Rhaenys Targaryen -295AC-
Doreah had been a person Rhaenys felt lucky to have met. A lysene pleasure servant that had a brush with the wrong men. The Princess refused to call the woman a whore. That word carried negative connotations with it that she felt would only needlessly shame her new friend.
Doreah had been born from a mother of similar standing, though her mother had apparently brought the situation onto herself, and the woman sold her only daughter into the sex trade at an early age. This side of the narrow sea, it wasn't something that was too unheard of, unfortunately. Some men sought physical release from girls that had only recently flowered, or close to that stage of their lives.
Rage was not an emotion that Rhaenys felt often. But thinking of girls around Dany's age or even younger being subjected to such things did the trick.
Rhaenys was not unaware of the small difference in their age. Yet there was a clear gap in the way they viewed the world around them.
While outwardly pleasant, sensual and charismatic, Doreah was quite the cynic when not relying on her learned talents of seduction.
Inside of what appeared to be a hastily built shack, Doreah and Rhaenys set to their task. It was unsavory, and not something either would prefer to be doing, but it was how they had kept themselves fed and out of debt with any "altruistic" citizens they might come cross.
A man of dark skin and reddish-brown hair lay on the straw heap meant to resemble a bed, a strip of cloth tied around his head to blind him. Neither of the young women had bothered to learn his name, but he had been given a very specific set of instructions.
"Don't think, don't speak. Just feel." Doreah spoke lowly to the man, her hand gently sliding up his thigh.
This world has many great secrets, some of which are poorly kept. Doreah had said as they were walking along the streets one afternoon. Dressed in rags meant to keep attention off of them, the three young women made their way through the crowds, Rhaenys and Dany hand in hand.
Men believe that they hold all the power. But men are easily led astray by perky tits and a wet cunt. The language was more vulgar then she believed sweet Dany should be subjected to. But the truth of the matter was that Dany had already seen her fair share of vulgar and violent behavior. The brothels of Braavos did not always have the best means of privacy, and the taverns often had a patron or two drawing steel over some imagined slight. Sex and blood were not a sight that was foreign to them now.
Whisper sweet words of pleasure into their ears, and they follow like obedient dogs. Rhaenys had a hard time listening to Doreah, as the Lysene picked a stray hair of the last man she had serviced from her teeth.
Rhaenys quietly snuck around the room as Doreah went to work, her slim stature aiding her in this instance. Copper eyes peering to the side, she saw Doreah's oil-coated hand deftly stroking the man, the slick sound grating on her ears and was louder than anything other than his breathing.
"Gods above…" The man hoarsely groaned, getting Rhaenys to focus her attention towards what she was supposed to be doing.
15 name days old now, Rhaenys imagined that she looked a near mirror image of her mother bar a few aspects. She was not particularly tall, her dark wavy hair falling down the middle of her back with the silvery locks carefully hidden underneath the thick mane.
From what she could remember of her mother, faded as the memories were, Rhaenys' bust was already larger. Her mother had been a sickly woman, and her development likely halted because of that. From what Rhaenys had learned, Dornish women tended to either be tall and flat or short and busty, with few women being in the middle.
Her Aunt Dany was likely to fall more into that middle ground, as the silver-haired girl was already up to Rhaenys' neck.
Short as she may be, Rhaenys was long-legged for her height and graceful with her gait. The steps she took were silent out of necessity, as she came closer to the man's bundled clothing on the ground.
A tunic of deep green, trousers of a faded brown and boots worn near to showing his feet lay before her. Slowly, Rhaenys kneeled to quietly rummage through his belongings.
The plan devised by herself and Doreah, mostly Doreah, was to offer sexual favors of a different nature in exchange for coin.
At first, Rhaenys had been wholly against doing such a thing. She was not going to sell herself to some man just to be able to feed herself, the impending rant had been cut off before it was ever truly given voice.
Don't worry Princess, I'm gonna do all the dirty work. You and I just have to dress the part.
The clothes of a typical whore were not hard to find or too expensive. The fabric hardly covered anything at all, her legs completely bare except for the long strip of fabric that swayed in the breeze down to her ankles and crossed over her breasts to the back of her neck. The single most solid piece of it was at her waist, covering her modesty yet easily removable. The light blue fabric was soft and contrasted nicely against her darker complexion.
