The secret dream that the nameless sing
Is of the one true bastard king
To bare this child
A god born again
It takes the blood of the rarest men
The refused king
And the extinguished flame
The unwavering hand
And the forgotten rain
The unlikely son
And the proud stags shame
He shall wield hands of both might and anger
They will call him the black goat
The lion in the night
Or simply the stranger.
Legend says that a beautiful green-seer, named Vofa Hjarta, first sang the song of the Bastard King. They say she only sang the song once and upon doing so shriveled and aged 80 years. The House of Black and White were so frightened by the song that they cast Vofa out of Essos. The voice in the blue flame was still fresh in my memory when first I heard the song. Just a freshly cut eunuch left for dead, I strived to survive feeding on the thought of vengence until I learned to thief and whore in Myr. Skilled is no way to describe my talent for the art of thievery. My name, Varys, grew faster than I did as a child. I rose from the slums of Myr to the high hills of Pentos by the side of my friend and fierce sell-sword, Illyrio Mopatis, but there comes a point where a man grows weary of gold, when he has amassed more wealth than he could have ever fathomed, and he must seek new thrills. This led me to the truth that information is far more valuable than any gem stone or precious metal; a man's secrets can destroy him or force his yield far faster than the relief of his wealth or the tip of any sword. I had been born a slave in Lys and wouldn't wish the fate of my childhood on any other. This led me to purchasing my first group of little mice from the Pentos market. I chose children who were small and shy, children that the common slave owner would pass over without a second look. The more children I saved the larger my network of spies grew until it reached over the narrow sea to Westeros. I possessed more information than anyone in the world outside of the House of Black and White, yet the information I sought and valued most still eluded me. Where was the sorcerer who took my root and stem and burned them? I became convinced that I would only find the answer from the mouth of a faceless man, so I set my sights on finding the one thing they feared, the Bastard King. I vowed to search my entire life if need be, if I couldn't find my old friend and quench my vengence then I would find the child of death. Unlike the man I sought, the song had left me a plethora of clues to send my mice in search of.
The tales of noble bastards poured in and I began to compile them in the Book of Bastards to present to the House of Black and White as proof if I were to ever find the child. The nobles willingness to mount anything they could pay made the search tedious. It wasn't until a very old scroll was brought to me detailing the bastards born of Redgrass that the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. Daemon Blackfyre had secretly sired a son on the fields of Redgrass and his loyal bannermen Robb Reyne had sired a daughter. Their children sired a daughter together that would become infatuated with the high tales of her noble grandfathers. When she heard that Aemon Targaryen was being taken by ship to the Wall she joined the ship as a kitchen wench in order to seduce him and bare a noble bastard of her own. She was rebuffed repeatedly but would not be denied. As Aemon slept, the woman snuck in his cabin like a shadow, milked his eel, rubbed it in her loins, and bore his unknown daughter as he began his watch at the Wall. Their daughter would win the heart of a young Aegon V and carried his bastard daughter to Winterfell without his knowledge. This girl would grow into a beauty that made even the fabled Duncan the Tall break his knightly vows and sacred oaths. They would bring into the world a daughter who despised her humble life; she would flee to Essos in hopes of sleeping her way to diamonds and pearls but landed in a brothel. It was here that she gave birth to the bastard of Steffon Baratheon in 266 AL, a son she named Daemon Waters. A brothel is no place for an infant so she gladly sold the babe to me for enough gold to allow her to retire. The child wailed as his mother handed him away. The puzzle was at last completed and I set out toward Braavos to request a council with the high priest of the House of Black and White.
Stories of the high priest were scarce but grizzly. They told of a black cloaked man with a skull for a face and a worm for an eye. As I reached the edge of Braavos, I was met by a tall slender cloaked man who knew an uncomfortable amount of knowledge about me.
He greeted me with a growling voice, "Varys, the eunuch, the king of thieves, the spider, you come to seek parlay with the high priest. Is this true?"
I replied, "Indeed that is my intent."
As the man led me and the still wailing bastard through Braavos, my mind wandered to the hypocrisy of my actions. My harbored hatred toward magic and those who practice it would need to be put at bay if I were to gain the help of the faceless men. The guild may use ancient magic to change their faces at will but of all the songs my little mice sang none spoke of them harming children. They were called cold hearted killers who were never denied their task, men of honor who's word is their bond. If I were to be wrong about the identity of this bastard, the high priest would know, and I would surely be slain. The man led me to a tall ghastly white temple with a roof of charcoal black a top a stone knoll of dragon smoke grey. The doors of the temple looked like they were built for giants with one built of weirwood white and the other of ebony black, both with masterfully carved sad moon children to greet you. We entered into a great room open and free. Idols of forgotten and foreign gods decorated the room. Stone children ran and played around a giant bed of wildflower pedals floating a top a majestic pool. My guide left me here to notify the high priest of my arrival. The beauty of the room overwhelmed me and for a moment I forgot the hatred that had brought me here, the years I searched, and even my atrocious disfigurement. For the first time since his mother gave him up, the wailing bastard fell silent and looked up at me with a smile of someone who had just returned home after a long and trying journey.
When the high priest entered the room he looked nothing like the tales I was told but instead looked like a kindly old man, the type only a grandfatherless child of winter could dream of. Even with the priests unthreatening appearance I could still feel fear slowly crawling up my spine. I looked down on the bastard to find him still smiling and it eased my mind as the high priest approached us and began to speak, "Varys show me the child." I reluctantly handed him the bastard. He examined the child from head to toe paying close attention to the child's deep emerald eyes. He handed the child back and spoke again, "So you know the song of the Bastard King?"
I replied, "I've known it since I was a boy."
The high priest queried, "and what makes you believe this to be the child of song?"
"He has the blood of the rarest men." I stated proudly.
I opened the Book of Bastards and took the high priest through the child's lineage from Robb Reyne (the forgotten rain) to Daemon Blackfyre (the extinguished flame) to Aemon Targaryen (the refused king) to Aegon V (the unlikely son) to Duncan the Tall (the unwavering hand) to Steffon Baratheon (the proud stags shame).
"He asked, "I understand you would like a man killed?"
"No, I want a man found. I will be doing the killing." I said with a smile knowing I had found the Bastard King for I was still breathing.
"This we cannot do," the old man softly spoke, "We deal in death."
"But you could find him?" I prodded.
The old man snickered, "Of course but only if you wish for us to offer him to our god but you don't wish this. Give me your faith and give us this child and we assure you that will ascend to a position of great power and be influential enough to seek out this man for yourself."
"I will have your word?" I defeatedly asked.
"Our word is our bond." The priest nodded.
I handed the child over just as his mother had and made my way back to Pentos with nothing but a promise. It hadn't been the outcome that I dreamt of but at least my risk didn't result in my death. Putting my faith in a stranger's promise is not something I am in the practice of doing but this wasn't just any stranger, but the fabled high priest of the House of Black and White.
By the time I arrived back in Pentos, I found that most of my so called "Competition" throughout Essos had mysteriously died or disappeared. Illyrio pleaded with me to flea Pentos but I assured him we had nothing to fear. My wealth and network grew ten fold in the next few years. My little mice flowered into my little birds and new little mice sought me out for work and soon I was receiving more information from Westeros than Essos. There were unexplained disappearances in King's Landing and word of the king's growing paranoia and thinning resemblance of a once loved leader. The first time I heard him referred to as the "Mad King" he had burned a minstrel alive for singing a song mocking him and hailing his son Rhaegar as the prophesized prince that was promised. An uneasy feeling grew more and more palpable in Westeros as more people were burned to death and the king drifted further into the depths of insanity. No one felt safe in King's Landing and the name King Aerys II was permanently replaced with simply the Mad King. The king began to despise his eldest son and feared that his small council was plotting against him. In 278 AL, the mad king's master of whisperers fell victim to his fire reportedly for having a conversation with the prince outside of the small council. A few weeks later a raven arrived from King's Landing. It read: Varys, Aerys II king of the andals and the first men requires your council. Two of the very best from his personal guard are on their way to Pentos to retrieve you and carry orders from the king directed at you. If you flea, you will be hunted down and killed. The scroll was signed by grand maester Pycelle. It was no secret that king Aerys II had secluded himself and would only seek the council of Pycelle and the infamous pyromancer, Rossart. Pycelle's mild threat was as troublesome as a cloudy day to me. I had no intention of running. It is not often that a one time slave's council is sought out by a king. I had no doubt that this was the work of the faceless men.
