Perhaps this is what they call “out with the old, in with the new”?

The serene expression on Maester Aemon’s face suggested he passed without much pain. Aegor could only console himself with that thought. As the newly elected Lord Commander, he had not yet given his inauguration speech, nor had he prepared for the Maester’s death, especially with so many different kinds of people watching.

After much consideration, he ultimately chose not to speak at the funeral. Instead, the First Ranger and Sam, Aemon’s personal disciple, delivered the eulogies.

Once the two solemnly recounted the old Maester’s life and announced, “His watch is ended,” torches were brought forward to ignite the pyre. With the help of accelerant, orange-yellow flames burst forth with a whoosh, quickly spreading across the entire stack of firewood.

This was Castle Black. The Night’s Watch once performed full burial rites, but ever since the surrender to the Free Folk confirmed that buried corpses could rise as wights and crawl out from the ground, the Night’s Watch had gradually adopted the common practice used Beyond the Wall: cremation instead of burial.

Coincidentally, this was also how Maester Aemon had requested his remains be handled in his final will.

The firelight gradually cast a red glow across the faces of the onlookers, reflected in their eyes. Groups of people, each with their own thoughts, remained silent, staring at Maester Aemon as he was slowly consumed by the flames.

…

Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwyck, and other longtime powers within Castle Black huddled together, racking their brains for a way to break the deadlock and ease tensions with Aegor, the man they had once opposed but who had now carved out a victory. They were also searching for ways to demonstrate loyalty.

Meanwhile, Yohn Royce, who had nearly risked his life a week earlier trying to denounce Aegor, still could not comprehend why his actions had instead contributed to Aegor’s success.

In the silence, he trembled with rage.

“Yohn, Ser Denys wrote to me. He clearly stated that Aegor won’t come after us. Don’t stir up trouble again. Keep your head down. I’ll protect you.”

“You actually believe Denys? If not for his betrayal, how would a schemer like Aegor ever have had the chance to win?”

“Quiet, JonYohn” Cotter hissed, lowering his voice. “Denys was never truly one of us, so where’s the betrayal? As for Aegor, I despise him just as much as you do, but like it or not, he won, and he won now. He’s the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and holds the power of life and death over every brother. You either rebel and overthrow him or submit without question. This isn’t the South. There is no third path. Everything before can be written off as part of the election, but from here on, do not give him any more excuses to act against you.”

Yohn understood Cotter meant well and said nothing more, though he continued to glare resentfully at the fire, clenching his fists.

“Don’t worry. After the funeral, Aegor will surely take some action to assert control. If he publicly announces my removal as Commander of Eastwatch or tries to transfer you just to make his own work easier, I’ll cut him down where he stands.” Cotter kept his eyes on the flames and ground out the words through clenched teeth. “The Kingslayer may be a formidable fighter, that much I admit, but I refuse to believe that Aegor, who spends all day scheming behind the scenes, can stop my battle-axe.”

—

Also staring at the pyre were many hopeful reformers, numerous neutral soldiers uncertain about the future, and the red-robed witch from Asshai.

The Red Priestess was well-versed in seeking truth through fire, but today Melisandre was not here to divine the future. She was waiting. Waiting for a miracle.

Months ago, during a private conversation, Aegor had shared with her his theory that “king’s blood” referred specifically to Targaryen blood. The logic had been sound and convincing, enough to dissuade her from targeting Mance Rayder or his child.

Now, there was no better chance to test that theory.

Maester Aemon, full name Aemon Targaryen, had been the third son of King Maekar I. To avoid becoming a pawn in the game for the Iron Throne, he had chosen to take the black and join the Night’s Watch. Too much time had passed since then, and Aemon had intentionally kept his name quiet, so most people in the Seven Kingdoms, including the majority of the Night’s Watch, had long forgotten his heritage.

But Melisandre, as a Red Priestess and close to the king, had quickly discovered it. In her search for living bearers of Dragonblood, she had found one right here. And not some bastard with a complicated origin, but a trueborn Targaryen.

In the months since, while factions within the Night’s Watch battled for power, Melisandre had tried everything to obtain a sample of Maester Aemon’s blood or body.

Unfortunately, the old man had been bald for years, with no hair to pluck. As for blood or flesh, harming him would almost certainly have led to being hacked down by the enraged Night’s Watch. So her plans were postponed again and again.

Melisandre had originally intended to wait until he trimmed his nails.

Now she didn’t have to.

