Game of Thrones: Paladin of Old Gods - Chapter 142: The Pack & The Maid
Announcement Sick Fan of ASOIAF:
Very urgent communication for all ASOIAF fans! The first episode of House Of Dragons was released today! The new HBO series based on the epic events of the Dance of Dragons!
I can’t spoil anything, but I can tell you that expectations are at 1000!!! It’s Fucking Awesome!!! CAN’T WAIT FOR EPISODE 2 TO COME OUT!!!!!!
Thank you all for your attention, and happy reading.
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POV: The Wolf Child
Less than nine hundred feet from the arena.
About two minutes after a gentleman’s wager was accepted…
The Heir of Winterfell and his small company of friends waited impatiently for Jon to return with the information to figure out what was happening near the dance floor.
Why were thousands of people chanting Bloody Snow’s name?
All of them, except for Theon, joined the chorus enthusiastically without knowing why.
Robb, Jon, Eddard Karstark, little Alys Karstark, Daryn Hornwood, Ulmen Umber, Mira Forrester, Alysane and Lyra Mormont, Hugo Wull, and Theon Greyjoy had an appointment for a private magic show promised by the old master-at-arms named Zick.
It was supposed to be just him and Jon at first … but a word escaped, and a chain of whispers and chatter between young lords and ladies of the North forced the little prince to beg old Zick to arrange a small ‘private’ magic show in a tent.
The kindly Masked Witch Quaithe was supposed to entertain them all until a few minutes before the performance of the Maiden of Light and the Lion of Night began, the sorceress was urgently called away by her master, postponing the show.
“The bastard must have gotten lost or taken them at face value from some aristocratic scion,” sneered Theon, failing to get the support of laughter to which he aspired.
“Mind your tongue, Greyjoy…
Pray to your Drowned God that my father never learns what you called Jon.” Robb retorted, casting a glare at Winterfell’s protege.
“Lord Stark does not want the word ‘Bastard’ uttered in his abode, but this is not Winterfell. If you prefer, I will call him by the name he deserves: ‘Snow’.” Theon.
“Here in the North, the name ‘Snow’ is a thousand times more valued than ‘Greyjoy,’ exiled prince without land or home,” affirmed the 12-year-old eldest son of Clan Wull.
“Shut up, Little Bucket! Who do you think you are?! You’re the heir to a forgotten little heath in the Bay of Ice!” The ten-year-old ironborn was ready to defend his honour with his fists.
“Bring it on, little squid!” Hugo did not back down.
“That’s enough, Theon! Stop provoking my friends.
Always remember that I can ask Will and Byron to escort you to bed without dessert if necessary.” The whole group laughed, making the former Heir of Pyke blush angrily.
“Robb! Robb, where are you!?” A battered Jon was in sight. His half-brother seemed to rue the frantic rush made to serve as a scout staff to inform the group of Northern youths what the heck was going on.
“Jon! We’re here!” Robb replied, climbing into a chair.
“Hurry up, Sam! Hurry, or it will be too late!” Two children tumbled to the foot of the group with breathlessness and urgency in their eyes.
The fat child looked like he was about to collapse at any moment.
“Well? What’s going on? Who is he? And why are you bleeding from the lip?” Robb asked alarmingly.
“Anf…he…anf…it’s Sam…Samwell Tarly. Robb!… Anf–there is no time for explanations!” The aforementioned sweaty and exhausted Samwell Tarly was more battered and weary than Jon.
“Catch your breath and explain yourself, Jon! Water! Give us both some water, quick!” Eddard Karstark grabbed a jug from a passing servant on the fly and offered it to Jon. He had no qualms about gobbling it down greedily without cups or various ceremonies, offering it to his comrade on the ground soon after.
“Bloody Snow… Phew… A duel, Robb! A Trial By Combat will soon be held between Lord Duncan and the son of the Sealord of Braavos!
They will compete to decide who will have the honour of the first dance with Dacey Mormont!
It will be an epic clash!
Sam here witnessed the whole scene; he was the one who informed me of everything! We were slowed down by Lord Paxter Redwine’s idiot sons. They had purposely tripped poor Sam and–I’m afraid I broke Horas nose and ripped a few red strands out of Hobber’s hair.
