Game of Thrones: Paladin of Old Gods - Chapter 144: Three Master Swordsmen (I)
POV: Gelledo Antaryon
Circle of Duelists.
A second after the horn blast decreed the start of the Trial By Combat…
Everything depended on the outcome of this confrontation…
The wager between him and the heir of Torrhen’s Square was of no importance. Sealord’s three petrified dragon eggs were nothing compared to what there was to gain and lose with the Iron Bank. Indeed, if the brat had managed to win by some miracle, his exiled son from Braavos would have even laughed beyond the grave, thinking of the ultimate symbolic revenge against Ferredo.
Gelledo Antaryos’ fate would be decreed in that place far from his hometown, surrounded by filthy Northern barbarians.
The Bank had given its Iron Word.
If he had succeeded in killing or forcing the arrogant brat son of a highborn whore to surrender, Gelledo would have been spared the persecution of the House of Black and White, and, as soon as he returned to Braavos, he might even have been able to kill his traitor father and his guard dog, Syrio Forel, in person.
It was undoubtedly his former master who had requested the Gift from the Many-Faced Gods-that coward did not even dare to face him face to face!
Gelledo and his men had always cleared all tracks and removed any potential grudging family threat during their ‘hunting trips.’
But the iron coin would soon tip in his favour. Soon the most powerful free city in Essos would be his. Braavos would become his accessible playground.
No one would ever again oppose the new Sealords.
His not-so-father, Ferredo, would be first on his list, and then it would be Syrio Forel’s turn.
He would not grant his not-most-master a swift death, no… Instead, first, he would deprive him of his proud sword arm, then his feet, and finally, feed him to the stray kittens he loved.
And then who knows–maybe he would return to take to wife the shameless little Northern girl who had dared to reject him.
All that remained was to defeat the ‘Legendary Bloody Snow.’ The two-bit charlatan boasted so much, but how could he face him in the Water Dance if he didn’t even know how to hold the sword properly?
‘Ahahah, you idiot of a barbarian! You may be a ‘valiant and promising’ knight, but you can’t even imagine how much you will regret depriving yourself of your precious armour!’
The two duelists continued to study each other as they rotated in a circle, pointing their blades at each other.
The hand position was strange, but the boy’s stride seemed fluid, quiet and faultless…
‘At least in footwork, the brat knows his stuff.’ Thought the alert Braavosian who never left anything to chance.
Not only was Gelledo wearing the best light armour anyone had ever seen, and even if, according to Director Nestoris, the trick had somehow been revealed, the future Sealord of Braavos had another card hidden from the eyes of the world…
No one knew. The forge master he commissioned the work and the poison merchant from whom he bought the supplies had not lived long enough to tell. And Gelledo had not used that card even in official duels.
It would have been too easy for any healer to identify the essence of Demon Dance.
So far, the Braavosian had reserved that special treatment for only three brazen swordsmen who had dared to tarnish his reputation as an undefeated duelist. His poisoned point and a few burning embers in the Black Boatman’s burrows had disposed of the bodies later…
But he was not to be carried away by his impulses; now, the victory mattered.
Minimizing risks was the wisest course of action. He could quietly quench his thirst for blood in the future. It was imperative to get rid of the pesky faceless men first…
‘Yes, why not…’ Gelledo thought it was worth investing some energy to give the audience some show and intimidate the boy.
The Future Sealord smiled and backed away a few steps by lowering his blade to the ground and then turned his attention to the crowd.
After all, it was common knowledge that young aspiring Westerosi knights were nursed from the cradle by songs of chivalry and rules of honour.
And ‘The Honorable Hero of the North’ would never hit him from behind… not with all those noble witnesses.
The Water Dancer performed a refined, fluid, and highly rapid display of sword skills and footwork. At that speed to the common eye, the thin sword of cold-hardened steel would have appeared as a flexible and deadly whip.
Gelledo danced pirouetting back and forth, adding a one-handed double wheel and a few jumps adorned with a double vault.
Not even Syrio Forel could match him in show-stopping acrobatics. The Gelledo Dance was the most sought-after attraction in the Sealord Palace…
Boos of astonishment and clamours of applause grew louder and louder.
When the Dancer concluded the performance by bowing to a group of southern ladies and gentlemen, the eye and ear caught some pointing and handing of jingling purses. Even the audience was beginning to doubt Bloody Snow’s chances of victory.
It was time to sing the song…
“Surrender now, Duncan Tallhart, and you can live another-” was just a blur caught out of the corner of his eye when he turned around…
Something hard, blunt, devastating and tremendously precise had struck between the solar plexus and the mouth of the Braavosian’s stomach, knocking him back a few feet.
