Hugor I

Hugor rose before the sunrise, as he always did. He crawled forth from the cramped hide tent that he shared with two other men, and slowly stood. The air about him was frigid, and the previous night's fire naught but smoldering embers. Hugor stretched, feeling his muscles tense, and then slowly exhaled, watching his breath surge forth into the cold predawn air as a misty plume. A bit better than before. The cold had been worse in the Riverlands. South of the Blackwater Rush, a man didn't wonder as seriously if he'd wake in the morning to fingers and toes black with frostbite.

"Good morrow, Hugor," the voice to his left called. Hugor turned to regard the source of the voice, and nodded at the man seated before him. Garrett was perched upon the stone that had been laid near the fire for each man that stood watch throughout the night. Small and sparse as Garrett was, and with his faded winter cloak, he had the look of a small grey bird. "I expected to see ya first."

Hugor grunted in acknowledgment as he pulled on his worn leather boots, and stamped them into place. He wasn't much for talking, especially not this early. Soon enough, the others would begin to rise as well, and they'd set about breaking their fast on meager rations, as they always did. All well and good, for we oft don't linger long. The sky was beginning to turn pink on the far eastern horizon, heralding the approaching dawn.

Septa Larissa had mentioned that a sept and village were near to where they'd made camp, and it went without saying that they would be stopping at both before the day was through. Food and faith, Hugor thought with a slight smirk. Without the first, the body starves. Without the second, it is the soul that withers. He wondered if Larissa would end her sermon with such words. She usually did.

Most folk that they met were starving, or on the verge of it. The new King and his Lords had declared that the war was over, and that a new era of prosperity had begun. Hugor had yet to see such wondrous plenty himself, however. Many of the King's people were brutalized, homeless, and hungry. They died every day, mostly the young and the old, those too weak to survive winter in such harsh conditions. Such is the way of these things, Hugor thought with quiet resignation. Septa Larissa thought differently. She had a habit of finding the local gentry of wherever she traveled, and browbeating them until they made some effort to provide for the starving masses that they relied on for their wealth. It was why Hugor had stayed with her as long as he had. It's as though she never tires.

Hugor was tired. Very tired. He had spent a lifetime on the road and sleeping under hedges, drifting from place to place. Risking his livelihood every time he entered a tourney, and wondering when his place next to a Lord's hearth would eventually become unwelcome, and he'd have to start searching again. Life as a hedge knight during the long years of peace was never easy, and it was never certain, but it was heaven compared to the war.

Hugor had been certain of his good fortune when the war had begun. Everyone wanted swords. A knight? Even better. For the first time in his long life, he was paid well and consistently. Marching beneath the King's golden banner, no less. Then Duskendale was sacked, and Rook's Rest after. Fields and buildings burned, smallfolk slaughtered. Hugor had played a part in it, as every veteran of the war had. He'd bloodied his sword until they cracked his head open at the Butcher's Ball, and everything that made him who he was had flowed out with his lifesblood.

There wasn't much left for Hugor now. He had originally likened himself to a broken clay pot. Drained and empty of almost anything of worth. The blow to his head had robbed him of most of his memories, that of the long life he'd lived as a landless knight. The clearest ones he had left were of the killing, dried blood long cleaned from his sword and hands that now stained his soul. Regardless, Hugor didn't think that there was much worth remembering within a lengthy, ignominious existence of barely scraping by.

Septa Larissa had helped him. She was a potter of sorts, mending what was broken and finding new uses for it. Broken men and women, listless in their apathy. People like Hugor, and Garrett. What she'd given them wasn't much, but it would do. The impetus to rise each morning, and to get through each day. For some, it was due to newfound faith kindled within. For others, like Hugor, it was simply the existence of purpose that kept them firmly at her side. To travel the Realm, and tell the broken people that there was a possibility for life beyond all the death. Certainly in the next world, but more importantly, in the living world too. Some listened, and some didn't. As to the success of the Septa's efforts, the only proof Hugor needed was that they gained new companions in most places that they went, and hardly ever lost them.

Looking about himself, he could see that nearly everyone had arisen, including Septa Larissa. The smell of frying bacon made Hugor's mouth water, and he began to wander towards its source. One day at a time, the Septa always said, and so the day began.

Hugor stood at the edge of the town's square, watching. Larissa didn't lack for conviction in giving her sermons, but the words became somewhat repetitive to listen to after hearing them in village after village. Instead, Hugor occupied his time with observation. Though this was mainly to keep an eye out for any potential danger, he also found a sort of quiet peace in it.

A person's face could tell so much without a word being uttered. Anger, hope, fear, grief, and much more. Hugor knew all too well how such expressions oft drained from the faces of the slain, like grain sifting from a punctured bag. For Hugor, this discovery was a learned sadness, for he had seen such a thing happen many times, by his own sword. A corpse had no capacity for emotion, good or bad. It was still, stiff, and cold, immediately and irrevocably detached from the triumphs and woes of the soul that used to inhabit it. It was for this reason that Hugor found a simple joy in watching the faces of the people around him. From smiles to scowls, they displayed that which no man, from King to peasant, could get back once it was gone: life.

Hugor always could tell when he'd found what might be a 'broken man' in a crowd, a person that he himself had so nearly become. The childrens' tales of maiden-stealing dastardly brigands created a sneering, hateful caricature that oft was far from the true look of a broken man. A broken man had many different faces. The rage could ripple beneath his features like the disturbed surface of a pond, or his eyes could forever search fearfully for the next threat. He could exude a practiced and thoroughly false confidence, or he could stand in silence, tense as cornered prey. Mostly, though, the broken man looked exhausted, and hungry. He stole and he killed because he had been doing such for so long that he couldn't remember a time in his life when he wasn't stealing and killing.

Broken men didn't begin as thieves and outlaws. But they were to a man aimless soldiers without a home, or a future to build and rely on. Without these things, the aimless soldier drifted from place to place, until desperation, jealousy, hate, or a thousand other reasons brought him back to the only certainty he had left: he had no one that he could rely upon but himself. It was why he was still alive: he'd always been a bit faster, a bit stronger, than the men that had tried to kill him. That was why he was alive, and his foes weren't. So the aimless soldier broke, whether it took him hours, days, or months, and became the 'broken man' so reviled by civilized society. He lived like an animal, and was hunted down and killed like one by the same Lords and retinues that had first dragged him from his farm and family and turned him into a killer.

It was not one man that had caught Hugor's attention, but several. Incredibly varied in appearance, but standing in a group slightly apart from the greater crowd of townspeople. They were grimy and unwashed, but they were all listening to Larissa's words. That was a good sign. That meant that they weren't broken men after all. A broken man didn't waste his time on things like the Gods, those distant and ephemeral entities that had punished him to Hell on earth.

The man at the head of the group was little more than a lad, short, and with sagging skin around his emaciated face and neck that indicated he'd once been very fat. His eyes were small and dark, and he watched the Septa's speech with a neutral expression. At his left was a tall and gangly lad of a similar age with a broad face covered in pimples and bright red curly hair. His eyes were wide, and the boy listened to the Septa's words with rapt attention. At the first man's left was an ancient bear of a man in furs and leathers, with a craggy and windworn face. His mouth was twisted into a slight smirk as he listened to the sermon, but his grey eyes were full of a guarded warmth. Behind the three of them was a tall fellow with short, curly blond hair and a beard. Like Hugor, he appeared to be less concerned with the sermon as he was with his immediate surroundings. An impatient look was spread across his features, and his right foot tapped idly on the slush-caked cobblestones.

Hugor began to slowly and subtly make his way around the edge of the crowd towards the four men. I should like to speak with them. He had done so before, with other men in other towns. It was tragic, really. How many 'broken men' could have been saved from their twisted path if anyone had bothered to give them a chance? Septa Larissa had given Hugor that chance, as he lay bleeding and broken after the Butcher's Ball. He had been so weak that he couldn't lift his head. He couldn't remember his name, the village in which he'd been born, or his many years on the roads of the Realm.

Larissa could have left him to die, and yet she didn't. She had tended to his wounds, and helped him until he was well once more. She had done so for others too, like Garrett. Their group grew along with her ministry, and they traveled the roads, spreading her message wherever there were ears to listen. Mayhaps the four men Hugor approached would be willing to hear his words, and mayhaps they wouldn't. It mattered not. What mattered was that they were freely offered an open hand. Such a gesture might mean nothing to them, or it might mean everything. It certainly had for Hugor.

