Rowan

The life of a mercenary was an interesting one. For the past six years, Rowan had served alongside his brother in the Fort. He practically grew up there, all his defining moments happened in the Fort. Now the Fort was no more.

Rowan tried to recall who owned the Fort, but could not. The names of the Myrish lords and ladies were difficult to recall with a clear head, so how could he ever recall them now when his head feels like a cracked egg.

Reynold was gone.

The sad truth sunk in like a Dothraki Scimitar. Rowan started to grow aware of his surroundings again, the pain in his heart pushed out the fogginess and sharpened his thoughts. He could smell smoke, acrid and potent and nearby. The Fort was still burning.

Rowan opened his eyes to a grey world. Burned out tree stumps surrounded him, their trunks still flaky and charred from the heat of the fire that had consumed them. The smell was not of the burning Fort but of the forest. Alone in a dead place, Rowan looked around, trying to find any signs of life, but none revealed themselves. The ground on which he had laid was marked by his figure, he must have been here for a long time to make such a mark on hard ground.

Instinctively, Rowan's hand went to his waist, groping for the reassuring hilt of his sword, but is was not there. He looked down to find himself stripped to the loincloth. How did I not feel my own nakedness? I am losing my senses! Rowan started walking into the charred forest, barefoot and vulnerable as a newborn infant.

A few steps in and he stumbled on his own feet and fell. How embarrassing, and I thought myself an aspiring Braavo! Picking himself up again, Rowan trudged along on the cracked, hard ground of the forest. He leaned on the tree stumps every now and then when the nausea was unbearable. Eventually, he could no longer walk, his legs felt like jelly underneath him, with no strength to hold up his emaciated frame.

How did it come to this? Rowan tried to recall the sequence of events that led to him being here in the middle of an unknown and recently charred forest, weak and naked. He could not. The last thing that came to his mind was rushing down into the Fort's eastern wall, into the ammunitions cellar. He remembered moving some crates in a rush as the screams and grunts of battle bellowed above him. He remembered opening the hidden trapdoor and crawling first under hard stone, then under soft, unstable earth. Each move made the sounds hollower. Each move made him further from his brother. Each move brought tears to his eyes.

Then what?! Rowan put his fingers on his forehead while he rested his back on a tree stump. Focus! Remember! But he could not.

Night came and the black owls started their morbid hooting song. So I am still in Myr. The owls only live here. A cold eastern breeze blew over him, causing him to shiver and tremble violently. I will die of exposure. Rowan Reyne, the last of the great house of Reyne, killed by the damn cold! He had to protect himself, he had to live. Maybe the hope that Reynold is still alive is minute, but it exists and Rowan must hold onto it until his last breath.

Rowan stood up again and began walking. The movement will stave off some of the cold, but if that eastern wind starts blowing constantly, then no amount of running will ever stave off the cold. He had to find shelter and clothing. Someone must be living in these forests. The Myrish woodcutters had their huts in the forest, maybe he could find one and beg for hospitality.

The prospect of warm broth and a fire pushed him on, despite the weakness of his legs and the biting cold. Step after step after step, Rowan was walking towards his destiny. He stumbled and fell several times, he cried out in pain and desperation, but he never gave up. My claws are long and sharp as yours, as long and sharp as yours! He thought to himself as he struggled on. He will survive, he will find Reynold or avenge him, there was no other choice.

Finally, near the end of the night, a faint light revealed itself in the distance at the base of some heavily wooded hills. I must be near Lorath, these hills form a natural border between the two Free Cities. The light renewed his hope and gave him energy. He walked, and every time the wind would blow, he would tremble like an old man sneezing. As he moved, Rowan noticed that the trees were leafy again and no longer burned out stumps. He had left the dead land behind him and was walking towards the living.

The hut was now only several feet away, but Rowan had reached the end of his powers. He collapsed on the soft, grassy ground, leaving his destiny in the hands of the gods.

Maester Akis

The ruins of the old castle had not changed much in the past two decades. Maester Akis noticed much more ivy on the cracked stone walls, more pieces had fallen onto the bare ground in front of the castle. The holes that Lord Tywin's trebuchets had left seem to have become enlarged. But the smell was the same. It was not the smell of death, no, Lord Tywin had all the bodies and the blood cleaned out after he was done demonstrating with them. It was the smell of despair, of broken hopes and shattered dreams.

"Castamere, look at how crappy this place is. No wonder it was given to someone as low as Rolph Spicer." Lord Steffard sneered distastefully. "Time to start cleaning up. We need this place up and running before the next war breaks out!"

This is going to be a long night, thought the Maester.

This is a really short chapter (by my standards), but I am currently doing AS Levels and have absolutely no time to update this. Maybe in December after my mocks.

Sorry :(