The Dragon in the North - Chapter 4

Maege Mormont stood. “The King of Winter!” she declared, and laid her spiked mace beside the swords.

(A Game of Thrones, Chapter 71, Catelyn XI)

Chapter 4

When the King vaulted up on the enormous white dragon and flew away, Lyanna had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Though not even in her wildest dreams had she imagined seeing a dragon. Or that Jon Snow, who’d always struck her as being the most Northern man she’d ever met, was secretly the son of the last Dragon Prince.

She tried to hide her shock, though. She wasn’t on Bear Island anymore. Every waking moment was spent making sure that she was never thought of as a silly little girl, rather than Lady Mormont.

Lyanna couldn’t help but remember her last conversation with her mother, which had involved this very same thing.

“I’ll have to take Dacey with me, you know that, girl.” Maege had spoken roughly, as she’d always done, and Lyanna knew that whining or showing weakness would bring her nothing.

“Once you leave, I’ll no longer be a girl.” Lyanna’s tone had matched her mother’s, and she relished the admiring look in her mother’s eyes, which she hadn’t often seen. Part of her wailed in protest. Why couldn’t she beg her mother to stay, not leave her alone? Still, she was certain none of it showed on her face.

“One last thing, Lyanna,” her mother had said, beckoning her to sit on the bed by her side. “If the Ironborn come-“

Lyanna had interrupted, filled with a righteous fury. “We will kill them all!”

Maege’s face had been wreathed in smiles, and had a tear glistened there? Lyanna wasn’t sure.

“Yes. Of course.” She then had sighed and had chosen her words carefully, something Lyanna had never seen her mother do. “But if they break through, if they capture you . . .” She trailed off, her hands clenching into fists. She suddenly glared at Lyanna, who had tensed, almost afraid of her. “If you cannot kill them, you must take your own life.” She’d grabbed Lyanna’s chin in a rough, calloused hand. Even now, Lyanna could still feel her mother’s fingers digging into her chin, could still see the wild, almost feral look in her mother’s eyes. “Do you understand?”

Lyanna had nodded, terrified of her mother more than her words, and Maege had turned away, satisfied. That morning, her mother, her sister, and so many of their men had ridden away to join King Robb’s foolish war, and she had never seen them again.

She hadn’t really known what her mother had been talking about, then. She’d had some childish notion of dishonour, of the family name, but that was in the past. She understood, now. Once a few years had passed, she’d asked the Maester about her mother’s last words to her, and he had sat her down and told her frankly about the many more ways in which women’s lives were made harsh by men. She knew she’d shown no emotion in her face, and managed to keep her gorge down until she reached her own chambers. Years after her mother’s death, she finally understood her words, and thanked her for her good advice.

Except . . . had it really been that good? When she’d met Sansa Stark, she’d instantly despised her. Why had the Lady Sansa allowed herself to be married against her will, not once, but twice? If she’d been incapable of cutting her husband’s throat, she should have cut her own!

Then, Lyanna had to change her mind once again, after her men had told her how the lady had repaid her second husband, who, whispers said, had used her most cruelly. Even her mother, she thought, would have been admiring of a woman who fed a man to his own dogs.

And now here she was, watching a Stark become a Targaryen, and she wondered what her fierce mother would have said to this. She found herself unable to suppress childish thoughts of resentment – her mother had backed the wrong Stark. This was the man who would save them all, whoever he called father.

She realised that an expectant silence had fallen, and looked up to see the assembled company staring at her. They all looked like they were waiting for something from her, except for the wildling, who simply looked amused.

“My lady,” Lord Manderly asked. “You will not speak to the marriage question?”

“Well, I’m not marrying him,” she blurted out, and noted that Lady Sansa immediately bit her lip, trying to suppress a smile. Lyanna pulled herself up to her full height, even though she know it wasn’t much. “I am the Lady of Bear Island,” she said, trying to sound more like Maege Mormont and less like a little girl. “Whoever I marry will perforce become lord there.”

“It’s as I said,” Lady Sansa broke in, impatiently, “he must marry me. For the people to accept him as a Stark, he must become a Stark by marriage.”

Lyanna opened her mouth to speak, ready to defend Jon Snow, when Lady Sansa caught her eye, and shook her head.