The evening meal wouldn't be much, but it would stave off hunger. Hugor didn't need more than that. He walked in front of the four men from the town square, leading them deeper into the encampment. The four would be sharing in this eve's meal after speaking with the Septa. A strategy lacking in subtlety, though not effectiveness. Most people were somewhat willing to visit the campsite with the promise of a free meal. For some, what they found there amongst the people of Larissa's flock was enough to make them join the group. For others, it was the guarantee of food. For them, the belief in the ideals of the group was longer in arriving, but no less certain.

A large bonfire had been built at the campsite's center, and Hugor motioned for the four men to take seats before it. They all did, but the older man and bearded blonde looked around with slight suspicion before doing so. The short man, their leader, sat without hesitation, but Hugor could see how tensely he sat. They are prepared for a trap. Well and good. It meant that they weren't naive fools. Though the King's Peace had been declared, the matter of his authority was something different entirely.

Only a day's ride south of the Blackwater rush, Hugor and his companions weren't far from King's Landing. Even so, they traveled carefully, as they always did. Brigands and cutthroats filled the roads and countryside, without any centralized authority to curtail their depredations. They watched for weakness, and would pounce the moment they saw it. It was Septa Larissa's goal to prevent the lost and broken from falling to banditry and murder, but it was the job of Hugor and her other adherents to ensure that they themselves were not the bandits' next victims.

Septa Larissa was not long in arriving to the fire, flanked by Garrett and Marq the Miller. Marq had been a miller before the war, as his name implied. He had fought beneath the banner of his liege, House Bracken, at the war's beginning, until the Blackwoods had ambushed them and put them to flight. He had quickly discovered that the reward for his service was the slaughter of his family and the burning of his mill by raiders of House Blackwood. Marq had been one of the first to join Septa Larissa in her mission after she'd departed from Stoney Sept.

Septa Larissa herself was dressed as she always was, in grey robes that were frayed at their edges, faded and worn from life on the roads of the Realm. A wrought iron Seven-Pointed Star dangled down from her neck, secured by a simple discolored leather cord. Her curly brown hair was tied back behind her head, and she clasped her hands in front of herself, calloused and strong from her work tilling the fields of her former motherhouse. She smiled at the newcomers, and crow's feet appeared at the edges of her eyes, as they always did. Larissa was always overjoyed at the prospect of new men and women to strengthen their numbers, and better spread their message of hope.

"I am pleased to discover that we shall be entertaining guests this evening," she began. She saw Hugor standing nearby, and surmised that he had been the one to bring them. The smile she gave him was full of approval and gratitude, and Hugor felt the edges of his mouth quirk upwards in response. It was nearly impossible to ward oneself off from the effect of the Septa's good cheer and graciousness. Looking back at the four newcomers, she called warmly for bread and salt to be brought forth.

The four men became considerably less tense after Guest Right had been observed. Even the worst of bandits would be loathe to gain a reputation for violating Guest Right. If the Gods didn't strike them down for it, their numerous foes surely would. "I would be remiss as a host to not learn the names of my honored guests," Larissa gently prodded. It was how her conversations with newcomers usually began. She'd start with simple questions, and gradually work her way into learning everything there was to know about a person. Her skill at observing and understanding others never failed to amaze Hugor.

Initially, there was a long and awkward moment of silence. What does it say of the times that we live in that a simple greeting and introduction are seen as unexpected and an oddity? Hard times made people cold and insular, and these were very hard times. The silence dragged out for several more moments, growing ever more expectant.

The first person to speak of the four was the short man, though upon closer inspection, his relative youth was unmistakable. "I'm called Pate," he began cautiously, "Pate of Oldstones, where the Kings of River and Hill used to rule."

The red-haired lad was next. "I'm Red Symon," he said quickly, before pointing at his head. "Because o' my hair. Everyone called my uncle Grey Symon to tell us apart." The boy frowned then, with the absence of his uncle saying more than words ever could. "I s'pose that it's just Symon now."

