AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF
Part 1 - A Rose and A Mockingbird
Sansa I
Jon had been quite surprised by the summons, but had listened to Sansa's and the Hound's sordid tale. In addition to the former sworn sword's accusations, Sansa had added the slow poisoning of her cousin Robert, the death of Ser Dontos the fool, the lies to the Lords Declarant of the Vale, a singer named Marillion, and an unexpected flight through the Moon Door. By the end of their conversation, Sandor Clegane had taken hold of her brother's shoulders, keeping him in his seat by force as Jon's wolf blood overwhelmed his reason.
Sansa had then proposed a plan, concocted by herself with input from the Hound. She would let Littlefinger believe he was back in her good graces after winning the battle, and suggest—delicately, of course—that she would make an excellent Queen in the North. She would plot with him, meet with him in places where loyal people might overhear. Once she had enough evidence, she would accuse him in front of Jon's council and the Knights of the Vale, and Baelish would die.
The King in the North had looked at her with aghast gray eyes that reminded her painfully of Father's. Sansa had known he wouldn't like her plan; despite Jon's protests that he was an oathbreaker and his honor was questionable, Sansa knew that deep down, her half-brother believed in the code of honor that Lord Eddard Stark had loved. And he had died the same way: betrayed by those he'd trusted, though Jon had lived to regret it, while Robb and Father had not.
Thanks to the Red Witch and her magic, Jon was back and free of the Watch, and she would not allow Littlefinger to kill him again. She would make use of the Hound while he was here, and rid the North of a pest too dangerous to be left alive.
"No," the King in the North declared finally. "Sansa, we can't do it that way."
"You can't just cut off his head, boy," the Hound said shortly, still keeping the younger man in his chair. "This is a different sort of battle."
"I know that," Jon protested, "I'm not as stupid as you think I am. But this would destroy you, Sansa. I don't mean your innocence," he added quickly, seeing she was about to protest. "I mean your reputation as a Stark. I've had Ser Davos keeping an ear to the ground, and some of our men mistrust you already."
"Why?" cried Sansa, stung. "Because I was married to a Bolton and a Lannister?"
Jon shook his head. "It's not that; at least, not entirely. The Northmen don't like that you kept the Vale army secret from us. See, to the men that fought for us from the beginning, it looked like you used them—and me—as bait for the Boltons, and once we were dying by the hundreds, your shining knights rode in to save the day. They think you don't care at all about me or Rickon; you just wanted your castle back at all costs."
Sansa sank into her chair, fighting back sudden tears. "Jon, you know that's not what I want—"
"I know you wouldn't do that to me," he soothed her. "But they don't. If any of them hear you plotting with Petyr Baelish, they'll call for your head. You'll be branded a turncloak and a kinslayer, Sansa. Trust me on this; I know what happens when you ignore the rumors and protests and forge ahead anyway," he said painfully, tracing one of his stab wounds over his clothes.
She looked to the Hound, who was watching her with a puzzled sort of intensity. "What in the seven hells were you thinking, girl? If your brother is commanding your army, he should know about forces kept in reserve."
"I know," Sansa cried in distress, "but this was Littlefinger's army! I had no way to know if he would come or not, and I didn't want to give anyone false hope! For all I knew, he might have ordered the Vale knights to turn on us, and take Winterfell in Tommen's name!"
"What if you admitted to your council that you knew of the plan?" the Hound offered, finally releasing Jon's shoulders. "It didn't work very well for your father, but it might for you; you're not in King's Landing."
"What do you mean?" Jon asked.
Sandor Clegane sighed. "When Catelyn Stark kidnapped the Imp and dragged his ugly arse to the Vale, Eddard Stark tried to pretend he'd ordered her to do it, when it was painfully obvious that he had not. Can you lie better than your sire, your grace?"
"I convinced the Free Folk that I was a turncloak," Jon offered, shrugging, "and I tricked the Red Witch into letting a babe with king's blood go free."
"If Jon's council all think as badly of me as Ser Davos says, it won't matter what he tells them," Sansa said gloomily.
"I wish we could just drag Baelish to the heart tree and kill him outright, before he can bribe or trick anyone else," Jon groaned, running a hand through his dark hair in frustration.
"We can't do that without breaking guest right and losing the Knights of the Vale," Sansa reminded him unnecessarily.
"And forget about meeting him alone, to plot or even to talk about the weather," Jon ordered suddenly. "It's too dangerous; he could try to kidnap you again, and drag you back to the Vale for a third forced wedding. I don't like the way that man looks at you."
"That's just common sense," the Hound agreed.
Sansa had to admit the scenario was not entirely impossible, and shivered.
