Beginning note: so after much deliberation I have decided to switch the POV to third person. Especially sense the multiple personalities scenes would have been a nightmare to write in first person
Chapter 2: Arrival
The smell of half rotten produce, exotic spices, and raw sewage filed the hazy air of the Blackwater. Heat poured down from the air veiled sun. Sweating merchants hawked various unfamiliar and domestic products from their ramshackle stalls. Ships flowed in and out of the harbor like air in congested lungs. Dock workers, burly and indentured, rushed to and fro; living in honest work for little pay. Deeper into the city the more average products went. The more rare stuff was sold here. Even rarer things were sold out of sight. An average day on the docks of Kings Landing.
This city has such potential and such terrors. It practically cries out for someone to save it. Marc thought while viewing the city from the ship. The ships name was The Broken Dragon. The Broken Dragon was a modest vessel. Her cargo was fine textiles and glassworks from Essos, and a few other boxes that escape mention, but not the view of very interested collectors. The ship boasted few scars from her travels; a fact that the crew quite enjoyed. It bore the Boratheon flag on its mast.
When the ship finally docked in port Marc bid his goodbyes to the captain and crew, grabbed his things, and left the vessel; quickly vanishing into the fast paced loading and unloading of the docks.
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Marc Spector was sitting on a bench, and reading a book. The details of said book are unimportant. His bags were in his room back at the inn. Soon, his bags will be moved to his new residents by some "friends". He mostly needed the book to blend in. He was a little ashamed to admit to himself that it was a miracle that he was literate.
Reading was more of his brothers thing. Randall was a priest of the sept the last time Marc had heard. Randall always did take after fathers religious side. The state of their piety was always a point of resentment for Marc. He saw it as a weakness; always scrounging to live under feudalisms boot. Looking up to the sky; begging for the gods favor while their bodies withered away from starvation. But marc's god demands action, and will if need be take action.
No, Marc was not one for inaction. Which is why he bristled while skimming over the same paragraph for what felt like an hour. He stayed calm; something inside him said to stay calm, and listen, and wait, and learn, so Marc listened.
Marc was in the market place. Filled with constant motion. People enter and exit with rapid pace; always focused on where they need to go, what they need to do, or get. Some meander on with some mundane, but somehow deathly important conversation. Wandering to and fro with gossip and window shopping. The other's, the merchants, always looking for their next sale. Yelling about their wares and gesturing in a constant rhythm; trying to catch that next customer's eye.
The shops were garishly decorated with so many bright and contrasting colors. Aromas of exotic and domestic spices gave a temporary reprieve from the cities stench. The cobblestone streets pale look told of much foot traffic.
He sat there for a few minutes more; ears focused on the crowd. A hundred conversations started, ended, trailed in, and out of the square. Some lasted moments; others would continue long after Marc had found what he needed, but what did he need? Marcs face twitched from his impatience.
Eventually Marc tuned into a few specific conversations.
"My employer would like to remind you of your debt"
"So this guy was just standing over her and-"
"Did you hear about what happened last night? Some woman got torn to shreds. Might have been a bear, or some-"
"You are definitely not a good spy, little bird." The man who just sat down next to Marc said.
"it's a work in progress." Replied Marc
"Then it's a shame I have to cut your practice off; I have a little message to your master that I want you to send." The man continued "Sometimes little birdies get eaten by cats" and with that the man tried to stab Marc in the ribs with the dagger he just drew.
On reflex Marc grabbed the mans wrist, and twisted it while pinching a nerve. The mans grip loosened, so Marc pried the dagger from his grasp. Then plunged the dagger into the mans chest. The man grunted, shuddered, then exhaled his last breath.
Marc stood up and got a good look at the man. The dead mans features were entirely average. Too average. One would never be able to pick him out of a line up. Something about him just made a non-impression on ones mind. The jaw, the mouth, the nose, everything. Even the mans eyes kept a look of calm determination despite his death.
