#ttgot fanfic

[saddest-coal-boy-in-westeros]

Chapters: 1/9 Fandom: Game of Thrones (Video Game 2014) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Mira Forrester & Tom the Coal Boy, Mira Forrester & Sera Flowers, Sera Flowers & Tom the Coal Boy Characters: Mira Forrester, Tom the Coal Boy (Game of Thrones Video Game 2014), Sera Flowers, Original Characters, Margaery Tyrell (mentioned), Olenna Tyrell (mentioned), Mace Tyrell (Mentioned), Elinor Tyrell, Alla Tyrell, Megga Tyrell Additional Tags: Self-Worth Issues, Character Study, Guilt, Responsibility, Loss of Innocence, Sexual Harassment, Attempted Sexual Assault, Class Differences, Action/Adventure?, Red Keep (A Song of Ice and Fire), King's Landing (A Song of Ice and Fire), Developing Friendships, Identity Issues, Dubious Morality, Internal Conflict, Coming of Age, Ableism, Period Typical Attitudes, Trauma, Angst

Summary:

Mira escapes the Red Keep with the aid of Tom and Sera, but not without losing some of herself in the process.

[was-gryff-whitehills-apologist]

So, with a lot of encouragement from the amazing people in this fandom, I finally got the courage to contribute some written material to it, namely - my take on the fate of Gryff Whitehill following the events of the ttgot season 2 au, made by the amazing @badgershite & @littlpeggy, as well as other contributors. You guys are awesome & I never would’ve done this without you!! :D

This is merely the first part of the prologue, that, I hope, will be just the beginning, but it’s still kind of a big deal for me to put up my first serious work. Idk what else to say, I hope this doesn’t suck & somebody may even enjoy it, same way I’ve enjoyed all the great fanfiction by other ttgot fans.

Minor spoiler alert, so that people don’t get their hopes up - there is no Roslin in this part. Yet. As I’ve already said, I plan to write more of this & the best stuff is still ahead. ALSO, the thing might be rather cronologically weird, it has a specific structure, that I thought of when I wasn’t planning to split up the prologue. It’ll make more sense when both parts are out, so for now I’d like to clarify - it is basically Gryff’s flashbacks about two days: the day of him being sentenced to the Wall, and the day of his arrival there. They are divided in parts & going one after another. Hopefully, this will not be too confusing.

Being put on watch alongside Carn was a lesser evil in Gryff’s eyes. At the very least he could count on the man not to start any small talk, and that was enough for him to tolerate the sour expression the other wore like his face had frozen this way. As the cage slowly dragged the two of them up, the second watcher felt like a constant, relentless presence behind his shoulder, and Gryff could practically feel his sad, watery gaze glued to his back without any particular purpose. Clenching his teeth together & hands around metal bars in annoyance, he tried to distract himself by looking down, in the darkness. Ground had long since disappeared in thick mist – now it felt like they were just floating through nothing, and he honestly wouldn’t mind just staying this way, never really arriving anywhere, simply enjoying the darkness & silence, that soothed his sight & ears. Even Carn’s presence would be tolerable this way.

Only atop the Wall, equipped with their torches, the two of them parted ways. Normally, it would be sworn Night Watch brothers, rangers, tasked with patrolling, but things scarcely ever went normally at Castle Black lately. Actual rangers were even fewer in numbers than they used to be, and some of their usual tasks fell onto the newcomers – it didn’t take much skill or brains to drag yourself back & forth with a torch in your hand, ready to holler if you’d see something approaching from behind the Wall. That, unless you weren’t even capable of doing that without slipping down – but such men would not have lasted long here either way.

Gryff walked off in the opposite direction from Carn before the man could say a thing to him, and soon couldn’t even hear his steps anymore. Torches lit up the icy corridor for many steps forward, but darkness, where their light didn’t reach, was still almost tangible. When he reached a wooden observation deck, walking close to the edge, the light of his torch, that seemed bright before, could barely dispel it. That night there was no moon, neither stars in the sky to shed at least some light on the view in front of him, and it took some adjustment for Gryff’s eye to make anything out.

The Haunted Forrest, when you looked at it from high above, was reminiscent of sea – height & darkness making it look akin to deep waters at the bottom of an enormous cup. In broad daylight, it used to present quite a sight, but now it was just black, distant and… ominous, for the lack of better word. It spread for as far as eye could reach, it’s another edge hidden in the dark nightly fog & the very clouds, that touched mountains’ white peaks at the horizon. Endless, deep and silent, but in the back of Gryff’s mind always sat the realization – the seemingly peaceful view in front of him hid more, than it gave away.

Even half a minute of not moving out here, in the cold, made one feel like the freezing wind was getting under their skin, stealing the last bits of warmth. However, Gryff remained standing, gaze locked where the clouds met mountain tops. He knew, if he were to look down, at the very edge of the deck, the sheer sensation of height would become overwhelming and make him feel unsteady on his feet, his head spin & hands tremble. Despite everything, being up here was… special, and not necessarily in a bad way. It took his mind off the shit that was happening literally all the other time, off his own torturous thoughts, which made quite a bit of sense, actually. Things were different up here – even air he breathed in was not the same one he was inhaling the rest of the time. Life could continue to go to hell, both around Gryff & inside his own head, but on this small, unsteady platform atop the world, he did not need to be bothered. Just a few steps forward laid the edge of that very life – where it would no longer have any power over him.

It was still the forest though, that he kept going back to in his mind. Similar to that damn grove near Ironrath, in a way – the only places where he had ever witnessed trees grow that tall. Even some ironwoods grew the other side of the Wall, but he was long past caring about those, and now his thoughts were occupied by something different – what he had first witnessed at that very keep, what the wilderness further north hid, and what he hoped he would never face again – until it became apparent he might actually have to.

The undead.

It was quite a surprise to find out, that not all men of the Watch actually saw wights as a threat – despite the number of people, who had run in them, growing significantly. Many of those who never had the chance, however, remained skeptical or simply indifferent. Stories of dead men walking grew in numbers, but for many, remained just that – stories. What happened to the previous lord commander made quite a few waver in their disbelief, but was soon reduced to nothing more, than one more story. Confined in a black keep at the edge of the world for life, most men here fell into an odd pattern of reacting strongly to whatever unusual thing happened – only to go back to almost complete tranquility as soon as it was over. Few things mattered in the big picture as long as snow still fell, crows were still in black & the Wall still stood. The rest came & went & made no significant change. There was nothing to be done with it, other from turn it into one more story & then slowly, day by day, forget it.

Such way of life correlated well with the numbness in his mind, but Gryff still remained sharp about some things. He’d avoid whatever talk about wights other watchmen would start – just as he avoided most of their talk – but he still knew. The sight of corpses of the people he used to know standing up would flash before his mind eye every now and again, but he’d then just clench his teeth & move on. He ran from them once, and paid for it, and if fate would wish for another walking corpse to try & kill him – it best be prepared for him not to repeat that mistake. Back in the muddy & bloodied courtyard, they filled his whole being with such dread, that he thought nothing could replicate, but he was wrong, as always. There were things so much more worse, viler, and he was a fool for ever allowing himself to forget that. Clenching the torch harder in his grip, teeth gritted together & eye narrowed, Gryff looked in the darkness, where he knew more monsters were waiting for their time to come. When they would, he knew what had to be done – and he would be ready. No creature from stories, no wildling, or wight, or Other would scare him off again

Not after he had already left all the real monsters behind.

Hardly feeling a thing, he got up from his place, then passed the woman, looking directly at her, but failing to keep a picture of her face in his mind. In the back of his head, he understood lady Whitehill looked sad, almost childishly hurt, but that was it. She left zero impression, just some figure that was there & then vanished the moment he left the Great Hall. Gryff even had trouble recalling what she was doing during their “conversation” – looking at Torrhen… probably, or maybe at him, he wasn’t sure.

As the bars clanked when the door closed behind him, he froze for a moment, simply staring in front of himself, his fogged mind struggling to process what just happened. He was not dead, that much was clear, but such an unexpected occurrence rose another question – what the hell was he supposed to be doing now? Instinctively, a step-by-step course of action was forming – he needed to get to his room to fetch the things he was not going to leave here, no, not a fucking chance, visit his father’s crypt to say goodbye, and then- leave?

Yeah, genius, that’s what it was all about. That’s what he was told to do a fucking minute ago, that’s what was going to happen – he would leave. And this time, going back wasn’t a part of the plan – no, Torrhen has made a bloody decision, and there was no coming back from those. This was final.

Gryff had imagined it thousands of times, Torrhen towering over him, smirking & spitting out his death sentence in one way or another. In his fantasies, he was never supposed to abide by that – he would grab the sword & charge forward, knowing fully well he’d hardly deliver a strike before he’d be dead, by Torrhen’s hand or one of his guards’ arrows. If he happened to be tied up, restrained, all he’d be capable of would be struggling to break free, to maybe deliver a final punch or some shit, before being put down like a dog. But that didn’t matter – he always knew, that he could never win. The point was not winning – the point was going down on his own terms, going down fighting.

Or has it turned out, that he wasn’t even capable of that?

It felt like his head had been put underwater – Gryff was all too familiar with the sensation, even if right now there was no hand on the back of his neck to hold him in place. The world around him starting to swirl, noise filling his ears, suffocation grasping his lungs. A tiny still-functioning piece of his brain screamed for him to turn back & do what had to be done, but his instincts knew better. Cursed self-preservation, too strong to fight, that had so many times caused him not to strike back, and instead cower, uselessly try to shield himself from the beating, trembling & waiting for it to end. For all he knew, perhaps it was the only reason he still lived. Perhaps it was saving his life right now, by immobilizing him, making his limbs heavy & head light. Just accept it. It is the only way.

He was fucking done with accepting things.

For some time – seconds or minutes, he could hardly tell – it felt like his mind had almost floated from his body, leaving him with little perception of reality, outside of what the subconscious part of his self was trying get through to him. He was brought back abruptly, when Gryff’s hand slipped down to the pommel of his sword – at first feeling it, like he struggled to recognize the object, but a second later clenching the hilt tightly. His breath slowed down again, blood pounding as he unsheathed the blade, feeling the hard handle, the heaviness, those sensations that were bringing him back together. Steel was bleak & covered in blood & it’s sight made whatever bits of strength he had left concentrate in his arm, so that he almost felt like he could manage one last blow.

Perhaps it was still not too late.

Castle Black’s courtyard was big, white enough for his eye to start hurting & almost completely empty on the day of their arrival. Several men minded their own business here & there, polishing swords or carrying something, & none seemed particularly interested in showing the three guests around. Darrin – a soldier as tall as an oak, as thick as one, & with an intelligence of the said oak, from Gryff’ point of view – remained standing by his side like he was ready to grab him by the scruff if the Whitehill decided to run off; meanwhile, his second supervisor went on, likely to search for someone, who’d finally take Gryff off their hands for good.

Taking a chance to look around, he observed his soon-to-be home with the same sour expression, that hasn’t left his features ever since the departure from Highpoint. The place certainly looked more presentable than Ironrath ever had, at least under his rule, but at the same time gave an impression of being somewhat desolate. Gryff had, of course, heard, that the Watch had seen better days, but was not sure of the extent. It was still early in the morning, after all, and perhaps the courtyard would become more crowded in daytime. Those who were up already barely paid them attention. Here, behind the walls, wind was not as severe – Gryff had grown used to the cold through the last few days either way. It was likely he’d get used to whatever this new life had to offer the same way, albeit without any enthusiasm on his part.

“I’m goin’ to handle him, don’t worry.” The voice came from some watcher, walking in their direction alongside Arvin, the second Whitehill soldier. “Ser Raffard’s supposed to be handling the recruits, but gods know where the bastard is now. Forgive the inconvenience – things have been, well, disrupted here after all that happened…”

Gryff paid no mind to the explanations the stranger was giving – something about the former Lord Commander, the bloody Snow, who apparently couldn’t be found here any longer. Instead he observed the man himself, with the same sulky grimace. Watcher did not stand out in any way, clothed in dark, thickly built, bearded; only a small, but sincere half-smile distinguished him from the rest of the lot here.

Arvin was exhausted & annoyed, same as he had been throughout their whole journey. He got up at dawn that day, eager to finally rid himself of the burden his lord’s brother was, & now was barely suppressing the urge to yawn widely. Watcher’s words seemed to escape his attention, but he would not interrupt, likely afraid that the stranger would refuse to handle the newcomer & they’d get stuck here, looking for someone else. He clearly was more eager to turn back & have a longer stop at the Mole’s town than they did on their way here, celebrating the parting with his troublesome ward.

“Aye, and he” the soldier nodded towards Gryff, earning himself a scowl in response “is not going to make things any easier for you here. You sound like a sensible man, so I’m warning you – keep a closer eye on this one. I will not be surprised if his head rolls for desertion within the next month. He’s tried to escape several times on our way here – and he’s going to fight back when caught.” He concluded mercilessly, paying no mind to Gryff, who’s been shooting him dirty glares the whole time he spoke.

“You really need not worry.” Man’s half-smile did not falter & he looked at Gryff with an expression, that was almost encouraging. “We handle far worse here all the time, you know. Besides, you can never know a man from other’s words of him.”  Last words were directed at Gryff rather than anyone else, it seemed.

“I’ve got trouble imagining what could be worse than this.” Despite the sourness, it was possible to tell, that Arvin was being ironic, merely a tad. “By the way” he hastily reached in his pocket, getting out a small envelop which he offered to the crow. “Here are some… Clarifications from our lord, as well as, I assume, advice on how to handle him.” Shit, it flashed in Gryff’s head, would’ve been nice if someone ever gave him a clarification letter on how to handle three bastards, whose purpose in life was making him miserable. “I would recommend you listen to whatever it says. Lord Torrhen had always been one of the few, who could truly rein this man in. He knows what he is talking about.”

“You think lowly of me, ser.” With a slight roll of his eyes, black brother accepted the piece of correspondence carelessly. “I’ve always managed to keep my men under control without a written guidance, believe it or not.” He casually pocketed the letter, yet the moment the Whitehill soldier turned his gaze away from him, he winked at Gryff, suddenly & swiftly, causing the fourthborn’s eye to widen in confusion.

Arvin simply shrugged it off. Muttering some words of gratitude & farewell, he hurried back towards where their cart & horses were left without sparing Gryff a look. The latter heard Darrin utter some goodbyes, but didn’t as much as turn to look at the man. His assessing stare was kept firmly at the watcher. The Whitehill wondered what the other has been told about him during the part of their short encounter with Arvin, that he did not hear, but he sure as hell was not going to ask, or in any way make the man feel like he cared what he thought of him.

“So, Gryff Whitehill,” The watcher finally greeted him directly, reaching to shake his hand. “It’s Astor Greyson, and although you hardly feel the same way, it is good to meet you.”

He simply stared at the hand offered uncertainly. There was no reason not to greet Astor properly, not really, & it would not change a thing – yet Gryff just felt stubborn, stubborn & spiteful, as usual. He did not need any of this shit, did not need anyone pretending like something good or even normal was happening. This man could smirk & be friendly all he liked – Gryff did not care, not in the slightest. They could both be watchers, equals now, but that was just pretense. He would not be his, or anyone’s brother here – just a prisoner, someone to keep an eye out for & keep in line.

His arms remained locked across his chest & he kept silent, gloomily looking the other right in the eyes.

Astor waited a few seconds before taking the hand away. Half-smile did not go anywhere, on the opposite – it looked a little like he has been expecting this to happen.

“You’re lucky not to have to deal with Raffard right from the first moment here.” Greyson went on like nothing has happened. “You’ll still meet him rather soon though – you’re not too late for his sword training with the rest of the newcomers. You’ll meet up with the rest of them there, perhaps get to know some a bit. Seems like I’ll have to show you around today, huh?” Turning around, Astor motioned his hand, gesturing for Gryff to follow. “Let’s find someplace to drop whatever things you have, get you properly equipped and then we’ll have to get back here. Our new master-at-arms is not the type to excuse you for being late – even if this is your first day.”

He’d never been a fan of that bloody bunch of portraits, adorning the Upper Halls. His own one frankly sucked, from Gryff’s point of view – he had a dumb smile in it. There was no pleasure in witnessing the faces of his gone brothers more often than needed either, and, if the tapestry was not fucking enough, there were two more images of that woman. He had outlasted all three of them at Highpoint, but they still weren’t gone for good, as long as their memory, held in these pictures, lingered like a bad smell.

Well, it looked like, in the end, it was Torrhen who had truly outlasted all of them.

