ASOIAF : Creed

Dawn at the Wall was a pale, fragile thing, a smear of grey light against an endless expanse of ice. Jon was in the training yard before anyone else, the cold air a sharp, clean shock to his system. He needed the familiar weight of a sword in his hand, the simple, honest work of a drill to quiet the storm in his mind.

He moved before a battered training dummy, his new longsword a blur of motion. He was not just practicing strikes; he was refining the instincts the System had given him, making them his own. The [Blade Proficiency] made the sword feel like a part of him, and the memory of a thousand perfect parries guided his every block and deflection.

He was lost in the rhythm of his work when he felt a pair of eyes on him. He finished his sequence and turned. Ser Alliser Thorne stood in the archway, his arms crossed, his face a mask of cold contempt.

He said nothing, simply watching Jon with a look that was more insulting than any words could have been. It was a look of pure, unadulterated disdain, a dismissal of Jon's very existence. Jon met the man's gaze for a moment, his own face a mask of ice, before turning his back and returning to his drills. He would not be intimidated. He would not be goaded.

A short while later, he broke his fast in the common hall, the other men giving him a wide berth, their whispers following him like a flock of crows. After the meal, he found Vayon Poole and the Winterfell guards preparing to leave.

"We will tell your father you arrived safely, my lord," Poole said.

"Thank you, Vayon," Jon said. "Tell him… tell him I will be well."

He watched them ride out, the last link to his old life disappearing through the tunnel in the Wall. He was truly on his own now.

He found Benjen waiting for him. "Come," his uncle said, his face still holding a note of concern. "It is time. Maester Aemon is expecting you."

They walked to the Maester's chambers, a small, cluttered rookery at the top of a winding stair. The air smelled of old parchment, dried herbs, and antiseptic. A short, hunched steward with a soft, chinless face and dim, pinkish eyes greeted them at the door.

"First Ranger," the steward said, his voice a soft lisp. "The Maester is ready for you."

Benjen nodded to Jon, a silent gesture of encouragement, before turning to leave. "I will be in the common hall when you are done."

The steward led Jon into the solar. The room was small, warmed by a brazier of glowing coals. An old man sat in a high-backed chair by the window, his back to the door, a heavy chain of many metals around his neck. He was ancient, his skin as thin and pale as parchment, his hands gnarled with age.

"Leave us, Clydas," the old man said, his voice a soft, dry rustle of leaves.

The steward bowed and shuffled out, closing the door behind him. Jon stood in the silence, his heart pounding, unsure of what to say, of how to begin.

The old man did not turn. "You are Lord Stark's son," he said, his voice quiet but clear. "Come closer, boy. Let me see you. My eyes are not what they once were."

Jon stepped forward until he stood beside the old man's chair. Maester Aemon turned his head slowly. His eyes were milky white, completely blind, yet they seemed to look right through Jon.

"Why have you sought me out, Jon Snow?" Aemon asked, his voice gentle. "Your uncle could have answered any questions you have about the Watch."

Jon's throat was dry. "I did not come to ask about the Watch, Maester. I came to… to speak with kin."

A faint, confused frown touched Aemon's wrinkled brow. "Kin? Your uncle Benjen is a fine man, a brother of the Watch and a Stark. He is your kin."

"He is," Jon agreed, his voice barely a whisper. "But you… you are one of the few left from my father's side."

The Maester's face was a mask of confusion. "Your father is Lord Eddard Stark. I am a Targaryen. There is no blood between us, child."

This was it. The final leap. Jon took a deep, shuddering breath. "My father was Rhaegar Targaryen," he said, the words feeling strange and heavy on his tongue.

The air in the room went still. The only sound was the hiss of the coals in the brazier. Maester Aemon's face, which had been a placid lake of ancient calm, was now a storm of shock, disbelief. His blind eyes widened, his lips parting in a silent gasp.

"What… what did you say?" he whispered, his voice trembling.

Jon told him everything. He spoke of the crypt, of the letter from his mother, Lyanna Stark. He spoke of the name she had given him. Aemon.

When he was finished, the old Maester was shaking, his gnarled hands gripping the arms of his chair. Tears welled, unbidden, tracing old paths down his withered cheeks. A sound escaped him—not quite a sob, more a sigh long held in the bones.

"I had thought… I had thought I would not meet another of my kin in this lifetime," he whispered. "To be so old, and to live to see another of my own blood… it is a gift from the gods I never thought to receive." He reached out a trembling hand. "Come here, child. Let me… let me see you."

