jaqen h&#x27;ghar

#thread: rebuild all your ruins #char: rhaegar targaryen #char: jon connington #char: jaqen h'ghar #ooc: muwahaha

The man started when he realized the other was Jon Connington – Connington who was in the area, who was supposed to be with Aegon Targaryen, was here, now. The walkers come pouring out quickly and the gun jerks with each shot.

Rhaegar is still kneeling in the snow, red blood dripping into the snow. He is half-sobbing, half-pushing Connington away. Connington appears to be in a state of shock, white-knuckled hand gripping the bloody brick.

“A man that is named Jaqen. This one came upon that one,” he gestures towards Rhaegar with the end of his gun, “in a warehouse. There are too many walkers in this area. It is not safe.”

Connington stares at him and he suspects that the man has not comprehended his words. He turns his attention back to Rhaegar, the fallen dragon, the red splatter on the snow around him.

The man swirled his glass of gin and tonic and half-melted ice around in his hand. “It was certainly foolish of Aerys to use his own blood as the template. Surely he knew it would be investigated, would lead straight back to him.”

His employer stared at him, the red eye and the missing eye pinning him down in his chair, “Aerys is not the man he once was. His mind is in the grips of mental instability but his words are still followed. He casts me out, disregards me, and his sons and daughter know naught of me.”

The man accepted this. Aerys Targaryen was still an imposing figure, the iron-willed patriarch unwilling to relinquish the reins to his children. “Dragon’s blood,” he mused.

“Dragon’s blood,” his employer affirmed, “I do not know which Targaryens carry the necessary properties.”

The man turned this over in his head, drawing a conclusion – “Immunity.”

The word hung there, in the room graced by the engraved doors, in the room where his employer watched, his employer with the wine-red birthmark, the birthmark in the shape of a raven.

The employer answered, “A cure.”

The blood is not black. The blood has not changed. The red blood is still pumping through Rhaegar Targaryen. He has not turned. He is still Rhaegar.

The man smiles.

text: rhaenys, "rhaegar"

text: Rhaenys

Msg: still at the house? I'm on my way.

#ooc: send from rhaegar's phone #char: rhaenys targaryen

rose-of-winter-deactivated20120

rebuild all your ruins | rhaegar, jaqen, jon c.

“Yes.” The man holds it out, and Rhaegar is so thirsty. Elia’s voice runs through his mind, stupid man, stupid man, stupid man as he takes a drink, and another.

Suddenly his head is splitting, his vision is blurred and everything is louder – the wailing, Lyanna’s screaming as the man is pulling out his gun. Rhaegar’s body feels slowed, he can feel the veins and the muscles in his body working. His heart pumping faster, his lungs burning with his throat.

He falls to the ground, on his side. It feels as if his skull will crack as easily as an egg. His blood feels slowed and fast at once, his body is so hot, burning – he holds his head in his hands and he can feel the fever on him. Before Rhaegar Targaryen can do anything, before he falls victim to the darkness and the cold, he sees the man put two bullets in Lyanna. She falls.

He can swear he hears a song and thinks of Jon racing here. It’s high pitched and covering the wailing. If you’re all alone, when the pretty birds have flown, honey I’m still free. Take a chance on me.

His blood slows, and there is nothing. As he dies, the burning stops.

#char: rhaegar targaryen #char: jon connington #char: jaqen h'ghar #thread: rebuild all your ruins

The man stands over the bodies, gun at his side. He gave no thought or attention to Lyanna Stark’s crumpled form. Rhaegar had drunk the canteen greedily; it lay to the side, water and crushed pills spilling across the concrete.

He strides over to Rhaegar and turns him on his back, tilting his head back. His left hand felt for a pulse and yes, there it was. He grabs Rhaegar’s left arm, shrugging him out of his jacket and unbuttoning the cuffs on his sleeves. The man folds the sleeve up past his elbow and takes out an elastic strip from his medkit.

