Conversations
Between wolves
"Why did you do it?" "Try to chase down a rabbit?" "No, why did you choose this? You are not the first person in this land to hear voices. You were given a choice. You could have ignored Clay; you could have ignored us as so many have done. Yet, you chose this path, why?"
Jon sighed at that. The day had been going so well. A patient gullible farmer had agreed to take him down south past the twins and the Gods Eye and Myriam, Dobby and Mary had stopped laughing at his disastrous attempt to chase down a wild rabbit after his bowstring snapped. Even Achilles had stopped bringing it up, mostly. He had decided to just enjoy the day for once and let his guard down when Connor came by with a look of determination which hinted to a lot of unpleasantness in Jon's future.
The question which followed proved it to be true. Jon paused, unsure and a bit unwilling to answer. "Do I have to answer?" "Everything is permitted, but it will have consequences. If you can't trust us now, when there is no danger around you and you have all the time in the world, when can you trust?" "Very well. I chose this life because no one else will." "What?" "That is what you said, isn't it? When you were asked why did you persist in your actions? It fits my situation quite well." "Is that what you really believe?" "It's what I know. Lord Stark is… the Lord. All the knights, guards and lords have their places. Robb is meant to be heir and Lady Stark" he grimaced "intends to sell off Sansa and Arya for influence. They have their roles, all of them. I have no such role. People keep telling me that I have freedom to choose, but I never asked for it. Winterfell is never meant to be mine, I will never be a knight or maester or septon and if I do stay in Winterfell, all I'll ever hear is the story of the Bastard of Winterfell who spreads chaos wherever he walks and whose survival depends on his cousin's magnanimity." "And?"
"Did you expect more?" "Jon, there are people who go their entire lives without that revelation. I can understand if what we taught you had some effects your way of thinking and speech, but that is not what I mean. It was too… eloquent, rehearsed." "It was the truth." "Nothing is true. You may believe this to be true, but there is more to it, we both know that. I swore to protect my village and its people after I watched my mother burn alive. Even after that, it still took me years to decide on this the time, I too believed in my cause, the salvation of my village, but there was more. I had wished that I would be more than the child of the affair between a failed clan mother and a traitor. That's what drove me to this path." "How is that any different to what I am doing?" "Before you met us, you had a near perfect family. You were Brandon's son; at least that was what you believed too. You saw the painful truth in this realm, the collective suffering of humanity over untold generations. It terrified you; we all know that to be true. You could have hidden it, buried it or run away but you didn't. You flinched as anyone would, so tell me; why did you look again?"
Jon was quiet after that, but Connor knew of his silences and held his own. Time passed in the real world, as it does but Connor kept his silence. He knew that the boy was thinking and knew better than to interrupt, lest he make him hesitate or scare him off. After a while, he started talking again. "Mentor?" "Yes?" "I have an answer." "Good. What is it?" "I wanted to pay my debts, mentor." "Your debts? You are barely half a grown man's age Jon. Killing someone doesn't change that. What debts could you have?" "The debts in my inheritance mentor. My first memory, wasn't seeing my parent's marriage, it, it was…"
Jon stopped at that, the memories all too unpleasantly clear. Like draining a wound, he cut into his memories and started speaking. "I… I remember burning, mentor. I remember smelling myself cooking as a madman laughed at me. I heard my son kill himself trying to save me, and I heard myself screaming. I realised who I was, Rickard Stark, my grandfather from my mother's side of the family. The memory of the wedding was a farce in every sense of the word. I dreamt of killing Rhaegar mentor, and I did. Over a hundred times, I killed him but I could not pay him back for what he did. For what grandfather Rickard had to suffer."
It was easier to speak now. "This was before I met Clay. All I knew then were the memories of my uncle and grandfather, the pain and suffering which my parents caused them and especially by my other grandfather. I hated them all for it. I would visit Grandfather's memories often, just so that I can share the pain and he wouldn't have to suffer so much, but it was never enough, I was never strong enough. For a time, I hated Lyanna too, but I saw her memories and no one should have to suffer as she did."
"Did you look into Rhaegar's?" Connor knew that this question couldn't be answered without pain, but it was best that the painful confessions were done with. Jon didn't seem to agree as his face twisted in repressed ugly memory. "I remember doing, but… no one should have to go through that; a glimpse into that madman's mind. I saw his schemes, his delusions of grandeur and how he made people dance on strings. Robert Baratheon was far too kind to him." "Fair enough."
"It was after that, that I met Clay. I wanted vengeance, not justice, Clay taught me. I do not know if he had read my thoughts, but he did sympathise. I wanted vengeance on the mad prince to clear my conscience. Clay advised me to do so by seeking justice. That's why I looked deeper Connor. Winterfell and the Starks would endure with or without me. So would the North. However, only I could forgive myself for the circumstances of my birth. Only I could learn to do something with my life. So Connor, I took this path, not for vengeance or a greater good, or for the balance of freedom and chaos or the will of greater beings but for absolution. I did it to clear my debts Connor, because no one else can or will."
