#human!jon

First Blood

 Winterfell hadn’t changed much in the fifty-some years since Daenerys had set foot there. Maybe some cosmetic changes in technology, the vehicles, the buildings—but the people were the same. Stubborn, at times backwards, and gallant to fault. The weather was what she liked best. Winter never really loosened her grip on the North. Even in summer, there were occasional snows. Overcast on most days. Perfect. Daenerys tired of whiling away daytime hours indoors.

Here there was fresh, clean air. Wind rustling through the trees. One of the few places where true wilderness remained. Daenerys had been running through the night for almost a week since she’d landed at Eastwatch and hadn’t encountered a single soul. As such, she was lonely. As such, she was thirsty. It ached in the back of her throat. Made her restless, irritable. In the over three hundred years since she’d been turned, this was the part she loathed. Her thirst meant violence, or at the very least compulsion. As primally thrilling as it was to bring the full brunt of her skills and strengths to bear, her soul had never become callous to the violence. Missandei’s mate Grey often teased her about it, in his usual laconic good-natured manner. Finding prey would be simple. But first she needed to make herself presentable.  

Perhaps it had been childish to run across the continent, but it scratched some wild itch to chase after the waxing moon. To feel the rush of air on her skin, her bare feet barely touching the ground. It made her feel woven into the fabric of nature instead of torn from its weft and warp. Daenerys slowed to a human’s pace outside a chain of stores. Florescent lights were eye-wateringly harsh, and the salty smell of humanity sharply painful, but Daenerys endured it. Another of the modern era’s conveniences, a square of plastic linking her to over a century’s worth of wealth.

In no time at all, she was groomed and dressed in a fashionable dress. Like most things, style was cyclical. This scarlet dress reminded her of those popular in the 60’s. Flowing with a beaded hem, complimented by black leggings and black ankle boots. Black and red, Targaryen colors. Strange how people of this day accepted dragonriders and wargs as part of their history, but scoff at anything else beyond the natural. Safety could be found in ignorance, she supposed. If the world knew about vampires, then some morbidly curious scientist would experiment on them. Monster-hunters would slay them.

“Anonymity is better,” Daenerys concluded aloud. She scrutinized her appearance in the mirror. The features were unchanged in the centuries of her undead existence. Nothing to give away what she was until thirst or strong emotion made her fangs extend. Dissatisfied, Daenerys deftly braided a couple strands and tied them at the back of her head. In a nostalgic mood, I suppose. The throwback dress, the braids—a reminder of her first husband, Drogo. By habit, Daenerys sought the fringes of town. Casting out her senses, she heard sound of boisterous male laughter, the drone of television, the sharp whiff of alcohol. A bar. Perfect.

The Night’s Watch—amusing. The defunct protectorate who guarded the Wall had become a part of northern folklore. This bar would be a simple place for lorry drivers, alcoholics, and locals. They had come for a drink, and so had she. A bell tinkled as she shoved open the door. A U-shaped bar dominated the center space, ringed by stools. Booths against the walls. Polished paneling and wood flooring. Rustic iron light fixtures. Televisions played the latest rugby game on a low volume. At the far end were pool tables and a dartboard where a loud group of friends shared a game. No cigarette smoke, for which she was grateful. With the acuity of her senses, it grew noxious.

“Be with you in a moment,” a low voice said, rich with a northern accent.

Daenerys took her seat on one of the barstools. The bar was immaculately clean. None of the usual gummy stickiness in such places. The pickings for her meal were slim. There was the group of young men. Little chance she could separate one without talk. Perhaps I should have chosen a larger city. Farther south where there are more people. The only other people in the bar were a mother and daughter—the girl looked about ten years old—sharing a plate of fries. Habit and manners dictated Daenerys feed on men—usually. If she could avoid it, she did not kill them. Finding someone healthy and discreet was difficult.

A young man appeared from the swinging metal door from the back, carrying what looked to be a heavy crate of bottles. The black t-shirt did little to hide the breadth of his chest or the corded strength of his arms. He set them down and approached where she sat. The smell of him was salty and musky, exuding youth and masculinity.

“What can I get you?” he asked. Perhaps it was her thirst, perhaps it was loneliness, perhaps it was the hand of the gods, but inwardly Daenerys trembled like a struck tuning fork. Handsome and fit, gleaming with the sweat of exertion he looked . . . delectable. The color of his eyes too, was unusual. A stormy grey. In an unforgivable number of seconds, she mastered her ogling. Daenerys licked her dry lips.

“W—White wine, please,” she said.

“Arbor gold?”

“Yes.”

“Comin’ up,” he said.

