AUTHOR'S NOTE: Apologies to all readers that already read or tried to read chapter 50. The original version of this chapter provoked a... spirited response. People both disagreed as to the canonicity of a particular plot development and didn't really get what I was trying to do, thinking I was writing what is a pretty common trope in this fandom. To be honest, I wasn't willing to burn the readership of this story for what is effectively a side plot (at the moment), so I have performed a retcon. I find myself rather discouraged to write in this further to be honest, but hopefully this version will be better received.
THE CROWNLESS
The unicorns splashed ashore in the full moon, the last of the Laughing Tree's host to cross the God's Eye. The journey had been fraught, every step in the water threatening to be a plunge to the depths. The animals knew where ground just below the surface was close, somehow, even at night.
Waiting on the Isle of Faces was yet more Green Men, and they were not alone. Women and children too appeared from the closely knit trees, though they were dressed like the smallfolk, not in the manner of what must be their menfolk. Their eyes looked on, moving between the elk-riders and the Canadians.
Word was passed along. His jaw set with this observation, Jon watched from his saddle, Val and Lord Reed to either side of him, as the camp was set once more under the gaze of the inhabitants. More than a few sets of eyes were aimed at him, but he barely felt them.
The Green Men have families? The question seemed to mystify him more than the legend ever had. Where did they come from? Have they lived here for thousands of years? Are there more of them?
His eyes searched for the famous weirwoods, but he found none.
"You seem as disturbed as the Canadians, Lord Jon," Lord Reed said suddenly.
Jon shook his head, as much to wake himself from his thoughts as to deny the statement. "Curious, Lord Reed, just curious. I thought to see the Children of the Forest here, not smallfolk as ordinary as anywhere else."
A small smile spread on the crannogman's face. "These are no ordinary smallfolk. These are the direct descendants of those who signed the Pact with the Children. Their First Men blood is thick, certainly more thick than yours."
"I know not where my blood comes from, Lord Reed," Jon interrupted, "From my mother's side."
Val clicked her tongue, annoyed. "You both sound like Thenns," she complained, "The Pact was so long ago, we are all descended from those that agreed it. And you, my husband, should worry more about your child to come."
A little embarrassed, Jon nonetheless found himself smiling warmly at her. Gods what is this power she has over me? "You're very wise, my lady."
Val blew a breath through her lips in objection to the use of lady to describe her, but said nothing more. Jon knew she was restraining herself, and appreciated it.
Lord Reed frowned. "Some secrets are best not discussed," he said, "I'm sure Lord Sayer believes so now." The crannogman gestured. Jon looked to find the youngest Canadian and two of his spearwives glaring at a group of dismounted Green Men. They were barely twenty paces away. Both groups had their weapons in hand, though spears, crossbows and rifle were all lowered for the moment.
"They hate him," Val declared. Jon agreed with a nod.
"They do," Lord Reed stated, "Clearly his people committed some great offence against the Children."
"But why?" Jon asked, "What could they do that causes hatred across thousands of years? Events on another world, supposedly?"
A throat cleared nearby. It belonged to the leader of the Green Men, now dismounted. His eyes were startlingly green too, unnervingly so. "We can see the past if we care to look," he said, "We can relive those events, and we have."
Jon's brow raised. "You can see the past? All of it?"
The leader inclined his head once. "We can. Though to comprehend it all is impossible, what happened to cause our hatred for that man is one thing all must see. It is a reminder of what men are capable of."
"Then you must show him," Val said, "I have marched with him and his clan for moons, and I tell you this; to show such hostility without telling why is a grievous threat to you. Even now they suspect a trap. And I care not if you are the Green Men or if the Children reside here, you cannot withstand the Canadians."
Jon nodded. "We have seen them blow four thousand armoured knights away like rye before the scythe," he said, "And so must you have, if you say you can see the past."
"The young ones speak boldly," Lord Reed added, "But wisely, old friend."
The leader of the Green Men scowled, nostrils flaring with a breath of frustration. "Aye, they do." He looked to Sayer. "You! Approach!"
The Canadian shone his glare in the direction of the command, quickly followed by his women. He said something into his radio hanging from his helmet. Jon saw Lord Duquesne in the distance, also speaking. Such sorcery, he thought, If only I could speak with Robb from wherever I stand with such ease… If only I could speak to Father.
Lord Sayer stopped his consultation with his leader, and walked up. The skinchanger and the crossbow-woman followed close behind. In the distance, Princess Zheng was also moving in the direction of Jon and the others, fully armed.
"What do you want?" Sayer said with as much belligerence as he could muster. If Jon hadn't known and seen what the man could do, he would've found the attitude laughable in the face of what was a warrior of myth. But then, Sayer was one too.
"We wish for no more rancour," the leader said, "So I shall show you the crime of your maternal ancestors, so that you may understand our hate."
Sayer's jaw worked, his eyes narrow with hatred of his own. "You can do that?"
"Yes."
The youngest Canadian ran his hand over the back of his helmet, his mouth a thin line.
Jon felt an unease rise up in his throat, something he couldn't identify. What is wrong? Worse, the Green Man seemed to notice his unease, staring at him until the next interruption.
That occurred when Zheng arrived and asked Sayer something in their language. The response was accompanied with hand gestures at the Green Man. A conference between the two Canadians seemed to take place. The Princess was lecturing the Ranger about something, like a mother lecturing a son, though the difference in years between them was nothing so great as that.
Jon realised why he was uneasy, and looked to the elk-rider.
"Can you show me my mother?"
The path to the Seeing Place wound through the trees, too narrow for horses. Twisted branches stuck out at random, their wide green leaves blocking the view ahead. The air was heavy with a strange scent of tree sap, familiar but stronger than usual. The ground was firm under Jon's boots, but roots rose through the dirt in a great tangle here and there, threatening to trip him as they walked uphill.
The party moving through this wilderness was small.
