"why did you stop writing your story!!! never stop writing!!!!!!!!!!!" well you see the character had to drive one mile to a new location and the sentence "she got into the car" was quite simply my undoing
TAGS: [Dead Dove Do Not Eat]. Cannibalism, mentions of suicide, implied SA, starvation, murder, Gwyn is a ginger, mentions of dementia, relatively realistic decay except i didn't get too much into it just in case.
It was right there, after all this time, inconspicuously laying atop the snow, held tightly by the gauntlets of the knight, and stained red by the fight it had endured moments before.
Gwyn had dreamed of the swordsman again this very morning; the mismatched metals of his armour glistened in the summer sun and reflected the emerald toned tall grass that danced with the wind surrounding his unnaturally stiff form. A longsword, half as tall as he, swung around and stopped abruptly, pointing invitingly to where Gwyn watched. The same longsword shimmering with her own blood right now as its owners body grew cold and gray on the forest floor, a sanguineous flow dripping from the side of his neck where she stabbed the stick closest to her moments before.
Dying was not as instant as Gwyn once thought. It took at least an hour for the knights body to stop jerking and spasming. Every time she thought it had stopped, a new limb moved minutes later. The feeling he would rise up from the dead and finish killing her did not leave her side as long as he could move, and until it did, she did not leave his.
Being a killer and killing someone was not the same to her, even if it was to the rest of Westeros. Lords, knights and kings could kill as they saw fit, that never counted, but any man who fought them back was a killer. Would she be a killer now? His yellow cape was sullied red, and the golden lion pin on his shoulder left very clear which house he served, who would want her head first.
The way to the nearest town would be long, whatever side of the forest she may come out of, but twenty-one silver stags from selling six sheep and the mans wineskin would be perfect travel companions, as long as the gods were kind and didn't send a blizzard. Her best efforts went into treating her shallow wounds as neatly as she could, and as soon as she finished tying the last ripped piece of the knights linen shirt around her arm, she grabbed the knights longsword, cleaned her blood off it on his cape, and began walking.
By the time the walk back hit a fortnight, starvation was stabbing into Gwyns gut.
The wolfswood seemed to circle and go on forever. Even a ray of sun felt like blistering heat once you grew accustomed to the cold, and in the shade, the snow seemed to glitter with a distinctive shine that was unnoticeable to someone walking through the clearings. Tracks left by her boots were not as noticeable as they would be under open skies, and finding your way was as much a learned skill as riding or sword-fighting.
Leopoldt was a cowardly boy of thirteen, someone who couldn't so much as go out herding alone from fear of foxes, and Dietrich carried the weight of seventy namedays on his back. Perhaps that is what made him so hunched he had to walk with a cane. Neither of them could look for her. What was left of her real family, the people of a house fallen as quickly as it had risen, thought Gwyn long dead. These news would never reach them.
With so much time to think alone, it was an arduous task not to wonder if her father had felt this way the months he disappeared, so far from the life he knew, like he had walked into a different place, a different time.
Hunger ached deep inside her, slowly vanishing the last drops of wine and melted ice Gwyn had the previous morning.
In front of her laid the empty hand of the Lannister knight, frozen stiff. It stopped her leather boots in their track. Blood phased her little, the snow atop the pale-faced mans beard that resembled how her father was brought back to their estate was what perturbed her far too much. Losing one's mind, what a nightmarish thought. It would prove everyone right; blood of her blood. They never understood, not one of them.
The day Gwyn ran was not a selfish act like her father's or her brother's, it was the opposite. Making some little southern lordling marry her at her eighth nameday as her grandsire had wished was ridiculous, he would be mocked until the end of his days, it wouldn't be fair to anyone. This way everyone was happy, no low lords betrothed, no grandsire fighting for a say in what wasn't his to give, no one worrying what the mad families child would end up like. Perhaps finding wolfsbane and ending her life like her brother would be a more sensible way to go, at least it would be with a full stomach.
The wound on the side of the knights neck had stopped oozing crimson long ago, and the skin was not soft nor tender, beneath Gwyns cool fingertips, it felt far from human; it had tightened so much it reminded her of a swine.
A hurt sound made its way past parched lips as Gwyns gut twisted and turned with sharp pain that made her curl inwards and hold whatever she could of her stomach, falling down from a crouch to a kneel. There weren't many animals that could be hunted with a sword. A single rabbit had hopped by days ago, and in the desperate chase that followed all that was gained was heavy exhaustion and a loss of the barely noticeable track she had carefully been following for the past week that landed her right back where they started.
Powdery and darkened blood from the wound on the mans neck was smeared on her fingertips, and without so much as a thought, Gwyn lifted her hand to her lips and licked it off, leaving behind a lighter, spit stained red. What would happen if she couldn't get back? How long until hunger devoured her body from within and how long until some poor soul came across the white fur on her shoulders, buried beneath the snow many moons later. Dying just like her father… Just like father. Naked, insane, lost, alone.
The knights arm was surprisingly easy to pull off.
After a few semi-futile hacks of the longsword, it was quickly discarded and replaced by ungloved hands gripping the now bared wrist tightly and a boot against his breastplate. Violet skin on his shoulder gleamed as if covered by stained glass, and the flesh broke off instead of ripping, making the force Gwyn thought to apply way too much and sending her and the arm down to the forest floor. The old gods held no laws and made their believers follow no scriptures, but in the dirty ground, Gwyn looked up at the branches and wondered if anyone was judging from within them. People would, people always judged. Did nature? Did the old gods, who made hunger? No necessity overrode the law the world upheld, except its own. Survival was for those who fought to live, and nobody else.
Creaks and whispers of wind sounded deep in the wolfswood, violently interrupted by the crunching of frozen flesh and licking of bloodied bluish lips. Gwyn's entire body trembled with a profound sigh that left her breath stilled in the chill air. It was disgusting; almost tasteless and clearly raw, no ice would hide that. Yet, never in her life had she felt so full. Swallowing down any attempts of her stomach to reject the meal, she ate until she couldn't bear to swallow anymore; The flesh was far from tender, it cracked under her teeth so harshly Gwyn feared they might shatter, after so long, she could swear she had never tasted anything better.
The next week, she ate one of the thighs, roasted atop a small fire she moved along with each camp and never left the side of. When cooked, it went down so much in size she almost feared it would disappear, and gained an almost acceptable taste. Still, Gwyn could almost feel the weirwoods carved eyes glaring holes into her back every night before she laid down to sleep.
The last two days were noticeably warmer. By the time she had finished the first leg bugs had taken to living inside the other, as well as the arm on its side. They resembled festering wounds, but the white moved and ate away at the flesh from the outside. The ice the body had laid on had melted yesterday morning, and nature seemed to have no patience left for it as it hurried to take all that remained under the silver plates of armour. In a couple blows of the longsword, the leg and forearm were taken off. All that remained was a helmeted head and a chain mail covered torso with slowly melting blood pouring down.
Buried in the darkness of rows upon rows of evergreen trees Gwyn picked branches from that evening laid a small patch of snow; untouched by the sun and the heat it brought, and thus untouched by maggots.
Dragging the knight's body became much easier now that so little of him remained. It was a grotesque sight, but it was far from the first one she witnessed. Her father had always insisted all his children 'saw the world for what it was'. The blood-stained cloak served as a half-decent tent, and the fire felt warmer in that little nook; crackling of it seemed louder than usual, that was, until she noticed.
Gwyn rose abruptly. Someplace, someplace near, she heard the rhythmic hooves of a horse clashing against soil. She shoved snow over the fire and grabbed her newfound weapon before moving to swiftly place the ochre cloak over what remained of the man. Surely was a sight one was pleased to leave behind. She could bury him, take the horse and ride in one direction as long as it would take her; the wolfswood was large, but in at most four days without stopping, she was bound to come out of it. It was forgiveness for her sin, a blessing. Her rapid trail of thought stilled as she heard a voice. No.
Being found this way, with a knights blood on her hands, next to his dismembered body... it would mean being thrown in a dungeon for years to come, or worse. If she went back alone no one would know, being found was a different story.
Another voice made itself heard, too close for comfort. A question: "Who goes there?"
Gwyn heard the scrape of a sword being pulled from its sheath before she could think of where to hide, nearly dropping her own blade as she saw the first figure running towards her. Something was yelled, something indiscernible from the blood rushing in her ears when she began to run to the opposite side of the first people she had seen in a moon and the horse that could've taken her home.
Leave. You need to leave. There is no time to waste, don't you dare drop your sword.
If they catch you, after everything you had to do… you may have a chance at escape later but now-
Now? Your best chance is of dying in a chase like an animal.
No, it's not worth it.
It's not worth it.
It's not worth it.
A gloved hand gripped her curls and pulled her attempt at escape to an abrupt stop. Her desperate fighting soon grew futile as another man held her down and took the sword from her bloodstained hands. From the forest floor, the trees looked tall as mountains, the movement around her blurred as Gwyns head was banged against the dirt.
"Cease the fighting at once, boy!" The man gripping her copper hair was pushing Gwyns cheek into the ground as she squirmed. He looked more nervous than violent.
"Filthy worm." A second figure, all in black, emerged from the shadow of the first. He tied her hands with a speed forged by practice, spitting out the words he said as if each one disgusted him more. "The lions won't be happy about this one… They pay their good money to their vassals."
Soon followed by another pair who cautiously led two horses behind them, horrified from what they had just come across and observing her every move, they all dragged her to sit against a tree and began to quietly converse. The horses were comely. A rose grey garron mare, made for winter and most likely owned by the wandering crow, followed by a gelded rounsey with a blood bay coat, a bastard of horses. Even the most noble breeds seemed to succumb to instinct when let loose.
The man in black did not speak his own name. He looked to be no older than forty and his brown beard did not hide the constant frown he donned. Except for the furs on his shoulders, which were a vibrant amber fox pelt, everything about him was so dim Gwyn believed an abyss would surely be brighter.
The three other men wore old brown leather cloaks, and behaved nothing like prisoners. From their rare attempts at conversations, which went unanswered, she found out they were traveling to the Deepwood Motte before they had come across 'him'. They appeared young and spoke quietly, often turning back to look at her before resuming the conversation, as if she were training to become the next master of whispers and listened to every word.
The rogue crow was the first to suggest splitting paths, and after a curt wish of well-faring, he used what little strength his thin arms may have carried to toss her, facing down, on the back of his horse. Tying her ankles and putting a thin cloth bag over her head seemed to satisfy his desire to humiliate his new prisoner, and shame was something dueful her wane to beasthood.
Gwyn thought about anything except what was happening. Thought of the old man and Leo, thought of how to get the silver she still held onto to the two, thought of the hedge knights hands unlacing his breeches, of the smell of blood after she drove his own dagger through his eye, and how it felt like warm rain falling on her face from where he knelt above her, thought of the following chase by the Lannisters knight which made both of them lose their way, and the ensuing fight against him which left her with the newfound title of 'murderer' and stranded until now, here, when she was faced all she wished not to think of.
"Does she have a name?" Gwyn asked softly.
"Who?"
"Your mare."
"…" The crow did not answer for a minute or so, and she assumed her questioning futile, until he replied.
"Maiden. After the maiden" It was hard to know if he had named her then and there, or if he simply wished to share as little as possible, but it was a fitting namesake for her, whenever it may have been bestowed.
Gwyn hesitated before speaking again. "Are you southern? Most northeners don't believe in the seven."
"I used to be."
Following that, their trip to Winterfell was quiet. Neither of them wished to debate idle musings nor did they entertain any more questions for each-other. The canter of the mare kept her from sleeping, and she deeply regretted not asking the terrified boys for some water while she had the chance. Surely Gwyn could mask herself as some small squire with a voice like a bird, and somebody ought to believe her. She'd been posing as a boy for years to do what her timid and aged companions could not. It had kept her and the only two people left in her life who mattered safe for years. Until it hadn't…
The crow did not stop at any time, paying no mind to the horses panting and jerking, and in just two days and one night, they passed the hunters gate.
Disorienting, the echoing of mutters and shouts crashed like waves into her ears, which had grown used to the stillness of the wolfswood. The clop of the mares hooves against the cobblestone ceased as they reached a stop, and after having her legs untied, Gwyn was harshly pushed off its back and onto the floor.
The crow guided her tied hands by the loose end of the rope, the hood that was left on her head made walking hard, and she felt like a stumbling fool as she passed through the door into what she assumed to be the great hall.
The warmth of Winterfell caused Gwyns gelid skin to burn with the heat of molten iron. She sucked in a breath though her teeth, still tasting blood on her dry tongue as she was pushed down to her knees.
The hood over her head was not removed by the hands that placed it; the eldest Stark carefully placed it in the hands of a maester behind him, never taking his eyes from hers or his hand from the hilt of his sheathed sword. He looked almost a man, yet not quite. Young for his young age, he held no hardened features of a man except for an exhausted expression. No one made the first move for a few moments, until her captor presented the Lannister knights longsword and cloak pin to the lord Stark before speaking.
"M'lord, i found him in the wolfswood, half way to the motte but almost a mile off the path." He said, stern and clear. "I believe the other knights body we found near the edge is also his handiwork. He must have lured them into the forest to kill them both. His hands were covered with blood when i found him and the body was cut into pieces, we only found the torso and a leg."
A shiver blew across the room like winter wind as the Stark imagined the sight. He looked away from her, lost in thought.
"Speak, or i will take the words of this man for granted and deliver a sentence myself." His voice faltered, yet his face remained the same as he returned her gaze once again.
Gwyn lowered her head and looked away, speaking in a choked voice "I did kill them, there is no use in denying it. But they attacked me first."
"When?"
She rose her head to meet his gaze again. "I'm not sure, my lord. When was the feast you held last?"
Both the lord Stark and the crow looked bewildered, and the second broke the silence, "You're telling me you spent over a month in there?" She only nodded, glad not to be asked more questions. "Gods be good…"
The young lord took a step back, contemplating, before taking his hand off his blade and crossing his arms. Gwyn wondered, if they knew her true crime, would they doubt for even a second? It was only a vile accusation, or a grave suspicion, but any proof of it relied on her own word.
"If you will, you may take the black and pay for your crimes serving at the wall. Were you not to do this, you will be hanged come morning." This time, his voice was unwavering. Surely speaking with words not his own, ones he had heard his father say hundreds of times.
She had not considered that option. Gwyn had assumed that sometime before her sentence someone would find out about the truth of her sex, one way or another.
"May i ask something of you, my lord?" She struggled to pull a small bag from her pocket, and held it gently in her tied hands in front of him. "Would you please give this to my family? It is mine, i earned it selling sheep here." Her voice rasped as she continued. "I will not need it at the wall, but they will find use for it."
He nodded, calling over the maester once again and handing him the bag.
"I shall see to it that the money is delivered." The young lord Stark turned and left, and by the hour, Gwyn was fed actual food, and river water instead of melted snow for the first time in a moon. Eating it almost felt wrong, undeserved, knowing the last thing she ate, but she swallowed down the doubt with her soup and went on her way with the crow.
In eighteen days and seventeen nights, they arrived at the wall. Gwyn had seen it from afar many times, yet now, it loomed over her as imposing as the sky itself.
Her legs felt like they were about to fall off, more than half of the way was spent with her captor comfortable on horseback and her walking, being led by her tied hands like a leashed hound.
"Don't you dare run now." The man pulled out a small blade and sliced the ropes clean off. They had left red marks on her skin, but luckily weren't tight enough to scrape into it.
"I chose this, why would i run now?" She replied, confused.
" …That's what they all say" He tossed her the longsword inside its scabbard when they reached the gate to castle black. Watching the dark wood split open , Gwyn, in that moment, wished the would would as well.
Authors note: So yeah! That was it for now. I've never really posted my writing before but i really like making characters and i was inspired by the lovely writers here on tumblr to give it a try.
I can 100% assure you it is cannon that the man from the nights watch told Gwyn it was fine if he had a little dick and he didn't have to pee so far away when they journeyed to the wall.
Anyways! I'm just really happy to finally post something, even through the perils of editing and writing i really enjoyed this and am definitely gonna try to post for more OC's.
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