#myadorableidiots

[fierypen37]

Another chapter, lovelies!

[fierypen37]

Held Captive XXV

Another chapter! Enjoy lovelies!

Part XXV

 “Here, let me help you with that,” Asha said, interrupting Jon as he soaked his hands in river water. The blisters had burst after their third day poling up the Mander, and stuck to his gloves. The cool water felt heavenly on his abraded hands as he scrubbed gummy crusts from his gloves.

Dusk settled over the Reach, with a dove’s low, mournful cries filtering through the trees. Water lapped against the sides of the skiff in a soothing sound. Faintly, the soft breeze brought him snatches of conversation from the fire. The men had made camp a bit further off shore, beneath the shade of an oak. A surprise rain shower had left them damp yesterday. Jon rolled his shoulders to ease the day’s ache.

“I’m all right,” Jon said. Asha ignored him. She riffled in her rucksack and produced a round tin. Peeling it open, she smeared both Jon’s palms with a thick, greasy paste, smelling pleasantly of peppermint.

“What’s this?” Jon asked, kneading his burning hands together in sweet relief. Asha’s habitual smirk faded.

“As a girl, I served under my father’s captains, training and reaving and learning. They didn’t take to being saddled with a lordling, much less a girl. They’d seen my brothers die in battle. So I swabbed decks, scraped barnacles off ships’ hulls, but mostly I rowed. I was like you tough northern bastards, I refused to quit first. I don’t mind, it made me strong. And angry. This stuff saved my hands. Bear grease, ground witch hazel, and peppermint oil.” It was the longest and most earnest speech he’d ever heard from her. Oddly, it touched him.

“Thank you,” Jon said, sincere, tucking his damp gloves through his belt.

“You’re welcome. Keep it. Share it with your men,” Asha said, raking a hand through her thick black hair.

“What’s this?” Jon said, gesturing to curves scar on her right hand, on the meat below her thumb. Her scowl deepened and Jon half-expected her to brush it off and stalk away.

“I rode north with my crew and some men-at-arms. Maybe fifty of us. Leagues away from my ship, armed with only dirks and boarding axes, to the Dredfort. I found him sleeping in a kennel. Like a dog. Drowned God save him, he stank of filth and piss and dog. I tried to get him out. But he was frantic, saying he wasn’t Theon, but Reek. Only Reek,” Asha broke off, her voice holding the barest quaver. She traced the scar.

Jon swallowed hard, horror washing over him in waves. Theon had betrayed Jon’s family, taken Winterfell, killed most of the loyal guards left at the castle—men he’d known and jested with—burned two innocent boys to make the world think he’d killed Bran and Rickon. But did he deserve such a punishment?

“Fucker bit me, like a dog. A groveling dog loyal to Ramsay Snow,” Asha said.

“Robb took Ramsay’s head. There was justice done,” Jon said, laying a hand over Asha’s scarred one. Asha met his eye, and all of her laughing saunter was gone. Instead he saw a howling grey nothingness, as cold and merciless as the sea. The smile she wore was bitter.

“Aye. It took Robb Stark too long to get north. All that time Ramsay was abusing Theon, shaving off pieces of him. If the bastard knew where Theon was, he took those answers to the block. For all I know, Theon died in that kennel, so far from the sea.” An ironborn lament, not to be given back to the waves. Jon felt a soul-deep remorse for hating Theon so.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said.

“Forget it. I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” Asha said, jumping up in a smooth, brisk motion.

“Get some sleep, Snow. We should pass Highgarden by midday tomorrow,” she said, leaping atop the skiff to brood in silence. Jon shouldered his rucksack and scaled the rise to the oak. A flutter in the rushes made him half-turn, thinking it was Ghost. The night lay still and quiet. Jon shook his head and walked on. Ser Tallhart greeted him, offering him a wineskin. Jon took a swig, passing it to Brienne. After a grim supper, Jon shared the tin of salve, to broad exclamations of relief. Talk was low-voiced, edged with weariness. A long day’s poling made for sore muscles and lagging wits.

“I’ll take the first watch. Get some sleep,” Jon said, chewing hardtack. He was already thoroughly sick of camp fare.

As his men settled on their bed rolls, curled like sausages around the fire, Jon stared into the distance. Tall grasses waved idly in the wind, the night clear and cool. As time flowed on, as lazy as the Mander’s current, he contemplated the stars. Before his death, Maester Luwin enjoyed astronomy, he even kept an observatory at Winterfell. As such, Jon recognized the shapes of the Ice Dragon, or the Sword of the Morning. The Ice Dragon gave him pause. The glittering blue star in the rider’s eye pointed the way north, the way home. A dragon and rider . . .

“I hope you are well,” Jon whispered.

A snap of a branch caught his attention, crisp and close. Jon jumped up, gripping Longclaw. He waited, nerves drawn taut as a bowstring. His mouth felt dry. It sounded again, behind him in the direction of the river. Was it Asha?

“Asha?” Jon hissed, nudging Brienne’s bedroll with one toe. In the low orange wash of firelight, he saw the gleam of her blue eyes. Pressing one finger to his lips, he pointed down bank toward the river. Quiet as a shadow, Brienne rolled to her feet, Oathkeeper in hand.

“Asha?” Jon said again, moving in a circle to wake the men with subtle nudges. With Ser Tallhart and three others, he motioned for them to remain lying, ready to pounce. He heard snatches of Asha’s voice over the murmur of the river, and another, deeper register.

“We’ve a nip of ale left. Let me check with my useless man-at-arms,” Asha said, sauntering up the rise.

“What are you--”

“Shut up! Do we have any ale?” she hissed at Brienne. Riffling through their belongings, Brienne came up with the ale jug. Asha snatched it, taking a long swig before finger-combing her hair.

“Just our bloody luck, we run into sellsword scum. I’m Jeyne Grey, a westerland lady headed to King’s Landing. You’re my idiot man-at-arms,” she said, stabbing a finger in Jon’s direction.

“The rest of you stay hidden in the grass! Quiet! I’d rather not have to kill them—they outnumber us two to one,” Asha said. Ser Tallhart and the men looked to Jon.

“Go. Quietly, now,” Jon said. The men melted into the tall grasses, stepping light and quiet, timed with the gust of wind. Asha shoved the ale jug in Jon’s direction and stalked down the rise, motioning for Jon to follow.

The sellswords lounged around the skiff, upending rucksacks and riffling through their cooking supplies.

“Now come on, lads! Didn’t I promise you ale?” Asha said with a girlish giggle.

“We couldn’t wait for your idiot man-at-arms, little lady,” one said, draping a casual arm around Asha’s shoulders. Jon’s grip whitened on Longclaw’s hilt.

Every one of them were armed to the teeth. One big brute laid a war hammer at his feet with casual familiarity. Another leaned a steel spear against their longboat. A couple had silver hair, startling him, until he remembered they were Essosi, probably Lysene. Most wore only woolen tunics, a couple boasted motley bits of armor.

In the weak moonlight, he couldn’t find a tattoo, so perhaps not the Golden Company. Were they the Second Sons? The Stormbreakers? Both were groups of mixed Essosi sellswords and Westerosi exiles. Asha twined her fingers with brute’s and danced a circle, freeing herself from his cloying grip.

“Well come on, then, idiot! Serve them ale!” Asha said, with an impatient gesture. Jon shot her a black look, then grudgingly circulating pouring ale as Asha flirted and chatted. The tall, silver-haired one with the spear, bearing a tattoo of a fish on his face, sloshed his horn cup.

“More ale, boy,” he grunted. Jon kept his gaze meekly downcast, glimpsing their barge tied to a nearby tree upriver. That explained why they hadn’t heard them approach. Asha teased and danced from man to man and Jon found a sliver of hope. Maybe they would get out this without shedding any blood.  

“Is your man-at-arms mute as well as stupid, milady?” the man dancing with Asha said—presumably their leader.

“No, he can speak, but he’s grim, sullen sort. I don’t know why my mother puts up with him,” Asha sighed, pouting prettily. The man was solidly-built, and seasoned judging by the grey at his temples and the scars on his arms.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Grenn,” Jon said, blurting the first name he could think of. He disliked the shine in the other man’s narrow dark eyes. Jon rested a loose hand on Longclaw’s pommel.

“Grenn. That’s quite the sword you’ve got. Know how to use it?”