Dabbing the crook of his elbow with sterilizer, the man ties the strip tight across Rhaegar’s arm, making the vein more visible. He takes his time preparing the needle and the vials; the sedative would be effective for an hour at least. The warehouse was suitably secure and even if they picked up the scent of blood, the doors would hold long enough for him to escape with Rhaegar, leaving Lyanna for any walkers that broke in.

He props Rhaegar up in a sitting position against one of the tool stations peppering the warehouse ground floor. The needle glides in smoothly and blood soon flows through the tube to the vial. The man needs only two vials, but he takes a smaller third vial as a precaution. He tucks them safely away in a case within his medkit; it is well cushioned.

The man removes the needle, cleans the puncture mark, and takes his time to put Rhaegar’s suit coat back on. Grunting with effort, the man drags Rhaegar to the center of the warehouse, full with mechanical tools and car jacks protruding from the floor. He positions Rhaegar’s left arm against one and smashes it down on one of the edges. Rhaegar doesn’t react; he is not conscious. The man rolls him over and is pleased at the small wound on Rhaegar’s forearm, tearing through the layers of clothing.

He bandages both the wound on the forearm and the needle puncture well – they do not bleed heavily and the man is pleased with his precision. He removes Rhaegar’s phone and examines the contents of his texts, deleting any mention of Lyanna Stark. No need for that detail. The man sends out texts to Viserys and Rhaenys Targaryen and Jon Connington, who is with Aegon. The youngest of Aerys’ children, Daenerys, was reportedly taken by the police. The man is vexed by the governmental interference in his work – but they didn’t know what he knew, they couldn’t. The closest they could come to was that Aerys Targaryen had something to do with the outbreak, no more.

The man opens up the warehouse doors and drags Rhaegar out to the truck. Rhaegar is not a lightly built man and it takes effort getting him into the passenger seat. The area is clear of walkers, although he can hear them in the distance.

He makes short work of the warehouse. He strips it of anything he can use – guns, rifles, ammunition, currency – before moving Lyanna Stark to the upper level catwalk. He had not killed her outright – Death had not called on him to do the deed. But neither would he save her. He shakes the gasoline cans across the walls and floor, strikes a match.

The warehouse smells of flames, smoke curling at the upper windows as the man drives the truck away. Rhaegar begins to stir, moaning and thrashing out. He slows down, placing an arm across Rhaegar’s chest. “Please relax, you are safe.”

Bleary eyes peer out at him, “what the fuck? What happened?”

The man’s lips curl, lies clanging off his teeth, “This one took refuge in the warehouse you were in. You were having… a reaction, a fit to something. You injured yourself.” The man gestured to Rhaegar’s arm, “This one is a physician and gave you a tetanus shot. You – “

“Where is she –“ Rhaegar’s head twists around to the back, “Lyanna?”

He furrows his brow, glancing back to the road, “You were alone. There was no one with you.” Rhaegar clutches his head, a building cry rising from his chest, “You hit your head as you fell. It may be a concussion.”

They fall into silence, Rhaegar staring at the road. The man has the Targaryen’s phone in his inner suit pocket, hoping for a response from the others. “I am named Jaqen H’ghar,” he makes uneasy eye contact with Rhaegar, “my employee had a safe house by the docks, but it was overrun by the walkers. This one fled, found safety in your warehouse. You were – agitated.” He talks to fill the space, projecting an aura of a confused German physician, unused to London and dockyards, comfortable only with medical issues and had only grabbed the weapons because they have to worth something, right?

Rhaegar says nothing.

The man turns into another street and abruptly sees a flash of red hair, of a figure walking in the street, before he veers off, just avoiding clipping the man. He knows it was not a walker. Rhaegar twists in his seat, “STOP!” he yells, unsteady hands struggling to unbuckle the seatbelt, thrashing against it. The man slows the truck down, reluctant to administer another sedative, but Rhaegar flings the seatbelt back, bursting out of the truck with a bellowing, rasping scream “JON!”

