Chapter One

TWENTY-SIX YEARS EARLIER

THE QUIET ISLE – UNKOWN AREA, WESTEROS

They had been raised to never fear pain, to never be daunted by the threat of any kind of physical hurt they might encounter. That was the easy part. When it came to training their mentality to resist the whims of an adversary, many fell short. One by one they were weeded out. The strong were groomed into unstoppable forces, and the weak died. This was the only world the Hound knew. Since birth, he knew his place and he knew his purpose, and this was the way things were.

When it was time, the Elder Brother oversaw their Markings. It was a rite of passage for those deemed strong enough to continue. The mark of the order was tattooed into the Hound's neck, and he never flinched. Glaring straight ahead, he allowed his path to be carved out for him. He was a twelve year old boy who had been raised to kill, and it was all he ever wanted.

Hours upon hours of orderly, arduous training ruled over their days, even leaking into the nights. Whether it was artillery drills or hand-to-hand combat, the priests taught them how to be clean and direct. Everything from their killing to their manner of walking was precise and immaculate. They were not clumsy executioners. If there was even one spot of blood on their clothing, the job would be deemed badly done. In order to make it in this profession, they had to become disciplined creatures of habit. Giving up any sort of conscience they might possess, the Hound and the others would become near invincible weapons, devoid of any mortal weakness.

He could still remember his life on the island where they trained. Together, the boys would stand in attention for hours on end in the blistering sunlight. Together, they would be forced to sit in the bottom of a deep pool and hold their breath until it felt as if their lungs would burst. During combat practice, they wouldn't spar. The priests would command them to "fight," and so they would, punching and kicking and dodging skillfully until only one remained standing. The Hound remembered the first time he killed a boy by accident, slamming his fist into his partner's chest so hard, that when the boy fell, he never got up. It was all for the best though. The weak links needed to be eliminated. Only the best could become a true part of the order.

Sometimes though, the trainees would try to escape, only for it to end badly. Thinking that they were strong enough to free themselves, they would try to climb the walls, jump into the water, anything to get away from the Quiet Isle. They would be gunned down. Snipers were everywhere, completely unseen, and ready to kill at any given moment.

If they weren't climbing the walls, they would give in to the mental strain their training wrought. Many surrendered to the spiral, sinking deep within themselves and never resurfacing. The priests would often find the mentally frail boys in a corner of the dormitory, with a shirt wrapped tightly about their neck. "You must never surrender," the Elder Brother would lecture when another dead trainee would be thrown into the water to sink. "You will become better, and you will become stronger, if you never give in to your past self. You have no need for emotions here. No need at all."

They were taught to kill with a variety of objects, no matter how seemingly harmless they first appeared. It was an easy thing for the Hound, and he excelled at whatever the priests introduced him to. Through discipline and natural skill, the Hound became one of the best. When it was time for the genetic treatments, his already advanced aptitude became even more lethal. He was a shining jewel in the Quiet Isle, which lead to his promotion into an older unit. Still only a boy, he continued his training with experienced men, and that was where he learned his first lesson in humility. Being the best in his past regimen never prepared him to be constantly beat and put down by the older apprentices. Through hand-to-hand combat on a bed of hot coals, the Hound learned just how weak he truly was. An older veteran, the Mountain, claimed the win that day. Grabbing the Hound by the neck, he slammed his face down into the coals, laughing while the boy underneath his grasp screamed.

After that humiliating defeat, the Hound was physically maimed, losing the ability to blend in. The scars that were permanently etched into his face only fueled his ambition though. He let go of everything and became the shell that the priests wanted them to be. It was easier to live like that he realized. Through that mentality, he was unstoppable.

He received congratulatory handguns from the Elder Brother the day he was ready to take on his first assignment. He held Knight and Stranger tight in his fists and decided that they felt right.

It was all he had ever wanted.

It was all he had ever known.

PRESENT DAY

TORRHEN'S SQUARE – NORTHERN DISTRICT, WESTEROS

The weather was a dangerous mix of rain and ice, collecting on the road and on the windshield of Agent Jon Snow's car. As he drove his vehicle slowly through the night, he couldn't help but feel ridiculously tired. It was just one more unsuccessful day after another. Ever since his time in the Southern District, his ability to concentrate on any other case had diminished. He could hear the whispers around the office of the NWP. "Doesn't he look tired?" They would say in tones that they thought he wouldn't be able to make out. "He won't make it much longer. Just look at his eyes…"

It made him question his capabilities as chief inspector, and he hated himself for it. Three months ago, that damned assassin had nearly been in his grasp. He could still remember the wave of relief he had felt when he had the bastard in the backseat, handcuffed and compliant. It was a dream come true. How the hell does he keep slipping away? That was the question of the year. The way this man could seemingly disappear at will… It was unnatural. It wasn't human. Agent Snow was out of the anger stage. The only thing he felt now was an unbelievable sense of failure.

Through the sleet, he could make out his home down the road. He had been long at work, so there was no other light on but the porch light which shone like a beacon in the desolate darkness. He smiled at the welcoming picture that little house painted. No matter how down he was, he knew inside that house, Ygritte and his daughters would be there safe and sound and fast asleep. Even if he didn't have a wanted criminal, he would always have his family. Surely that was enough to make him happy.

Pulling into the driveway, he shut off his car and flipped his coat's collar up about his neck before braving the icy rain. Running to the porch, he scooped up his youngest daughter's tricycle that had been left out on the sidewalk and then unlocked the front door, stepping into the wonderful warmth of the house.

He knew he probably should have went straight to bed, straight to Ygritte, but he couldn't. One last look through his case file and then maybe he would figure something new out. Maybe, just maybe, his brain would just click and there would be an idea there that wasn't there before. He had to read though it tonight. Just one more time.

Carelessly putting away his gun and badge on the kitchen counter, Snow noticed something different. His daughters had made him a card, placing it on the dining room table along with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. The words 'We Love You, Daddy,' were scrawled out in red crayon and he smiled as he picked up a single cookie and the milk. He shouldn't be so stressed, it wasn't healthy, and so he knew what he had to do. There would be no reading through the case file tonight. He would lock up his study and go straight upstairs, and who knew? Perhaps Ygritte would still be awake…

The light switch to his study wasn't working. Snow clicked it a couple more times to be sure, and still, nothing happened. He moved carefully around the furniture, trying to remember where he had last put his emergency torch. Gradually, his eyes were adjusting to the darkness of the room, and that's when he saw the body lying in the middle of it.

"Fuck," he cursed, dropping the milk onto the body by accident. Instinctively, his hand reached for his gun.

"It's not there," came a sudden voice from his desk. Agent Snow looked up in shock as his lamp switched on, basking the room in a soft glow, and illuminating the Hound's scarred face. "It's in the kitchen where you left it."

Snow's mouth went completely dry when he noticed the gun in the Hound's gloved hand. "How did you get out," was all he could manage to say.

The Hound ignored him, turning his attention to a picture frame in his left hand while still holding the gun in his right. "You have a nice family," he said quietly. When the Hound met Snow's eyes once more, there was a strange sort of gleam within them. A feeling of dread washed over Snow's entire body, but he was frozen. The Hound noticed, "They're fine," he reassured Snow, "Alive. Asleep." Carefully, the assassin placed the frame back onto the desk.

There was only one question burning in Snow's mouth at that moment, "Are you going to kill me?" He asked. His voice sounded calmer than he felt.

The Hound looked slightly annoyed, "If I was going to kill you, I would have done it when you walked to the car this morning, and gone before your body hit the sidewalk."

"Then why are you here?"

The light from the lamp shadowed the Hound's dark eyes, making them even more menacing. "To talk," he answered darkly, "but Jon, if you make me kill you, you will not go alone." Snow swallowed and nodded his head, indicating that he understood the threat. The Hound's jaw was set, his brow furrowed into a deep scowl. "Sit," he commanded and Jon obeyed, feeling the fury rise within him. All the while, the Hound's gun remained aimed directly at Jon's heart.

The thunder rumbled in the distance as the two enemies stared at one another. Jon didn't trust himself to speak first. One wrong word and his family was gone. Ygritte, the girls, his whole world gone in an instant if he set the Hound off. And so, Agent Snow kept silent.

"Are you a good man, inspector?"

The Hound's question rang oddly in his ears. At first, he was unsure if he had heard correctly. "I think so," Snow answered as surely as he could, despite the uncertainty riddling his thoughts.

"And yet you've killed men," the Hound pointed out.

He didn't know exactly where it came from, but Jon found his lips pulling into a small grin, "Yes," he answered. The smile suddenly vanished just as quickly as it had come and Agent Snow felt a pricking beneath his eyes. Of course he killed people, but only people who needed to be killed. Who was an assassin to judge him for that?

"I'm going to ask you an important question," the Hound continued, "how you answer it will determine how this night ends." Jon stared straight into the Hound's eyes, waiting, unable to escape that feeling of dismay that sank low in his stomach. "How does a good man decide when to kill?"

The Hound moved the gun closer to Jon's chest and waited for his answer.