“Of course. Milady’s lord father would hardly trust send me to mind her if I didn’t,” Jon said dryly.

“Good, good! We’d hate to deprive milady of such a competent protector.” Jon heard the mocking in the tone, as only a bastard could, but swallowed the burn of anger.

The men seemed relaxed, calm. Content to share ale and amusement. How refreshing would it be for a group of pillaging sellswords to treat a vulnerable woman with respect? There were stranger things in the world.

“Where do you hail from, ser?” Asha asked, batting her eyes. Her finger traced the line of muscle on the man’s forearm.

“Milo of the Free City of Pentos, Captain of the Stormbreakers,” he said, puffing out his chest like a proud bird. Stormbreakers. Jon knew little of them other than they were a sellsword company from Essos who lived by their contracts. Thinking of his own Stormborn, he disliked the name Stormbreaker.

“Sounds exciting! Traveling the world for gold and glory!” Asha said. Her twitter was very convincing.

“It is, milady. We are in the service of the true king of Westeros, Aegon of House Targaryen, trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen,” the tattooed man with the spear said. Pretender. Asha brow puckered.

“I thought the Mountain slew him when the Lannisters sacked King’s Landing,” she said.

“That was a tanner’s boy. The real Aegon was smuggled across the Narrow Sea by Jon Connington,” Milo insisted. How convenient. And all we have is this Aegon’s word that it is so. Any sane man would follow a true Targaryen whose blood no man could question.  

“Fascinating. And what are you handsome gentlemen doing in the Reach?” Asha asked.

“King’s orders,” Milo said, dark eyes shuttered. Jon felt a warning chill creep up his spine. Asha didn’t miss a beat.

“Well enjoy the ale with my compliments. Grenn and I shall retire for the night. A long day’s rowing ahead. Seven blessings.” She tried to move past Milo toward the skiff, when his grip tightened, pinning her still.

“Not so fast, milady. Don’t deny us your companionship,” Milo said, his grin revealing the faint wet gleam of white teeth. Jon tensed, casting a wary glance at the rest of the men. Without his noticing, each had edged closer to their weapons.

“I’d really rather seek my bed, please,” Asha said, with steel beneath the light tone.

“That’s not very polite. I insist you stay,” Milo said, propelling Asha down to sit on the riverbank.

“Hands off the lady, if you please,” Jon said, pulling Longclaw a few inches from its sheath. Asha rose with catlike grace, shedding the simpering act like an ill-fitting costume. Her posture was straighter, her gaze sharp and direct.

“Well, we tried,” she said, with a sharp smile and a shrug.

A flutter of movement, a whine of steel. Asha’s axe buried in Milo’s forehead. His expression was of blank surprise as blood trickled down his face. He fell to the ground with a squelch of river mud. Jon cursed under his breath as he drew Longclaw. The sellsword with the war hammer lunged first, swinging with a roar. Jon ducked, the wind of the blow whistling in his ears. Jon darted a quick slash with Longclaw, hamstringing the brute’s left leg. Spinning around, he found another sellsword lunging toward him, armed with twin Myrish stilettos. The sellsword darted low, intending to stab Jon’s leg. Jon moved to intercept with a backhanded slash. The weight and strength of Longclaw was his advantage. The Valyrian steel cut through stiletto and the hand that held it. The man shrieked, clutching his spurting stump. Another blow across the throat finished him.

“To arms!” Jon shouted. His men echoed the war cry, emerging from the grasses. Jon risked a searching look for Asha, finding her clutching a man in a parody of an embrace, burying her dirk in a sellsword’s throat. The air was filled with the clash of weapons, curses and shouting, the sharp, hot smell of blood.

“Come here, you wee fucker!” the sellsword with war hammer lurched toward Jon, his trouser leg dark with blood. Jon danced back, intending to tire out the big brute. Enormous, fat, and wheezing, the sellsword collapsed like a felled tree, Ser Tallhart’s longsword buried in his back. Their eyes met in understanding, and thanks.

Jon swiveled to look a—pain burst in the back of his head. Staggering, he found the Lysene with the spear approaching. His ears rang, blood filled his mouth from a bitten tongue. Jon shook himself, raising Longclaw to block another blow. He shifted with only the river at his back.

“Not so stupid, eh?” the man said, grinning. He was right to be confident, Jon thought. With a long spear he could stick Jon at a greater distance. The metal haft made it unlikely for Jon to shorten the distance by cutting it. Jon settled into his stance, ignoring the pounding in his head.

“Come on, then. Or are you afraid to die as quickly as your captain? Killed by a woman, no less!” Jon taunted.

In answer, he whirled the spear in a wide circle, Jon ducked the blow, keeping his sword in a half guard. The sellsword advanced, pushing Jon back until he was ankle-deep in the Mander. The other man hoped Jon would stumble, drop his guard long enough to strike.

A quick glance found their longboat within easy reach. He had to wait for his opening . . . Jon batted aside the spear point and lunged through the water to climb atop the longboat. High ground and unpredictable footing made for a hard opponent to reach. They traded blows, locked in a cocoon of intense concentration. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, each swing made his sore arm muscles burn. Jon pressed forward, getting close enough to slash the sellsword’s spear arm. Blood spurted from the wound; he’d nicked a vital vessel, the blood looked black as ink in the wan moonlight.

“Snow!” The sound of Asha shouting his name distracted him for an instant.

Pain was a red-black explosion in his face.

Jon felt himself falling backward, arms wind milling. The Mander closed over him. Cold! Jon floundered, clawing upward and breaking the surface. Longclaw’s weight, usually so easy, now felt like a lodestone.

The Mander’s sluggish current dragged him downriver. Jon swam, angling toward shore. There was a snag around his ankle—rope? Vines?—he kicked at it, struggling to stay above water. Then the tangle around his leg snagged on something and dragged him under. Panic rose up sharp and jagged as he floundered blind and losing his air. Jon hacked at the thing around his leg with Longclaw. One blow, another, and he felt a loosening . . . the edges of his vision pulsed black. Jon mustered his strength, wedging Longclaw alongside his leg and sawing through. There! Free! Jon kicked hard for the surface, lungs about to burst . . .

He broke into the cold night air with a grateful sucking breath. Blood was a hot trickle, blinding his right eye. Weary down to his marrow, Jon swam to shore. He dug his fingers into thick handfuls of mud. Dry land. Sweet, solid land.  

He staggered to his feet, trying to ignore the chill seeping into his bones. There was a warning twinge from the knee that been bound, but it did not worsen as he bore weight. Jon clawed through bramble and sharp reeds. Gods, he couldn’t even hear the sounds of battle. He strained his eyes, attempting to make out the shape of the skiff or sellsword barge. Nothing. Jon heaved a sigh, grateful long conditioning had kept him gripping Longclaw. The sword would have been lost had his grip faltered. Jon glanced at the stars. By his guess, the river had dragged him maybe a league downstream.  

He gingerly touching his eye. A hard knot was forming below his eyebrow, the skin taut and tender. He hoped it wouldn’t swell shut. Jon tramped through the dense undergrowth lining the river. It was tense, sweaty work, hacking through the foliage. Stealth was all but impossible. A rogue amusement trickled through him. He almost apologized to his sword. Imagine, using a Valyrian steel sword as a pruning knife!

Time passed with Jon hacking away at vines and reeds until he reached camp. A deserted camp. Jon paused, dragging in deep breaths. The sky was beginning to lighten toward dawn, it was a softening of the blackness, really. Sunrise was still hours away. Dead sellswords littered the ground. Both skiff and barge were gone. Cold sweat dewed on his skin. Asha and his men were still alive, clearly, but how could he reach them on foot?

A snap in the bushes made his skin prickle, raising Longclaw in a guard.

“Jon? Jon?” Brienne’s voice made him limp with relief.

“Brienne! I’m here!” he said. Soon, Brienne’s lanky form shouldered through the bramble.

“Are you all right? I saw you fall.”

“A bit battered. Tired. Where is everyone?” he asked. Brienne’s shrug was barely visible in the gloom.

“I moved downstream to look for you after you fell. Asha must have ordered the men to push on,” Brienne said. Jon sheathed Longclaw with a crisp snap.

“Let’s get moving. Maybe we can catch up with them at Highgarden.”

[fierypen37]

Another chapter lovelies!

[fierypen37]

Held Captive XXIII

Another chapter! Enjoy!

Part XXIII

 “Have you found your sea-legs yet, Snow?” Asha Greyjoy said, clapping him on the shoulder. Jon groaned, slumped against the railing. He retched over the side, though only bile was left. He swiped his mouth on the cuff of his jerkin and squeezed his watering eyes shut. Maybe by blotting out the image of seething, endless grey waves and greyer sky would help. Jon was fascinated by the sea, but now there was nothing he despised more than endless open water.

“Aye, just watch me walk on water,” Jon said, spitting over the rail. Asha snorted, resting her elbows on the rail as she looked at him sidelong. Those wide grey eyes, that arrogant curl of her mouth, she looked like Theon, and that made him want to punch something.

“Northerners never do well at sea. Not in several thousand years,” Asha said, casting a critical eye of over the sail and heading.

“Warne! Tighten up our fore! The rocks are sharp the closer we get to Oakenshield!” she shouted.

“Aye, Captain!” the squat ironborn said, fingers deft on the ropes.

“Another Brandon,” Jon said, swallowing another wave of bile as the ship sliced through a swell. Icy spray dampened his clammy face.

“Eh?” Asha said, beads of seawater glistening like pearls in her short cap of dark hair.

“Brandon the Burner. He set the North’s ships on fire,” he said. Asha nodded.

“Regretting that now, hmm? House Greyjoy would never have risen to power had the North kept their navy. Say what you will about the Ironborn, but we never let an opportunity pass us by.”

“No matter who you trample on to take that opportunity,” Jon muttered. Asha rolled her eyes, mouth pinched as if she’d bitten a lemon.

“Gods! What does the queen see in you? A grim bumpkin born on the wrong side of the sheets,” she said. Jon glowered at her, tempted to correct her. I am a Stark of Winterfell, a knight and dragonrider. Missing Daenerys settled into a dull ache in his chest, though his griping stomach gave him little time to ponder it.  

“How long until we reach the Mander?” he asked, striving for a neutral topic. Asha startled him by leaping up on the rail and leaning over the side, supported by a line wrapped around her arm. Squinting into the misty horizon, she grinned down at him. Her long coat fluttered around her like leathery wings.

“We’ll reach Oakenshield by nightfall, and slip by under cover of darkness. Their signal fires are a pain in the arse to contend with. Then we’ll need those muscles of yours, Snow. Poling up the Mander takes a strong man.”

“It seems slower than riding.”

“A skiff is light and maneuverable. While we might get away with riding unnoticed—the Reach is bloody huge—our best bet is to slip upriver quick and quiet. Trust me, Snow. We’ll get you to King’s Landing and back to those sweet tits soon.”

“Watch your mouth,” Jon snapped, gripping Longclaw’s hilt. Asha’s smirk fell away. She squatted on the rail, braced expertly against the pitch of the ship with a cat’s light balance.

“I guessed by those longing looks at the Rock you and the queen were fucking. Can’t blame you, she has a fine arse. I don’t care who the queen fucks. But you’d do well to remember that she is a queen. Eventually some perfumed ponce is going to come along and offer swords or gold or whatever it is queens will trade their cunts for. And she can’t be having babes with your pretty curly hair, hmm? Look how it worked out for Cersei Lannister.”

Mine and damn the consequences, he’d said. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d thought just the scenario Asha proposed. Things were different now though. He was named Stark, a dragonrider. Named Daenerys’ second. Surely now he would be considered worthy of her? Jon’s jaw clenched hard enough to hurt his teeth. Missing her was a constant ache low in his chest, actual, physical pain.

“Daenerys is nothing like Cersei.”

“Aye. That’s what worries me,” Asha said, expression serious.

With that, Asha left him to his thoughts, barking orders as she did so. Jon squirted water from a skin to rinse his mouth. He couldn’t sit and pine for her. He had work to do.

Tyrion had a long scroll of ideas on how to chip away at the tottering statue of House Lannister, especially in retaliation for the Lannisport fire. A man had to admire the sheer ruthlessness when Tyrion applied his considerable intellect against his remaining family.

In the search for Sansa or Arya, Robb had sent Brienne. Jon and half a dozen of his men were to accompany Asha up the Mander to King’s Landing. One of Tyrion’s spies, his former squire Podrick Payne was in the city, working at a tavern. He could smuggle them into the city unnoticed to meet their mysterious ally. They were due in several weeks’ time to meet at a tavern in Flea Bottom. By the time the first true snow falls, the scroll had read.  

Jon staggered across the deck and ducked below to the cramped cabin. Ser Talhart and five others lay in various tangled states of misery as he. Only Brienne seemed unaffected. Even nearly a week aboard and Jon still felt queasy with the pitch and roll of the deck underfoot. The room was unbearably hot, reeking of vomit and unwashed bodies.  

“Greyjoy says we should reach Oakenshield by nightfall. Come morning, we’ll be on the Mander.”

“Thank the gods! I swear by any god there is I will never set foot on a ship again,” Ser Talhart said.

“Aye. We’ll see if Greyjoy is as good a captain as she boasts. Between rough seas and currents around Oakenshield, we should be in for a long night,” Jon said.

The afternoon passed in agonizing slowness. While he was able to keep down some broth, the nausea remained, his stomach quivering and lurching along with the ship. Captain’s orders bid them to stay below deck, and not a man complained. Jon settled himself by sharpening Longclaw, then his dirk, then the sock knife tucked in his boot. Then he turned his attention to oiling his boiled leather armor. Heavy plate was suicide on the deck of a ship, so thus his lighter leather. A couple of the men diced, and Ser Talhart snored beneath his lowered cap. Though Jon felt leagues from sleep, he settled on the floor, pillowing his head on his folded arms.

The world spread before him, every rolling hill, ridge, river and tree limned with gold. The grass was soft and lush in high summer, and he lay lulled by the music of water and the hum of bees. Then to the North, an echo of cold. Faintly, the high, thin cry of a wolf’s howl and the flutter of wings. An ancient voice holding the gasps of dying men and the rustle of dead leaves: Jon. Jon. The Isle. The Isle of Faces. Find me. Find me. Find me, Jon!

“Jon! Wake up!”

Jon snapped awake, finding Ser Talhart’s square face above him.

“We should arm. It’s nearly time,” he said. Jon swiped the sweat from his brow.

“Aye. Aye, give me a moment,” he said.

A glance out the murky window found full dark, the sky a blank grey-black slate. By the time he’d choked down a stale biscuit and wine and settled into his armor, the dregs of the dream faded. Together, Jon, Brienne, and his men clattered up the stair to deck. In the middle distance stood the island of Oakenshield, seat of House Hewett.

“A shame we’re sneaking by at night. I hear the signal fires of the Shield Islands are a sight to behold. I hear the roof of the castle has green tiles,” Brienne said, excitement crackling in her blue eyes. Jon smirked.

“I think tonight it will be a good thing not to see the signal fires,” he said.

“True,” Brienne said, donning the hooded cloak to hide the shine of the moonlight on her fair hair.

“Quiet now, lads. Eerl, the mainsail! Hagen, tighten up that drag line!” Asha hissed, darting around deck like a mad crow.

The wind was with them, as far as Jon could tell, the ship glided through rough swells. The moon shone in scattered beams on the water, the black bulk of the island sharp against the shimmering sea. Jon’s mouth was dry.

“Now the plan is to sail up the mouth of the Mander, then we disembark?” Ser Talhart asked.

“Aye. Then Asha’s men will sail back to Pyke. Hopefully without being seen. Then no Lannister men will be looking for us,” Jon said, knuckles white on the lip of the railing.

“What happens if they raise the alarm?” Ser Talhart asked with a nervous glance at the jagged black spears of rock surrounding Oakenshield. The ironborn had been by turns gleeful and morbid describing the treacheries of riptides, rogue waves, and ships run aground on hidden rocks.  

“That won’t happen,” Asha said, nudging Ser Talhart’s shoulder, “now shut up.”

They froze, gliding past the empty black eye socket of a guard tower. Jon squinted into the gloom, searching for a hint of movement. Just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, there was a scrum of movement on the wall.

“Hawkeye!” Asha said with a wave.

“Got ‘em,” the gruff ironborn replied, poised with a longbow on the ship’s crosstree, squat and black like a vulture. The guard on the wall paused, warming his hands at the brazier, talking to his companion. Hagen Hawkeye waited, keeping them in his sight as the ship slipped by. Jon held his breath, conscious of every creak of the ship, every flap of sail . . . The Black Wind crept by, silent as a shadow.  