He had almost passed the corridor without taking another look, heading directly to his former chambers, but, out of the corner of his eye, spotted something unusual on the wall. Observing more closely made Gryff smirk sarcastically against his own will – my, it seemed like brother dearest had begun the process of getting rid of him long ago. He should’ve expected that – remaining holed up at the shitpile of Forresters’ stronghold could only work for so long. If only he had enough brains to have at least tried to do something about it earlier- fuck, there was no point in thinking about that now.

Gritting his teeth, he measured the damage done to the picture. Just because he himself hated the thing did not mean that arsehole had any right to touch it. Making it was a pain in the ass, Gryff recalled – he’d avoid posing by any means available, until both the artist & his father got fed up with it, and the former was told to simply draw him from memory. Perhaps that’s why his face ended up looking so unnatural, with an expression Gryff never actually wore in real life.

In a swift, jerky motion he tore the painting from where it was hanging. It gave an impression of an animal’s head on a hunter’s wall to him; a winner’s trophy. It was likely the way Torrhen viewed it as well, hence why he just tore it up instead of getting rid of it for good. It was all for the best, Gryff told himself, getting back on the way to his room & observing the thing in his hands with little remorse. He would need something to start a fire any way, and he knew, that canvas & paints burned brightly.

He had a dumb smile in it anyway.

The room felt exactly like he expected it to – cold, dusty, filled with that weird frowsy smell, that all abandoned rooms had. He threw the frame into the long-empty fireplace & then got a sudden urge to sit down, which he did, lowering himself on the edge of his bed.

The effects of his handicap were most apparent in situations like this – when he had to approach something old in his new state. His chamber seemed smaller than before, & now he had to turn his head around to observe it fully. The bloody eye. Gryff used to believe he’s gotten used to it, but was still reminded now & again what a difference it actually made. He rubbed his forehead a little, trying to collect his thoughts, but the helpless anger rising in his chest wouldn’t let him concentrate. The Whitehill got up, starting to pace back & forth in annoyance. He was supposed to be doing something, collecting things, saying goodbyes, some shit like that – but every inch of his being refused to comply. The concept of this being his last visit to the place, that used to be his haven, refuge, that he guarded from them by any means, was as unreal as… As unreal as having his whole line of vision split in two. They couldn’t be compared, he’d exchange the room for an eye, obviously – but the feelings were still eerily similar.

There wasn’t much left here after his departure to war – Gryff had never been the one to hoard many possessions, not with his brothers constantly trying to get to him by breaking or stealing what was his. Whatever item of importance he could not take with himself had been locked in a small chest by his nightstand. The key – hell if he remembered where the key was, but he had probably left it among the rest of his belongings, at Ironrath. After a short consideration, he unsheathed his sword & tried to force it under the chest’s top.

A few minutes later, the lock was broken & Gryff observed what was inside sarcastically. A thin bunch of letters, tied together with a piece of rope were probably the most important ones – he had a habit of burning most of his correspondence right after reading it, to prevent the bastards from getting their hands on it. Those would not take up much space. A wooden toy sword, an old thing he hadn’t tossed away by some earthly reason – perhaps it was given by father? After a moment of hesitation, it joined the portrait in the fireplace – better than having Torrhen’s servants discard of it when they’d start cleaning up the place. There was a small dagger he attached to his belt – his own had been lost during the cliff fall; minor items of clothing, an old book, some things, that he couldn’t even remember what purpose they were supposed to serve – most of it went to the fireplace. He wished there was some way to burn every fucking thing remaining here – the set of heavier armor, whatever clothes have been left in the wardrobe, that there was no point in taking – those were not black. Gryff could only destroy some of it, but it still gave him an odd sense of satisfaction. The least personal this place felt, the easier it would be to leave it behind.

He started the fire, then sat down on the fur in front of it & simply watched the flames for a little while, trying to concentrate on something other than the twinge of pain in his chest, that watching some of these things burn caused. Only now had he realized how cold he’s been this whole time – he got used to it, but when the short-lived warmth from the fireplace reached his frame, the contrast made shivers run down his spine.

Gryff couldn’t bring himself to think about anything particular, could not figure out what he felt. The prevailing sensation, now that he wasn’t moving, became low ringing in his ears & dizziness. Pain in the bruises & cuts, that he almost forgot about, was returning – not sharp, like it used to be, but still perceptible. He’d have to visit the maester, the Whitehill had to admit much to his own displeasure. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to even get in saddle if he didn’t at least wash the blood off. It’s smell & the feeling of it drying on his face was becoming sickening on its own.

Just a few minutes. He’d get going, as soon as he’d get warm, he was promising himself, even though every last cell in his body begged for rest. As an addition to the pain, sitting down made him realize just how tired he was – enough, that he felt a wish to lie down in front of the hearth & sleep for a day. Aside from being unconscious for some time, he had not slept since before yesterday, he was now realizing. Everything after that – the battle, the fall, the ride, the talk – was mixing into a blur in his head, becoming difficult to tell from one another.

Seriously, what harm would… say, just half an hour, do? Or a whole hour, for that matter… Being in his old room was likely affecting him this way. He’d usually crawl back here to bolt the door & lick his wounds, try to feel safe for a little while, give his nerves some rest. Sometimes he’d end up being holed up here for days, when the mere thought of going out made him break out in cold sweat & gave him an urge to vomit. He’d still have to sneak outside every once in a while, to fetch some food from the kitchens – and, if he was unlucky, end up getting caught by Karl, or Torrhen, or both.

Torrhen. The name was like pinching yourself on the arm to stay focused. He had to remain alert, for as long as he wasn’t out of the bastard’s reach – the humiliation of having the man just grab him by the scruff & frog-march him out of Highpoint’s gates wasn’t something Gryff would be able to handle at the moment. The thought floated in his skull, that became heavier by the minute, as if something hot & thick, like melted iron, was being poured into it. His neck grew achy from having to hold it high & was giving in, until his chin would hit the chest & cause him to jerk, half-awake, but only for a second.

Vision blurred, his only eye narrowing further & further, until the only thing he could even make out were the orange flames – and even those, just as another blurred, moving spot. Bloody fire, he was realizing it now – should never have started it in the first place… The warmth was too lulling, as well as the sound. Soft, rhythmic cracks, with practically intangible sough of flames poured over those. They were almost like some weird speech in an unknown tongue, with calming intonation, soothing melody to it. He could swear, he even recognized bits from that tone – like he’s heard those before, just in another manner. Instead of being yelled, over howling wind & clashing, someone whispered them to him kindly.

Room floated before his eye one last time, before it slid shut. Last thing Gryff perceived before slipping into oblivion was a sensation of unseen eyes locked on him, of another’s presence somewhere by his side – but those got lost the moment he drifted off to sleep.

… Awakening was even faster than falling asleep – he just felt himself sliding to the side, on the floor, and that jolted him back to consciousness. Blinking rapidly, first thing Gryff looked at the fireplace – coals were still red & small tongues of fire would flicker here & there. That meant he had not been out for long – but he would be, if he allowed himself to repeat that mistake.

Memory of the sensation he got before dozing off nagged him slightly from the inside, but he pushed it away, getting back on his feet, helping himself by grabbing the edge of a headboard. He was unsteady still, but the quick sleep seemed to have given him a bit of short-lived strength. It wouldn’t last, likely, so he had to catch the moment & finish some business – probably the most important thing left for him to do here.

He had not been given a typical crow’s cloak yet – just a set of black armor, that, in all honesty, was better than the one he arrived here wearing. The latter has not aged well at all & has not been repaired or even cleaned much since the siege. The new one was also warmer, far more fitting for the harshness of weather this far north – it wasn’t all that bad, Gryff had to begrudgingly admit.

He & the rest of the recruits – about a dozen & a half of them in total, from what it looked like – flocked in the courtyard, waiting for the master-at-arms to signal the beginning of the training. Man in question – ser Raffard, from what Gryff recalled – did not seem to be in any rush, comfortably seated on a barrel near the rack, that held training swords & polishing his own, barely paying a small crowd in front of him any mind. He looked like a real crow – black-haired, dark-eyed & sharp-featured, he fitted the environment around himself perfectly.

Only when small talk among the soon-to-be crows died down to almost complete silence, the man looked up at them & got up from his place.

“Those of you, who have never trained here before – two steps forward.” The Whitehill made another mental note of the other’s voice – a voice & tone of a man, used to giving orders. “The rest of you, two steps behind.” Aside from Gryff, four men came forward – some balding elder, who stood leaning on a long wooden staff, tall & broad-shouldered lad with a dreadfully serious expression & a face of a lowborn, boy that looked like he wasn’t above thirteen, & a barrel-shaped individual, who stared in front of himself phlegmatically. Watchman observed his working material with an unreadable expression, but Gryff highly doubted, that what he saw left him satisfied.

“The Watch lacks men desperately, so even those of you, who’ll end up as builders & stewards” last words were spoken with some special scorn “are going to have to learn which end of the sword to hold & how to fire a bow. That means you will all be spending time with me, no matter how hopeless your case is. There are, however, some exceptions even to that rule.” Raffard’s gaze stopped on the old man. “Did whoever send you here lack any kind of mercy? All would be better off if he just snapped your neck for whatever horrendous crime you’ve committed. If you can’t even walk on your own, what makes you think you’ll be anything but a burden with a sword?”

“This thing” the elder lifted his staff slightly, “is more of a sentiment to me, than a walking aid.” Gryff cocked an eyebrow, feeling a slight twitch of curiosity – the other recruit, with his scrawny frame & dirty greying long hair on the sides of his head, could look like a lowborn, but certainly did not speak like one. “Put me to a test, my lord,” old man did not seem offended, quite the opposite – his lips tucked into a disarmingly friendly smile. “Perhaps I will not disappoint you.”

“We’ll see about that. Drop your item of sentiment & grab yourself a sword then.” Master-at-arms motioned towards the rack.

“If I could be so bold” there was something smarmy, intentionally non-threatening in the old man’s voice that made Gryff shift uncomfortably for some reason. “I’d rather stick to my own weapon, my lord.” Gryff recalled being told in the passing by someone, that staffs were used as weapons by some of the mountain clansmen – perhaps that was where the stranger originated from. “It does not look like much, but there are many uses to it.”

“I suppose, you could be so bold.” Ser Raffard’s cold, emotionless stare gave out nothing. “I suppose, I could be bold enough to break your stick against my knee & send you to scrub chamberpots till the rest of your time here, if you don’t stop wasting my time & start following orders.” The message clearly got through – shaking his head a little, with the same smile, recruit lowered the staff on the ground carefully & went to fetch himself a blade.

“A real charmer, is he not?” Gryff turned to the sound of a voice, discovering, that it was one of the other newcomers speaking. He didn’t seem to address anyone in particular, but seeing that Gryff has reacted to his words, graced him with an amused smile.

“I’m talking about Raffard.” Recruit continued in a low voice. “If you think he’s being an arsehole now, you should’ve heard the stories they tell about him here. They also say the man who dealt with newcomers before was even worse – till he went to hunt down some deserters & perished north of the Wall… Think we’ll get just as lucky with this one?” He chuckled & winked to Gryff, before turning his attention back to the fighters.

Unsure of what the other meant to accomplish by telling him this, the Whitehill just shrugged & turned back to look in the same direction. Old man was holding his own decently enough, to his surprise. His movements could be defter & he clearly couldn’t strike as hard as a younger man would, but by moving constantly he dodged & parried most of the hits, even though he made no attempt to go on the offensive himself. This went on for a couple of minutes, before the elder was careless enough to leave himself open & his opponent’s sword struck right in his kneecap, causing him to drop on the other one with a gasp. Raffard used the moment to aim for the wrist of his sword hand, knocking the blade out of it.

“At least you wouldn’t be dead in the first minute of battle – for someone like you, that’s encouraging.” After letting his opponent have a breath, master-at-arms grabbed his hand & helped the man back up to his feet. “We’ll see what can be done about you. Perhaps, with some training, you will actually do the Realm a service by killing a wildling.” The last words almost made Gryff laugh. Apparently, even the crows still believed it were wildlings that they all needed to fear – while he, a bloody newcomer, already knew better than that.

The trial carried on, the young boy & the sulky lowborn demonstrating their skill one after another. Kid fought fiercely, uttering almost animalistic growls as he’d jump back up on his feet over & over after being knocked down & charged forward. The lowborn, whose name turned out to be Ayden, fared even worse, making it clear to everyone, that he’s hardly had any sword practice before – at least not with a knight as his opponent. Ser Raffard’s expression hardly changed once throughout the short fights, but it seemed like he wasn’t too aggravated & his mocking remarks sounded rather passionless.

“You’re a lordling, is that right?” He inquired as Gryff was picking himself a blade, trying not to linger by the rack any longer than needed. Standing here, in the spotlight, grated on his nerves & he could not wait to get this over with. Last time he had used a sword seemed like it was months ago – but the memory of how it ended stuck with him for good.

He jerked a shoulder & nodded. “And a fourth son, that is.” His opponent added in passing. “Not that I’m expecting excellence from someone, who’s disposable enough to be sent here, but a lord’s son should’ve at least received better training than this lot.” As Gryff turned to face him, flash of irritation in his eye, the man had his own sword at the ready. “Come at me.”

The fuck was he getting at, the Whitehill wondered idly, circling the patch of ground between him & the man. With the rest of recruits, he always took initiative in his own hands, as opposed to now – it seemed like he was expecting Gryff to take charge. His train of thought was interrupted as the watcher swung his blade at him, swiftly changing the direction of the hit at the last moment & barging through his hastily established block. Sword was knocked from his hand & Raffard simply sent him to the ground with a heavy thrust of his shoulder into Gryff’s chest.

For a few seconds, he just stared back at him, stunned. This has been swifter than any of the fights he has just witnessed – even though in the back of his mind Gryff knew, that he’d be subdued either way. All that needed to be proven about him as a fighter has been proven before. He could hear a couple short laughs from the crowd & a sympathetic sigh, that, as he correctly guessed, came from the guy who’s been talking to him before. Getting back on his feet, Gryff simply shut those out of his mind. He did not care about what they would have to say, he really fucking didn’t-

“Sleeping with your eyes open, Whitehill? Or, should I say, your eye.” Raffard looked almost bored by this point. “Did you not hear what I told you? The part about attacking me.”

“I was thinking.” At last, he was forced to speak, picking his blade up from the dirt.

“I hope me chopping your sword hand off and slitting your throat did not interrupt the thought process, your lordship.” The man already took another stance. “Your blind side is the most vulnerable, keep that in mind. And get your head out of the clouds, recruit. I can accept it when someone simply sucks, but not when he isn’t fucking trying.” With the same idleness in his gaze, Gryff followed another’s movements, at this point not even bothered by what would happen next. There was that slimy feeling inside of him, that made even trying seem completely worthless. Strike, their blades clashed, again, and the next second his traced an arc in the air & landed back on the ground, while his opponent’s was directed right at Gryff’s throat.

It took some effort to force himself to look the man in the eyes – and their coldness made him flinch. Raffard had been distant & snarky throughout the whole training session, but this was different – and almost frightening. That piercing gaze, that felt like it was directed into his very soul, reminded Gryff too much of another pair of eyes – one, that he believed he would never have to see again.

Unable to bear it, he bit in his lip & looked away.

“What is the matter, Whitehill?” Raffard’s voice was not angry, or irritated – it was plainly empty.

“What?!” Gryff attempted to bite back with what little anger he felt. “If I suck, just bloody say so. You didn’t ask the rest of them what was wro-”

“You are not the rest of them. You are not a lowborn, who’s never held a weapon deadlier than a meat axe.” The watcher would not take the sword away from his neck. “I’ve been told about you, Whitehill, about who you were and what you got sent here for. So don’t expect me to buy it, that you’ve fought under Roose Bolton and then led your own men, but now somehow can’t parry the simplest strike.”

Who the hell told him, flashed through Gryff’s mind – was it that Astor Greyson son of a whore?! And the fucker even seemed like a decent man to him at the beginning… Silently fuming & with no idea of how to respond, he stood, eye lowered to the ground, flashing angry looks to the watcher each few seconds.

Realizing, that he would not get another word from him, Raffard finally lowered his blade.

“I don’t know what the deal is with you, Whitehill,” he spoke quietly, calmly & distinctly. “Whether you pretend to be worse than you are because you want to be assigned a safer position, don’t deem me worthy of your effort… I honestly don’t care. What I know, is that under me you will work to your fullest potential willingly – or be forced to, if that’s what I have to do. Pick you sword, recruit.” He stepped back, moving his body into a steady fighting stance. “This is just the beginning.”

