In a faze of milk of the poppy induced sleep, Jon could just make out the figure of a man standing over him. He couldn't make who it was, whether he was good, bad, indifferent. A threat, a hand in the dark. His life was sleep, pain, anguish, over and over again, for every waking moment. And they cam rare enough.. H lay in sweaty bed clothed, naked from the waist up, tossing and turning when the medicine started to wear. Then he would cry out, feeling the burning in his muscles; his stomach, back, and side. He couldn't hear more than heavy muttering and the rumour of day's past. His brain lived in an eternal circle of days spent in summer snow, feeling the nick of Robb's sword of the wetness of a snowball across his now weathered face. In his dreams he saw his brother coming at him as they had that night…
Jon couldn't understand it, couldn't comprehend why his brothers had turned on him the way he had. Couldn't wrap his mind around the fact he was lying here alive. At first, he thought ha /had/ died, because the pain relinquished as he watched as if from the eyes of another, as Ser Jorah Mormont unlocked the shackles on his ankles and wrists, lifting him to a standing position. He had watched as long as he could before a black blur dragged him away from the scene into a feeling naught apart from flying. No, floating, not flying. Only then it had turned to falling, and he couldn't stop it. Hands grasped out one after the other, brushing his own fingers. The floor loomed up before him, looking similar to the ground below Winterfell's godswood. It wasn't until his blinded eyes caught sight of Daenerys Targaryen smiling down at him, that he flashed back to reality. He soon hoped he had not looked up to see her, that he was dead, because the pain…the pain, it was much worse. She must be here; he could sense her presence, like warmth. He would say it soothed him, but all it did was numb the pain, until he could not move, and all he could do was lie there half awake unable to work any part of the pain out of his body. He lay, and endured. Because that was all he could do. Endure.
The only way he could tell he was coming back into consciousness was first, the slow ache of his wounds would begin to throb dully. Then he would feel the cold, and his body would begin to shake. And then the screaming would begin. This morning however, he felt himself coming too, but the pain was a little more bearable than the day before, and he could manage to get a hold of his surroundings. Blankets were tangled around his legs, but furs had been placed over his semi-naked body, providing some warmth from the storm that seemed to be raging outside the tiny room he occupied behind the armoury. He felt his chest heaving, and only had a moments warning before he felt a tug at his stomach and rolled over on the bed to vomit onto the wooden floor…or into a bucket. Jon squinted down at it, surprise etched across his exhaustion lined face. He coughed heavily, and stayed lying partially on the edge of the bed, letting air into his lungs big gulps at a time. He felt like he had run a league. Something wet nudged a bare foot, and his face was suddenly filled with warm white fur. Jon sunk his hand into the direwolf's fur, inhaling the familiar scent to stop himself emptying his empty stomach again. Ghost pushed him back onto the bed and then leapt up, settling down next to him. Jon was grateful for the warmth and was about to turn and nestle into his body when he heard footsteps approach. He listened rather than watched, not trusting his eyes when they were glazed over with the lasting effect of milk of the poppy. The scrape of the bucket being pulled aside reached his ears and then the soft splash of water. The cool softness of a cloth pressed against his fevered head, as his companion began to dap at his body, cooling him and cleaning him at the same time.
The stranger's breathing was all he could hear apart from the gently sound each stroke of cloth caressed his skin. They finished, and Jon turned his head to take sigh of his carer, and was confused when he set eyes upon Daenerys, looking drawn and pale, as if she herself had slept as fitfully as himself. She smiled weakly down at him, but all he could manage was a grimace of pain as he tried to raise himself. Her deft hands pressed down on his chest as Jon grunted, and let himself fall back to the sheets. She stood and made her way over to a chair, over which hung a large undershirt. When she approached again, he tried to raise himself to one elbow.