He sees out of the back window, the man turning, over a block away. Swearing, he exits after Rhaegar, hand pulling out his gun. Rhaegar stumbles, almost dives into the pavement, but his fingertips push him back up, and he is only focused on the man – singularly on the other man, who is running towards them. He cannot run but walks, swaying back and forth like a drunkard, feet propelling him forward, arms stretched out for balance.

The man, for once, is too slow. Rhaegar does not see the walker emerging from the alley.

The walker does not need to move fast. It does not need to struggle with Rhaegar. It simply seizes Rhaegar’s hand and bites down.

He screams. The man shoots the walker through the head. Rhaegar wretches his hand free, feet unable to support him and he crashes into the asphalt. The other man sprints to Rhaegar’s side.

The man edges near Rhaegar. It is too late. The bite has bloomed – blood flowing down the back of his hand, down his wrist. It is small but it is enough. The man waits.

the-lost-commissioner-blog-blog

text: jon c., "rhaegar"

to: rhaegar targaryen

Message: i’m here, i’m on my way. just a little bit more, okay? something happened. we need to talk. about a lot of things. i’m on my way, i’m in the dockyards.

jon

#ooc: this is sent from rhaegar's phone #char: jon connington

To: Jon

Msg: not there anymore. in a truck, i'll find you and aegon. we'll talk then.

dormant-dragon-blog

text: viserys, "rhaegar"

To: Viserys

Msg: do you think anyone has petrol viserys

where are you?

dormant-dragon-blog

To: Rhaegar

Message: I STOLE A CAR AHAHAHHA I DID I DID NOW I CAN SAVE YOU WHERE ARE YOU OH WAIT you don’t like caps lock btw is your friend jon c gay for you imean he’s so weird.

Oh, I think I’m in London city now. SHIT THAT’S WHERE ALL THE ZOMBIES ARE HELP.

To: Viserys

Msg: are you actually drunk vis?

and i’m by the docks in a warehouse. lyanna found me.

don’t die or something worse

#ooc: this is sent from rhaegar's phone #char: viserys targaryen

To: Viserys

Msg: i hope you're not drinking and driving.

i have access to a car now. i'll come get you. where are you?

rose-of-winter-deactivated20120

To Feel Safe Again | open

He grabs her elbow, quickly and like a serpent strikes and pulls her toward him and away from the doors. “For fucks’ sake, you aren’t bloody fucking going outside again Elia –”. There is a pause, he still holds her elbow tightly – there’ll be bruises soon (tomorrow, later. Always, though. He’s created some sort of perpetual, invisible injury now.)

There is a pause, and then a loud noise. The doors to the warehouse open, just slightly but enough for the cold air to whip around, flurries rush in and melt; it is cold inside, but colder out there. Rhaegar leaves Lyanna’s side and rushes for the gun she let go – stupid of her, stupid of him to leave the axe. He pivots, he’s never held a gun before, much less pretended to know how to use one. His hand is shaking, he is nervous and holding a gun. He points it toward the man standing before them.

#thread: to feel safe again #char: rhaegar targaryen #char: lyanna stark #ooc: sorry jaqen isn't rappling through the skylight :(

The man was able to wire the truck, able to drive past the walkers, able to hear the official emergency broadcast. He mildly wonders if his employer was feeding information to the government, but discarded it. From the smallest bits of information that his employer had dropped in their conservations, he had distanced himself from the government.

He finds the warehouse easily enough, surrounded by a migrating hoard. The truck idles as the hoard stumbles past, looking for new victims. The man sees a woman, without a coat or shoes, slip into the warehouse. The man waits, collects himself. He checks his gun, examines the magazines, looks into his medkit to make sure everything is in its proper place. Only organization can combat chaos.

The man edges the truck as close to the warehouse as he can. The hoard may have moved on, but he would still have to be wary of any stranglers. He briefly wonders if the walkers have a hive-mind mentality, if they were traveling together. He shakes his head. It was no use wondering things he did not readily have the answer for. His mission was clear, his objective was so close he could almost taste the sweet, tangy metal of it, and his heart thundered in anticipation.

The warehouse doors open with a bang and inwardly he winces. But he has no time for that. Rhaegar Targaryen is in front of him, holding a gun (wrongly) in his hands, pointing it at him.