The leader of the elk-riders showed the way, moving almost too quickly to keep up, seeming to know every branch to push aside. Every now and then he would stop and turn back, to allow the others to keep up. Jon had to keep his mouth shut each time. If the man knew he was moving too quickly, why could he not just slow down?
Val and Lord Reed accompanied close by.
Jon appreciated his wife's presence. Every step he took, a lump in his throat seemed to grow larger, threatening to choke him. It only relieved itself when he met Val's eyes when they held back branches for the other to pass. That in itself was strange, as if the sight of her said that it didn't matter who his mother was. But it does.
Lord Reed's attendance was more confusing. He had insisted on coming on the trip, and the Green Man had agreed with a strange measure of force. Jon did not understand why, and the crannogman would not explain fully. The only words offered by the lord were that he had something to see too.
Behind, the Canadians stalked at the rear.
They had come dressed and armed for battle, their faces painted green, black and red. All four bore their terrible weaponry, and whenever Jon looked back, he found their eyes searching through the foliage for something to shoot. Whatever ancient hatred the Green Men had for the Canadians, the mistrust was now mutual.
Sayer had almost not been able to convince Duquesne to allow him to see the cause of the hatred, but had won out in the end somehow. The wildlings had been left behind to guard their crawler machine and the prisoners deposited in pits, Longspear Ryk and Ygritte given strict orders to maintain a solid defence.
Jon felt that unnecessary; the Green Men would not have allowed them to reach the island at all if ambush had been their purpose. If they raised the bottom of the God's Eye to allow passage, they could also drop it at will to drown all on the secret causeway far from shore.
The leaves turned from a rich green to red almost in an instant. Jon pushed his way past a pair of long branches and found himself confronted with more open space, studded with the white trunks of weirwoods. He felt like a spider was climbing up his back as the many carved faces stared back at him, their lips and eyes dripping with blood-red sap. The ground now crackled underfoot, a carpet of dried red-orange leaves all around.
"Not these again," O'Neill muttered loudly from behind. The Canadians quickly moved up to join Jon, their weapons sweeping over every weirwood they could see.
"The books did say the island is full of them," Zheng commented.
"The Isle is famed for its weirwoods," Jon replied to both of them, "But to see so many in one place… The Gods truly must live here."
The Canadians frowned as one. "We'll see about that," Duquesne said.
The Green Man loomed up once more. "Follow," he said with all the authority of a true command.
Sayer clicked his tongue in annoyance. "What do you think we're doing?" he asked, "We're not here for a stroll."
The Green Man sneered back, but turned to lead them on once more. Jon's jaw set. If they keep this up, they will begin fighting, he thought, And who do I fight for when that happens?
With far more room to move, the Canadians split into two pairs and took up either side of the party, speaking to each other every now and then in their own tongue. Jon couldn't help but listen; their language had a cadence not unlike the Common Tongue, as if someone who paid attention might decipher it.
And it was a good distraction from the clutching in his heart and throat.
The Green Man brought them through the weirwoods for another half an hour, the landscape so similar that Jon doubted any of them could have navigated back by memory alone. There was nothing but weirwoods all around. A new fear went through Jon like a dagger. Has this man brought us here to kill us where none could ever find us?
The fear rose when they finally reached a clearing at about noon. Huge stones were set in a massive spiral into the ground before the largest weirwood Jon had ever seen, its branches hanging over half the open space. One stone protruded in the center at the height of man's hip. An altar. Longclaw sprung from its scabbard and into his hand before he realised he was responsible for it. Ghost snarled silently, looking this way and that. As if Jon had commanded it, the Canadians brought their own rifles up to aim into the trees around.
"Peace, Jon Snow," the Green Man said, "You and yours have no enemies here."
Jon did not know if he should believe it. He found the Canadians were worried about different directions. He followed their gaze to whom they were prepared to do battle with.
In the weirwoods around the spiral, children were sitting in the branches. Jon turned around to find some of them barely twenty paces from him, above in the canopy.
Their skin was brown, with white spots down their necks and shoulders. Their fingers ended in black and brown claws instead of fingernails. Their eyes were huge, gold and green with cat-like slits. Their ears were long, curving to a point. They were clothed in animal skins and what appeared to be leaves, woven together into dresses and jerkins.
Gods, they're real.
"The Children of the Forest," Val breathed, her voice straining. Jon found his own mouth robbed of any ability to move, as his eyes met those of three dozen of the creatures. Are they staring at me?
"Correct," the Green Man stated, leaning around Duquesne, "They have gathered to see for themselves."
The Lord of Calgary's head cocked slightly. "See what?" he asked.
"Many things. You among those things. My people will not leave, if that is what you desire. They are necessary."
The Canadian leader bared his teeth, cursing in his own language… and lowered his weapon. He gave another command in the same tongue, and the others lower their own rifles. Zheng did so only after a nudge from O'Neill.
"Are they necessary to send us home too?" Duquesne asked.
The Green Man smiled, with genuine pleasure it seemed to Jon. "We shall discuss that another time."
That seemed unwise. "Why?" Jon asked, "Why not show them the way home now? They do not wish to remain here."
The Green Man sighed, like it was a childish question to make. "Preparations must be made, such magicks cannot be summoned lightly," came the reply, before he turned on his heel and marched towards the centre of the spiral towards the altar.
With silent agreement, Jon and Duquesne followed close behind, the others trailing afterwards. The whole way, what seemed like hundreds followed their every movement. Jon's wonder at the beings of legend died, their interest did not seem a happy or friendly one.
Another Child of the Forest was sitting cross-legged behind the altar, its back to Jon, its head raised as if looking to the sky. As the party closed in, the creature seemed to shudder and climbed atop the altar. It was a boy, at first glance, but somehow seemed old at the same time. Wrinkles like a web spread from the corners of his huge golden-green eyes, just barely visible.
"Do you need anything else?" the Green Man asked, the tenor of his voice entirely different. It seemed younger than before.
"No," the Child said with a small smile, "You can return to your family."
