Aemon sat still, his fingers resting against the brittle pages of the ancient books, his mind spiralling with the weight of revelation. The dim candlelight flickered against the stone walls of the library, but his thoughts were elsewhere—deep in the frozen shadows of a forgotten past.
For years, he had believed that the knowledge from his past life granted him an advantage in this world. He had relied on it, trusted in it. He had thought himself prepared.
But now—now he knew better.
The books before him—The Chronicle of the First Long Night, The Jade Compendium—told of events he had always assumed were distant myths, warped by time and belief. Yet, here they were, recorded in trembling hands by those who had seen the Long Night, by those who had fought and barely survived.
And it was coming again.
Aemon closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose as the realization settled into his bones like a deep winter chill.
His knowledge was incomplete.
The histories he had learned in his past life—the legends, the myths, the tales woven into stories for entertainment—were not enough. There was too much missing. Too many uncertainties. His memories told him the Others could be killed by Valyrian steel and dragonglass, that fire could harm them, and that they raised the dead to serve as their army.
But was that all?
How did they come to exist? What was their purpose and source of power? Did they have weaknesses beyond what the stories claimed? Could they be destroyed completely, or was their return inevitable?
His chest tightened, an uneasy heat rising in his throat. How could he have been so blind? He had spent too much time assuming he knew the truth. But assumptions weren't just dangerous. They were deadly. And he had wasted precious time.
Aemon pushed back from the table, running a hand through his silver hair, his sweat-dampened locks sticking to his forehead. His heart pounded with urgency, not from fear, but from the understanding that he was racing against time.
The world slept in ignorance, blind to the storm that gathered in the North.
But he would not.
He needed more than old books and fragmented tales. He needed real knowledge.
The Citadel. The maesters hoarded knowledge, their archives stretching back thousands of years. Even if they dismissed the Long Night as a fable, there had to be something buried in their texts—accounts left untouched by those who sought to rewrite history.
Winterfell. The Starks carried the blood of the First Men, their lineage bound to the North and its ancient truths. If any noble house still remembered what had been lost to time, it was them. Their crypts held secrets older than the Andals, perhaps even older than the Wall itself.
The Night's Watch. The Wall was the last remnant of the war against the Others, its very existence a monument to the battles of the past. If there was any place where the true nature of the White Walkers was still remembered, it was there.
He could not afford to trust theories or half-truths. He needed certainty.
He needed to know how to end the threat forever.
Not just fight it. Destroy it.
Completely.
Aemon clenched his fists at his sides.
The White Walkers were not simply a force to be delayed. They were not an enemy that could be fought in a single battle and forgotten for another thousand years.
They were death itself, an unnatural blight that had no place in this world.
And he would find a way to erase them from existence.
No myths. No half-truths.
Only the truth.
And for that—he needed to begin his search.
.
.
.
.
Aemon exhaled slowly, the stale air of the library thick with the scent of ink and parchment dust, settling in his lungs like an old secret. A candle sputtered nearby, its wax pooling, the tiny flame dancing with each flicker, casting restless shadows against the stone walls.
Somewhere beyond the towering shelves, faint footsteps echoed, the murmur of scribes at work—a distant reminder that the world outside had not paused, even as he did.
Aemon blinked, his vision blurring as he tried to focus on the text before him. The faded ink of The Jade Compendium swam before his eyes, the letters twisting, reshaping themselves into meaningless symbols. He rubbed his temples, exhaling slowly, yet the exhaustion in his limbs only deepened.
He had been reading for hours.
The dim candle beside him had burned nearly to the base, the pool of wax spilling onto the brass holder. The once-deep shadows in the library had faded as daylight streamed in through the narrow, high-set windows. The cold glow of morning had softened into the golden hue of midday.
He turned his head toward the window, squinting against the light. Had he been here that long?
Five hours.
Aemon inhaled sharply, realizing how stiff his muscles had become from sitting in the same position. His fingers ached, his back protested, and yet—he had barely made a dent in what he needed to learn.