He would smile at the challenge if he felt the need. But this man did not. Instead, he brings his gun up, cocks his head, and says, “One should check that the safety is off before pointing a loaded gun. This one needs … shelter. Pointing guns at each other is detrimental to survival.”

See the city breakin' and everybody's shakin' and we're flayin' alive |Shireen, Willas, Roose, Jaqen

Jaqen had definitely been eying Willas, and what did that mean exactly. Willas decided to think about that at a later time.

There seemed to be a heavy mood in the car. Shireen in particular was wearing her heart on her sleeve. Willas gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, even if he wouldn’t promise that everything was going to turn out alright.

The sound of Jaqen’s phone, even when set to vibrate, made Willas jump a bit. The other man began speaking in another language, and Willas inadvertently tried to translate it in his head. But no such luck.

Worried family members abroad maybe?

Just then Willas’s own phone went off. He had a text message; an alert from the government.

…And it was nothing good.

“Are you sure you want to get out of the car?” He asked Jaqen. “Apparently the disease is spreading rapidly.”

Also that clearly wasn’t a relative. What do you do, exactly?

#thread: See the city breakin' and everybody's shakin' and we're flayin' alive #char: willas tyrell #char: shireen baratheon #char: roose bolton #ooc: and with that jaqen is on the move #ooc: i don't believe that man's ever been to medical school

He nodded. It was as his employer had explained. The outbreak would spread quickly, expanding outside of London, ravaging everything in its path. The man shifted his shoulder, comfortable in feeling the pressure of his gun in his side holster underneath his armpit. “This one knows… although it is likely the disease is only changing with the new infected,” with a gesture to their surroundings, “this one doubts many living people are in this area.”

The man thought for a moment, considering Willas, considering the state the country would soon find itself in. As the van slowed to a stop, he felt for the smooth, worn silver coin in his pocket. The man handed it to Willas, leaning in close and whispering in his ear, “When you have need to leave the country, use this coin and call its number. And say Valar Morghulis. Any Braavosi will know the words.”

In one smooth motion, he slid the side door open, and scanned the immediate area. One walker sighted the van and stumbled towards them. The walker had been a man, once, in his thirties and gone to waste. The walker was missing its right arm and a portion of his thigh, causing him to drag his leg as he hobbled towards them. It drew closer, snarling and hungry. He discarded his pipe for this one, shifting it to his left hand as he drew his gun out with the other, taking aim, and shot it through its head twenty feet out. The back of the walker’s head exploded, the sound of the shot echoing in the silent street. He would only have moments before the hoard found its way here.

He turned back to the van, closing its door, “Remember – valar morghulis.” The man turned to the streets, mentally mapping the way to his destination. It would be difficult, but he was only a man. He’d spied an abandoned truck three blocks back. Perhaps he would be able to wire it.

Entering the destination would be harder. Any information on the traps and security codes Victarion Greyjoy used for his personal warehouse was sorely lacking. The man began to walk. He would improvise.

the man of a million faces | flashback

The man walked in precise, measured steps. His employer rarely asked for a face-to-face meeting; he only called them for missions of the highest priority. The man had his suspicions – an unknown virus had erupted at the Targaryen ball honoring the eldest son’s foray into politics and was rapidly spreading through the city. Four days after the ball, chaos was beginning to rule the streets.

In due time, the man reached the gate guarding the mansion. He was well outside London, in a refined neighborhood. He eyed the cameras flanking the top of the wall that enclosed his employer’s estate. His employer had a vast network of spies and surveillance equipment spread throughout the country and concentrated in London. The man thought he’d heard a rumor of his employer being a spy for the government long ago.

The intercom beeped as he entered the correct passcode and had his thumbprint scanned. He entered swiftly, entering the mansion after clearing another set of codes and facial recognition. The man knew his employer would be in his study and he paused before entering its doors.

The doors were elaborately engraved. One side was ebony, the darkness seemed to drink up the light in the hallway. Its wood was twisted and gnarled, it almost seemed alive. The left side was completely smooth – and white with flecks of red sap. One might mistaken the flecks for blood, but his employer would never be so clumsy. No, this door was made from wood so old that white trees with red sap were lost to history. In the center of the door was a moon face; on the ebony side it was carved of the white wood and on the white side, the face was carved ebony.

He entered without a sound, finding the man where he always was – looking out the window set by his consoles. His employer was weakened by immeasurable old age, sagging in his wheelchair. He spoke as the man entered, “How does London?”

The man sat on an gilded armchair, entwining his hands as he placed them in his lap, “Not well. Looters and criminals prowl the streets. They are all panicking.”

His employer would still not look at him. He saw everything without looking.

The man tilted his head, “It is queer that a man so forgotten by his family would be so dedicated to them.”

“No more,” the old man clenched his fist, “I have a new list. The outbreak has spread quicker than I anticipated. Plans must change.”

“Of course they must. It is the will of Death.” The man knew his god ruled over all others. Others would see it, surely within the coming weeks if his notions were correct.

“Spare me your religious views,” his employer struggled to turn his wheelchair away from the window, moving to face him, “My eyes have seen much and I must get myself further from the city when it falls. You will help me move and return to London to carry out your mission. Much depends on it.”

The sharp glaring light of the computers hanging on the console highlighted his employer’s face. He had pale wrinkled skin, a puckered eyelid where an eye had been gouged out of, and the other one still shone red. The man’s features were overshadowed by the enormous wine-red birthmark that stretched across his throat and face. Why, if the man let himself imagine, it looks like a raven.

He nodded, “Your will shall be done.”

#thread: the man of a million faces

See the city breakin' and everybody's shakin' and we're flayin' alive |Shireen, Willas, Roose, Jaqen

Willas remembered Ellaria and Sarella. It felt like hours since he’d contacted them. He would need to text them again. He glanced at his cell phone. The battery was getting dangerously low.

Damn.

“Well, hopefully we can go get two of my friends but they aren’t in the immediate area, so for now…” He trailed off. Jaqen had been strangely emotionless all this time. Even Roose had said things that betrayed annoyance lurking underneath his words. “I don’t know, are you looking for anyone?”

While Willas began checking his cell phone, Shireen took the opportunity to catch up on her father’s texts. She couldn’t tell if she was more furious or upset. It always came down to politics with him, for once Shireen had hoped that he could just admit to what he had done to their family.

Renly had to hide his relationship with Loras, her mother had to hide her unhappiness, her father hid his affair, and Shireen hid her face. That’s all her family was anymore: secrets, lies, and press releases.

Shireen could taste the salt from her tears but quickly wiped them away, hoping that no one had noticed. She would hold Willas’ hand and be strong. They would find this Shae and then… Well the and then part didn’t seem to finalized yet, though Shireen hoped it would include a shower and a fresh change of clothes. She found herself growing too accustomed to the smell of blood.

#char: willas tyrell #char: roose bolton #type: thread prose #char: shireen baratheon #ooc: no problem this reply was a little late; but a long time coming.

He stared at Willas for a moment, eyes drifting to his lips before saying, "Yes. But this one does not know where they are."

The girl, Shireen, kept sending off texts at a frantic pace, alternating between excitement over an engagement and anger at her father. The man allowed himself to smile a little, imagining the serious, teeth-grinding politician typing out texts at an absurdly high rate. The news that Stannis Baratheon still lived was intriguing, but it mattered little. The middle Baratheon brother was nothing like the eldest Baratheon and the youngest seemed more interested in his own personal life than any foray into public service. However, the Tyrell connection could not be lightly dismissed.

The van lapsed into a taunt awkward silence, broken whenever the driver, Bolton, decided to run over a walker or bash its brains in with the van door. The man clenched his fist at each occurrence.

His phone vibrated once, twice – and the man picked it up, slipping into his mother tongue to answer. A calm, collected voice started over the phone, “Have you completed any of your objectives?”

The man said, “I have not the chance.”

The other man on the line replied, “That’s good. I have new objectives for you, of the highest priority.” His employer went into quick detail of his new mission, closing with, “We have traced your first target’s location. Find him immediately and proceed.”

“I understand.” He shut the phone, looking out to the other passengers who were staring at him. He switched back to English. “This one has received a call of alarming nature. This one insists that we stop now.”

#ooc: will not be around until sunday afternoon #ooc: have a fantastic weekend!

See the city breakin' and everybody's shakin' and we're flayin' alive |Shireen, Willas, Roose, Jaqen

“I’m so sorry…” What else was there for Shireen to say to that? Her happiness for her uncle was quickly suppressed by the look of pain that crossed Willas’ face but he was quick to hide it.

“If you need anything…” Again, words failed Shireen. She had never experienced such a hard loss, except maybe when her uncle Robert had died, but she had never really known the man, something about her father and a falling out of some sort.

“I know its hard to think this way but there’ll be time to mourn her later…” Or maybe not. “But for now, focus on the living.” Shireen grasped his hand and gave a small reassuring squeeze. Willas was all she had right now and she needed him to be alright, for all of their sakes.

“Living is all we have for right now. So we have to focus on it. If we don’t, we die.” Shireen felt herself shudder, remembering her near catatonic state earlier that night.

“I can’t stay strong if you don’t.” Shireen found herself saying. It’s not fair to make him. A voice in her head whispered. But there’s no choice.

In a way ‘focusing on the living’ was all Willas knew how to do. Maybe it was an oldest sibling thing. Maybe it was a conceited Tyrell thing. Probably a bit of both. But he’d always been inclined to worry after others. It was partially from magnanimity, but mostly from a great deal of confidence in his own abilities.

In that regard, death was completely anathema to Willas. It separated him completely from another person, severed his ability to comfort or control. The finality of loss was always overwhelming. And even more so now that the only thing Willas could do was… think nice thoughts in Uncle Baelor’s general direction?

All Willas knew was that he was grateful for Shireen’s hand in his. The only familiar presence in a group of near-strangers. He returned her reassuring grip.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “It’s…” And he trailed off. He wasn’t the sort to mindlessly say ‘it’ll be okay. “I’m not about to lose my mind from grief any time soon.” I’m not going anywhere.

And we have a mission for me to focus on right now, anyway.

“So, how long until we get to Shae?” he called out to Roose. Because Shireen was correct. There were still plenty of living people out there.

#thread: See the city breakin' and everybody's shakin' and we're flayin' alive #char: willas tyrell #char: roose bolton #char: shireen baratheon

He was quite uncomfortable with this all. These... open displays of affection and grief and feelings. He prided himself on disguising those emotions, repressing those emotions, ridding himself of those emotions. Emotions got in the way, they put you at risk, they bled themselves on your face so that others could see them and know.

These people were only distractions. But he still had his goal in mind.

He cleared his throat, "Is there anyone else possibly in the area? Besides this... Shae?"

See the city breakin' and everybody's shakin' and we're flayin' alive |Shireen, Willas, Roose, Jaqen

Roose made a turn, eyes on the road, scanning left and right for other walkers or survivors. “That’s quite a peculiar accent. Do you mind if I ask where you’re from?”

He put his phone on the ground between the seats. “The most recent text message is from the person we’re heading towards now, her name is Shae. Could someone please let her know that we’re on our way?”

Shireen picked up the phone Roose had placed on the ground and began hammering out a message. Thoughts of her parents’ texts filled her with a strange mix of anger, hurt, fear, happiness, and everything in between.

“Good news everyone. I’m not a murderer.” Shireen mumbled. Finding out Melisandre was alive was both a relief and a new worry. That woman was not someone Shireen wanted as an enemy but she had probably just become one.

#char: roose bolton #char: willas tyrell #char: jaqen h'ghar #thread: See the city breakin' and everybody's shakin' and we're flayin' alive #char: shireen baratheon #post type: thread #ooc: Tom Wlaschiha is apparently 38 years old so i'm going with that

This one will be trouble, he thought of the driver. But he found struggles, challenges, people's difficulty - all of them tested him and his capabilities. "This one is from a country that was forced to become a puppet for Stalin. My family wished to travel to Westdeutschland but was unable to." A partial lie, but he believed that some of the best lies had some basis in truth.

"This one learned englisch twenty years ago. It is difficult to speak as one who grew up with the language." He buckled his seat belt, just in case the man decided to ram another walker or slam another door to decapitate one. The driver enjoyed graticious violence too much for his taste. It was not clean.

See the city breakin' and everybody's shakin' and we're flayin' alive |Shireen, Willas, Roose, Jaqen

Roose broke up the slumber party, adjusting his course to head over to the house of the unknown person who had texted him earlier. “You’re a doctor, correct? What is your name, and how did you manage to find yourself in an alley in these conditions?” He asked, softly, once Shireen was finished with her story. “Furthermore, where would you prefer to be let out?” He pushed open his door to smash a Walker’s face in as the van zoomed by. His pale, pale eyes pierced at Jaquen from the rearview mirror.

Shireen sounded… halfway delirious. Was it from shock? Maybe. Willas’s medical knowledge mostly extended to all the fun ways the nerves in and around one’s knees could be wrecked. Either way, it was good to have an ostensible medical expert on hand, just as it was good to have Roose Bolton around to actually keep everyone on track.

And I… what am I doing at this point?

But then he remembered something from… twitter, of all places. People claiming that government was rounding up people who had potentially been infected. And they’d not been heard from since. He had claimed to be a private physician but…

Willas added to Roose’s list of questions. “So, you’re just wandering around and helping people out huh?”

#thread: See the city breakin' and everybody's shakin' and we're flayin' alive #char: jaqen h'ghar #char: willas tyrell #char: roose bolton #char: shireen baratheon

"Yes, this one is a private physician. I was employed by John Angleton for two years. I am named Jaqen H'ghar. This one was not wandering... Mr. Angleton had property in this area and it was supposed to be a safe house. That was not correct," he spoke calmly. Of course they would be suspicious.

The UK government was doing a very sloppy job, rounding up their targets, and making a mess out of everything. They were not clean or precise.

He tidied up, sliding the gauze strips and med kit back into his shoulder bag. He turned to face Willas, letting a half-smile slip onto his face, "Do you two require assistance?"

See the city breakin' and everybody's shakin' and we're flayin' alive |Shireen, Willas, Roose, Jaqen

Turning away from Willas, Shireen looked at the man-Jaqen, who was outside the van. He looked trustworthy enough, but something seemed… off.

Remarkably calm for a guy in the middle of the apocalypse but maybe Shireen was just expecting to see more people like her, drenched in blood and trying to keep it together. Why was he so worried about her? Did he know who she was? Who her father was?

“Yeah, a run-in’s a good word for it.”

Shireen took Jaqen’s hand and pulled him into the van, wincing at the pain in her finger she let him go quickly. “I’m Shireen, but you knew that already, didn’t you? That’s Willas, and the guy driving is…? Sorry, I haven’t caught his name yet-“

“Roose Bolton.” The man muttered as Shireen reached past Jaqen to shut the door.

“Nice to meet you, Roose, then. Sorry about my earlier breakdown, I’ve had a lot going on.”

“We still need to talk about that, Shireen-” Willas began to chastise her.

“I’m not a child, Willas. See, look, as everyone can see by now, I’m fully developed!” It probably wasn’t time to throw a tantrum in the middle of a moving van with zombies outside but if people kept calling her a child, Shireen was going to punch them, and scream, and she had a gun so it would be best not to tempt her. She saw both Willas’ and the new guy, Jaqen’s eyes go over her body which improved her mood slightly. Good to know something about her was actually appealing.

Snapping her fingers in front of Jaqen’s face and redirecting his eyes, Shireen put her hand in his “My finger is broken and has gone untreated for hours. Lucky we stumbled on a doctor then. Could you help me out, please?”