Work Text:
Oswell Trent had lived a tragic life, but he was a happy man. He was the proud father of two young daughters, bright-eyed and pigtailed girls with a deep adoration for pink, bunnies, and their father. His wife was a pretty thing as well, high school sweetheart turned life partner. Oswell loved them all deeply, and he loved his boat.
His boat was his livelihood, a fishing vessel for him to sail out into the Narrow Sea, or sometimes the Shivering Sea, and while the day away. Sometimes, he would bring a thermos of coffee and a book. Besides fishing, he had made a hobby of ferrying people around the Braavosi islands and nearby cities. It gave Oswell a sense of contentment to bring some ease to lives of others, and put a little extra coin in his pocket as well.
One summer, the unthinkable happened. Oswell and his family had gone out on a boat ride. Not on Oswell's own vessel, though afterwards he wished they had, but on the boat of a close family friend. The friend had had too much to drink, and in a horrible accident the boat capsized. Oswell was the only survivor. For years, he lost himself to alcohol and drowning guilt, and his boat bobbed alone at the docks, merely waiting. It was a couple summers before he ventured out to the docks again, rheumy-eyed and stumbling off last night's hangover, but the sight of his boat was a happy one and filled Oswell with that old feeling that all was right with the world. Just sit behind the steering and he would know what to do. He would be in control again.
So sit he did, and from then on he moved to swear off the drink and turned his old hobby into a job. There were a staggering amount of people who needed cheap and easy travel between islands, and those who wanted to go farther always paid generously. There was little left to Oswell's life beyond his boat, and what he could do for people. It was what he loved, and what he lived to do. His purpose.
Oswell became something of a local dignitary over the years. He and his trusty boat were a welcome sight, and he was often invited into the marina restaurants for a free drink. Everybody liked Oswell, and never had a single bad word to say against him. He lived alone, though, having never remarried after the tragic accident that took his family from him. All he had was a cat, a beautiful spotted thing with long legs and green-amber eyes. She was pregnant, and he was eagerly awaiting the kittens.
Poor Oswell's days were numbered, however. In this business, there was always a certain element of danger. One never knew if the client was what he seemed to be. Oswell was a trusting man, though, and he had only ever had one customer try to rob him.
"I am not a rich man," Oswell had said. "But if you are needing help, sir, I will give you all the help that I can." He had offered the would-be robber a kind smile, and the man's wavering will dissolved. He had sobbed his thanks, and on shore again the two men shook hands and parted ways. A ride on the house, stretching the sea to a new city full of new opportunities, and a number to call Oswell on. That was the help he gave him.
He couldn't always be so lucky. It was meant to be another ordinary day. The sun was shining, there was a gentle breeze over the water, and Oswell was feeling particularly heartened. A band of friends came to him for ferry, seeking asylum in Lorath from some unknown threat. He took them with some reluctance, for there were many of them and his boat was small. He got an odd vibe off the group, but Oswell was never one to judge a man before he knew him, and though it was an awkwardly quiet ride, he turned his smile over the sea and enjoyed the trip. He could see dolphins breaching the water in the distance, and elegant seabirds bobbing along in the waves. The group talked quietly amongst themselves for hours, sometimes lapsing into silence before picking a conversation up again.
He didn't catch a single word of significance until the shores of Lorath came into view, at which point one of the more unattractive men of the bunch called out excitedly. Ramsay. Damon. He knew those names, only distantly familiar, and suddenly he understood his initial misgivings. All the while with a sinking feeling in his gut, he listened, and the blond one snapped at the shouter. Wanted criminals. Yes, they were fugitives on his boat.
Oswell didn't know what to do. Deliver them to Lorath and return home, be done with it? Never breathe a word of what he had done? Or he could turn around and ferry them back to Braavos, turn them in and cleanse his conscious. This trip was a grave mistake, he was now realizing. But what to do?
Bravely, foolishly, he turned around. He looked first at the man who had spoken with him to secure the ride, then the angry blond. "Ramsay Bolton?" he asked, his voice carrying steadily over the now quiet atmosphere. "From three years ago?" For a moment, there was only the sound of gentle waves lapping against the side of his boat. Then the man who must be Bolton scowled, and rose to his feet.
Oswell retreated back as far as he could, but his boat was small and he had nowhere to go. Eyes dilating in fear, he opened his mouth and sputtered empty pleas, apologies, lies of secrecy, but his assailant's hands were reaching out and seizing him by the shirt. He bashed his head once, twice, three times against the side of the boat and Oswell's dizzying consciousness went black. He knew no more, and his limp body was discarded over the side of his trusty little boat. He would sink, far below the roiling waves, and later, when days had passed without a sign of him, the people of his little harbor town would go looking for him. Oswell's boat would never be seen again, nor would Oswell, and when his neighbors opened his door to search, his cat would spring free of her confined and bound away to escape and live by the marina. The people knew her as Oswell's dear cat, and they would come to know her kittens too within the following weeks. But they would never know what happened to Oswell Trent. All they could do was mourn the loss of a good man.