THE HOUR OF THE COCKROACH
Best to make your way through life unencumbered, if you ask me.
The moon shone a full radiant silver that evening.
An eerie calm lay beneath its pale rays—something King's Landing had not experienced in many a day.
Perhaps not since the death of King Viserys, Second of His Name.
How fitting, Cregan Stark thought, looking from atop a high rampart leading to the dungeons of the Red Keep.
The irony that it would shine at such time and that his house with its proud direwolf had come so far from home did not escape him.
Tomorrow would be the last day.
He had done away with the insufferable business of the court and was secretly relieved that most of the guilty had decided to take the black. He had also been quietly grateful for those who had unexpectedly yielded in the name of peace.
That he would have preferred to have condemned all responsible for the grievous sin they had committed mattered little then.
All but one.
At three-and-twenty, he was still young. But the duty that fell into his hands by oath and by honor made him feel old.
Perhaps such was the blessing of war—all who fight and bleed earn their years and the strength required for such a feat.
The man who passes the sentence, should swing the sword.
A cold breeze that smelled of smoke and sea reminded the Lord Cregan of why he had come there at so unholy an hour.
_.
"Lord Stark," the prisoner greeted him.
He sat on the cell's great stone windowsill, wide awake despite the lateness of the hour, his twisted leg crossed atop his other.
"Lord Strong."
Larys Strong's eyes, intelligent and amused, flicked toward the sword at his visitor's scabbard.
"Come to save yourself the trouble for later, my Lord Hand?" the Clubfoot smirked.
"No," Cregan Stark curtly said, "you will receive your sentence before the eyes of gods and men. I gave you my word as you have given yours earlier."
There was no fire within that cold cell. Under the moonlight, the Clubfoot's pale skin seemed to be unnaturally luminescent.
"Surely, you would have not come here to appreciate my last full moon with me? You have a far better view from the Tower of the Hand."
Lord Stark scowled, "Why did you refuse to say anything on your behalf against the accusations?"
"I see," the prisoner's ghostly blue eyes grew amused, "this is about your honor, is it not?"
"When I am dead, hack my clubfoot with that greatsword of yours. I have dragged it with me all through life, let me be free of it in death at least."
Lord Cregan Stark recalled the nonchalance and seeming indifference of the Lord Strong when the court had judged that he and Ser Gyles Belgrave were to be beheaded.
It was unnerving.
Belgrave had accepted his sentence with somber grace. He had been sleeping soundly in his cell when he had passed earlier.
An honorable man, Lord Stark had thought.
But what of this one?
The whispers spoken of the Lord Confessor rival the vile repute of shadowbinders and sorcerers, if they can half be believed.
His words were poison that tasted of honey, and that poison had laid waste to the Seven Kingdoms for three years.
All for what? A king who was everything a king should never be but for his blood.
Oh yes, what a king indeed.
His half-sister was not to Stark's taste either, but she had the right as willed by her father and the laws of the realm.
Both were now dead and the realm, dying.
How sweet it would have been to have heard the architect of all that suffering to beg for his life.
How satisfying, to have denied that mercy.
Instead, sentence seemed to be nothing for Larys Strong, or so he and the rest of the court saw.
Forget that he had fallen so far from grace. Forget that he was the last of his house.
"When was a wolf ever been moved by words?"
Lord Stark, Hand of Aegon the Third of His Name, had been inscrutable in his judgment regardless. He had thought of the last Lord Strong's chilling response to be bravado.
Admirable but empty.
He had a duty to fulfill to his King and his realm. He had to know the truth, by the old gods and the new.
The Lord Stark would have thought that the contemplation of his doom might have changed that.
That the condemned appeared absolutely relaxed under the moonlight only served to vex Stark further. It troubled him. What was he missing?
"What would you know of honor?"
Larys Strong smiled and reclined on the cold stone, "More than most men, I believe. More than you, definitely, my Lord Hand."
Cregan Stark had never the patience for such banter.
"Speak now," he growled angrily, "or I might just forget my honor."
He gripped the pommel of his sword ever so slightly. The Clubfoot did not miss it.
"If it makes any difference," Larys Strong sighed ever so carelessly, "it was simply good fun."
Cregan Stark narrowed his eyes, "Fun? What jest is this?"
"You desire the truth, my Lord and here it is," the Clubfoot airily stated with open arms, "What else have I to gain here but simple satisfaction?"
Larys Strong thought that he had stunned his unlikely visitor, "Well, if you will not kill me now, let me ask you a question: What is honor, for you?"
This man is playing me for a fool, Stark thought irritably.
Yet he could not deny that Larys Strong had proven himself time and again a veritable genius.
Sometimes to get out of a trap, one must spring it, he recalled his own father saying during a hunt where he had witnessed a bear plough through a baited net.
"Honor is what makes words, thoughts and acts just. Honor is the purpose by which men find their way in this world. Honor is what gods old and new have deemed what is worth striving for in this life."
"I see. Give me just a moment," the Clubfoot got off the windowsill and with some difficulty, sat cross legged onto the floor, "and perhaps you could humor me."
Larys Strong gestured to the twisted limb he so despised, pale and macabre under the light of the moon.
"What of this?" Strong silkily sneered, "I was born a clubfoot. Dwarves are born dwarves. Others are born mute or blind or deaf or dumb— is there honor in malady? Is this honor that gods would deem so? What of those seemingly lower station? Who has cursed the beggars on the street? Does a whore feel honored to "serve"? Spreading legs every night for men, women and everything in between who pay some and care even less? Oh, tell me where such honor is, my Lord."
"I am not a man of cloth, Lord Strong."
Larys Strong chuckled, "Yes, you would make for the prickliest septon. But that does not answer the question, does it? Would you say that those born into malady physical or otherwise, have been dealt justice?"
"Some believe those born with malediction are the price the gods take for the sins of their forebears."
"Ah," the Clubfoot laughed further, "so I can blame my good father for this wretched thing. What a comfort…and may he rest in peace."
The late Lord Lyonel Strong was a good man and one who Lord Stark knew possessed honor.
That had perished in such a horrific manner along with his son and heir—the latter a dutiful and honorable man, himself, was a tragedy.
"You are a dead man come the dawn," Cregan Stark scowled, "you might as well know that there are tongues whispering still that it was by your hand Harrenhal burned and with it your brother and your father."
Strong's pale blue eyes twinkled, "It amazes me how such fickle talk survives the years. If that were true…then it must be honorable, yes? If I had struck back against one who had wronged me? Had made the gods see fit to deform me before mine own birth? Is that not justice? Is it not honor that which makes things…just?"
Cregan Stark's loathing of Larys Strong sank ever deeper.
"So you confess to being kinslayer?"
"Have I?"
Lord Stark had to bite back the bile and the urge to kill the abominable creature before him.
Or at the very least sever his tongue.
How dare he? Lord Stark asked himself. How dare this craven bastard insult me?
"Tell me, Lord Stark," the Clubfoot asked airily, "is my life worth so much trouble to you? I would be flattered, but that too would be a lie."
"You mean less to me than the cockroaches in this cell."
"Ah, yes," the prisoner chuckled, "dear me, I've grown quite attached to them."
As if it heard, one of those dear cockroaches had decided to crawl into the moonlight right in between the two lords.
"Curious isn't it?" Larys Strong piped, seemingly intrigued by the foul vermin before him, "how these little pests seem so unperturbed by it all? Perhaps if they could speak, what answers may they have for us?"
Cregan Stark's irritation could only grow, and yet he was perplexed by this cipher of a man transfixed by the filthy insect then feeding on what was probably stale breadcrumbs.
"We men fancy ourselves masters of the earth. We walk, we talk, we love, we hate. We scheme. We fight. For whatever the reasons behind. Meanwhile, creatures like these live without question. Without meaning. They simply are. They simply do."
"What nonsense is this, Strong?"
"You are my captor and I, your prisoner. But what sway do you hold over me? What reason do I have to answer to your so-called honor? What reason does there need to be except for whatever it is that we men choose to believe in?"
Larys Strong raised his hand, and sent it crashing down upon the oblivious cockroach.
There was a crunch and in the silent night, rang aloud as if mourning the culling of the poor insect.
By then, Cregan Stark had to lean upon the cold stone wall, feeling the lateness of the hour. This conversation was going nowhere and yet duty—yes, gods forsaken duty—compelled him to find the truth.
If there's any to be had, he mused glumly.
Larys Strong looked upon the vile mess that had once been a cockroach and nonchalantly brushed off its remains on the ledge of his moonlit cell.
"I wonder," the Clubfoot said, that ghostly gaze upon the weary Hand of the King, "did the cockroach even know it died? Or that it was by my hand that its life was forfeit?"
Stark could not reply. His head had begun to hurt and this most bizarre conversation was making it worse.
Larys Strong's gaze then went back to the mess he had made. More cockroaches had come out, and had begun to feast on the grisly remains of their own.
"Oh look," the Clubfoot smiled, "interesting is it not? Do they know that they are eating one of their own?"
"We are men and not vermin, Strong," Stark barked, his impatience and his headache compounding, "why must we speak of honor and cockroaches? Why do you riddle me so? Why?"
To his surprise, the prisoner smiled gently. The kind of a smile a parent would to a petulant child.
"Yes. That is why. To make you ask about the point of it all."
"What is the point, then?" Stark growled, "history will recognize you are a great mind. You can go to your grave knowing that. If you see me as an idiot, then at least have the decency to explain."
"My Lord Hand, I never called nor thought you a simpleton. How little must you think of yourself?" he laughed softly.
Damnable thing was Larys Strong, and Cregan Stark had enough.
"I grow tired of this mockery," drawing Ice—House Stark's fabled greatsword—from her scabbard, "Let us end this."
Perhaps an open threat would be enough to have the boorish trash before him to speak truly.
Larys Strong, pale and twisted as ever under the moonlight, simply stretched out his arms and neck.
This man!
"Come now, Lord Stark," Strong said in perfect calm, "you already the answers. Now see if they are worth it."
Ice found herself drawn by a hand as cold as her namesake slowly towards the condemned's bare neck.
Its smoky, razor sharp Valyrian steel edge effortlessly traced a shallow line of scarlet on Larys Strong's throat.
"Quite cold…" Strong remarked, not even daring to pull away from the lethal greatsword. "my life is yours, as that cockroach's was mine. Show me what a wolf is won't to do with a cockroach."
Oh how Cregan Stark wanted to be done with it. To be rid of this thing that japed and made him look and feel like a fool.
The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.
But honor—gods, his honor.
The hand that held Ice faltered.
Larys Strong did not, his pale eyes twinkling at his would-be executioner in amusement.
Stark could not do it and Ice was dug deep into the rude stone floor.
"My Lord Hand…I do hope this has been a learning experience," the prisoner said, dabbing at the shallow cut Ice had made with a scrap of cloth, "about truth."
Truth? Stark blinked.
"I am cursed with knowledge. Perhaps because of my malady—a more useless and irksome curse, I daresay—that I have long understood that life, and therefore death, simply is."
Cregan Stark shook his head, tired and exasperated "It amuses you to jest with your executioner. I would say that amounts to bravery, but you are a vexation."
"Jest?," the Clubfoot laughed, "Not at all…only because 'tis with you. How you make such an amusing student! The cockroach and its kin—they live, they die. They even eat each other without even knowing nor caring. Now tell me, what is honor? What is duty? What are those to them? What are those to the stones around us, to the cold breeze or the beautiful moon in the sky? What are we to all of that, I ask you my Lord Hand?"
"My question remains unanswered—why, Lord Strong? Why bother? Was it worth watching the realm split apart and bleed just because you could?"
"Finally…you understand, I think" Larys Strong nodded and leaned against the wall relaxedly, "yes it was. Between you and I, you are more a prisoner here than I am. Perhaps more than I ever was."
Stark's eyes narrowed in denial and disgust, "You truly deserve to die."
The Hand of the King then spat contemptuously upon the ground before the damned.
"It doesn't matter. Life as we know it is a folly as is everything else," the prisoner smiled again, an amused gaze twinkling lazily in the gloom, "The best we could hope for, since we are slaves of so-called reason, is to be…unencumbered about the greater scheme of things."
"You die by my hand in a few hours" Cregan Stark icily said, unable to take in the absolute nothingness from the prisoner's words, "Is that the last you have to say for yourself?"
"I thought this has been settled yesterday" the Clubfoot yawned carelessly before closing his eyes to sleep, "'when was a wolf ever moved by words?'"