skirts and…”
“Alright!” Uncle Ned exclaimed with equal horror and amusement. Uncle Brandon chuckled a bit before his voice turned bitter once more.
“Your friend Robert the Sot had the right of it. We should’ve marched, brother, straight to King’s Landing and put the cunt to the sword. Bugger Aerys. Bugger the pyromancers. Bugger Rhaegar fucking Targaryen. I should’ve killed him, Ned, I should’ve killed him for what he did to Lya. And now that cunt’s king?! I should’ve killed him, Ned. I should’ve killed him or died trying.”
“Let it lie, brother. Let her lie.”
It was Uncle Brandon’s turn to scoff. “Is that what you tell yourself? Let it lie? The plague took more from you than it ever did from me. Would you give all that to the gods so meekly? No anger? No rage? Lya, Father, Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon, Ashara…”
“Enough.” Uncle Ned warned, voice cold as ice.
Silence for a time.
“Forgive me, brother. That was ill spoken. I fear this place draws the worst of me.”
“No harm done.” Uncle Ned assured hesitantly. “Wolf’s blood always made you a pricklier cunt than Ben or me.”
“Aye. It did. Drove you both half-mad, and drove the northern maids half-wild.” Uncle Brandon agreed fondly.
“You’ve never thought to find another?” Uncle Brandon asked hesitantly after a moment of silence. “There’s no lack of bold lasses curious to learn what the Quiet Wolf keeps beneath all his silence.”
“I loved only one,” said Uncle Ned softly, “I could not love another.”
“Then enough of this grim shite. This was meant to be a night of cups and laughter, not brooding among bones. Gods know Lya’s boy does more than enough of that for us all. Come. To the Great Hall. I mean to see you well and truly pissed before your march to the Wall. Can’t have a Stark freezing on the road, can we?”
They both chuckled as they marched away. Aemon soon found himself alone in the dark of the crypt, feeling oddly empty among the ghosts of Winterfell.
The sun had long sunk beneath the horizon when Aemon at last found the courage to return to the keep and the people who dwelled within. Will had been right, he was a craven. He knew Uncle Brandon nursed bitter resentment toward King Rhaegar for the way he had treated Lady Lyanna Stark, yet hearing it so plainly spoken still left a sting.
Southern bards proclaimed the affair true love. Northern bards called it youthful folly. Uncle Brandon, however, declared that any caught singing songs of his dead sister in Winterfell’s halls would lose their tongue. The threat silenced song but not gossip, particularly the gossip whispered over tankards by men too far gone to care.
He was two-and-ten when he first heard Ethan Glover and Theo Wull speaking of it, voices low over several emptied mugs. Lyanna Stark had vanished after the infamous tourney at Harrenhal, leaving both her family in the North and her betrothed’s kin in the Stormlands without knowledge until whispers of kidnapping and rape poured from the Crownlands.
“Seven Kingdoms poised to bloody each other something fierce,” Ser Ethan Glover recounted grimly.
“Guess the gods felt offended we weren’t killin’ for them. Won’t fault ‘em for killing that fire-loving cunt, though.” Theo Wull added.
Maesters argued over the specifics, though it mattered little. The Shivers had come first, sweeping the Seven Kingdoms faster than the Mad King's wildfire. Three-tenths of King’s Landing perished before a heavily pregnant Lyanna Stark resurfaced in the Neck, attended by Prince Rhaegar himself.
Lord Howland spared no expense for her care, yet the gods give and take freely. She died and he lived. Aemon was sent north to dwell among his mother’s people following her passing, according to Theo Wull, supposedly by Lyanna’s dying wish.
He seldom dwelled on it. Thoughts of his estranged southern family spiraled quickly toward bitterness. King Rhaegar had forgotten him in the North and left him unnamed. He returned the King's courtesy in kind.
Yet sometimes he wondered what they were as people, not as distant legends. Despite his failings, Rhaegar Targaryen had ruled well, and the kingdoms prospered. Though perhaps the long summer and the Mad King’s death had contributed more to coin in the coffers than any royal wisdom.
