A/N: Longclaw: Sorry for taking a bit of time. Given COVID, my life is kind of jumbled as I try to find work. This site provides some of my only relief from stress.
BRuh4: Hey all, this chapter isn't lack of events, it just took us a bit of extra time. Mostly that's on my part for fights of WB. Anyhoo, we're still going. We hit 80k on archive, which for me, is insane. Shout out to all of our loyal readers.
Enjoy.
Chapter 35: Choose Wisely
Truth be told, Sandor Clegane standing in front of her wasn't the most unexpected thing that could have happened. More an annoyance than a shock. "How'd you survive?" she asked without much emotion.
"After you left me to die," Sandor began, then gestured toward Meribald. "He found me."
"In a horrid state, he was," the Septon mused, groaning as he took a seat across from the young woman. "Beaten, bruised, and bleeding, I wasn't even sure I could save him."
"Well, it seems you managed it," Arya scoffed, glancing at Sandor. "He only looks a tad bit cleaner than when I left him last."
Sandor grunted, "You could've had me. Crossed my name off your damned list. But ya didn't. Even when I fuckin' asked you to."
"List? What list?" Meribald asked.
Neither Arya nor Sandor seemed to hear the Septon's question. "I took you off. Maybe I shouldn't have."
"Why is it I'm sensing such hostility between you two?" Meribald asked.
"We aren't friends," Arya answered quickly.
"Clearly the two of you have a past regardless. What happened?"
Arya wagged a finger at Sandor, who looked to want to bite it off. "He kidnapped me."
Sandor snorted. "As if. You were fuckin' dead in the water after that red bitch took your lover away."
Her cheeks reddened. "Shut up!" She did not want to think about him... "And we weren't lovers!"
"Right." A chuckle. "Even tried to take you back to your family… didn't work but at least I gave it a go." He rolled his eyes. "Maybe if I took you to Castle Black where your bastard brother was before Stannis made him a Lord, then I could've got my payday."
Listening intently between spoonfuls of stew, Meribald ended up laughing. "I feel many stories can come out of your history together. Ones… perhaps I would be better off not hearing to be honest, but that's the spice of life." His belly jostled as he continued chortling. "Now, young Lady. What is that list of yours he talked about?"
Arya would usually snap at anyone calling her 'Lady,' but she liked Meribald. He was just being polite. "A list of people I'm going to kill." She took in his blank expression. "Some died already, some managed to get off of it," Arya gave Sandor a pointed look, leading the man to shrug. "Others are still alive, while I killed a bunch."
Meribald seemed to regard it. "I believe you." He shook his head. "I know a killer when I see one. Seven hells, I was once one."
"I don't see it," Sandor grunted. "Lookin' at you, there was no way you were a killer like us."
There was silence. "Seems to me, y'all always feel like you need to fight. Like there's always someone who needs killing. My life is a testament to that fact being false. I've killed all my life. Now I'm but a simple Septon. I enjoy a peaceful life. I also had a life full of fighting and death. I choose the peaceful existence every time," the Septon explained calmly, looking each of them in the eyes. "No one else has to die."
Arya shrugged, "Some do."
"Some will," Sandor added.
"I suppose the choice is in your hands then," Meribald relented, sighing a bit. "All I know is what I've experienced in my lifetime. And I know one thing, all that killing didn't help, change, or fix anything."
"You have changed though," Arya pointed out. "You're a Septon now."
"Yes, but that had nothing to with the killings. It was merely a result of it. A result of a lifetime of giving out pain to others, without first dealing with the pain within myself," he replied. "I decided to make a change after I realized I'd been going in circles in my own life. I made a conscious choice, to go in a different direction now. That's what the two of you have now. A choice."
Frowning, Arya patted Needle's hilt. "I made my choice a long time ago. Be a Lady like my mother wanted, or be a warrior like my dream. Pretty obvious as to my choice." She dared anyone to fight her on it.
While most men would react with suspicion or amusement at the fact Arya carried her sword with the skill of using it, Meribald only looked… intrigued. "Nothing wrong with that. A terrible world out there." He slurped up a spoonful of stew. "Best that a woman knows how to defend themselves… and others especially."
"Why do you say that?" Arya thought the last phrase was beyond mere commentary.
Meribald shrugged. "Some men demanding tribute of our village. We have none to give, and they didn't look too happy."
"Right pissed they were," Sandor grumbled. "Bunch of cunts I should've buried my ax in the skull of."
Arya believed the Hound's characterization. "I could kill them if you want. Point me in the direction and I'll have their heads to you by the morrow." Heads save the faces… always best to have a few unknown disguises for someone in her trade.
But the Septon waved them both off. "I can't have that. Caused too much death in my lifetime to be responsible for it again. Don't think I could live with myself." Meribald seemed a bit too… idealistic for Arya, but his simplicity and serenity did have its appeal.
Too bad I can never have that… not anymore.
Even as darkness fell over the settlement, everyone long since retired for peaceful slumber after a long day's drudgery, Arya still wandered the fields. Ambling into the woods without much of a care, lost in thought. Meribald's words still filling her mind.
"That's what the two of you have now. A choice."
Her words were equally certain.
"I made my choice a long time ago."
But could the old man be right? Arya had made her choice, driven by desperation and being alone, sundered from those she loved - that was not the case anymore. Winterfell called to her, to be with Jon, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon in something akin to happiness… at the very least a sense of safety and contentment. Nothing a life as a faceless man could ever produce.
Is it not too late for me? But her list called to her. Begging for blood and vengeance. Her head throbbed as a result.
Chop.
A noise deeper into the woods caught Arya's ears. She unsheathed her dagger, heading towards it. Ready to strike if necessary.
Chop.
