Garm
And the hound he met,
it came from hell.
Bloody was his chest
and wide his open maw,
to devour.
At the father of Songs
he howled from afar.
~ Baldr's Draumar ~
~o~0~o~
The dog, a thin old thing, its sharp muzzle gray and scarred, watches him with eyes that are far too bright and observant for an animal. Once it must have been an impressive beast, its shoulders broad under the thinning dark fur and its shaggy back meeting the crone of his head easily, he imagines.
It's raining hard and he is cold, his father taking his time talking to the Blacksmith in the forge behind him. He could go inside, he supposes. It will be warm there, but he has no interest in listening to the two men, planning the gift for Gregor's next name-day. He doesn't even know what it is… does not want to know. And watching the dog is far more interesting anyway.
Piercing eyes follow his every movement while it sits still as stone and he tries to decide which color they have. Blue? Or Gray like his own? They are pale. So pale that he first thought it was blind. It is a bit eerie and he is suddenly glad for the heavy chain that binds the dog to the opposing wall of the yard. It looks hungry.
Times passes. He watches the dog and the dog watches back. Its collar, dark leather, looks heavy around its thin neck, weighed down by rusty iron. The metal seems brittle and he wonders what kind of Blacksmith would tolerate something like this in his yard, for everybody to see. But he is the only Smith around in miles, so maybe he does not have to worry about it.
His lips are slowly turning blue and the rainwater sinks trough the leather of his boots and just when he thinks, that maybe hearing about things he will never own isn't that bad, he hears them.
There are five of them, all of them boys, all older than him. Around his brother's age maybe, something that makes him instantly dislike them.
The dog has heard them too, and, for the first time since his arrival in the Smith's yard, moves to turn its massive head. Something about its expression makes him take a step back until his back brushes against the rough stone wall behind him.
It stares at the village boys, the butcher's sons, if he remembers correctly, and slowly rises to its feet, its hackles up, even in this downpour. He is a bit pleased to find that he was right. It's enormous. He feels more than that he hears the low growl coming from the dog's throat and again his eyes stray to the brittle iron of its chain.
The boys are shouting and shoving each other around, laughing when one of them falls into a puddle. The lad curses, hauling a hand full of mud at his brothers. And then he raises his eyes and spots the dog. Suddenly the laughter dies away and everything is eerily quiet.
Rain falls, the dog growls, he watches.
And then the silence is broken.
The only warning he gets is a short flick of its torn ears, then suddenly the dog rears up, fangs bared, hackles raised. Startled, he backs away, but the stone-wall at his back is cold and unyielding. He only understands what is happening when something hits the ground before his feet with a wet smack. Curious he peers down. The object is bigger than his fist, shapeless and full of sharp edges. A Stone. They are throwing stones.
The next one finds its target and the dog jumps up again, but its chain is too short, its tormentors just out of reach. It brings its attack to a violent end, choking its furious snarl and the boys laugh at its desperate struggle, circling it. All the while mindful of the range of its chain. They have done this before, he realizes now.
The dog makes a few more futile attempts and then suddenly it stops, motionless and silent once more. It simply stands there, barely flinches, when another stone hits the mark, its head low.
One could think it has given up, surrendered to the inevitable.
Only he sees the way it leans forward, patiently trying the chain, how it pulls ever so slightly.
Only he sees the iron links tremble, but the chain holds.
It's his father and the Blacksmith who end the game with their arrival in the yard. It seems they are done talking for now.
The Blacksmith shouts and curses, the boys laugh and run away and his father grabs his arm, firm but not painful, and leads him off to the stable, where the horses are waiting. Just before they enter, he throws one last glance over his shoulder. The Smith has gone back inside and the dog is watching him again, pale eyes following his every movement. It still looks hungry.
~o~0~o~
They come back a few more times in the next two weeks, Gregor's gift must be something very special and complicated, but he never goes inside to have a look at it. He watches the dog. The dog watches back.
Almost every time the village children are also there, not noticing him in the shadows of the doorway. And every time he watches them throw their stones and sees how the chain stretches taut.
It's his fifth visit, or maybe his sixth when it happens. It's raining again and he is leaning against the wall, lips blue and feet wet. The boys are there as well with their stones and their laughter. But something is different today. The dog has not moved at all, even though one of the stones has hit it right across its muzzle earlier. It just stands and… waits.
The boys are getting impatient, its lack of reaction bores them and so they come closer to get a better aim. Just one step, then another.
And suddenly the yard is filled with screams and blood.
The dog flies past him, and it's completely silent - no bark, no growl - just pure quiet rage. It's a bit eerie but strangely, he is not afraid at all.
He only has eyes for the chain, shattered into a hundred little pieces, only hears the song of breaking iron: sharp and shrill, but beautiful.
I'm free, it sings. I'm free free free.
He almost does not notice it when his father grabs his arm, hard and painful, and drags him to the stable, where the horses are waiting. Just before they enter, he throws one last glance over his shoulder. The Smith is standing in the yard, the boys are lying in the mud, unmoving although he can hear at least two of them scream, and the dog is watching him again, pale eyes following his every movement. It looks at ease.
(The next time he visits, about half a year later, he misses half his face and the only boy who survived the game seven of his fingers and a great deal of his right leg. The chain is still lying in the Blacksmiths' yard, rusty and broken. The dog is gone.)
~o~0~o~
A/N: And here it is...
I've finally done it, my first completed fic i'll upload here and i must say I'm kinda proud right now. (though it will take a while till i upload the other chapters .. there will be four, be warned ^^)
As you can see above i was inspired by the northern mythology. It's some kind of headcanon of mine that the old gods are actually our northern gods.. it would just work so well, you know? There are so many parallels!
I mean, at first we have Ygdrasil... fancy parallel to the heart tree (even though it's no oak but an ash. But who cares for the details?). Then of course good old Fenrir (well, thats a direwolf if i ever saw one, eh?). We have Freya (who is like a mixture of Arya and Sansa as goddess, is she not? And if i remember correctly her name means Lady ). We have Tyr, god of war and truth (who gets his right hand bitten off for breaking an oath...reminds me of someone, you too? Besides the fact that it is Fenrir who bites it off for chaining him up. Ah.. and he gets killed by Garm) Then there is Loki, halfgiant (well, that is kind of ironic, i know, but their position in their families is quite similar: an outcast, who has to figure out a solution for every little thing his family fucks up but never gets a thanks and then.. no, that would be spoiler, right? ...ah... and he also sleeps around a lot, aye?)
and then, of course, there is Garm (some say it is just another name for fenrir, which would also work fine for me. Hounds and Wolves are not that different after all XD), guarding the way to the netherworld (pretty much like Ceberus...a three headed dog ohh..another possibility *.* )...
Ahem... i could go on (yupp, im a little little tiny bit obsessed with that...maybe)
I am thinking about writing something that has a real connection to the legends, in this fic they will be merely a theme that shows up here and there but see for yourselves.
Critique is very much appreciated in every form as long as it is constructive.
The verses of Baldr's Draumar are btw a translation by me. I used the german version known to me so it may differs a bit from the official version.
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ASoIaF + and all its characters belong to George R. R. Martin, the idea for this piece to me and Garm... well to us all I guess. He's some kind of national treasure^^