Chapter Text
"I was scared of pretty girls and starting conversations
Oh, all my friends are turning green
you’re the magician's assistant in their dreams."
Time future (Side A)
A castle-within-a-castle, Jon had thought, describing the massive fortress housing their monarch, echoing Mother’s words to him when he’d begged for her to describe Father’s home. Mother had only gone to King’s Landing a handful of times, when the Queen or Father had requested her presence in court. Otherwise she’d keep to running Dragonstone, what became of Mother’s home since marrying into House Targaryen and becoming Father’s second wife.
Jon was presented to court when he was but a babe and he had not set his foot to the capital ever since. It was by the King’s orders, and the King’s orders were law. Mother’s marriage to Father had spurned several great houses of the Seven Kingdoms, broken ties and dishonor, he’d heard the kitchen helps discussed it one rainy evening, and he had learned through lessons that some had gone as far as calling to arms and raising banners against their own King until Mother placated House Baratheon and House Stark and Father managed to win back House Martell’s support.
Maester Cressen would say little of the events that happened next but Jon had understood all the same that he and Mother were sent to Dragonstone as the King’s punishment to Father. Jon loved his home, the island where he grew up, where Mother’s warmth is, where he learned to speak and read and write and do sums, where Ser Arthur taught him how to hold a wooden sword and properly ride a horse, where Father taught him how to play the harp and arrange music, where Father’s ancestors carved their legacy and where dragons have been set in the stones of their castle.
Until Egg and Rhaenys with their escort, their uncle Prince Oberyn, came to their island to visit a kin, him—their little brother, and pay respects to Father’s second wife when Egg casually remarked over dinner that their home was damp and dreary and how could you possibly live here? and Jon had seen the look of hurt flicker on Mother’s beautiful face and Jon wanted to snap at his brother for saying nonsense just as he felt Rhaenys kicked Egg’s shins under the table and Prince Oberyn placed a comforting hand on Mother’s and remarked that he too was sent to a place after a blunder with a lord from Yronwood. Lys the Lovely it was called, but it was hardly that when storms ravage the rock and seas, and then Mother broke into laughter—the one Jon loves but he’d heard only a number of times—which stunned Egg and Rhaenys because it sounded so carefree and made Mother so younger than her true years, how can you call that a blunder? she challenged the Martell Prince, eyes twinkling with amusement and Prince Oberyn grinned at her and began to regale them the story of the “Red Viper” not before Mother interjected please do keep it fit for children’s ears, and the prince nodded while grinning even more broadly, any slight made was forgotten.
But not to Jon, for it was that time he had realized that Dragonstone was no true home for Mother. He knew that Mother craved moments same as with Prince Oberyn, where she could meet others, exchange stories with and travel distant lands. Every time she came home from visiting Father in King’s Landing, there was always a wistful air about her. Mother did all her best to hide it but Jon knew when she had the same air every time she spoke of the North and Winterfell, her beloved childhood home.
These musings made Jon’s blood run cold. It made him think that his own home could dampen Mother’s spirits and wither her strength.
Ten years past, he was finally invited to the court again. Mother was close to tears when she broke the news to him and Jon instantly thought that he’d rather stay for the invitation did not extend to Mother, but she shushed him and said with a wry smile that the Red Keep could only hold so much Stark, Jon, and proceeded to tell him about court life. Mother was genuinely excited for his travels at least and Jon wanted to be the one telling her stories for a change. Begrudgingly he’d agreed and Mother pinched both his cheeks as her customary way of teasing him, saying it’s not like you have a choice my little wolf, in life we’d do best to make most of what has been offered to us.
Father went home and stayed for two moons, the longest to date Jon had noted, when he came to fetch him for King’s Landing. Father did his duty to the realm as the Crown Prince, his duty to Mother lasting only for a week, a fortnight if there were no disputes to settle in some faraway lands, and a moon if there was a cause to celebrate. Mother didn’t seem to be bothered by Father’s absence most of the time. She’d only fuss about it when she suspected that Father’s neglecting him and not her, and Jon wondered how their particular relationship put the realm’s peace at stake for even though he’s young and didn’t know much about love, he had regarded their relationship as a comfortable companionship and nothing more. He’d had the crofter and his wife’s relationship for a comparison—where there were much arguments, pardons, kisses, laughter, and then some more arguments—then again, Jon supposed love for nobles were different from the sort the smallfolk experience as much as the land was to the sea. When he said as much to Ser Arthur, the knight shook his head with a laugh saying, I’m even less fit to hold an opinion for it, my lord prince, seeing as I swore to a different sort of vow! But I do know this, as my sister Ashara has told me: if you can be at peace and content with someone after all’s been said and done, then there’s no truer love than that.
Jon eyed his Father’s back, broad and strong and steady; he was always sure of his steps. If not for the slight hunch of his shoulders, he’d never know that life has also made Father bone-tired and all the more mournful—for what exactly, Jon could not say. It reminded him of that time when Father met him at the practice yard to oversee his trainings with Ser Arthur and he had told him that the invitation to go to court came from his little sister (Jon knew as much for Mother let him read Father’s letter in her solar), the youngest of King Aery’s line, who was three-and-twenty years Father’s junior. Jon hardly thought a girl of seven could be that thoughtful, knowing the implications of inviting someone back to court when he was banished from it in the first place, and he resented the fact that he’ll pretty much act as her chaperone. The letter did say that Father’s siblings Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys were sent to Harrenhal for a pleasure trip while Egg and Rhaenys had accompanied their mother, the Princess Elia, back to Dorne for Prince Doran’s nameday feast, rendering Father’s little sister to be alone at court; the letter has said as much that he was to be her companion for the time being.