"The hells just happened?" Marc mumbled to himself.
Marc then moved on quickly; best not to be staring at ones murder victim in broad daylight. He disappeared into an alley. A minute passed before someone found the corpse on the bench.
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The alleyways smelled even worse than the streets. One could feel a curtain of almost physical stench as they entered an alley. Marcs face was crinkled as he walked through it. With the streets at least every once in a while someone would make a half assed effort to clean some of the streets; the important ones. Maybe the rain would occasionally drain some of the filth into the bay. The alleyways were completely different. No one cared. Filth piles into nauseating heaps as the forgotten trash rots. One has trouble discerning a corpse from a live citizen.
Marc saw, in some random heap, a severed hand. It was a left hand; missing it's ring finger. This is where the true crimes happen. In the bowels of a festering city. This is where he will fight, and bleed, and bring his God's pale light. The blinding light of Khonshu will burn away the evil in the night, but now he must prepare for the first night.
With that thought Marc knew that he was right in coming to Kings Landing. Marc then set out to return to his inn. He weaved a path through the tangled heap of roads and alleys, while observing the city that he was going to save. He smiled to himself at the righteous thought.
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The moon was in the night sky. It was in a waxing crescent; cradling the night sky. Half of the city was sleeping the other half was awake. Guardsmen patrolled the safer streets, and stood watch over their paying customers like paladins at a citadel; none dared to venture into the deeper darkness.
Where debaucheries occurred. The impoverished maidens screams will go unanswered by the cities protectors. They stand by and reason that their wages don't cover dying. The thieves steal what little others have to feed their own. The mercenaries pay didn't cover the brothels fee, so now he takes it out on some unlucky women; his mind is too hazed by alcohol to care who or what it is, as long as he is satisfied.
A gleam reflects from a rooftop. A shadow descends from above. Spikes of steel pierce into the flesh of a rapists face. The metal gauntlet continues its path across the villains face. Bone crunched and caved in, soon followed by the spikes digging gouges as they exit.
The rapist collapsed onto the ground. The left side of his forehead was a bloody crater. Below the crater hung his left eye by the optic nerve. The top half of his eye socket, and a part of his face, was on the ground, next to his victim. His body gave a few twitches, but he was dead. The force of the impact had broken his neck.
Marcs arm throbbed in pain. Even with his gauntlet on that hurt, but the pain was secondary to his mission. The steel of his gauntlet resonated painfully for a few seconds from the blow; it was warped slightly.
The girl was silent. She stared up at him with vacant eyes. Her skin was pale, and drying tears were on her face. Marc wished at that moment that she was struck dumb by his presence; the heroic deed that he had done. His armor shinning in the moonlight. The plates and mail rings reflecting the light of a savior. She was dead. A pool of blood bloomed from her open neck. The dead rapist had a bloodied knife in his hand.
Marc stared at her corpse for a while. Her vacant eyes stared through him; boring into his soul. Her features are so gentile. To think that one such as her would die in such a fashion as this was infuriating to Marc. She was too young to die. Probably wasn't even married yet. She could have had a good life. She should have had a good life.
She could have had a family. A husband that loved her. Some children to cherish. Now she is dead. Some random guy didn't feel like hiring a whore. He wanted to save some money. No one would care. He also decided to "save" her from possibly having his bastard so he slit her throat, and Marc didn't save her in time. That future that she could have had crumbles to dust. Her family will probably never find her, see her again. Marc failed.
He was to late, again. He failed, again. Now this woman is dead just like Marlene. Dead, out their in the desert under some dune. Dead. Forgotten. He wasn't good enough. Marc punched the wall while growling in frustration. Each punch left dents in the wooden beam, and made it shake from his force.
Marc stormed out of the alley, body quaking with rage. He wandered the streets for a few minutes. Looking for the next criminal. He found his criminals. Three of them; it looked like a simple mugging. A fat merchant was caught out after "curfew" by some assholes with falchions and daggers. Marc smiled under his mask.
