THE SCARRED SWORD
"Wait here. See that she arrives within the hour. I'll find you there."
Marys Ormos had waited outside the grass-and-wood palace of Daenerys Targaryen, silently, for what felt like an eternity. Perhaps the night had gone by with him stood there, foolish and unmoving, and the sun was soon to rise. What was the purpose of a guard? He wondered. In the sacred city of Vaes Dothrak, even the most savage of riders would not dare spill blood, lest they anger their gods.
He knew for a certainty that no harm would come to the girl, yet here he stood beside the doorway; a dutiful, cold sellsword. The sun had fallen beneath the horizon, a lifetime ago, and with it the warmth. The cold night sky above was black and lit with stars. More than once had the thought occurred to him of entering the tent to see what the young girl was waiting for, but the Dothraki did not appreciate being rushed, and so he had settled on trying to listen for their voices for any indication.
That had not helped. Tonight, the young khaleesi was to be presented to the dosh khaleen, leaving the camp alive with a hundred thousand voices all muttering in excitement. Khal Jhaggo had arrived a few nights ago, with Khal Ogo in tow. The men and women and slaves of their khalasar's filling the hovels and huts and alleys, reeking of shit and oil.
At least here, when he sniffed, he smelled horsemeat. The smells came from the great plumes of smoke rising in the distance, beside the tall temple of the crones that towered over the mud-and-grass castles ahead. That was where Duncan waited, with the fires and the warmth and the people.
Curse that man, Marys thought with a frown, shifting from one foot to the other. He would have spit on the dirt if his mouth wasn't so dry. Why had he agreed to this? Duncan had given the order in his usual manner, a simple request that was much more demanding than it sounded. When he got those deep purple eyes on you, though, Marys found it was hard to disobey.
And Duncan knew it. That was how he had convinced them to join the khas in the first place, a long stern stare that spoke more words than he ever could. Marys had thought of disobeying him then, as he had now. A khas? What fool would do such a thing? The girl had enough men about her already, and Marys had seen no need for more. It was Duncan's own distrust of Dothraki that needed watching, his fear that they would hurt his precious princess.
Yet when Aerar had simply nodded like some soldier without a tongue, galloped his horse towards the head of the khalasar where his new duty lied, Marys could only keep his silence and follow.
He was starting to regret that. "This is nothing." The young rider, Rakharo, was sat upon a rock two foot from the doorway, speaking to the other riders of the ko. They were waiting as well. Marys had always been called a simple man, and the wreck of his jaw was proof of that, but the Dothraki tongue had come easy to him at least.
It was useful in times like these. "You will see." Rakharo said, standing from his rock. "Drogo will have all the khalasar's of the world see his son."
The child, he thought, wincing as a flash of pain danced along the raw skin of his jaw. Even though it happened often, he was never quite ready, nor when he pushed his tongue forward, hoping to find teeth, and was reminded that they were not all there. Aerar had called it a mercy, the other man was dead and rotting on that hull, but Marys was not so sure.
The even younger rider, Jhogo, shook his head. "How could you know? What if the crones say she has a daughter?"
Aggo, the eldest, spat loudly. Marys watched it fly through the air, crack against the rock and slither down into the grass, brown and yellow. "Then god is cruel, and she will be left in the sands to die. Khaleesi will eat the horse heart to earn gods favour, it is known."
Marys gritted his teeth and looked away, hands tightly clasped together in front of him. He felt the urge to grip a sword's hilt, to feel the leather burn against his palm, but no swords may enter the sacred grounds of the city. Perhaps the girl was better off with him and Aerar, and the boy Jon Snow. No girl and her babe deserved to be left to the sands to die. The riders of her ko were able warriors all, but still sought more favour with the khal than protecting the khaleesi.
Yet where were they now? It was only Marys himself who had been set on this fool's errand, Aerar and the boy were nowhere to be seen. The temple, he thought, listening to the distant sounds of laughter carried through the wind. The riders of the ko started laughing at some jape. Poor company, he thought. Marys would've preferred Jon Snow to be with him.
He had spent most of the journey with the boy, telling him tales and stories. He found most of them useless, Marys did not doubt. As I did, he thought. It was not the first time Marys had set foot on the sacred sands of Vaes Dothrak, and he could not deny he liked the boy's company… or was it just the sound of his own voice? A reminder that he could still use it? The silence scared him, left him alone with his thoughts, and even though it pained the taut skin around his lips when he spoke, it was still a relief.
Trouble seemed to latch on the boy like some desperate whore, as well. Marys had watched him scamper through the city with the handmaiden, intent on protecting her from any affront his uncle might offer. Honourable, sure. Viserys was cruel enough, he knew… but honour meant nothing here, and was like to get you killed.
Marys looked down at the grass beneath his boots, what else was there to look at when standing idle as a guard? He remembered the night Viserys had come stumbling into the very place he stood, bleeding. He had thought Jon was at blame. It was death to draw blood here. No one knew that better than Marys. But it had been Daenerys herself who had struck him, the girl had found some wild courage, and afterwards Viserys had not spoken a word of it.
Yet, that was not the end of it. Duncan had told them to watch him from that moment on. The risk was too great. They had followed him as he returned to his hut, to brood alone, and Marys had thought was that was enough. The king would seethe, swear oaths to the dark, and the next day come out and join his sister again, as the cowardly bastard that he was. But of late, the Beggar King had been begging. With the arrival of the khal, merchants had flooded the bazaars, and with them Viserys found city wine and promises.
"Move, fool man." He had not seen the small girl in the doorway, and jumped when she prodded him in the rib with a finger. It hurt more than it should have. Marys looked back at her for a moment, still, as she stared back at him with dark impatient eyes.
He moved, clear of the doorway, for the first time in what felt like years. His legs were numb, hesitant to give way, aching each time he took a step, but he did not show any sign of it. Sighing was just as painful. Damn them all, he thought as he ghosted a finger over the red skin of his mouth, it hurts to breathe.
Marys sniffed loudly, smelling the scent of horsemeat, and put the pain to the back of his mind. It would not do well in this place, were only strength mattered, there was no sympathy to be found here. He stood quiet in the mud and watched the door.
Daenerys Targaryen came striding out of the tent wearing smooth Dothraki sandsilk, golden bands wrapped around her arms and wrists, engraved with old runes. A long black cloak flowed from her shoulders, brushing against her ankles. Marys remembered when she was presented to the khal in Pentos, small and timid and scared, when she had looked the girl she was.
The handmaids had fashioned her hair, long and silver, into an intricate bread that brushed against the small of her back. Perhaps that had taken the most amount of time. Marys did not look to meet her eyes. The girls face was a mask, as stern as Jon Snow's, as she was helped into the saddle by her handmaids. She could no longer climb it herself, he noticed, for her belly was big with child.
Only once she was steady in the saddle, bare feet settled within the short stirrups, did the khas mount their horses. The handmaidens climbed up upon their small filly's backs, riding abreast behind their khaleesi. The riders of the ko had horses of a bigger sort, Marys saw. Aggo's stallion was black as night, the others brown and sable, smaller. They were the younger mounts for the younger riders, yet whickered just as wildly as they were mounted.
Marys was stood still once again, feeling his legs cramping. Fool, my horse! He felt a blaze of panic go through him, as the horse's long faces watched him at every turn, whickering aloud. A hoof kicked up dirt to his left, and he nearly jumped in fear.
His chin was flaring in so much pain his eyes began to water, but he found Blackblood behind the hut in stifled silence. Breathe, he thought, as the healer had suggested when the pain caught him; but then he remembered that hurt too.
They had already reached the Godsway when he caught them, riding slowly down the narrow muddy-road that ran from the Horse Gate to the Mother of Mountains. Marys took the rear, treading behind the walking slaves in sullen silence. Why do I bother? The path was flanked by hovels leaning on one another. Marys saw the many faces that poked from the small cracks between them, blanketed in darkness. Some were frightened faces, faces of those too old and too young to attend ceremonies, leaning against each other much like the shelters around them. Those are the ones who smell of shit, he thought.
He sniffed the air once again and smelt the charred horsemeat, rising with the smoke of the firepits. He licked his lips, out of habit, and great spikes of pain spiraled from his mouth and to his head, tendrils shaking through his body. Fool, he thought laughably, gripping the reins so tight they burned his palms. There was nothing to do but let the pain to see its course.
Yet he nearly forgot it all when through watering eyes, he saw Viserys Targaryen riding down towards them. At his sides were two black walking shadows. Marys rubbed the sting from his eyes and saw that the men were eunuch guards, from the markets, tall and deadly. Eerily silent.
Their heads were as bald as eggs, eyes flat and pale, faces so still they seemed dead. They offered him a glance, frowning, stretching the ribbons of blue silk that were tied around their wrists. They would the ribbons to kill you without angering the gods, he knew, choke you without a spot of blood.
Viserys did not seem to notice him, swaying upon his saddle, grinning knowingly. Marys saw the wineskin in his left hand, the other gripping the reins. A pang of sudden terror shot through him. Viserys would not attend the ceremony? He turned over his shoulder to watch them descend into the shadows. Where was he going?
To the market, most like. But, there were no guards left at… A tall rider heralded their coming as they passed the final line of shelters. The temple of the dosh khaleen loomed above in a great big shadow, a shadow cast over a thousand Dothraki as their voices filled the air.
There must have been five thousand of them, at least. Marys had never seen so many people in one place. There were more heads than he could count, and more eyes watching than he dared to think. Men of Drogo's khalasar, and Ogo's and Jhaggo's. They stretched as far back as the distant shelters to the east and west, like insects. Even Marys could see the young boys climbing atop the buildings and each other, pulling on shoulders and heads just to get a better look.
The only thing keeping them apart from the crowd were fierce eunuchs lining their flanks. The men created a wide berth for the khaleesi and her party. Marys let Blackblood lead him into the entrance. He tried his best not to notice them. When he had last been here, it was amongst the crowd. Another head amongst the thousands.
They crossed under the wide arch of the entrance. Marys felt the warmth of the braziers caress the stinging skin on his face. The great silk covers of the domed roof had been pulled away, when he looked upwards, he saw stars. A sight nice enough, Marys thought, but even the old crones did not want to boil under their own roof, that was the true reason. Even within the temple, Marys weighed three hundred onlookers. Huddled against one another like insects.
Their trail was stopped before the center-stand. Daenerys dismounted first, the handmaidens rushing to help her. The crones will not like that, he thought. A slave came running towards his from the crowds, as the others began to dismount. Marys gave her the reins of Blackblood, but held them for a moment as the girl made to turn away. She spun on her heels and stared. Marys scowled then let the reins go.
What now? His legs were still numb from all the standing, and he did not fancy standing much longer. The crowd began to close around him. Daenerys was approaching the center, all the eyes fixed on her. Marys looked at his boots. His duty was finished. Duncan had told him that he would find him here, but how? There were hundreds inside the temple, all squirming and nudging closer to the middle.
I deserve wine, it numbs the pain, and… Viserys, he thought, remembering.
When he turned to leave, back the way he came, a hand grabbed him by the shoulder.
Jon Snow.
"Where are you going?" The boy asked, pushing his way past two men taller than he was. Despite himself, Marys was glad to see a familiar face against all the others. "I was finding you," Marys lied. His voice was faint amongst the sounds mingled in the air, as the old women began to wail.
Jon looked his face up and down, in the way he always did. Those grey eyes working. He had a way of finding truths from lies, Marys had noticed, a useful skill to have. "Well, we're over here."
He shuffled aside – as much as he could – so Marys could see Duncan through a gap between lines heads and shoulders. The man was stood upon a small step, above the others, his shaven cheeks glistening in the firelight. Marys sighed and nodded his head, gesturing Jon forward. I'll have no wine tonight then… but Viserys…
The boy turned and carved them a way through the crowd, earning grunts and curses at every step. The boy did not seem to understand their words, though, and did not let them stop him. Marys brushed through the gaps afterward, weary. He was one of the tallest here, he had to admit, but he could no longer push his way past like he used to.
"Is Viserys here?" Marys asked between gasps, as he glided his way past a mother and her child. The little girl's head brushed against his hip, but the mother paid him no heed. In an instant, they were gone.
He thought the boy had not heard him, until Jon stopped and turned to see if he was still following, and said. "I haven't seen him."
He was going back down the Godsway, Marys thought when they finally stepped into a clearing, towards Daenerys's hut. He took a moment to breathe, grateful for even the smallest of space. The stars were still bright and beautiful, but he found Duncan and the others watching the ceremony, as were the rest.
Marys took the place at his right. The dragon's eggs are there, unguarded. He looked through the crowds below him, and found the three riders of her ko mingled towards the center. Had she left nobody? Sent no one back? Daenerys was stood on the wide circular plinth that stood two feet from the ground, the eldest crone looking down upon her.
The crowd had fallen deadly silent, each man and women and child straining to hear the old women's brittle voices. Marys wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. His tunic clung to his chest, making it hard to breathe. What did he care if Viserys stole the eggs? He would not get far with them, not here! He looked amongst the crowds again, searching for the silver-gold hair through the sea of black braids. Viserys was not here, sure as sunrise.
He remembered the merchants, the two tall eunuchs and their ribbons of silk, the days Aerar had spent following Viserys through the market. Viserys had spoken of taking the dragon's eggs, he remembered, using them to buy his army and his ships and sail to Westeros on waves of plunder. The eggs are unwatched, there for the taking. Curse it, he could not be silent.
When he turned to Duncan, his chin was screaming in pain. But in the Common Tongue, he said, "I notice Viserys is not here."
Duncan did not move. It was as if he had not heard him. Marys looked away, resolute, but then heard a whisper. "Yes. You know Daenerys's struck him, it will take a few days before he-"
"The eggs!" The words came in a desperate gasp. Marys kept his voice as low as he could, but still he saw Jon Snow looking back over his shoulder to watch them. Daenerys had her head bowed before the crone. "Aerar told you what he had been discussing… on the road here, I saw him with some of the guards from the markets. Tonight, he could take them-"
Duncan chuckled. "And do what? It is months to the nearest Free City, and only hours before Daenerys returns to her tent. Drogo would ride him down,"
"And slaughter him, no doubt." Marys said. Duncan looked at him then, the laugh gone from his face.
"You're sweating," He said in a dry tone. He was, badly. Marys could feel it brimming along his nose. What do I care if the evil bastard is rode down? Marys wiped the sweat with a sleeve. Was he just desperate to be out of this temple?
"Go, then." Duncan said after a silence, "do not take Jon with you. Check that the eggs are where they should be. Then return… or stay there, if you like."
Marys needed no more. He nodded his head, ignored the sting in his jaw, and stepped back into the crowd. He imagined Jon Snow was watching him from behind as he trudged towards the archway, wordless. I will have to explain eventually, he thought, but now he could not distract himself with idle thoughts.
He looked over his shoulder as he stepped into the cool air, at Aerar stood sentry by Duncan's side. I should've brought him with me, he thought, if he was taking the eggs, if there was to be a fight…
No. No blood can be spilled in Vaes Dothrak. Marys pushed the rest of his way through the crowd. The ones lingering here, so far behind, were the old, the young and the slaves. Most were too frightened to get in his way. He muttered apologies as he barged past them, and when he finally reached the hovels and huts, fell breathlessly against a wooden beam.
The silence was a great relief, and the cold even better. Just a moment… he let himself catch his breath, head leant against the wood. He clenched his eyes shut, then felt a pinch of pain spread through his jaw, and suddenly he was back on the ship. The iron fist of his opponent was coming towards him through the darkness, unyielding, unstoppable.
He stood. The more time I waste, the further he could run. He looked over his shoulder one last time, to make certain that nobody was watching him. The slaves were all huddled together towards the archway, desperate on seeing the khaleesi upon the stand. What do they care? He turned away and walked away.
It would have been faster had he been mounted, but Blackblood was with the slaves, back at the temple. Instead, Marys crossed the Godsway and walked into the darkness of the thoroughfares that ran between the shelters. It would be quicker, he knew, but darker, and more dangerous. There were no torches to light the way, he could hardly see his own feet before him. Mud was squelching beneath his boots. Or shit, Marys thought. He carried on forward.
The gaps between the walls were growing thinner when a sound rattled behind him. Marys stopped in the darkness, wearier than ever. His sword hand reached for the sword that was not there. Keep going, fool. He took another few steps forward, only to earn a grunt from a man who had been laying in the mud, shrouded in darkness.
He jumped in fear, pain spreading through his mouth like an itch. He focused his eyes, but could not see the man's body, only his small withered face. It was too dark. The deck was dark, he remembered. Marys felt like a boy again, huddling through the streets of Pentos, boiled in the day and drenched in the nights.
Ignoring the ache, he stepped over the shadow of the man's long legs and carried on. He knew he was not being watched. What is there to watch? Amongst the khalasar, he was no one.
It was not long before the shadows gave way to torchlight, and he could breathe again. He stopped, knowing it was foolish, to let his eyes adjust. He would kill for a wineskin, for sleep. Why did I return? Why did I join the khas? He looked back over his shoulder at the darkened, twisting path. The shadows whirled and moved. If the eggs were gone, he would have go back through there, to return to Duncan.
I'll take a torch, he thought, standing straight. The eggs! The girl's fortress of grass and mud and wood was further ahead, lingering in shadow. Marys strode towards it with determination. Behind the low hanging leather straps covering the doorway, the inside was gold with light.
He crossed the pathway in four long strides, and found himself stopping just before entrance. His fist were clenched so hard it hurt. He strained his ears to listen, for voices, for Viserys inside with his eunuch guards, taking the eggs away.
Marys heard night birds circling in the distance, the hiss of torches, the low hum of a hundred conversations; but in the tent, all was silent.
He stepped into the light.
The inside was large and spacious, lit by iron braziers, and empty. The ground beneath his boots was covered in furs and silks, reds and whites and blacks. A strong whiff of scented oil caught him in the nose and made his eyes water, but in the far corner of the tent, he saw a large chest draped in silks and damasks.
He lifted it open, hesitantly, and inside were the three dragon's eggs.
Hard as stone.
JON
"Westeros?"
The tall man nodded his head, black hair falling over his eyes. "Yes, Nightsong, have you heard of the castle? The Singing Towers? It's in the Stormlands, on the Dornish Marches?"
Dorne, Jon thought with a frown, the place my mother died. He had always known he was brought from the south to Winterfell, but never questioned where in the south it was. He had no memories of the red hills and sandy winds of Dorne. Did Eddard feel the same sadness every time he heard it mentioned? He had been there, after all, at the tower.
Beside him, Duncan nodded his head. "Yes… I have, the seat of House Caron?"
Steffon, that was the man's name, smiled ear-to-ear. One of his front teeth jutted inwards, blackened and crooked. "Yes! My half-brother, Bryce Caron of the Marches! He's ruled the castle since my father died, with my sister Serilla."
He had sat beside Robb as they studied maps and history and houses, under the watchful eyes of Maester Luwin, but Jon could not remember ever hearing of a House Caron, or a castle Nightsong at that. It wasn't a great house. He looked over his shoulder, wearily. The Western Market was fill to bursting, a stall shadowing every foot of grass, the air full with a thousand voices. "Half-brother?" Duncan said, "you're a Storm, then?"
Jon turned to watch him answer, feeling his chest tighten. The man was silent for a moment, looking down at them with wide blue eyes, until he lifted his chin said, "I am, and my brother Ser Rolland is too. He was the first. They call him the Bastard of Nightsong."
Grimacing, Jon remembered when men had called him Bastard of Winterfell behind his back, young guards like Desmond and Jacks and Wyl, thinking he had not heard. He had hated it, sworn that one day no one would ever call him a bastard again. This Rolland couldn't have wanted this name, could he? Steffon Storm had no shame in his voice, no anger in his eyes. He spoke it as proudly as if his brother was a king.
The sun was high and bright, peeling back the morning air. Daenerys had summoned her khas upon the first light of dawn, when the city of Vaes Dothrak was beginning to wake and merchant caravans were flooding down the Godsway. Jon had mounted, half-asleep, and joined the long litter into the Western Market, to explore the new goods that had arrived overnight through heavy-lidded eyes.
The sounds and queer smells had woken him soon enough. It was hard to find silence in Vaes Dothrak. They had stopped at several drinking halls and burrows, looking through stored goods in deep underground cellars. It was cold there beneath the mud, Jon found he wished he was there now.
Instead, that was where he had left them. Duncan pulled him aside to visit a smith who had come from Lannisport. Jon was hesitant at first, remembering the smug look on the Lannister's faces as they feasted in the Great Hall of Winterfell, but he had eventually relented. Daenerys would ride for hours amongst the stalls before noticing they were gone. They had left their horses with Marys and Aerar and descended into the crowds.
The smith, however, was a Tyroshi with a trident-forked beard the colour of spun gold. He sold plate and shields, helms wrought into beasts, all for a heavy price, intricate and enameled. Too fanciful for Jon's liking. Amongst his display were no swords, though. No swords or weapons of any kind were allowed on the grounds of Vaes Dothrak, Jon knew.
Yet the man had a guard all the same. A Stormlander with dark black hair and blue eyes, dressed in brown, easily more than six and a half feet tall. To Jon, he looked like he knew how to use a sword.
"And your names?" Steffon Storm asked, not unkindly. Jon could sense the curiousness in his voice. But does he suspect? Jon lowered his eyes, so the man would not see the worry in them. It was the boy in him who was afraid, he knew, but he could not be sure. Eddard is the Hand, and he did say his brother was in King's Landing. He waited for Duncan to answer.
"You can call me Duncan," Duncan said without a falter in his voice. The man nodded, and Jon wondered if he had seen the eyes. Eyes the colour of violet. Perhaps not, sometimes they looked more blue than anything else.
Duncan gestured to Jon. The lie came easily. "And this lad is Brynden, a Snow. His father was an old friend, a lesser lord, so when a flux got him years ago, I took the boy on."
Snow. It was better that way, he knew, even a lie would not hide the fact that Jon was northern. His solemn face, pale skin, grey eyes. Every man had always said he looked like Eddard Stark, more than Robb or Bran or Rickon. Even the Imp, the night of the feast. He had taken pride in it then… Jon closed his eyes, remembering. Another name, he thought, and I thought Hullen was the last. He opened them.
A moment passed, flies buzzing lazily around their heads. "How did you become a guard?" Jon found himself asking, desperate to change the subject. The armorer himself was nowhere to be seen.
Steffon's face darkened. A flash of dismay crept over his eyes, his gaze lowered. Then he looked up again, and it was gone. "I was in Lannisport, hoping to find some work… my father always said that lords would be eager to take on a man as... as big as I am."
He paused for a moment, as if in thinking, then met their eyes. "I had need of some new armour and coin. Master Tycho gave me both, and sanctuary. He said I buy the plate for a cheaper price I went with him to Essos. He pays me. I'd always wanted to see more than just the lands around Nightsong, so I went. Did you come with one of the merchants too?"
Jon weighed the words, silent. Behind him, a man cried out in a loud glib tongue. A hundred different merchants had come riding in their great packs over the last moon, a khalasar full of city wines and packhorses and bronze-banded chests, eunuchs and colorfully dressed vendors from the nine Free Cities, each one stranger than the others, and every one of them settled their hooves and axels in the bazaars of the city. Surely Steffon Storm had not seen them all…
"No. We are servants of the khaleesi, Daenerys Targaryen," Duncan said suddenly, his eyes unflinching, his voice firm. Jon had to stop himself from gaping, keeping his mouth shut and chin high. He would not let Duncan down. "I'm sure your Master Tycho knows she is here."
Servants of Daenerys, Jon thought, is it not Viserys you serve? Part of Jon still hadn't forgiven the man for his idleness at the wedding, even if he knew there was no choice.
A sudden silence took Steffon Storm, as he looked down at his boots. Jon found his heart was beating faster, a part of him insisting that the man would lash out, attack them there, even if it was forbidden. The scar on his hip itched horribly. "Yes, he did speak of it."
Duncan nodded his head, smiling knowingly. He was a head shorter than this Steffon, even with the man leant up against the post of his master's stand, but even he seemed to hesitate under Duncan's gaze.
"I thought so," Duncan said, looking over his shoulders at the moving market around him, "otherwise, only half of these would be here."
"No, yes, of course… and I heard the brother was here too, the Beggar Ki-" Steffon stumbled his words to a stop. His eyes grew like two big blue shields. His ears were beet red. "My lords, pardon my wor-"
Jon lifted a hand, and to his surprise, the man stopped. "Do you bring any news from Westeros, perhaps?" Jon asked. The question had been on his lips ever since the man started speaking of his brother's castle. If he held it back any longer he was like to scream. "Who's Robert's new Hand?"
Best to pretend he did not know it was Ned. Steffon let his flushed face subside, as Master Tycho came back from behind his stall, breastplate in hand.
"After Jon Arryn?" The guard said, catching his breath, "yes, he died. An illness took him, they say. His wife has gone back to the Eyrie, and afterwards the King rode north. My brother went with him. Eddard Stark of Winterfell is Hand now, you must know of him?"
Duncan's tone was hard. "Yes, go on,"
"That's all I heard, my lords. Well, and when the King was at Castle Darry, his son was eaten by a wolf. A child's tale, though."
Jon hid a smile from his face. Joffrey was truly a little shit, Grey Wind or Nymeria ought to have shown him the Starks were not to be laughed at. There were three others, he remembered, Lady, Shaggydog and… Bran never named his before I left. The thought pierced him like a knife in the gut.
But Steffon's words had told him nothing new, nothing more than what Illyrio had spoken of at his table. Jon cursed the man. He had suspected that the fat merchant was lying in his tales, he was so sure of it, and to find out he wasn't made it all somehow much worse.
Jon took a desperate step forward, "Is that all?" He asked.
"Well, yes," Steffon replied with hesitation, "word travels slow, my lords, I-"
Duncan placed a hand on Jon's shoulder, easing him back. "That will be all," he said. "You have our thanks."
Master Tycho, the big bellied armorer, slammed a steel breastplate down on the wooden desk between them. Jon flinched as the wood creaked and dust leapt into the warm air. He stepped back, hesitantly, and saw Duncan drop a hand to his empty belt. Steffon Storm unfolded his arms and stood taller, and Jon noticed dozen others glancing at them from the near stalls.
"Are you buying, yes?" The fat armorer looked over them with a shallow smile and a glint in his deep green eyes. "You will find quality no better here, oh no, if it is steel you're looking for; and not rags!"
Jon wished Ghost was with him, but stood still as stone as Duncan stopped to look the plate over. The sellsword ran his right hand over the steel, almost apprehensively, fingers gliding against the gold and white swirls painted over the armour. For a moment, they were all silent. Then Duncan pulled his hand away, and said, "No, another time."
He turned and walked away, wordless, blue cloak brushing against the mud. A moment passed, Jon exchanged a quick glance with Steffon Storm, then ran and caught him in the midst of the market. Duncan was striding along the path on long legs, covering three steps a time. Deathly silent. Even behind him, Jon could feel a hardness in his eyes, as he strained to keep up.
They crossed the market without a word; ducking under slaves carrying baskets on their heads, ignoring the trader's as they called after them, offering out their goods with open arms. The silence made Jon uncomfortable. He came up at Duncan's side.
"Brynden Snow?" He said, as they crossed through a narrow path of mud lining the edge of the bazaar, where stalls more dusty than grand groaned in the wind.
"I'm sure Steffon has never heard of a Jon Snow, nor those brothers of his," Duncan did not look at him as he spoke, leading them through the crowd, "yet why take the risk?"
Jon found he was nodding his head, but worrying all over again. The people of Winterfell would know he was gone by now, he knew for a certain, even if the rest of the realm did not. What does Robb think of me…
Duncan looked at him over his shoulder. "That was the last we'll see of the man. Forget about it, Jon."
By the time they reached the khas, Jon was relieved to see the familiar faces. Daenerys was mounted at the head, Ser Jorah and her handmaids and her ko fluttering around her. The trail of riders stretched down the Godsway like a serpent. The horses were unsettled, he knew as soon as he mounted, whickering and stamping their hooves. They did not like waiting, sweating under the sun.
"The girl wishes to see the Eastern Market," Marys said through gritted teeth. They watched a rider near the head of the column spur his horse to the left, as to look on them all, and bellow a few rough words. The khas was kicked into motion, "have you been there?"
Jon urged his own horse forward, wiping some sweat from his nose. "No," he replied, "only on the way through here."
Marys sneered, grumbling a few rough words under his breath. There is a tale in this, he thought, but could hardly watch the man as he grumbled on. The expression made the raw skin around his mouth seem to shake and writhe and move. In the light, Jon could see the deep scars like ravines cut into his skin, and remembered the night they had found him in the manse, after the wedding.
Yet Marys chose to speak no more, clamping his lips shut. For once, Jon found himself feeling disappointed. Be that as it may, he thought. The tall stolen gods were looming in the distance as they approached the market, trampling over the muddy Godsway. Each tall statue had a story of its own, he knew, but Jon found he did not care for their stories. He was standing high in the saddle, scanning the lines of the khas for his uncle. I might've missed him, he thought.
Viserys was not amongst the riders, though. Jon knew he should not have felt surprised. More often than not, his uncle now spent his days amongst the merchants of the Western Market, drinking wine and boasting. The fires between them had not yet sated, not since the day he come stumbling into the mud, bested by his sister.
Jon remembered rushing into the tent afterwards, the riders of the ko following behind him. Daenerys was unhurt, gasping and flushed, a bloodied medallion belt hanging from her hands. Jon knew she had used it to strike her brother. But she had ordered them all out before they could speak.
Even so, Jhogo had promised he would find Viserys as soon as they left Vaes Dothrak, and take off his head. Aggo swore to take the man's ears and give them as trophy, and Rakharo had made an oath vengeance the moment he got his arakh back. Jon knew she would deny all their efforts. I should've known better.
The Eastern Market was a great, sprawling square of land lined with walls of mud-bricks baking in the sun. In the place of white-washed drinking halls were looming grey elephants, lifting their snouts to cry into the dusty air. Jon had never seen an elephant before, and the very size of them took his breath away. Each time they roared, spellsingers and eunuchs joined the call, in voices so high it was close to screeching.
As they entered, Jon could see a dozen slaves leaping off the muddy path to disappear amongst the crowds, carrying bolts of intricate Myrish lace and wools in a swash of rich colours. Was there any place in Essos without slaves? Jon did doubt it. Daenerys had set the pace, riding at the head with Ser Jorah, but khas jutted to stop when she requested to be helped down from her saddle, inspecting a trader's goods more closely.
Jon watched, sighed, then urged his horse forward and rode to the head of the column. He was not intent on sitting at the back, useless and silent. They would be going through the market for hours, most like, he could at least find something in it for himself.
"Look!" One of the handmaidens cried as Jon dismounted beside them. There were two striped black-and-white horses roaming up the path, led on rope by two men in robes of thin silk. One of them gave a whicker as its eyes came upon his own horse. All Jon could think of was the terror that would unfold here if Ghost was to find him. It was one thing to send horses into a frenzy, he thought, and another thing entirely with elephants.
Daenerys was leaning over a wooden bench, eating handfuls of murky green noodles from a bowl, laughing. Jon took a step closer, pulling his horse by the bridle with a hand. The trader was watching them with a smile, ready to give them a platter of eggs the colour of dirt. This one will earn a medallion, he thought, as Daenerys began to fumble at her belt to untie one.
Beside her, a stall made of entirely black wood was held by three men in red lacquered masks. Jon found himself tensing, as their red dead eyes came upon him. They watched, unmoving. Jon looked at their legs, at the deep black marks that colored their skin, rising in patterns up their chest and arms.
"The Shadow Men," Ser Jorah Mormont's gruff face suddenly poked over his shoulder. Jon spun on his heels, stepping away from him. The knight wore thin cloth and Dothraki riding leathers, and a hard expression at that. "From Asshai and the Shadow Lands."
"I know who they are," Jon quickly shot back, though he could not remember Maester Luwin teaching him of them. He hated Mormont, though, he would not stand idly by and let the man think he could teach him things.
A tuft of dust drifted between them. "They taught you about the far east at Winterfell?" He asked, thumbs clipped under his belt as if he was scolding a child. Jon's eyes watched Daenerys, as she turned from the stall and began to cross the path.
"They taught you about the far east at Bear Island?" Jon retorted.
That silenced the man. He stared down at his feet, thinking, but Jon did not wait for a reply. Horse in-hand, he stepped back into the column beside the riders of the ko, as they began walk down an isle flanked by creaking stalls and shadowing awnings.
Within moments, Mormont was lost the crowds, and the market was full of new sights. They stopped several times along the way, to stand and gape at manticores in silver cages, black-and-white horses and stalls full of silver held by tall pale men with bald heads and gold rings through their noses.
"Who are they?" Jon asked Duncan when they came across three women in warrior's garb, rubies buried in their cheeks. They were fierce looking, frowning at any who came near, with empty scabbards hanging from their belts. They looked as hard as any man Jon had seen. If only Arya could see them.
"I couldn't say." Duncan shrugged.
A dozen different merchants and traders followed, offering scented oils in jars and casks, cloaks and masks and jewels, some in honour and some for exchange. That was the way of the Dothraki; they did not believe in coin. Daenerys accepted some and refused others, those who offered gifts too large to carry. But even then, she took her time with each one of them, hearing their tales in queer tongues that Jon did not understand.
It was past midday, the sun falling to the east, when Daenerys reached down at her belt to exchange a silver medallion for a cloak made of black and white feathers, and realized she had none.
"I-" She said, turning to look at the bald dark-skinned man, "I am sorry, but-"
Jorah Mormont was at her arm in an instant. "Daenerys," he uttered in the Common Tongue, "a khaleesi does not apologize, he will give you the cloak as a gift, regardless."
Aggo and Jhogo, silent and fierce, moved to stand at their sides; perhaps hoping to enforce Jorah's words. Jon stayed where he was, ignoring the hundred different voices that cried aloud in his ears. They would not spill blood in their sacred city, he knew.
"Ser Jorah," Daenerys sighed, but Jon could see her eyes were sure, "I will not take the cloak without them."
The knight frowned at her words. "Then if you must, exchange a gift you received from one of the others, perhaps-"
"No." Daenerys silenced him. She looked amongst her riders. "Return to my tent, and bring me another belt."
None of them moved, none of them agreed. Jon stepped forward. "I'll go," He said. They had not known he was listening, he realized, as their scowling eyes found him.
Daenerys nodded her head and said, "Very well. Be quick."
Jon nodded back and vaulted onto the saddle. He gave the courser his heels and rode down the column, head ducked. He could feel their eyes on him as he went, past the handmaidens and warriors of the khas, Marys and Aerar and the slaves and the traders. Jon Snow was no stranger to eyes.
When he reached the main path, large enough for two wagons to ride abreast, he leant up as far as he could and spied all the muddy tracks that trailed into the market. They spiraled this way and that, curving like serpents. Which one would be the quickest? Men and women passed him with puzzled faces and narrow eyes, then carried on as if he had never been there at all. Here he was nothing more than another stranger.
He sighed, sat in the saddle, and began to knead the burn festering in the back of his legs. He could see nothing, not whilst the market's dirty hoods stretched above him. They're all waiting! Jon remembered spotting the temple of the dosh khaleen in the distance, its great domed top poking through the gaps. He broke into a gallop.
He knew the way from there, from the ceremony. The great dome of wooden frames above, the silk pulled away to reveal the stars; the thin air and musky torches, the smell of it. Jon recalled the beat of his heart as he lied to Duncan, the blackness of the alleys as he crept after Marys like some hired knife.
I thought he might've seen me, but he never did. What had he returned for? Why had Duncan ordered him?
The camp was as still as night. Jon reined his horse beside the two black firepits, black beds of ash and burned wood. Dust rose in clouds, carried by the wind to brush against the low-hanging leather straps of the door. Behind them lay a sheet of shadows, too dark for Jon to see inside. That worried him. He dismounted in a rush, black cloak whipping from his shoulders.
… and as he approached, ducking under the leather, the darkness peeled back and silver-gold hair shone in the light of the dim-brazier.
"Viserys," Jon said, as the straps fell slowly from his shoulders like black leather fingers. His uncle was concealed in the corner, shadowed like some beast from Old Nan's stories, lingering in the darkness.
His fists were clenching tight, Jon realized and let them slack. His boots ruffled the furs at his feet, making a soft whispering sound. Almost like a breath. Though the room was silent. Dead. Viserys turned to face him. His dirtied silver-gold hair fell in tangles, framing his pale face.
Jon saw the object in his hand. A dragon's egg, he realized as he took another step forward. The scales were deep black, with crimson swirls whirling as a trail of dusty light poked it through the straps. Viserys pulled the egg back into his shadow, and the colour fell away. Jon spotted the woolen sack hanging from his shoulder, weighed down by… he looked at the open chest. The others, they were gone too…
"What… what are you doing?" Jon asked, inching closer as it dawned on him. He can't mean to…
His uncle's cheeks turned as red as the dragon on his breast. Jon had never seen the man look ashamed. After a moment, it was gone. "Doing what I please," he replied. The stone egg fell from his hand and vanished in the cloth. It landed with a crack of stone on stone. Jon's heart was beating through his chest. "You will not stop me." Viserys said.
"They aren't yours," Jon's voice sounded desperate, betraying him. It had cracked in fear like a boy's, and Jon felt his own cheeks grow hot. You do not fear him. "Put them back." He said more harshly this time.
"Not mine?" Viserys scoffed, "do you think my sister would keep them from me? Ever since the Usurper stole my throne, I have kept that slut alive. I sold my mother's crown to feed her, did you know that, bastard? A crown! I went from city to city to stay ahead of their knives. She is alive because of me. I won't be a king without power no longer, I will have these dragons eggs."
He had asked Marys what those eggs were worth. Why, a large army. The medallions fell from Jon's mind in an instant. "If she would truly give them to you," Jon said, his thoughts racing, "then ask her yourself. Let her put them in your own hands."
Viserys laughed. A sound that rang with frustration and made the silver hair bounce on his cheeks. Only then did Jon notice the sword at his uncle's belt, as it rattled in the scabbard. From Pentos, how had he kept it so long?
"The dragon does not wait," Viserys said with a spit. "I will take them now. Move aside, I have the sword."
"You're more foolish than you look." Jon said, watching his uncle's hand drift closer to the hilt. "They would kill you for drawing a blade."
"They do not dare spill blood in their sacred city," his pale hand ghosted against the silver, "I will. The dragon does not bow to savages. Move."
The thought of a steel swinging at him, even by his uncle's hand, made Jon wearier than he liked. Yet he was not ashamed to feel afraid. The scar on his hip burned with memory, but Jon did not move.
"I should've had you killed long ago." Viserys said after a silence, "I planned to, and I told my sweet sister. Did she warn you? I did not think so. You could've fallen off your horse and broken your neck, by my own hand. But for the love I bore my brother, I decided to let his whelp keep breathing."
Jon swallowed and found his hands balled into fists again. He clenched them tighter, sneering and said, "I thank you for your mercy then, Your Grace." When Viserys noticed the words had not moved him, he shook his head. "Is this it? You spend your time in her trail, dress in their stinking garb and run for her every whim, you think you've found your courage?"
He laughed again, and crossed the room in three quick paces. Jon almost retreated, but caught himself at the last moment. He could smell his breath as he said, "Do you mean to take the eggs for yourself, is that it? Your kind are built on disloyalty… my brother gone for that dead Stark whore, and his runt a Usurper?"
The words angered him. Jon leaned closer. Their heads were almost touching. Viserys went on, "or has Duncan whispered promises in your ear? Keep me from my birthright, and he'll seat you on the throne? He has a soft spot for you, the son he could never have, but he is a liar. You don't know his secret, do you? Foolish bastard, do you want me to tell you?"
"Stop it," Jon growled, "put the eggs back where you found them, and go."
He did not see the slap coming, nor the glint in his uncle's eyes or the twist in his face until it was too late. His head whipped sideways as Viserys's palm caught him across the cheek. The slap echoed in the dimness of the tent, over the hiss and crack of the brazier. Jon felt the skin with a nervous finger, almost gasping when it burned.
He hit me, Jon steadied himself. Part of him would've have cried and ran away, the part that had ran from Catelyn Stark and Eddard, from Winterfell.
Jon remembered the words that had been spoken to him, "do nothing that will get you killed," and his own promise in reply. I am sorry, Duncan.
Jon Snow charged.
His hands went for the pale skin of his uncles throat. When Jon felt soft flesh beneath his fingers, he squeezed as hard as he could. Viserys screamed and his eyes widened in response, lilac and full of terror. They stumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs and curses and grunts.
The mud beneath the furs smacked up against them, hard, sending a jolt through Jon's body. Viserys got the most of it. "Bastard!" he screamed, winded. Yet his uncle got a leg up and managed to flip him, spit flinging from his jaws. Jon went smashing against the furs, a sudden worry dancing over his head, what if he kills me? But then he managed to flip his uncle right over again and get his knees either side of him.
Viserys struggled, an arm reaching up to rake Jon's neck. The skin tore and bore blood. Jon grabbed the hand and slammed it to the floor, leaning down against it with all his weight. The ends of his fingers were stained with red. Viserys craned his neck towards his face, teeth snapping, and Jon pressed the palm of his right hand down against his cheek. His face hit the ground with a hard thud, his cries muffled by the furs pressed over his mouth.
He struggled relentlessly against Jon's weight, boring down on top of him. Jon was groaning with the burn building in his arms. "Stop!" He shouted, but Viserys did not listen. Spittle was bubbling from his lips, wet and bloody. My brother gone for that dead Stark whore. Jon let go of his arm, but before it could reach for his face he grabbed the sides of uncle's head with both hands, lifted it high with all the strength left in him, and slammed it back down against the furs.
Viserys did not scream this time, a small groan escaping his lips as his arm fell slack to his side. Jon's heart was beating so loud he thought he might scream. Banging against his chest. Instead he found two fistfuls of his uncle's silk collar, pulled his face close, ready to…
As he came an inch from his face, Jon saw the tears glistening in his eyes. He paused. Viserys's black pupils moved frantically, eyes that were shadowed with shame, scared eyes Jon had seen in serving boys he might have bested in the yards of Winterfell. He's afraid of me…. Jon's grip loosened…
… then an arm wrapped around his neck like a snake, clenching tight around his windpipe. Jon recoiled and darted backwards with his feet, but whoever it was they were too strong. This is the end, he thought, as the arm dragged him to his feet, spinning him. Jon stumbled towards the door and tripped over something heavy.
He landed on his arse with a stunned groan and saw Ser Jorah Mormont stood over him, bare chest heaving hard.
"Kill him!" Viserys was already scrambling to his feet, blood lurching from his nose and lip. His eyes were still moist with fear. "Kill him, Mormont!"
His sword sung its coming as Viserys ripped it free. Jon was calm under the flash of steel. He looked down at the blood on his calloused hands, felt a burning trail trickling down his cheek to fall on his tunic.
"Put that away or you'll get us all killed!" Mormont got Viserys by the arm and untangled the blade from his fingers. Frowning, he held it between almost as if he meant to use it.
The air smelled of blood. Mormont sniffled loudly. "What is the meaning of this?"
Jon saw the cloth sack he had tripped over. A dragon's egg had rolled from its confines, its white scales tangled amongst the furs. Jon grabbed the sack with a hand, blood smearing the fabric and lifted it for them both to see. "He was taking the egg's…" he gasped.
Viserys was silent. Jon fell back and ghosted a finger over his cheek, gasping when it stung. "Is that true?" Mormont asked, stepping closer to the Beggar King. Though to Jon, it seemed as if he already knew the answer. "I should take your hands for merely touching them."
We're as good as dead, Jon thought. He looked at the red stains on his hands again, to remind himself it was real. They had spilled blood in the city, and that was death.
He stood, the strength in his legs returning to him, and ran into the light. Leaving Mormont and Viserys behind. Even under the boiling sun, the air felt cold and his cheek burned like fire. The pain was so much it was all Jon could do not to cry, though his eyes were already watering. He found his horse where he had left him and climbed the saddle clumsily, hands slippery and feint.
I need to run, he thought, but where? He had ran away once already, and now there was nowhere left to go. Jon Snow covered his bloody hands with his gloves and gave the horse its head, starting off to nowhere. Mormont will tell them, he thought. He rode through the crowded paths, head ducked as the people were watching him, and found the Godsway.
The shadows of the stone-wrought gods loomed over him. He wondered if Ghost had sensed his troubles, as he often did. I hit him, Jon thought, right there. He should've told the others he was taking the eggs, and done only as he was bid. The medallions…
Jon looked out at the Horse Gate, tall and fierce in the distance. I wouldn't get far, he knew. He had no food to last him long enough, or water, nor did he know the way. This was not the north. Mormont would be back on his way to the market by now, to share the news of his folly. Jon gritted his teeth, kicked his horse into motion and made towards the gate.
He got as far as to pass under the shadow of the two long, curling manes before he cursed and spun his horse around. Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it. He had fought his uncle, and he was going to face the consequences.
When he returned he swung down from the saddle, secured his horses reins and began his way. Keep your wits about you. What blood he had not wiped away was dried against his skin. He ducked his head low as he crossed between the huts and grass palaces. No one was there who he recognized, or anyone who would recognize him. That settled him, but not for long. Soon enough, one of the khas would spot him. He wondered if they already had Viserys.
What is my plan? He didn't know. As he crossed through the alley leading to the hut, a man leapt from the shadows. A man with faded blue hair. His hands got Jon by the shoulders, slamming him into a wooden beam at his back.
"Have you lost your wits, boy?" Duncan said, his angry eyes searching for an answer.
He knows. Jon straightened up and took a moment to settle his breath, arms flat by his side. "He was going to take the eggs… I didn't think that… are they looking for me?"
Duncan sighed. "Nobody is looking for you. Ser Jorah came to me alone, and Viserys has gone elsewhere to lick his wounds." He let go of Jon and his arms fell to his sides. "You should've found me, immediately. Viserys will never forget this."
Jon was silent for a moment, remembering when he had made the decision, then said, "I know. What has Daenerys said?"
She would never forgive, either. I will be flogged from the khas. "Did you not listen? Daenerys doesn't know a thing. And best it stays that way."
Jon nodded his head, relieved.
"Jorah Mormont has sworn his silence. Perchance he does not hate you as you may have thought. It will not be long before Viserys finds his sister, though. I must calm him before then. At best I could escort him back to Pentos…"
Duncan looked him in the eyes once again. "You will not come to the ceremony tonight. It's too much of a risk, Jon. You know that, don't you?"
Jon nodded.
"Good. Tonight you will have my tent. Come now, quickly."
