Jeor Mormont's arrival added more oppression to the already heavy atmosphere.
The Lord Commander's gaze swept between Maester Aemon and Lynn.
Those sharp bear eyes—as if seeing through souls.
"Maester Aemon."
Mormont's voice came low, carrying barely perceptible tension.
"What is this..."
Maester Aemon didn't turn.
He simply "gazed" at the dragon egg by the hearth with blind eyes, voice terrifyingly calm.
"Jeor, good timing."
"I need you to bear witness."
Mormont's heart sank.
His worst fear—about to happen.
"Witness what?"
Mormont's voice came out dry.
"Witness a Targaryen offering his final loyalty to this world."
Aemon spoke slowly.
Mormont's breath caught.
He glanced at Lynn's ashen face, then at Aemon's resolute expression, finally releasing a long sigh.
"Aemon, have you truly... decided?"
"From the moment Lynn brought this egg back, I decided."
"This isn't impulse. I've thought long about this since returning."
Aemon's voice carried fatalistic calm.
"This is the gods' guidance. My duty as a Targaryen—one I cannot shirk."
Honor. Duty. Destiny.
To Aemon—greater than everything.
Ancestors knew life was good, yet still went calmly to death. Perhaps that's what honor, duty, and destiny mean.
Still, for hatching dragons, he could just kill Viserys.
No need for Aemon to die.
"Maester Aemon, listen to me!"
Lynn stepped before Aemon, making a final effort.
"You know Targaryen history. You know dragons' power. But you should also know the risks of hatching dragon eggs!"
"Throughout history, how many Targaryens paid with their lives trying to wake petrified eggs—and gained nothing!"
"The Tragedy of Summerhall. Have you forgotten?"
Lynn threw out House Targaryen's most painful historical attempt.
Aegon V. A wise king.
To bring dragons back and solve problems he couldn't otherwise fix, he held a grand ceremony at Summerhall.
Attempting to hatch seven dragon eggs with wildfire.
Result: uncontrolled wildfire consumed all of Summerhall.
The king himself. His eldest son. The Targaryen royal family. Lord Commander Duncan of the Kingsguard. Half the loyal court.
All died in that disaster.
And those seven eggs? Not one hatched.
"Of course I remember."
Aemon's face showed sorrow.
"Aegon was my brother."
"I watched him send himself and his family into hell for that mad dream."
"Then why repeat his mistake?" Lynn pressed.
"That was a tragedy!"
"A tragedy where even a king and prince's lives couldn't buy a miracle!"
"Because they used the wrong method."
Aemon shook his head.
"Wildfire's power is strong, but it's an alchemist's creation. A mortal's trick."
"Full of destruction, but no life force."
"Dragons need life."
"Fire, yes. But also blood."
Aemon's voice grew distant, as if recalling history the world had forgotten.
"My brother, Aerion. Have you heard his story?"
Lynn nodded.
Of course he knew. Aerion Targaryen.
Called "Aerion Brightflame."
A handsome, martial, yet extremely cruel and mad prince.
"He always said he was a true dragon, merely trapped in a mortal shell."
Aemon's tone carried mockery.
"He believed if he drank a full cup of wildfire, he'd transform into a dragon."
"The result?"
"He twisted in agony in the flames. Screamed. Finally burned to charcoal."
"To his death, he never grew a single dragon scale."
Lynn fell silent.
A mad story. A foolish story.
"And my other brother, Daeron."
Aemon's voice grew sadder.
"Unlike Aerion's madness, he was kind. Sensitive."
"He was a dreamer. Once had a prophetic dream."
"He dreamed too many tragic endings."
"Those dreams haunted him his whole life."
"He feared. He dreaded. He tried to numb himself with alcohol, escape the tragedy destined to come."
"People called him 'Daeron the Drunken.'"
"In the end, he didn't die on a battlefield or in conspiracy."
"He died of pox caught from a whore."
Aemon recounted his brothers' tragic ends.
Those blind eyes flowing with endless sorrow.
"You see, Lynn."
"We Targaryens always deal with dragons."
"We crave their power. We try to control them."
"But ultimately, we're often destroyed by them."
"They were all wrong."
Aemon turned, "gazing" again at the ice-blue dragon egg.
"They all forgot the Targaryen words."
"Fire and Blood."
"To gain a dragon's power, you must pay the price in blood."
"And my blood possesses the qualification to hatch it."
Aemon's voice—in this moment—filled with unquestionable pride.
"Because I am Aemon Targaryen."
"Because in my veins flows the blood of kings."
Mormont listened quietly from the side.
He didn't interrupt. Only his hands gripping his sword hilt—tightening more and more.
Lynn's heart sank bit by bit.
He knows—he can't persuade this stubborn old man.
Aemon Targaryen isn't seeking death.
He's fulfilling his final mission as a Targaryen—in his own way.
Just as the room's atmosphere reached its heaviest—
"CAW—"
A harsh, grating cry suddenly came from outside the window.
A raven—appearing from nowhere—perched on the windowsill.
Pitch black. Yet its feathers gleamed strangely in the firelight.
It had three eyes.
The third eye—right in the center of its forehead—blood red.
Like a burning gemstone.
It cocked its head, using those three eyes to stare quietly at Lynn in the room.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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