Hugor II

His dreams always smelled of woodsmoke. It had been a constant presence throughout his life, he was sure of it. There were certain sights, certain smells, that made the fragments of his absent memories flutter within the recesses of his mind like loose threads in a breeze. Tonight, he dreamt of a youthful face. A friend. Hugor wasn't sure how he knew this, but he knew it to be true. Hugor was watching a much younger version of himself walking with the friend in a dusty forest. Their surroundings were dark, the nearby trees and brush shadowed and indistinct. It wasn't night, rather, there was simply a lack of light. Whether dream or memory, or some combination of both, Hugor's surroundings were of little import but for the path that he and the friend followed.

"It'll all be worth it in the end, won't it?" his friend asked.

Hugor, rather, the younger Hugor that walked alongside him, smirked briefly before kicking a stone into the surrounding brush. "I've scoured too much mail in sand barrels for it not to be." He gave a sidelong smile to the friend, before it wilted into a subdued frown when he realized that the friend hadn't reacted positively.

"I'm serious, you know," the friend insisted, a deep frown on his face prominent despite the dim light. His expression sagged suddenly, and his breath hitched as he spoke, as though he was struggling not to weep. "What Ser Patrek made us do, how can we possibly-"

"ENOUGH ABOUT SER PATREK!" the younger Hugor screamed suddenly, enraged. The friend flinched heavily as though Hugor had struck him, sudden shock widening eyes already filled with tears. Hugor, the older Hugor, tried to step forward and intervene. To explain to the friend that his rage was the result of a deep, gnawing pain and guilt, that it was easier for him to scream than to weep. To weep about… what exactly? Hugor couldn't remember, no matter how hard he tried. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't move, and his moving lips made no sound. The smell of woodsmoke had grown stronger.

The friend stood regarding the younger Hugor for a moment with a hunched, defensive posture, before turning and walking quickly back the way they came. The younger Hugor, breathing heavily, didn't follow. Turning from his youthful counterpart, Hugor tried to follow the friend. He needs me. I can't leave him alone, not now. Not when he… When he what? He couldn't remember.

There was something in his hand. Hugor didn't know if he'd been holding it the whole time, or if it had suddenly appeared there. Opening his palm, Hugor regarded the carved brooch in his palm. The metalwork around its edges was simple yet beautiful, tarnished and opaque due to frequent touch. Its center was a deep orb of amber, mesmerizing to stare at. As he did, Hugor felt a sudden bolt of fear strike him. His teeth clenched, his hand shook, and his heart hammered. He couldn't look away from the brooch, the source of the sudden fear. Hugor opened his mouth to scream, and all that billowed forth was a swirling cloud of smoke.

Hugor was thankful that the realities of each day left him little time for thinking about his nightmares. Or are they the memories that I've lost? If his memories were truly so horrible, then mayhaps the Gods had blessed Hugor when they took them from him. A cracked skull was an odd sort of blessing, but then Hugor supposed he was an odd sort of man. Quiet, more than anything else. Many thought him a recluse because of it. It was simpler than that. If there was nothing of value to be said, then there was little reason for a man to open his mouth and speak.

Pate of Oldstones understood that. He had come to appreciate the lad's presence more and more as each day passed deep within the Kingswood. Almost as much as he appreciated Garrett, though that friendship was borne out of habit more than anything else. No less strong, though. As it happened, both Garrett and Pate had accompanied Hugor into the woods beyond the bounds of the village this morn. Septa Larissa had gotten into her mind that all of the weary refugees ringing the small village in the valley needed a roof above their head, no matter how ramshackle. So it was that Hugor had been chopping wood for use in building, a seemingly insurmountable task considering just how many refugees that needed shelter.

They came from all over, the refugees. Many from King's Landing, after the Gold Cloak garrisons were slaughtered and the gates of the city thrown open. Many too from the Reach, who had always been but a step ahead of the marauding Hightower army that had been hounding many since Bitterbridge. Others from the Crownlands and Riverlands, though they were less in number. It seemed that these destitute and homeless masses had come up with a similar idea: that there was safety in the Kingswood. Out of the way of armies that would rape and murder you as soon as feed you. Out of the way of the scheming of Lords, who could count on a return to their comforts when they decided that enough blood had been shed on their behalf. Lords who hadn't watched their homes get burned, their kin slaughtered, and have all but the very clothes on their backs stolen from their grasp.

