A/N: All characters belong to GRRM.
Chapter 9: The Novice II
The novice slowly rubbed soap into his hands. He fastidiously picked under each fingernail, targeting the dirt embedded deep beneath his short nails. Once clean, he knew he could delay dinner no longer and poured cold water over his hands to rinse the soap away. It was done too soon and he glanced at his simple cane.
Some days he accepted his fate; he would be a brother here on the Quiet Isle for the rest of his life. On those days, he hobbled about with the aid of his wooden cane. His mental commentary consisted of compliments to the chef for the warm bread and butter, or amusing comments to the brothers' silent behavior. Gratitude for acceptance and shelter. He would go to bed exhausted from a day of hard labor, and fervently wish he could believe as the brothers did; that the gods existed and had a plan for him.
Other days were more difficult, and he carried a spark of resentment at his self-banishment. On those days his mind developed never-spoken insults at the piety of his brothers. Their sure belief that the gods' plans included such destruction and death that Westeros had experienced in the past years. Or that a little boy could be burned by his brother. Or that a little sister could be so easily killed by her monstrous sibling. Or that a young girl could be forced to watch her father's head be separated from his body by his own sword and then marry the uncle of the man who ordered it. On those days he preferred to stubbornly limp about the isle without the help of his cane. He would lie on his straw mattress for hours, fighting sleep, wishing he could erase his memories. He never could.
Instead his mind dwelled on ifs.
If only he had been older when his sister confided to him that their brother was abusing her. He shouldn't have been surprised; Gregor had abused him for years, why should he have thought a weak girl should escape the torment? Had he been older, better trained with the sword, perhaps he could have saved her. Instead, he fought, lost, and ran off, tail tucked between his legs to the safety of the Clegane masters, the Lannisters.
He hadn't even been a loyal dog. How could he be, when he knew nothing and no one was sacred and immune to abuse by the people in power? He had always managed to feign indifference with a crude jape when a Lannister did something cruel. It was, as he had told the little bird, just the way the world worked. The weak were simply toys for the powerful. So he made sure he was stronger than most.
He hated thinking about the little bird. She had become his paragon of the pain he suffered. She was just a pretty little girl highborn girl, taught to chirp her polite words. So like his sister in shyness. And in return for behaving exactly as society dictated, she had to suffer needlessly. Just like his poor little sister. When her feathers were ruffled and she fought back verbally it was acceptable for the king's personal guard to hit her and never question it. Just like Gregor and his sister.
Yet watching it replay a second time, as a grown adult, he still didn't act as he should have. Mayhaps a child hound couldn't defeat a grown mountain, but an adult hound certainly could have defeated a lion cub. But he hadn't. Sure, he may have whispered words of encouragement to the little bird, did his best to scare some sense into her, but he did nothing to stop the abuse. He ran instead.
She had been such a pretty child. Over half a year has passed since he saw her last; she had probably blossomed into a beautiful young woman. A blossom plucked, used, and disposed of, like as not. She had disappeared months ago. He doubted she had the resources or friends to be saved. She certainly couldn't wield a sword like her little she-wolf sibling. She was most likely dead. He didn't save her anymore than he had saved his own sister. She was probably better off dead, anyway. It seemed as though there was nothing but pain in this world. He wondered how long that wench with the Imp's squire would fruitlessly hunt for her before giving her up for dead.
On nights like that, where he relived his worst moments, he avoided closing his eyes. He was fearful his dreams would be of fire. The jade-colored wildfire, the bright hot sword of Dondarrion, his face in the brazier. On nights like that he wished he had died saving someone of worth rather than being an exile on a small island.
Yet the nights always passed, and day inevitably brought a new reason to live: a horse to train, a hole to dig, foods to harvest, anything to occupy his time. And during his time on the island the days full of nightmares diminished. Initially they had consumed his weeks. Then one day he realized he hadn't thought of his personal failures at all the day before. Relief he was forgetting was quickly replaced with fear and disgust he was forgetting. But gradually he healed, and soon a single day of reprise was replaced by two in a row. Slowly the numbers of days filled with nightmares were outnumbered by more peaceful days. Slowly the normal became not the horror-filled days, but the days where he wasn't thinking of his past. Mayhaps he had a chance for happiness after all.
Today he had been in one of his anxious moods. It was the first in several days, and he knew the cause. Those blue eyes on the man he found by the Trident earlier in the morning. He had left him and signaled the Elder Brother to go back and help. At times such as that, where he could have said in words what was needed to be done, yet instead he had been forced to whistle and wave his arms to make the Elder Brother understand, his brotherhood seemed to border on ridiculous. Would it really ruin his piety to have said it in words rather than arm signals?
Those blue eyes started his downward slide, but the obnoxiousness of not talking sealed it. If they are so close to the gods the gods should have just dumped him in the river so the Elder Brother could see him without the handwaving. Just more evidence their gods were cruel and made an otherwise intelligent man look silly. Yet he still wished he could fully believe⦠he'd be happier then.
Sighing, the novice slowly dried his hands on a simple cloth and left the cloisters to limp his way to dinner. He guessed the blue-eyed man would be a guest tonight, and it put him on edge, reminded him of memories he'd rather forget.