"We have to do this like Northmen," Jon said, steepling his hands under his pointed chin. His scarred hand stood out sharply against his dark beard and his unblemished left hand. After a long silence, he got up and began to pace, back and forth, from window to door.
Then he stopped, and Sansa caught a rare sparkle of optimism in her brother's gray eyes. "Sansa, do you remember what Father used to say about heart trees?"
Sansa shook her head. To her shame, she'd ignored Old Nan's and Father's tales of the old gods in favor of the Seven, with their pretty septs and grand ceremonies. Lady Catelyn had not cared for the old gods, and Sansa had followed in her footsteps, daydreaming of an excellent match with some handsome southron lordling, or even a prince. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined returning to the North, and being happy about it.
But all of that meant that of Father's six children, only Jon had kept strictly to the old gods. He'd known from a very early age that the sept was Lady Catelyn's, and that he was unwelcome in her refuge.
"Father said that no one could lie in front of a heart tree," Jon explained. "Lord Mormont told me his father said the same to him as a boy. What if it were true? What if we took Littlefinger to the one place in Winterfell where he could not lie, and had him confess there?"
The Hound snorted.
"That would be very useful," Sansa said practically, ignoring the knight, "and it would explain why Father always talked to us there after we'd done something naughty. But we can't count on it until we try. Shall we go to the godswood now and practice lying to each other?"
Her brother smiled. It was an unusual sight, especially now that he was grown and so very solemn. "We may not need it. What if we revise your plan a little, Sansa? You don't need to pretend you trust Littlefinger, or plot my murder with him for weeks on end. In fact, you can do the opposite."
"How?" Sandor Clegane asked, frowning at the king.
"If he's watching closely, he must know that you two talked," Jon went on. "I'm sure he's bought a spy or three since he entered Winterfell. So lure him to the godswood with a message. Tell him that you want to trust him again, but you can't until he clears up some accusations that the Hound made against him."
Sansa grinned. Littlefinger thought all Northmen were stupid fools he could manipulate at will, savages who wore their honor like pretty, but useless, armor. He had only ever respected Roose Bolton, for obvious and despicable reasons. Jon would prove him wrong.
"If Ser Sandor is willing, he and the Brotherhood can guard the gate as soon as Littlefinger enters; I'll ask Tormund to do the same with the smaller gates. Davos can whisper to the right witnesses that there's treason afoot, and we'll hide them around the heart tree. When Littlefinger is there, you can make him confess, in the hopes of earning back your trust. We may not even need the old gods."
The Hound was watching Jon with an expression that looked almost impressed.
"And best of all," Jon finished, "you'll be surrounded by our men at all times. If Littlefinger tries anything, we'll kill him outright."
"He won't hurt me, Jon," Sansa assured him. "He'll give me some compliments, and try to shake my trust in you, but he's never done worse than kiss me."
I thought he might, Sansa thought to herself, now and then, when I was Alayne. But Jon doesn't need to know about that.
The King in the North and the Hound both looked thunderous.
"That man should never have touched you," Jon said with audible fury. "He placed you in a position where he was your only hope of rescue, and took advantage of it. He won't do it again, mark my words."
Sansa thought it best to change the subject quickly. Jon was usually cool and collected, like Father had been, but there were a few things that sent him into a towering rage. She'd learned that his siblings coming to harm was one of the worst.
"Make sure you place some Vale lords around the heart tree, and I'll bring up Aunt Lysa if I can. They may not care so much about his betrayal of our father, or poor Jeyne, but knowing that he pushed their liege lady out the Moon Door—and that he encouraged her to poison their liege lord—should be enough for several death sentences."
"It will be my pleasure to take his head," Jon said, scowling so fiercely that Sansa was almost frightened. Then she remembered it was Jon, the one person left in the world that would never hurt her. "Unless you'd like to do it. Longclaw is Valyrian steel, and quite a bit thinner and shorter than Ice; even you should be able to lift it, Sansa."
His offer was earnest. The old Sansa would have protested, and quite loudly, that she could not kill a man. But the old, starry-eyed Sansa had not fed her husband to his dogs. The new Sansa appreciated Jon's thoughtfulness.
"That would be a sight," said the Hound, grinning. "Have you grown fierce enough to execute a man, little wolf?"
He was looking at her rather strangely, like he expected her to accept Jon's offer. She wondered if that was a compliment.
"I have executed a man, ser. Thank you, but no," Sansa replied, smiling at her king. "I'll leave the beheadings to you, if you don't mind. This is the sharpest weapon I will carry," she finished, holding out the embroidery needle she kept in her apron pocket.