His breath was utterly broken, his lungs empty and desperate for fresh air…
Gelledo was on his back and butt on the ground. His grip on the sword had failed; survival instincts managed to get the better of the pain and physical trauma.
His head lifted to try to carp at what iron hammer had nearly shattered his rib cage. His silk armour was almost impenetrable from piercing and slashing weapons but ineffective against blunt ones…
How had Bloody Snow concealed such a weapon?!
What he saw shocked him… It had not been a hammer, a maul or a club, but the fist!
The boy had been standing unarmed with his torso forward, and his arm and closed hand still posed after the treacherous blow he had just thrown…
‘Was it a simple punch?! It was the last thought before the blowback devastated the victim’s respiratory system.
“Cough! Coff! Coff!… Bluerghh!!! FIuuuuurh! Cough! Cough!” A three-course concoction and a half-cup of wine were forcibly returned to the earth as the poor Braavosian tried pitifully to inhale as much air as possible between regurgitations and coughs.
Laughter and various rumours of disgust from the audience-which until a few seconds ago were cheering Gelledo-added insult to injury.
“It is not knightly behaviour to strike an opponent from behind, milord! Nor is it to strike an honourable and acrobatic Water Dancer like yourself while drowning in your own bile trying to catch your breath… I shall wait ‘chivalrously’ for you to catch your breath, Noble Gelledo Antaryon.” The Bastard walked calmly away toward the thin blade stabbed into the ground.
Cheers and choruses from the Norse barbarians accompanied the Hero of the North’s every step as Gelledo fumbled, trying to recover as quickly as possible and claim his heinous vengeance.
“Take your time, milord! I, too, hold the need for a few moments to prepare as best I can!” Every word uttered by that snail dung made him want to impale him repeatedly with the thin blade!
But what did he mean?
What was he doing?
Gelledo managed to lift himself off the ground with an enormous effort; it would take him at least another minute to regularize his breathing and get back on his feet…
The Bastard was at the opposite end of the circle next to a burning brazier, and… He was plunging half of the blade into the flames!
‘Why? Why weaken the blade with fire?’ He thought urgently.
[“Remember, Gelledo, Bloody Snow will not chase victory by killing you. He will try to force you to surrender. Under no circumstances should you give in to the temptation to surrender, my boy… Or I can assure you, your debt to the Many-Faced Gods will be the least of your problems.”] Director Nestoris’s iron threats rang like alarm bells in the Braavosian’s mind.
‘Of course… he will try to wound me by trying to bleed me as little as possible! Heat cauterizes a wound, besides making it unbearably painful.’ He could not deny that it was a shrewd move; in his place, Gelledo would have made the same decision…
In any case, the Northern brat had miscalculated. More was needed to damage his armour. The tip of the sword would have had greater penetration, but the blade’s edge would have suffered…
“Ready when you are, Ser Dancer.” The condemned man approached, holding the sword with its red-hot tip and smoke-blackened blade.
Gelledo picked up his sword and decided it was time to fight earnestly to inflict the most heinous deaths on the boy who had forever stained his good name in ridicule.
No surrender-just death and pain.
The fire had to be answered with poison…
The swordsman pressed with his thumb the invisible pressure lever hidden under the first layer of leather of the handle. The mechanism inside the sword was activated. A few transparent drops began to drip from the tip of the blade…
All it would take was one scratch, and in no time, the essence of Demon Dancer would take effect. The victim would be afflicted with minor convulsions, partial paralysis and involuntary muscle cramps. The poison itself was not deadly, and its effects would last only a few minutes, but it was a thorn in the side for all duelists and fighters engaged in mortal combat.
The boy did not seem to notice anything-it was time to take the initiative.
However… something paralyzed both duelists forcing them to turn their attention to the gargantuan presence of danger to their left.
No noise, no scream, just a glance-it was that old man called The Watcher!
All the sadistic murderer’s body hair stood up, the skin tightened and froze, the bladder pressed with urgent urgency to be emptied, and legs and arms began to tremble.
Onlookers near the mysterious figure, who personally negotiated with one of the highest officials of the Iron Bank, took a few steps away from the suffocating murderous aura hovering in the air.
All Gelledo’s senses of danger thrilled, urgently signalling the threat of a giant new predator! A predator at the head of the natural hierarchy of carnivorous hunters!
Those tremendous yellow raptor eyes that caught his gaze were working their way through skin, flesh and bone to the bare soul!