Jon blinked. The creature's voice was deeper than expected, and almost melodic. A pleasure to listen to, even.
The Green Man glanced at the Canadians. "Are you sure?"
The Child gave a single nod, and sang for a moment. The tune and lyrics were like a forest's sigh in the wind to Jon, soothing. It had the same effect on the elk-rider, and he departed calmly. What sorcery, to be able to calm a man's heart with a song.
It was only when Zheng cleared her throat and spoke that deep thought about the strangeness of the interaction was broken. "Eh, sorry," she said to the Child standing on the rock in front of her, "Were you warged into that guy?"
The Child released a breath, out of exasperation if Jon was any judge… but it was hard to tell with something that was clearly not human. "I was," it confirmed, "He has shared his body with me for many years."
Zheng and O'Neill both grumbled something to themselves.
"Do others do this?" Duquesne asked, "The elk-riders… Are they all warged?"
The Child did not speak, but stared up at the Lieutenant.
"Jesus, they are, aren't they?" O'Neill growled, before saying something to Duquesne in their own tongue. The latter gestured with his palm for the O'Neill to calm himself.
"Is he right?" Jon asked the Child, "Can you steal the body of anyone you like?"
Golden-green eyes turned to him. "We have had a bond with the First Men of the Shore since the Pact, as its protectors. We are one people, in truth. Visitors always find our ways… strange."
He bowed his head slightly to Lord Reed.
"Nor are they the only ones we have a bond with. The crannogmen of the Neck are always welcome here," the Child added, "It is good to see you again, Howland Reed."
Lord Reed said nothing, but returned the bow, from the waist. "I am here to accompany Lord Jon as he sees what he requested. Not for these Canadians and their journey." With that, he stepped back.
"You are the only reason we permitted it," the Child said.
He truly does know them, Jon thought, wondering why the crannogmen would have such a bond and why they would keep a thing like that secret.
"So you're body-snatchers," Sayer stated bluntly, "That's just great."
Jon looked to Duquesne, expecting a rebuke to be sent Lord Sayer's way. The Canadian leader did nothing. He just watched. He wants an answer to that too, Jon realised.
The Child stared at Sayer for a moment, unreadable. "This was one of the terms of the Pact, that the bodies of men protect our most holy."
He gestured towards the elk-rider as the man finally walked out of view. "It is how this isle has remained protected for ten thousand years and more. Even as the waves of chaos crashed over the rest of this continent. Neither the kings of the First Men, the Others, the Andal invader, nor the Targaryen dragon-riders have destroyed the Pact."
He pointed to Sayer. "Nor will you, hated-one."
The youngest of the Canadians bristled, gripping his weapon tight. "You keep saying how much you hate me," he said, "You promised to show me why."
"And so I shall."
A whirlwind stirred all around them, red weirwood leaves circling and spinning in every direction until nothing else could be seen. The light of the world died and darkness fell. The leaves were soon replaced with snow. Jon flinched and gathered his cloak about him, prepared to feel the bite of winter… but it did not come.
At last, the snow cleared enough to see, and everything had changed. Gone was the spiral and the weirwoods and the Isle of Faces itself. Instead, Jon and everyone else seemed to have been moved elsewhere; night time in a field in the North, coated in snow. The only familiar thing was a single weirwood, as large as the one at the Isle but not the same tree at all.
What am I seeing? he thought. He felt Val thread her fingers through his, and found her goggling at the sights around her. We must be beyond the Wall again.
"When the Others last tried to take the world and brought about the Long Night, it tested more than our ability to survive," the Child stated, standing in the snow now instead of atop the altar, "It nearly broke both the Pact and the bonds between our nations."
It pointed into the distance. A collection of beings was emerging from the falling snow; giants, hundreds of them, carrying stones as large as those in the spiral at the Isle. Their shaggy fur was clumped up with snow, making them look like yeti with dreadlocks. On each of the giants' shoulders sat three or four of the Children wrapped tightly in furs, balls of fire hovering near them. Sorcery, Jon gaped.
"Among our kind, the nations have differing views of Men," the Child continued, "We at the Isle had and have the most affinity with you. It was we who negotiated the Pact. It was we who cooperated with Howland Reed's ancestors to sunder the North from the rest of the continent, though we failed to do so completely."
The shining-green eyes turned back to the group. "There are others however who prefer to avoid you. And there were those that would do anything to defeat you."
"They failed," Jon said by reflex, remembering the old stories. Old Nan would have much to say about all this. She was wiser than I thought. The old woman was not taken seriously by anyone. Now, he wasn't so sure that was wisdom on the part of 'anyone', and common sense seemed less common.
The Child looked up at him. "Aye, they did. They were our people, their obsession with your destruction was a tragedy. One we could not prevent."
Then why do you hate Sayer? Jon wanted to ask.
"What about the giants?" Sayer said, "What did they want?"
"Many giant clans fought against the First Men," the Child answered, "Men feared and hated them far more. Though the Long Night also saw other clans end their warring too. Our own nations have fought against the giants in the past. Giants are troublesome creatures, more so than Men, though less intelligent and cunning. Less dangerous, in truth."
The sun just barely came out of the sky, providing just enough light to see. The surroundings changed; the stones being hauled were set into the ground, the snow cleared into massive berms in a ring around the area. Giants sat upon it, watching the spiral.
A mass of the Children stood in the centre. Their mouths were open and moving in unison, but there was no sound but the wind.
"Are they singing?" Jon asked, "Do they sing in such a way that we cannot hear?"
The Child shook its small head. "The memory of this time is corrupted. The nations that came to this place did not want the rest of us to know what they sang, and how they did what they did. To corrupt the memory of the world is itself a sin, proof of their obsession."
Jon and Val glanced at each other. "What did they do?" Val asked.
The Child smiled gently at the pair, and glanced at the Canadians. "They found another world."
"Our universe," Duquesne half-asked.
Universe? Jon had never heard the word before. But that did not seem to bother the Child.
