The early morning light shined inside the room, wilting away the darkness away. Lord Wyman Manderly stands beside Ser Rodrik Cassel, by his solar window both looking down at their charge playing in the snow and a lady standing not too far away from him. In the godswood of Winterfell by side of weirwood stood Lady Barbrey Dustin, wolves fur wrapped all around her body, watching little Rickon Stark. She stood silent as stone, watching the boy play, her face filled with abiding grief. Rickon with his boundless energy, tumbled with his direwolf all across the grove of weiwoods. Shaggydog, not much of a perfect name considering its ancestry, seems finally happy after many days of silence and rage biting anyone but Rickon who angered him, his green eyes full of uncanny intelligence and ferocity, circling around his bonded with jumps and happy licks.
Rodrik's lips twitch seeing the woman below, a nervous habit Wyman now knew well. "Do you think it wise, my lord," the knight murmurs, his voice a low, "to allow Lady Dustin so free around the Stark children?"
Wyman exhales a long sigh before taking in a deep breath and wetting in his throat. He did not look at Rodrik, still continuing to look down and starts. "I do not know, Ser Rodrik." He tugs the woollen cloak over his big belly with his soft and fat hands. "Her history with the Starks… and the loss of her Lord Husband in Dorne. There is hatred in her that runs deep that any any of us can know. But with these Ironborn bastards rushing to Winterfell of all places, it is better to have her riders at our side, than left alone in the barrows nursing old venom."
Rodrik's grunts not in agreement, but resignation. "I don't know whether that is better than that wildling woman that King Robb Stark left his younger siblings with," he mutteres, spitting the words in anger.
Wyman opens his mouth to his anger, but it dies in his throat as a roar sounds in the air, followed by a torrent of panicked, high-pitched screms from all over the castle. The colour drains from Rodrik's face that the wrinkles begin to look visible on his aged face. "Gods," he rasps, the word shaky and fearful. "To the yard." He hurries out first of the solar with the heavy weighed Wyman trying to match his pace as much as he can.
The courtyard looked full of chaos as servants and soldiers alike rushed to sides, emptying the area where the dragon landed. Aemon looks down from top of his dragon, as men and women hurry to the side and soon a black direwolf stumbles in the courtyard. He jumps down Meleys and watches as the black wolf meets in a joyous and ferocious crash with Ghost that made the onlookers flinch.
Rickon Stark, the youngest of all Starks, comes racing behind his direwolf. The moment he looks at him, he starts running in pure unadulterated joy jumping into his arms. "Jawn!" The shriek was all childish adoration.
Aemon catches him easily, laughing, a sound not many in Winterfell had heard from him, for he was just a quiet and sullen bastard boy they had always known. "Looks like you've grown big, Rickon," he says, roughing the child's hair.
Soon Bran arrives being pushed by Hodor on his wheel chair. Rodrik and Wyman were close behind, panting, their face full of terror seeing the red beast standing behind him. But Aemon's gaze passes over the lord, his cousins, the knights, and the servants, settling sharply on Sansa Stark. Her eyes were wide and blue, pale in fear just like her face but fixed on him with a chilling and intense scrutiny. Her mind spinning and calculating all things she could to get a hold of her crown together with her golden haired husband.
Lady Barbrey Dustin sweeps in at last, kneeling before the Dragonrider, lowering her proud head. "Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace.", her knights kneeling behind her in fealty.
Aemon inclines his head, at her fealty. "Thank you for coming at once her, my lady, heeding my command". The silence was palpable, as Wyman and Rodrik now realize the reason of coming of Lady Dustin at Winterfell. Aemon then turns to Ser Rodrik Cassel. "Theon Greyjoy marches upon Winterfell with his men. Prepare your men, Ser Rodrik. Lady Dustin's riders will join you in skirmish, I want him captured."
Rodrik open his mouth, hundred of questions running in his mind but Bran cuts him short. "Do as my brother says, Ser Rodrik." His boy's voice seem pitched and thin but he managed all of it with straight face and pride that looked childish on his young face. Rodrik then turns to look at Wyman, the castellan, who gives a slow, solemn nod, accepting the sudden invasive shift in the power.
