AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF
Part 3 - Banishing Nightmares
Sansa and Jon, haunted by their demons, band together to ease their troubled sleep. With Sansa's help, Jon begins to accept at least a small part of his Targaryen heritage. Meanwhile, Petyr Baelish, one-armed, ill, and desperate to escape the Starks, runs into the most dangerous Stark of all. Bran and Meera reach Winterfell at last, and the Bolton captives in the Dreadfort come home.
Jon VI
Jon woke up screaming. It wasn't a rare occurrence. Some nights, he dreamed of Hardhome, and the cold blue eyes that followed his every move. Other nights, he dreamed of knives in the dark, or the crypts, or poor Rickon falling onto the snow, pierced by the Bolton bastard's arrow. Tonight, he'd dreamed of Ygritte.
His chamber was dark, and the fire had died at least an hour ago. He should have been shivering, but since his death and rebirth, he did not feel the cold as much as he used to. Perhaps it was only his imagination, or the distance between him and the Wall, but Jon seemed to burn with an inner fire these days, and it terrified him. He wasn't sure if that was his dragon blood, awakened by the Red Witch, or the Lord of Light's fire. If the latter, he wanted it gone, but he knew not how to get rid of it.
Well, he had one idea, but he wouldn't do that to Sansa. He'd promised to protect her; he'd not abandon her now, nor Bran and Arya.
Thinking of Sansa reminded him of the promise he'd made some time ago, when they'd confessed to each other that they rarely slept. Jon had been reluctant to take her up on it even then, but now? A brother crawling into his grown sister's bed was odd enough; a male cousin doing so was even worse! Had it been Arya, he would have done it without a second thought, he admitted to himself, but Sansa was different; they'd never been close.
Promise me.
He got out of bed with a sigh, and slipped his stockinged feet into boots. Sansa was close enough to have heard his screams; he'd given her the Lord's Chamber, and at her insistence and that of the Wintersguard, he'd moved into Sansa's old room, three doors away. Bran's and Arya's rooms awaited their return, and Robb's had lain empty since the death of Ramsay Bolton. Jon needed no one to tell him where the Bastard of Bolton had violated Sansa, seeing how she shuddered when she walked past the door. One of these days, he'd take everything the bastard had touched in that room and start a bonfire outside. He was sure Robb would have approved.
Jon crossed the hallway quietly. He could see Tormund and Suregg standing guard at the head of the stairs, their backs facing Jon and Sansa's rooms, and the dead end hallway beyond. He slipped into the Lord's Chamber without a sound, and closed the heavy door carefully. When he looked towards the bed, he met his sister's—cousin's—blue eyes.
"Have you finally remembered your promise?" she asked, sounding vaguely amused.
"I never forgot," Jon answered honestly. "But I'm your cousin now, and—"
"And nothing," Sansa interrupted, scooting over to make room on the bed. "You were always my cousin, even if we didn't know it. Now get in here; it's too cold to be wandering about."
Despite himself, Jon approached the bed. "It's not right," he said softly.
"If I started a list of all the things that aren't right in this world, this wouldn't make the top five hundred," Sansa insisted, busily adjusting pillows. "My virtue—what's left of it, anyway—is safer with you here than without you, Jon."
Jon removed his boots and got into bed, facing Sansa. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that. There's nothing wrong with your virtue."
She took his unburnt hand, and ran her thumb gently over his cold fingers.
"I dreamed of Father's death tonight. What was your nightmare about?"
"Ygritte," he admitted. "Only in my dream, I killed her."
Sansa rolled closer and embraced him, burrowing an arm under his torso.
"I've had those dreams often," Jon continued. It was easier to share secrets in the dark, when the other person couldn't see the shame and self-loathing on one's face. "Sometimes I dreamed that I'd killed Robb, or Arya, or Fath—Uncle Ned."
"You can still call him Father, you know," Sansa whispered. "He was your father in every way that counts. I won't be selfish and keep him to myself."
"I hardly know who I am anymore, much less who my father was," Jon confessed, closing his stinging eyes in shame.
"You are the King in the North," Sansa replied. "The White Wolf; a warg and a hero. Your birth name doesn't change that."
"Does it not?" he asked softly. "Don't you think the lords will blame my Targaryen heritage every time I do something they dislike? That they'll start watching me for signs of madness, and wonder why they made me king instead of Bran?"
Sansa squeezed him tighter, and he wrapped his own arms around her. It wasn't fair to ask his cousin to be his rock, but that's what she'd become to him lately. The once spoiled, shallow Sansa had turned into the strongest woman he knew, and that was saying something; the women he knew included spearwives, a warrior woman from the Stormlands, and the force of nature that was Lyanna Mormont!
"If you can survive being killed and resurrected without going mad, and if I can survive Ramsay Bolton and being a Lannister hostage, you can survive being the son of a Targaryen prince, no matter how awful it may seem." She grinned at him. "I have faith in you."
