Chapter 47: Trial by the Seven
My son thinks me an egomaniacal megalomaniac, but worse, thinks me incompetent - that I've finally leapt too far and overshot greatness to land deeply into madness. He's not wrong, the puppet master and chess player mentality lends itself greatly to arrogance and the many pitfalls of that deadly sin. I've raised the boy well, taught him all he knows, but I haven't taught him all that I know, and I never can.
Apotheosis is achieved in the deluge of sacred blood, and my relationship with my occult felling axe has pushed me farther than any have come in millennia. The Old Gods started the process when they linked me to magic with their curse, laying the seed that I watered with the sanguinary sap of over a hundred face carved weirwood trees, the extinction of the Children of the Forest, and the death of their champion: the rooted Brynden Rivers.
The axe now serves as a focus, allowing me to see deeper into the Greensight than even Brynden's intimate connection through weirwood impalement. So long as it remains at my side, the past, present, and future in Westeros appear as roads to me, with only my own personal strength of will limiting how far and wide I travel.
How can I not appear as a puppet master to the boy, when I freely manipulate destiny to give me the things I want? Case and point, me and my boys are facing down seven of the Riverland's finest on this fine morning for a bit of blood sport and a fat payday. It might seem a bit of a weird flex for a psychic of my caliber, but I have both the meta and local understanding of just how legendary this tourney will be, and a Trial by the Seven for the capstone will elevate it to a position of notoriety that will not be matched in my lifetime. Far more so than had I simply pounded out all my competition, plus I get to keep the war on track.
The four knightly sons of Lord Whent took up their father's cause alongside knights sworn to Darry, Mooton, and Ryger. The man had hoped that the Prince would somehow convince his subverted Kingsguard allies to take the field with his sons, but not only did Rhaegar not want his close connection to the Whent's to come out after his suspicious win in the joust, but the presence of King Aerys II kept them in their place. Instead, Whent chose his champions based on the Riverland houses most vocally outraged by my behavior.
Not that he picked weak but yappy champions, he arrayed a coterie of killers against us, but my champions are men so steeped in blood that they are the focus of nightmares of those still alive in the lands beyond the Wall, and the waking nightmares for many a thrall throughout the North. Big Bucket bedecked in full plate armor is certainly a nightmarish sight. Like my own personal knight of Catarina minus the onion theme.
The foes laughed when I pulled out my felling axe. I kept a tight leash on the mystical elements of the weapon, so it just appeared to be a sap stained double headed lumberjack's tool. Something capable of delivering grievous wounds, but not optimized for the battlefield at all. Despite its appearance, the axe has an edge that will shave a man cleanly and will keep that edge no matter the abuse put to it, and feels both light and agile in the hand. That speedy bit of manipulation is the limit of the magic I can utilize without the runes on the weapon lighting up like wildfire.
I'll be saving those nasty features for the rebellion.
The Whent's personal septon burnt daylight with his sacred dirges and consecration of the event, seemingly overjoyed to have the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms on him as he hammed up his time in the spotlight for all it's worth. Eventually it proved too much for Greatjon, and the man flung some nearby horseshit at the man.
"For fuck's sake! Let's get to killing each other already, before we die of fucking thirst standing out here while the bastard rubs his cock under his robes and thumbs his arse!" the Northman giant screamed in frustration, and I idly wished it could have set off a second trial for us to partake in.
Instead Aerys shouted for us to get on with it already, while he gleefully looked at the septon spitting shit out of his mouth, literally this time.
Like a good servant of the crown, I sprinted to carry out my command, leaving my companions in the dust before starting things off with a flying kick that landed on the heater shield of Walter's eldest, sending the man flying. Heedless of his shocked friends, I hooked the shield of the man and pinned his arm underfoot as I raised up the occult felling axe overhead. I felt a few pings on my armor as I brought the axe down. The oldest Whent boy got his sword braced for the attack, but just because my axe feels light and agile doesn't mean it is, a long handle and two heavy racing geometry heads, the axe was made to be on the bigger end for a man my size and strength. The full weight of my tree felling axe collided with that sword and didn't slow at all as it continued for his helmet where it caved in the steel rather than slide off, biting into the skull and brain meat of the man beneath.
