Omg. I'm back! So sorry for the delay in updates, life got in the way and I've been really ill, but I'm feeling better and back at it! Here's just something short and sweet to get me back in the swing of things, chapter 18 coming soon! :)
Jon realized he was on his knees, the cold wetness of the forest floor seeping into the fabric of his pants. Enrin had gone down with him, and she gripped him close, whispering his name. He felt as if he was going to be sick.
"You see," Bran said, "you're not our father's son. You're not our brother. You're our cousin."
His voice was flat and insensitive, and Enrin thought she could slap him. "He is our brother," Arya countered, and her voice was fierce, "our father raised him."
"Yes," Sansa agreed, and they both reached down to be level with Jon, who only sat silent, his eyes staring forward.
"There's more," Bran said, and reached for Jon again, but Enrin put herself between them. "Bran, please," she said, and her words were a chastise.
"Wait," Jon said, his voice weak behind them, "wait, I...I want to see."
He gripped Enrin hard and fast, pulling her down next to him again. "Don't leave me," he whispered, and she shook her head. "Never," she promised.
Bran reached for Jon, gripping his hand, and as quickly as they were back, they were gone again.
It was bright, and the sun was warm as the stream trickled across the stones. She sat waiting, her light blue silks billowing in the breeze as she dipped her fingertips into the water, enjoying the cool feel of it on her skin.
"Do not lean too far, or you'll fall in."
She whirled, and suddenly there he was, dressed in the black and red of his house, the great three headed dragon smiling from across his breast. HIs voice was musical, sailing over the breeze to her, and she smiled so brightly that she thought her cheeks may split.
He had let his hair free, the way she liked it, and it fell halfway down his back in a thick mane of silver. His deep violet eyes were for her, only for her, and she ran to him. "I've missed you, Rhaegar," she said, and he kissed her forehead. "And I you, my Lyanna," he said, and his voice was sweeter than the harp he loved so much. "I was only gone a while," he said, and smoothed the dark hair back from her face. "Aye," she answered, "and did you find the Maester?"
Rhaegar smiled, and only stood aside as the man in gray robes strode up behind him, the Book of the Seven clutched to his breast. He wheezed slightly, but smiled nonetheless.
"I am sorry for my slowness, Your Grace," the old man said, and Rhaegar simply waved him off. "Worry not, good Maester," Rhaegar said, and Lyanna atook his arm as they stood before the water. The Maester huffed again, straightening the chain around his neck.
They stood before him as he spoke the words, the words that Rhaegar's marriage to Elia was over, and as he bound their hands together, the Maester made Lyanna a princess instead of a lady. And when her Rhaegar kissed her then, her prince, her husband, it felt like nothing in the world could tear them apart.
But, alas, it did.
They lay abed, in the Tower of Joy, and Lyanna's stomach swelled. He placed his hands over it, singing softly as he rest his head over her chest. She smiled and her fingers toyed with his hair. "I think he likes that," she murmured, and her voice was calm as cool water. "He?" Rhaegar questioned, looking up at his wife with his violet eyes, "are you a greenseer? Can you tell me we are having a son?"
Lyanna shrugged, and smiled down at him again. "No, I can't know for sure," she replied, "but I can feel that he is our son, and so I say, he likes when you sing to him."
"And so, I shall continue," her Rhaegar replied, and began his haunting tune again.
She cried when he left her to go to war, to squash the rebellion. "I want to keep you safe," he said, and he kissed her and her belly once before he rode away from the Tower of Joy, and part of her knew that she would never see him again. She wrapped her hands around her belly, and felt her son kick inside of her. "I love you, little one," she said, and a single tear fell to it, staining the blue of her dress ,"I'll keep you safe."
Rhaegar struck again and again, the waters of the Trident surging around them. Robert Baratheon stood before him, a hulking beast where Rhaegar was lithe and nimble. He looked even larger in his great horned helmet, even if Rhaegar had snapped off one of the antlers just to spite him. Robert struck out at him, his warhammer whistling through the air as he hurled curses at Rhaegar, who only remained silent. The silver prince gritted his teeth as one of Robert's attempts landed against his sword, but the Valyrian steel held fast. "You took her!" Robert screamed again and again, his voice echoing across the battlefield as Rhaegar's men fell around him. "You stole her!"
Rhaegar twisted away from Robert's outstretched hand and struck out with his sword. It caught Robert in the breastplate, sloughing off some of the stag that was painted there. Robert roared, wheeling his warhammer over his head. "She loves me!" Rhaegar fired back, "she chose me!" But that only made Robert Baratheon all the angrier.
He struck out once more, and Rhaegar's foot caught a puddle of blood. The hammer caved in his breastplate, and the chest beneath it. He hadn't even bled.
"Lyanna," he whispered, and he breathed no more.
Jon's breath came in sharp gasps and he gripped the forest floor, gouging deep rivets in the dirt. Enrin had his shoulders and his sisters knelt beside him. Tears splashed hot down her cheeks.
"You see," Bran said again, and his voice was softer now, "you were never a bastard. You're the heir to the Iron Throne."
Jon squeezed shut his eyes, his head pounding. He stood then, and and stumbled, and then his wife was there with her shoulder under his arm. "It is a lot at once," Bran said, "you may want to sit."
