AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF
Part 3 - Banishing Nightmares
Bran II
Jon and Sansa woke Bran early the next morning, insisting that as the Lord of Winterfell (and the King in the North's closest male relative), he belonged on the king's council. It was the furthest thing from Bran's mind, though he reluctantly agreed to make an appearance. With the help of Jon, Young Artos, and Joren, the Three-eyed Raven bathed, dressed in Robb's old clothes, and allowed the Wintersguards to carry him downstairs.
Lords hailed him as he went past; some he remembered, and others he knew only by their sigils. Tormund the wildling grinned at him, while Howland Reed gave Bran a respectful nod. Once they'd reached Jon's solar, his guards set Bran down carefully on Jon's right. Sansa's place had been moved to Jon's left, as she was no longer Lady of Winterfell—at least for the nonce. Jon and Lord Davos murmured names to Bran when prompted, so he would not embarrass himself in front of Winterfell's bannermen. Bronze Yohn had brought a younger Vale knight along, the only two on the council. Jon named him Harrold Hardying, Robert Arryn's heir.
All chatter ceased as Jon's Hand began the meeting.
"My lords," he said gravely, "be welcome to the Council of the North. Our first item of business is to welcome back Prince Brandon Stark from his time north of the Wall," Davos Seaworth informed the council, and there was a round of cheers and claps. Bran fought the urge to slide down his chair. He did not deserve such a welcome.
"Jon, I want to speak," Bran said softly, nudging his cousin. Jon heard and stood at once, raising an arm to call for silence.
"My lords and ladies, Lord Stark wishes to speak to you," he said, sounding every bit the King in the North.
"Forgive me if I do not stand," Bran said, determinedly looking at the men and women in front of him, instead of down at his lap. "I am grateful for the welcome I've received, truly. All of the praise should go to Lady Meera Reed, who protected me against all odds when my other companions were gone. If there is anything I may do for you or yours, Lord Howland, I will do it gladly; I'm sure King Jon would say the same."
"I would," Jon agreed easily.
The Norrey clapped poor Lord Reed on the shoulder, and nearly sent the smaller man flying off his chair. A few others chuckled at the sight, but Meera's father took it all in stride.
"There is nothing we require at the moment, your graces," he said softly, "but thank you."
"I'm sure many of you wondered why I passed north of the Wall, instead of looking to my cousin for refuge," Bran went on. Jon and Sansa turned to him in alarm; they had no idea what he might reveal, or how the council would react to it, but Bran knew his duty. "I did so because I was called, my lords. Do any of you remember the tales of green dreams and greenseers?"
Lord Reed nodded, and so did a few of the clansmen. Tormund Giantsbane frowned, deep in thought, but most of the council looked politely confused.
"After I fell from the Broken Tower, I was visited in my dreams; the visitor was Brynden Rivers, or the Bloodraven," Bran explained. "He went north long ago, and met the Children of the Forest. Until recently, he was the Three-eyed Raven. Now he is dead, and that duty falls to me."
"Your grace," asked Bronze Yohn carefully, "what does that mean?"
"It means that I have access to more knowledge than I will ever be able to use," Bran replied, finding his own explanation awkward. It was so difficult to put into words what being the Three-eyed Raven entailed! "I can see through the weirwood trees, things that are happening now, and things that happened long ago. I can fly with the crows, or run with wolves. It also means," Bran went on, knowing this would cause a stir, "that I cannot serve as Lord of Winterfell. I must use my skills to find a solution to the Long Night."
He'd been right. There was a storm of questions, protests, and arguments, until Ser Davos called for silence by banging a heavy book against the table.
"This is difficult to believe, I know," Bran acknowledged, "but I can prove it. Would one of you please name a historical event you would like to see?"
Lord Glover frowned; Bran didn't know if it was disbelief, or if he was deep in thought. Little Lady Mormont had closed her eyes, muttering under her breath. Perhaps she was recalling her lessons, thought Bran.