“Apologies, my lady. I misspoke. Jon will always be a Stark to me. But when the others hear about his parentage, might they not reject him, unless he is already married within the North?”

Lyanna nodded, slowly. It was a good idea. It would unite the North and the South by blood, in a way which had never been accomplished before. She looked steadily at Lord Manderly, Lord Cerwyn, Lord Glover. The Maid of Tarth seemed to be stunned, still, but was gazing, fascinated.

Was it really up to Lyanna to give her thoughts? What did she know of marriages and alliances? The wildling’s smirk deepened, and she came to a decision. She would speak her mind. It was what she’d always done.

“My lords, the King must remain at Winterfell. There must always be a Stark, at Winterfell. There might be some who will reject him once they learn his parentage. And Lord Baelish is already planning his death, it seems, without this knowledge.”

Lady Sansa gave her a sidelong glance, and bit her lower lip. “I am not too sure of that, my lords and lady,” she said, not raising her voice. “Something Littlefinger said, once; called Jon a motherless bastard, born in the South.”

Lord Manderly’s face twisted in fury, and Lord Glover’s fist clenched on his sword.

“What is he planning, do you think?” Lord Royce seemed to want to calm the atmosphere.

Lady Sansa shrugged. “He told me he plans to sit the Iron Throne.”

Lyanna’s eyebrows rose. “Does he know of Queen Daenerys and her dragons?”

“I don’t think so,” Lady Sansa answered, a lightness in her tone which Lyanna had never heard. “I hope we can witness it when he finds out.”

The one they called Tormund gave a bark of laughter, and the others smiled too, until they seemed to realize that they were sharing a joke with a wildling, and stopped, confused. Lyanna herself was not sure what she thought of this man, who was more loyal to the king than all of them combined, and who he trusted above all others. It had not escaped her notice that Lord Tormund had known of the dragon before any of them. She caught herself calling him Lord Tormund in her head, and winced. No one called him that anymore, after one of the lesser lords had tried, and had been met by laughter. It was not a matter of scorn – the wildlings, or free folk, as they called themselves, did not kneel, whether in word or deed. Though once he’d called her Lady Bear, but had stopped, when the king gave him a sharp look. Lyanna didn’t want to admit it to herself, but she quite liked it.

Any more discussion was cut short by the now familiar screech of a dragon. The men exchanged looks, and Lord Glover took it upon himself to speak.

“I think we are all agreed, my lords, and ladies. We chose Jon Snow as our king because of what he did, for the North. For us all. He is our King, the King in the North.”

The huge white dragon landed before them with a thump, and Jon Snow slid off its back with an ease that suggested he’d done this many times before. Lyanna wondered what he was thinking, whether he’d expected them to reject him or not. There was a hint of apprehension on his face, which quickly melted away when she again took charge in pledging allegiance. She noted that the others were also relieved when the king said that they would not be beholden to the South, once more.

His reaction was quite different when he heard of the marriage that had been planned for him in his absence, though he must have guessed it was coming. Marriages made the best alliances, after all. Or so she’d been told.

Perhaps Lady Stark could have spoken more gently, though.

The king’s reaction was equally abrupt. “Have you lost your mind?”

Lyanna realised she’d never seen the king in a rage, though when she snuck a look at the others, they didn’t look surprised. Lyanna realised that this was the Jon Snow who’d won them over, not the boy playing at diplomacy.

His words were directed at Sansa, and Lyanna saw the colour rise in her cheeks. Not in embarrassment, or maidenly modesty. No, that was fury.

“You need to marry to secure the North, your Grace, or have you forgotten that your father was no Stark?”

“Have you forgotten that you’re my half-sister, Lady Stark?” King Jon could be just as sarcastic as any court-trained lady, Lyanna thought.

“According to you, I am not your sister, half or otherwise,” Sansa continued. “And it is perfectly respectable for cousins to marry – if my lord father had been permitted to reveal your true parentage, he would probably have arranged to marry you to one of us, anyway.” Her eyes narrowed, and the king backed off, lightly. “Or is it that you’d prefer to marry Arya, in my stead?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Arya’s a child!”

