Chapter 363: Return

Storm's End.

On the open-air balcony filled with golden roses, Margaery Tyrell lifted her eyes from the heavy tome she'd been reading, her gaze tired and strained.

"Your Grace," her maid reminded her softly, "you've been reading for too long. You should rest for a while."

Margaery smiled faintly, closing the book. She extended a hand.

"Help me up. Let's go for a walk."

Her swollen belly made standing difficult, and she needed assistance to rise from the chaise.

The maid supported the queen as they strolled through the garden. Her voice was both curious and apprehensive as she asked:

"Your Grace, do White Walkers really exist?"

"They must," Margaery replied absentmindedly.

The book she had been reading was about the White Walkers—filled with strange, chilling tales that seemed too fantastical to believe. Yet the two black-cloaked men from the Wall who had recently arrived spoke of horrors that aligned eerily with the stories in the book.

"What will we do if they come?" the maid asked, her worry evident.

"Don't be afraid. If people could defeat them ten thousand years ago, they can do it again now," Margaery said confidently. She recalled her husband mentioning threats from beyond the Wall and making preparations to face them.

As her thoughts wandered, she spotted Brienne of Tarth approaching with purposeful strides.

"Your Grace," Brienne reported, "Maester Aemon is not doing well. I fear his end is near."

Margaery's heart sank.

"I'll go see him."

She knew that Aemon Targaryen was no ordinary maester. The aged scholar had served the Night's Watch for countless years, so long that many had forgotten his surname. But Margaery had not forgotten—he was a Targaryen.

Three months ago, the ancient maester had arrived at Storm's End by ship, saying he wished to meet Caesar and see the dragons. But he had come too late; Samwell had already departed for Essos.

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Walking through the garden paths, Margaery entered the main keep, where Aemon had been given a chamber off the front hall.

Before she even reached the door, a foul scent hit her—a smell of rot, decay, and impending death.

From inside came the sound of muffled sobs.

"You shouldn't have come here… you're over a hundred years old… You couldn't endure such a long journey…"

Entering the room, Margaery saw the Night's Watchman, Dareon, weeping by the bedside.

On the opposite side of the bed stood the Red Priestess, Melisandre. She glanced at Margaery and shook her head slightly.

"Is that Queen Margaery?" came a voice from the bed.

The figure lying there was emaciated, his skin taut over his bones. Yet his face was strangely flushed, and his voice strong.

"It is I," Margaery replied, knowing this strength was an illusion. It was the peculiar vigor that often came to the dying just before the end.

Death lingered at the door, granting the dying one last burst of clarity for farewells.

"Has Caesar returned?" Aemon asked, his blind eyes fixed on the doorway.

"I'm sorry," Margaery said softly, "not yet."

"I see… Then I will not see the dragons…" Aemon sighed. "Fire consumes, ice preserves. Perhaps I should have stayed at the Wall. In the cold, I might have lived longer. But I was unwilling. I am the last of my time. The gods have kept me alive for a purpose…

And yet, I have so much to say, but no one to say it to…"

"You can tell me," Margaery said gently, taking his frail hand in hers. "I will pass your words to Samwell."

"Good, good. Tell him about the state of the Wall. Tell him of the wildlings coming south and the spreading cold. Tell him of the awakened giants and mammoths. Tell him of the lurking White Walkers and the shambling wights… Tell him all of it.

Winter is coming, yet the lords of the Seven Kingdoms squabble among themselves. We must unite to face the horrors from the North…"

"I will tell him," Margaery promised, then hesitated. "Maester Aemon, I've read records about the White Walkers, but they seem more like legends than history."

"Indeed," Aemon said with a dry chuckle. "If you're looking for chronicles, you won't find them. The oldest written histories were created after the Andals came to Westeros. The First Men left only runes on rocks. Much of what we believe about the Age of Dawn, the Age of Heroes, and the Long Night are the embellishments of maesters who came centuries later.

In the Citadel, many archmaesters refuse to believe in the White Walkers at all.

But they are real. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch was attacked by a wight—a brother who had already died. Wildlings beyond the Wall have seen the pale ghosts in the snow. Why else would they risk everything to come south?"

"How can they be defeated?" Margaery asked.

"Dragonglass," Aemon replied. "In the Age of Heroes, the Children of the Forest gave the Night's Watch a hundred dragonglass daggers every year. Normal steel cannot pierce their armor. Only dragonglass can harm them. And dragonsteel…"

"Dragonsteel?"

"Valyrian steel," Aemon explained, coughing weakly. "And above all, dragonfire. You said Caesar has gone to find Daenerys Targaryen?"

"Yes."

"Good… Good…" Aemon sighed, his voice growing faint. "I wish I could have met her. Dragons are the key to defeating the White Walkers, to ending the darkness.

The dragon must have three heads. Daenerys is one, but another is still missing…

And I am too old to be the third…"

Tears streamed from the old man's blind eyes.

Margaery could only squeeze his hand in silent comfort.

"I lingered in this world for so long, watching, waiting. Yet now, as the dawn approaches, I am too feeble to witness it. Death does not frighten me… Only the regret of not seeing the light, of not unraveling the ancient mysteries…

Why do the glass candles burn? How do dragons hatch from stone? What is the riddle of the Sphinx…"

Aemon's murmurs grew incoherent, his breaths shallower and slower.

At last, his hand slipped from Margaery's grasp, and the light faded from his clouded eyes.

Dareon wept openly.

Margaery placed Aemon's hands over his chest and was about to speak when a sudden gust of hot wind caused the window shutters to rattle.

"So close," Melisandre murmured. "If only he had waited a little longer."

Understanding dawned on Margaery. She hurried to the window and looked to the sky.

Above Storm's End, three dragons soared, roaring triumphantly.

One white, one black, one green. They glided against the blue sky, drawing every gaze in awe.

"Caesar has returned!" the castle erupted in joyous cheers.

Margaery's face lit with a smile.

"Caesar is back."

(End of Chapter)