In this aspect, the refugees were correct. They were out of the way of everything. But as they were quick to realize, they were also out of the way of adequate shelter, or enough food to fill their bellies. Many of them had come from towns and cities that were now charred ruins, and had no idea how to hunt and trap animals, or to build a proper home for themselves. So they congregated around the few villages scattered within the boughs of the vast forests, and grasped at whatever scraps could be provided by the ambivalent forest people in order to survive. Even with their help, it wasn't nearly enough. Many starved and died, or froze to death in the night, shivering in what meager rags they could still call their own.

The Septa had been asked by a grieving young mother to give the final rites for her young child that had recently died. Larissa had done so, only to be asked to do the same by hundreds more. Aged parents, babes at the breast, siblings in the spring of their youth. None had been spared by the lack of food and harsh cold. Most had been buried in mass graves in a clearing slightly east of the village. As she had given the rites, Hugor had overheard a distraught mother bemoaning the fact that her daughter had died long before reaching the village. She was buried in an unmarked grave, unconsecrated and impossible to find again. She wept at the prospect that her child was doomed to be denied entry into the heavens because of it. Edwell, the aged Northman, had thought and said differently. "Your lass will be alright," he'd told her quietly, and kindly. "She's surrounded and guarded by the Old Gods, the spirits of tree and stone and water. They'll care for her, and keep her safe. When you next gather water at a stream, listen for her voice. She'll tell ya the same." After hearing those words, Hugor had resolved to speak more with Edwell. Mayhaps there was goodness to be found within the mysteries of Gods both Old and New.

His thoughts were interrupted by Garrett's jovial voice. "I s'pose we're all outlaws now," he remarked with an amiable chuckle.

Hugor grunted, his arms too full of lumber and his thoughts too full of the morning meal to care for his comrade-in-arms' humor-laden observations. Pate fell for the bait, however, and turned his head to raise an inquisitive eyebrow at Garrett.

He nodded at a pair of men passing by them with a dead and emaciated deer dangling by bound hooves from a long pole braced along each of their shoulders. "We're stumpin' around in the King's personal forest, cutting his wood and poaching his deer." Garrett smirked. "Catchin' anything that moves, really. Lots o' wood, and lots o' game. The lot o' us'll be bound for the Wall soon, just ya wait an' see."

Hugor grunted again by way of response. Pate gave a small smile, which was a rarity. The sight of it made Garrett smile even wider, with a self-satisfaction that annoyed Hugor. "If you worked as much as you talked, Garrett," Hugor began, "we'd all be living in a castle by now."

Garrett smiled sweetly at him. "And if I had a gold dragon for every time ya groused about this n' that, I'd have enough coin to fill the castle's vault." Pate laughed aloud at that, and even Hugor couldn't help but grin. It was hard to stay annoyed with Garrett, especially when he set his mind to being charming.

It didn't always used to be that way. When Larissa, Hugor, and her other adherents had first found him, Garrett never smiled or joked. As he stayed on with the group, he'd first begun to smile again, after some time had passed. Then he'd begun to chuckle from time to time, then laugh. Before long, he filled the open air with japes and jests, some of them bawdy enough to make a mercenary blush. Larissa never chastised him, however. She had helped him to find moments of joy in his existence once more, and she would fight her way to the gates of Hell before letting him lose them ever again. It was the greatest gift that the Septa gave, and she gave it to anyone that she could.

Such thoughts remained prominent in Hugor's mind as he, Pate, and Garrett crested a small hill, overlooking the valley and the burgeoning settlement below. There was still much and more work to be done, but rather than feeling discouraged, Hugor felt hopeful, and determined. Larissa was right, as she always was. If there was a chance that a roof above each head could mean that no more unfortunate souls were buried in great pits east of the valley, then every aching muscle and every bead of sweat would be a more than worthy price to pay.

It was almost nighttime when the delegation arrived. They made their way into the village slowly and deliberately, heedless of the wary stares of its many denizens, both new and old. The newcomers were certainly no harried refugees, desperate for food and shelter. Many of them had the look of soldiers, or at the very least men who had killed before and weren't afraid to do so again.

Hugor had seen them coming from a ways off, outside of the small timber longhouse that Larissa and her adherents housed themselves in. He had strode inside without a second glance the moment he'd first laid eyes upon them. "Newcomers," he'd said to the wondering glances as he briskly crossed the floor, "warriors, mostly. Could be trouble." Hugor always kept his swordbelt buckled about his waist, but he'd taken the time then to pull on his shirt of mail and grab his sturdy unadorned oaken shield before walking back outside.

He did not travel alone. Garrett, Marq the Miller, and several others followed at his sides and close behind. Larissa and several other members of their party were already in the village center, helping the village elders to arbitrate disputes. Many of the villagers and refugees had withdrawn into their homes and shacks as the newcomers passed by, fearful of their sudden appearance and intentions. The war had shattered more than homes, and lives. It robbed the survivors of their ability to trust, and to assume anything but ill intention from strangers.

While the adults withdrew, however, the children remained ever curious. They peeked from doorways and windows, or around the sides of homes. Some had expressions as solemn or fearful as their parents, while others had curious and cautious half-smiles plastered across their faces, eager to learn why the newcomers might have reason to travel to such an out-of-the-way village. One young lad by the name of Lewyn, with no more than nine namedays to call his own, was so bold as to run up alongside Hugor and his fellows as they walked toward the village center. Hugor regarded the lad with a raised eyebrow as the boy fell into step beside him. He knew of the boy's mother, and he also knew that she'd be worried sick the moment that she couldn't find him. As he opened his mouth to chastise the boy and order him home, however, he noticed the thick branch the boy had tucked through his belt, a mimcry of the sword that Hugor wore at his waist. In that moment, he couldn't find it within himself to force the eager and excitable lad to leave. "Stay close to me," Hugor told the boy gruffly, and Lewyn's face broke into a wide smile as he nodded eagerly.

Rounding a thatched house, Hugor could see that Larissa and the village elders were standing beyond the main doors of the meeting hall, located in the village's center. A cursory glance indicated that the newcomers had done nothing untoward. Not yet, at least. Hugor strode across the open space beyond the meeting hall without hesitation, closing the distance between himself and the strangers quickly. His comrades followed, with young Lewyn scrambling to keep pace. I should've sent the boy home. I could be leading him into real danger. Immediately, Hugor's own mind rejected the thought. If there's violence, so be it. The boy will have to bloody his hands eventually. The errant and upsetting thought had entered Hugor's mind unbidden, stunning him so much that he nearly stopped walking. However, nothing more slipped from the murk of his lost memories to explain why he'd thought such a thing. There was nothing for it now, however. He was nearly upon the strangers.

Several of them turned to regard Hugor and his companions as they drew up short in front of them. Upon closer inspection, Hugor was certain that they couldn't be up to any good. The lot of them were thin, oft wearing faded and tattered clothes meant for a man with much more meat on his bones. Even so, each and every one of the strangers, though thin, was hard with muscle. Several bore prominent scars, and all wore weapons of some sort at their hips. Their leader, slightly taller than the rest of the dour scarecrows surrounding him, nodded slightly at Hugor. "Well met," he said simply.

Hugor raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. He planted the pointed bottom of his oaken shield in the sludge of the ground between his feet, bracing his hands along its top rim. He stared cooly at the newcomers for a moment in silence. They hadn't given him a reason to be unfriendly, not yet. But they were no boon companions of his, either. They would tell him more about who they were and what their intentions were before he'd offer any of them a single word.

Larissa clearly disagreed with Hugor's tactic. "Peace, Hugor," she said, giving the newcomers a conciliatory smile. "You men must have traveled far to reach this village. We were about to gather in the villagers for the evening meal. There isn't much to go 'round, and what can be scrounged is shared amongst all. Nonetheless, a guest is a guest. Will you join us?"

The band of scarred scarecrows looked about as taken aback as their grim faces would allow. Septa Larissa had that effect on people. She would fearlessly approach the biggest, meanest, surliest-looking traveler on the roads of the Seven Kingdoms with a smile, and before he knew what was happening, the man would find himself breaking bread with her and listening to her speak of the goodness of the Seven. Most of her followers had been brought into the fold in such a manner, to the point that such an occurrence was something of a joke between the men and women of their party. 'Today, a bandit at our fire. Tomorrow, a Vulture King. In a week, a dragon.'

The newcomers nodded their heads in acquiescence, and allowed themselves to be ushered into the large meeting hall, where all would soon crowd inside to partake in the evening meal. Trusting Marq, Garrett, and the others to keep a close eye on them as they moved indoors, Hugor pulled Larissa aside. Standing at the precipice of the hall's entrance, Hugor savored the warmth and savory scents that radiated from within, wafting from large cast-iron pots over multiple firepits. The light within illuminated Larissa, while Hugor remained just beyond it and stood in frigid shadow.

"I do not trust these men, Septa," he warned, only to realize that she wasn't listening.

