A/N: We're wrapping up the Boltons and the Bloody Mummers, so the same warnings apply. There will be mentions/references to rape, torture, and some depictions of violence and other gory/nasty stuff. It will be throughout, so keep that in mind when reading any scene in this chapter.
Our Blades Are Sharp
By Spectre4hire
59: Though All Men Do Despise Us
The Maester:
It's a shorter walk than I expected, he was relieved at that. Looking back he saw where the thirteen prisoners were nailed to crosses, languishing from northern justice. Ahead of him, and where he was heading was where the Heir to the Dreadfort had put up his tent.
Despite the short distance, he felt himself short of breath. He stopped, leaning on his newly acquired cane. He was thankful when no further pain followed. It was unpredictable in its arrival, or how long it lasted, but when it struck, it hurt worse than anything he ever felt.
Like I'm being eaten alive from the inside, the image that conjured was enough for him to shudder. It was not just the body that this ailment attacked. It was also the mind. So far he had been spared any of those inflictions.
When that day comes, I'll be ready. He patted a pocket within the folds of his grey robes. There, he kept a small vial of sweetsleep. Uthor knew enough about his condition to know that he would recover from at least one slip. When he did, that was when he'd take the poison.
May it be for some time. May I see Lord Domeric wed. He prayed. If he was more foolish, he'd pray to see their firstborn, but he knew he did not have that sort of time left. To see the young man marry will be reward enough.
My legacy to the Dreadfort. He had been the one to suggest the match to the Lord of the Dreadfort. He could end his days and rest knowing he did his services faithfully and with all of his ability to the Boltons of the Dreadfort.
I have served. He leaned on his cane as the Bolton tent neared. I have served well.
His only real regret was that he could not see the fruits of his labor truly grow and blossom. I must be content with planting the seeds.
Uthor knew that Lord Domeric and his lady wife would do great things.
He's a good man who can make the hard choices. Uthor paid close attention to the Bolton soldiers they traveled with. He walked amongst them, healed them, and camped with them.
They respect him, Uthor was hearing it time and time again from the Bolton men. That respect would return with the men when they went home. They'd tell their families and the others that Lord Bolton's heir would see justice done. That he'd protect his people from any threat that dared encroach on their lands.
His thoughts on the young lord and his men were stopped when he reached the former's tent. The guards on duty, nodded, and the one on the left opened the flap for him.
"Maester Uthor is here, Lord Domeric."
Uthor thanked them, and tried not to hobble when he entered.
Domeric was sitting at a small table. His supper on his plate, and a tankard by his elbow.
"Lord Domeric," Uthor bowed his head. An ache rose in his side and he tightened the grip on his cane. He withheld the grimace that threatened to slip.
"Uthor," Domeric welcomed him, "You may sit. Please help yourself to some ale."
"My thanks," Uthor took the seat across from him. He then poured himself a tankard.
"Have you checked on the men?"
"I have, my lord. They are alive and in a lot of pain."
Domeric's smile seemed to sharpen, shifting from friendly to feral in an instant. "Good."
"I was not their only visitor."
"Oh?"
"Crows."
A few curious birds had ventured first. Their movements were cautious, ready to take flight at a moment's notice. Their pecks had been inquisitive, a nip of their beak to see how the sellswords would react. When the crows only received groans and cries, they helped themselves. Brash and hungry, they landed on the prisoner's bodies, and pecked away at the feast that Lord Domeric had provided for them. Their black feathers were soon speckled with bits of pale skin and blood drops.
"Where's the direwolf?" Uthor did not see the beast lurking or resting about within the tent.
"She's hunting."
"Maester Irwyn would've given his life to be able to see and study such a beast up close."
"It would be a short life if Lady did not like him."
"Indeed." Uthor smiled, "Have you reread his works on the zorse?"
"Of course," Domeric answered, "If I am to tame and ride one, it would be foolish not to read all I can on them."
"So you remember Irwyn's struggles with the beasts?"
"Irwyn's mother wasn't a Ryswell."
"A fair point." Uthor chuckled, he could not fault his confidence. He had never seen a rider half as skilled as Lord Domeric. The future Lord to the Dreadfort took to riding like a fish does to swimming. If anyone could ride or train such an ill tempered beast it would be him.
"Do you think it can survive in the north?"
"I'm not certain," Domeric frowned. "Maester Irwyn writes in great detail of what hardy animals the zorses are. How they can go months or travel many miles without water or further sustenance."
"Maester Irwyn only studied them in Essos. Those winters are not the same as the ones we get in the north."
"No, they're not," Domeric agreed, "My betrothed's family is quick to remind us that Winter is coming." His smile dipped at the thought of potentially losing a mount.
