Jon
His feet hit the ground with a thud, sending tufts of dirt to drift into the wind.
Strong winds, they were. Rolling from the sea to meet the bay, they often sent cloaks to flapping, bells to ringing and the hulls and decks that swayed in the harbor creaked their dismay. But Jon Snow was not a stranger to these winds, he had suffered worse.
Whist aboard the Scarlet Valant Jon had been without the pleasure of a cabin, with its very own small wooden door and window and brazier, nor did he have a cedar wood chest for all his garb and weapons. Instead he had a white woolen hammock, full with fleas and swaying amongst the rest of the crew below deck, small and itching with a dirty saddle sack for a pillow. Jon didn't mind though, not truly, and so he had not complained. It was the very ship taking him to where he wanted to go, he was able to endure a hammock and fleas, at least.
It hadn't been as long a journey from White Harbor to Braavos, aboard the Wind's Wave. The Scarlet Valant had sailed endlessly from the Ragman's harbor, through day and night and a day again before rest, and the same over and over. The winds were always blowing on their side.
Though the journey was a dark one for Jon, made longer by his very own anguish. His thoughts and memories were a cloud of blackness, sometimes forgotten by the light of the sun but ever there, never truly gone. And when the time came that the cloud rained down those memories upon him, memories of Winterfell – Jon wished he had his own cabin then, so the others could not see his tears.
There is no time for that now, Jon thought, he was angry that he had ever even let those tears fall. It was him that had left Winterfell, turned his back on the granite walls and cold air, it was him and no one else. And now he was here, Pentos, and he would not cry again.
Pentos is Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen, my blood. And soon my belonging, he hoped.
They are here, amongst the pale stone walls and towers and red temples, somewhere. But where exactly?
He stood amongst the river of moving sailors, crew and captain going about their work, sweaty and panting. What was Pentos loomed before him, up and up as the bay turned from creaking jetty's and swaying cogs to square sandy colored buildings, to walls and then to tall towers. Jon pulled the hood of his cloak over his head with a gloved hand, the other resting atop the pommel of his sword.
Despite their being no Aren aboard the Scarlet Valant, he had used his sword many a time – not for fighting though. On the Wind's Wave, there had been Dontin and Derron and Daren-Do-Little, sourleaf Myke and Kayl Keller, each a friend. And soon Jon came to miss even Dolorous Addam or Grey Keg, for the crew on the trading cog had been far worse. The sword and the dagger were Jon's only means of protection, what if they meant do in harm as he slept? He had kept his longsword along his chest come the night, sleeping with one hand on the hilt and one eye open.
But the ship had taken him all the same, all the way to Pentos despite his mistrust. He was here, alive, and that was all that mattered.
Now, he need only find those he had come to seek, though Jon suspected that would be the real hardship of his journey.
They were the last known to their blood, the last dragons, and such would not leave them to scamper the streets, like common beggars with no names at all. It was their very names that could bring many a man and woman endless fortune, through loyalty or betrayal. Robert Baratheon would perchance even offer titles and lands to beggar and merchant alike willing to send proof of their death, Jon judged. He hoped now that they were not in the company of one willing to do so.
With Pentos came magisters, such was a powerful title in the Free Cities. Perhaps the magisters would take the prince and the princess into their manses and estates; to guard them with sellswords and spies of their own. If the two had been dwelling a while in this city, Jon assumed the magisters would not go long without knowing.
The Others take you Aren, Jon thought bitterly, perhaps he should have stayed with Belario and Thoran, and talked to them instead of running. Only coin and offers would gain him audience with the magisters - they would have no interest in some Westerosi stranger - but Jon did not have the coin to spend and the offers to give.
You are here, he told himself again and again, what was done was done. Jon looked once more at the Pentos before him, both shimmering and dusty with sandy winds, the rocks sweating in the light of the sun. You are here, and you have all the time to find them.
Jon hoisted the saddle sack over his shoulder, heavy with garb and mail and dirk, and Ghost. He stepped his way past the moving sailors and into the burgeoning rows of square, pale buildings. Between them were narrow streets, crooked like a stretching river, and like many rivers it was full to brimming. So much so Jon could not take more than thrice a step without bumping against a shoulder or chest, earning one groan after another.
There were more here than in the scurrying lot in the Ragman's harbor, and there had been more in the Ragman's than those in White Harbor, and more in White Harbor than Winterfell. Jon had forgotten none of it, the crypts and the tall merman, the houses with the red doors.
Jon passed a market street, scattered with wooden stalls both big and small. Voices hailed and called in tongues that he did not know, though he thought he could hear 'fish' clearly, but he could never be certain. He came to see a smaller stall, wooden and leaning on crooked and broken stands selling peppered fish and tears of roasted chicken, drowned in butter. The sight made his belly churn, he was hungry, he had been hungry for the last week. The hard caked bread and solid stew had always left him feeling hungry aboard the Scarlet Valant, and even more so as he stared the fish with its peppers.
Jon sighed and turned away, back into the narrow streets. He had little coin left, and whatever he could use it for now, it had to get him closer to where he wanted.
He walked and walked until he was unsure where he even was, merely following the upwards slopes. I need an order to this folly, Jon decided and came to a stop in the street. He rubbed the sweat from his brow, searching every crack in this city will not help me, not at all.
He moved past the crowd until he found a wide bulk structure of an inn, at least if that was what they were called here. It too, was square and sandy colored like all the others, with narrow window slits and tall wooden doors.
Outside those doors, masses of men and women and children stood embraced in each other. Some had the nut brown skin of what seemed the Summer Islanders, and others a red-brown or charcoal-and-earth colour, some had hair of white and brown, blonde and red. Jon had never seen the like before.
The common room was large and circular, dusky with pale dappled light leaking through the narrow window slits and cracks, and the air smelt… thick. Thick like ale and sweat and sourness. He found a place where the smell lingered the least, an enclosed corner lit by a single candle, and set himself down upon a stool.
Let me have a rest, too, however small. And then I will look for them, day and night. They are here, Jon told himself as he brought the saddle sack to his feet, they are, Eddard said so. He need only think of a way to find them, a plan that would give him a chance, at least.
Jon rested the saddle sack between his legs, covered from the top of the oaken table. Ghost freed his snout and blazing red eyes from the grey woolen confines. He will soon be too large for a mere sack; Jon was surprised that Ghost had managed without growing restless. He hoped that when the time came that the direwolf was too large to hide, he would have no need of concealing him anyway.
Jon stroked the white fur of Ghost's head, over his pointed ears. There was seldom a moment when he could even look upon him, never mind run his fingers through the soft white bristles. Like he would have Arya's, if she was here with him. He would muss her hair and call her little sister. But now he would never see her again.
Suddenly, a great weight fell onto his lap. Jon hunched forward, gasping for a breath, and finding his head to meet a bare shoulder.
"Has this one come for the day?" A woman asked, her voice foreign and languid like water.
Jon brought her head up and saw her. She was blonde of hair, blue-eyed and fair to look at. She straddled her legs either side of him and craned her slender arms over his shoulders. But her smile was too large, too bright, too trained. How could she be so happy to see me when she has no knowledge of who I am?
Jon then realized, this was no inn.
And she was a whore. "Does this one want a room with me? He is happy to see me, I think." her voice was the smoothest thing he had ever heard.
Luckily, the hood of his black cloak still covered his face. She could not see him fully, or the redness growing in his features, but that didn't seem to matter. No one else seemed to even offer a glance, and the longer he tried looked away the tighter her grip on his neck.
She tried to force his head upwards, to face her, perhaps to kiss him. Jon resisted, bringing his hands onto her wrist. Her skin was soft and pale, where his hands were rough and hard.
Jon brought her wrists down but stopped suddenly, holding her arms still. In another dusky corner, across many a table seized by man and woman and food and wine, three men emerged from the shadows.
At the front of them, a tall blue-haired man walked, clad in brown brigandine and patches of plate. Two steel pauldron's covered his shoulders, with two clasps holding up his long cerulean cloak. On his hands and arms were iron studded vambraces, scuffed with marks and slashes. His trimmed beard of blue scraped against the scarf tied about his neck. From his belt hung two daggers, shaking as he walked, but it was the greatsword sheathed on his back that caught Jon's eyes. It was Ice come again, like Eddard's Valyrian greatsword, so long it stretched nigh over his head and pass the bottom of his hips. Two others followed, the both of them hung longswords from their leather belts, clanking with each step. They scanned those around them as they went, hands brushing their hilts.
It was a sudden desperation, a feel of utter need, that made him want to follow them. It was a feeling he had seldom felt before, and now he would suffer to it. Or did he simply want to be free of the girl?
She was still talking when he finally brought his head up to face her, his hood tugging loosely at the back of his head to reveal the full of his face.
Her lips grew tight, silent, her eyes narrowing as she swallowed his features. Move, he thought to tell her, they are leaving!
Then she smiled, and Jon could only sigh.
Her hips began to grind again, and despite his desperation to be free of her, his arms were growing week. Jon mustered all the strength he could gather, and with a groan he lifted her from his lap and onto the table. Perhaps she thought it playful, but her look soon turned to disappointment when Jon gathered his saddle sack and made for the open doors.
The three men were lost to him when Jon emerged back into the narrow streets, out of the tall wooden doors of the brothel. The cobbles of the floor were shot with dappled light coming through the rips in the cloth above that stretched from building to building, they were there for shade perhaps, but did little to shade anything, only made things harder to see.
Jon shuffled past the crowds of men and women that moved all around him. Until in the distance, up a curving path he saw only the back of a greatsword as its bearer turned a corner to another way.
He had little reason to follow, and even less hope. The man-grown that he was, he knew it would be proper to turn away and deem it a missed chance, a simple curiosity. He would go back inside that brothel and lay with that beautiful woman who wanted him, but Jon Snow was not like most men, and that whore would have already occupied herself with another. Where else could he go? I have come here on chances, Jon supposed, on hopes, on tales and waves of my own anger.
I am here now, and I have all the time to find them.
Jon yanked his hood as hard as he could, further over his face to conceal his features. His right shoulder was too sore to hold the sack any longer, and so he switched to his left and followed them up the path.
The street grew fuller as he went, ducking his way past an arm and stepping between two bodies. A song of a thousand foreign tongues mingled in the air, voices of men and women and children, high and low, clear and cracking. It was hard to breathe. It was hard to think.
Jon stepped around the cobbled corner of the street, gasping for a moment of stillness. He saw the three men turning yet again, though this time they went left instead of right, and so Jon shifted the sack on his shoulder and began to follow them once more.
He had no clue where they were going, nor he could see for himself. For the square sandy buildings that lined the streets either side blocked view of what was upwards. But he followed them all the same, his boots thudding against the sandy stone. He knew that he should be searching for ones that had brought him here, but he couldn't stop himself from following.
Once again, the next turn he took led him onto yet another path, thin and narrow and long. But unlike the others, he was without sight of the three men or the greatsword, and at the end this road split into two other streets, long and narrow still.
Which way had they taken?
The longer he pondered, they further they would go. Which way? How could he know?
He stood still in the middle of the path, the sweat forming on his brow and falling down his nose and cheeks. Which path, left or right? Ghost rustled in the sack, the heat was overwhelming, he would have to find some more shade soon. Which way? Which way? Right or left? Left or right, which way did they go?
Right, he decided suddenly, his legs moving beneath him. Right wound upwards, long and narrow but straight, and further onwards he could see the brimming of a tall square towers and walls topped with iron spikes. Perhaps a magisters manse, I could try and talk to them. The left path trailed downwards, bending like a serpent into nothing but tiled roofs and dusty markets. He would not find a prince and a princess below tiled roofs and dusty markets.
I will go right, right and upwards. To the towers.
The path grew thinner as he went, and less people seemed to fill the space, less voices and breaths. And soon Jon realized he was walking without grunts and bumps against his shoulders. He stopped.
There is no one, he noticed as he turned and scanned the street.
Nothing but the wind, the drifting of the dust that skimmed the cobbles on the ground, the strung pale cloth that stretched from building to building, no one but me. Suddenly, he felt an eerie sense of fear.
Perhaps the three men had gone left, and downwards to the dusty markets, where there would be others to walk amongst. And mayhaps right was the wrong way to go, and upwards would only take him nowhere in his hope to reach them. Am I looking for three strangers, or the prince and princess? At that moment, he could not decide.
A smash of breaking platters sounded behind him, suddenly shattering the silence in his ears. Quickly, Jon turned face the upwards length of the path.
A frail wooden stall crashed against the cobbles, breaking into a thousand pieces. Splinter and broken porcelain; cloth and glass and dust all spread across the path like a broken army. The deep thud of its landing echoed down the street and all the way to the bay, over the shore and waves. In the distance, a flock of birds took flight.
Then the men appeared.
The first fell at Jon's feet, gasping and gripping his bloodied shoulder. It was him who knocked over the stall, Jon realized, with sudden caution. In the man's left hand was a longsword, bare and glimmering. He coughed up and coughed again, thick coughs. He spat blood onto the stone and wiped his mouth with a hand.
Silently, Jon watched as the man rose to his feet, staggering. And soon the other behind him emerged past the stall panting and spinning on his heels, again and again and again, like someone was suddenly going to strike him from every angle.
They were not any of the three men than Jon was following, three that had led him up this road in the first place. Each were blonde of hair, where the two others had been black, one a darker shade and another lighter. These men wore crimson stained garb, though Jon could see that the cloth below the boiled leather was deep ivy.
The coughing man caught Jon in his view, looking at him from head to toe. He coughed blood again and wiped it away.
Jon Snow remained still, watching, his heart pounding in his chest. Where was everyone else? The people, and their foreign tongues shouting? That was better than this.
His face soon turned to disgust as he looked Jon up and down, and then came a look of anger, of pure rage. He brought his right hand down from his injured shoulder and gripped the hilt of his longsword, facing the sharp point towards Jon Snow.
He means to fight me.
Why? Jon wondered, what had he done to make the man so angry? Where were the guards, the people?
When Jon looked down, he saw that in his shock he had freed his own longsword of its scabbard. The edge sheened in the light, his hand gripped the virgin leather of the hilt so tight it burned through his gloves and onto his skin.
We will fight, then.
And in that moment, Jon had forgotten about everything else. The empty streets, the sandy square towers and the iron spiked walls, the tiled roofs and the dusty markets, the three men and the greatsword, the girl in the brothel, the many foreign tongues and the Scarlet Valant, of Winterfell and the Starks, the Targaryen's.
All that mattered was the men before him, and the sharp steel that pointed his way.
Jon slung the saddle sack from his shoulder and onto the stone cobbles. His grey eyes never straying from his foe.
The sack landed with a clink, and his opponent laughed…
...then lunged forward, his blade falling in a downright curve, hissing through the air.
Jon met it with his own, the screech of their colliding swords echoed on and on through the narrow streets. Where is everyone? Jon thought again, vividly. It was the wrong thing to do. A leather fist collided with his face, sending him trembling backwards with the taste of blood in his mouth.
It was a taste of salty metal, or copper coins. Jon winced as he touched his lip, finding it cracked and bleeding. His opponent stood looking downwards at him, smirking, grinning a grin of rotten teeth. The other blonde haired man behind was still turning, over and over, perhaps he was searching for his courage.
Jon flung the blood aside and struck at his opponent's legs, groaning as he did so. But his strike was blocked, easily and quickly. Jon brought back his sword and struck again, this time at the head, not legs.
Steel danced against steel, beaming the light, burning like a star when the edges came to meet, grinding. It was a beautiful sight, perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The flares of the sun gleaming here and there, the sudden flash when… a great shot of pain spiraled from the side of Jon's stomach, like a hundred daggers stabbing at his insides, up his chest and to his head, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing.
His foe's blade had found the skin of his side, cutting through roughened black leather and wool.
He has me.
Jon reached a hand down to his side, finding blood to dapple on his sweaty fingertips. He could hear nothing else but his own breathing, desperate, like a boy about to die in his first real fight. And suddenly the blood is mouth tasted rotten.
The strike had cut deep, part of his sweating flesh hung by a red fleshly tendril. Blood leaked from the gaping wound as Jon's knees buckled and he fell to his arse, when the blood met the sun-boiled ground it seemed to hiss and burn. The blonde haired foe stood towering over him, a shadow, like the Titan of Braavos itself. His eyes were burning with amusement, fury and fire.
Get up!
He reached for his sword, clattered against the dusty stone, and wrapped his hand around the hilt.
But Jon could not find the strength to lift it, all his strength had left him, in the form of crimson droplets leaking from his side. It was like the heaviest object he had ever known, even if it was the lightest. The pain was too much.
His foe raised his own longsword high above his smirking head. He means to end this, now, with my dead body against the sandy stone.
Behind, the other no longer turned endlessly, but he fought his own fight… with a man of blue hair.
Jon groaned, he screamed and shouted as he tried to lift his arm, his sword! I must, he could see the blood pooling from his side, he could taste it and hear it and smell it.
Then he saw white, a flash.
Ghost leaped from behind him, a blur like the wind. He clenched his bared fangs around his foes sword arm and dug his teeth into the bare flesh, snarling and growling as he pulled the man to the ground. And in that moment, Jon found his strength.
He lifted his sword and stood, towering over the screaming man before him. I did not want to fight you, Jon thought as he watched him try to free himself of Ghost's iron grip.
Then Jon dug his longsword into the man's chest, through boiled leather and ivy cloth, through wool and cotton, through flesh and muscle, crunching. Jon twisted his sword until the light left his foes eyes, blue eyes they were, lifeless and cold. He would have killed me, Jon told himself, fingering the bleeding wound at his side.
Sweat still beaded on his brow, the sun had never seemed so bright. Jon Snow fell back to the floor, his sword clattering beside him.
Ghost ripped at the body, Jon wiped the growing taste of blood from his mouth.
A grunt sounded in the distance, causing Jon to lift his head. One fight was not yet finished.
The man in blue stood surrounded, a foe at his front and another at his back, both wielding polished longswords, sharp and shining. Though the Blue held two daggers in either hand, instead of the huge greatsword that swung on his back. The daggers blade curved like a crescent moon, thin and sharp. Jon saw wisdom in using the daggers, the greatsword was too large.
Perhaps I should help him. Jon did not know where the third man had come from, but he knew where his own longsword was, and today he had killed a man.
His wound throbbed as he tried to rise. Jon Snow fell back again, grunting.
When he brought his gaze upwards, his hair stuck to his brow with sweat. The blonde-haired man, who had spun and spun, was dead. A dagger, curved like a crescent moon, buried in his throat.
The Blue stood towering over the pale corpse, wielding only one dagger in his hand. His eyes flashed at Jon before he turned, so quick, so graceful, like he had been born to fight.
He ducked his opponents blade as it swung for his head, a blur of blue hair, brown and steel. He spun and spun, crouched all the while, until a gurgle sounded. And the other man fell, a crescent dagger buried in his throat too.
Jon watched in awe, eyes wide as the man fell to join his ally on the sandy stone, dead, lifeless, cold. The Blue unsheathed his daggers from the dead men's crimson-stained flesh, he wiped them over until they gleamed once again, and tucked them back under his belt.
Then he stepped towards Jon, eyeing his bloodied sword.
His eyes were narrow, serious and solemn, and as blue as his hair, so blue they seemed purple. Behind, the two other men -who he had followed from the brothel – emerged past the broken stall, longswords unsheathed, and stained with blood.
They looked over the three bodies lying cold on the ground, pooling in their blood. Their gazes then crept towards the Blue, nodding as they sheathed their longswords.
Ghost stood at Jon's front, fangs bared, growling as the Blue stepped toward them. Jon reached out a bloodied hand and calmed him, bringing a cease to his growling. Blood stained the white bristles on his back, his own blood.
The Blue kneeled before him, staring Jon in the eyes.
"Who are you?" He asked, looking over Jon's sweating face.
His voice had little tint of an accent. Westeros, Jon realized, he's from my home. Though he had no idea exactly where in Westeros, he had only ever known the north.
The two other men approached. "Hu-" Jon coughed. "Hullen."
It may have satisfied the Blue, but not any of the others. "You lie." One of them called in an accent, Jon did not know which one. The sun was so bright, he couldn't see.
What did his name matter here? I have no place, Jon wanted to say, I'm a bastard, I have no rights, no name, no mother, and now not even a father. The words would not come.
"Jon Snow." Jon finally said, almost a whisper. And then he knew it was wrong.
The Blue's eyes widened, his arms reached for Jon's shoulders and pulled him close, so much so Jon could feel his breath.
"You're Ned Stark's bastard." He said, his blue eyes met the floor.
No! Jon thought to shout.
But his head was spinning.
The sun… so bright.
Then it was black.
When he woke, he was sat in a cushioned chair. With the Blue leaning over him.
He blinked back the darkness, the tiredness, and gazed at his surroundings. They were inside, where the sandy stone had been there was instead polished black marble and Myrish carpets. The walls were black too, and shining.
It was a bedchamber, he came to realize as he spotted the huge bed in the center, draped with cream and white sheets. Further onwards, a great balcony opened, and he could see the Bay of the Pentos and the dusty air.
Then he saw the glint of a knife, his heart quickened.
"Stop!" Jon brought an aching arm up in defence, stopping the Blue's dagger from nearing him. His voice was raspy, cracked and dry.
"I only mean to cut the fabric of your tunic, not you."
Jon relaxed, he felt oddly safe. He had seen this man fight, and never anyone like him before.
He cut at Jon's tunic with his dagger, pulling away the fabric sticky and caked with blood. The wound itself seemed to smell, Jon felt a stab of pain shoot through him and winced, though it seemed like a fair consequence when compared to the man he had killed, lying dead on the dusty stone.
"What's your name?" Jon sighed as the Blue as he pressed a cloth to his wound.
He sniffed, wiped his nose and got back to his feet. "Duncan." He replied, scratching his blue beard.
Duncan, that was better than Blue.
Duncan sheathed his crescent dagger and said. "You mustn't worry; the wound will be fine." His voice seemed to betray his words. Duncan scratched his blue beard again. "I will send for a healer."
When he was at the door, which was made of polished iron and onyx, he turned back to what was Jon Snow, wincing in a cushioned chair. "Do not leave this room," he said, with utter seriousness. "Not until I return."
Then he was gone.
Jon rose, swallowing the pain and approached the balcony.
The cold air caressed his sweaty brow, the last he could remember the very air had been warm and sticky too, but now it was the sweetest thing he had ever felt.
Beneath him six cherry trees stood sentinel around a marble pool, their willowy branches brown and bare. A painted statue of marble stood on the water, poised to duel with a thin blade in hand. He was lithe and handsome looking, perhaps a little older than Jon himself, with straight blonde hair that brushed his shoulders. He is polished marble, Jon knew, but he looked anything but that, he looked real.
Across the pool stood a brick wall twelve feet high, with iron spikes along its top. I saw these walls, Jon remembered, or was it some others? Onwards was the city, a crowded sheet of titled rooftops piling around a bay. It will do here for a time, wherever it was, perhaps Duncan knows where Viserys is, but I cannot go until my wound is healed.
Ghost came to Jon's side, he smiled and stroked his fur.
It was nigh on half an hour before the healer arrived. He was a queer sort of healer, Jon supposed, he looked nothing like what Maester Luwin had.
Where there had been grey robes on the maester, this one had gold and purple, emblazoned with black lining. Where the chain of the Citadel had hung was instead a long ivy scarf of the purist silk, jingling with small polished bells.
He set down a stained hide skin atop the bed and asked Jon to lay it, he did so, then removing what was left of his battered tunic.
The bald healer handed him a round cup, inside was milk of the poppy.
Jon shook his head. "I don't need-"
"You do," the healer shook his head. "Yes, you do. This is going to hurt."
It was all Jon could do to not retch up it back up as he drank.
He then went to clean the wound of its sodden blood, and even with the poppy slowly filling his head, Jon had to hold back screams every time the healer's fingers poked and prodded.
"I was cut with a sword." Jon gasped, why was he telling him this? The potion was clouding his wits.
"But, Ghost…" He could see the direwolf laid beside him, watching over his body, watching for a wince of pain to strike the healer. Jon fisted his fur as hard as he could.
Jon heard a splash, the healer had put the bloody cloth back into the basin. And suddenly a red hot knife appeared, where did he get that from?
"No..." Jon struggled under the healer's grip, he was surprisingly strong.
"This you need, do not struggle."
Ghost seemed to look at him with a face telling him to accept it, Jon tensed as the glowing blade neared his side.
I will not scream, he thought, but that was soon forgotten.
The healer held him down with one hand, and Jon did not move. He only fisted Ghost's fur harder and harder, until he was so sure it hurt that he expected the direwolf to run. But when the red hot knife poked again, that was soon forgotten too, and Jon Snow fainted.
When his eyelids cracked open, he was naked and sweating and floating. He could see himself, through another's eyes, but it did not matter. And for a time he slept.
The next awakening, he was seeing through his own eyes again, and with that, came the pain. It was not wise to try and stand, but he tried anyway, resulting in a groan and sting from his side.
"The wound is closed; best you don't open it again."
Jon turned at the voice, sat beside the bed was Duncan. He is a good fighter, Jon thought queerly, the milk of the poppy was still heavy on him.
Duncan no longer wore his brown brigandine or patches of steel plate, nor his daggers or his greatsword. His garb was fine black velvet, like Benjen's had been, but inlaid with grey finery. His polished boots were knee high and gleaming. And Jon saw that his hair and beard had been cut, and perhaps even freshly dyed, for now they burned a brighter blue. He is the best fighter, Jon told himself again.
Jon himself was bare above the waist, and with nothing to cover his chest up with, he closed his eyes and said. "Where am I?"
Jon could feel Duncan lean forward. "Jon, whatever I will say, you cannot leave this room until I allow you."
Why? He thought, but he nodded all the same.
"You are in Pentos," he began, Jon knew that already though. "In the manse of magister Illyrio Mopatis."
Jon's eyes shot open. "Ilvisio?"
Duncan shook his head. "Has the poppy taken your ears, too? Illyrio, I'm sure."
Aren had said that he didn't hear properly. Damn you Aren, Jon thought, if this was the same place, the same magister, perhaps he would have been brought here free of a wound… free of…
"How do you know me?" Jon blurted, the pain still at his side.
"That is a longer story, for when you are healed." He rubbed his hands together. "Those men, the one you killed. Do you know who they were?"
Jon shook his head. "No. He broke the stall, I… I don't know who he was."
Dead, that was all that could be said for them now.
"They were hired knives." Duncan admitted, with sadness in his voice. "They are getting closer. The King pays them."
The King? "Robert Baratheon? Why would he send people to kill you? Who are you?"
"They didn't seek me, though much to their misfortune it was me they found." He scratched at his blue beard, freshly dyed and trimmed. "They were looking for the ones you seek, Jon Snow, they were looking for the Targaryen's."
Jon looked straight at him, forgetting the pain. "How do you know?"
"I know," he said. "I know, they know."
Daenerys
She had never seen him so angry.
Someone had woken the dragon, and it was not her.
Dany had been playing at a game with Marah, one of Illyrio's slaves, when her brother had stormed him and taken her away. His mouth was agape and spewing fury, his violet eyes ablaze.
"A bastard." He spat, pacing as he had been for the last hour. "How dare he seek the dragon."
Dany sat silently on a cushioned chair, with her eyes fixed on the marble floor and her heart pounding in her chest. She was scared, more scared than she had ever been.
But for all Viserys could do though, he could not hear her thoughts. Daenerys could not help wonder who had made him so wroth.
She pitied whomever it was, though she could not summon the courage to ask.
"A pup of the Usurper," he reached for a goblet on a round oaken table and flung it across the room, it clattered against the white marble and spewed crimson wine onto the floor. "A scoundrel from our lands."
Dany did not flinch; she did not dare to. She tensed her shoulders, her head and her hands and her heart, hoping that soon he would calm and leave her. You are blood of the dragon too, she told herself, but she was without the fire – without courage.
Then a different voice emerged, one more kindly.
Dany relaxed her shoulders at seeing Duncan emerge, as they called him. He eyed the goblet, rolling in a red pool atop the marble floor, and then looked to Viserys. Her brother brought a cease to his pacing and curses all of the things beyond the walls of her bedchamber, and the bastard, whoever it was. Viserys would never dare do so in the presence of Duncan, he hid his from him.
"Come, Viserys."
Viserys nodded. Though before he followed Duncan from her chamber, he approached Dany's shrunken form. She tried her best not to waver as he crept a hand up her arm, leaving goose pimples behind on her pale skin to be seen in the moonlight.
"You do not leave this room, sweet sister." He said in a sly, quiet voice. "You do not want to reap the truth wroth of the dragon, do you?"
Dany shook her head under his shadow. Please, she prayed. His fingers pinched her cheek red until he turned and took his leave.
Daenerys sat still on her cushioned chair, hugging her knees. She had never been so frightened in that moment, even with Duncan at the door. She feared how much worse it could have been if he had not been there, for the times when he wasn't… Dany didn't like to think about those times.
The silence surrounded her, so much so she didn't dare to break it, for the fear that the fright would flush through her again. And so she sat, for minutes and for hours, with her head leant against her knees, her pale gown growing sodden with her tears. Viserys would return and she would be his to torment, for the follies of another.
Illyrio had kept them at his manse for more than a year now, and even that seemed for too long to be real. The manse was a home, it was not the streets, it was the lemon trees and the pond, the servants and workers, so why did Dany feel so lonely?
When she dared to walk over to her bed, Duncan arrived.
"Daenerys," he caught eye of her tears before Dany could wipe them away.
He sat down beside her, scratching at his blue beard freshly dyed and trimmed. "You mustn't cry over your brother, my lady. He wouldn't hurt you, I wouldn't let him."
He does hurt me, Dany thought. But she said. "Do we have to move again?"
They had wandered from Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and onto Qohor and Volantis and Lys, never staying long in one place. This manse was different, though; Dany did not want to leave.
Duncan stretched an arm around her shoulder. "No, we do not. We-"
"Why is Viserys so angry? Who is the bastard?"
He only sighed, his eyes leaving hers. "My lady," he began, he always called her that, Dany had treasured it from the very first time he had called her so, twelve years ago. "Your brother, he does not understand… not yet. Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it. But, something unexpected has occurred and… I'm afraid we cannot simply go ignore it."
"Ignore what?" Dany asked, her violet eyes searching his face for an answer.
Duncan swallowed and said. "Come the morrow, you will know. Sleep now, my lady. I'm afraid you may have to be woken early."
He squeezed her shoulder and smiled, Daenerys did not want to see him go. He was her shield, against everything beyond that door, the Usurper and his dogs and hired knives, of the place beyond the narrow sea that she had never seen, these places her brother talked of, Casterly Rock and the Eyrie, Highgarden and the Vale of Arryn, Dorne and the Isle of Faces, they were just words to her.
Dany could hear the singing of red priests as they lit their night fires and the shouts of ragged children playing games beyond the walls of the estate. For a moment, when the door closed behind Duncan, she wished she could be out there with them, barefoot and dressed in tatters, with no past and no future and no morning to dread. But she was not, she was the blood of the dragon too.
Though Viserys had not returned that night, it was him who woke her.
He pulled the crimson sheets from over her, letting the cold prick at her skin through her nightgown. The room was full of the morning light, shining through the gap of her balcony.
"Up, sister!" Viserys threw the sheets aside, he was not the same as the night before. He was no longer angry, it seemed, he was more fascinated, eager.
Two slaves came rushing through the door. Slavery was forbidden in the city of Pentos, but they were slaves all the same. The two more often than not tended to Daenerys, one old and the other young, one silent whilst the other talked endlessly.
The old slave almost pulled Dany from the bed, whilst the young blonde-haired, blue eyed wench gathered the sheets that Viserys had flung. He stood facing outwards from the balcony, looking upon the city with one hand on the hilt of his borrowed sword, the one Illyrio Mopatis had given him to make him seem more kingly.
Though she was soon swept off before she could ask him why she was awoken so early. They filled her bath tub with hot water from the kitchens, and then scented it with fragrant oils before the younger slave pulled the rough cotton tunic from over Dany's head and helped her into the tub.
It was scolding hot, as she liked it. But they gave Dany little time to embrace herself in the water. Instead, the old woman washed her long silver-pale hair, and then gently combed out the snags, silent all the while. Whilst the girl scrubbed her back and her feet and told her about Illyrio's new trade. Summer silks and milk glass jars, gems of emerald and ruby and sapphire, and so much more. Daenerys said nothing, she already knew that Magister Illyrio was a dealer in spices, gemstones, dragonbone, and other, less savory things. He had friends in all of the Nine Free Cities, it was said, and even beyond, in Vaes Dothrak and the fabled lands beside the Jade Sea. It was also said that he'd never had a friend he wouldn't cheerfully sell for the right price.
Dany was silent and listened until the girl brought mention of a new arrival, one her brother had been furious about. Dany asked who it was, and then the girl suddenly grew quiet, ignoring her. Be that as it may, she thought, Duncan said I would find out for myself.
Afterwards, once they had cleaned her. The slaves helped her from the bath and toweled her dry. The girl brushed her hair until it shone like molten-silver, and then they dressed her in a gown of deep plum silk to bring out the violet in her eyes, along with the wisps what Magister Illyrio had sent up.
What was this for? She wondered as they slipped gilder slippers onto her feet. She had no one to please today, no one to see. Instead, she had wanted to go into the gardens and read some Valyrian scrolls by the pond, under the cherry trees. Duncan said that things had changed, but if it involved her, surely she would know by now?
Finally, a tiara was fixed in her hair by the old woman. They stood her in front of the silvered looking glass, proud of their work.
I look a princess, Dany thought, she had forgotten what that meant, or never really known. What did it mean now? The thought frightened her all of a sudden, and she felt cold.
Her brother awaited her in the entry hall, clad in black velvet emblazoned with the crimson three-headed dragon of their house. His silver-pale hair, like hers, was tied back by a dragonbone brooch.
Viserys rose from the side of the pool and looked her over critically. "Stand there." He said. "Turn around. Yes. Good. We must show him what the true blood of the dragon means, the blood of Old Valyria."
"You look regal, princess." Magister Illyrio said, stepping through an archway. He was such a massive man, but moved with surprising delicacy. Beneath his loose garments of flame-colored silk, roles of fat jiggled as he walked. Gemstones glittered on every one of his fingers, and his oiled beard shone like gold. "If only the Khal was here yet, he would be enraptured to see you."
"She's too skinny." Viserys said, his tight hair pulled back seemed to outline the gaunt lines of his face. He rested a hand atop his borrowed sword hilt and said. "How long until Drogo arrives? I grow tired of waiting."
"Soon, in this moon or the next."
Dany did not want to be reminded of how they planned to sell her off to a savage, when Illyrio released her hand, she was trembling.
"Come." Said the Magister, and they followed.
They passed under marbled halls and archways, all different hues. She was not sure where they were going, much to her shock, in the year there she was sure to have seen all the places of Magister Illyrio's manse. From the highest floor to dim wine cellar.
"He will know he has found you." Illyrio told Viserys as they walked, Dany let her eyes wonder. She did not know who he was.
"He will. And let him." Viserys replied. "I will sink his very claim; he is not my blood."
"Duncan knows the truth."
That was not the right thing to say. "Duncan is sworn to me! His king! He says whatever I want him to say."
"I apologize, Your Grace." Illyrio seemed to smirk, but Viserys did not see it. "But I myself have, some legitimacy to these claims."
"I piss on his legitimacy; he was borne from a northern slut. A Stark dog! I am my father's son, not him!"
Illyrio brought his head forward. "You are," he said. "You are."
They finally came to a stop in a large, square dining room. In the center was an ash-and-silver table, surrounded by six large chairs, one of which was big enough for three single ones. That was Illyrio's.
Illyrio bid them to sit, mounting his own large seat and stroking his oiled beard. Viserys sat at his left side, and Daenerys his right. Whether they were sitting to break their fast, she did not know, but she was not hungry.
Soon, through the distant doors at the end of the room came Duncan, but behind him followed another.
He was younger than the rest of the guards that Dany knew, dark-brown of hair, not the bald of the Unsullied that stood sentry on the manse. Dany assumed it was a guard, as a longsword and a dragonbone dagger hung from his belt, clanking as he walked.
As they came closer, Dany could see his hair was freshly washed and his eyes were so grey they bordered on black. Though his face gave nothing away, for what she could see of it, he stared at his feet as he walked.
He is too young to be a guard, Dany realized, perhaps he was a year or two older than herself, but not at the age of any of the men who stood guard at Illyrio's manse, eunuchs and sellswords, either bought or living from the coin he gave them.
They came to a stop before the table, Duncan held his chin high and looked at Viserys, his blue hair gleaming in the light.
"Your Grace," he bowed his head, then turned to Daenerys and said. "My lady."
Dany wanted to smile, but found she couldn't. Why was she here?
Duncan stepped back a foot and gestured the other forward. He looked up from his feet and gazed across them. His grey eyes sought Illyrio, for he was not hard to miss, and then Viserys, who bristled. And then herself, when their eyes met, Dany looked away. She did not want to wake the dragon, as her brother had threatened, and mere gaze could be enough.
Was he the Bastard?
"Know that Illyrio Mopatis pities you for your wound," Illyrio began. "I hoped that my healer did his best?"
He nodded. Dany looked over his side, he seemed to hover one hand over it, if someone was to suddenly reach out and touch it. She clasped her own hands together under the table. She wanted him to leave, she wanted to be gone herself.
"Your Grace, may I have the honour presenting Jon…" Illyrio brought a stop to his words and waved his massive hands about, gems glimmering. "Your nephew by blood."
Dany felt a sudden sickness in her stomach.
"It is not an honour." Viserys replied coldly. "I would rather him be-"
Her brother ceased his words when his eyes met Duncan's, but she could feel the rage boiling inside him, the fire, the dragon. The longer his mouth closed, the hotter the flame he would spit.
He was her nephew? It made no sense, she had never seen him before, nor even heard of him, not from Viserys or Duncan or Illyrio, no one.
I have no nephew, nor a father or a mother, I have only Viserys.
"I had expected you earlier, however." Illyrio began. "Free of a wound and in the company of my loyal friends, a certain Thoran, yes?"
Jon who-was-her-nephew lifted his chin high and said. "They worked for you?"
His voice was closer to Duncan's than anyone else, hard and tough, but young. Duncan had seen over thirty namedays, this one had not.
"Yes. I have many friends, and with them many eyes." Illyrio told him. "And you were easier to see than you hoped, Jon Snow. It took a great deal of effort to bring you here. But any friend of my friend across the water is a friend to Illyrio Mopatis, yes. My house is yours, just so. Where your chambers fit to those in Winterfell?"
Snow was a bastard name, Viserys had told her. And Winterfell the place of Starks, the Usurper's dogs who had stolen their throne from them.
The Usurpers pup.
"I left them, in Braavos." Jon said, his eyes falling downwards.
Braavos, Dany thought, and the house with the red door. Her heart suddenly warmed, and she had to stop herself from smiling.
"Yet you are here all the same." Illyrio replied. "I have known you far longer than you might expect, yes. The friend of mine told me of your birth, fifteen years past in a Tower of…. Sorrows, I say."
The Tower of Joy, Dany knew/ where Rhaegar, her other brother, had left his love as he went to fight for her. Duncan lowered his eyes slowly, resting one hand on the top of the table. Viserys had always spoken fondly of their gallant brother and his northern love, but not today – today she was the northern slut.
Illyrio smiled before he said. "A boy born in the shadow of a war, motherless and fatherless. To live a lie, no? To never know who he was. You are lucky you are not purple of eye, friend, lest things be much altered." Illyrio's tone quietened, almost solemn. "We left you to the north, to your uncle of Stark. Such hope seemed… hopeless, see, we vowed to forget, and leave you to live the life of a bastard boy. Tell me, yes, what has brought that boy here?"
Purple of eye, like herself and Viserys, but he was not like them. He had the tall and slender build, like Viserys did, like her Rhaegar had been said to have and the Targaryen's before them, but in everything else he was dark.
"I was told the truth…" He lowered his grey eyes. Grey, not violet. They should be violet if he is my blood. "I had to leave, I couldn't stay in Winterfell. When I knew where you were, I wanted to find..."
Illyrio slapped his fat belly. "Not me? No, Illyrio Mopatis knows this, yes. You came for to see your family, here they are. Viserys Targaryen, brother to your father, yes. And Daenerys Stormborn, sister to your father. You are here for them."
Here for us? Dany did not know what they could give him. And from what she had seen, Viserys would not offer a single thing to their long lost brother's son. Everything they owned was Illyrio's, even the borrowed sword that Viserys carried.
"How do we know the truth of his words?" Viserys asked, his borrowed sword laid across his lap. "He has my brothers blood, but he has never met my brother. No, not as I have. He was raised among wolves, beasts like his mother, the Usurper has sent him!"
"No, no no. This is not true, Your Grace. Illyrio Mopatis knows this. He has not come a spy; I know a spy. My friend across the water has kept words with the lord of Stark for many years, words that would have him killed."
"I have not come to spy on you!" Jon looked her brother in the eye, hands flat against the table.
No, don't do that, do not wake the dragon.
"I have not come to fight you." He stepped back, looking over the rest of them. "I'm here to… to join you… Y-yo-" Jon looked at Duncan, who nodded. And then he said. "Your Grace."
Dany calmed, a little. But she did not want to be here.
For a moment there was only silence, then Viserys laughed.
"Do you know what I plan to do, bastard?" Her brother spat. "To gather an army, to cross the narrow sea and retake my throne. To kill the Usurper and his dogs, all of them. Ned Stark kept words with the Spider, did he? But do not think that will save him, the dragon does not forget. Would you like to join me in killing them? To watch as I plant my sword in his cold, icy heart? Or would you shame my brother's name and try a worthless claim? Would you?"
Jon gave her brother the look she had seen him given all his life, couldn't he see it? Dany could, but she did not want to think on what it meant. Jon lowered his eyes, his mouth shut and knuckles white.
"As I thought." Her brother said.
Then, Duncan stepped forward. "He has crossed the narrow sea to find you, are you so blind?" His words echoed around the square dining hall, from pillar to pillar. "Do you think he is a threat? He is your nephew, your blood, Viserys. You remember your brother, you loved him. Would he want you to turn away his son?"
Dany felt a pit of shame in her stomach. Though she had never met Rhaegar, for he had died before she was born, he was gallant, honourable, and noble. Was his son the same? Was it wrong for her to want to him to go away? She wanted to be back in Braavos, in the house of the red door, or outside with the children in tattered rags.
"He is with us now, he stays. Wherever we may go." Duncan spoke sternly, his jaw clenched. She saw a flash of acceptance in her brother's eyes, then it was gone. "And… he can be of use to us." Duncan added, hoping to appease her brother.
Dany saw what that meant. Herself and Viserys were the only two left of their blood, having another prince could mean for alliances, for matters in the kingdoms across the narrow sea.
Duncan placed a hand on Jon's shoulder and lead him out the square dining hall, each footstep echoing out the silence. Dany looked at her own hands, her nails had dug so far into her palms that they were scratched red.
Then she felt a grip on her arm, tight and pulling at her gown. Viserys hauled her from her seat and bore his eyes into hers. Dany could see that Illyrio had left, leaving them alone.
"I saw you look at the Stark dog." He spat in her face, his grip formed a tear in her gown, and so he grabbed her with the other hand. "Do you think I did not see, slut? You do not want to wake the dragon."
"I didn't." Dany gasped, his hands hurt, and tears burned in her eyes. She didn't, she was too scared to even look.
Suddenly he wrenched her free, sending Dany to fall back onto the cushioned chair.
"It does not matter. He will be gone, soon." In his eyes a glint returned, something other than content, something far different. "Dead."
Arya
The sheets of her bed were a piled, tangled mess. Much like Arya's hair, tangled and tousled, stretching over her eyes and her ears. It had been days since she had washed it, or even ragged it clear of its knots with a comb or her hands.
Arya Stark sat atop a bundle of furs, brown and grey and black. The fire in the hearth cracked and spit small orange embers, and she had been looking at it nigh on an hour. Nymeria lied beside her, licking Arya's hands and then her face and then her hands again, until she stopped to stare into the fire too.
She had not left her chambers all day. Though not by the will of others, not by Father or Mother, nor Septa Mordane or Sansa or Robb or Jory, she stayed because she wanted to – and no one had tried to make her do otherwise.
If they came upon her room she would send them away, she did not want to see them. First her Father, then the stupid Septa and soon even Sansa… Arya gave each one the same reply. Sansa had always called Jon their bastard brother, that Arya had not forgotten.
But, there were some nights when she would wonder. Nights when the sun had fell slowly and the moon risen, when the castle slept and the fire in her hearth guttered. She would open her door and creep her way through the empty halls of her home, and only when she was as quiet as shadow would she find her brothers room.
Bran was confined to his bed, asleep and still. He had fallen whilst climbing, they said, and Maester Luwin told her mother that he would never walk again. He wanted to be a knight, Arya remembered, like the great Ser Arthur Dayne…. but Ser Arthur Dayne could walk, and now her brother could not.
She had sat and cried beside his bed, her tears soddening the furs of his sleeping skins. He no longer looked like the Bran that Arya knew, all skin and bones with sunken eyes, under the sheets his legs were bent the wrong way around. Arya did not like to look at them, to think on them, for fear she might cry all over again.