Doreah would take the payment from the man who wanted them, and while she was busy warming him up, Rhaenys would search through his things, taking what they thought the man wouldn't notice once Doreah was done.
Doreah had admitted to fucking three men to get the funds they needed to set up this little scheme of theirs. A plant that grew in the warmer climate of Essos had a strange nectar with a cooling and slight numbing effect. Doreah would tell the man that it would keep him hard as steel while she and Rhaenys gave him what he wanted.
Slathering it on her hand, Doreah would get the man to spill his seed before she applied the next ingredient below the blindfold, a powdered form of milk of the poppy that was lightly peppered under his nose. It would be inhaled at a much higher concentration compared to the liquid form used for medicinal purposes, and the man would soon fall unconscious thinking that he'd been given the ride of his life.
The left pocket of his trousers was facing towards her, so Rhaenys took the opportunity to feel inside.
Nothing.
Pulling her hand back, Rhaenys carefully shifted to the other pocket.
A louder groan reached her ears, and Rhaenys knew that the man had just spilled over Doreah's hand.
Let me warm you up, this oil will have you fucking for hours, and you just might be able to handle my insatiable friend here. Doreah was good at what she did, and the men all looked at the Targaryen daughter like she held the answer to life itself.
The sound of a cork being removed from a small bottle was heard, Doreah giving the man the powder.
Rhaenys waited a few moments before she continued, wanting the man to start succumbing to its effects before she made any potential noise.
Counting as high as she could in high Valyrian, before repeating it in the common tongue. Once that was done, Rhaenys looked over to see the man completely unconscious. The right pocket jingled heavily, and she knew that they'd be able to save a few pieces for later.
To her surprise, this man seemed to be carrying much more than they would have ever thought. A handful of gold coins issued by the Iron Bank of Braavos laid between her fingertips. There had to be at least 40 pieces, far more than anything they'd had access to before now.
She looked back at the man warily. With clothing of this quality, there was no reason she could think of, for him to be carrying this amount so flippantly.
Doreah wiped her hand clean on the man's tunic before finding the small satchel he'd carried with him. The sound of coins moving was loud and apparent, and while the Lysene smiled victoriously, Rhaenys paled when she saw her friend double fist golden coins from the bag.
The three of them had been in Braavos for some time now. Careful as she had been to keep attention away from herself, Dany stood out significantly with her hair alone. For someone who might be wanting a payday from the crown of Westeros, they may as well have been screaming their identities at the top of their lungs.
The usurper must have paid him for information, and then he wanted the extra payment to kill us. Her mind was her greatest tool, though Doreah disagreed, and quickly came up with an explanation.
Three women, none skilled with a blade or any form of self-defense, and one who was only of 11 years. It would be child's play, theoretically, for a man to have snuffed them out with his bare hands. Dany was just in the other room, waiting for them to come and get her before moving to another part of the city.
"Grab it all Doreah, we have to leave." Rhaenys commanded, her eyes hardening as her mind raced for the next step.
"What? Why?" Doreah argued as she continued to feel through all the money within her grasp. "The plan was to only take enough that it wouldn't be noticed."
The sound of parchment came from the satchel, Doreah pulling it out curiously as Rhaenys rounded on her with a heated demeanor.
"He's here to kill us!" She said forcefully, watching as Doreah slowly unraveled the small parchment.
Blue eyes turned to Rhaenys, staring through the blonde hair that had become unruly as she coaxed their patron for the night. They flipped between the parchment and Rhaenys quickly and frequently, unsure of how to take what she was reading.
Standing slowly, Doreah came over to Rhaenys with the satchel in hand. The parchment fell to the ground as the former bedslave reached for the Princess' hair, pulling the silver locks before her eyes.
"Seven Hells…" Doreah whispered with wide eyes.
"I thought it was a lie… You really are a Targaryen. You and Dany."
Picking up the fallen scroll, Rhaenys read it quickly. They had little time to waste, just in case the man was not working alone. The chances were small but present nonetheless.
Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the realm does hereby declare that Samon Pien of Braavos is to be rewarded by his grace the king, for information regarding enemies of the realm.
Should Samon Pien of Braavos deliver Daenerys Targaryen and/or Rhaenys Targaryen to the Royal Court dead or alive, his Grace the King shall bestow upon him a Lordship and further financial compensation for keeping the peace.
They were being actively hunted now. The one who had murdered her father was aware of where they had been residing. Braavos was no longer safe. It was a shame because Rhaenys had been hoping to secure a steady home for her and Dany, one with a red door and a lemon tree if possible.
"Yes, and now we have to leave. This declaration makes it clear that he's working alone, but mine and Dany's whereabouts are known. This city won't be safe any longer."
Doreah had never seen that look in her friend's eyes before. It was scared, but there was an equal measure of defiance and determination to achieve. The Lysene nodded, unwilling to take chances of being on her own now that she'd most likely been seen with the two exiled royalty for the most part of a year.
Even if she took all of the money in the bag, Doreah was not confident that the king would not still find and interrogate her by means most foul.
Rhaenys strode passed Doreah and towards the door leading outside. Pulling it open with unnecessary force, Rhaenys strode out and around the shack.
The majority of the shack looked ready to fall apart if confronted with anything resembling a strong wind, luckily this part of the city was littered with buildings taller and closely knit enough that those winds were not much of a concern.
Along the back, the structure seemed to morph into something else. Stone laid neatly and professionally along the lower half was met by 3 steps downward before a door. The Princess rapped her knuckles against the wood twice, paused for a count of 4 and then three more times before pushing the door open. It was a signal for Dany to know that a familiar face was entering.
The door looked just as delicate and fragile as the rest of the shack on the outside, but on the back was hardened wood, new and heavy. As it was pushed open, Rhaenys had to let her eyes get accustomed to the torchlight. The short passageway was dark and chilly, they did not have a means to keep it warmer due to not having the place for a fire, the Braavos climate had done well enough.
Finding a place such as this had been a stroke of good luck, and now Rhaenys was wondering if being discovered and so close to death had been the will of the gods, rectifying the situation because she had started to actually feel comfortable here.
It was a sparsely built upon part of the city, near the outskirts where sailors and merchants walked through on the way to the taverns and brothels. Their little abode looked abandoned from any perspective other than the small view of the back where she had entered.
The passage was not long, only being a few strides before she came to the main living and sleeping area. Being underground as it was, there was a damp chill that never failed to seep into her bones. Rhaenys shivered, the dim torchlight shimmering against her dark hair.
She paused where she stood, as something caught her eye. Something that shouldn't be there, and in no way made her feel better about the situation her, Dany and Doreah found themselves in.
A sword, sheathed and attached to a black leather belt, leaning against the stone wall. It was larger than anything the three girls would have been able to wield.
Panic started to set in, and Rhaenys hurried further in to see Dany. Her Aunt knew that no one was supposed to be in here, she wouldn't have let anyone find her if they intruded.
There was a quick turn to the right and then left, and Rhaenys saw the area in which she'd been living in for months.
From right to left, there was a vanity set up uselessly, something they found nearby and had managed to bring down here just to make the space seem more liveable, though the lighting made using the mirror near impossible. A small rope tied to hooks in the wall where they were able to hang the meager clothes they owned.
Lastly were two beds, one larger than the other. The mattresses were both older, straw poking through the tearing seems. The larger one was where Rhaenys and Dany slept together, Doreah taking the smaller bed.
Dany was sitting where she'd been expecting, on the large bed with the wooden dragon and sewn doll clutched in her hands. Her violet eyes were staring across to the other bed.
"Good evening Princess."
A large man, sitting on Doreah's bed, spoke with a drawl and accent that she'd ever only heard once. Her uncle Ned had spoken in a similar manner, meaning this man was not only Westerosi, but he was a Northmen.
The man was large, with dark receding hair with a thick yet short beard on his chin. His broad build was covered by wool and leather armor, a deep green tunic laid over it showing the sigil of a bear. Even sitting on the bed, this man was up to her shoulders.