"Yes. And they quickly discovered it was inhabited too, by Men," he explained, "So they looked for another world instead. Again, and again, and again. Their search was in vain. No matter how hard they looked, the only other world they could find was yours."
Jon shifted his weight. "They must have tried to go," he said, "If these Canadians are here now."
"They did more than try," the Child answered.
A flash of light filled the air from the centre of the spiral, and where it originated, a figure now stood. A man of sun-kissed complexion stood amongst the crowd, wearing skins like a wildling and carrying an ornate club of hardwood and copper. Jon recognised at once that this man was kin to Sayer in some manner. Though the young man was as much like Duquesne and O'Neill, there was something in their faces that was too similar to ignore.
The Children of the Forest drew obsidian daggers and long vines tied together as rope, and charged the man. He was fast, and swung his club, striking two of the Children down. But dozens more dragged him to the ground, holding dragonglass to his throat as they tied him down.
Sayer's glare was colder than a wight's.
Jon clenched his fists. "You say you hate Lord Sayer," he said to the Child, "But it seems to me he has more reason to hate you. Your cousins stole that man from his world, as the Canadians have been stolen."
"He's not wrong," Duquesne stated, "If you wanted our sympathy, this wasn't the way to get it."
The Child was unperturbed, and did not stop watching the subjugation of the man in the memory. "I will not deny that there are reasons for hate on both sides. But the tale is not yet complete."
The surroundings changed again. A forest in summer, a different one to the one in the Long Night. The ground was a carpet of plant life, and in the distance, a herd of elk wandered across a hillside meadow.
Beautiful, Jon thought.
"Where are we?" Val asked.
"Their world," the Child answered, "Seven thousand, nine hundred and twenty three years ago. A month's walk from where they were taken."
Jon looked to the Canadians, curious what they might think about such a thing. Their faces were stoney, reserved. They are holding back a dam of feeling, he thought, knowing how he would feel if he had been stolen from the North and laid eyes upon it once more.
Duquesne snapped out of it first. "Can we see our world today?" he asked. "Can they see us?"
"We cannot," the Child answered, "What allowed this place in your world to become part of the memory of ours was planted by our cousins, and no longer exists." The creature gestured with its black-clawed finger once more.
A weirwood stood among three other trees, thin enough that its carved face almost cutting it to its core. Nearby, a dozen giants and twice as many Children seemed to be preparing meals. The latter were cutting captured game with dragonglass shards and were sorting through woven baskets of collected fruits. The former were no longer snow-coated yetis, but long haired beasts, their foul smell wafting on the breeze.
"Our nations arrived on this new world and spread out," the Child said, "They learned from the First Men, and moved to claim as much as they could. For a time, their numbers grew. The men of the new world were too few to stand against the alliance of our cousins and the giants."
The group by the weirwood stood to fight, their previous tasks forgotten.
"But as they spread into warmer places, there were more Men. Resistance was inevitable."
A screeching whistle flew by Jon's ear. Flinching and ducking, the projectile was followed by a trio more, passing exactly where his head and shoulders had been a second earlier. Heaving in air, he found everyone else had thrown themselves to the ground too, save the Child. The ground seemed remarkably real, like it was not a mere illusion.
"Who has attacked?" Val asked, her head twisting this way and that, seeking a foe.
Jon couldn't see where the things had come from, but where they had gone was another matter. Arrows the length of small spears buried themselves in the bodies of the giants and one of the children. The great sasquatches roared with pain and pulled the long, thin shafts out of their flesh, as the Children milled about, their heads turning to find the source of the attack for themselves.
Another wave of the long arrows flew overhead, three times as many as before, from the heavy forest to the rear. Jon and Sayer both saw it, the young Canadian aiming his rifle into the trees.
"Can you take us away from this place?" Jon asked urgently, "At least move us out of the path of these arrows!"
"They cannot harm us," the Child said.
Jon doubted it. If the dirt he was gripping was real, then why would the arrows not be? Sayer opened his mouth to say something, but stopped at the first syllable. Something had caught his eye in the Myrish spyglass atop his weapon.
"You invaded," he said, standing up, "You invaded and you hate us?"
The Child threw a dismissive gesture with its small hand at him. "As I said, the tale is not complete. Watch and tell me what you see."
The giants attempted to charge across the meadow, huge logs in their hand raised above their heads. The long arrows flew to intercept them, and a great many fell. The giants groaned and whined as they fell, calling out in what must have been the ancient form of the Old Tongue.
Jon and the others stood up now, the fight now moved to a direction that the arrows could not threaten. Warriors began emerging from the forest, dressed much like the man from the spiral, but covered in feathers and ornaments. They were armed with spears, axes, clubs all in copper or dragonglass. Some carried more of the long arrows and strange sticks.
It was only when the arrows were flung from the ends of the sticks that Jon realised these were the 'archers' that had been shooting all along.
The warriors took no chance with the wounded giants, standing back to shoot rather than closing to finish with their hand weapons. Jon's heart dropped. Somehow, it was a tragic end for the creatures. "I see a skirmish," his mouth spoke.
The Child frowned. "What do you not see?"
Jon had no answer. But Zheng did.
"Magic," she said at once.
All heads turned to her. She continued. "We are speaking to each other with magic. The same magic that brought these bigfoots and leprechauns to Earth. We saw fireballs floating in the air a minute ago. And no offence little guy, but I don't think you could have resisted anyone without magic."
The Child gave a single nod. "You are correct."
"Why not use it?" Duquesne asked.
The Child looked troubled, looking to the weirwood. "Magic is not a natural phenomenon," it replied, "Your world does not possess it. The only sorcery is that which lives within living beings. No being or part of this world can be changed from outside, nothing that did not exist before can be summoned from nothing. Sometimes when there are weirwoods nearby, you can go beyond this, but not often."
"The translation stuff," Zheng guessed, "They kidnapped people from Earth to gather intelligence, and needed a way to communicate. Both before and after they arrived. If it works for us, it must work on Earth too."
