Aemon stood by the window, the cold stone floor biting at his bare feet, yet he barely noticed. His breath came slow and measured as he gazed out into the vast darkness stretching beyond the cliffs of Dragonstone.
The world was still veiled in the night, but at the horizon, the first fragile whispers of dawn stirred—a faint brush of deep blue and violet staining the skyline.
The last hour before sunrise.
The Hour of the Nightingale.
He had heard the old tales before, spoken in hushed voices by maids tending the castle halls and sailors who had spent their lives at sea. They called this time sacred—the moment when night clung to its dominion yet could no longer hold its claim.
The world stood in fragile balance, neither light nor dark, as if waiting for something unseen. It was then that the nightingale sang, a sorrowful song to mourn the passing of the night before the first light of morning silenced it.
The nightingale sings before the dawn takes it—a final lament before silence. But what if no dawn comes? What if its song is not a farewell, but a warning before the world plunges into darkness once more?
Aemon had never given it much thought. Not until now.
The dream still clung to him, refusing to fade with wakefulness. A vision so vivid, so real, that it left an echo in his bones. The shadows stretch endlessly over the frozen land. The winds howled with voices, not of the living. The dead, hollow-eyed and relentless, marching without end. He could still hear the whisper woven into the storm—a voice neither human nor beast, speaking in a language he did not know yet understood.
"Kostilus… ñuha āeksio…"
Even awake, the weight of those words pressed against his chest.
This was no ordinary nightmare, no fleeting terror conjured by the restless mind. He had felt it, known it, in the marrow of his being. The Long Night was not just a story passed down through the ages. It was not some distant legend buried in forgotten history.
Was he chasing ghosts? Was this just another tale, twisted by time? But no—he had felt it. Known it. The dream was not merely a dream.
It was coming.
He exhaled, his breath fogging the cool glass of the window. He had spent a lifetime believing he was prepared, that the knowledge he carried from his past life gave him an advantage over this world. But now, he realized how little he truly knew.
If there was truth to be found, he would not find it in half-remembered stories from a lifelong past. He needed more.
He needed answers.
Aemon turned from the window, his decision made before he even fully processed it. If there was one place in all of Westeros where knowledge had not yet been lost to time or rewritten by those who wished to shape history, it was here—in the depths of Dragonstone's great library.
He moved swiftly, his motions precise and practised. Crossing the chamber, he reached the large wooden chest at the foot of his bed and lifted the lid, revealing neatly folded garments. His hand found a simple black tunic, the fabric cool against his skin as he pulled it over his head. He fastened a thick leather belt around his waist before reaching for his dark breeches and boots, lacing them with the ease of habit.
The silence of the chamber pressed around him, broken only by the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below. He glanced back toward the window. The sky had shifted just slightly—the deep blue softening, the stars beginning to fade one by one. The night was retreating, step by step, yet it still lingered, reluctant to be swallowed by the coming dawn.
Much like the unease in his chest.
Aemon exhaled, pushing down the thoughts that threatened to unravel into questions without answers. He reached for the heavy cloak draped over the chair beside his desk, the fabric thick and lined against the castle's chill. He fastened it at his shoulder with a practised motion before turning toward the door.
As Aemon pulled open the heavy wooden door, the dim torchlight from the corridor flickered against the stone walls, casting shifting shadows that danced in the silence. The air outside was cooler, carrying the ever-present scent of salt and damp stone, a reminder that Dragonstone stood atop the restless sea, its foundations shaped by the tides and winds of centuries past.
And there, standing in quiet vigilance, was Ser Barristan Selmy.
He was young for a knight of such renown—only twenty-six—but his presence carried the weight of a man twice his age. Clad in the white cloak and armour of the Kingsguard, he looked every bit the warrior who had already carved his name into history. His sword remained sheathed at his hip, yet his posture spoke of readiness, a constant awareness that never wavered even in the stillness of night.
His keen blue eyes flickered over Aemon the moment he stepped into the hall, and at once, the faint tension in his stance shifted into something else—concern.
"My prince," Barristan said, his voice steady, but touched with something softer—something closer to worry. "What has happened?"
Aemon hesitated, momentarily thrown off by the question.