Then that night her mother had found her, and as quick Arya wiped her wet cheeks dry Catelyn saw her tears still. And so they spent that night beside his bed, wrapped together in their cloaks until come the morning Arya awoke back in her chambers.
The night she had woken and found her father beside her bed, she asked him about her other brother, where had Jon gone? She still didn't know.
He would never tell her where he was, or why he had gone. Was it because of her? She should have sought him out the night of the feast, helped him calm his worries, as he always did her when she was upset. Now he was gone, and she did not know what worried him that night, or where he was or why he had left, she knew nothing.
Though her father had told her that he was not to leave for near another fortnight perhaps, the King had insisted they stay after her brother fell. Arya saw it for the kind gesture that it was, but she also saw the Lannister's prancing about their halls, Queen Cersei and the Kingslayer, Joffrey and the Hound, she wanted them gone. They walked about Winterfell uncaring, uncaring for the home of her lost brother. Wherever he was, Arya knew that Jon would miss them, as they missed him.
Did he know about Bran?
Nymeria crept from Arya's side and bundled herself in her lap, a pile of soft fur that Arya ran her hands through. Dapples of her grey bristles slowly grew wet with the tears falling from Arya's cheeks. Her direwolf had never left her, never to howl with the rest of her littermates, or wander curiously through the castle, Arya knew she would never leave her side.
Arya wrapped her arms around her, Ghost was gone too, and Jon's horse, Ranger. She had nothing to even remember him by, nothing at all. And if she ever tried looking for him, in the darkness of the crypts and trees of the godswood, she would always return to her room with no more than an answer than what she had when she left.
Life was unfair, Jon had reminded often reminded her of that. If she was older than her nine namedays then she would know, she would know where her brother was. But she was not older than her nine namedays, she was Arya, Arya Horseface, Arya Underfoot, and a lady despite it all – not a guard that could don themselves in mail and boiled leather, with an iron halfhelm to search the castle at day and at night attend her Father's meetings.
A burst of knocks sprung from her door, gentle, but fast all the same. Arya wiped her eyes and gripped Nym's fur tighter.
"Go away!" She said, trying to sound angry.
"Arya," her father's voice called out. "Open the door. We need to talk."
If there was ever usually a voice it was Fat Tom's, he more often than not stood outside her door – whether it was by gesture or command Arya did not know. She crossed the room and lifted the crossbar. Her Father's voice seemed more sad than angry. He is alone too, Arya supposed.
She suddenly felt regretful.
Arya walked back to her pile of furs, her father closed the door. His face solemn, pale and long and solemn just like hers, and Jon's too. She had once asked if that meant she was a bastard, to which her brother had gave her the truth. Reminding her again that life was hardly fair, for Jon to be different to the rest of them.
Eddard sat down beside her, atop the mount of furs she had piled. "The more time you spend in here, the less likely you are to leave."
Arya slumped her head, unsure what to say. Eddard Stark sighed. "Bran will be fine, Arya. He will wake soon enough."
"But he won't be able to use his legs?" Arya blurted, perhaps too quick.
Her father's gaze met the fire. "No," he said. "Yet someday he may be the lord of a great holdfast and sit on the king's council. He might raise castles like Brandon the Builder, or sail a ship across the Sunset Sea, or enter your mother's Faith and become the High Septon."
His words seemed to betray his grey eyes, there was seldom a time when he would ever look so upset in front of Arya.
"Can I be part of the king's council?" She asked, hoping to add light to his eyes. "And build castles?"
"You," Ned said, he tucked an arm around her and kissed her lightly on the brow, "will marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords and, yes, perhaps even build castles of their own."
I don't want to be a lady, a voice inside her urged, brimming her parted lips. Arya chewed her bottom lip instead, she didn't want to make her father even more upset.
He swallowed deeply, and said. "What would your septa say? If is she saw your room in such mess, or you mother?"
"Mother wouldn't care," Arya grunted, wiping her nose. She would, just not now. "And I hate Septa Mordane."
"That's enough." Her father said in a hard voice. "The septa is doing no more than is her duty, though the gods have made you a struggle for the old women. It seems an impossible task, making you a lady."
Then she said it. "I don't want to be lady." She didn't shout it, though.
Eddard sighed, he swallowed deeply and said. "Ah, Arya. You have a wildness in you, child. 'The wolf blood,' my father used to call it…. Lyanna, she had a touch of it, and my brother Brandon more than a touch." Arya could see sadness in his eyes flaring, she could hear it in his voice. "Lyanna, you remind me of her sometimes. You even look like her."
Lyanna was beautiful, that was not something that was ever said of Arya.
"Jon, I know you think on him." Her father rubbed her back. "Arya. Jon has gone north to the Night's Watch, with your uncle Benjen."
Arya blinked.
"With uncle? But he was here."
"Benjen had business with me, but now he has made to catch him on the kingsroad. And that is all, Arya, Jon wanted to take the black, to become a brother of that honorable order. He did not want you to lock yourself in your room."
He looked down at Nymeria, bundled on Arya's lap. "Does he know about Bran?" He must return when he knows, for us all.
"Benjen will tell him, I suspect he already has."
But he has not returned.
"And soon we will be leaving too, Arya." Her father stood from her pile of furs and walked to her window, the pale light of the moon clearing his pale face for her to see. "In the capital, you and Sansa will attend me. It will not be the same."
Arya Stark knew that she would be leaving with her father, but that did not make it any easier to bear leaving her home.
"And I fear that it is a dark and dangerous place, child." Ned turned from the window and closed the shutter, "You are too young to be burdened with all my cares. But you are also a Stark of Winterfell. As is your sister, you may be as different as the sun and moon, but the same blood flows through your hearts. You need her, as she needs you… the hard times will soon come, you know our words."
"Winter is coming." Arya said.
"And we must protect one another, you and Sansa, Bran and Robb and Rickon, and even Jon and your uncle. Remember the sigil of our House, Arya."
"The direwolf." She hugged Nymeria tighter.
"And together will survive the time of the white winds… but not if we fight battles amongst ourselves."
"I don't hate Sansa." Arya admitted, slowly. "Not really."
She ducked her head and stared into Nymeria's golden eyes. Ned crossed the room and sat beside her once more.
"I do not mean to frighten you, Arya, but neither will I lie to you. We are all in sadness, for your brothers. But this willfulness of yours, the running off, the angry words, the disobedience… it cannot pass as we go south, it is time to begin growing up."
"I will." Arya vowed.
The next morning, when the light of the sun peaked through her shuttered window and Septa Mordane come to wake her, Arya apologized.
Jon had travelled north, to the Wall. It felt better to know where he was than not at all, like before.
But one thing still troubled her.
He never said goodbye.