Snippet #1502135

“I cannot watch this, Kent.” Despite his words, Quincel stared at the flaming, shrieking scene that unfolded before him. It was a scene from his worst nightmares. Death in the water, blood on his homelands. A battle! A war, a war on his House and home, and worse! He was on the wrong side. The invading side. “I should be there! I should be at the front of my House, defending against these scoundrels who dare to wage war on Winterfell.”

The priest Kent started to murmur a few empty! reassuring words, but Quincel did not hear, did not want to hear. He clenched his fists so that his knuckles gleamed palely in the firelight. He was a man transfixed, impaled by this scene of horror before him. He wavered, not in weakness, but in the flighty anger of fire. He could not see Leliana from his wantage point, nor did he want to. She had willingly, willingly! agreed to go with Lionel in the main attacking force. It was not the Leliana he knew. She had no place on a battlefield. She might be a strong, independent child, yes child!, but even so, she would not ride into war. That was men’s work. Men? Were those who played the deadly game of war truly men? Dogs more like, scrabbling over scraps of meat. A dog, a dog like Quincel. A dog that bit the hand that fed, and ran off with a bitch.

If you were a truly good man like your brother, you would stop this.

There was no way. His troops, the original few that had mistakenly followed him when he was set on rescuing the girl, they were all scattered among the Braavosi ships. The Braavosi were watching him. The Braavosi! Quincel cursed them. Why they deigned to bow before Lionel, he could not understand. Dogs, dogs licking the feet of other dogs. Quincel might once have let himself believe that Lionel could be a king, that he had the wisdom, the skill, the sovereignty that could hold a kingdom. A false hope gleaned from the reflection of Leliana’s eyes. She saw something in him, and thus, Quincel had tried, too. But all he could see was in the Bastard’s wake was bloodlust, dishonor, and a raw, wild savagery.

The Seven Kingdoms would burn. Burn!

Many times he has wondered what would have happened had he not gone to their rescue. But there was no speculating of what could have been, not when there were so many problems to be dwelt with in the present. It was all his doing! All his! Not Leliana. She could not be blamed for the follies of youth. It was he! Quincel of no House worth mentioning.

Overcome with his own self-loathing and hatred, he stalked off to shut himself away, to be a ghost, a wraith, an oathbreaker. He was worse than nothing.

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Maryn laughed. It was really all too wonderful. He usually favored a less direct way of murder than an all out-in-the-open battle, but this was ok! Surrounded by allies and Mummers and Braavosi and Myrmen, he didn’t mind this. Not at all! So many friends! They would be invincible. They were!

These Greyhardt men were good, he granted them. To be able to be mobilized so quickly after such a random sneak attack. They really were brave men. But they are no match for the Great Me! At first, he had fight just as well as them, matching parry for parry, taking wounds, being cautious, retreating back. But a few moments later he realized that for every sword thrust the Greyhardts gave, Maryn and his friends gave three back! Spurred by his confidence, he gave up form. Heh. I don't need to be careful! The sooner I get this job done, the sooner I get paid…

His sword whipped around, crazily, messily. But it got the job done, and that was that. The disciplined Greyhardt men fell back before the Mummers’ wrath, and disheartened by the foreign soldies’ vicious attack and the loss of the fleet, they surrendered. Victory was theirs.

When the rest of Lionel’s ‘army’ let out a victorious cheer, Maryn finally stopped looking for people to hurt. “Where’s my pay?” yelled the sellsword above the din of the excited mob.