Pushing back the thick underbrush with her arm, Arya found the source of the noise. There in a clearing was the Hound. Axe high in the air, rocketing down to slice a log in half. Chop. He bent over and picked up another, placing it on the tree stump. Axe high, cleave down. Chop. Repeat. Chop. Repeat. It was as if he didn't notice her.
Sheathing her dagger, Arya didn't let that last much longer. "Hey, asshole."
Sandor didn't bother to look at her, still chopping. But he spoke at least. "Shouldn't ya' be sleepin'?"
"I could ask you the same thing." She crossed her arms.
No explanation was forthcoming from him. Chop. "Leavin' I see."
She wrinkled her nose. "I'm not."
"Why not? What fuckin' business do you have here?" Chop.
The Hound may have been many things, but stupid wasn't one of them. He had his own sort of crude cunning to him. "I'm not leaving now, but I will in the morning."
Chop. "Where?"
"Since when do you give a shit where I go?" Arya grew defensive, though for the life of her she didn't know why. Sad to say, the two of them had been through more shit together than anyone but Jon and… she really didn't want to think about the friend she lost.
"I don't." Chop. "But you won't leave me the fuck alone, so may as well have a bit of conversation." Chop.
The chopping was getting irritating to her. "King's Landing."
He stopped, looking at her incredulously. "King's Landing?"
"I'm going to kill Cersei." The two of them staring at each other, Arya narrowed her eyes just as the Hound's lips curled up. Soon bursting into laughter. "It's not funny, I'm serious." She reddened with rage… somehow this man just blew past her emotionless facade and turned her into the ill-tempered child she was before.
Leaning on his ax, Sandor couldn't help himself. "Really? Kill that bitch?" He covered his face as he chuckled. "I mean, she ain't the cunt with fuckin' dragons, but still…"
"You don't think I can do it?" Arya asked, affronted.
"Girl, you were trained by an idiot that got himself killed by Meryn fuckin' Trant. If that's the level of skill a tiny bitch like you is gonna…"
"Shut up!" That only seemed to make him laugh harder. "I've trained to do things few can even comprehend."
"Sure girl, sure."
"I killed Meryn Trant." That did manage to get the Hound's attention. "Waited till he was off his guard and stabbed him in both eyes before I slit his throat."
Somehow, Sandor believed her. "Good. The cunt made us all look bad."
The praise from the Hound made Arya feel odd… Somewhat, proud of herself? "I thought you weren't a knight."
He shrugged. "Was basically one, only without the horseshit titles that no one lived up to… maybe that Barristan cunt, but no one else." He shrugged. "Really think you can kill Cersei?" Turning his side to her, Sandor grabbed another log to resume his work.
Arya stood straighter. "I know I can."
"More power to ya' then." Chop.
"You can come with me you, know."
Chop. "I'd sooner turn into a fucking rooster."
Arya rolled her eyes. "Coward, huh?" Chop. His lack of an answer made her groan in annoyance. "Always talked about killin' your brother and yet you're not man enough to do it." Honestly, it felt quite cathartic to call out the Hound.
Suddenly the Hound tossed the ax to the ground. Grinding his teeth and glaring at Arya. "You stupid girl, makin' claims about me when you don't fuckin' know what I fuckin' did after you left me for dead." He looked like he wanted to punch something, but there was nothing in reach. "Cause you up and left"
"So now you care about me?"
"You didn't fuckin' kill me back there in the Vale when I fuckin' asked you too." He narrowed his eyes at Arya. "Mayhaps I want to know why."
Tapping her foot, his question ended up making Arya think… "You weren't on my list," she finally said.
"Still the cunt that killed your butcher's boy." Sandor picked up his ax. "I'll tell you only once, the damned bitch Queen gave me the order. Didn't enjoy it… I just didn't fuckin' care. Yet you did." He opened his arms. "You had the chance to kill me, but you didn't." Arya said nothing, biting her lip… for once breaking her emotionless exterior, memories of the past truly taking her places she'd rather not go. Acquainting her with pain that she'd rather keep buried. "Well… I'm waiting."
But before she could answer, an orange glow suddenly shone through the trees. Blocking the darkness of the night more than the single lantern Sandor hung on a tree branch. What the… "It's coming from the hamlet," Arya commented, drawing the only logical conclusion. "Do they have late-night bonfires?"
"No one would be stupid enough to…" Loud screams cut him off, and there really was no innocent explanation for that. Sandor lifted his ax just as Arya drew Needle and a large hunting dagger - no words needed as they dashed into the bushes towards the settlement.
Thick brush and sharp brambles poked and scraped at Arya's skin and garments, but she pressed on harder. Faster. Following the orange glow - it growing brighter and brighter till erupting into a massive conflagration of chaos as she burst out into the field that housed the settlement. What greeted her was out of a nightmare.
It was pandemonium, people fleeing in every which direction. Fires were everywhere. Orange-red tongues of flame sending up pyres of greasy-black smoke that obscured the stars above, engulfing all wooden and thatch dwellings dotting the field. All that was spared was the half-finished stone sept to which the throngs of running smallfolk seemed to concentrate on. Arya's eyes shone from the orange glow, in complete shock. What had happened here?
"Motherfucker!" she heard Sandor growl, raising his ax and charging into the fray. It was then that she saw it. There were riders, silhouettes dark against the backdrop of the flames. Swords and maces glinting as they ran down fleeing smallfolk, spilling blood all over the once merry settlement. "Some men demanding tribute of our village…" Meribald's innocuous statement from before coming full force now.
Arya's gaze grew murderous as an old man found his skull caved in by a laughing attacker - that he was suddenly gutted by Sandor's ax didn't sate Arya's anger. She sheathed the dagger and charged into the chaos with Needle drawn.
"We have none to give, and they didn't look too happy."
The God of Death will have many names tonight...
