Reign of the Fallen
A Game of Thrones Fanfiction
By Millie55
Marcus
The chill of the northern summer had been long left behind. The warmth of the southern, summer sun what one that Marcus Gwhendel had not felt in many moons. This was what Marcus knew and loved. Not the heavy furs upon layers of clothing to try and remain warm. He did not have the thick skin of a northerner. It may be where he called his home, but his longing for Gwheniver would never dissipate. Riding south now, on his mission to return his daughter home, reminded him of his sacrifices. One that made him ponder the thought of not returning home himself.
With the wars taking the land, Gwheniver remained aligned with the House of Lannister. The house in which the Queen the birthed. They were wealthy beyond belief and had much sway in every corner of Westeros. They were quite possibly, the best allies to be had in these times. Fort Stryder would be in good hands under the rule of Cassius. He was a strong man, intimidating at the very least if his wits faltered. Even then, he had the support of Adilayde whose mind was an sharp as any mans. With his mind falling on her, he frowned. He couldn't not remain in the south, as his love for her was too strong. His lady was the reason he had to return to the north. They had come too far for him to abandon her, to take another wife.
The horses' strides were slow, taking the eroded path that was known as the King's Road. It was the quickest route to Gwheniver as not many used it since the late King Robert had used it during his travels north, then south again. Those involved in the wars - as he had been in full force prior, avoided the road completely as to avoid being seen or ambushed by the enemy. That worry no longer phased Marcus. Out of his heavy furs and robes, he looked much like the common folk that was when Desmore did not ride close to him. A merchant did not commonly have armed escorts, never mind one in full northern riding armor. Marcus was grateful he did not have to take the journey alone, the loneliness would have driven him mad.
Reaching the top of a hill, much of the road ahead of them came into view. It was only days ago he was heading home along this road and he soon would be passing the twins once more. The idea made him sick. The ground was probably still red with bloodshed. His son's blood. Did his body still lay there? Left to rot and the crows to pick at? It was going to take all of his strength to keep riding and not kill Frey himself.
"My lord?" Desmore Rogan found his voice when the horses stills, "Marcus, is all well?"
"It will be," he assured his man before nudging his horse to move forward. He however chose to remove himself from the path. He needed to avoid the twins at all costs. This was not a travel for revenge just yet. On the way back with an army, and one coming from the north under his sons lead. That was when they would take The Twins. "Come now, I want to cross the river before night fall. It will be a quick travel through the Riverlands, and soon we will be home."
"Your brother, he is expecting us?" Desmore asked of his friend, following his lord off towards a line of trees. They wanted cover, to go unseen by any watching eye. Marcus could not risk not making it to Gwheniver. He had too much riding on his travels.
"If the raven made it to the castle, I have no way to tell," he had not waited for a letter to return. It would have been a waste of precious time. There was no doubt that if the letter had not reached his brother's hands, that he would have heard of the Red Wedding already. It was all he really needed to know to help Marcus. No one got away with killing their family, right? Or had the distance but strain between blood. That was something that had the old lord worrying. Would his brother Magnus give a damn? Marcus would stand beside him if something had happened to Gwheniver, but it was his childhood. His life. Fort Stryder meant nothing to Magnus. It was just another castle in the north.
Camp was set at night fall, the horses tethered to a tree and the men laying back against the stiff ground. He was thankful he had his furs for a pillow, but the nights would be as sleepless as they all had been since the massacre. When he did manage to find sleep however, they were forced memories of the night he had lost Zachariah. Watching him die before him again and again. Some nights, it had even managed to make him sick. Tonight, he did not have such worry. Instead, he swatted at the pesky bugs the had bred upon the river's top.
Each bite of the bug, left itching bumps over his skin. Bumps that grew irritated with each scratch of his fingers. It was then in that moment he was thankful to currently live in the north. He could fight off direwolves, and risk losing his fingers on the cold, but these bugs were demons sent straight from hell. Their attack on him was relentless, even the horses felt at war with the peskys, tails constantly swaying to keep the bugs clear of their asses. All Marcus had to keep him safe from the bugs were his furs, leading to a sweat drenched night in the summers heat.
Come morning he had nearly sweat through the cotton of his clothes. Deep blue marks down his back and under his arms. The same went for Desmore, sweat taking his clothes. They did not conversation to decide a bath in the near river would do them some good. Waste deep, cool water splashed up on their skin from cupped hands. It wasn't often they say running water. Most had been frozen over or jammed with ice back home. For the first time since the beginning of his travels, Marcus managed a smile. It was wide enough to feel guilty. How could something as simple as getting cleaned up during his ride bring him such joy? How could he feel happiness after he had lost his boy? Sighing, he looked down into his reflection, taking in the sight of the man who looked back at him.
It was a tried man. Face traced with fine lines, and eyes heavy with bags. Long grey hair, was left stringy with oils, framing the strong jawline peppers with a growing beard. It almost itched now, the tiny, unkempt hairs against his skin. It seemed so practical when the snow was heavy and the wind harsh, but in the heat sweat collected there, making it heavy and dirty. Cupped hands brought the chill water to his features, waking them up from the fatigue that had come with a sleepless night.
"All we are missing is a bunch of naked whores to keep us company," Desmore commented with a laugh towards his friend. He was a man that could never understand the woman a lord and his lady could share. A man who could not be tamed.
Marcus had went to rebut, when the screech of cart tires took the air. They were in desperate need of oil, and the lord was grateful for that. it was a warning that one was coming. Moving to the river's edge, he dropped as not to be seen. From where he lay, he could just cat the curve at the end of the road. On it, travel not one cart, but many. At first he could not tell what the loads they carried where, but after a moment, a cart piled high rolled past. This was not a merchant's cargo, but the bodies of men slain piled high. Bodies that were being carried away from the river, to the north. To return to their families.
His heart broke. One of those carts would be travelling home to Fort Stryder, to return his son. He would not be there to hold his wife as she sobbed, or pat his son on the back for support. There would be no funeral for him to attend. he would not get to see Zachariah one last time.
Thoughts were broken when his tunic his his straight in the face, half of the fabric becoming heavy with the river's water. A displeased expression took his features, Amber eyes looking up at the naked man who stood before him. "It is best we keep moving my lord." The man wasn't wrong. If they left now, and traveled quickly, they could reach Gwheniver at sunset. Exhausting his horse was worth much more than spending another night out in the bushes. It would have plenty of rest in the stables.
Sun hot on their backs, they road until they saw tall sandstone towers. The sunset was beautiful behind the skyline, captivating the land in all it's glory. Exhaustion had taken all, legs threatening to fold under themselves as they took their final steps. Men no longer road their horses, they weight becoming too much after a hard and steady ride. Thighs ached in the legs of their rides, irritated from the saddles earning a waddle rather than a walk in their strides. The final obstacle in their path, a heavy iron gate. One that fingers grasped onto for support.
Noticing the arrival of strangers, a young man, dressed in the finest of the south, moved to stand across from them. Marcus could only assume this was the nephew he had heard so much about.
"What business brings you to Gwheniver?" The man spoke, bright eyes moving over the man and their horses.
"Tell Lord Magnus his brother is here to see him."