Chapter Text
Blowing out a breath, Jon watched as it clouded the air and then drifted off and down, floating slowly north of the Wall. The air was colder up here compared to down in the castle grounds surrounded by dozens of men and animals. It was quiet up here, for the most part, and the silence was helping settle his mind. The only noise was the slight whistle of wind and the occasional rattle of the winch lifting or lowering the iron cage. Since his arrival at the Wall a three days ago alongside a dozen guardsmen his stomach had been tied in knots.
Rumors had been circulating in the North of farther and farther ranging Wildling incursions and with it news of an army building on the other side of the Wall. It had taken little thought for Jon to come to the decision to travel North. Sansa, though a tad wary of him going, had agreed heartily that it was needed. There needed to be an outside observer that held the ear and trust of the Warden of the North when the wights were discovered. But that wasn’t all; Jon wanted to prevent Mormont’s death.
It wasn’t a selfish want. He wasn’t expecting to be gifted Longclaw as before. There wasn’t a need for him to hold a sword of Valyrian steel in Moat Cailin—not when the fight would be here.
Passing through Winterfell on his way had gifted him even more legitimacy. His uncle had heard his reasons, carefully crafted, alongside more personal ones. Ones that had he not lived this before would have been very true. A letter and a few additional men and supplies later Jon had mounted his horse and departed, heading North to survey the threat of the Wildings for Lord Stark and the crown.
He had gotten here both early and too late. Benjen Stark had already departed with a small group to range North, just hours before. The thought of losing his uncle again had twisted him up and Jon might have been a bit harsh in his insistence that he and a few of his guards ride out along with a guide to catch up with the ranging party.
The old bear hadn’t been happy—which was another tally for Longclaw never being on his belt again—and had denied Jon. He had not, however, denied Jon’s men.
Lord Mormont wanted Jon and his men gone from the castle as soon as possible—wanted to avoid any interference from the realm as the Watch was meant to stand on its own. However, another ranging like the one Benjen had just left on would be weeks away as the other patrols already departed days earlier.
Jon had sent four of his best guardsmen alongside the black brother Mormont had sent as guide. The lack of news had torn at him, leading to a rough few days of trolling paperwork Mormont thrust upon his steward to bring him.
He was still waiting now as the twisting feeling finally had begun to lighten, a spot of hope growing within him as shortly ago the horn had sounded, signaling the return of a ranging party.
Footsteps crunched upon the dusting of frost and chunks of hardened snow behind him. “Don’t get too close. I would hate to find myself begging Mormont to send me south to appraise my brother and your wife that you fell to your death.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t be the stupidest way to go,” Jon muttered.
“No. It might even be retold by a bard or dozen in taverns across the Westeros and beyond. In a few generations, you’d be as well-known as Bran the Builder.”
Laughing, Jon turned smiling brightly. “Uncle Benjen.”
“Jon,” Benjen said from where he stood a half dozen feet away. “You’ve grown.”
His feet carried him quickly forward to embrace his uncle as the knot in his stomach dissipated, replaced by joy. Perhaps here his uncle would live for years to come. There was a momentary hesitation as he embraced Benjen on his uncle’s part, but soon enough the man was returning the hug heartily.
When they finally drew apart, Jon frowned. “Uncle, what happened?”
His uncle sighed and, in that moment, he looked decades older than he was. Lines etched into his features and dark blemishes smudged beneath his eyes. He must have come to find Jon near immediately upon his arrival, certainly just after reporting on the ranging. His clothes were dirtied with blood and muck and torn in more than several places and that was just what Jon was able to see in the dimming light.
“I am well enough,” Benjen told him. “I was lucky . . . more than. The men you sent saved us. Had they not been there I am certain I wouldn’t be standing here today.”
“Did you lose anyone?” He almost hesitated to ask, the faces of the men he sent sliding through his mind.
“One of my men, Othor, and one of the men Ned sent with you.”
Jon closed his eyes, disappointed. It had been a risk as the men his father sent had been less believing of the advice he quietly provided before their departure. He had only sent one man that hadn’t trained beside him at the Moat, but he had also been one of the best swordsmen of the number.
“That was an interesting set of daggers and spears you sent with your men.”
“Sansa told me what the deserter said when Fa—Uncle executed him,” Jon responded after a moment. His fingers found the hilt of the dragonglass dagger at his belt. “In the stories Old Nan told, steel couldn’t fight the Others’ blades or kill them.”
“The blades broke upon theirs, shattering like ice against iron.” The murmured words resonated in a near-perfect intonation of her cadence.
“Aye,” Jon nodded. “I couldn’t allow my men to cross the Wall unprepared.” He shrugged and smiled slightly. “One of the first things Sansa did, after, was to send out letters inquiring if any lord had a source of dragonglass in their lands.”
“Oh?” Benjen raised an eyebrow.
“For jewelry she claimed.”
“Not the worst excuse, I suppose.”
“Worse than the one that you would have given had I fallen?”
“There would have been no excuses,” Benjen said settling a hand on his shoulder. “I would have told the story straight and awaited their response.”
“Arya and Rickon would laugh, at least until they realized what it meant.”
“Arya?”
“She’d think you were jesting and then stab you with Needle.”
Benjen blinked and chuckled. “Why do you have me thinking you aren’t referring to sewing needles?”
“She named the sword I gifted her that,” Jon said with a grin as they began trekking towards the iron cage. It was quite a distance away; he had wandered a bit farther than most visitors and even brothers generally do.
“I hear you wanted to join your men on the survey.”
“I did,” Jon said unable to help the annoyance that seeped into his words an expression. “I was refused passage by Lord Commander Mormont. He claimed he didn’t want to face Uncle Ned should I get lost.”