Racing low, using her short stature to her advantage, Arya kept her eyes away from the flaming cottages. Letting them stay used to the darkness. Passing running people, wounded people… and corpses. Many, many corpses run down indiscriminately. But the enemy was easy to pick out, the only ones calm and professional in the slaughter.
She came across her first near the last house not blazing. He held a torch in one hand, sword in the other. A farmer came at him with a pitchfork but the brigand parried it easily - letting the farmer's charge pass him before swinging the sword against the man's back. He fell with a grunt, blood spurting from his back.
Ignoring the man he had just killed, the brigand hefted the torch, ready to toss it into the cottage. Arya was quicker, sprinting till she jammed Needle through his side. The man howled, kidney pierced expertly and bleeding like a stuck pig. Drawing her dagger, Arya finished him off with a jab to the throat as he toppled over, killing him. Screams and whimpers from inside proved she saved many, but Arya wasn't vindicated. Blades covered in blood, her bloodlust was up. Wolf growling for vengeance.
Searching, something caught her eye. Two brigands, faces contorted in enjoyment as they tossed a rope around a tree. Fixing a noose around the neck of… Meribald! She recognized the dirty septon's robes anywhere. Decision made in a split-second, Arya booked it.
She let nothing get in her way. Fleeing smallfolk was roughly shoved aside. A brigand that just happened in her path had her dagger tossed into his eye, Arya yanking it up by the hilt as she ran by. Somehow a mounted attacker saw this happen and the steady rumble of charging hooves caused her to turn around to see him thundering to her… Only for Sandor to bash the man off the horse - ax bashing through his chest in a bloody mess. Arya didn't thank him as she ran faster.
"I'm telling you, old man," one of them spoke. "Tell us where the fuckin' silver is and we'll let you be."
Meribald's hands went to grab the noose, clawing at it as his face turned purple. "This isn't working," another one of them said, nervous.
"Fuck, maybe." As suddenly as the Septon had been hung he was dropped in a coughing heap… only to choke as the brigand buried a blade into his gut. Twisting it slowly. "The pain stops when you show the silver."
The other just turned around, not wanting to watch the torture, when Arya leapt atop him. Needle running through his lungs and dagger stabbing through his neck and face repeatedly. Somewhere an inhuman screech filled Arya's ears… it took a moment to realize it was her.
"Oi, girlie!" Arya swiveled around only to find a booted foot slam into her gut, the wind knocked out of her as she fell to the ground - Needle tumbling somewhere out of her reach. She coughed up her lungs. "Ya' killed Lorry… Eh, he was a little pansy anyway."
Out of the corner of her eyes, she caught a brigand with blackened teeth advancing on her. Hands fumbling with the ties of his trousers, a manic look in his eyes. Of fucking course…
The man laughed. "Probably couldn't even get it fuckin' up. I won't have that problem, bitch, so best enjoy it." Such a tight little thing… he'd probably keep her for a while…
Before the man could react Arya essentially leaped up, spinning through the air. Her dagger slashed deep through the man's jostling belly. As he screeched from the pain, Arya found her footing and stabbed up into his crotch - from the amount of blood and the unearthly scream he gave out, almost certainly shredding his… organ. Reaching out for Needle, with her other hand she ran him through. Piercing his heart and ending the would-be rapists within moments.
Thwack! Arya looked behind her to find a burly brigand collapse. Ax buried deep into his spine. From five yards away the Hound emerged from the trees, yanking the ax out of the brigand. "Got yours?"
Arya nodded. "Three. How many of yours?"
"Five," he replied gruffly. "There were probably over a dozen, so many escaped." He shrugged. "They took out over half of us… and… fuck, Meribald."
Blinking, it was then Arya remembered the attack on the old section. "Seven fucking hells…" She was by Meribald's side in an instant, finding the jagged wound in his gut rather easily. "Fuck."
He looked up at her. "Ah, Arya… Always a pleasure…" He coughed. "To see your lovely face."
"No! You'll be fine!" Arya pressed her hand against the wound to staunch the bleeding, but it only seemed to cause the blood to seep underneath her palms. "We'll get a maester…"
A hand gripped her shoulder. "Girl…" Sandor murmured behind her but Arya shook him off.
"Where's the maester?!"
"The maester's dead!" cried someone.
"Motherfucker!"
"Young… Arya…" Blood dribbled from his lips, but Meribald nevertheless smiled at her. Face impossibly white beneath his beard. "It's alright… I've accepted my fate."
Arya blinked back tears - this old man… he was innocent. A man that cared about those around him, that fought to be honorable. Like, father… "You have to fight, never stop fighting…"
Wheezing out a painful breath, Meribald slowly reached down to take Arya's bloody hand in his. Simply letting his wound bleed. "I've… fought for all my life." Another cough, groaning as he shifted weakly. "Caused so much death… made myself a murderer." Anguish at a life's legacy behind him clouded his hazel eyes.
"You've done so much good, become a good person."
"No, child. I made my choice long ago." He smiled. "This fate is fitting for me. To be murdered as I murdered so many others." Each word saw his voice grow fainter, life leeching out of him as his blood did. And yet he still held the strength to pull Arya close to his lips. Making sure she could hear him. "You still have your choice. Fate… it… it's endless for you, Arya Stark." She pulled back, staring at him with shock. His smile widened. "Your fate… it still is in the balance." Meribald's eyes began to droop. "Choose… wisely…" And with a last puff of breath, the old Septon passed into the endless sleep.
Feeling his life slip away, Arya released the now limp hand. Blinking back tears as she stood. Behind her, the heavy breathing of the Hound caught her attention. "Did…" she choked out. "Did you tell him of my name?"
There was silence. "Girl, my life doesn't revolve around memories of you." Somehow his gruff insults were a fitting end to this… obscenity of a night.
