The POV's in this story are not all in chronological order.
Tyrion
Dragonbone is black because of its high iron content, the book read. It is as strong as steel, yet lighter and more flexible. And, as Tyrion expected, utterly impervious to fire. Bows of dragonbone were greatly prized by the Dothraki, which came as no surprise. Any archer armed with such could easily outrange that of any regular bow.
Tyrion turned the page.
It was his own morbid fascination with dragons that made him read about them. Long dead, they were, but even now, in the cold with the wind flapping the pages as he tried to read the words, he sat alone and read.
When he was a boy he would light fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock and pretend they were dragonfire, spewed by his very own winged beast. Even a stunted, twisted, ugly little boy could look down over the world when he's seated on a dragon's back.
Sometimes he would even imagine his father burning, or his sister. In King's Landing, on the morn of his sister's wedding, he had set out to find the dragon skulls that had hung on the walls of Targaryen's throne room. King Robert may have replaced them with banners and tapestries, but he searched for them all the same.
Until in a dark cellar, he found them.
He had expected to find them impressive, perhaps even frightening. For their teeth were long, curving knifes of black diamond, and when he had thrust his torch into the largest one's mouth, the shadows leaped and danced along the walls. But Tyrion had found them everything but.
"M'lord?"
An old voice emerged through the wind, bringing an end to his musing.
Tyrion looked up. Yoren stood a few feet away, with his twisted shoulder and sour smell. Even in the darkness, Tyrion could see that his beard was matted and greasy and full of lice. His clothing was old and patched, and seldom even washed. But his two young recruits smelled worse, and seemed as stupid as they were cruel.
They had joined their parties at the edge of the Wolfswood, behind the wooden walls of a forest holdfast. Though despite his sourness, Yoren seemed as tough as an old root and as hard as stone. Tyrion was glad to keep his company as they rode north.
"The food is nearly ready, you would do better to sit by the fire than out here." Yoren waved an arm towards him, pointing at the tall, gnarled old oak that Tyrion leant himself up against. The trunk was wide and fat, much larger than what a small man needed. And a thicket of branches spread out above him, like a hundred needles. It was his very own barbed throne, but he found that it did nothing but make his arse numb.
Tyrion snorted, wiped his mouth and said. "I have all that I could need, Yoren of the Watch." He tapped a finger onto the wineskin laid atop his bearskin cloak, inside was a rare sweet amber from the Summer Isles. "And a book, too." You mustn't forget your books, perhaps Yoren could do with one. But Tyrion doubted he could read.
"A book won't help you," Yoren said, looking around the at the darkness of the forest, it went on and on and on, until there was nothing but shadows. "Not out here. A sword's better, I've found. Ain't no word got an edge like a sword."
I know a few, Tyrion thought.
He had tried to read the last few lines of the brittle page over and over, stating how the golden fields of the Reach – with wheat ripe for harvest – had been set ablaze by the fire of Vhaghar, Meraxes, and Balerion as they were unleashed together. But Tyrion couldn't find his focus. He sighed and closed the book on a finger.
Yoren walked towards him, each step that he took in the small stream sent water to splash onto the pages. The wind in the air was quiet, nothing but a whistle that shivered the leaves. "What are you reading about?"
"Dragons." Tyrion replied.
"Dragons," Yoren repeated the word fervently. "We could do with some at the Wall."
Tyrion gathered his bearskin. "Mayhaps, it would be warmer."
The wineskin drifted down the cloak and met the dirt, Yoren knelt to grab it. "Aye, the Wall would weep day and night."
"Perhaps it would melt."
The Sworn Brother managed a laugh at that, but all Tyrion could do was keep silent. He had no clue if dragonfire could melt the wall, it had stood for thousands of years.
Yoren passed Tyrion the wineskin and turned on his heel, back over the small stream and onwards to the camp.
"And then all the grumkins and the snarks could cross into the realm, the Other's atop their ice spiders." Tyrion measured Yoren's expression. "Tell me, Yoren. Do you believe in all the tales you were told at your mother's tit?"
"I'm no ranger, m'lord." Yoren replied in a hard tone. It was not the question Tyrion had asked, but it seemed as if that was that.
Silently, Tyrion followed. It was a short walk, over the stream and the many twigs that littered the mud. Yet he found his legs cramping badly, with each he took it worsened, perhaps it was the cold of the north. And his thighs burned and ached from all their riding.
Yoren offered him a hand as they crossed a fallen branch, scattered from an old oak green looming beside them. Tyrion refused his help. He could make his own way, as he always had.
The shelters of their camp had been thrown up against the broken walls a tumbled down holdfast, abandoned long ago. Tyrion could not blame those who had once housed it, this was no place to live. It was endlessly dark, and even still in the day. The ground was rough underfoot, misshapen roots spreading like tendrils across the soil, and the woven canopy ahead gave little way for light.
A fire burned in the center of their sheltered camp, casting shadows over the stones and moss and roots. Tyrion's own shadow sprawled thrice the size of him, struck over the horses that were paired together under a shelter. They were well fed and had been watered upon their stop, eighteen there was in total, and now they were all tied together closely with their reins wrapped around a plank buried in the mud. If a horse went stray in the night, it would most certainly not return.
Tyrion's saddle was left beside a rock, a saddle by his own design – the only way that he could seat a horse without falling off.
Yoren climbed the rock, huffing at his twisted shoulder, and went on at skinning a dead squirrel.
Morec sat the center of their sheltered camp, the dim-witted boy staring mindlessly into the stew that heated over the fire. Tyrion approached him, sighing at the stiffness of his legs with each step he took.
The boy, staring at him with stupid-green eyes, handed Tyrion the ladle. Morec watched his face eagerly to see what he thought. After a taste, Tyrion handed him back the ladle and said. "More pepper."
The hour was already late. Embers of the fire slowly drifted upwards, never keeping a steady path. Past the deep ivy needles of the pines, they went, and over the tall iron oaks surrounding them. There were no clouds this night, Tyrion observed, and he could blue star in the Ice Dragon, as clear as day.
Tyrion pulled the bearskin further around him, and looked to Benjen Stark.
He had been solemnly silent on their journey, all eighteen days. There was seldom a time where words that left his mouth were not "We stay here for the night," or "Today we make a full day's ride," or "Get the fire going." On the days that they rode, he was silent atop his black garron, with nothing on his face but the cold. Pale and long. And come the nights, he would sit beside the camp fire and stare into the sky. He never noticed Tyrion watching him.
"My lord," Tyrion began loudly. "I must ask, why our sudden haste to leave Winterfell?"
Has your time at the Wall made you sour, Tyrion thought, he was already sour enough. "His Grace is not leaving until another week has past; I had thought that we would depart on the same day."
I would have liked to have spent another fortnight there. Despite the coldness, and the wolves, Winterfell's library was a place that Tyrion Lannister would have liked to have spent more time in.
Inside were books so old that the parchment was cracking and brittle, he spent a day and a night reading a hundred-year-old discourse on the changing of the seasons by a long-dead maester. The rest were old Valyrian scrolls, dry and brittle even more so; and in the library was the only ever complete copy of Ayrmidon's Engines of War, the only one that Tyrion had ever seen.
With the permission of Lord Eddard, he had taken some of the books with him to read through his journey. When the nights came that they made camp to rest, he would read as much he could – Tyrion Lannister was not much a one for sleeping.
But the hardship of the travelling had begun to take its toll on him, creeping through his skin to make his very bones ache. Each night he would retire to his shelter earlier than the night before, and he would sleep soundly until the morn arrived.
He was not tired now, though, now he was staring at Benjen Stark.
"I have matters of mine own at the Wall," Benjen said, coldly. "You could have made your own way, my lord."
He must share his brother's distaste for the Lannister's. "I know the maps as good as any, but not the way." Tyrion replied, his legs were feeling better, but now it was his arse again.
Benjen shook his head. "I warn you, Lannister, you'll find no inns at the Wall."
"No doubt you'll find some place to put me," Tyrion replied. "As you might have noticed, I'm small."
What drove Tyrion Lannister to seek the Wall, he could not decide. He had heard so much of it, since he was a stunted boy at Casterly Rock and even as he roamed the halls of the Red Keep as a man grown. Perhaps it was intrigue, or wonder. Perhaps it was only the hope to stand and piss off the edge of the world.
But he would not tell Benjen Stark that.
"I had thought there would be another with us," Tyrion began, he scratched his fingers across the wineskin. "The Bastard of Winterfell."
Benjen's face darkened, he looked away.
"The wild one, what was her name? Ah, Arya." Tyrion could remember finding her beside the stables, with mud on her elbows and knees. She looked a lady not. "She had told of me of Jon Snow leaving to join the honorable order of the Night's Watch, he is not among us?"
Stark did not reply, nor did he move. His eyes were pale chips set on the flames, his face was flat and pale and cold. Silence lingered, sweeping through their camp like the wind.
Be that as it may.
Tyrion looked down at the wineskin in his hand, full with the rare amber. A thought rushed to his head, and suddenly he decided that the wine was his weapon.
Each time he made to drink from the wineskin, those around him would stop and stare until he swallowed and returned the stopper. The lot of them were eager to taste wine of a Lannister of Casterly Rock, the brother to the queen. Only Stark did not offer him a gaze, Tyrion found no surprise in that.
Tyrion looked to his right, upwards onto the rock where Yoren had finished skinning his squirrel.
"Here." Tyrion said, holding up the wineskin. Yoren looked back at him, and for a moment he seemed shocked, but soon the look passed and he took it.
Yoren pulled out the stopper and took a long swig, groaned, smirked and then passed it down to Morec. The boy looked at the wineskin wide-eyed until he too pulled the stopper and drank. Then came the two Lannister guardsmen – who had attended him since Winterfell, as was fit a Lannister - Rechar, the tallest one, waved the wineskin away and passed it over to Dorrick, who drank the amber gladly.
The two young recruits who had come with Yoren did not get the same honour. Bundled in a darkened corner as they were, sat rustling among themselves.
Dorrick stood from resting atop his pile of fur sleeping skins, his Lannister-crimson cloak drifting behind him. He passed the prisoners on steady feet, offering them nary a glance. When he dropped the wineskin beside Stark, the Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch eyed it carefully.
Does he think it poisoned? Tyrion wondered, amusingly. Then he has watched the rest of his followers die, and mine own escorts.
And me.
Benjen reached for the wineskin and drank. Afterwards, he wiped his mouth and said. "Summerwine," he put the stopper back in place. "Nothing so sweet. You will have no more of this on the Wall."
Was he trying to keep him away? "Then perhaps I should not share." Tyrion said, he pulled his bearskin further around him.
Stark twisted his mouth downwards and chucked the wineskin over the fire pit and Morec's sandy-blonde head.
Tyrion tried to reach an arm from out the bearskin, but he was too slow, and the bearskin too thick. The wineskin met the dirt beside him, with nothing but a thud.
He felt their eyes on him as he rose from his rocky seat - the very that made backside numb – and bent over to reach for the wineskin with his small arms. Tyrion Lannister was no stranger to another's eyes, though. Despite his size amongst others, they seemed to find him more than most.
He wiped the mud from dark crimson, pulled out the stopper and took a long swallow. All the while they were silent and watched, still. Behind him, a horse whickered.
Once he was back on his rock, he wiped his mouth and grinned.
And then Tyrion looked to Yoren again, holding up the wineskin. There was more than enough left, despite how much they had.
They managed to take it around three more times before Morec caught the wineskin, smiled widely and soon found that were was naught but droplets to wet his tongue. Even Yoren had begun to grow mellow, and Benjen Stark's face was not so cold.
I have given them the taste of summer, Tyrion thought as Morec passed him back the wineskin, and winter comes all around us.
The squirrel gave some body to the stew, and they ate it with black bread and hard cheese around their night fire. Yoren and Benjen talked from corner to corner, whilst the two Lannister guards sat whispering among themselves as they spooned at their stew.
Tyrion ate in silence.
When the bowls were cold and empty, with nothing but skids of peppered stew drowning the bottom. Slowly, one by one their company drifted off to their shelters and to sleep. Until there was only Tyrion, Yoren and Stark.
Tyrion placed his bowl down onto the dirt, and cocked his head forward. "Benjen," he announced, assuming false courtesy. "I had asked you earlier of your nephew's whereabouts, but you did not seem to hear."
All the warmth the amber had brought to his stark pale face, fell away at an instant. He stood, his lips tight and eyes narrow, gathered his cloak and retreated to his shelter.
Tyrion had to stop himself from calling him back. He looked upwards to Yoren, who shrugged, groaned and then retreated to his shelter too.
Let him brood, then.
Now it was him and the empty camp, the only sound in his ears was the crack of the fire against the wind; and the slight crunch of mud each time he shifted his feet. Though the ground below their camp was as bare as newborn babe, trampled and sodden. And above the night was littered with stars.
Tyrion cast them a glance, and smiled.
They were yet to reach the Wall, and had many a day and night of each other's company to get there.
There was something about the Bastard of Winterfell, he pondered as he slipped beneath his sleeping skins, something Stark was not telling him.
It would be slow, and require all the patience and wit he had. But Tyrion would find out eventually, he always did.
Jon
The marble statue shined.
Jon stood before the sculpture, shaded in the shadow of the painted stomach. He kept one hand resting atop the pommel of his dagger, and with the other he kneaded his wound through the rich black velvet that Magister Illyrio had gifted him.
It was healing more and more each day, and the constant stinging had long since ceased. But that was before Jon thought himself able to practice at swords with Duncan, and he had opened it anew.
Now the scar itched, terribly, and hurt if his fingers scratched too close.
Jon shook his hand away and glanced back up at the statue. It was a likeness of Illyrio himself, he had learned from Duncan as they walked the courtyard; but Jon saw no resemblance to the fat magister that he knew. This was without rolls of sweating flesh bouncing beneath the red, wispy silks that he often donned.
That had been three days past – when he had walked the manse with Duncan - and today was the seventh that he had seen in total. For five morns had he woken in his own chambers. Extravagant they were, perhaps too much so. But save for the tapestries and Myrish carpets, the styled pillars and cream sheets and the golden chairs, they were always quiet and empty. Not like his smaller chambers at Winterfell, when Arya would come to see him when she woke and he would walk with her to the yards.
But here, not on a single day had he seen the prince and princess. Not since he first set eyes on them.
They were still here, Duncan told him. Not by words, though, a bastard had to learn to notice things, to read the truth that people hid behind their eyes. And Duncan had been so clear for him to see, they were here, and he thought it best that Jon did not seek them out; even after he had pleaded for Jon to stay that day.
And Jon had heeded him. For seven days he had made no efforts to find them, hoping that soon enough they would come to explain. Perhaps even once he would have waited even longer. Once he might have even cried at the fact they kept him apart, but now it only made him angry.
He had not crossed the narrow sea to sit meekly by and wait, to suffer in his own silence. He had to make them see.
"My lord."
One of Illyrio's servants stood beside the pool. Her slender arms craned behind her back, pale and clean. She was blonde of hair and blue of eye, and fair to look upon. Jon had not seen her coming.
"Yes?" He asked, hooking a thumb under his black leather belt.
"Magister Illyrio awaits." Was all she said, and then she turned and began to cross the courtyard.
Jon followed, the tall statue forgotten. He watched the slave's collar from behind, the colours seemed to dance as they passed under the cherry trees that stood sentry in the courtyard.
Jon didn't know what to think about that. There was no honour in keeping slaves. Lord Eddard had told him that, long ago; and once when one of his bannermen had sold slaves Ned had readied Ice, until the craven ran away. But above all slavery was a forbidden act in the Free City of Pentos, yet Magister Illyrio held slaves all the same. And he held Jon.
He had seen the shirtless guards of the main gatehouse, with their pointed helms and shaven faces. Day and night they stood, unmoving with spears in hand. And there was another gate in the courtyard, but it was mostly hidden by ivy.
What would they do should I approach? Would they let me pass the gates?
He had never tried.
Jon scratched at his neck as he passed under an archway and into the cool air. There was no collar around his neck, his fingers found only his own dry, tanning skin.
There was seldom so much sun in Winterfell, and though the fortress had been veined with hot springs, it was colder still. Here, the sun blazed from dawn till dusk. He sweated through his smallclothes, and once he was changed he sweated once again.
He was raised in the north, in the snows, he was not used to such weather.
Though he had soon started to don lighter garb, thinner fabrics and lighter cloaks. He sweated less because of it.
Illyrio reclined on a padded couch, gobbling hot peppers and pearl onions from a wooden bowl. Jewels of many sorts danced along his fingers as he waved his hands; onyx and opal, tiger's eye and tourmaline, ruby, amethyst, sapphire, emerald, jet and jade, a black diamond, and a green pearl. He was sweating too, beads running down his brow.
"Come sit, my friend." Illyrio swallowed a pepper and waved him over.
Jon sat a large cushioned chair. They were not the same chairs he had seen five days past, in his meeting with Viserys. These were huge and thick, intended to bear the Magister's massive buttocks, with long hard legs to support his weight. Jon tried to fit the padded throne as best he could, yet the blood still crept to his face as Illyrio's pig eyes watched him closely.
"How does your wound fair?" Illyrio asked. "I trust my healer did all that was asked of him."
The same healer that had attended to him upon his arrival had come to bind him in the yard, with his robe of many hues and scarf of tingling bells. "Better." Jon said. Upon their first meeting, Illyrio has asked him about his wound. It seemed he was far too concerned with keeping him safe.
"Know that I talked with Duncan, yes. You were forbidden from playing with swords."
They were not playing, and Duncan would never bow before the magister. Jon wished Ghost was at his side, Illyrio wouldn't dare to say so then. Without the direwolf, he felt naked. "I asked him…"
"Ah, yes. You are still young. Eager. Five-and-ten." He spoke like Jon hadn't already known. "I was young was once. Have you, perchance, seen me in the courtyard?"
A statue, he thought, but he nodded quietly instead.
"Handsome, yes." He looked down, a sudden shame flashed over his eyes. "Let's eat."
Illyrio clapped his hands together, and the serving men came running.
First came a broth of crab and monkfish, and cold egg lime soup as well. Then came quails in honey, a saddle of lamb, goose livers drowned in wine, buttered parsnips, and suckling pig. Jon glared wide-eyed as the table was filled, a coil turning his stomach. And yet he forced himself to try a spoon of soup for the sake of Illyrio's honour, to have fed him at his table.
And then he was lost.
In Winterfell, he had eaten more than most. Each night when the castle cooks summoned a meal, he would sit with his brothers and sisters in the Great Hall and feast into the night. But it was not like this…
… this was far better than what any of the cooks there could summon.
And so he ate the rest without hesitation. This was not like Winterfell, he thought again as he bit at a honeyed-quail, he had eaten well there. This was more than well.
As Jon was crunching the last buttered parsnip between his teeth, Illyrio began to speak. His chins were shining with grease, his rotten teeth glistening. "I have words from Westeros," Illyrio began. "Important words."
Jon swallowed and reached for his goblet of wine. He felt like a king, feasting on whatever he liked. "About me?"
They would all know by now. Eddard and Arya, Robb and Bran and Rickon and Sansa, Jory and Ser Rodrik Cassel, even the King. He could see the disdain in Lady Catelyn's face again, and light in the tears of his little Arya. Jon took a long swallow of wine.
"Robert Baratheon," Illyrio said, carefully. "He has departed from Winterfell with the royal party, this I know. And with him has come Lord Eddard Stark."
My father? Jon nearly gasped. He wiped his mouth and said. "But, he is Warden of the North. Winterfell is his place." A Stark place, not mine.
Illyrio grinned. "Warden of the North, yes." he said. "And Hand of the King."
Jon closed his eyes.
Then he shook his head. "I thought," there had been talk in Winterfell. After the news of Jon Arryn's death, the position of Hand was in need of fulfilling; and with the king journeying so far north it seemed the answer was clear, but…
… Eddard did not want to go south. Jon had seen only worry his face the night of the welcoming feast, a sudden coldness to his eyes. But he had said nothing.
"Yes?" Illyrio furrowed his brow, waiting for an answer.
Jon shook his head. His lips were wet from wine and pressed tight together.
Winterfell was Eddard's place, with the white snows beneath his feet and the grey granite walls surrounding him. Not the pale red stone of King's Landing and stinking streets, burning in the southern summer. He kept the Old God's, not the Faith – Eddard would find no heart tree's in the capital, no gods to answer his prayers.
There were no weirwoods here, either. Jon had checked the garden of Illyrio's manse, having already known yet still he had looked, hoping to see the blood-red leaves and carved face.
Jon reached for his goblet and drank the rest of the spiced wine, tingling his throat as he swallowed. "What else?" He said slowly.
Illyrio smiled. "With him are his daughters," Arya, Jon thought sadly, her place was not in the south either. Jon could almost see her in that moment, long-faced and gawky, all knobby knees and sharp elbows, with her dirty cheeks and tangled hair. But Sansa… she was older by two years, with the Tully colours and her mother's fair face. She could sew and dance and sing, and write poetry. She could do all the things that Arya could not.
"And a son."
Jon met his eyes. "Has Robb gone south?"
Illyrio waved his fat fingers, gems glittering. At the motion, the serving men began to rush for the trays of food. He beckoned them to stop. "No, not him. The other, a certain Brandon Stark?"
Jon rested back onto his cushioned throne. Of course Robb stayed in Winterfell. The wine was clouding his thoughts.
There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, Jon knew that as well as all the others. Bran was too young to serve as acting lord on his own, not without a castellan, and Ser Rodrik Cassel most like went with Eddard. But Robb, he was old enough to serve his father; to serve his family and his castle. He will do well as lord.
Jon had seen Robb Stark last in the welcoming feast of Winterfell's Great Hall, laughing beside the princess. His skin blushed and his blue eyes were glimmering.
Bran had always dreamed of becoming a knight, one of the seven of the Kingsguard. Perhaps he could become a squire whilst he was there, even for one of the Kingsguard themselves. And soon enough he may be the first Stark of the Kingsguard, to act great deeds… but at the moment he was only seven, a boy and nothing more. Seven in a great pit of vipers that was the capital. Jon had seldom heard it spoke in praise by those in Winterfell.
"The Hand knows not of your whereabouts, as yet." Illyrio sniffed and wiped his sweating nose. "I should hope he does not learn at all."
He is the realm's Hand now, and with the title he was above all but the king himself. If Robert Baratheon was to learn of Jon's whereabouts, to see who where had gone, who he was with.
If so, then I have doomed them.
"The King mustn't know," Jon sat up in his large seat, to loom as tall as he could. "He cannot, we have to make sure of it. We have to."
Illyrio nodded his head, chins shaking. "Just so. I will give the word, and my friend across the water will make no mention of you through his whispers to the king and his council. Yes. Good."
Jon swallowed deeply and tried his best to forget about the Stark's. Their faces… the dreams had long since gone, though it wasn't the nights when the thoughts of them truly tormented him.
Illyrio seemed done with the matter, but he suddenly craned his thick neck upwards and said. "But, should you want a message sent, to the Hand? None but his own eyes, of course."
Yes, was Jon's first thought.
I'm safe, he would say. And Ghost too. When you see them next, tell the others that I miss them. And that here in the East I will learn wonders with the sword, so Robb might as well take up needlework with the girls and have Mikken melt down his sword for horseshoes. He would write it all, he thought in a burst, and so much more.
"No." said Jon stubbornly, staring down into black pit of a wooden soup bowl.
He shoved the thoughts away. Robb would hate him, or perhaps he already did. You turned your back on them all, not just Eddard.
"More wine?" Illyrio's voice sounded.
Jon brought his gaze from the bowl, for a moment all he could hear was his own breathing. He nodded his head.
Illyrio was treating him like some honoured guest, like a prince and the highborn boy he never was. In Winterfell's Great Hall had been seated amongst the squires, he remembered as the servants entered, far away from the royal dais. But here, he sat the head of the table.
The servant placed down the flagon and filled two gilded goblets with wine.
Jon looked away, in silence. To the right of them, a huge arching window showed the dark night stretching over Pentos. There were no clouds to fill the air, and the moon was full and bright and broad. How long had he been eating?
Behind him, the doors suddenly swung open. Iron clashed against the marble, booming. Jon winced slightly, the doors were loud, too loud.
He would have turned to see if not for the huge cushioned chair that blocked his view. Instead he turned back to face Illyrio Mopatis. The magister sat drinking his wine, his golden beard gleaming with oils.
The bald serving man passed him a goblet, now full with wine, and bowed his head. Jon nodded back, he knew the bow as not meant for him, though. Then out of the corner of his eye, Duncan appeared.
His garb was ragged, stained leathers. Perhaps they had once been black, but now any other colour was shed from use. His long blue hair was tied back in a brooch of dragonbone, and his beard all tattered and messy.
Duncan sighed as he took his seat at Jon's left hand, shifting himself back onto the large cushions. The seat suited him better, but it was still too large. He reached a gloved hand over the table to grab the flagon of wine.
Perhaps it was Dornish. Theon Greyjoy had once announced Dornish wine whilst they were feasting in Winterfell. The wine he drank now tasted similar on his tongue, but Jon Snow knew nothing about wines.
Duncan filled a goblet until the wine brimmed the gilded edges, lifted it to his mouth, drank and swallowed deeply. Jon watched in silence, his own wine flat and still and red.
The blue-haired man then pulled a small stained sack from under the table. It was a little larger than his hand, and a dirty stained yellow. It was wrapped shut with thin rope, so whatever contents would not spill out. Jon assumed it was gold, though, for the bag jingled as Duncan dropped it into Illyrio's huge hands.
Illyrio looked it over. "Ah, yes. Good."
For a while they sat in silence. Illyrio stroked his beard and drank his wine and ate the suckling pig, whilst Jon watched Duncan. The blue-haired man drank slowly, only stopping to wipe the sweat from his brow.
Jon brought his gaze back down to his own wine, and found he had no want to drink it. He placed the goblet back onto the table.
He opened his hands, taunting them open before clasping them close. He had thought long on the words he planned to say, too long. I have not come here for the magister, he told himself before he said. "The prince and the princess, where are they?"
Their eyes grew wide.
But before he could take another breath Illyrio sat up and said. "Who?
"Those I have crossed the narrow sea to find." Jon stated with a sudden anger in his voice. The wine had made him bold.
"You said that you had eyes watching me in Westeros, you told me that you knew why I was here. Do not ask me who." Jon brought his eyes to the magister. "You brought me here because of them. You could have taken me back to streets, but you let me stay. And now you keep me away, why?"
Why had they brought them before him, to only tear them away? Why were they staying away from him?
"Plans were already made before you arrived. Ones that I do not have the power to change." Said Illyrio Mopatis in reply, he looked over to Duncan.
Their shared gaze made Jon want to end his questioning. To seal his mouth shut and run away from it all, like he would in Winterfell whenever Lady Catelyn shot him a gaze. But he was not in Winterfell anymore. "What plans?" He asked them.
"Jon…" Duncan said slowly. "You do not understand."
"They are here still, I know it." Jon told them, he was nearly standing from his chair. "In this manse."
I have nowhere else to go. No one else.
"And you have found them." Illyrio said simply. "But they have their own plans, as do you. Ready and prepared, see? There is still much to come for you, my lord, much and more."
Jon pondered on those words. Until he shook his head. Words are wind, and I have not come here for any of his plans. He had come here for his own reasons.
"Has Viserys ordered to keep me away?" It was an unsettling thought, but he had not forgotten that first day. Jon Snow, however unlike his uncle's thoughts, had not crossed the narrow sea to fight them.
His fingers tapped lazily against the table. Their silence was answer enough.
Jon looked at Duncan, silent and solemn. He stared into the bottom of his empty goblet, turning the handle between his fingers. "Duncan, you told them about Rhaegar, their brother. Viserys knows, is that not enough?"
Duncan placed the cup down and looked at him. But despite his gaze, he remained silent.
"Is it because of him, did Rhaegar take my mother away?" Did he rape her? He finished silently. Jon placed his hands onto the table, his palms were hot and sweaty.
Is that why Eddard had taken so long to tell him the truth?
Am I a bastard still?
"No." Duncan almost leapt to his feet, his gilded goblet clattered over and rolled in a lazy circle.
"No." He repeated. Jon had known Duncan for but five days, and more often than not that was only from when they walked the manse together, gazing over the many splendors of the house. But never had Jon heard him speak as he did now.
"Robert Baratheon was betrothed to Lyanna, your mother." He said as he stepped away from the table and towards an arched window. His voice seemed no longer hard and stubborn, it was quiet instead, almost sad. "You have heard that Robert had loved her, but that is not the truth."
Duncan stopped before the sill and looked out into the night. "He did not love her; he hardly knew her at all. It was the breaking of the betrothal that sent him wroth, she was meant to be his. And no one else's. When Rhaegar crowned her at the tourney of Harrenhal, it was an insult. And when your father…"
Duncan faced him. "Rhaegar did not take your mother unwillingly, Jon. She… went with him… yet I will not lie to you, his ambitions did no good for the realm. No good for them both."
Who are you? Jon thought to ask, but then Illyrio spoke. His face pale with worry. "And now Robert Baratheon is king and the crowned stag banners flop from the Red Keep." Illyrio clasped his large hands together, gems dancing. "And what a king states is the truth of your realm, lest one's head be took from their shoulders."
Jon lowered his head.
"I must take my leave." He said suddenly, his voice was flat and dry. Jon stood slowly from his chair to find his knees were weak, he gripped the table with one hand and kneaded his wound with the other. It itched again, terribly.
His footsteps echoed in the dining hall as he stepped towards the iron doors, the hall ahead was long and dark and deep. The wine was heavy on his head, perhaps he had drunk too much. But as he walked away from the hall and from magister Illyrio Mopatis and the solemn Duncan, Jon Snow found he no longer cared.
As he stepped under an archway, his thoughts to strayed to Westeros, and back to Winterfell.
He didn't want to think on that, though; not anymore. I had no name there, I was the motherless-bastard of Lord Eddard Stark.
But in truth, he had no mother still. She was dead, just like his father. There was nothing that could change that. He had gone fourteen years unknowing, and now he had turned away from all of it. From all his half-brothers and sisters, now those here were the only ones he could go to.
Would you like to join me in killing them? He remembered Viserys' cruel words, and the feel of his knuckles as he clenched them.
He was here now, all the way from Winterfell to Pentos, with no more ships to board or roads to walk or inns to bed down in. So why did he feel so empty?
Ghost waited inside his chambers. He had grown over their stay, and no longer was he the pup that he had found in the snow-covered grass, now he had killed a man.
Jon knelt to run a hand over his white bristles and stare into those deep red eyes. Ghost licked at his face.
"Come." Jon stood and gestured to the bed. It was much larger to those in Winterfell, and draped with pure white silk instead of the old blue's and the grey's and the black's.
Ghost leapt forward. Before Jon could kick off his boots, the wolf had buried himself at the foot of the bed. His snout tucked into his own furs.
Jon stumbled over to join him. The chamber was dark, the hearth guttered and black. Someone had come to close to the shutters to the balcony whilst he was feasting.
None of it mattered. Once his head crashed with the pillow, he slept.
But no sooner was he awake.
Dusky yellow light leaked through the shutters of his balcony, promising another hot and humid day to make him sweat through his smallclothes. Jon coughed.
Outside, beyond the walls of the manse he could hear the sea brushing against the city. Waves rolling atop waves, and in the distance a bird cawed.
Jon rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he could hear other things out there too. The foreign tongues hailing to one another, some deep and grungy, others high and squeaking. It seemed to make no matter what time you woke; they were always there. All day would they shout, and most of the nights. He could hear the children too, beyond the walls of the manse. Giggling as they played their games in nothing but ragged tatters.
Perhaps I would be out there with them, Jon thought as he flipped the sheets away with a hand, if I had not followed Duncan from the brothel.
Jon scratched his side, tracing his fingers lightly over the reddened skin that rested there. The gash would scar deeply, he knew, but it itched less this morn. He was thankful for that, at least.
He sat for a moment, his bare feet ghosting the cold marble. Ghost was still bundled in his own furs, resting atop the messy white sheets. Jon wished he could rest longer, the tiredness clung to his eyes, but he forced them open.
His head still hurt all the same though, and he cared little to admit it. Perhaps it would be wiser not to feast with Magister Illyrio again, he had eaten like a king – and a king he was not.
Jon filled the basin from a flagon of water atop the table, washed his face and hands, opened the cedar chest beside his bed and donned a thin set of white woolens, laced up a black jerkin of supple leather, and pulled on a pair of polished boots. The chest, was in all ways, similar to the one he had on the Wind's Wave. The one that had fashioned his very own cabin aboard the ship, a cedar-wood chest filled with his plate and mail and dirks.
And everything from that chest had had gone into the saddle sack since his departure in Braavos, when Aren had led him to the Ragman's Harbor. He hadn't seen the saddle sack since Duncan had found him, nor the mail or the steel or the dirks; and all from Winterfell they were. He would need to ask on Duncan to whether he brought it with him to the manse, or if they had left in the narrow streets; still atop the sandy stone.
It was just a sack to them, old and dirty and small. But to Jon, it was so much more.
Perhaps it was best that he forgot it.
When he turned, Ghost stood facing the closed shutters of the balcony, testing his paws along the cold marble floor. He then turned his long head and looked back at Jon with pleading red eyes.
"Do you take me for your thrall?" Jon asked, he knew what Ghost wanted. Jon crossed the bed to the shutters and pushed them open.
The heat of the morning hit him in the face. He blinked his eyes to cease the dryness of them, the sun was bright and high and blinding. Staring out upon the city of Pentos from the balcony, he could see it all. The square towers, the tiled roofs and the other manse's, the temples of the red priests, the bay and sea, and all of it shimmering.
Ghost stepped out on the balcony and sniffed at the morning air, the bristles of his fur swaying softly in the winds that rolled from the sea. Jon knelt to run a hand over his back and smiled, Ghost was the first direwolf to step on the lands of Essos, to ever cross the narrow sea. He had heard no stories on it in the past.
Now Ghost has killed a man too, and saved mine own life. The thought made his wound twitch and scratch, Jon turned from the balcony and closed the cedar chest.
He often wondered where the Wind's Wave had set its sails since he left them, he could remember the black and crimson flapping in the wind. But he could remember Jacks too, who each night when they gathered had boasted stories of sailing from the Summer Isles to the reaches of the Jade Sea, perhaps that was where they were sailing.
They were hired, Jon reminded himself, they were not your friends. They were paid and told, trained in each word and look and glance. Paid by the very man that fed Jon his meat and mead, or rather wine. The Magister was mayhaps the only reason why Jon was not still searching the streets hopelessly.
But Aren… he was different. Where the others wanted to keep me, he begged to take me away, to follow him.
Yet he was gone too, like all others of his past.
He found Duncan in the hall outside his chambers.
He had a wary look about his face. His blue hair was still unclean, Jon noticed, and he could see the becoming of another colour through strands of beard around his mouth. They looked simply white, but darkened. The brigandine about his chest was the same brown from when Jon had seen it last, and to his feet fell the same cerulean cloak, old but clean.
On his back was the greatsword in all its glory – all the glory that Jon had never seen.
"Duncan." Jon raised a hand to stop him. He had left Ghost in his chambers, where Magister Illyrio had ordered him confinement; in fear that should the direwolf escape, himself or one of his slaves would be at risk.
Jon knew it would never come to that. "I'm sorry, for how I was last night." He was a man-grown now, and honorable men had to take responsibility for their own doings. "It was unseemly of me."
Duncan lifted a gloved hand to his shoulder. Iron studded, Jon cared to notice, and before Duncan could speak he asked. "Where are you going?"
He lowered his hand back down to his side, sighing. "Magister Illyrio has need of me. In the city. I'll only be gone for the day, should all go well."
Jon's eyes went back to the greatsword, he could remember the smoky Valyrian steel of Ice and the ripples that swirled along the steel. Was this greatsword Valyrian too?
Down from Duncan's belt hung the two crescent daggers, those he had pierced in the throats of those two men. "I'll go with you." Jon said, he watched Duncan's face for a response.
"No." He replied in a hard voice, the same that he had used in the dining hall the night before. "You are wounded, until then you do not leave this manse."
His wound hurt no more. Well, not as much, it only itched.
And he walked the manse each day, over and over again. At times, Illyrio's manse seemed as large as Winterfell. It wasn't, Jon knew, but he was sure that he had seen all there was to it. The dusky wine cellar beneath the dining hall, dark and crammed with barrels of all the wine that anyone could ever lust for; or even the smaller gardens to the west, there were no cherry trees or painted statues there, but there was silence.
"It's healed. I can go with you." Jon told him. He looked Duncan in the eyes. "I can protect myself."
"Illyrio wouldn't want you leaving the manse."
"I don't need his permission." I'm not a slave, he finished silently.
Duncan thought on his words and shook his head, but then he faced him again and said. "You'll be needing yourself a cloak, then. And bring your wolf with you."
Jon smiled and turned back into his chambers. From the cedar chest he found a hooded cloak of deep black wool, he clasped it to his shoulders and found Ghost on the balcony, laid atop the pale stone. The wolf followed him eagerly, he too was desperate to be free of the chambers.
He followed Duncan from the hall, his feet falling in silence. They crossed through a pillared gallery and under an archway. Each and every thing about this manse was splashed with splendor, gold in the place of wood, polished marble instead of steel, ruby and amethysts and onyx, archways instead of doors. So much so even the statue centering the courtyard wielded live steel, not stone wrought into a sword.
Ghost followed at his side. Jon kept a hand on his neck, his fingers brushing the white bristles he found there. He was without a sword himself, or even his Valyrian steel dagger. But Ghost had saved his life in the past, where his sword and dagger had failed him.
At the main entrance, where the unmoving guards stood sentry day and night, the two men that had been in the brothel were waiting for them.
They were clad in rough boiled leather, patched and mottled. Such was not suited for this weather, but Jon didn't question them, he had no need of asking where they were going. Sheathed longswords hung from their belts, their scabbards gilded with gold. Jon watched them as he approached.
"Marys," Duncan said to the one with the jet colored hair. "Watch this one when we go, closely."
Jon saw no need in that. He would not try to run from them, if that was what Duncan feared. He knew little and less about the Free City of Pentos, and the streets were but crowded mazes to him, long and serpentine.
"I had thought it just the three of us." Marys replied in a thick accent, so thick Jon could only just make out the words. He looked at Jon and then his direwolf, his eyes widened. "And what about this thing?"
"It comes too." Duncan said, then he faced the other.
Duncan passed the smaller man a piece of old parchment, blotched yellow and frayed.
He glanced his small-set eyes over the contents and nodded his head.
Here the twelve-foot brick walls of the manse met and formed a wide arch, shadowing the thick iron gate that loomed before them. Duncan gestured his hand and the guards in their pointed hats unbarred the gate, all in silence.
The gates groaned as they were pushed outwards, revealing the sloping road before them. A wind swept up to meet Jon's face, he blinked his eyes away of the dust. Beside him, Ghost shook his fur.
"Come on." Duncan began his descent, and the rest of them followed.
The path was shorter than what it looked. The pale square buildings soon surrounded them, and Illyrio Mopatis' manse was lost to the tall wooden stalls and tattered sheets that hung from roof to roof. Sheets of green and red and blue, cloth and wool and silk, and each of them ripped and taut.
"You look lost." Marys said to him suddenly, he kept Jon's right side, the longsword on his belt shaking. Clank, clank, clank.
"I am." Jon replied.
They had not reached the thick of the streets yet, where thrice a step without smacking another's shoulder was a rarity, and men and women hailed at another whilst children ran underfoot. But they were fast approaching, Jon did not want to lose them to the crowds.
He stepped beside Duncan, who took long steps in silence, a hardness about his face. "Where are we going?" He asked.
"To the bay," Duncan replied, Ghost came gliding past them to walk in front. "Keep an eye on your wolf, such a sight is rare enough here."
"Ghost wouldn't let anyone else touch him." Jon said, he was sure of that.
"That was what I feared. I hope not to see any torn hands today, Jon."
Jon lowered his head. "Ghost, to me." He said sternly, the direwolf obeyed.
They made the rest of the way in silence, moving through the crowds. Much to his own surprise, Ghost past most unnoticed. There were too many people, he supposed, far too many to notice something brushing against your legs.
When they finally reached the bay, the salt of the sea filled his nostrils. He could see the beginnings of a storm reaching them.
The galleys and trading cogs lined the jetty's, swaying atop waves, creaking and groaning. Their sails flashed in the sun, blue and red and green. Whilst below them sailors crossed decks, armed with crates and shipments, sweat beading on their brows and shaven heads.
Jon pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, he wouldn't chance on anyone noticing him. Duncan pointed a gloved finger to a trading cog, bearing ivy sails and said. "There."
The small man glanced across his parchment with brown pooling eyes, lifted his head and nodded.
Marys gripped Jon by the arm, pulling on the leather of his sleeve. "Stay close. Did Duncan tell you why we come here, yes?"
"No." Jon replied, his side itched horribly.
The tall man grinned. "You will see, I am sure."
Jon followed them over the jetty's, their feet thudding on the wooden planks. He glanced at the sea as they passed, the deep blue-green waters, rippling. A sickness formed in his belly, he looked away.
Once they were at the prow of the cog, the figurehead of a fair maid casting a shadow over them, Duncan brought the hood of cerulean cloak up and over his head. Then Marys did the same, and finally the smaller man, who squeezed the parchment in his hand and tossed it into the waters.
The deck was empty, they found, and full with shipments. He remembered the Wind's Wave, when each morn or night he would carry the crates from the belly and upwards onto the deck, with Myke and the others helping him. Then Marys pulled him again, and the thought fell away.
Duncan eased the small door of the quarter deck open and nodded them in. Jon followed, behind him Ghost let out a growl.
Before he could pass under the door, Marys turned and blocked the way. "You stay here. Make sure no one enters." He could see a cabin, shadowy with a single square window. Then the door was slammed shut before he could reply.
Jon turned. Be that as it may, he thought. He had asked Duncan to bring him along, and so he would not question their orders. He knelt down at the door and stroked Ghost's head, he felt no fear when he was with the wolf.
A crash sounded from inside, then a deep groan, like someone sighing in pain. Jon ignored it. He remembered the body on the sandy stone of the path, laid amongst broken porcelain and splinters. He remembered the silence as he stuck his longsword deep into the man's chest. He made no sounds, not then.
You will see, Marys had said, tugging on his sleeve. All he could see now as an empty deck and shipments and sails. Jon scratched the side of his jerkin, under the black cover of his cloak.
Before he could lower his hand, the door swung open.
Jon stumbled and fell onto his back, shouts flashed in his ears. The blue sky above him, clear of clouds, turned to old black wood.
He felt a boot stamp on his fingers, twisting them. Pain shot through his arm. He tried to groan, to shout but the Ghost leapt over his head, muffling him with soft white fur.
In the midst of it all, he heard Duncan roar his name.
Then there was a snarl, and a tear and a scream. Jon whirled to his feet, clutching his fingers carefully.
Ghost buried his fangs into his legs, whilst Duncan and Marys held down his arms. It was the captain, Jon realized, who they were holding down. Soiled and screaming.
Jon blinked and wiped his eyes. "Ghost, to me!" He shouted. The direwolf brought free his fangs and moved away, solemn and silent.
The captain continued to scream, the blood pooling around his leg through torn green breeches. Duncan ripped free a rag of cloth and buried it in his open mouth, muffling his cries. Jon closed the cabin door slowly.
"You see?" Maryn faced him, grinning.
A crimson gash shined beside Duncan's left eye, blood leaked and caked in his blue beard. He pointed to the small man, his breath heavy. "Aerar, grab the chest."
Aerar obeyed, sheathing his longsword. The chest was in the corner, blackened with shadows. He lifted it with a groan and placed it atop the table.
Then steel flashed, Jon saw the crescent blade of a dagger, shining from the finger of light that poked through the small square window.
Duncan scratched the point along the captain's sweating neck, until he buried it deep, and pulled.
The captain gurgled, choking, but Jon did not move his gaze, He had seen worse, he had seen Lord Eddard Stark take the head of many men with his greatsword, he had seen his own skin hanging from bloody tendrils.
He had seen his own blade dig into flesh.
Duncan sheathed his dagger.
"Now we must return."
Daenerys
"Come, sister." Viserys turned away from the balcony. His pale lilac eyes flashed with amusement, Dany felt a sudden fright. "The dragon does not forget, you remember the Bastard, do you not?"
There are no more dragons, Dany thought, staring at her brother, though she did not dare say it aloud. "Yes." She whispered hesitantly, she did not know whether it was the right answer.
"Good."
He led her from the empty dining hall, silent and grinning.
She was grateful to be out of her chambers, where of late she had never left, under the watchful eye of her brother. He never told her why, but he never had to. Dany knew why. But all she could do was obey him, she had no hopes to seek the boy out, to wake the dragon.
That she had sworn. He was her brother and her lord, the true Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, not the Usurper. All his lands where theirs, he said like a ritual, he had promised his revenge at their encounter a week past.
And soon he would have his army… but Dany did not want to think about that.
She followed him through a pair of wide black doors, her eyes glanced over the serpents and the sphinxes cut into the iron, curling amongst one another. She thought of Illyrio Mopatis, and the grin that curled on his face when her brother spoke. Ahead of her, Viserys paced eagerly, his smile wide and frightening.
Dany knew not to where he was leading her. But she did know that if it was fascinating for her brother, it was not often fascinating for her.
The coldness pricked at the skin of her bare arms as they descended from the warmth of the manse. They passed under the largest archway, grand with tall white pillars, and stepped outside. Above, past the leaves of the trees that lined the path she could see the sky was shot with clouds, white and grey, and cold. She hugged her arms together as they traced the steps.
At the bottom, the thick iron gates were stretched open, leaving the Free City of Pentos bare before her eyes. She could see the square towers and pale buildings all gathered around the bay, and the sea that stretched on and on, all the way to Seven Kingdom's and their lands.
Below the arch of the brick walls, Unsullied guards stood sentry with their spears, pale shaven faces hard and flat. Dany cast her gaze away from them, they frightened her. But in the Free Cities there was seldom an a magister, archon or dynast without their slave soldiers.
Beside the still eunuchs, passing under a shadow, she saw Duncan. Her shield, Dany couldn't help but smile. His face was stained with blood, falling from the side of his left eye. In the vivid light poking through the clouds, his eyes seemed more blue than what they truly were, but Dany knew they were like her own. No matter the light made sometimes made them seem.
Viserys stopped before her and held out it his hand, beckoning her to stop.
Marys came too, tall and simple in his roughened leathers. From his belt clanked a sheathed longsword, a gilded scabbard. Aerar walked beside them too. Dany knew all their names.
In his hands was a large chest, blackened yet banded with iron. Dany knew she need not ask to know where they had been, or what they had done.
Since their arrival in Pentos, and when Magister Illyrio took them into his house, Duncan had offered his sword to the merchant. And should the need arise, when Illyrio Mopatis had been cheated in some foul trade, he would send Duncan to go and see them.
And it often ended in blood.
"Look, sister." Her brother caught her wrist and pulled her forward. She could see them more clearly now, the sand swept in from the gate having gone away.
Then she saw him.
"The Bastard shows himself."
Her heart quickened. You hid from him, a voice inside her insisted, you don't want wake the dragon, whispered another. She sealed her mouth shut, the smile fell away from her face.
When she tried to step away, Viserys pulled her forwards. His fingers dug into her skin, hard until she thought she might bleed.
Dany felt colder now, goose pimples rose on her pale skin as the breeze crept past her. And further onwards they still came, walking tiredly.
What did her brother mean to do? She looked down at the borrowed sword on his hip. He has never killed a man, nor unsheathed that blade in earnest. But it was the Bastard who had gone out with them into the city, to act the deeds she knew all too well, not her brother.
Duncan pressed a hand in front of the bastard, who stared upon them with hard eyes. Grey, not like ours, she tried to remind herself. Dany shrunk backwards, only for her brother to pull her forward again.
"Do not cower before him." Viserys said in a low voice. "We are dragons."
Then Duncan's arm was pushed away, slowly falling to his side; and the boy-was-her-nephew was striding towards them.
She wanted to turn away, to run back to her chambers and bar the doors. To tell him to leave too, to not wake the dragon. But her brothers grip was like iron, why were they here?
When he was upon them, her brother lifted his chin high and said. "I see Illyrio has made you his pet."
Behind him, Duncan watched closely. Whilst Aerar and Marys walked away. "I am not his pet." Jon Snow said sternly, his gloved hands were clenched into fists. He has no weapon, she noticed, no sword or dagger at his belt.
She did not want them to fight. She did not want her brother to get hurt.
"The wolves and the stags and lions are all pets to the dragon." Viserys inched closer to him. "I shall kill the Usurper myself," said he had never killed anyone. "as he killed my brother Rhaegar. I shall kill Stark and Lannister too, the Kingslayer, for what he did to my father. Not serve them, like you. You mock your father!"
Viserys let go of her hand, she kneaded the red skin there. He did hurt her, sometimes. Jon watched the action closely until a growl met their ears and he looked away.
