Post by sillierthings on Apr 15, 2015 19:32:14 GMT
In the market square at the town's heart stood a fountain in the shape of a leaping trout, spouting water into a shallow pool. Women were filling pails and flagons there. A few feet away, a dozen iron cages hung from creaking wooden posts. Crow cages, Arya knew. The crows were mostly outside the cages, splashing in the water or perched atop the bars; inside were men. Lem reined up scowling. "What's this, now?"
"Justice," answered a woman at the fountain.
"What, did you run short o' hempen rope?"
"Was this done at Ser Wilbert's decree?" asked Tom.
A man laughed bitterly. "The lions killed Ser Wilbert a year ago. His sons are all off with the Young Wolf, getting fat in the west. You think they give a damn for the likes of us? It was the Mad Huntsman caught these wolves."
Wolves. Arya went cold. Robb's men, and my father's. She felt drawn toward the cages. The bars allowed so little room that prisoners could neither sit nor turn; they stood naked, exposed to sun and wind and rain. The first three cages held dead men. Carrion crows had eaten out their eyes, yet the empty sockets seemed to follow her. The fourth man in the row stirred as she passed. Around his mouth his ragged beard was thick with blood and flies. They exploded when he spoke, buzzing around his head. "Water." The word was a croak. "Please . . . water . . . "
"What did they do?" she asked him.
"They put eight people to the sword at Tumbler's Falls," he said. "They wanted the Kingslayer, but he wasn't there so they did some rape and murder." He jerked a thumb toward the corpse with maggots where his manhood ought to be. "That one there did the raping. Now move along."
"A swallow," the fat one called down. "Ha' mercy, boy, a swallow." The old one slid an arm up to grasp the bars. The motion made his cage swing violently. "Water," gasped the one with the flies in his beard.
She looked at their filthy hair and scraggly beards and reddened eyes, at their dry, cracked, bleeding lips. Wolves, she thought again. Like me. Was this her pack? How could they be Robb's men? She wanted to hit them. She wanted to hurt them. She wanted to cry. They all seemed to be looking at her, the living and the dead alike. The old man had squeezed three fingers out between the bars. "Water," he said, "water."
Arya swung down from her horse. They can't hurt me, they're dying. She took her cup from her bedroll and went to the fountain. "What do you think you're doing, boy?" the townsman snapped. "They're no concern o' yours." She raised the cup to the fish's mouth. The water splashed across her fingers and down her sleeve, but Arya did not move until the cup was brimming over. When she turned back toward the cages, the townsman moved to stop her. "You get away from them, boy - "
"She's a girl," said Harwin. "Leave her be."
"Aye," said Lem. "Lord Beric don't hold with caging men to die of thirst. Why don't you hang them decent?"
"There was nothing decent 'bout them things they did at Tumbler's Falls," the townsman growled right back at him.
The bars were too narrow to pass a cup through, but Harwin and Gendry offered her a leg up. She planted a foot in Harwin's cupped hands, vaulted onto Gendry's shoulders, and grabbed the bars on top of the cage. The fat man turned his face up and pressed his cheek to the iron, and Arya poured the water over him. He sucked at it eagerly and let it run down over his head and cheeks and hands, and then he licked the dampness off the bars. He would have licked Arya's fingers if she hadn't snatched them back. By the time she served the other two the same, a crowd had gathered to watch her. "The Mad Huntsman will hear of this," a man threatened. "He won't like it. No, he won't."
"Justice," answered a woman at the fountain.
"What, did you run short o' hempen rope?"
"Was this done at Ser Wilbert's decree?" asked Tom.
A man laughed bitterly. "The lions killed Ser Wilbert a year ago. His sons are all off with the Young Wolf, getting fat in the west. You think they give a damn for the likes of us? It was the Mad Huntsman caught these wolves."
Wolves. Arya went cold. Robb's men, and my father's. She felt drawn toward the cages. The bars allowed so little room that prisoners could neither sit nor turn; they stood naked, exposed to sun and wind and rain. The first three cages held dead men. Carrion crows had eaten out their eyes, yet the empty sockets seemed to follow her. The fourth man in the row stirred as she passed. Around his mouth his ragged beard was thick with blood and flies. They exploded when he spoke, buzzing around his head. "Water." The word was a croak. "Please . . . water . . . "
"What did they do?" she asked him.
"They put eight people to the sword at Tumbler's Falls," he said. "They wanted the Kingslayer, but he wasn't there so they did some rape and murder." He jerked a thumb toward the corpse with maggots where his manhood ought to be. "That one there did the raping. Now move along."
"A swallow," the fat one called down. "Ha' mercy, boy, a swallow." The old one slid an arm up to grasp the bars. The motion made his cage swing violently. "Water," gasped the one with the flies in his beard.
