This is a sequel to a story I wrote over a year ago, 'On the Road.' I'm sorry for the delay. As I'm unable to log in to my previous account, I have simply included a link to my previous stories, found here: h*t*t*p*s:/*/*w*w*w*.fan*fiction *.net */u/5239614/5sunday5
(Remove the stars)
I would recommend reading On The Road first, or you may find this one hard to follow.
A necessary disclaimer, all characters and places referred to in this story are the property of George R.R. Martin, with the exceptions of the girl and my own invented characters, like the horses. Cheers.
'It weren't even the boy King what killed yer brother.'
The girl scowled through the gloom of the tannery at the leathersmith who spoke. So far his boring chatter had been easy to ignore, requiring nothing more from her than the occasional grunt as she struggled not to doze off, but this change of subject hit a raw nerve. Most folks around here had been unable to resist broaching the topic of her ill-fated brother at least once, but after that they knew she didn't react well. Why does everyone think I'd want to talk about him, anyway? She'd forgotten how much she misliked living in small villages like RedHollow. No privacy.
'All the folks here at the time knows who it really were.'
Shut up old man. Just fix my bow. The girl yawned deliberately, to stop herself saying the actual words. She felt drained, even though she'd done nothing today other than walk to and sit in various buildings watching various tradespeople re-string, re-join and now re-balance her broken longbow. Suffering through their tedious attempts at conversation, their idle village rumours. And now this.
'It weren't the boy King killed 'im, y'know.'
Still she said nothing. If she didn't respond, perhaps he'd shut up. It was unsettling though, how the leathersmith's words reminded her of the time someone else had said the same thing to her, and for some reason the memory of those past words seemed realer than the leathersmith in front of her.
Seems like yesterday.
Except the accent then had been highborn, and he'd said 'Joffrey.' 'It wasn't Joffrey killed him, you know.' His voice speaking in her head, like he was right there next to her.
Of course he'd call him Joffrey. Was his son, after all.
The girl had to make a conscious effort to crush those thoughts. It didn't get any easier. She kept a band with small sharp beads around her wrist, and she'd found that twisting it until it bit into her skin helped to re-focus her mind on the here and now, not the past and never-will-be. Not a day went by when thoughts of him didn't creep into her head, but she'd decided there was no benefit in dwelling on things. She recited again sternly to herself, as she always did.
Do not think of him.
Staring hard at the stained floor beneath the bench seat, she imagined instead how many animals had had their skins removed in this room. Their outsides peeled off, leaving their inner forms all pink and glistening. Despite her father being a butcher, she'd never much liked the look of skinned things. Everything underneath on display like that, still in a recognisable shape. She shuddered.
'I mean, it weren't like the boy King wielded the sword hisself, was it?'
The leathersmith continued with the topic, as if they were old friends. As if he'd known anything about her brother beyond tales, or had any fondness for him. As if he wasn't just one of the many small-minded townsfolk who'd always believed the worst of them both, who'd probably reveled in the excitement of the Royal manhunt, and taken vindictive pleasure in sharing stories of her brother's early predisposition to violence. Who'd shunned her, and the funeral; called her a savage and a bad influence. Who'd no doubt been one of the reasons why her father had killed himself.
But hey, they tell me he's the best at balancing longbows in three villages. So.
Determined to keep ignoring him, the girl concentrated on breathing through her mouth to avoid the smell of the hides hung along the back wall drying. She seemed to have a low tolerance for odours lately. She'd never thought herself particularly sensitive, but then she'd not lived in close proximity to lots of other people for some time. No doubt the tanning scent would linger on her clothes for the rest of the evening.
Ugh. How long does it take to straighten a damn bow anyway? Should have done it myself. Maybe my arrows would've been off, but it'd be worth it not to have to listen to gossip. The floor wasn't particularly interesting to look at, so she turned to the grimy window, through which she could see a blur of green landscape, with some sheep-like blobs moving around. The dusty light slanted across the room. Night was falling, and the same shadowcat that had killed two lambs last night, and three the night before, would surely be back for more. And if this old fool didn't finish up with her bow soon, then there wouldn't be much left of her flock tomorrow.
If I have to buy more sheep at this month's market, I'll need to use more of the gold coins Jaime gave me. Well it was Tyrion gave them to me, but on his behalf. Whether he gave them to me by his own hand, or not. It was what Jaime owed me, it was our agreement. Mine and Jaime's. She snapped the band on her wrist, forced her thoughts away.
Do. Not. Think. Of him.
The light through the window dimmed as the sunset outside faded.
Gods help me but this is taking for fucking ever.
The leathersmith was in no rush to finish, methodically smoothing the sealed edges of her mended bow over and over with a pumice, despite the late hour and his client's impatient mood. 'He were a good lad, yer brother,' he reminisced, oblivious, 'I remember he were one of the lads used to 'elp me out sometimes, wiv the tanning. Sure and it's a messy job, but yer brother, he were always the cheerful sort, said he enjoyed learnin' the trade off someone as knowledgeable as meself -'
'Are you done yet?'
