The snores were deafening in the late night darkness, drowning out the natural sounds of the isle with trumpeting fanfare. Fat Wat and Wat-with-the-boils were out doing each other tonight, however neither one of the bastards woke the other.
Seemed even taking a vow of silence didn't stop my brothers any, he thought with a snarl, reaching instinctively to the side of his cot for the wineskin that wasn't there.
His fist curled up, dirty now with the earth that covered the dead, blistered now from the handle of his shovel. His mouth twitched under the cowl, but kept shut. There would be no blissful stupor while he stayed here- the brothers traded away their wine and mead, leaving just the sweet cider. No, there were only himself and his thoughts and the darkness and what he wouldn't give for a cup of red right now.
A fist thumped against the stretched canvas of his cot, part anger and helplessness. His throat alternating dry and salivating as he compulsively swallowed. The nights were long and restless and soberness didn't suit him, but he had little other choice. It was this or the lion's pit, and he wasn't ready to die quite yet.
Even though I told the little she-wolf to finish it, he thought mercilessly, seems now I'm a liar too.
He had even asked the Elder Bother for mercy, that day by the Trident. The pain and desperation had been so overwhelming that nothing else mattered, nothing else pierced the hazy veil surrounding him. It's like being drunk, he had thought in one fleeting moment of lucidness, only instead of red wine there was only red blood and instead of numbness he just suffered. Instead of freedom from his past, he kept on reliving it- over and over.
And while the Elder Brother dressed his wounds, he talked. His raspy voice like stone on metal, harsh and grating even to his own ears. The words came out in a fevered rush, pouring over themselves in their hurry. He spoke of golden autumn grass and three black dogs that lain dead to kill a lion to save a lion. Of a lame grandfather, a meek father, and a monstrous brother. A fair and fragile sister who never lived to see her sixteenth nameday and a painted wooden knight that was never played with.
He spoke of fire. Felt it on his face and neck and thigh. Had thought perhaps he was in that terrible hell the little bird had spoken of on rust red parapets. Figured he deserved it as the phantom flames licked across his throat and forearm. Felt the hot coals under his skin all over again.
But the fire didn't end him. Not then and not now.
So he kept talking. Told the Elder Brother about knights and killing, killing and knights and the two just merged together. About red blood and red wine and black bitterness. There was swearing swords to childkings, vows and promises that ultimately didn't mean anything- empty and hollow and desolate. A horrible hope of kinslaying, that ignoble purpose and drive and rage that fed him through the long summer.
And then, when the pain swelled and the Elder Brother poured wine down his throat to ease him and started praying to the Seven. The Father to judge him fairly, the Crone to light his path, the Stranger to take him away, he spoke of little birds who never looked at him, of cutting through a hungry mob to reach her side, of a white cloak soiled with blood and tears, and finally of a song taken-not given- on a night filled with green fire. He cried then, great heaving sobs that wouldn't stop. Or maybe it was just sweat from the fever stinging his eyes, he tried consoling himself but it was a lie too, as the world collapsed onto him. The bitterness and rage faded to insignificance as regret took their place. He laid there fevered, his sight blacking out his limbs heavy and numb, and just one thought embedded itself into his mind, I should have protected the little bird.
He died then. Closing his eyes as that final thought skittered through his consciousness, a tiny pinpoint that sank and drowned under the deep dark waters of his mind. There was nothing then, no resentment or frustration or anger. Only a comforting warmth like mother's arms remained, secure and steadfast and strong as he was pulled up from the depths.
Or perhaps he lived.
Gasping for air, he opened his eyes once more, lucid but tired in the clear sun, his life was saved.
Elder Brother buried his armor and placed his fearsome helm on the cairn, telling him he would not need it in this life. He snorted, not believing his lies for a moment. What else was he good for but a dog?
But even this dog didn't snap on the hand that fed it, and didn't protest when they packed up Stranger and rode to the Quiet Isle. There was little he could resist afterall, his fever was broke but his leg was slow to heal and it was all he could do to ride Stranger along the riverbank. He cursed, weak as he was and prone. It would be a small thing for someone to chance upon them and take his head back to King's Landing.
However, the journey passed uneventfully enough, and all too soon he was digging graves for the poor bastards who washed down the river. Over and over he labored in the lichyard, bad leg and all. Each spadeful of dirt that followed the last. It's no better than before, he thought-lots of time to think while digging graves. He had just traded one cycle for another, only now he really was putting them in their graves.
And now, he laid on his cot and listened to his brothers' snoring every night. Woke and worked and ate and slept. Only now there was no brother, no wine and no little birds- and his jaw clenched, cording the muscles in his neck before angrily he sat up and limped to the simple door of the cloister. Pushing it open with much more force than necessary, he went out into the darkness for a piss.
The sun was hot on his back, the brown wool robe soaking up his sweat. Each novice wore one, heavy wool and cowl to hide the face. Something he was grateful for, no one saw his burn scars unless he wanted and he didn't want anyone to see. Hiding was easier to deal with than a knife in the back.
Of course, Elder Brother knew. That bastard who talked of another life and saved his life. Like I could start another life anyway, he snorted, breaking ground for the newest grave. He was a dog and now there was only an ache where purpose had left. That part which had fueled him through his life was gone, the vanishing rage and hatred leaving only a hollow anger. His brother was dead, beyond his hatred and loathing and revenge. For so long only Gregor existed- to torment, to be reviled.
A flat ache that lacked direction or focus, just a simple rage with no outlet- pointless now.