They must be calling for reinforcements, Robb. They’ll come looking for us!” Thundered Jon, speaking as fast as he could, shocking Robb more and more.
“What?!!! A Trial By Combat between Bloody Snow and Gelledo Antaryon?!!! When? How did that happen!!! Who else are looking for you? And why were they looking for trouble with you? How many of them are there?” A heroic Samwell of House Tarly, after emptying his jug, managed to stand up and pronounce:
“In less than an hour, the duel will begin… Lor… phew… Lord Eddard Stark promulgated strict control for all spectators…
No one under the age of ten will be allowed to attend the duel that will take place. I was only a few feet from your mother, the noble Lady Catelyn. She ordered a couple of men from her escort to look for you and escort you to your pavilion, young lord.”
“What?!!! No! This is a legendary event that we absolutely cannot miss!!!” Robb turned around with regret at the tone used and peered at Will and Byron, the two guards assigned by Jory to keep an eye on him and Winterfell’s protégé at all times…
Fortunately for him, they did not seem to have heard.
“We have very little time before my mother’s men get here…What about the Redwine group?”
“Six-maybe seven scions of The Reach looking for trouble. We deposed them three hundred feet from here.” Jon.
Robb looked around and did a quick count.
Alysanne (11 years old), Lyra (9 years old), Eddard (11 years old), Daryn (13 years old), Hugo (12 years old), Ulmen (11 years old), Mira (9 years old), Alys (5 years old) and Theon (10 years old)…
The biggest problem was Theon, who was sure to rat them out in revenge for the insult he had just suffered…
“Byron! Will! Come quickly!” Thundered the little lord, shocking those present. The two men threw their cups and mugs to the ground and instantly rushed in, holding their hands firmly on the hilt.
“Young lord! Any problem?” Lieutenant Byron asked urgently.
“Yes, Byron. Our protégé here, Theon Greyjoy, has brazenly insulted Winterfell and his host House. I ask that you escort our ungrateful guest back to his tent as punishment and that he does not leave his sleeping bunk until the sun rises!” Theon paled at his tormentor’s devious countermove.
“Yes, milord… Come with us, young Theon.” the boy roared resistance:
“No! Let go of me!” Byron and Will lifted the poor prisoner from his armpits, dragging him forcefully toward the comfortable prison…
“This is all a deception! Robb is deceiving you! Nah!!! You’ll pay for this, Stark! I’ll tell your father!!! Do you hear me!!! You and the Bastard are doomed!” Greyjoy’s threats grew more and more scattered.
“Theon is right, Jon… Tomorrow my mother and our father will punish us severely.” Robb smiled, and Jon, returning the complicit smile, replied:
“But I am already being punished! So don’t worry, Robb, skipping meals and taking lashings from Ser Haymitch sooner or later, you get used to it.” The brother nodded knowingly, laughing bitterly at the sad fate he had to share, but there was no time to regret the eggs stolen from the basket.
What mattered now was making a memorable omelette!
‘Three threats down. And now…’, “Mira, Lyra, do you two want to watch the duel?” Asked the Heir of Winterfell authoritatively.
“Emm…I…would rather not, milord.” Mira Forrester.
“Of course, I would! Don’t you dare go without me!” Lyra Mormont.
Robb eyed a wizard of his acquaintance in the distance, and an idea began to take shape.
“I have a plan… Jon and Lyra will come with me.
Aly, Daryn, Hugo, Ulmen-we need you. Will you be able to keep the group of Redwine brawlers busy for a while?” Asked the leader.
“Keep them occupied! If puny Jon here managed to beat two of them, the four of us together will even manage to make them disown their Seven Gods and invoke Seraphine’s mercy!” Roared Alysane Mormont, gaining the trio’s approval.
“Well… Mira, Eddard, you two will accompany little Alys to her mother, and then Eddard, you must try to arrive as quickly as possible to support Aly and the others.” Robb.
“Count me in!” Eddard replied, holding his little sister’s hand firmly.
“Samwell of House Tarly, I, my brother and my companions owe you a favour. How can the North repay you?” Asked the heir of Winterfell, drawing everyone’s gaze to the plump, trembling child of Horn Hill.
