The Man threw his second knife into the house, he heard it 'thunk' into something wooden, something that wasn't flesh. He lay on his back, out of the corner of his eye he could see the spear shaft protruding from just below his hip. He briefly considered moving into the house to finish the Crow. He knew he had hit him twice, but it wasn't worth it, there would be other opportunities to kill him even if the Crow didn't bleed to death.
The Man carefully stood up. The Inn cast a light across the street, anyone looking at The Man might have seen him grimace in pain as he stood, turned and limped off in the opposite direction. Some might consider it a failure. He had missed his target. He had no doubt the Crow would now disappear, try and bury himself as deeply as possible, but he had ways of tracking injured prey.
It had been a good throw. The Crow had put all his fear and anger behind, all his willpower and desire to live had been behind that throw.
This The Man thought as he examined the wound. He had ridden through the night to the Winter town. The walls of the castle loomed above the Inn in which he had taken a room. The Innkeeper had looked startled when a man with a spear sticking out of his leg had entered and calmly asked for a room, but he had seen stranger things.
The pot he had on the small wood stove began to hiss and whistle. Time to work.
From his travel bag he arranged the medical supplies he had brought with him. Bandages, cloths and potent spirits that had been distilled by an alchemist in Oldtown. The rest he left in the bag.
Gripping the shaft The Man slowly withdrew the spear point, his hands barely shaking as the barbed tip exited his flesh. He felt the pain but he removed himself from it, he didn't look as he pulled the spear out, he instead stared off into the middle distance as the steel slid out of the wound. It came free. He brought the spear to his face and looked at the bloodstained tip. A good throw indeed.
He pressed the gauze to the wound, stopping the blood that began to flow. With the other hand he took the pot off the stove and then soaked the cloth in the boiling water, carefully he drizzled some of the spirits on the rag. The stuff stank of unnatural cleanliness. He removed the gauze and pressed the cloth to the wound. It stung and burnt at the same time. The Man winced. The sting told him that the spirits were working. Burning out any potential infection. Good. He bandaged the wound before testing his leg. He would still have a limp, but it would service.
He repacked his bag and disappeared from the Inn before nightfall.
Jon's eyes opened slowly, hazily. Sleep clouded his brain. He had been having a pleasant dream, but he could not recall what it was. Before that dream were nightmares he could not give shape or form, he had been running, endlessly running and it had been so cold, but that did not matter now, he was warm under the blankets. Light streamed into the room from somewhere, but he could not find the energy to lift his head and look. Heaps of furs covered him, surrounding his body with a comforting warmth. Sleep claimed him once more, dragging him back to its dream filled depths.
His eyes opened again, and he shot bolt upright. Awareness flooded his mind. He remembered the forest, the pain as his body tried to give carry on. A hallucination that scared him more than anything else could have.
His hand went to his side and then his leg, he found both bandaged and clean, it still ached but at least the blood flow had been stopped. He remember a burning building, knives sailing through the air towards him. His head pounded.
"We thought you would die, Jon Snow, you had lost a lot of blood."
He knew that voice, he knew the face that spoke them. He had seen it in his dreams. He had a new jerkin on and pants from the feel of it, for that he was grateful. Slowly he turned to face the voice and found the Mother of Dragons sitting a few feet from him on a hard wooden stool. She was how he remembered her, but the light in her eyes was older. She was beginning to understand.
She wore tailored riding clothes, sewn to be tough but also to fit one of her station. She still had not entirely lost her vanity though. She was still beautiful, but she looked more haunted now. She kept her features smooth, but worry lurked behind them.
"Your Grace, I… don't know what to say."
Her voice was distracted, as if she had not heard the comment "You seemed intent on dying for a while, your body refused to heal itself… but after a few hours you began to recover."
Jon looked her in the eyes and forced her to see him "Why did you save me? I thought I would be of no further use to you, perhaps even an obstacle… so why did you help me."
Her face was pained for an instant, but just an instant. The Queen that sat before him faded, and suddenly he saw a girl, frightened, worried and confused. She looked at him.
"The same man after you is after me, the same assassin. We are being hunted."
"Ay, he attacked in my apartments at castle Black and later in that Inn
"Did you see him? Did you see his face? Any features or marks." The longing for knowledge in her voice was plain.
"No, it was through a door, but that voice… I've never heard anything like it."
"What did it sound like? Some sort of rasp or growl?"
"No, it sounded cold as if that man had never had feelings, as if he didn't see the world in the same way we do. " Jon gave a short bitter laugh "We were in the middle of a burning Inn, he had just killed three people and then he asks me… he asks me..."
"What did he ask you?" Her voice was soft, willing him to go on, her eyes of deep lilac eyes searched his for answers.
"He asked me why I was running…" Jon paused his voice grew softer "Why I was running when there was no hope."
She exhaled softly "Why do you believe there's no hope? You don't even want to entertain the idea of fighting the Others. Why?"
"A lot of people have been asking me that lately, asking me 'why', truth be told I've been asking myself as well." He swallowed, his eyes stung "my father's dead, my brothers are dead or gone, my sisters have vanished and are probably dead too."
Daenerys looked at him, she knew what loss felt like but what sounded in his voice was worse.
"My families gone in a war they didn't ask or look for, taken by a conflict they never sought. That's all I've seen… conflict, violence, war… I think it's about all we're capable of. I don't want to fight the Oth…" He took a deep breath to steady himself "I don't want to fight the Others because I think that… that maybe this world should die. That maybe the Others are our cleansing. How can there be death, violence, sorrow, fear and loss in a world where there is no war, in a world where there are no people?" He looked at sadly, he knew the feeling of sadness too well.
She reached out and grabbed his hand. He widened his eyes in surprise but quickly recovered.
"I offer it to you again, help me take the throne, unite the North and when I'm Queen, peace will reign, I'll not seek war, I'll stop the fighting. Stop the slaughter of the innocents."
He smiled a small smile.
"It's a fine dream, Your Grace. A world without war is a fine goal, very noble, but war looks for you even if you don't seek it. So long as men exist they will fight, over whose village is finer, over who controls fertile land, over whose God is the one true deity."
She squeezed his hand, as if trying to pump hope back into his body. He saw then why she had saved him. She could not understand why he did not believe in her when everyone else did, why he insisted on doubting her.
"You'll make a fine Queen one day Daenerys Targaryen, possibly the best there ever has been, but even the most powerful, most just, most kind ruler in the world cannot change the nature of man."
She looked down then, his point had struck.
"Why does he scare me?" She asked the floor.
"Who?" Jon asked even though he knew the answer, he had been contemplating the question himself.
She looked up at him and Jon realised there were tears in her perfect purple eyes.
"This assassin, this murderer. I've faced warlocks and blood magic, but they do not instil the fear that this one assassin does. He's just one man yet I shiver to think of his dark gaze upon me. He kills randomly, seemingly indiscriminately, the guilty, the innocent, he doesn't care, it's no difference to him."
As much as he had mentally chastised her for her arrogance, he hated seeing her like this, confused, dazed and worried. Worried over a knife without a face, a man without a name.
She inhaled deeply and was calm once more.
"Enough about him. I can spend my whole life worrying about what could kill me, about when I'm going to die and what's going to kill me" she had assumed a bit more of a regal air once more "Or I can live in the moment." She strode to the small table and poured two goblets of wine. She handed one to him and he took it cautiously, she then sat back on the stool with her legs crossed, the sadness and fear of the past few moments forgotten. She looked more at ease, less worried. He was weary of this, very weary.
"So drink, Jon Snow, and tell me all about what ails you."
So, new chapter, some romantic undertones as well as some more explanation of Jon's philosophy and state of mind. I did quite enjoy writing this chapter, perhaps not as much as some of the more desolate scenes, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. Remember to drop a review if you are enjoying the story.