The Godswood, Winterfell, The North, 291AC
Arthur Dayne woke in a flash, limbs flailing in a way entirely unbecoming of a Kingsguard, phantoms still clinging to him, their bony fingers digging deep into his flesh. Hunched over, he rubs his hands down his face and determines that he won't be able to continue sleeping this night. He can't. He stretches, muscles pulling and spine popping, to chase the sleep from his bones. He groans, a low rumble from deep within his chest, before standing and splashing some night-chilled water on his face. He grips the edge of the stone bowl and leans so far forward that his forehead almost touches the looking glass. After a few moments, he looks up and catches his own purple eye in the reflection. He scowls darkly before he turns away to dress. From the chill that has already set upon his room, Arthur knows that this day will be more ungodly cold than usual. Days like this one make Arthur nearly regret ever leaving Dorne. Nearly. But then he thinks of Elia's children, of Lyanna's, and he knows that he will brave the seven hells themselves to protect Lyanna's son. He failed Elia, but he will not fail Lyanna. Not again.
And, Arthur thinks savagely, it's not like he will ever be welcome in Dorne again. Even traveling south of the Neck so soon after the war is an unneeded risk. The northmen are not the only ones with long memories.
Shaking his head lightly to chase away his dark thoughts, Arthur leaves his room. The hall is even colder and, judging by the torches that still light the halls, it will be some time until the sun rises. He strolls towards the kitchens, a daily routine for him now, and spies a new guard in the halls. Arthur slows, appreciates the man's figure, before picking up his pace once more. As he passes the guard, he turns to catch the man's eye and smirks. He has to restrain his laugh as the guard quickly averts his eyes. For all the similarities between Dorne and the North, their reactions to his casual flirting are refreshing in its embarrassed acceptance, so unlike the disdain of the rest of Westeros.
As he continues his stroll to the kitchens, he sees movement in the corner of his eye. It's Jon, awake much earlier than usual; he's crouched slightly, hunched over as if trying to protect himself. He doesn't notice Arthur, who abandons his original destination and begins to follow quietly. When Jon reaches the door leading to glass gardens and the Godswood, Arthur can't quite catch the sigh that leaves him. Like Ned, Jon finds solace with the silent weeping of the North's gods. Unfortunately, for Arthur, the old gods dwell in the forest instead of a nice, warm sept. So he braces himself against the icy wind and continues after Jon, who marches quickly not to escape the cold, but to reach the solace offered by the gods.
When Arthur reaches the center of the Godswood, he stops shortly and smiles sadly. Jon, he sees, is nestled against the Heart Tree like a scared child against their mother. As much as he tries, as much as Ned tries, they cannot replace a mother's love. And Lady Stark, Arthur snarls in his own mind, is no mother at all to Jon, who wants nothing more than a mother's love. Of all the people Arthur hates in this world, Catelyn Tully is in a constant battle for second with the ghost of a long dead man. He still remembers the sour look on her face when Ned presented Jon to her, the cold, hard look of a hatred so pure directed at a defenseless babe. So much for Family, Duty, Honor, he had thought at the time. He still thinks such thoughts occasionally, when the Fishwife says or does something that makes the hard-won smiles on Jon's face die.
He inches closer and Jon still has not noticed him. After making a note to have the boy work more on his awareness, Arthur deliberately steps on a stick. The crack echoes eerily across the grove, too loud in this sacred place. Jon's head snaps up, eyes searching wildly until they land on Arthur. He shrinks into himself and Arthur rubs the back of his neck in fake sheepishness.
"I'm surprised to see you here, Jon," Arthur says.
Jon stares at him in silence for a moment, melancholy eyes drilling into his soul. "Why are you here, Uncle Art?"
Arthur moves forward languidly, "Why does anyone come to a sanctuary?"
"You don't keep the old gods, Uncle," Jon says, partly suspicious but mostly exasperated. "You don't keep any gods."
Jon moves, making room for Arthur to sit next to him. "Every knight swears their vows in front of the gods, Jon."
"The old gods don't ask for vows. They don't need them." Jon's sigh makes him sound put-upon, as if they've had this conversation before. "And we are of the North, our way is the old way. Anyway, just because you swear them doesn't mean you actually believe in the gods themselves."
Arthur rolls his eyes, "Since when are you so cynical, nephew? And the mysterious old way, huh? You know, I'm starting to think that's just something you northerners say when you don't want to explain something."
Jon laughs quietly in response. His shoulders relax and he leans into Arthur's side. The two sit quietly for a time, both lost in their own thoughts. Jon, Arthur thinks, is too young to be so serious. He wants to blame Rhaegar, but even the Dornish know that bastards grow quicker than true-born children. And despite his best efforts, Jon has always been the melancholy sort. Thankfully, much of his dour disposition is false, a mask to hide his thoughts. As much as Arthur wishes it unnecessary, he knows that being able to hide his emotions can only help Jon in the future.
Jon shifts, drawing Arthur's attention. "Uncle Arthur? What does 'Ñuha trēsy' mean?"
Arthur looks at Jon, brows raised in surprise. "Where did you hear that, Jon?"
While he knows that Jon has been learning other languages at his insistence, he knows his nephew well enough to know that Jon would never think of delving into a language that Arthur himself has not yet truly spoken of.
"Just in a dream I had, once. But what does it mean?"
"My son," Arthur replies, voice soft and mind racing. Where could he have heard such a thing here, he thinks. "It means 'my son' in Valyrian."
"Oh," Jon says. He's quiet for a moment. "Uncle Arthur?"
Arthur shifts against the Heart Tree and hums in response. "You won't ever leave me, will you?"
Arthur pauses in mild shock. He glances at Jon before ruffling the boy's hair. "I would never, I swear it by the old gods and the new."
Instead of his usual bluster in the face of Arthur's rare seriousness, Jon leans further into Arthur's side. His smile is small, but his relief is evident all the same. A tinge of sadness grows in his smile.
In a soft voice, Jon says, "Winter is coming, Uncle Arthur."
"Aye, Jon." Arthur responds. "And the night is darkest just before dawn."
For a while, the two stay there underneath the Heart Tree, side by side. The quiet and serene calm chases the shadows from both their minds. Someday, they will both have to face these shadows, but for now, they sit together under the great red canopy until the sun rises.