For a moment she thought the dragon had woken, but there were no more dragons – and Viserys was only a man, her brother.
Two blood-red orbs came peering at her from behind the bastard's legs. Deep and smoldering, blazing. Dany's breath caught in her throat, she tried to gasp but found she could not, nor scream or cry or call for help. She was frozen and silent.
Its coat was as white as snow, the furs bristling in the wind.
It was a wolf.
"Duncan," her brother mumbled. His voice was dry and quiet, and scared. He swallowed it clear, moving away as the wolf padded closer. "KILL IT!"
Duncan stepped closer, for a moment Dany thought he meant to unsheathe the blade on his back, but instead he simply grabbed Jon by the arm, who stared baffled. He moved his grey-gaze towards her. She could feel tears burning her eyes and leaving cold trails down her cheeks.
"Ghost, back! To me!"
The wolf's jaw snapped shut. It bowed its long head and turned away.
Above, the tall pines shook wildly and their leaves whistled in the wind. The coldness seemed to make the tears freeze on her cheeks, she wiped them away with a hand. Dany had never been so afraid…
… but she was blood of the dragon.
"You set your beast on me?" Her brother spat, the anger and fire returned to his voice. But he didn't move any closer. "I am a king!"
Jon Snow shook his head. "No. He is a direwolf, Your Grace."
A direwolf.
Dany had never heard of the direwolf before, not from her brother or Duncan, nor the willowy slave girl who told Dany stories whilst she bathed. She had never seen a real wolf before either.
The only wolves she had ever known were the Stark's of Winterfell, and they were not real wolves.
Duncan ran a hand through his blue hair. "Jon, keep your wolf away."
"I wouldn't let him hurt you." Their nephew said, his voice was lighter than it had been. He looked her brother in the eyes. "I never meant to."
Dany didn't listen, neither did she watch. Her violet eyes were set on the direwolf, the more she gazed the less frightful she felt. Until she couldn't take her eyes away, and all the fright had left her.
When Ghost met her gaze, a gasp nearly spilled from her mouth. But the direwolf only cocked its head and watched her with narrow crimson eyes, still and silent.
She wanted to reach out a hand and stroke the pale fur. Then she tried to remember the fangs, and the growls. Dany moved her eyes away.
When she lifted her head, Illyrio Mopatis was stepping towards them.
"What is this?" His voice was rasped and breathy, his chins shook wildly as walked. "Oh! Put away your wolf! How did he escape your chambers?"
"I let him. He is not a dog to be locked away." Jon reached a hand down and scratched behind his ears, his chin high. The direwolf seemed to lean into his touch. "He won't hurt anybody whilst I'm here."
Illyrio turned towards them, whilst Duncan swept Jon aside, his direwolf following behind. "No no," the magister said desperately. "Why are you here?"
Her brother seethed. "I am a king; I go where I please."
The magister seemed hurt, he lifted a hand to his head. "Of course, Your Grace. But we had agreed, yes?"
Viserys shook his head. "I agreed to nothing. I will not be confined to a bedchamber whilst the dog is free to go where he likes." Her brother wrapped his hand around the hilt of his borrowed sword. He will not use it, she knew, so did Illyrio it seemed. "Once my sister is wed to Khal Drogo, I shall have my army. He has nothing!"
Illyrio bowed his head. "Just so."
Before he could continue, her brother turned to her and said. "We won't need his whole khalasar, sister."
The anger was gone from his voice, instead he was amused. "Ten thousand, that would be enough, I could sweep the Seven Kingdoms with ten thousand Dothraki screamers. And the realm will rise for its rightful king. Tyrell, Redwyne, Darry, Greyjoy, they have no more love for the Usurper than I do."
He wrapped a hand around her wrist. "And the Dornishmen burn to avenge Elia and her children. And the smallfolk will be with us. They cry out for their king."
He turned to look at Illyrio anxiously. "They do, don't they?"
Magister Illyrio nodded his head. "They are your people, and they love you well." He gave a massive shrug. "Or so my agents tell me."
Dany had no agents, no way of knowing what anyone was doing or thinking across the narrow sea, but she mistrusted Illyrio's words.
"Come." The Magister beckoned them to follow him. Viserys let go of her wrist, whilst Dany trailed behind him.
Once my sister is wed. All of her brother's plans were dependent on her marriage, the ten thousand Dothraki screamers and the death of the Usurper, the fall of Lannister and Stark, to take back their lands.
I don't want to be his queen, she thought, I am blood of the dragon too. But before she could voice her objections, a steady hand gripped her shoulder.
"My lady." Duncan turned her around.
From the side of his eye, the gash shined red. Blood had leaked and fell to stain his blue beard, caked and dry. "Why did you await us?"
Dany shook her head. "It wasn't me. It was Viserys, I didn't know."
She turned to see if her brother had heard, but he was gone, him and the magister.
"I will have to marry him, won't I?" She asked as she turned back to Duncan, or I will wake the dragon like never before, and all my brother's hopes will fail. Her hands were trembling. "No Duncan, please. Please, I don't want to, I don't want to."
The line must be kept pure, Viserys had told her a thousand times; theirs was the kingsblood, the golden blood of Old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Dragons did not mate with the beasts of the field, and Targaryen's did not mingle their blood with that of lesser men. Yet now Viserys schemed to sell her to a stranger, a barbarian.
Duncan did not answer her, instead he said. "Return to your chambers, Daenerys, and seek none out."
Dany knew his voice offered no argument. Without another word she turned on her heel and began climbing the large square steps, her legs were weak and cold. She felt like a child once more, thirteen and all alone with no one to help her; and soon she would have to marry, that she knew, Duncan's silence was clear enough.
She remembered Ghost, and the direwolf's narrow red eyes and white fur. She had been afraid at first, afraid of the growls and the long fangs. But the more that she watched the less fearful she became, she was blood of the dragon.
Viserys was scared too, more than she had ever seen him so. They were all pets to the dragon, he had said, but there were no dragons to guard him when the wolf approached. And in those five days since their gathering in the hall, her brother had fumed each night, but never sought out their nephew come the day.
There were no more dragons, they were all dead…
… yet that night, when the sun had fallen to the east and the darkness set over Pentos, Dany dreamt of one.
Viserys was hitting her, hurting her. She was naked and clumsy with fear.
She ran from him, but her body seemed thick and ungainly. Her brother struck her again. She stumbled and fell. "You woke the dragon," he screamed as he began to kick her. "You woke the dragon, you woke the dragon."
Her thighs were slick with blood. She closed her eyes and whimpered. As if in answer, there was a hideous ripping sound and the crackling of some great fire. When she looked again, Viserys was gone, great columns of flame rose all around, and in the midst of them was the dragon.
But no sooner was it gone too, lost to a whip of scarlet flame. Yet the eyes remained, narrow and still and watching.
Red eyes.
Shining like blood.
A very long wait, to which I apologize; but a very long chapter, it was the most difficult one yet surprisingly. Hopefully, it will not take so long next time. The support for this story has been mental, thank you to everyone who left a follow/fav or a review, I really appreciate it. The wait was long but in no way is this story abandoned.
Thanks.