Jon
As he walked out into the sunlight of a wan summer sun, he felt as if he were in yet another dream. It was mid-morning and the bright glare of the sun said as much. The yard before the great keep of Winterfell was teeming with activity today.
He looked around at the yard and the squires training under the eyes of Ser Rodrick. Everything around him was alive, so much much now that he wondered if he really was dead.
"Took you long enough Snow." A cocky voice called out. Jon felt his hand clench into a fist at the voice. They relaxed only slightly when his eyes found the speaker.
He had heard tales of Theon Greyjoy, or Prince Reek as Stannis Baratheon had taken to refering to him as. Even the sight of a vain, arrogant Theon Greyjoy gave him shivers at the thoughts that rushed to his mind. He thought of the queer friendship he had formed with Asha Greyjoy, and of the memory Ramsay Snow had left the North.
Jon didn't know, but someday he would kill Ramsay Snow. Not a day had gone by when he didn't think of that false letter that drove the Night's Watch to ruin.
"Jon, get over here, I need a good sparing partner," it was Robb.
He inhaled a deep breath and walked forward to meet Robb. Every sight in Winterfell seemed like a battle. Sam had told him to do his best to stay calm and not attract unwarranted attention. At least bastards were good at that, Jon allowed a thin grin. He had no desire to speak of the things that had happened in the past, and he knew all too well how futile warnings from him would be from his own experience.
The rack before him held a motley assortment of wooden practice swords. Without so much as a thought, Jon chose the bastard practice sword, and was facing Robb before he realized that the boy Jon would not have often chosen one.
Robb looked only a little surprised, but said nothing.
He wasn't sure how good of a fighter Robb was at twelve years of age, so he decided to hold back and wait for Robb to make a move. His brother held a practice longsword.
Jon tried to stay focused, right now, he wanted nothing more than to embrace Robb like a lost brother, but he had to keep his mind on the spar at hand.
His sword was low and pointed towards the ground when Robb charged. Jon lifted his sword a moment sooner than he should have. My reach is not what it was, Jon had realized. Robb beat down his sword with a bash of his shield, and drove the point of his tourney weapon home to his chest.
"Do you yield?" He asked with cheer. Jon rubbed the spot where the sword had hit.
He could not believe that Robb had bested him so easily, but then again Robb was always better at everything. Well, execpt for surviving.
The sparring matches continued. Jon kept losing, but as they went on, he adapted his fighting style to his younger self.
Finally, he won a round, Several bouts later, Robb closed in for the kill once more, but Jon saw his attack coming, and was ready to counter it just as he had learned in the yards of Castle Black. He had always been the more agile of the two, and slipped his sword right under the arm where many armored fighters were vulnerable. His brother dropped the sword in shock. Jon wasted no time in bringing his sword back and quickly brought it up to strike down the shield.
He stepped closer than he usually would have, as his reach was much less than he was accustomed to. When Robb pulled his shield up to cover his face, he sacrificed his view, and Jon swung the sword downwards and before he knew it, the shield hit the groud a few feet away.
Robb was now clutching his arms which had sustained a few bruises. He grunted in pain, "I yield," Robb was stunned and when Jon stole a look around the training yard, he was not the only one.
Oh no, what have I done. It was not uncommon for him to beat Robb, but it was seldom so decisive as this. For a moment, all was silent save for the sound of the hammer in the smithy. Until Theon guffawed at Robb that is.
His senses were tingling, and the hair on the back of his neck felt like ice. The instinct of a fighting man took over; he lowered his profile, and turned around with sword in hand.
He was not sure if he should be relieved or angered at the stare of Lady Stark. Yet he, felt the grip on the wooden sword tighten. He always remembered that stare, the one that told him he had no right to be here, let alone exist.
I don't fear you anymore, he wanted to yell. He wanted to tell Lady Stark about her future and the horrid creature that she had become. For a mad second, he even wanted to tell her about her final death, even though it still haunted him to recall.
But he didn't. Their eyes met for a instant and Jon saw anger, and then fear. He did not look down when he felt her stare, but instead looked her in the eyes. Highborns hated that.
Quickly though, his sense returned, and he looked away to thank Robb for a good match. He could not do another right now though, and placed the looked at the wooden tourney sword that now had a narrow crack half-way up the blade. He propped it against the rack for tourney swords, but as soon as he let go it fell away. He did not pick it back up.
Every step that he took without breaking down was a victory. He had almost failed from the start when he tripped over five year old Bran, who had been attracted to Jon's door because of the noise he had made wherever he was.
His feet brought him past the bridge, and past the watchfull eyes of Ser Rodrick. The pace quickened and he increased his stride making his way to the first keep. No one had followed him as far as he could tell. The old wooden door with rusted iron hinges sqeaked as he pulled it shut and exhaled when he felt that he had shut himself out from everything.