Sansa finding a perfect moment for herself then steps forward, her voice filled with same fake concern that he previously considered true. "Jon… how do you have a dragon?"
Before Aemon could answer, Shiera voices the answer. "You speak to King Aemon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Lyanna and so he will be addressed as is his station. You will mind your tongue girl, unless you don't mind losing it."
A wave of disbelief sweeps in the yard, followed by a collective gasp. A King, son of their lady Lyanna Stark. Lord Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbour, finds his voice after moments of silence, and start with nervous sound coming of his throat. "Best we speak inside, my lord. Guest right is yours, if you'll have it."
Aemon nods. "That will do, Lord Manderly."
Inside Wyman's solar, the room now looked far smaller with many people filling the room, Wyman sitting in his chair. Aemon stands by the fire burning in the hearth, Shiera standing as a silent guard not to far from him. Rodrik standing by Bran's side with Rickon in arms of servant behind him as he refused to part ways from his cousin this soon. Sansa sat rigid and pale, her blue gaze flicking over every face, in the room, planning whatever she could to deal with the biggest threat to her realm. Lady Dustin sitting in chair opposite to Lord Wyman looking at the King, every missing piece of boy brought from South by Ned Stark now filling its place.
Aemon starts first, seeing many paying attention to him all this while. "Many here lost their kin in Robert's Rebellion. Lady Dustin, you lost your husband, Lord William Dustin, and Ser Mark Ryswell. Ser Rodrik, your lost brother Ser Martyn Cassel, all of them fell in Dorne. They marched south for my mother, Lyanna Stark. I do not know what befell them there, but I know they chose it on their own will… for her." Aemon had thought of it all this while flying here from the wall. It was not his truth to tell why Kingsguard fought men of North when both sides wanted to save and protect his mother, but Ned Stark's. He would not anger lords and ladies who could ally with him, with truths when he could commit Ned Stark to speak on it.
He let the silence settle over the loss of husband and kin lost in battle decade ago. "House Targaryen knows the weight of loss," he continues, looking from face to face. "And honors it. Just like true North remembers, House Targaryen remembers its allies actions."
Rodrik swallows hard, remembering his dead elder brother. Lady Dustin's jaw tightens in grief as she remembers losing her Uncle and Husband. Wyman's expression softens, grief settled in his usually jovial expression.
"But there is a greater war coming," Aemon continues, his voice dropping in a cold tone. "A war that makes Robert's Rebellion a small, petty squabble. And Westeros must stand united."
"What war?" Wyman asks, the blunt tone of the Northern lord cutting through.
"The true one," Aemon answers simply. "Lord Commander Mormont will arrive soon with proof. When he does, you will understand but know this, Night's Watch oath was always the truth."
He then shifts his gaze. "Now where was Theon Greyjoy last seen?"
Lady Barbrey answers, her sharp calculation immediately replacing the widow's sorrow. "My scouts searched the Wolfswood. They will strike by tonight."
Aemon nods. "Do you men enough to meet them?"
Rodrik straightens, emerging from the memories of his dead brother. "We do, Your Grace. And with Lady Dustin beside us, the Ironborn will not last long. They will taste Northern steel."
"Good." Aemon turns to Barbrey. "Lady Ayssane Mormont and Lawrence Snow ride from Deepwood Motte with Ironborn prisoners. When Theon is captured, you will bring him south together with Lord Commander Mormont."
Barbrey inclineds her head in acceptance. Bran speaks, hesitantly, something that many here forgot in grief of old wounds and rage against Ironborns. "But the Moat is taken, Jo- Your Grace."
Aemon gave him a small, encouraging smile. "Aemon cousin, and yes you speak true but I have a dragon who breathes fire."
Bran's eyes widens, knowing what will happen to them but Rickon wails from the servant's arms, his small face crumpling into sorrow. "You're leaving me too, Jawn!"
Aemon crosses the room to his side, gathering the boy back into his arms. "How about a ride before I go?"