Deep blue eyes, serious yet not unkind, soaked in the image of both her and Dany with an obvious glimmer of hope. She didn't understand what to make of this.
The man was in armor, and of a stature that left herself, Dany and Doreah completely underpowered in comparison. He had invaded her home, loosely as the term could be applied. The sword propped against the wall left him without his primary weapon, for she had no doubt that he still carried a smaller blade somewhere hidden on his person.
He knew who they were, the rightful royal family of the seven kingdoms, yet he made no sign of moving to kneel or bow his head. Perhaps this last part was because he did not want to spark a panic in them.
"Who are you?" Rhaenys' voice was cold, Doreah coming to a stop a few feet behind her and eyed the man warily.
The muffled clink of a coin-filled bag lightly echoed off the walls as Doreah stepped next to Rhaenys, a shimmer of recognition in her light blue eyes as she looked from the man to Rhaenys.
"The bear of the Rhoyne." All eyes turned to the fair-haired Lysene, the man surprised by the term he thought had died with his leaving the Second Sons.
"One of the only men that walked through Tregar Ormollens brothel and never so much as glanced at any of the women."
The man winced, his eyes pained and down turned at hearing the name. It had been some time since he'd left his wife with the merchant prince, but the ache was deep and festered with resentment. The chances of it fading completely were not in his favor.
Looking him over once more, Rhaenys felt lucky that their guard had not perished before she was of an age where she could absorb the information in the books that were at their previous homes. His accent, the color of his tunic and its sigil led her to uncover the man's lineage, or at least who he'd served before leaving Westeros.
"What is a man bearing the sigil of house Mormont doing in the free cities?"
If this man proved to be hostile, a supporter of Robert Baratheon, Rhaenys and Doreah at least had a chance to escape. The olive-skinned Targaryen would do no such thing, not with Dany being a mere lunge away from his grasp.
Daenerys only seemed to be slightly nervous at the man's presence here. Rhaenys took that as a sign that he'd made no aggressive moves towards her, but she would stay skeptical until his intentions were known.
"Ser Jorah Mormont." Slowly, Jorah moved off the bed to kneel before her. It was clear that he saw her reluctance to believe anything that spilled from his lips, but his eyes stayed on hers, resolute and determined.
"I have come to offer my services, my sword, and counsel. I shall protect you and Princess Daenerys and give my life for yours if need be." It wasn't a proper oath, for he should have laid his sword at her feet and the words were slightly off, but this was as close to proper as they would get.
Copper eyes bore into a deep ocean blue, unyielding, unbelieving.
"And what is it that you seek in return, Ser Jorah Mormont?" If Doreah was correct, and Jorah had indeed this Bear of the Rhoyne, that meant he'd been in Essos for some time now. She had both heard and read that Northmen were not one to abandon their homelands. There was a reason he was here, and it didn't relate to protecting her and Dany.
A sad smile, small and riddled with regret, came over the man.
"Forgiveness Your Grace. I have dishonored myself, my family, and the entirety of the north. I will never again be the Lord of Bear Island, but I would like to atone for my transgressions. My actions put chains on two men, let me protect two members of the rightful royal family."
More questions filtered through her mind, most of which were not all that important to the situation. The one thing she truly needed to know was "Who sent you to us?"
Jorah reached slowly into his tunic, providing a scroll with the mark of a spider. Rhaenys took the offered parchment, opening it slowly, unsure of what she would find.
She read it through once, then twice more just to confirm was her eyes were seeing.
Relief swam over her, a warm feeling in her chest that came from knowing that even now he cared for her.
"If Uncle Ned thinks you trustworthy enough, then I have no argument against it."
Jorah looked rightfully confused about how she referred to the Warden of the North but made no mention of it.
-LineBreak-
Jon Snow
He didn't understand it, didn't know if this was supposed to be something from the Old Gods or a conjuration of the loneliness settling into every fiber of his being.
Whatever it was, the dreams Jon had been having were becoming the pinnacle of what drove him forward. And he thought they had to be dreams because the Targaryens were long gone from the world. It didn't matter, the only thing he wanted was for the day to pass so he could fall into them and actually be at peace each night.
