Daydream (Open to Harrenhal)

The grass was slightly damp beneath Owen’s back, and he shuddered as a bit of wet seeped into his tunic. Nevertheless, he remained still, sprawled out, facing upwards and feeling the sun upon his face. It was a nice reminder, at the very least, that it was still there.

He had simply been walking when he had tripped, and the mood struck him that he need not get back up. He did not think anyone would be wanting for him, and it was a nice day. He did not feel particularly hungry, nor had any great thirst, and so Owen felt as if he could stay like this for quite a while.

A bug landed upon Owen’s leg, or perhaps a bit of grass brushed it in the wind. It was hard to say, but Owen mustered his will to do nothing about it. Perhaps it was something of the stinging variety, in which case it would be best for all parties to simply allow it mosey along.

The thought crossed Owen’s mind that perhaps they would never find him. They would go to pack up and head back North, but nobody would ever think to look for him in this specific patch of grass. Edric would ask around and assume he had fallen in a crevice, and Esgred would probably drink an extra pitcher in his honor. Argella would cry, and maybe mother. Uncle Jon would yell.

And of course, Owen would not be able to get back North on his own.

He was next to Harrenhal, so the obvious solution would be to ask them for an escort. But any man could claim to be a lost lordling. The Prince would never believe him, no. He’d think Owen was a lying peasant boy and lash him until he could no longer stand, before releasing him into the world and telling him never to return.

Perhaps he would be taken in by a smallfolk couple. They’d need a helping hand around the farm, and Owen would simply claim to be an orphan, saddled by bad luck and looking for a livelihood. Owen would work for a few years, growing lean and muscular. Then there would be a caravan heading North that would pass through. Owen would be conflicted, but decide to go, leaving a note and a bag of silvers he’d saved up for the couple.

It would be a tough journey through the Neck, but Owen would have learned to work the land in his years as a farmhand. He would try to keep his nobility a secret, but he figured the other travelers would eventually deduce his origins from his learnedness and leadership ability. But rather than hold him for ransom, or resenting him, they would respect him for an uncommon sense of worldliness.

Eventually, the caravan would reach Deepwood, and Owen would go to fetch a drink before he met his family, just to get his nerves in order. While Owen was doing this, however, Owen would notice a large thuggish man mistreating a young lady. He would of course intervene on the lady’s behalf, leading to a spat.

He would win the honorable duel easily, only to receive a dagger to the back when he spared his adversary’s life. As he bled out, the guards would escort the man away while the lady gave Owen a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Then he would perish, so close to home, without his family ever having known.

“Er, milord, are you alright?”

The concerned voice of Ethan Woods cut through the air, distracting Owen from the poetic and satisfying nature of his own death. In an instant, the Master of Deepwood Motte was back in a patch of grass, slightly damp and quite red in the face.

“I’m fine, Ethan!” Owen gave a panicked reply to the younger boy as he scrambled to his feet. He had completely forgotten about Ethan. “I’m alright. Very alright.” He reassured, brushing grass from his doublet and smiling at the place where the voice had emerged from.

Perhaps it was for the best. He was not sure if giving Esgred another pitcher was ever a good idea.