Creeeeeaaaaaak!
Jon startled as Bran rolled into the Great Hall–Sam pushing the boy’s large wooden chair and scraping the heavy wheels over rough stone. Those two have become thick as thieves, Jon mused to himself, a smile playing across his lips. Giving a slightly bemused shrug, he arched his eyebrow and muttered softly to himself, “To Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things.”
“Sorry?” The silver-haired woman beside him leaned closer to catch what he’d said, a smile mirroring his own, illuminating her violet eyes.
“Nothing,” he hastily assured her, his face reddening slightly as he spoke. He hoped Daenerys would attribute his flushed skin to the warm torchlight bathing the room. His hope sank as she held his gaze and his blush deepened.
“Hullo, Jon!” Sam’s voice, high-pitched and nervous, rang through the vast room as he brought Bran’s chair to a rather sharp stop on the other side of the table. “Your Grace,” Sam continued quickly, nodding to the Dragon Queen.
“Sam…and Bran,” Daenerys said brightly, turning her attention to the gentle Maester-in-training and the pale, strange boy. “I must ask you to forgive me. I have been a guest at Winterfell for more than a moon now and Sam, you arrived a fortnight ago; yet I have not yet taken the time to visit properly with either of you. I regret that it fell to you to request time for the four of us to sit down together, but I am delighted to finally talk with you both.”
Sam gulped hard and squeezed the back of Bran’s chair until his knuckles turned white. He coughed out a strangled titter. “Er…um…we’ll see about that.”
“Sorry?” she queried for a second time, wondering if she was missing some Northern humor, or perhaps a Night’s Watch inside jest.
“Nothing, nothing at all Your Grace,” Sam replied with a quick, warm smile. “Don’t mind me…I’m just prattlin’ on,” he said a bit too quickly, as he bustled over to the sideboard to retrieve a flagon of ale and four cups.
Jon smiled at his friend and looked back to the beautiful woman by his side. “You men of the Night’s Watch are easily flustered,” she teased gently. He blushed again, though this time he didn’t care if she noticed. “Most folk would be flustered by you, my Queen,” he replied, evenly. He was rewarded with the lovely sight of her own cheeks flushing crimson. Their violet and onyx eyes locked. Bran, silent and still, sitting across the table in his chair, was apparently forgotten. Time slowed as Daenerys and Jon savored the delicious, aching tension slowly drawing them closer…
“THAT’S ENOUGH O’ THAT!” Sam cried, as he suddenly flung his large body between them and slammed the flagon and cups onto the table. A light splatter of ale sprayed the company as Jon and Daenerys recoiled, and Sam shot Bran a look of positive alarm.
“Sam, what IS the matter with you?” Jon exclaimed.
“Nothing…sorry,” he spluttered.
“Sam.” Daenerys laid a gentle hand on Sam’s arm. “It’s alright. We are all under a great deal of strain.” She gestured to a seat by Bran. “Please, tell me about your work at the Citadel, what you’ve learned, what you’ve seen…I understand you have a brilliant mind and I want to know all I can about the Enemy we are facing.” The Queen smiled warmly at the man. “I’m very happy you are here, Sam.”
Sam settled himself heavily in a chair by Bran and took a deep breath. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he replied in a steadier voice. Whatever had been rattling him, he seemed to be regaining his composure. “I’m very happy to be here too. And I’m especially pleased to talk with you,” he said, with genuine feeling. “I know how you saved Jon,” the blond man continued, his eyes lighting on his best friend. He looked back to the woman before him, the light playing across her serene features. His bright grey eyes held her gaze. “I know you are a woman of great kindness and courage…and that you are with us in this fight. I am just a man of the Night’s Watch…a humble Maester-in-training, but I am truly honored to serve you,” he finished simply and sincerely.
The group fell quiet while Sam poured ale for Daenerys and then Bran. When he picked up Jon’s cup, the bearded young man shook his mop of dark hair and held up his hand. “None for me, thanks.” Sam paused, the flagon held aloft in his hand. Never taking his eyes off Jon, he let out another strange, strangled little squeak and resumed pouring. As Jon silently looked askance at his Brother, Sam carefully pushed the full cup towards him. “You’ll thank me for that later.”
“Cripple, Crow, Bastard, Queen…some Broken Things are not as they seem.”
Three heads turned sharply to the slender young man in the wheeled wooden chair. Everyone at Winterfell was used to Bran speaking in riddles though that made him no easier to understand. Bran Stark’s intense brown eyes fixed on Jon’s, and they broke into a shared smile. Bran regarded the young man with the same unnerving, penetrating gaze he trained on everyone, but this time it was tinged with wonder…and sympathy, though luckily, only Sam noticed.
Ignoring this odd remark altogether, the Dragon Queen smiled at Bran. “Your brother tells me you have also been Beyond the Wall.” Her smile faltered. “Far Beyond the Wall,” she continued, as shadows chased the light across her troubled features. “Can you tell us about what is coming?”
The odd boy turned his face to Daenerys. In a voice mirroring his suddenly gentle eyes, he answered quietly, “First I must tell you about what is past.”
The torches burned low, casting four long shadows on the ancient stone walls. The flagon, long emptied, lolled on its side at one end of the heavy oaken table.
“Are you certain?” Daenerys Stormborn, agitated and restless, repeated the same question she had alternately whispered and exclaimed at least half a dozen times already. She was pacing distractedly. As she spoke, she stopped, leaning across the table to implore Sam and Bran with her feverish, bewildered gaze.
Sam licked his dry lips and wearily met her eyes with his own. “The book I found,” he began…
“Harumph,” Bran clucked disdainfully from his chair.
“The book Gilly found,” Sam corrected himself, “was very clear.” Outside the white wind howled. “Your brother sought an annulment,” he intoned carefully, “to marry…” Another howling joined with the wind–something deeper…wilder.
“And your…vision?” The woman stopped, her violet eyes boring into Bran Stark.
“Blood…a child…and a promise. Her child. His promise. She made my father promise,” the boy intoned.
“Jon?” Sam uttered his friend’s name as a gentle, urgent question. Jon, pale and still, had fallen silent some time ago. He sat nearly motionless, save for his wide, blinking, dark eyes. He stared at his hands as if he had never seen them before.
Daenerys moved towards him, her hand outstretched to him. “Jon, are you…?” He suddenly snapped his head up and met her eyes. Unconsciously, they both flinched and recoiled.
“Jon,” Sam repeated, more urgently. “Do you understand what this…”
“When Father returned home…” Bran began in a rush.
“The dragon has three heads…” Daenerys muttered as she resumed pacing.
As the din of their voices rose around him, time seemed to stop for Jon. Bran was always talking about Time. And now Time…his Time, his whole world…was telescoping down to a single reality. As the voices around him talked of bloodlines and prophecy and succession, Jon staggered to his feet, unhearing and uncaring. He pushed away from the table and strode the echoing length of the Great Hall out to the yard. He sprinted across the dark and frozen ground to the Outer Gate. When Jon hit the outer grounds of Winterfell, he began to run.
His icy breath was coming in gasps, and his legs were burning from exertion by the time he ducked under the low, rough archway. Jon held aloft the torch he had grabbed from the stable yard and shivered as his eyes adjusted to the inky gloom.
For a moment, grim panic seized him like a madness. He had always avoided this forbidden and forbidding realm. He did not know where to go. Then, as his mind raced and his eyes cast about the cavernous labyrinth, a face emerged from the deep shadows, where the light of his flame licked the stone.
Jon released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, as he gazed upon the first face he had known…the first face he had loved. Though an imperfect likeness, the statue captured Ned Stark’s sturdy bearing, his stubborn decency, his gentle gaze. “You may not have my name, but you have my blood.” The words he had heard so many times swirled in Jon’s head, as he passed Ned, Robb and Rickon, turned a corner and propelled himself down the corridor.
Shadows raced Jon across the chilly stone. Carved faces slipped in and out of the torchlight as his pounding footfalls shattered the silence of the dead. Down one walkway… up another. Forwards…backwards. Circling…searching. Always searching…
He crashed through an arched doorway into a small chamber. The firelight spilt across a cluster of fresh roses–a bright, rich blue, vivid against the grey tombs.
Jon stopped in his tracks, panting. Beads of sweat glistened on his face. With a trembling arm, he secured the flickering torch on the rough-hewn wall. The fire illuminated the three still figures before him. Jon advanced slowly, his eyes wide with wonder, tears mingling with the sweat on his flushed cheeks.
Never taking his eyes from her smooth stone face, Jon dropped to his knee before her. Fiery sparks popped softly in the icy air, and the scent of blue roses enveloped him…cradled him…as he whispered one word: “Mother.”