He had siblings as well. True siblings some might say. Aegon and Rhaenys were well regarded by both noble and smallfolk alike. He searched for other scraps of gossip about his Dornish siblings but came up empty. White Harbor remained the only somewhat reliable source of news, which drifted to Winterfell moons later. Had Uncle Brandon not lost his sister so young, Lord Rickard’s ambitions might have been realized and Winterfell might have been better informed.
His paternal kin were as distant and unknowable. Queen Rhaella, grandmother, favored Dragonstone over the Red Keep. Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys split their time between the island and the capital, cultivating a reputation for generosity and charm. At least by Donnel Locke's telling. He wondered what they would think of him. Would they welcome him, shun him, or merely ignore him? Their silence hurt more than he cared to admit.
He pushed such thoughts aside and crossed the threshold into the warm glow of the Great Hall. He had been brooding longer than he realized, for the hall was already crowded, raucous with drink, song, and laughter.
“Aemon!” Will bellowed from near the high table. “Get your ugly arse over here!”
He grinned as he wove through drunken lords and ladies. All three of his uncles afforded wolfish smiles as he passed beneath them. Uncle Benjen had likely only recently returned from Sea Dragon Point. Lord Brandon had boasted loudly, to cheers, of how Benjen was the first Stark to rule there since "they bloodied that Warg King cunt of yore."
Jory Cassel had once confided that both Ned and Benjen had intended to take the Black after the Shivers, yet Lord Rickard forbade it with this dying breath, granting them holdings in the North. Uncle Brandon had dutifully seen the late lord’s will fulfilled.
House Stark of Sea Dragon Point had been founded when Uncle Benjen wed Dacey Mormont. Their black wolf on green field honored her house. The union, reluctant at first, had grown warm. Arya was a wild child, smiling as readily as she scowled. Two moons past, word had come of little Rickon, a new Stark among them.
Uncle Ned had refused to found a Stark cadet despite Lord Brandon’s urgings. He commanded Moat Cailin as castellan and refused all offers of marriage. Rumor had it that he was haunted still by the loss of Ashara Dayne. Uncle Brandon chose to honor his brother's wishes, naming him Keeper of the Moat.
“There he is! The cunt himself!” Will bellowed, clapping Aemon on the shoulder and drawing him into the circle.
Cley Cerwyn presided calmly, grey-eyed and amused. Daryn Hornwood sat nearby, proud and composed, as did his half-brother Larence Snow, a bastard like Aemon, steadier and less brash than Daryn. Roderick Dustin, Roddy the Runt, completed their fellowship.
“Where’s Ed?” Aemon asked, noting the lack of the Harclay clansman.
“That ponce fancies himself Florian reborn. He’s gone to ‘court’ the fine ladies of Winterfell. Don’t remember southron courting involving that fool’s fingers shoved up a maid’s skirt.” Cley Cerwyn explained with a roll of his eyes.
Edrick Harclay was many things, but none more than a shameless lecher.
“Look at Oz.” Will said, drawing them out of their grins.
Said boy sat on his mother’s lap with a fierce scowl, glaring down at Arya Stark’s freedom with undisguised envy.
“Now that’s a scowl to shame Aegon the Unhappy’.” Larence Snow laughed.
“I warned the little bugger to return to the keep.” Will chuckled.
They all laughed at that.
“Right, lads. We’d best address why we’re all here.” Will started, jabbing his finger into Aemon’s chest.
“Henceforth, I dub thee Aemon the Craven. Recant thy cowardly ways and agree to a contest of merry drink with your wise and loving brother. Recant, or bear the shame of the gods’ stigma. Speak!” Willam the Mummer demanded.
“Bugger yourself, cunt. I said I’d drink, and I shall. Smalljon and Torr are far enough away that I like my odds.” Aemon defended with a roll of his eyes.
“A challenger!” Will bellowed. “May the gods have mercy on you Aemon Thimble-Gut, for I shall not!”
At that, he stood atop the bench and raised his arms in the air.
“Drink! Drink for the noble sons of winter! The Merry Wolf demands it!”
“Willam Stark!” Lady Catelyn shouted sternly over the laughter. “Be seated this instant!”
Will’s cheeks reddened at the renewed laughter of the hall, yet he signaled a serving girl to carry over the first tankard. A doomed venture, no doubt.
