AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF
Part 1 - A Rose and A Mockingbird
Jon II
Jon returned to the Great Hall in a moment of chaos. Wearing his new crown, and hoping no one would notice the ink stain on his shirt sleeve, he took his seat at the high table. Bronze Yohn Royce stood nearby, loudly proclaiming that Petyr Baelish must die for his crimes. Jon's new Lord Hand sat at the end of the table, watching the proceedings in silence. Some northern lords had joined in as well, confirming Lord Royce's words but staying well out of the Valemen's deliberations. Lyanna Mormont caught sight of Jon and his crown, and beamed. He'd never seen such a smile on the solemn little girl's face before.
"We must return to the Gates of the Moon at once!" shouted a man in the black moon and yellow sun of House Pryor. "Our liege lord is already sickly, and we don't know how much poison he has been fed! Any delay might result in his death!"
"We cannot leave when there is a war coming," Harry Hardying, Heir to the Vale, protested. "We were brought here under false pretenses, it is true; but we offered our aid to the North, and it would be craven to renege now."
"Hear, hear," called out several knights, most of them young and eager for glory.
"Our whole army could not travel so fast, in any case," Lord Melcolm wheezed. The man was old and rather frail, but he'd dressed in full plate for a spar against a slew of younger men, and wore it proudly. "Let us send a small group to White Harbor, with the fastest riders, to sail home to the Vale and take our liege lord into their protection. We must get Lord Arryn away from Littlefinger's servants."
"Aye," seconded Sers Jon Elesham and Mychel Redfort.
"Eustace," ordered Lord Royce, calling a knight of House Hunter. "Aron Hersy, Edmund Waxley; you have the fastest horses. Ride to White Harbor immediately, and take the first ship south. I will send ravens to Lord Manderly and to the other Lords Declarant to explain the situation. Lady Waynwood would be glad to foster young Lord Robert for the nonce, I should think."
The young knights departed at once.
"And now, to the man himself," Lord Royce said darkly. "Petyr Baelish has abused the goodwill of our late liege lord, Jon Arryn—"
"Aye!" chorused a few young knights.
Bronze Yohn sent them a glare so frosty that the younger men froze on the spot.
"As I was saying—Petyr Baelish took advantage of our lord's generosity, and our liege lady's love for her father's foster-son. He is a man so foul that the gods themselves broke their silence to condemn him! I swear it on the honor of House Royce, by the old gods and the new; if any man should doubt me, let him ask His Grace," he shouted, pointing at Jon, "or the members of his council. They heard the gods of the First Men name Baelish a liar, and they heard Baelish confess to the murder of Lady Lysa!"
He took a deep breath. His chest heaved with emotion.
"Now, after all you have heard, is there any man here who believes Petyr Baelish does not deserve death?"
The man looked around the room, and not a single man spoke in favor of Littlefinger. Jon was glad; it made things so much easier!
Then Bronze Yohn frowned. "Where is Corbray?"
"He was with us in the archery practice grounds, my lord," spoke up the knight of House Belmore.
"Aye, with Gerold Grafton. They stayed behind when you summoned," added a Templeton. "I thought they'd follow us, but they did not."
Lord Royce's face turned white.
"To the dungeons," he ordered, "now!"
Jon was not sure what Lyn Corbray's absence meant, but the tone of panic in Bronze Yohn's voice made him obey immediately. He ran after the Vale men, Longclaw in hand, down to Winterfell's dungeons. Before too long, he saw two of the Winterfell guardsmen, slumped facedown in patches of red snow.
"Curse that lying, treacherous son of a whore!" roared Bronze Yohn. "How many guards were posted here, your grace?"
"Ten," Jon answered grimly.
Down the stairs they went. Lyn Corbray and Gerold Grafton, armed with Valyrian steel and Baelish gold, had killed all of the guards. Two more lay dead on the stairs, and three more at the bottom. The final three had died in front of Littlefinger's cell, guarding the traitor to the last. The cell was empty, of course.
An incandescent rage flooded Jon.
"FIND THEM!" he shouted, racing back up the stairs. Lord Royce followed, calling for his knights to saddle their horses immediately.
The courtyard and stables became a flurry of activity. Knights, Northmen, and Free Folk were searching the castle or preparing to leave, ignoring the freezing cold winds in the heat of their anger.
"I swear to you, King Jon, I will hunt this wretched beast down myself!" Bronze Yohn swore, taking his horse's reins from his wide-eyed squire and vaulting onto his saddle.
"He won't be anywhere near the castle, your grace," said Lord Melcolm. He looked devastated. "Is there no end to this man's treachery and murder?"