Jon knelt before him, and the old Maester's hands, surprisingly strong, cupped his face. His fingers, dry as old paper, traced the lines of Jon's jaw, his nose, his brow.

"Yes," Aemon whispered, a sad, wondrous smile touching his lips. "Yes, I feel it. You have his cheekbones. My brother, Aegon's. He had the same sharp line to his face." He paused, his thumbs gently brushing Jon's hair back from his forehead. "Your hair… what color is it?"

"Black, Maester," Jon confirmed.

"And your eyes?" Aemon asked, his voice full of a quiet, desperate hope.

Jon hesitated, his voice a whisper. "Violet, Maester."

Aemon let out a soft, shuddering sigh, a sound of both sorrow and confirmation. "The Stark coloring was a gift, then. A perfect camouflage. It allowed Lord Stark to hide a Targaryen in plain sight. But your eyes they could have been the undoing" His hands slowly dropped from Jon's face to his shoulders, the brief, wondrous smile fading, replaced by a look of profound empathy.

"But to be hidden, even for one's own safety, is a lonely existence. Lord Stark's honor is a shield, but it cannot protect a boy from whispers, or from the coldness of a woman who feels her own children threatened." He paused, his blind eyes seeming to see the years of Jon's quiet pain. "You did not have the easiest childhood, I presume."

Jon swallowed. "Lady Catelyn thought of me as a stain on her honor."

"A mother's love," Aemon said, voice tinged with something knowing, "is as beautiful as it can be cruel—especially when it believes its child threatened."

"I've only just found out about my heritage," Jon admitted. "I don't know what to do. I feel so alone. My whole life is a lie. The world wants me dead for a name I never knew I had. I don't know who I am, or who I am supposed to be. It feels like the whole world is against me."

Aemon's hands dropped from Jon's face to his shoulders, his grip surprisingly firm. "Who you are supposed to be?" he said, his gentle voice taking on a sudden, steely strength. "No one can tell you that. Not me. Not your uncle Eddard. Not even the gods themselves. That is a choice you must make for yourself. You are the master of your own journey, Aemon Targaryen. Do not let anyone, living or dead, tell you otherwise."

He leaned back, his blind eyes seeming to pierce the veil of Jon's turmoil. "What is are your intentions now that you have left Winterfell behind?"

"I… I thought to go to Essos," Jon stammered, the plan feeling flimsy and childish as he said it aloud. "To find my other kin. Viserys, and the sister born on Dragonstone."

Aemon's face grew heavy with a sorrow that seemed ancient. "A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing," he murmured, more to himself than to Jon. "I know this better than anyone. It is a lonely path, full of pain and regrets." He focused on Jon again. "Your heart is true, boy. It is a noble thing to seek out your own blood. "

"Viserys…" he murmured. "Yes. Rhaegar wrote to me, before the war. Before he… before he took Lady Lyanna. We exchanged letters, a few. He wrote of Viserys, even then. Said the boy idolized Aerys."

There was a weight in the way he spoke the name, a bitterness Jon hadn't expected.

Aemon shook his head slightly. "It worried him. Rhaegar saw what Aerys had become. But Viserys was young, impressionable. He clung to the myth of a golden crown, not the man behind it."

He turned his gaze toward Jon—sightless, but somehow still piercing. "I fear the boy you seek may not be the family you hope for. And the girl… she was born in fire, raised in exile. I know little of her."

Jon swallowed. "Still, they're my kin."

"They are," Aemon agreed, quietly. "But blood alone does not bind hearts. Nor does it guarantee safety. Be careful, Aemon. Do not seek them in hopes they will give you purpose. Do not trade one cage for another. Make your own path. If you meet them, let it be as equals—not as a lost child begging to belong."

Jon felt the truth of the Maester's words settle in his bones. He looked down at his hands, feeling more lost than ever. "Then what do I do?"

Aemon was silent for a long moment. "You are two people, boy," he said finally, his voice soft but clear. "You are Jon Snow, the boy raised by the honorable Eddard Stark, full of his hurts and his doubts. And you are Aemon Targaryen, the son of the last dragon, with a legacy of fire and blood you do not understand. The boy is holding you back. His fear, his grief… they are chains. You will never be the man you are meant to be until you break them."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to an intense, urgent whisper that seemed to echo with the weight of a hundred years of wisdom.

"Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born."