9. Like Tears in the Rain

258 AC

The Unlikely

The king often thought himself grown wiser with age, that he had seen all there was to see in the Great Game. The gods often decided to prove him wrong, and this time it had been no different.

One name-day feast, and the House of the Dragon was divided. The scandal had seen the following ball a pale shadow of what had been planned, and Aegon curtailed that event swiftly. His daughter had disappeared into the Great Sept to pray for forgiveness and repentance, though it was more likely she was eager to get numb on the scent of incense and the chant of prayers instead.

His eldest, trying his best not to laugh, excused himself and disappeared into the great green expanse of the kingswood, saying his men had found traces of the legendary white hart and he would go for a swift hunt. As if traces of a white hart were any different from any other buck. 

Aerys himself was taken aside to the Hand’s tower and given a good, cold bath that had sobered him from the last of the wine, and he had not said a thing since, lowering his head in shame. At least he had the decency to be ashamed… if a bit too late. The young Lannister maiden had been given to Betha, who was taking care of the girl. 

Rhaella had not cried at the sight of her brother’s open affair. She had not reddened in anger or shame, merely excusing herself to her quarters with a quivering voice.

Three days had passed since then, and the gossip had only grown. Aerys had yet to speak.

Duncan was still hunting, Shaera was still praying, Jaehaerys was still abed and bitter about the matter, and the king had to deal with that stubborn childish part that his chosen heir could never quite overcome. He wished to speak clever words of wisdom as Aemon had once given him, but he had none to spare. 

What wisdom could be found in such a mess? 

His wits felt too old to fret over this like some young, eager boy. But disgrace and infamy lashing at your face often left you reeling, and this was no different, no matter how experienced he had grown in dealing with such.

“For good or ill, the whole Crownlands knows by now,” said Aegon, settling onto the chair by the bed. “They whisper of it in the hallways of the Red Keep, when they think royal ears are not listening. And with another moon’s turn, the whole realm would know Aerys dishonoured Lord Lannister’s sole daughter during his sister’s name-day feast. Another scandal to grace my reign, and it stings no less than the previous two.” 

Face ghostly pale, his son sat up to lean his back on the ashwood lining of the wall.  

Jaehaerys regarded him with a cool, unblinking gaze. “I expected you to welcome such a chance the most, Father.”

“Not with the Lannisters, the weakest of the highlords and already closest to the Iron Throne bar the Baratheons. We get nothing from this alliance. Nothing, and you should know this, Jae.”

“Yet you already arranged the wedding in a fortnight,” the crown prince said with a dry, wheezing laugh. “We can call off the ceremony, or still wed Aerys to Rhaella instead.” 

“And raise a greater scandal?” Aegon let out a harsh scoff. “Our House could do worse than a Lannister queen. It has done worse before. The girl is ambitious and clever, yes, but my only regret is that Aerys did not pick a Stark, an Arryn, or a Tyrell.”

“None of those lords has a daughter or a sister of suitable age,” was the cool, unamused response. 

Aegon lifted his wineskin to his lips and let out a long sigh. The Dornish red had been particularly bitter since that feast. 

“They have cousins close enough to count,” he said at last. “Though there is a small blessing to this. Now, Rhaella can be wedded off for another alliance that will make my reign—and yours—easier. Her descendants can marry back into the royal family in a generation or two, if you still so desperately cling to those crazed ramblings of that cursed witch.”

Gods, he should have never allowed the woodswitch to court. He should have sent Duncan off to the Wall or exile for his defiance, too, or stripped away all his royal privilege down to the very name, and Jaehaerys would have never dared to elope. Aegon had known that back then, but the gods had made him too weak, too soft to punish his firstborn so harshly. Still as soft as a child at forty, as Aemon would have said. Even today… even today, he would not find the strength to do it. His brother would have made a finer king.

