A/N This chapter was sent to me by a friend who's enjoyed my work so far. I was rather impressed so I've decided to feature it as a special guest short chapter.

Please enjoy.

The Target

The crisp, cool air that in the meadow was practically dripping with dew. The ground, the grass, even the clothes he was wearing were all damp, with tiny droplets shimmering on the tips of the low-grass grass all around him. As the morning sun arose, it began to heat the meadow, causing the moisture to rise upwards as it warmed, it formed an eerie mist, just above the brush.

Demick lay prone on the damp earth, his crossbow loaded with one of the new steel-tipped bolts. Far behind him, the king, the camp, the nobles, and hangers on, would be stirring from sleep, as would his brothers – the royal guard. He on the other hand had been up for hours to get into position.

He had picked his position well. The tall brush on either side and behind broke up his silhouette, allowing him to blend into the background. With the sun behind him and slight breeze in his face, his target would never realize he was there until it was too late.

As the sun continued to rise, the air and ground continued to warm up, creating an even thicker blanket of mist around him. Now even if the target happened to look right at him, his breath would be concealed from view by the fog.

The birds and bugs began to stir and add their voices to the scene, only enhancing Demick’s invisibility. Demick laid still and quiet in wait, only allowing himself to roll slightly onto his left side occasionally to relieve the pain in his injured right shoulder. He had learned to endure pain during his training with the guards, patience however, had only come later.

Demick thought about the events that had brought him to this moment. Growing up in Flea Bottom, he’d never been “out in the country” nor had he ever wanted to. His father died when he was an infant, killed in the last war, the one that had put the current king’s father on the throne. His mother was gone by the time he was seven, dead or run off with one of her merchant “friends”. He’d raised himself in the dark, stinking alleys of the capitol begging, stealing, or listening to one of the pompous priests spouting their pious nonsense in exchange for a bowl of gruel. Blessed be the Seven he thought, what a load of crap.

Demick had friends, or rather acquaintances, kids like himself that lived on streets and did whatever it took to survive another day. It was one of them, Cork, that told him about the Kings Guard and how they would take anyone, provide you a home and make you part of a brotherhood. Again, what a load of crap. But hey, if this new king was dumb enough to provide free food in exchange for playing soldier, he’d be more than happy to take it.

At first Demick just went through the motions and parroted back all the rah-rah brotherhood stuff, just to keep getting fed. He was playing the long con, just do enough not to get kicked out and pretend to buy into all the nonsense. But as the training got harder and the conditions got worse, he found himself buying into the whole thing. He had friends – real friends, and together, they were the sheepdogs that protected the sheep of the world. He and his brothers, endured things that those people would never be able to do. They were special.

The happiest day of his life was when he took the brand. He was so proud, so enraptured, his life had meaning, and no one could take that away from him.

Until they did.

His arm. His arm was crushed in the very first battle. The maesters had done their best. They set the bones, placed a splint on his arm and did everything they could to relieve his pain and although he did manage to keep the arm, it was weak, and it would never get any stronger. He would never be able to take his place with his brothers in the phalanx again.

If he’d never left Flea Bottom, none of this would have even bothered him, he thought. I would just be a beggar – people like to give money to the maimed, makes them feel like they’re doing something good. But he had been part of something, He had done incredible things in the Royal Guards. He was someone to look up to when he walked down the street.  But not anymore. He wasn’t special, he was just a used-up husk that would never….

Demick’s reminiscing was interrupted by movement.

The target appeared at the edge of the forest. Warily, it checked the air and looked around. It moved into the open, glancing back into the forest as if to encourage his fellows to follow.

Demick, slowly let out his breath and brough his crossbow onto the target.

He placed his finger on the trigger as he inhaled.

He slowly let his breath out and then let the bolt fly.

The bolt flew true and struck the target mid-chest, piercing both the heart and the lungs. Demick had made his kill!

…

An hour later, as Demick walked back into camp. He saw the others from the Royal Guards Provisions Team.

“Hey Demick,” yelled one, “you got a big one this morning huh?”

Demick shrugged and he brought the elk to the butcher. He had field dressed the stag in the meadow where he had killed it, but he was no butcher. He’d rather let someone who knew what they were doing, process the beast.

As the old veteran in charge had told him when he joined the Provisions Team, “Son, an Army travels on its stomach and we like to provide our own food. Too easy for some bastard to sell the Guard tainted meat, poisoned wine or hide something worse in the stew. You may not be able to work in the phalanx anymore, but you can still serve!”

And so he did.