"My apologies, my lord," Uthor saw the reminder of an approaching winter seemed to dull Domeric's enthusiasm at the idea of acquiring a zorse.
"You are fine, Uthor. You speak truths and you're right to remind me of them," Domeric sipped from his tankard. His dark eyes reflective, "First I must get the zorse then I can worry about how to care for it."
"Mayhaps your mother's family will have the answers you seek."
"I was just thinking that myself, Uthor," He nodded, "My aunt and uncles will enjoy seeing it if I am to get one, my grandfather too. A zorse could perhaps endure a winter in the Rills. The best horses in the north come from those stables."
"It would be some sight to see you atop a zorse, my lord."
Domeric chuckled. The sound was as light as parchment. "As much as I enjoy discussing horses and Maester Irwyn's work, I did not send for you for that purpose."
"What do you need of me, my lord?" He would've straightened in his seat, but he feared the pain it would surely inflict on his sore muscles and tired bones.
"I was thinking about the Mummers who are still out there."
"You will find them soon enough. And they will get the same justice as the men before them."
"Not the same." He cut up what was left of his meat on his plate. "I have my own thoughts on how to treat their leader, this Vargo Hoat when I catch him."
"What do you have in mind?" Uthor asked tentatively. The young man's look and tone resembled his father in that moment of contemplation.
"A different punishment, a different death," Domeric said plainly, "painful and one not to be forgotten."
Flaying, the answer came to him so quickly, that he rushed to speak, afraid that such rashness could lead to repercussions: "Flaying is outlawed, Lord Domeric."
Domeric smiled, but his dark eyes did not. "You misunderstand me, Maester. I will not flay him."
He sagged in relief. He sipped from his tankard. "Forgive me, Lord Domeric," he apologized, realizing he may have spoken out of turn or worse insulted him. "I did not mean to-"
"You are not wrong to assume that it was," he paused, "considered." He then picked up his apple and took a bite, a loud crunch followed. "I would be lying if I said differently."
He was glad to see Domeric saw sense and did not give to base temptation. It would be folly to flay them. It would surely have leaked back to Riverrun. And it would lead to problems with the Starks.
"So if you do not intend to flay them than how will Vargo's punishment be more severe than the others?"
"You've always complimented me on my knowledge of my family's history."
"I have, my lord."
"It is to them I looked to," He revealed, "And it was Royce Bolton, who answered, The fourth Red King to carry that name."
"Royce Redarm," Uthor murmured.
"That is right. A name he earned for pulling out the entrails of his prisoners with his bare hands." Domeric finished the apple, putting the core on his empty plate. "It was said afterwards, he'd carry them and place them on the branches of the weirwood trees in the Dreadfort's Godswood, ornaments and offerings for the Old Gods."
"So you will follow his example?"
"Mayhaps," Domeric shrugged.
It was difficult to decipher his pale face and dark eyes. He showed very little, and what he did show, Uthor knew it was done purposefully.
"But I have no plans on taking and burning Winterfell like he did."
"Lord Stark will be relieved." Uthor's attempt at levity was rewarded with a small smile from Lord Domeric. He then slipped out of his seat and moved to a chair by the brazier where his harp had been resting.
The beautifully carved weirwood harp was masterfully crafted, and a piece of art, Uthor had been impressed, the first time he had seen it. A fine replacement for the one that had been so callously destroyed.
A gift from my betrothed, Domeric had told him when he first showed it to him. He was smiling fondly, thinking of the Lady Sansa.
May they rule peacefully. Uthor was pleased he would have such a happy future in the Dreadfort with his wife when his time there as a boy, he was often sad and alone.
Domeric stood, holding it, sampling a few of the chords with a deft touch of his fingers. Satisfied with the sound, he then sat down. "Do you mind, Maester?"
"No, of course not," He had always enjoyed his skill with the harp. It had been a welcomed sound especially within the Dreadfort which could be so unnaturally quiet. Or to drown out the other sounds that occasionally bled out from the bowels of the castle.
"My lord?" The guards voice outside tent broke through Uthor's reverie and Domeric's harp playing.
"Yes?"
"Captain Rylen is here," The guard said. "He says he has a visitor."
"Very well," Domeric did not look upset at the interruption, "I shall see him."
The tent flaps opened to show Captain Rylen and a man whom Uthor remembered being called Bitter Robard walk between an older man. The stranger escorted by the Bolton men looked to have come from the hamlet Lord Domeric had just saved. His clothes were dirty and worn. The older man's eyes moved around the room. A polite smile on his face, but when his eyes met Uthor and then drifted to the links over his grey robes the smile dipped.