Some days, his thoughts drifted to what could have been, how the realm would have fared under King Aemon the First of His Name. He had always been the wisest of them all. Yet Aemon had feared the crown and the throne as if one was a viper eager to bite and the other—a poisoned thorn, and perhaps he had the right of it. Ruling the realm was no different than walking through an endless maze of thorns while the ground was dark, and vipers lay waiting in each shadow, ready to strike. But King Aemon the First would never be, for his brother was content to be Maester Aemon at the Wall rather than ever risk brothers coming to blows. Aegon loved him more for it, but gods, if only…

Jaehaerys let out a long sigh. “This can only be Rhaella’s doing, Father. Even if she knew not of the plot, it’s her lady that did the deed, and—”

“I am aware,” said Aegon, voice flat. “Your daughter has not been subtle about her displeasure with the betrothal, and all who had cared to look saw it plainly enough. But I will not punish her.”

“…Why?”

The king gave him a brittle smile. “The same reason I did not punish you, Shaera, or Duncan. Besides, her fault in this is small. No matter how hard a girl of three and ten plots and schemes, such a thing would have never come to fruition if Aerys was not ruled by his baser urges like my eldest brother, Daeron.” 

His grandson was bright, and yet he could meet the same undignified end, dying pox-ridden and weak in some bed because he had bedded one whore too many.

Gods, Aegon would have been greatly impressed with his granddaughter if not for the headache she gave him. This clever scheme alone had shown her mettle and her worth as a queen. Alas…

“It is still a poor choice to wed her off with haste,” said his son, the very same man who would have seen his daughter already wed in his own haste. “…If you hatch dragons soon, we might need every rider.”

“And you suggest she goes unwed, then?” Aegon fixed his heir with a stern gaze, and he averted his eyes. “Say I do manage to hatch dragons at last, and she masters a dragon. What then, if she is charmed by a handsome knight or the dashing smile of some bard or sellsword? Or perhaps not just another poor Ser Bonifer Hasty, but a man of a strong castle and a storied lineage? Will you make her choose between the man and the dragon, or outright gift some other house the much-needed source of royal strength, creating another Corlys Velaryon?”

“I just…” Jaehaerys pressed a thin, tired hand to his brow. “I just don’t know why it has come to this. Every lady dreams of being a queen, and Rhaella is most mindful of her duty and adores her brother. Or so I thought.”

“Go ask that woodswitch of yours,” the king shot back, “if you yearn for answers that badly. No doubt it was those cursed riddles that saw to her change of heart.”

His heir let out a long sigh. “Perhaps I would, if she were not a wanted outlaw, hiding gods know where. At least… at least now we have greater cause to involve ourselves in the Westerlands. Though the Freys must be handled with care. Lord Walder has been slighted greatly by stealing his son’s bride. While a Frey alone would never find the courage to stir up trouble, let alone revolt, the Tullys might just back them this time.”

Aegon scoffed. “Stealing? From some weasel’s second son? The realm from Sunspear to the Wall belongs to the House of the Dragon. You cannot steal what is already yours. Besides, it was the young lioness who did the stealing. What could a prince too drunk to walk straight or tousle a chicken ever steal?”

A fretful week later, Aegon saw that Walder Frey had indeed stirred up trouble, but had chosen a far softer target than the royal family. 

The king had the pleasure of chancing upon the young, stern-faced Tywin Lannister near the rookery as he read his father’s letter, notifying him that he was to wed Lord Frey’s eldest daughter in a moon’s turn. Aegon only knew what was in that letter after he had received one from Lord Lannister earlier in the morning, assuring him that he ‘did not fault the royal family in the slightest’, and he would be the one to make amends. There was some dark irony in informing his heir last, though Aegon couldn’t muster any amusement.

This was the House to prop up the crown for the next generation, and gods, he found it lacking. 

The young lion fixed the acolyte who had brought the word with a fierce gaze. “Are you certain this raven came from Casterly Rock?”  

“Yes, m-my lord,” the acolyte said, shaking like a quail. “This i-is Lord Lannister’s personal seal—and you ought to recognise the handwriting.”

“…I do,” said Tywin after a long moment, his jaw clenched tight as he read through the letter for the fifth time. “It indeed looks like something my father would have written. Redress a small mishap.” 

The last words were so quiet that the king scarcely caught them, and so filled with unwillingness that he had this inexplicable urge to come forth and place a firm hand on the young man’s shoulder.