Honestly, the sensation of his fingers had long since fallen victim to the numbing cold as Thoros of Myr gripped the rather small branch to toss into the flames. Watching them sputter and shoot sparks as he threw the meager wood onto it. "Lord," he murmured. "Please bring warmth to my fuckin' hands." Stiff from cold and rheumatism - Thoros was no spring chicken, he had to admit to himself - it provided some relief but not much.
Desperate as the howling winds tossed around him, Thoros grabbed the frayed wineskin resting by his side and downed a gulp. Sour taste not even fazing him. He sighed in relief as his core warmed up.
"Don't drink that all down." The Red Priest looked up to see Beric plop down beside him. "We won't get more till we reach the next town we run into."
Sighing, Thoros moved his hands back to hovering over the flames. "Thought you were gettin' some sleep?"
Beric shrugged. "Dennett left."
"Fuck." Thoros couldn't muster any emotion other than resignation. "That makes what? Three since those cunts went off on their own close to the Ruby Ford?" He wracked his mind. "Dennett… Puddingfoot… and… Beardless Dick?"
"Nah, Beardless Dick died of fever two weeks back. You were too drunk to remember."
"Doesn't sound like me," he quipped, but his heart wasn't into it. "So that makes nine of us. Hardly the great warriors that struck fear into the hearts of even the Brave Companions and Mountain's Men." He took another gulp of the sour wine… applejack if he still had a palate left. "So where are we headed next? Down to fight Stannis? Mad Queen Cersei?"
Throwing another log into the fire, Beric pursed his lips. "Why fight against something? We could fight for something. Daenerys Targaryen cares about the smallfolk. She freed the slaves of Slaver's Bay." Actually having hope did create inspiration.
But Thoros was already a broken man. "Possibly."
"Why don't we look to the flames?"
Thoros arched an eyebrow. "They haven't said anythin' in moons."
"Can't hurt to try."
Groaning, Thoros nevertheless decided to humor his friend. Eying the fire, chanting his Valyrian incantations under his breath. This is fucking useless...
Crackling, the flames began to dance in more than random flickers. Parting into near vivid shapes that always worked to amaze Thoros whenever he wasn't drunk… which wasn't often. Peering with his cloudy eyes… he made out... "Well, what do you see?" Beric asked impatiently.
"A large wall… made of ice and magic…" No secrets there. "There are… two people on top, dark shrouds. It looks like they're speaking."
The flames spurted out, calling out to them in a sheer voice. "I can't go back." Thoros frowned, looking back to Beric for a few moments before returning his gaze to the fire. "He's my brother, but I can't!" They'd seen many a vision in the flames, but not often did the fire speak directly to them. The voice grew fearful… terrified even. "Not with… it out there. The greater threat."
Suddenly the image changed, flickers and tongues of fire shaking into a new configuration. One of a large tree… a massive tree. One that towered over all others. In the distance were what seemed to be thousands, clashing furiously against blinding white fire… snow? The flames turned a dark, blood red… Are those the leaves of the tree? A weirwood then, likely a godswood figured Thoros as the leaves seemed to pulse with energy. Waves of flame erupting from the tree and towards a single figure. Seated before it in a chair with wheels, and covered in a dark brown cloak.
All around, dark specks of ravens shot through the air. The red priest watched entranced...
"Thoros. Thoros!" A shaking of his companion released him from his trance. "Fuck, you were under for fuckin' forever!"
Blinking, Thoros tried to regain his bearings. "By R'hllor…" It was as if his entire vision was spinning. "What in fuck's name did that mean?" He asked, a bit bewildered.
"What did you see?" Beric asked, not seeing it for himself. Just watching Thoros experience it made him think it was rather jarring. Thoros glanced around, seeming like he didn't want anyone to hear. Yet it was late at night, everyone else was asleep. He knew that. The flames still illuminated his confused expression. "Thoros? What did you see?" Beric repeated himself.
He shivered, taking a heated mug of mulled wine and sipping at it. "I didn't just see… I fuckin' heard."
To this Beric's eyes widened. "Heard… as in sounds?'
"Nah… as in voices." He shook his head, retelling every last bit of his visions to his fellow knight. "Never happened before to any red priest I know, that's for damn sure." Running a hand through what remained of his hair, Thoros reminisced back to the good old days of charging blind drunk into Pyke with a flaming sword. "What could it mean?"
"I'm not sure," Beric answered, finding himself stroking his hairy chin. "It could mean anything."
"Well, that's not helping much."
"Did you not see anything then?"
"No, I saw things as well," Thoros replied, then held up two fingers. "Two visions. One was the Wall. Up top of it, two people spoke, that's where the voices came from."
"What did they say?"
"Talking about not going somewhere, someone's brother, they didn't want to leave. Claiming something was out to get them, I think," Thoros explained. It didn't even seem to make sense the more he thought about it. "They seemed scared."
Beric's eyes widened, "The Others?"
"Could be," Thoros shrugged.
"What was the other vision?"
"A giant weirwood tree. There a boy wrapped in furs sitting in front of it while some big fuckin' battle went on in the snow."
"That's it?"
"Aye."
"See his face?"
"I'm sorry, Beric. I didn't get a chance to get a full description," Thoros scoffed, crossing his arms. "I saw what the Lord gave me."
"Did you see anything about the battle?"
"Just that there were thousands fighting. More than thousands."
Frowning, Beric hadn't given so much of himself, lost so much of himself, to the service of the Lord of Light to get mired in riddles. "Is there anything you did see clearly?"
"The Wall. That was clear," Thoros pointed out. "Do we need to go there?"
"Perhaps. But what about the weirwood? The boy in the chair?"
"I've seen plenty of weirwoods in my life. Yet that one looked different to me. Most of them are up North where they follow the Old Gods."
"Could you think of one that a boy might sit by in a chair?"
