The Wheel Unbroken

by TheAnimaniacDude

Chapter 29: Life Eight: Part Two

Summary:

One becomes Two.

The ship rocked underneath their feet gently, as Jon watched Theon settle in against the walls of their shared cabin. Above their heads, the sailors of the Cold Rider shouted and hollered with the efforts of disembarking. His focus never wavered. 

Theon let out a long sigh, before laughing once. “I thought I was going crazy. Couldn't understand why things were so different. It wasn't until I woke up again that I realized.” He looked up, with a wry grin. “You know what I'm talking about, don't you?” 

Jon stared at the Squid Prince with hard eyes. The faint itch on his forehead hadn't gone away. “... I don't have the faintest idea.” 

The grin disappeared. “Don't you pull that shit with me, Snow.” 

“You think I'm stupid?” Jon retorted. “I can see you plain.” 

“Oh for the love of-” Theon made to stand up and put a hand down to his belt, and immediately Jon rushed forward with his dagger in hand. The smaller boy slammed Theon against the wall, point jabbed against the apple of his throat. “Ghhhk!” 

“You're not clever, Raven.” Jon hissed. “I only followed you to separate you from other bodies. I can sense you every time - Theon isn't a warg. You have until the count of three to exit him before I give you death.” 

“Jon-!”

“One.” 

“You fucking maniac-!” 

The dagger inched in close enough to draw blood. “Two.” 

Theon's throat flexed involuntarily, pushing it into the blade as blood welled. “Th-” 

“Lodos please-!” 

The dagger slipped, and drove into the wood of the cabin walls. Theon gasped, pushing Jon away and scrambling for space as his hand pressed against the thin line of the wound. “Oh thank Mother,” He rasped. “You absolute bell-end, Jon!” 

“How do you know that name?” Jon growled, pointing the blade directly at Theon's forehead. “That’s the second time you’ve said it. It’s a new trick for you, I’ll admit.”

“What… don't recognize me?” Theon hissed, before flopping back to lean against the wall. “I'll admit I looked a little different after you murdered me with the stable boy's body. I wasn't going to hold that against you until now, what with the handprint and all.” 

How the HELLS? 

“You… you shouldn't remember any of that.” 

“Because nobody else does?” Theon replied. “Not even the ragged corpse underneath that tree.” His head flopped back, thumping against the wood. “I thought I was going mad, when I woke up again in Winterfell. Tried to move with limbs I didn't have anymore. Took me half the day to speak with my lips instead of the stars underneath my skin.” Jon’s eyes shot wide. “Recovered faster than you did from the bird, really, but in fairness I had a far bigger brain to live inside than you did. After a few days I thought it was just a bad dream…” his head rolled back up, staring at Jon with steely eyes. “Until you started talking to me about the Iron Islands, and my fucking uncle Euron.” 

Jon felt the breath leave him. “No…” he wheezed. “It can't be.” 

“Do you remember, Jon?” Theon pushed himself up. “The day we first met my sister again? I was so young, barely even a few moons old, not enough to comprehend. But when you pushed your mind into my body, and I remembered at last what it was like to breathe air, what it was like to have solid bones, I wanted to make it a spectacle. I wanted to announce my return with the shattering force I never knew in this frail, lanky body.” He held his arms out together, undulating from the wrist into his shoulder like a wave, or a tentacle. “Power enough to drag a dragon down from the sky and strangle him.” 

“And when we were one, Jon, it didn’t just go one way.” Theon’s arm rippled upwards, into a gesture drawing an invisible line through the air. As far as Jon was concerned, that line was as taut as a garrote wrapped around his neck.

“Theon…” 

“I saw everything, Jon. When we fought against the Golden Company… When you saw Dany for the first time, and you finally knew yourself again, I saw everything you did. I saw the Wall. I saw the dead. I saw…” Theon trailed off. When he began again, the voice that came out was weaker. Less certain. “I saw Reek, Jon. What you saw. What it did. How that… creature ended. And then how everything else did. I know everything, Jon.”

The ship rolled underneath them with a rogue wave, and Jon flopped backwards with it into a boneless slump. “That’s not possible.” Jon mumbled. 

“Is it?” Theon shot back. “You know the Raven doesn’t remember a thing, or he would have been waiting for you at the cave after Varamyr.”

“... But how?” 

Theon folded his arms, leaning back against the wall. “Unless you discovered something about your Red God in the Capital, your guess is as good as mine as to why I’m here now. But the rest?” he smirked. “Mother told you, didn’t she? You were going to give a son back.”

Jon slowly looked up, eyes wide. “Lady Black.”

“And now I’m here to stay.” Theon nodded. “A little older, a little stranger. Although, I don’t think it was entirely her work." He reached down to the beltline of his outfit once again, but instead of reaching for a weapon as Jon had originally thought he grabbed his shirt and pulled up. Near his belly button, off to the side, a gnarled, ugly circle of pale tissue the size of a silver moon deformed the otherwise unremarkable expanse of his midriff; when he spun slightly to the side, a matching pair - an exit wound - was visible on his back. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have this.”

Jon’s jaw dropped. “That’s…” 

“A killing blow,” said Theon. “My first. You saw me lying there with this, when I supposedly charged that freak Night King and was run through for it. Not quite as blatant as your dozen stab wounds, which is why I didn’t spot it the first time I took a bath, but an ending just the same.” he looked up. “I didn’t realize what this was until after you’d run away with Robert. Jon, if you believe nothing else, believe this. The Raven can’t fake a scar for a wound I haven’t taken yet. I don’t even remember that life - it’s only through your eyes that I understand what I’m looking at.” 

“I…” Jon began, then trailed off. After a long moment, a scoff. “I can’t… don’t believe this. I…” 

Theon stood there, still with his shirt yanked up provocatively. Jon shook his head slowly, pushed himself to his feet, and began to walk forward intently. Theon immediately dropped his shirt and put up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, don’t you-”

Jon raised his arms out and grabbed Theon, pulling him into a fierce hug. The Greyjoy stood there, arms raised like he had no idea where to put them. “I- oh.”

“I can’t believe it…” Jon mumbled into Theon’s shoulder. “You of all people… this is real…” 

The squid prince slowly lowered his arms, and one hand awkwardly came to rest on Jon’s back, patting it lightly like he was trying to soothe a colicky baby, or a wild jungle cat that had decided to nuzzle him instead of eat his face. “I, uh… I’m sorry about, ah… the direwolves. I didn’t know. I’m not even mad about the Hodor thing anymore.” The mood instantly flipped, and Jon pushed Theon into the wall hard enough to smash his head against a shelf. “OW! You bastard!”

“Theon, please. For the love of whatever meddling gods exist - please, shut the fuck up.”

 

---

 

The ship rolled underneath Jon’s feet in a comforting rise-and-fall, as he stared out across the blue expanse from the prow. Behind him, the sounds of industry and mildly angry men rang out; someone threatened to box another man’s ears for dropping a barrel of salted cod on his toes. The commotion was so loud, he almost didn’t hear the footsteps padding softly to him. But the itch on the back of his skull gave him away all the same.

Theon stopped at the edge and languidly rested his elbows on the rail, striking a 45-degree forward slump. His dark eyes stared out at nothing, and Jon felt content to let the moment linger. The arguing behind them got louder, but neither of them said a word. 

“So.” Theon said, finally. “You’re a dragonseed, after all.” 

Behind them, the fleshy SMACK of fist against cheek signaled the start of the fight. “Don’t ever call me that again.” Jon replied flatly. 

“Is it not true, though?” asked Theon. “You’re the last scion of a deposed dynasty. Barring the ones we already know about, and that fraud Aegon, of course.” He shifted his back leg as the roar behind them got louder. “Of all the players that made it to the end of your true life-”

“The Red God picked me. I know.” Jon scowled. “The decision is not lost on me.” 

“Then…”

“You’ve been in my head. You know why.” 

Theon fixed his gaze upon the horizon. “... It wasn’t your fault,” he replied. “And it wasn’t hers, either. You know that, right?”

“Was it the Throne, then?” Jon snarked. “The Raven? Society? I’m a kinslayer, all the same. Nothing will change that blade in her heart.”

Theon cocked his head sideways. “What? I wasn’t talking about-” his eyes widened, and he turned to Jon with a look approaching horror. “Oh. Oh, no.” 

“What?” 

“You don’t remem- no. No, forget I said anything.” Theon backed away from the railing, as a roar rose from the fighting sailors.

“You don’t get to say that and just walk away like I’m going to forget!”

“No, we are not having this out here. Not on this ramshackle raft in the middle of the Narrow Sea.” Theon threw up his hands. “I know you, Jon Snow, about as well as any person possibly can now. I know exactly how you will react to what I say.” 

“Theon…” 

“Ask me again, Jon, in the middle of nowhere.” Theon said, lifting a single finger. “Surrounded by nothing, and not a soul for miles. Where your black rage can’t hurt anyone else. Then I will tell you.”

Jon stopped. He’d never described the way his anger felt to anybody else. Never told anyone the way that everything went dark from the sides of his vision until he’d exhausted himself, or regained control. But Theon knew. Of course he knew, if they’d shared consciousness among the Ironborn. A chill went down his spine. Have I truly forgotten something so devastating? Then how does he know, when I don’t? 

Jon closed his eyes, and took a steadying breath. “... Swear to me.” he said, quietly. “Swear to me that it’s as serious as you say, and you will tell me then.”

Theon stood there, staring at Jon with intense eyes. “... I swear.” Theon whispered, barely audible over the waves and the fighting. He walked over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder - with the age difference between them, Theon towered nearly a head taller. “We are together now, Jon. through thick and thin. I can’t get rid of you any more than I can get rid of my hand, and you can’t either.” 

The Greyjoy gently shook Jon. “So we work together. Alright? Whatever happens, we stick together, and we beat this fucking curse. No lies, no backstabbing. Any problems, we hash out like men grown, and then we shake on it. Instead of that troupe of jesters over there.” He nodded his head over to the fight; Jon turned his head to see one man down on the ground, getting his chest beat in by the other’s fists as the rest of the crew was pulling him away. The captain was tearing at them from across the ship, screaming bloody murder and carrying a lash in his hand. “Clear?”

Jon turned away from the fight, staring at Theon for a long moment. “... Clear.” he held out his arm, and Theon gripped him up to the elbow. It was then that Jon gave him a sideways grin. “Since when were you so fucking mature? I don’t think even Robb could get an oath like that out of you.”

“Well, you took over the consciousness of a very impressionable young sea monster multiple times. I couldn’t help but pick up some traits from you, old man.” Theon smirked. “And I distinctly notice you were a far more dramatic bastard in King’s Landing than before. Didn’t learn that from anybody, did you?”

“Ah, piss off.”

 

---

 

It was night time once again, when all but the watch shift had gone to their hammocks for rest, when Jon next took out the weirwood lute and began to quietly tune the pegs. Theon glanced up from his silent whittling project, some kind of mermaid impression going by the half-formed breasts he was focusing on, and arched an eyebrow. When Jon finished tuning and plucked out a simple chord progression on the instrument, he finally whistled. 

“I was so keyed up on finally having answers I didn’t even ask about that. Where in the seven hells did you learn to play, Snow?”

“I learned from Mance,” Jon replied, humming a note. “I love a maid, as fair as spring, with flowers in her hair…” 

Theon shook his head. “I can’t believe this. Being an all-powerful wizard and one of the best swordsmen I know isn’t good enough for you, so you have to learn how to play an instrument, too. I would be afraid if I didn’t know you.” 

“If you've been in my head, then you'd remember that you were the one who recommended this kind of thing.” Jon hit Theon with a sidelong stare. “You don’t have to sit on the sidelines and mope, squid-brains. You’ll have more than enough time to follow your own advice.”

Theon didn’t react to the insult, but instead raised his eyebrows as his eyes widened. “I… didn’t even think of that. You really think I could learn to play?” He set down the stick of wood and moved over to Jon’s side. 

“Not this.” Jon moved the lute an inch away. “This is mine. Learn something else.” 

“Oh, lighten up.” Theon snarked. “Big bad wizard afraid I’m going to take his toys away. Let me have a go on it.” 

“This lute cost more than a smallfolk’s cottage, Theon, I’m not letting you break it!” 

“Pfft. Don't buy an instrument made out of weirwood, then.” Theon held out his hands. “Come on.” 

“No.” Jon remarked flatly. 

“Spoilsport.” 

“If you're that interested, then watch me play. Pay attention to my fingers, instead of just listening.” Jon shifted the lute back on his lap, as Theon leaned back. He plucked out a swift chord progression across the courses, as the squid prince sat there with a frown. His fingers danced back and forth, and upon the neck his middle and pointer fluttered, held and wobbled out melancholy, lingering notes. 

“... you don't touch the middle strings much.” Theon asked eventually.

“Middle, as in…” Jon mumbled, still focused on playing.

“The ones in-between. Why?” 

“They're the same note… but pitched on a different octave.” Jon answered. His grip shifted, and suddenly he was plucking the same string again as his fingers worked down the neck. The sound tangled down, lower and lower.

“... What's an octave?” 

“The range. When I want a pitch too low…” his neck hand at last hit the body of the instrument. He let the note hang for a moment, and then jumped up to the top of the neck as he plucked the brother of the course. The note progression continued on as if no shift had been made. “... I move to the course pair.” He stopped, and looked up. Theon's eyebrow had arched. 

“Oh. Huh.” 

“This is why, if you want to learn, you need to understand how to read music first. Mance didn’t let me touch a lute for weeks, when he started with me.” Jon suddenly smirked. “Not quite like learning to wield a sword, is it? Though, as I recall, you didn't much care for that anyways.” 

“Bah.” Theon shook his head. “If I ever tried to practice with swords, Robb would come along with his great big biceps and make my hands go numb with every clash. You're not much better, come to think of it, but I didn't spar with you nearly as much, you auroch.” 

Jon grinned, and hit a broad double-bicep flex in teasing response. Theon leaned back, hands outstretched behind his body for support. “... I can learn, though. I will learn.” 

Jon stared at Theon, with a strange, almost-but-not-quite nostalgic feeling in his chest. “I don't think I've seen you so humble before.” 

Theon lifted his head, and a dark look filled his eyes. “... You have.” He replied quietly. “Only once. When you met the thing called Reek.” His fists clenched against the wooden floor, as the ship rolled gently underneath, and scoffed. “Humble? What pride do I have left? You… you had everything. You had it all, gave it up in the name of duty - no, not even duty, justice…” 

“Theon, no-” 

“You gave up the Seven Kingdoms, handed to you on a silver platter, and walked away. And even still - even still! - you managed to find a life more joyful than I even dreamed possible.” Theon sat forward, threading his fingers through his hair and pulling it taut. “I saw what you had, Jon. I felt what you felt, when you looked at Val. Even now, I have to fight to remember that Lyan is not my daughter - Ragnald is your son, not mine. That Val was yours, not-” He sniffed, and then scrubbed furiously at his nose and eyes. “... She was beautiful, Jon. Beautiful. And you loved her like - like I've never loved anybody or anything. How the fuck am I supposed to handle learning that I can’t even love properly?” 

Jon sat there, silently, his hand clenching tight enough on the neck of the lute that the strings began to strike, and the wood began to creak. Neither of them spoke, as the greyjoy worked through the emotions.

“... You had all that.” Said Theon, at last, lowering his arm down and hunching forward. His hair hung limply, not quite obscuring his gaze fixed on the floor. “... And what did I have, in return? I had Reek. That is my destiny. That is what the Gods set out for me. How can I be anything but humble when that is my shadow? When my legacy was that… thing? That monster, that grotesque, that parody of a man and all his hateful works?” 

“You tried to make amends.” Jon said, quiet but flat.

“Don’t you dare.” Theon hissed, head flipping up. “Don’t you dare say that. Not when I’ve been in your head. Not when I know what you really think. I know what you thought, when we escaped Dragonstone and made it to King’s Landing.” he jabbed a finger out. “You twisted the knife in me, because it made you feel good. And you swore you would bleed me every time you told me the tale of Reek, because you wanted to see me hurt.” His hand reached out, thumping against his chest twice. “And you were right to do so.”

No.” Theon shook his head. “What I did was run away, because I was a craven. I saved Asha, just to make sure that Euron - fucking Euron - wasn't the last of us. That I wasn’t leaving the Greyjoys to my kinslaying uncle. And then I took the easy way out. The coward’s way out.” His hand rested upon his belly, right over the death scar. “Charging a White Walker with nothing but a spear? I've never held a spear in my life, Jon. I'm not a fool. That wretch had to have known what would happen.” 

Jon didn't have anything he could say to that. 

Theon clenched his fist, balling his shirt up between his fingers. “And then one day, in my ignorance, you beat me to death with Hodor's hands. And I woke as a kraken, a moon later.” He shook his head furiously. “And I saw firsthand just how wrong everything I lost it all for was. How can I hate magic, when Mother gave of herself for me? How can I love my family, when Lodos proved just how deluded they are? How can I accept my people, when they would never accept who I am now? How can I go back to such small things, when I have been so much MORE?” 

His fist unclenched, and his hand fell. “But I failed the first test life gave me. All I had to do was tell you ‘I know’. All I had to do was tell you I knew exactly whose face you saw when you looked at me, and I couldn't do it. First at Winterfell, and then at King's Landing.” Theon's voice grew unsteady, like he wasn't taking full breaths anymore. “You can stand the breach against wildling hordes and unholy abominations and the frozen apocalypse, and I can't even tell the truth, because I am a-a- a gutless coward. But no more.” 

He lifted his head, at last. “I have no pride, Jon, because you saved me from a hell I didn't even know existed - and a father that would burn his Gods-damned kingdom to the ground over his ego - and showed me more of this- this fucked-up world than I ever dreamed existed. And you did that, by losing everything I never even knew I wanted for myself. I will do everything I can to make you feel that demented trade was worth it. I will never, ever let… that thing wearing my face come to be. Everything I do from here on… is to kill Reek.” 

“... Reek is dead, Theon.” Jon replied, quietly.

The Greyjoy lunged forward and grabbed Jon’s shirt collar, face twisted in hate, hissing like a curse. “Then I will bury him.” 

Jon stared at Theon head-on, unblinking. He looked him in the eyes, and saw a sickly fire burning within them - he was not taking the foresight well. One day, Jon knew he would have to deal with this. That day was not today. 

He slowly set the lute down to the side, gently laying it strings-up. He held out a single hand, fingers spread wide. And when Theon slowly backed away to stare at that hand, then at him and that hand and finally took his forearm in a shake, Jon pulled him forward into a firm, one-armed hug. 

“Well met, then, Theon Greyjoy,” Jon said, as his free arm thumped a firm tempo against the squid prince’s back. “Your Mother raised you well.” 

Theon scoffed, shaking his head, but his free arm went up to match Jon’s one-armed hug all the same. Just as quickly as it happened, the two separated, and Theon shuddered with a long drawn-out exhale.

“I don’t think I’ve been that open in… I don’t know when.”

Jon shook his head, and a single low chuckle escaped him. “Feels raw, doesn’t it? Uncomfortable.”

“I hate it. How do you put up with it, you big bleeding heart?”

“If I recall correctly, I died of that bleeding heart in the middle of Castle Black. So, not well.” 

“HA!” Theon barked out a shocked laugh, shoving a fist up to his mouth. “Dammit, I shouldn’t have laughed at that.” Jon grinned, slouching back against the wooden walls of the hull, as Theon’s eyes went to the instrument. “So… teach me to play?”

“Fuck no, that’s mine.” 

“Prat. I rip myself open, bleed all over the floor, and you still say-” 

“We’ll buy a different instrument for you in Pentos, you big baby. Don’t shit your smallclothes. Something to accompany, maybe.” 

“... Fine. So what’s all this nonsense about octaves?”

“Right. So, as Mance told me when I started…”

 

---

 

“Land ho!” 

Jon and Theon stood upon the deck of the Cold Rider, faces performatively unimpressed, to watch the massive walls and high square towers of Pentos overtake their view. The First Mate was standing there with them, arms crossed. 

“We’ve made good time.” he remarked.

“My thanks,” said Jon. He held out a handful of copper Stars to the man. “Payment for the two of us.” The first mate took the coins from him with a nod of gratitude. “What news about the city?”

“Last we heard? Some exiled noble’s get was roosting in a magister’s manse, begging for an army.” the First Mate replied, crossing his arms. “There’s a Dothraki horde bearing down, too, directly for the city. By now, they’ll have reached the hinterlands, if not the city walls itself.” 

Theon raised his head. His eyes narrowed. “... Will the walls hold?” he asked slowly.

“Against a warband of horselord screamers?” The first mate scoffed. “The Magisters would let them in rather than risk the few fighting men Braavos permits them to wield. Shower the Khal with gifts and send them on their way.” 

“Right, right.” Theon slowly nodded his head; it took Jon a moment to remember his histories about the Free Cities. Braavos, ever the warlike emancipationist, had waged and won many battles against Pentos, and inflicted the abolition of both a standing military and true slavery within their borders. Pentos, then, was a city of facades: its high walls were for show with no men to stand posts, and its abolition of slavery was a pretense made meaningless through ludicrous indentured servitude contracts taking its place, functionally slavery in all but name. 

The ship docked, and with a final parting, the two Westerlanders were left upon the harbor with their packs in hand. Jon glanced around, a contemplative frown on his face. “We’ll need to find a place to pick up new horses while we figure out a plan.” 

“Still wish we could have kept them.” Theon groused.

“And risk being accused of horse-thievery when someone spots a noble house’s brand on their flanks?” Jon shook his head. “No. Those horses will make their way back to Winterfell eventually, when the stablemaster does an accounting. I’ll not have Lord Stark think we left home as criminals.”

“... Fair.” Theon admitted. “You might get away with it, golden boy, but I’d be lucky to escape with just being lashed. Did you have a plan?” 

“Not until you showed up.” Jon shook his head. “I was just… going to wander. Go where the wind took me, relax, and not think about anything back home at all. You’re here, though, so now I need to figure out a plan.” 

Theon’s eyes narrowed. “I see. Then, do I get a say in the plan?” Jon looked at him askance. “I’m asking if you’re the Lord Commander and I have to follow orders, or if I am your companion, and I get a say.”

“... I’m not the Lord Commander anymore.” Jon said quietly. “And you’re not a Brother of the Watch. Speak your mind, Theon.” 

“Then… Give me the money for the horses.” Said Theon. Jon reached down to his belt and tossed him the money pouch he’d set aside for just that, and the Greyjoy snatched it from the air deftly. “I think… I suspect, rather, that there’s someone here in this city that you and I have unfinished business with. And that once that Khalasar gets here, they’ll be out of our reach until it’s too late.”

Jon frowned. “Who?”

Theon stared at Jon in disbelief. “... I know you’re not thick, Jon, but you’ve developed a rather disturbing blind spot.” He pointed deeper into the city, towards the Essos mainland. “Which Khal do you think is currently riding our way?”

Jon squinted at Theon, annoyed. “You say that like I know any of them. The only two I know who have led Khalasars are Drogo and -” he stopped. “Drogo.” he repeated, with a slowly dawning horror. “That’s Drogo’s Khalasar.”  

“Aye. Ser Undefeated himself.” Theon said, with a heavy drawl. “And there’s only one reason he would approach a Free City, this time of the year.” Theon’s expression drew tighter, more grim. “I ask again, Jon - do I get a say in how we act, or is your word law? Because I have unfinished business.” 

“... Don’t ask me to do this, Theon.” Jon whispered. “You know I can’t…” 

“I ask again - do I get a say?” 

Jon squeezed his eyes shut, and let out a shuddering breath. “... Gods help me. You do, Theon. You get a say.”

Theon stared at Jon blankly, before laying a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Remember what I said. You will not regret the trade.” he glanced up at the city, all high-rising square towers and tight streets. All around, the strong scent of spice hung in the air, and indentured servants trailing after the Magister traders that made the city run. “This place has a Red Temple, doesn’t it?” 

“... A large one, I think.”

Theon nodded. “Let’s meet up there, then. I need to get these horses purchased, and I need to figure out what we need to know. Let’s say, sundown?” 

Jon glanced up at the sun beating down on them - it was hot, bright and near to its zenith. “That’s fine. I’ll find something to do.” He reached down to his main money bag and took out a gold dragon, before flipping it to Theon. The Greyjoy snatched it out of the air, glancing at it cursorily. “Go trade that for the local coins, then find an instrument shop. Bring back the change.” 

“Tch. They’ll try to swindle us, won’t they?” Theon stared harder at the coin, examining it from all angles. “Hmm… at least they can’t say this one has been shaved or clipped much, though they’ll try some scheme about metal purity.” he quickly pocketed it, and turned away. “Sundown at the Red Temple. I’ll see you then.”

“Right.” Jon answered dully, as Theon lifted an arm in a lazy farewell wave. He looked down at the dry packed dirt of the Pentos harbor, and the place where it merged into the hard stone tiles of the streets. “She was in Pentos. Of course she was. Varys was recruited by Aerys out of Pentos, wasn’t he?”

That’s why he never made mention of it, whenever he reported on her. A clever man might have made the connection to the Spider’s old power base.

Jon didn't respond to that, but instead wandered off into the streets of Pentos. He kept his head down, mostly only glancing about through the corners of his eyes. Walking about googly-eyed and open would only advertise himself as a mark for thieves - he was already conspicuous enough with his well-made foreign clothes. The moment he opened his mouth and revealed he didn’t understand the Pentoshi flavor of Bastard Valyrian, he would be in danger. 

Down a narrow street, underneath strings of colorful banners, around processions of Magisters and their indentured slaves, Jon wandered the city. There were many sights, many market stalls with goods that Jon had not seen. But he ignored them all. He simply wandered, head down, as the sun moved across the sky. None of it appealed, until at last he reached a place. A somewhat busy plaza, with a woman at two large jars and a ladle. A great line of people, all common folk, were lined up. One man reached the front of the line, pulled out a single copper coin, and placed it in the woman’s hand. With that, she lifted the ladle to the man’s mouth, and he drank greedily. At the end, he reached for her, but she slapped his hands, and he walked away scolded. 

Jon smiled lightly, unstrung the case from his back, and revealed his instrument. Some of the people in the line took notice - most stayed resolutely focused on the water woman. Jon walked past them all, to the front of the line, and to the water woman. She shouted something at him, gesturing rapidly with the ladle at the line. Jon instead strummed a pair of chords. She paused. He gestured between the instrument and the jars. She said something else in her Bastard Valyrian - something that Jon almost might have recognized, with his tiny High Valyrian experience, as an insult of some kind - and turned away. He smiled lightly, sat down by her, and laid out his case. A twang of chords, and a small adjustment of pegs, before Jon began to play for his water.

 

---

 

It took some time for Jon to locate the Red Temple. Truthfully, he wandered for some time, keeping his head down and not making any progress at all, before somehow making his way back to the docks. There, he finally found someone who spoke the Common Tongue. It had been some time, Jon realized, since he had been in a situation where he could not speak with someone at all. Not since his banishment, at least.

The Red Temple of Pentos was a large enterprise, out of place with the city’s square and stooped stylings. Settled deep by the western walls, it was set well apart from everything else. Where the paths up to it were hard tiled stone, the land around it was packed dirt, speckled black and white with deep layers of old ash. Ditches were dug, piled with scrapwood refuse, along all three available sides. Braziers were lit along all four corners, burning so bright that the very iron of the holding cup was glowing faintly red. And the building itself - that was the strangest. Just as the name claimed, it was built from a dark, blood red marble, speckled with veins of white and gold. Towering pillars, spiralling domes, minarets reaching over even Pentos’ towering walls from which flames spewed and crackled. Twisted gargoyles sat hunched on the sides, empty mouths open in angry screeches, beside geometric symbols and hexagons all over the sides, all while the flaming heart that was the symbol of R’hllor blazed in shadowed relief at the very center. 

It was a grand, opulent building, every bit the equal of the Great Sept. and Jon knew that this couldn’t even be the biggest - That claim had to belong to Volantis, the administrative heart of the faith. Even the foreign temples were bigger, east of the Narrow Sea. and in the middle of it all was the teeming throngs of people gathered amidst the scrapwood ditches. This part he knew, at least - the evening prayers to thank the Lord of Light for the day. 

Jon clenched his fist. He’d heard Melisandre lead the prayers often enough, on the Wall. Stannis Baratheon’s zealots had made themselves at home, in that other life. He wondered if the man he had met before, that man who confessed his deep grievance over his usurped home and sharp defense of his daughter, would have even recognized the man who allowed Shireen to be burned alive. He wondered if all the people gathered before him were just as fanatical. He folded his arms, disgruntled, as the priest began.

[“Lead us from the darkness, O my Lord.”] called the Priest in Pentoshi Valyrian. Even as Jon could not understand the words, his mind recalled the same chant, spoken in the Common Tongue. Melisandre’s low, seductive tone filled his ears like an echo, and the words became clear. [“Fill our hearts with fire, so we may walk your shining path. R'hllor, you are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins. Yours is the sun that warms our days, yours the stars that guard us in the dark of night.”]

[“Lord of Light, defend us! The night is dark and full of terrors! Lord of Light, protect us.”] called the crowd in response. Jon frowned, folding his arms. 

“But only when the night is dark do the stars truly shi-” he began to mutter to himself, but stopped. His eyes went wide. The words fit almost perfectly, as a rebuttal - but they weren’t his words. They were the words of Tiras. They were the words of the only man who helped him aboard that slave ship, so long ago. They were the words of a Starry Cultist.

“What I am trying to say, Lord Greystark,” echoed the memory of Thoros in his mind, “is that if you have been touched by the Lord, then in terms of mortal affairs, he has but one teaching - Do as Thou Wilt. His eyes are fixed upon other things. Or, rather, the Other things. The Great Other.”

The worship of the Lord of Light, and the Cult of Starry Wisdom. The Red God, and the Thirteen-Pointed Star. R’hllor, and the Great Other. 

The Wayward Star is the Great Other. 

In a sense, Jon wasn't sure why he hadn't put it together before. It made sense. It was almost obvious, even. This did not feel like a grand, dramatic revelation - more like a thought that was connected while stumbling around the Winterfell kitchens for a late night snack. He had known for some time that R'hllor had no interest in dictating the lives of mortal men, and yet he kept bringing Jon back. It wasn't in order to fix the Seven Kingdoms. He knew that; he'd known that for a long time. R'hllor only had one care in this world - one enemy. 

But what did it mean, that the man who had saved him from being sold to Tyrosh as a slave worshipped another God's sworn foe - that the man who served a devil seeking the cold death of the world had been kinder to him than any of the so-called ‘holy men’ of R’hllor? What did it mean for the world if both sides were true? What did it mean, when you put both pieces together? 

What did it mean, when the cult described it as ‘a power from beyond the stars'? 

Jon slowly lifted his eyes to the darkening sky. The last vestiges of color still remained, letting the night be streaked purple and bruised blue. But the stars were coming out, all the same. They speckled the sky, twinkling in the night. The maesters held that the organization of the stars held sway over a man's destiny when he was born. People looked to the heavens for guidance. And the Great Other was real… and from a place beyond the heavens. It was real, and it wanted the whole world dead. 

The White Walkers served the Great Other… except, that wasn’t wholly true, was it? They answered to the Raven once, in his dying hatred. And I remember something about the Children being involved somehow… yet they hid from them still. Jon rolled his head about on his shoulders, hearing the bones of his neck crackle softly with the motion. The Great Other is insidious when it desires, and bold when it is slighted. That is what the Starry Cultists believe. And the White Walkers serve the Wayward Star, but killing their servants is not even a part of my task. So… what task is being demanded of me, to thwart the great enemy of Mankind?

“You look troubled, my child.” 

Jon’s head jerked up at those Common Tongue words, startlingly close to his ear. He spun on his heel to face the woman who had spoken, as her rose-colored lips curled into a knowing smile. High cheekbones, dark hair, piercing eyes - the woman who spoke to him was a striking beauty, making the distinctive dress hugging her ample curves and unforgettable choker around her neck all the more troubling. She was a priestess of R’hllor, and she wore the same choker that Melisandre did.

Jon took all of this in within a second, and did not unclench his fist. R’hllor may no longer technically be his enemy, in the grand scheme of things, but Thoros did not cancel out what the rest of his cadre had done and condoned. 

“Your people preach a weak faith,” he said, instead. 

The priestess arched a delicate eyebrow. “You would be the first to say such a thing.” 

“You fight a war against the dark. Against the cold.” Jon crossed his arms. “It seems to me that you are losing that war.” 

The priestess folded her arms delicately, such that her draping sleeves covered her hands seamlessly. “Is not the new day a victory won? Every sunrise is the chance for life to thrive. That the dark returns only entails the return of duty.”

“Until the day that there is no new day.” Jon replied. “When the night comes and does not leave. The Lord of Light is a summer god. You have no answers for when the dark swallows a man’s heart. When the dark is all there is.” he flicked a hand up at her neck - at her choker. “All you have are beautiful lies. Shadows on the wall, and you call it prophecy.”

The expression on her face softened. “The Lord cannot personally grant you succor, just as a king cannot comfort every common man in his arms. But that does not mean he gives us nothing but lies.” She reached up to her neck, reaching to a clasp at the back, and clicked it quietly. Jon watched with amazement as she lowered it down, and as she did, her face changed. Her perfect skin turned leathery, and wrinkled. Her hair shimmered, and the black bled out into grey. Her proportions deflated, and shrank, as the tight robes now fell limply about her. But her eyes, so deep and piercing, did not change, even as crow’s feet sprang into existence around them. 

“Even a beautiful lie is permitted,” she whispered, her voice losing her husky allure as it faded to dust, “in the great battle.” 

Jon glared. “I thought Shadowbinding was banned by Benerro.” 

“It is, Jon Snow.” she whispered. Jon fought the urge to flinch. “For all that are not bound as tightly to the Lord as I am. As Melisandre is.” she looked him in the eye. “Do you know how old she is, truly?”

“With that kind of question? Old enough to be my grandmother.” 

She chuckled. “Old enough to be Aegon the Conqueror’s grandmother.” Jon sucked in a shocked breath. “You understand now, don’t you? Why she is granted such a long leash? Her very life is a sign of our Lord’s favor. The Shadow merely hides what is disquieting to small minds, instead of distorting truth. She was one of our most trusted missionaries. We never meant to offend you, Jon Snow.” 

Never fire in the Pattern. Never fire in the Shadow.

“How do you know she offended me?” Jon asked, hand shaking slightly. “I’ve never even met her.” 

The priestess smiled thinly. “We all know. That is, those of us who can see Truth within the flames, which is few enough. There is nothing left.”

Jon’s eyebrow arched. “Nothing left? What, don't tell me… are you trying to say your prophecies are broken?” 

“And they have been, ever since your journey began. The Lord of Light retreats from us all. We have no future.” She reached up a delicate, skeletal hand to gently brush back a limp curl on Jon’s face, fingers stroking against his skin. Jon flinched away instinctively, and she hesitated, before lowering it down with a sad expression. “Only your past.”

“My past? What does-” Jon stopped himself and thought about it. When he began to speak again, it was with a rising note of anger. “You are spying on my past through your Gods-damned flames?” 

“Not willingly.” she replied. “Not even High Priest Benerro can see forward through the Lord’s grace. It is lost to us, but not to you.”

Jon snarled, stepping forward and grabbing the hem of her cloak and dragging her in. “Never again.” he hissed. “It is mine, and mine alone.”

The Priestess glanced down at the hand gripping her, and met his gaze. “You should unhand me, before someone sees and misunderstands. No one from the Temple would harm you, but the faithful masses are not so sophisticated.” 

Jon held the grip for a moment before unclenching, his body so tightly wound that only his fingers moved. The Priestess stepped away, out of his range, and he pointed a single finger at her. “You priests stay out of my head. Out of my past. That was mine, scars and all, and you took it from me.”

She smiled thinly. “We would, if we could.”

“Jon!” called a voice. Jon turned only slightly, never letting the priestess out of his sight, as Theon approached. The Greyjoy was half-a-dozen paces away before the lazy grin on his face dropped, and his eyes went narrow. “Jon, who is this?” 

“You are…” The Priestess began, piercing eyes taking in the Greyjoy; the ever-present smile finally slipped. “Ah. I understand, my lord. The minor role I am to play.” 

“Is everything ready, Theon?” Jon asked, focusing back on the priestess. 

“Yeah, but…” 

The Priestess reached up to her neck and reattached the choker; with a soft ‘click!’ of wire, it seated back into place, and suddenly she was no longer a decrepit half-corpse, but a stunningly beautiful woman again. “My name is Kinvara,” she answered, voice now husky and alluring, “first servant of High Priest Benerro, the Flame of Truth. And you are the first of twelve, Theon Greyjoy.” 

“How do you know - hang on, the first? The first of what?” Theon repeated, confused.

“Ignore her. We’re leaving.” Jon replied, and turned away.

“The Last Hero had twelve companions when he went out to fight the coming end.” Said Kinvara. “Did you think our Lord would make you struggle alone, oh Prince?” 

Jon stopped mid-stride, his eyes widening. The Last Hero. Thirteen companions, and a hound, against all the armies of the White Walkers. Always with the fucking number thirteen. “... He did until now.” 

“Because you did not understand.” Kinvara swayed closer to Jon, and then brushed past him, to trail her fingertips across Theon’s bicep. The Greyjoy nearly leered at the touch but corrected his face into a stony expression at the last moment. “When did this boy tie himself to your fate?”

"You don't know that answer?"

"No. That truth lies within the shadowy maybes, and is beyond us."

“... Two turns ago.” 

“And did you serve the Lord well, two ‘turns’ ago?” she turned, fixing Jon’s gaze in place. “Did you do what it is that is required of you, two ‘turns’ ago?” 

Two lives ago… was Lodos. Two lives ago, he was insane - he didn’t even know who he was half the time. But two lives ago… was when he burned the Altar of the Cave Dwellers, and struck down the Seastone Chair. Both Bloodstone artifacts. “... I think so. Twice.” 

Her eyes lit up. “Twice. And yet you have only found the Greyjoy.” Her knowing smile returned. “You have not been looking hard enough, Jon Snow.” 

Jon’s eyes widened. “Are you saying-”

“That somewhere in this world, there is someone waiting for you to find them. Someone who has been blessed as you have, and with no understanding of why. They might think it a curse, instead of the calling that it is.” Kinvara folded her arms again. “That is why I am here, Jon Snow. To teach you that, as Azor Ahai, that you are only as alone as you allow yourself to be.” 

Jon pinched his eyes shut tightly, feeling his face twitching in indescribable emotion. Always with the fucking prophecy. Always with Azor Ahai, the Promise, the fucking Last Hero. He put both hands to his face and violently dragged it down - his palms came away sweaty and covered with floating ash. 

[“FOR THE NIGHT IS DARK, AND FULL OF TERRORS!”] called the celebrants behind them. 

“We will see.” Jon said, at last. “I have a retort, then. As Azor Ahai.” he drawled the title, his disdain clear. “Your High Priest is right. Fire and Shadow are enemies - truth and lies are enemies. You think you walk in truth, but the more you cover up a flame, the more room you give for dark - the more the lie lives in you. A lie only works when you know all there is.” he pointed a single finger at her face. “And you, Kinvara, know nothing.” 

Kinvara stared at Jon with wide eyes. She blinked slowly, once, twice. “Better to let a fire burn free, and deal with the twilit edges, then to cover up the truth, and have only dark.” her hand went up to her neck. “If you want more shadows… then simply build a bigger fire.” her hand went down within her dress, and came away with a knife - a knife that immediately went to her throat.

“Wha- wait!” Theon exclaimed, hands reaching out in alarm.

The blade was sharp, and cut right through - the choker on her neck came away in her hand, permanently severed. Kinvara gave a small smile, as her beautiful looks faded again. “I hear you, Azor Ahai. I hear your words, Lord. And I obey.” she lifted the choker into the air, and the gleaming gemstone at the center dissolved in a shimmer of dust. “And with it, I hope you hear mine. We are not your enemy, Jon Snow. Melisandre, foolish woman that she is, is not your enemy. The Lord of Light will never be your enemy.” 

Jon slowly dry-swallowed. A bead of sweat dribbled down from his cheek, and over his Adam's apple. “Then tell me who is my enemy. Because your Red God has been damnably silent on what he wants.”

The ancient woman’s thin lips threaded into a knowing smile. “You already know the answer. The proof is standing right next to you.” she gestured grandly at Theon. “A child of the Drowned one, claimed by the Seven and the Weirwood. And yet the Lord set him by your side all the same. What do you make of that, I wonder?”

“That he doesn’t respect boundaries by other gods.” Jon snarked. “He takes what he wants.”

“Can you take that which was freely given?”

“Excuse me,” Theon snapped, before Jon could process the implication, “I don’t appreciate being talked about like a stud horse on loan to a farm!”

Kinvara chuckled. “As is your right, Greyjoy. Then I leave you with this.” she bowed. “We are not like you, Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy. We do not remember that which has transpired. We can only be reminded. And thus, we will never act without your say. Should you decide to never speak to me again, then I will never know we had this conversation. If you never forgive us for what we did against you in that other life, where I took Benerro’s seat, then we shall do what we have always done, and nothing more. None of the Priesthood will even know something has gone wrong, until they look into the flames and see nothing but you - if you remain a stranger to us, then not even Melisandre will admit the change.” 

“But,” and here she lifted her head, staring at Jon over lidded eyes, “if your wrath against us cools, Jon Snow, seek us out. Our power may be diminished, but it is not without use. We only see your true past, now… but there was much of that foreign country that you missed, out along the watchtowers and the cold. With your word, we can see beyond your boundaries.” she straightened, as well as her old crooked spine would allow her. “And never again shall we move against you.”

Jon glared at her. “I spoke to Melisandre, long ago. She looked into the flames, and she burned to death. And you tell me she is not my enemy, when your own God rejects her?” 

“You wanted her dead. The Lord answered your desire.” She answered flatly. 

“Hang on,” Theon interrupted, “You just said your god is missing. How could he then burn her?” 

“Because he willed it so.” 

Jon let out a scoff and rolled his eyes. Instead of telling the truth, she tried to flatter his ego. “Fine. If you won't admit it, then tell me something I don’t know. About my real life - about the War of Five Kings. Tell me something I would know as truth, but could not possibly have known, along the Wall.”

Kinvara’s eyes lit up. “As you wish.” she took three steps to one of the outer braziers, placed her hands around the bowl, and stared deep into the flame. In the background, the citizens of Pentos continued to chant, proclaiming the glory of a god that Jon now knew had somehow gone missing. 

Three chants, three crowd responses, before the Priestess raised her eyes once more. “It wasn’t the mockingbird that killed the boy-tyrant.” 

“What?”

“You know him.” she replied, not moving from the brazier. “The poseur. He claimed dominion over plots, but like a cuckoo, he laid his eggs in another’s nest. It was not by his hand that the boy-tyrant died choking on a toast.” Kinvara smiled. “The Tarnished Lion knew. He heard the words whispered from within the brambles, at the end of it all. ‘You don’t think I’d let you marry that beast, do you?’ the endless fight for family, and in the end, all that remains is a cuckoo nesting within another’s high garden.” 

High garden…? Highgarden. The Tyrells. And Brambles? No. Thorns. The Queen of Thorns. Olenna Tyrell. Olenna Tyrell poisoned Joffrey Lannister to protect Margaery, and Littlefinger pretended it was his idea. Jaime knew, and told nobody. And in the end, the Tyrells went extinct, with Bronn taking their realm - the cuckoo bird in another’s nest he had no right to.

It was exactly as Jon had asked. There was no way of knowing this… but everything about it rang true. Littlefinger took pleasure in claiming the schemes of others for his own glory. Jaime had and would continue to take shameful secrets to his grave. He had never met the Queen of Thorns himself, diminished as the Tyrells were by the time he went south. But if she was anything like Leyton Hightower, the other Reach hierarch he knew, in playing the Game… then he could not help but believe. 

Jon could hear a sharp inhale behind him. He turned, and could tell by the expression on Theon’s face that he was making the exact same connections. “Jon…” he murmured, eyes wide. 

“I know.” he whispered back. This wasn’t the power of R’hllor, by every measure he could think of. Red Priests could not do what Kinvara had just done. The only one he knew of that could see the past like this - 

“The Ink is Dry, R’hllor. You shall not subvert the planning of eons. Die, and return my Sight to me.” 

Were the Greenseers. Was the Raven. 

The Red God didn’t just blind the Raven, Lodos whispered, in awe. He stole his power. Took it from him, cast away his own domain, and crippled his own priesthood. All to aid us. I… didn’t know they could do that. 

“... But why?” Asked Theon, quietly.

Kinvara just kept smiling, as she stepped away from the flame. “Why indeed.” She bowed, low and slow, hands folded in front of her once more. “We are praying for you, Jon Snow. You hold our future in your hands. All of us.” She straightened up, and the ancient woman backed away into the crowd of worshippers. 

[“Lead us, Lord of Light, to safety and love.”] Called the priest.

[“FOR THE NIGHT IS DARK, AND FULL OF TERRORS,”] called the crowd, shifting in place, and Kinvara was gone.

 

---

 

When Jon opened his eyes, the city was dark. Quietly, weightless, he rose from his bed and stepped across the room to the door. With a loud creak, he opened the door to a winding set of large stone stairs. He looked at the stairs, blinked thoughtlessly, and began to climb. 

Up, up and further up he climbed. Through the sky he climbed. Through the clouds, he climbed. Into the dark, he climbed until there was nothing around him but dark. He climbed the stairs until there was nothing left to climb, and a simple high-backed wooden chair lay before him. Weariness overtook him, then, and with a grateful slump he sat in the chair.

The throne underneath him smoldered at his touch, sparking to life at his touch, until it blazed in bright glory. The dark receded around him, and at last he could see the ground underneath him, so very far away. His vision cleared, and the world shifted as if his eyes were magnified until he could see.

A horse was running free across an unending grassland. Or, perhaps free was not the right word - no saddle or tack lay across its back, but tangled in the mane and tail, stone faces clattered and jangled. The horse - a stallion, Jon could see after a moment - ran on and on across an endless sea. The stallion ran, as the stone faces beat hard against its flesh, and dug deeply into the soil. The stone faces were bound to it, but were slowing it down, as the grass was smothered all around it. 

From the furrows dug by the stone faces, another grass grew. Slowly at first, then quickly, until it was as tall as the horse - then higher. Tall, pale grass, as pale as moonlight and devouring all life upon the plains. The stallion rode on, and now Jon could see that the grass was alive, grabbing at the hooves of the horse as it kicked away. It feared the grass, and ran from it, but everywhere it went, the stone faces spread more. Soon, the entire world would be covered in it. And then the stallion would be consumed.

Jon nodded slowly, and leaned back. His chair had been consumed by the flame. All around him was fire, and yet he did not burn. He reached down to the armrest of the chair, and broke off a small piece. In his hand, it spread and smeared, as the wood disintegrated into ash. Jon gripped the ash in his hands, held it out in front of him, and lightly let it go - 

As each flake fell from the sky as a bolt from heaven, as arrows striking ruin and devastation upon the land, as mighty comets engulfed the grass in an all-consuming blaze. The fire raced forward, faster than the stallion, and the horse howled in pain as the flames consumed it whole. The outline of the beast writhed and twisted, as the body was consumed.

And then, suddenly, the horse bolted free. The flames had wounded it - it’s mane was gone, and the tail, and the hide was blackened with burns - but it ran, faster than ever before, its very hoofbeats leaving fire in their wake and thunder in their strike. It ran, and ran, and ran until it outpaced even the grass, leaving nothing but fire. It ran until it reached the very sea, and there Jon wondered if its running had finally come to an end - but no. the stallion reached the sea, and leaped up. 

Higher, and higher, and higher it went, until Jon realized it was leaping to him. Larger, and larger, and larger it grew, until the beast was greater than the dark. Closer and closer and closer, until at last it reached him upon his throne, as the flames had finally begun to die. The stallion was there, larger than the mountains, and it stood athwart the world as a giant, proud and defiant even as the flames writhed upon the skin. The stone faces, Jon realized, were gone, claimed by the fire. Jon looked at the horse, unbroken, defiant to the last, and then looked down upon his seat. It was nearly gone now. The flames were fading. Only ash remained, and that was disappearing with the dark. 

Jon looked up at the horse again, face passive, held out an upraised, flat hand at arm’s length and moved no further. The stallion stared long at the hand, letting out a low nicker; Jon noted with detached interest that his ring finger was gone, replaced with a flame in the shape of the digit. Something about that seemed familiar. The seat underneath him shifted, crumbled, and fell away. 

At last the stallion let out a strong blow, and Jon's throne of ash fell away. The world surged and gravity claimed him, but he remained still, his hand outstretched - and then the stallion bent his head and snatched him, teeth sinking deep into his forearm. He watched all of his arm below the bite crumble away as so much ash as the stallion whipped Jon about onto its back, flames leaping upon the crest in the place of a mane. The great stallion reared, wreathed in fire and let out a bellowing whiny. The darkness receded in fear, revealing a sunless sea, and eternal blanket of stars - 

And the stars were devoured, as The Eye shifted to focus on them.

 

---

 

Jon up from his featherbed with a ragged gasp. His heart was beating out of time, and his lungs could not hold air for more than a second. He dragged his palm down across his face, more for the centering sensation of it than anything else, and glanced out the window. 

The light of the sun was starting to rise over the city of Pentos, leaking through the window. Theon was awake, sitting on the edge of the other bed in his shortclothes. “Bad dream?” he murmured. 

“Mmph. Maybe.” Jon whispered in reply, pushing himself to a seat. 

“You sure have changed.” Said Theon, picking up a shirt and sliding it on. “I remember you used to sleep like the dead. Now it’s a question if you wake up quietly or not.” 

Jon rolled his eyes. “Shut up. Where’s my left boot?” Theon gestured at the place it had been kicked off, and Jon slowly got dressed. “Hard to live the life I have without bad dreams.”

“I don’t know. I don’t even have dreams where I’m the main character anymore. It’s all your memories. Most of them are good.” 

Jon stopped, looking back at Theon as he tugged at his leathers. “Theon, I’m sorry-”

The Greyjoy lifted a finger. “None of that. At least I immediately knew what had happened. Some other poor sod is out there living like this and with no explanation at all.” he shook his head. “If it wasn’t for this, you wouldn’t even know there were others to look out for.” 

Jon let out a single quiet half-laugh, looking down. “The fact that there is more of us out there… The Red God couldn’t have made this easy and told me outright, could he?” he glanced over. “Who could it be?” 

“Nobody from the North, that’s for sure.” Theon remarked. “They would have immediately noticed something different in how Lord Stark stayed in Winterfell. You wouldn’t have known, but you could not escape the rumors anywhere. People were afraid we were about to have a royal army attack us, smallfolk and lords alike, until your name appeared again. If somebody had lived through Lodos and the Stepstones - the first time the Seven Kingdoms went conquering since the Dance no longer happening - they would have gone to Winterfell to see what had changed.” 

Jon leaned back on his hands, staring up at the ceiling. “That could apply to almost anybody in the Seven Kingdoms. I was the subject on everybody’s lips - I was the bastard boy one foot away from the Iron Throne. I was the one they credited for the creation of Bondfire, instead of Hallyne. I was the White Wolf.”

“But hey, other than that, low profile, right?” 

Jon glared at Theon as the boy snickered. “The point being, if somebody had enough frame of reference to know those two lives, they would have known I was not supposed to be there, and sought me out. Just like you did.”

“But they didn’t.” Theon replied, as his humor faded. “Which means that either our second new friend is somebody without the power to approach a Master of Whisperers in the Red Keep… or it was somebody who never heard about any of this.” 

“Not many places you would miss the noise I was making, in Westeros.” Jon remarked. “Not even beyond the Wall - Mance Rayder disappearing would mean the collapse of the Wildling invasion. They couldn’t possibly have missed that.” He pointed a finger downwards. “But here? In Essos? They have an entire continent to be hiding in.”

Theon grimaced. “Damned convenient we came, then. Almost like it was planned. Eugh. I already hate this prophecy nonsense.”

Jon shook his head. “It’s not. It’s persistence. We’re locked in this. Give a squirrel enough trees, and he will find a nut. You can’t let yourself think it’s all destiny.” he stood from the bed, finally dressed. “You heard her. There is no more future.”

“A saner man would call that an omen of doom.” Theon quipped. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. “Well. Suppose we move on. Turns out I had the right idea after all.” 

Jon turned to him. “And what is that idea?”

Theon grinned. “With all the noise you made in Westeros, our new friend didn’t come running. So now that we are in Essos… let’s make some noise.” 

 

---

 

“So. That’s the home of Magister Illyrio Mopatis.” said Theon, whistling slowly. “You certainly don’t see that kind of money in Westeros outside of a House.” 

Jon didn’t respond, but instead passed his dead-eyed gaze over the thick, twelve-foot stone walls. A faint buzzing rang in his ears, as he shifted his shoulderbag slightly.

“And those guards… Just what I was hoping not to see.” Theon whispered. “Unsullied. The armor is different, but that spear looks like the one that man from your memories, Grey Worm, carried.”

“Correct.” Jon replied flatly. “These ones were bought long ago, though- look.” he gestured at the four patrolling the outer perimeter - more specifically, their wobbling bellies. “They’ve gone to fat. Illyrio keeps them on nothing but guard duty, and does not allow them to train well.”

“And so the remnants of their manhood leech out of them.” Theon remarked. He squinted. “Rather a lot of them, though. The smallest batch they’re sold in is a hundred, isn’t it? That’s what Grey Worm said to you, that one time on the march. And this is the gate that isn’t supposed to be guarded at all times, since it’s supposed to be secret. There will be more at the other two guardhouses that come running, and whoever’s in the house. What do you think?”

Jon stared quietly for a long moment, before nodding. “The Unsullied I knew were peerless on the battlefield… but these ones haven’t seen a battlefield since they were sold. And Illyrio has to hide them - Training them would let Braavos’ spies know he has slave soldiers in Pentos.” he frowned, rubbing his chin as he pondered further. “A full century is as unmistakable as the armor he made them ditch. He probably split them with other magisters once they were in Pentos. I’d bet he kept thirty, at most. Alone, I might have trouble… but with your bow, I’m not worried.”

Theon nodded, and pulled the bow from the loop on his bulging pack. “It’s your choice how we do this.” he said softly. “Quiet, or loud.” 

Jon stared out at the patrol, before slowly reaching into his own pack. When it emerged, it was grasping a tiny phial of freshly-made murky green Wildfire. 

Theon shook his head ruefully. “Of all the secrets to miss out on stealing from your head, and it’s the secret to making Wildfire. What rotten luck.” 

“I was named a Wisdom before I died, Theon.” Jon drawled. “Be a good boy, and I might make you my apprentice.” 

The Greyjoy flipped him the bird in response. “Fuck off.” 

Jon slowly twisted the phial around in his hand, looking at the Substance. “Theon… I ask, one last time. Don’t make me do this.” 

Theon glanced over at Jon, and shook his head. “No, Jon. We are doing this.” He lifted his finger, pointing at the manse. “We are going in there, and settling things.” 

Jon squished his eyes tightly. 

You are my queen. Now, and always.

“... I suppose I’m already a traitor and a kinslayer.” he murmured. “Nothing I do here will change that.”

“You might even feel better after.”

“Shut up.” Jon slid the phial into his pocket, and as he quietly drew his sword, the waterskin on his hip uncorked itself as a strand of water forced itself free. “From here on, no names. When I make a move, take down the one on the left. If we’re lucky, they won’t make a sound." 

“I don’t think luck means much to us anymore.” Theon muttered, but drew an arrow anyways. The two boys watched the patrolling Unsullied march in perfect formation towards the gate. They met at the center, stomped once, and twisted about on their heels. 

The guard on the right stepped forward once, into a puddle that wasn’t there two seconds ago. The water surged up, gripped his leg, and twisted. The unman fell to the ground with a surprised yelp. The guard on the right immediately turned, saw the fall, and laughed once -

An arrow sprouted from his right eye, and he fell to the ground in a clatter. The one on the ground heard this, turned, and let out a single syllable of alarm, before Jon was on him shoving his blade into his neck. 

Theon was there two seconds later. “Not bad.” he remarked, eyes roaming vigilantly. “Not good, either.” 

Jon clicked his tongue, leaving the sword stabbed into the Unsullied as he quickly dug about for the Wildfire. Theon, to his credit, immediately pulled out his hunting knife and started hacking a wide clearance in the ivy that smothered and hid the gate, until the chains and padlock were revealed. With steady hands, Jon unstopped the phial, gripped the thick and ornate padlock on the back gate, and measured out a delicate two drops of green into the keyhole. Jon let out a quiet, steadying breath, and waved over Theon. “Now.”

The Greyjoy stepped up, a flintstone and iron striker in his hand. He hit the stone against the unyielding iron into the keyhole once, twice, three times - and then the insides of the padlock spewed out green fire from all crevices, and the two immediately flinched away. The padlock sparked and hissed, as the metal slowly began to glow red, as Jon picked up his blade. With ginger movements, he threaded the sword blade through the shackle as thick as three fingers together, and with a single move yanked downwards. The lock gave without any pressure as the melted innards pulled away, the thick chain upon the gate fell off in a loud clatter, and the gates swung open - Jon gave the lock a good bunt along the ground for good measure, leaving the metal to spark and spit in the dirt road away from the flammable plants. 

“Hell of a trick.” Theon murmured, as he grabbed one of the Unsullied by the armpits and dragged him inside the gate and out of sight. “They didn’t teach you that at the guild hall, did they?” 

“No,” Jon admitted, as he sheathed his sword and grabbed the other corpse to hide, “but I got the idea from the Street of Swords. A locksmith was asking about how much precision Bondfire could have in forging delicate things, so that he could craft more complex lock insides without weakening  something by accident. Don’t even remember his name.”

Theon finished dragging his body after Jon, even though he’d started first, and straightened up with an annoyed grunt. “Let’s move.” Jon quickly turned, closed the gates behind him, and left the bubbling padlock on the ground. The two dashed inwards to the gardens of Illyrio Mopatis. 

Although, in Jon’s eyes, ‘garden’ was underselling it. It was more like walking into the Winterfell Godswood. All around, vibrant flowers and bushes grew in between the cobbled stones, circling around a central fountain. The trees grew thick and bunched in a facsimile of wildness, laden with fruits. Theon reached up to one and plucked a ripe pear from it, took an investigatory bite of the fruit, and retched, spitting out the chunk. “Blegh. Don’t like that.” 

Jon rolled his eyes, shuffling forward in a half-crouch. Sidling up to a wide apple tree, he waited, eyes closed. Silence greeted him - nothing but nature sounds, the wind rustling through the leaves. Another man would have moved on. Jon didn’t. He braced himself against the tree, stretched out his senses, and thought of a man who laughed as he condemned an entire kingdom to extinction - 

He let out a trilling call, plucked his colorful plumage with a short beak, and took off into the air. With quick wingbeats, he circled around the forest underneath. A pair of two-legged figures hunched behind a tree, one holding up the other as the body slumped - not unusual. He swooped and swirled around, diving under the awnings and through the passages, looking for anything he could not see.

And find it he did. A familiar face, a pair of metal shears in his hand, quietly waving on four more figures with weapons. The armed figures crouched, moving in such a way that their metal skin did not make so much as a sound-

Jon came back to himself with a quiet gasp. “The gardener heard us,” he whispered, as a bird twittered loudly in the distance. “Four Unsullied coming in from the west.” 

“Damn.” Theon whispered. “And here I was hoping I’d overprepared. Go loud?”

Jon lifted his head to the voice - Theon had already pulled a blank wooden mask and hooded cloak from his pack. “No. Head north.” Jon shook his head firmly. “They’ll find the bodies, but we’ll be inside. I won’t kill the help - they don’t have any choice being here.” 

“Neither do the Unsullied,” Theon groused, as he settled the mask on his face, “but I don’t hear you complaining about that.” Jon rolled his eyes, reaching around to his pack. Theon shook his head and held out a second mask. “Got yours out while you were away.” 

“My thanks.” Jon quickly settled it on his face. The world narrowed within his sight, barely more than slits - narrow enough that not even eye color was not easily discerned. “Move.” 

The two interlopers darted forward through the bushes and trees, taking pains to always remain hidden from the west. They were almost at the entrance to the manse proper, when Jon heard a single metal ‘ting’. Something as quiet as a single scale shifting, perhaps - but it was close. Far too close. Jon steadied himself on the ground, so that he would not slump-

And immediately dove for a pebble from his perch among the branches. A smooth, round rock nearly too big to fit in his beak, and unbalanced enough that had his neck craning to remain upright, yet he rose high with it even still. Higher, he rose, and to the south of the garden, until he judged it right and let the rock drop-

-to come back to himself with a faint clatter of stone on stone. He sat there, holding up a subtle finger to hold Theon back, and did not dare to even breathe. They waited, and waited, until the breath burned in his lungs and his vision blurred, until finally he heard another stray armor scale slip, moving towards the south. He let out the breath as quietly as possible, but it still came out sharper than intended.

A hand reached out from behind the tree. Jon didn’t even think - with split-second reaction, he grabbed the hand, twisted it, and flung the body attached to it over to Theon. It wasn’t an Unsulled- the dirty gloves and poorly stitched workman’s clothes marked the interloper as the gardener. Theon took a second longer to process, but before the gardener could let out a cry of alarm, the Greyjoy had his hands wrapped around the servant’s neck in a chokehold. Just as the civilian began to flail, Jon rushed forward as quietly as possible, wound up his arm, and slammed a solid fist into the man’s gut. What little breath the man had left was forced out, and within seconds, his eyes fluttered shut. 

Theon’s eyes were blown wide with furious anxiety, gesturing silently with his free hand at the older man’s general person, as Jon silently laid him out. A quick two fingers at the neck - still alive, thank the gods, but he’ll wake with a nasty headache - and a gesture of direction at the house shut up the flailing. Theon flipped him a middle finger for good measure, but followed in his footsteps all the same as they quietly infiltrated the manse proper. 

“Did he see you?” Theon whispered.

“I had the mask on,” Jon whispered back, as he reached for his pack, “but he’ll have seen my hair and skin.”

“Your nice clothes are the more important detail,” Theon muttered as Jon finally got the cloak around his shoulders. 

“Illyrio!” called an unfamiliar voice. The two stiffened, then quickly crept around a wall. From above, a pair of impatient footsteps pounded closer. “Illyrio! I demand to speak with you!” 

Jon glanced back at theon, held a finger to his mouth, and pulled out a mirror-shine knife. Slowly, he angled the blade around the corner, sweeping the hall with the reflection in the metal until finally he caught the speaker. His breath caught. Jon had never seen him before, that man tromping across the upper floor, but his silver hair and violet eyes were unmistakable. It was Viserys Targaryen. The Beggar King. One of the worst examples of the royal house ever produced. His uncle. 

A man I condemned to death not a few moons ago to save Daenerys is now here in front of me… a man who, for all his flaws, would fight to save Daenerys if he caught us. 

“Your Grace.” replied another voice, coming in from the opposite side. Three pairs of footsteps - two metal. Jon glanced up at the railings - solid stone, and high enough to hide them from their angle. He crouched lower all the same. “How can I assist you, this fine day?”

“The Dothraki are nearly at the walls, and my sweet sister does not have suitable attire!” Viserys complained. The man had a gaunt appearance to his face, concave cheeks that looked like he’d starved once and never quite recovered. He was all hard angles and sharp lines, and even within a magister’s home as his honored guest, his clothes seemed shoddy and ill-fitting, without any colors of his house other than a dull faded black. 

Jon knew, from second-hand stories, the battles Viserys had fought to get to this place, and what he’d lost. He knew what he’d done for Daenerys… and what he’d done to her. He knew, without any doubt, that the man above him was as mad as any Targaryen king. Jon only wondered if he knew it, too. 

“Let not your heart be troubled, your Grace,” Illyrio said soothingly. “I have made arrangements for just such a thing. A gown of the latest fashion, made with the finest silk from distant Yi Ti, and dyed to a deep plum color to bring out her eyes.”

“Oh.” Viserys sounded legitimately surprised. “Well done. Why have you not presented it, then?”

“I would not dare to do such a thing without your approval, Your Grace.” Illyrio simpered. Jon heard the echo of Varys in the tone - clearly they learned how to placate little tyrants from the same source. “If I have your permission, I shall give it to her now.”

“Yes- no! You will do no such thing.” Viserys caught himself. “You will bring it to me. I will give it to her. She will appreciate it best from me.” 

“It will be done.” Jon heard a clatter of metal - perhaps the magister was bowing, up above - before clapping twice. “Lead his Grace to the dress.” a shift of feet, and more clattering of metal, before two footsteps wandered off. The noise faded into the distance, before Illyrio sighed. “I don’t like that look in his eyes.” he snapped his fingers. “Inform the barracks that the girl needs a watch outside her bedroom from now until the wedding. Do not allow Viserys to be with her unattended, no matter what he says. I won’t sell her to the Khal missing a maidenhead.” 

Jon’s fist clenching the mirror knife trembled in fury. A hand landed on his shoulder; he turned back to see Theon looking just as disturbed, but shaking his head. He lifted two fingers together and gestured down the hall with them. Jon thought about it for a minute, before shaking his head. He lifted the knife, gestured up above them, and drew it across his own throat. Theon’s eyes widened, pointing with urgency down the hall; Jon merely repeated his previous pantomime. Theon started a third time… and stopped. He took a slow and steadying breath, and then nodded once before drawing a single arrow from his quiver. 

Jon smiled grimly. Killing Illyrio hadn’t been on their mission plan… but after hearing the way he spoke, he wasn’t about to let the magister walk out of here alive. 

As they began to move, a cry went up. Something in a growling Bastard Valyrian was shouted, before changing to something more intelligible. “Intruder!”

“What the-” Illyrio muttered, lifting his head over the railing, exposing to Jon for the first time just how morbidly obese the cheesemonger really was. His eyes focused on the call… and then drifted, and landed directly on Jon. “GUARDS!” 

Behind Jon, a bowstring TWANGed right by his ear. An  arrow flew by close enough to ruffle his hair, and Jon watched as the arrow sprouted from the right side of the magister’s face. The fat man shrieked and fell backwards. Theon snarled. “Too much padding to kill him!” 

“Hell with it - we’re loud now!” Jon called. “Boost!” Theon rushed forward to directly underneath the upper railings and braced himself with fingers threaded. With a running start, Jon leaped into that cradle, and Theon threw him upwards, high enough to grip the railing and pull himself over. The bastard ran as quickly as he could to the fallen body of the Magister, who, even as he was howling in pain, was pulling himself up to his feet. His bright orange robes were splattered with his own blood, and his twin beards were stained red as his cheek bled freely from where it was split open. Jon ripped the sword from his belt, and as the magister ran as fast as he could - not nearly fast enough, with all the fat wobbling about - the steel took him in the back, piercing all the way out through his saggy chest. 

“Varys says hello.” Jon hissed. “Death to slavers.” 

“A little HELP down here, Milord!” 

Jon swiftly ripped the sword from Illyrio’s back, allowing the body to fall with a thunderous flop. Down below, Theon was firing arrow after arrow into a quickly forming phalanx of Unsullied advancing inwards from the garden - at least ten of them. Two of them had fletching sticking out of their chests, but Jon marveled at the fact that they barely even seemed to register the pain. Only one body was on the ground unmoving, with a hit directly through the eye. 

“Squid! Up here!” Jon shouted, gripping the hard stone railing and flinging himself over the side. Theon glanced up at Jon, hanging from the railing with one hand outstretched, before shouldering his bow. One step back, two steps back… and then the Greyjoy went running full-sprint, before jumping as high as he could. 

Jon let out a solid grunt of pain as his hand clasped with Theon’s, sharp stone cutting into the flesh of his fingers even through gloves. He let the momentum carry Theon forward, then swung him high on the backswing. His fingers were not nearly close enough, and Theon went back down, moving like a clock’s pendulum. The Unsullied let out a call, and rushed forward. One of them in the back reeled his arm back and threw his spear at the moving target, and missed Theon’s back by inches. 

“NOW OR NEVER!” Theon screamed.

Jon clenched every muscle he had, swinging Theon as hard as he could. The Unsullied stabbed forward as his legs, gouging a furrow in the sole of his boot… and then Theon was up, scrabbling up over the railing with a gasp. Jon followed him over, shaking his numb hand frantically. “You’re welcome,” he panted, as spearpoints clattered off their new barrier.

“These Unsullied don’t die when they’re supposed to,” Theon gasped, pointing at the otherwise-fatal wounds down below. 

“Wine of Courage.” Jon panted. “Kills off their sense of pain.” 

“Fire will kill them dead.”

“No!” Jon snapped, even as he watched the guards charge off in lockstep towards what Jon could only assume was the direction of a staircase. The two injured guards, however, stayed behind, bellowing loudly in Ghiscari Valyrian. “I won’t do that to another man!” 

“Of all the- is that why you made so little!?” Theon cursed, then shook his head. “Fine! Fine. We'll do this the hard way.” Theon grabbed another arrow, strung it quickly, and fired it downward; the Unsullied collapsed to the ground gargling blood, as the feathers of the arrow twitched in his throat. The second guard went down just as quickly. “We’ll just fight our way through somewhere between ten and a hundred bodies by ourselves, without the easiest weapon possible!” 

