Jermas Fires is not the man any decent person should associate with, especially not the king and especially not inside a house he's just recently set ablaze. Fortunately the smoke and dust and lack of wounded drove away any possible spectators. There's still some warmth in the charred walls, ash clings to my boots.

"Is there a reason you've requested an audience-"

"I want to see my daughter," he states coldly.

"Allison hasn't asked for you nor I so she won't see either," I yawn. "Was there anything else or did you just want to waste my time and dirty-"

"She's my fucking daughter!" He spits. "You can't just keep her from me!"

"You're covered in the ashes of your last fucking victim! Do you honestly think she wants to be reminded of what you do after -"

"She's stronger than you think -"

"I believe her exact words were ‘no, not him, I can’t go back to him.’”

“You shut your fucking-”

"I don't have time for this," I sigh but as I am turning Jermas snatches my wrist and draws a knife. Agony shoots up my arm as he clenches decaying meat tightly.

I whirl around and ram my good hand into his throat. His eyes go wide as he falls to the ground gasping for air, writhing like a fish out of water. I try to take the knife away from him but he holds it in an iron grip. Instead I ram his arm into the floor thrice before the hand finally pops open. I kick away the blade and haul him to his feet before pressing him against a wall and begin throttling him.

It's not hard work. His eyes bulge and he splutters and spits. His face turns bright red.

Rip out his throat. Tear him apart piece by piece. Decorate the floor with his guts.

It seems like a decent Idea for a few seconds. I let him go more to defy the voices than out of good conscience. He coughs quite a bit, then he vomits, then he coughs some more.

"Perhaps we can come to an arrangement," I sigh.

Jermas laughs at that, between the heavy fits coughing of course.

"Y-you’re… you’re an odd man.”

It’s not a particularly nice day. The sun pierces the clouds and reflects off of the puddles in the street in a rather ugly fashion. People push their way through the city like a river of flesh and sweat. Occasionally some gang of brigands extort some idiot who walked down the wrong alley. The guards are busy chasing urchins, the urchins are busy snatching purses.

Negotiating with the mute whore was worse than arguing with the voices. I wanted to do this in Castle Black or one of the more gentrified areas. She insisted on it being fucking here of all places. Now that I think about it this is less than a twenty minute walk away from where I slaughtered the would be revolutionaries.

So here I sit with Allison Fires a few feet to my left and Jermas standing in an alley dressed like a common man and out of sight. We’ve been sitting silently for quite some time now.

“Your father is a very persuasive man,” I sigh. “He insisted I check on you and make sure you’re okay.”

No response.

“Are you?” I further.

“You’ve killed men,” She says, not in an insulting or accusing way, merely a statement of fact.

“Yes,” I admit. “Not particularly decent men but I killed them nonetheless.”

“How do you forget them?” she asks.

“I don’t. Their names and faces may fade but the fact that I killed them always remains.”

“How do you live with them?”

“I lied.”

“I don’t understand-”

“I lied. I told myself that it was necessary that there was no other way, that I don’t care, that it doesn’t matter. I lied and lied and lied again and again and again, and eventually to me it stopped becoming a lie. Eventually it became true, it became necessary, there became no other options, I don’t care.”

Allison stays quiet for a few moments.

“Don’t do that,” I say. “You’ll only end up like me.”

“What do I do then?” she asks, her voice quavering. “I killed that-”

“Tell yourself this, had you not arrived I would have escaped that noose on my own and I would have done horrible things to that man. Tell yourself you granted him a kindness. It’s not even a lie, not really.”

We would have carved out his heart.

She thinks for a moment before nodding slowly.

“So tell me, are you treated well?”

“Yes.”

“Is… I don't think I ever got the name of your current guardian."

"Her name is Jennifer."

"Is she treating you well?"

"Yes."

"Is she making good use of the funds given to her?"

"She suggested we buy a racehorse."

Silence begins to creep back between us. They come with it. My hand aches and twitches

She's a weakness. A vulnerability others will use to exploit us. Best slit her throat now and-

"Would you like to see your father?" I inquire desperately, afraid of what they might say, afraid of how right they are.

Allison doesn't respond.

We have no use for her. She's a tawdry bauble, we have a chest of jewels to choose from.

"You don't have to," I continue, speaking louder to drown them out. "I just thought -"

"Yes," she cuts across me. Her tongue should be removed for such an offence. "Yes I'd like to see him."

"Wonderful!" I exclaim, eager to escape. I rise and make the signal before briskly departing. I don't bother to look behind me to see how it goes. I'm not even sure if Jermas could have seen me. If I look back I won't be able to control them. They'll make me do something unpleasant. I can feel them crawling within my bones.

I sit in a suitably quiet alley toying with my stiletto blade. Such a nice blade. Razor sharp, seven inches long and made of strong steel. I took it off of carpenter Philip after mashing his head into a pulp. He made a comment about my father. I used this blade to remove the majority of little lord Stephen's face. He insulted my mother. I cut Mr. Silver's throat with this blade. It feels like an eternity ago that grimy man lay gargling on his own blood. I killed several others with this nice blade. Should I feel guilt over them?

No.

Normal people aren't like me. Trained fucking killers like Martin aren't even like me.

We are greater than normal people. Unshackled by guilt or morality.

We're alone. No one will love us. Not truly. They'll only wear a mask to hide their fear.

We will always love you.

You're hallucinations. Elements of myself twisted a bit by fever. What is the worth of my own love for myself?

Our love is worth more than you can ever imagine.

I cut my thumb on the blade.

I look at my necrotic hand. Rot has begun to expose some of the glistening bones and decomposing blood vessels. The skin of my wrist has turned greyish and is beginning to peel away. The veins have turned a black and the whole limb aches constantly. This thing will kill me in a week, two if I'm fortunate. What's the point in prolonging this loneliness? Come a week I'll be the same monster. Come a fucking year and I'd probably be worse.

I press the blade against my throat, blood begins to trickle almost immediately. One slash and I can go to oblivion.

Pathetic

I try to ignore that but it repeats again and again in my head, not because of the fever but because it's true. This is craven.

King Harold, slit his own throat and his kingdom crumbled into ashes. King Harold, forgotten in a few years. King Harold, a pathetic wretch who ended it all over some melancholy.

I sheath the blade and rub at the shallow cut. It bleeds a bit but I'll be fine.

I pull a glove over my rotting hand and rise. I still need something more tangible than the approval of my own delusions, even if it's only feigned affection.