A/N: Thank you for the nice reviews. Enjoy.
Jon
He had lost sight of the granite walls… when exactly, he could not recall.
Jon rode on and scowled, rode on and cursed, and rode and rode and rode. Until that of his home was lost to the rolling hills, grey-green and flecked with frost. To the south they rolled on further, and to the close east pines stood in the distance like small green spires.
Below, Ranger pounded his hooves upon the frozen grass, planting cracking thuds to shatter the frozen grass. I should've thanked Hullen, Jon thought to himself as he dug his heels once more, he helped me. Though Jon was not sure how far that loyalty stretched, whether the master of horse woke Eddard the minute he cleared the gates, that too, he did not know.
Ghost ran at his side, shot-white against the ground, red eyes burning. He wasn't as fast as Ranger, not yet anyhow, and he couldn't rip out throats as Hullen had feared. Soon, though… Jon eased his pace to keep the direwolf close, never losing sight, he would not lose him to the woods.
Tears still dried on his cheeks, so cold they burned. Why? He asked the ocean of grass beneath him, hopelessly. Why had my father done this? Doing so made him feel even more lonely, made him hate, curse in anger. The truth he now knew, and it only hurt.
Did they know? His brothers and his sisters, did they keep it from him? No, he searched for sense, they wouldn't. With each thud of Ranger's hooves his mind loomed heavier. I'm sorry, Robb, Arya, Bran, he told the grass and the winds once again, hoping it would ease him.
It did not, Jon snow rode on further.
The White Knife was his means of guidance, follow the White Knife I'll find White Harbor, and there a ship, and then... he did not to want to think on that yet, not whilst his wound still gaped fresh in his thoughts, not whilst he still rode, not until he was ready.
Ranger seemed to sense his troubles, dashing quicker than he had ever had. Jon watched as the sky turned its shade, as clouds broke and scattered and sun peaked its auburn fingers through the cracks. Watching sent him worry and hope, worry that he would soon awaken in his bedchamber, all this a folly dream. If so, Jon would rise, don his riding leathers and ride again over the hills until he so did accomplish that what he wished.
His hope, as dwindling as it was, grew as he caught no sight of riders behind him. He would not stop. He could not. He could not face them. What would he say? What could he do? He was not allowed to go north, to join the Night's Watch his uncle, Eddard won't allow it, he won't. I cannot stay in Winterfell; with Robb and Bran and Rickon, I cannot decide my own fate.
Jon Snow would decide his fate. He was.
Hours passed without cease, the rattle of his scabbard and the heaves of Ranger, the things he had gathered in his saddle sack shaking noisily. The air soon grew lighter, easier to breathe. His thighs began to ache and grow sore from the saddle. Yet, he would not stop. Then came the groans of Ranger, from endless riding over the uneven hills of the north. He had done Jon well; he deserved a rest, however short it would be.
Jon rode to the bank of stream, he had heard it as he rode, it was one smaller to that of the White Knife, Jon assumed they came to join further south. That did not matter now though. Dismounting before the wall of trees and thorny hedges that stood beside the marked and plenty ridden path, leading Ranger through on foot. It was empty, as expected, and the green leaves above shot pale reflections against the moving water.
Ranger was eager and thirsty, the horse stepped forward and craned its neck to take long drinks, stamping his hooves of the dirt. Jon slowly followed, biting back winces with each step.
With his hands, he cupped what water he could gather and splashed it against his face. Sighing, licking his lips, it so very cold, relieving, he fell back to his knees.
He would not rest long, that he knew well, the less he moved the more his mind began to spin…but for a moment, just a moment.
Across the shallow stream, another wall of tree and hedge stood to rattle back at him, though the pines grew thicker beyond that point, into a wood before it broke at the White Knife. He need not go deeper into those trees, as it seemed, he didn't have to cloak himself behind anything at all, he had seen no other since the startled face of Hullen. At Jon's left, the stream spiraled downwards, cased either side by the trees and hedge on and on and on.
Ghost soon emerged from behind him, splashing his paws into the water and lapping within it. Jon laughed despite himself and beckoned the wolf closer, ruffling his ears with a gloved hand.
Though as Ghost usually took his rest beside him, flat upon his belly, now he wavered, approaching the line of trees at Jon's back, ears stood at attention.
"What is it?" Jon asked, turning to look. Ranger then spun around, snarls shaking from his throat. Something was wrong.
Jon crawled on his hands and knees, mud creaking into the leather of his breeches and his black moleskin gloves. Through the brown twigs and rattling leaves of green and orange, Jon swept his vision from left to right, beyond was as normal as it had been, nothing was amiss.
But Ghost was still alarmed, pacing and snarling, his fangs bared. Jon ran his hands through the white bristles. "It's fine, Ghost, calm."
Then, from afar, a shout echoed in his ears.
Terror shot through him, like daggers chipping his insides head to toe. Riders, they must have been looking for him. No, they couldn't have caught up. Ghost still paced restlessly, and Ranger snarled again.
Eddard, he's come to find me, Jon could see even now, grey eyes dark with disappointment. He could he see Benjen shaking his head, clicking his tongue. He could feel the scowl of Catelyn, the resentment of Robb and Bran and Arya and Sansa, the laughs of Theon… I had to go, he could feel a lump gathering in his throat as the shouts grew louder and the sound of riders swept over the stream.
Jon turned his head to gaze north again through the hedges, upwards a company of riders fell from the peak of a hill and came streaming downwards. They carried no banner, but that did little to soothe his worry, Ned would not risk his missing leaking amongst the lords.
Show yourself, go back, a voice insisted. Jon did not move.