“We’re clear of the main guard tower,” Asha hissed, “Another hour or so and we’ll be at the mouth of the Mander.”

Jon paced up and down the deck, marking out the steps as time ticked by. He found he was too nervous to be ill, a small blessing. Oakenshield faded in the distance, and fortunately, Jon could see the black shape of land on the horizon. So close . . . The bulk of Oakenshield loomed behind them. For himself, Jon wouldn’t feel safe until there was solid ground beneath his feet. He felt the itch of watching eyes on the back of his neck.

Under Asha’s direction, he and his men began loading their supplies in the skiff lashed to the side of the ship. The labor took his mind off the guards, though standing poised in the bed of the skiff, Jon saw only ocean. Surging water, endless lurching . . . Jon retched over the side. Some of the sick was caught by the wind and slapped against the ship’s hull.

“Watch where your puling, Snow!” Asha said, laughter in her voice.

“Bugger off,” Jon said hoarsely, setting down the crate of hard biscuits. Gods, his throat felt sore and raw. As he watched, there was movement in the water, a sleek black shape. A triangular fin broke the surface.

“What’s that?” Brienne asked from above.

“A shark. Big one too, look at the tailfin,” Asha said, pointing to a smaller lashing fin slicing through the surface. Jon clumsily staggered toward the rope ladder. He certainly felt safer with the deck boards under his feet.

“Are there sharks in the Mander?” Ser Talhart asked, eyes fixed on the shape in the water. The shark disappeared into the depths quick as thought. Asha shrugged.

“I’ve never seen one. It seems they don’t like the water. Too sweet for their taste,” she said.

“Do you think we’ll make it?” Jon asked, with a longing glance at land. Asha squinted at the sky. It was still full dark, Jon guessed the hour of the wolf.

“We’ll be cutting it close,” she said, “you lot go below. Get out from underfoot.”

Warne Harlaw, Asha’s second, stumped below the sky began to lighten toward dawn. From their murky window, Jon saw the shapes of the shore. Thank the gods.

“Hurry up, you shites! We have to be off beyond the Shields before the guard changes,” he said, fat lips peeled back in a sneer to reveal chipped, yellowed teeth.

Jon leapt to his feet, settling Longclaw and catching up his rucksack holding his armor and supplies. A brisk wind made Jon grateful for his cloak as they stepped on deck. One by one, his men and Brienne climbed down in the skiff. Jon followed, his grip white-knuckled on the skiff’s low side. Two ironborn lowered the skiff to the water was a loud splash. Asha leapt down, landing with practiced balance.

“Remember Harlaw, keep her low and fast! Drowned God save you from my wrath if the shielders raise their alarm.” Settling at the prow, Asha gestured to Jon and his men.

“Poles! Quickly now!”

 Asha hadn’t lied. Poling upriver took strength. Training with the sword and hard labor had toughened Jon’s muscles, but he was more used to bearing a shield and sword than a river pole. Jon stifled a grunt as he dragged the pole up, sweeping it forward in tandem with Ser Talhart and his two other men on the starboard side of the skiff. His arms trembled, his shoulders ached, his hands felt like they were on fire, chafed to blisters even through his gloves. By his guess, they’d been at it for at least two watches since dawn broke in sunny brilliance.

The Mander was rich with the loamy scent of silt and rushes. The air was cool and moist, even though the rising sunlight was enough make him sweat in his leathers. Gnats and midges danced in the air. The breadth of the river surprised him, wide enough for two of Asha’s longships to sail up side by side. Jon shared a glance with Brienne who answered with a grim smile. None of the northmen would break first. It was a matter of honor to prove their strength to an outsider. Asha stood balanced on the prow, keen eyes scanning the murky river ahead for sand banks and submerged obstacles. As time dragged on, Asha broke the silence in a sweet clear voice.

“Hey don’t ye see that black cloud a risin’?/Way haul, we’ll haul away Jo!/Nay whinin an’ my mam told me/Way haul, we’ll haul away Jo!” With each repetition of ‘Jo,’ Asha stabbed her pole down for a sweep, guiding them through the current. Jon recognized it as a common work song, used to pass the time. He and the men took up the answering phrase.

“Hey don’t ye see that black cloud a risin’?” Asha sang.

“Way haul, we’ll haul away Jo!” Jon grunted, slamming his pole down for another pull. His arms and shoulders shrieked.

To take his mind off the pain, Jon’s eyes wandered over the gently rolling fields of the Reach, still tinged with green even at this late season. The wide open fields felt strange after the Westerland’s crags and the Riverland’s dense woods, what trees were to be found were in the ordered lines of orchards. He and Daenerys had poured over maps of the Reach and the Crownlands, and he’d memorized every holdfast and road on their route to King’s Landing. His love had a fierce, loyal heart, but life had taught her cruel lessons of betrayal. Her worry touched him.

“Oi found meself an Arbor lass!” Asha said.

“Way haul, we’ll haul away Jo!”

Another half a watch passed with Asha leading them in songs to ease the effort of work. The sun climbed in the sky, sweat streamed beneath the now suffocating weight of his cloak, exacerbated the strangely humid air. Each breath emerged in a low grunt, lost in the river’s murmurings. Asha stopped singing and danced to the back of the skiff, angling the craft toward shore.

“Whew! Pull up then, lads! Pull up!” Asha said, with an ushering gesture. Jon bit back a sigh of relief as they set aside their poles and stomped through knee-high marsh to shore.

“You northerners are tough bastards. Close to three watches’ worth of hard rowing without stopping,” Asha said, tossing a waterskin over her shoulder. Jon caught it, squirting stream into his mouth and onto his face. Sweet relief to the parched, burning tissue of his throat. Asha stabbed the skiff’s grounding stake into the dirt, tamping it down with a careless stomp of her boot.  

“Here, Theo,” Jon said, handing the waterskin to Ser Talhart. Brienne looked a little grey, so Jon clapped a hand on her shoulder in reassurance. Asha took a seat in the rippling shade of a willow. His men staggered up in various attitudes of exhaustion. Jon sank onto the ground beside Brienne. The breeze cooled the sweat on his brow in sweet relief.

“Are there any biscuits to be had?” he asked, ravenously hungry.

“Aye,” Brienne said, handing him two. The hardtack was dry as dust, and crunched between his teeth. Still, it was food.

The group chewed in silence, broken only by the soft chuckle of the Mander. Jon washed down the unpalatable lump of hardtack with tepid water, longing for a side of venison with spiced honey, fried potatoes with butter.

“We made it past the shielders. I think the only house close is Horn Hill, and old Randyll Tarly has sworn to Cersei, as far as I know. She made him lord of who-fucking-cares. Last I heard, he was fighting your brother in the Crownlands, Snow. The only other real power along the Mander is Highgarden, and the Golden Company did us a favor and sacked the castle already,” Asha said, folding her hands behind her head. Ironborn to the bone, they thrive in turmoil.

“The Tyrells are Lords Paramount of the Mander, right?” Ser Talhart asked, cracking his knuckles.

“They were. Until the Lannister bitch blew them to hell in the Sept of Baelor,” Asha said, eyes half-closed.

“I thought Mace Tyrell had four children. Only Loras and Margery died in King’s Landing,” Brienne said, between bites of hardtack.  

“Aye, there were two others. Garlan Tyrell died during the War of Five Kings, at the Battle of Blackwater, along with Renly Baratheon and most of Stannis’ men. The eldest, what was his name? Willem?”  

“Willas,” Brienne corrected.

“Willas! He was the crippled one. He died when they sacked the castle.”

“Olenna left him behind?” Jon asked with a frown. A woman who would risk death for treason to avenge her murdered grandchildren would not leave her last living relative to die. Asha shrugged.

“Olenna doesn’t enjoy talking to a girl who ‘swaggers around like an idiot boy.’ She didn’t talk about Highgarden. I didn’t ask.” Asha settled against the willow’s bark. Jon stood, shaking the soreness from his arms.

“Brienne, take two of the men and scout around. I’ll see to the weapons. We rest here?” Jon said.

“Aye,” Asha said, “for at least a watch or two. The Mander doesn’t have many tributaries or side streams to get lost in, so if we pole on after dusk, we won’t get lost.” Jon nodded, parting the willow’s draping branches. Brienne, Ser Talhart and his son Ed moved in stealthy circles through the rushes, pushing outward.

Jon checked the lines tethering the skiff, scooping handfuls of river water to wash his face. The cool water felt heavenly. Jon heaved the bundled spears and longswords over his shoulder. He looked up into the cloudless blue sky near midday, the air so warm. He half-expected the dragons to be wheeling overhead. The feeling of loss struck him deeper than he anticipated.

“I’ll be back for another ride, I promise,” Jon whispered to Rhaegal.

Inevitably, his thoughts turned to the Mother of Dragons. Jon kneaded his breastbone, willing away the ache. How spoiled he’d been, being so close to Daenerys Targaryen for so many months. The world felt greyer and colder away from her. He craved the sharp thrill of meeting those changeable eyes, how her laugh touched him.

Jon heaved a sigh and stood. He squelched through soft river mud back to the willow tree. Brienne waited, standing at attention, her hand lightly curled around Oathkeeper.

“Anything?” Jon asked. “We saw a few smallfolk to the north, but nothing else.”

“Good. I for one could use a bit of sleep on solid ground,” he said with a smirk. Brienne nodded with her usual thin smile.

“You are not a seafarer, Ser.”

“Indeed not. Maybe I’ll try again in a little boat off Tarth, but not on open sea,” Jon said, knowing how deeply Brienne longed for home.

“The waters around Tarth are a sight behold. A very pleasant way to spend a summer afternoon with a loved one,” Brienne said slyly. Jon grunted, claiming a bit of grass beneath the swaying willow branches. They made a reedy sort of music as the breeze moved through.

With an exhausted sigh, Jon stretched out his head pillowed on his wadded cloak, loosening Longclaw for easy draw. His protesting limbs loosened and relaxed and soon he was asleep.  

[fierypen37]

R+L=J

[fierypen37]

Held Captive XXVII

Since I didn’t post last week, you get a chapter a day early this week. Enjoy!

“Why do you think Asha left us behind?” Brienne asked, bringing the short sword down to hack out a path in the undergrowth. Jon paused to take a long swig from the waterskin. The sun was climbing toward midday—they’d been hacking away since before dawn. Despite the Reach’s gentle climate, winter burgeoned in earnest—even beneath a clear sky, the air held a frosty bite. His right knee complained from his misadventure in the river. The blow from the Lysene had swollen his left eye shut. It throbbed unmercifully, but Jon did his best to ignore it.

“My guess is the sellswords decided to cut their losses and run. While they didn’t know who we really are, they could tell their superiors a well-armed fighting force is--” Jon broke off the cough, a deep, rattling cough that shook his chest, a dunk in a cold river was to blame for that as well— “is making their way up the Mander.” Jon cleared his throat.

“A problem enough to send more men to deal with it. More men, more trouble.” Brienne nodded, gesturing for the waterskin. Her blue eyes flickered over him, warm with concern.

“I’m fine,” he said, mustering a thin smile. Brienne nudged his shoulder.

“You don’t look it. In fact, I think the queen might just fry Asha to a crisp when you limp back to the Rock,” she said dryly. Jon grinned, feeling a pang in his chest at the thought of Daenerys.

“She does have a bit of a temper. But it was my choice to go. I knew what I was getting into,” he said. A wary hope lit Brienne’s eyes.

“Do you think we’ll find them? Truly?” Hope, so fragile, like a thread of glass, connected him to his sisters. Jon held it carefully, lest it shatter in his hands. For Brienne, he knew she felt the same. False leads ended in the ashes of disappointment as she wandered for over a year looking for Sansa and Arya.

“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t,” he said, shrugging her rucksack into a more comfortable position. The two of them had salvaged precious little from the campsite, but they managed to find their bedrolls, a rucksack of supplies, and a couple auxiliary weapons for each of them. Jon chose the Lysene’s steel spear, an ideal weapon for fighting on the water.  

Jon and Brienne took turns bushwhacking. After their break for the midday meal, the foliage began to thin. Open fields of waving green-yellow grasses rippled under a faint breeze. The wind brought the smell of fresh-turned earth and the tang of sun-ripened grapes. Jon’s belly rumbled with hunger and he glared down at the hardtack and jerky with distaste.

“What I wouldn’t give for a slab of ham,” he said. Brienne snickered as she chewed.

“Agreed. Or venison stew?” she said. Jon hummed, salivating at the thought.

“Highgarden will have a market. Even if we don’t find the others, we can buy supplies,” Jon said, dusting crumbs from his hands as he stood. Brienne arched a brow, downing a long swig from the waterskin.

“With what coin? I certainly don’t have a money purse,” she said. Jon smirked.

“The queen is nothing if not thorough,” he said, splitting the hem of his tunic to reveal the coins packed inside, wrapped in felt. Brienne’s pale brows rose nearly to her hairline, a wondering hand tracing the weight of his hem.

“There’s enough to buy us both horses and new swords along with our supplies if we wish,” he said.

“How clever. Your lady is much more devious than I thought,” she said. Jon preened, taking pride in Daenerys’ cunning.

“She is a force of nature,” he said. Brienne nodded, swinging the short sword in a neat circle before sheathing it at her hip alongside Oathkeeper. The foliage was thin enough to tramp through, and given how close they were to Highgarden, it would be wise to move quiet.

“You love her?” her tone was light, off-hand.

“Are you asking as Lady Stark’s sworn sword?”

“I’m asking as your friend,” Brienne said quietly. Jon cleared his throat, flexing his hands at his sides.

“Aye. Aye, I do,” Jon said, “she’s more than I ever dared hope for.” He shrugged, uncomfortable.

“I’m happy for you. It’s a rare thing to find one who cares for you as deeply as you care for them.” He heard the notes of sadness in her voice and felt a deep pang at the echo of her pain. A faint thought said Tormund would have liked her.

“Thank you. We should move on,” Jon said, clapping a hand on her shoulder.

“Yes. Now I have a good supper to look forward to,” Brienne said in a brisk tone, striving for lightness.

Highgarden had once been a shining jewel in the Reach, ringed walls of white stone rising like the rose of their sigil to the sky. Now that stone was black with soot, stained glass windows left in shards. The famed golden rose brambles surrounding the castle had been hacked apart and burned. A desolate stretch of blackened soil spread like a blight around the castle.

The Golden Company had fired the town too, but the smallfolk who survived had been quick to craft ramshackle replacements. The lumber smelled new, the thatch hung haphazard. Their dock has suffered too: all that remained was a few posts bearded with moss, forlorn in the waters of the Mander. Jon scanned the crafts moored at the dock. No sign of their skiff or the Stormbreaker’s barge. He touched his swollen eye, hoping it would heal soon. If a fight broke out, it would be difficult to defend himself with only half of his field of vision.

At the base of Highgarden’s walls, a two-storied tavern survived the recent sacking. Jon and Brienne shouldered their way through the throng, eyes watchful for friend or foe alike. One of Dany’s silver coins bought them kidney pie, fresh brown bread and a mug of ale, along with a few coppers left over. The room was packed and rowdy, rough men swilling cheap ale as serving women darted to and fro in a flutter of grimy homespun.

“Well. Check the dock and tavern were my best ideas to find Asha and the others. Any ideas?” Brienne said in a half-jesting tone. Jon shrugged, stabbing his spoon in for another bite. The pie tasted of home, of the North. Hot meat flavored the gravy, rich with peas and onions, and the crisp of crust. The ale was bit sour, but hot food filled up all the cold, aching places inside. Brienne tucked into her meal with the same alacrity, casting a critical eye across the tavern.

“The plan was to regroup at the next town east if separated. We can still check the market and poke around the castle. I’d wager there are rooms left upstairs.”

Brienne nodded.

“I’ll speak with the innkeep,” she said, rising. If there was any comment to an armored woman bearing a sword, no comment reached his ears. Under the pretense of savoring his meal, Jon cast a listening ear, straining for the mention of sellswords, or the capital. Lucky for him, gossip was rife in the surrounding booths.

“It’s not right, that’s all I’m sayin’. Them sellsword folk riding up, makin’ off with what’s left of the harvest, and for what? Hoardin’ grain in the capital for them high lords and ladies?” one older man said, dressed in the ragged homespun of a farmer. His companion nodded.

“Aye. I’m of half a mind to leave off and join the dragon queen. Word is her men eat like kings.”