Within a month, the two white cloaks set foot on the shores of Pentos. My little birds were there to great them kindly and escort them to my home. When they arrived, I was surprised to find the king, true to his word, had sent his very best for me. Tales of both men had reached me through song many times over the years. The first man, Ser Arthur Dayne, was widely known for his legendary sword, Dawn, it glimmered like none other as he entered the room. The other knight, Ser Barristan Selmy, was widely considered the greatest swordsmen in the world. They've called him Barristan the Bold since he was ten. I greeted them with admiration.
"Hello brave knights. I am Varys. You need no introductions Ser Arthur, Ser Barristan. Your acts of valor are well known, even in Essos. Pycelle informed me you'd be coming."
Ser Arthur handed me a scroll with unbroken seal of the king, "Varys, We have been ordered to bring you the king's orders, help you carry out these orders, and insure your safe passage to King's Landing." I broke the seal slowly fearing what orders the Mad King would have and began to read aloud so that the brave knights could know why they had to travel so far to hand deliver these orders: I, King Aerys II, hereby appoint you, Varys, as my new master of whisperers and appoint you to my small council. I fear for my life, I fear for my kingdom. I will need to find more knights that I trust will protect me if the time comes that I need protection. As your first order of business you will organize a tourney for those under the age of 14 who believe they will become knights one day with an assurance that a strong showing in this tourney will expedite the process. You will send invitations out to all corners of both Essos and Westeros. After completing this event, you will be escorted back to King's Landing to report to me and only me. I played as though I was at a loss for words but deep inside I bubbled with joy. As master of whisperers, I would inherit the network of spies built by Bryden Rivers and those who would succeed him for over a century. It would make me the most powerful master of whisperers since Bloodraven himself maybe even more so. All I would need to do is complete my orders and take my place in King's Landing. Unfortunately, I possessed no knowledge of how to organize such an event. Luckily, I had two famed knights here to council me.
With little to no knowledge of organized combat, the proud knights had to explain to me how we would complete this task. We started by making a list of families that we knew had children of the right age and might be willing or even insistent on allowing them to compete. The first name Ser Arthur mentioned was the squire of his friend Sumner Crakehall, Jaime Lannister. Arthur and Barristan compiled a list of over 50 names that the referred to as the Future Swords while I sent out ravens to all the cities of Essos. Unlike Westeros, Essos had no proud names and posed a much larger task than the recruitment of Westeros. Essos was filled with slaves and slave drivers, thieves and whores, there were no old houses to reap from, or even knights to recommend their squires. Very few would even be able to afford the great expense it would take to attend the event, let alone arm their entrants, or buy a horse for the event when reaching Westeros. After coming to this conclusion, I turned to the knights to ask why anyone would attend competitions that could lead them to bankruptcy or even death.
Ser Barristan gladly answered, "Some do it for glory, some do it for love, but most do it for gold."
Puzzled I asked, "Well, the King has provided a scant of glory, but I see no gold."
Ser Arthur laughingly stated, "I believe the King expects you to provide the purse, Varys, as a tribute to your loyalty and appreciation of your new post. We will need an archer's purse, a jouster's purse, a melee purse, and a champions purse."
I replied, "Will 20,000 gold dragons each for the archer, jouster, and melee champion and 40,000 for the over all champion suffice?"
"That is far too generous for a children's tourney, Varys." Ser Barristan exclaimed.
"Good. Then we will double it." I finished.
We now had a reason for the confident to enter. Ser Arthur suggested we select a feared place as our venue to detour those who would attend with only the intent of thievery. We agreed on Deadman's Spine, a vacant field at the foot of High Hill in the Riverlands. The land was said to be haunted by the children of the forest. With our location and purse set, we named the event Tourney of The Future Swords, sent out ravens to notify the world, and booked passage back to Westeros.