She was smiling fondly as she watched young Lewyn dash excitedly across the wilted village green in the direction of his family's home, likely to report his discoveries and drag the rest of them along to the meeting hall as quickly as he could. He wouldn't abide missing a single bit of the excitement.

As Larissa continued to smile at the sight of the boy's childish joy and exhilaration, Hugor watched the boy go without expression. Deep within his chest, he felt naught but a hollow ache at the sight. Surely, there must have been times when he was a child that he had felt such joy? Even without his memories, Hugor knew that they had been few and far between. Just as a blind man would struggle to conceive of the beauty of a sunrise, or a deaf man the vibrance of voices singing in harmony, Hugor felt a distinct and telling emptiness while witnessing Lewyn's exuberance. Why had he lacked it? Had it ever existed for him as a boy, wherever he grew up? His broken memories offered no answers, and Hugor quickly found himself unable to bear such thoughts any longer.

"Larissa," he said more insistently, and her smile turned ever so slightly rueful as she turned to face him.

"They are our guests, now, Hugor," she said evenly, with a nearly imperceptible iron edge to her tone. Her magnanimity always bore a certain stubbornness about it. She would always do what she felt to be right, and woe to whoever attempted to stop her from doing so. All the same, Hugor couldn't help but feel that she was facing the current situation with a dangerous amount of naivete.

At the moment, however, he didn't feel like arguing with her. He wanted to eat a warm meal amongst friends. He wanted to listen to the instruments and singing of the villagers and refugees, a happy result of the ever-fading tensions between the two groups as the new began to settle in amongst the old. He wanted to forget about the ache in his chest that had appeared at the sight of a joy he'd never had, and surround himself with the joys that he understood.

"Alright then," he said simply, acquiescing to the Septa that barely stood as tall as his mailed chest. He hefted his oaken shield from the sludge, and tapped his sheathed sword pointedly with two fingers of his right hand. "But I'll be watching them."

The strangers' main settlement was far more reminiscent of a fortress than a village. It was surrounded by a sturdy timber palisade, and nearly countless plumes of smoke rose from hidden fires within. It was on elevated ground, giving it a natural defensive advantage. Even so, the seemingly endless expanse of the Kingswood surrounded it on all sides, meaning that it was nearly impossible to find unless an individual knew where to look for it. Many of the villages of the Kingswood seemed to have been made in a similar way. Nearly all had some sort of wooden palisades around the village proper, with a few far flung cabins and shacks beyond. The walls themselves were oft made of timber, with ancient logs that had likely stood vigil far longer than any living soul could remember, mended with newer lumber wherever the trials of time eventually brought disrepair.

In the case of the settlement before him, crudely quarried stone made up the base of the defensive wall, followed by the sturdy timber palisade one would expect. A settlement of some prominence then, to have stone as part of its walls. The strangers' leader had explained that many of the Kingswood villages were built in such a way because of the ravages of warfare that had occurred before the Targaryens made six kingdoms into one. Constant border skirmishes between Storm Kings and River Kings (or, directly prior to the Conquest, the Hoares and Durrandons) had made walled settlements a necessity. Though Aegon's conquest technically meant that the villages of the Kingswood no longer needed such strong defenses, it was hard for the villagers to give up habits that had been practiced continuously by their ancestors for thousands of years before. Thus, many of the walls remained, and were maintained.

Hugor, Larissa, Pate, several village elders, and a few others found themselves the guests of the strangers now, by their request. During the evening meal in the village meeting hall a week-and-a-half before, the strangers had spoken of an exile Lord that had come to reside in the Kingswood. They spoke of how he had made common cause with many of the refugees and transient soldiers and mercenaries hidden within the Kingswood, of how this Lord spoke of the necessity of justice for the crimes perpetrated by dragons both Green and Black. Most of all, they spoke of how the exile Lord possessed the means to win this justice, if enough souls were willing to fight and bleed for it. There was no shortage of people in the Kingswood that knew well the sight of blood, and had no fear of shedding more of it, whether it was their own or that of their enemies.

The strangers explained that they had come to the village at this Lord's behest, so that they might bring some of its leaders to meet and speak with the exile, in the hopes that they would lend him their support. Hugor had believed little and less of what they'd said. Feed us some fantastical tale, and draw out the leaders and warriors for this 'meeting'. Once they'd been killed, it would be all too easy for a larger group of cutthroats to enter the village and lay waste to it. Hugor had said as much to Larissa.