A girl a few years his elder, dark brown hair with a stand of silver blonde that waved down her back, copper eyes that conveyed all the love and comfort he could ever only dream of. The smile of this maiden made Jon forget the status of his birth.
He knew that they were Targaryens too, because of the girl his age in the distance, running and playing with shadows he couldn't make out. This other girl had hair that marked her as a Valryian descendant, and violet eyes that few families in Westeros ever possessed.
Perhaps it was due to him learning of the more recent Targaryen lineage. Jon knew the dark-haired girl to be the deceased Rhaenys from her appearance, while the other was unknown.
No matter what brought it about, Jon welcomed the dreams. It hardly changed from each time he could recall them. A sun-bathed landscape, him being led by the hand of this imagined Rhaenys through the trees and fields. She talked throughout the entirety of the dream, and Jon either could not remember or could not hear what she said.
It didn't matter, Jon soaked in the peaceful atmosphere greedily.
As it always did, the dream faded with Rhaenys and the unknown Targaryen cuddled up to him at the base of a lemon tree. It was warm, in both a physical and emotional sense. As his mind drifted into the blank darkness before he would inevitably wake up, Jon was confused by some of the warmth staying beside him.
Grey eyes streaked with violet blinked at the ceiling as the summer chill swept through the cracks of his quarters. Being near the rest of the servants' quarters, his room was just another reminder of his position as the bastard of Winterfell. The hearth crackled as embers settled and cooled from no longer being aflame. Angling his head to the side, Jon saw that the sun was rising, and it was getting close to the time he needed to meet Ser Arthur.
The source of warmth beside him shifted, getting Jon to cast his eyes down.
With her hands pulled up and nearly hugging the warmth to herself, Arya stayed blissfully asleep next to her favorite brother.
The smile could not be kept away from his lips.
Few and far between were the times that he got to spend with Arya, their scheduled lessons keeping them busy and almost always at different sides of the keep. Lady Stark scolded the wild little girl for interacting with Jon, and while she said that it was because Arya was supposed to be in her lessons with Septa Mordane, Jon knew that it was because she was with him.
Twice he had seen from a distance, Lady Stark had gently coaxed her youngest daughter from Robb or Lord Stark and back inside to where she was supposed to be. His half-sister was not someone easily swayed or controlled. She did what she wanted, when she wanted to do it. It was still something that Jon couldn't explain, but Arya was the only one in Winterfell that could bring him out of his shell.
A few times now, when no one was around, Jon had given Arya a few basic lessons on swordplay. He suspected that both Ser Arthur and Lord Stark were aware of it, but there had been no reprimands or conversations regarding his interactions with Arya. The way that her eyes glimmered happily was thanks enough for his instruction.
Jon could hear the birds perched out on the walls cawing and chirping, reminding him of where he was supposed to be getting to. Shifting away from her was easy, but he did not want Lady Stark or anyone else discovering her here. It would only further the rift that had developed between him and the Stark family.
'Robb has not spoken to me in a fortnight. Sansa doesn't even bother to glare at me. Lord Stark has been so busy as of late that I'm not even sure he remembers I exist, and Lady Stark only deems me worth any attention if it means to demean me.' As things stood recently, Theon was the only high-born person in Winterfell besides Ser Arthur and Arya that acknowledged he lived there, and it was always a comment on his status or because of his constant brooding expression.
The eldest of Lord Stark's children had never looked down on him the way others often did, but as the months ticked by, he had certainly lessened his attempts to associate with Jon. Part of this was likely due to being trained separately because Lady Stark did not everyone to see the bastard besting the heir of Winterfell, another part was likely because Theon held the same high-born attitude.
Robb was kind to the small folk that surrounded their home, but there was no denying the heir still separated himself from them. Robb felt he was above them, even if only slightly.
Jon knew that Robb was expected to act as such. His half-brother was the one that would eventually listen to their concerns and act according to what he felt was the best course of action.
Pulling himself out of the furs laid atop his bed, Jon felt the warmth that his dream and Arya had given him fade away into nothingness like it was never there in the first place.
As Jon slid his boots onto his still sore feet, he thought about his future.