It seemed that Father has read his thoughts for he regarded him with disappointed eyes and sighed before saying, listen, she’s naive but pure of heart and her love of songs what’s solved my dilemma for years. She somehow came to know about my youngest son’s plight, ‘destined to only live in one place’ as she put it, and she’d cried that wonderful child, telling me how dreadful it was… and began to seek audience with the King for days. She’d present the King with her achievement in the noble arts once a day, always asking in return if she could meet her youngest nephew who was known to play the harp beautifully as her dear brother. She’d begged that she ‘only wanted to hear fine music.’ Father has… Father has never taken to persuasion, believing his own words than others, but if there’s someone who he’d at least lend his ear to and actually reconsider his actions by it, it would be my little sister’s. So it would be thanks to your aunt that the King welcomes you and your lady mother into court once more, and bestows more freedom than I could ever hope to provide. Jon’s ears burned and he knew he was red-faced with shame by the time Father ended his lecture, but what wound him more so was the look of anguish Father had—in truth, Jon never gave thought that Father suffered from guilt, of what he had put his second wife and youngest son into, but Jon found that he knew less and less. His thoughts of Father then revolve on his worries after he’d married Mother: was Father truly at peace, was he content, was there something else he’s looking for?
So with more resolve he could muster, he pushed his feet and followed after Father traversing their way into Maegor’s Holdfast. Oh, he’d be sure to keep Father’s sister entertained if that’s what it took to earn favor from the King and lessen everyone’s burdens.
Father led Jon through the Queen’s Ballroom where a splendid small-scale reproduction of another holdfast welcomed him. There were five towers almost as tall as Jon and its curtain walls were oddly bent and discolored as if the stones used to build it were melted—with a start Jon recognized the holdfast as a miniature replica of Harrenhal. He turned to Father and he must have seen the disbelief in his eyes for his lips twisted into a resigned smile and said, “This was Viserys’ idea.”
As garish as it may be to function as a playground for children—of royal blood no less, Jon had found the place wicked in a thrilling sort of way, so he supposed it wasn’t all that bad and he could definitely see the appeal. The craftsmanship put in the making of the miniature holdfast was impressive besides.
Stepping closer, Jon examined the armory set up to his right, where wooden blades and arrows were scattered; it opened to a yard, Flowstone Yard, if his recollection from his lessons served him right. Across it must be the Wailing Tower, he thought racking his brain for the names of the other four towers around them.
Just then, a small tuneful voice cried out from what Jon had dubbed as the Wailing Tower. A small head with auburn hair protruded from within, piercing blue eyes scanning around briefly when they latched on immediately to Father, standing just beside it.
“Halt!” said the small voice, eyes bright while looking up at Father’s towering height, “In the name of Her Grace Sansa Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of The Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”
Jon immediately snapped to attention at the introduction Father’s little sister made. His little aunt, whose tales Jon had heard so much, by Egg and Rhaenys who had claimed her a charming princess, and always by Father narrating his own stories with such fondness that he had always felt foolish after hearing him so, for the unbidden jealousy that bloomed in him for someone he hadn’t even met yet. It was a little worse when Mother mentioned her at times; she’d met the princess on a few occasions from her visits to the King’s Landing and it was clear she was well fascinated by her. Jon had overheard Mother and Ser Arthur talking about her once at Aegon’s Garden, I’ve never seen someone act so much like a lady at five, Arthur! And she’s this dainty princess begging for stories of the North—I had wondered… what it’s like to have a daughter of my own.
Father then grinned, and Jon couldn’t look away because it’s one of Father’s rare smiles—the one that reached his eyes. “Protector of the Realm of Lemon Cakes, you mean?”
At this, the child Sansa, giggled joyfully. She then placed her small hand in front of her lips, Jon suspected, seemingly to stop them from quivering and when she looked back to Father, her face was composed—at least the top half was—as it was the only thing Jon could see from his distance, the Wailing Tower hiding the rest of her.
“Who dares? Who comes into my castle without announcing his name?” Sansa stuck her nose upwards and crinkled them in an act that plainly said she was displeased.
Father instantly bowed, graciously even. “Pray excuse me, Your Grace, for my lack of courtesies. It is only so that I was blinded by Your Grace’s beauty that I momentarily forgot them.”
Jon couldn’t resist rolling his eyes but when it earned another melodious giggle from Sansa, he wondered if he’ll ever learn to speak like Father does. And then Jon caught himself, speaking like Father does? Mother would be in hysterics!
“I forgive you, but let that be your last trespass,” Sansa said demurely. “So what of your name, good ser?”
“This humble person has the honor of being Crown Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstrone. Your Grace, if you it please you, may I present to you my youngest son, Prince Jon of House Stark?”
Father beckoned Jon to come closer and he did, as he reached Father’s side and the front of the Wailing Tower, Sansa was waiting and watching him with expectant eyes.
“M—my lady… uuh, Y-Your Grace…” Jon trailed as he curtsied.
“Oh,” Sansa gasped. And then there were little noises inside the makeshift tower, as if Sansa was scrambling to do something.
Father openly laughed at her and placed his large hands on the tower’s battlements. “Here, let me help you Your Grace.”