She looked at their filthy hair and scraggly beards and reddened eyes, at their dry, cracked, bleeding lips. Wolves, she thought again. Like me. Was this her pack? How could they be Robb's men? She wanted to hit them. She wanted to hurt them. She wanted to cry. They all seemed to be looking at her, the living and the dead alike. The old man had squeezed three fingers out between the bars. "Water," he said, "water."
Arya swung down from her horse. They can't hurt me, they're dying. She took her cup from her bedroll and went to the fountain. "What do you think you're doing, boy?" the townsman snapped. "They're no concern o' yours." She raised the cup to the fish's mouth. The water splashed across her fingers and down her sleeve, but Arya did not move until the cup was brimming over. When she turned back toward the cages, the townsman moved to stop her. "You get away from them, boy - "
"She's a girl," said Harwin. "Leave her be."
"Aye," said Lem. "Lord Beric don't hold with caging men to die of thirst. Why don't you hang them decent?"
"There was nothing decent 'bout them things they did at Tumbler's Falls," the townsman growled right back at him.
The bars were too narrow to pass a cup through, but Harwin and Gendry offered her a leg up. She planted a foot in Harwin's cupped hands, vaulted onto Gendry's shoulders, and grabbed the bars on top of the cage. The fat man turned his face up and pressed his cheek to the iron, and Arya poured the water over him. He sucked at it eagerly and let it run down over his head and cheeks and hands, and then he licked the dampness off the bars. He would have licked Arya's fingers if she hadn't snatched them back. By the time she served the other two the same, a crowd had gathered to watch her. "The Mad Huntsman will hear of this," a man threatened. "He won't like it. No, he won't."
In fairy tales, the huntsman is a stock character. In Snow White, there is the huntsman sent to cut out Snow White's heart, the one who lets her go free and substitutes the heart of an animal to give to the queen. In Little Red Riding Hood, the Huntsman in some versions saves Red and Grandma by cutting open the belly of the wolf who has swallowed them.
Here is a very nice meta re: the Red Riding Hood connection in the Battle of Blackwater scene: theelliedoll.tumblr.com/post/69774673878/sansa-and-red-riding-hood-parallels-o-tell-me
Also, it's interesting that Sandor talks about ripping Sansa's heart out when that is exactly what the huntsman was supposed to do to Snow White.
The Mad Huntsman has captured Wolves--Robb's men and put them in the cages, an inhumane treatment. Lem Lemoncloak and the others of the Brotherhood are angered by this and ultimately put the men out of their misery, but not before Arya takes mercy on one of them and gives him water. Interesting precursor to the "gift of mercy" scene. Here Arya takes pity on men that she knows to be part of her brother's "pack," wondering if she should claim them as her own. With Sandor, they give the gift of mercy to someone who is not one of them, but they still bring him water and kill him quickly.
The Huntsman in both of the fairy tales mentioned above are heroic figures, but here the Huntsman is "mad," and wolves are not the villains in this narratives. Our heroes are the wolves and maybe the a Hound is too.
Down below, in the square, the dogs were barking, running in circles, growling and howling. There was a pack of them, great black mastiffs and lean wolfhounds and black-and-white sheepdogs and kinds Arya did not know, shaggy brindled beasts with long yellow teeth. Between the inn and the fountain, a dozen riders sat astride their horses, watching the townsmen open the fat man's cage and tug his arm until his swollen corpse spilled out onto the ground. The dogs were at him at once, tearing chunks of flesh off his bones.
Arya heard one of the riders laugh. "Here's your new castle, you bloody Lannister bastard," he said. "A little snug for the likes o' you, but we'll squeeze you in, never fret." Beside him a prisoner sat sullen, with coils of hempen rope tight around his wrists. Some of the townsmen were throwing dung at him, but he never flinched. "You'll rot in them cages," his captor was shouting. "The crows will be picking out your eyes while we're spending all that good Lannister gold o' yours! And when them crows are done, we'll send what's left o' you to your bloody brother. Though I doubt he'll know you."
The noise had woken half the Peach. Gendry squeezed into the window beside Arya, and Tom stepped up behind them naked as his name day. "What's all that bloody shouting?" Lem complained from bed. "A man's trying to get some bloody sleep."
"Where's Greenbeard?" Tom asked him.
"Abed with Tansy," Lem said. "Why?"
"Best find him. Archer too. The Mad Huntsman's come back, with another man for the cages."
"Lannister," said Arya. "I heard him say Lannister."
"Have they caught the Kingslayer?" Gendry wanted to know.
Down in the square, a thrown stone caught the captive on the cheek, turning his head. Not the Kingslayer, Arya thought, when she saw his face. The gods had heard her prayers after all.