A few blades bounced off my cuirass, rondels, and pauldrons as they tried to angle for my armpits, but I am a canny fighter who limits such openings. They failed to bleed me as I took first blood in this sacred event. I slapped aside the next such attack with the red haft of my axe and swung the back end in a short punch that had the Darry knight scrambling to keep his feet under him as his head tried to fly away. He stumbled but managed to get his shield up to intercept my return stroke. He screamed as the sharp head of the felling axe penetrated the layer of steel and split the wood and leather under before it continued on through his vambrace to taste the meat and bone below.
The desperate Darry knight tried to use this deep bind to yank my weapon out of my hands, but failed to reason that my hands are stronger than his full body movement, and thus all he achieved was pulling my axe free for me and getting it replanted in his chain aventail. He reached up and felt the weapon lodged in his trachea. Then he latched on to it with both hands, trying to keep my axe bound up for his companions to take advantage.
My respect for the man abounded, but I kicked him in the knee anyways, ripping my axe free as he fell over. His sacrifice was in vain, as my companions fought his. Six to five, the Riverland knights fought in tight formation to keep each other from getting flanked or back stabbed. They valiantly traded shots with the Northmen who circled around them happily smashing their weapons on steel plates and shields while controlling the distance of the engagement.
I ruined this circle jerk when I clamped my gauntlet clad hand on the rim of another Whent shield and ripped the thing out of the man's hands, tossing it away and making him battle me mace to axe. Big Bucket also brought a mace to this meeting and thwapped the poor Whent in the head with it. The blow slid off, but the Whent now had to choose to block my axe, or Hugo's next mace strike. He used both hands to push his mace haft into the haft of my axe and though I broke through the block and landed a blow on his shoulder the axe failed to penetrate the pauldron and instead left a nasty dent and likely a broken collar bone. He also took another thwap from Big Bucket that bounced this time, putting more power into the poor head and neck beneath. He still got another block in on me that collapsed completely and finally bit into his armor, but the third mace strike from Big Bucket caused him to collapse to the ground.
"Damn y.." I interrupted the Whent by finally getting in that vitality severing overhead strike that split plate and burst chain.
"That one counts as mine!" Big Bucket raised his mace like a Siegbrew in a Catarina salute, further cementing the image in my mind.
The remaining four saw what we'd done and broke formation, the quartet bursting into action with the goal of claiming my life before they might die, something they needed to achieve quickly after leaving their backs and flanks to bloodthirsty Northmen. Their weapons pinged off me, my armor is the thickest in the Seven Kingdoms and even with all that weight I am still the fastest man on this battlefield. Agility is a function of strength, and I am the strongest.
Not that I simply let them bullrush me. The first comer, the Mooton knight, got his bronze salmon helmet ornament split along with the helmet and skull beneath when he tried to dive for my legs. I engaged the remaining men with my fists, slapping away axes with my gauntlets and delivering a pair of crushing counter punches before my friends brought them to the ground from behind. The six fighters from the North viciously beat the armored men to death with blows from above.
Knowing them to be dead, I stepped away and circled around the violence, looking out at the men and women in the wooden stands witnessing this final, and in my opinion greatest event at the Tourney of Harrenhal. I pointed to my family; Aella, Kodlak, and Skjor clapping while Ulfric looked like a man relieved after a good shit. Galmar - the beefy psycho - had his hands around my concubine's ears as his fingers held her eyes open to the destruction, the front of her yellow dress covered in vomit.
The Royal family watched from a third story balcony with Lord Whent and his wife, and Walter - seeing the maniacal look on the King's face as the man stared at him - climbed up onto the railing and dove off, landing head first on the flagstones below.
That's what you get.
The suicide of Lord Whent got more screams and gasps than the absolute physical destruction of the knights in the arena - though those certainly garnered more than a few womanly shrieks - and I found it to be the perfect little chef's kiss on this glorious encore of brutality. Where once could have been the swan song of an idyllic bygone time, the Tourney of Harrenhal is now firmly an event worthy of Westeros like the Red and Purple Weddings.
In the future when these people feel the great sorrow, despair, and misery this world so readily hands out, when all is regret and pain, when they know it will never change and hate themselves for it, I want them to think back on this tournament, and the Whents, and know deep in their hearts… It can always be worse.
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4REEESEARCH was so impressed by the last chapter he has requested I swap focus away from Fists and the Furious and continue my work here. Thanks for the support, fam.
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Chapter 48: Trial By Fire
Late 281 False Spring
Brandon Stark
"This whole matter was shamefully done." Ned Stark spat as he contemplated the victory of the man in the arena and the utter destruction of the family that hosted him in their home.
