“That old maester says I cannot hang you,” Slynt declared. “He has written Cotter Pyke, and even had the bloody gall to show me the letter. He says you are no turncloak.” “Aemon’s lived too long, my lord,” Ser Alliser assured him. “His wits have gone dark as his eyes.” “Aye,” Slynt said. “A blind man with a chain about his neck, who does he think he is?” Aemon Targaryen, Jon thought, a king’s son and a king’s brother and a king who might have been. But he said nothing.
