Chapter 3
Even when he had not seen the bastard in two years, there were a hundred thousand reasons Theon hated Jon Scott. His poetry, for one. Jon had a habit of writing the most god-awful poetry, then making Robb read it. Theon had to endure it purely because he spent so much time with the second-oldest Scott. Robb would lie and dissemble, telling Jon it was good but needed improvement here or there. Lies. Jon could barely spell and his grammar was atrocious, both of which he attributed to 'artistic licence'. It always struck Theon as strange that Jon wrote since he didn't read. Theon could count on his hands how many times he had caught Jon with a book not for school.
Then there was the fact that he was always complaining about his fate in life. Theon didn't complain and he had it a million times worse. So what if Cat hated Jon's guts? A lot of people did.
No matter how many times Theon listed all the reason, though, he knew the truth. He hated Jon because they were in competition. Only one of them could have the family's favour. They were eternal rivals.
They had the family split down the middle or as close as they could get it. Mr Scott was Jon's, since Jon was his true son. Cat was Theon's for the very same reason Mr Scott was Jon's. Sansa tolerated Theon, so she was his. Arya and Brandon loved Jon, so they were his. Rickon was a little kid and not at all sociable so he belonged to neither.
It wasn't surprising, then, that they fought over Robb. He was the eldest, the one set to follow in his father's footsteps, the Scottiest of the Scotts (Theon laughed at his own wit)…and completely oblivious to the power play. He didn't care that Jon was his half-brother by some slag anymore than he cared that Theon was his foster brother. Robb just wanted them to get along.
He didn't get it at all.
Theon wanted him so badly. He'd never admit it, of course, since he didn't feel he should need anyone but his desire for Robb went far beyond a need to defeat Jon. The bastard could have the rest of the family if he gave up Robb. Theon didn't count Sansa and Cat much of a victory, just a flighty girl and an old woman whose beauty started to fade years ago.
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Jon-
Sansa's convinced she and Joffrey Lancaster are going to be married. He proposed to her a fortnight past. There's been fighting ever since. Mother and Sansa go at it at every hour of the day. Oftentimes, Bran is the only one to quiet them.
Arya misses you terribly. She keeps asking when you're coming back. You will be coming home for Christmas, won't you?
Bran wants you to ken he won his cross-country competition. He's really fast. Rickon says "hallo". He drew you a picture.
-Robb
Jon grinned at the crudely drawn stick figures at the bottom of the page. Two people, one twice the size of the other, held hands. The small one was waving. It was the first letter he had ever gotten, dated almost a month ago. He had been here three.
He read the letter again, before folding it up. If they were lucky, there would soon be a permanent internet connection at the next post. They could use it once a month, for Skype or e-mail, their preference. As long as the connection was secure, there would be no chance of letters being lost.
Pyp joked that Sam's letters always got lost. Even Toad got one every few months but Sam never did, for a reason Jon could not fathom. He seemed the sort of boy with a loving mother at home desperately worried about him.
Jon noticed that Pyp never got letters, either. He'd realised after a time that Pyp's jokes were mostly to cover up his own shortcomings by jabbing at others. Pyp had a lot of shortcomings.
The days were hard in Afghanistan. Jon had read about prisoners going insane from lack of stimulus, but he had never realized just how hard it was to spend every day watching, waiting, terrified that someone or something was going to come from the horizon and kill him and everyone nearby. He didn't ken what was worse: the mind-numbingness or the fear.
Sam was afraid of everything. Jon was starting to think he had the right of it.
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The days blurred together in the world of endless sand. Jon wished on many occasions that fighting would break out. Whether among his companion soldiers or the insurgents, it made little difference to him. The monotony was more likely to kill them than the terrorists.
Shooting began at half past ten, several hours into Jon and Pyp's watch. He liked the older man, even if he was a miserable shot.
A bullet whizzed past Jon's helmet, sending shock waves through the metal. Another at his feet had him doing a quick two-step to avoid losing a toe.
"Let's show these cousin-fuckers," Pyp hissed, his rifle cocked at his shoulder. He was ready to shoot, for what good that did.
A yelp sounded, followed by unintelligible cursing and, oddly, a deep growl. The bullets stopped coming.
"You want to go investigate?" Jon asked, when no more seemed forthcoming.
"No," Pyp answered honestly. "D'you?"
They waited another five minutes before approaching the insurgent's hiding spot. He had hidden behind the broken wall of a building twenty metres away from them, using the false safety the soldiers felt to pick them off. Pyp kicked one of the broken sun-baked bricks out of the way. The ground was littered with them.
Jon crossed the wall gun first. Red eyes gleamed out of the darkness.
"Uh, Jon," Pyp said when Jon did the least sensible thing ever and continued to move forward towards the eyes. "Jon, it's coming for you!"
The beast lunged and tackled Jon, paws pinning him to the ground. He landed in the sand and the bricks, and began laughing, much to Pyp's confusion.
"Er, Jon, there's a dog on you."
"It's Ghost!" Jon told him, more excited that Pyp had ever seen him. "My dog."
"You made friends with one of the strays?" The Khyber Pass had many dogs running about without tags or owners. The locals despised them, calling them filthy animals and beating them away with brooms on occasion. It had something to do with their religion but Jon was lost on what. Some of the troops, being of a completely different mindset, regularly fed one or two of them, the friendlier and less feral ones. They were useful for warning for insurgents in the middle of the night. Sometimes.
"No, it's my dog from home!"
Ghost had travelled across British-controlled Afghanistan to find Jon. He may or may not have been put on a supply plane headed there by Theon (who was prepared to ask how likely that was). He may or may not have broken into the ration packs and he may or may not have scared the living daylights out of the poor sods who first opened the hatch and found an albino dog with glowing red eyes waiting for them. What he had for certain done was found Jon.
He was hard to recognize. Ghost was filthy now, the same tan colour as everything else. Jon knew him though: those red eyes were unmistakeable. That and the tongue happily licking his sweaty face.
The captain was not pleased to have a new stray hanging around the camp. He got over it the first time Ghost killed an insurgent.