“If it weren’t for the Targaryen prince, I’d say the old lioness don’t have no chance of winning,” the first man said. The pretender? Even the smallfolk consider him a threat? Jon kept his gaze downcast, tearing off another hunk of warm brown bread to mop up the last of the gravy.

“He’s got elephants, sellswords, weapons. A match for dragon girl, no doubt about it. And what man would want to follow Rhaegar’s sister instead of his son?” Jon hid his derisive snort with a cough. That roused a real cough that left him hacking a glob of mucus onto the floor. A sip of ale soothed his sore throat and he strained to hear what the older man had to say.

“—wasn’t taught proper, that’s all. Women tend the house and mind the children. At least the Lannister woman was born here. Westerosi born, and crafty to boot. I’ll bet she’ll wed the Targaryen boy come spring, you watch.”

“Gods! She’s old enough to be his mother! Now the dragon queen is said to have a sweet arse--”

From there the conversation degenerated into crude and cruder remarks on the merits of highborn women. Jon stopped listening, worried he’d smash his clay cup into the side of the older man’s head if he heard one more word about Daenerys’ arse. Jon shoved back his chair with a tad more force than necessary, brushing past the younger man. His knuckles whitened on Longclaw’s hilt under the drape of his cloak. Idiots! Brienne was nowhere to be seen, so Jon ducked out into the cool evening air, dragging in a deep breath. Men would talk, even amongst her own men there was gossip. It shouldn’t irk him so.

“Grenn, are you ready?” Brienne said, nudging his shoulder. He nodded, grateful she remembered his false name, and for the distraction.

Jon swung his rucksack up to his shoulder, following Brienne along the southern wall of the castle. Highgarden boasted a garrison of Lannister soldiers, marching in pairs along the inner ramparts near the keep. The castle was sprawling, with endless courtyards and alcoves within the outer walls—impossible to defend with so few men.

By silent agreement, he and Brienne made their way south. They were already losing the light; to the west the sun sank into a sea of wispy cloud. Jon frowned. He disliked the omen of a red sunset. He flexed his sword hand. A distant thought worried for Daenerys.

“Did you learn anything useful?” Brienne asked in a low tone.

“The sellswords have made quite an impression on the smallfolk. Stolen the harvest and promised victory over the dragon queen,” Jon said, with a wry twist to his mouth. Brienne arched a pale brow.

“Not likely. Dragons change the rules,” she said.

“And you? Have you heard anything?”

“The innkeep was understandably a suspicious fellow. Loads of people travel through, despite the garrison, he said.” Brienne shrugged.

A snap of a twig from the bushes caught Jon’s attention. He nudged Brienne’s shoulder, his grip sure on Longclaw. Brienne gave a bare nod, drawing Oathkeeper an inch from its sheath. As one, Jon and Brienne pivoted toward the brush, drawing their blades in one smooth motion.

“Gods above, it’s me!” Ser Tallhart said, struggling to his feet. Jon relaxed, releasing a ragged laugh.

“Seven hells, Theo! I could have gutted you!” Ser Tallhart eyed the dark Valyrian steel of Longclaw’s edge with wide eyes.

“Aye, I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Asha and the others?” Brienne asked, settling Oathkeeper with a thump.

“Aboard the barge about half a league upstream. Darren and I have been doubling back to circle the castle and the town. Gods, what happened to your face, Ser?” Ser Tallhart asked, gesturing to Jon’s eye.

“Caught the end of a spear butt and took a swim in the river,” Jon said, gingerly touching the swollen weal. The skin still felt hot and tender, though the bones underneath were still sturdy. Thank the gods for small blessings.

“Come on! We should get a move on,” Ser Tallhart said, leading the way east.

 It was a watch or so after sunset by the time Ser Tallhart whistled three notes. A faint answer had them staggering through reeds to the ramp of the Stormbreaker’s barge. It was a sturdy craft, thank the gods. It felt almost as good as solid ground beneath his boots. His men gathered round, awash with relief.

“Ser Snow!”

“Thank the gods!”

“We thought you’d drowned!” Asha shouldered her way into the ring of men.

“Snow! Good to see you alive,” Asha said, draping a companionable arm around his shoulders. He could smell the ale on her breath—she was well on her way to being in her cups.

“Fuck, what happened to your pretty face?”

Casting a glance around the ring of his men, a couple sported bandages from their recent battle with the Stormbreakers. Asha herself wore a colorful bruised across her throat—some poor bastard had tried to throttle her, and probably had his throat slit for his trouble.

“You did,” he said in answer, shrugging out of the awkward embrace, “I heard you shout at me while I was dueling that Lysene sellsword. He caught me with the butt of his spear.”

“Good, good!” Asha said, taking another swig of ale from her cup. At Jon’s scowl, she shrugged.

“It obscures your face a bit. Good for slipping between towns without being recognized. Anyway, we’ll be riding in style, now. Toward the sea the currents are too unpredictable and the obstacles too numerous for anything deeper in draft than a skiff. But now . . . now this lovely scow with take us up the Mander in half the time if the wind’s with us.” Asha touched the scow’s rail with something like affection.

“Thank the gods, my arms are limp noodles by the end of the day,” Ser Tallhart groused.

“Isn’t this a bit conspicuous?” Brienne asked with a dubious frown.

“Not if we’re quick and quiet enough. And I’m quiet as a shadow and quick as a cat,” Asha said. Jon frowned, considering. The Lannisters were obviously leaving the management of the Reach in the hands of conscripts and sellswords. He trusted Asha judgement at the prow of the ship, and the closer they came to the capital, the easier it would be to blend into a crowd.

“If it gets us to King’s Landing sooner, so be it,” he said.

“Aye, we can be there within a fortnight under a good strong wind. But don’t think you’ll get out of poling. Even with a shallow draft, there’s still sandbars and sunken trees to contend with, especially the closer we get to Bitterbridge.”

“Set sail, Captain. We have work that needs to be done,” Jon said, mustering a thin smile.

 Aboard the scow, Jon found he quite enjoyed the journey east and north on the Mander River. Sailing was far and away better than poling, though Jon was grateful for Asha’s skill at sailing. More than once, she battened the sail and guided them with poles through treacherous reaches. The days passed with pleasant swiftness, the weather mild and the winds favorable. Jon wasn’t sure if he could ever grow used to the warm press of southron air, damp and clinging.

Though perhaps boasting in her skills, Asha had them sailing at a swift clip. If not a fortnight, it would be close to that before they reached King’s Landing. They had passed the Cockleswhent, the fork of the Mander leading to Ashford five days ago. Cider Hall was a thriving river town; her townsfolk didn’t bat an eyelash at passing travelers. That night they’d feasted on river crayfish, roast potatoes and fine dark ale. The next branching, the Blueburn would lead to Longtable, and beyond that Bitterbridge, where they would disembark and go their separate ways. Asha would meet her men at Blackwater Bay, and Jon would ride with Brienne and his men up the roseroad to King’s Landing.

Other vessels sailed up and down the river, most were barges bearing goods or grain bound for the capital. Sellswords marched alongside the river too, though Jon and his men weren’t given a second look. Once Jon woke in a cold sweat, dreaming of pain and blood and an endless fall. They sailed under Asha’s sharp orders during the day, dicing and sparring in the evening as they refilled waterskins and took a hot meal before setting sail again. A man stood watch during the night as the scow sailed.    

At one point, the scow was beached on a sandbar in the middle of the river. Darren had fallen asleep during watch and the scow ran aground. A bloody shock staggering awake to shouts and Asha’s viscous cursing. Jon was on his feet with Longclaw in hand before he was fully awake. Jon and Asha both gave the younger man a scalping for shirking his duties. It took Jon and three others two days to work the scow free from the sandbar. That night as the wind whispered through the sail, the soft creak of wood and scrape of rope lulled him into a deep sleep.

A howl echoed through his mind. Not Ghost or his brothers, but thinner, sharper, raising the fine hairs on his arms. Jon ran, but away or toward that shivering howl, he wasn’t sure. It was in his bones to run, yearning for burn of his muscles, the cold pain of air in his lungs. Then he swam through deep water, tasting salt and blood. He struggled, staggering toward shore. Before a tree as pale as bone with a face weeping red tears. Jon. Jon . . . Find me. The lsle of Faces . . . The Isle. . .

“Jon, get up. You’re on watch,” Ser Tallhart’s voice, rough with weariness dragged him from sleep. Jon sat up, swiping sweat from his face.

“Aye,” he said, staggering to his feet. The terror of the dream lingered, an unsettling itch on the back of his neck. Where were these dreams coming from? The red woman was at Casterly Rock with Dany. If she sent shadows creeping into his dreams, what was the purpose? There was a vividness to the dreams that reminded him of his wolf dreams, where he ran through the night as a direwolf, as Ghost. He remembered the cold, rich air. Snow beneath his paws. The craving of fresh meat and hot, dark blood. The dream drew him to a weirwood tree. Was it the old gods themselves calling him to the Isle? Even if that were true, why? Jon had no answers, only the clear, sharp stars hanging in the sky above.    

[fierypen37]

Held Captive XXVI

Another chapter, my lovelies! Enjoy!

Part XXVI

 “Are Asha’s ships prepared?” Daenerys asked, scowling into the dense fog surrounding the castle. Daenerys rolled the Stark ring around her thumb; it became a comforting gesture. An overcast dawn fell gently over Casterly Rock, but the air held a foreboding quality, especially as the accursed banks of fog rolled in from the sea. A raven from Pyke the night before told her the enigmatic fleet—who ignored all hails and shot down any ravens—had turned south toward Casterly Rock. The night had been sleepless. She curled on her side, with Ghost pressed against back, missing Jon. It was a low, constant ache low in her belly. She worried for the threat lurking on boundless, suddenly malevolent sea.

“Aye, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said. Daenerys nodded, twitching her shoulders in effort to calm her jittery energy.

“Would you do me the honor of helping me arm, Ser?” she asked. A weary smile twitched beneath Ser Barristan’s white mustache.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The leather armor felt too light and Ser Barristan fumbled with her braid. Daenerys coiled it to lay on top of her head and shared an amused glance with Missandei as Ser Barristan eased her helm in place. The black steel helm crowned with three spikes of stone was comfortingly familiar. Daenerys sheathed a dirk at her hip, hid another knife in her boot, a third rested heavy inside her left bracer. Ser Jorah and Grey Worm both had tutored her on the rough points of its use. Stick them with the pointy end, as Jon had said.

Ser Barristan braced both hands on her shoulders, his grip heavy and stern. He looked every inch Ser Barristan the Bold, Lord Commander of the Queensguard, Lord of the White Tower, his eyes gleamed beneath white brows.

“Remember, the ironborn are a petty people without honor. They want only to reave and steal, but they have a certain low cunning. Keep your distance,” he said.

“I may be a young woman, but I listen and learn. Trust me, Ser,” Daenerys said, mustering a comforting smile. Ser Barristan returned the smile, face creased in a web work of wrinkles.

“I do. With my life and honor, Your Grace.”

Missandei and Ser Jorah were equally solemn as the group of them filed out of the lord’s chamber, Ghost trotting after them. Daenerys projected a calm she didn’t feel as she marched past the ranks of her men.

“My children, naejot nyke!” she shouted into the dawn, as a cold wind blew and horns sounded.

Three bellows echoed through the castle as her children, sleek black shapes skimming through the grey. Her heart lifted to see them fly. Drogon landed with a shudder on his favorite rampart. Through their bond, she felt the steady pulse of his strength. Rhaegal and Viserion perched on the upper rampart—Rhaegal fluttered his wings fussily—regarding her with gleaming eyes. Daenerys braced her gloved hands on the railing, aware of the press of fearful, needy eyes.

“The Queen!” Ser Jorah shouted. Cries of her names and titles washed over her. Daenerys raised her hand for silence.  

“I swore to protect you from those who would harm you. I swore our enemies would die screaming. I will maintain that vow and crush our enemies!” A fearsome din rose from the assembled men as they pounded their shields and shouted her name.

“Perhaps soon they will learn how easily wood burns!” Daenerys allowed a grim smile. The jape had the intended effect of easing tension and instilling a sense of confidence. A ripple of laughter and shouts raced through the crowd. Daenerys scaled the stairs to Drogon. She petted his horned head, absorbing the heat and bulk of him.

“Come, my loves,” she said, climbing to her seat.

Opening her mind to their bond, she felt their hunger. Though well-rested, their hunger felt edged with boredom. Much like her men, they craved action. You will have it today, my darlings. Rhaegal’s mind pressed toward her, looming and fierce, as her children were. His mind always held notes of a strange sadness, a soul-deep yearning to seek, to hunt. Rhaegal pressed his confusion toward her, along with an image of dark-hair-no-scales-growling-voice-Jon. The image struck her heart, the face of her love seen through the eyes of her child. He seemed smaller, his features more pointed, his teeth sharper, but Rhaegal saw Jon truly. She had no answer for him, and pressed the thought of distance, of Jon’s own hunt. That seemed to satisfy Rhaegal, he arched his neck and growled.  

Daenerys gathered herself, tightening the leg straps. From the bailey, she could barely make out the remnant of Asha’s ships moored below. Fifteen longships, and then the monstrous black bulk of their war galley, The Nagga. At her word, Taereg had recruited experienced sailors from Lannisport, Faircastle and Banefort to man their war galley. Five of the longships were held in reserve, at anchor beyond Kayce Point should they need assistance. A giddy feeling leapt in her belly, nerves and excitement both. Woefully outnumbered though her ships were, she had dragons. Beautiful and terrible, as no man alive had ever seen.

“Sōves!” she shouted. Drogon’s wings spread wide, shifting his bulk to catch the wind.

With one clean leap, they were diving from the Rock’s sheer walls. Wind whistled within the confines of her helm, the cold brisk and bracing. Grinning at the thrill, Daenerys settled close to Drogon. He flew first, Rhaegal and Viserion at either of his flanks. Daenerys tightened her grip on the mental rein, drawing them close, so close their minds seemed to bump into each other. One, one mind, one purpose: destroy the enemy. Below, she saw dim shapes of the ships sailing.

“Damn this fog. If only we could hold them another day,” Daenerys said.

Their approach forced her hand. Wait, and her ships would burn. Attacking an unknown enemy was nearly as nerve-wracking. Daenerys kept her children flying high, mindful of ballistae. They flew for what felt like hours through dense grey fog and greyer sky, only the dark sea below anchored them to a course. Daenerys trusted Drogon’s sense of direction and his keener senses. Daenerys sipped from her waterskin and watched the progress of the ships below. They were grouped together in a diamond-shaped formation, with The Nagga at the front point of the diamond. A few powerful flaps of Drogon’s wings carried them beyond the fleet on a good strong wind.

Daenerys strained her eyes, then, frustrated she couldn’t pierce the gloom, sank into her bond with Drogon. She was no warg, like Brandon Stark. She could not merge minds with Drogon, but only see what he chose to show her. He sensed movement. Daenerys peered down and sucked in a gasp through her teeth.

The ships appeared from the fog as if by magic. The lead war galley was enormous, black sails as wide as Drogon’s wing. Beyond, a forest of masts. Daenerys did a quick tally. The count had been wrong. There weren’t thirty longships, but fifty. Scattered amongst them, she counted the war galleys. Seven. Her fleet had no chance. Her belly quivered. Drogon hissed beneath her. Daenerys gripped his spikes, reassured by his strength.

Through the bond, she pressed the need for utter silence. The element of surprise could mean the difference between victory and defeat. She urged Rhaegal and Viserion to bank away, along either edge of the fleet. A headache began to throb at her temples. The enemy fleet was spread across perhaps a league of sea. It would challenge her strength to communicate with Rhaegal and Viserion from that distance. We can dismantle them as we did in Slaver’s Bay, and at the Battle of Golden Tooth. Sweeps from aloft and a great deal of fire.

Daenerys chose the lead war galley first. She couldn’t wait for her own fleet to arrive; they’d be slaughtered. A kindling of excitement crackled from Drogon, eagerness for battle. Daenerys grinned into the grey as he began a low dive, his enthusiasm caught inside her like the fragile flame of a candle. Squeezing her eyes tight shut, she reached for Viserion and Rhaegal, pressing the image of her wishes.

“Dracarys!” she said. Black fire burst in an almost liquefied stream from Drogon’s mouth. The force of the blast pierced the hull, the deck catching in a conflagration of red and orange flames. The sail caught and shriveled. Daenerys urged Drogon up, seeing the green and white flares of her sons’ fire.