"Well, there's always Winterfell," Thoros said. "The tree may have been from there. More likely that a boy might be near one inside the walls of a castle as opposed to out in the wilderness. I believe they might have a Godswood there."
"But who is he? The boy." Beric asked, frowning. "That may be important. Someone the Lord wants us to watch over."
"Or destroy."
"What? You think a poor boy praying by a heart tree needs to be destroyed?" Thoros only shrugged in response. "Well, we're close to the Kingsroad anyway. That can take us north as soon as we catch some sleep." He thumped his comrade on the back. "You take the first watch."
Thoros rolled his eyes. "Oh, what a fuckin' joy." Toros groaned, sending an obscene gesture in Beric's direction.
He couldn't sleep.
Jon Stark wandered the halls of Dragonstone, only guards and a few servants scurrying about as the first tendrils of sunlight poked over the eastern horizon. His eyes were set in dark circles and face ruffled and haggard with a stubble. An entire night of twisting and turning in his bed, sweat soaking his trousers and sheets, left him in a sour state. Not that Jon was a stranger to these nights since his resurrection… but this time had been far worse.
The sea of blue eyes hadn't visited his dreams the other times.
Ever since Davos told him, they haunted his every thinking. So vivid, so malevolent as his overheated body suddenly was overcome with an icy cold that woke him up - breath actually fogging before him - Jon knew it couldn't have been just a nightmare. Not just what a child would imagine after their father or older brother told them a scary story, but what seemed to be a memory. Jon's past struggling through the muck and mire of his shattered mind.
And thus he shambled aimlessly through the halls, trying desperately to clear his head. Thankful to Daenerys for no longer having a guard escort him everywhere like a common hostage.
Daenerys…
Now she was one that always occupied at least some of his thoughts. Not that he minded. Whenever she was around, Jon found the pain that at the very least throbbed deep within his core - more often a stabbing agony that made him unable to walk at times - tempered. His body and soul calm. I remember her… some of her at least. Perhaps that was the reason?
"...you will never truly come back to yourself unless you take chances…" Davos' words hit him hard, especially given the sincerity and fatherly tone of Stannis' Hand. Jon found himself seriously considering it… and the implication only brought him more pain.
Perhaps staying dead would have been easier...
The shuffling of feet and a muffled crash drew Jon's attention from his thoughts. Turning the corner, he found a man desperately clutching a hollowed-out alcove in the wall, the other hand leaning onto a cane with all his might. Bony fingers almost gauging the wood. Jon recognized the old man as someone that had visited him not long after his resurrection. It hadn't been a long visit, but they had been reintroduced. "Maester Aemon…" He quickly raced to Aemon's side, hefting the older Targaryen until he leaned against his shoulder. "Here, let me help you up."
Unseeing eyes looking up in a reflex even years of blindness couldn't cure him of, Aemon touched Jon's face with weathered hands. "Ah, my dear Jon. Thank you." He still gripped the cane, using it to support his left side as they began to amble forward. "My body… it's failing me… though I probably shouldn't complain. I've been alive for a century and this body's carried me forward through it all." He chuckled… which morphed into a cough.
Wincing. Jon felt a protectiveness over this old man. Something beyond simple mentor-apprentice, but Sam said Aemon and he were close at Castle Black. Based on that and a fuzzy instinct, Jon accepted it easily. "I should take you back to your chambers."
"No… no." Aemon categorically denied that, shaking his head. "I may be old but my soul is still tough. And I want one last gust of wind from my home upon my face before my legs fail me completely."
If he were in Aemon's place, Jon would want a young knight in his service to grant him such a request. "Alright. You'll have to guide me though, though perhaps I should fetch someone…"
Aemon laughed. "Nonsense. I know this place like the back of my hand. Even blind, I can guide you anywhere." Even seven decades of separation couldn't break the bond between a Targaryen and the ancestral home of the House of the Dragon.
"Just a turn right here…" Aemon's directions were interrupted by the scuffle of shoes… and a rather strenuous huffing and puffing. The old maester sighed, grinning toothlessly. "Kepa's found me."
Bounding rather fast for someone of his girth, Sam raced through the corridors. "Maester Aemon!" he called out. "Guards! Prince Aemon is missing! Guards…" Eyes finally finding his ancient charge being escorted by his friend, Sam tried to stop - only to trip and fall all over himself.
Much as he felt he shouldn't, Jon couldn't help but laugh. Enjoying a bit of humor in a life that had very little of it. "Best be careful then, Sam." Jon couldn't help but realize why he was friends with someone obviously different than him. The lad was fun to be around.
"Not funny, Jon," Sam answered with a wheeze, hauling himself up. "Why did you take Maester Aemon from his room?"
"I requested it, Samwell," Aemon replied. "Need to do something before my legs fail me." Sensing the acolyte wouldn't leave him alone, he waved Sam off. "Jon can take me there, no sense in keeping you from your fast-breaking. Go along."
Eyes flickering from Aemon to Jon and to Aemon again, Sam nodded. "Make sure he doesn't fall, alright?'
Jon smiled softly. "I'll try my best."
Eventually, and with great difficulty, Jon managed to half-carry, half-guide Aemon to an open-air courtyard that jutted out from the main keep into the grassy expanse. At least twenty feet from the lush green carpet, fed off the hearty volcanic soil released long ago by the Dragonmont. "I do wish I could see it all again," Aemon remarked, a cough wracking him just as Jon set him down on a stone bench.
Jon watched him with concern. "Do you need water or wine?"
Aemon waved him off. "'Tis alright, my boy. All I need is the company." Patting the space next to him, Jon took a seat - the two of them staring at the cloudy sky and serene Dragonmont. Only the errant wind and an occasional seagull broke the tranquility. "Something bothers you, though, Jon."
He didn't wish to unload his problems upon the old man. "No, I'm fine."
