Scream Against the Storm Chapter 12, an a song of ice and fire fanfic

Chapter 12

Moonlight danced on the crystal waters of the Braavosi lagoon, the tallest spires of the Queen of Cities glittering in the distance. On the other side of the lagoon from here, he could see the head and shoulders of the Titan, nothing more. Specifically, the back of its head. For the Titan faced the sea whence a fleet of another Free City may have come, as it had been designed to; it was hence helpless to prevent assault from this direction.

Beside the shore a swarm of men had gathered, thick on the ground. Tents had sprouted up among them, and in the centre of their camp they had piled a vast number of rafts, cut from the green woods that grew in these fenlands—wet, hard to burn—and bound with hempen ropes. Cookfires burnt everywhere except around the rafts, a pattern of orange spots against the night. In this summer warmth, the fires' heat made the camp stuffy. Around those fires pranced thousands upon thousands of sellswords. They were not armoured, except for those on guard duty, who kept watchful eyes around the camp. The heat was sweltering, and as they had crushed the Braavosi hosts themselves, they knew the lack of strength that remained at the disposal of the Sealord.

Among those oft-scarred swaggering men with weapons ever at the ready, there crept small stooped figures with their heads down. These men, women, girls and boys ran errands for the sellswords, handing out food and water, passing messages, cleaning armour, fletching arrows and so on—all those things that the sellswords deemed beneath their notice. Sometimes they were paid what was promised to them. 'Camp followers', these people were called, and they were unarmed and defenceless.

One of those was Perio Kavayn, who sat looking down, near a cookfire and next to a big, crude iron pot. The pot was filthy with grease, fat and pieces of charred meat that had stuck to the bottom. Perio had naught but a dirty cloth and some hot water to clean it. It was tough, tedious scrubbing that made his arms ache. He did not complain, though. Why would he? This was his life. It had always been his life. He had been born to this, son of a whore and some unknown sellsword, and he had lived and grown to adulthood following armies around, knowing nothing else. He had always been under the tyranny of fear, knowing not to talk back to armed men, lest they take it as insolence.

A pair of sellswords wandered past him, deep in their cups. Perio outwardly paid them no heed, his face down, intent on his scrubbing. His ears worked fine, however, so he heard them anyway.

"I reckon it's soon," said one of them, a burly man with a bristly brown beard. "We got plenty o' rafts now. What are they waiting for?"

"The fleet," said the other, shorter and black-bearded. "The Sealord's fleet's still there. We gotta get past it."

"They oughta told us how they goin' do that," said the first. "That irks me, y'know. 'T ain't fair, only the high-ups know. I don't like takin' things on trust."

The second sellsword shrugged. "The pay's good," he said, "or I'd be gone already. I don't trust 'em, I'm no man's fool. The way I sees it, if the Braavosi fleet's gone, we'll know. It'll be hard to miss some'at like that. And if it isn't… well, then, I ain't gettin' on a raft, an' I don't think no-one else will, neither."

"Fair."

Meanwhile, Perio's hands found an ugly lump of blackened meat, stuck to the iron. Another one, he thought, with a sigh of despair. He dipped the cloth back in his bucket of hot water and shoved it over the lump, back and forth.

"D'you think they can really do it?" the brown-bearded sellsword asked.

"Dunno. I'd say no-one can, but…" He shuddered. "But you 'eard of the one they say is goin' do it. They say he's the prince of the Sunset Lands, banished by his brother, the king. A country where kings laugh as they take some of the most important men in the land and burn them alive, just 'cause they can. Some sick bastard murdered two babes from the highest family in the land an' raped their mum with her babes' blood on his hands, and no-one bothered to punish him for it. Not a slave woman, a princess—the sort of person who'd be safe from that, in any civilised land—and they did that anyway. No-one's safe in the Sunset Lands, even the high an' mighty; so if you ain't born high, you're even more fucked than them. Sunsetlanders' leaders have no restraint, they don't leave anyone safe from their schemes, worse than the most cutthroat of magisters. Even the Dothraki aren't as bad. They'll stab you in the front, sure, but they won't swear endless friendship, shake your one hand and stab you with the other like Sunsetlanders do to each other. The nastiest, cruellest, most sick, most corrupt bunch of barbarians in the whole wide world… and he did something so, so, so terrible, even they decided it was too much."