With that, Duncan turned, blue cloak billowing in the wind. Nobody bothered to offer them a glance as they passed through the crowded thoroughfares, and Jon felt a small part of him grow calm once again. By the time they reached his tent, the sun had fallen deep into the west, turning the sky a deep gold that reminded Jon of the times he would lay on the deck of the Wind's Wave and watch the sky.
The tent was all the way past the Western Market, but closer to it than Jon was used to, at the very foot of a mountain. Jon noticed there was an emptiness here that seemed alien to rest of Vaes Dothrak. In the place of loud Dothraki littering the paths were wagons and carts being loaded by those who come to sell their wares, their quiet voices sounded almost like those in Winterfell.
Duncan's lodging was a tent made of stained black cloth, thick with a burning rot smell that came from endless days under the sun. Even so, Jon could not deny the grandness of it, as if it was a pavilion a knight might erect for a tourney. The door was covered with two low-hanging silk straps.
Duncan stopped beside them and ushered him inside. Jon did as he was bid. Inside, he felt as shift occur in him. The tent was dark and dim, no fire or brazier burning in a corner. The air thick with smells of wood and steel and iron. In here, a part of him could believe outside that door was the land of Westeros.
Sleeping skins and furs were stacked in the center, piled atop one another like corpses. In the corners, Duncan had placed two oak-and-iron chests. One he had chosen to use a stand for his sword, wrapped in its tight leathers and cotton to disguise the cross guard.
What was so special about the sword? Jon thought. He had never seen the man use it, yet it never strayed far from him.
"Viserys has a sword on him," Jon suddenly spoke up, remembering.
"Jorah told me as such. He took it with him to the markets, I shall I have to find it before things turn awry." He turned to Jon and gestured at the sleeping mats. "Stay here tonight. Do not leave. No one will find you, so you need not worry about that. I will return once the ceremony is done."
Once Daenerys eats the stallion's heart, Jon thought. Marys had told him the gruesome details of the custom. Part of him was glad to not be attending, even if he was confined in within this cell-of-cloth all night.
Duncan nodded his head, and for a moment Jon remembered Viserys's words: You don't know his secret, do you?
He ducked out under the tent, and after a few moments the faint patter of his footsteps faded away.
Alone, Jon frowned in the silence. He slumped himself onto the furs with a groan and looked down at his hands. A piece of skin was hanging from his palm. Jon picked it restlessly until it was rolled up between his fingers. His palm stung but he didn't care, it was nothing to what Daenerys would go through tonight. Eating a horse heart, it wasn't natural, it was a thing Maester Luwin would've scorned him for even thinking of.
He threw the dead skin through the air, where it patted softly against the oak chest placed above the furs. What could Duncan have to hide?
Jon knew it was a shadow on anyone's honour to rummage their way through someone else's things, but curiosity got the better of him. He batted off the furs and crawled towards the large chest. Knelt, he flung open the lid and let his eyes scan the contents inside. Duncan's garb was laid in untidy piles. Cloth and silk and leather all stacked on top of one another. His dug his hands and began to search, looking for anything.
It was when the chest was near empty that he realized how would he look. Is this how low I've become? His hand was at the bottom of the chest, wrapped around piece of white silk, when Jon stopped and returned the things to their places. Ashamed. He closed the lid.
His head fell into his hands, where he stayed a moment. On his knees. Outside he could hear the rumble of voices. No one will find you.
Perhaps some sleep would do him well. Jon laid back amongst the furs and in short time, he dreamed.
He woke in the mud.
Thick brown dirt covered his eyes, his mouth, his nose. Panic struck his heart, his gasp for air doing nothing but sucking in the muck to clog his throat. He needed help. Something hard smacked against his face and Jon jolted upwards, finding courage through the fear. It was own numb hands, and around him was the grey granite walls he knew all too well.
Winterfell was burning.
Through the plumes of smoke rising into the night sky, he could see the writhing wisps of men. Their screams and the clash of their swords deafened his ears. They are fighting. Their bodies were mist, their swords smoke, but Jon felt the cold flow of their blood under his palms as he pushed himself up from the soil. They were burning. Wraiths ran all around him, their faces unfamiliar but their voices close to his heart.
Sweat fell in swirls from his brow, drooping into his eyes and blurring his vision. The library tower was afire, and below its walls Jon's eyes found Lord Eddard Stark. He ran to him, feet tripping in the wet mud, tears suddenly streaming down his face. His uncle's neck was red and slick with blood.
Jon went to grab him, but his hands only punctured the mists and closed around the empty air. The man was gone. Crying, he turned and saw Robb fighting against two shadows. Wolves were howling in the air. Jon ran to his brother, but before he could reach him one of the shadows stabbed Robb in the chest. Jon felt vomit rise to his throat.
He fell to his knees, and all around him the shadows danced their play of death. Terror reined. A boy fell from the broken tower, and the sickening crunch made him wretch all over again. The black shadows of the stables were alive with pale orange smoke, fire licking up its sides. The Great Keep was surrounded by a hundred corpses, the carrion crows pecking at their eyes. Jon screamed, and a gate croaked open in reply.
Red eyes poked at him as the drawbridge was lowered, crossing under the shadow of the gate. Ghost! He found his feet and ran towards him. But as he got closer, he realized these were not familiar eyes, but eyes made of blood.
When he woke gasping, Ghost was hovering above him.
He was sweating again, breathing profusely. He scratched at his skin as the sandsilk vest latched onto his chest. Why do I dream those things? Ghost hovered over him and licked his face, in reply Jon ruffled his ears, hands skimming through the familiar white fur. I'm glad your back, boy, he thought with a smile. He nudged the wolf aside and leant over to the nearby basin. His reflection in the water was pale as milkglass. Jon tapped a finger on the surface. The water was cold as ice and he splashed a few handfuls against his face, sighing.
Silence flooded in from the outside. Is the ceremony over? Jon turned to eye the entrance of the tent. The black silk hung still and steady, and beyond it was nothing but darkness. Duncan said he would come back, so it can't be. How long had he slept? Jon dried his face with a cloth and stepped towards the tent flaps, silent so any outside wouldn't hear him.
As if the gods were watching, Duncan suddenly returned.
Jon stopped in his place, his face suddenly growing warmer. Through the blackness Jon saw Duncan's eyes curiously shift over him. He'll wonder why I'm awake at this hour.
Instead, his eyes fell to the floor. The silence growing even louder. A part of Jon was suddenly nervous, he had never seen him act this way before.
They stood there for a while, not a word spoken between them, before Jon could no longer suffer it and said, "Duncan, what's wrong?"
The sellsword ignored him and crossed the tent. Gods, what was up with him? He grabbed a nearby waterskin and uncapped it, took a few swigs, slushed it around in his mouth and swallowed.
It was a few moments later he told him Viserys was dead.