Coryn Waters

As Stannis Baratheon's men were desperately fighting for their lives upon the Blackwater, Coryn was asleep in his straw cot in the town of Hull. His sleep was restless, yet it was not the thought of death and despair that bothered him (for he rarely concerned himself with the toils of his fellow man even before the Lord of Dragonstone's rebellion against the Iron Throne). Coryn Waters was dreaming of far-away lands, lands that even the likes of the Sea Snake and Lomas Longstrider hadn't dared visit. He dreamed of exploring the smoking ruins of Valyria, walking the dark and foreboding streets of Asshai-by-the-Shadow, he dreamed of traversing the thick jungles of Sothoryos and mapping Ulthos. His dreams were always grand, visions of great adventures and forays into the unknown. In his sleep, he was as good a warrior as any, he was as learned as any scholar of the Citadel. His imagination would run wild, conjuring up all manner of unusual and exciting experiences. And then he would awake.

Plain of face, average of height and build, if somewhat weakly, Coryn Waters was neither handsome nor homely. His hair was only slightly darker than copper. Though a man grown at the age of 17, he still retained the facial features of a boy. For this very reason he managed to avoid being recruited by Lord Monford's serjeants when they came to Hull looking for likely lads to fill their ranks before setting sail for Dragonstone and joining the bulk of Lord Stannis' fleet.

Coryn knew why they were in Cobbler's Alley the moment he laid eyes upon them. Martyn One-eye and Jon Orton were two of the most notorious men-at-arms in service of Driftmark. As ugly as they were savage, both of them were particularly famous throughout the winesinks and brothels, where they spent most of their time off-duty (and of this they had much ever since being stationed in Hull). Coryn Waters had never had the displeasure of dealing with them personally, though their fame preceded them everywhere they went within the town. Yet when he saw them clad in mail and boiled leather, swords at their hips, accompanied by members of the city guard, Coryn felt he knew them as well as they knew each other. In their eyes he recognized the two most fundamental emotions known to man – fear and anger. And Coryn Waters knew what it meant when people like them were in a foul mood.

The blacksmith's son ran, leaving the pedlar whose stall he'd been standing beside puzzled.

He raced through New Market, desperately trying to dispel the horrible thought from his mind. No he thought, they can't be recruiting. Why would they? Surely Stannis has enough men as it is. But Coryn knew. He'd always been quick to comprehend, for what he lacked in brawn he made up for in intelligence. By the time he reached the narrow three story building that housed his and two other families, Coryn Waters had almost managed to convince himself that the serjeants from Driftmark were in Cobbler's Alley on some other business. Perhaps they had been cheated out of their meager weekly wages one too many times and had decided to root out the cheating gamblers for good and all. This theory in particular seemed very plausible to the boy, for the Alley had become a safe haven for many an untrustworthy dice player due to its innocuity, and it would explain the presence of the city guard as well. In the end, this reasoning put his mind at rest and he spent the next few hours reading about the noble families of the Seven Kingdoms.

The book had been gifted to him by his father when last they had met more than a fortnight past. His father rarely left his forge for more than a day at a time, preferring the ring of steel to the sound of chatter and the voices of other people. He was a good smith, his work always of the highest quality, and his skill had not gone unnoticed – the officers of the Hull guard were some of his most loyal customers, seeking him out even for minor work such as hammering out dents or arranging the rings of a mail hauberk. Because of his father's successful smithy, Coryn had rarely wanted for anything. Cobbler's Alley, despite being somewhat cramped and dreary, was one of the safer areas in Hull, far from the docks and harbors that attracted cutpurses and bandits. He wore clean clothes and had three meals a day, his mother (a kindly lady at the age of six-and-thirty) would always make sure of that.

