The morning fog clung to the streets of Oldtown, gray tendrils slithering between towers and halls of the Citadel. Bells tolled across the Honeywine, and the ravens cried overhead. Within the ancient stone keep of learning, in a quiet solar draped with tapestries of bygone kings and dragonlords, two brothers sat alone.
King Aegon V Targaryen wore no golden mantle or crown today. Only a plain blue cloak and travel-stained boots. His pale blond hair, like snow turned to silk, was tousled by the sea breeze from the open window. Across the table sat Maester Aemon, a wise man in his prime age, his chain of many metals resting heavy across his neck.
They laughed as men only can when they have loved each other for all their lives.
"Remember when we thought those old dragon eggs would hatch?" Aegon chuckled, shaking his head. "You swore yours moved. You even named it."
"Verion," Aemon replied with a smile. "She never so much as cracked, but you couldn't convince me she wouldn't rise one day and take me flying over Driftmark."
"And you made your poor friend Melaquin let us reenact the Battle of the Redgrass Field in the library. Painted soldiers everywhere. He nearly tripped over Gormon Peake's horse and cursed the entire Rebellion."
They both laughed again. But laughter gave way to a silence steeped in memory, and in weight.
Aegon leaned forward, folding his hands. "Aemon… tell me the truth. Why did you refuse the crown?"
Aemon's smile did not falter, though his eyes turned inward, searching the memory.
"You know why, Egg. I am a maester. My vows are as sacred as those sworn by knights or crows in black."
"But vows can be released," Aegon pressed. "You know that. You could have accepted. You were wiser than all of us. Even Daeron said so."
"Some still whisper that I should have," Aemon said softly. "Even now, even after the Council named you. Some lords visited me before the vote, and after. Whispering that you would change too much, move too swiftly, threaten their power. They do not want a king who listens to the cries of smallfolk. They wanted a king they could hold by the strings."
Aegon's face darkened. "They would have used you."
"Yes," Aemon said. "And I would not be used. Not against you, Egg. Never against you."
The old maester stood, walking slowly to the window, looking out over the city and the sea beyond. "So I made a decision. One I should have made long ago. I've written to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. I've asked leave of the Citadel to serve at Castle Black."
Aegon stood sharply. "You what?"
"I will go to the Wall," Aemon said, turning to him, voice calm and sure. "The realm needs peace. Your reign must be yours alone, not shadowed by my presence. As long as I wear this chain and walk these halls, those who wish to divide us will find cause."
"You're my brother," Aegon said. "Not a threat."
"I am both," Aemon replied. "And I will not be used against you. This is how I serve you, Egg. As a subject of the realm… and as your brother."
The king's eyes welled, but he did not shed tears. Not here, not now. He only stepped forward and embraced the old man, who had once been a boy with a dragon's egg and a dream.
"Then go, Aemon," Aegon whispered. "Go and serve, if that's your will. But I will miss you."
"As I will you," said Maester Aemon, and he held his brother long, before the North called him.