"No" her voice was quite, but demanding. He let himself drop back down once again. His head began to pound at the effort, and he was glad that the usual numbness that ensued in her presence had stayed at bay, and allowed him to raise a hand to his eyes. Without the flickering candle light, the dull throb abated a little, leaving his mind a little clearer. A groan shuddered at the back of his throat. "Stay down and I won't hurt" her voice was rough, and he dare not even try his own. So in a silent plea for information, he removed his hand and looked questioningly up into her face. She stood and moved to the table a few feet away, pouring first a cup of wine for herself and then water for Jon. "Three days. The milk of the poppy has been keeping you asleep for the most part, although it seems the pain was doing a lot of work keeping you unconscious" he walked back over and perched on a chair she had pulled up along side him. She took a sip of her own deep red drink, placed in down on the floor and held the cup to his own lips. He let her entangle her finger in his hair and lift his head. The water was welcomed by his dry mouth and throat but his stomach didn't seem to happy with its unwelcome guest. He had taken no more than five or six small sips before he closed his lips and nodded that he had drunk enough for the moment. Jon looked up at Daenerys, trying to configure some idea as to why it was her here and not Satin. In fact, he could not hear a sound above the howling wind outside. Everything seemed calm. Something must have happened. Though his priorities should be elsewhere, the only thought in his mind was to get back to his feet, to get back to work, back to the job his brothers had bestowed so unwisely upon his troubled young shoulders. He could see that now, that what Sam did was wrong, that becoming lord commander was the worst thing he could have done with the watch so fraught with danger and uncertainty. They had thrust a boy no older than sixteen into a nest full of vipers, boasting of more wisdom, experience and skill, who loathed Jon to the bone. He had made a mistake, no different to the rest of hi life. He was a Bastard. He was a living mistake, a sin. And as much as he tried to convince himself otherwise, an oath breaker and a turncloak. Damned was what he was, and there was no point in pretending otherwise, no matter what hope latched itself onto his being.
Jon's eyes had not left her face, exploring her features while she sat and stared straight ahead of her. He decided to risk his voice. "Thank…you" he croaked, the air grating through his throat. Weariness began to creep over his body once again but no enough to drown out the tug of curiosity, She was a true Targaryen by appearances; he had seen that when he had looked into her eyes the first time that night. That, along with her silver blonde hair confirmed it all. Of course he had never met one himself, but it was fact enough. However, that also meant that she could be as mad as her father. That did little to calm his heartbeat. He felt it speed up in his chest, thumping away so loudly he thought she must be able to hear it. Jon was gripped by a sudden suspicion and fear. Maybe she had kept him alive to kill him herself. Daenerys seemed to notice his edginess, lines forming in the space between her eyebrows as her eyes narrowed. "I told you Jon Snow, you can trust me" She said it warily, a hand raised before her as if to prove to him that she held nothing to harm him. Jon was far from trusting her, though, His head was telling him to run, that things hadn't changed and she was part of the group of brothers out to kill him. But his body was holding him down, and was definitely not going to co-operate. He couldn't look at her, not without the fear that something n her eyes would show some sign of hostility, when he knew he was being simple. He turned his head away, toward the wall, until unexpectedly a laugh burst from her lips. Jon's head snapped around, finding her face looking anything but comical. She looked shocked, a pail flush mounted on her cheeks. Without warning she stood and walked to the door. He couldn't understand it.
"No, wait..." she paused with her hand on the door. He could see how tense she was, the muscles of her back looking strained through the silk of her dress. She turned back to him, showing a confused expression. Jon pushed himself up onto one elbow, feeling his head spin slightly with the effort. She frowned at him, looking as helpless as a doe caught in crossbow range. She let out a low sound of desperation and fled the room. A cold wind blew into the room, making Jon pull up the furs that were half hanging off the bed. He lay there, thinking over the last few minutes. He had known strange people, but that had to be the most mysterious experience he had ever had. There was something there, something causing her to act this way. He rolled over; trying to push the lingering look she had given him out of his mind. Trying not to think of it as a look of hopelessness.