“I m-milord… I d-don’t know…” then Sam looked at the brother who had just rescued him from the clutches of the Redwine… “I’d like to help you and Jon, milord…”
“Good. You will come with us then.
Let’s separate!” Raising his fist to the sky, the wolf child howled to the pack, “Glory to the North! Glory to Bloody Snow!!!”
“Glory to the North! Glory to Bloody Snow!!! Uaarghh!!!” Nine young comrades from the North thundered in response.
*****
Three minutes later…
“Young Wolf Prince, how can the humble Nogul help you?” asked the young wizard of Carcosa, caught off guard by the strange young foursome.
In the last two moons spent lemosinating magic shows, Robb had learned how to deal with the Confederacy’s proud wizards…
“Honorable ‘Great Wizard’ Nogul Ighay Perciviliul Garùìntadh. I, my brother and my two companions are desperately seeking the help of the most talented and renowned illusionist wizard in the Noble Confederation.” Robb added the icing on the cake by bowing in the Carcosian style.
“You honour me, Prince Robb of the noble House Stark. Even many of my companions have given up pronouncing my name correctly. However, I am afraid I must correct you…I do not yet hold the honour of ‘Great’ Wizard; I am only a humble wizard of the third circle…” Replied Nogul sadly, returning his bow in turn.
“What?! Impossible!… Then I beg your pardon, Honorable Wizard Nogul Ighay Perciviliul Garùìntadh…
The strict standards of the Noble Confederation must rise beyond the heavens not to bestow such a well-deserved honour on one of the finest spellcasters this inexperienced admirer of magic has ever had the privilege of laying eyes on.” Nevertheless, the 30-year-old wizard seemed to greatly appreciate the compliment.
“Noble Wizard, might I request your services as an illusionist enchanter for my companions and me? We would have the need to appear … ‘different’ and ‘more mature for a few hours if you could bestow us with the favour of your art.” Nogul was bewildered and hesitant by request.
“Emm- Noble Prince, actually, I could not use magic-” Robb interrupted him.
“Phew… I figured… Please don’t add any more. You don’t need to justify your words, Noble Master of Illusion. So in vain was my enormous expectation…
Lady Quaithe warned me that your incredible talents and services could not be used for such childish corbels.” Robb lowered his gaze with a sad and surrendering bow and waited…
“The Noble Grand Witch Quaithe said that? Well, that is actually I could…however, the Honorable The Watcher specifically requested us-” Robb interrupted him again.
He was well aware of the rivalry between the two rival illusionists, Nogul and Baronthài… and they both sought the desperate attention of the Grand Witch Quaithe.
“We don’t want to bother you any further, milord–I know when to give up a coveted and impossible wish. As said, a wizard-like you do not deserve to waste his talents on futile childish whims. We will try our luck by asking the favour of the only choice left to us…
Lyra, what was the name of the second illusionist recommended to us by Lady Quaithe? Emm. Ba… Baron something…”
“Baronthài, my lord.” Promptly replied his accomplice. Nogul widened his eyes in defiance and enacted:
“No, Young Prince! Do not trust the parlor magic of that second-rate illusionist!
Nogul will be the one to help you!
I will not be able to use magic in public, but there is nothing to prevent me from donating my services to you in my private pavilion… Please follow me!” The Young Wolf turned toward his smiling companions, casting them a concealed wink of victory.
End POV.
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POV: Brienne The Beauty
About 400 feet away from the centre of the arena.
Minutes before an illusionist magician chanted four magic spells for four too-young would-be spectators…
It was a short time before the duel began, and Brienne had to hurry to fulfil her duty.
She had promised it to her new friend, Dacey. It was the only thing the helpless maiden of Tarth could do for the poor girl distressed by the disastrous event that had just erupted in her honour.
A friendship was born the night before when Dacey seeking air from the constant harassment of all the young nobility of Westeros hunting for the Mormont dowry, sought refuge in the training yard of Barrow Hall. It took only two sentences to spark a mutual understanding between the two young ladies who did not want to be ladies.
[“Your name is Brienne! The main character in my favourite novel is also called that!!! Have you ever read ‘The Shield Maiden,’ Brienne of Tarth!”]
And that was just the introduction… Next, Dacey tore her precious silk and velvet dress to stuff herself with training armour and engage in an evening sparring with Brienne.
Both maidens clashed blunt steel and oak wood for an entire hour while all the nobility set about to drink, eat, dance and exchange false praise and ceremonial labels.
Dacey was tremendously skilled–Brienne, in her final year, tortured herself with steel and facades on mud with Ser Goodwin from dawn to dusk every day, yet not once did she manage to land the daughter of ‘She Bear.’
Although the Maiden of Tarth was taller, heavier and more gifted in physical strength than Dacey, Maege Mormont’s daughter far surpassed her in technique, speed and accuracy…
The legends on Bear Island were true. Their women held an infant with one arm while wielding an axe with the other hand.
How much advice and inspiration points did Dacey give her in one evening? Her new friend had also promised she would gladly host her at Bear Island and train with her anytime she wanted-her a true first friend.
The least Brienne could do in that dark hour for her was to find her sisters and warn them of the urgent family support the poor girl, unable to get away, needed.
Alysanne and Lyra had last been seen walking off with Robb Stark’s group in that direction, and Brienne had been fortunate enough to pick up an additional lead.
She had witnessed the laughter and cruel taunts that the scions Redwine, Beesbury, and Fossoway hurled at the heir of Horn Hill as he danced with Eddara Tallhart, the second most coveted maiden by the scions of the South.
Sam had gone off with Eddard Stark’s natural son soon after the echoes for Bloody Snow ceased, and the twin Redwine twins followed them–probably to teach a cruel lesson to the ‘weak’ Tarly, who had stolen the honour of dancing with Helman’s daughter from them.
All the guests were massing at the long-awaited event. The halls’ southeast wing was almost deserted except for a few Barrowton servants intent on cleaning and gathering various provisions.
Then Brienne’s ear picked up cries of pain, roars of guerrilla warfare, and various sounds of scuffling.
The girl hurriedly turned the corner of the deserted pavilion and found a seemingly incredible scene.
Alysane Mormont and three other supposed Northern boys she could not identify were in open combat against six…seven…eight opponents!
Brienne recognized the opponents, Horas and Hobber Redwine, Emerick Peake, Bryan Fossoway, the Betran brothers and Hugh Beesbury, and… two scions of the Stormlands whom the Maiden of Tarth knew very, very well…
‘Ronnet Connington and Bryce Caron!
They were two of the former avid faux suitors who had mocked and humiliated her less than a year ago at the Evenfall Hall ball.
Four vs Eight was an unequal challenge, although the North seemed to hold the disparity well.
Horas and Hobber were just eight years old-but. Their other comrades were all over twelve.
Ronnet was a fifteen-year-old squire … and together with thirteen-year-old Bryce, they were beating the crap out of the poor boy surrounded with the banners of House Hornwood.
Alysane was beating the Redwine twins to a pulp while the two remaining North were surrounded by the four remaining opponents…
Ser Goodwin’s teachings redounded in Brienne’s mind:
[“Not everyone is a Ser Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower or Barristan Selmy, Brienne.”
“In an open field fight, with equal equipment, and surrounded by the enemy:
1 vs 2 is a common challenge to win,
2 vs 4 less common,
4 vs 8 more difficult,
While 100 vs 200 is almost impossible… Do you know why?
Because even if you had the rare gift of being worth two or three times your enemy, it is improbable that your 99 comrades-in-arms would be worth as much.”]
‘Five is much better than four!” was the Tarth Maiden’s last thought before her legs moved on their own, charging fiercely into the forty-foot straight that separated her from the glorious battle.
“BRYCE CARON!!!” The thirteen-year-old turned away, unprepared for the vengeful fury taller and more muscular than him that swept over him brutally, landing him.
Brienne and Bryce rolled twice in the damp, earthy grass before the calloused fist of the Maiden of Tarth managed to find its target.
Brienne was on top of her opponent and hit him twice in the face before Bryce raised his arms in a defensive stance.
“Ronnet! Get this lunatic off me!” Squealed the 13-year-old amid the storm of blows that continued to numb his arms and ears.
“Aaagh!!!” A hand atrociously tugged at Brienne’s straw-coloured hair, tearing a cry from her.