"So 'e's a sick fucker," said the other sellsword, looking vaguely green. "Why does that mean—"

"He's more than that," the tall black-haired sellsword insisted. "They say he killed an army once; they were just standin' there, on dry land, and he made the river change its course and drown them all. A man annoyed him, once, and he turned him into a toad. He talks to ghosts, and they tell him where to find secret passes no-one else can see. In the Great Northern War he fought a whole army of Dothraki, just by hisself, and called white fire that killed damn near all of 'em. Only a few scattered and made it out alive to tell the tale."

The brown-haired sellsword said, dubiously, "An' you believe all that?"

"Some of it. I dunno what o' that is true; but if it's half; gods, if it's half of half… If anyone can sink the Sealord's fleet, it's the Prince of Sunset."

"If he's that powerful," said the shorter sellsword, "why don't he done it already?"

"We need rafts, I suppose," the taller sellsword said. "It ain't do no-one any good to sink the Braavosi fleet if we can't cross anyway."

"And now we have the rafts."

"Aye."

"So it's soon."

"Aye," the black-haired sellsword said solemnly. "I reckon it's soon."

The two sellswords passed out of earshot. Perio Kavayn did not pay heed to them. He had been at this camp of sellswords since long before it reached the lagoon of Braavos; he already knew all that they had to say. Perio did not wish to listen to those simple-minded swaggering fools. Why would he? No-one did.

No-one did.

Underneath the face of Perio Kavayn, a man who did not have a name watched and waited. Perio had worked like this for years, passing beneath notice as one of many servants following the camp; but the man who did not have a name had only recently arrived here. Perio lived, breathed, walked and talked as a man who had no interest in what he had just heard; but the man who did not have a name was exceedingly interested. He was alarmed, too. The two sellswords' supposition, if correct, was not encouraging. He did not have a long time to act.

Perio kept his head down and diligently scrubbed his pot, just another faceless camp follower. Sellswords talked to one another, and an intruder would be noticed among them; but nobody, including those who gave him orders, paid much notice to Perio. He melded in seamlessly with the men and women in the service of the sellswords because he was not pretending to be himself; he really believed that was who he was. He was not pretending to be Perio. He was Perio.

The face taken from long-dead Perio Kavayn was earnest and honest, intent on finishing the task that had been assigned to him, while secret thoughts that left no impression on the surface circled in the underlying mind. The Faceless Man would have to act quickly, if the enemy were soon to strike. These sellswords could not be permitted to launch their attack. Fortunately, they were not a single free company. There were dozens of free companies here, dozens of feuding commanders who would doubtless wish to take leadership for themselves, held together by the commander of the largest of those free companies: the Company of the Cat.

That was it. That was the duty he had been hired for. That was the keystone. Kill Handtaker and the arch of this alliance would fall apart, every sellsword commander squabbling for the position. Then the sellsword host would splinter and the Braavosi people would be safe.

It was no easy task, but his order had been well-compensated. It had been expensive indeed, in gold and blood alike, for a desperate Sealord who truly loved his country. Anno Nusaris would not have the legacy he had prized; the Nusaris family line would not continue, any more. That had been the price—well, that, and the fact that the House of Black and White was now overflowing with coin.

That was the way of things. The Faceless Men did not kill men because those men were deserving of death, as decreed by some judge of good and evil. They killed men when the House of Black and White was paid.

Perio kept washing the dishes, while the man who did not have a name considered his course. Within the undistinguished folds of what looked like an ordinary servant's garb were several secret compartments, containing some of the deadliest poisons known to man. He would have to select a fast-acting one, if the attack on Braavos were soon to proceed. Handtaker had to die quickly. But Aro Isattis had not got as far as he had by lack of vigilance; the commander of the Company of the Cat was a paranoid man. Doubtless the man who did not have a name could do his deed sooner if he were to corner and kill one of the men who prepared the commander's food for him, then steal the face of that man, but that was not his way. The Faceless Men took a certain pride in that. They were hired killers, but unlike clumsy other orders, they were skilful hired killers. They did not kill people whom they were not paid to kill.