It was never warm this far down, under Highpoint. Not a candle or torch in your arm, no amount of layers of clothing you'd wrap yourself in would make significant difference. The moment you descended down the steep stony stairs & take a breath of air, still & cold, it would settle at the bottom of your lungs & remain there until you had a chance to re-emerge & sit by a fireplace, or have rare northern sun touch your skin.  He had spent quite some time in this place back in his day, in the cellars, crypts & half-abandoned & ruined tunnels, and not always willingly. From his brothers' perspective, shoving him down the stairs & then locking the door behind him, so that he would remain in complete darkness, was a fun thing to do. The realization, that barging through the door was not in his power came to him quickly — shortly after realizing, that begging them to let him out was in vain just as well (it was early, very early when he realized, that begging them to leave him be would always be in vain, & would not even try – until a particularly harsh beating would force a plea out of him).  At first, he'd just sit with his back pressed to the door, staring in the darkness of the corridor in front of him, too terrified to blink or make a sound — even his short breaths seemed to echo against the cold walls in a hollow sound, that made his blood curl. It always felt like something— someone was lurking there, watching him, ready to strike if he'd fail to see the attack coming. Soon enough, the obscure figures, born in his imagination, formed into an only one, that felt so real, Gryff could swear he could make out it’s shape in the darkness sometimes. A pale female silhouette, whose face he could not make out, that moved slowly & deliberately, almost clumsily — due to having to support her grotesquely protruding middle with a pair of thin hands... Hands, that she, undoubtedly, wanted to grasp his neck with till he wouldn't be able to breathe — if she ever managed to catch him.  Blackness where the light of his candle did not reach still did not fail to fill him with unease, but now Gryff merely clenched his teeth & walked faster towards the crypt — something, that, in his childhood, took many hours of bracing himself to accomplish. Step by step, he'd move further down the corridor that it now took him half a minute to pass. His past self then journeyed further — in the cellars, in the old tunnels, where every noise made his chest clench painfully from terror, as he forced himself to continue walking no matter. That day though, he needed not go further — his destination has been reached.  It was stunning that he was only doing this now — visiting his father's last resting place for both the first & the last time. He did not have the courage to come following the siege, Gryff could at least admit that when nobody could hear. Just one more reason for self-loathing. Even now, he was hesitant to approach the tomb — stupid childish memories affecting him far too much. That's where the tapestry lady was laid, of course they'd make sure her & his father would be by each one's side in afterlife. It was her domain, her lair. He was long past believing any actual harm could harm from her, anywhere aside from his nightmares, but it didn't make visiting the place feel any better. He could not fight off the feeling of being watched from behind. This place never became any better to him — he just learned how to cope with being here when it was unavoidable.  The candle was placed carefully on the floor, in a way that'd make it light up the cell in the crypt's wall where he made out the silhouette of the tomb. Gryff meanwhile lowered himself to sit on the floor, facing it — the place wasn't really meant for sitting, but standing still for longer than a minute made him dizzy. Complete silence fell, making him hear his own blood pounding distinctly. It was fitting the situation, the cold, the quiet, the peace — except for how horribly wrong it was for Ludd Whitehill, a man, who was anything but those things, to end up this way, in his son's eyes. If he had not witnessed the disemboweled body with his own eye, he would hardly believe his father was buried a few steps from him. Nothing about it felt right. Nothing here reminded Gryff of him in any way.  He forced his mouth open, thinking of something, anything to say — and closed it after a moment or two. It was too damn quiet here — the sound of his hoarse, weak voice would not belong. Gryff himself felt out of place, despite trying to force the thought out of his head — This is your right, you idiot. Your duty. Nobody cares what bloody Torrhen has to say. He does not matter. Your father is the only one that does, so speak, while you still have a chance, or— "I..." He forced through the lump in his throat, and just as expected, it felt horribly unnatural and wrong. Deadly quietness made it feel like his voice could be heard everywhere, even if Gryff knew, that stony walls wouldn't let the sound go further. The knowledge did not help. Feeling like he was being listened to from the dark made talking almost an impossibility.  "I'm b-back." After clearing his throat, the Whitehill lowered his voice to almost whispering, and that was better, just a bit. "From Ironrath. It was— I— " He already had nothing to say. Nothing to report, but his failure. Facing Torrhen, he could pretend not to care, to make indifference into his armor, but now sickening shame washed over him like hot waves. Ludd wasn't even there anymore, not really, yet he understood perfectly what he would have to say. How he would look at him. The mere thought made him wish he had broken his damn neck in the fall, like the horse did.  "I'm sorry." And that was true. The only reason to hold onto the forsaken keep — aside from having nowhere else in the whole world to go — was honoring his father's wish. Spiting the people, that killed him. At least he could hope, that all of them were already dead — slaughtered by their own army turned uncontrollable. This way there would be at least some justice left in this world. Just enough to believe it even still existed.  "There was nothing I could do." A stupid, weak, pathetic lie. He sort of leaned forward, hands clenching his arms just above the elbows, desperate to keep warm. The truth was that he ran — ran when the realization hit him, that he was a step from getting killed to protect a place he loathed & would rather see burned to the ground. Getting killed & not having a single soul to mourn him, or even care enough to bury what would remain of him. Now, you are alive — see how much better that feels?.. Gryff wasn't sure whether those words, ringing in his ears, were his, or if his father had found some way to get them through to him from wherever he was now.

The one thing lord Whitehill would never stand for was weakness.  Part of Gryff wanted to believe father would've understood — like he did when his last son was dragged before him, covered in blood from his mutilated eye & barely standing, so Grag had to literally hold him up. Whatever words Ludd had prepared for him seemed to escape him at the sight of Gryff in that state. He barely even recalled what he was saying, overcome with nauseating pain & dizziness — furiously growling something about fetching a bloody maester right fucking now. The next time he had a chance to approach father, the latter did not speak a word of what had happened — his first gesture was offering him the eyepatch Gryff would wear for the next months, all without saying a word. It was only then, when the disgusting, lousy feeling of weakness he's been carrying inside ever since getting maimed by Rodrik, suddenly eased up.  But now Ludd wasn't there to ease his worry the same way anymore. All Gryff had were his own thoughts, and those were merciless. It was different now. Rodrik had only managed to defeat him by deceit, with the help of his whore & her archers. This time, he had lost in a fair fight. This was it for him — as a lord, as a warrior, as a man. What Torrhen's soldiers would escort to the Wall was nothing but a sack of meat & bones. Was Ludd still alive, even he wouldn't be able to argue or defend him like he always did. Just one more way in which he had failed him. He had always cared more for him than for Torrhen, Gryff recalled, his throat clenching treacherously, always trusted him more — and he had repaid him by submitting to the thirdborn's rule, by accepting his power, instead of keeping fighting for what his father stood for.  As if he couldn't get any more pathetic.

“You know I don’t’ want to.” Gryff himself was shocked by how whiny that sounded. He couldn’t just break down here, he had to be a man for one last time, to say farewell with at least a shred of dignity – and instead he spoke like a hurt child, a feeling from many years ago, as real as ever. “You know he is forcing me to, that I would never- never leave if I could. I wouldn’t, I just- I just can’t…” His voice trembled, eyes burned, but he knew, that tears would not fall – it’s been so long since he cried, he barely even remembered how that was supposed to be done anymore.

“You would never send me away. Right?..” What kind of bloody response was he expecting? “A Whitehill is still a Whitehill. It doesn’t matter what his-s, his orders are – he can’t… He fucking can’t…” The shaking was getting out of his control, it was like a hand tightened around his throat, making it hard to breathe. “A Whitehill’s a Whitehill. He can’t change it. He is nothing. You always knew he was fucking nothing – only you, and nobody else.” Or did it just seem to him? No, no, the thought was too fucking bad to even contemplate. His father bloody hated Torrhen, and that was the only comfort Gryff has had for many days. He sent him away to rot at the Bastion. He didn’t even trust him enough to meet without the presence of his guards. He hit him. He fucking punished him for the shit he was doing, the only one who ever did, Torrhen still had a scar on his face from those beatings, because Ludd saw through him, saw what a piece of scum he was, because he fucking hated him, like that coward deserved-

“I fucked up.” Gryff’s voice evened. “I… fucked up so badly, you couldn’t even imagine.” It was so… so pathetic of him, to sit by the tomb of the only person who ever believed he was worth something, & whine about his sorrows, even though he knew well enough nobody listened. “I don’t know how I can ever make it any better.” Some part of him was glad his father wasn’t there to hear this anymore – he couldn’t bear the thought of Ludd starting to despise him for it. Another, bigger part, simply cursed the day lord Whitehill had been killed, knowing fully well it was supposed to be him instead. It was always supposed to be him going down to defend him – doing something worthy with his life & spitting in Torrhen’s face by depriving him of a chance to be lord. Now all went wrong, his father dead, him, regrettably, not, and Torrhen winning the day.

This would never have happened if only he fulfilled his duty.

He didn’t know what to say anymore, or what to do. When he was heading here, he had some good, right things in mind, but now half of those were forgotten & half seemed too stupid to voice. A simple “I love you” – something he never had it in himself to say when Ludd was alive, now seemed even more dumb & embarrassing. The need to get going pressed down on him, but he was scared of doing that at the same time. This was his last chance, but Gryff couldn’t even force himself to speak. Deep inside, this just added as one more reason to hate Torrhen, for turning this moment for him into such a mess. Of course though, this was still his failure, first & foremost – failing his parent in life & death all the same.

He couldn’t handle this any longer.

Swiftly & out of nowhere, he stood up, causing his head to spin. His eye burned like a hot coal, but remained dry as ever, and Gryff looked around, shaky movements akin to those of a hunted down animal. Out, get out of this place. You had your chance. It was almost like he somehow became a child again, frightened by the darkness. Black corners & cells of the crypt hid something sinister. It wanted him out. This place did not want to tolerate him any longer. He was ready to run back, to leave the candle & just turn & run, until he’d see light again – but he could not take the gaze away from the stone late lord Whitehill rested under.

For one last time. Be strong. Be a man.

Shakily, Gryff reached with his hand until it rested on the tomb’s cold surface. The unknown behind his back set a tickling, panicky sensation in his stomach, but he would not take the hand away – not if the woman from the tapestry were to lay her thin, pale hand on his shoulder right in this moment. Touching it brought no peace, no warmth, no sense of connection or presence of his father’s spirit or whatever the hell was supposed to be here – but just knowing, that he spoke to someone, who maybe did not listen – but would’ve, if he was there, was enough. He searched his mind for something to say, something that he would’ve wished for somebody else to tell him if he was dead, or dying, and out of all possible things, one stood out for Gryff:

“I won’t forget you.” He forced the words to be confident, clear, not caring if someone was to hear them or not. He was saying it, and he meant it, and if there was any way for a dead man to hear what the living had to tell him – he would hear Gryff now. “I’ll never, never fucking forget you… And I won’t let anybody else forget.”

When he walked back, through the corridor & up the stairs, the feeling of being watched never let go for a second, but he walked slowly still, with every deliberately long stop giving the thing in the darkness another chance to get him, if so it pleased. Nothing happened, of course, not a weird sound, or movement, or a mysterious blast of wind to blow his candle out – he was no fucking child anymore, and he should’ve known better. What he felt down in the crypt was nothing but a moment of weakness, foolery of his sickly brain. Real monsters had no need to hide, in cellars, under beds, in the woods, or wherever – they had all the needed power to do what they pleased in broad daylight & stand by their deeds proudly, with their heads held high.

Only at the last stair did he finally look back. The candle had burned out, leaving him with a mere thread of grey smoke, but his eye had gotten used to the lack of light by this point. If Gryff closed it, he would be able to imagine the silhouette of the tapestry’s lady, like the little boy used to do – but not the man. He looked in the dark with his own impaired gaze, and saw nothing – just as he was supposed to. He’d meet her again – in feverish dreams, in nightmares, or when he simply wouldn’t be able to keep his eye open any longer & would clutch it shut in fear – but never in reality. Never. For all that has happened, for all that was eating away at him from the inside, there was one thing he still had not been robbed off –

He still lived, still breathed, & walked, & spoke, and what mattered wasn’t that it brought him no joy anymore – it was that she didn’t. No matter what, he would live to see the light again, while she’d remain down here, in the dark, where she belonged.

As he shut the door behind him tightly, that thought, for the first time today, warmed up some tiny part of his soul.

[the-cerwyn]

Golden Roads, Chapter X:

Special thanks to @morethanjustwords, @meghanxbrownbarrow, @littlpeggy, @badgershite, and @tigerxsouls supporting me through these chapters. Your likes and reblogs were very much appreciated. 

This last chapter details what occurs in Cley’s final day in Goldgrass, and his decision before the Battle of Bastards.

The next key events happened in rapid succession within the past few days: The First Flint’s openly enjoyed the battle as well as its victory, the results surely boosted a confidence that was tarnished when the Starks fell from grace. Donnel gladly took the gifted Stout reward, and even went as far as to volunteer in taking the prisoners of the conflict to the Wall, the sentence Lord Stout had given them. The heir himself was content with how the events laid about; even informing the Flint’s Finger, that his table is always open to his cousin.

As for the Condon lancers, once the conflict was resolved, Ser Kyle sent them back to Condon land. He gave his regards to his brother, considering the calvary units were the most helpful in ensuring no bandit had escaped the wrath of the allied forces. The bannermen of Flint’s Finger stayed for the moment, as the Cerwyn had intended to return them personally; considering he was to head to the steadfast after this visit, it all worked in his favor.

Several more days passed as they all reveled in their success, it had been a week from the battle until it was brought up again to Cley in a unnerving manner. The Cerwyn lord had been sitting casually upon the seating of where he had told his old friend quite a bit; eyes glazed over to the golden fields, he was in a relaxful bliss. The cold Northern air gently swept across the back of his neck, twirling the curls of his hair ever more. The young adult lord took in a deep inhale of the incoming air, sighing pleasantly as the wind was moving past him. His state of Nirvana was broken when he was tapped blunty on the shoulder, snapping him back to the reality of Westeros. It was who you’d expect, Rikkie, warm smile etched on her face. The Cerwyn formed a sheepish one, knowing she had caught him off guard. He prompted: “Surprised you didn’t try to unleash a new prank on me as I was daydreaming”.

She gave a chuckle, taking a seat next to him. Her fair voice would of sounded honest… if it wasn’t her wielding it: “Who, me? Well someone needs to make sure you don’t gather dust. If I left you to dream, you’d never get up; that and, your reactions amuse me”.

Cley gave a light snort to her response, musing back to her: “So I’ve been told. People tell me often I’m amusing… one of my redeeming qualities, I suppose”.

“And we all know how few of those you have, you need it truly”. Rikkie proceeded to lightly tease him a bit, much to the Cerwyn’s expense, not that he didn’t really mind it.

The lord laughed it off, if no one had ever meant him no harm, it’d be Rikkie. If anything, she was just looking for a response to tease him over. He paused for a moment, as if he were pondering over something. Cley decided to be a bit straightforward: “Do you mind if I’m decisive for a moment?” The long time companion gave the other a puzzled look, before silently prompting the other to continue.

“I’ve… noticed, you’ve been here for some time, and you much rather be much closer to where events are occurring. With the war over and my castellan position open… I’d like to offer you a role among my household. As castellan of Castle Cerwyn”. It was… something out of the ordinary, of course it was. But there weren’t many others who could feel in such a position. Ser Kyle was his Master at Arms, Allister Condon was his Captain of the Guards, and his cousin Ulfric lead what few elites the Cerwyns had left. It only made sense that they were heavily among their house, as the Condons were very close and loyal to the Cerwyns.

A mix of surprise and exhilaration filled the Condon lady’s eyes, personally taken aback by the offer. Cley was at times, insightful, but one his truer traits was his empathy towards others. He could probably make friends with even the most cruelest of people if given the chance, trying to bring out whatever good he would see in them. At times, Rikkie felt as though the Cerwyn acted more of a Southern lord than a Northern one… but she’d quickly remind herself, no Southern lord would be able to handle and carry the burdens Cley has had to deal with. He was a lord of the North, in his own way, in his own right.

“I… accept, Lord Cerwyn. But may I ask… why come to me?”

It was a fair question. There could be other people in mind, others she was not aware about. Or it could be seen as some attempt to get closer in a way. But… that’d feel wrong. They were old friends. Just because the Cerwyn himself felt some sort of detachment, some sort of… need for companionship, shouldn’t mean he could use such power to obtain such. To test a lord’s true outlook on responsibility, give him power, see what he does with it. This was a time to establish better connections, not… to give some form of a desperate, anguished declaration of fondness. They deserved something better than that. She… deserved something better than that.

“Because… you’re family, Lady Condon. As much as my uncle, as much as Ulfric. We may not hold the same last name, but your family is kin to mine. I owe you that much”.

She seemed… understanding, of Cley’s words, giving a gentle nod to his response. After a moment of letting such information process, she inclined: “Well, Lord Cerwyn, what’s our first task?”

“We leave Goldgrass tomorrow, and we head to Flint’s Finger to make sure they are well. After that... We head back to Castle Cerwyn, I feel as though there’s more work to be done there”.

“My lord, I urge you: Allow me to take three hundred Condon lances to the Stark encampment. Our numbers could aid them drastically, we may even be able to bring an end to the Bolton bastard. I personally will rip off his bloody head and bring back here, as revenge for our fallen!” The grizzled Condon lord proclaimed to the Lord Cerwyn within the small council meeting, as his niece and unimpressed brother watched his display at Cley’s sides. The only one who looked interested was the Cerwyn’s bastard cousin, Ulfric.

“As much as I would… adore, revenge upon the Boltons, we aren’t even sure these are the Starks. Who’s to say this isn’t a ploy by Ramsay Bolton to root out the unfaithful?” Cley brought forth this inquiry to the Condon, while admiring his tenacity, they needed to stay cunning on this sort of matter. Jumping into the fray would not help them now.

“If I may, my lord, my brother and I have seen plenty of rebellions within our days. Robert’s… the Greyjoy’s… this is the North’s version of a rebellion. To break away from the Botlons who tighten their grips around our necks. This could be our way out of this damn mess!”

Cley is quiet for a moment, before Ulfric involved himself. “Well… how bout’ this? Give me… a force of the Cerwyns, the Condons, and the Flints of Flint’s Fingers, and I’ll lead em’ into this encampment myself. Allister… is Lord of Condon, and you, Cley, is Lord of Cerwyn. We can’t risk any of you dying, so… why not me? No one’s gonna miss a bastard”. His tone was… although rough, sounds certain. Like he planned this out. This... was the sort of end he has fantasized about.

The Cerwyn however, was not liking what his cousin had to say. In a wretchedly, unhappy tone of voice, Cley responded back to his cousin: “I’d miss you”. He had lost too much family to say otherwise. This was it. They were all that’s left. Bastard or not, there were only three Cerwyns left.

“Cley… don’t, don’t get bloody dramatic on me”. Ulfric hesitated for a moment, feeling nerved by his half cousin’s choice of emotional words. He may of not felt the same about himself, but his lordling family member felt quite highly of him. The younger man only made this harder for the other to fall through.

“No… No. I am going to get bloody dramatic on you. Because this is it... Alright, I've got to say my piece now... Okay?” The Cerwyn paused for a moment, trying to get his words together. Finally, he found his voice: “Look, we all in this room, we love each other. We’re a family, not through just blood, but through bonds. We want what's best for each other and I know that, I am very thankful for that. What I want... what I want, what I need... is something stable”.

All eyes were on him, and they were dead silent. They wanted to hear what he had to say.

“We… don’t know, if this is the Starks or not. One raven does not confirm them being back. But I know… I know the Starks. If it is Sansa… or Jon, they’ll come to me. Face to face. They know me. And they would ask me directly. They would give me their case. And they would know, I would full heartedly support them… But… just a letter? We need more than that. So… this is what I declare: We wait for them. We wait for the Starks to come to us. And if they do, we give them our help. I’ll send Cerwyn and Condons to assist them, along with Ulfric and Allister, to fight on my behalf. But until then? Until they come to us? We stand our ground. And we wait. My father and mother did not die for me to throw my life away to an assumption”.

The small council seemed content with his answer, and it would appear, the meeting was adjourned. His friends and family filed out of the war room, leaving Cley alone as he pinched the skin between his nose and eyes, giving out a heavy sigh.

Old Gods… he hoped this wouldn’t bite him in the arse.

[kateis-cakeis]

When the wights crumbled, Gared knew it was almost time to head south. To Ironrath. The threat was over, the North Grove no longer required protection. He needed to know if House Forrester survived.

But seeing Jon again was not part of the plan.

Once, he had chosen his family before all else. But now? Well, four years could change a lot in people.

And it was never a secret that Gared cared deeply for Jon. Maybe he still did.

--

It may be 2019 but here I am with a GarJon fic! It’s been so long since I’ve written these two, and perhaps this fic can finally give them some peace :)

I hope you enjoy!

[arthrmorgann]

Looking for good ttgot fanfics on a03 is a mistake I never want to make again 

[badgersighted]

Badger u could do the forum of thrones fanfic in ttgot style fanartfic like u did ttgot s2 au

it just looks like 1000 pages of text walls to me and I don’t have a lot of motivation to read them let alone start up a brand new project for something I’m not even involved in

[was-gryff-whitehills-apologist]

Woohoo, so I made it through the prologue - now there’s just the rest of the thing for us to suffer through. Shoutout to those, who gave me feedback - you are amazing & I won’t tire of repeating that <3

This part, well, it has some weird elements & things I wasn’t confident about, so I’m hoping the choices I decided to stick with will work. It picks up the loose ends part one left - but if it’s still confusing chronologically, I’ll be happy to clarify it (as well as anything else, really).

"So, you’re saying – you not only have a mother now, but an aunt too?”

“Winnie would be my second aunt though, after Gwyn.” Roslin corrected him. “You’d think it’d be nice to have an aunt only a couple years older – but Winnie is actually more like Gwyn… As in being so serious all the time.” She chuckled. “Or more like sulky, I would say. We still get along fine though, I think – she used to, well, not like me very much, at first, but it’s in the past. She and papa are a different story though…”

A kid, who didn’t get along well with Torrhen, and had the guts to be open about it? Gryff only heard about the mysterious Winnie Bole minutes ago, and she was already growing on him – also, because of how Roslin got herself a new friend in her. By the gods, his niece deserved more friends than she got due to leading this secluded life, but it didn’t seem to bother her much, at least, which Gryff was grateful for.

“I take it, Winnie isn’t here now?”

“She came to stay with us for some time once, but she’s back at her own home now. I write to her often – I got better at it than I was when you left, by the way!” His niece proudly announced. “Mariya used to teach me before that too – but it was just so boring, having to sit there, and listen to her, and write the same things all over, until letters started dancing before my eyes.” 

Ros made an exaggeratedly disgusted face, causing Gryff to laugh. “Writing to Winnie and Kyra is a lot more fun. I could probably write to you too while you’re away, now that I know where you’ll be!” Her face lit up with excitement at the idea. “Do you think we have a raven, that can fly to that – black Castle you’ll be in?..”

“Aye, girl, we do.” A grunt came from behind Gryff’s back, second before he felt another twinge of pain, when the needle in Wyllard’s hand pierced his skin. The maester had been stitching his stab wound while they chatted, and talking to Roslin made Gryff forget about whatever pain he felt – until the healer’s voice reminded him of it. Not that he was complaining – he’s already endured worse shit that day, & was frankly growing accustomed to it.

The previous half an hour or so was something Gryff would very much like to forget. The pain from having his sore flesh cut open, the feeling of blood & puss being pushed out of it & streaming down his face in a disgustingly smelly & warm steam, the burning in the wound as it was flushed, cleaned out & stitched back together… He had no wish to even go back and reflect on that, simply grateful for the procedure being over, a clean bandage now wrapped tightly around his head & missing eye. Roslin’s hand in his was the only thing, that, throughout the ordeal, prevented him from screaming, or killing Wyllard, or passing out – even though he didn’t once allow himself to clench it tightly enough to cause her pain.

“T-there ya go.” Maester concluded in an unsteady voice, stepping back from him. “Woulda been over sooner, if only you didn’t squirm so bloody much.” In Gryff’s defense, Wyllard, by this point, had grown impatient as well, carelessly applying a few stitches just to get it over with faster. Long concentration was taking a toll on the hangover man, his eyes turning glassy, hands starting to shake & voice becoming more muffled. As swiftly as he could, he shuffled back to his workplace, carelessly tossing dirty tools in the drawer, his expression stating clearly, that the treatment was complete.

Ros turned her head to the window, only to notice, surprised, how dark it has gotten while they were in maester’s cabinet – and yawned widely, unexpected even to herself.

“Been a lllong day, has it not, m’lady?” Wyllard jumped at any chance to get the pair of his talkative patients to leave. “Must be the time for you to go to bed – yer uncle will get you to your chambers, won’t he?..” His eyes narrowed, shooting a glare at Gryff. “Just get yourself a clean shirt first.” he motioned towards one, hanging from a chair, presumably for cases like this. “Don’t even touch your own rags, unless you want the bandages to get dirty…”

It was damn great to finally pull a clean piece of clothing on. Gryff was feeling weirdly uplifted as whole – despite the pain, despite being so tired even standing up was a struggle, despite the fact, that he could get dragged out & forced on the road at any minute now. Being around Roslin did this to him – the happiness her presence caused created a funny, lightheaded feeling in his head. It was almost like he had been pulled away from all the crap that day had brought & was in some other reality. He had no energy to do so, but felt like smiling & laughing for no fucking reason.

“Hey, Wyllard.” His words made the maester tense up. “Thanks for stitchin’ me back together- and, y’know” Gryff’s speech was a little slurred at this point. “For everything else. Just to return the favor” The Whitehill’s smirk grew wider. “Remember that old ugly vase by the entrance to Upper Halls? Last time I checked, which was a couple hours ago, the bottle of hippocras I left there all the way back before war is still untouched inside. It’s no use to me anymore – how about you have it? Out of all men in this place, I’d rather you be the one to drink it to my health.”

The glassy gaze instantly turned sharp, focused. Wyllard briefly contemplated whether Gryff was telling him the truth or not, but the possibility of getting a drink was too appealing to pass – and, muttering some hasty ‘thanks yous’, the man stormed out of the room, with a speed neither of them have been expecting.

“What’s that hip-pro-car…” Ros struggled to repeat the unfamiliar word. “Is it like wine? I know he likes it. He becomes much friendlier after drinking it, and sillier too. Pa seems annoyed, but I prefer him more that way. He acts funny and never complains, like usual.”

“Let’s just say, I’ve made him a very happy man for tonight.” And Torrhen – a very annoyed man, Gryff added mentally. “He was right, little star – it’s getting late, and you’re barely keeping your eyes open.” He could tell Ros was suppressing more yawns. “So, how about…”

“How about I get you to your chambers, instead of other way around?” Roslin blurted out with a laugh before he could finish. “I think, papa will want me to sleep with him and mama tonight, so it’s best if you don’t go there with me. I’m going to walk with you though!” She stated in a cheerful tone, that left no room for ‘ifs’ or ‘buts’, and before Gryff could react, jumped off the low table & got hold of his hand.

He considered stopping her, before just saying ‘fuck it’ to everything in his head, and letting his niece lead the way, while he followed. The moment felt too damn good to let Torrhen’s shadow over him ruin it – and so what if he’d bash his brains in, were he to discover him & Roslin together?.. Bastard would at least have the decency to not do it in front of his daughter, hopefully, and that was all Gryff even cared about. Some things were simply worth dying for.

Though he forgot to, Roslin had grabbed his scarf from the table, and now was entertaining herself with the thing, tucking at loose blue threads & wrapping it around her own neck in different manners. As they passed through the portrait hall though, something had attracted her attention – the blue eyes stopped at the now empty spot, where his damaged portrait used to be.

“Um…” She appeared puzzled, whatever she was about to tell Gryff has slipped out of her mind. “Yours was here too just this morning, but it has been… Well…” She lifted her eyes to the man, a surprisingly understanding expression in them. “You must’ve already seen what happened to it, right?”

“I did.” Gryff felt a twinge of a weird, guilty feeling, looking Roslin in the eyes. “I… let’s just say, I took care of it.”

“I get it.” She let out a small sigh, rubbing the loose end of his scarf against her cheek. Her expression has changed – not exactly sad, but pensive, in a way, like she was lost in thought. “It… must not’ve been nice, to look at it like that. It’s just- I still liked it, even though it was spoiled. I would look at it when I missed you, sometimes – just so I wouldn’t forget how you look while you’ve been away.” She admitted in a calm, but quiet voice.

Hurriedly, Gryff knelt by her side, searching his niece’s face for any signs of disappointment or anger – only to find none. He could not help the urge to embrace her once more, and thank the gods, she did not mind, and snuggled close to him, resting her head in the crook of his neck.

“I’m sorry, little star…” He murmured in a trembling voice, hectically running his hands through the strands of her hair. “I didn’t know you liked it, I- I wouldn’t have-”

“It is fine, uncle.” Her voice was so unbelievably warm & reassuring – no one had spoken to him like that in years, from what it felt like. “I told you, I get it. It’s better to have you here, than a portrait…” A small sigh fell from her lips. “Make sure to be back as soon as you can. Maybe, I can ask father to send for you earlier than he did this time… But try to get home soon yourself too. Promise?”

Once again, he did not have the courage to answer truthfully. 

Thankfully, she made no attempt to break the hug, so Gryff picked Roslin up in his arms instead & carried her for the rest of their way to his room. When he lowered the girl on his bed, the slight sadness was long gone from her expression. With a content sigh, she fell on her back, legs hanging from the bed's edge, as she continued to play with the loose end of his scarf. 

"He was right about one thing — it's been a long day..." She hummed softly, before yawning once more. "Can I stay here a little longer, uncle? I know you must be tired too..."

"Of course you can." Gryff dropped himself on the bed next to her, pondering over how correct his niece was. He wasn't merely tired anymore — he felt utterly, completely exhausted, so much that his ears rung, everything sounded muffled & his movements grew hard to control. This was the kind of exhaustion, that made him doubt he'd be able to even fall asleep, if given the chance — his brain balancing on the edge of a complete sensory overload. Perhaps he'd wait until she would get back to her parents, and then get down to the courtyard, to look for whoever would be convoying him to the Wall. 

"You shouldn't have put me on bed — I don't wanna get up now..." Ros laughed, moving to curl up on her side, one arm under her head, wincing when she accidentally touched the fresh scar. "Tell me something so I don't fall asleep, will you? About that castle you're going to... Or where you've been..." 

Gryff wouldn't have minded if she did fall asleep here — there was something weirdly right about the idea her sleeping in his chambers. This place would then feel warmer, more alive for a little longer after he'd leave, before inevitably getting locked up and abandoned by all — like it was haunted by the memory of him. Torrhen would want all his memory gone from Highpoint for good. Not even another forgotten part of Whitehill history — just something, that never even existed in the first place. 

Ros... Maybe she would remember, for some time, until her father, through gentle persuasion & keeping silent on the subject, would eventually make her forget. But Gryff did not need to think about it yet. It was still good for now, for another small, tiny while. She still smiled at him the same way as before, still called him 'uncle' in that special kind of way. The only thing he cared about was enjoying those bits of affection while they lasted — he would not have that anymore soon. 

“Well… I don’t know much about that castle myself, actually.” He stifled a yawn of his own. “It is further North, so it must be… well… colder there.” Keeping his speech coherent was becoming a struggle. “It is one of the castles by the Wall… has your sept told you about it? It separates the realm from what is… well… on the other side…” This time Gryff couldn’t keep from yawning into the back of his hand.

“Other… side?” Ros mumbled sleepily from behind him. “But… What is there? On the other side, I mean… I’ve been told something, but I must’ve forgotten…”

“Um, well…” Gryff’s own knowledge of lands beyond the Wall was vague at best, not going further than the bare minimum. “Forests, an’ plains, and mountains – where the wildings live. Beyond that – the Land of Always Winter… so it’s called. No one’s really been there, so it’s hard to say what it is… Just miles and miles of land, that is too cold for man to be there.

I wouldn’t know, Ros.” He had to admit. “Who knows – maybe I will go there and find out one day. If so, then I’ll be sure to write you about how it is there… So you’ll be the first person ever to learn.”

There was no response, so Gryff had to look back – and of course, he should’ve been expecting that. Roslin has drifted off to sleep, and now smiled peacefully, end of his scarf clutched in her fist – a sight, that made him smile, even though there was no real reason to. How convenient. There was no better way for them to part – no tearful goodbyes, no risk of being spotted. He’d just leave quietly, and no one would even get to know they met. This was his best option.

Gryff watched his sleeping niece for a second more, before realizing, that he couldn’t.

Lifting the side of the covers, he gently pulled it over her body, making the girl move in her sleep a little before becoming still again. Apparently, that was exactly how much strength he had left, and not a drop more – the moment he moved to the opposite side of bed to her, lying down above the covers, Gryff knew that was it. He would not be able to move a limb if his life depended – so he just watched, as if trying to etch a picture of the sleeping girl in his mind. 

Slightly disheveled golden hair. Relaxed expression. A hand, neatly tucked under her cheek. Every last bit of that picture reflecting nothing, but peace. It was like she lit up & warmed the place, brought back the times, when it was actually good to be in, for one last time. Something about her had this power, something that Gryff himself had trouble finding a name for.

Was this how it felt for Torrhen?.. Having her sleep by his side, knowing that she was close, safe, protected & happy?.. That no nightmare had the power to break that spell, and that when you’d wake, she would still be there?..