Odd, he thought, but mayhaps, expected. Uthor knew the smallfolk were bitter and resented his Order and often believed that the Maesters cared little for them. A misconstrued, but popular stance, that he had seen before.
"He says he has information, my lord," Rylen informed them.
Uthor saw the look of interest that got from Domeric and the old man saw it too and looked pleased.
"Thank you, Rylen, you and Robard will stay," Domeric instructed, but his eyes never left their guest. "You have information on the Bloody Mummers?"
"I do, because I used to ride with them," He bowed his head. "I am Qyburn."
A hiss of steel broke through the reactful silence. Rylen's hand was on the pommel of his sword and had slowly withdrew it from its sheath.
"Stay your hand, Rylen," Domeric ordered calmly. "You are the Mummer's healer."
"I am," Qyburn confirmed, "Or I was."
"That is convenient," Domeric gave a small, brief smile, but his eyes remained cold and dark.
"Before I was a Mummer. I served at the Citadel."
"You're a maester?" Uthor couldn't stop himself from asking.
His mouth twisted, "I was."
"You were stripped of your chain." His guess was confirmed when the man nodded.
Uthor kept in little contact once he left Oldtown for the Dreadfort. He thought it for the best. I gave my vows and I must serve. I belong to the Boltons, the Dreadfort, and the north now, and must be tasked to serve them faithfully. So he severed much of the south to insure that he could properly serve.
"I risked what others would not, including Archmaester Ebrose. They punished me because I dared to tread my own path. I would not chain my curiosities. I was eager to discover and learn through means they thought unseemly."
"Unseemly?" Domeric repeated.
"Yes," his eyes met Domeric's, "the same word some would use to describe your banner and your house, my lord."
"Is this why you sought me out? Is that why you turned your cloak?"
"Once I heard the heir to House Bolton would go after us, I knew the Companions were over."
"You do not look to mourn your men."
"I do not." He shrugged, unremorseful of them or his service to the sellswords. "All I've ever wanted to do was do better, my lord."
"Do better?" Domeric asked quietly, "How does anything to do with the Mummers make you do better?"
"One man's cruelty is another man's justice, Lord Domeric. Were my methods, cruel? Yes. I will not deny that, but they were not born out of malice but necessity for my research. In order to learn the flesh of man, the mortality of our bodies, we must bloody ourselves."
Uthor felt a twinge in his gut at what it was Qyburn was inferring to when it came to his work.
Should I judge him? I no longer serve the Citadel. I serve the Boltons. And the Dreadfort was not a name given as a jape. It earned its name.
Should I not be disgusted by what he did? His service to the Boltons had numbed him somewhat. For nearly twenty years, he lived and served at the Dreadfort, reading, and learning, and teaching of the castle and the Bolton's history. He had do dull his senses and his soul. It was the only way to serve Lord Bolton after everything that was seen, read, and heard...
"And the Maesters did not like that?"
"They did not, my lord. They are grey sheep and did not have the stomach to make those sorts of sacrifices," he spoke plainly, like one would speak of mundane matters.
There is nothing mundane about what he did, Uthor saw the truth behind his vague words, experiments on the living flesh and necromancy, he suspected. Qyburn would not have been the first maester whose curiosity and ambition could not be sated, or controlled by the Citadel.
"It is there loss. I understand the nature of life and death better than any man in Oldtown," His eyes met Uthor's at his boast, as if expecting him to challenge his claim.
Uthor did not. He stayed quiet. His attention was on Lord Domeric. The Heir to the Dreadfort was silent in his studying of the man before them. "My father once told me, not to throw away a good tool just because of where it was found or how it was previously used."
Qyburn smiled at that. "Wise words, my lord."
Domeric did not look to care what the former maester thought on it. "You say you have information about Vargo?"
"I do, my lord. I can lead you to him and the others."
"This could be a trap, my lord," Rylen pointed out.
"It could be," Domeric admitted, "but I will hear what the man has to say."
"And if my words are satisfying? If they lead to your success against the Companions?" Qyburn gently asked, "What assurances do I have?"
Domeric stood from his seat. "None," There was an odd lilt to his voice. "I swore to crucify every sellsword I found." He stepped closer towards Qyburn. "So first we must see if your words bear fruit."
Qyburn stood in his shadow, quick to duck his head. "And if they do, my lord?" Despite his submissive posture, his tone did not lack for confidence.
He stopped just short of the former maester. "Then I will weigh if your services are more rewarding and worth the risk of evading your rightful punishment."
Domeric:
Honor is a poison. His father had warned him of that once. Slow acting, but one that will weaken you in mind, body, and blood.
Father may have wanted a Stark daughter for his son, but he did not want his son to become a Stark. He did not want Domeric to forget who he was and where he came from.
What would Father say of me now? Of the justice I've done to the Mummers.
What does your Father know of justice? A voice whispered inside him. He did nothing while your brother raped and killed your people on your lands.
You did nothing.
Domeric frowned at the cold truth. I did not know felt a hollow excuse. He was to one day rule those lands how could he not know of such disturbances happening on them and against his people.
If I had known. He paused, but the answer came to him quickly. I would've hunted them down just as I'm doing with these Bloody Mummers. I would've brought justice down upon them. I will be no kinslayer, but Ramsay would've been properly dealt with like all the others.
The thought he once wanted to seek out this brother chilled him to his bones. A foolish dream that would have killed me. He had no doubt of that.
My father eventually saw them disbanded and destroyed, my brother included. Pity, I was not there to see it through too.
Domeric pushed away thoughts of his bastard brother and his cohorts of rapers and killers.
He was alone in his tent. He had recently sent off Qyburn with Robard, instructing his trusted man-at-arms to have him watched. While also making sure Qyburn's secret remained between them.
If I hide him is that not my answer of what I should do to him?
He mulled this question over while the melancholy sound of his harp fell over him like a veil.
If he decided to sentence him then Qyburn would be the nineteenth Mummer that Domeric would put to a cross.
Eighteen men I've sentenced and killed, he reflected. We armor ourselves before battle and I armor myself before seeing justice to these men.
To protect himself from doubt. To insure such things do not seep through and corrupt his duty. He would not allow such an infection upon him when he was so close to finishing this. When he was so close to finishing them.
Why should honor be given to them for what they've done to their victims? Why should honor soften their punishment?
This is the right way.
And soon it will be over.
I will return to Riverrun, marry the woman I love. He leaned back in his seat, smiling.
A new song began to play from his harp. One which his betrothed loved, his fingers sensing what his heart desired. The warm, melodious song pushing away the darkness swirling around him. He now saw flickering images of a maiden with thick auburn hair, and eyes as blue as the Weeping Water.
I shall smile and dance and laugh with her.
"My lord?" A timid, but familiar voice broke through his reverie.
"Yes?" Domeric's fingers slowly stopped in their playing. He let the silence speak for him, waiting expectantly for why he had been interrupted.
"I'm sorry to intrude." Colmar bowed his head. "I've seen to your horses and your gear, my lord," he spoke quickly and clumsily afraid of stirring his ire.
"Good," Domeric thought of dismissing him then, but another thought crossed his mind. "Do you know where we are heading after we deal with the Mummers?"
His squire looked surprised at the unexpected question, "To Riverrun, my lord."
"That is right," Domeric studied the boy who may become his good brother. "You are aware that I will be wedded."
"I am, my lord."
"And that the Starks will be there."
"I've heard as much." His voice failing to hide his interest in what that entailed.
"And you shall hear this too," Domeric warned him. "Lady Arya will be there, but you nor your family will bother her. Especially in regards to speaking about the potential betrothal. It will displease me if I hear certain things reaching me."
I do not need to say too much, he looked at his now nervous squire. My actions speak for me, My banners are my warning.
"I am holding you accountable for your kin." He watched the color drain from him as if he was being attended by his father's leeches.
"You are a good squire, and I do not wish to lose you, but Arya means more to me than any squire or Frey ever will. My warning is blunt, Colmar. My blades are not," Domeric finished. "Do we have an understanding?"
"Yes, my lord," the squire squeaked.
"Look at me."
He did, but it was hesitant. He repeated his previous words.
"You are a good lad," Domeric had made his point, mayhaps too well, judging by the boy's face. "I am grateful to have you in my company."
"Thank you," Colmar's expression improved with that. "I am grateful as well, my lord. I was grateful for the opportunity to leave."
Domeric would not lie, he held no love for the Freys. I will not forget how Lord Frey treated my betrothed. I will not forget how they haggled while their liege lord's lands burned. And how Arya's betrothal came to be.
If they were sworn to the Dreadfort, Domeric knew how Father would treat such insolence.
"Serve me well, Colmar, and you and yours will be looked after."
"Thank you, my lord," Colmar looked surprised but grateful at the offer. "My lord, is it true what they're saying?"
"Of what?"
"That you mean to flay Vargo."
He was not surprised at such gossip. After all, he was now The Demon of the Dreadfort. I am collecting names like a noblewoman collects baubles.
There had been a time not so long ago when he wondered what would drive his ancestors to commit such an act.
I had always been satisfied with my banners serving as my message. Was that not enough?
That was until he saw the bodies of the boys and the girls that were raped and butchered. The burnings of towns and people, the careless disregard of life and law. He walked through the carnage, taking in all the death and destruction.
I thought on my family's words, and that was when for the first time he truly considered it.