"Alright, then," Jon answered. "Ser Clegane, I thank you for everything you've done, and will do here."
He offered his hand to the Hound, who shook it. To Sansa's surprise, the knight bowed to Jon and to herself, then left the room, leaving the siblings alone in the solar. Jon immediately dragged two chairs closer to the fire, and led Sansa to the most comfortable one. She took the offered seat, and looked at her brother curiously.
"What are we doing, Jon?" she asked him.
Jon's lips twitched. "You are a Princess in the North now, Sansa. You need to relearn the stories and songs of your people."
In his unscarred hand he held an old book named Weirwoods and White Walkers: Tales of the North.
"Where did you find that?" Sansa asked, touching the cover almost reverently. "The library tower burned down ages ago!"
"I found it in the ruins of Maester Luwin's turret," he replied, sitting on the other chair. "Since we've a free evening for once, I thought we could read a bit."
Sansa's throat suddenly felt too thick to talk; her eyes watered, and not because of the dusty book. His intentions were clear to her; they had skirted around their home and each other for three moons, unsure of how to act, too battered and scarred to fall back into old patterns. This was Jon offering to return to the Winterfell of their youth, if only for a little while.
"You used to read to Arya," she said softly.
"I used to read to both of you," he answered mildly. "When Robb ran off with Theon and I didn't want to go along, I'd sneak into the nursery and read to both of my sisters."
There was no reproach in his tone, but Sansa felt it all the same. Out of her two elder brothers, Jon had always been the most patient with the younger children, herself included. Until she had decided bastards were not worth her time—with Mother and Septa Mordane helping her reach that decision, naturally—she had spent quite a bit of time in Jon's care, especially when Mother had been round-bellied with Arya, and then Bran.
"You sang, too," Sansa remembered suddenly. "When Arya was ill with the blue pox, I remember you came into the room. I was pretending to sleep, but I heard you singing to her."
"Aye," he said fondly. "It was one of the few things that could calm her as a babe, when she worked up one of her tantrums. Gods, but that girl could scream."
Sansa reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. "Go on then, Jon. Read us a proper northern tale."
He read. Robb might have chosen a comedy to cheer them up, but Jon had not. The tale he'd picked was of the Last Hero of the First Men, the one who had sought the aid of the Children of the Forest to survive the Long Night. It was a sad tale, full of loss. Silent tears trickled down Sansa's cheeks as the Last Hero buried his friends, one by one, and finally, his last companion—his faithful dog—and went on, utterly alone. What had been just a sad tale for children was all too real for the surviving Starks.
"Sansa? Are you well?"
"Fine," she replied, snapping out of her half-doze. "I'm well, Jon, it's just a sad tale."
"I should have chosen something else," Jon said regretfully. "But this one was on my mind; Sam told me once that he found a version in which the Last Hero killed Others with a dragonsteel blade. I hoped we might have it in Winterfell, but this isn't it."
"It's alright," Sansa assured him. "Compared to my usual nightmares, the Last Hero's adventures are quite cheerful, you know."
Jon could not hide a grimace. "We should get some sleep," he said at last. "You have your own monster to fight tomorrow."
He marked the page with an embroidered bookmark that Grandmother Lyarra had made, and closed the old book carefully. He then offered his left hand to Sansa, and gently pulled her to her feet.
"Sleep well," he offered, kissing her forehead. Sansa stayed in his arms, breathing in the scents of leather, smoke, and old parchment. She had never embraced Jon much as a child; as an adult, she could not get enough of that simple comfort.
"I never do," Sansa admitted. "But I am a Stark; I am not afraid of a few nightmares."
Jon chuckled dryly. "I wish I had your courage; most nights I wake up screaming and wander about the castle until the sun rises."
"Well, the next time it happens, come to me. I will be tossing and turning too, and my bed is bigger and more comfortable than yours."
"Sansa, that's not—it's improper for a bastard—" the King in the North stammered.
"I don't care," she murmured into his shoulder. "We need to sleep. Mayhaps we can chase away each other's bad dreams for a change. Now, promise me."
Jon stared at her, gray eyes wide. She was sure he would never have expected such an offer from the proper, southron Sansa of old. Septa Mordane and Mother would have fainted. But Sansa saw the deep shadows under her brother's eyes, and knew she must help him any way she could. And if helping him helped her, so much the better.
"Promise me you will wake me up instead of wandering the corridors alone. Do it, Jon."
He sighed in defeat. "I promise, Sansa."
Sansa beamed at him. "Good. Good night, your grace," she said, grinning when he made a face at the title. Before he could protest any further, she left him for the comfort of her bedchamber. Tomorrow would be a busy day.