Snippet #1503548

These past few days had not been good to Quincel. Completely convinced of his own treachery, he became a ghost, shivering and pale. The closer they got to Winterfell, the lower his head dropped from shame, until he was constantly staring at the cold unforgiving ground. Food and speech were ashes alike in his mouth. He could not speak, could not eat, and so just sat, staring mournfully his hands twisted in his lap or sometimes at his blade, naked and dull. Lost in his own misery, surrounded by the whispers of enemies of Greyhardt, he passed in a trance, helplessly tangled in his failure. Sometimes he would rouse from his sleepless dreaming, but whispers of the carnage of the Greyhardt fleet, of the ruthlessly calculating Bastard King, of the prowess of the She-wolf assailed him and beat him back.

Lionel’s men, these bought swords, these curs, looked at him and laughed, taunted him. When he proved to be unresponsive, they went away, to occupy themselves with better men. Craven, they called him. And he was.

-

Upon discovering the vast cold forests of the North, Maryn decided that now would be a perfectly good time to hone those tree climbing skills he’d been itching to practice. He asked to be a scout for the fleet moving upshore. Of course House Greyhardt knew they were coming, Lionel had send some terrified men fleeing back to the great Winterfell hold. But a surprise attack would not be a happy thing at all. It was strange having Maryn initiating any sort of duty. But of course Maryn had his own motivations. The Greatest Man in the World had to have a variety of skills, and at the moment, Maryn needed to improve his climbing skills.

As the other scouts continued their scouting, Maryn casually paused in front of a great tree. Damn these northern trees. All the branches were seemingly miles above his head, and studded with strange prickles. He examined the tree carefully for a moment, and in a flurry of quick, scraping movements, scrambled up onto the trunk. He dug his fingers into splintery crevasses, scrabbled for footholds on slippery knots. Cursing, he dragged himself up the tree.

“Hey! What are you doing?” One of the scouts, a Braavosi, turned to glare at Maryn. So much for being sneaky.

“Climbing. What? My cock’s not so lonely that I must seek companionship in this tree. Nope. Can’t find a goddamn teat on this thing.” With a great heave, he pushed off the tree and latched onto a branch. When swinging up onto the top of the branch proved too much work for his poor stomach muscles, Maryn changed tactics and instead walked his legs up lamely on the side of the tree. A few ungraceful movements later, he managed to flop on top of the branch, arms clinging to the branch for dear life, one leg on either side of the branch. Ow…

The Braavosi snorted. “Worst cat I’ve ever seen.”

“The only Catboy is back there with the ships. Besides, you can’t laugh at me. I can see inside Winterfell from here.” He was lying through his teeth. All he could see was more branches and strange prickle leaves. Maryn scrambled to his feet. The branch made some ominous cracking noises, so Maryn jumped on it a couple of time, daring it to drop the Great Him.

The gods were good, and Maryn did not fall. From there, the going was easy. The branches were strong and sturdy and closely placed, Maryn was not a particularily big man, and now it was just a matter of hanging onto something and leaping from branch to branch. Maryn looked down and was impressed by his own progress. Then he realized that he didn’t know how to get back down. Oh well. If was going to be stuck in a tree, might as well climb higher and figure out how to solve this dilemma while he was at it.

The canopy thinned suddenly, and Maryn really could see over Winterfell’s walls. Screw breathtaking view for miles around. The most important spot was the holdfast, and wow! The fortifications on that thing were crazy. There were more turrets on that wall than he had seen combined. There were two solid rock walls, the outer shorter than the inner, but taller than any tree around it. Jammed in between the walls was a wide moat, spanned by a few narrow bridges. Spikes and crenellations lined the battlements. The thick inner wall surrounded not one, but two keeps, and only offered two gates of entry. And randomly, for some reason, there was a small forest of pale white wood. Yes. In the middle of the city. Maryn whistled. “That Winterfell sure is a brute of a holdfast,” he called down to the Braavosi. “Like your mother! And her mother! And her pet dog and her great aunt!”

-
“We’ve landed,” Kent said softly. He left soon after, not bothering to see if Quincel had heard. He could not tend him forever, and this was no place to be weak.

Reluctantly, slowly, the traitor pushed himself to his feet. A few uncertain steps, coupled with a weakly searching hand, directed him to the exit of the longboat’s cabin. He had been unable to set foot on the Firestorm, to be so close to the blood of his blood, Leliana who was a traitor like him. This was Wolf-fang, a good Greyhardt ship that had been spared the flames but captured and taken. A fast, well armed ship, Quincel had sailed on this ship many times in his service. But somehow it still seemed so unfamiliar. He stumbled off the cold ship and wandered around camp aimlessly, trying to figure out what was happening.

“We’re storming it tomorrow. One more night of forest food and cold,” grumbled a Mummer. “Don’t know if I can take it. This land’s been awful cold without women.” A lewd laugh rang out among his companions.

Disgusted, Quincel started to leave, but another man piped up. “Don’t worry. Might it be that His Bastardly Grace will let us really rape some ladies before he lops off their head. Imagine our lowly selves fucking the Lady of Winterfell herself. You ever fuck a noblelady, Ren?”

And suddenly he was reeling, his hand flying to his face. Before he could stop himself, Quincel had stepped up and hit him as hard as he could. The man spat a glob of bloody spittle and wiped the red liquid from a split lip. Blood flowed out again despite his effort, trickling down in a thin line into his beard. “Why if it isn’t the craven Greyhardt traitor.” His sword came sliding out of its scabbard and he advanced.

Seabound flashed out as well, a white gleam of Valyrian steel. With two furious blows, Quincel knocked away the man’s sword and took off a hand. Crippled by his mental burdens he may be, but he had once been Ser Quincel, shipmaster of the Greyhardt fleet, captain of the Greyhardt’s forces. He was no small fighter. As the man writhed and clutched at his lifeblood, Quincel remembered who he was. A sword in his hand, blood at his feet, he was a fighter. Dishonored, fallen from service, yes. But he was a fighter! They couldn’t take that away. No man could but himself.

“Insult my family again, any one of you, and I’ll send you to your vile gods so you can repeat it to their faces,” he said. Adrenaline pumped wildly in his veins, drowning him in the sound of rushing blood. Yes! He was alive. He could feel it. The time worn grip of Seabound, the crisp cold hair, the steam and stench of hot blood. And the dream was broken, he could think again. So clearly, the sounds, the colors, they were so bright. He had returned to his senses! Ecstatic, he did a bold thing. He turned his back on the suddenly hostile men, and walked away.

They might tell the boy Lionel. He might even take offense. But if he had any complaint, perhaps his Night could come discuss it with Seabound. The blade gleamed with bright blood. Quincel was back. And he would ride into battle with these filth, yes ride next to even the King. He would make certain no harm would come to his precious family, even if he died to stay the Bastard’s blade. He owed them that much.