A minute more, Gryff decided, sealing the bargain with his exhausted brain. And then I will go, making a firm decision made him feel better at once. His only eye then closed, and seconds later he was already asleep too.

He chose to ignore Astor's invitation to the Great Hall — they've already been given a meal that day, after the sword training, & Gryff had forced several mouthfuls of food down his throat, barely even feeling the taste. It's been hours since then, but he had no appetite still, & just wished to crawl in some hole where no one would talk to or touch him. Dark-blue twilight fell, castle's courtyard was lit by a few small, ginger lights of torches, covered in freshly-fallen snow & blissfully quiet. Rare watchers scattered across it were either finishing their tasks or heading inside to rest. After how hectic it felt throughout the day, this was almost a pleasant sight. 

On his way to Hardin's Tower, another familiar figure caught up to him — one of the other newcomers, Alen, as Gryff noted, displeased. He was carrying what looked like a metal chest, red flickers of coals visible through holes in it's side, almost like eyes of a small animal in the night. 

"There you are." The other recruit had his usual annoying smirk on. "Mind if I join?" Noting how angrily Gryff glared at him, the man quickly explained. "Just for a minute. That Errold guy won't get off my back — I'm to get the bricks to everyone else's rooms. Every other newcomer's, I mean — I'd bloody die if I had to warm all the chambers of this place. I didn't know where you were staying, so I just thought I'd find you — hope that's not a bother."

"The fuck do you need bricks for?.." Their breath came out in thick white steam as they spoke — even having spent his life in the North, Gryff had never seen anything like that. The last winter he recalled, when he was still a boy, has been vicious — or so he used to think. It was dreadfully cold back then, but nothing he couldn't handle. Here, the very air clinked softly against the stone, & the touch of it on his skin was as real as touch of a blade. The ends of other watcher's hair have been turned white by hoarfrost, and Gryff wondered if his own looked the same way. 

"I too did not get it initially. Those are to warm up beds. Crazy, I know, but you simply won't be able to sleep otherwise. The fireplace doesn't do shit. I didn't know about it on my first night — and it took hours for my sheets to get warm enough for me to rest, not toss and turn. Damn," Alen sighed deeply, clearly regretting being unable to hide hands in his armpits. "This ain't the Reach for you, that's for certain." Even having never visited the place, Gryff was inclined to agree. 

Inside the tower, they went up the stairs, as Gryff was idly looking for a cell, where walls & door would be intact & no presence of other men could be sensed; such was found several staircases further. It had a bed, a fireplace & even a small table & chair beside it — all he required, and even more than that. Alen happily put his burden down & instantly got to starting a fire with the coals he brought & a pair of tongs. Gryff threw the letter he's been carrying this whole time on the table & stopped by the window, staring numbly in the darkness. 

"Already got correspondence, huh?" Alen inquired, only to be met with silence. "Sorry, I know, I shouldn't have asked. You want me to bring you candle so you can read?.."

"What business do you have bringing me anything?" Gryff wondered in an indifferent tone. "Or starting my fire and warming my sheets, for that matter. Have you sworn your vows while I wasn't looking, and been made a steward already?"

"Pretty much what I'm aiming for." The other admitted with ease. "I mean, doesn't it sound good to keep this place all cozy and warm, while the likes of you are freezing your asses somewhere by the Frostfangs, risking to get killed by wildlings at any moment? I want to show everyone what I can do better. Hopefully, our commanders will have enough sense not to make me a ranger, or something."

"So, you think the likes of me will be made one?" Gryff scowled. "Did you not see how it was in the training yard today?"

"Accidents happen. Perhaps today just wasn't your day. Besides," Alen spoke more carefully, like he was approaching a delicate subject. "Aren't you, well — a lord? I imagine, they would give that honor to a noble. Your family must've put a word in for you, and all..."

Gryff simply turned away, leaning further on the windowsill. It was ridiculous just how clueless everybody here was, about literally everything. Realizing he must've said the wrong thing, the other recruit got back on his feet, rubbing his hands together with an embarrassed expression. 

"Again... I need to learn how to keep my mouth shut. I'm sorry."

"You're fine." Gryff uttered through gritted teeth, wishing for nothing more than to be left alone as soon as possible. "You go now, I'll do the rest myself..." He wasn't actually going to — knowing almost for a fact, that he wouldn't be needing a bed that night. Thankfully, his comrade got the message & slipped out of the room behind his back, wishing him good night in passing. His steps receded for a short while, until they disappeared, and complete silence fell. Not even wind howled, & all Gryff could hear was cracking of fire & his own breathing. 

Slowly, deliberately, he strode from the window to the table & glanced at the letter again. Piece of white parchment, orange & black shadows from the fireplace dancing all over it. The broken line of the sigil imprinted on blue wax grinned at him like a human's crooked mouth. 

The last bit of Torrhen, that had found a way to follow him here. 

He did not dare touch it, instead stepping back to his bed & lowering himself on it. His every muscle felt limp, worn out, ready for rest, but mind was so very far from sleep. Gryff stared in front of himself, the image of his cell etching itself in his brain, settling there comfortably, at it's own pace. There was no rush — the same sight, from now on, would greet him again, and again, and again, until one day it wouldn't. 

Lord Whitehill — fire, the only living being here, could as well be cracking the words to him — welcome to your new home. 

***

He had not been getting much night sleep for the past few weeks. The problem came back right after the siege, but reached it's peak with Talia Forrester's escape. Gryff had to stop with the large wine (and, occasionally, milk of the poppy) intake, that he'd resort to in order to pass out — he had to remain sharp. Since Grag was gone as well, not a single person he could trust remained at Ironrath. Even the sound of Harys's breath or steps behind the door where he stood, guarding, made him jump, alarmed. The Whitehill could spend hours watching the shadows in the dark corners of the room, wild-eyed. Nothing was safe anymore. Any of those men would not hesitate to slit his throat while he slept to earn a favor from Torrhen. 

His last night at Highpoint was such a stark contrast to that. From the moment he laid down by Roslin's side & closed his eye just for a jiff, and until dawn, Gryff slept like dead, with no dreams or nightmares. Waking up greeted him with all kinds if unfamiliar feelings — warmth, absence of heaviness in his head, & even the pain was manageable. The first thing he heard was Roslin's soft, sleepy breathing, that, he realized, has probably been keeping him lulled & soundly asleep all night long. 

He sat up on the bed by her side, slowly, deliberately, his body stiff from sleeping fully clothed. It was almost like night's rest had emptied his head, erasing all the emotional mess & grim thoughts of the day before — aside from the tiny, nagging sensation, that signaled it to him: something was wrong. 

His eye slid down to Roslin's face, admiring the sleepy smile she had, and not a second later the realization hit Gryff with full force. 

He's been expecting new flash of anger, new energy & strength to seek Torrhen out & do what had to be done; yet it didn't come. He felt weak still, not as sickeningly as before, but he would not be able to fight, or even speak, looking in the man's eyes. Instead of action, his brain was desperately searching for excuses. Perhaps one of his wounds had started bleeding overnight, so now he'd have to seek out Wyllard & buy himself a delay. Perhaps Torrhen had left, to attend some stupid lord's business, & he'd pull himself together by the time he'd arrive...

He had nothing. Head lowered in defeat, painful resignation settling inside. He knew he would never have the guts, the will, the courage, there was no point in lying to himself. He'd do what he's been told, crawl away, tail between his legs, like a damn dog he was, like so many times before. 

Gryff looked at Roslin again & could not force himself to look away anymore. Nothing in the whole world could possibly compare to just sitting & looking at her this way. The girl turned a little, sighing sleepily, and it made his heart drop, afraid that she was waking up— false alarm. 

His scarf was crumpled under her head, side of her face buried in the fabric. There was no way to take it back without waking her, and Gryff already knew he wouldn't. He wanted her to keep it, for as long as she'd care to — perhaps it would make the memory of him last a little longer. That, and he would not be able to speak to her now, tell that he was about to go away.

The deep feeling of shame & guilt made it too hard to even breathe, leave alone talk. He would break down, and Gryff knew it — but he could never let Roslin see him in that state. He had no right to shift his burden onto her. Let her keep a good last memory of him, of someone who held & hugged her & spoke to her gently. The fourthborn knew from his own experience — even if memory of the person would fade, their name & face & meaning, the feelings of warmth & care would stick for a lot longer. 

The image before him became blurred in a second, and blinking did little to change that. Crying?.. It seemed almost impossible the day before, constantly edging on it, with a lump in his throat, but holding it in till his eye hurt from dryness. The tears, however, remained, and now spilled freely, so easily it was almost scary. Thank the gods he felt no urge to sob, expression unchanged — just the wetness. It didn't even matter anymore, with no one to see & be disgusted with him. 

Angrily & shakily he wiped the burning eye with his sleeve, but more water was to come. He needed to get going, Gryff's mind chimed monotonously, before she can wake, before he finds you, so get a hold of yourself, and move along. He stood up swiftly, breaths hoarse, hectically wiping more & more tears, that just fucking refused to stop. Despite his worst fears, Roslin remained soundly asleep, hearing none of that. The only mercy, that he would be getting. At the very same moment, it struck Gryff how much he has been fooling himself. He had not accepted. He was not ready. He was so not fucking ready to part with her forever, that it hurt physically. He couldn't, he couldn't, he just fucking couldn—

Quietly, he knelt by the bed & reached out to hesitantly touch her hair & stroke it gently. The girl didn't move. Looking into her calm expression, in his mind, Gryff ordered himself to stop being a selfish little bitch, to fucking shut the whiny thoughts, the urge to wallow in self-pity. For her, this was the best outcome. How much more would it hurt her, had Torrhen just killed him, or if he'd stick around for another few months, allow her to get used to his presence again, before he'd be disposed of?..

Children moved on easily, they grew out of things, they forgot. She was still at the age when she could move on with barely any struggle. She had her whole life ahead, and that would be a good life, possibly even more so without him in it. If that would mean Ros would be happy, that her world would not be disturbed, then he had to accept. She was the last person in the world left to care about him at least a bit. He had to sacrifice it for her — there wasn't anyone else left for Gryff to sacrifice things for. 

Carefully, trying with all his might not to sob out loud, he leaned forward, planting a light kiss on her forehead — before quickly retreating, almost like he had done something forbidden. Thankfully, he kept getting lucky, and the contact did not wake his niece. Walking towards the door, Gryff was unable to take his eye off the sleeping girl. This was the right thing to do. This was for her sake. 

Perhaps she'd wake up & believe, that him coming to visit was just a dream. The scarf would be a giveaway though — Gryff didn't know whether that was supposed to upset or relieve him. Would she ask Torrhen, or her new mother, when he'd return — or did she actually understand that would be to no use, and just didn't show it?.. Selfish, selfish thoughts — Gryff knew he was supposed to want her to forget, to not be bothered by his memory, but at the same time wished to be remembered for little longer so, so badly. 

He closed the door behind himself without making a sound. The hall in front of him was lit up by a ray of dawn light — that was it. His time was up. Before making his way down to the courtyard, automatically, unseeingly staring in front of himself, Gryff's hand found the small bundle he's been keeping in his pocket this entire time, and knowing, that it was still with him made his horrible mental state a tad better, suddenly. He'd be called a thief, if Gryff cared to ask anyone's opinion on the subject, but the fourthborn knew, that he was merely taking what was his by right. Delivering a last strike, small, insignificant, but still a strike. Spitting in Torrhen's face, even if he did it from behind the man's back. 

The bastard took more from him, than Gryff used to believe he even had. His home. His dignity. The last person he loved. He spat at their father's memory by arranging a cowardly, humiliating truce with his murderer, & he had no doubts, that Torrhen would continue to spit at Ludd’s memory all throughout his reign. The only thing Gryff managed to take away from him as a retaliation was his mother, and he quietly prided himself on that one. No matter what Torrhen did, she was out of his reach now — nothing he'd do would bring her back. Not so almighty in the end, are you, lord Whitehill? He might've put their little war to an end with his sentence, yet nonetheless

it was Gryff, who had delivered him a one last blow. 

Swiftly turning around, sword clutched in his hand, Gryff swung the metal bar door opened & stormed back in the Great Hall, with the full intent of plunging the blade through his brother & letting whatever would happen next happen. Looking around with wild eye, he realized Torrhen was not there anymore — curse his fucking brain, Gryff must've zoned out for longer, than he could afford. There were two ways the bastard had to choose from — the stairs to the balcony, or the main door, and after a brief moment, Gryff headed to the door, knocking a chair over in the process. 

In the Hall, lord Whitehill was still nowhere to be seen — gone, gone, gone, the opportunity had slipped between his fingers. Gryff was a step away from rushing in the direction he had likely taken, from searching & turning the entire Highpoint upside down, if that's what he'd need to find the fucker & die trying to finish him off. The urge, however, was not to last — the one-eyed man halted, when the tapestry caught his eye, making the hand with the sword lower in a defeated gesture. The sight never failed to cause him pain & suck the very will to live right out of him. 

He stood, staring at the people, who did not look back at him — when posing for the picture, they all had better place to put their eyes on, than a supposed onlooker. The only one looking more or less in front of himself was his father — a younger one, standing taller, than he did by the end of his life, but recognizable still. His image was the only one, that Gryff liked about the tapestry, at least remotely — a symbol of strength, authority, composure. When left alone, he'd sometimes try to replicate that expression & posture before the mirror, only to fail pathetically — he was nothing like Ludd, and could never even hope to compare. 

He sure was. Would his father ever allow himself to be exiled, submit to his sworn enemy? Never. He'd never crouch & hide, fearing for his life. Gryff had been hiding away long enough to miss his funeral — something never to forgive himself for. Torrhen had his own fair share of blame in that, of course, for making it clear he was not to attend — as if the pisstain somehow had more right to decide how their lord-father was to be put to rest. As if he wasn't the least valuable son the late lord had, not deserving an ounce of his legacy. Following Karl's death, Gryff was the only one of Ludd's sons the man even acknowledged or actually trusted. It was him who was supposed to be there, he was the one who owned this bloody memory, and not the—

Yes, he did. He did own it, more so than anyone else. 

Gryff raised his sword, and, after a second's hesitation, moved it forward, shuddering when it's tip tore the tapestry's surface. As a little brat, he once tried to burn the cursed thing, only managing to leave a small stain of soot before being stopped by Gwyn. Guess there was nobody to stop him now, so he moved the blade further, and the sound it made was the most satisfying thing he had heard in months. 

Crudely, carelessly, he cut through it, butchering the painting, only using his left hand to hold & protect the part, that he wished to keep unharmed — his father & Gwyn's tiny figure at his feet. The woman his sister became might've given up on him, but the girl would always have a place in his heart. When reaching the spot, where woman's frame touched his father's, he gritted teeth in anger. She dared to fence some part of the man from him, and he hated her for it more than ever. The first urge would be to carefully carve Ludd's frame, so that not a shred of her remained, but then, suddenly, he got another idea. 

Instead of cutting her off, he cut around her, so that when he was finished, the piece of canvas in his hands depicted all three people, making Gryff smirk grimly. Look where she was now. The image, so beloved by his brothers, their consolation, that they'd gawk at to no end — now his to claim, to tear away from them, like he tore away the actual person many years ago. The last reminder of her was now his to do with as he pleased, away from those, who valued the memory of a dead & buried woman over a living being. 

The only revenge he'd ever get. 

He wrapped the piece of ruined painting in a bundle with his shaky hands & observed the result of his work one last time, before swiftly edging back to the corridor he came from, behind the bars. Like back in his childhood, when he'd be stealing food from the kitchens to avoid attending meals, or sneaked out of Highpoint behind his brother's backs. A ticklish feeling of fear, mixed with weird excitement that disobeying them caused. The fury, that Torrhen would feel when he'd see what he had done, made him both terrified & overjoyed at the same time. Perhaps it'd happen before he'd get sent away, and then he wouldn't even get to live long enough to get to the Wall, but Gryff took pride in one thing — he had taken her away from Torrhen. 

Twice now. 

He became cold & realized he's been standing atop the Wall for too long, and his torch had gone out. It was supposed to last longer, but Gryff's been so lost in thought, he forgot to patrol the area assigned to him. It was time to go get some more fire, and then try actually walking, before he’d fall asleep standing. 

Making his way back in the dark was easy, just walking a straight line towards where coals flickered in the brazier in the distance. As Gryff approached the post where he left Carn, his steps grew slower & slower. For no particular reason, he felt uneasy, limbs filling with heaviness & ears — with soft noise. Not that he wanted to talk to anyone, but just walking past the other should not've been a problem. This was something else. 