The First Keep was a quiet place, long out of use execpt for the times he played here with Robb and even Theon. He even remembered that it was one of Bran's favorite places to climb.
Jon leaned back onto the cobblestone wall and sank to the floor. Jon was not sure if he could ever go back to what he had once been. Thoughts gathered around him, and he tried to figure out what do next.
The voice of a little girl, then interrupted his thoughts.
"Is Septa Mordane still looking for me?" A pair of feet dropped to the floor nearby after jumping from the stairs, and It was Arya.
He tried to get upright from his position, and he noticed felt his hand clutching his wrist. Jon let out an audible gasp.
"Did I scare you Jon," she grinned.
"I Didn't expect you little sister," Jon admitted and felt his throat dry.
Before he could reply, Arya Stark of five namedays ran to him with a childlike excuberance, and embraced him.
By all rights, he should have felt happy. So why did he feel such dread at the embrace of a child.
Dany
The doors to the cells were flung open one by one by the slavers, whose profession as captors was indicated by blunt weapons.
The calls to get out were in a bastard form of high Valyrian.
She could hear Viserys in a nearby cell screaming that he was no slave. That had earned him the whack of a cold iron cudgel and a look of cruel indifference.
He was too afraid to tell them who he was though, and with good reason. The memories were coming back to her. They were hiding, because the Usurper had hired knifes in town.
They were prodded along with other prisoners into a large cavernous room beneath the ground, as torches were being placed upon sconces on the wall.
A rack of torches before them were set alight, and each of the men among the ragtag slaves stepped forward to grab them of the rack as directed by the foreman.
All around, the fires of industry came to life, as they shoved coal into the furnaces.
On the line, a few remained. Viserys was there, as were several chidren, none of them older than six and ten.
A man approached them, he looked oblivious to his surroundings, or at least pretended to be. She could hear him whistling a tune as he came.
His hair was a dark, dirty, brown as most Qohoriks seemed to be. His eyes were a light hazel when they show in the torchlight. The clothes he wore, were fancy for an underground dungeon and smithy. His tunic was dyed a faint purple that nearly appeared white in the torchlight. It was trimmed with threads of finest gold.
He immediately focused on her, and it made her skin crawl. He reached out and felt her check, as if she were goods to be sold.
"Where did you get this one, Rathko? She looks expensive even for a young Lyseni." The man's voice was a little swollen and it was arrogant.
"We paid a large bag o goats for her Mengels," the slaver captain lied whilst stroking the pommel of his sword. And her brother too?
The handsome man produced a whip, and turned to face the captain. "Your master strikes me as cheap sort of man when it comes to slaves, how many pillow houses did you outbid for those two?" the pommel of his whip was directed at the man.
The man looked nervous when the the whip threatened to uncoil. "The last person who took me for a fool, found himself under a priest's knife and cowl at the start of a new year, i'm sure you remember the story. Now spit it out, where the fuck did they come from."
The slaver gulped nervously. "They were found hiding, behind the shop, during working hours."
He pondered that for a moment, "I see, so they saw too much." The slaver nodded.
"They were hiding from someone, they must be thieves."
They spoke openly in high Valyrian, which they did not expect anyone else to understand.
The man took another look at Dany, and then a closer look at Viserys before turning away. "I want those two, you can use the rest starting with the brown girl on the end. Send the rest back to the cellar."
A slaver seized the said girl from behind. The man in the light purple tunic gave a flick of the wrist and his retainers seized Viserys and then herself.
They were dragged up a flight of stairs and brought to what seemed like a lavish office with many beautiful wood carving that she could see. The grand splendor of the office seemed removed from the horrors of below. The guards dropped them and then left.
"What do you want with us?" Viserys hoarsely asked in high Valyrian. The man's head turned as he most likely did not expect that.
"Two scions of old Valyria found on the run, and well educated. Is it not obvious that you have more value than tempering swords?"
At least for Mengels Gathe you are worth more.
A faint cry of distress could be heard from below. Mengels seemed unconcerned but calmly went for a box on his desk. He opened it to make sure it had whatever it was he was searching for. From where she was, she could make out a few small bottles. Then the man felt around the underside of the desk. A small drawer opened, and she saw a dagger of Valyrian steel.
"You must excuse me, dear ones. It seems I have more pressing matters at hand. Matters that master Hoat is incabable of handling himself."
Mengels turned to leave with his dagger in one hand and the small box in the other, but paused. "We will talk later, at first light. The two of you, myself, and some aspiring lordlings from the Seven Kingdoms." The merry sound of his voice was all Dany needed to know what kind of man Mengels Gathe was. Ambitious, and utterly without scruple.
Note: Sorry it took so long to update. This chapter took a while to write.