“Seems the Merry Wolf was a bit more in his cups than he let on.” Roderick Dustin teased with amused grey-blue eyes.
“And I’ll still win, Roddy. The gods blessed me with a gut of iron.” Will retorted with a wolfish grin, hoisting his likely third tankard.
Aemon managed six before the edges of his vision blurred. Two more tankards, and he could no longer maintain balance. If he had eaten more when he broke his fast, he might have lasted longer.
“You’re drunk,” slurred Will.
“So are you, sot.” Aemon slurred back, glancing around the hall.
Their merriment appeared to have infected the rest of the feast-goers and he saw many a lord and lady red faced and ill-balanced.
Ser Ethan Glover had managed to rouse both his cousin Galbart and Uncle Benjen into a terrible rendition of The Bear and the Maiden Fair.
“I called for a knight, but you’re a bear!” Ser Ethan bellowed off-tune.
“A bear! A bear!” Uncle Benjen and Lord Galbart cried in response, raising their mugs.
“All black and brown and covered with hair!” The three of them chorused together.
Brandon Stark rose from his stone seat, goblet raised high.
“A toast! To the children of the North!” The hall cheered.
“To my brothers, prickly cunts that they are! To my lovely wife, to her wellspring of patience for this old fool!” He shouted to more cheers and laughter.
“And to Ser Wendel Manderly for taking victories from those prissy cunts in the south! Though he could not make it to our feast in time, he has returned to the North with honor and glory! To Ser Wendel! Whose hands were made for fighting and whose teats were made for whelping!”
Aemon could not hear himself think over the roar, yet he raised his nearly empty mug in acknowledgment. He turned back to the table and found that Cley, Daryn, and Larence had left them to seek out suitable maidens of the north. They usually had more sense when it came to drinking, preferring to imbibe only enough to shake off the chill.
Will and Roddy were too befuddled to care and already spoken for besides. Willam had long been betrothed to Lady Alys Karstark and Roderick had recently agreed to a betrothal to Lady Lyra Flint. He couldn’t be bothered to remember which of the four houses of Flint she hailed from in his current state.
As for Aemon, well, the North hardly needed more Snows. Had he a name, a real one...
“Right,” he slurred, smothering the treacherous thought. “Let’s get you two back in yer rooms.”
Aemon grabbed the table for balance, nudging it halfway into the aisle.
“Careful, you daft cunt. Yer too drunk. I’ll lead us back.”
Roddy was too soused to protest either boast.
In the end, they agreed to lead with Roddy the Runt strung between them. That was exactly how Uncle Ned found them halfway to the Great Keep.
“Aemon. Willam. Roderick.” He greeted bemusedly. “Alright there, lads?”
“Well enough, Lord Eddard.” Will slurred self-importantly, earning a chuckle from their uncle.
“I had meant to speak with you after the feast, but it can wait till the morrow. Or, mayhaps, midday would be better. Seek me out once you wake, late as it may be.” Uncle Ned chuckled before departing as silently as his namesake.
Roddy was easy enough to see to, falling into a featherbed in the guest suites with a thump. The two of them departed then, stumbling in the direction of their own chambers and getting hopelessly lost outside the keep along the way. Aemon wasn’t quite sure how they got so close to the maester’s tower, but he lacked the good sense to question it.
“What a life we lead, brother!” Will exclaimed, draping an arm across Aemon’s shoulders. “Long may it reign!”
“And long may we reign,” Aemon replied with a soft smile
“Look! Up at the stars! The Ice Dragon burns bright tonight, brother. Surely a sign of good things to come.”
Aemon wished Will had kept silent. For those careless words brought Uncle Brandon down from the maester’s tower, Luwin trailing at his side, face grim and hands clenched upon a sealed parchment.
“Father?” Will asked, sobering some.
Aemon did not think he would ever forget the storm that raged behind Uncle Brandon’s eyes or how his hands clenched the parchment trapped between his fingers.
“A raven arrived in the night,” Lord Stark of Winterfell intoned, “bearing a letter affixed with the royal seal.”
Aemon felt his heart sink as Uncle Brandon’s tempestuous eyes met his.
“You’ve been summoned to Red Keep by order of the King.”