A Dream of a Red Door Ch. 06

Slowly and cautiously, so as not to disturb the ritual he had just performed, he packed the soil around her wrapped form. He cursed the necessity of doing this here, rather than north of the Wall, but every scrap of knowledge passed on to him cried out that Daenerys must be laid to rest where she had lived and died. Well, if she must lay in King's Landing, historical site of unceasing wars, Aegon the Undying would ensure that this part of King's Landing would henceforth know only peace.

When he had finished covering his wife in a sepulcher of moist soil, Jon used every scrap of his strength, and by that time his strength had grown vast indeed, to lay a geis upon the body of his queen and the tree that sheltered her. He forged the magic as strong as he could, and then he climbed from the hole and steadily filled in the dirt, stopping every now and then to recast the ward, layering barrier upon barrier to ensure Daenerys would not be disturbed.

Tirelessly he worked, until the hole was filled, and when it was done, he threw the shovel aside, sunk his hands into the dirt, and this time the maesters knew that the sky truly darkened as he lay a terrible curse upon the Red Keep's weirwood. Until the end of all things, a man need only glance at the Godswood of King's Landing with ill intent in his heart to know that a death of fire and darkness awaited any who dared to harm the tree or desecrate one teaspoonful of soil within sight of its branches, and the compulsion to turn away from disturbing the resting place of Jon's love would become overwhelming.

He gathered his stunned and horrified family to him and pointed to a chest tucked away nearby. Inside, he told them, were identical copies of a small book, written in the careful hand of Grand Maester Samwell Tarly at his direction, and there was one copy of the book for each living member of his bloodline. Use all the strength of their house to keep the volumes safe, he warned them, for its secrets were for those of his lineage alone.

He had considered letting the knowledge vanish from the world, but in the end, he had changed his mind, for he loved his children and his grandchildren as much as he loved his wife, and he had no right to deny them their birthright. His soul ached to leave them, but he had lived too long in the world, longer than was safe.

Of Jon's mistakes during his reign, almost all of them were born from love, and his decision to disseminate forbidden learning, after hiding it for so long, proved to be a monumental error. Upon learning of the existence of the books, Aemon Targaryen, his missing grandson, had raged that birthright knowledge denied him had been freely given to those he viewed as less deserving, and whatever remained of the decent and loving child he had once been died in that moment. When a copy came to him, by ways vile and foul, he used the book's contents to construct his Weirwood Throne, a cruel abomination by which he sought to bind the wills of gods and men to his dominion ... but as mentioned previously, chronicling the War of Flame and Shadow is beyond the scope of these pages.

To the chorus of questions from his children and grandchildren in attendance, Jon had only one answer, read the pages of the book he had left them. He promised they would speak again, if they wished, for they were of his blood, and as such they could make the same choice that he was making. He had placed his hands on Eddard's shoulders and told him that the crown, along with signed and sealed orders that he be named king immediately, were waiting in his study, that he had always been proud of him, and that he knew he would make a fine ruler. Then he hugged and gave his goodbyes to each member of his family in turn, and summoned Drogon. The world, Jon had decided, needed a riderless dragon about as much as it needed a king who would live forever.

Given the dramatic, and macabre, circumstances surrounding the last hours of the reign of Aegon VI, rumors and suppositions ran rampant. Many voices clamored that it might be unwise to crown the next monarch given, it was said, the possibility that the king was simply mad with grief and might return at any moment. Jon had taken steps, however, and the clarity with which he stated his abdication of the throne in his missives to the small council and key nobles, along with the overwhelming finality of his goodbyes to his family, eventually won the day.

Eddard was crowned, his reign was longer than one might have expected given his advanced age at the time of his coronation, and after several years the realm felt reasonably certain that Aegon the Undying would not be returning ... although his mark had been left on the kingdom in ways both great and small. For example, Jon perhaps did not fully consider that men being unable to use so much as a garden spade within nearly a mile of the Red Keep's Godswood without believing they were about to erupt into flames would perhaps present an insurmountable challenge for groundskeepers, but eventually the citizenry adjusted.