And despite all this, Coryn Waters felt out of place. He was a man grown, yet he had no trade, no skills, marketable or otherwise. He was bright, yes, but he'd never had a formal education; the elderly septon, who had served in the small sept on Mummer's Way his whole life before it was turned to ash, on the floor above his family's had taught him to read and write. And then there was the mystery that had haunted him his whole life. He bore the bastard name Waters, though neither of his parents had ever revealed to him how that came to be. Had his mother been unfaithful? Perhaps it had been his father, ever stern and melancholic, who had put horns on her. Or maybe she had already been pregnant by another when his father took her to wife. Coryn didn't know, and it didn't seem likely that he would ever learn.

He was dozing when he heard commotion outside. The boy woke with a start and, upon gathering his bearings, slowly made his way to the square window overlooking the Alley below. He saw Jon Orton and his one-eyed companion, Martyn, along with a small company of guardsmen, gathered around the house opposite his family's. Orton was explaining something to Old Ralph (who was, in fact, only three and forty, but his nickname served to differentiate him from Young Ralph, a twenty year old lad who lived in the same building as his namesake) while the guardsmen were looking around attentively. Coryn couldn't exactly make out what they were saying, but Old Ralph's expression spoke volumes – his eyes were wide with fear, his mouth twisted and quivering.

The Hull guards entered the building and emerged a few minutes later accompanied by the other Ralph and three other men – all of them able bodied and well built. There was no doubt in Coryn's mind about what Jon Orton and Maryn One-eye were doing in Cobbler's Alley anymore. Frantic, he paced through the room, desperately trying to think of a way to save himself. He knew what men like him, untrained green boys from the streets of Hull and the villages sworn to Dragonstone who had never so much as held a sword, would serve for in the battles to come – arrow fodder. They would die by the thousands, if only to make a small opening for the knights and men-at-arms. They would cover the retreat, sacrificing themselves in the name of those more useful in the war. No, that would not do for Coryn Waters. He did not intend for his life to end that way.

He knew of only one way to ensure his safety and survival. A child's features alone would not sway a man like Jon Orton, he knew. Coryn headed to the small area that served as a kitchen. There he found a large cleaver, the one his mother used to cut through raw meat, whenever they could afford it. The boy was terrified. "Come now, Coryn. You're a man grown. Better this than an early grave", the boy told himself. He got a rag to bite down on, hoping that it would also serve to muffle the scream. Raising the cleaver, his breath started coming out in dry, fish-like heaves. He could hear the men outside more clearly now. There were shouts, maybe even a fight. They would be at his door soon, the certainty of death with them. Come on, Coryn, you fuckin' pansy! He brought the cleaver down in a single, clumsy motion. And then he screamed.

He woke up on the floor. When he tried to get to his feet, the world spun around and he was forced to sit back down. Only then did he notice his right hand. The upper halves of two fingers – the ring and the little finger – were missing, turning what was left of them into a mess of congealed blood and broken bone. The sight of it made Coryn vomit, and all at once he became aware of the exquisite pain in his right hand, so sharp that he could hardly keep himself from crying out in agony.

Terrified, he slowly made his way to the front door, not noticing that it had been left slightly ajar, despite his having locked it on his way in, no more than three hours prior. He never noticed the mud tracks that led to where he had been lying and back towards the door. Coryn would never learn of the events that transpired before he regained consciousness.

Jon Orton

"What's Stannis want wit' us, eh? We supposed to take King's Landing wit' hoes an' scythes? Who's gonnae give us clothes an' weapons, who's to train us, I ask ya this!"

The man they called Old Ralph was as furious as he was scared. Jon Orton hated fear. He could smell it on other people and, like a blood hound, it maddened him, infuriated him. And now he could smell it on everyone around him, even himself. His head was pounding, had been since he had been given the orders to start recruiting any and all able bodied men in Hull. He'd always been a simple man, a foot soldier. He carried out his orders and rarely thought twice while going about his business. But this time was different. Even Orton knew what would happen to his new brothers in arms and liked it not at all. He'd always liked Hull, even before Lord Monford had stationed him in the city. His mother would take him there sometimes. They'd go to the fish market down at the harbor and look at the trading galleys while eating fried plaice on a stick. Those moments he remembered with particular fondness, the rare moments of peace in his otherwise harsh life.