"When you put it like that, everything else sounds so trivial," Jon replied, kissing her forehead. "Thank you for putting me in my place so thoroughly."
"It was my pleasure. Good night, Jon," she whispered.
"Good night," Sansa."
It wasn't a good night, exactly, but it was an improvement. When Sansa jolted awake an hour later, shaking and pleading for Ramsay to leave her alone, Jon was there to embrace her, and whisper that she was safe, Ramsay was dead, and all was well. When Jon woke gasping for breath, clutching his chest and seeing knives in the darkness, Sansa was there to run gentle hands through his hair until he calmed. They were both broken, but willing to help one another heal.
After four nights of this new arrangement, Jon had a confession to make. They were abed in the near-darkness, with the fireplace crackling a few feet away.
"Remember when you left the solar to take supplies to the winter town this morning?"
"Hmm," Sansa murmured sleepily.
"While you were gone, Lord Cerwyn asked me when I would marry you off." Jon told her. "He might still be shaking in his boots after my response."
"Jon," his cousin sighed, now wide awake. "We knew it would happen eventually. You can't blame them for asking."
"I will never marry you off against your will," he vowed seriously. "I hope I made that clear today. If you want to marry any of them, you're welcome to do so, but I will not sell my only family for alliances or soldiers or whatever it may be."
He heard a sniffle from Sansa's side of the bed, and Jon panicked. "Sansa? What is it? Has anyone said anything—hurt you—in any way?"
She didn't answer except for a muffled no and a sob.
"Sansa? Talk to me, please," Jon begged, trying to make out her expression.
"When Father told us we were leaving King's Landing," she told him finally, now crying harder, "he said he'd make me a match with a lord worthy of me, someone brave and gentle and strong. He said the betrothal to Joffrey had been a terrible mistake, and that Joff was no Prince Aemon."
"That's an understatement," Jon said savagely. "If we're comparing that smirking, cowardly, honorless sack of horseshit to any Targaryen it would be Aegon the Unworthy or Maegor the Cruel, not the greatest knight who ever lived."
"Don't you see?" Sansa asked, taking his hand. "Father knew there was a true prince in Westeros, one who was exactly what he described, and his name was Aemon Targaryen. That's how highly he thought of you, Jon."
Jon shook his head. "Sansa, I'm sure he meant the Dragonknight, not me."
"Are you?" she insisted. "I'm not so sure."
"I was meant to become another bastard of the Watch, nothing more," Jon told her firmly. "Father never expected King Robert to die so soon, and he would never have rebelled against his old friend for my sake. But I won't let you become my Naerys, in any case," Jon promised her. "I know you girls found that story romantic, but it's awful. I won't stand idly by as you marry an unworthy man, and stand back when he makes you miserable. You've had enough of that for a dozen lifetimes."
He felt Sansa's arms squeeze his middle. "And who is worthy of me, your grace?" she asked quietly.
Jon felt the answer was obvious. "Whoever you judge worthy, of course," he answered, playing with the end of her long plait.
"I'd forgotten what good men were like, after living with monsters for so long," Sansa whispered into his shirt. "Thank you for reminding me, my Dragonknight."
Sansa had fallen asleep shortly after that, leaving Jon wide awake and thinking thoughts he'd never dared to ponder before. What had his father planned for him? Going to the Wall had been Jon's decision, but what if he'd chosen to do something else? Would Eddard Stark ever have told him what he was?
Unless his father had shared his plans with Uncle Benjen, Jon would never know. He didn't even know if Uncle Benjen knew who and what Jon was!
Sleep did not come easy to Jon that night, but for once, it was not because of nightmares.
A few days later, Sansa summoned Jon to the lord's solar after the evening meal. She was dressed in a plain green gown, and sitting comfortably by the fire, with Lyanna Stark's hope chest at her feet.
"Jon, come in," she greeted him, and nodded at the Wintersguards behind him. Tonight it was Larence Snow and Rickard Ashwood guarding Sansa, and Tormund and Lord Wull guarding Jon. He shut the door, then took the seat beside his cousin's.
"What's going on?" he asked curiously. "You're not usually so vague with your summons."
Sansa grinned. "I wasn't sure you'd come if you knew. But I thought we could use some help going to sleep."
Jon raised an eyebrow. They both slept poorly still, but better than they had before, when they'd each struggled through the long nights alone.
Before Jon could ask anything else, Sansa reached into the box and took out the silver harp that had been Rhaegar Targaryen's.
"Do you remember when I had high harp lessons?" she asked.
Jon nodded. Septa Mordane and Lady Catelyn had taught Sansa many ladylike arts, but he hadn't heard her play in years.
"I lost my harp when Father's men were killed," Sansa told him. "My harp was packed with my other things, and I never saw it again. One of Margaery Tyrell's cousins offered to teach me more, but once I'd been married to Tyrion, the Tyrells acted like I never existed," she confessed, angered by the old memories. "They were all so sweet when they thought they could marry me off to Willas, and once the North was out of their grasp, I became the outcast I was to everyone else."