The old man in furs proved to be a Northman by the name of Edwell, a former man-at-arms of the late Lord Roderick Dustin of Barrowton, and one of the famed 'Winter Wolves' that had acquitted themselves so fiercely beneath the Blacks' banners during the war. Though his fellows were dead, Edwell carried on, a lone wolf deprived of his original pack. The bearded blonde introduced himself as Ryam, an archer from the lands of House Rowan. Fighting beneath a multitude of Black lords' banners from the Honeywine to Tumbleton, it was in the aftermath of the latter that he had finally given up fighting for any greater cause, and fought instead for his own survival.

Hugor knew that, in time, they'd learn more about each of the four men if they remained with them for a while. Many people would travel with Larissa and her adherents for a time, if for no other reason than that there was safety in numbers along the lawless roads.

By the end of the evening, and the meal, the four had informed Larissa that the Kingswood was their current home, and that of other refugees from the war as well. The younger lad, Red Symon, seemed convinced that her message needed to be heard by the people that hid and starved amongst the trees, to which Larissa seemed receptive. With enough wheedling from the boy, his companions agreed to lead Larissa's group into the Kingswood, to the village of which they spoke. And so our journey continues, Hugor thought in quiet amusement. Larissa and her followers traveled the roads, speaking and recruiting where they could, but never with a specific destination in mind. And yet, as always, it seemed that their next destination had found them instead.

The going had been slow, and arduous. It had been nearly a week since they'd left the Kingsroad, and yet they still hadn't arrived at their destination. Without nothing but snow-laden footpaths and trails to follow, one had to move somewhat carefully so as not to twist an ankle. Hugor had stopped riding his stot after the leaving the Kingsroad, instead leading it with a small length of hempen rope and using the beast to carry his iron plate.

One of the few benefits that the massive forest provided was that the dense trees proved a powerful impediment to the freezing gusts and gales that swirled beyond its environs. The evergreens stood undaunted and whole amongst their fellow trees, while their less hardy brethren had turned bare with the coming of winter, turning the forest floor into a rotting, crunching carpet of dead leaves. The snows fell too, but this far south, they proved little more than a light dusting of frost, compared to the veritable drifts that had begun to accumulate in the Riverlands.

They had been passing through a narrow gorge for the better part of an hour, and the group was strung out along its dusty length. Snow had accumulated at its edges, and occasionally small piles would break free and tumble in, showering portions of the gorge with a short-lived glittering and incandescent haze that caught the weak beams of the afternoon sun. As one of the only knights in Larissa's group, Hugor traveled at the head of the column along with their guides, watching for any signs of danger.

The Northman, Edwell, had declared that the snows had reminded him of "spring in the North", and forged ahead, returning to the main group each evenfall to inform them all of the condition of the paths ahead. Red Symon had taken to speaking with Septa Larissa frequently and fervently, so Hugor seldom saw him. Ryam, the Reachman, traveled at the group's rear to ensure that no stragglers became lost amongst the endless trees and shriveled foliage. That meant that Hugor's only constant companion during the journey had been Pate of Oldstones.

The Riverman wasn't much for conversation, it seemed. That was not to say that he was uncouth, or rude. He was simply quiet. He trudged along the paths and trails without complaint, and with a quiet determination. Contrary to his emaciated appearance, Pate seemed full of vigor and strength. Each evenfall, when camp was struck, he would help to cut firewood and prepare the night's meal, even after a full day of guiding the group through the Kingswood's wintry depths. Pate's clothes were ill-fitting, his stained and frayed gambeson buckled tightly with a leather belt to keep it snug against his form. A tarnished, yet sharp shortsword hung from his belt in a scabbard that was much too large for it. Hugor understood his appearance well. Pate had the true look of a freerider: a man who had accumulated his worldly possessions on campaign, claiming new items and clothing of use from the dead of battlefields, those who no longer had a need for such things. The sole exception was his boots: they seemed quite well-fitting, as though they were something that he'd called his own even before the war.

Whatever journey had brought Pate from his village in the shadow of Oldstones to the bare and fragrant boughs of the Kingswood was not one he seemed eager to tell about. Hugor didn't push him on it: he knew that Pate would tell him if he wished to. Hugor appreciated the fact that neither one of them felt the need to fill the air between themselves with meaningless chatter.

Rounding a corner of the gorge, Hugor gave the rope in his hand a slight tug to keep his aging and stubborn stot moving forward. Ahead of him, the gorge widened, its cliffs' slopes growing gentler and wider until they emptied out into the forest once more. Pate stood upon the right-hand slope of the widening gorge, next to a bubbling spring of water that gently washed forth from the fractured and jagged rock surrounding it, trickling down into a small frozen creek that curved around the edge of the gorge and into the forest beyond.

