Jon of Westeros
Ritchy Targaryen (Jerome 092)


Author's Notes:

Well... After all, I'm not going to rewrite this thing and I'll just follow what my heart desires. So for those who expected to see a new version, let me tell you that I'm a contradiction to myself.

So, out of nowhere, I got the inspiration to write a chapter for this story. Took me around five hours to complete it, but here it is... Don't mind me. I know there are many grammatical errors and that my English isn't the best. So, beware if there are any mistakes... later on, I'll correct them. But for now, bear with me.

Don't forget to read, review and follow and like.


Act I – The Trial of the Herbs
Chapter IV

JON

Looking at the faraway slopes —the Blue Mountains, as he had learnt to call them— Jon couldn't stop comparing these lands to those he had read about the Vale of Arryn, or the so-called Mountains of the Moon, in Westeros when he was younger and when times used to be… happier.

But, right now, Jon couldn't shake these feelings of adoration and fascination as he tried to see beyond the undisturbed nature and the cloudy blue sky.

It has been some interesting days since he awoke here, surrounded by those two men and that girl that he mistook for his beloved younger sister Visenya. He sighed. His wounds had healed incredibly fast even for a child, maybe it had something to do with these people's medicine or something else… But Jon wasn't going to brawl about it. What could have possibly taken him weeks to recover, it had only taken him a couple of days and some sleepy nights.

His grey —with tints of Targaryen-violet— eyes glanced down towards his exposed chest were some light bandages still covered some of the deeper wounds caused by those tiny monsters. Something like those Grumkins and Snarks, tiny creatures that many used in their stories to scare the child before sleep… but much worse. Way worse.

Jon gently caressed one of the scabs on his arms that will soon turn into a nasty scar. A reminder of the dangers lurking in these new and untraveled lands.

"Tough bastards…" Jon whispered to himself.

"Wolf pup—" The young Targaryen almost jumped out of his skin when he heard the unmistakably raspy voice of Vesemir. "—You… You good?"

"Gods!"

It had taken Jon a great amount of self-control to not scream in the face of his healer. Vesemir —as he had come to understand from their antics and struggles caused by their language barrier—, was the eldest among these people. He was a wise man and a caring man that had taken a rather odd liking to always scare the life out of him whenever he was distracted or brooding. Aside from that, Jon had learnt that Vesemir was the one who many looked for guidance or support on their tasks. There was a day when he questioned how could be this old and still moving graciously as a man in his thirty years of name, it seemed so unreal that Jon's attention was always drawn when he spotted Vesemir sparring with this other man —Gerald… or was it Geralt?— or with the girl named Ciri.

Taking a deep breath to calm his anger, Jon faced Vesemir, a scowl present on his young face.

"What…?"

"You—" Vesemir then aimed a finger at his bandages. "—Good?"

It was almost too hard to stay mad at someone who struggle to speak even a word of your language, that thought alone made Jon sigh and nod.

"T- Tak" | "Y- Yes", Jon struggled to say.

Vesemir grunted with a smile. "Musisz popracować nad swoją wymową" | "You need to work on your pronunciation."

Jon groaned as he tried to make sense of most of the words the old man spoke. It sounded as if a drunk man had taken too much ale and decided to read a poem written backwards in Common Tongue with High Valyrian… just bad. But Jon wouldn't dare to express it towards them, because he knew they might think the same about his own language. It was frustrating… to say the least. But these people seemed to learn faster than he, and that brought some sense of relief.

Vesemir nodded then and looked at the Blue Mountains as Jon did merely moments ago.

"Jon…" Vesemir said before adverting his gaze from the breathtaking view. "Fud?"

Jon flared his nostrils amused.

"Food," He corrected.

"Fuht"

"Food…"

"F-… Bah!... Pieprzyć to, jestem na to za stary." | "F-… Bah!... Fuck it, I'm too old for this."

Jon snickered as the elder suddenly groan and —probably— cursed when he failed to say something so simple as 'food'. Vesemir arched an eyebrow at this and snorted, a warm smile splattered on his wrinkled face that did nothing to hide the handsome features he seemed to hold when he was younger. Caressing his greyish beard, Vesemir gestured with his right hand —a notion of throwing something into his mouth.

"Żywność" | "Food"

Jon had understood from the very beginning but nodded anyway. "C- Czy jestem głod?" | "A- Am I hunger?"

"Głodny" | "Hungry" Vesemir corrected him with a smile.

"Głodny" Jon replied, taking a moment to redo his question. "Czy jestem głodny" | "Am I hungry?"

Vesemir nodded, urging him to answer his own question, and Jon smiled at the elder attics.