As one might expect, Aegon VI quickly became the subject of myth and legend. In the presence of magic, particularly when it involves as heart-rending a tale of grief as a king digging a grave for the woman that he loved while fiery tears sizzled and scorched the ground around him, prophecies will eventually spring up like weeds. Most were ignored, some, the more flowery, became staples of library collections the world over, and a few the maesters of the Citadel thought worthy of study.

The most dramatic, and worrisome, of the foretellings spoke of a day far in the future when a scion of House Targaryen seeking vengeance would return to the Seven Kingdoms, corrupt the tree beneath which Daenerys Stormborn was laid to rest, and bind her spirit captive. Few gave credence to so dramatic a tale, nor its companion auguries which foretold that the world would be covered in shadow unless Aegon the Undying, called by some the Flame of Westeros, returned to lead the gods and men of the Seven Kingdoms against the dread weirwood legions of his own kin. Yet again, however, we find ourselves straying beyond the scope of the narrative intended in these pages.

Jon, although the urgency he felt was nearly overpowering, briefly stopped to meet with Samwell Tarly. This particular meeting, long in the planning, gladdened both of their hearts. Six months earlier, when Daenerys's health had begun to fail, the Grand Maester, along with a few trusted acolytes who had forged their Valyrian steel links, traveled north and camped amongst the ruins of Castle Black. Samwell had lived long at the Wall as a young man, and he was confident that his connection to the soil and the grove where he'd said his vows to the Night's Watch would be sufficient for the magic to take root. In the ruins of the castle where they had trained as boys, Jon had hugged his friend and asked him if he was still sure about what he was doing.

Sam, whose hair had beard had gone full white, and whose lean, leathery face was unrecognizable from the plump teen he once had been, had nodded and indicated he was absolutely sure, then he handed a large glass vial with a wooden stopper to Jon. No ordinary blade could cut Jon's flesh, so he used the same Valyrian razor that had tasted his wife's blood to open a vein in his wrist. When the fiery, sparkling liquid poured out, he filled the vial and then jammed the stopper home. Within the glass, the red-gold liquid bubbled and smoked. He sealed the wound on his wrist with the sizzling touch of one of his fingers, handed the vial to Sam, and reminded the Grand Maester that he'd best not delay, for if the blood went cold, it would be too late.

"Jon, you're speaking to me as though this has not been planned for many years," Sam said with a rueful smile. "The hole has long been dug."

Jon apologized for not being there to help, but his friend had waved off his concerns and stated that he fully understood.

"I guess this is goodbye, Jon."

Jon had looked at him curiously. "What are you talking about?"

Sam had laughed but gave no further reply.

Jon hadn't tarried at Castle Black to watch Sam and his loyal maesters depart, he climbed back into Drogon's saddle and flew further north, to where the valleys were ringed with blue ice that would never melt, where the thick and unending strands of trees had never known the bite of an axe, and where queer and dark things that haunted the dreams of men still crawled in the last refuge of Westeros left to them.

In comparison to Samwell Tarly, Jon was not nearly as pleased to see Brandon Stark, the three-eyed raven, waiting for him along the rock wall of a jagged valley in which steaming pools bubbled and a waterfall poured into a clear river. Bran, seemingly oblivious to the landing of a gigantic dragon fifty yards behind him despite leaves and debris swirling in great gusts around his body, was staring into the mouth of an enormous cave.

Jon did not even wait to step down from the saddle before he angrily yelled, "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be keeping an eye on her."

Brandon looked much the same as he had as a young man, with the exception that his right arm was missing, cleaved off mid-way between shoulder and elbow by Longclaw many years before. The three-eyed raven did not need his right arm to wield power and eventually, when Bran grew strong enough, he no longer needed working legs in order to walk, either.

Odd symbols traced in a substance that looked like blood shimmered with an eldritch light on Bran's pants, and bristled weirwood roots laced with hoarfrost twined and twisted through the rough woolen breaches Bran wore. Jon knew the tendrils had pierced Bran's skin and looped themselves deep into long-atrophied muscles, tendons, and ligaments, until finally the dead, useless flesh of Bran's legs could move by the power of magic.

"Bran!" Jon had yelled when he received no prompt reply to his question. He slid from the saddle and began stalking forward.

Bran shuddered as he seemed to become aware of Jon's presence, then he turned and raised his hand in supplication. "I did as we planned, Jon, and I did speak to her, but she would not listen, and she vanished from King's Landing into some other aspect of the Green." Bran paused a moment to offer a wry smile, then continued. "Your wife is rather strong-willed."

"If she went somewhere else, you follow her!" Jon roared as he fought to control his temper and panic. "Maybe if you didn't look so ..." he gestured towards Bran's missing arm and legs, "creepy, she would have stayed put."

Bran had tilted his head and frowned, then said, "I will admit that I did not consider whether my appearance would frighten her." He gave the ghost of a smile. "I do not entertain many guests."

"Why didn't you search?"

Bran's frown intensified. "Jon, while you might know where else besides King's Landing to look for her, I do not."

"Do you even know if she is safe?"

Bran shook his head. "I recommend you hurry."

Drogon was reluctant to enter the enormous, granite-walled cave lined with lichen and columns of stone, but when he saw the steaming springs, he had shambled forward to lay among the smoking stalagmites.

The Children had come then, grey-skinned, green-eyed figures wearing garments made of twisted vines, to help Bran place Drogon into a deep sleep, one where he would age perhaps a day every hundred years, and finally the great black beast closed his eyes. Jon looked, but if the dragon's chest rose and fell, he could not see it. They left the cave then, and the children chanted and wove their hands along the entrance, and Jon blinked a few times when he realized the dragon's color had shifted to match the rocks and pools nearby.

They had entered a much smaller cave then, and the Children, chittering softly, shied away from Jon as he followed Bran deeper and deeper into the rock, until eventually they came to a cavern where the weirwood roots covered the walls and hung like enormous webs in the air. Jon had decided long ago that this particular cavern was as good a spot as any.

When they stopped, Jon noticed that the Children had fallen back from him again.

"What's going on with them?" he had asked Bran.

"They believe you have grown too strong," Bran had replied. "They warn me that all such as you who refuse to submit their flesh to the Unseen World turn to great evil, and with your wife gone from this land, they fear you will now do the same."

"They think that because they do not understand love."

"A love such as what have you known is very rare, Jon Snow." Bran smiled knowingly, the expression a ghost of the boy he once had been. "I wonder, perhaps, do you still allow your wife the delusion that it is you who saved her from losing her soul?"

Jon had not heard his full name for so long that the sound of it shocked him, but the shock was quickly followed by irritation at Bran's comment.

"Anyone ever told you that sometimes you see too much," he said as he glared angrily at the three-eyed raven.

Brandon Stark did not cower before the glare, but he did stop smiling. "Only you."

Jon had long ago decided he needed no temple, crypt, or tomb. If the dirt and the rocks and the tree roots had been fine for his wife, he would not tolerate better for himself. He found a sloping spot of deep, ancient earth, and he pushed himself into the soil and wrapped the roots around his legs and his arms. One of the many unique properties of Valyrian steel was that it could pass into the Unseen World, so he tucked beneath his jacket, against his skin, Longclaw, the Valyrian razor, and a certain small black and red collar of great sentimental value.

When he was done, he reminded Bran to have a cairn built over his body.

"I won't forget," Bran said with a smile. "Just as I said would not forget when you had reminded me yet again only a few days ago."

Jon nodded and took one last look around.

"It has been a long time since an old god such as you has come," Bran mused.

"I really hate it when you say things like that."

Bran's raised his eyebrows slightly, which Jon had come to learn was his equivalent of a shrug.

Jon closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting the fire residing in his soul infuse the air around him.

"One last thing to do," he said.

He wove another geis, larger this time, not just about the cave in which he would rest, but upon the valley above. His powers seemed greater here, for some reason, and he set the ward deep within the stones and the trees, and then wove it deeper still, until he had rooted for miles in every direction a compulsion that would turn aside any who might harm the occupants of this place, or to disturb his and Drogon's rest. When he opened his eyes, he realized he was exhausted, and sweat steamed off his skin. The feeling was somewhat novel, and he relished this last gasp of his humanity.

