[Day 5: Mid Night] Sleep, Merciless Sleep (read only)

A pale winter sun is struggling to rise above the hills on the horizon, but Jon barely notices it through the smoke from the burning holdfast.

It had been all too easy. They had swept in at first light, surprising the pitiful garrison in their beds and putting most of them to the sword before an alarm could be sounded. After that, it had been a simple task to subdue the village below, and now his men were busy looting it with trademark efficiency. In the courtyard of the holdfast, the cries of the dead and dying mingle with the merry crackling of the flames that are swiftly consuming the tower. Job well done, Jon thinks, allowing himself a little smile of satisfaction.

Just then, a discordant sound pierces his consciousness. A mewling wail, like the sound of a tortured animal, is coming from a nearby supply shed. Jon turns towards the shed, but it's as if the wailing were a physical force, pushing against him, forcing him to use all of his willpower to take a single step forward.

I know that sound, Jon thinks sluggishly, I've heard it before. It should not be here. It cannot be here. I banished it from my mind.

Suddenly he is at the door to the shed. How did I get here? I don't want to be here. Just turn around and walk away. There's nothing to see inside, nothing to be done. But still he steps inside, taking in the scene at a glance. He always steps inside.

A naked, beaten, figure is tied across a barrel. Three of his men are taking turns raping it. He notices that there's blood running down the inside of the figure's thighs. Then hears himself roaring, but it's as if there's no force behind his words, ”Theo! Dunstan! Jorah! What in the Seven Hells is going on here? I gave specific orders – NO RAPING, damn you!”

Theo turns towards Jon, a vicious leer on his face. ”Oh yes, Ser Jon, you gave specific orders, alright. Leave the civilians be, you said, and so we did. But this 'ere's not a civilian, is it?” he sneers, pointing at the floor next to the barrel. There lies a simple pot helmet and a torn surcoat adorned with a red and black shield. In the middle of the device is a weirwood, surrounded by a flock of ravens.

”Want a piece o' the action, Ser Jon? I swear, this one'd never felt the touch of a man before today. Tight as a duck's arse, she is,” Dunstan fills in with a satisfied grunt.

Now the naked figure turns it's head towards him, and Jon sees that it's a young girl, perhaps no more than fifteen-sixteen years old. She stares dully at him with soft brown eyes almost dead to the world, but still the horrible mewling noise keeps on. ”Shut yer fuckin' cockhole, bitch!” Jorah yells, smashing his mailed fist into her mouth.

Finally something snaps inside of him. Jon is free to move again. ”Get off her, you raping bastards!” he yells, seizing Dunstan and throwing him to the floor. But the rapists aren't about to give up their prize so easily. Theo is on him in the blink of an eye, knife in hand. ”This is all your fault, Wrecker. You knew what we was when you hired us – you knew!” he hisses. ”Well she's ours now. We found 'er and you can't 'ave 'er. That's what you really want, isn't it, Wrecker?” he sneers. ”I know you, remember. I know all about what happened down in Dorne, so don't you go makin' like you's any better than the three of us. I KNOW YOU, WRECKER JON!”

A red mist descends. When it clears he notes dispassionately that Theo, Jorah and Dunstan are all dead. His dirk is covered in their blood, so he must have killed them. He steps over to the girl, squats down in front of her, and meets her numbed gaze. ”I'm sorry. I did this. I'm so sorry,” he whispers. Then he stands resolutely, lifts up her head, and opens her throat with his dirk.

As the light fades from the girl's eyes, her features change, replaced first by now familiar hazel eyes, gazing blankly from a proud warrior woman's face framed by short cut chestnut hair. Then they change again, and now piercing emerald eyes, set in beautiful, fair-skinned Andal features, stare accusingly from beneath an unruly mop of red-blond hair. No, not you! You're not her! You're not even here! This CAN'T be happening to you!

He feels the terror rising in his chest, the fear choking him until he can barely breathe. And still the mewling wail won't stop.

Jon drifts into consciousness and remembers who's making the sound. It's him. It's always him.