Benjen ‘hmmed as they paused a few yards from where the cage stopped when it was at the top of the Wall. It seemed that since Benjen had come up it had been sent back down. “I’m surprised you are here.”
Jon glanced at him, taking in his appearance again now that they were within range of steady torchlight in addition to the steadily darkening post-sundown haze. Benjen looked even worse as the flames cast parts of his features in darkness and accentuated others.
He sighed and glanced away, back out toward the distant tree line. “Before the mark came in,” his hand drifted up to press against his chest above Sansa’s name, “I thought I was meant to follow you here and take the black. To live out my days a brother, ranging north of the Wall and preventing wildlings from going south of it. The Gods may have decided my fate lay along a different path, but I felt I should at least see with my own eyes what might have been.”
“It must have been strange to wake with her name upon your breast.”
“It was,” he agreed, “and it still is sometimes. I find myself wondering if it is but a dream that I’ll wake up from and find myself back in Winterfell in my old room or here wearing cloth and leather dyed black. I sometimes wonder what it would have been like.”
There was a moment of silence between them. Only once they heard the clacking of the crank and rise of the iron cage was it broken.
“It can be hard not to dwell on possibilities from time to time,” Benjen told him, his voice bordering on rough. “I am sorry that I missed your wedding.”
“We missed you, Uncle, but I understand.”
A dark chuckle broke out of the First Ranger’s lips. “When I heard of your marks, I could scarce believe it. That Ned lied to me,” Benjen turned to stare at him, eyes not quite ever meeting Jon’s. “It was something unfathomable, but then I thought about it. Thought and dwelled upon it.”
Jon stared at him a bit shocked at the emotion choking the words that were spilling forth, low and contained. Word could carry on wind, but Benjen knew the Wall like the back of his hand. He knew exactly where the nearest brothers were stationed and how to pitch his voice to keep it from prying ears, even considering the breeze that whipped across the ramparts.
“Had I known I would have insisted upon raising you as my own.”
“You couldn’t.” The words tumbled out. “You couldn’t have known—I was born in the South, far from any woman you would have bed. You couldn’t have claimed me.”
“There were camp followers that followed the armies, including women and children from the North. More than a few from winter town and even servants from Winterfell itself. It would have saved—”
“Do not,” Jon almost barked out before lowering his voice. “Don’t dwell on this Uncle. It’ll only bring you pain.”
“I can’t forget what I’ve seen and the stories you told me.”
He winced, remembering the whispered questions and grousing over his presence as a bastard son of a married lord when his uncle visited. Benjen had always been a sympathetic ear for him, for as long as Jon could remember. His uncle’s presence had also rarely smoothed over the dark looks and brusk words sent his way by Lady Catelyn when she thought him her husband’s bastard.
“Besides,” Jon said, “you’re a man of the Watch. You’re lucky the Lord Commander allows you to ride to Winterfell as often as you do. The Watch is your family now—you’ve taken the oath.”
“Family is still family, even if my duties take precedence.” Benjen shook his head. “I was given the option but declined it to take a ranging. I—it wasn’t you or Sansa. I didn’t want to face Ned. I’m afraid of how I’ll react the first time we meet face to face again.”
The clacking and creaking of the iron cage sounded like they were getting closer, but the cage was still far enough away Benjen barely bother to fluff his words. “Had I known you were her son and that your father . . . I knew more than most of what happened. Not that any would have believed me.” His chin tucked down as his eyes closed for a moment. “Father ignored my protests and refused to listen to the words of a child. . .” he sighed.
“Sometimes it is hard not to dwell,” Jon repeated his words back at him. “But you cannot let those thoughts rule you. I am here and well. Sansa is well. We both hope to see you again, to host you in our new halls and stuff you full of food and drink. Though you’ll have to convince Mormont of it, I feel that he would rather not lay eyes on me at the moment.”
Benjen snorted. “You could phrase it that way. He is glad that you insisted, however, so you might find him a tad less gruff next time you meet.”
“I can only hope so.” He certainly deserved his nickname for a reasons other than it being his House’s sigil.
The iron cage finally reached the top and opened, releasing its sole occupant. The sight of Pyp stilled Jon for a moment. He had managed to miss crossing paths with most of the men he trained within the last few days. Seeing him here, whole and alive was a shock.
Pyp greeted them quickly and hurried off to his post, barely sparing Benjen a glance. He eyed Jon though, well dressed and bearing the sigil of House Stark in reverse—Sansa and he still hadn’t come to a decision on their colors and sigil yet—as he was stood him apart from the usual traders that made their way here from the hamlets in the Gift and further south.
“Have you met our maester yet?” Benjen asked as he shut and latched the gate behind them.
“Not yet,” Jon said softly. Yet another thing he had been avoiding so far. A double avoidance, truly, because he knew that Samwell Tarly had just taken the oath and been assigned as Aemon’s steward.
“You should. He’s lived a long time,” he continued, voice pitched normally as they lowered past the earshot of those on the Wall. “Aemon has been here since the reign of Aegon the fifth. For all that his eyes have failed him, his mind is still rife with stories and knowledge to share.”
“I will,” Jon told him before inquiring, “Where might I find Maester Aemon?”
“Do you know your way to the rookery?”
“Aye,” Jon nodded. Even if he hadn’t lived here before the tour he and his guards had been given had been decent enough. “Is he there often?”
“There’s a keep behind it that is used for the maester’s quarters and the books that are referenced most often, along with copies of current records.”
Jon was thankful for the excuse the knowledge gave him. Much of his time had been spent reviewing records in his room, but he had also spent hours in the vault using torchlight to research or locate the documents he needed. The maester’s quarters and its contents weren’t mentioned on the tour, not that he expected them to have been.
While most of the men here might have been uneducated or nearly so, they weren’t stupid. Everyone knew the story of Lyanna Stark and how her kidnapping resulted in the fall of House Targaryen and how Lord Stark brought her corpse back to Winterfell. While there were those among the men that might not have realized the elderly maester’s connection to House Targaryen, at the very least Ser Alliser Thorne knew and he had been the one to assign the man that walked them about.
“Do you think he will still be up?”
“He’s likely still treating injuries.”
Sighing, he thought of the watch he would hold tonight. There was too much at stake to take a moment now to speak with the maester. He could tomorrow, once the light of day brightened the courtyard and seeped through the infirmary's windows. “I shall try and find him tomorrow then, I think.”
Blowing out a breath, Sansa tightened her grip on the smooth handle of her practice sword. She shifted her feet, slightly adjusting her stance, and then moved. Taking a step forward she shifted her weight and stuck arcing the sword through the air until it slammed into the practice dummy with a dull thud.
“Better,” her trainer and primary guard told her, coming to stand at her side. “You’re still dropping your elbow slightly but not as far as before.” He tapped her right elbow, lightly pressing as she lifted it to the right height. “Again.”
Her muscles already burned, but she repeated the stance and movement. While she felt less off-balance than before, Sansa nearly dropped the sword after it slammed into the straw and cloth bound post.
“Sorry, Litton,” Sansa said wincing. “I think I’m done for the day.”
“Aye,” he agreed after studying her. His grey-flecked brown eyes were narrowed with concern. “I doubt you can do more than a few more swings. Have you been sleeping well?”
“No. Not for the last few days.” She sighed. “I think I will go wash up and lay down for a bit.”
Litton nodded and glanced aside, eyes narrowing as the took in the dozens of women around them each with their own sword. There were at least four for each of the guards supervising and providing corrections. The Master-at-Arms, Gerrin Barlow, watched from the center of the large courtyard that had been repurposed as a temporary training yard. He would provide further advice to the guardsmen aiding him after the lesson, making sure none were slacking due to their doubt.
“You should stay and help,” she told him. “Thom is still on duty. I doubt I’ll find any trouble walking from here to the Lords Tower.”
He glanced at her and then to the first new tower that had been rebuilt. It wasn’t far, just a few hundred feet from where they stood. The keep nearby was still under construction and would one day house the permanent kitchens and Great Hall. The main foundation had already been laid out but most of the workmen were focused elsewhere for the morning. The wooden temporary buildings were on the far side of the tower from where they stood, busy with servants that were too infirm or would take their turn at the yard later.
“Are you sure, my lady?” he asked skeptically.
Litton took his job seriously, often Sansa found herself having to order him to spend time with his wife and children. He had a son and a daughter, both of which were near her age. The man was a few years older than Sansa’s father, a fact that likely leant to Jon’s decision in choosing him to be her main guard. He had been a member of House Stark’s guard for decades and had even fought alongside her father during the Greyjoy rebellion.
“I am.” Sansa tried to smile reassuringly. “Sarae,” she called to one of the nearby women. The woman stopped and looked at her, expression relieved. “Would you accompany me to the Lord’s Tower?”
“Of course, my lady!” She nodded, nearly dropping her practice sword. “Do you need help with your armor?”
“No.” Sansa shook her head as she led the way to the equipment rack and then paused as her hands shook when her fingers touched the buckles. “Mayhap I do need help.”
Sarae scrambled to help her after dropping her practice sword haphazardly in its place. The young woman was from one of the smaller noble houses, a cousin of Lord Woolfield near White Harbor under House Manderly. She was a year younger than Sansa but had a half dozen younger siblings, two of which she helped deliver. She was a recent arrival, a suggested companion and handmaiden that neither Sansa nor Jon had any reason to turn away.
It didn’t take long before both practice armors had been discarded upon the nearby pile and they were walking away from the echoing clacks and thuds of wood on wood or straw. In the distance, there were also the sounds of builders dropping blocks into place and hammering nails interspersed by the occasional neigh.
As they walked Lady trotted up to them, following at Sansa’s heels. She looked pleased with herself and from the way her tongue slipped out to lick her chops it appeared she had just eaten. Either stole or given scraps from the kitchen.
“I saw you were sparring with Cora,” Sansa said after running a hand over Lady’s head when the silence grew too long. “Both of you are doing well with the lessons.”
Sarae’s cheeks reddened, contrasting with her pale blonde locks. “Yes. It isn’t as difficult as it looked when I watched my brothers. Though I doubt I could wield a sword of the same weight as they.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t dare try and fight with Jon’s sword if other options are available. Men are more powerful than most women, our strengths lay in different areas. But,” Sansa slanted a small smile toward her, “that doesn’t mean we can’t fight and win if needs must.”
“I wouldn’t have believed such a thing possible before. I mean . . . I have heard the stories of women who could, but it always seemed improbable.”
“It is improbable, for most women,” Sansa told her.
Sarae blinked brown eyes at her, drawing her shoulders up and stopping mid-stride. “My Lady?”
“Most women barely know the pommel from the pointy end of a sword, and fewer still have ever held a dagger let alone another blade. Fighting off a man with training, an Ironborn or Wilding with a sword is nigh impossible if they have the same. Maybe even if they don’t. A well-trained unarmed man can defeat a man with a weapon if they are smart enough.”
“Even a man with a bow?”
“Even a man with a bow.” Sansa nodded and continued walking, causing Sarae to hurry after her and Lady.
