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Published:
2017-08-13
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2017-08-19
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5/?
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True Knight

Summary:

Lord Dickon Tarly barely survives the dragonfire and is brought to Winterfell.

Notes:

Chapter 1: Comfort

Chapter Text

When they brought him to her, this bandaged giant of a man on a litter, she gasped and initially thought it was Sandor. He was dying. She had hoped that those rumors of his death, the death of the Hound, were wrong about him as they were about her. She had no wings.

Jon held her shoulders as she was still trembling.

“He is Sam Tarly’s younger brother. He needs care.”

Sam, Sam was Jon’s closest friend at the Wall. This was his younger brother, like Ric- He should not die alone.

She heard from the serving girls who heard from the men who went with Jon that Dickon was so brave, heroically charging towards the dragon and knocking Lady Brienne’s Jaime into the shallow waters. He saved Ser Jaime’s life.

One of the wildlings had given her a poultice, telling her that it would ease his pain, make him forget. She wished that it would work on her pains too, but hers were not the type that could be healed that way, only time, if that, could heal her. The grey poultice smelled bad when she sniffed it, almost as bad as death. She had it regularly applied on him and made sure his bandages were regularly changed after each application.

Every day when she was done with her duties or when she would take her meals, she would visit him. She would sing to him, those songs she used to sing to Rickon.

She held his right hand, that dragon flames did not scorch unlike the left side of his body, marveling at its large size, its strength, and the many callouses. Even his hand seemed so mighty and strong next to her tiny hand. If a dragon could defeat him, she shuddered what would happen if they could no longer control it, when the dragons would turn on them on all, roasting them and feasting on them even if the White Walkers were defeated. There was no hope. Each time her voice broke because she was afraid, she swore that his hand gently squeezed her hand.

Holding his right hand, she sometimes whispered her fears and cried. She had to be strong in front of her people but in this dark room, where no one would enter when she was there Lady Brienne or Ghost made sure of that, she could finally lower her walls, her armour of courtesy, and be the frightened girl she still was. She wanted to be brave, but she was no wolf. Maybe she was a little bird after all. And each time she cried, she felt his fingers rubbing her hand.

It gave her comfort.

Chapter 2: Screams

Summary:

Dickon was in pain.

Chapter Text

He screamed.

The pain was so intense on the left side of his body. Even his blood felt like it was on fire, boiling within him. He wanted them to cut it all off, his left arm, his left leg. But they didn’t - they only cut the armour off his body, removing with it his burnt skin, his raw and still burning flesh. There was no blood until they removed the armour as the fire cauterized his fresh battle wounds.

He screamed.

He thought of his family - his beloved mum, he missed her so, his sweet sisters, his gentle older brother, and his demanding father. He let them all down - it was stupid to follow his lord commander, to try to save him from his foolish attempt to stop the madness. It was stupid - he knew that gentle Sam would never have done that even though his brother told them how he killed a wight.

He screamed until he could scream no more.

They made him drink some vile draught, and afterwards he could no longer keep his eyes open. It was so welcoming the darkness even though he could still feel the excruciating pain.

He no longer screamed - they gagged him.

He remembered feeling every stone or bump on the road as it got colder every day - it seemed the driver purposely drove towards the rockiest route. Yet even though his face felt frozen, his body felt so enflamed even with all the potions and poultices they placed on his red angry burns and sores. They loosely covered his face, even his eyes, one man explaining that it was to protect him from losing his pretty little nose, wryly laughing that it was too bad that the flames spared his pretty face.

They could do no more for him. At the end of the trip, he heard them all say he would die, even the clipped Northern voice who demanded he be brought to the North. He would die so far from his home. He wanted them to kill him, end his suffering, but still the Northern voice insisted that he should not die here on the road, muttering that his sister would make things better. He could not understand what the man meant, unless his sister was some witch. That voice was the voice of the Northern King he later found out.

Finally, the journey ended. He heard cheers and shouts as the men were greeted by their love ones. Yet amidst that cacophony, he heard a soft voice.

“Jon?”

He heard whispers, and then there was a soft hand touching his good hand, his right hand. He smelled flowers. The pain no longer seemed to be searing and became tolerable.

“Lord Tarly, I am Lady Sansa. I will see to your comfort.”

“Why is he muzzled and his face covered,” she hissed angrily to someone behind him. Soft hands gently removed the cloth that was wound tightly around his head.

“My lady, he is a Lannister man.”

There was a sudden intake of breath above him. Then he heard the King loudly grunted that he was a Tarly, as much a Lannister as the king himself, his sister, were a Lannister. And she begun to breathe again.

Blinded by the light, he could not see and squinted up at her face. He thought he saw red but he could not respond to her, could not thank her for her courtesy. His almost nonstop screaming for days had damaged his vocal chords.

Then he was transported to his room. He heard the men muttering that he was lucky that their kind and beautiful lady was taking care of him, a traitor, that she and the King should have let him die, that he was taking food and a bed from someone who would fight for the North, not against them. He could not help but agree, but yet he yearned to see the woman who was so kind to him.

She was no witch. She was the gentle maiden come to life.

Chapter 3: Hope

Chapter Text

After giving instructions to the men carrying the litter and calling for a healer, Sansa turned away and was going to attend to the preparation of the feast, but then she heard the word traitor. She was transported back to King’s Landing, all alone, beaten and humiliated in front of the court. She felt so small and alone until she felt the icy cold wind cutting through her furs. She was home, and she was not going to allow anyone to treat this man, a guest, that way in her home.

Clutching Arya’s arm, she asked her to help prepare the feast for Jon. Before she could walk away, she saw Arya’s knowing and worried glances. Arya need not worry - she knew that there were no happy endings. Life was not a song. She had seen death so many times. This young man was going to die, and his death would be painful. She only wanted to lessen his pain.

When Sansa entered the dark room, lit by only one torch, she saw that they were roughly heaving the bandaged man onto the bed. One Northerner had the gall to chuckle as the poor man was writhing in pain and groaning.

“Leave us be,” she commanded, and the men left with one man apologizing to their lady.

Lord Dickon was in a sad state. It did not appear that his bandages were recently changed, and he stank. Sansa immediately rinsed a cloth and began wiping his face. She remembered her relief when she first washed the travel grime from her face upon her return, although it was naught in comparison to her collapsing in her brother’s arms. The poor man would likely never see his family again.

“I apologize for your treatment by my and my King’s men, Lord Dickon,” she said. His eyes fluttered and squinted at her, but they did not seemed to focus. He probably could not hear her - he was too far gone.

When the wildling healer and her helpers came, she knew she should leave as it was not proper for a lady to stay. But she remained rooted as they cut away his bandages, revealing the burns and angry looking boils on his left side, mostly on his shoulder, strong upper arm and his thigh, which contrasted with his right side, which was pristine, unmarked, and perfectly sculpted like a statue of the Warrior, but for the light blond fuzz covering his body.

His wounds looked infected. She remembers Maester Luwin saying that once the blood is infected, the end is near. She looked questioningly at the wildling healer who was humming as she washed his wounds and applied the foul smelling poultice.

The old woman grinned a toothless smile at her and said, “He is strong. His blood is strong, and he is lucky that he has a red beauty tending him. He would want to get better quickly so he could steal a kiss from her or maybe more.” The wildling women all laughed.

She flushed at the woman’s bawdy joke and the laughter. She hoped the old healer’s words were true, not about him stealing her, but him recovering, but she could not hold such hope after all she had been through. There were no gods, old or new, and if they were any gods, they were cruel and unjust. She had to harden her heart to the likely possibility that he would die here.

She did turn away when they started to remove his pants and smallclothes, which was fashioned like the clothes for the bottoms of babies. She heard the women gasp as one made a remark on his size, that all of him was large. She peeked and immediately looked away, her face felt like it was on fire. He was naught like any man she had known.

Even though she was sure that the healer caught her glancing and that all saw her flushing bright red, redder than even her hair, the old woman and her girls teased her no more as they worked on bandaging him.

There would be someone who would come daily to change him and check his bandages, reapplying the poultice if necessary. He could only drink liquids for now until he could speak again. Sansa heard the healer’s words while staring at the young lord’s grimacing face.

Before the healer left, the old woman squeezed Sansa’s arm, as if preparing her lady for the inevitable. She shook her head. Sansa realized that the healer’s loud jokes were just a facade, that she was wearing a different type of armour than the one of courtesy she herself wore, as the old woman did not want to let this young beautiful man know that all was lost. It was just a matter of time.

Then she was alone with him.

Sansa poured a mug of water and gently lifted his head against her chest. Cradling his head, she slowly poured a small trickle of water into his mouth until he sputtered, all the while telling him that while winter is coming, summer would soon be here.

“I was born here, in Winterfell, in the winter but grew up during the long summer. The summers are lovely here… you will see.”

Chapter 4: Discovery

Chapter Text

The room was always dark even when lit by its single torch.

The pain ebbed and flowed, sometimes almost unbearable when the healers removed his bandages the next day, zealously removing the dead skin and applying the poultice which stung so badly at first. Dickon whimpered and writhed in pain, his arms violently flailing and his legs involuntarily kicking, as rough hands held him down.

"Please," she whispered. "They are trying to help you."

And he tried to bear the pain, for her, this kind lady.

"Can you do anything for his pain?" she beseeched.

"M'lady, we've done what we can. Mayhaps you can sing for him, lift his spirits and ours. Sing about the Maiden, m'lady."

"The Maiden dances through the sky,
she lives in every lover's sigh.
Her smiles teach the birds to fly,
and gives dreams to little children."

Her song was so beautiful - her voice was so clear and sweet even as it soared to the highest notes. He heard the song before, his mother and sister oft sang "The Song of Seven", but it never lifted his spirits as it did now. There was something about how she sang the lyrics that made him think that she would love to dance. It made him imagine how he would dance with her, spinning and lifting her so high and making her giggle and gasp with joy. When she sang about the birds, she made these bird-like chirps and whistles and warbles. He was no longer in this dark room but instead flying in the blue clear skies. And when she sang about dreams, his eyes started to droop. Before his exhaustion overtook him, he felt a soft kiss on his forehead.

"Sleep well."

Finally, he slept deeply, without his usual night terrors. Unlike before, he did not have the nightmares of the flames blanketing the battleground, engulfing the bodies of the men who bravely fought beside him, the screams of terror and pain, the awful stench of death, fear and shit as that sells-sword Bronn called it. He only dreamt of a smiling beautiful lady with long red hair. She was holding him.

When he awoke, it was dark again. He looked at the window, at the dark grey sky. Winter was here. He heard them all say, even Lady Sansa, but she always talked about the coming summer. At first, her soft voice broke as she whispered that, but each time, it became stronger and more resolved. And he began to believe her.

Dickon looked forward to her visits. He realized that he did not know such kindness, he could not remember such softness, in her touches as she checked his forehead for fever, stroked his hair, or when she merely held his hand. Mother, his brother and sisters were kind to him, but never outwardly affectionate to him, never touched him with such tenderness as Lady Sansa held him, as Father hated any such display. Father called that weakness - he spat that he did not want to raise a soft boy. And Father, his hands were hard, either clenched or held a whip as he would beat them. Unlike hapless and hopeless Sam who was wont to question and barely could tell the tip of a sword to its pommel, Dickon knew not to talk back and did what he was told, which was train night and day, until his body grew and harden, as hard as the stone inside Father's chest.

Lady Sansa would oft tell him about how his eldest brother was so kind to her brother, the King, at the Wall and how she knew instantly that she and he too would become friends. She marveled at how brave he and his brother were, as they both faced seemingly impossible odds and survived. But he was just a fool to charge towards danger.

"Dickon, you were brave, trying to save Ser Jaime, your commander, without any thought of your own welfare. I could imagine the terror you felt... And yet, still you kept going and because of your selfless actions, Ser Jaime survived with nary a burn nor a scratch... You are a true knight."

But a true knight would not lie.

When she touched him, he wanted so badly to lean into her touches, kiss her hand and hold her. But he did not. That first day he was so much in pain and so exhausted, he could not move. But thereafter, his pain dulled by the poultices they applied on him and the draughts he drunk, he still lay still as log. He wanted her to touch him, to sing to him, to confide in him. If she saw that he were alert, he knew that she would not think to be so familiar with him, as she would with her family, for that would not be proper for a lady such as herself. Lady Sansa cared for her people, the healers and her guard, but there was always a sense of formality, a certain distance, in her interactions with them, a shield of courtesy. It was dishonorable how he was acting. He felt ashamed. Not a true knight, but a wicked craven, wanting so badly to have something he could not have.

"Dickon, I know, have known that you are awake. There is naught to feel shame..."

Chapter 5: Touch

Chapter Text

Sansa knew.

It was his eyes - they revealed him. They showed his pain, his fears, his despair, his guilt and shame. And when she touched him, petted his short shorn hair, soft like Lady’s fur, and held him as she fed him her porridge, his eyes brighten, his lids gently fluttered, his chest rumbled, sounding like Ghost when she scratched behind his furry ears. But she was well aware that he was not Ghost nor Lady - Lord Dickon was unmistakably a man, large, strong and magnificent.

Sansa blushed, remembering her peeking at his completely naked form - that was not proper. Mother would be disappointed - she oft told them to think of how they would feel if someone else did what they did to them. But, but she was embarrassed to admit that she may not mind if he saw all of her on their bedding night.

Before she left with Jon and their fighters, Arya warned her to not get her hopes up, about the follies of dreams, and even though Sansa learnt that life is not a song, knew what most men want, she was still that young girl who wanted to marry a true knight, honorable and gallant, and to bear him children, many sons and daughters. And she knew it was wrong to project all of her dreams and desires on the young man, that he could not be that perfect man, the man who would love her and keep her safe and would not leave her. And yet, she still indulged in those fantasies, that she was his lady wife lovingly tending her wounded lord husband.

Old Nan told Sansa long ago she had the gift of song. Then she thought it was a compliment as many enjoyed her singing, even her brothers who complained about them but yet could be found underneath her window ev'ry morning, listening to her as she sang to greet the morning sun. But she now understood her gift, how her song gentled the Hound’s ire and pain that dark fateful night, and how her song now soothed and healed this beautiful man’s wounded spirits. When she sang to him, she could see the darkness recede as the light shone in his eyes. His brown eyes were so warm, so full of affection.

When Sansa confessed that she knew, her hands involuntarily reached out and touched his muscular bare chest. When she realized in embarrassment what she did, she tried to remove her hands.

His large hand held them both.

“Don’t - I mean that I like your hands on me,” he hoarsely whispered.