Outlawed or not, I wanted these men to suffer like all the smallfolk who've suffered in their wake. I wanted to peel the layers of their flesh off, slowly. To hear their cries of agony, begging for me to sever fingers or toes, or whole limbs because they could not take the pain anymore.
In the end, he knew it would be wrong. It was outlawed. He would not risk his family's name or their position. Lord Stark would not look kindly to such an act.
I will not lose Sansa.
"I will not flay him." Domeric buried his dark desires and confessions. "Do you know what they call Vargo?"
"The Goat."
"No, the other name. They call him the Crippler."
"You mean to cripple him, my lord?"
"I mean to see justice done."
"Let's put a smile on that face!"
The Fool laughed. The flail above his head was a halo of steel and spikes.
Domeric watched from a distance as his men carefully enclosed around the Mummer.
Qyburn had revealed exactly where his former sellswords were going to be. Allowing Domeric's men to surround the unaware sellswords and when they did, he ordered the noose tightened.
Shagwell was a deranged sellsword, who was dressed in grey and pink motley. His nose was red and bulbous. He wore a ridiculously floppy fool's crown which wrung with bells when he bobbed his head. His eyes were malicious and his mouth was curved into a nasty smile that was as sharp as the flail he wielded.
The Fool was one of the last Mummers that they needed to capture.
"That cut should be looked at, my lord," Rylen said to his left.
"It will," Domeric did not take his eyes off of the cornered Fool.
The cut had been made on his leg and left him slightly hobbled. It had come from Zollo and his curved arakh, a scythed-sword that Domeric had never fought against. The Dothraki may have been fat, but he was skilled and muscled and used the arakh well.
Despite it, Domeric was still able to beat him and have his men bound the sellsword. He knew enough of Dothraki culture to do what he did next. He severed the long, dark braid with his axe. The bells in Zollo's hair jingled when they hit the ground.
He knew the importance of the bells and how they were woven in for Dothraki victories, but he doubted they were put in for victories in battles. He must add them for the killing of old men and the raping of women.
We will make a very large cross for you, Zollo.
"And not by him." Rylen did not try to hide his distaste for their guest.
Domeric did not need his captain to clarify who it was he was referring to. He decided not to comment on the former maester, watching as fresh and eager new men joined in around the Fool.
"I want him alive!"
Shagwell giggled. "Do you want a jape to make the flayed man smile?"
You will not be laughing when you're on that cross.
Shagwell did not seem to mind the extra men. He was laughing before launching the flail towards one man who got too close, it connected with the man's face in a sickening crunch. A burst of blood and a groan followed as the man collapsed.
"Now!" Domeric ordered.
The men moved forward as one, tackling the Fool now that his flail was caught in the skull of freshly made corpse. Shagwell fell to the ground with a laugh and a hiss. The bells in his hat chiming angrily as he fought to break free.
"No fair!"
In the ensuing struggle the Bolton men were able to bind him before dragging the Fool back onto his feet.
"Well done," Domeric was pleased at how smoothly it went. "When you bring him to the others, inform the gaolers of your names so that you can be properly rewarded." Domeric saw the appreciation in the mens' eyes as they murmured their gratitude before taking the complaining Fool away.
"Rylen, see to the man we lost," Domeric gestured to the fallen soldier. "His wife and kin will be rewarded in his stead."
"I will, my lord." Rylen waved for two waiting Bolton men-at-arms to take the body away.
Domeric grimaced at the sudden twinge of pain that went up his right leg.
It did not go unnoticed. "Maester Uthor should see to that, my lord."
He was about to comply when he saw his squire running over to them.
"My lord!"
"What is it?" Domeric took in Colmar's haggard look and suspected the worst.
"Its Vargo."
"What of him?" Domeric bit down the growl. His wound and pain forgotten at the idea that Vargo had slipped through his fingers.
Colmar smiled, "We have him, my lord." He bowed his head, "He tried to escape that's why he wasn't found with the others, but he's been captured, as well as his zorse."
Domeric's anger disappeared as quickly as it had risen with this good fortune. He relished this victory, knowing his task was nearly over. The Mummers were defeated and all that was left was their judgments.
"Vargo is well?"
"He is, my lord."
"Good," He winced. The pain pushing through his celebration.
"My lord?" Rylen's voice was iron.
Domeric waved him off. "I'll go see the Maester now. Have Vargo contained and separated. He is to be watched by our most trusted guards." He slowly began to walk away,not wanting to upset his leg. He had only taken a few steps before he remembered the other bit of information that he initially overlooked at the news of finally having Vargo Hoat.
"And my zorse," he called back, enthusiasm seeping into his tone. "I want it well looked after until I can see to it properly."