Daenerys watched him pluck a glass from the racks behind him, uncork the bottle and pour. With him focused on a task, she was free of study him. Curling black hair tied severely back, a neatly trimmed beard. Thick dark brows, with a line carved between them even when relaxed. A face prone to scowling, then. What did he have to scowl about, as comely as he was? With easy grace, he set the glass on a black napkin.

“Enjoy,” he said, then returned to his work. In this life and the one before it, Daenerys had always commanded male attention. To be dismissed so quickly smarted. Daenerys sipped the wine. It was delicious: cold, crisp, sweet. Daenerys pretended to peer at her smartphone while she watched him. One of the young men at the pool tables wended his way to the bar, his gait a bit unsteady. He was reasonably attractive. Tall, thin, blue eyes, black hair.

“Another pitcher, Snow,” he said.

“You and the lads have had enough, Theon,” the young man—Snow—said in that calm, stern voice.

“Come on. One more! It’s Maron’s last night as free man,” Theon wheedled.

“He’s getting married, not shipping off for war,” Snow said dryly.

“Still! Come on! We’re getting a rideshare home. One more!”

“I keep your keys if you get another. You can come get ‘em in the morning.”

“Deal!” Theon promised. Daenerys’ mouth flattened. A bachelor party? There was no way she could make a meal of one of them. She finished the last of her wine. It wouldn’t appease her thirst, but the taste was pleasant. She best continue her search for a meal elsewhere. She tossed cash on the immaculate counter and slipped back into the night.

 “In a couple minutes, you’ll set down the bottle and walk back to where you’re staying,” Daenerys said, a command to an enthralled victim. Hypnosis was one of the little mercies of her existence. Most of her meals never felt any aftereffects from a feeding other than soreness where bitten. The drunk was a lucky find. A lorry driver off his shift, wandering in this stretch of woods between the Night’s Watch and the car park. The command was wordy, but specificity was crucial. If she had said ‘go home,’ then if the man lived a thousand miles away in the Reach district, he would walk until he made it there.

“In a couple minutes, I’ll set down the bottle and walk back to where I am staying,” he repeated, the words slurred. Daenerys took his right wrist, saliva filling her mouth at the prospect of relief. Her fangs lengthened. She bit in, the warm skin giving way like wet tissue paper, and at last tasting the warm metallic taste of blood. The man grunted, but didn’t resist, still caught in her thrall. She drank slowly, savoring it. Drinking in the heat and life from his artery. The neck vessels were larger, but more painful and more obvious. Daenerys’ favorite was the juicy one near the collarbone. Daenerys listened to the steady thud of his heartbeat. It was a delicate balance perfected over the last centuries, to drink without draining, to satiate without killing. Few of her kind bothered. Humankind was for amusement and food, that was all.

With her senses, she could hear the valves of his heart closing and opening, she could feel minute changes in volume pumped out with each beat. She gulped, feeling the last of her thirst ease. That’s enough. No worse than donating blood at the blood bank.  

Daenerys dabbed her mouth with the black napkin from the Night’s Watch. Not a wasted drop. She patted the man’s head. It was so strange when she drew a victim in. She could feel them in a sense. Stephen. His mother was ill with a chronic heart condition. He never saw his kids. Lonely and depressed, he drank on his time off, slipping into an inebriated muddle in front of the television. Alcohol soured the taste of the blood, but Daenerys couldn’t be picky.

“Sleep well, Stephen.”

The attractive Snow remained stuck in the forefront of her thoughts. It was damned annoying. When you lived long, things such as physical attractiveness seemed so banal. And yet . . . and yet he lingered.

“I’ll go back,” she resolved. Go back to the bar. This Snow would leer at her, or say something rude, and she could thusly dismiss him as a typical specimen of his species. Maybe then she could rest without him pestering her. Daenerys unleashed her speed, flying through the woods in seconds. An unusual scent reached nose, and she pulled up. Daenerys keen eyes raked the forest. Wolf. Not just any wolf, but a descendant of ancient direwolves. White as snow with garnet red eyes. Like a wierwood tree. In a breath, Daenerys felt as if she was three hundred years younger, watching a direwolf tearing out a man’s throat in her defense. Those red eyes watched her. Calm and curious, one predator to another.

“Ghost! Ghost, to me!” Snow called.  The wolf’s aloof stillness evaporated into a grinning, wagging pup loping back into the clearing on the Night’s Watch.

“There you are! You big fluffy goof,” Snow’s gruff voice was rich with affection. A needle of longing pierced her. A companion. There had been no one since Daario. Lovers were more trouble than they were worth—vampire or mortal. Daenerys watched the man and his gorgeous dog disappear around the corner.