'Lord Stark has said that I would do well as a sworn sword for Robb, but is that something that I want? Perhaps joining the Night's Watch like Uncle Benjen is the better way to go. Even a bastard like me can rise in rank at the wall.'
It was something to consider, another option that didn't mean staying here with the people that looked down on him daily.
'But unless my true parentage comes to light before then, I will never learn about my mother by standing atop the wall.'
He hadn't found anything out about that conversation between Lord Stark and Ser Arthur, nor had he pressed either for information. It still lurked in the back of his mind, festering like an infected wound that was only a minor inconvenience to his abilities. For now, he didn't want either man to know that he'd been eavesdropping.
Jon wanted to know where he came from, the identity of his mother, and father as well if his suspicions proved true.
Lord Eddard Stark was well known throughout the kingdoms, the quiet wolf may seem cold, but there is no man more honorable than he. Jon's existence seemed such an about-face from the Warden of the North's usual standard. Jon heard the stories of how the other Northern lords had been left scratching their heads.
Was he the child of Brandon Stark, Eddard Stark's elder brother? Was that why Lady Catelyn hated him so? It was a much more plausible thing, and Jon wasn't the only one to have thought this, the whispers of the smallfolk resonated with that train of thought.
It would give Jon a little more ground to claim Winterfell that way, as the northern lords would want to honor the man that had marched to confront the mad king about Lyanna Stark's kidnapping. Convincing King Robert to legitimize him would likely be simple as well, the man had been Eddard Stark's best friend since they were wards of Jon Arryn.
But taking the Lordship away from Robb was not something that Jon wanted to do. That would only lead to more negative attention.
What he wanted more than anything else, was to capture the feeling those dreams with Rhaenys gave him. Love, acceptance, happiness.
There were no wars he wouldn't fight, no distance he wouldn't travel to obtain it. Killing, shedding another's blood was not something Jon would ever want, but desperation has a way of forcing a person's hand.
"Arya, wake up. If your Lady mother catches you here, neither of us will hear the end of it." At least his little sister's attempts at spending time with him kept that desperation at bay for just a little while longer.
-lineBreak-
Eddard Stark
The hunt today was not truly expected to bring anything back, but it was a means for Ned to spend some much-needed time with Robb, Jon and Theon. They rode out of the Western gate, the Hunter's Gate, and into the distance.
Theon had taken to the riding lessons fairly well, or as well as he took to any instruction. When he came to Winterfell, he'd been as awkward on a horse as Arya was with acting the proper lady. The thought brought forth a bitter smile, thinking of how his daughter and sister had often been compared.
Grey eyes casting over, Ned saw Jon looking as agile on his mount as Lyanna ever had. The boy was proving to be just as capable as his mother. If there was ever a reminder of why he had made the right choice to taint his own name, it was watching how Jon seemed to exemplify the characteristics of his parents.
None of a similar age matched his skill on a horse. His skill with a sword, the ease in which he weaved through Ser Arthur's moderate strikes, could be written off as the skill of the instructor. Ned knew better. Rhaegar had moved in much the same way, turning on his heels and deflecting a sword like he was merely dancing with an opponent.
Ned and Arthur had talked over the trait that both Lyanna and Rhaegar had shared. A will of the hardest steel.
While Lyanna had wanted to prove that she could ride as well as any man, or shoot a bow just as accurately, Rhaegar had been known for his single-minded pursuits. Music, knowledge, swordplay, he was great at them all, even if fighting was only out of necessity.
Once that crown of Winter Roses had been placed in his sister's lap, the course was likely to have already been determined, and nothing could have changed it. If only Benjen hadn't helped Lyanna in her quest to be with Rhaegar, perhaps it would have been noticed that she'd left willingly, and the deaths that followed could have been avoided.
His eldest son Robb, looking the part of the Lord-to-be of Winterfell, was riding next to Theon and a short distance away from Jon. The distance between Jon and everyone else had not gone unnoticed. Arthur hadn't been needed to tell him it was happening.
Ned was looking to test the training the boys had gone through. Hitting a target with an arrow was much different than a living, moving creature. The sun had yet to penetrate through the thick canopy, keeping them largely unseen from a distance with the dark fur cloaks.