Arya heard one of the riders laugh. "Here's your new castle, you bloody Lannister bastard," he said. "A little snug for the likes o' you, but we'll squeeze you in, never fret." Beside him a prisoner sat sullen, with coils of hempen rope tight around his wrists. Some of the townsmen were throwing dung at him, but he never flinched. "You'll rot in them cages," his captor was shouting. "The crows will be picking out your eyes while we're spending all that good Lannister gold o' yours! And when them crows are done, we'll send what's left o' you to your bloody brother. Though I doubt he'll know you."
The noise had woken half the Peach. Gendry squeezed into the window beside Arya, and Tom stepped up behind them naked as his name day. "What's all that bloody shouting?" Lem complained from bed. "A man's trying to get some bloody sleep."
"Where's Greenbeard?" Tom asked him.
"Abed with Tansy," Lem said. "Why?"
"Best find him. Archer too. The Mad Huntsman's come back, with another man for the cages."
"Lannister," said Arya. "I heard him say Lannister."
"Have they caught the Kingslayer?" Gendry wanted to know.
Down in the square, a thrown stone caught the captive on the cheek, turning his head. Not the Kingslayer, Arya thought, when she saw his face. The gods had heard her prayers after all.
The Huntsman has captured the Hound, the man who played wolf to Sansa's Red Riding Hood, but here the Huntsman is not such a hero:
The Huntsman had turned out to be a stocky man in patched tan leathers, balding and weak-chinned and quarrelsome. At Stoney Sept she had thought that Lem and Greenbeard might be torn to pieces when they faced him at the crow cages to claim his captive for the lightning lord. The hounds had been all around them, sniffing and snarling. But Tom o' Sevens soothed them with his playing, Tansy marched across the square with her apron full of bones and fatty mutton, and Lem pointed out Anguy in the brothel window, standing with an arrow notched. The Mad Huntsman had cursed them all for lickspittles, but finally he had agreed to take his prize to Lord Beric for judgment.
They had bound his wrists with hempen rope, strung a noose around his neck, and pulled a sack down over his head, but even so there was danger in the man. Arya could feel it across the cave. Thoros - if that was Thoros - met captor and captive halfway to the fire. "How did you take him?" the priest asked.
"The dogs caught the scent. He was sleeping off a drunk under a willow tree, if you believe it."
"Betrayed by his own kind."
They had bound his wrists with hempen rope, strung a noose around his neck, and pulled a sack down over his head, but even so there was danger in the man. Arya could feel it across the cave. Thoros - if that was Thoros - met captor and captive halfway to the fire. "How did you take him?" the priest asked.
"The dogs caught the scent. He was sleeping off a drunk under a willow tree, if you believe it."
"Betrayed by his own kind."
I liked the detail of the hounds being soothed by Tom's music in addition to the bones. So, the Hound is captured by the Huntsman and his hounds. We're told that he was betrayed by his own kind. Here the Huntsman is not a conquering hero, killing the wolves and saving the girl. In fact, he's balding and weak-chinned and everyone around him agrees that he's needlessly cruel. It's not that there's anything particularly new to say except that I'm continually surprised by how often fairy tales come up in this series, particularly in anything associated with the Hound/Sansa.
"Robert is the king of the worms now. Is that why you're down in the earth, to keep his court for him?"
"The king is dead," the scarecrow knight admitted, "but we are still king's men, though the royal banner we bore was lost at the Mummer's Ford when your brother's butchers fell upon us." He touched his breast with a fist. "Robert is slain, but his realm remains. And we defend her."
"Her?" The Hound snorted. "Is she your mother, Dondarrion? Or your whore?"
Dondarrion? Beric Dondarrion had been handsome; Sansa's friend Jeyne had fallen in love with him. Even Jeyne Poole was not so blind as to think this man was fair. Yet when Arya looked at him again, she saw it; the remains of a forked purple lightning bolt on the cracked enamel of his breastplate.
"Rocks and trees and rivers, that's what your realm is made of," the Hound was saying. "Do the rocks need defending? Robert wouldn't have thought so. If he couldn't fuck it, fight it, or drink it, it bored him, and so would you . . . you brave companions."
"The king is dead," the scarecrow knight admitted, "but we are still king's men, though the royal banner we bore was lost at the Mummer's Ford when your brother's butchers fell upon us." He touched his breast with a fist. "Robert is slain, but his realm remains. And we defend her."
"Her?" The Hound snorted. "Is she your mother, Dondarrion? Or your whore?"
Dondarrion? Beric Dondarrion had been handsome; Sansa's friend Jeyne had fallen in love with him. Even Jeyne Poole was not so blind as to think this man was fair. Yet when Arya looked at him again, she saw it; the remains of a forked purple lightning bolt on the cracked enamel of his breastplate.
"Rocks and trees and rivers, that's what your realm is made of," the Hound was saying. "Do the rocks need defending? Robert wouldn't have thought so. If he couldn't fuck it, fight it, or drink it, it bored him, and so would you . . . you brave companions."