Bran's face lit up from the side too, a blinding hope in him, his days passing in wheeled chair not being able to walk. Aemon sees the longing in now soft hearted and innocent cousin eyes, the yearning for flight that his broken legs had denied him. He adds softly, "You come too, Bran. You'll like to the world from high above, I'd wager galleons on it." Bran just nods, mute, shy, and now terribly grateful.
They return by midday. Rickon tired and half-asleep against his shoulder, while Bran humming with a joy after a long time. Aemon hands Bran to Hodor from his seat on Meleys while passing sleepy Rickon to the female servant standing by Hodor's side. The courtyard had quieted now with all of them told to keep away from here, Meleys, curling under the open sky there after long flying.
As they entered the hall, the servant woman walking behind him, holding Rickon in her arms. "You're wargin' war on the wrong side, dragon-rider," she starts softly minding the sleepy boy, her voice low and without deference.
Bran, being carried by Hodor on shoulders, gives her a sharp, protective look. "Not now, Osha."
Aemon pauses in his steps, eying the woman. "What do you mean?"
She met his gaze, unafraid of him, a person who walks with a direwolf and rides a dragon. "Dead ones walk north o' the wall, huntin' anyone living. They killed all of them, took 'em as their own and I ran like a coward I am."
A heavy hush fell, as she waited for laugh, calling out her as liar and head if not the least but nothing came. Aemon studies her face, seeing the tremor in breath, the shake in her chest and arms and the desperate truth in her eyes. "You lost someone very close to you to them."
Osha swallows. "Aye."
"I believe you," Aemon starts quietly. "The Night's Watch and I have captured wights. Soon the realm will know and then they will fight under one banner against that darkness."
Osha stares at him as he was the first lord, the first man, this side of the wall who has believed her ramblings.
The long table was laid as it always had been for the guests. Bread, salt, hot stew filled with meat and winter root vegetables. Wyman Manderly himself oversaw the serving, Guest rights, while important and honoured in whole of Westeros it was one of the most ancient and sacred law of the North.
Aemon lifts his wooden spoon then freezes. His nostrils flaring with anger. He lowers the spoon, the tiny sound echoing loudly in the sudden stillness of the hall.
He then starts in usual soft voice, but it felt colder then the breath of a Others, "Sansa, do you think yourself clever? Poisoning your guest under the safety of guest right? Poisoning your own kin no less?"
Lord Wyman Manderly lurches to his feet, his face turning ashen and sickly white at horror which was about to be happen in halls of House Stark. Ser Rodrik's hand goes straight to his sword, but the old knight looked as though he might vomit.
Before the hall could erupt into violence, Lady Barbrey Dustin's men enter dragging in a struggling servant woman, bound with thick ropes, weeping hysterically.
"Lady Sansa, no, no.. Queen Sansa, please!" the woman sobs, desperately trying to crawl to Sansa Stark. "I only did as you asked, please save me!"
Sansa's chair scraps violently, the sound of wood falling on stone. She stands up, bolting for the door, in a picture of sudden panicked flight but Shiera moved from side, her gloved hand struck her across the face. The sound was a sharp, cracking slap, and it Sansa is sent sprawling on the stone floor. A loud and horrific gasp rising from the assembled people both servants and knights.
Sansa shrieks, scrambling back to stand, her actions that of wild and cornered prey and eyes burning with a sudden, terrible madness.
"I am the QUEEN of Westeros! You're trying to take my husband's place bastard! I'll have you killed, bastard just as my mother wanted! Joffrey will take your heads every one you love!"
The hall freezes Lord Manderly, Ser Rodrik, Lady Dustin, soldiers from Winterfell, White Harbour and Barrowton but most of all her younger brothers, all watched the wolf's daughter spit venom and perform act not done in North since the Rat Cook.
Aemon Targaryen stands slowly, holding crying Rickon in his arms though the boy didn't understand anything, he saw anger on everyone. "Oh," he starts his voice flat and emotionless as the Night King itself. "How low the House Stark has fallen." And walls of Winterfell shivers for although the doom was avoided, the vile actions are never forgiven no matter which god you follow.