Chapter Text
The smell of fresh bread filled the cottage long before dawn. Jon stood beside the oven, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sweat beading upon his brow despite the cool morning air. He moved carefully, checking each loaf with practiced fingers before setting it aside. The first batch was nearly finished.
Good.
The market would be busy today.
His mother was still asleep when he left a warm loaf beside her bed along with a cup of willow bark tea. The fever had passed, though weakness lingered. Jon worried regardless. He always worried.
"You're becoming worse than a mother hen," she had told him once. She had smiled when she said it. Jon smiled at the memory.
Outside, Maidenpool slowly awakened. Fishermen made their way toward the harbor. Merchants prepared their stalls.Children chased one another through muddy streets.
Jon's cart was ready within the hour. There were fresh pies, bread and several jars of dried herbs and remedies. The old Maester would have approved. The thought brought both comfort and sadness.
Maester Harrold had arrived in Maidenpool when Jon was seven years old.
Too old for the Citadel.
Too tired for chains and ravens and politics.
He had wanted peace.
Instead, he found a curious black-haired boy asking endless questions.
"Why did willow bark help fevers?"
"Why did some herbs heal while others killed?"
"How did ravens always know where to fly?"
For ten years the old man had taught him.
Letters.
Numbers.
History.
Medicine.
Everything he could.
When the old Maester died two years ago, it had felt as though an entire library had burned.
Jon still visited his grave whenever he could.
Sometimes he caught himself wishing the old man had lived just a little longer.
Long enough to see him become something more.
A healer. Perhaps even a Maester. But wishes rarely changed anything.
"Morning, Jon."
"Morning, Septon Ben."
The old septon accepted a packet of dried mint with thanks. Several others followed. An elderly woman with aching joints. A fisherman whose hand had become infected. A young mother seeking remedies for a coughing child.
Jon helped where he could.
Most paid honestly.
Some could not.
Those he helped anyway.
"You're too soft," Maester Harrold used to say.
Perhaps he was.
The trouble started near midday.
Three boys approached the cart. Jon recognized them immediately. He wished he didn't.
"Hullo, Maester."
The tallest one grinned. The others laughed.
Jon kept arranging his herbs.
"What do you want?"
"A pie."
"Two copper."
The boy picked one up.
Took a bite.
Then tossed it into the mud.
"Didn't like it."
The others laughed harder.
Jon felt his stomach sink.
"Then don't buy one."
The tall boy's grin widened.
"And if I want another?"
Without waiting for permission, he grabbed two more.
His companions followed suit.
One knocked over a basket.
Another scattered several packets of herbs.
People watched.
Nobody intervened.
Nobody ever did.
"Stop."
The word sounded weak even to Jon.
"Or what?"
Nothing.
They all knew it. The boys belonged to Gerard who could burn down a market or two if he wished to. So naturally, no one bothered to hurt them.
Jon clenched his jaw.
The old urge returned. Fight. Hit them. Do something.
Instead he remained still.
The boys eventually grew bored and wandered away.
Laughing.
Leaving ruin behind them.
Jon crouched and began collecting scattered herbs from the dirt.
A small shadow appeared beside him.
An elderly woman.
Without a word she handed him several fallen packets.
Then another villager joined.
Then another.
Soon half a dozen people helped gather the mess.
Jon swallowed hard.
"Thank you."
The old woman snorted.
"You help enough fools in this town."
For the first time that day, Jon smiled.
The smile vanished when he returned home.
His uncle was already drunk.
Again.
A half-empty wineskin rested upon the table.
The stench of ale filled the room.
"About bloody time."
Jon quietly set down his basket.
"I was working."
"Working." His uncle laughed. "Is that what we're calling wandering around begging for coppers?"
His mother looked up from her chair.
"Leave him be."
"Didn't ask you."
The words came sharp enough to make her flinch.
Jon's hands tightened.
His uncle noticed.
That only seemed to anger him further.
"Look at him."
The man staggered forward.
"Always that look."
"What look?"
"Like you're better than everyone."
"I never said that."
"You don't have to."
The slap came suddenly.
Jon stumbled sideways.
His cheek exploded with pain.
His mother rose immediately.
"Stop it!"
"Sit down."
"You've had enough to drink."
The shove sent her back into the chair.
Jon moved before thinking.
His uncle rounded on him instantly.
"Oh, now you've found your courage?"
The next blow caught him in the stomach.
Pain folded him in half.
Another struck his shoulder.
Then another.
Jon endured it silently.
Years had taught him that arguing only prolonged things.
Eventually the man tired.
He always did.
"Useless boy."
His uncle spat upon the floor.
"Without your coin, I'd have thrown you out years ago."
Then he stumbled toward the door.
Likely heading back to the tavern.
Or a brothel.
Or both.
The door slammed behind him.
Silence followed.
Jon remained bent over for several moments.
His mother crossed the room and touched his cheek.
"I'm sorry."
"It isn't your fault."
The words came automatically.
Because they always did.
Her eyes glistened.
Jon hated that more than the bruises.
"I'll be alright."
He always said that too.
Outside, dusk slowly settled across Maidenpool.
Far across town, four Hunters occupied a corner table within the inn.
Gendry was losing a game of dice.
Poorly.
"This is robbery."
"You said that three rounds ago."
"Because it remains true."
Gordon laughed.
Arya ignored them.
She was cleaning Needle.
Jaqen was reading.
Which meant trouble.
The raven arrived shortly after sunset.
The innkeeper delivered it personally.
"A bird for the Hunters."
Jaqen accepted the message.
His expression darkened slightly as he read.
"A man has received unfortunate news."
Gendry groaned.
"That sentence alone means we're leaving."
Arya looked up.
"What happened?"
Jaqen passed her the letter.
She read quickly.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Three Hunters?"
"Missing," Gordon muttered.
That alone silenced the table.
Hunters died.
It happened.
Hunters disappearing was another matter entirely.
The message carried the seal of the Master of Whisperers.
One of their contacts in King's Landing had written it.
A fishing village called Salt Shore.
Several disappearances.
Strange sightings.
Three Hunters already dispatched. None had returned.
"They want us because we're closest," Arya said.
Outside, wind rattled against the shutters.
At last Gendry sighed.
"Wonderful."
"A man senses sarcasm."
"A man is correct."
Arya folded the letter.
Whatever waited in Salt Shore was no ordinary haunting.
For the first time in days, the thought of a pie seller vanished from her mind.
The hunt had begun.