ANDREW

He dreamed of a cracked stone ceiling and the smells of blood and food and burnt flesh. The air was full of the smell of blood and smoke. Men were groaning and whimpering all around him, and from time to time a scream would pierce the air, thick with pain. When he tried to move, he found himself in the boat unable to move. He saw his mother glowing brightly in the dark that she made him cover his eyes. When he tried to climb out of the boat and move to her, a sharp pain coursed through his body searing through his soul. He hurt so much. Too weak to groan, he lay where he was and shut his eyes. Nearby he could still see the sun he had seen when he was dying. He looked to the golden light and wondered if he was still dying and not dead yet. After a time the room faded.

He found himself outside the room and into the city, walking through a world without color. Ravens soared through a grey sky on wide black wing, while carrion crows rose from their feasts in furious clouds wherever he set his steps. White maggots burrowed through black corruption. The grey stone streets of the city were red now, and the novices of the House of Black and White grey as fogs; together with the crows they stripped the flesh from the fallen and took their faces. There were corpses strewn all over the streets. The sun was a hot white penny, shining down upon the grey river as it rushed around the swollen corpses of drowned men. From the pyres of the dead rose black columns of smoke and white-hot ashes. My work, thought Andrew Stark. He turned to look back the way he'd come and it was filled with men who had lost limbs, legs, head, face, eye, guts and everything one could lose from their body.

At first there was no sound in the world, but after a time he began to hear the voices of the dead, soft and terrible. They wept and moaned, they begged for an end to pain, they cried for help and wanted their mothers. Andrew wanted his mother too. He wanted Ashara Dayne, but she was not there. He walked alone amidst grey shadows, trying to remember . . .

The novices of the faceless men were stripping the dead men of their armor and clothes. All the bright dyes had leached out from the surcoats of the slain; they were garbed in shades of white and grey, and their blood was black and crusty. He watched their naked bodies lifted by arm and leg, to be carried swinging to the pyres to join their fellows. Metal and cloth were thrown in the back of a white wooden wagon, pulled by two tall black horses.

So many dead, so very many. Their corpses hung limply, their faces slack or stiff or swollen with gas, unrecognizable, hardly human. The garments the novices took from them were decorated with pale red fire and ghostly dragons. Their armor was all dented and gashed, the chainmail riven, broken, slashed. Why did I kill them all? He had never known any of them, none but one and somehow he had missed the one he had known.

He began to run. The city was not far. He would be safe inside the city, away from all these dead. He did not belong with the dead. He was still a living man. They all were lying dead and deaf and blind but he was alive and well. He ran away from them. He ran and ran and ran until he saw a white tree far away. He ran towards it, faster, as fast as his wounded leg would allow.

He saw them beneath the tree, curled up together as one as he had seen them once long ago. His father sat leaning against the Heart Tree, though it had grey leaves instead of red and black blood flowing from the carved face's eyes and mouth. His mother sat with her back pressed against his father's chest his arms cradling her against him. They looked so happy, as they had always been together. "Mother," he shouted at them but they did not hear him. "Father," he tried again, this time moving close to them. His father was laughing at something his mother had said but he did not hear him.

"Mother," he shouted louder. "Father." He moved closer to the tree shouting for his parents as he went. They saw him only when he reached them.

His mother was the first one to see him. She was quick to embrace him tightly. The fragrance of the roses she loved filled his nose and she felt real, real and alive standing before him, hugging him tightly like she had done when he was a boy. "Oh, Andrew, sweetheart, what have they done to you?"

When he looked down he saw that he was covered in blood, both his and the ones he had killed. Luckily the blood did not pass onto his mother.

"Why won't you remember what I told you, sweetling?" She placed her palm against his cheek and her touch was cold against his skin. Her touch had always been warm, not now it was not.

"I remember," Andrew told her. "I remember everything. I killed Viserys and I tried to kill Rhaegar. I tried to get justice."

"Oh, sweetheart."

"Let him go, Ash," his father told his mother. A crown of mist sat upon his head where once another one made of metal had sat. "He needs to learn this on his own."