“We can do this.” Jon remarked flatly, clenching his fist. From all the bodies around them, the arrows wrenched themselves free, floating to Jon’s outstretched hand through tendrils of blood and depositing themselves gently. “Fire is no way to die.” 

“What a terrible dragon you’d make, having a hangup about fire…” The Greyjoy snatched the ammunition, shook off the blood, and re-quivered them. “You’ll need to tell me what happened after the wedding, one of these days. Come on then. Let’s go after Viserys.” 

The two jogged down the halls at a steady march, weapons at the ready. The manse was full of pathways and rooms, and every other room was locked. They fell into a strategy, soon enough, when they realized that a drop of wildfire in the keyhole was enough to melt the mechanisms without setting fire to the doors. Break into a room, oftentimes a storeroom full of lavish goods and spices, and wait for a patrol of Unsullied to charge past seeking their heads. Theon would burst out, putting an arrow in the back of a skull before anybody could react, and Jon would charge in to further lop heads. 

It was a strategy they’d worked out ahead of time, when Theon had first made explicit his intent to raid the manse - the best way to beat an Unsullied phalanx was to never be directly in front of one.

They’d taken out three five-body patrols like this before the halls went still. Jon finally came to a stop in the middle of yet another hallway, hand resting on the pommel of his castle-forged blade. “I think they’ve figured out our trick. They’re not sending out more patrols.”

“And we still haven’t found Viserys or Daenerys.” Theon added, quickly examining one of his reclaimed arrows for breakages. “I swear I’ve seen that brick before, that one with the crack in it. Think they’ve grouped up?” 

Jon frowned, put out a hand against the stone walls, and braced himself. “I’m going to take a look.” he closed his eyes, extending his skinchanging senses, and groped about blindly for a consciousness to hold on to. He found a bird at last, and thought of a mountain splitting in two-

“Stay here!” said the man. “Do not come out, no matter what you do! The assassins of the Usurper have found us again! They are coming for us!” 

“Brother, please, we need to run-!”

“We have nowhere to run! Daenerys, if he’s willing to fight the magisters, he’s willing to hunt us anywhere! Sweet sister, this is our moment. He’s come for us because he knows we are on the verge of finally reclaiming what is ours. With the Dothraki army, we can go home at last! You must reach the Khal, no matter what happens!” 

“Viserys, I can’t-” He let out a trill and rose from his perch upon the balcony, higher and higher until he could see at last where he was-

Jon flinched back to himself. “They’re on the west side. They were facing the shoreline.”

“Of course they were. Wanted to stare across the Narrow Sea at the Seven Kingdoms, I bet.” Theon quipped. “Which meanssss…” he turned around to stare out the windows at the scenery. “We are on the wrong side of the manse. Up and at it. How many were with them?” 

“I don’t know. But there were many.” 

They ran, together, through the house. They heard, along the way, a number of doors open and close, with the shrieks of fear that told them they were servants instead of soldiers. One, a willowy blonde girl who could not have been older than sixteen but was dressed like a bed wench, nearly passed out from fear at an angry command from Theon to leave. They stepped over the bodies of the Unsullied they’d dropped, the blood spattering up their ankles as they moved. Door after door, hall after hall, they ran. The closer they got, the harder Jon’s scowl grew, behind his mask, until finally -

They rounded a corner, and there they were. A phalanx of spears pointed directly at them, with Viserys standing in the center, hand filled with a sword that looked like it had never been wielded before. 

“KILL THEM!” 

“Whoop!” Theon cried out, stepping back around the corner. Jon was not so well-positioned, and was forced backwards as he blocked a spear aimed directly for his stomach. Another lunged forward, with Jon blocked in - and thudded to the side, arrow sticking from his temple. Opening made, Jon quickly dashed back out into the greater hall, as the Unsullied harried their retreat. 

“You think you can kill me, dogs of the Usurper!?” Viserys howled, waving his sword around. “I am the Dragon! I am your death!” 

“Bold words, for a man surrounded by twenty men!” Theon called, shaking the numbness out of his bowhand. “Hey, Milord! Your guess was off by ten!”

“Not the time, Squid!”

The Unsullied, Jon noted with grim sourness, had learned from their compatriots’ mistakes and claimed their shields and armor. They’d gotten lucky with the first twenty, armed with only their spears. Now, they were clad in all black armor, with their rounded shield held center and their faces guarded. They advanced as one, spears out front, as Jon and Theon backed up over their cloaks. This was the one position they didn’t want to be in - here, they could break a horde. 

“Die, dogs!” Viserys yelled, waving his sword about. He stood a good head taller than the phalanx, giving them a great view of his bright red spitting fury. “You’re going to die here! Tell your Usurper that I’m coming for him! I will take back everything he stole from us! I will-”

THWIP!

An arrow went into Viserys’ mouth and burst out the back of his neck, and the Beggar King fell backwards, dead. Theon grimaced. “Sorry, Milord. He was getting annoying.” 

Jon grimaced, behind his mask. Better you than me - you’re not his kin, thought a traitorous part of his brain. “One less to fight,” was what he said instead. He looked at the phalanx, moving forward with certainty and unrelenting pressure. If they didn’t do something soon, they would be cornered, and then it would be death. 

Jon exhaled slowly, reached down to his waist, and uncorked his waterskin. “Be ready to fire, Squid!” he called. He stepped back once - the Unsullied stepped twice. Another step back - another two steps forward. One step back - 

And as the phalanx grew close enough to menace them, the water flew out of the waterskin, gripped the boot of the middle leading spearman, and twisted. The Unsullied let out a cry of pain, tripped backwards, and knocked over the left half of the front line. The Unsullied behind them did not have time to lower their shield from their turtle-like arrow defense before Theon put a projectile right at their faces. Jon heaved, and the middle man still gripped by the water slid along the ground into the right half, as the Unsullied slammed into the railing. One in the middle let out a cry and toppled over the side, landing on his head with a loud CRACK!

Jon didn’t hesitate - even as he continued to thrash about the man by his foot, he charged in, swinging wildly at the now-unprotected necks. One dead. Two dead. Someone went to stab at his unprotected back - THWIP! - and fell dead. 

Hack. Hack. THWIP! 

Hack. hack. THWIP!

It fell into a surreal rhythm, until Jon went to hack at a neck and found there was nobody left standing. He was splattered with blood all along his cloak; his hands were numb from hacking through bone and armor. They had taken down a phalanx of Unsullied and not suffered a single hurt, something that even the mightiest armies and largest hordes was unable to boast. 

“... Damn.” Theon said, quietly. “And here I thought you were screwing with me about not using your Wildfire.” he stared at the waterskin on Jon’s hip with a grimace. “Magic is terrifying.” 

Jon let out a long sigh, and sheathed his blade. “Come on,” he said, as he took off his cloak and began reversing it to conceal the bloodstains. “You’re the one leading the charge. Lead the way.” 

“No need to sound so grouchy about it.” Theon remarked. He took several creeping steps through the pile, before stopping at the back. “Mm. Right.” he pushed a toeboot into the shoulder of Viserys. “All hail the King.” he quipped, before moving on. Jon stopped by his side, reached down, and quietly closed his eyes. 

“Come on, get a move on.” Said Theon. Jon scowled, and flipped Theon off. The Greyjoy shook his head, gesturing at the door. “We’re on a limit. Time is wasting. On three.” 

We shouldn’t be here.

We could have said no. We did not. Now, we accept the consequences.

“One…” Jon said quietly. “Two…” 

Theon did not wait for three, but instead burst into the room with an arrow nocked upon the string. Jon scrambled after him, shocked, and froze.

There she stood, huddled against the farthest wall, half-hidden behind the luxurious canopy bed with decadent numbers of pillows. There she stood, dressed in a thin silk nothing he had only seen in his wildest nightmares. There she stood, frail and wide-eyed and beautiful in a way that he didn’t know was possible. 

There she stood. Daenerys Targaryen. Daenerys Stormborn. Daenerys the Breaker of Chains. Daenerys the Mother of Dragons. Daenerys, the Queen of the Ashes. 

“Wh-who are you?” She stammered, dainty arms wrapping around herself and her too-thin shift. Gods, he could see everything.

“We do it together… We break the wheel, together…!”

“... You are my queen. Now, and always.” 

“I…” Jon froze. He felt a sudden dizziness come over him; it was only an arm on the wall that kept him upright. He felt something rising in the back of his throat. “I can’t. Th- Squid, I can’t do this.” 

Theon glanced over his side, not releasing the slack in his bow. “Why stop now? We’ve done the hard part.” 

“Squid, I…” 

“Hush up, Milord.” Theon replied. “I’ve known what I wanted to do here since I landed in this city. I can handle this” And with that, he pointed the bow directly at Daenerys. And Daenerys… trembled. And Jon could see frightened tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. 

He’d only ever seen her cry once. At… at the end of it all. And now… it came so easily to her.

Theon tightened the bow even further, until the very wood began to tremble… and then gave it slack. The arrow in his hand went loose, and then was pulled from the string. “So sorry to scare you, Princess,” Theon said, flippantly. “But we needed to show we mean business. For we are the sons of traitors to the Iron Throne. And this, in a very loose definition of the word, is a kidnapping.”

Notes:

Praise be, I appear to have finally picked up a work ethic again. If only that work ethic could correspond with actually having work. Somebody hire me, please. Local starving artist wants to use his cybersecurity degree before it gets deleted by AI.

Theon is finally here. I have been planning this since goddamn chapter 3. I have had the hook and the entire system for why he is here in my back pocket for over 6 years. I have been dying, not being able to just beam words from my brain onto a piece of paper so that I could get to these cool things. So now you get to sit and theorize about even more things coming up. We’ll see if I can keep up the reasonable pace for a while longer.

Notes:

If you like what you read, then leave a kudos, a bookmark, subscribe or whatever you like, and share it with others. Nothing motivates a man like me to write more quite like watching the numbers go up. And I highly encourage you to leave a comment below - I'm usually quite chatty, so I'll likely respond to whatever you want to talk about.

Thanks for reading my story.

The Animaniac Dude