“It’s been years since you saw her last – wherever she is, she’s not a child anymore!” Then her eyes widened. “It’s because I am no maiden, isn’t it?” Sansa’s words were a hiss of silent fury, and Lyanna saw the King’s mouth drop open.

Immediately, Lyanna felt herself chivvied to the side, with the Maid of Tarth mumbling about giving them some privacy, and the other Lords nodding in fervent agreement. Did they really think she didn’t know what they were talking about? Sometimes she wished she was a woman, so that they would no longer treat her like a child. Yes, she thought, and then they’d be talking of marrying her to some man she’d never met. At least Lady Sansa knew the King well, though that didn’t seem to be making much of a difference.

Lyanna didn’t realise her worries were visible on her face, until Lady Brienne put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“I am sure Lady Sansa and the King will come to an agreement,” she said, and Lyanna wished she believed her.

She knew she was among friends here, else she’d never have spoken her thoughts out loud. “They seem to argue a great deal,” she said, and wished her voice did not sound that wistful.

Brienne looked away, and Lord Glover would not meet her eyes, but Lord Manderly gave her a kind look and a half-smile.

“Ah, the fights, the quarrels, my lady wife and I used to have,” he said, seemingly lost in happy remembrance. “And then, afterwards-“ He was cut off by a strangled shout from the king.

“Yes, I bloody well know what a vassal kingdom is, and our agreement is nothing like that!”

“How would you know what it’s like,” Lady Sansa snapped, “you can’t have spent more than a few hours with the Queen and her advisors! Agreements like that are hammered out over many days!” She folded her arms, glaring at the king, and Lyanna found a spark of unwilling respect growing in her for Lady Stark, who was still talking, enraged. “Or is it that you gave promise to marry your Aunt Daenerys, just like any other Targaryen. Perhaps you talked of me as Lady Lannister, Lady Bolton perchance!”

Lyanna never thought she’d regret her cold words to Lady Sansa on her first meeting, but regret them she did. She needn’t have worried, though, as the King was ignoring them in favour of rummaging in his bag. He brought out a leather-wrapped scroll, and thrust it at Lady Sansa.

“This is from Lord Tyrion,” he said, “who dissolves your marriage forthwith.”

Lady Sansa was rendered speechless, as she turned the scroll over and over in her hands. “Tyrion is with the Queen?” she murmured, and the King nodded.

“He is her advisor,” he said. “Along with Lord Varys.”

He bit his lip, and brought something else out of his bag. “The Queen gave me these,” he added. “I did not know why, at the time. But I think, now . . .”

They were two black cloaks, richly embroidered with three-headed dragons, of the kind she’d only ever seen in histories of the land, during her endless lessons with the Maester.

Lyanna could see how reverently Sansa passed her fingers over the cloth, and the fine silken thread of the device. She knew nothing of such things, but Sansa seemed impressed. Her lips twitched, as though she was trying to prevent a smile, and she looked at the king through her eyelashes.

“I will make you a cloak with the wolf and the dragon, combined,” she said, quietly, and the King smiled. Lyanna felt warm all over. She’d never before noticed how handsome, how much younger he looked when he smiled.

King Jon reached for Lady Sansa’s hand and squeezed it. “Can you make two?”

Lady Sansa nodded, seemingly shy, very different from the enraged woman of a few moments ago.

“My lords, it seems we have a wedding to arrange,” the King said, turning to them, and Lyanna sensed rather than heard that they let out a sigh of relief.

“Not in the godswood,” said Sansa, who’d regained her speech. There was a new edge to her voice. “It must be now, and it must be kept secret.”

The wildling strode forward and spoke – Lyanna had almost forgotten he was there. He hadn’t joined in the marriage debate – did they even marry, north of the wall?

“There is a wood, half an hour’s ride away, in which I have seen a weirwood tree.”

All eyes were fixed on him, and he shrugged. “My people follow the old gods too.”

The King turned to Lady Stark, and gave her an inquiring look, and she nodded, accepting.

They got back on horseback, and, true to his word, soon they came upon a small copse, with a weirwood tree at its centre. They all dismounted, the men looking at each other aimlessly. Lady Brienne seemed hesitant to get too close, and she caught Lyanna’s eye.

“You follow the Seven, Lady Brienne?” Lyanna hadn’t spoken much with the Maid of Tarth, though she’d desired it greatly. The woman was the first warrior maid she’d seen since her mother and sister had ridden off towards their death.

Lady Brienne nodded. “My father and his father before him too. I have never seen a wedding before the old gods.”

As they spoke, both the king and Lady Sansa seemed unsure of what to do next – it struck Lyanna that the king had spent the last few years thinking he would never marry. This must be exceeding strange for him.

“Lady Sansa, if it pleases you, I will act in your father’s place,” Lord Manderly said, smoothly. Lady Sansa just nodded. She looked colder than usual. Lyanna realised that she was terrified, but of what? Surely she was not afraid of the King?

They arranged themselves around the weirwood tree, its carved eyes and mouth looking solemn. Lyanna observed them, one by one. The wildling looked merely curious, and waited, with arms folded. Cerwyn looked sullen – perhaps he had thought that he’d get to wed Lady Sansa. Glover seemed lost in his memories, while Lord Manderly’s expression was suffused with a fatherly pride.

Lyanna realised that the dragon and the wolf had followed them in silence. The enormous white wolf sat nearby, his attention caught by what they were about, while the dragon circled overhead, its only sound the flapping of its enormous wings. It came to her that neither of them had reacted when the King and Lady Stark were having their loud argument – perhaps they’d known this would be the result all along.

The King cleared his throat, and Lyanna was surprised once again by how young he really was. When he spoke, he sounded almost hoarse.

“Who comes?” His breath was white with cold, but his voice was firm. “Who comes before the god?”

Lord Manderly, Lady Sansa’s arm tucked under his, answered.

“Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“I do,” the King said, his voice stronger now. “Jon of House Targaryen, of House Stark, King in the North. I claim her. Who gives her?”

“Wyman of House Manderly, who was her father’s vassal.“ Lord Manderly turned to Lady Sansa, lost in her thoughts. “Lady Sansa, do you take this man?”

Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, Lyanna thought, as the Lady Sansa stared into Lord Manderly’s eyes. She looked lost, though this had been her plan. Lyanna wished she understood what troubled her.

Lady Sansa looked around her, almost as if she wanted to escape, then her eyes caught the king’s. He gave her a small nod, and her face lost its pinched tightness.

“I take this man,” she said, in a strong voice which rang around the clearing.

Lord Manderly put her hand into the King’s, and they knelt in front of the weirwood tree for a few moments, then got up again. The King took off Lady Sansa’s heavy cloak, and put the dragon cloak over her shoulders in its place, but only for a short while. The cloaks he’d brought from the Dragon Queen were too light for the North.

“Well,” Lord Manderly said, “usually there would be some singing at a wedding. Perchance we will have that at a later date.”

Lady Sansa – no, the Queen, as she now was – turned to him, and for the first time that day, smiled.

“Thank you, Lord Manderly.” She turned to the rest. “I thank you, my lords. Once we can reveal ourselves, we will feast our wedding day. But for now, we must keep this a secret.”

The dragon landed some distance away, and the King immediately approached, patting it on the nose, or where Lyanna thought its nose should be. It looked like he was whispering to the great creature, who butted its head into his chest. Then it launched itself into the sky, flying around in a circle, once, twice, sending bursts of flame into the air, and was gone.

As they rode back to Winterfell, the King drew level with her. He seemed to be hesitating, reluctant to speak his mind.

“Lady Mormont . . . I feel that the less people possible need to know what has passed here today. Your Maester will be told once everyone knows.”

Lyanna nodded without hesitation, even though she was inclined to rebel, for the first time since they had chosen Jon Snow to be their king. She had known the Maester all her life, and he had been left to guide her when her mother and sister had left Bear Island. And yet . . . and yet her mother had told her to always keep her own counsel above all. Lyanna knew very well that Maege Mormont had trusted no man, not even the Maester.

Once their party approached the gate, they realised that a small contingent of people, including Maester Wolkan, was waiting for them.

“Your Grace!” the Maester said, almost tripping over his robe in his haste to speak to the King. “Ravens, your Grace! From the Wall, from the Citadel, from the Vale, and . . . I am not sure where this one is from.”

The Maester was brandishing an innocuous looking scroll. It looked like any of the others, except for the seal, which was of a large, rearing dragon, with three heads.