AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF
Part 3 - Banishing Nightmares
Sansa V
Having Bran back at home should have been wonderful, and most of the time, it was. Sansa and her handmaidens had gone to work immediately, creating winter clothing for her brother so he would not need Robb's cast-offs, which were quite big on the lanky Bran. He'd grown in wisdom as well as height, if not breadth, and his advice, when requested, was well-reasoned and quite practical.
But there were times when Sansa barely recognized him. At table, the gently-mannered little boy had given way to a wolf, who ate every meal like he'd starved for years. It was all too easy to see that he had starved in that faraway cave. He spent much of his time in the godswood, sitting motionless under the heart tree with blank eyes fixed on nothing. She knew what he was doing, of course, but seeing it still gave her the shivers. After a session at the tree, he'd often retire with a headache, leaving Jon and Sansa to wonder what he'd seen, and whether it was worth the pain.
When he wasn't at the tree, Bran had his Wintersguards—now wearing practical leather doublets with direwolves on the breast, and fur-lined cloaks in the silver-gray of House Stark—take him down to the crypts, where he'd stare at the tombs of their dead family for hours and say nothing. The sight of the new arrivals in the castle brought him pain, and he avoided them whenever possible. Jon and Sansa knew why, but they didn't know how to help Bran with his remaining guilt.
The former prisoners of the Dreadfort, sunken and beaten as they were, had taken to the spearwives' offer with surprising enthusiasm. Though a few women had refused, protesting that they couldn't fight, most had been eager to learn. A tall, fierce, black-haired spearwife named Maesha led the women who had chosen swords, while a pretty redhead that Sansa didn't know led those who now carried daggers. Lady Meera, Bran's friend, had begun a class of her own. Her people drilled with spears, and Meera's gentle encouragement was producing wonderful results.
"Aren't you interested in learning?" Jon had asked her one day, as they both looked over the handful of women learning the ax with Lyanna Mormont and her master-at-arms.
Sansa laughed. "Jon, I have twelve guards following me around, and you, and Ghost. It's hardly necessary."
"It couldn't hurt," Jon insisted. "One moment of carelessness and you might be alone."
"I'm not a fighter," Sansa insisted.
"You don't know that until you try," her king replied stubbornly.
"Jon," Sansa said, gently but firmly. "I am not Arya, or Aunt Lyanna."
"I never said you were!" he protested. "I'm trying to ensure that you can protect yourself when I'm gone, that's all! Training our smallfolk is all very well, but you have more enemies than they do."
He was right, of course, but Sansa could not even imagine shoving a spear or a dagger in anyone's heart. Even when she'd dreamed and prayed for Joffrey to die, she had not wished to do it herself, except for one wild moment, when he'd made her look at her father's head. Did that make her weak? Jon would never say so, even if he thought it.
"I doubt Cersei Lannister has time for me, now that your aunt Daenerys is heading her way with an army of Dothraki and Unsullied," Sansa told her cousin breezily. "If she did, she'd send an assassin to poison me like they poisoned Joffrey; and no dagger can save me from that."
They had employed food-testers after Jaime Lannister had suggested it, knowing all too well that Cersei despised Sansa and would love to see her dead. So far, the food-testers had suffered nothing more than sore heads, when Jon was particularly troubled and overindulged on ale.
"I don't want to leave you unprotected," Jon replied. "Any moment now, I might get news from the Wall and I'll have to go. I can't send my army to fight without me, especially when I'm one of the few with Valyrian steel, and one of the few who actually fought these things before," he said, placing a hand on the hilt of Longclaw. Though he'd owned Blackfyre for weeks, he still held on to the sword his Lord Commander had given him. Sansa had not thought him so sentimental; perhaps it was less about surrendering the old sword, than about accepting the new one, and all the history and responsibility that came with it.
"And you'll leave me here," Sansa said heavily. It was logical, of course; she wasn't a fighter, Jon had named her his heir, and she was Lady of Winterfell to boot. This was her place, not the Wall. But the thought of watching Jon leave, perhaps forever, was dreadful. He'd been her constant companion since her journey to Castle Black, her home before winning back Winterfell—her only family until Bran's return.
"Do you realize how long it's been since three Starks were in the same place?" she asked Jon with a pained smile.
"You girls and Father in King's Landing," Jon replied, "or mayhaps Robb and the little ones, before he rode south."
"And we'll be two again, while you go north like the Last Hero," Sansa murmured. "I don't need weapons, Jon; I need to know you'll come back."
"I thought you said not to make those kinds of promises."
Sansa looked up. Her brother-turned-cousin was only a few inches taller than she, and his gray eyes were very serious as he peered down at her.
"I know you're a man of your word," she explained, stepping into his arms. "If you say you'll come back, then you will, even from death."
Jon held her in silence for a moment. Sansa was going to miss his hugs, frequent as they'd become. She didn't know if Jon had always been so tactile, and she'd never noticed in her childhood snobbishness, or if he'd become starved for physical affection at the Wall. It didn't matter.
"Then I'll do my best to return," he said at last. "But let's not say farewell until we have to; Edd might be handling the wights just fine, with all the help we sent him," Jon said.
It sounded like he'd failed to convince himself. He certainly hadn't convinced her. Things rarely went so well for the Stark family.
A few days later, Jon had sent Geisa the Wintersguard to find Sansa and bring her to the crypts. There she found Bran in his chair, and Jon beside him, standing in front of the newest tombs.
"It's finished," Jon told her, and Sansa saw that Rickon now had a statue in front of his tomb, like Father. After taking back their castle, Jon had found some papers in the solar, detailing the commission of Lord Eddard's statue. The stonemason had kept it in his shop, finished but safe from the Boltons, and Jon had kept to Father's tradition instead of the ancient Starks', commissioning a statue for Rickon even though he'd never been Lord of Winterfell. The two stood a few feet apart, with an empty tomb between them. If they ever recovered Robb's bones, they would rest between his father's and brother's.
"They look wonderful," Sansa breathed, admiring the statues. The stonemason, a quiet man who had lived at Winterfell all his life, remembered the little boy Rickon had been. With Bran's presence, it was easier to imagine what an older Rickon should have looked like, had he not died a prisoner of the Boltons. Unlike the real Rickon, the boy in the statue was grinning, much like Robb used to. The stone Rickon was stocky and strong, not the half-starved, feral wildling Jon had seen running across the battlefield. At Rickon's feet slept a stone direwolf, much like the ones keeping the Kings of Winter company, down in the older levels.
"That doesn't look anything like Shaggy," Bran said, looking down at it with critical eyes.
And yet, the wolf lay on a plinth with a neatly engraved SHAGGYDOG. It had always been a childish name, but it seemed even sillier now, set in stone among all the stern Brandons and Torrhens and Rickons of the past. If any Stark lived long enough to visit in a few centuries, they'd see the boy with his wolf and wonder at the cruelty that had placed him and his pet in the crypts so young.
Rickon's plinth told only the barest portion of the story.
RICKON STARK
292 A.C. - 303 A.C.
PRINCE IN THE NORTH
MURDERED BY RAMSAY SNOW OF HOUSE BOLTON
"Shaggydog was so wild that he'd never stay still as a pup," Jon was saying. "I doubt that would have changed as he grew. Mayhaps Doric should have carved a blur of movement instead, but the poor man only had Ghost for a model."
Bran, smiling slightly in response, handed Jon a simple sword, small enough for a boy. Jon leaned over Shaggydog's stone twin and placed it in Rickon's hands, as was tradition. "Sleep well, brother," he said softly, and Sansa blinked back tears.
They moved a few feet to their left, now standing in front of Father's statue. There was no wolf at his feet, but he bore the Hand of the King's pin on his breast. The plinth under his seat, commissioned by Robb by raven, read:
EDDARD STARK
258 A.C. - 298 A.C.
LORD OF WINTERFELL
WARDEN OF THE NORTH
HAND TO KING ROBERT I BARATHEON
EXECUTED BY JOFFREY, SON OF THE QUEEN
Even cold in his grave, Eddard Stark would refuse to name Joffrey the rightful king of Westeros. Sansa felt no small amount of satisfaction about that, though it was such a small—and some would say silly—thing to think about. The statue of her father sat in his carved chair, as solemn in death as he'd been in life, though there were a few features that didn't quite match Sansa's memory.
"Doric asked if he could use me as a reference to touch up the face," Jon told her apologetically, noticing her frown. "He hadn't seen Father in some time."
That made sense. The nose the mason had given Lord Eddard was wider and longer than Jon's, but not quite as severe as Father's and Uncle Benjen's had been. The shape of the eyes was wrong too, more Jon than Father; though the long face, the trimmed beard, and the heavy brows were just as Sansa remembered.
"I saw him here," Bran told them quietly. "When Father died, Rickon and I had the same dream; Father was down here in the crypts, and he was worried. It was something to do with Jon, but I didn't understand what it was at the time. The dream was so vivid that I asked Hodor to bring me here, and see if Father was truly in the crypts."
"Well, he can rest easy now," Jon said heavily, producing another sword. "The secret is out, his honor is restored, and no one tried to kill me—for my Targaryen blood, at least," he amended, his face darkening at the thought of the mutiny.
He placed the sword on Father's lap, resting on the stone gloves, and stepped back with his head bowed. The sword didn't look right; Ice had been Father's sword, and any other looked oddly small in his hands, but this was the best they could do. Until Jon's friend Sam found a way to reforge dragonsteel, Ice would remain in two pieces, and Valyrian steel was too valuable and scarce to leave in the crypts.
"Sleep well, Father," Sansa whispered, holding Bran's hand tightly in hers.
There was little else to do here. They lifted Bran into the same basket-and-pulley contraption the masons used to haul stones up and down, and Jon dragged his chair up the narrow stairs, meeting the greenseer outside. Once he was seated once more, Bran wheeled himself to the godswood, followed by four shadows in gray cloaks.
That evening, as Bran slept off his headache, Jon and Sansa sat in his solar as they usually did. Jon plucked absently at his father's harp, probably going over his duties for the next day. He was very meticulous about such things, and had been since his days in the Night's Watch. Sansa, however, was a bit more troubled.
"What is it?" Jon asked at last. "You look like something's been bothering you all day. I didn't want to push, but going by your face, it's serious."
"I had a strange dream," Sansa admitted, setting her mending aside. "It didn't feel like a dream at all, but I was in the kennels, and I was short. I could smell the kennelmaster like he hadn't bathed in a year."
Jon's fingers stopped moving.
"You had a dog dream?" he asked, his lips moving into a smile.
Sansa frowned. "Is that what it was?"
The King in the North put down the harp. "Well, I'm a warg and Bran is a warg for sure; he says that Rickon was, too, and it's likely that Robb could warg into Grey Wind. I wouldn't be surprised if you're one too, Sansa, and you never found out because Lady died so soon. You did say you dreamed of her, once or twice."
"I did," Sansa said, "but—how do you control it?"
"Practice," Jon replied, shrugging. "At first, I could only see what Ghost was doing in my dreams. The day Littlefinger escaped was the first time I warged intentionally, while wide awake. It should be easier with dogs, because they're so used to doing what humans tell them to do. You should ask Bran, though; I'm sure our Three-eyed Raven knows more about it than I do."
"Yes," Sansa replied, "and it would give us a reason to talk about something relatively normal."
Jon laughed suddenly, and the sound of it was oddly bitter. "Look at the state of us! Throwing our consciousness into the head of a dog is considered normal in this castle!"
"It bothers you too," Sansa sighed in guilty relief. "You've been so quiet that I wasn't sure. I thought it was just me."
"Of course it bothers me," Jon replied frankly. "All those years at the Wall, I imagined you all the same way you were when I left. You've all grown up, and I expected that, but I didn't expect that my little brother would turn into an all-knowing bloody greenseer who spends half of his days having visions! I barely recognize him," he added quietly, defeated. "And if Arya comes back as changed as Bran, I'm afraid I won't recognize her!"
"Do I bother you, then?" she asked her cousin, dreading his reply.
"No, Sansa," he answered gently. "It bothers me that you suffered so much, but it's different with you. I barely remember you as a carefree child, running around and playing with me. You were always so proper, so eager to be a grown-up like your mother, that the changes aren't as visible in you."
It hurt to hear it. There were many things about Jon—his habits, his facial expressions, his likes and dislikes at dinner—that she'd never known, and she didn't know if he'd always been this way, or if his death had changed him. If she'd spent more time with Jon as a child, perhaps he would have noticed the changes in her as well as Bran. Though maybe, it was their initial distance that had allowed Jon and Sansa to grow so close now, without their notions of what the other should have been to ruin their happy reunion.
If that was the case, it was the single benefit of her very poor childhood decisions, Sansa thought ruefully.
"Come on," Jon said, leaving his father's harp on the table and extending a hand to Sansa. "Let's go to bed. If you have another warg dream, just ride it out, and see if you can will the dog to do what you want. You can ask Bran about it in the morning."
Though it took some time, Sansa adjusted to the new normal, no matter how strange. She grew close to Kyra in particular, out of her late husband's bitches, and slowly learned to warg as Jon and Bran did. She didn't know if she'd ever need the skill, but the animal was a part of her now. It made Sansa feel fierce, bold as she'd only felt once before, on the day she'd sentenced her husband to death. Warging was unladylike. Warging was a savage northern talent, and her mother and septa would have been horrified.
Sansa loved it. There was nothing quite like running free in the body of another, especially one who didn't need to be courteous and brave all the time.
She made sure Kyra received the best treats when she visited the kennels. Though she didn't believe herself capable, she hoped her influence could tame the savage beasts into proper hunting hounds. After all, if a pack of mistreated dogs, beaten and starved by their owner and trained to be man-killers, could reform, then there was hope for the humans the bastard had touched.
Out of those humans, too many were familiar. While visiting the women who had refused to take up weapons, Sansa caught sight of a face she'd known once, now pinched with fear and pain.
"Beth!" she gasped in surprise.
Beth Cassel, her old playmate, dropped the shift she'd been mending and flinched, as though she expected a beating. Sansa's heart broke for her.
"Oh, Beth," she said, quieter. "I am glad you're home," she said, helping her old friend gather her dropped items. Her once lovely auburn hair, similar to Sansa's in color but curly, was now dull and cropped quite short. While Beth the girl had been plump and jolly, Beth the woman was painfully thin, and looked ten years older than she truly was. She was missing both of her pinkies, and her delicate nose had been broken at least once.
"Your g—grace," Ser Rodrik's daughter stammered inaudibly, bobbing into a perfect curtsy and avoiding eye contact.
Sansa winced. She'd made Jon wear a crown around the castle to show the smallfolk that there was a King of Winter once more, that the North was united under the Starks, and their needs would be tended to. She had not realized how the crown would alienate them from the people of Winterfell, and her circlet of winter roses felt heavy as she watched her former friend sew like her life depended on it.
"Beth, I hope you will take tea with me one of these days," Sansa offered, feeling helpless. "I was always a friend to you, I hope, and that will not change because Jon made me a princess."
Beth had frozen like a hunted deer, and finally nodded. Sansa had fought the urge to flee, and gone about her business with a heavy heart.
She'd cried herself to sleep that night, mumbling an explanation to Jon that must have made little sense, and clinging to her cousin for comfort. Seeing Beth in that state had reminded her of Theon, and Ramsay, and of the dark, endless nights of her second marriage. That had brought on worse nightmares than usual, prompting Jon to reach for his harp. He had not learned to read music yet, but he had memorized a few simple tunes by now.
Jon, good man that he was, had not dropped the matter after that. Though his duties were endless, Sansa heard him ask the servants to prepare a room for Beth in the castle. When Sansa looked inside, she found that Jon had brought some old dolls, children's books, and games that she, Beth, and Jeyne had once played. Though the glass gardens were in too sorry a shape for winter roses to bloom, Jon had scrounged up colorful tapestries from other rooms, and turned Beth Cassel's room into a chamber fit for a princess.
"What are you doing, Jon?" Sansa asked, amazed.
He turned to look at her with his most solemn face, but his eyes were kind.
"I'm creating a room without any bad memories. Perhaps this is a bit childish," he admitted, pointing to the dolls, "but Beth is Arya's age, and she had to grow up far too quickly. I suppose I'm practicing, in a way," he said quietly.
The truth was awful out loud. He was afraid that Arya would be just as damaged, or worse, if she ever returned. Sansa feared it too, but she and Arya had never understood each other as well as Arya and Jon. If their fierce she-wolf of a sister returned afraid of her own shadow, it would shatter Jon's heart as nothing else could.
Sansa took one of his gloved hands and tried to smile at him. It didn't work as well as she would have liked. "It was a good idea, Jon, and you're the only king I know who would take the time to do it himself. I'll bring Beth here; she shouldn't have to stay in the Cassels' cottage alone."
Integrating the new arrivals into Winterfell's day-to-day life was a slow, painful process. Like many of the other survivors, Beth Cassel spoke in monosyllables and shakes of the head, except for the occasional "your grace" and "thank you." Sansa invited her to sew, or to take tea with her and her maids, but did not push, hoping Beth would appreciate her newfound freedom. She had employed several of the rescued women in the castle, and encouraged the lords and ladies of the North to follow her example.
The quiet sewing group had turned more lively with the arrival of the Manderly girls, the first of Jon's potential brides. Though Jon was a king, he had no holdfast of his own, making him very appealing to the few heiresses left in the North. Sansa knew Lord Manderly wanted Jon for his Wynafryd, and he was merely the first and the boldest; Had little Erena Glover been older than seven namedays, Lord Glover might have offered her up instead.
So far, the King in the North had shown little interest in either lady. He was always polite, but not flirtatious, and so busy that Wyna and Wylla rarely saw him, except at mealtimes. Watching Jon's stilted conversations with the girls, Sansa wondered how his romance with Ygritte had ever come to be. She'd thought green-haired Wylla, with her fearless personality and passionate opinions, might have gotten at least a blush from her serious cousin, but she had not.
Perhaps it was an advantage. As long as Jon remained unmarried, bannermen and potential allies would continue to curry favor, hoping Jon would choose their girls. With Jon refusing to marry off his family for political advantage, it was inevitable that his own neck would go into the noose, sooner or later. Sansa thanked the gods that Cersei was not likely to propose a marriage, though she wondered what Jon's aunt Daenerys would make of him, if she ever arrived.
A fortnight after the arrival of Myriame Ryswell, granddaughter of Lord Rodrik Ryswell and another potential Queen in the North, Jon stormed into the solar with a groan of irritation. He slammed the door, leaving a puzzled Brienne and Soren to stand guard outside. Sansa put down her book.
"What is it?"
"These Ryswells!" he exploded, taking off his crown so he could rub at his temples. "Lord Roger has been following me around all day, extolling the virtues of his daughter—who is eleven, by the way—and at the same time, his sister is sniping at me and refusing to allow our excavation."
He sank into his chair with a grimace.
"Why is Lady Dustin sniping at you?" Sansa asked calmly, reserving judgment until she'd heard it all.
"She says it's my fault her husband died, and Father left his bones at the Tower of Joy," Jon replied, indignant. "I didn't ask to be born! I didn't ask my parents to run off into the mountains of Dorne, and I most definitely didn't ask William Dustin to ride down with Father to rescue my mother, but it's all my fault, so she won't let us dig for dragonglass in the old barrows. If the Night King comes down here, I'm sure she'll blame me for that, too, after refusing us the weapons that could save thousands of lives!"
"Mayhaps the Brotherhood had the right of it," Sansa thought aloud. "We should have gone in there without asking. She may be Lady of Barrow Hall, but you're King in the North, and the barrows don't belong to her. What can she do to stop you, truly?"
"If we did that, she might order her people to refuse to sell any goods to our diggers; they'll have only the food they take with them, and no shelter except what they bring." He took an angry breath. "I don't understand people who let spite get in the way of the common good," Jon sighed. "And I don't know what to do. Maybe it's a team effort, and she won't relent unless I marry her niece."
"Well, we can't have that," Sansa said, scooting her chair closer to Jon's. "It's bad enough to reward houses that would not stand with us against the Boltons. It's worse to reward houses that are holding the key to our salvation for ransom—a king's ransom, at that!"
"They just don't see why we need it," Jon said helplessly. "I'd love to capture a wight and shove it in their faces, but when they see it, they'll all panic. Winter is bad enough without adding monsters to the mix. I'd gladly be taken for a madman or a liar, if the White Walkers never appeared in the North at all, but I don't think that's likely, considering Brienne's report of the Bolton wights."
"Well, perhaps your friend Sam will find another solution at the Citadel," Sansa offered. "What if Horn Hill were built on a secret mountain of dragonglass?"
Jon laughed. "I doubt it, but I appreciate your optimism, Sansa. Truly," he added, facing her. "I could never do this without you."
"I know," Sansa japed. "Without me, you would have sailed off somewhere sunny, to brood in the warmth instead of the cold, and you would never have gained a crown you didn't really want, or learned the truth of your birth."
Jon's crooked smile told her all she needed to know. Even now that he'd seen his mother and father, he would have gladly died as the son of Ned Stark.
"I had a strange dream this morning," Sansa confessed. "I was a girl again, and the king was coming to Winterfell for a visit, but it wasn't King Robert; it was King Rhaegar. Mother and Father were afraid that the king would betroth one of their daughters to one of his sons."
Jon winced. "Have I replaced Joffrey in your nightmares, then?"
Sansa laughed, then kissed his forehead like he usually did to her. "Of course not, silly. You're the younger brother, aren't you? That makes you the Tommen; all you need are some kittens. And the Aegon in my dream was quite a bit nicer than Joffrey, though for some reason, he looked like Tormund, with Brienne's height."
That startled a laugh out of her cousin. "And would you have liked to marry an Aegon Targaryen who looked like Tormund and Brienne's child?"
"I'm not sure," Sansa replied. "Before we had the feast, a red direwolf appeared and we were all chasing it around the godswood. I told you it was a strange dream."
Before Jon could ask anything else, there was a knock on the heavy solar door.
"Enter," said Jon, and one of the new castle errand-boys rushed in, out of breath.
"Message, your grace," the boy gasped, offering Jon a raven scroll. "Maester says it's urgent."
Jon took the scroll, and his face turned grave at the sight of the black wax.
"Is it from Edd?" Sansa asked.
Jon opened it with trembling hands. The message was short, and written in a cramped hand Sansa could not read from her seat. When Jon's face paled, she held out her hand and her cousin passed her the scroll. She read:
To Jon Snow, King in the North,
Four cracks discovered in Wall, 200-300 feet high each. Gaps wide enough for men to pass at the base. Rangers report four hosts of the Dead, each led by White Walkers. At least 10,000 marching on Wall. Expect arrival in a fortnight. Send help.
Eddison Tollett, Acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch
Sansa's hands shook. The scroll fluttered down to the table, and she fought her rising panic.
You knew this was coming, she told herself. Jon told you the Dead were coming!
I didn't think they'd come so soon! And now the same Wall that stood for thousands of years is cracking, and Jon will leave, and how can he win this fight?
"Summon the council at once," Jon told the errand-boy.
"They'll have gone to bed, your grace," the poor boy answered, pale.
"Then wake them!" Jon ordered, his voice rising. He jumped out of his chair and began to pace in agitation. "We must ride to war, immediately. Get everyone in here. Wake Lord Davos and Prince Bran, wake all of them! Let my Wintersguard drag them out of bed by their nightrails, if that's what it takes!"
The boy vanished. Sansa ran to her cousin's side and wrapped her arms around his waist, shivering in sudden fear.
"The Wall has cracks that go halfway up," Sansa said shakily. "How did this happen, Jon?"
"I don't know," he answered, equally shaken. "I know the Free Folk were looking for a horn that could bring down the Wall, but they never found it. And it would be stupid of them to use it now, when they're hiding behind the Wall like we are."
"But the White Walkers could have found it," she realized, her heart sinking further.
"Aye," Jon sighed into her hair. "It has to be magic. And if they tear it down entirely, we'll have no protection."
"If Lady Dustin doesn't apologize for keeping the obsidian to herself, I'll have Kyra rip out her eyes," Sansa decided, furious that a single woman could make life difficult for so many.
Jon leaned away from Sansa, staring down open-mouthed. "That's the most vicious thing I've ever heard you say. Are you sure you shouldn't try warging with a nicer dog?"
"I'm perfectly sure," Sansa replied, stepping away from her cousin to retake her seat. She sat with her hands folded demurely on her lap, but inside she was seething. She would not allow the likes of Barbrey Dustin to decide if Jon—and the rest of the North—lived or died!
Jon's council trickled in, puzzled. Some were still fully dressed, like Bronze Yohn Royce and the Wintersguards. Others, like Ser Davos and Lord Cerwyn, had come in their nightrails, boots, and cloaks. Lord Ryswell, the newest member, had brought along his daughter, Lady Dustin, who was not on the council. Sansa was glad to see her, for once.
"We've received an urgent raven from the Wall, my lords," Jon told them without preamble. "Lord Davos, if you would?"
Jon passed the message to his Hand, who frowned down at the small letters. As he read, his voice grew more and more concerned. Sansa watched the council members carefully. At the mention of cracks in the Wall, a few had scoffed. The size of the cracks had left some wide-eyed. The hosts of the Dead had wiped every remaining smile off their faces.
"I sent twelve hundred men to the Wall with Harwyn Wull," Jon spoke into the deathly silent room. "Between them and the Night's Watch, we've manned nine castles out of thirteen. The tenth has a few dozen Lannister men. But none of them are equipped for this. Fire can destroy wights, but not White Walkers. Only dragonglass or Valyrian steel can do that, and as far as I know, there is only one Valyrian steel sword on the Wall."
Sansa saw Brienne's hand reach for the hilt of her Oathkeeper.
"This," Jon continued firmly, "is why I asked to excavate the barrows of the First Men. We know there is obsidian in some of the barrows, because the Brotherhood Without Banners found it on their journey north. Our men will be outnumbered at least five to one on the Wall, and they don't have the weapons to fight the true enemy."
The king's voice had risen only slightly, but the tone was so cold that Barbrey Dustin flinched.
"I will ride to the Wall tomorrow morning, with a Valyrian steel blade," Jon informed them all in his most royal tones. "Let any man who doubts come along, and see the wights and White Walkers for himself. And let any man who wishes to help ride north to aid the Night's Watch, as Winterfell has done for thousands of years. If the Watch falls, so do we all."
He took a breath. "Should I fall in battle, Princess Sansa must succeed me as Queen in the North."
Jon waited, as though expecting an argument, but no one said anything but Lord Ryswell.
"Your grace," he said quietly, shamefully, "I will lead the search for dragonglass myself."
His daughter did not object.
"It may be too late to help with this particular battle, Lord Rodrik," Jon replied, too worried to be polite, "but if we survive to fight another, your search may save what is left of the North. Now," he added, "some must stay here and govern the North, while the rest of us fight. Ser Davos, I hope you will serve as Sansa's Hand."
"Of course, your grace," Davos replied. Though Jon trusted him implicitly, both Jon and Sansa knew the old smuggler was not much of a fighter.
"I will ride with you, your grace," Lord Royce said at once.
"As will I," added Harrold Hardying. "I promised Lady Forlorn would aid the fight against White Walkers, and so it will be," he said. "That brings our Valyrian steel blade count to three."
"Your grace, let me fight at your side," Brienne asked.
"You were Sansa's sworn shield before you were a Wintersguard, Lady Commander," Jon told her. "I would feel better with you at my side, but only if Lady Sansa can spare you."
Sansa fought the urge to laugh. "Of course I can! I'll be safe at home while you fight ice monsters, Jon! I would prefer it if Brienne brought you home safely, instead of taking tea in my solar."
"Very well," Jon agreed. "Remember, my lords, we destroy wights with fire. Even without Valyrian steel, you can kill them, and leave the White Walkers to those with the proper weapons."
A few others volunteered. The first was Lord Glover, who had once turned them away so angrily.
"I will stand beside you, Jon Snow, as I promised when we named you king," he said. "I have only plain steel to offer, but I will do my part for the North."
"As will I," added a pale but determined Lord Norrey.
"And I," said Lord Flint, his eyes clouded with worry. "I've seen the Wall many times, your grace. Anything that could damage it so is a danger to us all."
