Chapter 65: Part of a Whole
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The oppressive blackness pushed down on Jon like a blanket, heavy and warm, with the force of a living thing. It seemed to be trying to press itself inside his body, choking him as it slid down his throat, into his nostrils, plugging up his ears so he could hear almost nothing.
You need to open your eyes, said a voice.
Jon blinked, but he saw only darkness.
"My eyes are open," he told the voice, reaching out in front of him, trying to get his bearings. If only his fingers could find something, he could figure out where he was. He could navigate half of Winterfell in pitch darkness; of that he was sure. If he could pinpoint where he was, he could get his hands on a candle or a torch or something that would light his way. But he reached his arms out as far as they could go in every direction, and he felt nothing. He took a step forward, blindly, swinging his arms this way and that.
Open your eyes, the voice said again.
"I told you," Jon replied in frustration, feet moving clumsily across the ground. Was he wearing his boots? He realized that he wasn't certain, but couldn't feel the cold stone or uneven dirt beneath his feet. He didn't even know if he was inside or outside. Perhaps he should stop looking for a stone wall to guide him but instead a tree. It got dark in the godswood sometimes, oppressively dark. If only he could find his way to the heart tree, with its bone-white trunk. Even in the darkness, he should be able to see that.
And if you don't?
Jon wandered forward, arms outstretched in front of him. He couldn't be in the godswood, could he? The godswood was full of trees, and if he were in the godswood, he would have found one of them by now. But if Ghost was out, Ghost could find him; the wolf always came when he called now, and Ghost's coat was white as freshly-fallen snow.
"Ghost?" Jon called out. "To me."
No, said the voice. Not Ghost. You.
Jon looked around, frustrated. "I don't understand," he confessed. Jon heard the flap of wings, so close to his ear that he flailed his hand in that direction in surprise. His hands touched nothing.
I think you do.
It struck Jon then, all at once.
"This is a dream," he said into the blackness. The wings fluttered again, all around him.
You need to see, said the whisper of the wings.
"I'm trying," Jon insisted, continuing to grope around though the gloom. "It's too dark."
It's dark because your eyes are closed.
"My eyes are not—!" Jon started, and then his hand struck something solid. He stopped, so startled that the words seemed to have been struck from his throat. He could feel it now, the sticks crackling beneath his bare feet, which were slick and wet beneath him. Was he bleeding? He blinked several times, but the dimness remained, so instead he ran his hands along the object he'd touched. It was smooth under his fingers with tiny lumps and bumps beneath its surface. As he slid his hands across it, his fingers encountered a pronounced ridge, and he clung to it with desperation, his only lifeline. His fingers swept all over it, trying to figure out what it was beneath his touch. A face?
"I am in the godswood," he declared suddenly, with conviction. "This is the heart tree."
Something felt slick and sticky beneath his fingers, the rivulets of red sap that dripped sometimes from its carved eyes, as though the tree was weeping.
Is it? the voice queried. Open your eyes.
Jon opened his eyes, his hands slippery with blood.
He was in the crypt. Stone Stark eyes glared down at him from atop a carved throne. They looked like his father's, but older, sterner. The longsword that had once lain across the statue's lap had long since rotted away, and a heavy layer of dust lay upon the grey stone. Firelight flickered across the carved face, and Jon stared at it with a frown, something odd fluttering in his chest. One arm of the statue raised up slowly, fingers curling to point straight at him, accusing.
A dragon screeched, echoing off the empty chambers of the crypt and Aemon awakes.
…
…
…
The room he finds himself in is large, a lord's room or perhaps a King's. The bed is big enough to fit four large men, the tapestries a mix of Stark and Targaryen as if the designer could not make up their mind. Next to the bed, leaning on a nightstand is Longclaw with Ghost's effigy boring its eyes into his head.
Groaning, Aemon swings his legs off the bed and slowly stands, finding his body quite sore and sluggish. As he straightens himself however his clothing gives him pause.
"Whoever's idea this was shall pay dearly." he snarls as he looks down at his gladiatorial armor. Black boots and trousers covering his legs and feet while his chest is bare for all the world to see. The only piece of armor worth its material on him are the bracers and leather pauldrons.
"It was no one's idea but yours." says a woman's voice, dragging him from his thoughts.
Turning towards the voice, a curse on his lips, Aemon's breath is stolen from his lungs as if Robert Baratheon himself had smashed his warhammer into his chest.
Long-faced like all Stark yet still possessing of great beauty, long dark hair framing, gray eyes so dark they almost seem black, and crowned with a circlet of winter roses is what can only be Lyanna Stark, his mother.
"M-mother?"
The word slips from his lips like a prayer and for a moment Aemon feels eight name days old and he is still Jon and all he wants is for a mother's love, or at very least his mother's name.
"Oh my dear boy." says Lyanna as she makes her way to him. "How you have suffered so." she whispers, her hands gently holding on to his face to slowly bring his forehead to hers before humming a tune so soothing that Aemon finds himself closing his eyes.