"And the weirwoods," Jon added, "It was said the First Men feared the trees watched them. Elsewise how would we be seeing this?"
"And the Andals believed so later," the Child agreed, "You are all correct, though not completely. Regardless, the attempt to take the new world for our people was doomed to failure."
A great cheer went up from the warriors and they charged, giving the now-mostly dead giants a wide berth as they closed to the weirwood. The Children climbed up into its branches, dragonglass daggers clutched between their teeth. Jon saw what they were doing; the height of the men coming to kill them could not be matched, so they would use the trees to strike.
The warriors saw it too. While the younger ones began throwing stones up at the Children in the weirwood, trying to knock some out, the elders went straight for the fires.
Gods, they mean to burn them. "Take us away," Jon said, "Now."
The battlefield gave way to yet another gathering of the Children and giants, again atop a spiral of large stones, but this time they were inside what appeared to the Wolfswood of the North. It was dawn or sunset, the faces of the collected creatures bathed in orange light.
The Child obeyed me, Jon thought, Why?
"Our cousins tried to bring magic to your Earth, " the Child explained, "They became desperate."
Duquesne's eyes narrowed. "How desperate did they get?"
The Child did not answer.
"You showed us the beginning of a massacre," Duquesne pressed, "Somehow I don't think it was so one-sided. Giants don't go down easy. The guys around here must have learned to shoot them from a distance, not to get close. What did your cousins do to piss the indigenous guys off?"
The Child seemed to struggle to meet the Canadians' gazes. "Sacrifice," it said, "Magic does not respond without it."
Sayer pointed at the creature. "You're real civilised," he said, his tone dripping mockery, "Eight thousand years and you still hate me, and for what? My ancestors kicked your fucking asses when you invaded! And you know what? I'm proud of it, asshole."
"Private, silence!" Duquesne warned, "Now." He added something else in their tongue, in a more soothing tone.
Sayer near-hissed through his teeth with frustration, but obeyed his commander. Jon could tell it was taking most of his strength to remain calm.
"He isn't wrong though," Duquesne continued, "And I'm not sure I like the implication that we sacrificed people to get here and speak your languages."
"You didn't make sacrifice that opened the way here," the Child huffed in objection, "Control your impatience at once." The creature's own patience had clearly run out.
There was a commotion in the scene beyond. Jon noticed first, as giants in the distance turned and roared. Soon, other sections of the small crowd were moving too, some fleeing, some moving away into the trees.
"The Men of the New World fought our cousins wherever they found them," the Child continued, "And formed ever greater alliances to do it. Soon, warriors from all over the northern part of this continent were on the march, leaving their homes with no expectation of ever seeing them again. So our cousins decided to leave, to return to our world."
Jon grimaced in horror as hundreds of the long arrows flew at an incredible arc from places beyond sight and into the gathering below. Panic seemed to set in, giants and the Children both searching for their hidden enemy.
"The Men of this world were informed. They were given notice of our cousins' departure. It did not matter. The missives were not believed, or those receiving them did not care. The matter was to be settled for all time."
A true battle came into view, as hundreds of warriors appeared, the sun at their backs giving them long shadows. Jon and the others watched for what seemed like hours, but in truth could only be a few minutes. The events in front of them stopped and started, skipping through time like a child skips over stones in the ground.
The giants charged, but caught themselves on the spears and long-arrows waiting for them. The Children swarmed, but were swept aside by clubs, axes and brandished torches. The warriors formed a ring around the spiral and moved ever closer, a small knot of the Children making ever more frantic preparations in the centre of the spiral of stones. Here, everything froze. The men, the giants, the Children, the swaying trees, the buzzing flies.
"Our cousins made all the necessary preparations to return, but were prevented from completing it," the Child said, "They were all killed. The stones of their ritual circle were torn up, and the bodies thrown underneath them. It was their sacrifice that gave power to your travel to this world, though we know not the cause."
The Canadians were dead silent. The colour in their faces had drained. Jon could not blame them.
"We watched from our world as the Men of this one made vows to never speak of my people again, so that future generations would not fear sacrifice at the hands of the little demons and the wild hairy men. And then, the last weirwoods were felled or burned, and our sight to your world was cut off save for this desolate place."
Jon had a lump in his throat now for reasons that had nothing to do with him. The hatred of the Children of the Forest now made perfect sense. They fled the Long Night and the hatred of the First Men, only to perish in a sordid tale of mutual murder.
Lord Sayer cleared his throat. "If it helps," he began, "The men broke their vow. There have been legends about giants and little people like you all over our world. Not all of them bad."
The Child shook its small head, in a strangely human gesture. The world of the Canadians in the past melted away. The Isle of Faces seemed to roll back into existence all around, complete with the altar, the forest of weirwoods, the Children of the Forest in their branches, the smell and the high sun of late-summer. "It does not help. It is the one terrible act we have never answered, could not answer."
Jon blinked, his eyes hurting from the sudden changes in light.
"So what now?" Lord O'Neill asked, "Are you going to try and kill us? Poetic revenge for your cousins?"
The creature smiled widely. "The thought had occurred to us," it said.
"Don't imagine that will go the way you guess," Duquesne responded, "We're far more deadly than Sayer's ancestors."
The Child climbed back onto the altar, still smiling. "You are also far fewer."
"It won't matter," Zheng said calmly.
"Our way is better than our cousins' way, Zheng Lian. We do not hate Men, we understand them far better. And we have seen how deadly you are in battle. Even here, away from your allies, you could kill many of us. So we shall send you home."
The Canadians looked at each other. Though Jon was sure they did not wish to be disrespectful, each muttered their own small prayer of thanks.
"When?" Zheng asked.
"Soon," the Child asked, "A matter of days. Our cousins did not wish us to follow them, but they could not corrupt all memory of it. We will find out how, and then we will send you."
Duquesne's brow raised itself. "I guess we have no choice but to trust you."