We boarded a ship bound for Coldwater. We waited below deck for our voyage to begin; I was eager to see what children Essos was going to offer. First, we were joined by a red priest of R'hllor and a tall, wide, bald boy dressed in loose red robes and armed with a sword. The red priests made my skin crawl, but I welcomed them aboard nonetheless. The priest introduced the boy as Thoros. Next, we were joined by an unaccompanied Braavosi boy. He was short in stature and also bald. He told me his name was Syrio Forel. The last group to board were familiar faces to me; it was the tall slender man who guided me through Braavos and a boy with long flowing black hair. When the boy turned and faced me I caught a glimpse of his bright green eyes, and before he could introduce himself as Daemon Waters, I knew who he was. The tall slender man acted as though we had never met, maybe he had forgotten or maybe he didn't want my party to know that I knew the child. Whatever his reasoning was I helped him maintain his façade. I spent most of the journey either sleeping or drinking wine. The red priest and the tall slender man both spent most of their time writing in very thick books. Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan took great pride in occupying the boys. They worked every day with them on their sword handling, their attacks, their defense, and their footwork. These children of Essos were ignorant to the great treat they were being given. They knew nothing of nobility or knights or of a the fame their teachers had in Westeros. Old and powerful houses would pay large sums for their children to be afforded such lessons, and these boys were getting them for free.
We arrived in Coldwater two weeks before the event just as the dawn broke from orange to blue and were greeted by the bannermen of Jon Arryn, the warden of the East. They escorted us to Deadman's Spine and assisted Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan in setting up camp and preparing the area for the tourney. When finally my tent was erected, I laid my head down to rest just happy that I was on solid ground yet again. Before I could drift off to my much desired slumber the tall slender man and Daemon intruded.
"The high priest insists that we visit the ghost of High Heart." The tall slender man informed me. I had no reason to deny this request as thus far the House of Black and White had delivered on their promise. I could have never dreamt of sitting on the king's small council but here I was nearly there, so we set out in the black of night to find the ghost. I had heard chirps of the woman; they described a dwarf woman with long white hair, skin pale as death, and piercing ruby eyes. It was said she walked with a twisted ebony cane and foretold the future. I had hoped to avoid her when we decided on Deadman's Spine, but I rested easy accompanied by the tall slender man and Daemon. Knowing how much the boy was valued by the faceless men, I knew that wouldn't allow any harm to come to us. We found the women sitting on a weirwood stump as though she had been expecting us. When we approached her, she caught sight of the boy by the light of the torch and ran off shrieking, "He has come! He has come!" The tall slender man nodded as if he had learned all he had needed to know. I wondered if this was their validation of Daemon's identity as we made our way back to camp; I also wondered if the ghost had reacted differently if I'd still have my head.
I spent the days leading up to the tourney with Ser Arthur atop High Heart where the ghost had ran, and we watched for the sigils that approached while Ser Barristan handled the logistics of registration. The first I spotted was the red archer of House Tarly. True to their words, "First In Battle," they were our early arrivals. Next we spotted the crossed hammers of House Rykker riding shoulder to shoulder with the trout of House Tully. Then came a shock for Ser Arthur as he noticed the black and white swans of House Swann riding with the sword and falling star of his own house, House Dayne. By Arthur's reaction I could tell he didn't expect an entrant from his own house. The following day brought the familiar black studs of House Royce and the dancing maiden of House Piper. We spent the next day drinking in the sun and gazing at air as no entrants were sighted. The following days brought the sigils of north and of the west. First came the dire wolf of House Stark along with the ten wolves of House Cassel. Next came the golden lion of House Lannister riding in stride with the three black dogs of House Clegane. Then came the kraken of House Greyjoy and the grey fish of House Codd from the Iron Islands. The last days brought the grapes of House Redwyne, the two towers of House Frey, the black ravens and weirwood of House Blackwood, the proud peacock of House Serrett, and the brindled boar of house Crakehall. We continued to stand watch for three days before declaring that all entrants had arrived. The battle ground was completed and the field was set. The only thing left was to find out who were the best of these brave children. In the morning we would rejoice with a celebratory feast to start the tourney and give our combatants a chance to size up their competition but tonight the clashing of swords and the stern instructions of guardians pierced through the darkness.