Nothing else needed to be said after that. In Westeros, he was asleep in the back of a cart. In a higher realm, he was leaning against the railings of a small wooden bridge, fishing as the sun set behind the mountains to his back. There were trails and hardships to come, but for now, all was right in the world.
Between mentors
"Mentor Auditore." "Buon pomeriggio Mentore. It is not often that we find Il vecchia aquila descend from his lofty mountains and grace our humble abodes. Grazie. Grazie. To what do I owe for this pleasure?" "Your pupil." "My pupil? I have had so many, and it grieves me to say that a few millennia of purgatory and grief does wear one's memory. Could you elaborate? Also, before we get down to this business, let us take a small selection of wines. Even in Purgatorio, we get surprisingly good years."
The coldness emanating from the shade of Altaïr seemed to snuff out every hint of warmth from the air around them. Seeing how they were in a replica of Ezio's old villa in Tuscany with a summer sun high in the air; that was quite an accomplishment. "Is this your pathetic attempt to delay me, or are you incapable of not being insufferable?" "So; a sober meeting then? Tsk-Tsk. What is it about having your soul ripped out that has made you so hollow? I have no reason or ability to delay you by denying you information that I don't have. Also, I have seen Altaïr, whatever that it is that you are or believe to be, you are a pale imitation at best."
The thing smiled at that, a terrible sight to behold as for a moment, it seemed to flicker. "Is that, fear I detect, O brave and fearless Assassin? You are aware of mine, or should I say, Altaïr's views on the soul. So tell me, what would a construct like yourself; with the identity of a man dead for millennia know anything about the soul?" "What is a man, but the sum of his memories? They are indeed the bones of the soul. It may be true that I died, in view of my child and wife, so long ago, but that is irrelevant. I am the story that is told of me, by myself and others. I know that, so did Desmond, so does Clay, so did Bayek, Connor and yes, even you. As long as those memories exist, in whatever form, so do I."
The thing sensed something, a hint of fear, mayhaps? It took the bait and pulled up a chair. As it grasped the wine glass, it turned cloudy and the moment the red vintage passed his lips, it turned as black as maester's ink. With black stained lips, it spoke.
"A charming speech, but what is left of them? When did you last see the Prophet? Where are the remnants of the founder? Has the storyteller found a way to become even more irrelevant and has the wolf scurried with its tail between its legs? So tell me construct, before I erase your memories further, where is the boy?!" "Everywhere." "Very well, then you can meet him."
The shade flickered and warped, fragmenting at the edges like glass as it drew its blade and plunged it into Ezio's heart. Ezio flickered for a moment, but he appeared unperturbed, "you are welcome to try again." The shade withdrew its hand in shock, only to be wheeled around by a visitor who slapped him across the face with the back of his hand. The face seemed to crumble but the figure seemed to bristle in fury, its edges sharpening like glass. In response, the man pulled out a sword from thin air and blasted the shade with a beam of light, apparently crippling it.
"Narratore! I'm afraid that you missed my speech. If only I had a better audience, it would have been quite a spectacle." "I'm sure that it was, Mentor. For now however, this place is rather unstable. This parasite does have some fragment of Altaïr's memories trapped within it. We can't destroy it without risking them." The shade must have heard them, as it began to chuckle in a voice akin to flint scratching on glass. The two men looked at the miserable thing and left it lying scattered on the floor.
As it began reforming itself, the world started crumbling as it realised in horror at the trap it had placed itself in, by accepting the invitation of the cocksure assassin, believing it to be an act of cocksure arrogance. This wasn't a memory, it was a dream, and it was ending.
Little did Jon realise, as he woke from a forgotten dream that a malevolent entity of thought was vanquished in the shade of a villa amongst fine wines and two benevolent shades of dead men were recovering a fragment of the soul of the man who risked oblivion to save them all.
Between Parents
Ned smelt burning wood and a hint of what appeared to be… "You must try the Ale. It's surprisingly good." Ned didn't remember passing out. Neither did he remember apparently entering a tavern or meeting a strangely dressed man who was patiently waiting for him to taste the ale. Ned looked at his tankard and saw what appeared to be just ordinary ale and took a sip. Whoever he was, he was right about the ale.
As the man didn't seem willing to make any introductions, "well met good Ser, but I am…" "…Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell; son of Rickard Stark, brother to an elder Brandon Stark and now the present Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Unfortunately, I do not hold as many elaborate titles but it would have to do. So let me introduce myself; I am Haytham Kenway of the Kenway line, former grand master of the colonies and at present, one of the few sane men you will meet, in this world or yours. Also, Master Kenway would do, knighthood is a worthless extravagance for someone in my position."