Instead, he cleared his throat loudly and spoke, “The ceremony can be held in the Red Keep if you wish. That’s the least I can do after all of this mess.”

Colour drained out of Tywin’s face as he regarded the king. “You… know?”

Aegon gave a slight, apologetic nod as the young lion’s eyes clouded. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, with a long, weary sigh that did not belong to a man of six and ten.

“Best make it grand, then,” Tywin said slowly, with the same expression Aegon had seen on men dragged to meet the headsman’s axe.

Scandals or not, the realm required the king’s attentive hand, as did the affairs of the city. Then, there was another Blackfyre, prowling across the Narrow Sea and waiting for a chance, far more dangerous and prepared than any of his predecessors ever were. And he was facing a weaker Seven Kingdoms than any of his predecessors had. 

All because of Aegon. 

“Some days… some days I am tempted to cast aside my own laws,” he confided with Dunk after yet another dreadfully long council meeting. Bitter words spilt from his mouth, leaving only the taste of ash on his tongue. “Abandon everything I once stood for and not because it’s hard… but for the good of the realm.”

Ser Duncan let out a weary sigh. “…Perhaps you should. And I shall stand beside you regardless, Your Grace.”

It had been easy to dream of fairness and justice when he was young, thinking a king could mend all the woes in the kingdom with a simple word. Gods know, Aegon had tried far more than words, but it had nearly seen both him and the smallfolk to ruin. No one knew better than him that the weakness of his reign had invited so many revolts, too much fighting, and those who suffered were not the lords—be they great or petty—or their knights. Any fighting saw them ransomed or sent away to the wall. 

No, it was the common man and woman and their children who paid the price. The price for Aegon’s hubris was to see the very same folk he had been eager to help suffer because of him. A strong king meant a peaceful realm. It made for eager merchants, plentiful trade, and safe roads. But a king drew strength from his lords. He was no different, even though his was the House of the Dragon. A pitiful House with no dragons, that’s what they were. 

A hollow shell of their former glory. But even a dragon was not infallible, nor were they invincible. Even with the Black Dread under his command and his sister wives by his side, the Conqueror had needed lords at the start of the Conquest. He had needed them after it, too. It was why he had helped those who had given obeisance stand back on their feet as his sworn men. Yet for all of his great prowess with sword and a dragon, he had been as blind as any other man.

No king had been blinder to his realm and his own descendants, save for Viserys the First.

“What does it mean to be a good king?” Aegon murmured despite himself. The reflection of the silver glass in his solar only gave him that wan, brittle smile across his old, tired face burdened by too many woes. 

He had thought the answer easy once, but time had shown him wrong, so dreadfully wrong and too many had suffered for it.

Lord Hubart Hayford begged an audience then, with urgency in his voice, and Aegon let his spymaster in, swallowing his resignation.

“Word from the Disputed Lands?” 

“Nothing new,” the portly lord said with a deep bow. “I just found Maegor has acquired the services of a… blademaster from Yi Ti to teach him swordwork.”

Aegon let out a weary groan. Just as he thought his rebellious nephew would finally behave. He had felt guilty towards the babe once, but as Maegor had grown, he had seen the making of another Unworthy King in him, and the regret had drained away.

“Summon him—no.” He took a deep breath. “Let him learn, but keep an eye on the matter.”

Hayford shuffled uneasily. “Is it wise, Your Grace?”

The king stifled a scoff. Wise? Perhaps not, but where was he supposed to seek that elusive wisdom?

“My nephew might just need it soon,” he said instead. “He has no sworn shields, only a motley gathering of sellswords his good-father hired, and the realm is beset by revolts and murderers, and even a Blackfyre is eyeing the throne again. I’ll send men to guard him. And learning to wield a sword now will do him no harm.” 

It would do him no good, either. Mastery at arms did not come in a month or even a year. A decade was scarcely enough, and discipline and fighting had to be drilled into your bones while body, spirit, and mind were young and still malleable. Maegor had missed those golden years of training, and now, no matter how eager he was for the sword, he would never be a great warrior, not at five and twenty. He lacked the resolve needed to pursue honest and diligent work, or even stay loyal to his Tanner wife, judging by his performance as steward of the docks and the countless days he had spent in the Street of Silk.