The morning brought the sounding of the horns to start the event, the smell of fresh roasted ham, and the chatter of anxious children. I met Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan as they stood guard at the entrance to the dinning tent. We entered and found our seats as a young page began the introduction of the entrants and their guardians if they had one. I took note of all 22 children as they were announced and seated. Thoros, Syrio, and Daemon were announced first as they were the only entrants from outside of Westeros. Then came the names of old and noble houses. Horas and Hobber Redwyne were speckled twins of above average size with bright orange hair and very plain faces. Robert Tarly was a strapping young lad with curly black hair; he was escorted by his older brother Randyll Tarly, the Lord of Horn Hill, and wielder of the Valyrian great sword, Heartsbane. Benjin Stark and Jorry Cassel both had straight brown hair, they were smaller and younger than most, but looked just as I had imagined northern boys looked. Gregor Clegane was larger than most full grown men with arms thicker than most of the boys legs and legs meatier than most the boys waists; he was impressive to behold and the children quickly dubbed him, "The Mountain." I had been told about Jaime Lannister before by Ser Arthur as knew the boy; he had straw hair as all Lannister's do and I hadn't seen him without his sword in hand the entire time he had been in camp. He was escorted by his uncle Gerion, who also brought Gregor. Lucas Blackwood was tall, thin, and resoundingly unremarkable. Gerold Dayne looked the part of a knight to be more than the other boys; he was elegant and fit. His uncle, Ser Arthur, said the boy was mean of spirit to the point of cruelty and short of temper. Ramasy Codd was the smallest of the entrants outside of Syrio; he was a shy boy and simply looked out of place here. "Black" Walder Frey was a stout child with a reputation the proceeded him; he was known to ransom the pets of lesser houses and kill the animals if he was not paid. Tywin Serrett also looked like a full grown man, though not as large as Gregor, he still intimidated the other children. William Rykker studied by the side of Ser Barristan as his squire and was a welcome surprise of an entrant; rumor had it that he once disarmed Ser Barristan while sparring though Ser Barristan steadfastly denied this. Edmure Tully had red-brown hair and stood tall for his age; he wreaked of arrogance. Marq Piper was Edmure Tully's best friend; he looked far two pretty to be a warrior. Andar Royce had smoky eyes and was unkempt; he looked brutish. Tybolt Crakehall was short and wide as an ox; he looked nearly immoveable. Roderick Greyjoy looked like a child of the Iron Islands, hardened by the sea, his prematurely aged face cried of his house's words, we do not sow. Lastly came Balon Swann he was as tall as the mountain but still had the face of child. With all of the entrants announced we took our seats and the food was brought out.
The food was absolutely glorious: honey salted hams, stuffed quails, fresh fish from Coldwater, ruby red apples, succulent strawberries, and the finest Dornish whine. The men fed like wild animals while the boys traded childish barbs. It doesn't take long before good natured ribbing turns into fierce competition. Syrio and Thoros were debating who was more skilled a game they called "The Stone Hand." This game was well known to the boys of Essos but was completely foreign to those of Westeros, so Syrio explained the game. According to legend, a young Westerosi sell-sword named Arlan traveled to Braavos to learn the Baavosi water dancing technique but was refused apprenticeship by all of the Braavosi masters. To show his dedication he declared he would present his sword and would not move until someone would take him as a student. He kneeled in the center of town for all to see and presented his sword with both hands palms up. The legend says he waited for two weeks, never dropping his sword, before a master accepted him. The game spread throughout Essos over centuries and every boy who can pick up a stick has played the game. Every boy presents their sword and the last boy standing wins and is declared "The Stone Hand." The Westerosi quickly fought to claim that they would be The Stone Hand as the children of Essos just laughed. When the boys turned to pushing and shoving, the men cleared room for the boys to find out who would be the winner. It wasn't an activity I had planned for the feast but something needed to be done to tame these boys ragging desire to prove they belong, so I sat back and watched the game, but before it could start, Daemon caused quite the commotion. When he unsheathed his sword, it was a magnificent Valyrian blade far greater than any a child of Westeros had ever wielded. Every entrant wanted to hold it and even some of the adults. Daemon waited without a word while everyone had their chance. Gerion Lannister even offered to buy it but the tall slender man quickly quashed the notion informing Gerion that the blade was not for sale at any price.