"When people say they're fine, most often I've seen they are not. So don't play that charade." He was gentle but firm. "Is it the pain from your… coming back?"
"How do you know I am in any pain?"
"You came back from the dead. You lost chunks of your memory along with gods' know what else. A little pain is reasonable."
Leaning on instinct and what was left of his gut feelings about things, Jon felt he could trust this man. He seemed to legitimately care about him, a bond that only could have been forged through a strong relationship. "Well… calling it a little pain would be an understatement." He leaned back, gazing up at the sky. "Sometimes the pain is so great that I'm being stabbed all over again."
"Why? Why do you think it gets to that point, my boy?" Aemon was enjoying the familiar elements of his ancestral home swirl around him - but Jon's suffering drew his concern.
"Depends, I guess." Jon shrugged. "Mostly when I try to remember… I try to remember a lot of my life. Of the family everyone seems to talk about but are only snippets in my mind. A jumble of fragments that I can't seem to piece together." Such would lead to the headaches, and then the stabbings tearing through his heart. "I don't know… myself. I mean I do feel things, have instincts, but what do they matter if I don't remember what brought me to where I am?"
Nodding, Aemon understood. Sucking in his lips past toothless gums. "I often felt lost at the Wall, away from everyone that mattered to me - all that I cared about. Being a maester, and a Targaryen, most didn't seem to enjoy being with me there. I often kept to myself." When Brynden disappeared, he had no one. "But you aren't alone, Jon. You have those that care about you."
"Aye, away from here."
"Daenerys cares about you."
Calm washing over him, Jon smiled for a moment. Closing his eyes and imagining Dany, how she warmed him at his coldest. There were emotions that came from his fragments of the past, most terrifying and chaotic - but there was one he held onto. The moment in the cave, where the same warmth he felt now for her shone brightly from the past. This feeling isn't new. "She does."
"But it isn't enough, is it? She didn't know you before, from when you were a bastard, a child… when you became who you are now."
"Yes." Aemon folded his hands together, trying to warm his frail body while Jon put his thoughts together. "Before he left, Davos Seaworth invited me to go to Stannis. To leave Dragonstone and Daenerys. I've been debating whether to go or not." Now, he would only wait for Aemon's thoughts.
"I foresee a journey, my boy. Something that will take you away, so you can find yourself again. You're lost right now, and while Daenerys might provide you comfort it might be that you need separation to rediscover yourself," Aemon said, calmly.
Jon looked at him, wishing that the old man he felt so comfortable talking to could see the anguish in his eyes. The apprehension on his face. "And if I can't find myself? If I lose Daenerys… the one person that seems to give me any form of reprieve from this pain?" Truly, the moments with her were the only times his mind could calm and his agony could retreat. "I risk losing the one person that keeps me grounded."
Aemon smiled, heartened that the boy he so cared about could finally admit his connection with the last of the Targaryens. If only they met in peace… if only they weren't so broken. He would have been happy to officiate their wedding in the Godswood. "I know, lad. I know. You're afraid of losing what makes you you. Of losing the person who is your link to what you once were." He sighed. "But as of now, it doesn't ground you. It holds you back from the truth you will need to rediscover. Only then will your feelings for her and hers for you be the immovable object you see it as."
"I don't know if she'd see it that way, Maester Aemon." Dany… she was very protective of him. While some would find it controlling and mad - perhaps the old Jon would've, he didn't know - but given everything it warmed his heart that someone cared that much. "I'd be joining Stannis as Davos said… he's her enemy."
"She cares about you even more than I do, seems like… and I think she would understand. It's a gamble, lad - if only you losing yourself could bring the both of you together, then it is toxic, not wonderful." Not once did Aemon believe the former was true, but it was something the two of them needed to discover personally.
Digesting the words, Jon looked up at the sky. Watching the dragons dance above the choppy waters. "So I have to make this journey, then? I have to leave even without knowing fully who I am?"
He placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "You know your name. But you don't know what your name means. You don't know what your name means to others. You don't remember what things you experienced that built the great man you were. Unfortunately, you can't rediscover those things inside this castle."
Hanging his head, Jon felt as alone and scared as he had the moment he first awoke not knowing himself. Before she placed her balm on his shattered psyche. "I don't know if I have the heart to tell her."
Aemon squeezed Jon's shoulder. "She'll only forgive you if you trust her. If you just leave, it'll break her heart… neither of you deserves any more heartbreak." I've lived through so much of it - watched from afar as it consumed my family… Aemon supposed that both Daenerys and Jon figured their lives of pain and isolation were the worst fate… No, the worst was knowing a life of joy and love, only to lose it forever in the blink of an eye.
"What if my memories don't come back?"
Aemon paused, an answer not entirely evident to him. This topic was beyond anything he'd known in his hundred years of life. "I'm not sure, my boy. I'm sorry. There's likely someone else who could help you with that question. Memories are what make people who they are. It's what separates us from the beasts of this world. The memories you had were essential in making up the person you were."
Jon smirked, then frowned, "You're not being very reassuring, Maester."
Aemon chuckled, "Well, listen here, your memories will come back. Or perhaps they won't. Perhaps some of them will while others won't. You can't know and you can't control that. You must focus on what you can control."
"That's just it. I don't know what to do. Much less what I can control. I just feel formless. Wandering with no place to rest my head. Everything seems out of my reach."
"You can control your actions, Jon. You can do anything you want. This castle has held you captive for some time now. Perhaps it is a good time you go out on your own," Aemon said. "Allow yourself time to recover. You seem restless to me. I don't think this place is somewhere you can recover. There's too much pain, right?"
A heavy breath fluttered from Jon's lips. The answer was unequivocal. "Yes."
A roar broke them from their contemplation as a large dragon swooped past them. Low to the ground, flapping its wings. Jon flinched, almost crouching the ground on instinct.