Ghost still lapped, eyes blazing like fire. Jon quickly reached for him, grasping the direwolf firmly and holding him to his chest. No rider would spot him through the shrub if he was laying down, and Jon did so, he did not intend to be found. Ranger looked upon his rider, Jon hushed him, and thank the Old Gods, the horse seemed to calm.
The aching in his thighs were forgotten, the sour taste in his mouth turned to naught and all he could hear was the stamp of hooves, stamping, stamping, stamping.
Jon fisted his hands into Ghost's fur, and closed his eyes to face them. He could try to run, but they would soon catch him.
One of them sounded again, his voice stretching through the small elms and shrubs that covered the stream. And then they came so close he could hear the clink of the scabbards shaking against their legs, the huffs of their breathing.
Go, I cannot go back.
Go, I will not.
Go.
They went.
The sounds of their horses grew faint in the distance, until it was only the wind again, the rattling... and his own breath. Jon knew they had missed him. They had passed..
He let free his grip on Ghost and slouched his body against the mud, sighing in relief. The coils turning in his belly calmed, and Ranger returned to his water. He did not see himself craven, but this was different.
He could rest no longer.
Jon Snow climbed atop his steed once more an ushered a small trot, he decided to continue the next few leagues behind the cover of the shrubs, where he would be concealed from any riders passing. Until he saw it fit to expose himself on the roads, he would have to make use of the muddy wet paths by the stream. It would cost his distance, dearly, but he would reach White Harbor soon enough. He would reach it.
The path became even wetter as he went on, with scattered flecks of green grass daring to poke out, only for Ranger to trample them with his hooves. To his left the stream swept along and at the trees still shook at his right, though they were growing scarcer now. The hidden track would serve for such a time, until it met the White Knife and the mud delved into the water.
The leaves shot shadows around him, yet Jon could still see how it grew darker and darker, a day was coming to end and he was still riding, still running. His legs were numb now and he gripped the reins loosely, I am tired, though I mustn't rest, not yet. He could rest in White Harbor, in the bunk of a ship as it sailed. The Free Cities, Jon could still hear the way Ned's voice quivered when he spoke, Pentos, he had said, though they are a world away, and my knowledge is treason. You deserve the truth; I know that now. Then he had left.
A world away, how far could that be? He was yet to reach White Harbor, and his hopes and will and wishes were sunken.
He could not stay like this.
Jon spurred Ranger rightwards, Ghost following, and passed through the thinning shrubbery and onto the clear paths again. A world away it was, and a world he would cross.
He was alone still, as he hoped. He was too tired to do anything else but sway in the saddle. Around him, the pale green grass began growing darker and darker… then black.
Jon's eyes closed, his rested his head over Ranger's neck and hung his arms loosely. Sleep took him.
Though this night he did not dream, not like other nights he did. He seemed to float, there was only the pain, the sickness in his stomach, and the whispering of the stars. He woke at what seemed an instant after he had closed his eyes, though the sky above him was light and dappled with morning clouds, and the grass was frozen all over again.
And in the distance, there it was.
The light was had just breached the tall pines and rolling hills, and the staggering tower of hill before him shot a dark shadowy frame. That was where New Castle was, Jon knew, he did not plan to go there. He could not see much for the walls from the south of White Harbor, being a port city, it faced the sea, the East, Pentos, Ned said, Pentos.
Jon smiled and laughed, patting Ranger firmly on the neck. He had expected to wake with still leagues of riding ahead of him, instead Ranger had covered it whilst he slept. As his eyes came to look around him, he noticed he was travelling down a narrow grey trodden path, further onwards more and more people walked. That alluded Jon, if these people caught eye of Ghost, then that could mean his own troubles. Jon beckoned closer the direwolf and lifted him up with an arm, then gently wrapped him within a grey woolen saddle sack, amongst the things he had gathered from Winterfell, hanging from his saddle. Only for now, he thought as Ghost rustled, I'm sorry. Then he seemed to calm.
He crossed a grey wrinkling man, beside an oxcart being labored by a mule. Filled as it was, with sacks and sacks of grain, they moved steadily down the path. Beside him, traveled a thick-furred dog, barking every now and then at fleas and grass.
As he stared, he began to realize, what if he was caught here? The riders, what if they had come to White Harbor under Ned's orders? He must need another name, should any ask. Jon Snow, his was a bastard name, and many a folk in the north had not been without their stay in Winterfell or Winter Town, surely they would have heard of him.
The barking from the dog set Ghost to rustling, but Jon could not release him, and so he dug his heels and initiated a steady trot along the road, quickly passing those underfoot. Some shot him small glances, others did not care to. He was the only traveler mounted upon a horse, and how they slumped onwards made him feel pity for them.
White Harbor gave a sharp scent, Jon soon realized as he came closer to the gate, and salty, a little fishy too. Jon Snow knew it was from the smell of the sea that clung to the walls so fiercely.
The mud below turned even more sloppier as he neared the gate, the portcullis was raised, thankfully, and despite the early hour people streamed inwards and around, an ever-moving pool of black and grey and green. Almost all were clad in wools and leathers and some even velvets, he could see it all as he came to dismount.
He made the rest of his way towards the gate on foot, better to blend in without the eye of others on him, no one else had a horse, at least what he could see. Suddenly, Jon felt like he had never even been out of the granite walls of Winterfell, never looked upon a face other than Ned or Catelyn or Robb and Arya, he felt like a bastard boy.
Would he ever see their faces again?
He pulled his black hood over his head and gripped the supple leather handle of his longsword, for a moment his breath was caught in his throat.
The guards paid him little heed, dressed in green they were, as was fit when in service to the Manderly's. They were barking amongst themselves, a tall man stood the center with a blackened ash pike in his hands. Jon passed without a second glance.