In fire, nothing could be hidden. If there truly was power in the blood of House Targaryen, what was often called True Dragon Blood, then when the flames consumed Aemon’s body, that power would be released.

…

The fire spread rapidly, reaching Aemon’s clothing. Several Night’s Watch brothers who had received his kindness began to quietly weep, while Melisandre narrowed her eyes, focusing with unmatched intensity.

A few seconds later, her eyelid twitched.

There it was.

The moment the fire touched Maester Aemon’s body, a faint but undeniable magical fluctuation spread from the pyre. Aemon had never been a sorcerer and had received no training in channeling power. The magic was not strong or refined, but it stirred something within Melisandre. A familiarity, like returning to a distant memory. Decades ago, when her master, that powerful Red Priest, first appeared before her like a god among men and chose her from among the slave children to become his apprentice. That was the same sensation.

Aegor had been right. There truly was power in Targaryen blood.

And this was only the beginning. The initial magical ripple had come from the singed hair on Aemon’s face, but what was in that fire now was his entire body. Flesh, bone, blood, and skin—nothing missing.

After a few heartbeats, the flames surged, consuming the rest of his robes. Once the fur and fabric had turned to ash, Aemon’s torso began to roast. Within half a minute, his entire body had been engulfed, reduced to a human-shaped log.

As the smell of burning flesh and fat filled the air, the previous gentle pulse of magic suddenly exploded into something far greater. The energy surged to a shocking level in an instant.

It was like a thirsty man digging in the desert for a few drops of water, only to strike a spring that gushed up and flooded the land. In a blink, the entire courtyard of Castle Black felt submerged in that presence. For the first time since her training began, Melisandre was struck speechless. In a trance, she felt as though the Lord of Light Himself had descended, hovering in the air above, gazing down silently upon the black-cloaked men and spreading His power and grace.

Looking up, the sky was of course still gray and empty, save for a few snowflakes now melted or swept aside by the heat. But after a moment of stunned silence, the Red Priestess remembered what she should be doing. Not gaping in awe, but using this moment to seize the unleashed magic before it vanished into the wind.

Silently, she began casting. The fire roared louder, and the rising heat forced the Night’s Watch soldiers to step back. With it came an endless torrent of magic, vast enough to make even the most powerful mage despair. Because its original owner was dead and there was no one to command it, the energy scattered wildly in all directions. Ninety-nine percent of it faded into the cold Northern air, with only a small portion absorbed by Melisandre herself.

If only she could step closer to the pyre, or even walk into the fire to touch Aemon’s remains.

Reason kept the mad impulse in check, and reality proved it unnecessary.

Melisandre had not consumed any magic recently. Her reserves were already nearly full. Suddenly exposed to such an overwhelming source of energy, she felt like a man drowning in water just moments after thirsting for a drink.

Thankfully, magic did not drown, and she knew how to swim in it. First, she repaired the internal injuries caused by the White Walker’s ice spear, using all the magic she needed. Then she filled her own body, all the way to her fingertips and hair. Finally, with no other option, she began channeling energy into an external object—the large red crystal embedded in her necklace.

That gem had not been made for this. Its purpose was to slowly absorb ambient energy from a magic-starved world, to be used in emergencies when the wearer suffered injury, poisoning, or lacked power for casting. Magical crystals were not meant to be recharged like this. Mages rarely had enough magic to spare for such indulgence.

But today, the ruby that usually supplied Melisandre with power was fed instead, filled to the brim until it burned hot and glowed. One more drop, and it might shatter.

Even after all this, the source of magic continued to spew forth, tireless and immense. The pyre burning a Targaryen elder was still releasing energy, as though it were inexhaustible.

Please stop now. Let me recover and preserve this Targaryen’s remains and blood. When the time comes, they would serve as an unparalleled source of magic, a priceless tool in the coming war of ice and fire.

Melisandre screamed inwardly, but she knew that if she so much as stepped forward and disrupted the funeral, or dared suggest turning Aemon’s body into spell components, she would be exiled from the Wall—or worse. To the ordinary Night’s Watch, she might seem all-powerful. But now, she could only stand there, helplessly watching the pyre reach its peak and watching the ocean of magic vanish into the air.

What pained her most was that no one else present could even sense this power. No one had witnessed the miracle with her, let alone shared her heartbreak.

Was that really the case?

She scanned the crowd again, unwilling to give up. Her gaze finally stopped on the new Lord Commander, the prophet. This magic would be wasted anyway. She might as well use it to perform something meaningful.

(To be continued.)

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep