6.Dancing with Death

258 AC, the Red Keep

The Young Princess 

Rhaella woke up, back soaked in a cold sweat again. This time, she had dreamed of torn throats and pools of blood. And the screams still echoed in her mind. Her own screams, though her voice had been older and far more desperate.

The manner of Septa Melona’s death had been covered up, but Septon Manton’s murder was seen by too many to be buried.

“By noon, half the city will know a septon was killed in the Red Keep in broad daylight,” her father said, sipping on his spiced wine.

On the morn, the king had all his direct family summoned in the small feasting hall on the ground floor of Maegor’s Holdfast to break their fast. Dining together was common, but such gatherings seldom took place. Rhaella could remember attending fewer than a dozen in her life. 

Even Jenny was here, though Uncle Duncan’s wife looked rather subdued as Grandmother Betha’s disapproving glare was fixed on her. The Queen had yet to truly forgive Jenny for “leading her son astray”, which had emboldened Rhaella’s parents to elope. Or perhaps because Duncan was still childless after two decades of marriage, though Rhaella wondered if that was on purpose.

Aunt Jenny hated quarrels and conflict, and some days the young princess thought that she was childless by choice. 

“You haven’t found the killer yet, Uncle?” Aerys asked after swallowing a mouthful of honey-glazed ham and freshly baked bread. 

Duncan Targaryen sighed, letting down his own goblet of wine. “It’s not that simple. I have yet to find a single witness.” 

“No witness?” Grandmother’s frown deepened. “It’s the outer courtyard—guards should have been at the gate, a patrol on the red walls, and hundreds of people should have passed through. Someone must have seen it.”

“The guardsmen saw nothing,” was the tired response. “The men on the gates and the walls look for threats from outside, not inside. There are no signs of struggle either—Septon Manton had his throat sliced all the way to the bone before he could put up a fight. The old man couldn’t even scream. Whomever did it must have an extraordinary talent to remain silent while walking on flagstones… or perhaps the septon knew the killer and did not expect such a sudden attack.”

“Not likely to be a knight or a soldier, then,” her father rasped out. “They’d have lopped the head off in a single swing of a sword.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not, brother. Men oft kill with whatever is at hand.”

An unsettling quiet settled over the table as the implications went unsaid; the killer could be a courtier, or a knight, or any resident of the Red Keep. But Rhaella saw no fear in their eyes—in the Red Keep, the royal family was the safest, and only the royal men-at-arms and the kingsguard were allowed to bear arms and armour.

“I saw the septon argue with some prostitute dressed in red before I went for a stroll in the godswood,” Rhaella said, voice low. “Her hair was dark crimson, too, and Septon Manton, along with a septa, was chastising her.”

Her mother cast her a look laden with disapproval, though it was the godswood that had likely earned that scorn, not the mention of a whore.

“That was a priestess, not a prostitute,” her royal grandfather said, face fixed into an unreadable mask. “Melisandre of Asshai is a devout believer of R’hllor.” 

“Little different from a common whore, then,” her grandmother muttered sourly, though she spoke it loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Aegon’s face darkened, but his eyes were stubbornly set on the plate before him: crisp bacon and eggs poached in wine. Both were untouched, unlike his cup of Arbour’s golden vintage.

“Why is a red priestess in the Red Keep, Father?” Shaera asked, voice sharp. “The Faith is already whispering how the Royal Family has grown too fond of heathen rites. To harbour an Essosi witch here would be—”

“She is a royal guest, Shae,” was the cool response. The next words made her grandmother’s face sour further. “Her presence here serves a purpose, and you would do well to remember that it is not your place to question the king. Perhaps you need some time to remember your manners, daughter mine. You will reflect on the Seven-Pointed Star and the decorum a princess should display for three days in the quiet of your rooms.”

Shaera dipped her head in acknowledgement, her expression veiled behind a curtain of silver curls. Deep inside, Rhaella felt a sliver of glee at her mother’s predicament. Have a taste of your own medicine.

It was her father who cleared his throat, tapping softly on the table. “While out of turn, Shaera speaks truthfully, Father. The rift between the Faith and the Iron Throne is already too wide,” Jaehaerys said softly. “And with the murder of Septon Manton, the Most Devout and the High Septon would soon come, demanding an explanation.” 

The king gave a nod, his brows furrowing together, but the earlier sharpness in his gaze had faded. Rhaella’s father preferred to remain silent and observe, but in the rare cases he spoke, his words were soft and calming. But it wasn’t enough to remove his sister-wife’s punishment, nor did he try.

“And an explanation they shall receive,” Aegon said at last, face unreadable. “I know I cannot afford to slight the Faith with Blackfyre mustering strength in Essos. Melisande will be exiled, of course—she has proven useless so far and has brought nothing but discord. I’ll let the High Septon choose between joining the royal council as an advisor, or the royal permit to own lands and build septries in certain parts of the Crownlands.”

Not the priestess, but Melisandre. Too familiar for a servant.

Aerys, as usual, was the first to ask a question. “But grandfather, there are already septries in the Quiet Isle and some places in the Riverlands and the Vale.”

“Those are merely a remnant of times long passed.” The king’s voice softened. It always did when speaking to Aerys. “From the Fingers to the Western Hills, you will at most find a dozen septries. Long before the Conquest, kings of the Westerlands, Reach, and the Stormlands had forbidden the Faith from owning lands to limit their power, and the House of the Dragon continued that tradition.”

“And what of the murderer?” Rhaella asked. “We can’t have a killer running free in court.”

“The court is full of killers,” her uncle Duncan said wryly. “Some are as young as five and ten, some old and wizened with hairs of grey and beards of white. And they all wear blazons, royal livery, or suits of lobstered plate.”

The king fixed his eldest son with a stern glare. “This is no jape, Duncan. You will find this murderer.” 

The rest of the meal was spent in silence. Before long, her grandfather, father, and Aerys rose, turning their steps to the great hall to hold court. Her mother gave Rhaella one final glance filled with disappointment and retired to her quarters for her confinement. Uncle Duncan excused himself, saying he needed to investigate further, and Aunt Jenny made herself scarce, leaving Rhaella alone with her grandmother. 

“You should eat more,” Betha chided, glancing at Rhaella’s half-finished soft-poached eggs. “Here, have some slices of smoked eel.”

“I already feel full,” Rhaella said, pushing the new plate away. “Err… why would Grandfather be close to a red priestess?”

“This is not a topic for a young princess like you,” Betha said, eyes darkening. 

So it was a paramour, then. No wonder her grandmother had been so taciturn. No wonder her grandfather had been swift to agree to exile the red priestess.

Tension hung heavy over the Red Keep for the next few days. The Faith had been soothed once the High Septon left the Red Keep with satisfactory concessions, but no murderer had been found despite Uncle Duncan increasing patrols of men-at-arms inside the Red Keep. Now, guards could be seen standing at attention at every corner and every alcove. Before long, a royal decree came, forbidding veiling and covering of your face on royal grounds. There was another, subtler shift in court. Courtiers began to pool together in small bands and retinues and move together, as if afraid some crazed madman would jump from behind the corner and start swinging a dirk. 

For Rhaella, however, nothing changed.

Her days returned to the monotony from before Harrenhal. An occasional lesson with Grand Maester Ellendor, embroidery sessions with her grandmother and the royal ladies-in-waiting, and attendance at court. The handful of free hours each day saw her strolling through the Red Keep, searching for something she could never quite find. 

As time passed, tension drained away from the faces of courtiers, and the groups grew smaller in size. Her brother also came to her, boasting that “Grandfather agreed. Soon enough, you’ll have your companions, sister!”

But there was no mention of who those companions might be. That decision was always going to be out of her grasp.

Before long, Rhaella received her first lady-in-waiting.

“This is Melony of Lys,” her grandmother said one evening, bringing a fair maiden nearly two years older. Her golden hair was long and wavy, and her wide blue eyes looked too big on her pale face. Half a head taller than Rhaella, with a chest unfairly full for a girl of four and ten.

Melony gathered the hems of her velvet crimson gown and gave a curtsy with practised grace.

“Greetings, Princess Rhaella,” she said with a soft, lulling accent the princess couldn’t quite place. “I am here to serve at your pleasure.”

“Well met, Melony,” Rhaella said, trying to force a smile at her new companion. Once the Lyseni maiden excused herself to get settled in her quarters, the young princess turned to her grandmother. “A Lyseni? It should have taken her nearly a month to arrive here, yet it’s been scarcely a sennight since my request for handmaids.”

“Your grandfather was already looking for allies beyond Westeros,” Betha said, though there was a sliver of doubt in her eyes. “This is a contact in Lys he has worked on for a while, or so he claims. The girl is from the House of Pandaerys, trustworthy and well-bred… at least for someone raised across the Narrow Sea. Here, she can be your loyal companion, untainted by the games and ambitions of Westerosi nobility.”

Melony, she found, was an early riser. She turned to sleep after Rhaella did and woke before, and the princess sometimes wondered if her new lady ever slept. It was an odd thing to have a proper bedmaid, but Rhaella found the feeling to her liking. At least for a night, Melony’s presence had chased away the restless dreams that still plagued her sleep.  

Her slender hands were deft, weaving and plaiting and braiding Rhaella’s silver hair as if she had been doing it for decades. She did it eagerly and with a fond smile on her face, much to Alyssa’s chagrin. 

The presence of a new lady made the serving girl’s mood take a turn for the worse. 

“Can you tell me more about Lys, Melony?” Rhaella asked as the two of them strolled through the godswood. 

Today, she felt at ease enough to don her light gown of pink silk again—the first time since Harrenhal. Her companion seemed to favour a crimson dress, but only wore a single piece of jewellery—a delicate bracelet of beaten gold encrusted with a ruby.  

“Lys is the jewel of the Summer Sea,” the girl said with a heavy sigh, “ten times more beautiful than King’s Landing. Beauty is a matter of pride for the perfumed city, and no other can equal it from Oldtown to Asshai. It is warmer than here, too, and smells of fruit and jasmine, not human refuse.”

The princess chuckled. “It must be the first great city that does not stink, then.”

“It comes at a cost,” she answered, sorrow softening her voice. “Not all is song and flowers there. In Lys, a hundred gods share the same sky, their temples crowd the streets, and priests hound the squares, eager to convert anyone and everyone. Yet every soul prays to a different name.”

Rhaella struggled to imagine it.

“How come the followers of those gods never come to blows?” 

“They do, but it never gets far,” was the amused response. “Lys is a city of law and order, princess. Holy men—or women—are not allowed to bear arms, and the temples all must pay their dues to the city.”

“You may call me Rhaella, in private at least,” the young princess said with a smile. “You speak of the gods as one well-learned. Tell me, which do you follow?”

Melony folded her hands together, her pale face alight with fervent devotion. “The Lord of Light,” she said softly. “The god of flame and shadow—R’hllor. I can teach you the true ways of the Light, should you wish.”

“That would be unwise,” Rhaella murmured. “My kinsmen are wroth enough with me as it is.”

Seeing a second follower of the red god so soon was odd. She did not think of it much—millions prayed to R’hllor from Braavos to Volantis and even further east. There was no further mention of red gods or religious matters in the next two days, either.

With a new companion, the days felt lighter, flying away one after the other. They talked about anything and everything, and the princess slowly confided in her about her frustrations and dreams. Melony was a good listener, always silent, exclaiming just at the right place, and always offering words of comfort when needed. In turn, the Lyseni maid shared her own story. It was a simple tale—she was her father’s fifth daughter, and had come here as an offering for the alliance. Her fate was to be wedded to some lord or merchant prince, though she did not seem to mind it, judging by the slight dismissal in her words.

It was not all merry, though. The royal court had noticed her new lady, and so had her brother. His purple eyes lingered on Melony’s hips and chest far longer than appropriate, especially when he thought nobody was looking. It stung more than Rhaella would ever be willing to admit aloud… the betrothal was supposed to mean something. 

But the gods had chosen to let her brother stew in disappointment, too. Melony scarcely spared him a glance, which Aerys only seemed to take as a challenge. For good or for ill, the Lyseni maiden rarely left Rhaella’s side, and her brother instead took his pleasure with Alyssa again, half-hidden in the alcoves, pantries, and storage quarters.

Before Rhaella knew it, another moon had passed, and her thirteenth name day was drawing near. The court was peaceful, and so were the Seven Kingdoms for once, and she allowed herself to forget her unease. A grim future and lurking murderers were not something she could tackle in a day or a week or even a month.

Yet death found a way of reminding her of its unavoidable presence.

Rhaella just strode into the royal library, only to see Grand Maester Ellendor slumped on his desk, as if sleeping. It was not an odd thing to see the old, kindly man fall asleep in the library. 

But, as if she had sensed something, Melony swiftly came to his side, putting a dainty finger over his nose.

“He’s not breathing,” she said, voice cool. “It seems his time has come.”

It was so… peaceful. He did not look dead at all, for she had seen him take a nap like this far too often before. Rhaella blinked at the Grand Maester, expecting him to get up again, rub his tired eyes and start teaching her about the produce and trade of each region. 

Soon, the guards were called and the Grand Maester’s death was confirmed. There were no signs of any foul play or force—he had passed away from old age. The old man was gentle and patient… and his end made her sad. 

“This year has been rife with death,” said Rhaella softly, her voice heavy in the quiet of her chambers after supper. “And ill-fortune.”

Alyssa had made the bed, and the princess had already changed into her nightshift.

“Ill-fortune?” Melony echoed, leaning by the alcove as she gazed at the sunset with unblinking eyes. “I heard a most peculiar tale of it, in Harrenhal. The whispers mentioned your name more oft than not.” 

“A mishap of my own doing,” the princess said wryly. “I was given an offer to peek into what could have been, and I foolishly took it.”

“Curiosity is not a sin,” was the amused reply. “But I have heard a thing or two about the mishaps happening in the Red Keep. They say that the priest killer from last month has yet to be found, let alone arrested.”

Rhaella slipped into her bed and sighed. “It is a bit frightening,” she said at last. “But no others had died since. Perhaps whoever did it fled far, far away.” 

Melony turned to face her, face growing stony. “I’m afraid that isn’t quite true. A stableboy was found strangled in the early morning some days ago, though word of his demise was kept quiet by Prince Duncan. Instead, it was said that he was sent away to Dragonstone.”

A chill slithered down her neck.

“How can you know that?” Rhaella asked, turning to meet Melony’s blue eyes. Flakes of red dotted them in the dying of the light, much like dying embers. “Even I have yet to hear of it, and I’m a princess of the blood.”

“I have a talent for finding what others wish to remain hidden, Rhae,” Melony said, her pouty lips twitching in amusement. “I know that the Septon was killed to drive a Red Priestess out of the Red Keep. That Tommer the Confectioner was poisoned by the Tears of Lys, an alchemical concoction that kills with no trace and bursts the belly.”

Her veins turned to ice. Had her deeds seen to Tommer’s death? 

“This can’t be,” Rhaelle whispered shakily. “Someone would have noticed…”

“I did.” Melony was no longer smiling. She strode forward, shrugging off her crimson dress and slipping into the covers. “Once I looked closer, I saw things others tend to overlook. Of course, the Lord of Light helped me guide my sight and showed me far more. Six servants also met an early end under suspicious circumstances while you were confined in the Maidenvault. A sweeper here, an old steward there, all made to look like they had taken their own lives or a fatal mishap.”

Rhaela reeled. 

“But… why would someone be murdering innocent servants in the Red Keep?” 

“That’s not something we ought to concern ourselves with,” the blonde maiden whispered, closing her eyes. “Noblewomen shouldn’t dance with murderers and mysteries.”

“But grandfather must know—”

“I believe His Grace is well aware, though he’s keeping it close to his heart, lest panic sweeps through the Red Keep. Sweet dreams, princess.”

The last words were spoken so softly that Rhaella’s eyelids grew heavy, and she drifted off to sleep. 

She found her mind flying again. The city was quiet at night, and most lights came from the Street of Silk, where patrons still came and went about their pleasure. But even that movement was dying out, as King’s Landing slowly but surely came to sleep.

She left the safety of the Red Keep, the beat of her wings sending her through the darkness until she perched on the walls overlooking the Blackwater Rush. Hunger drove her down to the docks, searching for scraps across the fish market.

Tonight, the feast was rich. Sleek coils of intestine in pink and silver, fish heads with dull, clouded eyes staring into the nothingness, and eel skins hung limp from hooks to dry. Even barrels of bits, too spoiled to sell, were left in the open, to be disposed of in the morn. 

Other ravens came here, chasing away the seagulls and doves who had come to plunder food.

She pecked greedily, feasting herself on the innards, until she could eat no more.

And then, a pair of cloaked figures came, chasing away the feasting murder of ravens with a stick, raising a storm of black feathers. One was moving with predatory grace, gliding with each step, while the other was trudging, as if carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The presence of newcomers sent a storm of feathers into the night. Most ravens were swift to leave, having eaten their fill. Cawing in protest, she flew up, circled above, until she landed on the roof of a stand, and glared at the two intruders. The first was tall and slender, and the second, short and stout, swinging a lantern. With each step, the lights shifted, and the shadows twisted into grotesque forms.

Curious, she hopped to the edge, eager to listen.

“I made a great mistake,” the slender figure said with a sigh, the voice soft and silky. Each motion looked seamless and flawless, no matter how small.

“Removing the shadow-binder from Asshai was no mistake,” the other said, voice low. “I say good riddance to all sorcerers!”

“And now, the Red Keep is still alert even a moon later for it. An act of rashness, not cunning. The price is too high—each death is now investigated, no matter how accidental. And the dim-witted king himself has grown cautious, making it all the harder to act. Even the wine-testers were replaced with new faces that cannot be bought. An attempt at bribery and blackmail now can be dangerous.”

“The old dragon has already cornered himself. Caution now won’t save him.”

The slender man laughed. “You’re far more impatient than I am, old man. Our time shall come. We just need to lie low for a while, and the chance shall deliver itself on a silver platter.”

“Blackfyre?”

“No, though things have shifted far too much already, and the ripples just might reach Essos. If they shift any further, all my advantages will be lost. Even the young, naive princess herself has entered the Great Game. It’s a pity I seem to lack all talent in skinchanging, for it would certainly make things far easier…”

They walked out of her reach, then.

She frowned and soared again, following after the cloaked men.

But both figures turned to her.

“Bloodraven,” the slender one said, caution creeping in his voice. “I should have known the old bastard was skulking around.”

His hand disappeared into the black folds of the cloak, and when it slipped out, it gripped tight a pipe. Its cut opening was placed to his mouth, and something flashed through the darkness. She felt pain spearing through her chest, and her body began to burn with pain as the world faded. 

Rhaella panted heavily, clutching her chest as she fell to her knees. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, as if trying to burst out of her chest. She could still feel her torso skewered clean, and the burning pain spreading everywhere. Gods, she could still sense the cold metal crushing bone and flesh as it speared through. But it was what had followed that scared her. The fading of the light made her feel small, worthless, like nothing else mattered anymore. She couldn’t stop shivering, and her hands couldn’t stop trembling, even though the air was warm and so was the ground.

She had died. But she was still alive—her body was unharmed, and the pain was gone. But her knees still felt like wet straw, and even her garments had changed to a travel robe of unassuming brown linen, like nothing she had worn before.

Warily, she pushed herself to her feet, using the half-ruined wall for support, and drew a sharp gasp. She was atop a tower, a half-ruined floor with a gaping hole for a ceiling. The great fortress with soot-covered walls and four more half-melted towers reaching into the sky. Rhaella knew this place—Harrenhal. 

How did she get here?

Then, a young, chiding voice came from behind her. “That was unwise.”

Rhaella jumped back to her feet, turning around.

It was an older boy on the cusp of manhood, looking no older than five and ten, with long brown curls and mossy green eyes. But there was something wrong with those eyes; they looked so impossibly sharp, as if they could peer through all of her secrets. The face was too pale, too clean to be a smallfolk, and the doublet of pale silver slashed with verdant green spoke of a higher birth.

“Who are you?” she asked, voice quivering as her eyes darted around. 

She was alone with a stranger, and that frightened. There was no Ser Gerold Hightower or Ser Rolland Darklyn here, ready to shield her from any harm.

“My name is lost, washed away by time itself,” he said, shoulders slumping. “I was meant to fade into the roots, you see. My mind had long gone sluggish, and I was already one foot in my final slumber. But you woke me up.”

“I woke you up?” He was not talking of simple sleep, she realised. “I—”

Rhaella took a step back. 

“You did.” He gave her a bright smile. “With the egg. Though you woke up far more than I when time and destiny itself were sundered.”

“I did no such thing,” the princess said tightly. “I am just… a young girl. Nothing more than a powerless princess living in a gilded cage.”

“Damn the gods,” he said, but it was her voice that came out of his mouth. “Curse the prophecies and all the seers and the Prince Who Was Promised. The Others can take him for all I care.”

Rhaella cringed, looking at her feet. “Those were just words spoken out of desperation and anger.”

“But words have power, Princess.” The older boy glanced skyward with longing. “Sometimes, just sometimes, even the gods can heed your words, and when they do, the world itself might change…”

“Why am I here?” she asked, taking another step back.

“Because death can break a mortal mind,” was the sad reply. “Especially one as young as yours. The moment the raven died, your mind would have shattered beyond repair if I hadn’t plucked you away.”

That primal feeling of fear and terror was still too fresh in her mind, and she did not doubt his words even for a heartbeat.

“…I am most grateful.” Rhaella picked up the hems of her skirt and gave her best curtsy. “How should I address you?”

“Name?”

For a moment, the boy frowned. Then, he began pacing across the open floor. Rhaella took another step back, and her heart leapt into her throat as she glanced over her shoulder. Any further was the courtyard, hundreds of yards below her. She steadied herself, holding onto the half-charred wall. 

“…You can call me Whitedream,” the older boy said at last.

“You were the voice that promised to teach me.”

Whitedream inclined his head with an indolent smile that looked far too old for his face. “Quite astute of you to notice.”

Rhaella felt her courage drained away. She remembered her promise—a promise to do whatever it took in exchange for freedom. A dangerous promise for a princess to make, and one made in desperation. 

“What now?” she asked, voice edged with caution.

“Now you rest,” Whitedream whispered, a frown settling over his features. “Even a glimpse of death is no light thing for someone as young as you.”

The world started to fade. The sky disappeared, and Whitedream himself turned to dust. 

“But…” Rhaela faltered, wildly looking around as the stones began to melt, and colour itself began bleeding into the void. “How am I to come here again?”

“When the time is right, I’ll come to your dreams,” a voice carried from far away. “Keep the weirwood close…”

The Betrayed Lord Commander

Jon palmed the weirwood beads. Thirteen of them, each perfectly round, carved with different runes of the First Men and skewered through a string of deer sinew across his neck.

This was supposed to keep the mad whispers away, but not by its lonesome. Bloodraven had given him a cup of thick crimson concoction, supposedly a single drop of weirwood sap diluted by a pint of shadow-cat blood. 

It was a bitter draught, burning his throat when he had swallowed, but leaving cloying sweetness in its wake. 

“Why not take more sap, then?”

“Any more and even you will be poisoned.”

It had worked well enough—Jon had not heard the whispers since. 

Now, he was sitting in a cave, seated on a stone with his legs crossed together. Taking deep, slow breaths, he cleared his mind of all thoughts and tried to focus. But a part of him wanted to rise and dash away into the solace of the woodland—

Thwack!

Pain bloomed across his sole, but Jon gritted his teeth, refusing to let out any sound. The strike was strong enough to sting but not to the point of leaving a lasting ache or a bruise. 

“When skinchanging,” Bloodraven’s raspy voice was thick with disapproval, “you are the master. You entered the deer’s mind once yesterday, but you’re still skittish.”

“I’m trying,” Jon let out through gritted teeth. “But it’s not easy.”

Bloodraven let out a low, mocking laughter. “Nothing worthwhile is ever easy, bastard. To master the minds of others, you must first master your own. You must become a rock in the river, unmoved by the flow of thoughts and urges, be it your own or those of others. If you do not rule your emotions, you will forever remain their thrall. Let it go.”

Jon clenched his jaw, keeping his mouth sealed. Clear his mind. He needed to clear his mind… 

The cave was silent, bereft of the sounds of the forest outside. Silence should have helped him. But why was it so hard?     

The urge to dash away was gone, but the more he tried to let go, the more familiar faces surged out in his mind, whispering to him.

“For the Watch!”

His scars throbbed, as if knives were stabbing into his flesh again.

“The next time I see you, you will be in black.”

His brother smiled at him from a half-rotten face, skewered atop a spear.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

Ygritte wheezed before his eyes, bleeding out on the ground. His heart clenched at the sight, and he reached out to touch his face but found nothing but snow.

Jon tried to push it all away.

Thwack!

Pain lanced through his sole again, shattering his focus.

“Don’t push it down,” Brynden barked out. “Allow yourself to feel, but do not let it rule you. Look deeper. Why do you feel the way you do? Once you understand, you’ll be half-ready.”

Frustration welled up in his throat. 

He tried to focus again, but his mind kept slipping like an eel. Sighing, he opened his eyes and stood up. Brynden Rivers glanced at him with his red eye and nodded tightly, looking neither disappointed nor angered.

Another failure. But failure was an old friend to Jon Snow.

Today, he could afford to fail and try again. No knives in the dark would slip between his ribs if he failed. Nobody would perish, and the only consequence was Bloodraven’s pointed words and beating stick. Painful, often infuriating and eager to poke at his weaknesses, but ultimately harmless. 

“Let us practise archery instead,” Jon said.

Bloodraven merely handed him a weirwood recurve bow. “String it.” 

The bow was bone-white polished wood that would shine like alabaster in the moonlight, barely four feet long. But it was sturdy, and stringing it was half a struggle. Even with Jon’s strength, using the push-pull to slide the second end of the string into place saw his muscles strain. But the more he did it, the easier it got, making him stronger—or so Bloodraven claimed.

That’s how Jon spent his days with the old man. Hunting for prey, but more often than not, the hunt was not with bows and arrows, but with minds and powers unseen. A stag here, a hare there, or a raven midflight, and Jon would try to slip behind its eyes, wear its skin like a cloak. He would feel the ground beneath the strange limbs, feel the wind across his feathers, taste blood upon his tongue.

And always, the struggle followed. To take without being taken. To ride the creature without letting it ride him in turn. Even the simplest minds would bleed over, no matter how small or big. 

Such was the danger of skinchanging, dangers that ought to be overcome before casting his mind deeper into another. Each beast Jon slipped into was killed by his hand later that day, lest they bleed into his mind while he slept.

It was an odd thing to kill a beast he had walked with, like killing a horse after riding it. Stranger still was it to eat it, as if he were consuming his own flesh, a long-lost piece of himself. 

“It’s jarring, yes,” Bloodraven had said, voice patient. “It’s precisely the discordant feeling that allows you to sweep away the beast’s shadow from your mind.”

“Isn’t it… dangerous to delve into such practices?”

“The danger is small.” The old bastard had looked at him then, face growing grim. “There are three taboos to skinchangers, three things that once you do, there is no going back. Remember them, and remember them well. Eating manflesh and rutting in another’s skin will twist you like no other. But the vilest deed a skinchanger can do is to seize another man’s body.”

“Can such a thing even be done?” Jon had asked, aghast. 

“It can be attempted. Once, I saw a dying old skinchanger trying to slip into his young grandson, to live a second life. Both the boy and the old fool died, but their bodies lingered on for a while longer, what was left of their twisted minds neither here nor there.”

It almost made Jon regret learning. It was the most dangerous thing he had ever done, and he had climbed the Wall and slipped into an enemy’s camp to kill Mance as an envoy, well knowing he might not live regardless of failure or success.

But there was something sweet in threading on the road of the forbidden. Magic felt intoxicating, sweeter than any wine, making him want more and more. Jon felt more alive than ever before. Each task pushed his body or mind to the limit, as Brynden Rivers was a harsh taskmaster. But he knew where to stop; no training was to the point of breaking. Each lesson was sharp and to the point, not mincing words or offering empty platitudes.

Bloodraven spoke little, but his scarce words were all the heavier for it.

“At least you’re half-decent with the arrow.” A half-hearted acknowledgement that was probably the greatest praise that had left his mouth. And yet, it had made Jon happy.

The more Jon learned, the more he grew to respect the old bastard. Bloodraven was as wise as Maester Aemon had been, but with the sharpness of an old warrior and skilled commander. The old man rarely sat idle. His days were spent foraging, and countless hours were poured into recovering, carving out arrow shafts, and even more into straightening, drying, and fletching them for his practice, too. Some tips were just sharpened wood, hardened over the crackling fire, while others were fixed with a stone or obsidian tip, once again knapped by the old man. 

Under his guidance, days passed in a blur, filled with blood and sweat, as Jon slowly grew more and more proficient both with the bow and with the mind. His evenings were spent deep in a secluded cave, either sleeping or having a good soak in a hot spring Brynden had shown him.

It was similar to the cave he had stayed in with Ygritte.

Some evenings, Jon’s thoughts drifted towards the past… or the future that would never be. He wondered if he should have stayed in that cave, leaving everything behind. Just the two of them. He knew the Others would come for them sooner or later, them, the hunger, or the creeping cold of winter. But as the nights passed, he dwelt less and less on the things that could have been. Perhaps it was the exhaustion taking its toll—a tired mind rarely strayed, and a dog-tired body saw sleep come swiftly. Bloodraven’s lessons were growing more demanding by the day, as if intended to squeeze every drop of potential from his body.

Soon, he was forced to hunt with a blindfold—both for food and for skins. “You rely too much on your eyes, boy,” Bloodraven had rasped. “And eyes can be most easily deceived.”

“But you said that eyes are the gate to the mind. If I can’t see, how can I skinchange?”

“Keep it on until you can see without looking. You can already feel the snow and the ice. Your mind gate is opened, and now you must look deeper. Tap into your hidden senses.”

Grumbling inwardly about riddles, Jon took the blindfold and fastened it tight over his eyes, thinking it would be easy with his sense of cold. But his old fox of a mentor took him deeper into the south, where the snow had already melted. Jon stumbled on for days in the roots, stones, and the damp ground. He fell countless times, tumbling down painfully, and his body became one giant bruise. And then, it was as if his legs learned something he had not, jumping over roots and avoiding stones as if they had a mind of their own, and the falls decreased. In a handful of days, he felt something at the edge of his mind. 

It was vague, like a distant echo, but the quiet of the forest made it louder and louder. It was as if the haunted forest itself whispered in his ears, guiding his actions, just like the snow did. His steps grew even more confident, and he could even dash forward without falling face-first.

As days passed, he could sense more. Something else, like a voice in the wind… even when the leaves were deathly still. Cautiously, he reached out once and found himself in a burrow, looking at a russet tail of fur. He jerked away as if burned as realisation came in swift. Those were the minds of others. He grew better at that, too.

To his senses, Bloodraven was like a spear, sharp and prickly, stabbing at his mind the moment he gazed his way. 

Jon could feel himself grow sharper, little by little, day by day, like a piece of pig iron hammered into a blade. 

One evening, as they were roasting deer tenderloins over the evening fire. The aroma rose, thick and savoury, and Jon’s mouth watered as he heard the juices dripping into the flame with a hiss. But it was far from ready yet.

“Why did you desert the Watch?” he asked slowly, his hand finding the comfort of his weirwood beads again. Their smooth, warm surface gave him a sense of calm.

“Because I had grown old,” Brynden said, letting out a long, tired sigh. “I spent most of my life serving others. I served my royal brother, I served his children and grandchildren, I served the realm, and then, I served the Watch with all I had…”

He trailed off, leaving the crackling of the flame to fill the silence.

“It’s a man’s duty to serve,” Jon said at last. “All men must serve, even kings.”

Bloodraven snorted. “Aye, but I realised I was old and tired, and Brynden Rivers had given his all for service, and had nothing left but cold, joyless duty. It was a thankless life of sacrifice, so let me give you some advice, bastard. If you get the chance, live a little. Live for yourself. Don’t be chained down by honour and duty. Spread your wings and fly first, feel the wind in your hair, get a taste of the joys and sorrows of the world, and then, only then, walk down that road of no return.”

“But…” The young bastard grimaced. “I gave vows. I am the sword in the darkness. I am a nobody here, a man with no parents, no family, no past. A betrayed fool who does not belong.”

“It’ll be forty years until you give vows, boy.” A hand reached out to press on his shoulder. “There is no need to stand watch now that you have dealt with the Cold Ones. And you’re nobody here, aye. Your former loyalties and vows have been swept clean by time itself. Your past does not chain you to family or House, it does not chain you to sworn brotherhoods or kings, yet you have gained much from each of them. And that grants you the greatest opportunity many have dreamed of.”

Jon resisted the urge to scoff. If this had been the first day when he had met Bloodraven, he would have dismissed those words. But now, he did not doubt Brynden Rivers even for a moment. “And what great opportunity awaits a nobody like me?”

“You can choose who you want to be, Jon. You can choose to be a crofter, a farmer, a wandering sellsword, a hedge-knight, a sailor, a scholar, a merchant, or strive for more. Strive for greater heights. Reach for the stars. Forge yourself into the man you wish to be. The world itself is ripe for the picking.”

“This… is a scary thought,” Jon said, voice thick.

“Because freedom is as scary as it is liberating. But you do not have to decide right now. You do not have to decide in a day. Take your time, and the answer will come to you.”

Author’s Endnote: Phew. Now, that was a chapter. I’m not sure why, but I struggled greatly while writing it, and god, it came out slowly and painfully. But I am happy with what I wrote and the way it came out. Perhaps in a few weeks, I’ll give it a total look-over.