"You can take it up wit' him yourself if you get the chance. Now pack up an' say your goodbyes." Jon Orton replied, paying little mind to Ralph's ghastly expression.

The guardsmen that were accompanying him entered the building and went up the stairs to look for more men. They emerged a few minutes later with four others. Least there ain't no shortage o' men, that oughta make his lordship 'appy, Jon thought scornfully.

The group moved to the next building. The ground floor proved empty, possibly deserted – there were signs of recent habitation, yet no one seemed to be around at the moment. They went about their business, gathering anything of value, as they always did with houses whose owners had fled before them and moved on up the stairs. The door to the rooms on the second floor was locked.

"Open up in the name o' Stannis of House Baratheon, the First o' His Name, King o' the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord o' the Seven Kingdoms, an' Protector o' the Realm" Jon Orton hated reciting those lines. They always proved a mouthful for him, especially when mentioning the Rhoynar, due to his missing teeth.

Orton's words did not seem to stir the inhabitants. After a few minutes of threats and insults, the guards decided they'd had enough and kicked the door in. In the corner of the small living room, next to a square table that Orton assumed had served as a chopping block, they found the body of a young boy. Upon closer inspection, they discovered that he was not in fact dead. He'd used a cleaver to chop off two of the fingers on his right hand. Even a man as simple-minded as Jon Orton could see what the boy's intentions had been, and he liked them not at all.

"Pick him up. We'll take him to a master, he'll be good as new by t' time we set sail from Dragonstone".

He might have hesitated before about recruiting a child, but the boy's obvious cowardice made him angrier than he would have liked to admit. Jon felt the sudden urge to kick the limp body, to scream at the boy to get up and man up. After all, that's what he'd had to go through when he was young, shouldn't all the others be forced to grow up early as well?

Orton was headed for the door when he noticed that his companions were not following him. Martyn was staring at him intently with his one good eye, while the guards were glancing at each other uneasily. Fuck is wrong with them now?, Jon thought, suddenly aware of how heavily outnumbered he and his one-eyed friend would be if a fight were to break out between them and the Hull guards.

"What's t' matter now?" he finally asked.

It was Hank Pimple who spoke up first.

"We're not 'bout to start recruitin' kids, Orton. This one right here can't be more than four-and-ten."

"Why'd he chop his fingers off then? Fancied lookin' like the Onion knight you reckon?" Jon quipped. He could feel their eyes on him, their gazes hardening.

This time it was the officer, Olly Crinth, who answered.

"It don't matter why he fuckin' did it. He's a kid, probably panicked when he saw you and your friend," he gestured towards Martyn. "We're not takin' him. It sets a precedent that won't be to his lordship's liking."

Jon had turned red with anger.

"Well I don't know what no fuckin' "precedent" is, but I know what a coward is when I see one in front o' me."

Crinth hesitated. He seemed confused as to whether Orton was referring to him or the boy, lying in a puddle of his own blood. Before he could reply, Jon went for the kid. He grabbed him under the shoulders and made a move to drag him. The guards blocked his way.

"You fuckin'…" Jon started. He was dull, but even he could understand that the situation was quickly spiraling out of his control. Martyn would take his side in a confrontation, he had not doubt about that, but even so, it would be the two of them against eight guards, all armed with good steel. That was a battle he didn't think himself likely to come out of alive. Finally he let go of the body. It hit the floor with a soft thud.

"Fine then. 'ave it your way. Let's move on." Jon made a point of being the last one to leave the room. He threw one last glance at the unconscious boy and made sure to close the door as tightly as possible (its hinges had been broken upon entry), thinking that maybe the cowardly child would die of his self-inflicted wounds. Only upon entering the next building did Orton realize they hadn't checked the third floor of the last house. We're all the better for it, I reckon. We'd probably 'ave found the kids da' with his balls chopped off, the fuckin' cravens.