“Keep an eye on him,” the king added. “I want to know the moment he speaks to any knight or lordling of importance, no matter how idle or trivial the talk.”

Later that night, he found time to meet with Melisandre deep in the cool bowels of the Red Keep, where no ears could overhear or eyes would spy. Shadows danced with the sway of the lantern, and the king felt his hair stand on end as the red priestess slid through the darkness like a wraith. 

She was smaller than he and Ser Duncan, and far weaker, with the gilded ruby bracelet on her slender arm the only thing remotely resembling armament. 

“Any success?” he demanded, tone sharper than he intended.

The young-looking maiden bowed deeply. “I fear not, Your Grace. The culprit is as clever as he is prudent. He evades even my sight, though the Rosby Knight and the men from Massey’s Hook act with great suspicion.”

Aegon stifled a snort. He knew an empty platitude when he heard one.

“You did not inform me of Rhaella’s plot,” he said, voice icy.

“Your granddaughter grew wary of me too swiftly,” she whispered, leaning in to give him a better view of that overflowing chest. “Rhaella is always mindful of her words and actions, even in the privacy of her own apartments and the safety of her bed. And… she is dancing with old, dark sorcery at night, though I have yet to find its source.”

He clenched his jaw. Couldn’t anything go well for once? 

“You have told me such before, but have yet to offer any proof other than vague words and feelings. We shall reconvene once you have proven your worth. Or once you have figured out a proper way to make good on your promise.” He waved his hand, brushing her off. “Now off with you.”

“It will take time, Your Grace, and the cost will be dear. But it will be done.” Giving him a perfect curtsy, she retreated, swallowed by the darkness of the passageway. 

Once the soft sound of her footsteps no longer echoed through the hallway, Dunk stirred from his side.

“I don’t like this,” he said, voice hoarse.

“Who would?” Aegon pulled his cloak tighter as he made way for a dark, spiralling stair leading to the Hand’s chambers. “Yet a king has no choice. Rebellious lords, Blackfyres, red priests, and lurking murderers… I must deal with them all, for they all eye the Iron Throne.”

Worse still, his wife clung to her suspicion with a grudge, as her smiles had thinned and grown stiffer, and no sweet words would dispel them. 

The Lost Bastard

Skinchanging was the hardest thing Jon Snow had ever done. Harder than commanding the Night’s Watch or struggling for his life in that ranging that saw his whole world collapse. It was a different sort of struggle, but no less fierce for it, and one Jon rarely won. 

He could feel the minds of beasts well enough, but bending them to his will?

Now that was hard, far harder than training Ghost as a pup. Some beasts were easy to slip into, others felt impossibly hard, and there was little rhyme or reason. One snow-shrike might resist him, flying away each time he approached, while another would fly down to land on his shoulder the moment he brushed against its mind. Today was one of those long days when Jon had struggled hard but had nothing to show for it. 

After an exhausting hunt for a hoary old shadowcat that had managed to slip away—both mind and body—Jon found himself back in the cave, exhausted and frustrated in equal measure and with a cloak torn to shreds. More would have been torn, if Bloodraven had not saved him with a well-aimed arrow that had taken the shadowcat’s ear and spooked it away. 

“The minds of some beasts will never bend,” Brynden explained softly, “no matter how good you get. They might listen to you for a time, should you find the way to master their habits, but just like a hungry cave bear or a man-eating spider of Sothoryos, some would rather break than bend. They understand power, but notions like kinship and brotherhood mean nothing to them, as their instincts are too savage to take to a human’s mind or command.”

Though old and crotchety, Brynden Rivers was a wise man. He had not allowed him to make a deeper connection with any beast until he could sever it at will and avoid bleeding them into his mind.

