An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 49/?
Fandom: Game of Thrones (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Characters: Jaime Lannister, Brienne of Tarth, Cersei Lannister, Margaery Tyrell, Tyrion Lannister, Sansa Stark, Robb Stark, Dacey Mormont
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Fraternities & Sororities, Navel-Gazing, pretentious author self-challenge, 1000 Words or Less, Fluff and Crack, mind the dates, this fic does not believe in a coherent timeline, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, unironically and horrifyingly so, Greek life can be shady, Heed Chapter Warnings, Drama snuck in
Series: Part 1 of Fast Times At Westeros University
Summary:
The Hunter sat at the base of a tree, hidden from the forest path. His moss green cloak dissolved his figure into the knee-high vegetation of the forest’s floor. He was silent. Not a breath. Not a heartbeat. His heavy eyes stared blankly forward as if time were nil.
The pattering of footsteps marked the approach of his prey, yet he remained stone. A light humming accompanied the footsteps; a jolly tune the Hunter swore he once knew. The performance was cut short by the whizzing of ropes and a loud squeal. The Hunter came to life, using his cracked oaken club to leverage himself off the ground.
“Help!” beckoned a wavering voice from the road. A man hung from an ankle nearly four feet off the ground, wiggling violently to free himself.
Silent as a specter, the Hunter made his approach. The oaken club met the base of the man’s skull with all the force the Hunter could muster. Lifelessly the body swung; a swift end.
An air of solemnity hung over the Hunter as he disassembled the complex ropework. He could feel the Hunger approaching. He abhorred It. It would take control, transform him. But there was no option. He had to eat.
As he dropped the body to the dirt, the man’s satchel burst open revealing a slew of fruits. The apples caught the Hunter’s eye. He recognized these; the juicy, natural sweetness was one of the few things he could remember. He desperately threw himself to the ground for one of the delicious green orbs, grabbing one in each hand. Hesitantly, he took a bite. The flavor was revolting — reminiscent of gravel and ooze — and the juices burned the innards of his mouth.
“No!” he shrieked, spitting the poison back to the earth.
He had known it would be this way. Pleasures of taste were of a life, long past.
His anger made him hungrier. It was coming.
“Not here.” He flung the satchel over his shoulder, leaving behind the poison, and grasped the man’s ankles. His trophy was a portly fellow, a good catch, but a chore to haul. About a hundred feet into the trees was a nicely hidden spot for him to execute the deed. He neatly removed his moss green cloak and waited for It to arrive.
The Hunger was sated. The Hunter came to his senses on his knees with viscera of what was once a man strewn about the forest floor. The mangled remnants of his prey lay before him in a red conglomerate. He had grown accustom to such a sight.
There had been no witnesses to his feeding. Not even the Hunter. Only the trees, It, and whichever god may have been looking his way. Not his god, but surely a god. He sighed. Not in relief but in knowing that the clock had been rewound. Another three or four days before he would have to hunt again. It was time to move on.
“Thank you,” he said with a lowered head. He took the satchel which contained several rolls of parchment, a small three-stringed instrument, and a pen. The instrument was equally useful to the forest floor as it was in his possession, but perhaps he could get some coin for it.
Only then did he notice the trees. It was very subtle, but the canopy was speckled with orange. A sight he hadn’t seen since...
His head throbbed, and he remembered...
He traveled on a forest path, similar to this one.The mid-autumn breeze tickled his frazzled black hair. Then came the thunder. He spun around to the sight of three enormous warhorses, each mounted by a Graa. They were an uncommon sight, but he remembered every detail. Their twisting horns were painted orange, brighter than the trees. Their black and orange armor covered them from neck to waist. Their legs were exposed, though the thick tufts of fur — which went all the way to their hooves — could stop steel on its own. Their alchemized guises chanted, “Grah, grah, grah,” in unison with each step of their war beasts.
They were upon him. His legs would not obey his mind. The first and second stallions flew by with such velocity that he lost his footing. The third approached with arm held high, wielding a large oak club. He could feel his body shatter as the club collided with his chest. Bones and organs alike rendered into paste. He traveled a dozen feet before he met the ground again as a heap of a man. The power of the Graa’s swing stripped the club from its grip, but the beast did not stop. Both the club and himself were left in the dirt, fractured and broken. He lay there, gasping at the canopies; their splashes of orange blocked out the sky until he faded away.
A ticking clock — the smell of tea — a stiff bed.
“Get up, my son. It’s your birthday. A fresh start.”
He remembered everything. That devil of a man had brought him back; cursed him to this life of pain and sin. The image of his straight black beard and cold dead eyes stuck in the Hunter’s mind. The man’s pungent scent of thyme still lingered in his nostrils.