Sansa ran to Jon's side, preventing his reply. "He's escaped, hasn't he?" she asked, noting the angry faces. Before Jon could stop her, she turned and saw the dead guards. Her dispassionate gaze told Jon that she'd seen much worse under the Boltons and Lannisters, and his heart went out to her.
"We'll bring him back," Jon said. "Do you suppose the hounds might—?"
"Aye, they'll find him," the Hound replied, coming up behind the king. "Give them something with Littlefinger's scent, and those beasts will chase him to the ends of the earth."
"I'll find something!" Sansa promised, running towards the guest house.
"I should have known," Jon berated himself.
"You set ten men to guard a weakling thief with a silver tongue," the Hound told him, pitiless. "You could have posted a hundred, and it would have made no difference. As long as the thief has gold, and some of the guards accept it, or he has friends outside his cell, he will escape."
"I've hunted beasts north of the Wall, King Crow," Tormund told him, riding up close with a hungry grin. "One southron coward will be easy prey after that."
He rode away, followed by the rest of the mounted Free Folk.
"Shall we ride after Baelish, your grace?" offered the Lightning Lord. Jon had barely seen him today.
"You're welcome to it," Jon answered. "I suppose he'd ride down the Kingsroad, but I don't know for sure. He may be headed to White Harbor."
"The Knights of the Vale split in two," Dondarrion told him. "I heard Bronze Yohn send half to the Harbor Road, and the other half down the Kingsroad towards Cerwyn."
"Then if you're willing, ride to Torrhen's Square," Jon suggested. "He may try to take a ship down the western coast. I'd go myself, but my horse is not up to the chase," he admitted. A king would usually have the best horse, but Jon had not replaced any of his things since the Northmen had bestowed the title upon him. His horse, taken from the Night's Watch stables, was a sturdy beast meant for battle and for endurance in the cold, not racing down the Kingsroad in search of a traitor.
Dondarrion nodded, and Jon watched as he, Thoros of Myr, and a few others of the Brotherhood saddled their horses.
The Hound snorted. "Your sister would have a fit if you did ride out, your grace," he said. "Don't be stupid. Baelish has only two men with him, and I've never heard that he's an extraordinary rider."
As though summoned by the Hound's thoughts, Sansa appeared. She looked incensed.
"There's nothing in his room!" she cried. "Corbray and Grafton must have taken his things the moment we locked him in the dungeon!"
"That sounds like something he'd do," the Hound agreed. "He probably planned this weeks ahead of time, in case he was found out and had to flee in a hurry."
"Well, without a scent, how will the hounds find him?" Sansa despaired.
Jon paced like a caged wolf, so angry he could barely think. Then, he remembered smelling Baelish as Ghost earlier today. He might understand if Jon asked him to hunt Baelish.
Ghost, he thought desperately. I need you, boy!
Suddenly, the world shifted, and Jon was Ghost.
Smells became unbearably strong. Familiar scents overwhelmed him—his man-wolf, whose body had fallen to the ground while his mind rode with Ghost; the flowers his red packmate used to wash; the unique scent of the friendly man with the short paw. From his current spot near the kitchens, the wolf could smell every meal that the men had eaten today, and his belly rumbled.
No, Jon thought frantically, we have to find Baelish first!
Ghost sniffed the ground. He remembered the scent of the weasel-man. It was mint and sandalwood and deceit, with a healthy dose of fear when the white wolf was too close for comfort.
There!
He'd found a trail, mixed with the scent of horse. The white wolf dashed out of the open gates, running at top speed. The sun was falling already; the men-hunters would need to stop soon. He must find the weasel-man before then.
On he ran, smelling winter in the air. This was his home; this was where he'd been born, he remembered. Long ago, when the man-rock did not smell of fire. This was where his man-wolf had found him, a pup crawling alone and starving. His man-wolf had been a pup himself. Ghost could not allow the weasel-man to destroy his home, or the last two humans in his pack.
Little sister, he thought mournfully, you should be here, hunting the weasel-man with me. She was the last, he knew it. He had felt his packmates' presence even when the forests and rivers separated them, but four of the six were gone now. Only the white wolf and the wild sister remained. She was far to the south, leading a pack of small gray cousins.
Before long, Ghost had caught up to the human hunting pack. He knew their scent well by now; they smelled of the lands north of the tall man-ice, where the dead men walked.
"Look at 'im go!" hollered their red-furred pack leader, pointing at Ghost. "We must be going the right way, boys. Leave some for us, Ghost!"