Coryn Waters

He climbed the stairs slowly and cautiously. His forehead was beaded with sweat by the time he reached Septon Morris' door. All of Coryn's hopes wre pinned on the elderly man having been deemed unfit to join the army. Once at the door, he gave it a light knock. Nothing happened. He tried again. This time Coryn heard a stirring inside and seconds later the septon was at the doorway. The man remained frozen, staring at Coryn in disbelief. Then he noticed the blood that had crusted on his clothes and ushered him in without so much as a word.

They spent the next hour in silence, neither of them quite knowing what to say. Morris washed the wound out as best he could and used a clean rag to bandage it. Then he knelt and prayed. Coryn had never been interested in the Faith, he did not believe in the Seven, nor in any other queer deities that the men of the world had chosen to put their faith and trust in. He did not quite understand why Morris was praying now, he had never done it before, when he was teaching him to read and write. Coryn thought that it made the old man look even frailer that he already did and once again wondered how it had come to be that man had invented the gods.

Once Morris was done with his prayer to the Mother above, he stood up.

"Would you like to tell me what happened?", he asked the boy while looking in his general direction but not quite at him.

"I…", suddenly Coryn Waters appreciated just how childish his actions had been. No, not childish. Despite appearances, he was not a child, not anymore. He was craven. What did Coryn do when his lord came calling? He maimed himself just to save his own skin. He said nothing.

"No. Well, I believe I already know anyway," the septon was looking straight at him now. There was a hint of disappointment in his eyes.

"I heard 'em fighting downstairs, shouting at each other, arguin' about whether they should take a boy to war."

"They got inside?", Coryn was surprised to find he hadn't noticed any signs of their break in. Had his mind been so clouded by the pain that he had walked right past the broken hinges?

"Aye, that they did. They kicked the door in by the sound o' it." Morris went to his chair by the window and sat down. His joints popped softly and his expression briefly twisted in pain. Then he relaxed. "Get some rest now, Coryn."

The boy lay down in the septon's cramped, bumpy bed. He turned on his side, facing the wall, and fell asleep a short while later. His sleep was deep and dreamless, as it always was when he was utterly exhausted.

When he awoke, Coryn felt dazed and confused. It took him a few moments to recollect the events of the past day (or days? He did not know how long it had been.). A wave of dizziness swept over him when he stood up but he pushed through it.

Septon Morris was in the living room – a small area with a large window overlooking Cobbler's Alley. He was in his favorite cushioned chair that Coryn remembered from the days when he would visit the elderly man's home every week.

"What time is it?"

"Midday," the septon answered, looking away from the window. "You ought visit your father."

His father. In his desperate panic, Coryn had not spared much though on his parents. His mother had gone to Duskendale to help her sister, Tyna, with the harvest. Coryn knew she would be safe there. His father though. Blacksmiths were held in his regard during wars and the boy did not know what would happen to him. Would he been sailing for Dragonstone? Or was he to remain in Hull?

"I suppose I should."

"I brought clothes up for you. Your door's busted, ought get that fixed as well." Morris looked distraught.

"You alright, Morris?"

The septon slowly turned his head back to the window.

"No, I don't think I am. Go now, Otys must be worried sick."

Coryn doubted that. His father loved him, he knew that, but it was more likely that he would be relieved to see the back of him. Coryn Waters knew that he was a liability to his family and never blamed his father for being disappointed by him.

"Thank you, Morris."

The elderly septon only shrugged.

Coryn collected his clothes and left.

On his way down, the boy stopped at his family's door. The hinges were busted and the door itself was heavily dented. Inside, he found mud tracks. By the looks of it there had been almost a dozen of them. In the corner of the main room he saw small puddles of blood. His own, he knew.

