"What are you doing bringing him here?"
The black-haired captain finally acknowledged the three figures standing in the doorway, his voice cutting through the 'sweet' sounds that emanated from the inner chamber.
Bass shifted uncomfortably, excitement and agitation warring on his face as he listened to the rhythmic noises from behind the door while casting glances at Quell. He knew what Jeyne had meant to the boy—how Quell had actually dreamed of wedding her!
The thought had often provided Bass with cruel amusement.
But who could blame the lad? Jeyne had always presented herself as the very image of purity when in Quell's presence.
Recalling Quell's proud, defiant expression whenever he spoke of Jeyne, Bass felt a rush of satisfaction at having claimed what Quell had so foolishly treasured. How many times had he pinned Jeyne beneath him while she whispered for him to be quiet, lest anyone discover their secret?
Occasionally, Bass had experienced moments of unease. What if Quell somehow learned the truth? What might he do? What could he do?
But those concerns belonged to the past. Bass looked to the captain, drawing strength from the man's indifferent authority. Now, this knight who commanded hundreds of armed men was the sole master of Strand Village. Quell's fists and determination counted for nothing against such power.
"Sir," Bass replied with newfound respect, "this lad—Quell—wishes to join our ranks. What are your thoughts?"
The captain studied Quell with casual indifference, noting the youth's bloodshot eyes and trembling limbs but showing no particular concern for his obvious distress. "You wish to serve His Grace King Renly as well? What skills do you possess?"
Quell could not respond. The continuous, sweet cries filling the air occupied his entire consciousness, as though the sounds came from all directions at once, possessing some mysterious power that threatened to shatter his very soul.
He closed his eyes, then opened them again, repeating the action several times as though hoping the scene before him might change. His vision remained blurred and distorted, the world spinning like a nightmare from which he could not wake.
His heart ached as though pierced by a dull blade, each beat reverberating through his body. Blood rushed to his face, bringing with it an intense heat that only heightened his agony.
How desperately he wished this were merely a bad dream.
But why, then, could he still think? Still recognize this as the darkest, most hellish reality?
The man in the inner room dared to shout with pleasure!
What right had he to make such sounds? To defile Jeyne's very being? To force the cold, piercing truth upon Quell's unwilling ears?
Quell recalled Jeyne's demeanor just moments ago, how she had spoken softly with downcast eyes: "Please forgive me, sir. Jeyne was once... imprudent."
Imprudent!
He remembered, too, the villagers' mocking words: "True Knight" and "Pure Jeyne"—spoken not in admiration but in mockery.
The truth confronted him with merciless clarity.
They had never believed him capable of becoming a true knight, just as Jeyne had never been the pure maiden he had imagined.
It had all been a dream—his delusion from first to last. Knight, wedding, war, heroic tales—all of it mere fantasy!
He could believe in nothing now.
Jeyne of Stonehedge from the stories? Had such a woman ever truly existed?
Jeyne...
Her smile seemed to hover before him still, and Quell found himself bewildered anew.
How could she have smiled with such seeming innocence, like a holy maiden in a sacred sept, gently offering salvation from despair and pain?
Had she behaved thus with all men? Not merely with her smile, but with her...
The sounds from the inner chamber grew louder, faster, more intense. The wooden bed frame creaked rhythmically, inexplicably reminiscent of waves crashing against the shore during a storm.
Quell squeezed his eyes shut, covering his ears with both hands. Yet still he heard it all—faint screams, heartbeats, gnashing teeth, and a muffled buzzing that filled his head until he thought it might burst.
A bitter, salty, metallic taste filled his mouth, as though he were consuming the most disgusting, rotten fish imaginable.
Without warning, a powerful blow struck his waist, sending him staggering backward several paces. His body instinctively arched in pain, limbs twitching like those of a dying shrimp cast upon the shore.
"You bastard! The captain is speaking to you!"
Saliva dribbled from the corner of Quell's mouth as he raised his head blankly, staring at the black-haired knight with unfocused eyes.
The captain sighed, as though the situation were all too familiar. "Let him be. He's a pitiful creature, thoroughly deceived by a whore. Small wonder he cannot think clearly at present."