Gelledo felt like a miserable, trapped mouse suffocated by the shadow of a majestic Golden Eagle. No…not even a mouse…it was not that important in the eyes of the predator. It was a worm–a mere bait for larger prey that could satisfy that monster’s hunger!
‘He knows! He knows about the poison!’ thought the culprit instinctively, shaking like a leaf.
But how? How was it possible? The blade was already damp from the dew on the ground; an extra transparent drop was impossible to notice at that distance on a night lit only by fires.
Nestoris warned him to fight by strictly adhering to the imposed regulations.
[“No impropriety will escape the referees or the ‘witnesses present,’ Gelledo. Fight ‘fairly.'”]
The murderous rampage inexplicably died an instant later, allowing the Braavosian to regain control of his body.
“So it was really the poison that was your secret weapon…
Indeed, a whisper of three mysterious deaths had reached my ears long ago.
Three celebrated Braavosi master swordsmen disappeared in the nighttime alleys of Braavos in less than two years without any duelist being credited with an honourable victory…” So explained Bloody Snow quietly, shocking Gelledo.
‘Tsz! So the old man’s threatening look only served to warn his pupil of danger!’
“Not to fear, Ser Dancer, it is not an irregularity to use good poison to win a duel to the death… Certainly, perhaps a bit petty and dishonourable for an egregious ‘undefeated’ duelist from the respected city of Braavos.
Here in Westeros, we say that poison is a weapon for ‘Women’, ‘Cowards’ and ‘Dornians’. I don’t think you’re a woman and not even Dornian…
So you’re just a coward, right?” Laughter and murmurs of outrage stifled Gelledo’s pride by fanning his flame of anger into a blaze.
“DIE!!!” Shrieked Gelledo giving vent to all pent-up rage as he leapt forward with the sole purpose of killing…
End POV.
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POV: Lord Commander of the Kingsguard
Less than seventy feet away from the duelists.
A minute before the real fight began…
Barristan abandoned personal concerns and favouritism toward the boy and carefully observed every detail with the utmost impartiality.
Only the blades would sing from that moment until the end of the duel.
His curiosity and warrior pride longed to know the truth…
Was Ser Jaime right? Did Duncan Tallhart’s talent with the sword surpass even that of his former confrere, Ser Arthur Dayne?
Barristan had not yet had the opportunity to observe the boy fight in person; all he had were ballads, tales, and firsthand accounts from knights who had had the privilege or misfortune of witnessing Bloody Snow’s legendary actions.
Ser Jaime had personally crossed swords with him in a night sparring, and, according to his former squire, that boy had infinite potential…
The Kingslayer had been training obsessively for months in preparation for this tournament, tormenting the no longer young Lord Commander with aggravating sparring sessions for his physique. But Barristan refused no request.
The chanting of steel was becoming the only way to interact with his hated brother, who stained the honour of the white cloak…
Jaime’s every word was a screech in Barristan’s ears, but the sword’s clangors and the steel dance were more than an acceptable form of communication for the swordsman… The Kingslayer was also aware of this and seemed to accept his choice with dignity.
The battle of the Guest Keep, in which the two Kingsguards fought side by side against dozens of enemies, did not wash the crimes of the honorless knight in the eyes of Barristan The Bold…but at least they granted the Young Lion the right to acquire fencing drills.
And the thing that Barristan hated and loved at the same time … was that he liked it.
Both knights gave their best to refine more and more the noble way of the sword. Sparring between the two became almost a habit that Barristan could no longer do without.
The Lord Commander thought back to one of the rare verbal interactions he had with his confrere.
[“Why such a rush in training? Not even as a squire did you train with such constancy and rigidity.”
“Because now I know I can improve.
…The sword, the horse and the lance are the only knightly ways I have left. Besides … I don’t want to be left behind.”
“Behind whom?”
“Duncan Tallhart. And if we don’t resume training, Ser, he will soon leave you behind too.”]
Barristan’s attention catapulted toward an old merchant spectator. The duelists and hundreds of spectators replicated the knight’s action.
His Royal Guard disposition shrieked ‘Danger!” his hand instinctively slid to the hilt of his sword even though the possible threat was more than a hundred feet away and minimally interested in the figure of the King.
“Who is that man?” asked Robert to Eddard Stark.
“Duncan Tallhart’s master-at-arms, Your Grace. A famous master highly respected in the North and throughout Essos.” Jaime took a step closer to the Protector of the North and asked:
“Forgive me, Lord Stark, do you mean Master Zick? The master-at-arms, also known as The Watcher?”