He dug the rocky soil, the blunt edge of the spade catching on fibrous roots. It was back breaking work- but he had never been one to shy away from labor. The exhaustion was honest, a testament of muscle and will. There was no lying while digging a grave- either the hole was there or it wasn't- the body wasn't going to protest it otherwise.
His leg still pained him, the damned thing not moving how he wanted, when he wanted. And it was pure torment to ask the novice with the bum leg to dig graves all day long. Perhaps it was part of his penance, or maybe he was just an unlucky bastard. Either way it made little difference.
Still he dug on, each grave opening like a sore in the peaceful landscape. Here the earth was fresh and wet and raw under the immaculate blue sky, the green of the place torn away leaving only harsh edges and a simple clear reminder of mortality. The quick sounds of metal on stone rasping in his ears as a songbird perched nearby, singing for everything but him, the crisp notes floating along the sweet breeze.
He was angry, a cold deep seated anger unlike the burning passion that drugged his days before. Each spadeful of dirt was tossed more and more carelessly, each limping stalk across the lichyard more and more treacherous to his leg. It didn't matter, couldn't matter anymore.
A roar and he threw the spade at a gnarled tree, the metal scouring bark off the trunk leaving a scuff oozing sap before clattering down the hillside. The realization he would have to go limping after it just serving to darken his mood even more.
The frightened songbird flew away, and he couldn't blame it.
The half dug grave waited in the pouring rain. Some festering wound now, the muddy edges melting into the hole taking away any progress he made before the damned sky opened up. He huddled under the cedar, a dark shadow with white eyes staring out from his cowl.
Cold and wet and too distrustful to start a fire, there was nothing to do but wait it out. A long miserable stretch he had no wine to fill, no labor to exhaust. Just the silver sheet of rain hiding the rest of the world.
The Quiet Isle was aptly named, no clashes of steel in the training yard, no whisperings behind closed doors. No shouted orders or hails from gate guards. And of course, no minstrels or mummers or taverns or whorehouses. Only the cold long expanse of time remained with him, day in and day out.
Too much time to think.
Before, the wine had eased him. The red wine and the red killing filling his days and nights, but not quite shutting out those traitorous thoughts.
He didn't want to think.
Didn't want to even now. Not when there were memories and actions and thoughts and feelings, each changing to the next. All the time he didn't want, to remember everything he wanted to forget.
A coward, and he hated cowards.
His other brothers would be eating their midday meal, listening to the septon drone on and on. I was spared that much, at least, he thought viciously, stabbing the spade into the rocky soil. And the singing was even worse, no wonder there was a vow of silence.
Elder Brother would no doubt ask him what he thought afterwards- perhaps finally expecting some pious bleating. Little and no chance of that, he brooded wrapping his woolen robe tighter. The man had healed him, yes, but that didn't mean he was going to start praying. Why the seven hells did the gods deserve his prayers? They had never answered him before.
His septon had lied to him all those years ago. A balding man who couldn't keep his cock out of the sheep. There was no Father to punish wickedness, no Mother to wrap her arms around you and console. There was only fire and screams and his brother.
But he had believed him then, before. Of course, that was when he was young and foolish and believed all the stories about noble knights punishing those who were evil. And good kings handing out justice.
But he knew better now, knew the world was an awful shit hole where gods don't answer prayers and knights don't protect the innocent and kings don't get off their fat drunk arse and where if you are weak you get thrown into the fire and…
He wanted her to see it. See for herself the fucking hypocrisy like he did. See the lies the songs sang like he had to. Lift the wool from her eyes before-
Before what? He asked himself, his face twitching in the cold, before she saw her father's head on a spike? Or maybe before she was stripped and beaten by her betrothed? No, he couldn't even do that properly.
The little bird had no help from him. If he could cut his way through a mob, then he should've been able to stop one toad. But no, he had stood there while his brothers beat her. White cloak mocking.
A soiled white cloak that he wasn't even fit to wear.
And that was it, wasn't it?
He shouldn't care.
Shrugging the woolen cloak tighter, the scratchy cloth now clinging wet and smelling of mold. Wine would warm him, fill his belly. Make it bearable.
But the itch was farther away now. A distance created by necessity and Elder Brother's urging along with time. Perhaps it was for the best, his own knightly father was often in his cups. Too drunk, too blind to see the monster he had raised, until it had killed him.
Too drunk to do anything but run away from the battle. Too drunk to avoid the mad huntsman. Too drunk to fight off his brother's cronies. Too drunk to keep his mouth shut. And too drunk to take her away.
He leaned his head back onto the trunk of the tree, the scarf slipping from under his cowl, watching his breath misting in the crisp autumn air above until the rain had stopped.
Elder Brother would leave at first light.
Horse, tack, provisions, his old but well maintained armor, and newly edged sword to ride out after some huge ugly woman and her pimple faced squire. They had shown up with the traveling septon and left soon thereafter on a quest searching for Sansa Stark.
Heaving the last of the dirt onto the grave, he leaned on his spade for a moment waiting for the faraway ache in his leg. It came like winter, only smaller and smaller each time now. Perhaps, Elder Brother did have the gift of the healing hands-he shook his head wondering whose prayers the gods had answered since they had never answered his own, it seems a waste to save me though.
The first dusting of snow flurried down from above, covering the rich dark ground in a fine white sheen. A scar over the wound in the earth.
A waste he would only have himself to blame for, he scowled, knowing why Elder Brother had confided his plan, his past. Had spoken in low tones of second lives and little birds.
A dog had no need to be other than a dog… but a man…
He stilled for a moment-or a lifetime it made no matter- a great hulking figure on the hillside lichyard, his woolen cloak slowly being covered in snow, before turning towards the stables.