Chapter 311

“Out with the old, in with the new?”

The Maester of Castle Black lay serenely on his funeral pyre, his peaceful expression suggesting he felt no pain when he passed. Aegor, the newly elected Lord Commander, consoled himself with this thought. Having only just been chosen, he hadn’t even delivered an inaugural speech, let alone prepared for the passing of Maester Aemon. To make matters worse, factions from all corners were present, their agendas weighing heavily in the air.

After careful consideration, Aegor refrained from speaking at the funeral. Instead, he let the First Ranger and Samwell Tarly, Aemon’s “disciple,” deliver the eulogies. In solemn tones, they recounted the old Maester’s life and declared, “His watch has ended.” Then, the torches were lit. The orange flames, fed by the oil-drenched kindling beneath the body, leapt and spread rapidly across the pyre.

This was Castle Black. The Night’s Watch had once buried their dead with full ceremony, but after witnessing the risen dead clawing their way out of graves, the brothers had begun adopting the wildlings’ methods: cremation.

Coincidentally, fire was the method Maester Aemon had requested in his will.

The flames painted the watchers’ faces in flickering orange hues, their reflections glinting in the eyes of the gathered men. Some mourned in silence; others stood with minds racing. All watched as Maester Aemon’s body was slowly consumed by the fire.
----


Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwyck, and other Castle Black loyalists huddled together, brainstorming ways to mend relations with Aegor, the man they had vehemently opposed but who had somehow clawed his way to victory. They contemplated gestures of loyalty, hoping to steady the ground beneath their feet.

In stark contrast, Yohn Royce, who had risked his life just a week ago to denounce Aegor, stood trembling with rage. He still couldn’t fathom how his actions had inadvertently paved the way for his enemy’s triumph.

“Yohn, let it go,” whispered Cotter Pyke, his voice low and firm. “Dennis has already written to assure me that Aegor won’t harm us. Stay quiet, and I’ll shield you.”

“Dennis?” Royce hissed. “His betrayal is why Aegor, that scheming cur, even had a chance to rise!”

“Enough, Yohn!” Cotter snapped, his tone sharp but hushed. “Dennis was never truly one of us. And as much as I despise Aegor, he’s won. He’s the Lord Commander now, and he holds the power of life and death over every brother of the Watch. Unless you plan to stage a rebellion, you’ll have to submit. This is not the South—there’s no middle path here. What happened during the election is over. Don’t give him cause to strike you down now.”

Yohn clenched his fists, his hatred smoldering, but he fell silent.

“Mark my words,” Cotter continued. “Once this funeral ends, Aegor will waste no time solidifying his authority. If he dares to strip me of command at Eastwatch or tries to send you away to silence you, I’ll end him myself. He’s cunning, but he won’t withstand my axe.”

The two men stared at the blazing pyre, their thoughts dark and unyielding.
----


Among those watching the fire were hopeful reformists, uncertain neutral soldiers, and a lone woman in red—the shadowy figure of Melisandre.

As a priestess of R’hllor, she often sought truths within the flames, but tonight she awaited a miracle. Months ago, Aegor had shared his theory with her: “King’s blood” was “Targaryen blood.” His logic was sound enough to convince her to abandon her plans to sacrifice Mance Rayder and his child.

Now, here was the perfect opportunity to test his claim.

Maester Aemon—Aemon Targaryen—was the third son of King Maekar I. He had come to the Wall to avoid becoming a pawn in the Iron Throne’s political games. So much time had passed, and Aemon had deliberately concealed his lineage, that few remembered his true identity.

But Melisandre had known. When she sought those of the dragon’s blood, she discovered the quiet Maester among them—no bastard, no distant relation, but a true Targaryen. For months, she had tried to obtain his blood or tissue, but the man’s frailty and the brothers’ vigilance made it impossible.

Now, she didn’t need to wait any longer.

If Targaryen blood truly held power, the flames consuming Aemon’s body would reveal it.
----


The fire spread, licking at the edges of Aemon’s robes. Some brothers wept quietly, while Melisandre’s eyes narrowed in focus. Seconds later, her eyelids twitched.

It had begun.

The moment the flames touched Aemon’s flesh, a faint but unmistakable ripple of magic spread from the pyre. It was weak and unrefined, a reflection of Aemon’s lack of training, but it carried a familiar resonance. It reminded her of her earliest days as a novice, when her mentor had demonstrated the power of R’hllor before her disbelieving eyes.

Aegor had been right. Targaryen blood did hold power.

But this was just the beginning. The fire engulfed Aemon’s body, burning away his clothes and hair. As his flesh and fat began to melt, the magic surged, growing exponentially. What had started as a ripple became a torrent, flooding the courtyard with an overwhelming, unrestrained force.

Melisandre stood stunned. The sheer magnitude of the power emanating from the pyre was unlike anything she had ever encountered. For a fleeting moment, she felt as if R’hllor Himself had descended upon Castle Black, His gaze fixed upon the mortals gathered below.

She quickly shook herself from her reverie. There was no time to waste. This magic could not be allowed to disperse into the cold, empty air. She began to draw it in, her practiced hands weaving invisible threads, pulling the energy into herself.

The fire grew hotter, forcing the onlookers to retreat. Melisandre drank deeply of the magic, filling every corner of her body with its essence. She repaired old wounds, stored energy in her very hair and nails, and even saturated the ruby at her throat. But the pyre continued to pour out power, far beyond what she could contain.

If only she could step into the flames and claim Aemon’s body as a source of endless strength. The temptation gnawed at her, but reason held her back. She dared not risk such sacrilege in front of the Night’s Watch.

Even as she siphoned what she could, most of the magic dissipated into the freezing air. It was a tragedy that no one else seemed aware of the miracle unfolding before their eyes. Or were they?

Melisandre’s gaze shifted to Aegor. If the flames were destined to burn this bright, she would ensure they left their mark.