The old ones
The storyteller
There was trouble brewing across the sea. It seemed that the idiots in the cult couldn't keep their stupidity to themselves as apparently, someone among them had the bright idea that burning down a Slaver's armada somehow meant "hiding in plain sight". At times like this; he almost missed the Island, almost.
After being stuck for a literal eternity in oblivion, the inside of people's minds was a welcome change, though not in all cases. Viserys for instance; was excellent when it came to killing off his crazed nephews and at ruling but his stupidity could not be imagined when it came to judging his own children. Novices found it easy to say the words "Everything is permitted" but they didn't really understand it. He didn't, not until he advised a man, a decent man to allow his crazed nephew to starve to death in order to prevent religious genocide. Too bad kinslaying was still taboo only when it came to his children.
Aemon was too bloody proud to do what was necessary. He had no qualms about cuckolding his brother ("love" as he called it) but couldn't draw up his other sword to stick it to his other sibling. The second part, "Nothing is true" was learnt following those years. Aegon might have been right about Daeron after all, but people would disbelieve anything said by a king whose claim in history rested on setting the lowest limit of expectations for any ruler on the Iron Throne. Daeron though was the first decent mind he saw for a long time until the glory got to his head and swelled his ego. Being a peacemaker it turned out, was no guarantee of sense.
Anybody with common sense could have seen the rebellion coming off from a mile away, so of course, the entire family was caught by surprise. He would have advised him, but "the great diplomat" preferred to listen to advisors rather than the only voice of reason inside his head. The rebellion spread further and had it not been for his son Baelor and his half-brother Brynden, black dragons would be flying over the Red Keep. He switched hosts after that to the more promising heir, which is until his fool of a younger brother literally knocked him out of his head.
For a change of pace, he decided to enter the first head which caught his attention. As it happened, little bald boys were really rare and to his unending irritation, boys with royal blood apparently found it in fashion now to run around bald. Admittedly, it was a refreshing change of pace away from the city. He had almost forgotten what fresh air smelled like at that point, so he was actually content to just shut up and enjoy the ride.
The entertainment wasn't lacking either, as that miserable excuse of a knight he squired for provided an ample source of it. Though he could avoid having to watch Egg boy wait on him as he bathed, the sight of him chasing down chickens and peasants in wicker was the funniest thing he had seen in centuries. Just for that, once in a while, he would feed him little tricks and tactics of swordplay to improve his skills. All that effort to turn him into a competent swordsman and all he got was a glorified tablecloth strapped between his shoulders for it. Typical kings.
Even with that, it seemed that the little Egg was the best student he probably had until his own children fucked it all up. Egg or "Aegon" as they now called him was even on the worst of days a clever little boy in a man's body rather than a talking crown with an overgrown prick under it. He couldn't bring it to himself to "convince" Egg about the steps necessary to secure his dynasty and so for a moment of weakness, tens of thousands would die, even though he didn't realize it at that time.
When Jaehaerys the spineless came to the throne, he gave up trying to make the line of crazies look competent so he decided to shut up till they died off. It would have worked had it not been for those fucking eggs. They corrupted Egg and created the madness which would doom them all. Two generations of madness followed, of burning men and harp playing siren songs which started wars through indifference and insanity. In one of his unending life's little ironies, he found his next host in the place which would bring an end to them.
The existence of Harrenhal was an offence to reason by the one who conceived it and by those who foolishly tried to preserve it. As his withered old host lay cackling on the dais, he switched his mind between him and his son out of boredom. It turned out that even after more than a century of inhabiting madmen, he could still be surprised.
He always suspected Rhaegar of having no real interest among women, a belief helped by his choice of companions. Apparently, Rhaegar was more oblivious than most people suspected, or he was a heartless bastard like he suspected based on how he let Lonmouth and Connington jump through circles for him. The mad prince, as he would call him in time, was rotten to the core. There was an obsession in his mind, regarding prophecies and legends. Worse, he truly seemed incapable of differentiating between stories and reality.