Eventually he stopped, and so did the crunching of snow beneath his feet. Gryff put one hand on the solid, freezing surface of the Wall, hearing the blows of wind somewhere on the other side. A calm night; it was fairly quiet, with only occasional louder gusts. Wind's blowing was akin to soft howls of an animal — just as monotonously plaintive, interrupted by an occasional miserable whimper here & there – but that wasn’t it. Another whimpering sound, but of a different nature. Whines & sighs & sobs, that couldn’t be mistaken for the wind’s howling.

Only a human could be making those.

Gryff simply remained standing there, with his hand on the wall, listening. It wasn’t like he did not know the other watcher had issues – that was pretty damn obvious to any man with eyes, or even just one of those. That wretched expression, that never left Carn’s features, the fact, that he avoided people almost like he was afraid of them, barely forcing himself to speak when spoken to. Needless to say, Gryff gave little thought to that. If anything, he was glad to be in a company of someone, who dreaded communication as much as he did.

This, however… this was something entirely new, and he was not liking it one bit. Standing alone, in almost complete darkness, not a soul for many leagues of the Wall around, but a single watcher weeping his heart out steps away from him. Weeping… Gryff didn’t even know, that grown men could cry like this. Not a short, repressed sob, or a secretly wiped away tear, not even something like what he’s been through at the day of his departure. An unending, monotone pattern of whimpers & moans. He thought only children could be so absorbed by the act of crying. It didn’t grow louder or quieter, the tone never changed. Gryff had probably been standing there for a minute or so, but it felt like hours had passed, and he has been listening to the same crying all that time.

It awoke yearning in his own chest – a throbbing hole, that makes you want to howl to the high heavens, just so it gets heard. Gryff wanted him to fucking stop. It was cold, and dark, and felt like the two of them were completely alone in the entire world. This had to be the worst thing he had ever heard, the wrongest, the eeriest, the scariest. He didn’t even care how, he wanted it to be over. The image of shoving the man off the watching deck flashed before his mind eye, and nothing in Gryff’s soul protested to that. Make it stop. There had to be a way to make it stop.

He did nothing like that, didn’t even attempt to approach Carn – there was little he could do, beside create an awkward, embarrassing scene. Was it even possible to console another person, while envying their ability to cry so freely & deeply, Gryff wondered. Ever since the day he rode out of Highpoint’s gates on a cart, something seemed to have changed inside him. He still carried the pain with himself at all times, but it didn’t make itself known anymore. No wish to cry or complain, barely ever – to snap at people. He was hollow & detached & even though he walked among them, looked & worked & talked the same way as they did, there was something inside others, that, Gryff knew, he was missing himself.

He leaned with his back against the stony wall, closing his eye, quiet & unnoticed. The moment of fear had passed – now he listened to the wind howl & a crow cry his unknown woes to it in peace. Who knew what the fuck had happened to him? Gryff couldn’t guess, and still, this gave him some twisted sense of consolation. Not enjoying another’s misery, but rather sharing a part of it. The night wasn’t even close to being over, he was stuck with this, and out of all the paces at Castle Black, he would choose to be here, if given such choice. 

The future was looking darn bright to him, all the way from high atop the world.

[was-gryff-whitehills-apologist]

So, I did end up splitting the rest of the prologue in two — now it is going to consist of three parts (this time I can say it for sure, haha) (the first part is here, btw). There’s less scenes in this one, but I’m hoping it’ll still be decent. My thanks go to everyone who commented/liked/reblogged/took interest in this fic - you guys are my main source of inspiration!!

I also forgot to do this last time, I think, but credit to @badgershite​ for some of his characters I used in this (and took some creative liberties with) - Astor Greyson, maester Wyllard & Roslin Snow.

"Well, we sure as shit ain't freezing to death this way, are we? I've heard, that is the biggest danger this far North, so if we carry on like this — I say, there's nothing to worry about." This was not the first — and likely, not the last — wise line, cracked by the very same recruit, who tried to speak to Gryff during the training. Man's high spirits didn't seem to lower no matter — not after doing rather poorly at the fighting yard ("never aimed to be assigned a ranger and become food to the shadowcats, do you feel me?"), not while having to chop firewood for what felt like ages already ("better than cleaning the swinery, am I right?") & certainly — not at the fact, that Gryff barely listened to him & only seemed to grow more annoyed with each new clever phrase.  The future watcher's name was Alen & it felt like he was everywhere at once — jumping at whatever task elders would give them, making acquaintance with other men & getting a word in every conversation, that would start amidst the crows. Few minded that — the day was dragging lazily, even more so after the sword practice has ended, and it could use at least some entertainment.  "Where do you come from?" Gryff flinched, halting with axe in his hand hanging over the chopping block, realizing it was him being addressed. Behind his shoulder, he could feel Alen giving him that same light smile he had when asking the question to everyone else in the courtyard before.  "North." He responded curtly, bringing the axe down & cracking a log in two.  "Means you didn't have to travel far from home, right? Good for you." His comrade smirked, picking up the firewood Gryff had cut. "And you're no stranger to this bloody cold either. I'm from the Reach myself, grew up near Sunhouse. Must be hard to believe for you — but I only saw snow for the first time on my way here. Imagine how it'd be for you, if you haven't known it since childhood — just wake up one morning, your sleeping bag frozen to the ground & you both covered in all white! I thought I would..." Gryff wasn't really paying attention. The other did look like a southerner, he guessed — his skin was slightly more tanned than that of most men here, & he would shiver & hug himself, trying to keep warm, fairly often, even though he remained smiling the whole time. That did not make him anymore interesting in the Whitehill's eyes. His never-ending chatter grated on his nerves & concentrating on what the man was saying was too hard either way.  "Are you planning to finish your work or prattle like a bunch of maidens 'till night falls?" A deep voice sounded from the stairs that led to the dining hall. A man was approaching them — sturdy, wide-shouldered fella, whose tone & smirk seemed friendly enough nonetheless. "Not to be a pain in your asses, lads, but it's this wood, that'll go to the fireplaces in your cells. Might want to hurry — or you'll be warming up each ones' beds yourself tonight if you don't wanna freeze!" Low guffaw could be heard, while the man sat on one of the barrels & looked over the recruits. Gryff recalled seeing this one along with Astor earlier — Corlys was his name, if he remembered correctly, and probably a builder too, from his looks & the way he followed Astor around.  "We could use some help." Ayden, one of the newcomers from the sword practice beforehand, spoke to the watcher, his tone serious. "You don't look busy — and you'll need a fireplace tonight too, like any of us." "All in good time." Corlys took no offense from being addressed so boldly by a man of lower rank. "When I first arrived, me an' my like slaved away without any help like you do now — showing what we were capable of on our own. Every'ne goes through that. First days are the toughest — you'll get used to it. Won't be long till you yourself are ordering newcomers around." "What are you here for? If you don't mind me asking." The builder asked the very same recruit, casually. "Seem tough — got in a brawl that got outta' hand? Bashed the wrong head in?" "I'm no killer." Ayden appeared to be unnerved by the implication. "And I wasn't sent here. I am a volunteer." More distinct laughs could be heard, and many curious eyes turned to the lad — Gryff's not included. That did not make the recruit waver, however, keeping his expression deadly serious.  "Not many volunteers we get these days." Corlys leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyeing the younger man with curiosity. "Was it really that bad wherever you're from? Can't imagine what'd make a man do such thing." "It was not— not bad, not worse than it was for anyone else anyway." Ayden shrugged. "I just knew that was the right thing to do. The best way of serving the Realm I am capable of." Now even Gryff stole a quick skeptic glance at him. The expression in the man's eyes suggested his words were no joke. Several others whispered amid themselves, uttering short laughs. Nobody seemed particularly impressed by what has just been said, but rather confused instead.  "Figures..." Corlys huffed out air, that turned white from the cold as it left him. "So, who else got any stories to share?" Now he turned to the rest of them, trying to stir conversation further. "Something more interesting than stealing a sack of cabbage or stabbing your fellow man over the maiden fair he bedded before you could? Anyone?”    

Gryff had no idea what kind of "interesting stories" he was expecting from these men. Not that he cared, but thanks to Alen's never-ending talking, he had, against his will, heard the other speak to most of the recruits already & found out the crimes, that got most of them sent to the Watch. Dennet has indeed stabbed some man, Eman, a short & bearded northerner, was a rapist, some lanky & ugly lad, who hailed from the Riverlands, has been caught stealing one time too many & his lord got fed up with that, but had mercy & banished him here instead of taking a hand... All clothed in the same black recruits' armor, shuffling back & forth through the courtyard, carrying out their assignments, starting small talk here & there in gruff voices, they were nothing but a faceless mass to him, barely different from one another. Even speaking to any of them seemed like a waste of time.  "What about you, pretty mug?" Corlys ran an eye over Alen, who was happy to stop by his side & join the conversation rather than continue with the work. "It was, probably, just a sack of stolen cabbage — or, maybe, from the looks of you, someone's stolen maidenhood?" It was true, that the recruit was handsome, with thick & wavy chestnut hair & soft, bright eyes. Along with the constant disarming smile, all that gave him an extremely non-threatening look. Nothing in his appearance would let the guy be mistaken for an experienced fighter. "I'm tougher than I seem, actually." The reachman made a mockingly offended face. "And it costed the last man who underestimated me. Unfortunately, he was no mere man — he was my lord's son. I only escaped with my head because I didn't kill the guy — but have roughened him up a fair bit." "What'd a wimp like you do to roughen' a man up?" Eman laughed hoarsely, dumping the chopped firewood he's carried on top of other logs. "Bit off 'is cock when you 'ere pleasin' him on ye knees?"  "Let's just say, he can't walk very well anymore." Alen crossed arms on his chest, eyes narrowing at the raper. "Nothing you, or anyone here, would want for yourselves." "I'm pissin' my pants in terror." Bearded northerner huffed, heading back to the chopping block, hands busy rubbing knots out of his lower back. "And what does the lordling has to say for 'imself?" Phrase came as a surprise, making Gryff tense up — but not turn around. He felt the other's eyes prickle his back like a knife's tip. "What makes a noble join the company of our likes?" Another inhale of cold air tightened inside his chest, his body heat not enough to warm it. Putting all of his force in it, Gryff brought the axe down for the hundredth time, chopping a log in two.  "That's not the business of any of you." Ayden cast him a glare, frowning. Corlys, turning more serious in a matter of seconds, got back up from where he sat.  "Alright, that's enough talking. Take the lordling's example and get back to work. You'll be warmer that way, and—" "And why ain't it any of our business?" Eman stood with hands on his hips, with a grin, that made a show of his cracked teeth. "Think you're too good for us, simpler folk? Well, you wouldn't 'ave been sent here if that was so — so don't be so fuckin' prissy, your lordship. Everyone's tellin' their story, so what's so special about yers'?" "Look, just drop it, alright?.." Alen picked up his own axe from the frozen ground, avoiding the eyes of either men. "I'm tired of listening to the same shit all over again, aren't you? The sooner we finish, the sooner we're all getting fed..." "I just don't want the lordling to get any wrong ideas." The raper shrugged, tucking at the end of his beard. "He thinks just because he got a darn last name, he's suddenly special?.. People deserve to know whom they'll serve with. What if he's a deserter? A backstabber? A coward? How are you going to trust him to watch yer back, if he won't even—" "That is rich" Gryff's voice sounded foreign even to himself, cold, sardonic & lacking any passion. "From a pisstain, who chose this, so he wouldn't get his prick cut off. Aren't you the trustworthy one?" "Aye." Now the man's own voice was akin to cracking of thick ice — harsh & cold. "It was my cock, that got me sent here, boy — least that means I have one. Can't say the same 'bout you so far, fourthborn. Which one of yer lord-brothers didn't you have the balls to fight, so you let them take you by the scruff & throw this far north?" His fingers tightened around the axe's handle & finally, he turned to face the opponent. Other men seemed to be low-key taking steps back from the two, forming sort of an empty circle around them. Eman's gaze only briefly scurried over Gryff's weapon, the sight causing him little to no distress.  "Hit a nerve there, 'ave I?" He cocked his head, grin widening. "Don't be shy, just say it out loud. Tell us how you got kicked out, because you couldn't keep a hold of a lousy garrison against a bunch of leftovers from biggar men's war."

Another one who knows, knows more than he is supposed to, the sickening thought pulsated in his mind, but Gryff refused to show it in any way. He could not allow anybody to know how their words truly affected him — pretending like it was nothing would be for the best. "And here I wondered who you reminded me of. You watch out there" Gryff was rocking the axe in his hand slightly, as if adjusting the weapon & readying to aim it. His shoulders hunched forward slightly & muscles tensed, prepared. "Many of the leftovers didn't live to tell that story." "Many, an' still not enough to earn you a way back in the house." The fucker was mocking him, & showed no fear, not the slightest twitch. "Drop the act, your lordship — every'une here will know who you are soon. No point in hiding—" Gryff was slowly drawing the hand with axe in it behind his back, readying for a swing, when it suddenly slipped out of his fingers — got pulled from them. Turning back, he found himself face-to-face with Astor Greyson, who displayed no signs of disturbance, weighing the axe in his hand casually.  "Decent job you lot did here, I have to admit." He looked satisfied, while handing the axe to Alen, who has conveniently stepped in from behind. "That's enough firewood for a bloody fortnight — I suggest we all take a break from this. Corlys, find the lads something else to do. And you" Gryff was just about to get back to Eman's case, this time armed with nothing more than his fists, when Astor's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Come with me, if you don't mind. There are some things, I believe, only you can help me with." Gryff did mind, actually, and a lot — minded being dragged away from the starting conflict like a mutt, by his scruff, minded being in the company of this fucker, who had, undoubtedly, caused the rumors about him to start spreading. He also knew he would have to swallow all that. The rapist was smirking at him, clearly considering himself the winner, and Gryff swallowed that too, unwillingly dragging after Astor, who was leading him away from the rest of men, towards the entrance to the keep. 