The memory of Tormund’s rough voice drunkenly crowing the story of Jon taking down Ramsay Bolton flit through her mind. She smiled at the memory of Jon’s fist thudding into the bastard’s skull.
“Closer is better when facing a bow. Long, short, or a crossbow—doesn’t matter. Reloading takes time and, in that time, you have a chance.”
“How do you know all of this?” Sarae asked quietly as they crossed the threshold into the tower’s lowest floor.
“My lady,” Thom greeted her before she could answer.
“Thom.” She smiled. “Litton is still aiding Gerrin. I plan to wash up in the baths before resting for a while.”
“I believe Hanna had the little ones filling the tubs. There should be at least a few full by now.” His eyes blue eyes danced, and his lips quirked.
That explains the damp spots upon the floor.
Sansa nodded at him before heading down the hall. The baths were on the lowest floor, though she did often take a bath upstairs. The plumbing based on that of Winterfell's was still being worked on. They were mostly in need of more pipes and workers who knew how to make and fit them. It was a skill that very few knew; they were relying on a few workers who had been trained by Winterfell’s Master Builder based on instructions found in old scrolls and a couple of their apprentices.
“M’lady!” A young girl, perhaps six or seven name days old, squeaked as they entered the large bathing room that took up half of the lowest tower floor. She was emptying a steaming bucket into the farthest tub. The water levels varied but the six tubs were nearly full and each steaming at least a little. There were several other girls near her, buckets empty, and their faces turned pink at the sight of them.
“Hello Rosie,” Sansa said. “It looks like you’re about done. Why don’t you see if Loera can bring us a change of clothes and then if Hanna didn’t have anything else for you to do, perhaps you should take a break? I saw a few kittens near the stables earlier.”
They scrambled off quickly, dropping the buckets on a shelf near the door before skirting around Lady, who had plopped herself down near the doorway.
Sansa shook her head with a smile before making her way to a small table near the tub that was steaming the least. It took her less time to remove the outfit she wore to train than her normal dresses. It was a light wool and similar in cut to one she had gifted Arya before leaving Winterfell. As she slipped out of her underclothes, she ran her hand over the dark square of linen that hid her husband's name from view. It didn't budge, stuck as it was to her skin with a glue made of pitch. It would keep through the bath, Sansa knew, as it took oil to remove it from her skin. She did so almost nightly now; rubbed her skin near red, but never hard enough to break the skin over the crimson gold mark.
Settling into the tub, she sighed softly—almost a moan—as the heat seeped into her muscles. There was a short pause before Sarae slipped into the tub next to hers. Slitting her eyes open, Sansa glanced over at her.
“I learned from books, my brother, and my husband after I witnessed the execution of brother of the Night’s Watch,” she said, causing Sarae to look over at her. “My father gave him a chance to impart a few last words before he lost his head and those words nearly froze my heart.”
Sansa looked away and allowed her body to slip a bit lower into the water. The tub had been crafted by an expert; one end sloped enough to rest comfortably. She stretched her toes, lifting them above the water for a second, before grabbing the cloth and soap set upon a small stool.
Sarae didn’t say anything but that wasn’t unusual. The handmaiden was fairly quiet in general, something she hoped would change as they got to know one another.
“Have you heard the tales of the Others?”
“When I was younger my eldest brother would tell stories when we couldn’t sleep,” Sarae said after a moment. “He liked to try and frighten us with them . . . which only made us less likely to actually get any sleep.”
“Old Nan told us stories in the evenings as well—when she watched me and my siblings. She upset my mother as there were times her words had us knocking on their door and begging to climb into bed with them.”
They giggled together at their memories as each began to wash, clearing away dirt and sweat. The door creaked open and Loera greeted them, crossing the room to set down simple dresses and undergarments for them before taking their dusty practices clothes away to wash.
“Did he speak of the Others?”
Sansa glanced at her, pushing herself up straighter after wetting her hair. The long red strands, wet with water, had turned almost the color of fresh blood. She nodded. “He did.” After a moment she continued, “He said that they were on the move and that the Wildlings were fleeing south from them.”
“And you believed him?”
“By all reports, the number of Wildling attacks have more than tripled in the past few years and incursions are being reported further and further from the Wall,” Sansa said after a moment. “It doesn’t matter whether I believe him about the Others . . . or if anyone does. What matters is that something is going on. The wildlings are a threat that should be prepared for whether they are running from something or not. If they are running from something, then we should be prepared for that as well.”
“By training women and children to fight?”
Sansa sighed. “Say a war crops up in the South tomorrow and the King calls upon the North for aid. What should happen if the castles of the North are nearly empty and the Wildlings decide to make a bid at once for the Wall?”
“It’s the job of the Night’s Watch to stop them, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she agreed, “but the number of Night’s Watchmen has been steadily declining. Only three of the castles along the Wall are currently manned. The rest are being left to ruins. And baring that, what if the Ironborn were to take advantage and raid in the absence of our soldiers?”
“I see,” Sara said softly. “I’m not sure which would be worse.”
The Others. The Others would be worse. Sansa thought but didn’t speak it. At least you might survive an Ironborn or Wilding raid. Not whole, perhaps, but survival meant a chance to escape and to start a new.
Dropping the washcloth on the lip of the tub, she stretched her fingers and eyed the tips of them. They weren’t quite beginning to wrinkle. She soaped up her hands and then ran them through her long hair, gently tugging out tangles and scratching lightly at her scalp.
“It’s a shame most lords and ladies don’t do the same as your Lord Husband and insist the entire household know to fight,” Sarae mused after rinsing her own hair.
