Black Coat, Red Coat
Second Day of the Fifth Month 293 AC
Of the many things that had taken time to get used to, of all the wonders yet to be shown in this strange new Realm of the King, Alliser thought that seeing men with bull's heads--or perhaps it was bulls with men's stances--garbed in fine armor and bearing weapons that he reckoned none but the Mountain, that Lannister lapdog, could carry around as casual as you please, great-axes that were ordinarily impractical on the field of war but for the affectation of strength in savagery, or as an executioner's implement, yet they wielded them with both skill and an unsettling will, treating martial matters with a respect he struggled to impress upon recruits to the Watch, and even more than some Knights could be bothered with.
At first he thought it was to get into the King's good graces, as with the tales that he had saved them and given them civilization and a place in the world, but soon he learned that was only the truth for the basest of them, the ones who could speak the tones and walk around without lashing out and destroying everything and everyone around them. They did not understand just why their cause was worthy, only that the one they bowed to was because of their strength. But to mistake all of them for fools would be a man's death, such as when he had questioned one with a red coat of fur about their training.
"They work hard to earn glory, only way they know how to be more. Sometimes they wish to protect friends they make in the city, because they are smaller and cannot fight as well. Fighting sometimes all they know how to do, though, so they try to be best." He snorted oddly that Alliser noted to be laughter, then. "Sometimes only reason is they were told to do it, but they don't do anything else, so they are just as strong." And that at least made sense to the Knight, if explained a bit roundabout.
"So soldiers, warriors," he hazarded, still a bit bemused about talk of bull-men trying to become heroes for the common people, and if he hadn't seen how open-minded many of these 'Deepmen' were about strange peoples the world over, he would suspect many wouldn't be appreciative of them for trying.
"Where we were taken," Argo began after a few long moments filled with nothing but the sound of Ser Lonmouth driving a beast of a fighter to the ground with his Valyrian Steel-clad fist, and fending off another's axe followed by a feather-light riposte that Alliser wasn't sure that Arthur Dayne himself could have countered or dodged, though it would have been a sight to be seen for sure. The bull-man continued, "We were like worms in dirt to our masters, killed when move too slow, kill things when told, even if for no reason given, or hit with whips for fun. No point. Fight hard, no point. Not fight, no point. Just live. Die.
Be."
The--Argo, Alliser remembered after a moment, lowered their head, breathing softly, so quiet that he had to strain just to hear them, "When we came here to Deep, everything had reason. Sometimes not understand reason, but there was," he seemed to be searching for the word, and Alliser supplied, "Order?"
Argo nodded with a snort. "Yes. There Order.
Why to fight,
why to die."
He looked across the field as one of the fighters helped up another, slinging their massive arm around a shoulder as they carried them to a healer attending to others, with some more of those odd snorting laughs indicating that they were having a good time despite the bruises. Apparently broken bones were becoming rarer in the yard, under Ser Lonmouth's tutelage.
The bull, known as "the clever", breathed out softly again, leaning further on their massive enchanted implement of war.
"Why to
live."
Well said, Alliser thought as he walked away, for there wasn't anything more to be passed between the two.
For his part, the Knight had finished simmering in resentment upon the way of things due to the ordering of men, kindly or otherwise, upon the world around him, long ago.
There was a higher calling pulling at each of them, if they but bothered to lift their heads up and look for it. As he moved along, past the press of students and patrolling groups of, he admitted, very impressive black-and-red-clad soldiers, between the iron giants and their unfailingly focused gazes, and through the ominous magic-sung stone hexagonal arch upon rested beneath a pitch-black stone plinth, he reentered the Shadow Tower, and his feet had guided him unthinkingly to one of the frequently used lecture halls, one that had a different set of decorations livening it up, whereas the tastes of other teachers and the Headmistress were varied, this one seemed to be fitting for a scholar and warrior both.
Which seemed to describe King Viserys well. He was not like his father, nor his brother. He spoke with fire and passion, where many had regarded the elder brother as gentle and well-spoken, King Viserys was forthright and charming, able to make something bitter sound sweet to the ear, and he never seemed to tell a thoughtless lie even if it would be easier at times, encouraging his students too, who did listen with a rapt attention that the Knight thought almost unseemly, were they not a bunch of curious scholars themselves eager to learn at the feet of their Lord and not just another pack of sycophants. It was unsettling to hear frenzied discussion take place as if the King was merely an instructor bringing order to the class but otherwise letting their imaginations run wild, only cutting in to clarify or explain or help a mage reason something out themselves using practical examples.
There the King was to be found finishing a lively discussion with a student of his, a Sorcerer by profession and deed both, who eagerly shook hands with them before carrying their pile of study materials out of the room with the press of bodies.
"Ser Alliser," the King smiled, "How goes your training?"
"Well enough, Your Grace," Alliser thought, sincerely. "You have loyal retainers, solid men... ah, bulls, all." He thought they could use something
more, though, than just wandering from place to place, to see if their skills would be any use to others, and his thoughts must have shown on his face.
"Go on, Ser," the King bade, gesturing with one hand, "I won't reject council spoken in consideration for the proclivity of others to adhere solely to the... well, unorthodox."
"That is one way of putting it," Alliser replied with a nod. "They need livery, I think. Something to tie 'em together, like a house guard or..."
"Order?" Viserys guessed. "Such had been considered..."
"Give them position with you that no one else can fill, honor and accolades deserved for accomplishments otherwise impossible, and they'll be loyal to you until death," Alliser said then, thinking of the Brothers of the Watch, the ones most suitable for studying sorcery, of the whore-mongers and drunkards to be sure, but also the ones who spent more and more time in reclusive study or meditation, ruminating on the 'dance of spheres' and the nature of undying spirits.
"Give them Fire and Blood."
He might even smile on the day they marched under dragon banners against cowards, traitors and fools.
Such as it was, Ser Alliser Thorne had different worries. He spoke to the King of them, passing letters from Lord Commander Mormont, well wishes from a certain Maester that he didn't begrudge in the least, and questions that ranged from the uses of spells in battle as much as in hearth and home.
The Watch should be more than a grim redoubt where men go to die, Alliser thought,
it also needs to be worth fighting for in itself.