It took some mental effort to find his way to the maester’s chambers. Gryff had never been a frequent visitor of the place anyway – not with Ebbert spending time there as often as he used to before fucking off to the Citadel. He also recalled little about the Highpoint’s current healer, but that hardly mattered now – it’s not like their acquaintance was promising to be a long one. He opened the door – and froze, words he was about to utter getting stuck in his throat like a bone, while Gryff’s mind struggled to process what he was seeing. Apparently, no actions were actually needed on his part – an excited gasp, the no-longer-familiar “uncle Gryff!..” exclamation, the quick patter of feet & seconds later he was hit with the full force of the jump-hug of his niece, who now clung tightly to his neck, chuckling joyously. “Now, ww-what the hell?..” A voice from somewhere behind Roslin’s back inquired, lazily, yet indignantly. “I thought I’ve told ye, I needed it to be quiet if you wan’ me to be done with the cursed scratch anytime soon…” Paying little mind to the words – or the pain that awoke in his own bruised body at the impact of the hug – Gryff momentarily snaked his arms around the girl’s frame, lifting her up & clutching close to his chest. The sheer emotion was overwhelming, causing his hands, one pressed securely to her back, and another – stroking the fluffy golden hair, to tremble. His fogged brain hadn’t even registered what was going on yet, but the feeling of foreign warmth already settled inside – so real, so tangible, that it was slowly replacing the sheer hollowness, that was there seconds ago. “I knew I was right and you’d return, eventually!..” Roslin’s voice at one point turned high-pitched from excitement. Her embrace felt so tight, that if Gryff was to let go of her, she’d probably remain hanging from his neck, legs dangling in the air. “Why was it so long though? No one would even tell me where you were, so I had no idea- but is this because of what happened with the bad men sneaking in tonight? I thought you were fighting them, but they are gone, and you’re here, and that’s good, because I don’t want them to get you.”  She chattered on, her thought trail flowing from one subject to another overwhelmingly quickly. “It’s safe now that father has fended them off, so I think we should all be staying here, so he can protect us if they try doing it for the second time. I’m glad you didn’t run in with them on your way home- you could’ve, but it’s still good that you’ve arrived…” Finally, she stumbled, having run out of all air. “S-slow down there, little star.” It’s been so painfully long since he had a chance to say that nickname. Carefully, Gryff pulled back from the hug, still holding Ros in his arms securely, to examine her face. The initial excitement was wearing off, as the sight of a long, red cut on her face caused his blood to run cold.  "What happened?..” He couldn’t prevent the horror he felt from leaking into his voice. Almost against his will, one of his hands moved to touch her cheek below the horrendous scar, as if checking whether she was still in one piece & otherwise unharmed. “Who did this to you?” “I’m trying to tell you – it was the bad man.” The girl winced & Gryff sensed her whole body become tense briefly. “Wait – did they, did they actually get you too?” She must’ve only noticed his missing eye now. “Are you hurt?” She reached to touch the fabric of his eyepatch, but then pulled her hand back, like she was afraid of causing him more pain. “Did you run in with the bad men? Was it them who hurt you? How bad is it?” “Nothing.” There was unusual firmness in Gryff’s tone & he pulled Roslin back in his embrace, hiding the sight of his missing eye & the scars, that ran from under the eyepatch like thin cracks in stone, from the girl’s line of view. “I swear to you, it’s nothing, little star. I’m fine – I just need to know, that you are too.”  His arms were already getting tired from holding her – curse the bone-deep ache & weakness, that sat in him ever since the fall – so Gryff stepped forward, carefully lowering his niece back to sit on the low table where the maester was tending to her when he came in. “That is good to know.” A smile returned on her face within a moment. “I’m fine too – it just still hurts a little, but father said I was very brave and could bear it a little longer, so I did, and it’s good now.” Roslin’s expression became more concerned. “I- I’m glad your eye doesn’t hurt, but – I hope you can also still see? I don’t mean anything, it just looks… Well, it is…” She struggled to find the right words & Gryff couldn't blame her. It looked fucking revolting, the skin around the wound unnaturally green, blue, even yellow, inflamed scratch marks threatening to leak with either blood or some gross liquid he didn’t even have a name for. “I mean it – it’s nothing.” He didn’t even have to force a smile – it just crept on his lips naturally, from merely looking at Ros. Gryff took a seat by the girl’s side, circling an arm around her shoulders. “I can still see you well enough to tell how much you’ve grown, can’t I? It’s all good.” “If you say so.” With a content sigh, she moved closer to him. As she took one more look at his face, her smile widened further. “It’s like we match now! See – and on the same sides.” She pointed out. “I mean, it isn’t pretty, but it isn’t too bad either. It’s… I don’t know… It’s sort of special? Us having something in common like that.” Roslin shrugged, absentmindedly swinging her legs in the air. Gryff had his own opinion on the matter, one he would not voice, so as not to upset his niece. His gaze kept traveling back to her scar, the sight causing uneasiness to swell in his stomach. The hasty story about some “bad men” just wouldn’t form into anything coherent in his head. He needed some explanation of how that could’ve happened – how the fuck did they allow Ros to get hurt at all. His bewildered gaze traveled across the room until it stopped on the maester, who’s been watching them with a displeased scowl, annoyed at being ignored by the duo. “S-so, you must be Gryff, eh?” Finally, the man spoke up. “His l-lordship’s brother. Didn’t expect you to ever come barging in to me like that.” The words were heavily laced with sarcasm. “From the way he speaks of you, I thought you’d be sent to crypt up'n arrival, not here…” Roslin didn’t seem to get the implication, while Gryff shot the healer the dirtiest look he could manage. He’d gladly get up & demonstrate just how much damage he could still do for someone ready to be buried, but violence was clearly off limits in the presence of his niece.  “Cut the crap, maester.” He spoke through his teeth gritted. “And tell me what the actual hell happened here, will you? How could she get hurt like that?" “We all ‘ave nearly gotten hurt while you were sitting your ass off at Ironrath, pretendin' to be important.” Wyllard didn’t seem to care about the fact he was talking to a noble – probably due to being aware of Gryff’s place in the house’s hierarchy. “The F-forrester an’ his Glenmore buddies were here… And some other lord with ‘em – some, eh… Grey-something… Fuck if I know. What I know, is that the fucker meant to slit as much throats as he could – an’ would’ve, if Torrhen didn’t know bet-tter, and haven’t set ‘em a trap…” Gryff blinked once, then the second time, his mind barely even registering any of what was said past the last name “Forrester”. “Do you…” His throat felt like it has turned dry as parchment. “Do you mean it was Rodrik- Rodrik Forrester who did this?” “I don’t know for sure.” Roslin intervened, frowning a little with the effort to recall. “I think, papa fought him – but it was someone else who cut my face. I don’t really know…” If anything, she appeared confused rather than scared. “Someone just grabbed me and held me from behind… Then I got cut- I don’t remember how, exactly… The man who did it was gone, but I didn’t see where. And there was somebody on the floor – he must’ve been hurt too…” It wasn’t just shivers that ran down Gryff’s back now – it felt like waves of heat & cold took turns rushing under his skin. Before he knew it, the arm around Roslin tightened, protectively. She looked like she was searching her memory for another moment, but then shook her head a little – almost as if shaking off the thoughts – and looked back at Gryff with another smile. “Papa was there to protect me though.” She concluded. “What happened to him?” Gryff barely even recognized his own voice – dreadfully calm & steely, enough that it seemed to make Wyllard shrink from unease. “Where is he now?” “The Forrester? On the way to his bloody keep, for all I know…” Maester scoffed, but sensibly moved in the opposite direction from Gryff a bit & pretended to go through the equipment he left on a smaller table. “Hell knowss-s – after I’ve finished patchin’ his arm, he and their men, that were left…” “Patching his arm?” None of this even seemed real to Gryff – it felt more like a strange dream you’d get from sleeping in a hot room. A stupid story somebody made up out of boredom. “On the way to his keep? What the fucking hell are you saying?” Roslin seemed to be shifting a little in her seat, disturbed by her uncle’s change in demeanor, but even that couldn’t bring the man back to his senses. “Are you telling me, that Rodrik Forrester came here at night to start a slaughter, got Roslin hurt and is still bloody alive?.. Where do you think his lordship Torrhen was looking then?” “Fuck- what d’you expect me to say, huh?” Wyllard fought back in a small voice, his eyes shifting across the room, trying to look anywhere, but at the man silently seething with rage in front of him. “I’m-mm just, just tellin’ you what I saw, alright?! As for Torrhen – how ‘bout you go an’ ask him yourself? It was his bloody idea to make peace with them and let them go! That - and give up some of his guards, no less…” “Peace?..” “Why do we have to talk about this now, uncle?” Ros tucked at Gryff’s arm, trying to get his attention. ”The bad men are gone – you don’t have to worry about them anymore. Why don’t you tell me where you’ve been this whole time instead? I’ve been dying to find out for so long!” For half a second Gryff tried to collect his thoughts & think of something to respond with, before the maester, albeit without knowing, came to his aid. “And I’ve been dying to find out why you came ‘ere in the ff-first place.” Wyllard grunted. “Can’t be the eye – don’t tell me you never got it sorted out over the whole time you’ve been away…” It only hit Gryff now, that he was supposed to be having his injuries looked at right now. Determining whether he was good to leave — that last part has completely slipped from his mind when he saw Ros, who was now leaning on his side, smiling joyously. The thought of having to voice the truth of the matter to her clenched his insides in a cold, painful grip.  "I... Fell off a horse on my way here." The part where he was first stabbed in the back by a little Forrester shit out of the blue, and then kicked about by a bunch of Ashwood bastards, was left out — it hardly suited his niece's ears. "Hit my head, and, eh... Everything else, really." He was stalling, wishing to prolong the calm moment. Gryff truly had no idea of what he'd say to Roslin when it was the time — he still had trouble processing reality on his own, leave alone putting it to words.  Realizing he could not escape more work, Wyllard rolled his eyes, grimacing like all of his teeth had suddenly started hurting. Gryff noted how pale & sickly the maester was looking — not exactly ill, but definitely not normal either. If he had to guess, he'd say the other was suffering from hangover, but that didn't make much sense — Torrhen would hardly let one if his men go drunken if he's been preparing for an ambush.  "Fuckin' fine." He huffed, shuffling through his equipment. "Take your shit off then — armor, eyepatch... I'm gonna ss-see what's to be done." Gryff hesitantly obliged — first unfastening the pauldrons, then slowly & carefully dragging off the leathery armor, his scarf & shirt, remaining naked up from the waistline — an action, that made him bite the inside of his mouth to keep from moaning, all the injuries starting to ache worse at once.  The sight under there was not... pretty, to put it mildly, enough to make Roslin gasp softly in shock. Gryff himself had not quite anticipated the extent to which the damage went. Stunned, he observed his side that's been skinned raw, most likely when hitting the ground after the cliff fall, & the almost black bruises where he received the kicks from the four fuckface siblings of his cursed former bride. Scratches & dried blood adorned almost his entire frame, and the stab wound under the left shoulder blade, while not too deep, throbbed fiercely.  "So... You did run in with the bad men..." Ros stated quietly while her uncle, wincing, took off the eyepatch too, just to reveal a messy wound that used to be an eye — scratched raw, wetly glittering from blood & puss, that have been soaking from it for gods know how long now, while the injury remained untreated.  "I... Did, little star, yes." He had to admit, turning his face away from Roslin, so that the missing eye wouldn't attract her attention.  "Don't worry about that." He added quickly — & just a tad sternly. "Better tell me how things have been around here while I was away." He gave her an encouraging smile. "I've heard rumors about your parents finally getting around to giving you a little brother, right? How do you like him?" It was of great importance to the fouthborn that Roslin wouldn't become neglected in favor of her more legitimate sibling. With his brother's uncontrollable ego, Gryff wouldn't put that past him, as for his woman — he knew nothing of her, not even if she cared for her husband's bastard child at all. She was not Roslin's parent by blood — but he could still see it hurting the girl if a trueborn boy would be openly cherished more. The mere thought made his blood boil.  "Of course I like Karl!" The mention of her sibling seemed to cheer Roslin up, excitement flickering in her eyes. "Have you seen him, uncle Gryff?” Question was met with a mere shrug — he did, out of the corner of his eye, notice a bundle wrapped up in clothing in the arms of lady Whitehill, but that was it. "You really should! Father might not like that... But, I think, when he is busy enough not to notice, we could sneak you to take a look? Mother is going to agree, I'm sure — she doesn't know you, but I'll tell her you mean no harm — and she'll see it herself when she meets you!" "Mother?.." He sounded slightly surprised — mostly from not expecting that. While Roslin spoke, Wyllard had pushed a bowl of water & a washcloth towards him to clean the blood off while he prepared his equipment, which Gryff did, not without wincing. "So, I take it, you and your father's wife get along nicely?" He tried his best to make that sound natural — it was just the fact, that he was not used to Ros calling anyone "mother". The word as whole held nothing but a negative, hate-filled undertone for Gryff — but he'd be glad to know it wasn't so for Roslin.  "Me and lady Greta? We do, yes..." Mention of the woman seemed to fluster Ros further, her features filling with an even more overjoyed expression, but something seemed to hold that joy back in a way. "Oh, uncle, I can't wait till you get to know her! She's so— I, I don't even know! She is the best mother I could ever hope to have. I knew father would bring me one, eventually, but I never expected it to be someone like her." Something akin to uncertainty reflected in the girl's blue eyes, and her gaze traveled to the floor.  "I... wasn't sure she'd want me to be her daughter, to be honest." She confessed quietly, making Gryff's heart skip a beat. Smile was back on her lips in a heartbeat, though. "But she did. And I wouldn't want to have any other mother." Before Gryff could respond, he felt Wyllard's hand on his torso, palpating the ribcage unceremoniously, making him gasp in pain. Maester observed the damage, his gaze glassy & mind clearly not in the action.  "Ssseven hells..." Healer shook head, as if trying to get his brain into working. "Doesn't look like you got any broken ribs to me... Does it hurt to breathe in? Deeply, try it." Unwillingly, Gryff took a deep breath, that seemed to make the pressure & pain sharper in the spot maester's hand was on. As soon as he felt like he couldn't handle it anymore, he hastily sighed, letting out the air, that prompted another short stab in that spot, but then the ache eased to dull again.  "Eh— one might be cracked..." Wyllard shrugged & stepped back from him. "Will 'rap it up just in case. F-ffor now" He picked some bowl from his table & shoved it in Gryff's hand. "Just spread this on your wounds. That should do." Gryff squinted down, distrustfully — he's been given some gooey salve, that distinctly smelled of herbs. Something told him, the maester was to take a little bit more of a participation in the process — but he honestly had no wish for the drunkard to touch him more than needed. Dipping fingers into the ointment, he started carefully working it into his skin where it hurt the most, wincing from the cold & pain awakening in the scratches.

"What did he mean... one is cracked?" Ros tilted her head to the side in confusion. "What is cracked?"

"His rib, girl." The maester barked, annoyed, meanwhile proceeding to cut a long & wide piece from a cloth, that he, presumably, meant to use as a bandage. "What else you think it'd be — his skull? I'd n-not be surprised... And what are you doing hanging 'round here anyway? You're fine, so quit gettin’ under my feet — go search for your father, or something..."

"Leave­ her be, you..." Gryff almost dropped the bowl, sharply turning to face the healer, his eye hurling lightnings. "You drunken fool." He had to tone down what he actually wanted to say in Roslin's presence, making up for it with venom in his voice.  "She can be wherever she pleases — nobody asked for your bloody opinion." Part of him was simply enraged that this cretin would dismiss his niece as nothing more than a bother. Another, however, shrank from chilly fear when Wyllard mentioned Torrhen. There was a high possibility Roslin would indeed run off to find her father if reminded to — and then he could possibly not get another chance to speak with her before leaving. Then she'd be led to believe he chose to go away again without an explanation or a goodbye — Torrhen would undoubtedly instill the idea in her mind. The mere thought made the entirety of Gryff's skin crawl with anxiety.

"I told you pa says I can be where I want, didn't I?" Ros looked at Wyllard victoriously, but there was hardly any gloating in her tone, so he simply scoffed, admitting defeat. The girl turned back to Gryff, smiling, glad that her uncle had backed her up on the subject. 

"And I'm not getting under your feet, right? I just missed you, that is all!" He couldn't resist — rising his left hand, the one that wasn't covered in salve, to shuffle through her golden hair, causing the girl to chuckle. "I'm just really glad you're home. I know you and father don't like being around each other, but you can just be in different places, right? The castle's big enough for you two. I hope you can stay for a while now..."

Gryff could feel his throat tightening dangerously. He dreaded the revelation, and wished for nothing more than to defer it just a little more — but he could not bring himself to be dishonest with her at the same time. Roslin was noticing the change in his expression, he could tell, so he had to speak up, while he still could.

"Little star..." His hand lowered to rest on her shoulder, Gryff cleared his throat, having to clench his teeth to remain calm. "I... I'm sorry, but— I can't, well... stay..." His bewildered & guilty gaze shifted lower, feeling unable to face her. "I'm going to leave again... And soon, actually. I will be gone for even longer this time..."

"What?" Girl's big, blue eyes grew wide from shock at first, but then her whole expression changed to a hurt one. "Why? Uncle Gryff, that's just not fair..." There was a soft whining intonation in her voice, that made Gryff's heart drop. "Even father says he can stay now, and he is the lord! Why do you have to go away again? And where? What is so important that you'd leave us because of it..."

"I would not!" Gryff's swift response sounded almost desperate, while the hand on Roslin's shoulder started to tremble. "Ros, you have to believe me — I-I don't want this, but I have no choice. Your father is sending me to the Night's Watch." At the mention of his sentence, Wyllard perked up a bit, squinting with curiosity. "I have no choice, he—" Gryff fell silent, hit with the realization, that he had trapped himself. He couldn't speak ill of Torrhen in her presence — not unless he wanted his niece to hate him — but he could not take the blame for this either, couldn't let her think he was leaving willingly.

"The Night's what?" Ros wrinkled her nose, frowning. "Is that far from Highpoint? Why do you even have to be there? When will you return?" She kept asking questions Gryff simply could not bring himself to answer. The last one, however, seemed to have attracted the maester's attention.

"Rr-return? From the bloody Watch?" He smirked lacklusterly, wiping the blade in his hand on the ragged pieces of cut cloth. "This 'as to be a joke, right?.. Or don't you know that—" The man was cut off, when his sleepy red eyes met Gryff's. Something in the way the fourthborn looked at him caused Wyllard to shut up instantly, and cower, bending over his working table & keeping his head low.

"You can't even tell me? Roslin's tone grew more worried. "What even is that place? Is it safe for you to be there?"

"N-now, actually..." The pair was interrupted by Wyllard’s approaching, with bandages at the ready. "If what's they been sayin' 'bout you and the Ashwood lot's true — hell, it's prob'ly safer for you there than 'ere. 'Least they won't come bargin' in, demanding yer h-hhead — and if they do, heh, I wish 'em luck. The Watch gives no fucks about lords' games. They got bigger things to worry for.”

Gryff stared back at the man, baffled — more so by the coherency of his words, than their content, as well as the fact, that the maester has unknowingly helped him out. Ros blinked, overwhelmed by the flow of new information she clearly had trouble sorting out.

"Ashwoods? Are they part of the bad men too?" She turned to Gryff with a concerned frown. "Why else would they want to come and get you?"

"Yes... Yes, Roslin, they are." He had little choice of what to say, and Gryff's response was genuine enough. "They are the ones I ran in with on my way here."