"Of course, my lord," Rylen's amusement was clear.
Despite the pain, Domeric smiled the whole way. I have my zorse, he reveled, and I have my Goat.
"I will see him now."
He watched as two Bolton guards dragged the prisoner forward.
Domeric had heard stories of a large foreign savage with a scary face and hateful eyes. Who wore a helm in the shape of a goat's head.
What he saw was a tall, gangly man. He had bushy dark eyebrows and dark eyes. He had a long, black braided beard that dangled down like a limp snake. There was no sign of a helm. He suspected it was taken by one of his men as spoils. Domeric did notice around the sellsword's neck he wore a chain of linked coins. They were of every shape and size, cast and hammered, bearing the likenesses of kings, wizards, gods, demons, and all sorts of beasts that Domeric wasn't certain he could name them all.
Mayhaps, I'll trade these coins for that helm, he'd rather have that as a trophy.
"Vargo Hoat."
The man looked up, "Thupid boy," He spat at Domeric's feet. One of the Bolton men hit him for that. He lurched forward, but was able to keep his balance.
Domeric had heard the man slobbered when he spoke and had a bad lisp. He thought it had been a story, to go with the man's madness, but apparently not. "You are my prisoner."
He scoffed, "think you're thmart," He laughed. It was a coarse sounding noise. "Kill me if you like, but the dead thtay dead," He laughed even louder at that. "You thhould'fth heard their thcreamth."
Domeric clenched his fist. He felt the hatred burning through him like a fever at this man before him and the atrocities that he committed. "You think you're brave, but you're not. You will see every Mummer die. You will watch as I put them each to a cross. You will hear their groans and their curses. You will listen to the feasting of the crows."
"And then when each Mummer is dead, I will drag you forward," He revealed, "But a simple crucifixion that isn't good enough for the famous Goat." He moved to stand behind his table. He walked carefully not wanting to show his limp. Maester Uthor had told him the cut would heal in a few days and had given him something to help with the pain and slight hobbling.
Vargo opened his mouth to speak, but a sudden snarl cut him off.
Domeric took quiet pleasure in seeing the sellsword's face pale when Lady stalked into the room. On his knees, the direwolf was taller than the Mummer, and her golden glare was transfixed on him. She growled, baring sharp teeth.
Than in an instant, Lady snapped her jaws and lunged forward to attack.
Vargo cried out in shock.
It had happened in a blink, Domeric barely registered Lady attacking Vargo. By the time he opened his mouth to stop her, he saw that it was not needed. It had been a feint by the direwolf. She had stopped before either her claws or jaws could sink into the sellsword's skin.
It was a threat, Domeric observed, silently impressed. A very effective one too, judging by a new smell that as wafting in the air.
The Goat had soiled himself in fright.
"Careful, Lady," Domeric warned the direwolf, "Bad meat."
Lady looked between the soiled Goat and Domeric before turning away from the prisoner and moving to stand beside him. He could not help but think that the wolf looked pleased for what she did. She pressed her nose into his waiting hand.
"That would've been too quick a death for you, Goat." Domeric looked down at the trembling sellsword in disgust. "Pull him up," he ordered his men. "I've been wondering what I should do to you."
"Do whatefthr you want," he shrugged, failing to look indifferent as his dark eyes constantly glanced over to the silent, but still terrifying Lady. "They thcreamed as I raped them. They thcreamed as I cut their handth and feet." He gloated, "You than't bring thothe back can you, boy?"
"No, I cannot," Domeric confirmed grimly, "But I will see justice done." He tapped the parchment on the table. "You're not from Westeros so I'll forgive you for not knowing our history. I've always enjoyed history especially my family's. I had an ancestor who was once a king. We called him Royce Redarm." He pulled a dagger from his belt. "We called him that because he tore out the entrails of his enemies with his bare hands." He watched the words beginning to sink into the Goat's thick skull.
"My ancestor claimed it could take hours for the man to die if it was done right." He looked down at the sharp tip of his dagger, "It's all in his notes in my family's library," Domeric ran his finger along the edge of his dagger. "I've read them all."
He moved around the table to face the prisoner. He felt Lady follow, the dagger was in his hand, as he stood over the Mummer's leader. Vargo's dark eyes shifting between him and the direwolf.
"Jutht kill me now," he pushed himself forward, to try to rouse a lethal response from either Domeric's guards or the direwolf, but neither took his bait. They were quick to pull him back at his failed attempt. He hit the ground with a thud.
Lady showed her displeasure with a snarl.
Domeric let out a disappointing tsk. "No, I don't think I will." He then turned back to the guards but before he could speak, the Goat spoke in his cruel, lispy voice.