"I don't want to sit," Jon spat, and he rubbed his eyes hard until he saw black spots. Enrin gripped his hands, and then his face. "Jon," she said, and her voice was like music to him, and he pulled her eyes to his and stayed there. He turned to Bran, who was his brother but not. "Is there anything else?" He asked, and his voice was tired. "There is so much more," Bran answered, "but nothing you need to see. But now you know, and I wonder what you plan to do."
Jon took a shaking breath, and shook his head once to clear it. "What I plan do about what, exactly?"
"The Iron Throne is yours," Arya said, and her voice was strong, "we can take it. The Northmen are behind you. The Seven Kingdoms are yours by right."
Enrin squared her shoulders. The thought of it made her uncomfortable, but she said nothing. It was Jon's choice to make, not hers. Jon looked to her anyway, and she only spurred him on.
"I've been given the choice between fire and ice," Jon said, and his words no longer shook, "I choose ice. I never asked to be king of anything, let alone the Seven Kingdoms. Birthright or not, I will have only the North, and leave the Six Kingdoms to Daenerys."
"Daenerys," Enrin said suddenly, and her eyes were wide when they caught Jon's, "Rhaegar was her brother. That makes her your kin."
Sansa nodded, and put her hand on Jon's shoulder. "She's your aunt, in truth," Sansa said, "though strangely you're of an age. No matter," she shrugged, "she's your aunt. Will you tell her?"
"This is too much," Enrin said suddenly, her hand still cupping Jon's face, "let him breathe for a moment, will you?" Jon looked at her in thanks, and he swallowed thickly again. "I will tell her," he decided, "when the time is right. I will tell her myself. Not a word of this leaves this grove, do you hear me?" They all nodded at once, even Bran, who looked to the weirwood again. His eyes were clouded as he sat for moments or hours, they could not tell. Arya and Sansa stood quiet while Enrin sat with Jon on the forest floor, and their eyes searched each other's.
"Jon," Bran said suddenly, and his tone was high with alarm. Jon stood quickly in one swift motion, his hand on the pommel of Longclaw. "What is it?" Jon asked, turning to face his brother, "what have you seen?"
Bran's eyes were wide with alarm, and his skin was even more pale and listless than as usual. "The Night King," he said, and he reached for Jon's hand again, for his words had failed him.
The dragon breathed blue flame, ice dripping from its shredded wings as it whirled. The Night King sat astride him, and he turned him toward the Wall, at Eastwatch, and Viserion screamed as he spat out the blue flames again.
The Wall crumbled.
Half of it fell into the sea, and the rest crumbled to the ground, crushing men of the Night's Watch and free-folk alike as it did. Eastwatch was naught but a shamble, an echo of what it once was, only discernable by the few pieces of errant wood that clung to what remained of the Wall. The army of the dead moved through, slowly, shambling, as the Night King sailed ahead of them on Viserion, wheeling into the sky.
Jon gasped again and his head swam, and he reached for Enrin, who was there immediately, gripping both of his hands. "What?" she asked, and her words were colored with anxiety, "what did you see?"
"The Wall," Jon gasped, and he felt his stomach churning painfully, "the Wall has come down. At Eastwatch. Oh, Enrin." He gripped her hard on the top of her arms, and she gazed at him as if she did not understand. The thought was so unwelcome that her mind was slow.
"Eastwatch," she repeated, and she looked at him as if she were in a daze, her eyes glassed over.
She did not scream like he thought she might, but he watched as her thoughts pieced themselves together in her mind.
She stood so suddenly that she almost knocked Jon over, and she gripped Bran's hand so tightly in her own that he thought she might break it. "Show me my father, please," she asked, and when Bran only looked at her, she nearly shook him. "Please."
Bran's eyes clouded over again and they sailed through the air, ravens crying out over the swift wind. A group of men trudged through the snow, their horses long dead, and the ice formed slowly in their beards. Tormund led the band, both of his hands gripping axes, and his eyes scanned over the horizon before them.
Enrin gasped and fell back, and Jon caught her under her arms. He hauled her to her feet and turned her around. "He's okay, they're okay," she said, and her words were so weak he thought she might faint.
"They are twenty miles north," Bran said, and even now his eyes were not all there, "they should arrive within two days. Edd and his men will meet them in ten miles, and they will come together. The dead will arrive in less than a fortnight." When he turned to Jon, his words were devoid of feeling. "Now is the time to prepare."
Jon could only nod, and turn, as Enrin stood with his sisters, talking quietly. "Don't be afraid," she was saying to Sansa, who shook in her arms, "do not. You'll be here at Winterfell, and the army will never get here. You'll keep it safe while we fight them, aye? And we'll be back."
Arya stood with them, and placed a hand on both of their arms. Her eyes were dark and fierce and full of promise. "I'll stay with you," Arya said, and Sansa looked at her fearfully. "Do not feel like you have to miss the battle for me," Sansa said, and her words were almost full of reproach. Arya only shook her head.
"I'm going to stay and make sure you're safe," Arya said, "I'm going to stay and make sure Winterfell is safe."
Jon looked to each of them, and Enrin reached for him instinctively, her hand searching for his. He took it, and they all stood for a long while, together under the blood red leaves of the heart tree, and the snow fell thickly around them.