So, here it is. The epilogue. It goes without saying that I thank everyone who has read and reviewed this story. But, as it's the last chapter, there will be a full list of acknowledgements at the end of the chapter.
There is a companion piece to Full Fathom Five called "Seeing Green" that was recently published on my account (but written by Exiled Immortal). Please check it out, especially if you're a Bran and Meera shipper.
Epilogue: Time and Tide
It had been many years since Jon last dreamed of the crypts in Winterfell. If he dreamed of his childhood home at all it was of the people who had filled its halls in his youth. Robb, his father, Lady Stark, Arya, Sansa, Old Nan and Hodor. Even Theon Greyjoy put in the occasional appearance. The inexorable forwards march of time had taken many old faces, but in his nocturnal mind's eye they were all still there, happy and healthy and full of life. The terror of his old awakenings had given way to a peculiar sadness that always waited for him after these dreams. It was no ordinary homesickness, either. It wasn't just a yearning for home, but for a time in that home before a southern king had ridden through the gates and turned their world upside down.
These days, he was the southern king riding through the gates and he could only hope his arrival and departure was no where near as catastrophic as his predecessor's. Whatever the case, at least there was no unnecessary ceremony that had Robb's entire household kneeling on the cold cobbles for hours on end. It was more a flurry of hugs, back-slaps and kisses, accompanied by the excitable babble of children rapidly reacquainting themselves with each other. How many years had it been since he last came to Winterfell? Jon had almost lost count, but it was at least ten. It almost pained him to admit it, but he was more familiar with Highgarden and the private retreat he and Margaery had had built not far from her ancestral home. But nowhere could truly replace Winterfell.
When he last left the place, however, he had taken with him a brick from the Broken Tower. Just so he would always have a piece of home with him. A few months ago, he had decided the brick was no longer enough and a royal progress to the North was in order. Now he felt like he had finally come home.
"It's been too long, brother," said Robb as they peeled away from the throng of people.
"Much too long," he concurred.
Just then, the crowd parted to make way for Daenerys and Margaery, arm in arm as they rejoined their husbands. Time and tide had dulled neither woman's beauty, only added an inner strength and confidence to their bearing as they grew into their roles as queens. Up on the ramparts, the three-headed dragon now flew alongside the direwolf of House Stark – a nod to their shared heritage to mark the royal visit.
"Come on in the pair of you, or we'll start the feast without you," Dany warned, smiling all the while. "And welcome, nephew, it's an honour to have you back at Winterfell."
"It's an honour to be back," he assured her as they swapped partners and processed into the hall.
After so many years away, Jon knew hardly any of the staff now. Old Nan was long dead, along with Maester Luwin, Rodrik Cassel and even Hodor. Still, the welcome extended to him, his queen and his children was warm and genuine. They all took their places at the high table, where the festivities began without further ado. Musicians had been specifically brought in for the occasion and jugglers and jesters japed in the aisles. But, as entertaining as it was, Jon still wanted the feasting out of the way so he could catch up with his brother properly. Something he had to wait a day and more for, until the upheaval of their arrival had died away and the castle's equilibrium had been restored.
It was as they strolled the godswood, with their ageing direwolves at their heels, that they finally got a chance to talk.
"You're not going to ask me to be hand of the king, are you?" Robb asked, semi-jokingly.
"You heard about Tyrion retiring then," said Jon. It had come as a shock to both him and Margaery, but Tyrion had more than earned a quiet life on his own estates back at Casterly Rock. If Jon guessed right, however, Tyrion would be bored half to death within a week. "Fear not, brother, I've asked Wyllas Tyrell."
Robb seemed genuinely pleased. "Good choice, brother. It also brings our sister back to court. How is she now?"
"From what I hear, she's adapted well to being Lady of Highgarden," he replied. "Well, Mace died two years ago now and it helped that Sansa had already birthed a son."
"Another Eddard," Robb laughed.
As Jon had guessed, all those years ago, many of the Stark children had produced an Eddard in honour of their father. Robb, Sansa and even Bran. The last he heard from Rickon, he and Shireen were planning an Eddard, too. He himself had produced an Aemon and a Daeron in honour of his own Targaryen roots.
"You have an Eyron," Jon pointed out. "At least one of us has some originality."
Robb paused beneath the boughs of the weirwood tree, gazing into the pool. "Eyron's a good lad, but he has what father would have called a touch of the wolf's blood. Possibly mingled with some dragon's blood too."
Jon grimaced. "He sounds lively."
"That's one word for it!" his brother laughed, drily. "So when you take him back to King's Landing with you, make sure he's well occupied and, preferably, well supervised. At all times."