His wisdom stretched far further, though. Warfare, sorcery, ruling, command, trade… he was skilled in everything he touched to a level that shamed and awed Jon. Dark Sister had been granted to him instead of the other princes with good reason, too. Bloodraven had been better with a sword than he was, though old age had sapped the vigour to use those skills. Jon felt no accomplishment or pride at defeating an old man entering his ninth decade in a short spar, only sorrow.

Time was as cruel as it was inevitable, killing even the greatest men. 

“You can get better than I ever was,” Brynden had wheezed out after that bout. “You have the talent and the yearning for the steel, and a master-at-arms laid a solid foundation you can build upon. If you survive enough battles and bloodshed to grow into those skills, you might surpass my brother.”

That had pried an amused snort from Jon. “Which one?”

“All of them.” Brynden had leaned in closely, his lone red eye more solemn than ever. “Do you think Daemon was born a great warrior, defeating squires and knights out of Princess Daena’s womb? Or were Aegon the Conqueror and Aemon the Dragonknight born masters of the blade? Aye, they had some talent for it, but so did countless others. They lost as any other, they failed as did any squire, and they grew greater for it, until even failure was defeated.”

“Talent?” Jon’s mouth had twisted. “I am passable enough with a sword, though I spent countless hours drilling for it.”

Bloodraven’s smile had grown sly. “Less than they did. They walked that road faster and with greater fervour. Drilling is good, yes, but it will never make you great. At your age, they had all crossed swords with twice as many foes as you have—thrice for Daemon. And they treated each spar, no matter how small, as a matter of life and death to be won. But you possess other talents they could never boast of.” 

“Skinchanging, you mean?” Jon frowned. “The right beast at your side can turn a fight, that much I can guess. Even a battle, if used cleverly, perhaps even a war. But a wolf or an eagle at your side will not teach your hand to parry better or swing the sword faster.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong, boy,” the old bastard murmured. “A great skinchanger can see each shortcoming from the eyes of his beasts as clear as day and endeavour to mend them. A master skinchanger will have mastered their mind and body and not have blind spots in a fight—though that would not make them invincible, just harder to kill. But pray you never see the battles needed.”

His voice grew bitter, then. “Pray you never reach such mastery. By the time you’ve won it, you will curse the sword and the death it brings. But mark this well, Jon. Your true talent lies with the bow, and is twice as neglected.”

“What good is the bow?”

“What good is the bow?” Brynden’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Archery is not the crude skill most noblemen so much disdain, not just pulling a string and letting an arrow loose into the wind. The way of the bow and the arrow is an art no lesser to any other, and once mastered, would make you a man more dangerous than most. A true archer has learned to calm his breath and sharpen his mind. His hands must be steady, his eyes sharp enough to pierce the distance long before his arrow does. 

His voice grew in fervour, and even spittle flew.

“A master marksman can kill a man at four hundred yards in any weather. He would find the gaps of any knight at three hundred, clip the wings of a fly at two hundred, and strike through the gaps of a heavy visor at a hundred. A true archer can let loose three arrows in a heartbeat’s time, and even shields and walls can not stop him, for he can make an arrow twist and curve as easily as walking. Once you master the bow, you will wield death at your fingertips, boy, in a way no sword will ever let you.”

Then, he took the weirwood recurve and, with a single motion, nocked, drew, and let loose an arrow that twisted between the trees like a snake.

“Bring me back the snowshrike.”

Surely enough, behind three trees, a snowshrike had fallen amidst the roots, with an arrow skewered through its white feathered chest. Jon stared for a long moment before picking it up. Gods… he had thought he knew archery, and that Theon had been a good bowman, but now… words failed to describe the sheer terror of a master marksman.

No wonder Bloodraven had been so feared.

Jon still felt numb at the thought even days later. True enough, a weirwood bow was devastating from a distance, but there were no great names known for their archery. In the realm, glory was made by the tip of a lance, axe, or sword; proving mettle was all about suppressing a foe from close enough to savour the defeat in their eyes, even before the Conqueror had folded the kingdoms into one. Even though respected for their skill, master marksmen were at most mentioned in passing by the chroniclers, and only if they did some remarkable deed or another. None save Bloodraven, who had carved his name into history, aye, but not for his marksmanship.