Galley and a nearby longship alike caught in glorious flame. And . . . silence. No screams. Daenerys leaned in the saddle, seeing men scurry on the deck, a few firing arrows that missed their mark. Were these sailors so disciplined that seeing their ship sink beneath their feet did not rattle them? Her confusion was echoed by her children, who had come to expect terror as their due. Drogon climbed in the sky, concealed from the fleet by the clouds and fog. She realized the fog was both curse and blessing. She couldn’t see them, but neither could they see her. Daenerys mustered a grim smile. Her children could wreak destruction with impunity.

Viserion and Rhaegal flew below, sowing devastation, their fire brilliant in the gloom. A glance to the east found her fleet fast approaching. The cold fear lingered in her belly, sharp and disquieting. Was this the feared Iron Fleet? Experience told her an enemy did not concede so easily, especially famed reavers such as ironborn. Her eyes raked the ships, searching for movement, or hidden ballistae.

Drogon snarled at being left out, surging down toward the fleet while she was distracted. Daenerys winced, he’d nearly shaken off her mental rein in his eagerness. She sank closer, focusing on the flap of his wings and the strain of his muscles, the brilliant black flame of his mind. Almost apologetic, Drogon waited for her command.

“Dracarys!”

Again black fire arched down on the ship, raking the deck. Six longships and another war galley consumed. The sea burst into drafts of steam and salt as the fire kissed it. A graveyard of ships lay below, dozens burning in great, seething tongues of orange and red fire tinged with her children’s vivid colors. Others lay sinking, men by the hundreds floating dead. Resistance, if there was any, came in the shapes of dark arrows which pattered useless on Drogon’s underbelly. May your Drowned God take you!

Faintly, she heard the cackle of laughter. Harsh and mad, it shredded her ears. The fine hairs on her arms stood on end. Drogon wheeled back, flapping his wings to hover twice the height of a ship over the water. Daenerys searched for the source, finding man prostrate on the spar of a sinking war galley.

“Cursed wind take you, servant of the Storm God!” the man shrieked between cackles.

The ship groaned beneath the man, soon swallowed by the surge of the black waves. He seemed to seek the waves, visibly gulping seawater as the water closed over him. Daenerys shuddered. The ironborn were strange people. Daenerys urged Drogon higher, needing to see the positions of the enemy fleet and her own.

Through a scrim of fog and cloud, she watched her ships engage the northern cluster of the disordered enemy fleet. No expert in ships, she was thankful her captains had conceded to painting her sigil on their sails. The red dragon was easy to identify as the ships served and feinted with surprising dexterity, sailors scrambling deck. Daenerys tugged the mental leash. In her mind’s eye, she saw Viserion sweeping low to snap up a few fish milling about. Rhaegal was happily burning an errant cluster of ships, appearing like a demon wreathed in steam.

“Come to me!” Daenerys said in Valyrian. She drummed her fingers on her thigh, deliberating. If she took to burning the other ships, her fleet would lack support. But if she stayed near her ships, the enemy could concentrate fire on her and her children—a strident male voice broke into her contemplation.  

“I am Dragonbinder! No mortal man shall sound me and live! Blood for fire, fire for blood!”

Daenerys swiveled Drogon toward the deep voice, on the deck of a massive, red-painted war galley. Daenerys froze, struck mute by the sight. A slender man stood with ease on the deck, his single eye glaring at her. Euron Crow Eye. And the man beside him held a horn, gleaming black in the eager light of dragonfire. Her belly quailed. A hellhorn. Meant to bind dragons to the will of the blower---

“Sōves ñuha riñar!” Daenerys screamed, her voice cracking on the words.

Drogon flapped his massive wings, gaining height in the sky. Daenerys kneaded his neck as she would her silver to urge him faster, spurred by a terror so complete all other thought was a distant echo. Go, go, go now, go, fly, my children, fly, fly!

Daenerys looked wildly, seeking Viserion and Rhaegal. Viserion’s thin, almost frightened roar tore her heart in bloody chunks.

“Fly, Viserion!” she cried.

The sound shattered the world.

. . . An endless shivering scream that turned her bones to the molten blood of the earth. A wretched, unholy sound from the bowels of the lowest hell . . .

Daenerys screamed with it, clapping her hands over her ears. Gods, it was burning her. Burning! Was this how flames felt?

At long last, the air was quiet again. She clutched close to Drogon as the beat of his wings faltered, leaden with dread. Her dragon shook his great head, as if trying to clear it. Daenerys sought her children, reaching . . . and shied back. The bond was severed, a ragged bloody tear pulsing red behind her eyes. Daenerys whimpered, smote by pain of the soul. Warm blood trickled in a steady stream from her nose. All three of her children flew in place, stalled.  

“Drogon?” her voice was small and weak to her own ears.

“Rhaegal . . . Viserion?”

Drogon craned his horned head to look at her. Slitted pupils wide and dark, his amber-red eyes trapped her in their heat. She could read no emotion in those eyes, only tremble before his ferocity. Her mouth was dry, her whole body trembling. Would he attack her? The fire would not harm her, but his teeth could end her . . . Drogon, my child, my love . . . The thought was a lament and a plea.

“Fight the hellhorn, my love,” she said, maintaining eye contact, stealthily reaching down, unfastening the leg straps of her saddle.

“Remember me. I hatched you, remember? You used to ride on my shoulder as we marched. I taught you word for ‘fire.’ Remember that? I used to sing to the three of you until you fell asleep. I can’t sing, but you didn’t seem to mind,” she said in low-voiced Valyrian.

Freed from the saddle, Daenerys coiled her legs beneath her, crouching on Drogon’s back. Dimly, she heard the Crow Eye shouting commands in butchered Valyrian. Daenerys risked a glance down. Her children had flown high. The ships looked like child’s toys on the blank black slate of the sea. The water would be like hitting stone. A fall from this height would kill her.  

“Kill her! Come to me, dragon! You are mine! Obey!” he said.

The dragons did not heed him, but neither did they seem to hear her. Daenerys risked a glance away, finding Viserion and Rhaegal even with Drogon, shaking their heads hard, like a horse trying to rid itself of a cloud of flies.

“Kill her! Come to me, dragon! You are mine! Obey!”

Daenerys grit her teeth, burrowing toward the ragged scar of their bond. The pain brought her to her knees. It felt as if a knife dug between her brows, slowly, so slowly piercing skin and flesh and bone and brain. Daenerys felt the trickle of blood from her nose turn to a stream, filling her mouth with the hot, metallic taste.

“Kill her! Come to me, dragon! You are mine! Obey!”

“Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor!” she bellowed, the words torn from very marrow. Daenerys reached, straining to touch Drogon’s mind. Ice flooded her veins; she shivered at the chill.

“Remember!” she cried, at the end of her strength. Drogon’s quivering lips peeled back to roar, the sound sharp and pained. Daenerys’ heart felt rent into three jagged pieces. Through the ether separating them, she could barely sense their pain. Resisting the commands was killing them.

“Kill her! Come to me, dragon! You are mine! Obey!”

Drogon shifted, whether to fly or attack, she didn’t know. All she knew was the movement jarred her from his back.

Daenerys fell. She plunged like a star from the sky.  

She tumbled in the sky, head over heels, catching dizzying glimpses of sea then sky then sea again. With a shrill scream, she spread her limbs wide, her body arched backward. The wind whipped tears from her eyes, her mouth dry as dust. The sea rose up, dark blue, so endless. So this is what is to fly . . .  Jon, I’m sorry. I love you.

A buffeting of air had her flailing in the sky. Rhaegal darted below her, a nudge on her back made her crane her neck to look. Viserion guided her his snout. Daenerys landed hard on the edge of Rhaegal’s back, the wind knocked from her lungs. Her numb fingers scrabbled for purchase on his scales, finding none. With a cry, she tumbled through the sky. Her helm was gone, her hair whipped in the wind. The sea was so close! Too close!

Drogon dove below, wings flaring wide. Daenerys landed hard, finding a sure grip on his spikes. Drogon’s talons skimmed the waterline, Daenerys was soaked with salty spray, clinging to Drogon. A trembling thread of thought reached out, and was overwhelmed by the love of her children. The bond was restored, weak and fragile still. Daenerys pressed her forehead to Drogon’s warm scales and wept with gratitude. Muscles trembling, she crawled to her saddle, pressing a kiss to Drogon’s shoulder. There were enemies left to crush.