Sansa nodded and Father hefted her out of the tower to stand in front of them. After straightening her posture, she dipped low to pay them both her most gracious courtesy. Jon hasn’t had much experience with receiving courtesies, the smallfolk tended to shy away from him whenever he ventured outside the walls of his home, but what the princess had done was of perfection if he ever saw one.
“It’s an honor to finally meet you, Prince Jon,” the princess said while peering through her lashes.
“As—as do I,” Jon responded, seemingly tongue-tied.
He now had a good look on his little aunt. Bright auburn hair that flowed down past her shoulders, dressed in soft wrapped black silks embroidered with utmost detail of a—a godswood, Jon wondered in awe, eyes trailing after the careful stitches of redwoods and weirwoods on her gown. She looked every bit as regal as Father. And very pretty, with round and stark blue eyes, plump cheeks and pink lips. Even clothed in our house colors, she doesn’t look anything like a Targaryen same as me, Jon thought with a comfort.
For a while there was only silence, bordering uneasiness when Jon realized that Sansa was openly staring at him, her brows were knitted in concentration and there was something in her eyes that made Jon want to ask her what it was she was thinking. He turned to Father and found that his eyes were observing them with amusement.
“And to what do I owe the honor of your presence here, good sers?” Sansa asked, having broken from her stupor.
“We’ve heard tales of a fair maiden locked in this keep and we’ve sought to rescue her.” When Sansa crinkled her nose to that, seemingly expecting that one and desiring for another clever testament, Father opted to drop the act with a gracious shrug. “There was also an invitation for a celebration…”
“Oh… but that’s not until a turn of a moon—” then, Sansa’s face broke into a cheer and she went to hug Father as tightly as her lean arms could muster. For a girl of seven, she’s quick on the uptake.
Father lifted her again and placed kisses on his little sister’s cheeks. “It’s our intention to stay until your nameday feast, and two moons after. My son is in dire need of recess from Dragonstone, I’m afraid. And this being his first year in court, he’d need all the guidance you could offer, Your Grace.”
Jon knew his cheeks were burning. It was one thing for Father to talk of him to one person when he’s within hearing distance but another thing to talk of him to someone who’s stranger still but must be familiar.
“I’d love to teach him!” Sansa turned to him. “If that would please you my lord prince?”
“Yes, of course!” Jon quickly answered, realizing his mistake he began to stammer, “That is, well… I mean, yes it would please me Your Grace.”
Feeling quite the fool now for his blunders he lowered his eyes but not before he caught the exchanged looks Father and Sansa had—both were grinning, though not unkindly. Jon had noted that Father smiled easily when he’s with his sister.
He only looked up when a small hand was offered to him. Sansa was beckoning him towards her and though Jon felt weary he approached her and offered his own arm to her.
His little aunt clung to him deftly and said, “You can drop the much higher title now when we’re not in play. You can call me Princess Sansa or just plain Sansa if you like.”
“Then you can call me Jon, it’d only be fair.”
Sansa nodded approvingly. “Very well…” she paused some and looked at Jon from head to toe making Jon feel ever so small even though he’s a forehead taller than her. Her lips twisted into something reminiscent of Father’s quirk when he’s about to impart him great wonders of the world, “Oh, I must share you my first lesson, as I have had with Viserys just before he left for Harrenhal!” she leaned in closer and whispered, “Jon, in the presence of ladies, if it’s the first time you’ve met them and been introduced to, you’d do well to compliment their name.”
“Truly?” and Jon instantly regretted his words, for who was he to question her teachings, despite her being younger than him by three namedays? It was just that… he had thought his words would sound as a tease and not a chide.
He had thought wrong as his little aunt admonished him with a crinkle of her nose. If he was not so busy cursing his self for being daft, he’d be sure to be endeared by her act.
“I’m not one for lying! Mother says she can catch my lie no matter if I try hard enough, Rhaegar and Dany too. It’s only Viserys that I could—” Sansa stopped her rambling and regarded Jon with appraising eyes, “Well?”
“I—I’d keep that in mind and I thank you for that, Sansa…” His little aunt managed to respond a soft smile at him and perhaps it was from that note that Jon wanted to curry her good favors more so he said, “You do have a pretty name.”
There was a pause—a short but nerve-wracking all the same—and then he was rewarded with her delightful chuckles.
#
A little over a week Jon has established a routine in King’s Landing, chiefly at Sansa’s behest. There was no cause to complain as Father placed him on his little sister’s care after all, and after being presented at the Great Hall a day later (and not when he’d first arrived to which some courtiers spoke in hushed tones that the King didn’t even want to receive him at his own gates so he’d given the task to his Hand and the Queen) and receiving the King’s glare from his Iron Throne all throughout, he’d rather do anything Sansa bid him to and go anywhere she pleased so long as it would make him avoid any interactions with his lord grandfather.
And so he’d broke his fast with his little aunt, attended lessons with her, ate lunch with her at Father’s solar and come afternoon they’d have free time by which Sansa would play the generous hostess and show him around the keep (her septa in tow but always a few paces behind). By evening just before supper, she’d insist on dancing lessons or learning how to play the harp, but after every meal she’d vanish swiftly to her chambers leaving Jon to spend his own time in the library until drowsiness kicked in. He hadn’t gotten around again to asking her why she did so, the first time he’d ask her she rebuked him in that gentle haughty mannerism of hers that he came to know well after that time he’d ask her to show him where the White Sword Tower was, for he had learned through Ser Arthur that its Round Room housed the remaining skulls of Targaryen dragons. Most of them remained adorning the walls of the Great Hall but he could not bring himself to go back there and admire the display when the King’s just at the center of it all.