Within the walls, it was like he had entered a different place. This was not the solemn north that Jon Snow knew. The cobbled streets were lined with buildings of whitewashed stone, orderly and neat and stretching on and on, their roofs steep and dark grey slate. Men and women and children went about themselves, uncaring of any others, it seemed, for that he was thankful. And along the ground, chickens seemed root their way around through the legs of those about their duties.
Jon walked on until he came to a cobbled square, centered with a merman fountain. Its beard a curly green and likeness white with lichen, in a hand he held a trident, though of the one prongs had fallen, it did not save Jon Snow of his awe. They weren't such statues like this in Winterfell, only in the crypts were the Kings of Winter sat their thrones. If Winterfell was the heart of the north, why couldn't it have such things for everyone to see?
Around the pool of the fountain, two elderly women and young boy stood rustling their hands within the water. Washing their smallclothes, he saw as he approached, and then they proceeded to hang them from the prongs of trident, water dripping steadily. Another man stood selling apples, Jon thought to buy one, before he remembered. Your name? What is your name? He didn't know yet, best stay away from those he need not get involved with.
Jon turned on his heels, leading Ranger by the straps and made for another gate. Through the bare arch he could see the water, the sea. On and on and on and on it went, like the rolling hills he had passed. Waves shimmering and shaking and shining, I will pass those waves, and go on and on and on.
As he neared, a short man, thick of waist came stepping forward, arm upraised. Clad in boiled and leather and green woolens, a sword hung from his belt. A guard.
Jon flexed open his hand and closed it.
"You there, yes, listen." His voice was thick and grungy. "Horses, no." He wagged his finger back and forth. "We don't let no horses in the docks, our Lord himself decrees."
Jon held his chin high. "Where should I take him, then?"
He did not like the answer. "Not here," he scoffed. "Boy, did you steal this horse?"
"No," Jon replied. "He is mine. I need to go to the docks."
"To take voyage? Boy." The guard laughed, Jon concealed his anger. "What do you plan to do with this horse then? If you should take a ship?"
He hadn't thought much about that, all that mattered was reaching White Harbor, Ranger was his horse, his means of getting here, how could he leave him behind?
Jon brought back his hood, so the guard could get a good look about him. The guards believed their eyes, he would have to show he did not have the look of a thief. "I won't be boarding any ship." Not yet. "I need only speak to someone, is all." The captains, I need to speak with them. Or a captain, that would be better.
The guard scratched his chin. "Fair," he began. "We'll take your horse then, hold him 'till you get yourself back up through this Seal Gate. These around you would sooner rob you than watch after it, I tell you."
You would sooner rob me, Jon thought, but kept his face straight.
"Here then, pass him over." Jon held out the reins and the guard took them eagerly, he stroked Ranger's long neck to bid him calm. "And the coin."
Jon lowered his hand. "What?"
"Oh, aye," the guard seemed shocked. "We don't do this leisure for free, a few stag's and you can be on your way."
Jon was lost for patience, he fumbled within his pouch and brought out two silver stag's, handing them over. Before he took his leave, he lifted the saddle sack over his shoulders and hid Ghost inside of his cloak. He could only imagine would what happen should they have found a direwolf strapped to the saddle.
The guard turned, pulling Ranger along, each step a clank of his sheathed sword, an echo of the horses' hooves against the cobbles. Before Jon could pass the Seal Gate, he was called again. "Boy?"
Jon did not like being called Boy, though it was better than Bastard.
"What?" He turned.
"A name, I need one, yours."
A name. A name, what is my name?
Jon was all he could hear, Jon, Jon, Jon, Jon, and Snow, Snow, Snow, that was all he was, that was all he had ever been.
"Hullen." Jon blurted.
His heart was pounding, Ghost was rustling from within the saddle sack, but that seemed enough for the guard. He turned and went his way, Jon did the same.
The inner harbor was as neatly set as the city itself, with many an anchored ship, he saw white sails and black, green and red and blue and yellow, cogs and galleys and galleass's, he seldom ever saw ships like these, or the sea.
Wooden planked piers sprouted their way between them, thin there and thicker here, and on them sailors and captains dashed. Barrels and boxes stacked the sides, each one soon being lifted by a sailor and onto a deck. The smell was stronger here, the smell of the sea. From the Seal Gate he could see Seal Rock, the huge stone passed the outer harbor, he had heard it mentioned once before in Winterfell, but never seen it.
Jon stood gaping like a maiden.
The inner harbor glistened green-gray waters, ships swaying steadily on the soft, wobbling waves. Further beyond, a huge stone wall struck its way up the waters, stretching almost as long as the inner harbor itself, and it was dashed with watchtowers every hundred yards.
I have to find proper voyage, he told himself over and over as he rushed down the steps, to Pentos, a good captain, a good ship.
Jon Snow did not know ships, only what he had learnt from books and guards talk. He could name a type, yes, or row and perhaps loose a sail, but he did not know them.
He decided to start at the right of the harbor, the one huge galleass closest to him. With strapped sails of black and a deck that of a fine ivy colour, this seemed all that a good ship should be. Sailors hurried upon that same deck, sweating and huffing, some without shirts, but each carried shipment at the bellows of the man who stood center.
A trident-forked beard, he had, dyed deep purple. Jon had almost gaped and almost laughed when he saw it, such things would not earn him voyage, though. One thing it did tell him however; this man must be from across the narrow sea.
"Captain," Jon approached, his saddle sack still concealed under his cloak. The man turned, regarding him slowly. Jon noticed how blue his eyes were.
"Yes, lad?" His voice was without much of an accent, much to Jon's surprise. He swallowed and flexed his hands.
"I'm looking for voyage, to Essos." Jon began, carefully trying to watch the captain's eyes as he spoke. "Pentos. I can pay, or work."
