Song mainly used: "Odyssey", KoopD with Shay
Malwyn I
He woke up at dawn, as usual, straw sticking on his clothes, and on his bandage. Ringing in his ears disturbed him, such as the images that were stuck in his mind of the recent massacre, mixed with the event of the Great War. Darkness and chaos, screams in the night that diminished little by little to let a terrific silence in. Faces with fear in their eyes, their mouths. Blood running through skin, dripping on the floor.
He had been in Winterfell, then, with the other men. Men he had known all his life. Edwin, great archer, who had taught him to play with the bow and the arrow. Jan who he had been running errands with when he was a young fool (well, younger than he was now). Finn, with always a joke in mind and playing the lute like no one else. Rickard, who always said aye to everything, without really thinking about it. Denys, who couldn't hold a feather properly without breaking it but who could swing the lance expertly. Eddy, who was always whoring around as if it was some sport. Reagan, a distant shadow, always looking at him and his mother with hostility. Darren, who could sometimes stop to bring his mother some flowers, pat him on the head when he saw him behind her skirt, and bring him pastries when he was a boy. As if a boy couldn't comprehend such things.
And then, there was Larence. Larence Hornwood, born Snow as him, but who was chosen by the King in The North, when he had been named, to take back the lands of his father. Wise, kind Larence Hornwood. Brave when needed, always attentive to the need of the people. And his closest friend too. They discussed every plan and trusted each other to have the other's back, like brothers would.
Larence had been so alike the King, in fact.
The King in the North, born a bastard as himself, who raised and raised, until he was at the top. Spited in the Night Watch as steward, then named Lord Commander after having disappeared mysteriously. Who then let Wildlings in to protect them against the White Walkers.
A contestable choice, but Malwyn, despite his hatred of one Wildling in particular, couldn't blame it on them. In fact, it made him respect the man even more. A man who cared so desperately about the livings that he welcomed wildlings on the other side of the Wall and inspired them to fight for him, at the Battle of Bastards, then at the Great War.
Larence and Malwyn admired him, revered him. He was the hope that they did not have to stay only bastards all their lives. In him, they found confidence in their destiny. He wouldn't be only the "poor young Malwyn Snow", whose mother died in front of him, and who was raised by soldiers who did not understand a child's needs.
But then, the King was no longer King. He had bent the knee to her. The mad Queen.
Good ones never seemed to stay good too long, he thought.
An image of the woman came in his mind. Her beautiful silver hair floating lightly behind her despite its thick and intricated braids. And eyes, deep purple eyes, with such a spark of melancholia in them. A mouth that opened only a little, but with a strong albeit soft voice. As the others, he had looked at her with suspicion and hostility, that foreign queen coming with her armies of strangers and criminals. And dragons. Two ferocious monsters that breathed fire and ate tremendous food that the North needed.
How could the King bend the knee to that terrific woman? He had asked himself the question.
He couldn't understand at the time, having never loved.
But then the monsters defended them against the dead, and he couldn't have been more thankful.
Then came Reina, a dream in the aftermath of the fight, dancing in the snow as if yesterday had just been another day under the sunshine.
Hair the color of honey and tender brown eyes that followed him with such a love. Born a nobody, like him, but raised as queen. She was loved, admired by all. And when she sang, his heart would beat fast. And boy, she could laugh. She was saucy and could break any man.
She did not break him. But she stole him. And after that, he had never wanted to leave her side.
He had almost forgot, then. About the man who killed his mother. The man he saw again then, in Winterfell, when the Great War began. The man with flaming hair and blue eyes, and furs enveloping him as if it was a second skin. He was the same as he saw
him last time, as a little boy. As if ten years hadn't taken their hold on him.
He could not kill him that time. Not yet.
He had promised himself to Reina that night, before leaving to King's Landing. He had said he would bend the knee ten times over if only he could have her in his arms. She had laughed at him then, telling him to stop. That it was impossible.
And it was. After this Great War came another and he had to follow the others.
He shouldn't have, for all it had been worth it. The queen that he had begun to admire turned mad, leaving a burning city and corpses behind her and his hero was dishonored and exiled.
And because when he and Larence returned, only their friends' sorry faces were waiting for them.
Reina had been married in the South, he learned. Some knight serving the Mad Queen, and who now was loyal to king Bran.
Some unknown knight that still lived, and who took her away from him.