Jon stopped, his finger pointing out to the north. Theon and Robb slowed and looked, a smaller doe making its way through the lightly frosted forest. The boys looked back to Ned, silently asking if they were allowed to take the shot. After a nod, Robb notched an arrow and pulled back, his young arms struggling with the tension needed to achieve the distance required.
The doe ducked its head to the ground, the frosted grass the only source of food in the immediate area. Robb slowly released the breath held, eyes straining to focus on the point in which he wanted to puncture. Fingers releasing, the bowstring nearly swiped over his lips as it forced the projectile forward.
The quiet whistle hadn't registered for the creature, the arrow nearly skimming the back just above the base of its neck and sailing onward into the land beyond.
Theon quieted the snicker that only briefly resounded in his chest, pulling his own arrow back with an arrogance that had become well known around Winterfell.
His ward was older, and thus better able to handle the strength needed for his hands to not be shaking and ensure a better shot. Nearly a man grown, Theon still had much to learn, most of which was to take heed of his elder's advice. Theon didn't bother trying to still his breath, and the small sway it created was enough for his arrow to miss its mark on the doe's head.
Theon had been warned many a time to keep his boastful nature controlled, but the Iron-born heir seemed adamant to ignore this.
Jon wasted no time in pulling his Arrow back as Theon fumed over his missed shot. In a far quicker time, Jon loosed his arrow, striking the beast and piercing its lungs.
The deer tried to flee, prancing for only a few seconds before it fell to the ground.
"A good shot Jon." Ned praised earnestly.
Jon looked back, no emotion outwardly showing on his face. "Thank you, Lord Stark. Ser Arthur has instructed me well."
The words were unpleasant to hear. He could not remember the last time he heard the word father from Jon, the passive-aggressive barbs were subtle and well placed. Ned made no comment, nor did he let it show just how Jon's detachment from the Stark family affected him personally.
But affect him it did.
Jon had been forced to believe that he was born from the drunken, post-battle celebration during the rebellion, with a woman that had meant nothing to Ned. His creation had not been out of love, not even out of duty, but only as a means of escape from the hard reality that was war.
Catelyn certainly hadn't helped matters.
Ned could not curtail his wife's efforts to make sure that Jon felt like an outsider, at least not as much as he wanted.
If Arthur was correct in his telling of Jon's thoughts, his wife needed to know the bare minimum. Jon could not go off to the wall and live out his days. Not with his sister and Aunt across the Narrow Sea, under the protection of a man that Ned had been hard-pressed to accept back in the seven kingdoms unless it meant taking his head, waiting for the day that they could return home. To him… To their rightful throne.
How could he possibly word things in a way that would satisfy her curiosity about Jon's mother, without making it obvious that he was technically committing a crime with every breath Jon took?
He wasn't sure, but it needed to happen.
Varys had been right. They needed to make moves of their own, prepare for what was eventually going to happen. Oberyn would only be held at bay for so long. When he found Rhaenys, there was no doubt in Ned's mind that she'd seek out her brother as soon as she was able.
But what could he do? How did he prepare Jon for the inevitable? Rhaenys was going to persuade her brother to be king, Ned had no delusions about that. Jon was a capable combatant already, and he would only become deadlier as he aged, but that did nothing to help his leadership skills.
First things first. Catelyn needed to be given the information necessary for her to see that the situation was serious enough that his lie was needed, without making her guilty of the same crime. Then perhaps, she might be able to give him and Arthur an idea of where to go from there.
Catelyn Stark was a smart woman and saw things from a less combat oriented stance in comparison to himself and Arthur Dayne. She was cunning in a way that no Northmen could claim. Her actions and words could be subtle but have a great impact on whatever situation she so desired.
Jon seemed to be the only topic that she lacked this subtlety on.
Once they got this deer back to Winterfell, Ned was going to drag Arthur and his wife to his Solar for a much-needed talk.
END!
Alright people. I hope you didn't think that this was going to be all fluff and fix-it stuff.
This is Game of Thrones. People are going to die. Bad things are going to happen to good people.
Remember what Rhaegar says about prophecy from chp1. Isolation, betrayal, despair.
But there's always going to be those calm and fluffy moments in between.