Brandon Stark narrowed his eyes at his younger brother. The fostering in the Vale ruined him as a man of the North, and instead before him stood an Andal knight in the skin of Ned Stark. A useful personality for a vassal, certainly more tenable than the usual rowdy Northern Lords, but terrible in a peer. Brandon resolved to break Ned of this mindset before they parted at the Crossroads, but wondered if it would even take before Jon Arryn reasserted his values high as honor into Ned.
"This was a victory for the whole North that will be celebrated for a hundred generations." Brandon began a bombastic monologue to begin Ned's counter indoctrination.
His heart hoped for success, because if the worst should happen to him, Ned would inherit Winterfell and the Paramountcy of the North. An Andal in wolf's clothing could be disastrous for the dynasty, on top of being absolutely shameful.
"And would your soon to be wife feel that way?" Ned countered the counter indoctrination, "It is her cousin Lord Mormont has taken as concubine. How will you keep a good household when you say things like that about a man who's ruined her kinfolk?"
Brandon snarled at the thought. The Tully bitch had already ruined his capacity to take Salt Wives alongside his friends when they raided beyond the wall. Now she would be unbearable about the North's greatest living hero, and Brandon's personal role model and mentor?
Maybe Brandon should take a page out Lord Frey's book and breed the bitch to death…
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Early 282 Winter
Jorah Mormont
While my student took a leisurely trip though the Riverlands, I had my party making a forced march to comfortably beat the coming cold snap. I had to drop off all the Noble's along the west coast who came with me and get all my boats out of the water before the sub-zero hits. The Year of False Spring would sucker punch Westeros with the sudden return of one of the coldest winters on record, one that would freeze Blackwater Bay, let alone a stretch of sea known as the Bay of Ice. Though whinging abounded, the first signs of chill validated my brutal pace, and my former kin among the Glover's apologized as they got off on the tidal flats north of their home.
My sons had continued the expansion of Rock Hall over the years, building their bodies much the same ways I had decades prior. Their work was rougher than mine, but well ventilated, well insulated, and well heated which was all my family cared about at this point. I had 120 living children from Alyssa and my sixteen Salt Wives, on top of the wives and children of Ulfric and Galmar and my new concubine. That's a lot of bodies in our home under the stoney hill.
Ulfric came in from the outside, furs plastered with ice and snow as he fell over and shivered next to one of the coal ovens struggling to keep the entryway warm.
"Well?" I asked from my chair, dressed up to go out next if needed.
"A-all c-c-c-lear." he chattered out as his body released vapor from the rapid temperature shift.
"Good work, son." I nodded, happy I wouldn't have to go out as the next in the line to keep the vents clear.
We'd done our best when building this harbor town, but this second winter is so cold that the very young, the sick, and the very old stand little chance of survival. Even if this is a 'short' return of winter by Westeros standards, it is so bitterly cold that by this time Aerys has walls of the Red Keep lit up with Wildfire to drive the ice and snow back.
Between this Winter, two rebellions and most disastrously: Rob Stark, I can see why Lyanna Mormont would only have sixty two fighting men left on Bear Island. If I didn't have the super power of money, even healthy adults could die easily in these conditions. The coal my sailors used to weep over paying dividends.
I pat Ulfric on his wet shoulder and smiled down on him in approval, "Don't worry, son. This winter will break soon. After all, how will we war if we're all snowed in?"
It goes to show how maddeningly cold it is that even someone as 'modern' in temperament as Ulfric would rather be fighting a civil war than be out in the cold again. Whether the pyromancers succeeded in their order to overcome winter or not, winter began to break in the second turn of the year, and it is during this turn that Brandon learned what he learned of Rhaegar and Lyanna.
Put some respect on the man for braving the weather from some Northgirl strange. Fortunately for my plans, Lyanna remained unburdened of child, and coordinated with the crown prince to nicely vanish along her route to Brandon's wedding to Catelyn Tully. In a fury, Brandon abandoned the event, gathered his friends, and rode south to King's Landing to perform a strategic suicide.
By third turn of the year my liege lord Rickard Stark had the summons in hand to come to King's Landing to answer for the treason of his son and heir, similar letters distributed to the father's of Brandon's other companions, of which only my former good-father Gawen Glover refused to go, and interestingly enough this is the reason his youngest son Ethan would survive, as Aerys murdered the fathers and sons together as they arrived.
