Chapitre 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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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone