Chapter Text
Jon I
“There was once a summer king,
frolicking in the summer snows,
not knowing either dark or cold,
nor hunger, death or other woes...”
The song echoed all around him as he ran faster and faster. Why was he running? Jon didn’t know, but his long legs wouldn’t let him stop, for a terrible fear gripped his heart and refused to let go. Deep Northern forests passed by him as he ran and ran.
“But know, oh king, that this false spring,
with its sweet wines and jolly fairs,
was brought to you on crimson wings,
blood dripping off them, evermore.
On crimson wings the summer flies,
all gold and green and red and blue.
But know, oh king, this to be true,
that there in wait cold winter lies.”
But he couldn’t escape the song, couldn’t escape the gentle words or the sounds of the lute. Above him, something roared and, as he looked up, an enormous shape flew over him, its wings the color of blood even as its body shone like the purest of freshly fallen snows. Jon ran.
“When winter comes, oh summer king,
when laughter and smiles,
turn into tears and cries,
what will you do, oh summer king?
Which way to run, which way to turn,
which way to flee, on feet or wing?
Or will you fight in face of plight,
not run away that you may hide?
What path to take, oh summer king,
when hatred burns in human hearts,
and cold steel slips through flesh and spines,
the lands run red forevermore.”
The sun disappeared and the forests turned into huge fields covered with the bodies of dying men. Hands reached out towards him, but Jon flinched back, not stopping, just running on. Away. Away.
“On crimson wings the summer flies,
all gold and green and red and blue.
But know, oh king, this to be true,
that there in wait cold winter lies.
Which way to run, which way to turn,
which way to flee, on feet or wing?
Or will you fight in face of plight,
not run away that you may hide?”
The blood on the fields turned into crimson leaves, crunching beneath his feet. Suddenly, he stumbled and fell, face first. The ground was soft and he never wanted to rise again. But now...now the bard was close. Somehow, Jon knew that he was right beside him. With great effort he first got to his knees and then stood. The leaves clung to him like sticky honey. There, on a rock next to the pond, sat a man, his fingers idly strumming chords on his lute, silver hair falling all the way to the ground and into the deep, dark waters of the pond, obscuring his face. Something in Jon told him to stay away, to run, but he couldn’t move. Meanwhile the bard continued his song, as if he wasn’t aware at all of Jon’s presence.
“On crimson wings the summer flies,
and dies in battle bold and true.
And that, oh king, is then your cue,
to choose which end Westeros is due.
On crimson wings the summer flies,
and lies dead in the summer snows.
Oh summer king turned winter king,
pray tell me what should you do,
now that winter’s here?”
The bard looked up and Jon jumped back, falling, as cold blue eyes stared at him from a beautiful, youthful face. But his mouth, his lips were snarling as he sang the last few words.
“Tell me, tell me, winter king,
what will you do, run or fight,
now that winter’s here?”
Hands grabbed him by his legs, pulling, pulling. Jon was screaming, pleading, but the blue eyes stared at him, merciless. Someone was calling his name. Jon! Jon! He screamed and...
...and opened his eyes to find Lyan staring down at him, eyes and face solemn. He was a mirror image of Jon himself, if slightly younger. Above him, the leaves of the weirwood rustled in the wind. Jon shivered.
“Is it time?” Jon finally asked, voice hoarse as if he truly had been screaming. Lyan nodded and waited for Jon to stand. Together, they began walking out of the Godswood and towards the East Gate, from where Lyan and his mother would depart first to Dorne to show Aunt Obara’s family little Elias and then Lyan would go to be fostered in King’s Landing. The Red Keep, the center of power in Westeros, where kings and queens had ruled and governed...to be fostered there was an exciting thing, though Lyan seemed to be looking at it with his usual stoicism. Now that Jon thought about it, none of the adults seemed all that happy about it, strangely enough.
“Are you excited?” he asked Lyan when the silence went on too long and a gust of wind reminded him of his horrible nightmare.
“No.” There was a hint of anxiety in Lyan’s voice though, so Jon didn’t believe him. His cousin stopped and so Jon did too. He looked like there was something he wanted to say, but every time he opened his mouth, he closed it again, silent.
“What’s wrong, Lyan?”
Jon’s question seemed to prompt Lyan to speak, as he finally sighed and then raised his head, meeting Jon’s eyes. They were the same grey they had always been, but somehow Jon was reminded of the cold blue eyes in his dream again, even if there was nothing of the same negative emotions in Lyan’s.
“Jon...when,” Lyan bit his lip, swallowed, then nodded, “when the time comes, promise me that you will listen.”
“What...?”
Lyan gripped him tightly, fingers digging painfully into Jon’s arms. There was such intensity in Lyan’s gaze that Jon couldn’t look away, even as he wanted to.
“Promise me that you will not run. Promise me that you will listen.”
Not run. Jon gasped, heart beating faster. How did he...? No, surely not...but...suddenly, Jon had no doubt that Lyan knew all about his dream. Even if Jon hadn’t told him anything, hadn’t even hinted at the dreams that plagued him. Lyan knew. The urge to run was almost overwhelming, but Jon remained standing, motionless amongst the trees and beneath Lyan’s gaze.
“I...I...” his throat was parched, the words not wanting to pass his lips, but he forced them out regardless, “I promise. I swear.”
A weight he hadn’t known he was carrying fell from him. Jon’s breath came in short sharp gasps, his head suddenly so dizzy that he stumbled and would have fallen had Lyan not gripped him so tightly. The younger boy was smiling at him, beaming and then hugging him. Jon’s arms reflexively did the same and then there they stood, embracing. Jon’s heart calmed down, his breathing evened out.
“Everything will turn out alright,” Lyan told him and Jon believed it.
He didn’t know why everything, whatever that meant, shouldn’t be alright or why Lyan felt the need to reassure him or why he himself needed those reassurances. But, suddenly, he believed that, indeed, everything would be alright.
As Jon later stood in Winterfell’s courtyard, waving goodbye to his cousin, he hoped that they would see each other again soon.
A hand on his shoulder made him turn. Robb was smiling at him.
“Come on, Jon! It’s time for lessons!”
Together, the two brothers turned away and headed inside.