"Gods, Robb, he's only nine!" Jon laughed aloud. When he had settled again, his thoughts turned to Daeron, who was the same age as his cousin. "Our Daeron thinks we're just going to dump him here and forget about him. Margaery and I feel rather bad for having him fostered at all, actually."
Robb's expression softened. "Dany and I will raise him as one of our own, Jon. You know that."
He did, but now the time had come it still didn't feel right. Daeron was their youngest – a boy so reminiscent of Bran at that age it ached to have to say goodbye to him. Meanwhile, Robb had changed the subject.
"What about the Twins?" he asked, throwing his cloak to the ground so they could sit.
"Bollocks to the Twins," he spat, trying to make himself comfortable.
Robb looked shocked. "What?"
"Let the damn Frey rats fight over it to the death, for all I care," he added. "How long ago did Walder Frey die? It's been at least fifteen years and now even Black Walder's upped and stiffed on us, so it's open season isn't it? I have them rolling into King's Landing every day, demanding I back one side or another. And they're all called Walder anyway, so it's impossible to tell which is which. And Roslyn's no good any more, she's gone out of her way to forget them all."
"I meant your daughters, you tick," Robb retorted, trying to contain his laughter.
Jon grinned. "Yes, I know. But the problem with calling them 'the Twins' is that it makes them sound like a castle in the Riverlands. It's why Marge and I generally discourage it."
It really did grate on his nerves. Almost as much as the nursemaid the girls once had, who insisted on dressing them in identical clothing. Although the same to the very last hair on their heads, Princesses Olenna and Lyanna had very different personalities. Olenna was witty, just like the great-grandmother she had been named after, outgoing and lively. Lyanna, meanwhile, was a studious girl who loved to learn and go on adventures. Something peculiar had happened with them. Born with the Stark's dark hair and pale complexion, their Valyrian ancestry burst through by giving them the indigo eyes their grandfather had once been famous for.
"They're fourteen now," he replied, finally answering Robb's original question. "Just remember that Lyanna favours the colours blue and silver; while Olenna prefers green, gold and red. It's how people tell them apart."
Robb smiled and touched his brow in a mock salute. "Got it. So, have you diffused many near-civil wars lately? What about this business with the Iron Islands?"
"Ah yes, Uncle Euron is back from the dead," Jon answered. "Whatever's happening there, we swore to uphold Asha Greyjoy and, as far as I'm concerned, I intend uphold that."
"Fair enough, brother," Robb concurred. "You know the North will stand with you, if it comes to that."
Jon raised a half-smile. "Thank you, but I'm hoping a settlement can be reached between themselves." He paused there, looking out over the greenery of the godswood, and formulated his own question. "Is Dacey Mormont still on your kingsguard?"
"She is, aye," replied Robb. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I want Arya on mine," he stated, matter of fact. She would be on it already, if he could guess how the men would react.
Not seeing the problem, Robb shrugged. "She's been back from Bravos a while now. What's stopping you from asking her?"
Jon hesitated before answering, trying to marshal his thoughts. "It's not just that she's a woman. But it's a knighthood thing as well. I mean, the south puts a lot of stock in knighthood; especially the kingsguard. Even if Arya was a man, she'd still not qualify for knighthood because she refuses to worship the seven."
More worrisome than that, she no longer worshipped the old gods either. It was the many faced god for her, these days. He wanted her on the kingsguard to bring her back in from the cold, more than anything.
Robb's brow was still creased as he continued puzzling over it. "Brienne of Tarth was on Renly Baratheon's kingsguard and she wasn't a knight, faith of the seven or no."
Just then, footsteps sounded nearby and the sound of voices could be heard drawing ever closer. Jon looked up to see Aemon strolling side by side with his cousin, Princess Catelyn. These days, Catelyn looked more like her mother than Daenerys did herself. She was holding Aemon's eye contact with a shy blush spreading across her face. So lost in their own conversation, they didn't even notice their fathers watching them until they were in the clearing.
"Oh!" they chorused.
Separating, they came and sat beside their fathers. Jon simply couldn't say what happened with Aemon. To him, it felt like one day he had held a newborn babe in his arms and then looked away for five minutes. When he turned back to find that babe, time had flown and the child had gone. In his place, was a tall and handsome young man who was the image of Eddard Stark. He was a thoughtful and honourable young man, full to the brim with a youthful idealism. As he grew older, Jon knew, he would learn to see the grey areas and the spaces between the events that had thus far shaped his life.