The Child's golden-green gaze flickered to Jon over its nose, its head remaining pointed at Duquesne. Jon felt a swelling of anticipation in his chest, his palms itching.
"I would trust only those that have demonstrated their word is as true as the Pact," the Child said, "But we live by the same at the Isle. So I shall grant that which I promised to your companion from the Night's Watch."
The creature held its hands behind its back, another strangely man-like behaviour. "You requested to see your mother. Are you ready?"
"I am," Jon said with a haste he regretted.
"Do you want us to leave?" Duquesne asked, "I couldn't say I can think of any reason for us to see your mother's identity."
That was true, to Jon's mind, but he had also been present to see the bloody history of Sayer's people. And of all the Canadians, Sayer was the one Jon liked and understood the most. "If you will permit it, I would have Lord Sayer remain," he said, "I was allowed to spy upon his ancestors, it does not seem fair to say that he could not see mine."
Duquesne's lips thinned in thought for a moment, before he turned to Sayer and asked something in their tongue. The younger man shrugged, his armour and equipment moving upwards with his shoulders, and he spoke his response in Common.
"If he wants me to stay, I'll stay," he said, "I don't think we're in danger any more." Lord Duquesne sighed, relenting.
The Lord of the Neck moved from where he had been standing quietly, and knelt before Jon. What is he doing? Why has he taken a knee? "The Canadians should not be allowed," he interrupted, "With your permission, I shall stay. Truthfully, I knew your mother. I can verify what shall be shown to us."
Shocked, Jon stepped to face the crannogman. "You can? Why would you keep your own counsel on such a thing?!"
Lord Reed nodded, unswayed by Jon's anger. "I was sworn to secrecy by Lord Eddard, in the most dire terms. It would have been unthinkable to reveal her identity, even to you. Though he did plan to tell you, when it was safe."
When it was safe? "What do you mean, my lord?"
The crannogman's face became steely, his brows bunching up and revealing every line. It made him seem twice his age. "You should not seek this lightly," he said, "It would be wise to send away all these Canadians. You may regret having allowed them the knowledge."
"They have not withheld knowledge from him," Val interjected, "Denying a man knowledge of his clan? His blood? That is a low act, Reed." Her fingers curled around the dagger at her hip.
"Breaking my oath to my lord would have been lower," Lord Reed replied smoothly, "As would putting Jon in danger."
"Enough," Jon found himself stating, "I know not what danger you speak of, but I have already allowed Lord Sayer to ..."
"We'll leave," Duquesne interrupted, "Sayer's ancestors from eight thousand years ago aren't as close to him as his mother. Like I said, this isn't any of our business."
The Canadian did not wait for a response. He commanded his subordinates away. They went without complaint, only Lord Sayer offering a tilt of the head in apology.
"Now that your bickering is ended" the Child asked, "Are you ready?"
Jon wasn't done with the crannogman. He wanted to continue questioning Lord Reed. But he also could not let this chance slip through his fingers. The only other person Jon knew held the knowledge he wanted was his father, and Lord Stark was still trapped in King's Landing, in the hands of the Lannisters. I know what I must do.
"What is your name?" Jon asked.
The Child smiled widely. "My name is too long for you. But you may call me Arrel, if you wish."
"Arrel?" Jon repeated. It didn't sound like the name of the being of myth standing before him.
"It is the name of the man you met before," the Child said, "We share our names and minds, not just the body. His name has become part of mine. It too is part of the Pact." It raised its hand and the whirling of crimson-orange leaves began again, the world beyond disappearing behind them.
When sight returned to him, Jon found himself standing on the shore of the God's Eye, the humid smell hitting at once. Harrenhal's dark tower ruins just visible across the water to the east. The summer sun was up once more. The castle seemed to garlanded with banners of every colour, but it was impossible to make out which banners they were.
"Are we in our own time?" Val asked, stepping this way and that, looking for clues, "I see your kneeler icons atop the giants' walls."
For a moment, a hope flared in Jon, that his mother was still alive and only a handful of leagues from the Isle. But sense returned to him quickly. "The sun is in a different place. And it is higher than it should be. We are not in our own era."
"Indeed not," Lord Reed said quietly, "This is the two hundred and eighty-first year since Aegon's Conquest."
Jon knew that date well. "The tourney."
Val squinted at him in confusion.
"Aye," said the crannogman, before explaining for Val's sake, "It was a great gathering of lords from all over Westeros, to fight each other in combat for honour. It was also an attempt to replace a mad king with a newer one, a convenient way to gather the lords without suspicion."
Val's blue eyes flashed. "If your king was so mad, some brave man should have slain him."
"One did," Lord Reed replied.
"For what crimes?" Val asked.
For killing my grandfather and uncle, Jon's mind spoke.
Lord Reed sighed, not doubt taken back to that time as if the magic had done so. Every man who spoke of the Rebellion was of the same mind about it. "Burning men alive and demanding that the highest nobles give up their wards to be burned. Though the man who killed the King has never spoken of his reasons."
Jon scowled to himself. He recalled Jaime Lannister riding into the courtyard of Winterfell, the very image of a knight, yet still bearing the mark against his honour for the act of killing Aerys, the Mad King. Aerys needed to die, but to be killed by a man pledged to protect your life…
"Then that man is a hero," Val said, "But I see no woman here, Arrel."
The Child of the Forest replied by way of walking through the small group and looking to Harrenhal.
"Jon's mother is in the ruin?" Val demanded, "Why leave us so far from it?"
The answer did not come from the Child, but from the sound of thumping hooves. From around a small copse, a single armoured rider came into view atop a surefooted horse of a northern hybrid breed. The rider too was small, and his pieces of plate seemed to be taken from different sets. Only the helm fit correctly, and strangely, it was in a southern style in contrast with the rest of the equipment and the horse.
"Who is he?" Jon asked.
"He rides well," Val commented, "Your father when he was young?"