“Ladies are not allowed to go there,” she said simply, avoiding his eyes.
“How so? Mother has been there, Lady Lyanna of House Stark and Lady of Dragonstone, escorted by Ser Arthur Dayne, the—”
“The Sword of the Morning, I know,” Sansa cut him off, large blue eyes shrinking into a glower.
Mayhaps his words were a bit spiteful but before Jon could spew out an apology, it hit him, “Why, are you not allowed to go there?”
Sansa huffed and immediately turned red. Red as pomegranate, Mother would have said, the added effect of her auburn hair braided and spun atop her small head surely made her look like one.
“Are you accusing me of not being allowed to wander around the Red Keep, my own home?”
Jon shook his head and decided to pacify her before he earned his little aunt’s full ire, “I only meant… just, tell what’s within the Round Room that’s not fit for you, then maybe I’ll learn it’s not fit for me too and I wouldn’t even ask to go there again.”
Sansa seemed to steel herself and her small hands sought Jon’s hands. When she got hold of them, she looked up and said, “You don’t understand Jon…”
“Then make me.”
The princess nodded to him, and then nodded at herself before squaring her shoulders in confession, “I’m the one who’s not fit to go inside.”
“What? How could that be possible?”
“It’s what Viserys told me… you see, Viserys, Dany, Egg and Rhaenys, all five of us love playing around the keep and not just at the Queen’s Ballroom. We’d play Monsters-and-Maiden and Come-Into-My-Castle and Hide-The-Treasure and Spin-The-Sword. Well, the latter game’s what made everyone know that I feared…” at this Sansa paused for quite a while.
“Go on, whatever you have to say, I’d keep it to my grave.”
Sansa smiled a little and continued, “They found I have a fear for dragons, Jon. Which is such a silly thing for I have a Targaryen blood in me, blood of a noble family known as dragonlords who’ve kept dragons much of their reign in the Seven Kingdoms,” as she went on her voice became tight and thick with derision on her own self, “Our house’s sigil’s a three-headed dragon breathing flames, our words are ‘Fire and Blood’ and I just have a silly, stupid fear for them! I could never stand to look at dragon skulls and bones. I’d have nightmares… Viserys and Rhaenys challenged me to go to the Round Room on my own when I lost a round and I had no choice but to go so I did, later Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell found me there, fainted and quite feverish. I just thought… ‘I’m a Targaryen, I could be brave’ but I only made a fool of myself.”
“You’re not a fool, trust on me that.”
“Yes, I am! Viserys suspects that I don’t have much Targaryen blood in me given how I favor the Tully features. Blood of a dragon, and I have a fear from them.”
Jon shook his head at that. “It’s not a silly thing to fear Sansa,” he opted to calm her down by moving his thumbs in a circular motion on her palms, as he once saw Mother did to Ser Arthur when the knight learned of his sister’s grief from that foul news that her daughter to Uncle Brandon had been stillborn just after a wildlings’ party attacked Winterfell in the dead of night.
“Dragons are fearsome beasts after all! There’s nothing to fault you for it. If we’re talking about silly fears, then mine’s more stupid than yours could ever hope to be.” Jon leaned closer and whispered to the princess’ ear, “I have a fear for maggots.”
Sansa’s eyes bulged, “What? Maggots? How come, Jon?”
“I was six then. Mother, Ser Arthur and I were to visit the fishing village by the coast when a snake emerged from the path and spooked Ser Arthur’s horse. I was riding with him.” Sansa gasped at that, “Ser Arthur lost his hold of the reins long before the steed went wild for he was letting me hold it and so he had lost control altogether, plus I was his priority, holding me tightly as he could. Mother managed to catch up with us as she was an extremely skilled rider; she grabbed the reins yet not for long, it slipped her hand all the same but the strength of her pull must have veered the mount to where a large boulder was and the animal hit it, and soon Ser Arthur and I were thrown to the side and rolling down the hill. I suffered no wounds nor had scratches but Ser Arthur’s efforts of protecting me cost him his left leg.”
“Did he lose it?” there was panic in Sansa’s voice and concern filled her eyes.
“The gods were in our favor then. He had a terrible gash on his leg but Maester Cressen said it would heal properly—and that’s where the maggots came in. The Maester had to put several of those nasty looking buggers…” Jon looked at Sansa and began to hastily add, “If you excuse my saying so, he had to put it in Ser Arthur’s wound to avoid festering and Ser Arthur had to endure them for two days before the Maester removed them and began patching his skin.”
“That sounds… that sounds really disagreeable.”
“You can try awfully disgusting and the foulest of foul healing methods known by the Citadel. Since then, I have dreams where maggots were trying to crawl deep inside my skin.” And by saying it, Jon shuddered visibly.
Sansa openly laughed at that, a high sweet sound. Not a giggle but a laugh, Jon noted with pleasure.
“Don’t let Grand Maester Aemon hear that but thank you, Jon. It was very kind of you, to make me feel better.” The princess then let their entwined hands drop. “I’m sorry I quarreled with you.”
“There’s no offense made, Sansa.”
“Still, I hope you’d let me make amends. I would ask Ser Barristan to accompany you to the Round Room, please.”
Jon could only bob his head in assent. He smiled at her as he thought: she’s ever the lady, ever considerate. Day by day he could see why everyone’s charmed by her.
“Jon?”
“Yes?”
