Chapter 50 – I Intend to Betroth Sansa to You
"Saelen," Lord Eddard said suddenly, his tone calm but deliberate, "I intend to betroth Sansa to you. What are your thoughts?"
The question struck like a thrown dagger.
Saelen blinked. How had the conversation turned here so abruptly?
After a moment's pause, he answered carefully. "Lady Sansa is a good and gentle girl. I have no objection."
Then he gave a faint, wry smile. "But I fear Lady Stark and Sansa herself would not agree."
Catelyn's reservations toward him were obvious. As for Sansa—she was still at an age where she dreamed of knights in shining armor and songs of gallant princes. Influenced by her mother, she treated Saelen with courtesy, yes—but with distance as well. She would not readily accept such a match.
Eddard sighed faintly.
"Perhaps I am too hasty. Sansa is still young. There are many things she does not yet understand. When she grows older… perhaps her thoughts will change. We shall speak of it again then."
Saelen inclined his head but said nothing more.
Privately, he was not optimistic. If House Stark continued in stability, Sansa's sheltered and romantic nature would likely remain unchanged. Only hardship—real hardship—might reshape her outlook.
In truth, she had been too well protected. Neither Eddard nor Catelyn had allowed her to glimpse the harsher truths of the world. As a result, her heart was filled only with bright illusions.
After a moment, Saelen shifted the topic.
"My lord, the North is harsh and yields little grain. Supplying the Wall with provisions for so many men will strain us greatly. I believe we should request grain from the Iron Throne—even if we must purchase it at a reduced price."
He continued more seriously, "Once tens of thousands of wildlings cross south, the consumption of food will be enormous. Until they harvest their own crops, the burden will fall entirely on us."
Eddard considered this and nodded slowly.
"You speak wisely. The North's yields are poor indeed. I shall write again and ask Maester Aemon to dispatch the message to King's Landing."
He handed Saelen the sealed letter.
Saelen accepted it, bowed respectfully, and withdrew toward the rookery. He also had questions he wished to consult Maester Aemon about.
Upon reaching the rookery, he addressed Clydas.
"I need to speak with Maester Aemon."
Clydas gave him a measured look. "What business do you have with the maester? If it is merely a letter, you may leave it with me."
Saelen handed over the letter calmly.
"I have matters I must discuss with Maester Aemon in person."
Clydas waved him off impatiently. "Fine. Wait here."
He disappeared inside. After a short while, he returned.
"Maester Aemon will see you."
Without another word, he stepped aside.
Saelen ignored his brusque tone and entered.
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"Ser Saelen," said Maester Aemon, his voice gentle and worn with age. "What brings you to me?"
The old maester was half-bald, deeply wrinkled, and thin as a dried branch. It was difficult to believe he had lived more than a century. In truth, he was living history in Westeros.
"I have heard from the black brothers that you are a scholar of rare wisdom, learned in many forgotten matters," Saelen said respectfully. "There are a few questions that weigh on my mind. I hoped you might enlighten me."
A faint smile touched the old man's lips.
"Learned? Perhaps not. But old? That I certainly am. Speak freely."
Saelen's gaze sharpened.
"What do you know of dragon eggs?"
Aemon's brows rose in surprise.
"Dragon eggs? Ser, what stirs your curiosity in such matters? Magic has long been in decline. With its fading came the extinction of dragons. Their eggs turned to stone—lifeless fossils, nothing more."
Then realization dawned.
"I have heard whispers that you encountered the Children of the Forest beyond the Wall… that they gifted you two fossilized dragon eggs, along with the Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister. You seek to hatch them, do you not?"
Saelen felt a flicker of surprise at how quickly word had spread—even to the blind maester of the Wall. But he steadied himself. To most, they were only stone curiosities.
"Yes, Maester. I wish to know whether there exists any method to hatch them."
If there were another way—any way—he would not need to risk hunting White Walkers beyond the Wall merely to gather magical power. The lands beyond were perilous, and the Others did not walk alone. One mistake, and he could be swallowed by a sea of wights.
Aemon's expression grew somber.
"My answer may disappoint you. In the records of House Targaryen, fossilized dragon eggs have never been successfully hatched. Living eggs hatched naturally—there was no reliable ritual or technique."
He paused.
"There are… darker methods. Blood magic has been used in attempts to awaken stone eggs. But such arts are perilous. In the later days of the Targaryen kings, obsession with dragon dreams and hatching rituals led them astray. Their pursuits brought calamity upon the realm—and extinguished what little hope remained for their house."
His voice carried both sorrow and regret.
"Blood magic demands a price. Life… for life."
He turned his blind gaze toward Saelen with grave warning.
Saelen nodded slowly. "I understand."
Disappointment tugged at him nonetheless. It seemed he must either venture north again to harvest power from slain magical creatures… or wait for the red comet's return and the resurgence of magic, hoping the eggs might awaken on their own.
The mention of the Targaryens had clearly unsettled the old maester. His usual serene wisdom dimmed, replaced by quiet melancholy.
Saelen hesitated, then spoke gently.
"Maester… what do you know of Viserys and Daenerys?"
At the names, Aemon gave a faint nod.
As maester of Castle Black, he maintained correspondence with lords throughout the Seven Kingdoms. He knew the last Targaryen heirs still lived across the Narrow Sea. Yet he had sworn his life to the Wall. When he learned blood of his blood survived, he had chosen silence—and duty.
Saelen continued carefully.
"My lands trade often with the Free Cities. Merchants say the siblings now reside in Pentos, under the protection of a wealthy magister. They live more comfortably than before—no longer wandering beggars. The household is guarded and secure."
A long silence followed.
At last Aemon spoke, his voice faintly hoarse.
"Thank you… Ser."
"If I hear further news of them, I will see that word reaches you at once."
Aemon shook his head gently.
"No. It is enough to know they are safe."
Saelen studied him, then said quietly,
"Maester… when the time comes, you may find yourself wanting to know more."