Just some shit I'm working on from Chapter VIII of A Chorus of Flame and Snow:

Jeyne

Dareon’s calling wasn’t at Castle Black it seemed. No, he was called to Eastwatch-By-The-Sea instead where he would sail to White Harbor and other such port towns to sing of a dark kind of gallantry and honor regained at the Night’s Watch. It seemed a suitable enough duty for him to Jeyne as she knew he had little love for the fighting and roughnecking at the Wall. To her, it felt like the old gods had answered his prayers after all. But then, why did they ignore a believer like her?

She was remiss when she heard that he requested to see her in person to say a final farewell before his departure. Her first instinct had been to refuse. She had come to realize that he had taken advantage of her troubled state to steal a kiss and more from her. Her first kiss. It wasn’t as if it was some precious thing to her. But she didn’t wish to be a girl easily manhandled and a stolen kiss set the wrong precedent in her eyes. Yet the singer who liked girls perhaps too much would trouble her no further after that day and she would not have it said that she spurned him out of fear.

So, she met him at the gate as requested with Venyon at her back. He was waiting with a garron and his party as he held a bundled item in his arms. She approached him, noting those around who were shoveling paths in the snow and was glad for their presence. She bundled a scarf around her neck and face despite the wolfskin cloak she wore. He drew closer to her.

“Miss, are you well?” he asked her in concern.

The concern annoyed her and she had hoped to hide it well, too. Her eyes were bloodshot and the windburn marks on her face and neck had yet to fully recover. Pink, disgusting scarring she wished not to explain away over and over. She preferred to be covered up. There had also been a lack of sleep as her worries had been nagging at her. This had been affecting Jeyne Poole as well to her embarrassment.

“Why did you call me here?” she asked more harshly than she wished though she did want him to get on with it.

He visibly readjusted, gripping the item. “I am leaving to Eastwatch where I will be able to showcase my talents to ordinary folk again.”

How fine for you.

“I am so very sorry for the way … things turned out between us. I disgraced myself.”

You did that well before you came here. She left that unsaid as well.

“This place … I wish to leave it behind. I was a horrible shade of myself here so I think it would be best to start anew. To string this again would hurt me inside so I thought it would be best left to you.”

He held it out to her. She only looked at for a moment before she reluctantly took it into her own arms. She partially unwrapped it of its cloth and saw that it was his high harp.

She looked back up at him. “Why are you giving this to me?”

“Your Jeyne Poole said you were the best musician of the girls taught at Winterfell and that you loved the harp. I’m saddened that I could never compare your playing to mine. Unless … you would like to strum some notes for me now. It would surely lift my spirits.”

She gripped the polished shoulder, feeling its sleek design. It really was well-made. Still …

She shook her head, denying him. “No.”

He flinched, realizing that she despised him. “Again, I’m so very sorry. Well, I suppose this is goodbye. Take care of yourself, Jeyne Snow.”

She watched him mount his garron with hunched shoulders and turn with the party to leave Castle Black’s gates. They would take Kingsroad through the Gift and be at Eastwatch by noon the following day if they shortened their rests and supplied well. Dareon would lead a life easier than most at the Wall, having leave to travel to ports all along the Bay of Seals, all the way to the Three Sisters and White Harbor; perhaps even farther. She hoped the lord commander had made the right decision. Dareon had more than an ample lust for girls; he resented his own life and fortune and he was envious of the life he could have. It was a dangerous combination. She watched the gate lower, turning heel towards the king’s tower. She kept the harp tight to her chest.

Daeron

Ding. Ding. Dingdingdingdingdingding. Followed by shadowed distinctly violent motions and the cries of a woman. He looked up into Drogo’s smiling face just as he grabbed his hair.

He woke with a start in a way similar to how he roused the previous so nights. Drogo. You continue to haunt me. Is there no escape from you? He rubbed his throbbing head and felt for his Valyrian knife, finding some comfort in its rigid presence. It was dark in the tent and all others seemed to be asleep; he could hear the unappealing, loud snoring of some. He didn’t think such young boys could snore so loud. He reached down and quietly yanked on some wool pants and laced them clumsily. He had been gifted more and more clothes each day since his arrival at the camp and for that, he was glad. He stepped into his nearby sandals and cinched them tight.

With his knife close underhand, he sneaked out from the tent into the open night sky. There were scant torches lit on the perimeter but no real way to light his path. There was no light at the rampart gates either but he knew that there were sentries. He looked for any sign of their movement, hoping to catch sight of their routine and weaknesses. He stumbled closer, hissing in pain and annoyance when he stubbed a toe on a grounded stake. He lowered behind the corner of a tent and watched intently, hoping for any change or movement.

“Who goes there?” The voice was right behind him; close enough to put a blade in him.

Daeron spun around. He knew the game was up and fell back on his name to put it safely to bed. “It is Daeron Targaryen.”

“Ah, Prince Daeron” he recognized the thick, weary voice as the captain-general, Harry Strickland. He had expected Dick Cole, Trystane Lannett or even Franklyn Flowers to be the one to find him in the night if anybody. He definitely had not expected Harry Strickland.

“How long have you been able to walk?”

Daeron felt anxious, as if he’d been caught stealing food. It was true. The first night, he had been unable to walk. And even partly until the next day, he was sure he was unable. After that however, he felt his muscles loosen and though he was sure he could walk, he just lay there in his bed. He allowed himself to be catered and fretted over for two more days on. If he had been asked earlier why he had done it, he would be hard-pressed to find an answer. To be questioned then, however …

“I shouldn’t be here” Daeron blurted out.

“What?”

“I was with Lady Jorah Mormont and prepared for the Summer Isles before you and Illyrio Mopatis and that … Salladhor Saan schemed your way in and brought me here.”

“You’re safe here.”

“I was fine without you. I didn’t need you.”

“Your wounds say otherwise.”

Daeron’s voice grew low, hurt by his painful memories. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I refuse to be a toy in somebody else’s game.”

“Should I put guards over you while you sleep? Is that what you’d prefer?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll find a way to escape. I’ll chance the river if I have to. I don’t care.”

There was silence from Harry for a time and then there wasn’t.

“Come with me, my prince. There’s something you should see.”

Harry put one of his large, sweaty hands on Daeron’s bare shoulder and he was compelled to follow.

It was familiarity, not light that guided Harry to the center of camp. From what Daeron could make of it, it looked no different from all of the other staked tents save for two shadowy figures as guardsmen and hint of fire seen when the wind blew the entrance so.

The guardsmen challenged him on sight of their arrival, which Harry answered simply enough. They allowed them free and he opened the entrance for them both. There were multiple torches lighting the tent but what was interesting was what was within.

“These people” Harry complained, “I’ve made them all rich men yet they hinder me at every turn.”

Daeron barely heard him. He strode closer to the flames. Within the fire were flagged banners of a swirled, three-headed black dragon on a background of red. Within those were an altar of sorts; an anointed longsword with a cut ruby at hilt’s end, a handle of suitable length for two hands and a design of dragonheads at the hilt guards. The lines of polish and craftsmanship lined its long, heavy blade.

Harry noted Daeron’s awestruck expression. “It is a symbol of our dedication to our cause. Our true cause. It also reminds us of who we really are. It’s also completely genuine so don’t you worry about that.”

“Wh-wh …”

“When was it recovered? I believe sometime after the Ni-

Daeron sighed and composed himself. “Why did you bring me here?”

“What do you mean? There are some here that say this sword is rightfully yours. That it is your birthright.”

Daeron turned to him. “Yet, what must I do? Lead the Golden Company in battle with that sword overhead? That would be the only way you’d let me touch it, wouldn’t it?”

“On the contrary. You could touch it now if you’d like.”

“Perhaps I should. Perhaps I should take it and cut you down with it. You and anybody else who tries to tell me why I shouldn’t leave.”

“I must say, I didn’t expect this and I pride myself on finding others predictable. You should be raving. Clamoring for the chance to wield this sword. It was the pride of the Targaryens.”

Daeron shook his head. “Dragons. Dragons were the pride of the Targaryens. But they’re gone. All of that fire and bloodshed with them. And even if that is what you say it is, I am not Aegon the Conqueror. I’m not even Daemon Blackfyre. I’m just … weary.”

He gave one last look to the fabled Valyrian blade before turning to leave. “I’m going to bed. Don’t worry, captain-general. I won’t be sneaking around again tonight.”