"Efthy woman I raped, I thought of you're pretty betrothed. What wath her name? Thantha?" Vargo's cackle was loud and sharp.
Domeric stilled. Turning back to the Goat who saw his anger and took it in with malicious glee.
"Thantha, Thantha, tho many raped," He repeated himself, laughing as he went. "I thaid her name to them: Thantha, Thantha. I told them that it wath you. You're the reathen for their thuffering."
"Be quiet," Domeric warned him. His grip on the dagger tightening. He could feel the hot, angry lash within his chest.
"Efthy woman, efthy girl, efthy boy was all told the thame," He grinned, showing yellow teeth, "You die becauthe of thome thtupid boy trying to be a man. Your name wath the latht thing they heard before I killed them."
"Enough," Domeric growled, slapping the Bloody Mummer with the side of the dagger.
Vargo took it with a laugh and a grunt, falling onto his side where he spat blood. That only made him laugh harder. "Lookth like the boy ith angry."
"Get him out of here," Domeric ordered, "Now!" He was dragged away, laughing.
That bastard, He could feel his heart beating against his chest, like a caged beast trying to break free. The anger churning and churning, thirsting for vengeance, to silence the sellsword, to punish him. To make him stop laughing.
He wanted to gut the Goat here and now.
Pale faces were looking up at him from all around with haunting eyes. Men, women, boys, girls, who were all maimed, murdered, raped, butchered, They all said the same thing in a voice that sent ice seeping into his bones.
Domeric, Domeric, Domeric.
He could hear Vargo's slobbery and malevolent voice as he cackled with his confession.
Your name wath the latht thing they heard before I killed them.
The sound of screams and the steel cutting into flesh followed as the chorus went on and on.
Domeric, Domeric, Domeric.
Your name wath the latht thing they heard before I killed them.
A cold touch pulled him back into the present where he found himself short of breath. His gut rumbling in protest. He bent over and for a second he thought he'd heave. His hands were shaking but the cold press was persistent.
He looked to see it was Lady. Her gaze soft as she looked at him. Her nose nudging his hand until he petted her. He couldn't help but smile at his betrothed's wolf.
"Thank you, Lady."
But in that moment, all he really wanted was Sansa's company.
Two days.
For two days he had seen to the sellswords. He heard their last words, curses, and prayers, and then he sentenced them. He crucified more than two dozen sellswords and now only one remained.
The leader of the Bloody Mummers, Vargo Hoat. He wanted him to be the last one. Domeric had made sure the man attended every execution. He wanted the Goat to watch every one of his Mummers get nailed to their crosses.
Let him see how they break when nail cuts through flesh. Let him see these savages turn into weeping babes as the birds peck at their skin and eyes.
Domeric waited for the Goat to be brought forward. In front of him were his men, anticipating the execution of the most loathed man in the Riverlands. Behind Domeric were the two dozen crosses, making up an audience of corpses and dying men. The Mummers that still lived could watch their leader be sentenced. Some were wailing and crying from the crosses being interrupted by the cawing of hungry crows. While others seemed to have perished in the night.
This was it. The last Mummer.
Then I can go to Riverrun. Then I can marry her. He smiled at his beloved as she flickered before his eyes. Soon.
The sound of jeering pulled his attention forward to see the group had parted as Vargo Hoat was being led out on a hurdle. Men were shouting and cursing at him, others took to throwing rocks and clumps of dirt, and he suspected shit as well as the Goat was paraded for all to see.
Like a skewered boar ready for the cook's flames.
The Goat had already been gelded. It had been done last night in front of his men. He thought it wiser to have part of his punishment done last night, so as it could be treated. He wanted no delays when it came to the rest of his sentencing of Vargo Hoat.
A large table had been brought forward where the next bit of Vargo's punishment would be meted out.
Vargo was finally through the crowd. Dirty and naked, the men pointed and laughed at the newly cut Goat. He struggled to break from his bindings, but Domeric's men were quicker and stronger, and they pulled him to the table where they began to fasten him down.
Domeric watched quietly while remembering the earlier taunts that Vargo had thrown at him. At how he laughed at all the men he killed and women he raped. How he had bragged about blaming them on Domeric.
He wanted me to strike him down. Domeric saw it for what it was, after the haze of anger left him. He wanted a quick death.
Domeric was pleased to deny him that.
"M'lord," Robard stepped forward. "He's ready."
"Thank you," He then took the offered axe. He tested the weight and balance in his hand. This was different than the battle axe he was used to using. Satisfied, he turned to address the men.
"The man before you, Vargo Hoat was the leader of the vile company known as the Bloody Mummers. He's responsible for untold amounts of death and destruction throughout the Riverlands," He told the assembled men. "He raped many women so I had him gelded. He maimed his prisoners by taking their hands and feet so I shall now do the same to him."