He arrived late to the common hall in the septry and waited silently until the prayer finished. He then walked across the room to slide onto the end of a bench at the third trestle table, making certain he faced the wall and not the table where guests commonly were placed. A young novice filled his cup with mead and he drank deeply to settle his stomach. He focused on his food, ignoring the melody of the harp, and enjoyed his fish the best he could. Brother Narbert started reading from the Warrior's Book in The Seven-Pointed Star and he knew it was his cue to begin working. He sighed and wrapped his length of wool back around his lower face.
This was his week to clear supper and he rose reluctantly to begin his task. It was always difficult to stand from the bench and the brothers graciously left the end of the long wooden bench empty for him, so that he would have a less difficult time rising. Either that, or they feared him, but he doubted brothers would fear one who hobbled such as he.
He shuffled to the kitchen for the large wooden basin used to clear the tables. Once retrieved, he returned to the hall to collect dishes. Much to his anger, the other novices had already taken the common tables and left the novice to clear the table occupied by the Elder Brother and his blue-eyed guest. He paused, but slowly made his way to clear their table. The readings were just finishing and as Brother Narbert's voice quieted, he inadvertently overheard parts of the Elder Brother's and the blue-eyed man's conversation.
"Littlefinger held the Vale for months. I don't know whether to trust him. I liked him enough as a child, he was bright, but I never learned why Hoster had him banished. We never much interacted whilst I was at the Bloody Gate and he was in charge of customs at Gulltown. Yet I know he held Lysa dear, and I did leave my brother to serve her. Perchance he will help."
The novice couldn't help himself; his hand paused above an empty bread dish as he stopped to listen. He didn't trust Littlefinger. Hounds can sniff out a lie and that little man was nothing but slick words and overpriced brothels. He had tried one, once, after he had won his purse of gold in the Hand's Tourney, and was disgusted to find the Stark's steward's whelp strutting about common room. He had left without any services and went to a winesink instead. That isn't to say he didn't continue to visit whores. He just made sure to stay clear of any employed by Baelish. He'd wager that man had more webs than Varys.
Whilst in King's Landing, Littlefinger had told anyone who was unfortunate enough to be listening that he had bedded both Tully girls. Well, certainly he had never deigned to tell a Clegane, but nonetheless he had still heard the rumor. If he had started those rumors early enough, the novice had a pretty good idea why he was removed from the Tully household. A mockingbird was the perfect sigil for the man who pretended to be a lord.
The Elder Brother slowly shook his head and said, "I know little of Lord Baelish, only that it was said the Lord Declarants of the Vale wished to remove him from his position as Lord Protector. He is our new Lord Paramount of the Riverlands but has not offered as much as a raven in recognition to our little isle." The Elder Brother chance looked up at that moment and the novice realized he had been caught eavesdropping. He quickly removed their remaining dishes, refusing to make eye contact with the Elder Brother, and limped back to the kitchen.
The other novices had already arrived, as they had not been wasting time stealing snippets of others' conversations. One of the young novices with two good legs had started boiling water to clean the plates and handed him a jug of hot water to rinse the dishes. As he methodically wiped the plates with soap and a strip of cotton, his mind drifted to the conversation he had overheard.
His education as a child had been wanting; it was hard to study when you had an older brother who would knock you unconscious if you answered a question correctly. For as long as he could remember, his childhood dream had to be a knight, and he dedicated most of his waking hours to sword play rather than learning the family crests and mottos of Westeros. Of course, that dream had died when he discovered that knights didn't actually protect the weak and instead attacked them.
Regardless, he had heard enough to determine this man must be the Blackfish, Brynden Tully. No wonder he recognized those blue eyes. It looked like the Lannisters were still screwing things up; he had heard Jamie Lannister had ended the siege at Riverrun, but clearly a fish or two had slipped away downriver. The crown may want them both, but he doubted that would warm the Blackfish to his own dark identity.
The novice felt the chafed by his inability to talk. The Hound would have had a witty comment on hand and made Tully laugh if questioned about Littlefinger. Instead, the novice had bowed his head and left. How could he prove he didn't rape the Saltpans if he couldn't even speak to his own defense? It doesn't matter, he reminded himself. Everyone I care for is gone, and I'm staying here for the rest of my life and the Hound is dead, anyway. If only he could fully believe that.
He finished washing the dishes and retired to the cloisters to sleep. He lowered his body onto his straw mattress and settled himself in for a long night of nightmares.
The next morning he felt frustrated. He had thought he was healing, forgetting his past and accepting his new way of life. Yet yesterday, despite being a fairly insignificant day, somehow was a turning point and he knew he would never be able to fully accept the brotherhood's way of life. Hounds bark and run and he was muzzled and chained to an island. He couldn't be happy here.
He was in no way planning to tell this to the Elder Brother; just because he realized he wasn't destined to be a brother didn't mean he wasn't going to fight his intuition and try his best to assimilate. Winter was coming, after all, and he needed to be better prepared than the unfortunate Starks if he wanted to survive it. Dogs can adjust to anything. He could certainly stand to stay silent for a few years if that is what is required to pass the winter.
A/N: This is fairly boring, but I imagine that life on the Quiet Island is fairly boring⦠so I guess that is appropriate.