"Tak" | "Aye"

CIRI

The chilly air from the morning forced Cirilla out of her dreams, rescuing her from her constant nightmares about Cintra and her people's massacre. It had been almost two weeks since Geralt brought her here at Kaer Morhen, and less time since she started training with Geralt, Eskel and Lambert. Yup… The trio of witchers was something amusing to watch when they interacted among themselves, reminiscing about the old days and their adventures throughout the Continent while drinking or eating. It made her desire to travel grow stronger every day —to see the world around her and unravel its mysteries.

And as Ciri blinked at the polished steel mirror hanging from a rope near a wooden bucket of water, she couldn't help but cringe at her own reflection. Gone was the princess —the lioness cub of Cintra—, gone was the happy child that she once was… She was just Ciri, a girl who lost it all by war.

She shook her head, forcing those dark thoughts out of her head as she poured some icy cold water on her face, erasing the remaining traces of sleep and grim from her face. When she stared back at her reflection… She sighed.

It didn't take her that much time to put on some clothes and the small pieces of leather stitched together that worked as improvised armour, trying to imitate Geralt's own armour. She tightened the belt on her waist and put on her light-brown leather riding boots. With a small colourless ribbon she pulled her hair into a narrow ponytail and made her way to the Great Hall of Kaer Morhen.

Regardless of the lack of people in the hall, Ciri could swear that this hall looked more alive and happier —if you could say that about the emotionless witchers— than the very hall of Cintra when her grandmother used to gather feasts and parties. Her vibrant green eyes watched as the familiar faces of Geralt, Eskel, Lambert and the newcomer —Triss Merigold— seemed so focused on discussing things. Despite the distance and the height from where Ciri watched them, she could still make out what they were talking about as Lambert and Eskel laughed and Geralt stared coldly at them —something about their past that Geralt disliked sharing.

She kept her eyes and attention on the party of four people, wondering what it would be like to have someone you can jest and talk to, laugh and cry, care and love. Don't get her wrong she had it before; her family were that kind of people too, but they were taken from her —killed before her eyes. And her time fleeing from Nilfgaard hadn't let her worry about those trivial things… and now, she yearned for it. She longed for any of it… So much that when the Boy —as Vesemir called him and many others too— came into their lives, she had hoped that he would be that friend she needed. But soon her illusion broke like glass when every time they saw each other, he avoided her as if she was sick with mortal illness… It hurt her. Ciri wanted to hate him, but she knew that sad look in his eyes… and that heart-aching need to avoid anyone. She sighed… Maybe one day.

"Well, how surprising to see you here, Ciri."

"Eeek!" She squealed, surprised by the heavy voice behind her.

Turning around, ready to respond with a furious remark, Ciri wasn't prepared to find herself face to face with Vesemir… and the Boy. She sucked in a deep breath and widened her eyes.

"V- Vesemir," She breathed out more like a whine than she would like her voice to sound. "Stop with these sneak attacks!"

Vesemir laughed and Ciri soon snorted annoyed, finding more interesting the stairs that lead to the lower ground where Geralt and his companions were. That was until she heard a younger, lighter snort that her attention returned to the pair. And to her surprise, she found the Boy —Jon, if she recalled correctly— with a small smirk… something about that knowing smile made her thoughts freeze as she had never seen him display any kind of emotion before —other than brooding and frowning.

"Vesemir—" The Boy. No. Jon spoke almost sheepishly… his voice thick as that of a northerner. "Food?"

Vesemir's attention then turned from Ciri to Jon as he stopped laughing and patted the boy's head gently, his big hand almost covering most of his wild black curls.

"Food," Vesemir replied in the boy's language, even though he sounded odd to her. He then pointed a pair of raised fingers at the tables. "Ciri, can you help the Boy get something to eat. I'm confident you can teach him a thing or two while you're at it."

Ciri stood silently, exchanging glances between Jon and Vesemir, not knowing how to respond to his simple request. She sighed, already prepared if Jon decided to stick to Vesemir and ignore her.

"Ciri—" Jon said, bringing her back from her thoughts. "—Food. I'm h- hungry. Eat"

"Well, look at you, Boy!" Vesemir praised him.

His frown and his struggles to speak even the simplest of words and his pronunciation made her giggle and, without knowing, made Jon blush out of embarrassment. He groaned, adverting his gaze as he muttered something in his native language.

"Ok," She finally said. "I'll do it."

And before either Jon or Vesemir could say anything else, Ciri took Jon's hand, feeling his warmness spreading through her hand by their touch, and sprinted down the stairs. Without realizing it, Ciri smiled as she heard Jon yelping something —that she didn't need to translate to understand as a curse of some kind.

"Seven hells!"

"Seven hells!" She mimicked him as she dragged him through the great hall.

Unbeknownst to them, several pairs of eyes watched amused as the little princess pulled the injured boy around.

TRISS

When Triss received that message from Geralt asking for her help, she couldn't bring herself to deny him. Why was it? Was it because of some unpaid favour or the need for coins? No… She simply accepted because she wanted to and because of something else…

It was a cold December night when she arrived at the witcher's stronghold —Kaer Morhen— and met Geralt, and his Child of Surprise —Ciri.