The crowd quieted as they waited in silent anticipation for it to begin. He would not give them long to wait. The axe in hand, he turned to the prisoner. What he said next was merely out of duty and not interest.
"I will hear your last words now."
"You-"
Domeric never let him finish as he swung the axe down onto the man's right hand. The blade went right through flesh and bone. Vargo's final words turned into a scream while his body spasmed at the pain and shock of losing a limb.
I promised you a last word and you got one.
"He is ready, my lord."
"Thank you," Domeric turned to the newly pardoned Qyburn.
He had been patiently waiting for the prisoner's wounds to be treated before he could proceed. The task was given to Uthor, and Qyburn. The two working swiftly and silently to bandage him up.
Vargo did not react well to the sight of Qyburn. His body was shaking as he slobbered curses and threats, wriggling in his binds. The former mummer never responded. He diligently worked on the prisoner, detached at the notion that he once served under him.
It had not been an easy choice to make, but Domeric had made it.
Domeric announced his decision to the men last night. Some grumbled, upset that a Mummer was going free, but Qyburn had already won some of them over by helping to tend to their wounded after their fight with the sellswords. The rest of the complaints seemed to die when Domeric revealed that it was Qyburn who led them to the last Mummer's camp which allowed them to deal with the sellswords so quickly and decisively.
Domeric was not sure how the Starks or the Tullys would respond to his decision. However, if he returned to Riverrun and either Lord Stark or Ser Edmure were not pleased then they were welcomed to take Qyburn's head.
I'm not showing mercy to Vargo or Zollo, I'm giving it to an old man. He reasoned. If not for his aid we could be out here for weeks trying to hunt the Mummers down and that's not considering them evading our capture and rejoining the lions, denying the Riverlands their justice.
Qyburn could be a boon to House Bolton, and Domeric could not let such a valuable ally be wasted. In the end, it just did not seem wise to rid himself of a man with such knowledge. Its what his father would do. Father would be pleased to have him. Will he be pleased with me that I saw the potential? To take the chance?
He was already punished for his deeds by the Citadel when they stripped him of his chain. I showed him mercy for helping us capture the Mummers. He is not the first enemy to be pardoned and to be called an ally.
Did Robb not show mercy to a wildling who threatened to hurt his brother? She was with a group who wanted to kill and kidnap them. Yet, Robb spared her and turned her into a servant for House Stark.
Domeric turned to see Vargo had been tied and bound to a cross right side up. The Goat hung loosely by a series of rope, looking like some crude ornament. The man swayed in his tethers. His hands and feet removed. The stumps that remained were bandaged and stained red with blood.
The last of the Mummers, he approached.
The sellsword's chest rose and fell. The physical exertion of his punishment made his breath sound labored. His face was tight, with beads of sweat trickling down his tanned face. His dark eyes were glassy. His head swaying slightly, but when he saw Domeric, he sneered down at him.
Domeric then withdrew the knife from his belt. He smiled at how quickly Vargo's face fell when his eyes took it in. He stepped forward, knife in hand. He took a calming breath, his armor in place.
"Try not to move too much." Qyburn warned his former leader politely. Domeric wanted him nearby knowing he'd need the man's knowledge to insure this went smoothly.
The Goat did not listen, struggling against his binds, but it was for naught. Within a few seconds, he was coughing and nearly gagging. The rope that was around his throat tightening to stop him.
"I did warn you." Qyburn sounded amused, a small smile on his face.
Domeric looked out to his men. "We have brought justice to the Riverlands. We have purged these lands of foreign savages. With this final act, we have done our duty. In this final act, I sentence Vargo Hoat to death for his numerous crimes against the people of the Riverlands."
He then made the incision. The blade cut through Vargo's skin as if it was paper. The goat hissed and grunted, squirming in pain. Blood began to seep through. The wound was weeping red.
Vargo's screams were nearly piercing.
The intestines unspooled slowly, slipping out of for all to see. They looked like writhing eels swimming in a pool of blood.
The sellsword's eyes widened in disbelief when he looked down at his own entrails being carefully removed. His expression etched in horror as his mind slowly comprehended what he was seeing.
This is for all the people you killed, raped, and displaced.
He looked down at his blood soaked hands. This was justice.
A/N: It's not flaying, but I hope you can understand why I did not go with it at this moment.
Creative liberties were taken with what is shown.
Domeric's newly acquired zorse is not forgotten.
If you have time please leave a review. It would mean a lot to me. It makes all the writing struggles worth it when you learn that someone else is at least enjoying your poor attempt at a story.
Thanks for your support,
-Spectre4hire