Post by Trystane Sand on May 14, 2019 2:53:06 GMT 1
[Takes place several hours after Trystane's duel with Eoric Applehouse, the day after Ashara's vigil. It stands as a bit of writing on its own that I wanted to do, to develop Trystane's character a bit and show some of his relationship with Quentyn, but anyone wanting to drop in on it may do so and would be very welcome.]
It is late in the evening before Trystane's eyes open. There is a slow floating up into consciousness, accompanied by blinking through heavily blurred vision, and a feeble groan that barely makes itself audible through his ragged throat and numb mouth. At some point, someone had given him milk of the poppy, and while it had dulled much of the pain he was waking up to, his mind was foggy from it, and the pain still throbbed deep in his bones and muscles.
His abortive attempt to speak attracts Quentyn, who has not strayed far from his knight's side, save for when the maester has shooed him away to conduct his ministrations. The young squire sits anxiously by Trystane's bedside, unsure of what to do.
"Ser? Can you hear me?" the lad asks softly.
The words sound to Trystane as though they come from deep underwater, and despite the simplicity of the question, his mind flounders with a response, resulting only in a muffled mumble that sounds vaguely affirmative.
"Thank the Gods you're alright," Quentyn breathes. "For a bit, I thought that brute had killed you."
It is not the first time Quentyn has been in this situation, unsure if his knight was going to live following a duel gone wrong. It doesn't feel any less sickening than the last time. He begins to worry about what will happen if this becomes a pattern.
"Mm...not...dead..." Trystane mumbles, slowly regaining some of his faculties. He tries to move his head but sharp pain shoots up his neck and he quickly lays it back down again with a groaned curse word that is only partially intelligible.
"You need to stay still, the maester says," Quentyn says gently, and begins to parrot what he was told by the maester;
"You've got fractures in your shoulders, collarbone, and ribs, and you've got some nasty cuts and bruises too. Your whole upper chest and left side are black and purple. He sliced open your left shoulder too, and the blow to the back of your neck, well... the maester said it was a good thing he was too tired out to put more force behind it, or that might have... you know..."
It clearly distresses Quentyn to think on the rest of the sentence, and he decides not to finish it.
"But he says you'll be alright, if you just rest, and he's given you milk of the poppy for the pain. And I'll do my best to help, Ser. I won't leave your side."
Quentyn was a sweet lad. So earnest and devoted. Somewhere in Trystane's muggy brain, he scrawled a mental note to reward him somehow, once he was able to move around again.
"...Good...lad. Thangyou..."
He stays awake long enough for Quentyn to tell him haltingly what happened after that last blow, though it clearly pains the young man to recount it. Trystane sees his squire's anger, indeed shares it, but he is too weak and weary to voice it.
*******
Falling asleep again shortly after his brief exchange with Quentyn, Trystane barely stirs until morning. When he does finally awaken, he is still groggy and pallid, but not quite as incoherent as before.
"Quentyn," he croaks, and as promised, his squire is nearby to offer him a drink, which he gratefully accepts, though it proves tricky to actually take it when everything hurts when he moves just a fraction.
"I suppose... I should ask you... what did we learn... from this," Trystane says slowly, still diminished in his mental and verbal alacrity by the effects of the drugs, though seemingly robust enough to be mildly amused by the statement.
"Erm... to... yield before things get too serious?" began the squire. "No, wait, to not let anger get in the way of judgement," he immediately corrects himself, more sure this time.
Trystane lets out a weak, dry chuckle.
"Well, fuck...those are both better answers... than I would have given."
"Ser? I don't-"
"Nevermind..."
Trystane tries to wave off his quip, but only manages a vague flop of the hand.
"Those are both... good lessons. But there's also... try not to pick a fight... with someone whose abilities you don't know. That's what got me here... again. Don't underestimate. Especially don't assume your opponent... will act nobly."
"As you say, Ser."
"Good lad... You're far more sensible... than I."
The tiny smile Trystane had managed fell into a morose expression, the weight of his failure falling fully onto him in that moment. Yet another cruel, humiliating defeat to carry around. And with it the realisation that running away from failure was no longer an option. Not if he wanted to actually make his own way in the world and earn respect. He knew he couldn't truthfully let go of the bitterness and anger he felt. Not now, at least, with it still fresh and raw as his wounds. But this time, he was going to face his failure, and get back up again despite it.
If the other guy knocks you down nine times, lad, you need to get up ten times, came an echo of a memory of Ser Owyn, more than ten years ago, effortlessly disarming a young Trystane over and over again in the training yard.
It was a small but compelling bit of determination, and it would have worked better had Trystane been able to physically get up. As it was, he was as helpless as a newborn kitten, and he hated it. The welling up of frustration was powerful, and it made Trystane wonder whether it was Ashara he was angry for, or himself. Was all this anguish about having failed her, or was this the thrashing of his own wounded pride?
Don't you dare pity yourself, Sand. Do not let this be about you. Your pride is nothing compared to her life. You can do without your pride. Fuck your pride! You need to make amends to her, and to her parents. You failed all of them and you need to fix it.
"Quentyn?"
"Yes, Ser?"
"Go to Lord & Lady Starkwood... and tell them I'm sorry... I'm sorry that I failed... but I swear... I will make it right."
"I will. Do you want me to go now?"
