4 Blood And Shadow

The two days that followed were a blur of exhaustion and desperation. Eren had stolen a cloak for warmth and a loaf of bread from a market stall, gnawing on it as he rode. He slept in fits and starts, hunkering down beneath bushes or behind rocks, the damp earth a miserable substitute for a bed.

Every distant sound brought a surge of panic, his senses constantly attuned to the threat of pursuit. He skirted towns and villages, his instinct telling him that safety lay in avoiding people, not seeking their help. He drank from streams and puddles, his body aching from hunger and exhaustion. The stolen horse carried him further from Kings Landing, but the fear of capture remained a constant companion.

Sleep deprivation blurred his thoughts. Memories of Paradis, of his comrades, of the horrors he'd witnessed, swirled like a dark tempest in his mind. The faces of the execution victims, their screams fading into echoes, haunted his waking moments. Was this new world any better? Were kings and armies not equally capable of cruelty? His purpose, once so clear-cut, now felt murky and fragmented.

He spotted Kingsguard banners twice - flashes of crimson and gold disappearing over a distant hill, or the faint sound of galloping hooves cut short by the howl of the wind. Each sighting sent him crashing off the main roads, forcing him to detour through rougher terrain. His horse, stolen and overworked, started to stumble. It became clear that his desperate flight could not last much longer.

On the evening of the second day, rain lashed down, a bone-chilling downpour that soaked him to the skin. The horse, exhausted and sore, finally balked, refusing to go further. Just as despair began to crush him, Eren spotted a flickering light through the trees. A faint hope ignited within him. Shelter, perhaps food, and blessed warmth.

Guiding the horse towards the beckoning light, he emerged from the woods into a clearing. A dilapidated farmhouse stood there, a ramshackle structure clinging precariously to a desolate hillside. Smoke curled from the chimney, offering the promise of a warm hearth.

His arrival did not go unnoticed. A figure materialized in the doorway, an old man silhouetted against the firelight. He held a rusty musket, its barrel pointed tentatively at Eren.

[The old man]

"Who goes there?" his voice crackled, raspy with age and suspicion.

Eren raised his hands in a placating gesture. "I mean no harm," he called out over the pounding rain. "I am a traveller, lost and weary."

The old man lowered his weapon slightly but didn't relax his stance. "Beggars and bandits all claim weariness," he grumbled. "State your business, stranger."

Eren dismounted, his stiff muscles screaming in protest. He approached cautiously, keeping his distance. "I need shelter for the night," he said, his voice thick with exhaustion. "And rest for my horse. I can pay."

The old man squinted at him, his eyes narrowing in the flickering light. "That foreign accent... and that horse, a fine breed. You ain't no simple traveler, are you?"

Eren hesitated. He couldn't risk admitting he was a fugitive. But desperation outweighed caution. "I am in trouble," he admitted, trying to sound earnest. "I need to hide, just for a night or two."

The old man's gaze lingered on Eren, assessing, calculating. Finally, he lowered the musket and let out a sigh that sounded both weary and resigned.

"Very well," he rasped. "The stable's out back. Get your horse settled, then come inside. We'll talk over supper."

The farmhouse interior was dim and cramped. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting long, flickering shadows across the rough-hewn walls. The scent of roasted rabbit and some kind of root vegetable filled the air, making Eren's ravenous stomach rumble. The old man, introduced as Eldred, gestured towards a wooden bench by the small table.

"Sit, lad. Eat." His voice was gruff, yet somehow held an underlying note of weary kindness. He placed a bowl of stew and a chunk of bread in front of Eren. Manners and pride forgotten, Eren devoured the meal with an intensity that surprised even himself.

"names Eldred" said the old man Eldred watched him, a faint flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Been a while since you tasted a proper meal, eh?"

Eren nodded between bites, momentarily too focused on food to speak. Finally, with his hunger somewhat sated, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and leaned back, a sigh escaping his lips. "Thank you," he rasped. "I didn't realize how hungry I was."

Eldred grunted. "These are hard times, lad. Good food becomes a rare luxury." He poured Eren a mug of watered-down ale from a clay pitcher. "Now, let's hear that trouble of yours."

Eren hesitated, his instinct for secrecy clashing with his weariness. He could offer a vague backstory: a distant village, hard times forcing him to seek a better life. But Eldred looked at him with shrewd eyes, the kind that saw through simple lies. And perhaps, a part of him craved the release of sharing the burden, even in part.

"My travels have been… longer than you might think," he began hesitantly. "I arrived in Kings Landing three months ago. A stranger, with no knowledge of this land. It hasn't been easy."

He talked of working at the forge, learning the basics of the language, enduring the harsh life of Flea Bottom. He described the King's execution and the growing tension in the city. And, finally, he recounted the chase, the encounter with Lord Commander Selmy, and his desperate escape.

Eldred listened in stoic silence, his weathered features reflecting the flickering firelight. It wasn't until Eren reached the chase through the streets, the encounter with Selmy, that the old man's expression finally shifted.

"Selmy himself?" Eldred muttered, a touch of surprise in his voice. "So, they know you're something special, do they? That's a dangerous position to be in, lad."

Eren's heart sank. Of course, even out here, far from the reach of the Iron Throne, the long arm of the King's power could still be felt. "What should I do?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Eldred shrugged, a touch of fatalism in the lines of his face. "Runnin' won't do you much good. Not forever. Kingslandin's men will keep searching. They got a nose for troublemakers." He leaned forward, his voice dropping low. "You got two choices, as I see it. Lay low, become a ghost, disappear into the woods. Or…" he paused, a glint in his eye, "find someone who can protect you. Someone with enough power to go toe-to-toe with those mad dragon-worshippers."

"Protect me?" Eren echoed, the idea both tantalizing and chilling. "Who would do that? Why?"

"Desperate times call for desperate alliances, lad. Wars are brewing, and a man with your... unique history... well, let's just say you could be a valuable asset to the right person." Eldred fixed his gaze on Eren. "The question is, who do you trust?"

Trust. A dangerous concept, one Eren had learned to be sparing with. Back on Paradis, trust was a luxury that had cost countless lives. Here, he was even more of a stranger, caught up in a power struggle he barely understood. Still, a spark of determination flickered within him. The possibility of sanctuary, of a purpose, however precarious, was a beacon in the darkness.

[the next day]

Early the next morning, as grey dawn light began to filter through the farmhouse's small windows, Eren was saddling his rested horse. He couldn't stay. Eldred was risking his own neck by harboring a fugitive, and the Kingsguard wouldn't stop searching. But the old man's words had ignited a sense of urgency within him. He couldn't remain a hunted animal forever.

"Thank you," Eren said sincerely, offering the old man a few coins – payment for the shelter and a gesture of gratitude.

Eldred pocketed the coins with a grunt. "Go on, then. And remember, lad, choose your fights carefully. Don't get caught in the crossfire of other folks' wars unless there's somethin' in it for you."

Eren nodded, the old man's words echoing in his mind. As he mounted his horse, faint sounds drifted from the road below – voices, the clop of hooves. Travelers making their way down into the valley. He pressed himself against the farmhouse wall, hidden from view.

The travelers paused, perhaps drawn to the wisps of smoke still curling from the chimney. Their voices rose in the crisp morning air, just loud enough for Eren to make out their words.

"…that foreign spy," one man was saying, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and fear. "They say Ser Barristan himself chased the man through the streets."

"Aye," came the reply, "mad King's in a rage. Wants him found, no matter the cost. Says the man has secrets that could shake the realm…"

Another voice joined the conversation, lowering the tone to a conspiratorial whisper. "...heard they're offering a reward. A hefty one, enough to turn a poor soul's head. King wants that foreigner's head on a spike."

A chill ran down Eren's spine. He was no longer a mere curiosity, but a wanted man, a prize for any opportunist or bounty hunter who smelled easy coin. His borrowed time had run out.

With a silent farewell to Eldred, he nudged his horse into motion, taking a different path than the travelers. He moved swiftly, instinctively, staying off main roads and venturing into rougher terrain. There was no destination in mind, no haven he could run towards. Just the constant need to stay one step ahead, to vanish before the King's men closed in.

As the morning wore on, the terrain grew wilder. Hills gave way to low mountains, the trees thin and windblown, offering only scant shelter. The isolation, which had once been comforting, now felt oppressive. Eren wasn't accustomed to vast empty landscapes. Back home, there had always been a wall to define the limits of his world, a monstrous threat to remind him of the constant struggle. Here, the danger was invisible, lurking beyond every unseen horizon, in the whisper of every unknown voice carried on the wind.

His stolen sword lay across his lap, a constant reminder of the violence that seemed to follow him. It was a grim comfort, a sliver of familiarity in a world gone askew. He thought back to the day he'd first wielded a blade, the fear and responsibility coursing through him. Was this his destiny? An unending cycle of fighting, of becoming the hunter and the prey in a game far bigger than himself?

The sun began its descent, painting the sky in streaks of fiery orange and blood red. Eren found a crevice between two boulders, a pitiful shelter for the night. He ate the last scraps of bread he'd taken from Eldred's farmhouse, the stale crumbs barely appeasing his growling stomach.

Sleep was elusive. The wind whistled its mournful song through the rocks, and in the encroaching darkness, his imagination ran wild. He saw the faces of the guards, heard Ser Barristan's stern voice, felt the cold steel of a blade against his throat. The execution with its maddened king and burning pyre flashed before his eyes, a grotesque reminder of the brutality that lived in the hearts of men, regardless of the world.

He woke with a start, his breaths ragged, his heart pounding against his ribs. The first rays of dawn were painting the sky, lending an otherworldly glow to the desolate landscape around him. It was a new day, one that held the same relentless promise of pursuit.

Mounting his tired horse, Eren rode on. His path was a jagged line dictated by fear, not purpose. Yet amidst the gnawing uncertainty, a stubborn flicker of defiance remained. He had escaped the Kingsguard once; he would do it again. He hadn't survived the horrors of his old world only to become a victim in this new one. If this was a world of hidden wars and power struggles, then he would find his place in it, even if that place was carved from blood and shadow.