It was Maester Aemon that steadied him - with his words. "Jon, my boy… tell me." His grip on Jon's shoulder grew tight, voice excited, and apprehensive. "What is it? I need to visualize it."
Gulping, Jon watched as the dragon circled. "Um… it's the green dragon, not the one Daenerys rides."
"How big? I need to know."
"Large… about a quarter the length of the keep wingtip to wingtip." With a shriek, the green dragon thundered into a landing. Wingbeats showered both of them with gusts of wind. Jon blinked and tried to brush the wrinkles from his clothes while Aemon opened his arms - letting the air blanket him as the ground rumble underneath. He was enjoying this, Jon figured before the rumbling grew closer. "Oh shit, he's coming towards us."
Slowly, the green dragon ambled on folded wings and hind legs towards the two of them. Neck reared back high as if to study Jon and Aemon. Amber eyes almost... curious in their intensity. "Easy lad, he won't harm us."
"I'm not afraid," Jon murmured, though he figured any man not raised intimately around dragons would have a certain apprehension about them.
"It's alright to be afraid. I am a little myself." Nevertheless, he attempted to stand, bidding the assistance of Jon to ease the strain on his wobbly legs. "Gods… but I'm more excited about this than I am afraid… and I think you are too."
Jon wasn't exactly sure 'excited was the best word for it. Regardless, he helped Aemon shamble to the lip of the balcony, Jon's eyes were trained on the dragon. Watching it… him. Watching him simply stare. Gaze following the two of them slowly move forward. Faint, foggy memories filled Jon's mind. Burning, heat, roars… but ultimately an almost shooting warmth tickling his palms.
Once they approached the lip, the green dragon instantaneously lowered its head. Craning the long, serpentine neck until the large snout was within reach. Hot breath on their faces. Jon felt fearless in that moment. "Maester Aemon… if you want to touch the dragon, you can."
Hand trembling as he raised it slowly, Aemon peered with eyes that almost seemed like they saw what was ahead of him. If Jon didn't know better, he could have been fooled by it all. But what was real was how Aemon pressed his palm against the smooth, green scales of the mighty dragon's snout. How the fearsome creature rumbled from its throat. Almost like the purr of a cat only much, much louder.
"Gods be praised," Aemon gasped, reduced to tears. "It's finally happened… I finally stand before a dragon." An indescribable joy overtook him. It felt as if an emptiness deep in his heart was now filled. "Jon…" he called back to the boy he took under his wing. "If only Egg could have witnessed this. If only…" Aemon couldn't go on, overcome with the emotion of all of this.
Watching the heartwarming scene made Jon smile. He deserved this… even if it was a dragon of all things. All logic within his broken mind told Jon that this beast was a demon to be feared, but when he looked upon it… An inner voice spoke to him. Told him not to be worried, as if from deep in his blood.
Suddenly the dragon's amber eyes flickered to him. Head not moving, but staring at Jon all the same. It rumbled from its throat - something guttural. Aemon turned to him, "I think Rhaegal wants you to come forward."
Rhaegal… The name didn't feel familiar, but it called to him nonetheless. "A… a… dragon?" Jon's feet carried him forward nonetheless.
"He won't harm you." The maester settled into his role as a dragon expert rather well. It was as if he was born a Valyrian dragonlord, watching the great beasts live and soar before him for decades. "I should know," he chuckled. "He told me."
"He?" Jon stopped right beside Aemon.
"Aye, he. They are magnificent, intelligent creatures." Wordlessly, Aemon took Jon's hand, the bony fingers slowly guiding him towards the dragon - towards Rhaegal. "Do not be afraid. Do not cower - kill the boy and let the man be born, Jon Stark."
Swallowing, hand trembling only inches from the heated scales, Jon opened his shut eyes and stared at Rhaegal's eye. Each simply watching each other, time stretching out interminably as they tried to comprehend the other.
A dragon… a fuckin' dragon… Even in his broken state, he understood the significance of it. The beast Aerys Targaryen tried to aspire too when he burned my grandfather and uncle…
The beast Cregan Stark willingly fought with during the Dance…
The beast Dany hatched… that Dany calls her child… Slowly, he lowered his palm onto the scales. Expecting to be scalded - but he didn't. Jon felt no pain in his hand. No pain anywhere. Just a pervasive warmth that spread through his body. Banishing the agony as Dany could and leaving him at peace. He closed his eyes, simply enjoying the respite.
Across from him, lowly purring at the touch, Rhaegal's eyes closed as well.
Hitting his neck with his palm, Thoros cursed the very gods themselves. How in the fuck could there be insects still buzzing around this far north? It boggled the mind, but such was the case in the chilly but still fetid black bogs of the Neck.
"I told ya, we should've stayed on the damn Kingsroad," complained Anguy, swatting at the pernicious flies with his bow. "But you had to take a shortcut."
"The road was flooded," Beric shot back. "With water far deeper than this." He raised his boot from the knee-deep water. Luckily for the Brotherhood, their constant activity among the rivers and streams of the Riverlands all led them to waterproof high-leather footwear. Not all of it fit, but it worked. "Now keep on the lookout," he hissed.
"There's no one here!" complained Jack-Be-Lucky, scratching his cheek below the eyepatch. "Nothin' but bugs and slimy shit."
Thoros rolled his eyes. "And lizard-lions. Careful or they'll bite your leg clean off." He had no idea if they would do that, but anything was better to hear the men complain. None of them may have gone through bogs this dense before but what they had endured over the many years wasn't much better.
Opening his mouth to speak, a sudden guttural bellow shut Jack right up. Several splashes echoed through the water of swimming creatures, everyone more on alert. Thoros smirked, finally enjoying some silence…
"Don't make one more move, southerner!"
At the noise, swords and axes were drawn, Anguy notching an arrow while Thoros and Beric prepared their swords. "Who the fuck is that?!"