Clumsily, he started taking off his old, soiled clothes. Not half as bad as I thought it'd be the boy thought, while fumbling with his trousers.

Coryn got dressed and headed outside. He hesitated before going out the door, not wishing to leave it open, to leave his home ripe for the picking. In the end he decided there was little he could do about it and started making his way towards his father's forge. That was how Coryn Waters had always been. He treated the world as an entity separate from himself. He rarely believed in his ability to influence it in any meaningful way and in the end he always let life run its course and have its way with him. He preferred to bury his nose in his books, reading of the achievements of better men, ignoring his surroundings and letting his dreams consume him completely.

Otys' smithy was far from his home in Cobbler's Alley. It was situated near the docks, on Sea Snake Street, where he could attract the attention of sailors and travellers from all over the Known World. The blacksmith never lacked for work, for he practiced his trade even during what little free time he had. When Coryn arrived at the smithy, he heard the ring of steel and felt reassured. He ducked through the low doorway and followed the sound of his father's relentless hammering. The boy found him in the forge, alone, working on a sword.

"Father", Coryn said by way of greeting.

The blacksmith lowered his hammer and looked at his son incredulously. Coryn might have found the sight of his father, huge and muscled like a bull, with a hammer almost as big his head, menacing, had he not witnessed it so many times before.

"What are you doing 'ere?", Otys asked before returning to his work. "Need a sword? A suit o' armor? Can't promise you either, boy, every smith in the town's been put to work for Stannis' army. They might give you somethin' at the armory though. Best not dally 'ere."

The walls were lined with rust-covered swords and dinted pieces of armor. Coryn knew now that this would be his father's contribution to the war effort. He felt somewhat relieved that he wouldn't be forced to fend for himself.

"I'm not joining Stannis' army."

"No? Lord Monford's retinue then? You'll puke your guts out while crossing the Blackwater but might be you'll be safer with the navy."

"I'm not going to war, da'", the boy replied in a hushed tone.

Finally the blacksmith put down his hammer and looked at his son more carefully. He noticed the bandaged hand. It took him a few moments to realize what Coryn had said.

"Did that on purpose, did you?"

Coryn Waters felt naked under his father's gaze.

"Y-yes," he mumbled.

Otys shook his head and turned towards the fire blazing in the forge.

"Go back to the Alley, Coryn. The men of this city need my 'elp." He did not turn back around to face his son.

And just like that, Coryn found himself back on the bustling thoroughfare leading to the docks. The buildings on both sides of Sea Snake Street rarely exceeded two floors. They were narrower than elsewhere in the town and, in sharp contrast with the inner town, most were uninhabited. This part of town had always been considered undesirable, even by those too poor to afford a home in any other part of Hull. The area was dangerous by night and overcrowded and noisy during the day. There were always sailors looking for an inn or a brothel, travellers looking for a fight after the long months at sea. Strumpets, pedlars and beggars looking for customers or patrons, men of all sorts seeking passage across the Blackwater Bay or the Narrow Sea. Though vibrant and lively at first glance, Snake Street (as the locals often referred to it due to the amount of cutpurses and whores frequenting it) proved a grimy and unsavory place upon closer inspection.

Coryn navigated through the crowds deftly. He made a point of avoiding any members of the Hull city guard – chancing an encounter with a band of recruiters was the last thing Coryn Waters would have wanted. He felt more lost than ever, his own father had shunned him (not that he had ever shown him much affection), his mother was in Duskendale, hundreads of leagues away. He had no friends, very few acquaintances that would so much as recognize him in the street.

Thus it came to be that, weeks later, while Stannis Baratheon's infantry was caught between the walls of King's Landing and the combined hosts of Lannister and Tyrell, while the would-be king's fleet was burning at anchor and his men were jumping into the water, clad in heavy steel, desperate for respite, Coryn was in his straw cot, dreaming his childish dreams of queer and mysterious lands beyond Westeros.