He leaned back in his chair, pressing his palms against his eyes. He was used to pushing himself beyond his limits, but this was different. The sheer weight of the knowledge he had uncovered had drained him in ways that training and battle never could.
And now, that weight pressed upon him, pulling him downward.
His body ached for rest, and for once, he could not fight it.
His eyes drifted to the scattered books around him—tomes piled upon tomes, parchment stacked haphazardly, half-unfurled scrolls whispering secrets from ages long past. The scent of aged paper and ink filled the air, oddly soothing despite the vast, grim revelations he had uncovered.
He exhaled slowly, lowering his head to rest on his folded arms.
He tried to fight it. Tried to keep reading. But the words blurred, shifting and twisting before his eyes. His head dipped forward, his body giving in.
As the warmth of sleep wrapped around him, the distant rustling of parchment seemed to murmur in the silence, almost like a whisper.
Just a moment.
And then, darkness took him.
At first, there was only silence.
Then, the sound of wings.
Aemon stood in a vast, empty sky, high above the world. The wind howled around him, fierce and relentless, carrying the scent of salt and fire. The sea churned below, restless, endless.
A deep shadow moved across the clouds—something vast, something ancient. A dragon. No—many dragons. Their dark forms soared through the storm, wings beating against the wind, their eyes glowing like molten gold.
And then, suddenly—
The ground split apart beneath him, and the storm swallowed him whole.
Darkness.
Then, a flicker of fire.
Aemon found himself standing on a battlefield, yet he felt neither the weight of his body nor the chill of the air. It was as if he were both there and not, trapped between shadow and flame.
The sky above was a swirling storm, black and heavy with ash. The land beneath his feet was a frozen wasteland, jagged and broken, covered in a thick layer of blue frost that pulsed with unnatural cold.
And then—the battle.
Screams rang through the air. Steel clashed against ice.
At the centre of it all stood a lone warrior, clad in black armor—a shadow against the raging inferno. Aemon couldn't see his face, only the outline of his form, the way he moved like a tempest-given shape.
In his hands, he wielded a sword of fire.
Not Valyrian steel, not mere flames licking at a blade—the sword itself burned, its light tearing through the darkness like a second sun. The air around it shimmered from the heat, melting the frost at his feet, sending embers swirling in the howling wind.
He fought alone.
Against the Others.
They surrounded him, their frost-forged blades clashing against his fiery steel. Their pale eyes burned with cold malice, their movements swift, unnatural. Yet the warrior did not falter. With every swing, his sword carved through them, shattering their frozen flesh, setting their bodies ablaze.
Fire against Ice—an eternal clash, a battle woven into the very fabric of existence. The ground beneath them cracked, ice melting into rivers of steam, as fire and frost waged their endless war.
Aemon's breath hitched. He knew this battle.
This was the war against the Others.
A memory? A vision of the past? Or is something yet to come?
The warrior in black turned his head.
Aemon's breath caught in his throat.
There—just for a moment—he could see him.
His face.
Familiar.
But before Aemon could grasp it, before his mind could place it, the vision twisted.
Like a ripple across water, the figure's features distorted, shifting into something indistinct, as though the very air refused to hold his image. The flickering firelight warped around him, casting his face in deep shadows that swallowed every defining detail.
Aemon strained to see, to remember, but the harder he tried, the more the memory unravelled. His pulse pounded in his ears, frustration clawing at his chest. He knew this man. He knew him.
Didn't he?
A gust of frozen wind howled through the battlefield, drowning out all sound. The warrior's form wavered, his burning blade the only thing that remained clear—searing into the darkness like a second sun.
Then—
The ice cracked.
The storm surged forward.
The fire, the snow, the battle—all vanished.
And the warrior—
Vanished with them.
Aemon gasped, his vision shattering into nothingness.
Aemon now stood before a cavernous entrance, carved into the side of a jagged black mountain. The air felt heavy, humming with an unseen force.
The stone walls were scarred with deep, ancient symbols, their markings pulsing with a faint, golden glow. The cavern loomed before him, waiting.
He knew this place.
He had seen it before.
Dragonstone.
A cave—deep within the island, buried beneath centuries of fire and ash.
He knew it in his soul.
This place held answers.
The past. The truth.
And then, suddenly—
Something called to him from within.
He took a step forward. Then another.
A deep feeling settled in his chest—he needed to go inside.
As he moved through the narrow passage, the world around him darkened. The only light came from the flickering symbols along the walls, their glow barely enough to push back the shadows.
Then, through the silence—
A voice.
Faint. Echoing. Calling him.
"Aemon."
His breath stilled.
The voice was familiar, yet distant, layered with something old, something that wasn't truly there.
Then, again—
"Aemon."
It was coming from deep within the cave.
His feet moved on their own, drawing him further inside, into the unknown, into—
"Aemon."
This time, the voice was different.
Closer. Louder.
And suddenly—the cave vanished.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Aemon gasped.
For a fleeting moment, he wasn't in the library. The air was thick with the scent of ash and fire. The frozen wasteland stretched endlessly before him, the warrior's burning sword still carved into his vision. The cave entrance loomed in the distance, its ancient symbols glowing with a faint, golden pulse.
Then—
The weight shifted. The frozen air melted away. The glow of fire became the dim flicker of candlelight. The silence of the battlefield was replaced by the distant rustling of parchment and the soft crackle of a dying flame.
His body felt heavier. His limbs ached, stiff from sitting too long.
He was awake.
Yet, for a moment, he wasn't.
The library felt wrong. The air was too still, the weight of the vision pressing against his skull like a fading echo. The sound of wings still lingered in his mind. The whisper of his name, distant and fading—Aemon.
A hand touched his shoulder.
Aemon inhaled sharply, jerking upright. His pulse pounded in his ears, his breaths too quick, too shallow.
"You're awake," a voice murmured. Calm. Steady.
The world steadied with it.
Aemon blinked, the last traces of the dream slipping through his fingers like sand. The golden glow of the high windows told him it was well past midday. The rough wood of the table pressed beneath his fingertips, grounding him in the present.
Slowly, his gaze lifted.
Maester Geradys stood beside him, his keen blue eyes watching with quiet concern. Though aged, the maester still carried the sharpness of a man who missed nothing.
"I was beginning to wonder if I'd have to shake you."
Aemon exhaled, forcing his muscles to relax. The dream—no, the vision—was already slipping from his grasp, but the weight of it lingered.
His throat felt dry when he finally spoke.
"How long was I asleep?"
The maester glanced toward the nearby hourglass before answering, "It's nearly the second hour past noon. You've been here for quite some time."
Aemon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Almost two in the afternoon. That meant he had been in the library for over seven hours. No wonder his body felt stiff.
"I found you asleep at the table," Geradys continued, adjusting the sleeves of his robe. "You were muttering. Quite a bit."
Aemon's fingers twitched against the wooden table, but he kept his face carefully neutral. "I don't remember saying anything."
The maester hummed. "You did. Nothing I could make sense of—mostly fragments, but you sounded troubled."
Aemon hesitated, then gave a small shake of his head. "Just a nightmare."
Geradys studied him for a moment, the weight of his gaze lingering as if he were searching for the truth beneath Aemon's words.
"Hm. Perhaps," the maester finally said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "It's rare to see you so exhausted, my prince. You may not notice it, but your body and mind can only take so much before they force you to rest—whether you wish it or not."
Aemon gave a faint nod. He had been pushing himself, but how could he not? The answers he sought were buried beneath layers of forgotten history, obscured by time and deliberate misinformation. If he didn't uncover the truth, who would?
Maester Geradys sighed, folding his hands in front of him. "If you find yourself struggling to sleep, come to me before nightfall. I will give you a drop of essence of nightshade—enough to grant you a sweet and dreamless night."
Aemon considered the offer. A dreamless sleep. No visions. No whispers. No frozen wastelands or burning swords.
He almost wanted to refuse, but deep down, he knew the dreams would only grow worse. If they did, he would need the rest.
"If it gets worse, I'll come to you," Aemon agreed.
The maester nodded approvingly. "Good. Though I hope it does not come to that." He placed a reassuring hand on Aemon's shoulder. "Now, I suggest you step outside for some air. Even knowledge needs fresh air to breathe."