Lord Cerwyn stood awkwardly. "Your grace, I'm quite curious—and I'm sure many of us are—about the events that led to Lord Eddard's murder, but I would not ask you to view such a thing—if, indeed, it is possible."
Sansa closed her eyes as though the mention of it pained her, but said nothing. Bran saw Jon take her hand in his, and squeeze it in silent support. His glare at Lord Cerwyn was not subtle.
"How about the famous duel between Cregan Stark and Aemon the Dragonknight?" suggested the Flint, earning several nods of agreement.
"Your grace, could you show us the Lady Lyanna?" asked Lord Howland in his quiet manner, and the room hushed at once. Jon's grey eyes went wide. Clearly, the thought of seeing his mother, living instead of a gray statue in the crypts, had never occurred to him.
Bran had only intended to prove his status as a greenseer, but this would be perfect. With just one stroke, he could show Jon his mother, prove to the Northmen that Lyanna Stark had gone with Rhaegar Targaryen willingly, and reveal the usefulness of his gift.
"Of course," Bran answered, looking to Jon for permission. Jon gave it with an uncertain nod.
Meera and Young Artos had helped him with the paste before the meeting. Bran produced a small weirwood bowl, taken from the cave where he had met Brynden Rivers, full of mashed weirwood seeds. There was enough to give each member a spoonful—enough to take them along for one vision, no more.
"This is a special paste made from the seeds of Winterfell's heart tree," Bran explained. It also had a bit of his blood, but Bran was not about to tell them that. "Though you are not greenseers, if you eat some of this, you can follow me into any vision I wish to show you. I must warn you, the flavor is not pleasant," he added, remembering his first taste of the stuff.
"It sounds a bit like the Shade of the Evening they use in the East," Ser Davos commented. "Tastes awful, turns your lips blue, and gives you visions, or so I've heard."
"We ought to finish the meeting before that, however. Since I will be quite busy as the Three-eyed Raven, I wish for Sansa to take over as Lady of Winterfell," Bran announced. "I know that I will never have children, so Winterfell must go to Sansa, and her children after that."
"Bran," Sansa protested weakly, but there was nothing to say. She knew the laws of inheritance as well as anyone, and unless Arya returned, she was the last Stark who could carry on the family name.
"The portion of Robb's will disinheriting Sansa must, of course, be revoked," Jon told his council. "She was a prisoner of the Lannisters at the time, and Robb had no way to know that she would find herself back home, without any Lannisters. I propose making Sansa Stark, Princess in the North, Lady Stark of Winterfell once more."
The council voted. Though some hands came up more reluctantly—and the Starks marked their owners well—the vote was unanimous. Bran supposed her part in trapping Littlefinger had earned back some of the respect she'd lost by keeping the Vale army secret.
"Very well," Ser Davos told them. "Princess Sansa is now officially Lady of Winterfell, while Prince Brandon serves the realm as Three-eyed Raven. Our second item of business is the new arrivals from the Dreadfort," he went on, and Bran's good mood evaporated. "Maester Mors, have you the final numbers?"
The frail old maester, on loan from Castle Cerwyn, stood and bowed. "I have, my lord Hand. We received one hundred and seventy women, six-and-forty men, and twelve children. All were taken from Winterfell when the Boltons took the castle, or after. Nine-and-twenty others perished on the road, and were burned as His Grace ordered.
"So many women," murmured the Norrey, shaking his head. "And with winter upon us. Damn those Boltons, and the Ironborn whoresons, too!"
"It is likely that another score will perish within the week, my lords," the maester admitted. "We've done all we can for them, but after years of neglect and torment, bandages and soup cannot reverse all of the damage. Many of them, especially the women, are afraid of their own shadows. Some won't say a word, even to their remaining family."
Each word was a dagger into Bran's heart. Despite Jon's reassurances from last night, he felt his failure keenly. He knew the feeling would not go away until he'd done something for these people, even if it was save them from the Night King.
"We have to do more for them," Sansa spoke up. "But what?"
"The problem with you kneelers is that you don't teach your women to protect themselves," Tormund spoke up, earning indignant glares from the Northmen. "Among the Free Folk, a father's duty is to train his sons and his daughters. That way, if an unworthy man tries to steal a girl, she can gut him where he stands."
Jon's face brightened. "Would some of your spearwives be willing to train our women, if they wish it?"
"Aye," the red-bearded Wintersguard replied. "They know there's nothing worse than facing an enemy you can't fight," he said, looking haunted. Bran knew he was thinking of the White Walkers. "Give a woman a knife, or a spear, or even a bow; train her to use it, and she has little to fear from ordinary men."
"Hear, hear," Lyanna Mormont spoke up, glancing at the wildling with respect. "On Bear Island, women of House Mormont pick up practice swords and battleaxes as young as five. That's why no Mormont has been taken for a salt wife in centuries, though the Ironborn have certainly tried. We mount the weapons of those who attempt it in our trophy room, and their heads on spikes outside Mormont Hall," she told them smugly. "If any of these women wish to learn the ax, I will volunteer my own master-at-arms to teach them."
"I know this is quite a break from tradition, my lords," Jon said, looking at the men who appeared most unsure, "but think of all that the women of the North have suffered. How many of the Ironborn could they have killed, if they'd only known how?"
Lady Tallhart nodded slowly. Torrhen's Square knew better than most what happened when the Ironborn caught one unawares. Even Robett Glover looked convinced. Lord Royce and his young companion were still frowning, but as their women were safe in the Vale, this decision did not affect the Vale at all.
"Then let us go forward. If you know of any man who would be willing to help with this endeavor, please let Ser Davos know," Jon ordered. "In the meantime, we will see to our guests' other needs, and place as many of them back in their homes as will fit."
Ser Davos took up his list. "Next is the building materials recovered from the Dreadfort's North Tower. Half have been sent to Deepwood Motte, and half to Torrhen's Square. When we can spare the men, more will follow until we have dismantled every stone of that keep."
Lord Manderly looked incredibly pleased with himself. "There is a second barge coming down the White Knife, guarded by my best men, carrying the treasure hoard of the Boltons. If your grace will permit it, we could trade it all for food. The gold and silver we've recovered could feed the army for a year. If the Boltons had an account with the Iron Bank, those moneys belong to Princess Sansa now, so there may be more."
Jon, Sansa, and the council were quite happy with these news, though Bran found his attention wandering. Just as Jon opened his mouth to agree, Lord Royce spoke up.
"Your grace, whom would you trade with? Jaime Lannister said his sister blew up the Great Sept of Baelor, and the Tyrells with it. Now Daenerys Targaryen is heading west; the South will be embroiled in another war soon enough."
"Lord Willas and Lady Olenna Tyrell were not in King's Landing," Sansa told him. "So at the very least, two Tyrells remain. If that fails, there's always Dorne, and Essos."
"Aye, and the Iron Bank as well," Jon added. "But I'd rather not take out a loan so large that the Iron Bank owns us all in the end. We must get what we need to survive, and no more."
"Have you thought of taking a southron bride, your grace?" Lord Royce asked Jon suddenly. "A girl from a wealthy family, with a substantial dowry, could feed your people for some time."
Bran felt, rather than saw, Jon flinch. "I've had little time to think of it," he answered grimly, "but I can't imagine any gently-bred southron lady that would wish to come to the North in winter, to marry the man she thinks is Ned Stark's oathbreaking bastard."
"Your grace, I must protest!" Lord Manderly boomed, the loudest of many. "My granddaughters would consider it an honor to marry Eddard Stark's nephew, and they are as gently bred as any southron girl! And we here know the circumstances of your release from the Night's Watch," he added quickly.
"I mean no offense, Lord Manderly," Jon soothed him, "but your granddaughters are ladies of the North, where the name Stark and the Night's Watch mean something. One is a house of dead fools, and the other is a joke, beyond the Neck."
Tormund's face had scrunched up in confusion. "Are you saying kneelers pay a man to marry his daughter? Why? He's gaining a woman to look after his house, bear his children, and keep him warm at night, is he not?"
"I'll explain later," Jon promised with a slight twitch of the lips. Bran knew he was fighting back a smile. "In the meantime, my lords, I will gladly consider any possible brides you suggest—consider only. I've little time for courting at the moment. Ser Davos, is there anything else?"
"No, your grace," answered the Lord Hand.
"Then we'll go to the godswood," Jon ordered with a nod at Bran.
Bran let his guards carry him downstairs, where a new chair awaited. Lord Royce had told Jon and Sansa of the wheeled chairs Prince Doran used to travel around his palace, and together, they'd designed a similar one for Bran. When Lady Brienne had wheeled him underneath the ancient heart tree, Bran gave a spoonful of weirwood paste to each member of the council, starting with Jon.
"This is awful," Sansa said, shuddering at the unpleasant taste. Many others followed suit, though none declined it. Once Lady Brienne had taken the last spoonful, Bran put down the bowl.
"Everyone, hold hands," he said, taking Sansa's hand. "Don't let go until we're inside the vision, or I won't be able to guide you."
He placed his free hand on the weirwood, and closed his eyes, concentrating. When a clear picture of Lyanna Stark came to his mind, young and dressed in men's clothing, he opened his eyes. The snow had vanished. He, his family, and the council stood in a green clearing on a sunny day, under the shadow of an enormous ruined castle. Part of Bran's mind always remained in the present with his body, but the rest of him had traveled back in time to the Tourney of Harrenhal.
"Harrenhal," breathed Lord Royce reverently. A few others were already looking at Bran in awe, but Jon's dark eyes darted around the clearing, looking for his mother. She had not arrived yet.
"How does this work, your grace?" asked a wide-eyed Lady Brienne. "Have we truly traveled back in time?"
"Only our minds," Bran replied. "Our bodies are still under the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood."
"Can we change anything?" Jon asked immediately.
"No, Jon," Bran replied sadly. You can't save them, brother. "The ink is dry. We can only watch."
Jon took this disappointment with good grace. He paced around the clearing a bit, quiet and solemn, taking in the sights.
The others were not so morose. It was like watching a bunch of children. Harrold Hardying, Lord Cerwyn, and several others had reached for the grass or the nearest tree trunk with hesitant fingers, reeling in surprise when their fingers passed straight through.
"I've never seen so much green," the red-bearded Tormund said with a stunned look in his eye. "How far is this place from the Wall?"
"Oh, two thousand miles, at least," replied a distracted Sansa. "This is the God's Eye, the largest lake in Westeros."
"There is an island in the middle," Howland Reed added, "called the Isle of Faces. It is there that the First Men and the Children of the Forest ended their war, and all of the weirwoods were given faces so the gods could witness the Pact."
The wildling Wintersguard's mouth fell open. "My folk call that the Holy Island. I thought it was a myth."
"Lord Howland," Bran called out, knowing the moment was near. "My aunt is coming."
Everyone froze.
With a feminine giggle, a squire burst through the trees on Bran's left. Her hair had been pinned up severely, to fit better under her helm. Her shield, dented and scratched, bore a laughing weirwood tree. Her breeches were too long for her, and none of her armor pieces fit correctly, but Lyanna Stark, the Knight of the Laughing Tree, was jubilant.
She took off her helm and tossed it into the lake with a grunt of effort. The God's Eye, despite its size, was calm on this windless day, and a summery shade of deep blue. Lyanna admired it for a moment, then went back to removing her armor. It was hard work without a squire to help her.
"That's her," said Lord Glover, standing as close to the apparition as he dared. Jon had not moved an inch, but his gray eyes were fixed on his young mother. "Lyanna Stark was the mystery knight at the Tourney of Harrenhal?"
"Aye," answered Lord Reed with a fond smile. "She was defending the honor of a friend, my lord."
"We all knew she was formidable on horseback," Lady Tallhart observed.
As Lyanna struggled to remove her pauldrons, a second figure entered the clearing. A silver-haired man with indigo eyes watched her in amusement.
"Do you need a hand with that, ser?" he offered, his musical voice startling Lyanna so much that she jumped. She turned quickly, and her face went white at the sight of the Crown Prince.
"Your grace!" she cried. "I can explain! This isn't mine, I was—"
Rhaegar Targaryen raised a hand, and Lyanna went still. "I have no intention of dragging you to face my father's pyromancers," he promised, and Lyanna relaxed a bit. "I did come to congratulate you on a fine performance, but if you insist you are not the mystery knight, then who am I to doubt a lady's word?"
"It was a fine performance," Lyanna said, with a crooked grin that reminded Bran of Arya. He knew he wasn't the only one reminded of their lost sister; Sansa was watching their aunt with a fond look, while Jon did his best impression of a statue on her other side.
"Why did you do such a thing?" the prince asked, unable to hold back his curiosity. "Surely the Northmen don't allow their ladies to joust?"
"Northmen don't joust much at all," Lyanna replied tartly. "And if my father knew what I've just done, your grace, he'd lock me up forever. Though considering the alternative, that may not be so bad..."
She trailed off, looking unhappy.
"I challenged those three because they found my father's bannerman in the woods, and beat him without any provocation," she explained, looking up at the prince. "He's small, and not a brawler like my oldest brother. Aren't southron knights meant to be all chivalry and honor, especially to the defenseless? If their knights won't teach them to behave, then I must."
Lyanna Mormont looked as though she'd found a new hero. All her life she'd believed herself to be the namesake of a beautiful maid, taken and raped to death by an evil prince. The real Lyanna Stark they were seeing bore no resemblance to the story.
The Prince of Dragonstone looked just as intrigued. "They will never forget the lesson, my lady, I'm sure of it. To be humiliated at the joust in front of the largest tournament audience ever gathered; well, that's no small thing! Now, if your father won't allow his daughter to joust, how did you learn to ride so well?"
Lyanna's chin went up in defiance. "I did not learn to joust, your grace. I never said I didn't learn to ride. I am a Stark of Winterfell, and the best rider in the whole of the North! They all say Lyanna Stark is half a horse; ask anyone."
"There's no need," Rhaegar answered, helping Lyanna remove the last of her armor and filling the pieces with small rocks to sink them into the lake. "I've seen you ride, Lady Stark, and I know enough of jousting to appreciate a master of the art; I believe you."
Lyanna reached for her weirwood shield, the last of her mystery knight getup, but the prince stopped her.
"My lady, the king demanded that I find the mystery knight. I cannot give him that, but please, let me take this shield as proof of my search."
The girl frowned. "Would that not make the king angrier?"
"Perhaps," Rhaegar answered, "but there is no other option."
"You never thought of giving me up at all, did you?" Lyanna asked, incredulous. "Why? I am nothing to you."
The Prince's eyes flashed indignantly. "Lady Stark, I will not sentence a lady to death for knocking some smug squires out of the saddle! He is my father and my king, but I cannot do what he asks, do you understand?"
Lyanna nodded slowly.
"My father has very good spies, however," Rhaegar said quietly. "When you return to camp, tell no one of our meeting, and say nothing of the mystery knight."
"I won't," Lyanna agreed, sounding shaken. Bran realized that until this moment, she'd been unaware of the very real danger she'd been in.
The Prince took Lyanna's hand in his, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. Bran's aunt blushed at the gesture. Sansa, standing next to Bran, was smiling at the lovely picture the couple made.
"Take care, Lady Lyanna," the Prince of Dragonstone told her. "It is a shame you cannot advance in the tournament. I would have cheered for you, and for your noble cause."
"Would you have given me your favor to wear, your grace?" Lyanna asked, recovering her composure with a jape.
"Gods, she really was like Arya," Jon muttered. If the King in the North had tears in his eyes, no one mentioned it.
Rhaegar Targaryen grinned. It was Jon's smile, and just as rare. "Certainly; and then you'd be obliged to crown me King of Love and Beauty in return. Elia would laugh herself silly! But Cousin Robert might have something to say about that," he added sardonically.
Lyanna scowled. "That man!" she cried. "He's been drunk every night so far, and he can't see a serving wench without grabbing at her ti—er—chest," she finished awkwardly, remembering too late that she was in the presence of royalty, and not her uncouth brother Brandon.
The prince raised an eyebrow at her language, but he looked more amused than offended. "I take it you're not pleased with your betrothal?"
"Of course not! Why would I be pleased with a man who claims to love me in one breath, and is inviting another girl to his bed in the next? I don't understand what Ned sees in the big oaf."
"I can't say I do, either, but he is family, so I can't speak too ill of Lord Baratheon," Rhaegar said, shrugging. "Now, I must return to my father, but before I go; my lady, may I see you again? Your conversation is most refreshing after years of King's Landing intrigue."
Lyanna shrugged in return. "I'll be here until the end of the tournament, your grace, and then I'm going to Riverrun for Bran's wedding. You may see me anytime you wish."
"Tonight, then. Here by the lake, after the feast," the prince suggested, surprising Lyanna.
"When?"
"The hour of the wolf, of course," Rhaegar Targaryen said with a grin that transformed his face, from its usual unearthly, sad beauty to a human of flesh and bone. "Until tonight, my lady."
As Lyanna disappeared, Bran decided to show them one more thing, for Jon's sake as well as the council's. It was all well and good for Rhaegar and Aunt Lyanna to have been in love, though some would still resent them for starting a war—but Bran was sure Jon would meet his aunt Daenerys soon, and he would do so with more confidence if he knew the truth of it all. A bastard love-child was one thing; the trueborn heir to the Iron Throne was an entirely different thing.
Bran concentrated once more, and Harrenhal jumped further away. They were now on the Isle of Faces, on a different day, in a grove of ancient weirwood trees, each with its own face. The trees swayed in the wind, scattering the grove with blood-red leaves. Underneath the largest weirwood stood a pair of lovers.
Prince Rhaegar, tall and handsome and dressed in his house colors, draped his dragon cloak around the shoulders of Lyanna Stark, radiant in a wedding gown of Stark gray and white. A few feet away, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent looked on, accompanied by several Green Men. The new princess stood on her tiptoes to kiss her tall husband.
"Gods, what Robert Baratheon would have thought of this," murmured Ser Davos, earning some weak chuckles.
"She looks so happy," Jon said, so quietly that Bran barely heard him. "I want to shout at them; you idiots, the realm is about to go to war because of you!"
"If it hadn't been them, it would have been something else, Jon," Bran assured him. "The Mad King would have burned another Lord Paramount for a perceived slight, and everything would have fallen apart anyway.
"He's right, your grace," Lord Royce answered. "War was inevitable as long as Aerys remained on the throne."
"I know," Jon replied, still watching his mother with the eyes of an orphan. "But did it have to be them?"
As much as it pained his cousin, Bran could see his stunt had already borne fruit. Men and women who had spent more than twenty years cursing the Targaryen name were watching Rhaegar with contemplative faces, remembering the promising man he'd been before the war. If anyone on the council had planned to use Jon's Targaryen heritage against him, they'd have a harder time doing so now.
Bran's head was pounding, as it usually did after a long vision. He took his audience back to their bodies in Winterfell. He had much to do as the Three-eyed Raven, but that was for him alone. Sansa would take care of their home, and Jon would lead the army of the North against the Dead, while Bran sought a permanent solution to the White Walker problem. The North was in the best possible hands.
I am officially caught up to Ao3 on this site now, and Aemon the Dragonwolf is a year old! I can't believe I've stuck to it for so long; my muse has ADHD and likes to jump fandoms in the middle of stories (picture me hiding from my Tolkien-verse and Avatar-verse subscribers here).
Anyway, let me know your thoughts! I thought it was necessary for Bran to actually show his powers instead of just saying things he had no business knowing without any explanation, and even if the show has no weirwood paste, this is a hybrid story that steals things from the bookverse when it suits. Also, what is this show nonsense about going to war for no reason? Aerys was INSANE and burning people alive! War was inevitable!
Next time, Dany lands in Westeros!