"Then get some rest, all of you," Jon ordered. "We ride out three bells before noon. Lady Brienne, I want half of the Wintersguard to remain here with Sansa and Bran. The rest may come with me. Ser Davos, I want ravens sent to every northern holdfast; order them to shelter as many smallfolk as will fit inside their walls."
"Yes, your grace," replied the Hand and the Lady Commander.
Jon dismissed them all, leaving only Bran, Sansa, and Jon himself.
"Well, now the war truly begins," Jon told them ruefully. "I don't know how we'll win this fight, Bran."
Their brother had not said a word since Jon's summons. His blue eyes were bloodshot and haunted.
"What if this is my fault, Jon?" he said, almost whispering. He held out his arm with his sleeve rolled up, showing them the Night King's mark. "What if this is what cracked the Wall?"
"You don't know that," Jon said firmly. "Mayhaps there were spells the Night's Watch needed to repair the Wall, and we forgot them through the centuries. Maybe the Night King grew so strong that it can't hold him back anymore. Let's not borrow trouble, alright? As long as the Wall stands—even cracked—all hope is not lost."
"You just said you don't know how you'll win!" Sansa cried.
"I don't. I'm not going to lie," Jon replied, shrugging. "But I'll do my best anyway. It's all I can do. Bran, you must keep watch on the Wall; if we fail, tell Sansa, and the two of you get out. Go as far south as you can go. Take all who will listen."
"You can't fail," Sansa objected, fighting her panic. "You promised you'd come back. That means you must win the battle, because you'd never leave your men there to die while you ran away."
Jon's small smile gave her a bit of hope. If he could smile, it meant he had not fully despaired yet, like the aimless, paranoid Jon she'd met at Castle Black. A Jon with a purpose would fight, and he would live.
He must.
"Edd didn't say how many White Walkers there are," Jon said, looking down at his hands. "I may kill a few, and so could Brienne, Jaime Lannister, and the southron peacock Hardying," he told them. "But what if there are hundreds, or thousands? We just don't know. I can't kill them all with only four swords."
"I'm looking for a better solution, Jon," Bran promised tearfully. "I swear it. I will find something, if there's anything to find. But I have to look through thousands of years of information, and I don't always know right away if what I've heard is useful. That's why my head always hurts," he explained.
Sansa took her brother's hand and squeezed it. "We don't blame you, Bran. We know you're doing your best."
They hugged fiercely then, the last three Starks, clustered around Bran's chair. Sansa hoped it wouldn't be the last time.
Bran retired to his room, leaving Sansa and Jon to walk to the Lord's Chamber. None of them slept well, though Jon put on his best brave face when it was time to leave. For the first time he carried Blackfyre, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror, while Lady Brienne bore his beloved Longclaw. Oathkeeper was now Bran's, though none of them knew what Bran meant to do with it yet. All he would say was that Ice was somehow important to the defense of Winterfell, from snippets of conversation he'd heard in his visions.
Sansa didn't realize she was weeping until Jon kissed her cheek, coming away with wet lips. The important things had all been said the night before; she knew what to do for the North, and Jon knew to come back alive. Still, as she watched her cousin ride out with Ghost and his valiant band of volunteers, Sansa wondered if any of them would return. She wished she still believed in the gods; northern or southern, old or new, she would have prayed to all of them to keep Jon safe.
A timid hand took her own. Startled, Sansa turned and found Beth Cassel, mute as always, offering her silent support. On her other side, Bran did the same, while a sympathetic Lady Meera offered her own wordless encouragement. Wyna and Wylla Manderly had not lost their grandfather, who was, frankly, too fat to ride a horse these days, but they sent her sympathetic smiles all the same.
The princess held on to her brother and her friend and took a deep breath. Then, when the last man had gone and the gates were closed, she returned to her duties.
And that's the end of Part 3, because I like to skip ahead and avoid chapters and chapters of armies marching or sailing across Westeros (and they can't teleport like their show counterparts). Coming up in Part 4, Dany and Euron clash on the Sunset Sea, we'll catch up with Sam in Oldtown, and Jon will lead the North against the army of the Night King. Some other favorites will pop up as well!