In times like this, that could be troublesome, for he could not kill Aro Isattis's many guardsmen and servants. But he was the greatest of his order. He would find a way.

While the man who did not have a name plotted, Perio Kavayn worked innocently on his cleaning. When a dozen of the camp's guardsmen walked near him—helmed, armed and armoured men who would spell doom for the man who did not have a name if they caught him—Perio placidly went on doing his dishes. It was one of the first lessons taught to an aspiring Faceless Man. Slink away from guardsmen, try to hide, act as though you are guilty, and you make your guilt far more obvious than you would if you stay calm. And why would Perio not be calm? He was just a servant. He had nothing to fear because he had nothing to hide.

The guardsmen passed him by, as several previous parties of guardsmen had. They walked straight past him without even slowing down. Perio did not look up to gawp, for he had spent most of his life as a servant to sellswords and he knew not to do anything that could be considered insolent when in the presence of armed men, else they might hit him, casually as another man might shoe a horse. He kept his head down, for fear of being hit, and went on cleaning the pot.

A low, cold voice: "Take him."

The guardsmen spun around. Perio Kavayn was shocked, and in an instant he became the man who did not have a name; in another instant, the man who did not have a name understood that he had been found out; in another instant, his hands flew to cunningly concealed knives; in another instant, he drew them. The guardsmen were running towards him. In another instant he considered, then dismissed, the hope to flee; then his experienced hands were up and killing. One slid a knife between the joints of a guardsman's armour, almost severing his arm; another shoved down a man's visor and drove a knife into his face. At the same time, his legs spun and struck with a hard kick to one of the smaller, lighter guardsmen; the man cried out, lost his footing and knocked over a comrade…

No! A hard hand on his arm. He reached out with the other, swift as a striking snake, to cut it; but his aim for the joint between the gauntlet and the armour of the arm went off, and his knife clanged harmlessly against hard metal. That perplexed him for a fraction of a second. His aim was never off. Then he realised someone had grabbed his other arm.

The grip tightened, then his legs too, and he was immobile. Not dead, though. That surprised him. He breathed quickly, short sharp breaths like stabbing wounds, his heart thundering. The same was true of his opponents.

"Gods be good!" cursed one of the guardsmen, panting. They had been twelve to one, and four of the attackers lay on the ground, dead or elsewise out of the fight. "That was unnatural."

The tallest of the guardsmen took off his helm, revealing a pale face with a curtain of night-black hair, thin lips and dark blue eyes. "You have done well, Marro," said the Prince of Sunset—for surely it could be no other—in the same voice he had heard, as deep and frigid as the bottom of the sea. "Bind him."

With thick unyielding rope they bound the arms and legs of the man who did not have a name.

"Now take him to my tent."

They did. The armoured men—he guessed they were not truly on guard duty, despite their look—carried him through the camp, ever-watchful of the lethal skilled hands of the Faceless Man. They need not have bothered. From his training, he could tell almost immediately that his bindings were solid and that his hands could not reach far enough to shift the knots. Arm-movements could shift them, mayhaps, given time; but he suspected he did not have nearly that much time to live.

"See to it that we are not disturbed," his captor said. "Then leave us."

Unquestioning, the armoured men obeyed.

"You were a fool to believe you could pass unnoticed, facechanger," the Sunsetlander said softly. "Your master should have sent a common thug. A warrior infused with sorcery is easy prey. Do you not know what I am?"

"A sorcerer," said the Faceless Man.

"More than that. I am a greenseer. Skinchangers may only possess the mind of an animal that they know well; but my kind are not so limited. Long ago I lost the habit of keeping my mind wholly confined to this mortal shell. It is ever-roving, trailing all around my birth-self. My thoughts can delve into any beast I please, often many at the same time… and into men, too."

The man who did not have a name knew he had been found out; but he reminded himself that he had no way of knowing how much of this was true. It helped to control his fear. "You reach into the minds of men?"

"Oh yes. Your face is unremarkable, but your mind… the sheer strangeness compared to other minds… the lack of sense-of-self, the lack of memory, the lack of rootedness, the deliberate destruction of all that you are, everything that defines you to yourself… to me it is like a fly buzzing around before I swat it. It is difficult not to sense you." Those thin lips thinned further in disgust. "You've given up so much, facechanger. Do you even know your name?"

"We of the House of Black and White surrender our names along with the rest of our pasts," said no-one. "One cannot be an impartial servant to Him of Many Faces while retaining a sense of self. It is a sacrifice that must be made, to serve a greater purpose."

"Bah! I spit upon your sacrifice. To give up all that you are is not sacrifice, it is surrender, it is worse than death." The ruthless Prince of Sunset seemed honestly appalled. "Every man, including the most wretched beggar the world has ever had, has his self. It is the only thing that not even a spiteful king can take from us. He knows who he is. He has memories. He has a past. He has a name."

"It makes us worthy servants of the many-faced god," the Faceless Man said, unable to tolerate his entire order being insulted by this monster. "It makes us more than merely men."

"No, it makes you less than a man. You have deliberately eroded your own sense of self, to help you to pretend to be someone else. You are worse than mutilated; you are making yourself into nothing. I would sooner die."

"Did you bring me here solely to hear your insults?"

"No. I brought you here because you were an unforeseen impediment. You want my commander dead."

The Faceless Man spoke softly. "And you do not?"

There was a long pause.

"I am tempted," the Sunsetlander admitted. "But no. For all that he has done to me, he is my commander and I owe him loyalty so long as my contract is not done. And if you kill him now, I will never take my revenge upon the Braavosi scum who have cheated me."

Suddenly, the man who did not have a name understood. It is surrender, it is worse than death… you are making yourself into nothing. I would sooner die… "You mean to kill me."

"No," the Sunsetlander said. "I thought of it. I intended it, even, when I set out to catch you. But it has occurred to me that there is a way for you to find a part in my plans, lessening the risk to myself."

"Your purpose is to take revenge on Braavos, is it not?" said the man who did not have a name.

"It is."

"Then I will never serve your purpose."

"You seem to believe you can stop me," said the sorcerer, lips twisting. "You will do as I desire because I desire it. I am the storm that shakes the world of men, and you are a leaf in my thrall."

"I would not—" said the Faceless Man, and then he understood. "No. No. No, no, no—"

"Oh yes," the Prince of Sunset murmured. "You have worn many identities, have you not? Consider wearing just—one—more—"

And the thoughts came streaming into his mind as if they were his own:

I am Stannis Baratheon, of Storm's End. I was born to the line of the storm, and now I come to Braavos to claim my vengeance.

I am not Stannis Baratheon, he thought. I am Perio Kavayn—

But no. I know I am not Perio Kavayn. That was a mask I wore. Perio Kavayn is a servant, and I am not a servant.

That is true, gods help me, it is true…

I was not born to the line of the storm. I am not Baratheon. I do not know Storm's End.

How do I know that? I do not know where I was born. Where was I born?

It had been years since he had even wondered; but he could not help but think of it. I do not know where I was born. I do not remember.

So perhaps I was born in Storm's End, to the line of the storm, that is House Baratheon. I was not born 'no-one'. No-one is. The face of 'no-one', the Faceless Man, is a lie, just another false face I have worn.

Could it be?

No! You are trying to trick me! Outrage and fear rose in his thoughts. I am not you. I am not an extension of your will. I am my own person.

You? What you? There is no you here. There is only myself.

That you— he thought, thinking of the face of Stannis Baratheon. He looked up. He could see no other face. In the tent there was only himself. Terrified that his other-thoughts might be right, terrified of what that might mean, he closed his eyes.

That is my face, not a false one. I know that Perio Kavayn's face is not the one I was born with; I remember donning it for the first time. It is just another false face I have worn.

He did, but—

You! You! You are not me! I am a Faceless Man! I am no-one!

Yes, said the whisper, but no-one is born as no-one. What was I, before I was no-one? Am I starting to remember?

And with horror he realised that he was. Memories filled his mind of a past that was not his own. His childhood in Storm's End; Lord Steffon's bearing, proud and distant; Robert, to be envied and resented, yet served; Lady Cassana Baratheon, close and kind and warm, whom he had loved with all his heart. His lord father, and his lady mother, and little Renly whom he had promised to protect. He had killed them all, and the grief and shame that he felt now were overpowering emotions, far stronger than anything he recalled from his other memories, filling his thoughts—

No. A feeling of panic joined the grief, warred with it. They are not my memories! That is not me! That is not me!

I am Stannis Baratheon. I was born and reared by the line of the storm; I am feeder of storms, caller of storms, child of the Stormlands. Storm's End is my home, though I have not been there for a long time. I may have wished to be no-one, to have forgotten, but I was not born no-one. No-one was. Who else could I be?

I— He tried to find an answer. I am a man of Braavos.

I have been to Braavos. I have dwelt there, for a time. But I hate it now, and I have come to take my vengeance.

I do not hate Braavos!

But the hatred filled his thoughts, like a river flooding its banks with bitterness and resentment. How dare they, how dare they, those upjumped merchant scum who cheated me, I will give them punishment— The surge of hatred overwhelmed the milder emotions that he had allowed to himself as a servant of the many-faced god. He tried not to feel it, but he could not not feel it; it was everywhere; it was so, so strong.

I do not hate Braavos! But he felt the hatred in his mind. Fear. Is that a lie?

It is a lie. The thought came with absolute confidence. I know what I am. I am Stannis Baratheon. I am myself, and I remember my name.

He scrabbled for a retort. I am a Faceless Man, of the House of Black and White. I serve Him of Many Faces.

Hmm? That is not a self. That is an occupation. Contempt. I am no servant. I have been forced to act as a servant, in order to obtain the coin to feed myself, but I know what I truly am. I am Stannis Baratheon, and I am the storm, and all who look upon me should know the touch of terror.

The memories flashed across his mind once more. The warmth of his mother's hugs, Lady Cassana's smile, little Renly looking up at him with an expression of hope. And then he was the storm. His fingers were the currents of the air, stirring the sea into a frenzy, and he watched and laughed with glee as the Reachmen whom he hated, hated, hated, drowned and screamed, their ships torn to splinters by the storm that had descended upon them.

That is not me. These are not my thoughts, they are someone else's. I am not the storm. I am not the storm.

I am the storm. Calm. Confident. Thinking with perfect conviction. I am Stannis Baratheon. Whatever may have befallen me, I know who I am. I know my name.

I cannot be. I am—

What?

What was he?

It was as if a great chasm had opened before him. He clutched at the edges of the pit, black and deep and yawning. I do not know my past. I do not know who I was. I do not know who I will be.

I was the storm. I will be the storm. I am the storm.

I am not the storm. Desperation. He was drowning in the dark. I am someone else. I am not Stannis Baratheon. I cannot be, I cannot be.

Is it so hard to believe? Amusement. Triumph. I was made to forget my past. But I know what it is, now. That is my past. I remember.

Not my past. Not my memories. It is not I who remember. I am not—

I am. I am Stannis Baratheon. I am the one who was born to the storm, reared by the storm, called the storm, fed the storm, was the storm. I am the storm that shakes the world of men, and I do not need to wear false faces.

It is not a false face. It is a true face—

But it was not. He had forgotten. And his own memory of when he had put on that false face came rising up like a sea monster from the depths of the pit, flung straight at him.

I think I do not know my true face. For a time, I did not. But now I do. This is my true face. Pale, high cheekbones, thin lips, black hair, dark blue eyes. I have only forgotten.

It cannot be. It cannot be.

It is.

I am not Stannis Baratheon.

I am Stannis Baratheon. Absolute confidence. There was no room for doubt. I am the storm. I am the storm. I am the storm. I am the storm. I am the storm.

I am not the storm. Panic. Terror. A thought, unbidden, against the patterns of thought that the many-faced god's servants had drilled into him: But then what am I? Where was I born?

In Storm's End. Triumph. I know. I know. Do not be afraid.

I cannot be the storm. I am not the storm.

I am the storm.

Fear—fear such that he had not known in a lifetime. He was losing everything.

Or gaining it?

Losing it!

He searched that black pit. It was if there was something he once knew, but he had lost it, somewhere, sometime. On purpose. He could not find it. He did not even know what it was, and that terrified him more than he could describe.

I am not the storm.

Desperation. Must work. Must.

I am not the storm.

I am not…

I am the storm.

Certainty settled about him like a burial-shroud. In the same single instant, the corners of two mouths twitched upward into small, self-satisfied smiles.

Stannis Baratheon opened his eyes.