The boys all took a knee and presented their swords to Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan who both thought the game amusing. Hours passed without a boy dropping his sword. Evidently, boys began to fall by the wayside. The game bleed late into the night. After most of the boys had turned in for the evening, Syrio, Thoros, Daemon, and Jaime played on. Thoros fell first falling asleep with his sword in his hand and Jaime suffered the same fate a few hours later. My eye lids grew heavy and I could take no more so I too turned in for the night. When I left the dinning tent, Ser Arthur, Ser Barristan, and the tall slender man were the only ones left watching Syrio and Daemon. I woke before sunrise and hurried to see if a winner had been declared. The tent was deserted except for Syrio who was still presenting his sword. I softly called out to him but he did not answer. As I approached the boy, I could see he was fast asleep but still upright. I was amazed at the small boys will. I decided to rouse the boy so he could get some proper sleep and save his strength for the rest of competition. When I stirred the boy, he reached out and slapped me while still balancing the sword with one hand. When he realized what he had done, he was quick to apologize and seemed genuinely sorry for his actions. I assured him there was no need to be and asked him where he had learned such tricks. He told me that the streets of Braavos were an unsafe place for children and how he grown up of alone on those very streets and how he had killed five men in duels to procure the gold to come here. He said, "I trained myself to sleep minutes at a time rather than hours for on the streets of Braavos death is always lurking. When Death comes for me, I will be prepared and tell Death not today." The morning food horn bellowed as I implored the boy to rest before the archery competition. He told me he was no archer and I had no reason not to believe him.
The boys all quickly filled their bellies eager to start the archery event. They all assembled on the shooting range where we divided them into two groups of five and two group of six. They would all have ten shafts. The boy from each group who placed the most shafts in the center of the target would advance to the finals. The first group consisted of William Rykker, Jorry Cassel, Gregor Clegane, Horas Redwyne and Syrio Forel. Jorry Cassel won the group with nine shafts though William Rykker had a respectable eight. The second group consisted of Thoros, Daemon, Black Walder, Andar Royce, and Edmure Tully. Daemon and Edmure tied with ten shafts but Daemon would win after a short shoot off. The third group consisted of Robert Tarly, Marq Piper, Ramasy Codd, Balon Swann, Benjin Stark, and Lucas Blackwood. Benjin Stark won with nine shafts and little competition. The last group consisted of Hobber Redwyne, Gerold Dayne, Jaime Lannister, Tywin Serrett, Tybolt Crakehall, and Roderick Greyjoy. This was the most hotly contested group of the bunch. After ten shafts, Tybolt, Jaime, and Roderick were tied and proceeded to a shoot off. Jaime was the first to be off target and eliminated. Roderick and Tybolt battled on for over two hours before the diminutive Tybolt no longer processed the strength to draw back his bow and was forced to concede. Our finals were set as we adjourned for a mid day feeding. We returned of the range just before the light of day began to fade. All four boys launched shaft after shaft into the heart of the target but Benjin and Jorry conceded just as Tybolt had. I felt pity for Roderick as he had drawn back his bow ten times as much as Daemon even though both boys had to win a shoot out to reach the finals. The match carried into the evening and we had to light touches to illuminate the targets. The boys almost declared the match a draw before Ser Barristan suggested that they switch to drawing back their bows with their off hands. Roderick over came monstrous odds to win just ten shafts later. The boy could barely raise his arm but we was 40,000 gold dragons richer. We retreated to the dinning tent where we treated the boys to a much deserved night of frivolity. They drank copious amounts of whine and brown ale, they sang like blood drunk warriors on the eve of battle, and they fell fast asleep like children far earlier than they had the night before. Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan sang the boys praise and deemed that we had truly found the best.