The captain tugged at his beard, nodding his head. "Work you can, yes. Though I'm to anchor here for the next sennight, and when I leave, I set my sails to Tyrosh."
Jon sighed, nodded his head and bid the man farewell. He would not linger. Setting sail a week from now would do him no good, he was certain he would be found by then, Lord Wyman would not hesitate to return him to Winterfell. This one is only the first, he told himself as he descended the pier, the first of many. He would not lose his hope now. The ships were lined down the harbor, one of them would take him, he was sure. He would try all of them.
The next was black of sail and deck alike, steady amongst the waters. Though unlike the last, this had a lack of sailors scurrying the splintered deck, and only a man dressed in fine velvet stood watching over the barrier. When Jon approached, he could smell the man's sourness, a salty, fishy sort of scent. Was that good?
It didn't seem to matter.
The ship was setting sail on that day, though not to Pentos, or even Essos, he was set on voyage to the capital. Jon Snow wanted nothing to do with the capital, he bid the man a safe voyage and took his leave.
Another one lost, but there are still many left.
With each ship, his little hope dwindled further. The captains or the first mate seldom refused his company aboard their ship, whether with coin or promise of work, but none were heading where he needed them to, or they weren't setting voyage until another day, or they were had no space, or they would have to take him to their merchant prince in order to sign a contract, or those who he had more sharp tongues mocked his ability to work a ship, in truth, he didn't doubt that.
The sun boiled down on him, until his leathers stuck to his chest and Ghost grew restless in his confinement. Jon managed to sneak an open run for the direwolf, behind a stack of crates and empty stalls, only so for a few minutes, before he picked him again and returned to the captains.
It was no use.
Afterwards, Jon came to set himself down on a wooden box, watching as the horizon of water came to meet the sun. Another day had gone, he was not leaving. Was that truly a good thing or bad? He sat musing until a big bellied sailor came to lift the box, Jon stood and made his way to the Seal Gate.
A different guard stood duty now, one far younger than the last. He approached him slowly, the weight of his disappointment heavy on his mind and lifted a hand to catch his attention.
"What?" The guard stood, wiping a sandy brown lock from his eyes.
"My horse." Jon said. "Hullen, be my name."
He seemed to understand that enough. He turned and disappeared behind a barracks – well, Jon could assume it was a barracks from the position – and brought back around Ranger.
"Hullen?" He said as he passed over the reins. "Seems a northern name, aye. But it does not suit your face."
Jon was in no mood for discussion.
"Take that up with my mother, friend, she named me."
I believe so, perhaps she didn't. He didn't want to think.
Jon turned and began to walk back through the cobbled square centered around the merman, the clothes hanging from the prongs were dry now, though the women and boy were not there, perhaps they would return later to retrieve them. With the coming night, the streets cleared, without of children or chickens running underfoot, it seemed a darker shade. Except he spotted one girl who sat tearing at a smalltop with a dagger, she reminded him too much of Arya, he didn't gaze for long.
What would he do now? What could he do. Jon passed a large whitewashed building, above its doors against a plank was written "The Old Mint". One of the oaken doors was parted, and Jon could see it was mostly empty save for that of a few smallfolk sleeping amongst the ground. He needed to bed down, but not there, where he was prone to being so easily talked to amongst others.
He was half-tempted to mount Ranger and ride his way through the streets until he found an inn of use, but he did not want to attract such attention, and he could not gather the will to climb the saddle.
Jon came to a stop outside The Black Crone, a three storied in with alleys running either side. On the left, a small beam was made with a tan hide roof, the ground beneath it was covered in hay. Jon assumed it was a cover for the horses, should it rain, they would stay dry, or dryer than without. Jon brought Ranger forward.
A young boy sat atop the beams, looking at Jon as he approached. He expected the boy would scuttle when he came close, but he did not, he only watched, dangling his legs loosely.
There was a funny thing about his hair, the boy had none. He was as bald as an egg, and his eyes were so brown he could see them shining even in the dark. He had never seen such a bald boy before, he looked… odd.
Jon tied the reins of Ranger to the beam and guided him under the leather cover, all the same the boy did not move. He assumed it would not rain this night, though he could not be entirely, he had never spent a night in White Harbor before.
"Do you work for the owner?" Jon asked once he stepped out of the cover, the boy nodded.
"Watch my horse for me, and tomorrow I'll give you a few coins for your time."
The corners of his pink lips tilted upwards, he had his loyalty, then.
He entered The Black Crone with the saddle sack over his shoulder, Ghost bundled within.
It was a large square common room, quiet save for the huummm of the hearth, trestles lined the center and small circular tables scattered the sides. All were empty, most like those here had taken to their rooms for the night, but for one, a circular table was seized by an old man, even more grey and wrinkled than the one he had seen on his ride here.
He regarded Jon Snow curiously as he took his seat, far way and in the shadows. The owner soon approached him.
"How are you, this night?" He had a gentle voice.
Jon thought before answering. "Hungry," say nothing else. "And thirsty. Some wine, please."
The man nodded and smiled. "Of course."
It was not a long wait, he laid the grey saddle bag over his knee and scratched at Ghost from within, laughing down into the shining red eyes. He stopped when he caught the old man staring dead at him, eyes as black as his vest, then the owner returned with his food.
"Some't nice 'n warm for you, a room as well, you'll be wanting?"
He needed somewhere to stay. "Yes," Jon replied, the hot sweet-smelling smell made his mouth water. He had not eaten. Before he could eat though, Jon reached into his coin pouch pulled two silvers, such should suffice.
"Is this enough, for the night?" He hoped it was only the one night.
"Aye," the owner took them, looking at markings. "It is, find an empty one upstairs, the doors can be barred."
With that he took his leave, Jon could feel the old man's gaze as he ate at his food. It made his stomach roll and set his thoughts to worrying, such was what eventually caused him to gather his plates and goblet full with red, strapped the sack over his shoulder and made his way up the narrow steps to his room.
He found an empty room after trying two other black wooden doors, finding them barred. It wasn't as large as his Winterfell room had been, as was expected, but it was warm – lit by two braziers – and a large featherbed was gathered in the corner, calling for him.
Jon sat himself down with a sigh and, finally, shook Ghost free of his confinement. The direwolf leapt from the bed and jumped on his hind legs.
"I'm sorry for keeping you… locked away." Jon told him, like he could simply understand. Eventually, Ghost's growing fangs found Jon's plate and he began chewing at the leg of meat, ripping and tearing it into supple strands. Jon was left with only the bread and butter. It was enough, though, and after the wine he hardly cared.
Jon stripped himself to his smallclothes and wrapped the grey sheets about him, he had a heavy mind this night. Staring at the flames of the brazier he couldn't help but reflect on his failure. I should be on a ship now, falling asleep to the rocking of the waves. Not here.
It was not good for him to dwell on his failures, start anew the next day, someone had once told him, an old man, who exactly he could not seem to recall. Instead, his thoughts fell back to Winterfell. To the feast, to Benjen and Eddard, to the truth.
Arya
Nymeria nuzzled her, drawing Arya's eyes open.
It was not the first time that she had awoken at Nymeria's prodding this particular dawn, and it would not be the first time she sighed and brought the sheets back over her head. For all she loved the direwolf, it was too early, she didn't have to rise yet.
Septa Mordane would come to wake her, not late, but not early either, Arya figured – she was always one of the last of her family up, her and Jon, it made her feel special. Though it didn't change her thoughts on that old stupid septa, with her stupid lessons. Today would be another day under her black cold eyes, whilst Robb and Bran and Joff and Tommen all practiced in the yards. She was older than Bran, and she was better at the sword.
Yet the only thing she would wield today would be the sewing needles.
Arya pulled the sheets back up to her chin, she didn't know what Nymeria wanted, and she felt so tired. Though at first, she tried to ignore it, she could feel the prodding through of Nymeria's nose through the sheets, the soft nipping of her fangs, and the only noises were the small muted howls that she let out when Arya didn't budge. And something else… somebody shouting from outside.
Arya sighed, and rose.
After wiping her eyes, she said. "What's wrong?" her voice sounded dry to her, so dry.
Nymeria leapt from the bed, her grey fur becoming a blur. She took her stop outside the door of Arya's room, and began to howl slowly and scratch at it. That was odd, she had never acted this way before.
Arya felt a little frightened. Nym would never hurt her, she knew, but a direwolf was a direwolf. Her father would take her away should she ever hurt anyone, and with the royal court here… she could not imagine how she would be scolded should Nym ever hurt the Queen, or Joff. As much as Arya sometimes felt like setting the direwolf on that stupid prince, she never did, she never could, it would be like taking a blade to Nymeria herself, for surely it would end in the blood of them both.
She couldn't think about that now, though. Something was wrong.
Arya was already clad in her grey woolen smallclothes, and so after donning her boots she walked to the door. "What's wrong?" She asked again, stroking her hand through the grey fur.
Nymeria wouldn't answer, she would only howl and scratch. Arya you would have to find out herself.
She opened the door slowly, fear beginning to light up in her stomach. This is your home, your castle, your wolf, you are a wolf. She felt calmer then, her heart steadying in her chest. As soon as the opening was wide enough, Nymeria bounded through in a scurry and Arya leaped to follow her, her fear forgotten.
Through narrow halls and past dimly lit scones they ran, breathless. For a half a heartbeat Arya came to forget why they were running in the first place, but she didn't want to stop. If Septa Mordane or her mother should check her chambers and find her missing, or find her running the halls freely with her direwolf, she would be scolded for both. Arya continued to chase after Nymeria.
Nym came to a stop outside a dark iron door, and when she came to Arya realized it was Jon rooms that they had ran to.
"In here?" Arya knelt to scratch Nym's ears again. She only let out a long howl in response. It was most like Ghost she called to, they seemed to be settled with each other more so than the others where.
Jon wouldn't mind her entering without a knock, he never did. But he might still be angry about the feast, she hesitated, last night she had been witness to her father chasing after him. All the same, Arya pushed open the door…
…and found the room was empty.
Empty and dark and silent. The bedding was messed, tangled and curled upon itself, he had slept there, but he was not there now. The fire was a black looming pit, dark and dry. The fear pricked her again.
"My lady, shouldn't you be in your room?" She knew Fat Tom's voice.
She turned. "Where's Jon?"
Fat Tom simply shrugged. "Well, your father is out on a hunt with the King. Robb and Greyjoy went with him, but I know Jon Snow didn't."
Perhaps it was later than what she thought.
"Where is he then?"
"I don't know, my lady."
"Where would he go?"
"I don't know, my lady."
"Stop calling me that!" Arya bellowed, her hands clenched into fist.
"Yes, my- Arya."
She sighed and stormed past him, angry. Nymeria slowly followed behind her, careful not to lose sight of her. Sometimes the so many halls and doors and exits would leave the direwolves circling, chasing their tales to find an answer.
Arya returned to her chambers, wrapped herself in a fur cloak and left the room empty again. She passed the halls once more, and this time she encountered no Fat Tom or any other guard, for that she was lucky. Arya hoped that Jon found her though, she didn't want to leave him alone after what had happened at the feast.
Outside, she raced across the courtyard, careful not to be spotted. People would call her Arya Underfoot, now she intended to be called Arya Out-of-Sight.
She arrived at the Hunter's Gate, thankful that no one had stopped her. Now, she only need ask the guards there who had left.
"My lady." One of the guards greeted, she couldn't recall his name.
"Did you see the King go?" Arya asked, Nymeria stopping at her heels.
"I did, my lady."
"Was Jon with them?" She was not sure whether Tommard was right in what he said, perhaps he did go with them.
"The bastard?" He blurted, Arya frowned. "No, my lady."
Where was he then?
"Looking for him?"
Arya shook her head, then stopped and said "Yes." She sighed.
"Looked everywhere, my lady?"
In truth, she had not. But it was better if they thought she had. "Yes."
"Well, he isn't on that hunt, this I know, my lady."
Arya gazed at Nym, chewing her lip, and had a thought. "Check for his horse then."
The guard shot her a confused look. "His horse?"
"Yes, the black one. Hullen will tell you, he knows which one it is."
He sighed. "He's been snoring all morning. Eh, well, if the lady commands it."
She supposed she could put up with that for once, it was better than Arya Horseface. "She does."
When the guard left, sighing again, Arya looked at Nym and smiled, feeling a flush of accomplishment. She could tell Jon when she found him how far she had gone just to seek him out, and he would muss her hair and call her 'little sister'. It was still not fair though, he wasn't allowed to go on the hunts, he was a better hunter than Theon, and half Stark at that. And yet Joff could go hunting, what would he ever catch on a hunt?
Arya had a better chance than him. She knew she was lucky to have avoided the eyes of the Septa so far, she was without her proper clothes, and if she was found she would be forced to her chambers before the guard could return.
Luckily, he returned then, but he was not the same.
She could not hear from all the way away from them, but anyone could see the look of worry and confusion so clear on his face, what was so hard to ask for a horse? Fear pricked at her thoughts like a dagger. Before she could call him, to ask what had happened, he whispered to the others and left once again. Arya was left to gape uselessly, Nymeria whined.
Another guard stepped forward, she knew he feigned his smile. "Come, my lady. You need not worry, I'll tell Jon you're looking for him."
Arya began to follow. "You found him?"
"Soon."
When she reached the door, she caught sight of the guard leaving through the Hunter's Gate atop a horse. And in the distance a wolf howled.
Fear pricked at her thoughts like a dagger.
Slowly, slowly cutting deeper.
Jon
He knew that he couldn't go another night here, he needed to find the right ship.
Jon laid on his back, staring up at the greening wooden beams on the ceiling of his room at The Black Crone. He had been doing just that for an hour or so, thinking whilst Ghost nestled in his arms. Thinking wouldn't carry him down to the harbor though, nor would it place him on a ship and sail him swiftly to Pentos, he would do that himself, as he always had.
Soon.
However, the matter still stood with Ranger. Thinking back on the guards at the Seal Gate reminded him that he could not take the horse on a ship, he could not take him across the narrow sea. But how could he leave him? Ranger had ridden as he slept, carried him to White Harbor in the dead of the night. Ranger had lapped the rolling hills and trotted hours without stop, perhaps the horse was the only the reason Jon was not caught.
And he would have to leave him.
Jon finally managed to convince himself of an honorable depart, he would take Ranger outside the city walls and let him free, let him run the hills and through the trees, perhaps all the way back to Winterfell. There Hullen could find him a new rider, perhaps Arya, she was always steady in a saddle, it would be his gift to her to keep from the sewing needles.
He had decided upon that, until as he gathered his clothes, he checked upon his coin pouch.
Jon emptied the leather bag and set the coins along the bed sheet, spreading them with his fingers. He counted six, then seven – one had sat upon the other – and then seven again. Seven silver stags would get him on a ship, depending the kind, and perhaps bribe a captain to set his sails eastwards, but that would be all. He would have nothing left.
Ranger, his mount would be worth a fortune, for it was a sturdy, strong horse, bred in a castle.
Though the thought shamed him, he soon decided that he had little choice. Without the right coin, he could not get anywhere, and a horse could only reach certain places. He avoided Ghost's demanding gaze, eyes shot alight with red, the least he could do now was sell him to the right person, someone who would look after him as he had done.
Once Jon had donned his clothes, strapped his cloak about his shoulders and gathered Ghost back up in the saddle sack, filled with the dirks and dagger and plate that he had brought, Jon made his way back down into the common room.
It was far fuller than to what it had been last night, each of the trestles were occupied by travelling men, breaking their fasts and washing it all down with wine or water or ale. But there was still many an empty chair and table, he would not break his own fast here this morn, though. He could not spare the coin.
The owner regarded him, offering a quick smile. Jon returned it, in the one hand he held the sack over his shoulder. Perhaps…
"Say, lad. Was the room to your liking?" He asked.
Jon nodded. "Yes, thank you."
"Ah, good, that's good, then."
Jon hesitated before speaking, it seemed liked a witless question to ask, but he asked it anyway. "Are you, perchance, interested in buying a horse?"
The owner raised an eyebrow. "A horse? Me, no, lad. I was whelped in this city; I don't plan to be leaving any time soon."
That was clear enough, as if it seemed too harsh a reply, the owner grasped him by the shoulder and smiled before he turned back and left the common room. He had refused him, like others had before. Then, from behind someone spoke.
"A horse? How much, pray?"
Jon turned and saw a man sat behind a table, with a platter below his chin left with only white crumbs and an empty goblet settled beside it. His hair was a mop of greasy black, and as Jon approached he could smell him before he could see the blue that his eyes were.
"Fifteen silvers." Jon told him, the man wore mostly leathers, rough and stained, used.
"It must be a good horse, is it here?"
"It is, I assure you. And yes, outside."
He stood from his chair, swept back his hair with one hand and said. "No time to waste then. Show me."
Jon led him outside The Black Crone, the morning air smelt like the bakery that was across the cobbled street, and fish too. As it had been when Jon arrived, the streets were full to flooding, men and women and children and chickens. Jon led them around to the alley beside the inn, to where Ranger rested under the wooden beams and hide cover.
He had promised the bald boy coin for his efforts, but as Jon approached, he hoped that the boy was gone – he could not spare any other coins.
He was, much to Jon's luck, and Ranger was still tied to the beam. Awake and tapping his hooves, his lifted his neck as he saw Jon approach.
"Here." Jon swept a hand down his mane. "Ranger, I call him."
The man scratched at his unkempt beard as he inspected the horse before him, each heartbeat, each shift of the buyer's blue eyes as he regarded Ranger for what he was, built the shame growing within him. I'm sorry, he thought as if the horse could hear, I will not forget you.
Finally, the man spoke. "Aye, 'tis a fine steed." He pulled out a small pouch and picked the coins into his other hand. "Here." He handed them over for Jon to count.
Once he finished, Jon nodded. And just like that, Ranger was no longer his. "If I may, what will you be using him for? He's got good strength, don't put it to waste."
"I won't. I'm to be going south, need a good mount to be on my way as quick I can."
That was good, then. Ranger did not deserve to left to the shadows.
The horse that had once been his shied away from his new owners' grip, Jon approached, resting a calm hand upon his black soft mane, he had kept him well groomed, Hullen never tended to the horse himself. "He'll take a while to get used to you, but soon enough, he'll be fine." Jon told the new owner.
"As you say."
Jon gave the horse that-was-not-his one last long look, remembering the rolling hills that went on and on and on, the little stream where he had near been caught, the direwolves past the bridge, the man of the Night's Watch that they had seen executed. The thoughts made him smile, and he then turned away before that smile could take to a frown. Looking back would only fill him with regret again, I will not forget you. He followed the cobbled streets, past sweating men in shoes and others on bare feet, past the Old Mint with its open doors, past the tall merman with its beard of green, past the Seal Gate and the guards. He did not want to be here any longer.
Half the ships that had been where no longer docked, and their places were now filled anew.
New ships and different captains, more chances. A new flock of sails. He rushed down the steps and came to a stop at the bottom of the jetty, where most of the cargo was piled. Thinking of an order to this folly, should he try a different order this time? It had seemed like such a simple task, yet was proving to be so difficult.
Again, he chose to visit the first ship to his right, as it was the closest.
The first two were much to his disappointment once again, neither were setting their sails across the narrow sea.
Jon made his own way to the next, filled with hope, was it false hope? He could not tell; he had forgotten what it was a long time ago. It only kept him going, and that was enough.
Though this time, by chance, a captain seemed to find him.
He wore a purple vest and leather tanned breeches, his boots laced to the knees. He had a long black beard, oiled thinly and spoke with one of the heavy accents of the east.
"You, friend." He followed Jon across the wooden jetty. "This one saw you here yesterday, looking for a ship, word is, no?"
That brought a stop to his steps, Jon turned to the man and stared him fully in the face. He had a great mole that sat beneath his right eye, the rest of his skin was a lighter brown, and oiled.
"Ah, yes, this one is right." He patted his stomach. "Allow me, I have the honour of being Belario Dirroran, of Myr. First mate to Thoran Brenyris, captain of the Wind's Wave."
Jon's lips parted as the man bowed deeply. "Wind's Wave?"
He brought his head up again. "Yes, friend. She's the fastest in this harbor, this one knows she will take you where you seek."
Where I seek? How could he know? Jon held his chin high, he was only fourteen, one the verge of his fifteenth nameday, though, and bastards grew up quicker than others. He could seem like such a youth to this Belario. "Show me this ship."
Belario nodded and gestured him across the jetty, Jon followed, watching closely from behind. If this was truly the chance for him to finally board a ship, go where he seeks, he would not chance to turn away from it.
They stopped beside a trading galley, sails of black and crimson, a deck like the night. It was a ship fine to look upon, but here at the harbor he could not guess whether it was the fastest.
It did not smell like the sea, instead, it smelt like scents from faraway lands, drifting with the saltiness that was the smell of White Harbor. Belario urged him across the wooden plank and onwards onto the deck, he dropped his feet onto it with a thud.
The Wind's Wave was not an empty deck, stark like some others previous, nor was it full with heaving sailors dappled with sweat from the sun blazing down upon them, and no man stood in the center bellowing commands in a throaty harsh voice.
Casks of wine lined the sides, emblazoned with different sigils, Jon spotted a clusters of grapes burned into the sides of many, from the Arbor, he knew, the Redwyne sigil. Men in white and red and yellow and green tended to chests of saffron and lace, from places Jon had never had the wonder to see, he saw amber and dragonglass, most like from Asshai. He had heard of the remote place by the shadow. Others stood weighing bags of coin, chains and rings. Spotted amongst the back where bales of sourleaf, pallets of striped hides were being carried down a through an opening plank into the belly of the ship. Jars of pepper and curry, a mask like milk glass, casks of ink in blue and red and black, a box of rare amethysts, rainbow feathered cloaks from the Summer Sea…. why would such a ship dock here? What could the north give when you already had all of this?
Belario took him by the shoulder. "You see, this fine ship. We will take you like the others did not."
Jon sniffed the scents once more and said. "Where you watching me?"
Belario laughed. "You were not hard to see, friend. On the sea, captains talk and trade, sailors spread their gossip. Did you think we stayed clutched to the confines of our bunks, only check the deck come the day?"
People talking about him, that was not good. But if they were all sailors and captains, they wouldn't stay long. Jon Snow shrugged. "No."