The first Aerys had a good substitute for ruling, but now there was no safety net. He couldn't advise him inside his head; it would just drive him on his father's path. So in desperation, he looked through his eyes. What he saw there wasn't encouraging.
In this hellhole, women, in general, were one step ahead of livestock in value. He was actually surprised to see a bold one among them. Lyanna Stark, the Wolf maid or the Wolf bitch as she would be known to history did have a way of drawing the eye. She hid quite well, weeping to songs like the empty-headed ones scattered in any court and yet breaking cover by emptying a pitcher of wine above her fool of a brother. That moment brought him back to his more peaceful days with egg and he couldn't help but take a liking to her. For the second time in memory, he jumped to another host on impulse, but with far more tragic results.
Lyanna was Read come again, albeit a bit more self-centered and ill-disciplined. He regretted hosting in her mind every step of the way south and was more than tempted to jump into the weirwoods, had it not been for what rested there. He thought he knew of agony when he saw his hosts die, but it wasn't until he was trapped in the Tower from hell that he knew what agony was. It was hate which brought him into an alliance with the Wolf girl, hatred over the mad prince.
In one of his natural little selfish impulses through his unnaturally long life, he jumped to the first host he could find, one whose mind wasn't the realm of painful self-loathing which was Lyanna Stark. As it turned out, he should have considered a bit more deliberation here, as stretching out the mind of a toddler wasn't the best of ideas. The child's mind, however, learnt to cope with it and given enough time, he started imparting his lessons again. The rest as they say; is history.
The hunter
Occasionally, when the air grew still and the only sound was the scraping of a blade or the scratching of a quill, he would hear the quiet drumming. What he had heard in his life, the seemingly endless drumbeats of his childhood village, the beating of war drums across a sea of corpses, even the occasional tavern drum of his adult life was now imprinted in the back of his mind.
They weren't really irritating, but that didn't mean that he welcomed it either. At least the fact that he could change the weather on a whim meant that it didn't wear down on him.
The little habits of his mortal life which passed down to his immortal one were what he cherished the most. It was strange how the little things; the repairs, cooking and cleaning, hunting and riding, all the duties which he no longer had to do was what kept him sane. Yet it didn't work for him to dwell on the past, he would carry this responsibility, and bear it to the best of his ability.
Speaking of which, as he sorted the books (a snap of the fingers would have accomplished that, but he preferred the personal touch) in the upstairs library, there was the sound of knocking on the manor door. He couldn't help but smile that even after weeks of tutelage; the little cub still didn't feel comfortable in his own mind.
"It opens," he called out and heard the door opening followed by the quick patter of a child's steps up the stairs. He sensed the boy's presence without turning around and beckoned him to follow.
They entered the main corridor, past his own room (almost never used anymore), into the trophy room with the adjoint balcony. The little trophies of his own life; the paintings, the tea chest, the models and even the occasional medal was still there, gathering dust and hinting at stories which may never be told.
On the table was the ship. He caught the boy admiring it and knew that sooner or later he would find a way to try and replicate it. Some of the fondest memories of his life were aboard that ship and with the proper mood settled on; he conjured two cups of tea and some chairs.
The boy had seen stranger things by now and was clearly comfortable drinking the concoction. He reminded himself to start his education on poisons on a future date. In the rare moment of peace for both of them, he picked up the book he had brought from the library and pushed it towards the boy.
The boy took the hint and read the title. "The En…En…cy…clo...pe…dia". "…of the common man. The encyclopaedia of the common man. A mouthful of a title, yes but quite illuminating. A lot of work went into it, but I personally think it was worth it."
"You know who wrote it?" "I would say so, yes. Better than anyone else. I meet him regularly." "When?" "Well, I see him every time I look in the mirror for instance." The look of understanding on the boy's face was priceless and he probably didn't conceal his amusement very well, as the boy grew flustered and started reading. The embarrassment gave way to confusion following his reading and he knew the questions that would be coming.