It was a bitter talent to be graced with, but one suitable for bastards. 

It had not stopped him from putting in more effort with the bow. Loosening two, even three arrows at once, curving them, playing tricks, launching three arrows in a heartbeat, or even drawing a great beast of a bow hewn of dragonbone nearly two feet taller than him, Jon did all that was asked of him without complaint. It was challenging, and he found himself begrudgingly liking it, no matter how bloody his fingers grew or sore his shoulders and back were. To his dismay, each success brought him a sense of accomplishment he had not felt since beating Robb in the yard the first time. But here, his only foe was himself, and overcoming himself each day gave him a purpose he did not know he had needed. 

Moons passed, and he could feel his mastery of the bow swell. With Bloodraven’s guidance, Jon grew familiar with the Haunted Forest. They avoided the rare rangers or wildlings, too, though he was not eager to meet with either.

Rangers. He would have called them brothers once.

The thought of the Night’s Watch alone made his chest tighten, and his mind turned into a chaotic mess, and even Jon no longer knew what he thought of the order. Anger? Loathing? Reluctance? Disappointment?

All of them?

Or perhaps something else.  

When Jon raised the topic of leaving, Brynden never agreed. “You’re not ready yet. The threat is now diminished with those weirwood beads hung around your neck. You can leave, aye, if you’re eager to leave an old bastard to his lonesome again, but I still have much to teach you.”

The words were curt and thorny, though the young bastard was not so easily fooled. The old man was reluctant and wary about something, though prying that out of his mouth would be impossible, so Jon just waited.

As the time passed, the Bastard of Winterfell slowly mustered his courage. There was a single question that weighed on his mind ever since he had met Bloodraven, but he had not asked just yet. Perhaps it was the fear of the answer that was within reach, perhaps the trepidation of the truth that his father had forbidden, but it took him far too much time to ask the question that had defined his childhood.

One evening, they were gathered in a small, secluded clearing, roasting a pair of hares after a long day of skinchanging and archery. Though Jon did the roasting, as Bloodraven scraped willow branches and straightened them into arrow shafts over the fire, then fletched them with raven feathers. He still had broadhead arrowheads, though they had grown dull and half-cracked from use, and the old bastard had knapped a small hoard of dragonglass as a substitute—far sharper but very brittle. 

There was nothing special about that evening, but perhaps that was why Jon had mustered his courage. 

“If you know the future—”

Brynden spat to the side, his raven-shaped birthmark bristling. “I know a future, not the future, boy. What could be is ever-changing with every moment, and nothing is ever set in stone. I see some query gnaws at your thoughts, so just ask, though I make no promises for an answer.”

“Who is my mother?” Jon blurted out. “Lord Stark would never tell me, no matter how much I asked, and…”

“I know of her,” Bloodraven fixed him with that crimson eye of his, “I can tell you, aye, but it will cost you.”

Jon’s mouth twisted. “Another favour?”

“Of course, but it will be personal. For this one, I will have to figure out what to ask of you—but not before we’re finished.”

“Why?”

Bloodraven quirked his head, though his hands continued stripping that willow branch of its bark. “Why do you care which woman squirted you out?” 

“I… I just…” Jon opened his mouth to speak and closed it. He did it a second time and a third, but no words came. After a long and painful moment, all he had was a weak, “Kinship is important.”

“Important, aye. But you yearn for your mother’s name, only because it was denied to you. Most others know their mother and their father, face and name both, and you look at them and deep in your chest, envy wiggles in your heart like a worm that would never settle.”

“Is it wrong to want to know?” Jon challenged, voice harsh. “How can you know how it feels? You know of your Lady mother, and you know your sire. You have seen your mother and felt her love and touch, and I… I don’t even have a face in my mind. Not even a name. Nothing!”

Even Bloodraven flinched at his roar. 

Tears stung at his eyes then, but Jon brushed them aside with an angry swipe and held the old bastard’s gaze without faltering.