"Good," he nodded his head. "This one must speak for you, stay here. I will return, friend."
Belario disappeared into a door by the quarterdeck, others continued to move around him. He felt like a stranger, as many of these men sported many different shades of robe and tunic, his was simple, dark and uninviting. Jon was glad that nobody approached him, though.
The first mate returned with another man, like the sails of this ship, he was clad in black and crimson. He wore breeches of thin silk, one leg red and one black, as was his tunic, one sleeve black and one red. The cloak that fell to his feet was black and streaked with crimson patches. Though his hair and beard was black, no hint of red at all.
Jon assumed it was Thoran Brenyris, the captain.
"This one," Belario told him, the man regarded Jon Snow and smirked.
If they talked then, he couldn't hear them. Ghost began to wrestle within the saddle sack, thrashing his paws against the fabric. Jon tried to ignore the rustling beneath his cloak, then clench it still, but it did not work. Eyes began to linger on him, he could feel the heat rising in his face and the worry in his heart.
Ghost leapt from the sack, fangs bared, snarling. Gasps arose from around him, suddenly, Jon could not smell the scents of faraway lands anymore, smells of saffron and wine and ink. He could smell fear, taste it in his mouth, hear it all around him.
The man in black and crimson unsheathed a dagger, a flare of light beaming from the polished steel.
"No!" Jon yelled, sprawling the deck to catch Ghost in his grip. He could see the steel flashing closer, he could see his own hands before him, fisting the white fur.
The dagger whistled and fell through the air, when it met the planks his heart seemed to stop. Only...
… Ghost was wrapped in his arms, unmoving, unshaking, but breathing softly. He had kept him from the dagger's point. Jon sighed with relief, and for a moment he forgot about everyone else.
Then Belario spoke. "What is that?"
His voice was oddly calm, those around him watched closely, waiting. They wouldn't know what a direwolf was, he hoped, and Ghost could certainly not pass for a dog. "It doesn't matter," Jon got back to his feet. "He's no harm, not with me."
He expected to be lead off the ship, another failure, Jon waited for the words.
The captain smirked, his lips full and red, some of his teeth hinted gold and silver. He then nodded to Belario and took his leave back through the doors of the quarterdeck once again, his black and crimson cloak swirling behind him. Whatever that meant, Jon did not know. But it seemed to make Belario smile.
"Come," Belario beckoned him forward, that was not what he had expected. Yet Jon followed, Ghost in his arms, the eyes of those around him shooting confused glances. He followed him below the deck, pass hampers and barrels and sailors, all the way to the far side of the ship.
"This is where you stay now." Belario said in his thick accent, opening a small wooden door and revealing a bed inside. He got a room?
Jon shook his head. "Do you even know where I want to go?"
Belario furrowed his brow. "Tell me."
Jon hesitated, wrongly. He was here now, in the ship, under their deck, if they would not sail him to where he wanted, he would leave. This one knows she will take you where you seek, that was what Belario had said.
"Pentos." Jon admitted, almost a whisper.
Belario was quiet, then he smiled, and made his way to leave. That left Jon to watch without words, until the first mate quickly returned.
"Oh," Belario turned his thick body and held out his hand. "You wake early in the mornings, and carry the crates under deck, you do the work the captain asks of you."
He had expected that, working could be his form of payment, though Belario held his hand out still.
"What?" Jon nodded at his hand, his brow upraised.
"This one would have coin, think of me when you bed down on your featherbed at night, in your own chamber, with your own window."
Jon supposed that was fair. He reached into his pouch with one arm, Ghost gathered in the other. He lifted out two silvers and dropped them in the man's hand, then he closed the door.
It was a small cabin, with an even smaller featherbed against the wall, draped with white sheets. A window was carved above the headboard, it was covered by a plank for the moment, but Jon saw it could be pulled back and forth. Why had they given him all this? It made him wary, but what other chance did he have? If he left and tried the other ships, he couldn't know whether the next would accept him eagerly, or if all of them would refuse him.
He set Ghost down at the foot of the bed and sat down at his side, running his hand over his furry ears like he would muss Arya's hair, and call her 'little sister'. He wished she was here now, he could talk to her, he wished Robb was here… you left them, you are leaving… it is the right thing to do.
Jon pulled back the window panel and let a thin finger of light shine across his face, he did not know when they would set sail. He could check after he had set out the other contents of his saddle bag, he took out the dirks that he had gathered from Winterfell's armory, ones that he often used; though he was leaving, he would not steal from them. He would a Lannister, though, there was a dagger too, with a dragonbone hilt and a blade of rippling steel, perhaps even Valyrian. He had found that beside Joffrey's saddle, strapped with crimson leather. He had taken it right away.
The steel rippled in the light of the sun, and he was sure it was Valyrian steel, though still only a dagger. Jon unbuckled his scabbard from his belt and laid it beside the rest, the new grip of the longsword was supple fresh leather, black and polished.
When he took back to the deck, he wore a thin black cloak that fell to his knees, with the hood gathered behind his head. Jon had donned a grey woolen tunic, black leather breeches and his mud-stained boots. He had left his longsword in his room, carrying only the Valyrian steel dagger at his belt.
White Harbor was but a speck in the distance, the north a line brimming the horizon. He came to a stop at the barriers, the waves splashing the deck of the Wind's Wave.
That thin black line in the distance had been his home, it was Ned and Robb and Bran and Rickon and Sansa, and even Catelyn too. It was Winterfell's grey walls and Ser Rodrik Cassel's whiskers, it was the godswood and the heart tree, the still pond and the glass gardens. It was Arya's smile.
You were wrong to love them as you did, a voice inside him said. You were wrong to leave them, insisted another.