At first, he idolized the man. That was until the decay began; both in the body and the mind. Then It appeared. It rewired his instincts. Typical food became undesirable, and he hungered for more illicit game.
One autumn ago, he had died and gone to hell; his day of undeath. However, he still feared death. If he did not, he could have ended it countless times. His will to live was strong, or perhaps It was preventing him.
Without realizing where he had been walking, he had found the end of the road. The shabby wooden sign read “Corb”. The Hunter did not normally fraternize with his prey, but perhaps they had information for him. He pulled his cloak tight around his neck and walked into the town.
It was an unimpressive place. A small square with shops and some sort of meeting hall in the center. It looked to be a tavern. Typical. It was the only open building in the town, so he went.
He left his oaken club by the door and jostled the handle of the wooden door. It took a kick to unjam from the doorframe. The entire town seemed to be present. Nearly thirty raggedly clothed men and women struggled to speak over one another. A few wandering eyes caught sight of their moss-colored guest and went back to their business. The Hunter pulled his hood tighter to his head and made a move for the bar.
“What’ll ye have, stranger?” the barkeep asked carefully, looking at the Hunter’s concealed face.
The Hunter set his satchel on the floor and slid a single resplendent gold coin across the bar.
“Do you know of anyone who specializes in…taboo magics?”
The barkeep slid the coin into his pocket without taking his eyes off the stranger.
“No. Now can I get ye a drink? Ale’s not great but it’ll get the job done.”
“I don’t partake. Thank you.” He lowered his head politely and turned to leave, but there was an obstruction. The most unremarkable drunken man stood smiling with glazed eyes.
“Oi! Stranger! Do you’s, perchance, know musics and such?” he asked, struggling to maintain his balance. “Our musics man di’nt show and is awfully dull without ‘im. Would you’s like to sing a song with me?”
The Hunter noticed the lack of music. There was only the chatter of the people.
“No, thank you. I don’t partake.” He tried to move around the wobbling man, but found resistance.
“What’dya mean? Oi! Chad! This ‘ere guy don’t partake in musics!” He put a hand out and got a handful of the Hunter’s moss green cloak. Instinctively the Hunter swatted at the hand, but only succeeded in knocking the drunk off balance. He plummeted to the wooden floorboards, bringing the cloak with him. Scrambling to the floor, the Hunter reclaimed his veil, but it was too late.
“What in the hell!” Chad yelled louder than he ever had and pointed his greasy finger. “Monster! Barney, I’m comin’!”
A shrill shriek came from a woman, and the tavern fell silent. Almost sixty eyes trained on the Hunter’s features. His skin was nearly the same green as his cloak. In some places of his arms, bone felt the air. Sheets of skin either hung off his face or were entirely missing, so much so that his rotting molars were clearly visible. His head was mostly bare, but the hair he did have was a dark gray and wispy like a ghost. Without the cloak, the stench of his rotting skin radiated freely.
He jumped off Barney, who had started vomiting from a mixture of drunken nausea and the vile aroma, and flung his cloak back around his neck.
Chad had lied to Barney. He wasn’t coming to help him. He truly intended to, but he failed to locate the courage. As if the Hunter was a giant spider, he cautiously danced around at a safe distance.
“Go on, get!” was all Chad could manage to say. “Get!”
A mug of flat ale hit the floor next to the Hunter. Then another. There was one exit for the Hunter to take: the way he came in. Chad, and two more men now, stood between him and the door, and they appeared prepared to kill. No one else was brave enough, or drunk enough, to stand up to this unknown creature.
A woman spoke out, “Someone fetch Dominic, oh! He’ll rid us of this fiend!” In response, a boy bolted out the door.
The Hunter had no plans to meet Dominic. His stoic eyes metamorphosed into hatred. The Hunter embraced the Hunger. The stance he took became that of a feral beast: low to the ground, arms off to his sides. He exhaled an otherworldly snarl, making everyone in the room retreat a step.
Chad was too drunk and opportunistic to move out of the way.
“Think of the stories…legendary…” he muttered to himself.
The Hunger launched itself toward the door with inhuman speed. Chad immediately regretted his position. The monster tore through him with one claw, slicing him from breast to breast, but It did not stop its dash for the exit. In It’s frenzy, it rammed the wooden door, shattering it from its hinges.
The boy had not made it more than a hundred feet before the beast crashed through the door. The Hunger saw its prey. Within seconds, the boy was a hostage, dragged by the wrist at full speed. The orange speckled forest swallowed them both.
I was trying to make you a present for your birthday because I love giving gifts to my friends however it won't be done before I leave for work so It'll just have to wait until I get back and it *might* be after your birthday but it's the thought that counts. But Happy Birthday my dear friend! hope you have a good one.
No presents needed. Your friendship is present enough. And now I'm all sentimental. Thank you, Goob. Ilysm 💙💜❤