Aemon sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, gazing into the pool with his mouth down turned. Like his father and northern grandfathers, he favoured the old gods over the seven. Something Jon could see would cause him as many problems in his turn as it did for him now.
"Son," he said.
Aemon turned to him, jolted out of his thoughts. "I'm fine."
He didn't sound it, but Jon knew he would get no more from him before he was ready to talk.
That night, Robb lay with Dany in his arms. Her silver hair fanned out across his bare chest as they both slipped in and out of a fitful doze. Darkness had fallen hours ago and the silver moon hung heavy in the sky beyond the shutters. Closing his eyes, he tried to get back to sleep only for a creaking floorboard near by to jolt him back into consciousness. He sat up quickly, disturbing his wife in the process.
"What was that?" she asked, still drugged with sleep.
Robb pressed a finger to his lips as he slipped quickly out of bed and pulled a tunic over his head. But it was only Catelyn, dressed in a nightgown and clearly as restless as her parents. Dany sat up and held her arms open for a hug.
"Sweetling, what is it?" she asked.
Robb kissed his daughter's cheek and sat back on the bed with Cat in the middle of them.
"I dreamed of Old Valyria again," she said. "Viserion and I were flying over the ruins and you and Drogon were there, too. But Prince Aemon was flying with us on another dragon. Not Rhaegal, another dragon altogether. We were taking back Valyria – our ancestral homeland."
Dany tried to reassure her. "It was just a dream, my love. But if it happens, I'm definitely coming with you! I want Valyria back as much as anyone."
"We said that about dreams to Bran once," Robb pointed out. "There are more dragon eggs out there; we found some on Dragonstone. Instead of worrying about it, just ask your uncle Bran what it could mean. He knows all about this stuff."
Even after almost sixteen years, there were things about Bran's time with the three-eyed raven no one but him and Meera knew. Something had awoken in him when he fell from the tower, something great and terrible and dangerous. But for now, he knew Bran was happy with Meera and their child. Gods willing, there would be more and they would not inherit their father's powers.
After a few minutes, Robb realised there was more to their daughter's late night visit than just a dream. She was almost fourteen now, having been conceived the same day the long night ended, up on a mountainside as the sun rose for the first time in a year. She hadn't come to them with bad dreams since she was a little girl.
"Aunt Margaery has invited me to court and I said I'd love to go," she explained, looking between them both. "I can learn more there and I can be closer to Dragonstone. And closer to Aemon. Please say 'yes'."
Robb kept his gaze on Cat, but heard Dany sigh audibly.
A long time ago, his mother had embarrassed him by thinking him always a child. It had shamed him and he sent her away on diplomatic missions just to remove her. Now, all these years later, he looked at his own rapidly maturing daughter – his only daughter – and suddenly understood exactly how the late Catelyn Stark had felt. It felt like a mini-bereavement. But he remembered how he felt too.
"You have my blessing," he said, caressing her cheek. "But I'll have your uncle Jon watching you like a hawk, girl."
Meanwhile, Dany was using a bed sheet to dab a tear from her eye. "Take Viserion with you and the moment you want to come home, you get straight on him and fly right back to us. Understand?"
Cat nodded. "I promise."
Jon found Aemon sitting alone in the common hall with just an empty tankard for company. It was late and he looked exhausted. Worried about him, Jon slipped onto the bench beside him and ruffled his chestnut hair. At sixteen, it only annoyed him.
"Father!" he griped, smoothing himself down again.
"Tell me what's bothering you or I'll do it again," he said, trying to sound light. "In front of every northerner in this castle too, I might add."
Aemon's expression closed over again, and he averted his gaze. "It's nothing." Then he drew a deep breath and blurted it all out. "When you were my age, your own father had been murdered and you rode into war to take the realm, didn't you?"
Jon had been expecting girl problems, or spots, or embarrassing things that afflicted today's young more than they seemed to affect his generation. But then, his generation had been too busy knifing each other in the back to worry about their skin condition. He decided, long ago, he would much rather that than see his children make the same mistakes he had.
"That's not something to aspire to, Aemon, especially the bit about the murdered father!" he laughed before quickly turning serious again. "I want your coronation to be remembered as the first bloodless coronation this country has seen for a very long time."
His own had come amidst war, Joffrey's had been heralded with riots and King Robert's had also come about through war. It was time to break that chain. But he could easily see where his son was coming from.
"I'm just having it all handed to me on a plate," he said, crestfallen. But he was painfully conflicted. "I don't mean for people to die, or families to be torn up like the Starks were. But you did what was right and you won in the end. Even Maester Sam was a brother in the Night's Watch and fought in the war for the dawn. That's why everyone respects you all so much."
