Gyles VII
It was odd, the ways in which total confinement twisted the knife. How the loss of what was once seen or done so simply, without thought, became a keenly felt absence. A deep pain without a physical wound, hurting worse and worse with each passing day. The stench of the lower hold, his fellow chained prisoners, and himself was something that Gyles grew accustomed to quickly, desensitized to. Nay, it was the lack of sunlight, and the extreme restriction of movement, that grew ever the more maddening with each passing day.
Each time his muscles began to cramp too tightly within the interminable darkness, Gyles would stand, his joints creaking and popping with the movement, the rusted chain looped through his foot manacles jangling slightly. His movement would inevitably jostle several hunched individuals in his immediate area. Some would grumble or groan, or mutter curses.
Some said nothing, remaining silent and unmoving. They weren't dead, at least not in a physical sense. It was as though they had walled themselves away, body and soul, unable to bear the world beyond them. To speak, to grumble, to move meant acknowledging where they were, and the current circumstances of their existence. For many in the hold, that was too much of a pain to bear. So they hid behind the walls they'd fashioned for themselves within their own minds, eyes glassy and unseeing. Others, however, were simply dead. The corsairs never bothered to remove them from the hold.
So it was that Gyles would stand up amidst grumbles and jangling chains, muscles aching. His head had largely recovered from the blow he'd taken on the night of the attack, but he'd never had time to treat or clean the wound. It simply scabbed over eventually, beneath greasy hair matted with long-dried blood. Gyles would stretch his arms in the air, cringing as his palms splayed across the planks of the mid-deck above him. His world was a confined one, where time was wont to pass at a crawl. At other times, Gyles would close his eyes for what he thought to be mere moments, only to wake to the distant sounds of laughing and music.
That was how one marked the passage of time, in the lower hold. The lapping of waves against the boat was always the same, and one heard little else besides the creaking of the ship's hull, light splashes within pools of fetid water, and the occasional squeaks of rats. However, Gyles always knew when the sun was setting, because that was when the corsairs ate and celebrated an end to the day's chores and monotony. The distant beat of a drum would be heard, along with the jaunty piping of some sort of pan flute. The songs were always too far away to be truly heard. The barest hints of different tunes would meander their way into the lower hold, intertwined with distant, drunken laughter.
Other than the Prince Qyle, the Lady Anya, and the Lord Vaith, who remained in confinement within the mid-decks, the corsairs kept several young women and men for their own entertainment within the mid-decks as well. Two were slaves that had already been bought from a cheap Lysene pillowhouse, but the rest had been selected from amongst the prisoners taken in the corsairs' raid of a coastal village in the Stormlands. The awful sounds Gyles heard at night from the mid-decks were much clearer than those of the boat-deck, though there was always the distant tune of the pan flute, faintly heard above all other sounds. Gyles quickly grew to loathe the sound of its jaunty trills with an abiding passion.
"Is the Titan of Braavos as big as the stories say?" The boy asked Mero of Braavos the self-same question every day, without fail. And yet, without fail, the emaciated shipwright would describe the immensity of the structure, before telling the boy a story of his home. The story was different each time, but then, as Gyles had come to learn, Mero had many stories to tell. Despite his dour and apathetic nature, it appeared that the Braavosi had a bit of compassion left for the unfortunate children that had fallen into the corsairs' hands.
Mero's was a story of woe, mayhaps one of the most tragic of any of the prisoners. How did a talented designer of ambitious sea-faring vessels become a galley slave? As Mero told it, it was due to his own talent. Over two decades prior, he'd been brought along on the maiden voyage of a ship of his own design, at the request of his wealthy patron. Out from Braavos they'd sailed, the pampered lordling demanding a southern course, heedless of warnings about the predatory practices of the Three Daughters. They'd been seized by Tyroshi sailors who demanded an exorbitant toll, and when the Braavosi noble couldn't pay, they'd all been imprisoned.
Eventually, the fool boy's father had sent the necessary coin to ransom his son, and the ship's crew. For a skilled shipwright like Mero, the Tyroshi had demanded nearly as much coin as they demanded for the nobleman's son. The noble refused, and so his son, attendants, and crew had departed for Braavos in the ship of Mero's design, while the shipwright continued to languish in chains. Tyroshi, Myrish, and Lyseni ship makers' guilds had no use for a Braavosi rival amongst their own, and so Mero was quietly sold off on the slave market, quickly ending up chained to the oars of galley after galley.
"Tisn't fair!" a small girl had exclaimed aloud when Mero told his story. Some of the children, Gods bless them, had still found it within themselves to be indignant at Mero's treatment. The adults merely listened in emotionless silence, or listened not at all.
Mero had smiled sadly at the girl. "This world isn't fair, girl," he'd said quietly. "The world is what man makes of it, and mankind is a cruel craftsman indeed." Afterwards, the Braavosi's face had slipped into his usual mask of emotionless indifference, one of many teeming within the rank and steamy darkness of the lower hold.
In the present, whatever that meant within the hold's interminable blackness, Gyles turned his head aside as Mero began to whisper a story to the lad that had asked him for one. Gyles was in no mood for stories. He closed his eyes, and tried to imagine Braavos as Mero had described it. He imagined the cramped streets, and watery causeways covered in fog. The coolness of the air he tried to imagine most of all. Coolness, and a clean, sweet breeze that smelled of naught but of the salt of the sea. A warm inn to retreat into, a mug of mulled wine, and a laughing woman on his knee. Gods, that would be fine. When the cold metal looped around his neck, Gyles was so engrossed that he hardly noticed it.
He noticed when it pulled taut, however. He let out a choked gasp and began to struggle, trying to pull free of his assailant, who only yanked the rusted chain tighter about his neck. "I might not have another chance," Ser Yorick Wyl hissed in Gyles' ear, "and I won't see you escape me to the oars of some other fucking ship!"
Gagging and choking, Gyles began to drum his heels in the fetid water of the lower hold's floor planks, twisting and bumping against the other chained prisoners. Free. I have to get free. Initial consternation amongst the other prisoners had given way to outright shouts and screams. Gyles was dimly aware of other prisoners trying to pull Ser Yorick loose, but the knight remained implacable in his fury, pulling the chain about Gyles' neck ever tighter. It felt to Gyles as though his throat was being crushed, as it likely was. As his vision began to turn grey, then black around its edges, Gyles was dimly aware of the lower hold's hatch being yanked open, and corsairs scrambling into the hold. His eyes closed, and Gyles saw no more.
Gyles woke to a cool breeze, and wondered for a moment if he was dead. The pain he felt around his neck quickly disabused him of the notion. It somehow managed to throb and chafe at the same time, and Gyles realized that his neck was wet with blood. He had the beginnings of a headache as well. Laying as he was, with his right cheek pressed against warm wooden planks, he realized how bright his surroundings were. Bright! Too bright! A booted foot kicked Gyles in the ribs, and he groaned and rolled onto his back.
A corsair's ugly grinning face loomed above him, blocking out the noonday sun that shone high above, warming the boatdeck. "Awake, you are?" he asked in a halting voice with a thick Myrish accent.
Gyles found it within himself to plaster a grin on his face, though in truth it felt like naught but bared teeth. "You're blocking my sunlight."
Another booted kick to the ribs told Gyles exactly what the corsair thought of his observation. The groan that escaped Gyles' lips did make the Myrman smile, however. "Up," he said to Gyles, and when Gyles merely stared at him, he pulled back his foot threateningly.
Muttering and cursing, Gyles staggered to his feet. Swaying slightly and blinking profusely, Gyles waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust to the brightness of his surroundings. He was on Steadfast's deck, that much was certain. Looking around, he could see that much of the corsairs were gathered in a loose ring, watching him. Off to the side, Gyles was surprised to see the members of the Dornish delegation, all that remained living. Red Ella in her dirty and mangled shift, and Ser Malwyn, just as dirty and disheveled, heavily favoring his right leg. That wound on his left leg looks worse than it was before. Prince Qyle, Lord Nymor, and Lady Anya, looking horrified at the state of their fellow Dornishmen and trying but failing to hide it. Ser Yorick last of all, standing directly across the deck from Gyles, at the other edge of the loose ring of corsairs.
The Myrman handed Gyles a sword, carefully. Gyles didn't try anything. He'd noticed the crossbows trained on his chest before anything else.
"You, fight." the Myrman pointed at Gyles, and then Ser Yorick across from him. "Melee, knight, Westeros," the corsair said, looking quite pleased with his own oratory.
"Knights aren't supposed to kill one another in a melee," Gyles cooly replied, and was rewarded with a rough shove that sent him staggering a few steps forward, in Ser Yorick's direction.
Ser Yorick walked forward, his dark eyes emotionless. His breeches and shirt were torn and stained, and he swayed slightly from malnourishment. Nonetheless, he raised his borrowed sword in a cold salute to Gyles.
"I don't want this," Gyles said carefully, assuming a defensive posture with his own sword.
Ser Yorick's expression never changed. "I do," he said, and then he charged forward.
As Ser Yorick's steel met his own, Gyles was dimly aware of the dismayed shouts and cries of the other Dornishmen, helplessly watching from the sidelines. Their protests ended after several growled threats from the corsairs surrounding them, however. Then, there was naught to do but meet Ser Yorick's steel with his own.
Ser Yorick pressed Gyles hard, as he was clearly no novice. Growing up a noble in the Boneway precluded such things. Most boys, highborn or low, were blooded before they even began to grow a beard. If they lived that long. Stormlanders raided south as mercilessly as any Vulture King raided north. The Dondarrions were the worst of them. They'd raze entire villages, leaving naught a soul to tell the tale. The banner that the Stormlanders would leave behind was enough. That damnable purple forked lightning, swaying in a dry breeze above the mound of corpses left in the smoldering remains of the village's center. A single marker to tell of the storm of steel and death that had passed through. Sometimes, the Yronwoods and Wyls would catch the raiders before they returned to the safety of their lands. The lucky ones were thrown into pits of venomous snakes. The unlucky ones were crucified in the high passes, left as rotting and desiccated warning beacons for the Stormlanders that next came south.
Looking into Ser Yorick's eyes, Gyles knew that some Stormlander had likely seen a similar expression on Ser Yorick's face as the knight of House Wyl crucified him. If I was fighting the man that had killed my brother, would I not look the same? In the songs and stories, Gyles was the villain and dastard that would be bested here, and slain. I'm tired. As they continued to fight, Gyles considered dropping his sword and letting Ser Yorick end him then and there. No more suffering, and Ser Yorick will finally have his revenge. Simple enough, really.
Except, Gyles didn't want to die. There was too much unfinished business that he needed to attend to. He had learned too much, seen too much, for it all to end here without any attempt on his part. Ser Jarmen didn't sacrifice himself to save me, just for me to give up and die here. Neither had Mors. Is this where my luck runs out, Mors? Do you have just a little more to lend me, old friend?
The Gods were not long in providing an answer. Unseen to Gyles and Ser Yorick, the Steadfast had been approaching a particularly large swell of the sea, ever the more tempestuous as the Stormlands' southern coastline loomed closer. The deck rolled suddenly and violently enough that even several of the corsairs stumbled. Out of the corner of his eye, Gyles saw Red Ella stumble and slam into the back of a large corsair, and push away from him just as quickly.
Ser Yorick momentarily lost his balance too, and Gyles pressed his advantage. Ser Yorick was no untested knight, and clearly skilled with the blade. Mayhaps more skilled than I. But in battle, all that was needed for it all to be over was one mistake, one slip-up, one incorrect reaction to a feint. Ser Yorick stumbled, and Gyles didn't. In one quick step, Gyles whipped his sword around, disarming Ser Yorick. As the Wyl reached for his blade, Gyles slammed the crossguard of his own sword into Ser Yorick's forehead, knocking the man flat on his back. Dazed and disoriented, Ser Yorick wasn't able to react before Gyles pinned his wrist to the deck with his foot, and pressed the tip of his blade to Ser Yorick's neck.
"It's over, Ser Yorick," Gyles said quietly, "Yield."
Ser Yorick looked up at Gyles, dark eyes blazing with hate. He made no response, but rather threw his head back against the planks of the deck and screamed. The sound was guttural, almost maddened. Full of hate, but even more than that, overflowing with grief. The scream of a man that believes he's failed his brother, and has naught left but to languish in chains.
"Kill him," a voice drawled behind Gyles, devoid of any accent. Someone Westerosi? Keeping his sword to Ser Yorick's neck, Gyles turned to regard the source of the voice. Though he wore rough and stained clothing, it was clear that this man was the corsairs' captain. His silks and linens were rough and stained, yes, but they stood in sharp contrast to the rough and stained woolens of his crew.
"He'll yield," Gyles told the captain, still in a state of shock. The corsairs' captain is of Westeros? How could he do this!? Ser Yorick remained motionless, and spoke not a word. Yield, you stubborn, stupid arse!
"And I say kill him," the captain said once more. He stepped closer to Gyles. "You think that because you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you may deny me?" His eyes and tone were icy cold. "I could sell you along with the rest of the chattel in the lower hold. I could have you die at the end of an agonizing life chained to a fucking oar!" He stepped close, nearly nose-to-nose with Gyles. "Do as I say, slave, or face my wrath!"
Gyles smiled at the corsair, and then he spat in his face. Afterwards, he dropped his sword to the deck, and stepped away from Ser Yorick.
The burly fist of a corsair slammed into Gyles' stomach, and he doubled over with a wheeze. A kick to the arse sent Gyles sprawling across the deck, and a heavy boot pressed against the small of his back, forcing Gyles down even as he tried to rise. Gyles felt cold steel pressed against his neck, and was dimly aware of the corsair above him asking his captain if he should kill him.
"No," the captain said, "pick him up." Gyles was hauled roughly to his feet. "Tie him to the mast," the captain said, wiping the saliva from his face with a stained silken kerchief. Gyles dimly realized that the kerchief was embroidered with the black scorpions of House Qorgyle.
Gyles' hands were bound about the mast with rough hempen rope, allowing him little movement. He turned his head sideways, dragging his cheek along the mast's rough and splintered wood. Ah. A large, burly corsair stood behind Gyles, uncurling a large braided whip, slick with oil.
"Bring the other slaves on deck," the captain said, with a cruel smile twisting across his features.
The minutes it took the corsairs to do so felt like hours. They brought up the dead first, and unceremoniously tossed the corpses overboard into the sea while grumbling about the stench. Gyles distantly hoped that the cool depths of the Narrow Sea would afford the dead the peace that they'd lacked in their final moments. Soon, the remainder of the prisoners were arrayed on the deck with the rest of the Dornish delegation. Ser Yorick stood amongst them, now, his expression withdrawn and emotionless.
Realizing what was about to happen, several of the children began to cry, burying their faces into the rags of parents, siblings, or whoever happened to be standing close at hand. Several of the adults were crying, too, unable to hide behind whatever fragile facades they'd built within their minds to keep the pain and fear out.
"Twenty lashes," the captain said with glee, his perfect Westerosi accent grating along Gyles' mind like a rusted knife. Why?
"You can't!" a voice suddenly cried in anguish. Oh, Lady Anya, Gyles thought with despair, why did you have to speak up?
"Fifty lashes!" the captain called in response to the Lady Anya's plea.
As the corsair with the whip stepped forward, Gyles turned his face back so that his forehead rested against the wood of the ship's mast. He struggled to contain the fear that he felt within himself. He wanted to pull mightily against his bonds, to howl like a trapped animal, to do anything to try to escape what was to come. Instead, Gyles remained silent and still. I won't give these fucking bastards a groat of satisfaction.
Gyles closed his eyes, and imagined that he was climbing a stairway of carved marble. The air was filled with the aromatic scent of burning incense, and he could hear distant laughter echoing through the polished halls of stone. The last few rays of evening sunlight shone through a skylight of breathtaking stained glass, dappling the floor in hazy patterns of multi-colored light. In the distance, Gyles could hear the sound of running water.
Pain tore a burning lash across his back, and Gyles fought with all his might to maintain the vision he'd created for himself. He walked forward, beneath the waning light that trickled through the stained glass. A doorway, concealed with a heavy silk sash. Another explosion of pain across his back, and Gyles stiffened. His lips peeled back in a silent rictus snarl, and his fingers dug into the splintered wood of the mast.
He pulled the sash back, and stepped through the doorway. Pain. A woman waited for him within the chambers, lithe and beautiful. Pain. Gyles could feel her dark eyes upon him, watching through the haze of incense that had been tossed atop burning braziers. Pain. She smiled and laughed lightly, beckoning Gyles forward with a single finger, bedecked in heavy golden rings. Pain. Her form-fitting silken dress was sheer, almost enough to see through. Pain. Gyles moved to her quickly, and pulled her close. Pain. He leaned down and kissed her deeply, with the desperation of a dying man that had stumbled upon an oasis. Pain, gods, the pain. And so Gyles' desperate reverie went, as the whip lashed and his fingers dug into splintered wood and bled.
He awoke in darkness, and wondered once more if he was dead. As before, the pain he immediately felt convinced him otherwise. It felt as though his entire back was afire, as though a dragon had set it alight. Someone was holding him in their lap, keeping his raw back clear of the fetid pools of water spread across the lower hold.
Gyles opened his mouth and tried to speak, but all that came forth was a weak groan.
"Shh," the person holding him whispered. Red Ella. "Don't speak. Rest, you'll need it."
Gyles tried to ask her what he'd be needing to be rested for, but instead found himself struggling to force a despairing sob back down his throat. What's the point of it all? He tried to act honorably, as Ser Jarmen had wanted. He'd spared Ser Yorick, a man that hated him and wished him dead, when he so easily could have killed him. Why do the Gods hate me so? Exiled for killing a man in self-defense. Rejected and treated as a pariah due to the land of his birth. Nearly killed, and losing his only comrade and ally. Nearly freezing to death to keep a promise to a dead woman. Nearly dying, and losing another friend. Saving the lives of innocents and slaying bandits, only to nearly be killed. Surviving, only to be sidelined and forgotten. Being given a chance to go home, only to be captured and chained. Sparing an implacable foe's life, only to be lashed within an inch of his life. Wounds that were likely to become infected and kill him anyway.
"I can't do this anymore, Ella," he whispered faintly. The tears welled in Gyles' eyes, and began to run down his cheeks. He shook with silent sobs, and Ella clutched him tighter. "I just want it all to end. Gods, but I'm so tired." He hurt, with wounds more than physical. It was a deep and gnawing pain that hurt to his core. "Methinks I'm cursed, Ella," he quietly confided to her.
Ella's voice was as quiet as Gyles', and quavered as though she were holding in tears of her own. "You have suffered more than any one man has a right to," she whispered, "but you are not cursed. Today, you are the blessing, and the key to the deliverance of every soul on this ship."
Before Gyles could ask what she meant, Ella pressed something into the palm of his hand. Cured leather, and beyond it… Gyles had to suppress a loud gasp. Steel. Cold, hard, steel. A dagger.
"I pulled it from a corsair's belt when the Steadfast struck a particularly large swell, during your duel with Ser Yorick. The fool suspects nothing. I heard him arguing with several other corsairs about how they must have winkled it from him as he slept, as they dragged us all back below decks."
Gyles' mind was racing. A dagger. A single dagger. What good is that? Gyles forced his cynicism aside. It is a chance, the only chance any of us poor wretches have. And in the right hands… He could've sat up and kissed Ella right then and there, but instead he contented himself with a raw chuckle. "I am your man, my Lady," Gyles whispered, and he meant it.
He could almost imagine the savage smile on Ella's face, despite the darkness that concealed it. "I'm glad of it, Ser Gyles," she whispered with equal sincerity. "Keep up your resolve, and your strength." She found his hand with her own, and squeezed it tightly. "It's been a long night for every one of us, but you most of all. Hold fast, I beseech you. Our dawn will be upon us soon."