To epitomize the world in which we live, we must first step back and remember that we are flawed.
But to understand the world in which we live, we must recognize that man realizes just this: the good exploit the flaws and the wicked jeopardize their...
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The screams of Mance Rayder echo about the courtyard like a sick chorus of angels praising the god of chaos and death, the fire clinging to the fur of his legs and then scorching into his skin like a brand on cattle. And despite his every intention to stay strong--to keep quiet--death by fire is of the most potent of pains, and even the gods may scream out with the inferno about their waist. His mouth pressed open wide, the man screams and pleads for it to stop, though without the intention to ever bend the knee, and it is the dilemma of the century before Jon makes his choice as the good-man's protector.
An arrow pierces the man's heart, and the wood does not burst into flames as the brown eyes of Mance Rayder recognize the piercing pain from that of scorching heat, eyes not searching for the perpetrator, but for the man he knows to be Jon. And just as that heart heaves and seeps one last time, his eyes lock on Jon's--as do the eyes of a king and a witch--as the man stands firm with Valyrion on his shoulder and a charge to fulfill.
The man's light extinguishes before their eyes as Jon then leaves the scene, palming the letter in his left hand as the other drops the mantle of good-works, a bow without an arrow clanging to the floor.
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J—
You are a noble man, and I've never admired someone to the same extent that I do you: a kind and gentle soul with only the will to do good, not tainted by the poisons of treachery and truly dutiful in your every step. I wish to be like you, but my morality is far diluted by my past—all I wish, then, is to spend time with people of better sense than myself. I miss you with my whole being.
I have arrived in Pentos and now await my journey to Meereen with Varys and Tyrion. I do not know what will happen along the way, and it is not of my greatest focus, as Tyrion is the one who must make it to Meereen, not myself. And I feel as if I will not be the one to make it, that I will have to flee to Westeros before I arrive anywhere close. It might just be paranoia chanting at me, but my instincts never seem to be wrong.
I hope your meeting with Mance went well—and that you're not dead. I can only imagine the struggles you face while addressing kings and varying sides of warfare—as close as I've been to the royalty, they've never been much for war. Just poison.
I will pray that you soon learn how to tame your beast of a direwolf, as it is not comely for a man like yourself to let a dog run rampant. I am so ashamed of this fault in your perfection, and I will be sure to remark on it whenever the need arises.
Your words, like mine to you, hold a special chamber in my heart. I shall see you soon. Until then, pray that the sun will open up before your eyes, and let you know how adored you are.