"So it were them who injured you so badly?" Roslin gasped. "We—we can't let them get you again!"

"Your lord-father took care of that though." Wyllard dropped casually. "As I was sayin' — that ain't gonna be a concern when he's at Castle Black..."

"So he is protecting you from the bad men by sending you there..." As the girl concluded, her face gradually lit up again. "Uncle, I'm going to miss you, but... I can't ask you to stay if it's not safe, right? And if papa thinks it isn't, then it must be bad..."

"And I'll miss you, little star..." He needed all of his remaining strength not to let too much of his true emotion show. "Thank you... For understanding."

"Of course." Much to Gryff's relief, Roslin was now relaxed & smiling brightly again. "And when you're back, we can still..."

"Actually.­" Maester's hissing low voice interrupted them yet again, and Gryff instantly tensed — afraid, that the other was about to drop the harsh reality on Roslin. "Nobody's gonna be gettin' back, or forth, or wherever if I don't bandage him the f-fuck up now, so how about you let me get to it?" He was clearly getting tired & looked like he'd rather be going to sleep than dealing with a second patient that night.

Motioning for Gryff to get his arms out of the way, he got to wrapping his torso up tightly, prompting a low groan from him. The maester wasn't showing his fresh scars any mercy & the bandage was tight enough to make it harder to breath & his cracked rib start to hurt worse. Roslin flinched at the sound, concern finding her face, but only for a moment as she figured out what to do immediately — carefully taking Gryff's hand in her own, smaller one & smiling at him encouragingly. The action was enough to take his mind off whatever was being done to him — despite the pain, a smile cracked his own face.

Finishing his job, Wyllard finally cast a look at the festering wound in the place of an eye, scowling with disgust. Taking eyepatch off just made it worse & the mere touch of air against sore, raw, wet injury made Gryff squirm uncomfortably. The maester got back to his table, hand hovering over the load of tools.

"I take it, no one's looked at it for fuck-knows-how-long­, ey?..." Finally making up his mind, he picked up what looked like a rather sharp knife with thin handle & a double-edged blade. Gryff gulped nervously at the sight of dried brown blood that stained it, while the healer proceeded to scrub it off with some cloth.

"The hell are you about to do with... this?"

"What d'you think?" Squinting, Wyllard lifted his empty stare to him. "Even the girl here could tell it'ss rotting. You're runnin' a fever, if you couldn't tell — it's s-still low, but if nothing's done, it'll get worse. And if the abscess ruptures, and all that is in there starts ss-spilling outta control... You don't want it happenin', trust me."

"But, you can do something about it, right?" Roslin hardly understood the meaning of these words, beyond the fact, that her uncle wasn't doing good, and that was enough to rise her worry. "I won't get under your feet anymore, promise — if you can fix it..." 

The offer sounded so innocently genuine, that it promoted half a smirk even from Wyllard.

"Course I do." He grunted hoarsely, uncorking a small vessel, that instantly filled the room with a sharp, alcohol-like smell — prompting a satisfied sigh from the maester. With visible regret, he spilled the liquid on the blade, making it glitter slightly. "Goin' to cut it open myself." The man grinned, like it was more of a dark joke, than anything, and upon noticing how Gryff looked at him, added: "Unlesss you'd rather just leave it be. Suits me ffine, honestly. W-who knows" He shrugged, concluding under his breath, so that Ros wouldn't hear. "Perhaps that's the way Torrhen would actually prefer it to be..." Gryff watched the blade silently, unable to make up his mind at once. The mere thought of it cutting into the overly sensitive flesh of the wound & letting out whatever’s been gathering there was frankly terrifying – just as much as the perspective of doing nothing about it, until it would fucking leak inside his skull or some shit. He did feel feverish, had been feeling that way for a long time, but had already grown used to it, only reflecting on his state now that it's been pointed out to him. Whenever he was not distracted enough to stop caring, the wound itched, and burned, and made him feel restless and nauseated. Something needed to be done about it, he tried to convince himself, but the sight of the maester’s knife made it impossible to push out a word. 

Hell, maybe saying no to Cley, when he had offered to look at the wound wasn’t actually a very good idea... Noticing the tense silence from her uncle, Roslin tightened the grip of her hand around his.

"It can't be too bad, right?" She stated in her most confident tone, looking up at him. "I was scared to have mine looked at too, but it was okay in the end – only throbbed for a little, but then felt better. You want me to stay here while he looks at your eye? I don’t think ma and pa will be looking for me – they must be busy, after all that’s happened…” Gryff’s only eye met hers, and the decision pretty much made itself. “I guess, if you were brave enough, then I should try to be too, right?” With a nervous laugh, he clenched her hand in his own – just a bit, careful not to hurt Ros. “Only because you say so, little star.” With that said, he swiftly nodded to Wyllard, before fear had a chance to get hold of him once more. “Fuckin’ finally.” The man huffed as he approached him, lifting the blade so that it was right in front of Gryff’s eyes. “I’ll try to be quick, so you try to keep silent” maester’s eyes stopped on Roslin briefly. “and not break her damn fingers. Not gonna lie” he smirked grimly. “That’s-s about to hurt like all seven hells, and more than that…” Before any response could be received, Wyllard brought the blade forward & sliced, cutting through the inflamed, festering flesh.

He followed Astor through dark & cold unfamiliar corridors & several stairways, that felt like a maze to Gryff. The other had cast him a look or two, but must've considered his expression too hostile to try & start a conversation. The Whitehill felt little to no inclination towards speaking – it would, after all, most likely be some shit about how he was supposed to try harder to get along with the others, like he was fucking ten. When the watcher finally spoke up, they were in an empty hallway, with no other black brothers to be seen.

“So, Gryff – I take it you had a chance to look around a bit?..”

“So, ser.” He parroted the other’s casual tone. “I take it, you pester every man who arrives here, till they’re ready to jump from the top of the Wall just to be rid of you?”

“Well, not exactly every one of them.” That wasn’t enough to put Astor Greyson out of countenance, even if a shade of surprise reflected in his expression. “Only those, who, I think, need it most, truly.” That made Gryff roll his eye, unsurprised – Torrhen would never have missed a chance to stick it to him one last time, writing the best damn recommendation letter possible, one that painted him as something in between a psychopath, too dangerous to trust with a training sword, and a drooling moron, unable to tie his own shoelaces. It only made fucking sense, that this man would set out to supervise him – new lord Whitehill knew exactly what to say to ensure Gryff would not be trusted.

“While we're at it” deciding, that it was probably best to keep moving, Astor went on, continuing his speech without having to look Gryff in the eye. “Any luck with picking a place to stay? For the time being, at least. Not like it’s luxurious, but we have so few men, that newcomers can be choosy with the sleeping place. If you’re still uncertain, I could always help out. Have been here long enough to know what might suit your taste.”

“Fuck if I know.” Gryff jerked a shoulder, muttering under his breath. He didn’t even know which of the buildings were meant for the watchers to sleep in, much less where he’d like to be. He had no wish to be anywhere at Castle Black for another minute, and neither – to take any help from this man, but just saying nothing would make him look stupid. “Somewhere where it’s quiet, I guess. Far from the fuckers like the one you so kindly took me away from.” He couldn’t help but add the last sarcasticsentence.

“Hardin’s Tower should be good if you’re the loner type.” Astor stated. “Too lonely for my taste, barely anyone lives there – a couple brothers, and, I think, a wildling or two, out of those few, who fancied staying here – in case such company bothers you.” Gryff couldn’t care less, and actually found that fitting, in a way. Whatever wildling chose to settle down at Castle Black would likely become a pariah among black brothers from day one – a fate, that, the Whitehill presumed, he would soon share. 

“You’ll hardly even run into each other much. What do you say?” One more question Gryff didn’t grace with a response, just shrugging in an irritated manner. Hardin’s Tower it was, then – not that he had even been expecting to be given a choice. If the Greyson had only called on him to discuss accommodation, then he expected to be able to leave now – and possibly seek Eman out, to explain, in the most expressive of phrases (and punches) the error of man's ways to him.

“I’ll let myself be honest.” They have approached a door, that Astor opened, revealing a small, but comfortable enough looking cell to Gryff’s view, & motioning for him to follow inside. “I understand, you must not be in the… best of moods, but I don’t recall giving you a reason to be so hostile to me in particular. If I did something to offend – you should say so, so we can work it out. Shooting glares and rolling eyes won’t get us anywhere.” He didn’t smirk anymore, but didn’t look angry either – just serious, waiting patiently for Gryff explain himself.

“What gives you the thought, that I want to work anything out with you?” Anger was starting to choke him. “Who the fuck do you even think you are, my wet nurse? Or have you read a bloody letter, by a fuckface you know nothing of, and now think you know everything about me? Well, guess what – that’s nothing to pride yourself on, if every last man in this fucking keep had already taken a peak too. So how about you let others handle the mess, and leave me be, if I’m being such a bother?..”

That was the most words he had uttered at once, probably ever since departing from Highpoint, and now he was out of breath, glaring at the man in front of him with disgust. Astor, however, frowned & seemed genuinely taken aback, for the first time since meeting Gryff.

“I’m sorry, but…” He shook his head a little, frown furthering. “I genuinely don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“For fuck’s sake…” Gryff threw his head back, jaw clenching tightly. “Quit pretending to be clueless, will you? Or why’d you think I even bothered with that asshole, there, in the courtyard? He knows awfully a lot about my life, that I’ve told no one here. Oh yes, he, and the master-at-arms, and probably every last stableboy as well at this point. Where do you think they would get all that, if not from you – and from the bloody letter?”

The Greyson did not respond, instead looking at Gryff for a few seconds, and then going up to his desk, where he hastily began to search for something in the drawer.

“Now it at least makes sense why you’d get angry at me…” He spoke more to himself, than to Gryff, who watched on uncomprehendingly. What he got out was the familiar envelop. “I’m… at a loss, really. This is actually what- part of what I called you here for, but I guess, other matters can wait. I understand why you’d think it was me spreading rumors, or showing the letter around, but you see – that’s not what happened. I simply had no chance to.” 

He handed the envelop to Gryff, who stared at it, baffled – the blue seal with the familiar Whitehill sigil was untouched. “I haven’t read it, and, apparently, nobody else did. Don’t know if you’ll believe me, but nobody heard the things I know about you from me either. I have no interest in doing that, and ser Raffard isn’t exactly someone I’d share those things with either way.”

“But…” Gryff blinked, pieces refusing to come together in his mind. “If not from you or the letter, then how would they…”

“No idea. Maybe the men you arrived with told someone when you didn’t hear. Perhaps somebody else wrote the Watch, unlikely as that is… Anyway – I’d like to consider the problem between the two of us resolved. I don’t blame you for getting defensive – I just hope you believe me now.”

Gryff’s eye moved from the watcher to the letter, and then back to the watcher. He wasn’t sure of what to say – still not over the previous fit of anger, but not exactly feeling comfortable with taking it out on Astor anymore.

“Why didn’t you read it?..” Were the first words he found. “And… why give it to me instead?”

“Not going to lie.” Astor motioned towards a seat, inviting Gryff to take it – another gesture, that was ignored. “Under other circumstances, I would probably have at least taken a look – not to go and tell others about it, of course. However, after your arrival I’ve had time to put together what I’ve heard of you and of your house, and well… I decided, it wouldn’t be the best way to go about things. Let’s say, I’d rather get to know you myself, than let your- other man’s opinion of you muddy the waters.”

“Are you not, at least, curious what I was sent here for?”

“A failure to keep a stronghold of your enemies following a war.” Astor stated plainly. “The man, who brought you here told me that much – and for me, that’s enough. Unless, of course, you yourself have something to add, Gryff – in which case, I’m all ears.”

None of this made sense to him, not a even a bit-

“So, you’d trust my word, but not my lord-brother’s?” Gryff scoffed, skeptically. “A wise choice... would be for someone, who knows us both, which you don’t.”

“With all due respect for your lord-brother” the Gresyon went back to smirking. “I don’t particularly care about him, or his words. He’s at Highpoint, and that’s where he’ll remain, from what I can predict – while you are here, and to be my brother one day. What you have to say is, from now on, far more important to me, than any words of any man south of the Wall.

You can lie to me, if you please, but the only one you’ll be wronging by doing so is yourself.” Astor went on with a sigh, taking the offered seat himself. “Things are different here, Gryff, and if you think you have a better idea of what life at the Wall is than other newcomers, just because you’re a northerner – you’re mistaken. That’s a mistake I made as well when I just arrived. Things, that people used to condemn you for in your past life, won’t matter the same way in the Watch – unless you give them the power to. You’re to start a new life, give your name a new meaning – and lies aren’t the best way to go about that. I’m sure, you understand that yourself.”

He was left at a loss of words. Surely, this has been merely a lecture, an attempt to teach him some “wisdom of life”, yet at the same time – it didn’t come out as unnecessary & stupid, as most of life lectures, that Gryff had chanced to hear before. Words about Torrhen stuck out particularly, but he refused to think into them further. As soon as he’d start to ponder them, he would fall into a dangerous trap – and perhaps even grow to think of this watcher as someone to be trusted, someone who actually understood things & maybe even gave a shit.

That was a mistake Gryff could not afford.

“What…” He swallowed heavily. “What with the letter? The fuck am I to do with it now?..”

“Whatever you think is best. Read it, burn it, keep it or toss it out – it is only fair that you get to decide.” Astor concluded. “I won’t pretend to know more than I do, but I think you deserve that, Gryff. This is about you, about your new life. I just think you deserve a chance to keep it untainted by the past. Everybody here does.”

There were many questions Gryff would’ve asked, had he enough energy to do so. How had Astor guessed what the contents of the letter would most likely be, how had he learned things about the Whitehill family, why was he sorting out his problems, even though no one probably ordered him to, what possessed him to even bother… But he kept silent instead, his eye lowering. Now that he wasn’t angry, at least not at Astor, speaking became a chore once again, and he felt exhausted, suddenly. Hours of work had not affected him, but a simple human interaction drained another source of strength – one, that had been almost worn out for inside of him. 

“Can I go now?” Gryff only spoke up because staying silent any longer would’ve been awkward. He just wished to be left alone, and the Greyson seemed to understand, as he simply nodded.

“Aye. Go, of course. Don’t bother returning to the courtyard – it is late already, everybody must be at the dining hall. You go too – have something to eat, you could use that. And find me if you’ll need anything else." Last words were specifically empathized. "And I mean this – literally anything.”

Opening the door to the hallway, the cursed letter still in his hand, Gryff practically felt Astor’s gaze with his back – and dreaded the possibility of him saying something, asking another question, or making a comment, yet none of that came. The door closed, cutting him off, but as Gryff walked all the way back, same corridors & staircases floating before his eye, that gaze remained with him the entire time.

[kateis-cakeis]

You may be wondering why I’m suddenly making posts about GarJon, a ship so small it has 6 fanfics to it’s name on AO3 (one of which is mine) and has like 3 fanarts (not including the fanart I’ve made my sister do :P).

Well, I couldn’t get to sleep and I got a brilliant idea and so I got up to start it,

but I don’t have the Finn lines that I need and I really wanna do a video and not an audio post

so here I am, at almost 1:30am, talking about GarJon like it was somehow relevant.

What am I saying? GarJon should always be appreciated. After all, where else did Gared get his gloves from? ;)

[was-gryff-whitehills-apologist]

I was wondering this - do you write your prose in Russian and then translate it into English or write it all in English?

It honestly depends, tbqh — my Gryff fic is/will be written 100% in English, because there’d be little to no Russian readers who’d be interested, due to not knowing about the au (aside from @tigerxsouls, of course)). As for some other stuff I write — I have some fics/original stuff posted in Russian (surprisingly, there is quite a bit of smut among those xD), but those are my early works & not at all GoT/ttgot related. Also, if I ever end up writing any ttgot fic, that isn’t tied to the au (I have a couple of ideas for that) — I’m a bit torn on the subject, so I’ll probably end up writing it in both languages. 

That said, I have done very little writing in Russian lately. For almost a year already, all my writing has been tumblr rp & translating @tigerxsouls‘s fic from Russian to English, as well as starting my own Gryff fanfic. When I tried to write a couple things in Russian lately (ttgot stuff) it honestly felt a little weird & a couple of times I caught myself thinking, that I would have an easier time expressing a certain thought in English. This is not to say I’m forgetting my native language or anything — but well, that’s just something I noticed.  

Hope that answers your question!!

[arthrmorgann]

peggyoung replied to your post “Looking for good ttgot fanfics on a03 is a mistake I never want to...”

what the actual fuck is happening over there hahahaahaha

who the fuck knows haha. it’s always been bad, but it’s hit new levels recently