At night, Jon dreamed. When he woke, all he remembered was flying, soaring high above, setting fire to those who might hurt him. That, and a voice, whispering to him. 'Wake up,' it said. 'Wake up, Jon Sand. Wake up.'
Even when he was awake, the voice was still there. 'Wake up, Jon Sand,' it told him, and Jon wanted to cry and scream and rage. He was not Jon Sand anymore. He was more than that. He was Jon Stark, Lord of Dragonstone, trusted and celebrated by King Robert Baratheon. 'Wake up, Jon Sand,' the voice would whisper, and Jon would take his piece of dragonglass and cut the welt in his arm back open. He would watch as his blood dripped onto the rocks and sizzled and steamed when it hit. He would put his hands on the rocks and feel how they were finally growing hot, almost as though they were alive. He would go back to sleep.
'Wake up,' the voice would call, but this time the name it called was not his own.
…
"I hope he really likes her," Jon said when the raven arrived carrying the news of Garlan Tyrell's betrothal to Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne.
Loras shrugged. "I hope so too," he said. "But in the end it does not matter. He will do what is best for our House, and if Grandmother believes we need the Martells on our side, that is all that matters. She is the smartest of us, except maybe Margaery, but Margaery is a girl still, and she will be a Stark soon enough."
There was a bittersweet hint to Loras' smile that Jon did not quite know how to interpret. "Still," he said. "I hope they will be happy. They will expect a present, will they not?"
Loras nodded, the grin right back on his lips. "Do not tell me you will commission that dragonglass carver of yours again. He is busy enough already. Has been getting orders from all over the Reach ever since you sent your present." He ruffled Jon's hair, a new move Jon was not all that fond of. He tended to dislike people touching his hair, especially because it took so little to make him look unkempt, which never failed to get him a lecture from Uncle Arthur. "Margaery loved it, by the way," Loras added. "She had never seen a piece like it. She loves how thoughtful you are."
Jon swallowed down his nerves before they could grow into full-fledged nausea as they had tended towards for a while now. "Well," he said. "I could not very well give her a sparring match or a maester's lesson, and I fear I am not much good for anything else. I am glad she found old Ballon's piece nice."
Loras grinned. "She adores it. And Old Ballon adores you for your patronage. You would think you are Aegon the Conqueror reborn, hearing him speak of you. I heard your uncle complain of the number of local craftsmen showing up in between the men requiring petitions in the hopes that you would grant them fame and fortune as well."
Jon frowned, suddenly uncomfortable. Who was he, truly, to be anyone's patron? "I just wanted to give your sister something she could not get anywhere else," he said, feeling suddenly more bashful than he had for a while.
Loras ruffled his hair again. His hand lingered for a long few moments. "I hope Margaery has the good sense to know how lucky she is," he said, his voice oddly sad.
Jon scrounged up a smile and nudged his temple against Loras' cheekbone, no matter how uncomfortable he got every time their difference in height became so obvious. "I do now know what I would do without you," he confessed.
Loras' arm tightened around his shoulder. "I think we are late for the yard," he said at long last, and Jon followed him down the stairs with a grin.
'Wake up,' the voice whispered in his ear. 'Wake up. Wake us up.'