Whore.
Quell knew he should protest, should swing his fists in rage at such an insult to Jeyne's honor. Yet he could summon neither the strength nor conviction to do so.
Whore.
Was this not the truth?
The captain approached, crouching before him with casual disregard for any threat Quell might present. "What say you, boy? Would you care for revenge? I'll grant you this much—you may go next."
Whore.
Quell turned his head slightly. Jeyne's father and mother stood silently in the corner of the room, showing no anger, no distress—like wooden sculptures carved by an indifferent hand.
They had known all along.
He recalled Jeyne's father's promise: whoever first became a knight would win her hand in marriage. How grotesquely laughable that seemed now!
Quell remained silent, adrift in his shattered world.
The captain rose and walked away with evident indifference. "Leave him. Such a man is unworthy to fight for His Grace King Renly. Besides, we depart on the morrow."
The room's occupants promptly dismissed Quell from their attention, allowing him to lie forgotten in the corner while they continued their feasting and drinking.
Throughout the long night, the candles never went out.
The sounds from the inner chamber continued without cease, with figures entering and departing in grim procession.
Quell remained awake, his mind emptied of thought yet absorbing every detail of the scene that unfolded before him.
Nineteen knights in all entered the inner chamber where Jeyne lay.
They moved with casual ease, emerging later without their armor, some not even bothering to don their outer garments upon departure.
Quell observed the sigils upon their discarded shields and surcoats: a recumbent black lion, a white crescent moon above a forest, three golden buckles, a murder of black birds against a yellow field...
Bass and Beck had entered the room as well. When they emerged, they had smiled at Quell before departing to patrol the village through the night.
Dawn finally colored the eastern sky, though Jeyne had yet to emerge from the chamber. The knights gathered all the villagers in the open space near the entrance to Strand, Quell among them.
The invaders donned their armor once more, raised their shields, and took up swords and spears. Some mounted their destriers, the great warhorses stomping impatiently upon the packed earth.
The villagers exchanged fearful glances, uncertain what fresh horror this new day might bring.
Quell watched with blank eyes as the wandering septon—the Sparrow—moved among the villagers, offering whispered prayers and blessings. He recalled the old man's fervent prayer from the previous day, how he had beseeched the Mother's mercy for the village.
The knights made no immediate move, and everyone waited in anxious silence.
The sun climbed higher.
A caravan appeared beyond the village boundary—mules and donkeys pulling creaking carts, some laden with goods, others conspicuously empty.
The captain, seated atop his black destrier, raised one gauntleted hand in silent command. Several knights dragged two wooden frames into the village square, setting them upon the ground with deliberate care.
The frames were draped with gray cloth, beneath which bulged shapes that undeniably suggested human forms. A sense of dread settled over the assembled villagers.
With a swift motion, the knights pulled away the concealing cloths.
Gasps and cries of dismay rose from the crowd. Old men and women shook their heads in fearful understanding, while others merely sighed in resignation.
Quell recognized the corpses immediately: Bass and Beck.
Both bore hideous wounds across their throats, the dried blood forming dark patterns like twisted branches growing from their necks, covering their faces and chests with macabre artistry.
The captain's voice rang out, heavy with feigned outrage.
"These men were loyal soldiers in the service of His Grace King Renly. Yet after a single night in your village, they lie dead before us! It seems clear that some among you remain obstinate in your treachery!"
Quell watched with cold detachment as the black-haired captain continued his impassioned speech. The Sparrow and several village elders offered desperate denials and pleaded for mercy.
Their words fell upon deaf ears.
The knights, joined by men from the caravan, systematically emptied the village of its grain stores, tools, livestock, and every item of value that could be transported.
Next came the destruction of fishing nets, rods, and boats—the very means by which the village sustained itself.
Finally, they set fire to Strand. The flames spread quickly from house to house, consuming decades of toil and generations of memories in minutes.
Quell found himself brought before the captain, who sat upon his destrier watching the village burn with evident satisfaction.
"Sweet as a song," the knight murmured, as though admiring a particularly fine sunset.
In the same moment, he drew his steel sword and, with a single fluid motion, severed Quell's right arm at the elbow.
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