“You are right,” Brynden said at last, tossing away a peeled branch and taking another one. “I have no idea how it feels. I care even less. Here you are, rootless, like a fallen leaf drifting with the wind. Your parents are yet to be born, boy. The gods have blessed you with a great chance—it will be your deeds that define you, not the names of a man and a maiden who surrendered to a moment of lust. I shall tell you of your mother once your training is complete, and no sooner.”

“…Why?”

Bloodraven laughed. But it was a cold, raspy laughter that sent shivers down Jon’s neck. 

“Desperation reeks of helplessness,” he spat. “And now that you have shown it so openly, I shall think of a higher price to wring out. A bastard must be clever and composed at all times, boy. Last but not least, to rule the mind of any beast, you must first rule yourself.” 

Jon’s jaw clenched. “Perhaps I’d find that easier if I knew who my mother was.”

“I think not. That is your bitterness speaking. You should master your heart and mind, or be led on so easily. Your mother matters, yes, but there is more to you than a name of some unborn maiden, and knowing it shall not make you stronger.”

“You are your own fiercest foe.” Brynden’s voice lowered to a cold, harsh rasp. “That gnawing need to prove your worth, to matter—feed it, and it will lead you into black places. Anger and bitterness are poison to those like us. One day, you will enter the mind of a beast you cannot handle, and he will become the master, and your mind will be the one to bend. I’d say a man must live in the present, not the past, but…” 

With that, Bloodraven guffawed, his pale, bony chest shaking in the bubbling water. 

Jon swallowed the retort burning on his tongue. It was not the first time he had been mocked, but this one cut the deepest.

Was his mother a whore? Some eager camp-follower that had seen his father desperate for release after battle? Or perhaps a pretty-faced maiden? Some knight’s daughter? A noble maiden?

Why? Why had Eddard Stark refused to speak of her? Was it the shame of siring a bastard, or something else, darker?

He had lost count of the days since, though clarity never came. Peace never came. The question of his mother gnawed at his mind like a hungry hound. His mind was quick to falter, and even his archery and skinchanging suffered for it.

Bloodraven was right. Anger was poison to any hunter, and twice as much for a skinchanger. Jon would have gone hungry without the snares Bloodraven had taught him.

Cool rain greeted him today, though Bloodraven insisted on leaving their cave-camp. “We’ll put your senses to the test, boy,” he said gleefully. “Perhaps the rain will help you wash away the worries from your mind.”

The old bastard was proven right again. 

The soft drumming of rain on leaves and ground eased the knot in his belly a tad, though it did not untangle it. Today, he had stripped off his garments, wearing only the string of weirwood beads on his neck and small clothes to feel the rain on his skin and the ground beneath his feet. The cold of the heart of winter had not stung, and this felt no worse than a soak in the White Knife in summer. 

With the rainfall dancing across his skin, soaking in his hair, and the wind caressing his face, Jon could almost forget about his mother. Almost.

He could let go of his past. The death of his father and brothers, the grisly fate of his sisters. It had not happened, for they had yet to be born. It was hard to grieve something that had yet to be—something that might never happen for his presence. But his mother was different. That was the one thing Jon Snow could not let go of now that it was dangled in his face like a carrot before a donkey, and Brynden Rivers knew this.

This was another trial, perhaps the cruellest of those the old bastard had put before him.

As dismayed as Jon was, he understood. It was a terrible weakness, and Bloodraven speared at it without hesitation with the precision of a seasoned huntsman. Now, he meant to mend it. But it was easier said than done. Jon… couldn’t let go. He couldn’t find peace in his heart. Knowing it shall not make you stronger.

Then why was not knowing making him weaker, feebler?

The pittering of the rain helped for a while, though it was merely a distraction. The monotony allowed him to drift away, drowning even the doubts in his mind. His mind danced around the irritated owl hiding in tree hollows from the rain, or the snow hares shivering into a burrow beneath a rock, or the fox eyeing Jon from across the small glade.

“I…” Jon sucked in a deep breath, his hand reaching for Dark Sister’s hilt, but found only a knife, and his mouth twisted. “I sensed a malicious presence on a nearby tree. It’s almost merging with the wood.”