“Women and men have their own roles to play and often we forget that they aren’t set in stone,” Sansa said. “Men have advantages in the work they train to do and in fighting. We women carry the children, often nursing babes for years with little pause. It makes sense that we would spend most of our time looking after home and hearth.”
“Running the household.”
“Yes,” Sansa giggled. “We run the household and the lives of our men. They think they have the power, going off to fight battles while we stay and raise babes and keep order in our personal fiefdoms. When they return, we ply them with food and drink and provide them reason to return and protect us.”
“It almost sounds as if they have the simpler end of things.”
“In a way . . . but consider this—more men die working on ships, building keeps, in war, or to camp sickness than women in childbirth or going about their duties at home. There are far more widows than widowers.”
As Sansa finished speaking, she stood and stepped out of the tub. Her feet left wet imprints and droplets of water painted the floor as she went to grab a nearby towel. The ache in her muscles had subsided slightly but the fatigue was still present.
“My lady?”
She glanced at Sarae who had retrieved a towel for herself. “Yes?”
Her handmaiden was eyeing her and frowning slightly, her brow drawn together.
“When was the last time you had your moonblood?”
Sansa bit her lip as she pressed a hand against her lower stomach, remembering the feel of it swelling as a babe grew within her and trying to decide if she was imagining the beginnings of it now. The loss of her and Jon’s child had burned within her for so long . . . it had only dulled slightly since returning. By the Gods, Old and New, she wanted it to be true and yet . . .
I am young . . . perhaps too young. What will Jon do if I suffer the same fate as Aunt Lyanna?
While they had spoken of this possibility several times, they hadn’t dwelled much on it. Sansa had only ever tasted moon tea during the months she had been married to Ramsay and once in the days following her arrival at Castle Black. It had been the gruff wildling Tormund that had thrust a satchel of it towards her under Lady Brienne’s dubious gaze not long after her arrival.
She had the option now to drink the tea. There was a small bundle of it in her hope chest, something she had been gifted by a young woman in winter town when wandering with her mother and sister among the stalls.
“M’lady should have options,” the girl had whispered beside her as they looked over thread and cloth, “in case her husband or family aren’t ‘round and a man takes advantage.”
After murmuring her thanks, she had taken the bundle and later, in her own room, examined the contents carefully. She had kept it and later shared its existence with Jon. Sansa would hopefully never have need of it, but someone might.
This child, if there was one, was hers and Jon’s. Sansa wanted it. She wanted it with all her heart.
It didn’t matter that she would barely be six and ten when the babe was born. Much younger than she and Jon had planned. There were also whispers of building conflict in both the South and at the Wall. Sansa knew in her gut it wouldn’t be long before something happened to broker conflict in King’s Landing. Either by Jon Arryn’s death or that of the King’s.
It was hard to say how long it would be before Cersei eventually found a way to rid herself of King Robert. Hopefully, by staying north, there would be little cause for Cersei to set her eyes upon them for revenge.
Sansa heard the steps before the knock on the door came. Turning, she smoothed down her dress and folded her hands together.
“My lady?” Sarae inquired. “Maester Haburt is here to see you.”
“Come in.”
Maester Haburt had arrived about a sennight before Jon left, his assignment was arranged in part by her grandfather as the Citadel had been dithering over who to send for over a year. He was a few years older than her mother and had spent the years since earning his chain with a small offshoot of House Royce in the Vale. From what Sansa could remember and what she knew from the sources she was cultivating, the House had little to no interactions with Petyr Baelish.
It was a fact that had stymied some of her worry and the rest had been almost completely quashed as Haburt was the son of lord her grandfather had fostered with for several years as a boy.
“Maester Haburt,” she said with a smile, “thank you for coming.”
He nodded as he followed Sarae into the room and waited until the door was closed to speak. “Sarae tells me you are feeling a tad unwell?”
“Of sorts . . . I—” Sansa paused to fortify herself as Sarae moved to stand on the other side of the room. “I believe my moonblood is late by nearly a full month. I know I haven’t had it since Jon rode for Winterfell.”
“That is a good sign you may be with child. Has your moonblood come on a regular schedule or have you missed it in the past?”
Heat rose to her cheeks. “Regularly since my first.”
“Then it is even more probable.” He nodded. “Do you wish me to examine you?”
“Yes,” Sansa said sharply, perhaps too quickly, and bit her lip for a second. “I would appreciate it. I am worried that there may be . . . complications. Due to my age.”
“You are young but not the youngest lady I have seen give birth. I assisted in many births in hamlets around the Vale as well as at the Citadel of young ladies your age and even younger. It can be dangerous, but so can carrying a child when you are much older.”
“Is there a way to tell if it might be more dangerous for me?” Sansa asked as Sarae came over to help her out of her dress.
“Sometimes,” Haburt admitted, “but not always. The younger a woman is the less likely their body is prepared for birth. The pelvis bone especially continues growing at least until a woman is eight and ten years old.”
“And I am not yet six and ten.”
“No, you aren’t and that is a bit of a risk. It is one of the reasons why Lord Tully sought out my expertise. I have lost far fewer young women and babes than most.”
She blew out a small breath and nodded, forcing her hands to remain still as she stood before him in her smallclothes. It was made of simple linen and tailored for wear beneath her dress on warmer days. The cut of it would allow the maester easier access to assess her in the manner her Mother and Septa Mordane had described.
It was difficult, but she stood still throughout the examination. He was quick, careful, and polite, describing what he was checking and why as he did it. There was nothing overly intrusive about it, mostly measurements and few prods. Sansa still found it jarring, however, for anyone but her family—or just Jon really—to touch her outside of helping her with ties or hooks when dressing.