Rickard never spoke aloud about why he chose to answer the call instead of calling the banners, though I wonder if it has something to do with not wanting to condemn the sons of the North to death because of his failure to break Brandon's willful impulsiveness with a dash of not knowing Aerys firsthand and thus underestimating exactly how derailed this feudal system is right now. Either way, Rickard slogged south through the spring time slosh and mud to arrive at King's Landing at the start of the fifth turn.
I watched closely the day of the execution.
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Mid 282 Spring
Brandon Stark
Brandon screamed in horror when the pyromancers lit the fire under his father, the Lord of the North suspended from the rafters to roast, the king's champion for his trial by combat: wildfire. The Wild Wolf felt the leather cord around his neck tighten as he tried to reach the sword left just out of reach of his foot.
Though his admittedly rubbish brain cried out for the sword in sight, something in his years with Jorah Mormont stopped him from it. 'You should try not being a fool all the time. You might need the experience some day to save your life.' This situation seemed like a particularly important time to practice that advice. First time for everything.
Brandon thought about what would even happen if he managed to reach the sword with out the Tyroshi torture device behind his neck strangling him, and realized that even if he manage to get the sword and cut himself free, what could he actually do to save his father? The man is atop a field of wildfire. To get to him would just burn Brandon up, so why the sword? Was it just there to mock him?
His father was a lost cause, so what could Brandon do? He pulled on the chains around his wrists, and they failed to break. Obviously. But then an idea struck, he needed to get his hands behind his head, but couldn't while they were tied behind his back. In a do or die moment, Brandon jumped pulling his knees as high as he could get them and yanking his hands under his ass and feet.
With the whole court watching the Lord of the North cook in his armor, Brandon accomplished the first step to taking back his autonomy. Seemingly the only man in the room who noticed was one of the Kingsguard, but the man made no mention to anyone of the change even as Brandon reached over his head and felt out the release on the strangling device. There was a brief moment of horror when his fingers tightened the cord further, but a reverse of the motion freed the Wild Wolf from his collar.
Crying out from the overwhelming joy, Brandon snatched up the sword. He knew he had no chance of fighting out of the Red Keep unarmored and hands still chained, but Brandon didn't want to escape. How could he live on now after his foolishness condemned so many good men, including his own father to torturous death? Instead of running away from the Iron Throne, Brandon ran at it. Howling like the Wild Wolf they'd always called him he somehow managed to knock one of the two Kingsguard onto his ass with a flying kick like the one he'd seen his mentor deliver at Harrenhal.
The pure and powerful emotion kept Brandon's frail body going, and seemingly his withered arms were as strong as the other White Cloak, an old man. Brandon fell into the zone as he focus on cutting the armored man down, or more precisely sought out a gap to pierce. Seeing an opening, he grabbed his blade halfway down to guide the point home, and froze.
The sword was there to mock him. It was blunt.
The enormity of that revelation crushed Brandon, almost enough to make the pain of the old man's sword entering his guts not register. The White Cloak twisted and pulled away from the young man, and Brandon wanted to collapse and try to press down on his torn open belly. He wanted to weep.
But more than anything he wanted the cackling disgusting creature sitting on that horrid chair of swords to just shut the fuck up.
In one final spurt of effort, Brandon cocked back his arm and kept his feet from slipping on his own blood. He hurled that blunt sword with all he had up at the throne and for a precious moment the noise and the pain fell away as he watched the sword soar over the steps of the Iron Throne.
The Mad King screamed and flailed his hands, trying and succeeding in striking the incoming weapon with his overgrown fingernails. Those disgusting nails snapped when the sword struck, but they diverted the perfect sternum shot up and away, and the king shrieked as the point bounced off his collar. One would think the king was the one with the mortal wound from the wails, but alas, Brandon Stark bore the death blow.
Finally slipping on his blood, Brandon fell hard, and the agony returned. He clenched his jaw as he snorted and gagged, but refused to scream like the weak thing atop the throne. He kept his eyes on the man, hoping he would flail and impale himself on the ridiculous chair, but many years atop it lent the crazed beast some measure of poise and familiarity with its dangers.
Soon enough, the ragged hole in his belly bled enough, and Brandon felt himself slipping away. In his final thought he wondered if anyone was truly proud of him.
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Finally got to one of the big scenes I imagined early on for this fic.
Big thanks to 4REESEARCH for supporting me and my family.
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