Andrew looked to his father. "What are you talking about?" he told him. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to be with you and mother."

His father smiled at him, a smile filled with warmth. "You don't belong here, son," he said and placed his hand on his head to ruffle his hair. His father used to ruffle his hair back at Winterfell everytime he told him stories of the Age of Heroes and the children of the forest. Andrew had missed it so much.

His father took his hand from his head and placed it around his mother. "Come, Ash. We should go."

"No, father," Andrew said, afraid that he is going to lose them again. "Please don't leave me." He turned to his mother. "Mother, please." His mother would not leave him alone. Not her, his sweet mother.

"We'll always be with you sweetheart," Ashara Dayne said. When she took her husband's hand they both vanished before him like the crown of mist on his father's head.

It was dark when he woke again. At first he could see nothing, but after a time the vague outlines of a room appeared around him. The roof was cracked lightly, there was a candle burning, he could see only the flickering yellow light, and then he saw the sun again, the golden glow brighter than the candle light. Under him was the hard rough surface of a makeshift bed, but the pillow beneath his head was so yielding soft. This is not my bed, I am not in my room.

It was warm inside the room, under the great heap of furs and blankets that covered him. He was sweating. Fever, he thought groggily. He felt so weak, and the pain stabbed through him when he struggled to lift his hand. He gave up the effort. His felt so weak to even raise his head from the pillow and look around. His body he could scarcely feel at all. How did I come here? He tried to remember. The fight came back in fits and flashes. The fight along the river, the white knights with their white cloaks blowing in the wind, the arrows . . .

Rhaegar. He saw the dark indigo eyes, the crowd around him, the shining white enamel plates of the kingsguard. Fear swept over him in a cold rush. Alone in the dark, he fell back into his sleep again.

This time he dreamed he was at a feast, a familiar feast in some great hall. He had a high seat on the dais, and was sitting on his mother's lap, smiling at his father. Rhaegar was there too, with his wife and kingsguard. His uncle threw him in the air making him laugh before catching him again. Everyone was smiling for a time. When the song was over, he was alone amongst the butchered men. Rhaegar was standing against him, only him.

He woke up before he got to him. His breath was heavy in his chest and the room was now filled with vague light. He saw the golden glow again and when it came near him he saw that it was not the sun but a woman with golden hair gleaming in the candle light. She watched him intently and when he tried to move she reached for him. She put her arms around his shoulder and helped him to sit straight on the bed. Andrew groaned at the pain in his body and settled against the headboard of the bed. When he looked down he was clothed in a fresh white tunic and red breeches. He brought a hand to his leg where the injury was the worst, his every movement pained and fumbling. His fingers found stiff cloth where they should have found flesh and skin. Linen. His upper body was bandaged tightly as well, from his chest to his waist.

He looked up at the woman who had saved him. "Where am I?" he muttered gritting his teeth at the pain.

She looked at him with soft eyes. "Still in Braavos," she said and brought a cup to his mouth. "Here drink this, it will help ease the pain." Inside the cup the drink was some murky liquid. Atleast he could drink it without fearing for poison, if she had wanted him dead he would not have lived this long. Andrew took a sip of it and it tasted bitter. It was a slow process to drink it down but he managed with the pain somehow.

"Thank you," he sighed. "For saving me." Even the small effort left him dizzied. "Where, are we? What, what place?" It hurt to talk, but Andrew had been too long in silence.

"You are in my room. A place near the Drowned Town. You were too injured to move you back to your place and I don't know where you lived."

Drowned Town. Did I swim all the way here past the Ragman's Harbor? "Thank you," Andrew said again.

The woman smiled and him and moved over to the fire burning in the fireplace nearby. An iron stew pot was hanging over the fireplace suspended from an iron rod. She used a cloth and took the pot away from the fire. Inside, the water was steaming hot, Andrew knew that from the steams coming from the vessel. The woman pressed a piece of linen in the hot water and moved over to him. She folded the cloth once and placed it on his forehead.