“Brienne The Beauty! Welcome to the party, milady!” A right to the pit of her stomach broke the Maiden’s breath, which inevitably bent downward. But Brienne gritted her teeth and pushed with all the strength she had on her knees.
*Smack!”* A resonant headbutt struck Ronnet in the chin, causing him to stagger backward.
“Fucking Bitch!!!” Brienne turned and cushioned Caron’s mighty tread, grabbing his boot with both hands as a handhold to keep from falling backwards.
The warrior’s ear suggested to her that the Hornwood boy had recovered sufficiently to fight a second round against her enemy from behind. Now Brienne could focus only on Bryce!
“Let go of my foot, you monster!” Brienne lifted her leg with all the strength in her arms, knocking Bryce to the ground for the second time.
The Maiden did not hesitate to strike and lashed a kick at the rotten mouth of the Nightsong heir, causing him to spit out a mouthful of blood. Next, the scion of House Caron attempted to strike her with a left hook from the ground, but Brienne dodged it and grabbed her arm with both hands, forcing the victim to turn around with her face to the ground as the enraged attacker prepared to leverage her elbow and shoulder.
“Surrender or dislocated shoulder, you choose!!!” intimated Brienne, “Arrrghhh!!! I surrender! I surrender!” she released her grip and rose from the ground toward her second target.
Alysanne had annihilated Horas and made the second Redwine flee in tears by joining the supposed Umber and comrade, while another northern boy had come to their rescue, bringing the challenge to 4 vs 4.
Ronnet was again getting the better of the Hornwood boy.
“Ronnet Connington!!!” the 15-year-old shoved his exhausted opponent away and welcomed the challenge from the Maiden of Tarth.
The boy’s first right blunted the Maiden’s defence by striking part of her cheek. Ronnet was much stronger than the frail Bryce and her.
[“If an opponent is physically stronger than you, use his strength against him!”] This teaching came not from Ser Goodwin but from Dacey…
Ronnet attempted to replicate the winning hook, but Brienne beat him to it by parrying the whiplash at his elbow and, taking advantage of the 15-year-old strongman’s momentum, shoved him behind her, causing him to lurch to the ground.
[“Don’t base the force of the blow on your arm, accompany the movement with the weight of your torso!”]
Brienne anticipated Ronnet’s defence by a moment and struck viciously with her right hand, spinning her entire torso. The impact was devastating. The Maiden felt a couple of fingers burn with pain; perhaps the fist impacted on Connington’s cheekbone fractured in a few places…but at least the opponent did not seem to fare any better.
Ronnet rolled a few feet to get away from the dangerous opponent six years his junior … but then he sprang up and charged furiously toward his prey.
Brienne scampered, at last, leaving a foot as an obstacle; the Griffin stumbled but managed to pull the grappled Maiden back with him on the strap.
Ronnet managed to overpower the victim by standing over it. The Griffin was short but tremendously heavy; only one arm was left free of her.
Connington began his barrage of punches to the Maiden’s face. Brienne felt the metallic taste in her mouth, a warm fluid run from her nose, and dizzying dizziness. Her left arm was insufficient to hold her defence, but the storm subsided.
“You again!!!” the Hornwood boy held back his arms from behind, lifting Ronnet even slightly, thus allowing Brienne to free her right arm.
The Beast of Tarth’s response came a second later.
“Uaaarrrghh!!!” Brienne raised her torso and returned the blows…chin…nose…mouth…cheek. A resounding *Crack* was heard amid the chaos of shouts and exchanges. The fracture of her right hand was almost a certainty at that point, but Brienne did not care and continued to strike again and again.
Ronnet lifted himself up by levering his legs and head-butted the weak attacker behind him, managing to free himself and move away from the slaughterhouse.
“You filthy monster!… urgh… You broke my nose!” but a distress signal stopped the Griffin’s vengeance:
“Away! Away! Retreat! Quick!” Beesbury, Fossoway and Peake gave up the fight against the Northern quartet. Bryce also rose to welcome the retreat.
“This is not over, Brienne the Beast!” Ronnet picked up the helpless Redwine on the ground and walked away.
A bruised but elated Alysanne Mormont roared to all her comrades:
“We won! The North won!!”
End Chapter.
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