Only a short time later she was able to slip back into her dress, but it felt like hours. There was a tightness within her that dissipated the moment she was standing again, fully dressed.
“Congratulations, My Lady,” Haburt said with a smile. “You are certainly with child.”
“Do I—Should I inquire about moon tea?” Sansa asked quietly as the maester glanced down to check over the measurements he had recorded.
“Moon tea?” He blinked up at her. “No. No, my lady. There shouldn’t be a need. You are physically in a better position for giving birth than many women of your age. I see no reason for you to consider it. Never mind the complications of it.”
“Complications?”
“Yes.” He sighed as he pulled a few items from the bag he brought with him. “Moon tea is very good at its job but there are drawbacks. The use of it can be damaging to the womb—not always, but it can be. I have heard of and seen women become near infertile after use, especially when used at a young age.”
Her insides froze. “Do you suggest women avoid using it then?”
“I wouldn’t begrudge a woman the use of it, but I do believe young women and infirm should be especially wary.” Haburt shook his head. “It is a far better option than most available. Less likely to cause the death of the woman as well.”
“It is good I have no plans to seek it out then,” Sansa said with a smile. “Do you have any suggestions for me to ensure the health of my babe?”
“A few, though I am certain you have likely heard them before.”
She nodded remembering the many lessons that had been drilled into her by Septa Mordane over the years. “I may have, but I would love to hear everything you would share.”
He was right that much of it had been told to her by either the Septa or her mother and Sansa couldn’t help but turn his earlier words over in her mind. Did the moon tea damage my womb? It had been years into her relationship with Jon before a child took root within her and she had never bothered with moon tea when bedding him, even when it may have been better to.
It doesn’t matter if it had. Even had I known the risk I would have drunk it rather than bore that monster's seed.
Besides, Sansa had eventually become pregnant and now, here, she was pregnant again. This time her body hadn’t faced the purging that had brought tears of pain to her eyes. It wouldn’t have to. She and Jon would see to it.
That night things didn’t go as Jon had expected. He slept very little as nerves spun knots in his stomach. The few hours he managed were spent dreaming of Ghost wandering around the courtyard, staying close to the building in which the bodies were being kept. He should have known that nothing would happen, though, the moment his guards came to him with a report.
Luca had been the one to give it, eyes shadowed; and his face taught in a manner Jon remembered all too well. The fight had been quick, he explained, corpses standing from the ground the moment they neared, sprinting towards them. Half-rotted Wildling bodies with bright blue eyes had torn into the closest man before most of the party had time to draw a weapon.
For all the training Jon had given his guards, and the bits of carefully worded advice he shared, nothing could have prepared them for the sight of dead men running. They were lucky that each man of his had carried multiple daggers and a spear.
Each corpse—wight or not—was brought back with a dagger in its heart.
“Lord Stark?”
Jon turned to the brother that had stopped a few feet from where he leaned against the railing overlooking the training yard. “Yes?”
“Lord Commander Mormont wishes to see you.” The man, Jon thought his name was Mikel, glanced from him to the guard standing feet away. “When you are able.”
“I am able now,” Jon said as he away from the railing and in the direction of the Lord Commander’s Tower.
“Of course, M’Lord,” Mikel muttered as he moved to lead the way.
Jon let him, though he had been to the Lord Commander’s solar and quarters often enough to know where it was in the past few days. He didn’t begrudge the guide, however—he was the outsider here.
When he had seen the castle and its sparse fortifications and aging towers as he rode, Jon’s stomach had turned. There had been a moment, as the gate opened, he thought it might feel like coming home. It had surprised him how much it didn’t.
At times he nearly flinched, especially in the evenings, at the sight of black-clothed brothers in the corner of his eye. Jon could almost feel the ache of scars that no longer existed. Castle Black wasn’t home. It hadn’t been for years, not since the moment, the first knife of betrayal slid into his flesh.
Ghost caught up to them as they began up the stairs and Mikel eyed the direwolf warily. Red eyes stared back at him as he sidled closer to brush his head beneath Jon’s hand.
“M’lord—” the man cut himself off as they reached the Lord Commander’s door, eyes still locked on Ghost.
“Keep an eye on Ghost will you, Kyne?” Jon asked.
His youngest guardsman raised an amused brow and glanced down at the direwolf. Ghost sat and stared back at Kyne in turn.
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t eat anyone you like, my lord,” Kyne said his brown eyes filled with amusement.
Jon’s lips quirked a little and he nodded before turning back as the door opened at Mormont’s beckon. Brushing past the brother, he couldn’t help but steal himself.
The Lord Commander was standing in front of the fire when he entered, a log freshly placed upon its glowing embers. Jeor Mormont waved away Mikel and turned back to his desk as the door closed behind them.
There was a long pause as Jeor stopped to stare out the window near his desk; the skies had darkened considerably as a storm neared. He sighed and shut it sharply, the sound of it causing Jon’s teeth to grind.
“How did you know?” Jeor asked finally. “How did you know Benjen’s ranging party would be attacked by—by the godsdamned Others?”
He froze for a moment and then stepped closer to the Lord Commander’s desk. “I didn’t. My wife witnessed—”
“Yes.” Jeor’s blue eyes bore into him. “You did. I wondered why you would be so adamant about sending your men and not waiting or insisting I send out an additional party like most would have.” He let out a harsh laugh and dropped into his chair. “You knew your uncle would be in danger and the dragonglass dagger on your belt—and on your men’s—tells me you knew the dead would attack as well.”
“You could say I dreamt it,” Jon said after a long moment.
“Dreamt it.” Jeor’s eyes narrowed and glanced towards the closed door. “I’ve been a member of the Watch for longer than you’ve been alive, and I’ve lived in the far North all my life. I’ve seen and heard more than you can imagine.” He leaned forward; hand flat upon the worn surface of his desk. “Tell me, Lord Stark, do you see from its eyes?”
“Ghost was born in the wolfswood not far from Winterfell. He’s never been north of the Wall.”
“Warging isn’t the only gift in the old stories.” Jeor huffed a little shaking his head. “I pondered over it for a while, trying to find a logical way you could have known. But nothing makes sense except . . .” He let out a sigh. “I knew your grandfather when I was young. I fostered in Winterfell for a few years as a boy at his side. I watched Lord Eddard and his siblings grow up. We Mormonts may not bother ourselves much with the politics of the South, but we do keep ourselves abreast of it. Do these dreams come from your Stark blood or do you perhaps have a bit of Daenys in you?”
Jon drew himself up, hand clenching on the back of the chair he had been about to sit on. The older man was just watching him, eyes sharp. “My father—”
“Was young and stupid to have done what he did. So was your mother.” Jeor snorted at the sharp look his words gained. “I fostered her with my daughter and nieces for a year. I am well aware of what she was like. Lord Rickard made a mistake when he arranged the match he did. I doubt Robert would be any different had she married him than what the rumors say now. She wouldn’t have put up with a man whose eyes strayed, let alone his cock.”
“He already had a bastard when they were betrothed,” Jon agreed, voice barely above a whisper.
“Aye, he did. Had Rickard thought more of his kids than the matches they could make, he wouldn’t have proposed it or would have cut it off once he heard. Lyanna may have preferred swords and horses to skirts and needles, but she had a romantic heart as well.”
“I don’t think its either,” Jon told him finally. “When the marks came in,” he lifted his hand to touch it, “Sansa and I—We both suddenly knew certain things. We knew the Others were going to return. That the South may soon be in turmoil.” He paused before continuing, weighing the words he felt he should say as the mark almost seemed to warm his skin. “We saw a world torn by war and bloodied by greed. We saw Wildlings die in droves. Their corpses forced to walk upon the Wall and then the North. We saw men, horses, and even dragons fall to the dead.”
“That is not a world I would wish to see.”
“You didn’t,” Jon said softly. “You died, betrayed, at Craster’s Keep by one of your brothers.”
“You saw this?”
“In the . . . the vision we shared Sansa had gone South to King’s Landing and I—I had taken the Black.” He clenched his hand. “Ollo Lophand betrayed you not long after your first encounter with wights at the Fist of the First Men.”
“You’ll tell me everything regarding the White Walkers,” Jeor said leaning back. “You’ll tell me about the Walkers, the Wildlings, and Watch.”
“It won’t be the same.”
“Of course not.” Jeor shook his head. “You aren’t going to take the Black, are you?”
“No. I—You weren’t the only one betrayed.”
The Old Bear nodded then, long and drawn out. “No. The Watch has never found change easy; history says as such.” He sighed and ran a hand over his beard. “I have a feeling this tale will last hours—”
Try days or weeks, if I were to share truly everything.
“—Unfortunately, I have another meeting to attend to shortly with your uncle regarding the ranging parties. Would you be willing to lend my men some of your dragonglass daggers should they have need to ride out before we locate our own?”
“I brought a small trunk full of them to gift the Watch, along with the plans to make the daggers.”
“Of course,” Jeor murmured. “Where did you purchase your dragonglass?”
“From a few places, though the largest haul was sent from Dragonstone. It was built over caves that are rife with it.” Jon chuckled. “From what I’ve heard I doubt they did little more than sweep up the pieces that had fallen from the walls and ceilings of the cave over the years.”
“I will have to reach out to Lord Baratheon then.” The Lord Commander nodded as a knock sounded on the door. He stood, moving around his desk. “Thank you, Lord Stark, for this information. I look forward to speaking with you further later.”
“You’re welcome, Lord Commander,” Jon said nodding in turn. “Moat Cailin will always be glad to lend assistance to the Watch.”
Benjen was just outside the door when he opened it and they greeted each other warmly; his uncle looking far more rested as he clasped Jon’s shoulder as they passed each other.
The air outside seemed crisper than before and it stung a bit as he sucked in a breath. He stood for a moment, facing down the walk with his back to Kyne and Ghost before glancing their way. Stretching his fingers, Jon nodded at them.
“Benjen suggested that I seek out the maester as he may have additional records in his quarters. I thought to see if he is available before the noon meal.”
His guard just nodded, and they set off towards the small keep where Maester Aemon resided. It was a quick walk over damp earth and through hazy air that clung to his skin. The scent of rain was heavy, and a few droplets began painting surfaces as drew closer.
Jon had hesitated in visiting the old maester in the last few days, unsure whether it would be a boon or a pain to do so—though he desperately wanted to. Aemon had been a bright spot in his time at the Wall and his words of advice still echoed through Jon’s mind. He had ached upon realizing that the lonely man who thought his family had fallen to pieces, reduced to but two children in exile, had never known that another family member had been right there with him for several years.
No matter Jon’s hesitancy, his heart wouldn’t allow him to leave without telling the maester the truth of his birth. If he could make the man’s last years even a little brighter . . .
“Lord Stark,” Samwell Tarly said eyes wide when he opened the door. The young man Jon had once called his best friend glanced over his shoulder. “I—Mae—May I ask what you are in need of?”
Jon smiled. “I was hoping to speak with Maester Aemon about a few things . . . I’ve been going over records . . .”
“Oh! Yes,” Samwell said and stepped back to allow him entry. “Maester Aemon mentioned that you might come by. I can show you where they are. He asked me to gather them, you see—”
“Thank you, Samwell Tarly, was it?”
“Yes?” Sam blinked and the nodded. “Yes. Sam—Samwell Tarly, that is me.”
“Son of Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill?”
Sam confirmed it with a slow nod from where he stopped halfway to a table that was piled high with books and scrolls. There were also a few sheaths of paper stacked upon it.
“You can call me, Jon, if I can call you Sam,” he said, still standing a few feet from the entry. “We both grew up as sons of lords. I still feel an urge to look over my shoulder for my—my uncle when I hear ‘Lord Stark’ bandied about.” He was glad to see that garner a small smile from the other man.
It had been a long time since he last saw Samwell. He had grown into himself after his run-ins with the White Walkers and carried himself with a confidence that this younger version of his friend lacked. It was a startling change. Jon could scarce remember Sam ever being this timid, though he knew the man had been beaten down quite a bit by both his father and upon his arrival to the Watch.
“I would appreciate your assistance with the records later if you can spare the time,” Jon said. “However, if the maester isn’t busy I would like to see him now—” He glanced back at the large stack. “Before I continue my work.”
“Oh, of course.” Sam nodded. “I—He’s just in the other room.”
It was a short walk to a room lined with bookshelves on one side and a long table on the other. Unlike the entry room, it was warmed by a fire that snapped and cracked as it ate through the logs and rubbish set upon it.
“Maester Aemon?” Sam called as they entered. “Lord Stark—Lord Jon would like to speak with you?”
Aemon was sitting at a table, back to the hearth, his fingers running delicately over a fading but heavily illuminated text. “Come in,” he beckoned and waited for them to near. “Samwell,” Aemon turned to his steward once Jon was within a step of the table. “Why don’t you go check the raven’s for me? After that it should nearly be time for arms practice, I should think.”
“Of course, maester, I will.” Sam glanced between them, hesitating for a moment.
“I will be fine with Lord Jon.” Aemon waved him off. “I doubt he has any designs on harming an old blind man sworn to the Night’s Watch.”
Jon watched the man he once called friend leave; cheeks flushed high at the maester’s words. Turning, he took in the appearance of the elder Targaryen. Aemon was just as he remembered him—violet eyes clouded with age, hair pure snow white instead of the silver-gold Daenerys boasted, and skin wrinkled and looking paper-thin. The black of his maester’s robes only accentuated his age.
“You wished to speak with me and yet you have done little more than stare,” Aemon said with a small smile pulling at the edge of his lips. “What might I help you with, my lord?”
Hesitating for another, too-long moment, Jon ended up dragging the chair in front of him around the table. Aemon followed his movement and the scrape of the chair with a tilt of his head.
“Maester Aemon,” he started and then stopped. “I wanted to meet you.”
“You wanted to meet me,” Aemon repeated his words, mulling them over his tongue.
“Aye, I did.” Jon drew in a breath. “I—You heard about my bonding?”
“I did,” Aemon said, eyebrow rising as he leaned back a little. “Even here word of a mark bleeding crimson gold is a good omen.”
It certainly is. Jon thought. It is also the only thing that can free a brother from their oath—the appearance of a mark outside of a bonding rite to create one.
“When Sansa’s name appeared upon my breast it was . . . startling. My world changed in that moment. Before,” Jon glanced around the room, “I thought I would end up here upon the Wall.”
“I am sure you would have done many great things amongst the Watch.”
“Perhaps,” Jon said with a nod and then hesitated again, “ . . . it wasn’t until I saw my name upon hers that—that I realized just how much I didn’t know. I—Maester Aemon,” he lowered his voice again, “Lord Stark told everyone that I am the son of Brandon Stark. He had to as he couldn’t claim me as his anymore, but . . . the name upon my wife’s breast is—it isn’t that of a bastard . . . or even a Stark. The Old Gods declared my name is Jaehaerys Targaryen.”
Aemon sucked in a breath, a tremble making its way throughout his body, and he lifted shaking hands off his lap.
Jon reached out and clasped them gently, carefully, and shifted on the chair until he was at the very edge, as close as he could be to his great uncle.
He could see the tears form in the old man’s eyes as shaking fingers slid over his features and then settled on his shoulders. “Jaehaerys.” The name sounded almost reverent in the way it fell from Aemon’s lips. “It is a good name. A very good name.”
“I think, I think my mother named me it.”
Aemon nodded, a small sad smile on his lips. “Yes, she would have. Rhae—your father would have named you Visenya had you been a girl. He mentioned as such in his letters. He was a bit too focused on the thought of a daughter. I doubt he had suggestions for what to call another boy.” He shook his head as he leaned back, hand coming up to brush away tears. “Forgive me, I fear it has been a long time since I was last among family.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Jon said his own voice rough. “I wanted you to know that you weren’t alone that—that your House continues even if in secret.”
The maester’s frame had taken on an entirely different countenance compared to when he first entered the room. There was a light in his eyes and face that hadn’t been there before. “I am glad, far more so than you can fathom, Jaehaerys.”
“My wife and I will send you letters and, perhaps, I will be able to bring her or . . .” Jon swallowed heavily. He knew the likelihood of his next words was slim, beyond so truly. “Mayhap when we have children we could bring them as well.”
“I would like that,” Aemon’s eyes squinted, shining again in the light from the fire and torches. “That would be wonderful.”
It was good to see Aemon happy. Whatever else Jon did while he was at the Wall didn’t matter. Not in wake of the smiling man in front of him. Everything else could wait.