“It was brave of Lady Lyanna to rescue both you and Ser Arthur by chasing the spooked horse. Like in the songs…” Sansa’s blue eyes were shining in wonderment. “I’d met her a few times before; she’d told me stories of the North and taught me Northern dances. She’s very beautiful and willful as Rhaegar describes her to be.”
“Yes, that’s Mother alright.” Jon’s lips pulled into a wider smile at that. For a moment Jon had glimpsed a doleful expression in Sansa but it vanished just before he could question her about it for she was talking again in excitement.
“Do you think—do you think we can write a song about her, about that time?”
“I don’t see why we can’t.”
That day they had found themselves writing songs about Mother, and then Father, arguing about how long it should be, what words they should use over another and spending a great time what their titles would be that they skipped supper and spent the rest of the evening writing even more songs about their fears, and things they like and love until Sansa mentioned something about her Mother visiting the godswood often that suddenly stopped Sansa dead in her tracks, and with a squeak she excused herself and bid Jon goodnight.
On the tenth day Sansa and Jon had made plans to visit the River Gate where they could visit the market square and the port where Jon intended to lecture Sansa about fishing. They had secured permission from Father and guards and attendants were readily assigned and posted, and the Queen has even expressed her wishes to join them which pleased Sansa so much the day before that she could not stop repeating the fact to whomever she’s spoken to, and so it was to Jon’s great disbelief that Sansa sent a messenger just before they broke their fast that she would not make it to their pre-arranged excursion.
Ser Barristan announced his arrival to Father’s chambers. “Your Grace, Prince Jon’s here to see you.”
“My lord father, have you seen Sansa?” Jon dispelled the curtsy he’s expected to give to hurry with his questioning.
“My lord father now, is it?” the corner of Father’s lips curled into a small grin as he examined his day’s attire in the mirror. “She’s made a quick work of you, my little sister… I haven’t seen her though Jon. Does she intend to see me before your party venture out to the River Gate?”
“That’s the plan… but a page came telling me that she won’t make it, and that she’s very very sorry. I went to her chambers to ask what seems to be the problem but Septa Mordane says she’s not there!” And when he saw the alarm glinted off Father’s eyes, Jon rambled on, “I’m worried Father. I’ve looked and asked around for her.”
Father strode to him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, “If you’ve looked anywhere else, then she must be at her mother’s chambers.”
“T—The Lady Catelyn’s? But—”
Father ignored Jon’s mumbles and turned to Ser Barristan instead, “Come to think of it, I’ve yet to hear Uncle Maester’s report on her condition since my return here.”
“Whose condition, Father?” if there’s anything he loathed, it’s the feeling when men of age ignore children’s voices.
Father sighed and said, “Sansa’s lady mother, Jon. Ser Barristan, if you could have someone summon Uncle Maester for me? Have him meet me at Lady Catelyn’s chambers.”
Ser Barristan nodded, “At once Your Grace.” The knight’s white cloak rustled in his haste.
Father then pushed Jon to the door, “Let’s go find Sansa.”
It was Sansa’s cries that awaited them when they entered Lady Catelyn’s solar. “I don’t understand Great Uncle, why wouldn’t you let me see Mother?! She needs me.”
She was currently perched atop a knight’s embrace, head buried in his chest; from the colors of his armor there was no mistake he’s from Sansa’s Mother’s side of the family.
The handmaiden announced their presence almost as an afterthought.
“Rhaegar?” Sansa looked up and all they saw was distraught marring her pretty face, her eyes were rimmed red from sobbing nonstop. “Mother—she’s—no one will tell me.”
It was Jon’s first time to see Sansa ruffled, the young lady, the charming princess, but he surely didn’t wish to see it in such a circumstance—he’d imagined she’d be once they practice horse ride, or when they soon play out in the sun, or when they go fishing—certainly never in a heartbreaking way like this. She’s shaking and her continuous whimpers sent daggers, cutting Jon’s skin and making him feel utterly helpless.
Father reached out to Sansa and the knight who was holding her reluctantly put her in his arms.
“It’s alright dear sister, everything’s going to be.”
“I’m afraid… that it wouldn’t.” Sansa said in a whisper, voice so brittle.
That alone made Jon’s heart go out to her, so he walked to where Father was standing to clutch Sansa’s small hands. She pressed her hands to him in return, letting him know that she appreciated the gesture.
Grand Maester Aemon came not long after, ushering everyone out except for the knight who Sansa called Great Uncle for some questioning. Sansa asked to stay but the Grand Maester shook his head despondently, so Jon convinced her to pray at the Sept instead. Father insisted as well, saying that he would like to pray for Lady Catelyn’s health and so Sansa agreed albeit halfheartedly. Father lighted the candles for the Mother, Crone, as well as the Stranger at Sansa’s request. Then, he ordered for Sansa to eat some meal with Jon as he returned back to Lady Catelyn’s chambers to fetch for news. After eating a measly share Sansa asked Jon, to his surprise, to accompany her to the godswood.
“I didn’t know you keep to the old gods,” he’d asked after they both stood in front of a great oak made to look like a heart tree with a carved face on it.
“I don’t… not particularly, but Mother often visits here to gather her thoughts. She also once told me that it reminds her of someone close to home and that it always gave her great comfort and strength in return. So when… she has her spells, I’d visit the godswood in her stead to ask the old gods to watch over her.”
“Mother’s of the North and people there keep to the old gods. I do as well. I’ll help you pray to them Sansa.”
His little aunt nodded at him gratefully and they both went to kneel in front of the weirwood. Sansa prayed at great length but she’d kept her prayers to herself. Her soft whispers were carried by the summer air, enveloping them in a warm embrace. When Sansa made to stand, Jon was on his feet at once, pulling her up. The two of them spotted a bench beside the fountains and they made their way to it to recline.
Jon handed her a kerchief and Sansa claimed it with a murmur of thanks, Silence seeping in, not before long. Jon watched as the princess dabbed at her face to wipe away the tears that tracked her cheeks and chin. Before he could catch his self, his own hand was reaching for her face and Sansa eyed it, tiredness in them, as she bobbed her head in consent. He then tucked stray hairs away from her face and the princess leaned herself to his touch.
“If you… don’t mind my asking, I noticed you rarely talk about the Lady Catelyn.”
Sansa’s face fell some at that and she looked away from him. “I—I don’t want to burden anyone… When someone mentions Mother within my hearing, they’d look at me with pity, and then they’d feel sorry for themselves—and I—I hated those times Jon! So I kept mum and then everyone else’s doing it too. They find it so easy not to speak about the King’s bedridden-wife… Some even talk and act as if Mother’s already dead… I just, all I ever wanted was to preserve Mother’s pride and honor as she is.”
“Not talking about her must be hard for you.”
“There’s my Great Uncle Brynden… Rhaegar and Dany to ease me.”
“If you like, you can talk about her to me too... I want to hear about her.” Sansa looked so unsure so Jon went on, “I—I think it best if you talk freely of her instead of minding if anyone’s burdened by it. She’s very much alive and talking about her will surely remind everyone else of her place here. She deserves that, as the second wife to the King and a noble lady from one of the great houses in the realm.”
“I… suppose that’s right.”
“You can start by telling me her mannerisms, what her voice sounds like.”
“Her voice…” and Jon realized it was the wrong thing to say for Sansa was already tearing up at the thought of her, but when Jon’s ready to spring out a dozen of apologies he remembered Sansa’s words, of how people had talked with her about her Mother only to stop when sentiments began lurking about—of how the subject made them uncomfortable and placed it before Sansa’s own feelings. He cursed himself for almost ruining the first chance he has and swallowed the apologies on his lips and urged her on instead.
“Mother always has the sternest voice, yet can be delivered in a gentle manner. I don’t know how she does it but it’s what she does to have someone do her bidding.” Sansa managed a weak smile. “She also has a clear singing voice. And I miss the times she’d sing me to sleep. I truly miss her.”
Sansa then told Jon that it was a little over a year ago, at least what Grand Maester Aemon had suspected, when the disease struck Lady Catelyn. She was a strong woman, and everyone could attest to it by how she’d kept to her duties to the crown. She’d visit the orphanage and instruct the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting and manage the royal household when the Queen’s burdened with affairs with the Small Council, which happened more often than not. She’d only complained of headache every now and then and the lady mostly dismissed the pains she’d felt as something she’d easily overcome. So it was to everyone’s shock when she fainted and fell down from her horse on their way to the Great Sept to hear of that week’s sermon. That was eight moons ago, and the following months after were quite hard for everyone especially for Sansa for she was forbidden to see her mother until they were sure that whatever illness the lady had contracted was not something contagious and may prove terminal for children. After the fourth turn of the moon, Sansa has been granted freedom to her mother’s chambers.
“And she’s—Mother, she’s very much changed. She’s sickly thin and always had this faraway look. There are times… that she won’t even remember me. That’s when her spells would come, she’d cried so hard for the pain in her head, begging for someone to make it stop, and always apologizing for someone… she’d call out to that one person that seems to haunt her and beg for forgiveness and understanding. And Mother’s always been honorable, kind and generous and I don’t understand how she’d wrong someone… but she believes it to be true. Great Uncle Brynden told me it’s the product of her afflicted mind but I’ve always wondered if that’s all there is to it.” Sansa paused some and looked back at the weirwood trees before continuing, “I’ve wanted to talk with Mother about her burdens so that I may help her with it, but what can I merely do? I’m only allowed occasionally to see her on daylight for fear that I may drain her or put more unnecessary stress to her.”
“Is that… where you’d disappear to in the evenings?”
His little aunt nodded. “I can only stand vigil when she’s already sound asleep.”
And Jon understood just how sad and lonely Sansa truly was, and how blind he was for not seeing it. True, she hid it well with her courtesies and smiles but once you knew her circumstance you’d instantly see it in how she carried herself, a princess who’s mature past her young years, with the air of thoughtfulness about her. And he could now fathom why Father had never wanted for his little sister to be alone at court, even just for a few moons without one who’s close to her age, for fear that the times would rob Sansa of her youthful enthusiasm.
“Lady Catelyn must have missed you just as much… Mayhaps we can talk to the Grand Maester to grant you more leeway in your daylight visits? I’m sure it’d put more stress to her that she can’t see her child’s state, as all mothers.”
Sansa glanced down at her lap. “Mayhaps… b—but I’m afraid, Jon. Part of why I’m not allowed to see her in the first place was that Mother’s memories had become fuzzy of late. Like I said, there are times she’d forget that she ever had a child, that she married the King, that she’s now living in King’s Landing. And seeing me would confuse her and would result in her spells. But I was told she’s getting better, and that she’s been asking for me. I just, think I can’t bear it if I see her again and she won’t recognize me.”
“Not in her heart of hearts, and you know that. It’s okay to be scared but you just have the courage to try. Family, Duty, Honor, isn’t that right?”
And then Sansa looked at him with surprise. “Yes. Yes, that’s right.”
#
Jon fidgeted under Sansa’s Great Uncle’s bright piercing eyes—the renowned Brynden the Blackfish—it didn’t help that he grew up with the legendary Ser Arthur Dayne, he just didn’t know how to compose himself in front of the knight standing guard to Lady Catelyn’s chambers. Ser Brynden Tully, with his towering height, lined features and grey hair, made his presence a commanding one, demanding great respect that Jon had to steel himself from curtsying again when the knight bowed low to him when he first entered Lady Catelyn’s solar, for then it would just be a series of endless curtsies from the two of them.
“You’re here to present yourself to the Lady Catelyn?” he’d asked.
“As is customary,” Jon found himself answering in a petulant tone, court rules had always annoyed him, but now’s not the right time to be sullen about it so he continued in a much respectful voice, “The princess asked me to accompany her to her visit to the Lady Catelyn. It’s high time that I meet her, she said.”
“I suppose,” the knight muttered, almost in a grumble.
“If—if my presence proves difficult for the lady’s… for the lady’s delicate state, I’ll go.” Jon said weakly.
“We’d have to find that out first now, don’t we my prince?” Ser Brynden eyed him carefully. “My great great niece asked you besides. I’m sure it’ll help her in there. She’ll be given something to do instead of just wondering if she’ll ask her lady mother how well she is. You go on then.”
The knight even moved some from his post as if the way inside the chambers was not large enough for Jon to pass through. Nevertheless, Jon replied, “Thank you, ser.”
“Cat…” Jon turned to the knight and there was an unreadable look on him when he spoke again, “Lady Catelyn would appreciate that my prince, I’m sure.” Ser Brynden nodded at what Jon was holding in his left hand.
He nodded in return. “It was the princess’ idea, in truth.”
Ser Brynden, to Jon’s shock, smiled a rugged smile that has a warming effect to one’s person. “Should’ve figured that, our princess holds a shrine to bards and musicians after all.”
Despite Jon’s attempts, his own lips pulled into a smile remembering that one afternoon when he’d played the harp to Sansa for hours on end. His fingers and knuckles were sore for playing almost nonstop but he hasn’t had the heart to rest just when she’s smiling brightly, listening attentively and in great wonder and her eyes were looking at all of him with such reverence he just had to please her even if it meant that he’d break some skin off his fingers and that he would have a hard time crafting letters to Mother and Ser Arthur back home. And so the day after, he tried to avoid Sansa. He did not broke his fast with her and did not attend lessons but the princess managed to corner him after he visited Father’s workplace, Ser Barristan walking with her with a guilty look on his face. When she saw the state of his hands, dressings wrapped in each finger that it made the matter outwardly all the more serious when they were really just scratches and minor cuts (that he and one page seeing to his chambers had worked with, instead of asking for a maester) Sansa fussed as if he’s suffered major wounds, eyes already brimmed with tears—the reason why he didn’t want for her to see them in the first place—as a result, his little aunt hadn’t asked him to play the harp for her again, and made no mention of it altogether that it made Jon reconsider if he should be the one offering it to her, he could definitely see it from the way she’d glanced at him sometimes after her harp lessons.
But now I’ll play to her again, and to the Lady Catelyn. Here’s to hoping the lady takes after her daughter. The lady saw him first before Sansa when he wandered inside and there was an instant tormented look about her when her sky blue eyes so like Sansa settled on him, as if she’s seen a ghost. Sansa turned to Jon, her smiling face slipping into confusion; she must have seen her mother’s response to him. Jon’s already been fearing the worst with thoughts of maybe Lady Catelyn’s not fit to meet new faces, maybe it’s too much a strain to ask her so, maybe I surprised her in some way? when he remembered his manners, and so Jon bowed low and said in as courteous a voice he could muster, “Forgive me, my ladies for not announcing my presence. I’d thought to ask Ser Brynden but I feared it a disservice to ask of such from a celebrated knight like him.”
“Please don’t tell me my uncle terrorized you in some way, good ser.” It was the Lady Catelyn’s voice. Stern and gentle just as Sansa has described. When Jon looked up, he saw that her face now was serene, her lips pulled ever so little in a good-natured smile. He wondered if what he saw earlier was just his fancy, he’s pretty nervous to meet Sansa’s lady mother as it was.
Jon could now see the trace of how the lady’s sickness has consumed her—by her pasty skin, hollowed cheeks and small lines around her eyes—yet her striking blue eyes and unbound red tresses made all the difference, there’s quiet strength within continuously fighting back against her frail condition. And Jon could see how beautiful Sansa’s mother is, where the princess certainly took after.
“He’s a terror in his own way, to be sure my lady. But not enough to stop me from coming here.”
Sansa took that as her cue and she stood up at once. “Mother, let me introduce him to you.”
Lady Catelyn nodded as she too began to stand.
Sansa gestured towards him and Jon walked to her side, a smile already in place on the princess’ face. “The good ser here is Prince Jon Stark of Dragonstone. Son of Lady Lyanna of House Stark, the second-born son of Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen.”
“I’m pleased to meet you my lord prince.” And same with Sansa, Jon received another gracious curtsy from the lady that this time he hasn’t stopped himself from bowing low again.
Sansa giggled heartily and even Lady Catelyn looked quite amused herself.
Jon’s fears receded at that, as the lady invited him to dine with them just as she ordered a maid to call for Ser Brynden to join them in their supper as well.
When they were all seated around the small dining table next to the balcony overlooking the gardens, the knight entered with a reproachful look on his face, “It only came to me that I didn’t pronounce the prince’s arrival. Forgive me, my ladies, my prince.”
Lady Catelyn only pressed her lips in response while Sansa reproached the knight to Jon’s astonishment.
“I’d wondered what you were thinking then Great Uncle,” the princess said with a turn of her nose.
“This… is what kept my mind off my manners, my princess,” just then Ser Brynden carefully produced a plate full of lemon cakes seemingly from out of thin air. “I’d thought of personally fetching them fresh from the ovens when Prince Jon told me he’s to join you lot to your evening meal.”
“Oh, no harm done then,” Sansa immediately dismissed the matter while eyeing the said plate with childish glee.
Jon felt utterly dismayed by that—on one hand she’s standing up for me, only to be betrayed by sweets the next.
Lady Catelyn must have a keen sense for the words she uttered after. “My dear princess is known for her love of lemon cakes Uncle. You’d only spoil her appetite.”
Sansa then looked greatly abashed, her lips pouting sadly. “I only meant to take them after supper, Mother.”
Ser Brynden answered in a placating tone, “See? Our princess has her table manners about her still.”
Sansa’s mother looked as if she’s meant to argue the case some more when two maids arrived with additional plates and dishes. Soon the little squabble was forgotten as they all started their dinner. The subject of that evening’s meal was Jon and his life in Dragonstone, and usually he’d twiddle being the center of attention but if it help everyone have a nice normal chat instead of measuring each of their questions and responses around Lady Catelyn’s state he’d be, albeit reluctant, center of attention a thousand times over. It was nice to see Sansa so animated with her mother besides and judging by how Ser Brynden’s warming up to him, his presence must have brought a nice dynamic to Lady Catelyn’s pace as well. It was the lady who brought up different sorts of questions for him to answer after all: how was the Lady Lyanna? Well, thank you for asking my lady, but missing my company if only for her to have someone to fuss over—Mother’s words. How’s she seen to the keep’s affairs? With the help of Maester Cressen and Ser Arthur. How is the knight faring? Well enough I suppose, although he constantly laments a lack of a good fight. And Ser Brynden quipped that it’ll be thousands of years before someone is born to best the legendary knight. And then Sansa was asking tales of the Sword of the Morning to which each of them, Ser Brynden, Lady Catelyn and him had told her several stories of their own, painting the knight as the legend he was. By the end, Sansa had declared he wanted to marry someone like Ser Arthur, a knight of songs, and Ser Brynden jest once more that Sansa would end up a maid if only for the fact that the poor lad seeking your hand would first have to fight his way through Viserys, Rhaegar, Egg, your Uncle Edmure, Prince Jon here even, the Kingsguard not to be forgotten, and all the knights sworn to House Targaryen and House Tully before he could reach you and do as he please. Sansa looked crestfallen at that, asking if her judgment alone doesn’t even stand. Of course it does, but you’re our beloved princess and we want what’s best for you, and you only deserved someone who’s brave and gentle and strong, Lady Catelyn said. Jon noted there was a brief longing in her eyes before the lady continued that Sansa’s expected to marry someone of great station besides so she needn’t worry about it. Sansa mumbled that she expected her future husband to be well-found in musical instruments as well and Ser Brynden and Lady Catelyn both chortled at that, Jon doing his best to hide his grin but failing; Sansa saw it at once, to which she answered with a dignified huff and the table’s been served with laughter from the three of them, disconcerting the princess all the more.
Jon and Sansa were on their way to her chamber, hands clasped together (Septa Mordane always made a noise to hint at her displeasure of the contact whenever they do so but she wasn’t around and they hadn’t cared much for propriety that time). She was thanking him for the lovely evening, commenting at how everything went well.
“It’s been such a long time since I last saw Mother that untroubled. I just knew your presence helped a lot.”
“You praise me so. But I know as well that it’s nice for Lady Catelyn to have you about her and hear of your progress with your lessons. I’m sure your company’s what she’s craved for so long. I see it in her eyes.”
His little aunt smiled that small smile, the one Jon remarked as endearing out of all her pretty smiles, because she felt humbled and quite uncertain of what to do next—something very like the girl Sansa was, not the lady Sansa, not the princess Sansa but just the young girl Sansa. So Jon, with a small hammering in his heart squeezed her hand.
“I learned something new today.”
“What is it?”
“That the princess holds a shrine to musicians and bards but she’s equally someone to be marveled at in the same aspect.”
Sansa blushed deeply and so prettily and Jon opted to burn the memory to his lids. He was speaking of that time when he and Sansa planned to show Lady Catelyn after their supper, of her progress with playing the harp by playing one of the lady’s favorite songs, only Jon was so surprised when they did so for Sansa accompanied their playing with her small sweet singing voice.
“What a flattery I didn’t expect you can utter, my prince.”
Jon grinned, learning another fact about her: that she’d turn to teasing and chiding when she’s embarrassed. “I have my Father to thank for that.”
Sansa laughed to that, “You are indeed your Father’s son. I’m not the only one to be marveled at when you play the harp like it’s the extension of your own hand,” a thought struck Sansa then and she squeezed his hand in hers. “We make a good pair, don’t we?”
Jon didn’t understand what she meant by the statement—what a girl of seven could be implying anyway and what a boy of ten should think of it even—but his heart was hammering like mad now and he nodded unreservedly at it. “Yes, yes we’re quite a pair.”
#