Is my mother a Riverlander? Jon asked himself, A peasant girl? He examined the scene further. The horse was right for something his father might have had, but Jon doubted it. The person was too small for his father, even at that age. And Lord Reed remained silent.
The newcomer approached and stopped by a tree nearby. He reached up and grabbed one of the branches, and hoisted his tourney shield up onto it. Must be a squire, Jon thought, Their first tourney, mayhaps.
It was only when the rider took off the helm that he realised the depth of his mistake. The he was in fact a she. Brown hair was tied up in long braid and coiled around her head so it wouldn't interfere with the helm. The rider reached up and freed it, letting it hang down her front. Jon's breath caught in his throat, and before he knew it, his legs were taking him forwards.
He got closer, close enough to properly see the woman's face. In truth, she was just barely a woman. If anything, they were of the same age, or would have been if he had existed in the year the magic had brought them to. She began taking off her greaves and gauntlets, and putting them into two large saddle bags.
What he saw froze him, as sure as a winter blizzard, his forward movement coming to a sliding halt at once. The sigil upon the front of the round shield was a weirwood… with a laughing red smile. Gods, is my mother from the Canadians' world?
"Lady Lyanna…" said a voice, wistful and full of feeling.
Not sure who had spoken, Jon turned and found Lord Reed standing by him, looking up at the rider. His heart felt like leaping from his chest, hurting. She can't be.
The woman turned. Grey eyes, and a face so much like Arya's that it was almost a cast copy, turned outwards towards the lake.
Val arrived on the heels of the crannogman. "Lyanna?"
"My father's sister…" Jon answered, just barely able to squeeze the words out of his throat, "But that's impossible… she cannot be my mother!"
Lord Reed took him gently by both shoulders. "She is your mother. Lord Eddard is not your father, but your uncle. I know this, as I was there when you were born."
Jon shook himself free, stepping clear of both his wife and the crannogman. The world seemed to spin, and he staggered, trying to find his balance. He looked to the Child for answers, and found only a golden-green stare that seemed to confirm everything. He looked up at Lyanna Stark, dead almost sixteen years… as long as he had been alive.
He fell to his knees. Gods…
More hooves sounded from the distance. A small party of riders hove into view, and two white cloaks of the Kingsguard led the way. They were mounted atop large southern destriers, and the gold tincture of their armour glinted in the sunlight. Behind them was a man in black, as handsome as can be, with silver hair flowing out behind him and a ruby-encrusted sword at his side. As the party drew closer, the three headed dragon upon their breasts revealed itself.
Rhaegar Targaryen? Jon thought, hatred burning the back of his throat, But it's too early.
Lyanna Stark drew her sword without hesitation, causing the Kingsguard to do the same. They split to either side, to charge the young woman from either side. Jon watched from the dirt of the shore, enraptured by the scene.
"Who is that?" Val asked.
"Prince Rhaegar Targaryen," Lord Reed answered, "The king's son."
His brow raised, Rhaegar rode ahead of his guards and waved them down. Instead of attacking, the Prince rode to Lyanna Stark at a light canter, never fearing her blade for a second. Jon was kneeling almost between them.
"The king sent you," Lyanna Stark stated.
The Prince made a face like he had just bit into a lemon. "He has."
She pointed her sword at him. "What shall you do?"
Rhaegar's purple eyes laughed. His Kingsguards rushed to his side once more, and he once more gestured for them to calm themselves. "You cried at my song," he noted, "And yet you go to the tilts to avenge the honour of your father's bannerman."
"To remind the so-called good lords and knights of this land," Lyanna corrected, "That honour is something to be taught to their squires."
"And with such a voice too," Rhaegar continued, "Who did you pretend to be, when you boomed out your declaration of honour?"
Lyanna's chin raised. "No one."
The Prince's head tilted at that. "It perhaps would have been better to leave declarations to someone else," Rhaegar continued, "My father is greatly wroth with you."
"And you care not," Lyanna said, "I hear the whispers."
"Here is here, is he not?" said one of the Kingsguard.
Lyanna kept her sword up.
Rhaegar frowned, and glanced back towards Harrenhal. "What you did may get you imprisoned or killed," he said, "My father's madness has convinced him that your laughing tree was a mockery of him."
Lyanna was resolved. "What does it matter?" she said, tone bitter, "I am betrothed to a man who will give me no true regard. The days where I am free to do as I wish will end. I will not hesitate to use every last moment to defend my father's bannermen."
The Prince turned his head and looked directly at Jon. Heart pummelling his ribs, Jon stood up in a scramble. He can see me! His mind shouted. But the purple eyes seemed to look through him, over the water of the God's Eye.
To the Isle of Faces.
It lasted only a few heartbeats, though they were some of the hardest Jon had ever known.
"It matters because a life such as yours should not be snuffed out," Rhaegar replied with absolute certainty. He threw his reins to the Kingsguard to his right, and dismounted. Lyanna watched as he walked up, heedless of her weapon, and offered his hand to help her down. She did not take it.
"We must hide your armour if you are to live," he said, "Allow me to help."
Lyanna did not move. Nor did her sword.
"We are not the only search party looking for you," the Prince added, "Men more like to hand you over to His Grace, the King."
A scan of the surroundings later, she had sheathed her blade and taken his hand with new-found haste. His fingers began undoing the straps holding the plate armour to her body; something she could not have done by herself anyway.
Lyanna watched him do it. "What do you mean 'a life such as yours'," she asked.
The Prince paused, and looked up to the sky for a moment. "In your first tournament, you beat three squires who had all won victories in the tilts. You did so in disguise. You risked your life two times over to do the right thing. Such a thing is as rare as dragons. The Gods have blessed you."
Lyanna cocked an eyebrow. "Your Seven like it not. Are you not going to tell me such behaviour is unladylike?"
"It is, but better to have one's honour. And you were most ladylike when I found you crying at my song, my lady."
"Should you be looking to my safety?" Lyanna said, "What would your wife think?"