Their horses were slow. Ghost left them far behind, snow crunching beneath his paws. Soon he had caught up to another group of men, the ones who smelled like summer and steel. The massive white wolf caught the sharp scent of terror as they saw him, a silent shadow flying across the snow next to the flat man-rocks. Their horses were afraid too, but the men-hunters would not let them flee.
Ghost ignored them. He had more dangerous prey to hunt.
The sun disappeared behind the trees. The great white direwolf followed the road south, unrelenting, with Jon encouraging him. The animals of the Wolfswood fled, as they usually did when direwolves and men hunted. Then the moon rose, and Ghost heard the distant howling of small cousins. He ignored the howls, silent as always.
Just as he'd begun to tire, he heard three horses galloping down the flat man-rocks. His prey was in the center, as befitted the weakest member of any pack. Quickly, before they saw him and used their metal claws, Ghost jumped at the middle horse and bit its hindquarters. Blood and warm flesh flooded his mouth as the horse screamed, and the weasel-man fell hard.
"Direwolf! Corbray! Grafton!" he shouted, and the other men slowed their horses, turning to face Ghost. The steel claws came out, glinting in the moonlight, and much longer than the weasel-man's. Ghost knew he would have to kill these others before he could kill his true prey. The two knights dismounted.
"Come on, you filthy beast," shouted the closest one, waving his claw. He lunged, and Ghost jumped aside, turning quickly. With one swipe of his massive paw, the man's leg buckled, and he fell backward into the snow. Ghost knew better than to bite his metal skin; instead, he dove in and ripped out his throat. The man's last, high-pitched scream hurt the wolf's ears.
That left the weasel-man and the other one. His claw was different.
Valyrian steel, thought Jon, though this meant little to Ghost. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his prey, walking slowly toward the dead man's horse. Immediately, the great wolf chased after the man, his jaws closing around the nearest part—his foreleg.
The weasel-man shrieked in pain. "Corbray, kill it!" he ordered, unable to free himself from Ghost's jaws.
The direwolf saw the other man coming. He couldn't let go of his prey, or he would run; he knew men didn't need their forelegs to walk or to run—but the other man was more dangerous, and he had the strange metal claw. Conflicted, the wolf tried to drag the weasel-man away, while he screamed and wept in agony.
But Lyn Corbray had other ideas. He lunged, his claw wounding Ghost's side. The cut was not deep, but the wolf could no longer resist the urge to kill. He gave one final, powerful tug, and he felt the weasel-man's bones crunch. The weasel-man's arm came off entirely, and Ghost turned, satisfied, to face his new opponent.
Careful, Ghost, thought Jon desperately. Stay away from that blade.
Ghost wished his sister's pack were nearer. A wolf was not meant to hunt alone, especially not smart prey like humans. But these two humans were a threat to his pack. Alone or not, Ghost had to stop them.
Jon, he heard suddenly. Jon, please, wake up!
It was the red packmate—Sansa! She was crying, and Ghost felt phantom teardrops land on his face. Lyn Corbray slashed at the wolf, who moved away quickly, and struck a blow himself, making the man cry out. Ghost had taken two fingers from his clawless hand.
Don't leave me alone, begged the Princess in the North.
He's not dying, Princess, said a raspy voice Jon knew to be the Hound's. He's having a fit of some sort.
What kind of fit lasts for hours?
The dead man's horse had run away, and the weasel-man lay on the flat rocks, weeping and shaking in a puddle of his own blood. He had ripped some of his false black man-fur to stop the bleeding in his foreleg, but he was too weak to escape, just as Ghost had intended. His horse, too, lay dying in the snow from Ghost's attack. The only escape was the man with the metal claw, and his horse.
Come back, Jon! Ghost heard as he struck again, this time striking the man's metal skin. It bent under his powerful jaws, but did not break. The man limped away, cursing.
"Go on, you stupid wolf," Corbray said viciously. "You want to taste my steel? Then have a lick of this, big boy."
He lunged again, and this time the blade caught Ghost in the foreleg. It hurt! The direwolf retaliated immediately, using his bulk to force the man down and ripping out his face and throat, but Jon's control began to slip. He watched, helpless, as his wounded friend turned back to Littlefinger, who had used his distraction to reach Corbray's horse. He mounted clumsily, swaying like a drunkard. The poor horse galloped away, startled, and soon Ghost's prey was riding as fast as he dared, a speed the direwolf could no longer match with his injury.
No! thought Jon, We can't let him get away!
But Ghost was tired, and wounded, and unwilling to follow commands anymore. Jon felt the great wolf push him out of his mind and back into his own. The scents of the world dulled, and the fierce ache in his left foreleg—arm, rather—disappeared.
"No!" Jon shouted, waking up in the Lord's chamber at Winterfell.