"You'll get over it, boy" they all said. And, to his own surprise, he almost did.
Women, he had had some after Reina. But he never really forgot. She was here, somewhere. Maybe waiting for him, who knew. She swore she would never think of a man the same as she did him. Even if she was forced to marry, she said. She swore.
Now, there was only Jan, bitter as an old man. Rickard was still a fool, but a weak fool. Denys had lost his fighting hand. Eddy had added drinking to whoring, and it seemed sometimes he couldn't think clearly. And Darren, who still saw him as a boy, and couldn't help but defend him, as if he was a puppy. He was no dog, nor wolf.
There was also Reagan, of course. But Reagan never seemed to warm up to him. Not that he cared. Since he was a boy, that man was always looking at him with spite and hatred, as if him being born was an insult to the world.
After whole months at trying to rebuild Hornwood, feeding and motivating the men, women and children that had survived the late Ramsey Bolton and his men, and then the Great War, Larence had found it was time to renew their allegiance to the Queen. He believed in her, Malwyn had seen it. He saw his eyes sparkled when they put the crown on her head.
And then, Larence was left alone to fight and die. And he couldn't fight alongside him. He couldn't even protect the ones he wanted to save. He could still hear their scream in his head.
How was he still alive? Why did they let him?
That question remained unanswered and made him uneasy.
He had almost believed in it.
But then his closest friend died, and so his plans with him.
He had no one else to look up to.
Sansa Stark may be the queen in the north, he thought. But he did not recognize any king or queen anymore. He was a bastard, a Snow. His lord was dead, and so was his vow of fealty. No more would he care for the realm, or the ones that pretend to be its
master.
No one deserved it.
Especially not that man. Ser Harrold Hardyng.
He was up to no good, he thought. His gallantries to the queen were sickly to watch. At least to him. He could see some girls swoon, and he could also see the gaze of this man on them.
Sansa Stark did not seem to care that much. She responded to his advances quietly, her mouth only opening slightly. Sometimes, her remarks would provoke a roar of laughter on Harrold Hardyng.
They seemed to be a match made in heaven. The Queen and her Knight. Both seemingly representing the very pictures of these concepts.
He couldn't tell the feelings of that young queen. At least, they seemed to get along, Malwyn thought. At least, they seemed to have objectives in common.
He prepared his horse, added his bag to the charge. He would have to leave that damn city soon, he thought. They had alerted that queen, now that duty ended.
He could hear swords clinging to one another, and gasps of the trainees. In another time, it had been him, with Larence, or Jan.
"You seem pensive, Malwyn Snow" said a clear voice behind him.
The queen.
He bowed, but said nothing. He couldn't. How could he tell that queen that he never knew, who he only saw three times before Larence's death, what he was thinking about?
The first when he managed to sneak around, with Larence, at a great fest organized by her father Eddard Stark. She was a pretty thing then, with a sweet smile. She did not look at him once.
The second time, she was older, and she was with her half brother the king – former king, mind - , asking for help to win back Winterfell.
The third time, they actually stayed in that castle, during the longest night he had ever known.
He hadn't been at the coronation. He couldn't at the time. But Larence told him. And it had been obvious from the start that his lord was really enamored with her.
"Talk to your queen, boy," Harrold Hardyng snarled, behind her.
Malwyn looked up at him. He was taller than him. Taller than even the queen. But still, he couldn't inspire him respect.
"Oh but maybe Malwyn SNOW had had his tongue cut this morning." She replied with cold gallantry.
"No, your Grace," he said reluctantly. "My tongue is fine. I'm leaving at the instant."
Harry the heir took a few steps forwards, his face turning red and his eyes glaring.
"The insolent!" he snarled.
His hand almost reached his sword, fury rushing through his veins, but then Sansa Stark stopped him.
"I thank you, ser, for your chivalry." She said with an even voice. "But he is one of my people. I believe I can handle, even the lowest ones."
Harrold grinded his teeth, but he bowed nonetheless. Malwyn couldn't help the rage growling at his stomach.
'Lowest'. He had been called worse. But that did not mean it did not sting the less.
But it seemed that Harrold was satisfied with it. He left them, but the queen's guards didn't.
As Malwyn was about to go, Sansa Stark took his arm.
"I remember you fought with us at the Great War." She said. You were brave."
No she didn't. He could see that. How could she? He had been a man among the others. But he was a bit awed to see that she would condescend to talk to him. In another life, it would have been enough for him to swear his fealty to her.
But that life was over.
"Aye." Brave he was. Fool too.
"You have been a friend of lord Larence Hornwood, as I recall." She said.
He froze, then nodded.
"I did not know Larence Hornwood very well, but I was very sorry for his loss." She said. "He was a brave man. He will be sorely missed."
His throat felt like somebody was strangling him.
"He was." He managed to answer. "He will."
She took a step closer to him.
"Now, you will have the opportunity to avenge him. Your lord, your friend."
Pretty words. But pretty words wouldn't bring all that had been lost. And it wasn't only Larence. She did not know what he wanted.
"I'm still a bastard." He said. "Title or no."
She blinked a little, but continued. A hint of sadness glinted through her eyelashes.
"Yes you are," She said. "My… the former king in the North, was too. In the end, does it really matter, when it comes to honor?"
She left him with that question unanswered.
He looked as she left.
She was beautiful, that queen, with her red hair and clear blue eyes. But she was so cold. Her gaze could freeze him and made him think she could read through him, like some book.
But she couldn't. He was no book for her to read.
As for her voice, how unlike Reina's it was. If Reason had a voice, he thought, it would be hers. Cold, hard and clear. He had heard that when she was young, she could sing pretty songs, and that she was exactly what was expected of a fair maiden. Polite,
gracious and courteous.
He had not seen that, bastard as he was. And he did not really care. Reina's was joy and sunshine all the same, tender even at its edges, but teasing him like the flipping candle he used as he tried to read at nights in his room. She always wanted him to catch
her…
If only he could find her, he thought. She was certainly the only light in this world, now.
He met the other men at the gate, and silently, they rode the road towards Hornwood. But when they arrived at crossroads, and they turned left, he turned his horse right.
They almost did not remark it. He had been behind, as he had always been. And until then, he had always followed them.
But then, they remarked it.
"Boy, aren't we supposed to investigate what happened at Pearlsnow?" Darren said, with a tired voice.
"I don't care what you bloody do." Malwyn retorted. "Too many of us are dead now. I believed the time for bravery has passed with Larence."
Darren shut his mouth. But Jan rode back towards him, fury in his eyes. He managed to catch his arms, and Malwyn had no choice but to look at him.
"At least, go to the village, Mal'." Jan insisted. "For Larence's memory"
He didn't want to. He couldn't. Tears almost threatened to fall from his eyes at the thought.
What would he find in there? Only chaos and desolation. And the body of his friend, butchered by savages he did not really know.
"Do you think he would like it?" Jan hissed. "Everyone parting on their own way, his body rotting, his legacy being brought to nothing because nobody cared enough for it?"
Malwyn glared. But then guilt reached him, and it wouldn't let him go.
"Fine. But once it's done, I'm gone."
He would just go to Pealsnow, near that damn White Knife. He would look, bury his friend and leave. He had enough of all this snow. Of all these traitors. If he stayed longer, he believed, he would become exactly like them.
He went left, and the other men sighed with relief. But that relief, who made their two-days journey a rather peaceful one, turned to crisps by the time they saw the village.
Smoke had enveloped it, but it couldn't hide the blood that was tainting the walls. And the lifeless bodies, men, women, children. Butchered all the same. It hadn't been a fair fight. It had been a massacre.
But whose massacre, Malwyn Snow wondered. Was it really Wildlings?
A doubt settled in his mind. He had been sure, then.
But as he saw the burned houses, the bodies with blood all around them, he was reminded of other images, and it left him breathless, almost as powerless as the little boy he had been then.
Silent surrounded them now, as it always did after a battle. But this was no battle.
He remembered the last minutes. Laurence telling him to get to the house, and set the children that were screaming in there free. He would go to the maester's house and save him so that he could help heal them all.
Guess he did not made it to that house. Malwyn, with an hesitant step, came towards it and entered it.
He stopped.
He had imagined it all nights, what he would see. But that wasn't it.
Because what he found was Larence's sword. Blood on the blade, but not on the handle.
And the maester at the end of it.
There was no body. Nothing. When others, warriors or small folks had all been left to rot.
Could it be?
But why?
He couldn't help but hope. But doubt was the bitterest thing.
Larence wouldn't have done that. But where was he? Where was his body?
Damn it, he thought. He'd have to take that mission, after all.
Maybe it would lead him to discover what really happened to his friend.