"Sansa," Jon said sadly, "you needn't speak of it if you don't want to."
"I didn't mean to speak of King's Landing," she said, giving Jon a small smile. "I meant to offer to teach you."
"Teach me what, the harp?" cried Jon incredulously. It was such an odd, frivolous thing to offer to a man like him, who had spent years in the enforced austerity of the Night's Watch.
"Your father was a famous player, was he not?" Sansa explained with a shrug. "And you have his talent for singing, if nothing else. Ser Jaime said you sound just like Prince Rhaegar. Mayhaps you have his talent for the harp as well, and it would relax us both to play before bed. You're working too hard, even for a King in the North. Now watch."
She started playing then, a slow, gentle melody that was almost a lullaby. It was quite soothing.
"Would you like to try?" she asked, holding out the dragon harp. "I just tuned it."
Jon removed his gloves, then took the harp with clumsy fingers. "I'll make a fool of myself."
"We all do, when we start," she answered encouragingly. "You can't play perfectly on your first try."
She was right, of course. Jon plucked gingerly at the strings, coaxing a discordant melody out of the old harp. Slowly, as his fingers learned the way, he started plucking the notes to The Bear and the Maiden Fair.
"You might have inherited your father's skill after all," Sansa said delightedly. "It's supposed to be harder to learn as you age, but you're doing better than I did when I started."
"It's nothing that impressive," Jon demurred. "I'm only playing a simple tune I already know. My father apparently composed long, tragic pieces that made all the maidens cry and lose their senses."
"Well, I'm no maiden, and I don't want to cry," Sansa told him, shrugging. "You're the Dragonknight to my not-Naerys; you're meant to make me laugh, Jon."
He frowned at her, unsure if she was serious. "I'm not sure how to do that with a harp. I've never been good with japes, either."
"Play whatever you like, then," his cousin decided. "If you don't feel like improvising, I can teach you to read music," she offered, showing him yellowed sheet music. "I found these in your room. They're from my lessons."
Jon had never learned to read music, for obvious reasons. The music teacher had been Septa Mordane, and the pious septa could not bear the thought of a bastard in the house. She had only ever addressed him when scolding him. Music was not a priority for boys, and doubly so for bastard boys.
"Perhaps later," Jon offered. Despite his doubts, he knew Sansa was only trying to help. He plucked at the harp a bit more, a slow tune appropriate for lulling children to sleep. Sansa watched him with a small smile, quite awake, so he supposed he'd failed.
"Your technique could use some work," she critiqued, stepping around him. From behind his chair, she leaned over and adjusted his grip on the delicate instrument, and turned the hand he was using to play. Jon caught the scent of winter roses as her auburn hair swung forward. "But you have a musician's instinct. I'm not sure what you were playing, but it sounded nice."
"I'm not sure, either," Jon admitted.
Instead of returning to her chair, Sansa sat on the old rug. It was a thing of beauty, made of squares of black, brown, gray, and white fur. Some long-dead Stark with a fondness for hunting had collected all of these pelts, and his wife had turned them into an enormous patchwork rug. With her toes pointed toward the fire, the rug underneath, and her warmest robe around her shoulders, Sansa looked perfectly comfortable leaning against Jon's chair.
Jon played his father's harp. There was no melody to follow, and no inspiration to guide him; he simply moved his hands back and forth, plucking gently until something resembling a song poured out. Sansa's eyes fluttered closed, and Jon kept playing absently. He thought of his mother, weeping because of a song she'd heard, and wondered if she would have wept openly, like Sansa, or hidden her tears and punched any brother who dared mock her, like Arya. After Howland Reed's story, Jon suspected the latter.
His eyes fell on Lyanna Stark's glory box, forgotten next to Sansa's empty chair. Someday soon he'd muster up his courage and open it, taking the time to read the papers in there. Sansa had seen a letter addressed to him, and he would not be so craven as to ignore the last words his dying mother had penned. For now he kept playing, until a light snore from Sansa startled him into laughter.
"What?" she mumbled, blinking up at him through thick auburn eyelashes. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing, Princess," Jon told her with a grin. "But your plan worked a little too well. You'll sleep better in your bed, don't you think?"
He offered Sansa a hand, and pulled her to feet. They left the solar together, Jon still carrying his father's favorite instrument. Once they'd bid their guards goodnight, Jon changed out of his leathers and joined his cousin, harp in hand. He'd keep it nearby, and if he or Sansa had nightmares tonight, he might soothe her—and himself—back into a more restful slumber.
Aaand off we go into Part III, a very character-focused calm before the next storm (of swords, ha).
Next up: Arya makes her debut, as does Nymeria and the Riverlands wolf pack!
Also, apologies for the long wait; I had a stash of chapters already formatted and such in my doc manager, and I ran out during my dead laptop debacle. Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming! Thank you for reading, as always.