For once, she had seemed somewhat inclined to listen to him. Even so, she'd insisted that she be one of the individuals to travel with these strangers to meet this exiled Lord. For reasons she didn't fully understand, she had told Hugor, she actually believed what the strangers were saying. Hugor had enough reservations about traveling to see this 'Lord' himself, but he'd argued heatedly against Larissa going too. In the end, however, she had won the argument, and joined the group that left the village with the strangers.

In the end, it seemed that the Septa's intuition had been vindicated. For the time being, at least. The strangers led them through the gate of their settlement. Armored and atop his horse, Hugor saw no obvious signs of betrayal, or danger. Smallfolk bustled about in the midst of completing a multitude of chores. Somewhere nearby, a meal was being cooked. To his left, Pate met Hugor's eyes with a neutral expression, and shrugged. Onwards they went, weaving through the bustle towards the center of the settlement. As he rode on, Hugor realized that he saw far more armed men, and even a few women, than he'd expected to. The beginnings of an army, though a small one. Though his mind, brutal in its pragmatism, wanted nothing more than to reject the tale of this exile Lord and his quest for justice out of hand, it was seeming less and less like it was a lie at all. Who is this Lord, and what are his true aims? What does he have that will ensure that 'justice' is won?

The strangers leading Hugor, Larissa, Pate, the elders, and the few other representatives of the village along had stopped in front of a two-story stone-and-timber structure. Ancient and impressive in stature, it was unmistakably this settlement's attempt at an inn. Not much business at the best of times, I'd expect. A stableboy ran up to Hugor, and he reluctantly climbed down from his horse, his thoughts and his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. Hugor brought up the rear of the group as they filed through the low-hanging doorway of the inn.

While Hugor had expected a musty and abandoned common room, he instead found it lively, warm, and bustling. There were many arrayed about the floor, seated at chairs, leaning on walls and alcoves, or standing. Many had the stiff and measured postures of curious and cautious outsiders, like Hugor and his companions. If Hugor had thought he'd seen the makings of an army beyond the inn's walls, he was even more impressed by what he'd found within.

Soldiers, or more likely mercenaries, walked or lounged about the floor with the easy grace that only true killers could muster. The ability to appear as though one didn't have a care in the world one moment, and to be killing the sorry fool that believed the ruse in the next. Their armor was of passing, if not high quality, and it appeared that they too were waiting for the Lord to make his appearance.

Hugor found himself standing next to a lithe mercenary in form-fitting leather and metal scale. Its pauldrons had blood-red rubies in the center, and were surrounded by silver scrollwork written in some indecipherable foreign tongue. High Valyrian. Hugor didn't know how he knew such things, but he was confident that the errant thought was correct. The man's hair was the color of ash, and when he turned to regard Hugor with eyes of deep violet, his lip curled in a slight smirk that annoyed Hugor as much as it set him on edge.

The scrape of wood on wood brought his attention to the steps of the inn, and the man that descended them. In appearance and presentation, he was a man of many dualities. He had long, fine, brown hair, yet plain features. His clothes were of high quality, yet unremarkable in appearance. He had a strong jawline, and though relatively thin, he was possessed of a sturdy frame that could have given him a formidable physique had he been trained as a knight. Most interestingly, however, was the polished oaken cane, and the twisted leg that he dragged carefully down the steps behind him.

Two beautiful women followed him, one dark of complexion and clearly Dornish, the other fair and carrying a young boy with white-blonde hair. The clubfooted Lord, for this 'exile Lord' could clearly be no other than him, drew himself up in the center of the common room, the two women and the child arraying themselves to his right.

"I thank you all for joining us on this most auspicious of days," the Lord began. "I am Lord Larys Strong, formerly of Harrenhal, before my kin were slaughtered and my seat was stolen from me." He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, before schooling his expression into a cool indifference. "All of us here have been wronged, in one way or another. All of us desire justice, in some form or another. If you will all lend me your ears, I will tell you all just how this can be achieved."

"How'll you do that, m'lord!?" a loud and skeptical voice called from the back of the common room. Murmurs began afterwards, indicating that such skepticism was shared by many, with Hugor being amongst their number.

A cold and enigmatic smile danced across the lips of Lord Larys Strong. Turning to the two women at his side, the both of them beginning to smile as well, he gave the boy with white-blonde hair a friendly pat on the head. "How will I indeed?" the exile mused, still smiling down at the boy, who began to smile shyly back at him. Lord Larys turned to face the expectant crowd once more. "The people need a symbol, a cause, behind which they can rally. I will give them, give you, such a symbol." Lord Strong pointed at the boy at his side, clutched tightly in the arms of his mother. "I will give you a King."