"Master Connor?" "That's just Connor to you. You are not yet even a novice. The fancy titles have to wait." "I'm sorry. C-Connor, why would you write a book about smallfolk?"
"Good question; it's because I could." "I don't understand." "That's why it was a good question. If you understood it right away, there wouldn't be any reason for me to explain. Try asking yourself, why not?" "Why not?" "Exactly, why not write a book?" "Because they're smallfolk! No nobleman would want to read about farming!" "Why not?" "Because nobles don't care about farming." "Why not?" "It's not how it's done." "Why not?" "Because it's just is."
A cuff on the head followed the last statement. He quietened, more surprised than hurt. Except for a few remarks in the yard, he had never seen much reprimandation. "Every time you use that phrase or some form of it, you have lost your argument. Remember that."
The boy nodded quietly and he couldn't help hardening his resolve at the sight which would have undone him. The boy needed a teacher more than a friend at the moment. "Are you ready for your second story?" The boy looked up and nodded quietly before remembering, "yes, Connor."
He chuckled at that and continued, "it seems just like yesterday that the old man was trying to drum his lessons into my head. Now, for me, the change in roles is strangely satisfying. Where to begin… well; I was a youth at the time, barely older than your father after the rebellion. The old man called me into his study, or solar as you call it and showed me this book."
"I cared little for it at the time, my goals were limited to hunting down my enemies and protecting my people. 'A tale worthy of the songs' fools might say. I went through hell and back accomplishing the first, but the men I allied with had different ideas for the other. They had their own goals, they just didn't align with mine."
He couldn't help but stop at the memories, still fresh after centuries in this ethereal form. "My village, gone and all that was left to me was a decade of painful memories, a lost family and a duty I wasn't sure I could finish."
He tapped the book, "This, was just a hobby of mine, something to pass the time. There were settlers in the land, my land whom I found by accident or fate on my journeys. They were kind enough to let me observe and the closest I had to a family outside my village. The old man knew of the loss which comes in his line of work and didn't want me to end up like him. He still found a way to teach me from beyond the grave."
"I was an assassin, master of hiding in the crowds and working from the shadows, and yet I could never truly fit right in."
He could hear the comment before it was spoken aloud; the boy still hadn't completely grasped how to hide his emotions. "It wasn't the clothing or the weapons or even my work, it was the idea. To me, they were all the 'others', the outsider to myself and my people. It was me against the rest of the world. Of all things, it was a farming guide which taught me differently. I would spend hours, observing my neighbours while trying to avoid disturbing them. Did you know what I realised?"
The boy was unsure whether he was supposed to and yet he only delayed slightly before replying "No." "They were my people." Seeing the look of confusion on his face he continued. "My birth people lived, well not unlike your hill clans, but we had no Stark. Every year, our lands would be taken against our will and my people driven off by the very people amongst whom I lived. I more than anyone, had enough reason to hate them until I realised the truth."
"I had read a library's worth on the lives of other people from other lands, but only when I paid attention that I realised the simple truth, that they weren't puppets on strings dancing on a storyteller's whims, but people not much different from me. They were all outcasts, like me. We held little prejudice amongst ourselves as it would be impossible to do so since there were as many differences amongst them as they were to me and mine. We were all the same because none of us was."
"They weren't the men who marshalled armies and burned villages down. They were just farmers, potters and hunters who just wanted to live in peace, like my people. Take away the randomness of birth and various deceptions that highlight it then we were all the same. My enemy wasn't a person or a group, it was ignorance and prejudice and my allies weren't just my apprentices, but my people, Kanien'kehá:ka or people of Davenport it made no difference, they believed as I did, and in the end that was what mattered."
"The act of simple observation taught me more than a dozen books could. Kings and lords look at humanity and see numbers, I chose to see people. There was never an 'other' boy, it is an illusion. My 'people' were just that, a people, not limited by birth or fortunes. It was only, in the end, did I realise that. I hope for your sake, that you realise that."
The tea had finished at that point and conversation lightened and yet, the boy still seemed tense. To lighten the mood, he suggested that they go for a run. Opening the balcony door, he leapt on to the nearest branch and perched there, waiting for the boy to follow.
"Remember this Jon, here in your mind, there is always a convenient branch to climb onto."
The Banker
As the boy fell asleep again, he couldn't help but ask himself why he was tasked in teaching banking to someone who scorned the implementation of the mind outside of knowing where to stab with a blade. The hunter had praise for the boy, going out of his way to expand his vision and both the watcher and captain had expressed interest in continuing his education, at some later date so he couldn't help but complain that he was tasked with a duty he clearly didn't want.
His son was the one who was tasked with the duty and in a situation which he didn't dare to imagine, the boy found him in the bath. Mario and the rest of Monteriggioni spent the better half of an afternoon berating him for the carelessness. To make matters worse, in a disastrous attempt to lighten his mood, Ezio appeared more or less near his age and suggested that they partake in a street fight. A knife in the wrong place resulted in the boy fading from their midst. The next time he appeared; Ezio threw a mummer's folly to cheer him up. One terrible choice of casting resulted in Ezio being chased by a boy half his age armed with a knife as his mentor looked at the incident with a terrible smile on his face.
After that incident, Ezio was forbidden to teach him until a later time and the original subject; that of banking was handed over to him.
The boy had fallen asleep again and he had to wonder how he could actually miss trying to teach Ezio. To be fair, he had a keen eye and a decent mind and he was a decent influence on Petruccio, however, he had little talent with numbers. He woke him up again and wondered how anybody could sleep while dreaming and continued on. It took roughly about half a dozen sentences before the boy started dozing again.
"I cannot teach him." His brother barely looked up as he spoke, "then we must write a letter at once! The pope deserves to know, bastard that he is that miracles do happen. The great Giovanni defeated by a boy young enough to be his grandson!"
Giovanni knew better than to respond to that, Mario wasn't exactly the stablest of people when intoxicated. He tried a different tact. "He doesn't belong here." "In Purgatorio?" "In Monterrigioni, he can be one of us, but not by our methods. I can teach a Braavosi fine, but by our standards, he is two or three centuries behind us." "From Connor's standards, he is half-a-millennia behind him."
He was treading on a thin edge and he knew it. Since the incident with the mummers, Connor was not exactly on friendly terms with them. "I respect the man, unorthodox he may be and I say that with the utmost respect. Our brothers and sisters across the sea were wiped out to a man, his 'unorthodox' methods allowed us to recover, but that's the point. He is used to having apprentices of all shapes and sizes, but when was the last time we had apprentices outside of the Free cities?" "I don't often see you backing down from a challenge." "It's a duty, Mario, one I feel that others can do far better than me."
Mario finished his wine and got up mumbling something which sounded almost like a prayer. He stopped and replied, "I'll see what I can do."
When he saw the boy next, Ezio was sitting him on a chair and telling the stories of the great Urbino as he sat entranced at his feet. The boy clearly couldn't figure out who the old man was. The sight of his son looking old enough to be his father was always bizarre to him. Ezio looked at him and spoke, though no words were uttered, "I cannot teach him to be a banker father, but I can inspire him to learn for himself."
The Politician
For the uncountable time, he wondered what he was doing here. Death was supposed to be the end, an end of the duty which cost him so much, serving an uncompromising belief which gave no quarter or comfort for the weak, and he felt very weak as long as he could remember.
More than once, he had heard of this place being referred to as purgatory, but he knew better than to accept that blindly. Say what you would about the Assassin' their ideas were certainly, interesting. All in all, it wouldn't have been so bad had it not been for the company; countless cowled heads with eyes always judging from the bright shadows, never truly seen and never truly ignored.
That was bad enough, but to see the dead again was worse, his allies weren't here, except for Holden and his sister, who couldn't help but point out that all it took was the end of the world for him to get along with the Assassins. That was half a century ago and he hadn't talked to her since. Like all of them, he was given a role; the amoral statesman with a talent for shattering one naïve set of beliefs to be replaced by the one of their choosing. His students were… varied, though most of them would be hopeless in his time.
When he cared to, he wondered why they didn't get one of their own like Mirabeau to teach their recruits but most of the time he couldn't care enough to do so. The act of teaching was one of the few distractions afforded to him and he wasn't inclined to lose it.
He heard the door of the tavern open and the boy enter. "You're late," he remarked, drinking the surprisingly good ale and waiting for the boy to reply. "That would be difficult to accomplish in a realm where time has no meaning." He snorted at that and remarked, "you're learning. Who taught you that, Ezio?" "No, Connor."
Well, today was full of surprises. His face must have betrayed that thought because the boy continued, "I've seen most people mistake his silence for stupidity. I am not most people." "Really?" The boy nodded and continued, "there was a mummer's show in Monteriggioni the last time I came here, the mummer who played his part sounded like a puppet and they dressed him up in feathers. Even Master Mario was insulted at that."
At that moment he wished that he hadn't been more of a recluse for that sight would have been worth his stay here. If only Connor could have seen it. Before he could ask, however, "I haven't seen Ezio since Connor saw the folly. An old man has taken his place there."
He chuckled at that, "Leave it to Connor to drive off a master Assassin from his own home for an unintended insult." "It wasn't Connor, Mister Kenway, it… it was me." A hand moved faster than the boy could see and cuffed him on the back of the head, "is the meaning of 'subtlety' lost to you, boy?"
The boy was clearly chastised but Haytham wasn't the kind of man to ever discard a teaching moment. "I asked you a question, do you understand what 'subtlety' means? Look me in the eyes when you answer." The boy looked up with some effort and met his eyes and replied, "I do, Mister Kenway."
The boy has courage, after all. "Tell me, exactly what you should have done." "I should have tried to stop it." "No." "I should have confronted Ezio?" "No" "Giovanni and Mario?" "No." "Madam Maria and Claudia?" "Tempting, but no. It's not a person you should be calling. Before acting in an unknown situation, what should you have done?" "Scout the surroundings?" "Close and not incorrect, but no. Is that the best you can come up with?" "I can't think of anything else except setting the stage on fire."
Now that would be a sight worth seeing. "You may be related to the Targaryens boy, but that doesn't mean you should start emulating their actions. Especially not that of someone called 'The Mad King'." The boy sighed and drank from a mug which appeared out of nowhere. For a moment his parental instinct kicked in and he almost knocked the mug aside till he remembered that the boy probably wouldn't be affected by that, being in the land of the living and all. "I remember, sir. Nobody really lets me forget that. I didn't mean to burn the mummers sir; I only meant that the fire would scare them off." "No doubt countless fires have had someone say that in some form or the other. The objective hardly matters now if you botch the execution. My associates learnt that the hard way, you can try asking Connor for more details; no doubt he would love to regale you with tales of your exploits. Again, what should you have done?"
"Unless I ask Connor, there's not much that I can think of." Close enough. "Exactly, you went chasing through the streets after one of the most dangerous men of Italy to defend your Mentor's honour. Tell me this; did your mentor order you to do it? Connor has faced far worse than that and has learnt to avoid mistaking everyday actions for insults. It is very unlikely that any insult was meant by Ezio Auditore of all people, especially towards another Mentor. It's very likely that your actions embarrassed him more than the play did. If you are as promising as I've heard, you've probably realised that by now."
The boy apparently did as he seemed to look for another mug to drown himself in. Seeing the potential habitual problems that could come up, he deftly removed the mug as it materialised and replaced it with a stack of books. "Enough of the brooding boy, my son might be a good influence on you, but I hope that you don't take in all of his traits. Now, let's begin."
That's when the hard work began.