The Prince's fingers froze, but only for a breath's span. "Though she is pleasant and kind, I love her not. I fear I will kill her."
You have not answered the question, Jon half-snarled to himself.
He peeled away the breastplate, and Lyanna backed away from him. "You will kill her?!"
"She is not strong of body," Rhaegar said, lifting the plate aside, "She was bedridden for half a year after the birth of our daughter. As my consort, it is expected she will bear more children. Expected by my father most of all. She is as trapped as I am."
The removal and storage of the armour was finished in complete silence after that, and Rhaegar helped Lyanna back onto her horse before remounting his own.
"Your noble actions must not go unrewarded, my lady," he said, "I will see to that." With that, he reached up into the tree and retrieved the Laughing Tree shield, wheeling his horse to leave.
As the Prince moved to leave, Jon saw his mother's face burn a bright red, and the flash of white from the sword of one of the Kingsguard. Arthur Dayne, he fumed, Not even he could have stopped Father had he seen this scene…
But who Jon meant by Father was Eddard Stark. And roiling up from his stomach, the realisation swept him away, his mother's blushing and Prince Rhaegar's promise to reward her as clear evidence as was possible to see. Jon wobbled again, this time caught by Val. She put her hand up against his forehead, trying to determine if he had a fever.
I'm in a fever dream, I must be. "I'm his bastard, aren't I?" he asked Lord Reed, rasping, "I'm what came from his crime."
Lord Reed shook his head. "You came from him, that is certain," came the reply, "Whether or not you are a bastard is a matter of dispute, though many would say so."
Of course I am. "What dispute?!"
"Your mother loved Rhaegar, at first," the crannogman explained, as Lyanna's shade rode off in her own direction once more, "The naive love of a young girl. A dreaming child who thought she was invincible. Who thought she was doing right. Right for the realm, right for Rhaegar's wife Elia… Right for herself in being freed from Robert Baratheon. Freed by the one force in the land that could dare stand up to him and her father; the royal house."
The crannogman leaned hard on his trident spear, his eyes welling up with tears. "Perhaps Rhaegar believed he loved her too, but he loved prophesy more. He lied to woo her. The High Septon of that time was an ally of his, and defiance could not bring anything but ruin to the man. The Faith of the Seven is fickle, more human than that of the North. What its head man says is the voice of their gods, by law. It was how the Targaryens were allowed to marry brother to sister for so long, after all. So Rhaegar married Lyanna at Summerhall in secret. His second marriage. He claimed the same right as the Conqueror."
Trumpets sounded vaguely in the distance. Lord Reed winced. He remembers the moment, Jon realised.
"But there's no way the lords would accept that," Jon said, "Not without dragons to back it."
"You can win a kingdom without dragons," the crannogman answered, "Victory might allow many things, and he couldn't imagine that his house would fall. He was bringing about prophesy, after all. Even if the marriage would not have been accepted, he would have legitimised you when he came into his crown. He sought three children, three dragons. Regardless, Rhaegar's obsession doomed her. And a great many others."
Jon shook his head violently. "Prophesy? I don't believe you. Why would my father keep this a secret? Why would the honourable Eddard Stark do this!"
"Your father, the man who raised you, watched King Robert declare himself pleased that the Mountain and Ser Amory had killed Rhaegar's children by Elia. He could not take the chance Robert would demand the same fate for you. He promised your mother to keep you safe, and made me promise to keep the secret."
The ground seemed to shake under him. "What does this mean?" Jon asked, "I am a Targaryen?"
"You are that which you want to be," the Child said. Its long silence made the declaration seem thunderous. "Whether you remain Jon Snow, Jon of House Stark, or Aemon of House Targaryen will depend entirely on your actions and decisions. Do not try to fulfill prophesy, it will attend to itself. We told your father this, when he visited the Isle."
Jon's heart seemed to calm of its own accord. The numbness in his limbs that he had not even noticed began to creep away. Is this magic? His thoughts recollected.
"Aemon?"
"Your mother's revenge on Rhaegar," Lord Reed said, "She named you for the prince that gave up the throne to pursue his own path."
Jon snorted and shook his head. Maester Aemon had always been kind to him. Now he felt like he owed the man a debt he could never repay, though it was impossible that the old man knew he had been advising his own kin. "I served with the man I was named for at the Wall," he half-chuckled, "Did Lady Stark know all along?" Did she inflict her petty cruelties on me for my true father's blood, rather than the stain of bastardy?
"I believe not," said the crannogman.
Of course not. Jon's chuckled turned into an outright laugh. "All these years, she's treated me like a bastard. A threat to her own children. But by rights, I'm the King of Westeros!"
Such an absurdity was beyond belief.
"Your grandfather's acts say otherwise," Lord Reed countered, "Though I am sure there are some who plot a restoration, for their own ends. I doubt they know of you, though only the gods know who visited Lady Lyanna before we found her in Dorne."
Val frowned. "Kneeler customs," she complained, "A man's deeds and words make him a king. And unmake him. If men are displeased with their king, they should fight."
Jon laughed, genuinely pleased to hear she wasn't changed by the revelation one inch. The more she speaks of Free Folk ways of politics, the more they make sense. He cupped her face, kissed her on each cheek and once on the lips. "It matters not," he said, wiping his eyes, "I cannot prove it."
"But your father can," Lord Reed said, "Rhaegar's copy of the marriage documents are in his possession, hidden in his solar at Winterfell. Assurance should the new dynasty collapse and the dragons return. Your Uncle Viserys and Aunt Daenerys escaped, after all. Perhaps that was true prophesy, King Joffrey certainly gives no reason to believe his line will last."
Jon's mind was too fatigued to consider the matter. He wanted to be gone from this sorcerous illusion, he wanted to be gone from his false life.
"It matters not," he repeated, "You were right, Lord Reed. I should have heeded your advice. I should have waited for Father… for my uncle, to tell me the truth. Or returned here if we were unsuccessful at bringing him home. I cannot unlearn what I have learned."