The girl knew that her blunt interruption was considered rude, and inwardly she cringed. But she'd never been any good at hiding her real feelings, or at being polite. Or, in fact, at most of the social niceties needed for civilised interactions within a community like RedHollow. She wasn't the most civilised person, and living here had sure made her aware of it.
Why did I need to be, back when it was just me and Sooty, on the road? Horses aren't civil. They don't lie to spare your feelings. They don't care if you say the wrong things.
She sighed out loud, as the leathersmith continued sanding her bow, now in a sulky silence. But at least it was silence. Sooty. I'd swap a hundred easily-offended villagers for you any day. There was only one human who's company I enjoyed as much as yours, old friend. And I'll never see him again, either.
Do not think of him.
Her wrist hurt from twisting the band, good. She used the pain as motivation to leap up and grab her bow from the leathersmith's startled grip. 'Thanks, but this will do.' She dug coins from her pocket and dropped them into the man's open fingers, then spun around to leave.
'It were his dog.'
She paused.
'The man what killed your beloved brother. It were the boy King's dog. The Hound.' Recovering his voice, the leathersmith sounded almost as if he was smirking. 'I was there y'see, seen him in the flesh, when he rode back t' the Inn. Huge like a giant he was. The Hound they call him, on the biggest horse this side of the Red Fork. He had the visor of 'is dog-head helmet up and the happiest smile on his ugly mug. Sent chills up me spine it did. I seen the kid, your brother, lying there 'cross the horse. Well,' the man snorted gleefully, 'what was left of 'im, that is.'
The girl felt bile rising in her throat. She swallowed, trying to push the bitterness down. 'My brother, just so you know?' she growled. 'He hated fucking tanning. He said it made him stink of shit, just like you.'
She slammed out of the building before the leathersmith could reply. Staggered around the side of the stone wall and vomited into the grass. The stench of the skins was still in her nose and the back of her mouth, she heaved another few times but nothing else came up. Taking a deep breath, she squatted with her back to the wall, hands on her knees.
I don't want to know anything more about my brother's death. I don't care who wielded the sword, it was Joffrey who killed him, Joffrey alone who was to blame. And I've had my revenge on Joffrey, he is dead, godsdamned fucking dead, just like Maegi said would happen. So I don't care about anyone else involved, I've forgiven them all, even Jaime. Especially Jaime.
Do. Not. Think. Of. Him.
She tried to re-focus, to crush the thoughts as always.
So the words of idiot tanners cannot hurt me.
She wiped her mouth, picked up her mended bow and headed back home.
Home, for the time being, was the hut she shared with Callem Cole and his father.
It was, as usual, very warm inside, and smokey. The men had evidently already finished eating, but her portion of the meal had been saved and was sitting on the table. She pulled out a chair and sank into it, too weary to even call out a greeting. Her disabled foot was sore today, even though she only slightly limped on it now. Some days she swore her toes were still there, otherwise how could they hurt so much? She wondered if Cal still felt his arm in the same way. After a day spent mending her weapon for the very purpose, she now found it hard to summon the energy to go and actually hunt down the shadowcat.
'H-h-hey there. G-get your bow f-fixed?' Callem looked in from the workshop, sweat shining on his forehead and arm from the blazing furnace they used to smelt steel.
'Uh-huh.' Speaking in actual words seemed too much effort.
'Oh g-good.' Callem smiled. 'That cat is d-dead, then! Have some f-food f-first. You m-must be h-h-hungry.'
Glancing at the cooling stew in front of her, the girl used one finger to push it slightly further away. Callem's brow creased, but he didn't say anything. She knew he worried about her, and this was becoming irritating. Having another person involved in and fussing over her life was not something she was used to, and, she'd come to realise, not something she much liked.
Or maybe it depends on the person.
'Y-you'll be glad to know we g-got the order done for the B-b-bolton soldiers, bloody near k-killed us but it's done! Thirty-five apiece they're p-paying too, s-s-so with that coin we c-can restock at the market...'
The girl tuned Callem out as he began to list all the supplies they could now afford. Maintaining a household, running a business, taking orders, pleasing customers, deadlines, it was a lot of work. She knew getting the Bolton's order was a big payoff for them, she should be pleased. Callem deserved to be proud. But she felt apathetic about it. Like none of it mattered to her, like she was observing it from a distance. Someone else's life, not hers. I like Cal, I like his father, they're good people. They value me, they care about me, I could be useful here. This could become my home forever. Be part of a household, a community, a family. So what's wrong?
Maybe it was the stale air in the hut, or the heat, the day she'd had or just Callem's prattling. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. Despite her tiredness , she had the strong urge to be back outside in the fresh air. By herself.
'I better go... watch the sheep,' she mumbled, and without looking at Callem, shoved the chair back and hurried out of the room.
One-Ear wasn't that old a horse, he just looked it. Used for pulling ploughs, he had not taken happily to being ridden. Anything out of his comfort zone was terrifying, and as the girl soon discovered while training him as a riding mount, outside his comfort zone was pretty much everything. It'd been tricky to even find a saddle to fit, because he had no wither and his rump was higher than his front end. It didn't help that he tended to hold his head at an angle somewhere just above his knees. In the end, the girl had fashioned a crupper to stop herself sliding down his neck any time he went any faster than a slow walk. Luckily, he rarely did. As well as being one of the strangest shaped horses she'd ever met, and cowardly, One-Ear was also by far the laziest. So walking was it.
Out in the cold clear air, the girl felt better. Not quite her former self, but closer to it. She remembered life had been tough work out on the road, the constant dangers and hardships; she didn't kid herself that it had been easy. But she'd never felt this lethargy and lack of interest in life. I think I need to get back to my delivery work, and soon, she thought. Like my mother, I'm evidently not cut out for village life. I need to go back to Goldgrass too, see my sister and nieces. First though, I need a decent horse. I'll never find another Sooty, but something a little less useless than this one would do.
One-Ear reined in close enough to the flock that she could count their shapes in the moonlight. Satisfied that all the sheep from yesterday were still there, the girl scanned the surrounding bushes and trees for any movement. Nothing. She leaned back in the saddle and stretched.
'It were the boy King's dog. The Hound...' She grimaced, shook her head. Why would those words pop up again, and why did they trouble her anyway? It wasn't like she hadn't heard of her brother's death before, more times than she cared to. Everyone in RedHollow had been only too keen to share with her the grisly details of what they'd been told, what someone's cousin had seen, or some other version or exaggeration possibly concocted in their own minds.
Maybe because she now had a name. It got to her. The Hound. Not a real name sure, and she more than most people knew the dangers of not knowing real names, but still. It was enough to conjure up an image in her mind of a real life person, where before there'd just been a face-less 'someone.' 'Someone' had slain her brother, under Joffrey's orders. Joffrey had been the only name she'd blamed for directly killing her brother, but now she had another. She almost wished she didn't. But as everyone knew, it's impossible to un-hear something once you've heard it.
Who cares? Nothing you can do anyway. A name is not a face, not like you'd ever find this Hound person, even if you wanted to. Even if there weren't a thousand more important things for you to do. Like kill this godsdamn cat.
She jumped down off the horse, leaving him untethered. The beast never moved a hoof unless he had to. Bow and arrows to hand, the girl crept closer to where the flock rested, skirting around in the shadows. In a hollow by a large tree she crouched down, and waited.
Everything was quiet and still, not even a breeze rustled the grass. The stars curving out above her like sparkling mist, the sheep breathing softly as they slept. Her thoughts drifted.
If I ever did meet you, Hound person, like at a market or someplace, I wouldn't hold it against you. I'd understand you were simply following orders... she frowned, as the leathersmith's words repeated themselves like an unwelcome echo, '.. the happiest smile on his ugly face...'
Ugh. Who cares! Forget it. Nothing changes -
Preoccupied, she only caught the flash of movement off to the side at the last moment. It was her bad eye, but she should've compensated for that, placed herself more at an angle to the trees. Damn. By the time she'd registered anything at all, the cat had already pounced, knocking her flat on her back, and only the wood of her raised bow keeping its teeth from her neck. Instinct kicked in and she pushed back hard enough to crack the bow along its newly mended seam, screamed like a banshee. The faint hesitation from the animal at the girl's assault gave her just enough time to grab one of her arrows and plunge it up under its neck. Hot blood spurted over her and she felt the rake of claws on her thigh as the cat struggled to get up.
The girl squeezed out from under the dying creature, got to her feet and hobbled back towards where she'd left One-Ear. The flock had spooked and were running around in panicked confusion. One lamb ran lopsided where the cat had obviously got to it while I was thinking of irrelevant things. The girl cursed her inattention, her stupid inability to focus.
By the time she'd caught the injured lamb, Callem and his father had arrived in response to her scream. Cole finished off the cat with his sword and Cal helped her settle the flock. Their congratulations meant little; she could only think of how inept she'd been, lucky not to have been catfood herself.
When she went to swing the injured lamb onto One-Ear's back, he snorted nervously and flicked his single ear in alarm.
'It's a sheep, you idiot,' she sighed. 'Don't be pathetic.'
Sooty would have helped me with that cat, not stood over here like the useless lump of horse-flesh you are.
One-Ear shuffled sideways, entirely unconvinced of the lamb's harmlessness.
The girl touched her fingers to her upper leg and felt the wetness of the scratches. Serves me right. I don't have Sooty any more, I can't rely on her help. I'll never survive on the road again if I let myself get so distracted. I have to let this shit go. My brother's death defined my life, well not any more it doesn't have to. I need to let it go. Jaime said that to me once. Do I have to die before I understand he was right?
Her leg stung, she felt sick and exhausted. But when she closed her eyes she was back in that day with Jaime beside her, his beautiful green gaze unwavering on hers, his voice as he said those things to her full of concern.
Impossible.
He felt more real to her than the village, the hut she lived in, the cuts on her leg, everything. His face was clearer than the people she saw every day. She could touch him, she only had to reach out her hand. But when she opened her eyes, of course he was gone.
She grabbed her wristband, tightened it til it burned.
Do. Not. Think.
Do. Not. Think.
Of Jaime.
But that, of course, was what was really impossible.