"Yes. Go now. You have been good to watch over me... but don't worry. I'll still be here... when you get back," Trystane replies, with the slightest hint of humour behind his deflated demeanour.
Quentyn scurries off, and Trystane lets the poppy take him under its spell for a little longer.
It is late in the evening before Trystane's eyes open. There is a slow floating up into consciousness, accompanied by blinking through heavily blurred vision, and a feeble groan that barely makes itself audible through his ragged throat and numb mouth. At some point, someone had given him milk of the poppy, and while it had dulled much of the pain he was waking up to, his mind was foggy from it, and the pain still throbbed deep in his bones and muscles.
His abortive attempt to speak attracts Quentyn, who has not strayed far from his knight's side, save for when the maester has shooed him away to conduct his ministrations. The young squire sits anxiously by Trystane's bedside, unsure of what to do.
"Ser? Can you hear me?" the lad asks softly.
The words sound to Trystane as though they come from deep underwater, and despite the simplicity of the question, his mind flounders with a response, resulting only in a muffled mumble that sounds vaguely affirmative.
"Thank the Gods you're alright," Quentyn breathes. "For a bit, I thought that brute had killed you."
It is not the first time Quentyn has been in this situation, unsure if his knight was going to live following a duel gone wrong. It doesn't feel any less sickening than the last time. He begins to worry about what will happen if this becomes a pattern.
"Mm...not...dead..." Trystane mumbles, slowly regaining some of his faculties. He tries to move his head but sharp pain shoots up his neck and he quickly lays it back down again with a groaned curse word that is only partially intelligible.
"You need to stay still, the maester says," Quentyn says gently, and begins to parrot what he was told by the maester;
"You've got fractures in your shoulders, collarbone, and ribs, and you've got some nasty cuts and bruises too. Your whole upper chest and left side are black and purple. He sliced open your left shoulder too, and the blow to the back of your neck, well... the maester said it was a good thing he was too tired out to put more force behind it, or that might have... you know..."
It clearly distresses Quentyn to think on the rest of the sentence, and he decides not to finish it.
"But he says you'll be alright, if you just rest, and he's given you milk of the poppy for the pain. And I'll do my best to help, Ser. I won't leave your side."
Quentyn was a sweet lad. So earnest and devoted. Somewhere in Trystane's muggy brain, he scrawled a mental note to reward him somehow, once he was able to move around again.
"...Good...lad. Thangyou..."
He stays awake long enough for Quentyn to tell him haltingly what happened after that last blow, though it clearly pains the young man to recount it. Trystane sees his squire's anger, indeed shares it, but he is too weak and weary to voice it.
*******
Falling asleep again shortly after his brief exchange with Quentyn, Trystane barely stirs until morning. When he does finally awaken, he is still groggy and pallid, but not quite as incoherent as before.
"Quentyn," he croaks, and as promised, his squire is nearby to offer him a drink, which he gratefully accepts, though it proves tricky to actually take it when everything hurts when he moves just a fraction.
"I suppose... I should ask you... what did we learn... from this," Trystane says slowly, still diminished in his mental and verbal alacrity by the effects of the drugs, though seemingly robust enough to be mildly amused by the statement.
"Erm... to... yield before things get too serious?" began the squire. "No, wait, to not let anger get in the way of judgement," he immediately corrects himself, more sure this time.
Trystane lets out a weak, dry chuckle.
"Well, fuck...those are both better answers... than I would have given."
"Ser? I don't-"
"Nevermind..."
Trystane tries to wave off his quip, but only manages a vague flop of the hand.
"Those are both... good lessons. But there's also... try not to pick a fight... with someone whose abilities you don't know. That's what got me here... again. Don't underestimate. Especially don't assume your opponent... will act nobly."
"As you say, Ser."
"Good lad... You're far more sensible... than I."
The tiny smile Trystane had managed fell into a morose expression, the weight of his failure falling fully onto him in that moment. Yet another cruel, humiliating defeat to carry around. And with it the realisation that running away from failure was no longer an option. Not if he wanted to actually make his own way in the world and earn respect. He knew he couldn't truthfully let go of the bitterness and anger he felt. Not now, at least, with it still fresh and raw as his wounds. But this time, he was going to face his failure, and get back up again despite it.
If the other guy knocks you down nine times, lad, you need to get up ten times, came an echo of a memory of Ser Owyn, more than ten years ago, effortlessly disarming a young Trystane over and over again in the training yard.
It was a small but compelling bit of determination, and it would have worked better had Trystane been able to physically get up. As it was, he was as helpless as a newborn kitten, and he hated it. The welling up of frustration was powerful, and it made Trystane wonder whether it was Ashara he was angry for, or himself. Was all this anguish about having failed her, or was this the thrashing of his own wounded pride?
Don't you dare pity yourself, Sand. Do not let this be about you. Your pride is nothing compared to her life. You can do without your pride. Fuck your pride! You need to make amends to her, and to her parents. You failed all of them and you need to fix it.
"Quentyn?"
"Yes, Ser?"
"Go to Lord & Lady Starkwood... and tell them I'm sorry... I'm sorry that I failed... but I swear... I will make it right."
"I will. Do you want me to go now?"
"Yes. Go now. You have been good to watch over me... but don't worry. I'll still be here... when you get back," Trystane replies, with the slightest hint of humour behind his deflated demeanour.
Quentyn scurries off, and Trystane lets the poppy take him under its spell for a little longer.