He must have been truly fortunate to have her find him first that day. He wondered how long he had stayed asleep. It doesn't matter anyway, Rhaegar was gone, alive and Andrew had missed his chance for justice. He wondered if that was why the gods had let him live. Andrew remembered his dream and his parents. "You don't belong here son," his father had said. Perhaps I don't belong there until I've killed Rhaegar.

When she was done with the cloth in his forehead she helped him out of his tunic. "Be still now, I must wash your wound," the woman said in a voice soft as a kiss. She discarded the bandages, still crusty with potion. After a moment he felt cool air on his skin. There was pain as well, but he did his best to ignore that. Her touch was gentle, the water warm and soothing. The wound, Andrew thought, remembering the sudden punches of arrows. "This is like to sting some but it'll help you heal faster," the woman warned as she wet a cloth with wine that smelled of crushed herbs. It did more than sting. It traced a line of fire all the way across Andrew's body, and twisted a burning poker up his chest right to his heart. His fingers clawed the bedclothes and he sucked in his breath, but somehow he managed not to scream. "It is wise to leave the bandages in place until the wound is completely healed. I'll bind you up."

She left him only to return with some soft clothes and fresh linens for bandages. Andrew looked at her as she sat working. She was only a girl, no more than thirteen or fourteen. One look was all it took for him to identify her as a girl from Westeros. She smelled clean and of flowers which indicated as highborn.

"You're from Westeros aren't you?" Andrew asked her as she wrapped the linen around his chest.

The girl blinked at him. "No," she said and continued her work.

"Don't lie to me, my lady. I know a Westerosi when I see one."

She raised her eyebrow at him. "And how'd you know that?"

Andrew chuckled lightly, hurting himself in the process. "I am from Westeros and I have seen them."

"I'm sorry," she said, "But you're wrong this time, I'm not from Westeros."

"Yeah, right," he had to chuckle. His body was stiff and sore, as if he had been working and honing his skills for several days continuously. He looked at her once more and he knew half of what he had wanted to know about her. "Your sweet voice even makes a lie sound like a melody, my lady. But I know better. Green eyes, golden hair and a face that would make kings give up their kingdoms for a single look. You're a Lannister, aren't you?"

The girl stopped her work and Andrew could see her face flushed. She is a Lannister. He had known them of course, seen them when he was in Westeros. His father was always wary around the Lannisters and held none of them in good regard. What is a Lannister doing so far away from home?

The girl was not yet ready to admit it. "I'm not a Lannister," she said again and went on with binding up his wounds. She was really a sweet girl, Andrew thought as he saw her. Anyone else in her place would've thrown him out of the room and leave him to die for what he did now. "I would fall for your lie but the truth is etched clearly in your face," he said when she moved down to his waist. She never looked at him but continued with her clothes and linen. "Too much beauty is always dangerous, my lady." When she looked at him, startled he continued, "Don't worry, my lady. Your secret is safe with me."

She worked in silence. Only when she moved to his knee did she spoke up. "I'm not a Lannister," she said as she cleaned the bloodied linens. "I'm Joy Hill, bastard daughter of Gerion Lannister."

So a half Lannister but her looks said otherwise. Andrew was glad that she trusted him enough to say her name. Joy had no reason to trust him. He came to her as a half-dead killer, she had no reason to help him as well. By bringing him into her house she had put herself in danger. She must've been really good and sweet to do this to him.

"Well, thank you, Lady Joy," he said with a smile. "I'm Andrew Snow."

Joy smiled at him and washed his knee with warm water before wrapping it up with clean linen. She stood up gathering the bloodied linens and cotton. "They're still searching for you," Joy said looking down at him. "If you want you can stay here until you could walk properly."

Without waiting for a reply Joy walked away from him. Andrew watched her for a long time. He had forgotten that there was goodness in the world, looking at Joy he could only admit that there was still goodness left in the world.

A/N: Everyone's favorite wolf is back. Lol. Leave a review. I'd love to hear your thoughts.