The merchant tried to give them some of his money, but they wanted it all. Tensions were rising. The merchant had his back against a wall. One mugger to each side and one directly in front of him. The muggers were covered in rags, but they had a killer gleam in their eyes. One could see that the only reason that they haven't gutted the merchant yet was out of some sick joke. The darkness obscured the half rotten teeth in their predatory smiles.
Marc didn't listen to their negotiations and intimidations; all he cared about was what he was about to do to them.
The center mugger went out cold to a gauntlet to the jaw. Marc charged forward toward the right mugger. The right mugger made a wild swing with his falchion. Marc rushed up to the right mugger and grabbed the muggers descending wrist. Marc then palm struck upwards into the muggers elbow while his other hand pulled the muggers wrist downwards. The right muggers arm snapped like a twig while he screamed in pain.
Marc was reminded of the left mugger when a falchion struck his shoulder. Thanks to his plate the sword just slid off leaving a bruise.
. Marc snatched the falchion out of the right muggers grip. The muggers broken arm made it an easy task
The left mugger lunged forward with a stab aimed at Marcs face. Marc quickly parried the stab. Marcs parry didn't stop the muggers forward momentum only redirected it to the left of his head; leading the mugger to overextend himself. The mugger was not very good at sword fighting Marc noticed. Anyone with at least some kind of grasp on the fundamentals would not have overextended themselves in such a way. Marc reminds himself that not every criminal will be a sword master as his stolen blade slices into the muggers neck.
The blade hacks most of the way through the criminals neck, but gets stuck in the last bit of tendons and ligaments on the way through. The force of the blow toppled the muggers mostly severed head. Blood shot out of the stump like a geyser. The body crumples to the ground with the loose head flopping around. The criminals face twitched and moved before freezing.
With the left mugger dead, marc turned his attention back to the right one. The last standing criminal, like any sane person, turned and ran.
Marc seeing this threw his stolen falchion at the criminal. The falchion embedded itself into the muggers back; between the shoulder blades. The muggers legs went limp, and he flung forward, arms flailing, to the ground.
Marc pounces on the fallen mugger, pulling his sword from the criminals back, then ending the mugger by splitting the back of the criminals head open with his sword.
The carnage was over. Marcs mind snapped to a calmer state. He could feel his right hand throbbing now. It still hurt from when he crushed that rapists head. He was breathing heavily. He was still crouched over his latest kill, so he stood up. Marc dropped the muggers falchion, and noticed that his right hand was shaking.
Marc turned to the merchant that he had just saved. The merchant had gotten sprayed a little when Marc partially decapitated one of the muggers, but otherwise didn't look too roughed up. His face held a strange surprised expression. Like he was still deciding whether to be pleasantly or unpleasantly surprised. Marc on the other hand was covered in blood. The blood contrasted heavily with his white garb. Every drop of blood was seen on his cloak.
Marc and the merchant shared glances with each other and the freshly made corpses. Marc then broke the silence by saying "have a nice night." The merchant just turned and quickly walked away hoping that he was just having a strange dream, and to lay off the shellfish.
Marc just got back to work. Pulling his knife out he crouched over the unconscious mugger. He briefly reflected on how some people could be so ungrateful sometimes as he jammed the knife into the muggers heart. The unconscious mugger shuttered, exhaled, and then died.
The night was still young so Marc cleaned his knife off before sheathing it. Then he resumed his patrol
It wasn't long before Marc heard a distant cry for help. Under his mask Marc smiled again; his first night was shaping up to be an eventful one.
[Author's note]
And that's a wrap. Sorry for taking so long I was working on two other stories simultaneously with this one. One of the other ones is almost done so you should see it soon. Anyway if you're wondering why Marc is so violent in this story. Well he is pretty violent in just about every incarnation of him, but this is Westeros, it's pretty fucking violent. Plus this Marc was raised in Westeros. He doesn't hold many qualms about murder.
See you again soon
, Neutral-Man.