"What have you done?" Bran asked with awe in his voice. "Not since the Wall was constructed has such an enchantment been created to protect a place."

"Making this spot safe," Jon said as he snuggled more closely against the dirt. "I did the same thing for Daenerys and Ghost's graves."

"You have no idea what you have built," Bran said as he gestured upwards. "This valley will be a haven, a place for creatures with no other escape from the iron of men, and if you have done this in King's Landing, the Godswood of the Red Keep will eventually serve a similar function. Who taught you this?"

Jon was growing very anxious to leave as he did not like the thought of Daenerys growing frightened at what had happened, but he felt compelled to offer at least some explanation. "Bits from you, bits from Sam, and bits from instinct."

"The Children are right," Bran said softly as he knelt and lay his left hand upon Jon's shoulder. The three-eyed raven's legs creaked like tree branches in a strong wind as the roots supporting his body flexed and stretched. "You have waited too long. Do not take what I am about to say lightly, brother, you have grown too strong for this world. Unless all is at risk, it would be best if you not wake again."

Jon cracked one eye open. "I do not intend to." He decided it was time and shut his eye. "I'll see you soon ... but not too soon."

"I'll give you a few days," Bran confirmed, "but no more than that. There is much to put right, and I've been stretched too thin for too long. I could never have asked you to leave your wife's side while you lived together in peace, but I've needed your help, Jon. Needed it desperately. Too much is broken, and I can't set it right alone. Entire continents of this world have been uninhabitable for millennia and the desolation is spreading."

"It'll be good to keep busy."

"We'll be working as hard as you ever did as king, for a much longer time."

"Thank you, for everything.

Bran had laughed, a dry raspy sound that grated on his ears. "What are brothers for?"

He knew the way, had known it for a long time, and as he grasped the roots and focused, it was curiously easy to slip his conscious mind into the trees, and then from there out of one world and into another. When he opened his eyes and found himself standing in the Godswood of King's Landing, in some ways it felt more real than the place he had just left.

As Bran had often warned him, the Unseen World had become a nightmare. Reality shifted and cracked, time did not run properly, and as he watched, people, those with a touch of the greensight, flickered in and out of view ... and most were frightened and disoriented.

Well, he believed he knew how to start to put that right.

He stretched, and the shifting stopped. It tired him more than he had thought it would, and for the first time he wondered if perhaps he had set himself to a task too great ... but what was done was done, and Jon was not a man to linger over past decisions. As he searched for Daenerys, King's Landing began to appear much as he had left it. The folks who flickered into view while he trod the halls seemed to be less terrified, and in the future perhaps that would make them more likely to share news of the doings in the world he had left behind, or listen to advice, and that was a start ... he felt heartened at the sight.

But he had a far more important task at the moment.

He checked the royal bedchambers, then a particular spot along the wall of the Red Keep where Daenerys had loved to watch the ocean, then their old bedchambers, then the throne room, then everywhere else he could think of. At a loss to where she might be, he traveled to Winterfell, the plains of the Dothraki, and every other spot he could think of where Daenerys had lived long enough to perhaps forge a connection with the soil. Jon eventually realized he was overextending himself and would need to rest soon, but with every failed search, his panic grew.

Then, finally, he realized where she had to be, and he cursed himself for being an idiot.

The last shift truly did exhaust him, and he knew that he had better rest for a time. It was proving more difficult than he had expected both to maintain a state of normalcy in his surroundings and to fix himself in a time and place. Still, he knew it would get easier.

The iron band of fear that had been slowly strangling his heart snapped when he finally found her, and the relief that washed over him nearly brought him to his knees. His wife was standing in the garden of a charming house in Braavos, beneath a lemon tree, wearing a plain white dress and slippers. His love wore no jewelry, and a simple braid of her silver-gold hair hung to the small of her back. Jon knew how she would look, yet he gasped, and the sweet pain of faded memory pierced his chest at the sight of her so young again, a maid perhaps in her early twenties. When she saw him, she smiled and walked over. Daenerys's walk was curiously unsteady, almost as though she was surprised that her limbs and joints were working properly.