"They respect us because we ended war, Aemon," he pointed out. "Sam, Robb, Dany, Uncle Tyrion, your mother and me. We all suffered for our parents mistakes and decided to end them, once and for all. First, we had to sweep away the last of them. But it's the continuation of peace that matters most. That'll win you the most honour. Bloodshed just begets more bloodshed. Vengeance for the dead becomes an ethic for the living. Don't fall into that trap. And, before you say it, it doesn't make you weak. It makes you wise."
Aemon said nothing in reply, but the fear had left his eyes and he thumbed at the empty tankard, tapping his nail against the pewter. Above his head, the direwolf of house Stark snarled at the room, rippling on a draught that made it look half-alive.
"Cat has a dream about us all riding dragons," he said, quietly changing the subject. "We're all flying towards Valyria and over the ruins. I dream of Lyanna going to Asshai, too."
"Funny, I thought your sister would prefer Oldtown," Jon jested. "But Asshai is interesting too. Seriously, they're just dreams. I think Robb has said as much to Cat. And, in any case, Cat's more Targaryen than any other Targaryen alive today. Which means she's probably a little bit mad."
Aemon suppressed a laugh. "Not funny!" Then he laughed all the same. "Why haven't you flown Rhaegal since the war?"
That was an easy question. "Because I don't like it and he burns my arse."
He had made the mistake of flying Rhaegal home from Winterfell. Full days spent sat on red hot scales. He was more ice than fire and the burns were something he had not been prepared for. Besides, Ghost was his companion. For now and always. Nothing could ever replace his wolf, as aged as he was these days.
"Come on, son," he said, ruffling Aemon's hair again. "We're visiting your grandmother's grave tomorrow, so get some sleep."
Aemon grimaced, flattened down his mussed up again and then followed regardless. At least he seemed to have cheered up a little.
They were all down there, come the morning. Olenna and Lyanna had arranged their own bouquet of white and blue roses; Aemon had brought just a single blossom and Daeron had picked wild flowers during an excursion to the Wolf's Wood with his aunt and uncle. They took it in turns to lay their floral offerings at Lyanna's feet; while her namesake Princess also laid down a verse they had written for her. Margaery lit a candle and placed it in the statue's hands.
If he looked over his shoulder, Jon could see the spot where he had hidden and overheard the conversation between his father and King Robert. He could almost hear their voices echoing down the years; two old ghosts whose presence lingered down here with all the others.
A hand slipping into his own briefly brought him out of his thoughts. He looked down to see Olenna stretching up kiss his cheek.
"Grandmama is all at peace now, father," she assured him.
Lyanna wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. He responded by putting his arms around both, squeezing them tight for reassurance.
"I know," he assured them. "And she'd be so proud of you two, I know that."
"The verse and flowers are beautiful Lya," said Margaery, "and yours, Lena."
It was their signal to depart, which they did after taking Daeron by the hand. Aemon paused to kiss his own mother's cheek before following suit. That left Jon and Margaery alone there. But only when the children's footsteps faded did Margaery cup his face and kiss him tenderly. He let the tears fall now. He didn't when he was younger. But now he knew how much Lyanna Stark had really missed and the life she should have had.
"She is at peace," he said, echoing Olenna's sentiments.
Margaery's brow creased. "She always was. It was you who could not rest."
There was more than a grain of truth in that, too. A half-smile plucked at the corners of his mouth, but it was a mere ghost of a smile.
"You're right," he said, voice still choked as he glanced at the statue of his mother. "But I think it's done now. I think I might even be happy."
He felt a line being drawn under the past; a book being closed for the final time. And he knew it was time to turn around and go home.
~The End~
Well, that's that. The end! I'm not a big fan of completely closed endings and neat bows etc. So there's still some doubt, but readers can fill in the blanks themselves there I think. Besides, I think the most important is covered. So, full acknowledgements time:
First up, I want to thank everyone who has read this story and for sticking with me for so long. Thank you.
However, there are a number of people who have my gratitude for their unfailing support throughout the writing of this. Especially Mx4 who prevented this story from dying on more than one occasion (and has been there right from the start).
Also, for great feedback and vast encouragement over the last few months, Exiled Immortal.
There are also a host of regular reviewers I wish to send some love to as well. In no particular order: Angie B, Dragonfan, XBolt51, BioHazard82, RHatch89, Slytherin Studios and Marvelmyra. Thank you for sticking with me right until the end.
There might (MIGHT) be a spin off coming in the far off future, but it's still very much in the planning. It's also more centred around Arya's exploits abroad. In the meantime, I will be back with A Stitch in Time next week.