The following day brought forth the first hint of danger. Silly children games and shooting arrows may have inspired brotherly competition but jousting was invented to inspire fear. It was an activity best suited on the battlefields of old than preformed by the hands of children. Many great knights have been injured jousting in competition and some have even been killed. My distaste for jousting almost led me from excluding it from the event, but Ser Barristan insisted, explaining the necessity of a warrior's need to ride soundly while noting that he had jousted a prince when he was only ten. We left the boys in the same groups to save the time of dividing them again. The boys would face each member of their group in a best of three tilts match with the winner advancing to the next round. The boys when then draw for pairings and do a best of five tilts. The finals would be a best of seven tilts. The first group was won by Gregor Clegane, he defeated everyone in two tilts and was never unseated. The second group was won by Daemon. He defeated Thoros in three tilts, Edmure in two tilts, and Black Walder in two tilts. He lost in three tilts to Ander Royce but Ander had lost to both Thoros and Edmure. Black Walder broke his leg in his final tilt and was advised to retire from the competition by maester Qyburn. The third group was won by Balon Swann who like Gregor advanced without having been unseated. The last group was won by Jamie Lannister though he had been defeated in three tilts by Tywin Serrett but Tywin had lost to Gerold Dayne and Hobber Redwyne both in three tilts. The semifinal pairings were Gregor versus Balon and Daemon versus Jamie. Gregor was unseated in the first tilt by Balon, he reacted poorly but made the boys gasp at his strength when he broke the wooden lance over thigh. He would recover from this and defeat Balon in five tilts. Jaime conceded his match to Daemon. The other boys gave him a hard time about it, claiming he was afraid of "The Mountain", but Jamie insisted, that after very strong showings in the first two events, he conceded to save strength for the melee in hopes of being the overall champion. Gregor and Daemon faced off in the finals. In the first tilt, Gregor unseated Daemon and Daemon laded awkwardly, separating his shoulder. Qyburn rushed to tend to the boy and suggested that he withdraw from the competition. Daemon threatened to open his throat if he didn't pop his shoulder back in place. Qyburn reluctantly abided, he put the shoulder back in place, Daemon didn't make a sound, and the match continued. Daemon would win the next two tilts but lose in six. Our second champion was crowned.
I sat down with Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan that night to take in a few horns of ale and discuss who were the frontrunners to be the overall champion. Gregor and Roderick having already won titles were obvious choices. The knights championed the causes of the squires Jamie Lannister and William Rykker pointing out their strong showings in the first two events. I believed the white cloaks were just boosting for their own pride as Jamie failed to make it out of his group in archery and William failed to make it out of his in the joust. I noted that William was ill suited for riding and that Jamie had looked cowardly in the joust. Ser Arthur took minor offense to my statement about Jaime and insisted that he had never known the boy to lie and that if he claimed to be saving his strength then he was intelligent not cowardly. Arthur stood fast in his support of Jamie stating that battles may be won in a day but wars seldom are. I admired the knight's loyalty to his squire. I brought up the fact that that Daemon was the only entrant to advance out of his group in both events. Even though he had failed to win either event, he had gained the admiration of the knights by refusing to concede in the joust against Gregor even after being injured. I also mentioned Syrio. Though the boy had poor showings in both events, his performance in " The Hand of Stone" was possibly the most impressive thing we had seen outside of Roderick's amazing ambidextrous archery skills and Gregor spectacular showing of strength in snapping his lance. They agreed the feat was impressive but doubted the boy's chance to prevail in the melee. In the end, we agreed most of the boys could prove themselves by becoming victorious in the melee. I struggled to sleep that night as my mind kept turning to the thoughts of the children. If the joust brought the first hint of danger then the melee brought a sense of impending doom. In the joust, there was a chance of injury, but in the melee, injury was almost always guaranteed. To win, the boys would need to be prepared to be bruised, bloodied, and even die. Their breakfast the next morning could very well be their last. The mere thought of it turned my belly and made me ill.
I spared no expense for my last meal with the boys. There was frosted sweet brown bread, fresh oysters from the Narrow Sea, honey cured bacon, and maple game hens. We allowed the boys to drink if they wished for if a boy were to face his fate we felt he deserved to do so with a warm belly. Most of the boys denied the offer but not all. They ate slow and reveled in the joy of good company. They may have bonded throughout the event but there would be no friends in the melee. Sure, obvious alliances had been forged, but in the end, they could trust no one. Brothers could be forced to fight brothers and the children of sworn bannermen would be forced to fight the children of their wardens. There would be only one victor. Seeing the boys in full plate armor, or some in whatever armor they could find, was inspiring. They chose to come here, they chose to put their lives on the line, and soon they would have to. These children may have arrived as boys but they would leave as young men. The boys took the time to relish every bite, every drink, and every moment. I remember every smile on every face for that meal, for as we started to make our way to the melee grounds, they all quickly faded only to be replaced by stern scowls. Their eagerness had been drained and the march to the grounds dragged. