Hi everybody - thank you all for all the favs and follows this story has received, and a huge thank you to the kind reviews. You have motivated me to update sooner.
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Chapter 2 - No other choice.
The sun was setting fast, and once it did, staying outdoors could mean a death sentence. Everybody picked up their snares, traps and packed all the game they gathered that day. It wasn't the best day for hunting, but they did manage to hunt a few rabbits, with not a lot of meat in them, but at least the furs looked very well preserved. They could create some clothes for the raw winter they were experiencing.
A big man was drinking from a horn, he was really chugging the liquid that smelled even worse than the dead animals they were carrying. His hand extended the horn to a shorter man who was walking a few steps behind, carrying a few animal carcasses and some spears.
- No. I've already told you, I don't like that thing you drink. - said the short man whose head was covered with a hood made from fur.
- You're still a pretty boy. Confess you miss drinking that insipid red piss you southerners call "wine". - replied the large man, wiping his beard with the sleeve of his coat.
The short man didn't answer back, but removed his hood to see the way better. It was the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, The White Wolf, The King in the North, the last Targaryen alive. Aegon Targaryen walked among his people. He preferred to bury that name that had only given him problems and sorrow. His name was still Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard. Or so he chose to believe.
-The sun is setting fast, we need to pick up the pace if we want to arrive to our camp before nightfall - said Jon as he adjusted his gear to make it easier to carry it.
- OI ! HURRY UP YOU LAZY BASTARDS! Your ballsacks will freeze if you don't move your damn feet faster and get to camp!! - commanded the big manwho was no other than Tormund Giantsbane - Jon Snow's friend and in a way, his new Lieutenant among the Free Folk. They have chosen to follow Jon and in an unespoken way, he was the new leader. Tormund was the second in command.
Jon smiled - You sure know how to motivate your men don't you? - he replied in an amused tone. Tormund growled and went back to yell some more to the other hunters who were accompanying him.
-Where's Ghost? - Asked Jon raising his voice, stopping for a second to see if he was around.
-Last time I saw him, he was running after something he sniffed. Relax, he'll return soon. He always does. - answered Tormund from afar.
In a few more minutes, they reached camp. It was more than just an improvised camp, it was more like a small village they had built. The houses were rather precarious, certainly not fit for the harsh winter that was upon them, but they kept improving it, expanding it and making the homes of each family or clan a bit stronger. Jon had his own hut that wasn't shared with anybody else. A luxury only the new King Beyond the Wall could afford, even if he officially didn't hold that title.
The men took the game they hunted to a big hut in the middle of the camp/village, so the women could skin them and prepare them. The Free Folk didn't have private property, they shared everything: food, clothing, weapons. Only the ones in higher ranks could have private things such as their own weapon, their own gear, and only the higher ones in rank had their own accommodations. Jon had earned all those exclusive benefits in a matter of months, ever since he was banished from Westeros, back to the wall.
Jon had always been a quiet man, but after what happened in the Throne Room, he had become even more reserved, and more melancholic.
Tormund always had high spirits, always joking, always taunting Jon but always respecting him. He was the only friend he had left. Him and Ghost.
Jon would join in all the social events, meetings, gatherings and celebrations the free folk had, and tonight was no exception. Men had returned with some food, and all of them were safe and sound. Jon would rarely talk, just eat, listen to their stories and laugh, or occasionally share one or two stories about the Great War against the dead, his time as a crow, his family, and the traditions and costumes the people from Westeros had. There was only one topic everybody knew that Jon hated to talk about, or even remember.
The Free Folk were a merry congregation, even when they lived in such a complicated state of near famine, with dangerous animals lurking everywhere, and diseases that sometimes took almost half of the population. They were happy because they were free, and they all were equals. Jon fell in love with that idea when he first met them. He had always been looked down because of his last name, or rather his lack of last name. "Ned Stark's bastard" it's who he was, how they referred to him, how he was introduced to strangers. And Lady Catelyn despised him, even though it wasn't his fault he was a bastard. Of course, she didn't know the truth. He had wondered, if she would have known the truth, would she had been good to him? Would she have become a foster mother and treat him with tenderness? Would she had loved him?
- No use thinking that - he told himself. Even when his mind was always on guard, sometimes it drifted back to that day. The day he had become a Queenslayer, a murderer, a man who had lost his honor, but worse yet, the love of his life.
When he felt his mind was traveling back to that day, or when something ignited a memory of her, an image, a smell, a sensation, he always shut his eyes and shook his head. It was the only thing that cleared his mind when it began to torture him.
He didn't even allow himself to remember her name. He couldn't. He knew that if he started thinking about her, he would never stop, and the self hatred he already felt inside him would grow like weeds and would eat him alive.
- "It doesn't feel right" - he had told Tyrion. He knew that she had done an unforgivable crime. She had lost all reason and all sense of righteousness. She had become a monster, and he was the only one who could stop her and save the kingdom from more massacres. Yet, it simply didn't feel right...
Jon hadn't noticed but he was quieter tonight than any other night. His mind had sunk into a sea of questions and he wasn't aware he was sailing those perilous waters. Tormund approached him, patted him in the back so hard it hurt Jon and growled.
- Ha Ha! You're such a little girl Jon Snow! I barely touched you! - he said and offered him some of his sour milk.
- Jon smiled widely, and accepted the beverage. He drank at least three large gulps and grimaced at the awful taste. But Tormund was right, it was different from the wine he was used to drink. That thing was strong enough to knock down Sandor Clegane himself, and it was exactly what he needed to shut up his brain for a while. A few minutes later, he began feeling a bit weak, his head was spinning and he couldn't understand what people were saying.
Tormund noticed that, he laughed and said - "I think it's time you retire to your palace Lord Snow, or you'll puke your guts out in front of all your people and lose respect even from little children" - He helped Jon get on his feet but he was so drunk he couldn't stand. People laughed not as a mockery but as a triumph to see Jon finally let down his guard and become comfortable enough around them to get completely wasted. Tormund picked him up like a kid and carried him to his hut.
He entered the hut and put him on the pile of furs that was supposed to be a bed. -Sleep tight sunshine - teased Tormund, laughed and left him.
-Dany... Jon mumbled before he was unconscious.
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Jon's head was killing him, it was as if a blacksmith was forging the weaponry of an entire army inside his brain. He frowned, took his head and opened his eyes. It was still dark, and there was a silence that only the wind whistling outside broke every now and then.
Jon wanted to get up to get himself a some water, but something felt wrong. He always had an instinct to detect danger, and he felt it right now.
- it's probably just the goat's milk inside me - he whispered to himself. Then, he heard a very low wood creak under some weight. He ran to where his sword, Longclaw was and unsheathed it.
- Who is there - he asked.
-If you heard me, it's only because I wanted you to hear me. I'm sick of you lying there like a corpse, and me waiting for you to respond - replied the voice of a man, with a strange accent he didn't know where it could come. It wasn't a Free Folk accent, and he was certain it wasn't northern either, nor highborn nor lowborn.
-Who are you? Asked Jon.
-Relax, you don't know me. We haven't met each other before. - the man replied, he was sitting in a table Jon used to eat, write, read, etc. He was sitting with his legged crossed, leaning on his elbows that supported his weight over his crossed legs. He looked older than him, but still in his best years. He had a beard, dark hair, tanned skin. His outfit wasn't known, he didn't look like a sell sword from Westeros, or a bandit. Or from Westeros at all. Perhaps Dornish? They were tanned and their outfits were different than them rest of the men in the realm.
-What are you doing here? How did you get in? -Asked Jon alarmed.
- Well, to be honest I've seen pigpens with better defenses than this whole camp. And being brutally honest, I've been watching you sleep for a while. I was curious.
-What? Jon frowned and his anger began to rise.
-I was curious to know what is that makes you so goddamn special, Jon Snow.
- What? Who in the seven hells are you? Who sent you?!
- Ugh I don't have time for this bullshit. Listen. I've come here to take you with me. Let's not make this more difficult alright?
- Take me with you? Where to? - Jon's voice was a mix between anger and irony, and a tad of worrying.
- You are not in position to ask questions. So come with me voluntarily, or I'll take you with me dragging you out of this shithole. Either way, you are coming with me. The state of your well-being depends entirely of your decision.
- You'll have to take me dead. -Jon clenched his teeth, his look fierce. He pointed Longclaw towards the man.
- I was afraid you'd say that. - Replied the man as he quickly jumped on his feet and took the hilt of his weapon, a weapon similar to the ones the Dothraki used.. a large hilt with q curved blade, almost as sharp as Valyrian steel. Jon realized this man couldn't be from Westeros.
- The thing is: if you don't come with me voluntarily or without making any noise, I'll whistle and my men will butcher this poor people, and it'll be in your conscience. Although from all the stories I've heard about you, you don't really have any honor left to care, right?
Jon panicked.
- I'll explain why: nobody must know I've come to take you. I want your people to believe you deserted them. If they know you were taken by force, I'm sure they'll look for you and start asking questions. We don't want that. - the stranger said as he smiled.
-Who are you? Who sent you? - Asked Jon, realizing this man was nothing but a hired killer.
- I'll oblige you. My name is Daario Naharis. Who sent me? That I can not tell you.
-Tell me if you want me to go with you - replied Jon.
Daario smiled, and with a swift strike knocked Jon to the ground. - I've wasted enough time here. And there is no other choice pretty boy, you are coming with me. - said Daario as he lifted Jon in his arm and carried him on his shoulder. He left the hut undetected, and with a snap of his fingers, at least a dozen of shadows passed by him, leaving the huts of the other people and vanishing in the dark.
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Jon woke up tied in a chair, in what seemed like a cellar. Everything around him was wood: floor, walls, ceiling, and it smelled awful, damp. He was wearing his pants, boots and a large shirt, like a night gown. His furs gone. He lifted his gaze and saw a man guarding him, looking very similar to the man who had attacked him.
-Captain: he's awake. - yelled the guard.
He heard the steps on top of him, and turned his head to see what seemed like a skylight. It was the only source of light in that place, that and a dim lamp in the far corner. A manly figure descended from the skylight, and the whole place began to rock. Jon realized he was in a ship.
The man patted the guard on the back and with his head indicated him to leave. The guard understood and left them alone.
-Hello. Said the man who had introduced himself as Daario Naharis.
-Why have you taken me? Asked Jon.
-I'm simply following orders. He replied.
-Has somebody hired you to kill me? - Jon asked.
Daario laughed. - Jon Snow, if I wanted you dead, you would have maggots coming out of your eyes by now. - Daario approached him and cut off his bindings. Jon massaged each wrist and moved his shoulders to ease his muscle pain.
-Am I going to be executed in front of somebody? Is that why you're taking me alive? - inquires Jon as he moved his arms in a circular way.
- I doubt it, but I wouldn't rule that out. - He offered him some water he carried in a wine skin. Jon couldn't afford to play proud now, he was extremely thirsty so he accepted it and drank the entire content, to the last drop. He returned the wineskin and nodded in appreciation.
They stood in front of each other for what seemed like an eternity. Daario kept examining him and made Jon very uncomfortable. Jon had enough.
- What's the matter? You fancy men? - he asked annoyed.
Daario laughed - No. But even if I would, I honestly can't find a single trait in you that would result attractive. You're not very tall, your face is dull, you look like you got a stick up your arse, always frowning. You strike me like a complete bore. - said Daario with a smirk crossing his arms.
- If I had a weapon with me I could show you my biggest trait: I would split you in half. - Jon's tone was defying.
Daario laughed again. - are you challenging me, Jon Snow?- he asked amused.
- Aye, I'm challenging you. If I win, I want you to let me go. If I lose, I'll stop protesting and go to whatever fate awaits me. -
- And here I thought this trip was going to be a drag. Very well. I accept your challenge. I like fair fights so rest until tonight. I'll have my people bring your meal for you to gain straight. See you then.
Daario winked and left, although the same guard immediately went down to look for Jon.
Hours passed and Jon had managed to eat, drink and sleep. He felt like himself again, his strength fueling his desire to fight.
Another guard came with a torch and simply said "it is time". The guard who was with Jon nodded, and stretched his arm to show Jon which way he had to go.
Jon climbed up the ladder to the deck of the ship, and what he saw was intimidating. A crew of at least 50 men, all wearing similar attire with leather and some metal, all of the carrying a torch. Some of them had drums and began a tune that sounded like the prelude of a savage battle.
One man came to him and gave him his sword, Longclaw. Jon was surprised. He thought he'd never see his sword again. He smiled, grabbed it firmly and unsheathed it. The crowd dispersed and formed a circle, revealing Daario getting ready for battle.
Daario took a dagger in his left hand and his Arakh on his right hand. He moved his neck as if to stretch his muscles, and soon the drum's beat intensified. He stood in front of Jon. The drums stopped.
- I am Daario Naharis. I am captain and commander of The Second Sons. You, Jon Snow, have challenged me to combat. Normally, this combat would be to death, but my orders are to take you alive. But I'm a man of my word. If you win, you can slay me and my men will take you back to where we took you, unharmed. But if I win, unfortunately I can't kill you and dump your useless carcass to the sea, so regardless of the result, you will live. But, you'll go to the place we are taking you without asking any more damn questions, and will obey every command from all my men or me. Understood?
Jon nodded.
- And the combat rules are: there are no rules. Begin!
The drums began a furious pace, and men began cheering and yelling. Both Jon and Daario took a fighting stance, moving around each other, studying the moves of the adversary. It was Daario who threw the first blow, and cut Jon's right arm. A superficial wound. He was taunting him. The crew cheered, the drums kept sounding like a thunderstorm.
Jon hissed, but didn't lose his concentration. He kept studying Daario's moves and realized he was extremely fast both in mind and in body. To overpower this formidable adversary would take everything he had in him.
Daario threw another blow with his dagger that Jon deflected with his sword. The clash of metal made the crowd go wild.
Jon thew a massive blow this time that Daario has no trouble dodging, moving swiftly to one side and then bending down and steeping back. Jon took fighting stance again and lifted his sword. The crew kept cheering and growing impatient with the fight. They wanted to see their captain defeating that pompous Westerosi.
Daario began a series of swift attacks with his Arakh and dagger that Jon had trouble dodging and deflecting, but he walked away almost unharmed. Just a minor cut on his left biceps.
Daario raised his eyebrows - "not bad... you are evolving from worthless to incompetent!" - He taunted Jon, but he knew better than to let his guard down for a man with a big mouth.
Jon threw an attack that caught Daario switching his fighting stance, and managed to cut his left leg. Blood began staining his pants. Daario looked down, the crowd yelled angry and the drums intensified. Jon knew this was a decisive moment.
Daario looked at his leg, and the looked at Jon. He was not going to fail in his mission, and he was definitely not going to be defeated in his own ship in front of his men. His look changed, his mocking face gone and transformed into a warriors face.
Daario frowned and launched himself against Jon with a series of short distance attacks that Jon deflected, until Daario with a quick and inexplicable movement dropped to the floor and with his legs threw Jon to the floor. He fell heavily, his sword flying away from him. Daario got up with a jump like a cat, dropped on top of Jon and put his forearm on Jon's throat while his other arm held a dagger about to pierce his right eye.
Both men breathed heavily, drums stopped sounding and men cheered. The fight was over. Jon looked at Daario defiantly, his nostrils wide with anger.
Daario looked at Jon with hatred for just another moment, then his features softened and his mocking expression back. He got up, and offered his hand to Jon. He reluctantly accepted and got back on his feet.
- well congratulations Jon Snow. I've been cut only three times in my years of fighting with the Second Sons and the fighting pits. This is the third one by the way. - Daario said as he ripped off a piece of cloth from his shirt and tied it to his wounded leg.
Jon nodded, aknowledging his own defeat but somehow proud that he was among the men who had harmed this formidable warrior. He has fought hundreds of men, but he has never seen a fighting style like Daario's. He was amazed.
Daario went to pick up Longclaw, and threw it to one of his men. - We'll be taking that for the moment. Cheer up. If the winds favor us, we will arrive tomorrow before sundown. - he said and with an order in a language he didn't understand, men dispersed while one of them pushed him back to the place he was being held.
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Jon couldn't sleep. His body ached from the battle. Men had burned his cuts with a red hot poker to avoid infection. It hurt him terribly bad but at least he was sure he'd heal soon.
His mind was burning him with questions. "second Sons"? He had never heard of them before. Not by Maester Amon, Commander Mormont or his bookworm friend Sam. He knew now they were fierce warriors, led by a man who was adamant on keeping his promise, or contract to take him alive, wherever they were going.
Jon began to think why would he be taken alive across the Narrow Sea. He knew Daenerys was famous in Essos, and these men were taking him to that continent. He assumed they were hired killers that abducted him to take him in front of the new rulers, whoever inherited Dany's realms and would be publicly executed. Made sense. Word of her death must have traveled to these lands a while ago.
Every time his heart ventured to think about her name, his heart ached, his chest felt like it would implode. He closed his eyes and tried to make the thought go away. But this time he couldn't.
"It doesn't feel right goddamn it! - whispered Jon to himself. - but I had to... otherwise she... - he kept talking to himself - I betrayed her. I bent the knee and betrayed her. With a kiss. - Jon was breathing heavy now - she had to be stopped. She had to- his soliloquy continuing - you could have been there for her. Counseled her. Guide her. Instead, you murdered her. She died in your arms, she trusted you and you put a dagger in her heart - Jon closed his eyes and began panting.
The memory of the first time he saw her, sitting in that throne in Dragonstone made him shiver and his breathing erratic. Her beauty had caught him off guard, but what really amazed him was the determination, the strength, even the stubbornness she displayed. At first it was annoying, then he felt more and more that confidence, that dominance that only monarchs must feel.
He has fought his feelings every day while he was in Dragonstone trying to convince her to help the north without him bending the knee. He knew the northern wouldn't forgive him.
But then he had seen the generosity, the fierceness, the solidarity she had when she rescued him and his party from the Night King, risking her own life and her dragon's life, where she actually lost one.
When he woke up and saw her sitting next to him, he knew it was useless to resist. He loved her. He had fallen in love with her like a boy. But she was a queen, a real one. He was a bastard, "The King in the North" a title that didn't really exist. How could she love him the way he did?
But he noticed she was so worried, squeezing his hand and crying in happiness when he woke up, that she had to feel something. She lost one of her children to help him, and she has proven herself worthy of being followed. So he bent the knee and became a subject to her service.
After all the disaster that was negotiating with Cersei, and sailing from King's Landing to Winterfell, he couldn't stand it any longer. He had to have her. Or at least know that she didn't want him back.
He had walked to her chambers with fear in his mind but with desire in his heart. When he knocked and she let him in, it was the beginning of a new time for him. Their lovemaking was the best thing it had ever happened to him. The Gods knew he had loved Ygritte with all his heart, but this was a different kind of love. It wasn't an innocent first love, it was an ardent, unstoppable love and devotion. He knew she felt love for him too.
The few days they spent on that boat was the best days of his entire life, even knowing that death was only a few days away.
He cursed the day he knew he was her nephew. Being the son of the last Targaryen and Lyanna Stark was the cruelest revelation he had ever endured. He preferred to be a bastard than to be the rightful heir to the throne. All the pressure that everybody put on him, and the clear fear that now Daenerys felt to her right to the throne had ruined what he had. And while incest was normal among Targaryens, he couldn't handle the fact that they were blood related. Dany didn't seemed to care, but he did. And he began rejecting her over, and over again.
- there's just so much a woman can take - he told himself. He still didn't know how to feel about it. He still loved her (and hated himself every day more and more), he still wanted her, he still dreamed about all the times they made love with longing, but at the same time something inside him kept telling him it was wrong, or at least awkward.
His mind violently drifted back to the day he had killed her. He remembered kissing her fiercely, she kissing him back with all the passion she had, and then his hand reaching to his dagger and plunging it into her heart. As he felt the cold metal penetrating her flesh, both of them opened their eyes. His eyes were full of shame and remorse, her eyes just realizing what had happened as life left her body and the fire in her pupils shutting off.
Feeling her dead weight in his arms was the worst sensation he has ever felt. He knew his heart died that day with her. She committed a crime that made her worthy of her death, but his heart heard no reason: he still loved her, and he killed her.
Jon's vision became blurry with all the tears that began to form in his eyes. He frowned trying to get rid of them, but he couldn't. He let them run freely down his face and he hid his face in his hands.
- LAND AHOY! a voice yelled from deck and men's hurried steps could also be heard.
Jon was taken out of his feverish state of mind and back to reality. They had reached their destination, and soon his fate will be known.
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