read full story in patreon : CaveLeather
The people of Oldtown liked to tell time by the shadow cast by the Hightower. The great tower was the seat of House Hightower and one of the nine wonders of the world, nearly the tallest structure in all the Seven Kingdoms. Because Oldtown had been one of the first strongholds of the Andals, the place carried a weight and prestige few other cities could match.
House Hightower itself stood high among the great houses, not least because of the Citadel it funded. There was hardly a castle in the realm without at least one maester, and the influence of the Hightowers traveled with those maesters into every corner of Westeros.
When the Hightower's shadow reached the Citadel, it meant the day was ending. The maesters would put aside their books and gather for a cup of wine to ease minds strained by endless reading.
These days were different. Flocks of ravens and messenger birds left the Citadel in a steady stream, all of them carrying explosive news.
First came word from the West: Lady Margaery of Casterly Rock had given birth to a silver-haired, purple-eyed boy. Jon, the bastard of Winterfell, now claimed to be a Targaryen, the son of Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark. He warned that winter was coming and urged every lord to stockpile grain. He also spoke of wights and White Walkers stirring beyond the Wall and called for repairs to castles and the training of smallfolk in arms.
None of that was proper business for a lord of the West, and sending such messages cost coin. Maintaining the raven network was expensive. Yet word soon followed that Highgarden was covering every expense.
King Stannis was also using the Citadel to spread his own messages. He branded Margaery a whore, called Jon a traitor and a liar, and demanded that every lord in the realm answer his call to march on the West. As king, Stannis paid nothing for the service.
The flood of letters disrupted another Citadel business—the scriptorium. Maesters there earned coin by writing letters and sending ravens for smallfolk, mostly the richer sort. Now Jon and Stannis were clogging the network, and the usual work had ground to a halt.
"Lord Jon says he doesn't sit the Iron Throne," one young maester muttered, "but it feels like he's the one giving orders."
"The messages from King's Landing are nothing but insults," another agreed, shaking his head over a fresh stack of parchment.
The greatest puzzle was the child itself. Jon had dark hair and Margaery brown. How had they produced a silver-haired, purple-eyed boy? Most maesters blamed Targaryen blood and left it at that. Some who favored Jon began calling him "Darkfire"—a man who looked nothing like a Targaryen on the outside yet carried their flame within.
The higher ranks of the Citadel cared less about gossip and more about advantage. The Conclave had gathered to discuss one of Jon's proposals. He called it the "Old Woman's Plan"—teaching more children to read and write. He promised to build at least fifty three-year schools across the West and made it clear he respected knowledge and those who held it. The offer of steady employment for maesters as teachers sweetened the deal.
In a bright chamber, archmaesters in their long robes sat around a long table. This was the heart of the Conclave's power.
"This Jon already took a great many acolytes and even some apprentices from the Citadel," one stubborn old archmaester grumbled. "During the Iron Islands war some of them earned land and titles. It's an insult to true learning."
"Yet plenty of maesters seem happy to serve him," Archmaester Perestan observed. The younger historian had spent enough years studying the past to know that every man had his own ambitions, and history turned on what those men chose to pursue.
Most maesters still dreamed of serving in some lord's castle once their chains were forged. The ones who had thrown in with Jon were usually the half-trained sort. The truly learned had looked down on him. Now Jon was offering something no one could ignore—lands and lordships of their own. If he came recruiting again, the Citadel might empty out.
"It doesn't matter whether Jon is truly the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna," Archmaester Theobald, the current Seneschal, said at last. He wore a robe of deep blue and six heavy chains. "Any man can claim the Iron Throne. We serve whoever actually sits it."
The others nodded. The Citadel was a place of learning, not politics. Whoever won the coming struggle, they would not harm the maesters. For now they would stay neutral. If Jon came asking for more men, they would refuse. To help him would look like taking sides.
"Still, Casterly Rock has offered us goodwill," another archmaester with a white beard and seven chains said. "How do we answer his proposal?"
Theobald considered. "We should ask Maester Aemon's opinion."
The others agreed. Jon had declared himself a Targaryen. Aemon was the oldest living Targaryen, a man who had once refused the crown. At the very least they owed him the courtesy of being heard.
Aemon had only just learned of Jon's claim. Samwell Tarly was reading the letters to him. Lord Commander Mormont had sent Sam south with the old maester as both attendant and student, a mark of respect.
Sam had expected excitement. When Aemon first heard that Daenerys had dragons across the Narrow Sea, he had barely slept for a night. Now a Targaryen sat in the West with the North and the Reach as allies. Surely this was cause for hope. Yet Aemon remained calm, almost quiet.
"You think Jon is lying?" Sam asked carefully.
Aemon lifted his blind head and let out a slow breath. "No. Jon is a Targaryen."
Sam blinked, confused. If that was true, why was the oldest and most respected Targaryen in the world staying silent? Aemon's word would give Jon legitimacy no one else could match. Why hold back?
Aemon spoke again, voice low. "We saw the dead with our own eyes on the Wall. The Others are no legend. Even here in the warm South we can feel winter coming. Jon wants to set the question of the throne aside until spring so men can prepare. If I speak for him now, I will only push the realm into war sooner. We should wait. Give him time to reach Stannis."
Sam understood. Stannis held no overwhelming strength, especially at sea. Jon commanded the stronger fleet and the stronger claim. If Aemon threw his voice behind Jon now, Stannis would feel his throne shaking and refuse every offer of peace. Aemon's name still carried enormous weight. A hundred years old, blind, and frail, he had once walked away from a crown while every other Targaryen fought and died for it. His silence was deliberate.
"We wait for Jon's next message," Aemon said. "If Stannis puts his crown above the safety of the realm, then we speak. Until then we stay quiet. Jon will understand."
Aemon was no fool. Whether he spoke or stayed silent, he judged every choice by one measure alone—the survival of men against the coming dark. Daenerys was far away; his joy at her dragons had been for family. Jon was here in Westeros. That made caution necessary.
In the end Aemon refused even Sam's suggestion to write to Jon. He kept to his rooms and let the world believe the oldest Targaryen had nothing more to say.