The hours crawled past slowly as hunger began to gnaw on him. Jon had long ceased trying to count the groans of the ship sailing somewhere in the Narrow sea. He sat bolted to the iron chair, a prince of House Targaryen chained like a dog, and the air in the cramped cabin now started to begin smell foul of sweat of his own. His throat dry and sour tasting only the dirt rag that had gagged him.
Escape was now looking like a foul dream to him with all crew of ship being members of sellsword company of Tattered Prince, his coin was gone taken away by the mercenaries with only ocean around him to swim away. When the door creaked open again, Jon lifted his head with great effort and a figure moved with in with heavy armour around and boots scuffing against the planks. But when the iron half-helm came off, the lanternlight caught the face of a woman. Her long hair were shiny blond like wheat fields he had seen in farms in last life, falling across her face cross-shaped with old scars. Both of her ears seemed to be hacked away a long time ago as the wound around that areas looked to be healed into jagged ridges of flesh, giving her a face that was more of a mask of feelings, pitiful and ugly to look at.
She met his gaze without uttering a single word and strode forward with her steady steps on moving ship. The rag was ripped from his mouth, and before he could draw a full breath, her voice, low, hoarse, and utterly devoid of emotion filled the close space between them.
"Our guest from King's Landing wishes to hear your scream, boy."
Jon blinks at her, trying to cover his fear with nonsense talk of his own. "Didn't know a woman worked in a sellsword company," he managed his throat stinging with dryness.
The woman's eyes flicker to his shaking legs and not the running mouth, not in offense but in cold disinterest. She reaches to her waists and brings out a thin dagger. The steel with colour of red and brown, shining ominously in the sickly gleam of the lamp's light. The pain follows faster before he could start with another thing. The blade sunk into the flesh of his right forearm, clean and sure. The sound that clawed its way out of his parched throat was not a cry but choked and helpless voice that sounded more like retching gasps. She pulled the knife free, crimson blood gushing out from the cut in a rhythm. Then came the second strike, this time in the left, sinking almost same depth, aimed with a practiced cruelty.
Jon's body convulsed against the chair, the chains clattering over each other. Tears begin to rush out. "Please," he gasped, the word stinging in his throat. "Just let me go… tell Aegon I'll not interfere with his rule. I'll stay away from Westeros, I swear it."
She said nothing and starts carving her path up his arms toward the shoulders with precision, stopping only when his head began to drop to unconsciousness from the blood loss. By the time the Tattered Prince entered again, his body was shaking with pain and a profound numbness. The mercenary commander remained standing in the doorway, indifferent to his condition.
"White Harbor," Jon rasped, humiliating himself again with another plea. "I … need to get letter from Lord Stark that will make Skagos mine. If I don't reach there in time everyone will know I was killed by prince in jealousy and rage."
The Tattered Prince looks intently at him hearing his words and only silence filled the chamber. Then, amusement softened the lines around his mouth. "You mean this, little prince?" The mercenary commander's voice was almost kind as he drew out a folded parchment. "Your Queen Mother Lyanna seem far cleverthan I expected. She already secured Stark and Manderly's signatures, before your ship ever left the capital. And she gave it to your dear brother, Aegon for everything to go smoothly."
Jon stared, as his words sink into him. The mother of this boy had sold him out, his father, the silver-haired harp King, had not thought to send a single loyal blade. Even the memory of Rhaella Targaryen, the boy's grandmother felt faint, a kin without warmth. The gods mock me with this rebirth.
A trembling, gasping laugh makes its way up his throat, hollow and bitter, filling the cabin and sharp cry tore from inside him as the last of respect, hope and his own existence vanishes from the heart of the boy who had lived before him. The torture continued this time with nails, driven through the soft soles of his legs. The woman watched him shake, expressionless from the beginning as if nailing down a loose plank of wood.
Far in the gardens of the Red Keep, the full moon hung over the city. Queen Lyanna sat by the weirwood, lost in the decisions of her own choices. The tree, brought from the North, a poor beauty when compared to the one she had grown with, yet the cool air that brushed her face offered little comfort. Guilt pressed inside her with every beat of her heart. I did what I must for peace of my own, Visenya and Rhaegar. The memory of her so-, Jon's, distant eyes haunted her today more than ever, accusing her as surely as any.
A maid's hurried steps broke her reverie. "Your Grace," the girl started, breathless, "His Grace requests your presence in his solar, at once." Lyanna nods, rising swiftly rushing through hall that suddenly seemed alive, humming with a strange energy. Guards rushed past, servants hurrying, and whispers rushing through every mouth in the halls. Ser Jaime Lannister stood outside Rhaegar's solar, his face a pale and strained since meeting Jon in his chamber as Rhaenys had told her of their word clash there. He gave her a curt nod upon seeing her and opened the door.
Inside, the solar was filled with royal family gathered again in week turn and Rhaegar seemed staring intently at the chests in front of him while Viserys lingered at the edge, his face sour since his marriage to princess of Dorne while Rhaenys, Aegon and Visenya were huddled together by their father's side. Even the Queen Dowager Rhaella was present, her worn face alight with a joy Lyanna had not seen in her years of marriage.
"What is it, King Rhaegar, why summon us in such haste?" Viserys's voice cuts the silence.
Rhaegar did not answer at once. He turns his purple eyes over everyone and then begins, "The eggs," he said, his voice more like that of bard then a King. "They are warm, after a century of coldness."
A hush fell over the gathered family, the children surge forward, breathless, hands trembling as they touched the egg of their chosing a black streaked with violet of Aegon, bluish white of Visenya and desert yellow of Rhaenys. Daenerys's small fingers reverently traced the crimson swirls of hers while Rhaella wept openly, touching her own egg remembering losing her grandfather and rest of family to fire in Tragedy at Summerhall.
"Sending Jon away was the best thing we could have done," Aegon murmurs, his eyes fixed on the black shell in his hands. "It's as if a curse has been lifted."
No one rebuked his words though Rhaegar seemed to go through dilemma as Lyanna looked at the rest in the room and at her child, shining with wonder and felt the sharp knife of her guilt die under the look of collective joy of her family. Perhaps this was right. Perhaps one sacrifice had fulfilled its purpose, bringing joy to many.
Far away, in the cabin of a mercenary ship sailing towards Shivering sea, a boy in blood chained to chair, shrieked his heart out, and no one but the silence and mercenary of Windblown heard it.