"The man that's going to chop you up and feed you to the lizard-lions if you don't turn around and get the fuck out of my swamp." An arrow shot out of nowhere and smacked into a large cypress tree for good measure.
Glancing at each other, Thoros and Beric both ignited their blades. "We're goin' north, whatever the fuck you are," Beric hissed. "So if you want to kill us at least come out and fight us like men."
There was silence, followed after nearly half a minute with a curious cry. "Seven Hells, are you the Brotherhood? I don't know of anyone else with flaming swords."
Thoros locked eyes with Beric before answering. "Seems you got us pegged. Who are you?"
Someone stepped out from the brush, pushing his blade back in his scabbard. "Howland Reed," he said. "Lord of Greywater Watch."
Taking the hand, Thoros chuckled. "So you're the mad cunt that infiltrated the Twins with only a few wildlings and some wildfire?"
"Lord Stark did most of the actual planning, and as for the rest I can't comment." Howland eyed him. "By the looks of you, you're Thoros of Myr. Can't outdo you charging headfirst into the battlements of Pyke with a flaming sword. Yer' either very brave, very mad, or were very drunk."
"Suppose a little bit of all three is in order." Thoros looked back at his men, who were all still on edge. "Say, can you tell your boys not to fuckin' kill us if we move?"
Looking behind his shoulder, Howland raised his palm - the brotherhood watched as nearly two dozen men emerged from the thick foliage and swamp around them. Sheathing arrows or lowering javelins. Looks like we're losing our edge.
"Might you be going to Winterfell?" Howland asked, a bit gleefully as they settled onto a patch of land adjacent to the Kingsroad, having bypassed the flooded portions. "That's where we're headed."
Several campfires had been started, the Crannogmen giving their southern counterparts a taste of their meager hospitality - House Reed was never the richest house. The sun has long since fallen, the light from the fires provided a glow to everyone's sullen countenances. A few stars shone brightly in the sky.
"Small world, eh?" Thoros remarked, chewing on his frog leg with gusto. Honestly, he had eaten and drank far worse in his day. "Hopefully not the same reason as us."
"Why would you go?" Beric asked, eating a stew himself. "The North's at peace ever since Jon Stark was taken hostage by the Dragon Queen. Declared neutrality."
Howland looked… pained by remembering that. "They did. Pledging not to fight for Stannis or any other claimant to the Iron Throne alongside the Free Folk and the Upper Rivermen." He tore off a chunk of black bread, chewing and swallowing. "Doesn't mean we're at peace, not by a longshot."
"That's why we're going there," a quiet, slender girl added. Howland's daughter, Meera. "The gods wish us there, to fight the oth… the other war the North will have to fight in."
Looking over at Beric, the one-eyed man raised his surviving eyebrow while Thoros nodded. "Has it anythin' to do with the Wall?"
"Gods no," Howland said. "I won't have anything to do with Castle Black. It's time I return to Winterfell. With Jon not there, I feel they might need help."
"Seems we both have that in common," Beric said. "We believe they may be in need of help as well."
Howland raised an eyebrow, "How you mean? What has led you to Winterfell?"
Beric leaned in over the fire and gestured to it. "We follow the one true Lord. The Lord of Light. He has led us to Winterfell."
"Why?"
"We've seen a great battle there. A battle in the snow. It's coming."
"A battle? With the White Walkers?" Meera gasped. Her father's eyes snapped to her, almost upset. She locked eyes with him. Then noticed all were looking at her. "Those are the demons lingering beyond the wall. Is that why you ask of it?"
"What do you know of it, my lady?"
"I've seen them. The White Walkers. They are real and they are coming."
Thoros and Beric exchanged a glance. Before the drunken priest replied, "We saw some other things," He said. "A boy in a chair."
Meera planned on speaking again but her father cut her off. "What do you mean? Saw?"
Beric aimed his finger at the fire, "There. That is how we see."
"Visions in the flames," Thoros added. "We witnessed a great battle at Winterfell. The Lord has led us there. Wants us to travel there. So we are."
Howland leaned over, "You mentioned a boy in a chair?"
Beric nodded, speaking next. "What do you know of Brandon Stark?'
"Nothing save his existence," Howland shrugged. "I heard he made it home."
Beric huffed. "We've heard rumors of him. Even all the way out here. Seems he's been acting strange, spending all hours of the day by the heart tree in Winterfell."
"Does that mean something to you?"
Thoros replied, "It could. Yes. But we don't know much. That's why we're going to Winterfell. We just seek answers."
Meera visibly tensed. Howland turned to her, "Are you alright, my child?"
"Yes, father. I just... I know of the person these men ask about."
"What do you mean?"
"Brandon Stark is the boy you speak of."
"I'm sorry, my lady," Beric frowned. "I'm a bit confused."
"The boy in the chair. Who sits by the weirwood tree. It could only be Bran," Meera explained.
"How do you know him?"
"We traveled together for a time," she said but looked away. "Beyond the Wall."
"We would very much like to speak to him," said Thoros. "Perhaps he has the answers we seek."
"The only thing Brandon Stark has is power. I would be very careful in dealing with him," Meera warned, returning her eyes to them. "He is not the boy I once knew. He's changed."
"In what way, child?" Her father asked.
"He's the Three Eyed Raven."
A/N: BRuh4: Arya and Sandor are back together. We're very excited about that dynamic. Lots of things ahead for them.
Aemon provides some valid advice as always. Isn't he the best? Always got some insight for our peeps.
Howland gets the spotlight for a section. We thought it was time for his return.
We'll be back with some other stuff some other time.
Longclaw: Jon gets his moment with Rhaegal just when he needs the stability. Given that Jon has his bastard identity at least officially taken away, the effect of him being a Targ may hit less than in other stories, but we will see it.
Tell your friends.