“That’s right, Ser Jaime.” Eddard Stark.
“The Watcher, huh? Well, the look on that man’s face almost made me pee in my pants. Ahaha!” Commented the King, laughing but in a much softer tone than usual. After the Water Dancer’s arrogant and pathetic performance, Robert almost doubled over in laughter.
Barristan thought back to Balon Swann’s words.
Ser Balon Swann kept telling him that this boy was no ordinary human being but a demonic beast born for war…
Balon had witnessed firsthand the gruesome spectacle of death in the Sea Tower corridor on Pyke’s surrender. It seemed like unfounded exaggerations…
[“I wouldn’t know how to describe him in words, Ser… Not a boy, but a beast with steel claws and a demonic gaze that claimed ironborn blood insatiably.
I realised that I had wet my pants when the battle was over. And I am not even ashamed to admit it. Among the many puddles of piss in that slaughterhouse … there was also mine.”]
If that was the look of Bloody Snow’s master-at-arms, then perhaps those were not exaggerations…
“This is it,” Jaime said, appearing at his side.
“DIE!!!” the confrontation began.
The Bravosian began the assault with ferocity by trying a double lunge followed by a sweeping kick; the boy fluidly discarded all three blows choosing a defensive stance.
Gelledo pirouetted by cleaving a storm of broader and faster blows, and the thin blades began to cross. They did not look like collisions between rigid sword slashes but like a contrast between steel whips.
Bloody Snow again opted to defend by parrying more than a dozen slashes with a good margin ahead of the attack. But something trilled in the swordsman’s experienced eye…
‘It is not simple anticipatory play… It is a set flow of defence!
‘A standard manoeuvre rehearsed endlessly and absorbed into muscle memory!’ They were a series of movements so fluid and natural as breathing, no…not breathing, more like synchronicity between arms, legs and blade comparable to those of lips, tongue and teeth!
Gelledo’s relentless assault continued to clash futilely against the Tallhart boy’s fluid steel defence.
After forty–maybe fifty slashes, lunges, middles, straight doubles and parried rovers, Jaime asked the veteran swordsman:
“Did you find an opening in the defence?”
“No…but I can say that those are not simple defensive manoeuvres.
The boy could attack and defend at the same time if he really wanted to.
And I have no idea how he can pull off such manoeuvres… I’ve never seen anything like that.” replied Barristan without taking his eyes off the confrontation for a moment.
“Duncan wants to tire and destroy his opponent’s self-esteem and force him to surrender.” Jaime.
“I agree. If that boy wanted the Braavosian dead, Gelledo’s throat would have been sliced long ago…
You have already crossed swords with him. Tell me…can he replicate those movements even with the long sword?” Barristan.
“Short sword, long sword, bastard sword, two-handed sword and even double sword… I think it can be applied even with halberd and axe, as far as I know.
He tried to explain part of one of those manoeuvres to me, warning me not to practice it directly… Unfortunately, I didn’t listen to him and almost dislocated my wrist and shoulder, tearing a couple of muscle bands in my back.” Barristan could not imagine the physical strain and stress it might take on the body to replicate such movements with heavy weapons.
As far as he knew, the human body was not designed to perform manoeuvres of that level…
‘How could the boy impart force into the blade from that position?’ thought the knight.
“Were you able to force the defence in any way?” asked Barristan, trying to quench at least some of his vast curiosity.
“No… I’m physically stronger than him, or at least I was until four moons ago. Yet, even though I tried several times to dig an opening with mere brute force, Duncan dissipated the blow by using its energy to reinforce his own defensive manoeuvre and counterattack…
It was as futile as it would be for the strongest man in Westeros to punch a feather mattress lined with Karstark leather.” Nevertheless, it was a very effective metaphor to express the idea.
“Unless the difference in the quality of the weapons is monumental, the only weakness I could find in the technique was the duration–and its limit was five minutes at the time.” Five minutes of full combat was an interminable amount of time in a 1 vs 1 duel.
Now Barristan fully understood what Jaime was feeling…
The elderly knight felt the blood boiling inside him, and his sword hand itched incessantly. Her steel yearned to be drawn and tested.
She wanted to collide with Bloody Snow’s sword.
“I do believe I will follow your example, Ser.” Barristan decided after another series of exchanges.
“Meaning?” Jaime.
“I will also join the great melee.
… Tomorrow morning, we’ll both have a free shift. I’d appreciate having these old joints loosen up with steel.” So proposed the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
“With pleasure, Ser,” Jaime replied, concealing an arrogant and smug smile.
End Part I
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