“It’s a Child of the Forest,” Brynden said nonchalantly. “They have been watching you ever since you came to the haunted forest, and now your senses are sharp enough to catch them. They are smaller than men and a far more peaceful tribe.”

“Peaceful?” His mouth turned dry. “This one feels more eager for my blood than the hungry snow-bear I saw half a moon prior.”

“You are dangerous, Snow.” A gloved thumb jerked towards the beads. “And none know that better than me, the greenseer who taught me, and the Children of the Forest. You don’t belong in this time or place, for now you’re neither human nor an Other, but something twisted in between. Possibly far more dangerous than both, too.”

Jon’s hand found carved beads, and today, they no longer felt warm between his fingers. He had never felt so naked as he did now, and it had nothing to do with his lack of garments. Gods, he wished he had taken Dark Sister with him, even though it would not save him if Bloodraven made a move.

You are dangerous, Snow.

The old man had mentioned this before, but Jon hadn’t thought it that bad. He studied Brynden’s face and found no lie, just the plain honesty of a crotchety old bastard. Gods, he was not jesting. 

It was one thing to be a bastard born from sin, but another to be a threat to the realms of men. The realms he had once sworn to protect.

“Then why teach me when I’m better off dead?” he demanded, voice raw. “I am no fool. I know you can see to my end at any moment, and there is nothing I could do to halt you.”

Bloodraven let out a short, bitter laugh. “You oft speak of worth, yet your actions in the heart of winter did the realm—and all the world beyond—a greater service than any man living, trueborn or not. In your stead, others might have fled when breath returned to your body, yet your first thought was to fight, to slay the darkness and the cold. You took up the blade, even when you had nothing left. Even when your body faltered and came back not wholly a man and madness itself whispered in your ear, your spirit did not waver, nor did your sword. You did what had to be done. No song will tell the tally of the souls you spared, for none alive can fathom the cold darkness that would have swallowed the realms of men. 

No hero has been half as great since Eldric Shadowchaser, who had the strength of men and singers to push back the Night. Greater still, for he only stayed the darkness, and you vanquished it. Old and callous I might be, but it sits ill with me to repay such service with a death fit for some rabid beast or lowly scoundrel. Prudent, yes, but ill-deserved.”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut, turning away. “You said a skinchanger is supposed to rule his emotions. If…” his words cracked, “If the world is better off without Jon Snow, then just do it. End me.”

Tears stung in his eyes, but none could see, not in the rain. It was unbecoming of a Lord Commander to cry, but every man who had led the order had been ready to give his life for the realms of men, and he was no different. Perhaps it was better that Jon Snow ended here, lost to the world like tears in the rain. He had done his duty, and then some, yet why… why did he feel so hollow?

He never yearned for glory, not titles. But no soul would mourn his passing, and that saddened him more than the idea of impending death.

“You’re barely seven and ten, boy.” Bloodraven’s voice drifted through the pitter, though there was something raw in his tone, something bitter. “Even an old thing like me can be sentimental and twice as foolish. Don’t think of death just yet.”

The wind shifted as he felt something thrown his way. Jon clenched his jaw tight and ignored every inch of his mind that roared to move, to run. A soft tumble fell before him, and he cautiously cracked an eye to see Dark Sister lying before him.

Bloodraven had his back turned now, as if he did not want to look at his face. “All men must die,” the muffled words came over his shoulder. “It is a fate none can escape. But you have yet to live. Take that chance and cherish it. You owe me a favour for my teachings, bastard. And now, I’m calling it. Life will be bitter, it will try to grind you to dust and twist your very soul, and by the gods, you will struggle. But you will not stop fighting. You will never give up.” 

“I…” the words strangled in his throat. His vision swam again, and it was not the rain. Shaky fingers clasped around Dark Sister’s hilt, and the sword brought him far more peace than he ever thought it would. “…So be it.”

Author’s Endnote. Super-duper late chapter. But once I felt good enough to finish, it came out great. And yeah, Bloodraven’s intro to archery is accurate (perhaps even a tad understood in a fantasy setting where superpowers exist). Lars Andersen has recreated most and wields a bow and arrow in ways that honestly feel like they break physics.