Then he realized.
His skin was pale, almost ghostly under the dim torchlight, the aftershocks of the dream still lingering beneath his skin. A fine sheen of sweat dampened his forehead, his silver hair sticking in unruly strands to his temples. The cool night air prickled against him, a stark contrast to the lingering heat of restless sleep.
Even now, standing in the corridor, his hands were clenched at his sides, his breath still too shallow, too unsteady.
Barristan had seen it all.
The Kingsguard was not a man prone to needless worry, nor did he voice concerns without reason. He had fought on battlefields, stood in the presence of kings, and faced dangers that would unmake lesser men. He knew the look of someone shaken—not by the trivial fears of childhood, but by something deeper.
Something that refused to fade even after waking.
For a moment, he considered speaking of the vision—the frozen battlefield, the warrior of fire, the creeping darkness. The dead who did not rest. But what could he say? That the myths were real? That the White Walkers had returned? Even a man like Barristan would struggle to believe it.
Aemon exhaled, forcing his fingers to relax, pressing his shoulders back as he met Barristan's gaze. "It was just a nightmare," he said, voice even despite the weight in his chest. "I cannot sleep anymore."
Barristan studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable.
"A nightmare," he echoed, the word carrying more weight than it should. A slight furrow creased his brow. "The kind that fades when you wake… or the kind that lingers?"
Aemon pressed his lips together but did not look away.
He did not need to answer.
Barristan already knew.
The knight exhaled through his nose, nodding slightly. He did not press further and did not ask for details. But there was something in his expression—a quiet understanding, the kind that did not demand explanations but recognized burdens too heavy to share.
Instead, his gaze flickered to the dark cloak fastened over Aemon's shoulders. "And where are you going at this hour, my prince?"
"The library," Aemon answered without hesitation. "If I cannot sleep, I may as well make use of the time."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Barristan's face—curiosity, perhaps, or quiet approval. Then, after a brief pause, he gave a small nod. "Very well. Shall I accompany you?"
Aemon almost refused. Dragonstone was no den of vipers like King's Landing. But something in him hesitated.
The dream still clung to him, its whispers trailing in the back of his mind. The feeling that something had shifted—that the world had stirred beneath his feet—remained.
For the first time, the thought of walking the vast, empty halls of Dragonstone alone felt… unappealing.
He gave a slow nod. "If you wish."
Barristan's gaze lingered on Aemon for a long moment, his keen blue eyes searching, measuring. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose, the furrow in his brow deepening.
"If you say so, my prince…" he murmured at last, though there was no certainty in his voice—only quiet doubt. He did not press further, but neither did he look convinced.
As Aemon turned, stepping toward the library, a faint shift in the air made him hesitate. A whisper of movement, too soft to be wind. The torchlight flickered—not as if caught in a draft, but as if something unseen had stirred just beyond the edges of the dark.
.
.
.
.
.
The great library of Dragonstone was a place few ever ventured at this hour. It was buried deep within the keep, past winding corridors of black stone and towering ironwood doors that groaned softly as Aemon pushed them open. The scent of parchment, dust, and candle wax filled the air, thick and ancient as if the very walls had absorbed centuries of knowledge.
The chamber was vast, lined with towering shelves that stretched toward the vaulted ceiling, each row filled with scrolls, tomes, and records long forgotten by all but the most devoted scholars. The dragon-forged sconces on the walls burned low, casting long shadows between the aisles. It was a place of silence, of secrets—where history whispered from the pages of books rather than from the mouths of men.
Aemon stepped inside, his boots barely making a sound against the polished stone floor. Behind him, Barristan followed, his presence steady and unobtrusive. The young knight said nothing, merely standing near the entrance, keeping watch as if expecting some unseen threat to rise from the forgotten words that lined these shelves.
Aemon did not waste time.
He moved with purpose, heading toward the section that contained the oldest records, those untouched by the Citadel's careful revisions. The Maesters had a habit of altering history to suit their own beliefs, stripping out the mystical, the unexplainable.
But Dragonstone was different. It had been the seat of House Targaryen since before the Conquest, a refuge for Valyrian knowledge, and perhaps, a place where the truth of the past remained intact.
His fingers trailed along the spines of the books, his violet eyes scanning each title, pulling them free only to return them moments later.
The Fall of Valyria.No.
The Wars of the Free Cities.Not now.
The Blood Betrayal—The Doom and the Scouring of Fire and Stone.Irrelevant.
The deeper Aemon ventured into the library, the more the air seemed to change. It was heavier here, thick with the scent of parchment, candle wax, and dust—memories of ages past lingering in silence. The further he moved, the older the records became. Scrolls bound in brittle leather. Tomes whose covers had long since faded, their contents lost to all but the most patient of scholars.
Then, at last, his fingers brushed against a book that stilled his movements.
A single frail volume, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the shelf. Unlike the others, it was not Valyrian, not Andal—something even older. Bound in rough, untreated leather, its pages fragile with age, the ink faded but still intact.
Aemon reached out, brushing dust from its cover. A Northern manuscript. The old tongue was scrawled across the front, unfamiliar to most, but he had studied enough to recognize it.
The moment Aemon's fingers brushed the brittle leather of the ancient tome, the air in the library shifted—just slightly, just enough. No gust of wind disturbed the chamber, yet the candle flames wavered, casting long, twisting shadows across the stone floor. A whisper of cold curled against the nape of his neck, feather-light yet unmistakable.
For a fleeting second, the library did not feel empty. The weight of something unseen pressed against his skin, heavy as a held breath, lingering just beyond the reach of his senses. The silence stretched too thin—like the hush before a storm.
Aemon's spine prickled. The candle flames flickered again, not as if caught by a draft, but as if something unseen had drawn too close. Watching. Waiting.
Then, as quickly as it came, the feeling was gone. Only the rustle of parchment remained, yet the air still felt heavier, as though the library itself had changed.
Carefully, he lifted the book and carried it to the nearest stone table. The moment it touched the surface, a thin cloud of dust rose into the air, the scent of untouched knowledge filling his senses.
He opened it cautiously, as though the brittle parchment might crumble beneath his fingers, yet his grip tightened instinctively, the rough edges pressing into his skin. Aemon exhaled slowly, but the breath came unsteady, barely audible over the pounding in his ears. For a moment, the words before him blurred.
The Chronicle of the First Long Night
"When the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the White Walkers move through the woods..."
Aemon's breath stilled.
He forced himself to blink, to focus, but the weight of them pressed against his ribs, tightening like a vice.
The words painted a world swallowed whole, where light had abandoned the sky, and all that remained was hunger, cold, and death.
His hands trembled.
Just slightly.
Barely more than a quiver.
Yet enough.
Enough to betray the coil of unease winding tighter within him, enough to make his throat feel dry despite the damp chill of the library. The air felt heavier now, thick with something unseen. His pulse thrummed against his skin, too fast, too loud.
He swallowed hard, pressing his palm flat against the open pages as if grounding himself—as if holding the book steady could steady him in turn.
But nothing could.
The words were a warning, and he had been chosen to hear them.
"The Others… Thousands and thousands of years ago, a winter came that was cold, hard, and endless beyond the memory of men. A night that lasted a generation, where kings shivered and died in their castles just as swineherds perished in their hovels. Women smothered their children rather than watch them starve, only to feel their tears freeze upon their cheeks.
And in that darkness, the Others came for the first time…
Cold things. Dead things. They hated iron and fire, the touch of the sun, and every creature with warm blood in its veins. They swept through holdfasts and cities, toppling kingdoms, and felling heroes and armies alike. They rode pale, dead horses and led hosts of the slain. No sword of man could halt their advance, and even maidens and suckling babes found no pity in them. They hunted through frozen forests and fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children...."
Aemon exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on the book's delicate edges.
This was not just war—it was annihilation.
The First Men had not fought against invaders seeking land or plunder. They had been hunted, as wolves hunted wounded prey in the snow. Castles, walls, steel—none of it had mattered. They had fallen like leaves in the frost, their legacies erased from time.