Aemon let out a small chuckle, shaking off the last traces of the dream. "Perhaps you're right."
As the maester walked away, Aemon's thoughts lingered on the vision. The cave was real. And whatever lay within… it was waiting for him.
He exhaled slowly, staring down at his hands. They had stopped shaking, but the weight in his chest had not lifted. The cave—he knew it was real. Not just with the certainty of logic or reason, but something deeper, something instinctive.
It was calling him.
It was an absurd thought. Caves did not call to people. And yet, even now, fully awake, he could still feel it—like a whisper in the marrow of his bones, a tug just beneath his ribs, urging him forward.
It wasn't just curiosity. It wasn't even fear.
It was needed.
The feeling was the same as when he had found the dragon eggs beneath Dragonmount—that sense of uncovering something meant for him. As if, in some way beyond understanding, the past had been waiting for him to arrive.
And now, so was the cave.
He swallowed, fingers curling into fists. He had to find it.
Because whatever lay beneath Dragonstone—whatever waited in the dark—was waiting for him.
And some part of him knew… it always had been.
Rolling his stiff shoulders, he pushed the weight of the vision aside and stepped out of the library. The air in the corridor felt cooler, yet the tension in his chest did not ease.
His gaze landed on Ser Barristan Selmy, standing exactly where he always did—just outside the entrance, arms crossed, posture firm but relaxed, ever the vigilant knight. He was not an old man, still in his prime, his sharp blue eyes missing nothing. Though unreadable as ever, Aemon had long learned to spot the subtle tells beneath his stoicism.
Barristan had been waiting.
"Seven hells," Aemon sighed, coming to a stop in front of him. "You didn't have to stand here all this time."
Barristan raised an eyebrow. "You disappeared into the library before dawn, my prince. It is now well past midday. Forgive me if I assumed you might have become one with the books."
Aemon smirked. "I was studying."
"You were sleeping."
"Only for a moment."
Barristan gave him a look—the kind that said 'Don't test me, boy', and Aemon, wisely, decided to change the subject.
He crossed his arms, tilting his head. "Do you remember the last time we ventured into the wilds of Dragonstone, Ser?"
Barristan exhaled through his nose. "You mean when you convinced me to climb Dragonmount and search the ancient hatcheries?"
"Yes, that one," Aemon said brightly.
"The cave where I was nearly roasted alive inside Dragonmount," Barristan continued, flatly. "And then almost buried in collapsed tunnels."
"Ah, well, almost is the keyword."
Barristan shook his head, muttering something about reckless Targaryens before fixing Aemon with a pointed stare. "Why do I have the feeling you're about to ask me for something equally foolish?"
Aemon grinned. "Because you're a wise man, Ser Barristan."
The knight sighed, adjusting the sword at his hip. "Go on, then."
Aemon leaned in slightly, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. "I need to find a cave."
Barristan blinked. "A… cave."
"Yes."
"A cave where exactly?"
"Beneath Dragonstone."
There was a pause. A long, heavy pause. Then:
"You want me," Barristan said slowly, "to help you search for an underground cave… on a volcanic island?"
"Yes," Aemon said, nodding enthusiastically.
"…And you don't know where it is."
"I have a feeling."
Barristan exhaled sharply, looking skyward for patience before rubbing a hand down his face. "What exactly is in this cave?"
Aemon opened his mouth, paused, and then frowned slightly.
"…I don't know."
Barristan closed his eyes for a moment, muttering something under his breath before finally sighing deeply. "Of course you don't."
Aemon clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. "That's the fun of it, Ser! An adventure!"
The knight stared at him.
Aemon stared back.
Finally, Barristan let out a long, suffering sigh, rubbing a hand down his face.
"I hope you realize, my prince," he muttered, "one day, you are going to be the death of me."
"Not today, Ser." Aemon turned, already heading toward the steps. "Now, come—we have a cave to find!"
And with that, he strode forward, leaving Barristan no choice but to follow with a muttered curse and the reluctant resignation of a man who had been through this far too many times before.