Oldtown, 221 AC — The Citadel
The white ravens circled lazily above the honey-colored towers of the Hightower, while the bells of the Starry Sept tolled a slow and solemn hour. Within the ancient halls of the Citadel, where candlelight gleamed on chains of every metal and the scent of parchment hung thick in the air, a meeting of quiet consequence took place.
Brynden Rivers, called Bloodraven by many and worse by more, passed beneath archways older than the Conquest itself. Cloaked in black, his long silver hair tied back with a twist of red thread, the King's Hand moved like a shadow among the scholars, acolytes, and gray-cloaked maesters, some of whom turned their eyes away as he passed.
He was shown to a modest solar in the eastern wing. There, seated among stacks of tomes and a raven perched on his arm, sat a young man with deep violet eyes and a calm, bookish air—Maester Aemon Targaryen, third son of King Maekar, and now sworn to the order of the Citadel.
Aemon rose with a gentle smile and bowed his head. "Lord Brynden. You honor me with your presence."
Brynden returned the nod. "You may call me uncle, Aemon. We are kin, after all, though you wear a different kind of chain now."
Aemon's smile deepened. "Titles change. Blood does not. Sit, if you will."
They sat together at the wooden table, the raven hopping to a perch behind them, watching with bright, curious eyes.
"You've made a quiet life here," Brynden observed, eyeing the room's simplicity. "No gold, no silk, no courtiers with poisoned tongues. Just books and birds."
"It suits me," said Aemon simply. "My brothers may chase crowns or dragons, but I chase knowledge. It causes less suffering."
Brynden studied him, tapping a long finger on the table. "You could have come to court. You're learned, disciplined, of good mind. A voice of reason in a time sorely in need of it. Why stay buried beneath scrolls when your father sits the Iron Throne?"
Aemon folded his hands. "Because I am the king's son. And my presence at court, I fear, would cast long shadows. The Grand Maester would suspect favoritism. Others would call it nepotism. I serve the realm better here—unseen, unentangled."
He paused, thoughtful. "It was my grandfather's will that I don the chain. When my father protested, King Daeron said, 'Too many dragons are as dangerous as too few.'" Aemon looked down at his maester's links, his voice quiet. "Perhaps he was right."
Brynden's red eye narrowed, as if peering into a future only he could glimpse. "Still, Maekar will need you, Aemon. Whether he knows it or not. The realm grows restless—summer scorches the fields, the smallfolk cry out, and across the sea, the Blackfyres are not finished."
"I have heard," said Aemon, his tone grave. "Of Bittersteel's escape. Of the boy Daemon in Tyrosh."
Brynden stood. "I came not to command, but to remind you: your father may wear a crown of iron, but the weight of it will burn like fire before long. He will need wise counsel. And I will not be here forever."
Aemon rose as well and bowed low. "If my father calls, I will answer. Maester I may be, but I am still his son."
Brynden turned to go, his cloak whispering across the stone floor. At the door, he paused. "The realm has its share of fools, Aemon. It will need all the wisdom it can get."
And with that, the Hand of the King vanished down the long corridor, leaving the maester of House Targaryen to his books and ravens.