But then—
"In that time of despair, a lone figure sought salvation. With a sword, a horse, a dog, and a dozen companions, the Last Hero ventured into the dead lands, searching for the children of the forest. He sought their magic, believing it could turn the tide of war. But the cold was merciless. One by one, his companions perished. His horse and dog fell, and his sword froze so hard that it shattered when he tried to wield it. The Others smelled the heat of his blood and followed, silent as snowfall, relentless as the cold. They came with pale white spiders the size of hounds, creeping through the storm....."
Aemon swallowed, the weight of the words pressing down on him.
The Last Hero.
The lone survivor.
The one who had reached the children and returned with the power to fight.
There was no name, no identity, only a title passed down through legend. No record of how he had survived, only that he had.
Aemon clenched his jaw. He had thought the White Walkers were merely remnants of the past, a threat long buried beneath time. But reading these words, feeling the weight of them—he knew better.
The dead did not rest.
His hand hovered over the next page, but something caught his eye—a second book, hidden beneath the first. Unlike the northern manuscript, this one had smoother binding, its lettering foreign.
Aemon set the brittle northern tome aside and carefully pulled the second book forward, his fingers brushing over the title.
The Jade Compendium
By Colloquo Voltar
Aemon had heard of this work before—an account from a traveller who had ventured far beyond the known world, gathering stories and legends untouched by Westerosi's hands.
He flipped through the pages, his fingers moving quickly until he found something familiar.
"A great warrior rose to battle the darkness, according to legends that spread from Asshai. Followers of R'hllor name him Azor Ahai. The men of Yi Ti call him Hyrkoon the Hero, Yin Tar, Neferion, or Eldric Shadowchaser. Tales from the Far East speak of a warrior queen with a monkey's tail, while northern legends recall the Last Hero who gained the aid of the children of the forest....."
Aemon's pulse quickened.
The same story. Told across different tongues, across different lands. A hero. A war against the dark. A weapon of power.
"Azor Ahai needed to forge a hero's sword, so he laboured for thirty days and thirty nights at the sacred fires of a temple. But when he tempered it in water, the blade shattered. He tried again, this time working for fifty days and driving the blade into the heart of a lion. But again, it broke.
On the third attempt, he laboured for a hundred days and nights. This time, he called for his wife, Nissa Nissa. He asked her to bare her breast—and as she did, he drove the sword through her living heart. Her soul fused with the steel, and thus was born Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes...."
Aemon's grip tightened.
A sword that burned like fire. A blade forged in sacrifice.
"Though he wielded Lightbringer, Azor Ahai did not fight alone. He led an army of virtuous men, driving back the darkness with fire and steel. The Jade Compendium tells of how, when the hero thrust his blade into a great beast, the creature burst into flame, consumed by Lightbringer's heat...."
His mind raced.
Could this sword truly exist? If so—where was it now?
His nightmare had shown him darkness, an abyss swallowing the world whole.
But if there was darkness, then there had to be light.
"According to prophecy, recorded in the ancient books of Asshai over five thousand years ago, Azor Ahai will be reborn when the long summer ends and a great darkness descends upon the world. Wielding Lightbringer, he will stand against the coming storm, for if he fails—
The world fails with him....."
Aemon sat back in his chair, his pulse hammering in his ears.
The Long Night had happened before. And if these legends held any truth, it would happen again.
Aemon's fingers hovered over the brittle parchment, his mind turning over the weight of the words.
The Last Hero.
Azor Ahai.
The coming darkness.
For centuries, the Targaryens had clung to prophecy like a shipwrecked sailor to driftwood, believing themselves chosen—dreamers of dragon dreams, shapers of destiny. Had not Aegon seen a vision of fire and blood before his conquest? Had not Daenys the Dreamer foresaw the Doom of Valyria?
And now, there was him.
The blood of the dragon ran through his veins, a legacy both revered and cursed. But did that blood carry a purpose? Or was it simply a chain binding him to a fate he had no power to change?
He exhaled, his breath stirring the dust of forgotten words. Did the gods forge the dragon to stand against the dark?
Or had the Targaryens only ever been grasping at shadows, mistaking dreams for destiny?
Was this truly history? Or had time twisted memory into myth, shaping the fears of dead men into stories for the living?
The White Walkers. The Last Hero. Azor Ahai.
History was not just a record of the past.
It was a warning.
And he had been chosen to hear it.