Pate motioned him forward, and Hugor tied his stot securely next to the creek, cracking the ice on its surface with the heel of his boot so that the beast could have a drink. Hugor then made his way up to the Riverman, stepping carefully on the steep and rocky slope.

Pate cupped a doughy hand into the water's bubbling source, drinking deeply of it. "Sweetwater Gorge," he said simply, nodding at the spring. "This is how it got its name." He smiled slightly. It was the first time Hugor had seen much emotion out of the young man, positive or negative.

Nodding, Hugor removed his leather gloves, tucking them into his belt. Cupping his hands, he dipped them into the freezing and clear waters of the spring's source. Lifting his hands to his mouth, Hugor let the cool water trickle between his cracked and bleeding lips. Seven Hells, it really is sweet. Some of the water sloshed free of his palms and splashed against his neck, trickling beneath the collar of his shirt of mail. Hugor cupped his hands into the water once more and drank again, closing his eyes as he enjoyed the water's taste.

"Water," the man rasped, sprawled against the rocks. Hugor was afraid, despite his foe's incapacitation.

"Go on, boy, finish it!" The voice called coldly behind him. At eleven years of age, Hugor had only just become a squire, and already he was expected to make his first kill.

"Do you have any last words?" Hugor asked his foe. It was the proper thing to do; the knightly thing. Hugor hated how his voice wavered and cracked as he said it. He heard several of the men behind him coldly chuckle as he spoke the words.

"Water," his foe begged once more. His eyelids fluttered in agony, and his fingers twitched as though he no longer could control their movement. His lifesblood continued to pool beneath him, the flow of dark crimson seemingly endless.

"We don't have all day, boy!" the voice behind Hugor shouted, angrier. "Put an end to him!"

Hugor drew in a shaking breath as he stepped forward, and he did as he was bid.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Hugor opened his eyes and pitched backward, losing his balance, all too suddenly free of the horrific reverie. Before he could completely lose his balance, Pate's hands shot out and grabbed the collar of his shirt of mail, holding Hugor in place.

"Are you alright, Ser?" Pate asked, concern written on his face and in his tone.

Hugor took a moment to collect his wits. Sometimes the memories he'd lost would come back without warning, striking as brutally as a club. "I'm… I'm alright, thank you," he muttered.

Pate appeared unconvinced, but didn't press him. Letting go of Hugor's mail, he turned to face the members of Larissa's group that had just rounded the final bend of the gorge. Hugor sat in silence for a moment, breathing deeply. For several seconds, all that he could smell was blood.

After several more days of travel, Edwell and Pate had informed the group that they had nearly reached their destination. The news was welcome, for even conviction was beginning to wear thin after the maddeningly long journey. Hugor decided to spend this final leg of the journey at Larissa's side. The trails and footpaths had widened into something of a road, meaning that Hugor was able to put on his armor and finish the journey on horseback.

Larissa, unlike many of her followers, displayed the same enthusiasm that she had begun her journey with. "The Seven have surely seen fit to grant us this opportunity, Hugor," she was telling him, "for I fear that much of my brothers and sisters in the faith seldom travel so far from their septs, septries, and motherhouses to speak of the goodness of the Gods."

Hugor was inclined to agree with her. A septry or motherhouse is much more hospitable than the open road, and safer besides. Septa Larissa was uncommon in her devotion to ensuring that the message of the Gods was spread far and wide. "I would presume you are correct, Septa. I'd assume little and less would be willing to travel so far to see so few. They might-" Hugor felt the words in his throat shrivel and die as they crested a hill, revealing an open valley beyond.

The little village was there in its center, as Pate, Edwell, Red Symon, and Ryam had promised. It was what was around it that shocked both Hugor and Larissa into silence. Ramshackle huts and hide tents, stretching from the village's edge in the valley's center, almost to the treeline in every direction. The destitute wandering about in listless multitudes. Hundreds of them. Nay, thousands. How had they all gotten here?

Swallowing his shock, Hugor turned to address a similarly amazed Larissa: "Well, Septa, it appears that we may be here for some time."