But it also was the night when she met another interesting member of them. A young boy, barely one year —probably— older than Ciri. He was badly injured by Nekkers, Geralt's short summary. He had, somehow, managed to fend off a pair of these little creatures before succumbing to his injuries in front of Ciri, Geralt and Vesemir, holding a dagger and some of his belongings. The pair of witchers didn't hesitate to save the poor soul and ended the pack of monsters swiftly and without wasting time they took him to their home.

It came as a surprise to her when she heard that after she tended to his wounds with medical herbs and some magic, the boy woke up enraged and muttering nonsenses in a strange language that not even Vesemir recognized. That spiked her interest in the boy.

So, after that night and when dawn came, Triss was the first to welcome the boy with a gentle smile while attending to his healing wounds.

He watched her treat him. Not muttering any words and trying to show no discomfort or any signs of pain —and failing miserably at that— as she cleaned his wounds, poured some medical paste and covered him tightly with clean bandages. But throughout all that, he didn't say anything at all… Until she left.

"Kissed by fire…" That was what he said, whatever it meant.

But that was it. Never again had she heard him speak anything whenever she was around, treating his wounds or mixing some herbs that soon became the medicine she used on him. She wanted to read his mind, get a glimpse of who he was, but it wasn't her. Although her curiosity sometimes was too big for her to deal with, she just stopped herself, always reassuring herself that she had more self-control than… someone.

And today…

Today became a rather interesting day when she spotted Cirilla dragging a —pretty much— surprised boy through the hall towards some tables with untouched food on them. She smiled sweetly at the pair, imagining how did Ciri manage to get him out of his chambers.

"So—" She heard Lambert's snarky voice from across the table. "—The princess managed what any of us could not. Amusing."

Eskel snorted. "C'mon, Lambert. Don't be a prick. The boy's been through a traumatic moment."

"Yeah," He replied before taking a big gulp from his wooden mug. "I'll be traumatized too if miss Merigold was to treat me too. Oh~— Auch! What was that for, fucker!"

"You're being a prick,"

"Oh-ho, you son of a—"

"—Cut it, both of you."

Triss managed to hide her snicker as Vesemir arrived at the table, puffing his chest out as he frowned at his two surrogate sons. Eskel mouthed something at Lambert in response, the short-haired witcher raised his middle finger at him earning a chuckle from Eskel.

"I said enough. Eskel. Lambert." He said more gravely, making both witchers stop their silly actions as they returned to eating their breakfast.

Geralt only snorted entertained as his eyes lingered close to the pair of kids who had finally found what they were looking for —or rather, what Ciri was looking for. And Triss could smile as she watched Ciri grab certain types of fruits, calling them by their name before addressing the boy, almost forcing him to repeat what she said before letting him eat them. That was entertaining to watch until Ciri took an apple and repeated the same thing repeatedly and then it became boring.

"What do you think, Triss?" Eskel asked after finishing his bowl of cheese and bread —now drinking from his mug.

She pondered the question for a moment, thinking about an answer, but she was close to none.

"I don't know," She replied. "He doesn't speak, he doesn't do anything. It's hard to see what's on his mind."

Lambert erupted, earning some disapproved looks from everyone. "Not sorry," He added. "But you can read his mind, don't you? C'mon, tell us what he is thinking! I bet he's thinking of you undress—"

"Watch it, Lambert," Geralt warned without taking his eyes away from the pair of kids who now carried a chunk of cheese. "Triss won't take your insults lightly…"

"Yeah, right. As if I could be afraid of someone who—"

"Lambert."

"Yeah, yeah… Sorry about that one."

Triss narrowed her eyes at him. She felt disgusted by his attitude, his tactless words and snarky antics. He was that kind of man that Triss felt repulsion because those were the same that looked at her —at those like her— like high-priced whores. She hated it, but she endured it because Geralt asked for her help, and she wouldn't turn down him because of some petty words and idiotic remarks.

Vesemir then grunted something, and she peered her eyes away from the children.

"What about you, wolf?" He asked Geralt. "What are your thoughts?"

There was a moment of silence, broken by Ciri's laughs about something the boy did. And Geralt snorted.

"Ciri seems to get pretty close to our guest," Triss raised an eyebrow at this. "She told me the other night that she could sympathize with the boy. He has that look of someone who lost everything. Whatever the reason may be, Ciri wants to unravel his mystery. See who he really is."

"You know what?" Lambert said, hitting the wooden table as he rose from his seat. "I might give her a hand at that."

And before anyone else could stop the witcher, Lamber was on his way to the boy and Ciri, and Triss could only imagine what was going on in his thick head, but after noticing the annoyed looks on Geralt, Eskel and Vesemir, she could only guess that it wasn't something good.