Chapter 18: Secrets

Sam's Pov

The pungent scent of mold clung to the air, filling my lungs and silently choking me as my back ached terribly. Burning, shooting pain coursed up and down my spine like tendrils, but I resisted the urge to call it a day. Even as I sat hunched over on my stool, my whole body aching, my eyes burning, and exhaustion gripping me, I persisted in my search.

Jon had sent me here to learn all that I could. If I couldn't unearth anything useful about the dragons or White Walkers, all this effort would have been in vain. My fingers now throbbed as I flipped through the dusty pages of a worn journal. The pages felt moist under my touch, leaving a black film on my fingertips.

"Gross," I thought, and with a disappointed sigh, I wiped my finger on my novice robes. With only the soft candlelight to illuminate the faded black writing, I drew in a heavy breath and focused on the letters I strained to read. But fatigue was setting in, and my racing mind made it impossible to concentrate.

Frustration and anger welled up in me, and I slammed the book shut, sending a puff of gray and black dust into my face. The mildew-ridden pages stared back at me as I tugged at the frayed edge of my robe. Rubbing the coarse fabric against my eyes, I struggled to stand. Maybe a few minutes of rest wouldn't hurt.

I trudged through the library and stepped out into the hall. The heavy door slammed shut behind me, and I squinted against the bright yellow sun of Old Town. Large, open windows in the hall allowed warm light to stream in, but the library itself remained dark, taking a moment for my eyes to adjust.

I never thought I'd say this, but I missed the North. Here, I sweated 24/7, which was far from enjoyable. I gazed out of one of the windows, sitting on the ledge and staring numbly at the sky.

The sky was a bright blue with thick, fluffy white clouds resembling bunny rabbits and snarling wolves. Just seeing the thick white clouds in the shape of a snarling wolf reminded me of Jon. I wondered what he and his dragons were up to.

Did they miss me? Did he miss me? Had the dead breached the Wall yet? Was I too late? Panicked thoughts swirled in my mind as I let out a heavy-hearted sigh.

I wanted to visit Gilly, but I knew that if I left now, I wouldn't return for the rest of the day. Old Town's bubble kept me ignorant. It was either work or spend what little free time I had with Gilly and little Sam.

For all I knew, Jon had ridden his dragons through the Seven Kingdoms, slaying all who opposed him. Or he might have left the Night's Watch and headed home to reclaim Winterfell. Hell, he could be dead for all I knew, though not Jon; he always came back.

I watched the clouds for a few more minutes, thinking about Jon's dragons. The maesters had advised me to focus on forging my chain, but I'd rather find a way to stop the wights and White Walkers. I'd rather study the dragons. So far, all we knew about dragons was how to hatch them, their response to commands in High Valyrian, and their fire-breathing abilities, which, surprisingly, could help with crop growth if used correctly. Most of our knowledge had been gained through trial and error, and we discovered that the amount of magic in an area affected the dragons' growth rate.

I recalled how Jon used to joke about taking the dragons to the Isle of Faces to absorb magic and grow faster. Even now, it saddened me to think of him living a lie. I could still hear Maester Aemon's words from nearly a year ago, just after the dragons hatched.

I watched Maester Aemon in his rocking chair, seemingly relieved to witness the dragon's birth yet haunted as he gazed into the flames for warmth. "Sam, come here; we should talk about Jon. I won't be able to help him forever."

Hearing those words pained my heart, but I did as instructed, moving a wooden chair next to Maester Aemon. The soft crackle of the dying wood filled my ears as I looked at the aged man before me. His white eyes were fixed on the fire, filled with longing.

"Wargs can't enter the minds of dragons; they are too intelligent, with higher intellect than most people. Only one kind of warg and greenseer has ever been able to do that, and trust me, it's not Jon. Besides, the way the dragons are drawn to him and vice versa… Hear me out carefully, Sam. I don't believe that my niece, Daenerys, is the only Targaryen child to survive that war. Jon is a great man and an even greater warrior, but the ability to bond with a dragon the way he does is unique to dragon lords, our bloodline. We carry magic in our veins; we walk through fire, move through wildfire and dragonfire alike. Not even the fires beneath the ground can harm us."

His tone grew pressing and urgent as he gripped my hand, his hand bony and clammy but surprisingly strong. "If anyone, be it Stannis or the Lannisters, finds out, they could kill him and his dragons out of fear or hatred. Some might even try to enslave his dragons, and if they are chained, they will wither and die, just like their predecessors. If something happens to them, Jon will break. Losing a dragon is like losing a piece of our soul, and the way all three have bonded with him is unheard of. Usually, a person can only bond with one dragon, ride one dragon. Only one of them can sense their emotions and read their thoughts in times of great distress or panic. But Jon, it seems, has equally strong bonds with all three of his dragons. He might be the first Targaryen to ride three different dragons. Do you understand what that could mean?"

His tone grew frantic and urgent as he licked his lips, speaking in a softer voice as the crackling flames began to die down. "Magic and skill like that can only come from the main bloodline. And consider this – Jon can speak and read Valyrian, a language he shouldn't know. He picked up the Dance of Dragons' song so easily, and his voice... Gods, his voice sounded just like R—"

The slamming of the door interrupted Aemon's words. He didn't turn to look, but I did. Stannis entered the room, his cold eyes burning with intense purpose. "Get out; I need to speak with the old king here."

His tone was cruel and threatening, but I remained seated. Panic throbbed in my chest as Stannis advanced further into the room, jaw clenched. I could see the manic energy in his eyes as he turned to Aemon. "Go check on Jon, Sam. I'll be fine here with the king." Would-be king, I thought to myself. I glanced at Stannis one last time, my chest tightening with anxiety, before leaving the room.

Just recalling that moment sent chills down my spine as I looked up at the rolling green hills and bustling streets. The sweet songs of birds filled the air, mingling with the laughter and moans of the brothers.

Aemon's sadness lingered in my thoughts as I reflected on that day. I remembered that he never finished what he had to say. After that, Stannis wouldn't leave him be; he was determined to learn all he could about dragons. But Aemon was about to say something important about Jon's singing voice, something that reminded him of someone, perhaps another Targaryen, but who?