"'This world'?" "Pardons?" "You said, 'this world'. Where am I?" "In a tavern, as you can see. The Green Dragon does double as an inn but its amenities do leave something to be desired." "There is no such inn or tavern in the Winter-town." "I never said there was. This is what it looked like, in Boston, though unless by some miracle there is such a place here, I don't suppose you would know where that is. It doesn't make much sense to an uninitiated, so it would take you a while."
The world had changed quite unpleasantly several times in Eddard's life, but he knew that he had a limit at some point. Apparently, it was a southern fop who rambled like a philosopher oblivious to his confusion at waking up to a tavern and talking about places which didn't exist. "What do you mean by that? Start speaking sense, or don't bother speaking to me."
The man took a drink and grimaced as though he tasted something foul, "Such rudeness. Compared to you Jon seems to be the very soul of courtesy." His irritation was gone, like an ember doused in ice-cold water, replaced with concern. "What have you done to Jon? Where is he?" "Calm down. He is in good hands, and also with my son." "Your Son?" "Yes, an interesting tale for another time. The important thing is that he is safe. Now, I believe you have some questions?" Is he serious? "I don't mean to sound rude, Master Kenway; but can I trust that? Even If you gave me your word, what is it really worth?"
"You are insistent, or should I say, irritatingly stubborn. It must run in the family. Very well; let me give you a demonstration to put your mind at ease." He reached inside his cloak and drew out a small blade. Without warning, he swiped it across Ned's hand and a sliver of blood welted up across the top. Ned instinctively drew back his hand but before he could retaliate, Haytham had flipped the knife and offered it to him hilt first.
Ned froze, this wasn't what he had expected but Haytham waved the knife in front of him. "Well, go on then. I did promise you a demonstration." Ned grasped the knife, somewhat unsure until Haytham laid his hand, palm downwards on the table, waiting expectantly. Ned grabbed the blade slightly tighter, willing his body to not waver and swiped his hand, aiming for a cut similar to his own. The blade passed by in a blur but Haytham didn't even flinch. The hand lay unblemished on the table and so did the blade.
Haytham waited patiently, silent and expectant. Ned swiped again, and the results were the same, and again, and again. Before he could swing again, Haytham's other hand shout out and grabbed Ned's wrist. Grabbing the knife, he flipped it over so that it was suitable for stabbing. Pointing it towards the palm, he instructed; "strike true, and do not hesitate." Ned didn't.
A small thud followed by the sound of wood splintering and the knife's tip was buried in the wood, passing cleanly through the hand as though it were made of smoke. Haytham smirked and pulled his hand back, the flesh parting like water and knitting back unblemished. The knife itself lay imbedded until he grasped the hilt and closed his fist. The hilt crumbled like sand and vanished, followed by the blade, leaving behind nothing but a nick where the blade once stood.
Ned sat there, silent and staring at where the knife once stood until Haytham began speaking. "If I chose to, Lord Stark, I could snap your neck with a snap of my fingers of behead you with a thought. On the other hand, you hold no power over me. I could do that if I had been vindictive enough to try but fortunately for you, I'm just a messenger. So, shall we cease this pointless line of questioning and hear me out?"
Ned nodded. "Very well, here it is. Jon wanted to inform you that he is well. At of now, he is past the borders of the North, so unless you want the rest of the realm to know, he would prefer that it was kept quiet. He was insistent on the fact that he acted on his own in planning and executing his escape. He asks that you try to be at peace as regards to his decision and not to worry about what Lyanna would think of this. She knows about his actions so you don't have to worry about your wife's health. Speaking of whom, Jon asks that you forgive her and let her return. You are of course free to do otherwise but this is with the best of intentions towards everyone. If you can't, at least pretend to do so. He was quite specific about the fact that Robb needs his mother and that your daughter Sansa needs her mother. Personally, I believe that the North can't afford more strife with its neighbours and it would be best for everyone that a modicum of normality is restored. It's a bit more impersonal, but our goals are aligned. So good luck to you, Lord Stark and I wish you good fortune in the days to come."
Ned awoke in his bed, unusually without the nightmares or headaches which came with it. He raised his head and spied the pitcher of wine next to his bed. Resisting temptation and ignoring his protesting body, he stretched out his stiff form and walked towards a table.
With no sounds except the scratching of quill on paper and the servants waking outside, he absent-mindedly scratched his hand. There it was; bright as day, the cut left by the blade in his dream, a bright red line, distinct against his pale skin when he tightened his fist but almost indistinguishable when he loosened it. He was not the type of man to believe in divine portents, the fate of his father and brother had beaten it out of him, but he knew a sign when he saw one.
Ever since he had met the hooded man in Dorne, he had long since accepted, albeit grudgingly that he was to be a part of events which he could barely comprehend. All he wished for was to be left in peace and if that meant that he had to put on a mask and write a few unwanted letters, he would do so.