Game of Thrones: A Tale of a Coward

Nothing Remains - Saulmund III

Hearing dying men calling for help, for anyone, as their sounds are drowned out by wails of others being slaughtered... it did not sit well for Saulmund, and much less so for Seramund. When the screams were fewer, Saulmund wondered who had won and who had lost. 'I daren't think Luciara dead. Without his protection, me and Sera would be killed; no one likes Wildlings and more so when they are a burden to protect,' Saulmund told himself. He pitied Kyra for being forced to watch over them; he was thankful for her company and protection, however.

Seramund shied from the fight, looking away from a castle rather than gawking at one. She had her back against a tree, on her knees, and had her hands over her face, covering her eyes. 'The more she can't see it, the more she thinks it protects her,' Saulmund thought on her naivety. "Do you think Luciara will be okay?" Saulmund asked Kyra, concerned for himself and Seramund.
"Out of t' people fightin' 'ere, I expect 'im t' come back," she answered.

Saulmund began making his way towards his sister to comfort her. He reached an arm out to help content her, however, a groan of a wounded man sounded close. All three of them looked over in consternation to where the sombre shrilling sound was made. The tall blonde figure limped his way towards them, using his longsword as support to walk.

Once the man had reached the three, he collapsed, moaning about wounds. Saulmund hardly recognised Ser Duncan with the blood all over him and the torn clothes. "Where's Luciara?" Saulmund questions, whilst Kyra tends to him, trying to find his wounds.
"I don't know," he grumbles. "If he's not with you already... then he's... probably dead," he answers, groaning between words from the pain.
"He can't be!" Saulmund exclaimed.
"Is Lucia dead, Saulmund?" Seramund asks, innocently.
"There was nothing left... no one. If he survived... somehow... then it'll take us ages... to find him," Ser Duncan explained. "I don't know... what happened out there... but all I know... is that everyone died. The Freys and the Boltons... murdered everyone."
"Why would t' Boltons do this? Their King Robb's bannerman," Kyra questioned.
"Never liked... Lord Bolton... anyway. Sided with the Lannisters... so he could have the North... maybe. I don't know..." Ser Duncan felt weaker lying against the tree, instead of moving towards them, still pushing himself to live.

Kyra checked his body over, then informed him on how he should walk as little as possible and that he will die if the wounds are not treated. "Then... I should return to... the battle. Mayhaps... I will even slay Bolton himself," Ser Duncan proclaimed, beginning to get up until Kyra pushed him back down.
"Do you want t' die?"
"Can you save me?" She gave no answer.

While Kyra bandaged up some lesser wounds, Saulmund asked Ser Duncan, "How did you survive? If the Freys and Boltons were killing everyone."
"First day... First time, rather... that I met Lord Lucia and his Rosemary... I told them I was no Ser Duncan... that I was not brave. Lord Luciara... he said also that he... was not brave. He changed. I went into battle... hoping I, too... would change. I was wrong. And for that... I die. Just like... Lord Lucia died... for he was no longer a coward," Ser Duncan explained.
"You said you didn't know if Luciara was alive or dead," Saulmund noticed.
"I also said... that they murdered everyone. We haven't seen Lord Luciara yet... have we? A betting man... would say he died."

As Ser Duncan slowly died, Saulmund sat down with his sister. He contemplated on how he and his sister will survive on their own. Saulmund then found himself thinking about all the horribly gruesome ways Luciara may have been killed. 'But they defeated my Wildling army... How could they be defeated by these people?' Saulmund did not understand. "Do you think Lucia is dead?" Seramund asked her brother.
"I hope not. But Ser Duncan saw the battle. He fought in it. He'd understand more about it than we would. If he thinks no one could have survived that, then it is likely no one did. Not even Lucia," Saulmund replies, forlorn.

After a couple more hours of sitting and waiting, they suddenly found themselves questioning who or what they were waiting for, considering Ser Duncan's news on Lucia. They heard footsteps as they were readying to leave, causing them to be silent and still.

They could barely hear themselves breathing. The rustle of leaves was all they needed to hear, as they got closer and louder. They heard the man muttering to himself, cursing the Freys and the Starks. "Frey," warned Ser Duncan.

The man neared, and Ser Duncan picked up his longsword and waited for him. When the Frey was close enough, Ser Duncan swung the sword round, however, he stumbled slightly and hit him in his leg. The Frey fell against the tree, pulled out a dagger and stabbed Ser Duncan in the chest. Blood poured from his body and mouth as he fell. The other three wailed slightly, with Seramund screaming and gasping a little.

"Stupid cunts," the Frey man said as he approached Kyra with his bloody dagger. Rushing of leaves was heard nearing. The Frey man turned to see the source, but he saw the source for only a couple seconds; Androw had the cut his throat and pushed him to the ground.

The Frey man died, though no one took notice; they were too fixated on Androw or the death of Ser Duncan. "We better carry on movin'. More of them will come, in larger troops. I could take a couple, so could the three of you, but when a larger army comes sweeping the woods, it then becomes impossible t' live," he said.
"Lucia...?" Saulmund asked, dreading the answer.
"I don't wanna talk about it. But for confirmation, I can say... that he's dead. I promised t' look after you two for him. And I shall," Androw answered, giving Saulmund closure that nothing remains.

The four of them left Ser Duncan's corpse and made their journey back to Rosemary and the farm, in hope for some kind of life. Seramund clung to Saulmund, digging her nails into his skin through their southren clothing. Androw would not speak of Lucia, likewise the four would not speak of Ser Duncan or the others from Lucia's army. They would not report to the families of the deceased, not with the knowledge that it was their hands that struck them down, not the Freys or Boltons or Starks or Lannisters. Seramund would not even speak of castles. The journey back was eternally mute.