"Enslaved before your tenth name day and only knowing war for all your life. That was not to be your fate." she says, causing Aemon's to snap open as he steps away from her touch, an action so laborious for that is all he has ever wished for.
"My fate?" questions Aemon with a frown. "You knew what was to become of me?"
"I knew that Ned would protect you. I knew that you were never meant to be enslaved. I knew that you were meant for greatness." replies Lyanna.
"Greatness?" replies Aemon with a whisper before letting out a chuckle. "You think being enslaved and having the fate of the world thrust on your shoulders is greatness?" he questions, his laughter a hollow thing devoid of humor.
"That was not to be your fate." retorts Lyanna. "You were meant to be raised by Ned, join the Night's Watch at ten and four and rally humanity to victory against the Others. You were meant to be loved, feared, and respected as you carved out a place for yourself in the world. You were meant to be Jon Snow and all who whispered your name were to do so with reverence. You were meant to be my little Song of Ice and Fire whom I watched over proudly through the weirwoods."
Lyanna's words cause Aemon's chuckle to turn into a mad cackle, his eyes misting over with unshed tears.
"Is that what you expected of me? A second Eddard Stark?" he asks "Well unfortunately I must disappoint you mother." he sneers, the words he once uttered with reverence now a poison on his lips. "What stands before you is no Eddard Stark, or Aemon the Dragonknight. You look upon the second coming of the likes of Theon "The Hungry" Stark, Daemon "The Rogue Prince", and Bloodraven." says Aemon, his head held high high so as to more easily look down upon her.
So engrossed is he in his false sense of pride that he is unable to react when his mother's open palm slaps the bravado off him.
"You foolish boy, I did not wish for you to be a second Eddard Stark." scolds Lyanna. "For as much as I love my brother I have never seen him to be a Stark, not truly. He may have the coloring and looks, he may say the house words, but he does not have the temperament of a Lord of Winterfell. Dynasties are not forged on the backs of men like Eddard Stark and enemies are not vanquished with honor. With no Theon Stark the North would pray to the Seven, with no Daemon Targaryen House Hightower would rule the Iron Throne, and with no Bloodraven House Targaryen may have lost to the Blackfyres." she says.
As Lyanna rants, Aemon can do nothing but stare with wide eyes and an open mouth, a weight he did not know of is lifted from his shoulders.
"So no my boy, I did not expect you to take after my brother. In fact I dreaded the thought until the green dreams assured me otherwise." explains Lyanna with a scowl, causing Aemon to release a wet laugh before stopping as he processes the last of her words.
"Green dreams?" he asks with a frown.
"Aye." replies Lyanna. "I had some."
"But…" begins Aemon before stopping abruptly.
"Did you believe that I ran away with Rhaegar because I was love struck?" she asks with a grin. "Perhaps that is what the Lyanna of the otherworld did. What is it you call that version of yourself again? Oh yes, Ned Stark 2.0. Perhaps that is what the Lyanna of Ned Stark 2.0 did, but I did it for I knew that it was the only way for you to be born." she rambles.
"Hold." interjects Aemon. "You know of the other versions of Westeros?" he asks.
"Of course I do. The Weirwoods do not merely connect to the past, present, and future, but also to every version of Westeros standing. However, no green seer has ever been powerful enough to access the memories beyond their own world. Of course that is until now." she says with a proud grin.
"What?" questions Aemon, making Lyanna sigh.
"Come now my son, you have never been slow of mind. In fact you are quite brilliant if I do say so myself, do not prove me wrong now." Lyanna.
"Right." says Aemon to himself as he processes the information that his mother has just unloaded on him, and it does not take long for him to process and internalize the information while forming hypotheses and possible plans to take advantage of this new turnabout, barely a second passes by in fact.
"You always were a bright boy." compliments Lyanna as she caresses his face. "Of course your stubbornness can be a hindrance at times, no doubt the Wolf's Blood at work." she says with a fond smile.
"Still, we will speak later. Now you must awaken." she says, and Aemon awakens.
…
…
…
The room he finds himself in is large, a lord's room or perhaps a King's. The bed is big enough to fit four large men, the tapestries showing the glory of the Winter Court. Next to the bed, leaning on a nightstand is Longclaw with Ghost's effigy boring its eyes into his head and the Other staring at him with a curious frown on his face.
"What?" demands Aemon as he attempts to leave the bed, his body strongly protesting all the while.
"You conversed with a portion of me. I did not think it possible, to converse with a single part of the whole." says the Other, causing Aemon to grin.
"So it was no mere dream." he tells himself with a whisper.
"No, it was no mere dream." replies the Other.
"Good." says Aemon before he looks at the screen before him.
[Congratulations! You have successfully altered the course of history. Whether this change is good or not remains to be seen. Reward: 8,000 CP Continue to alter the course of events for more rewards. The more significant the change, the greater the reward!]
Author's Note: Here's the latest chapter. As usual, tell me what you guys think. If you want to support me or read ahead, you can do so at my patreon: patreon.com/servantambrosius
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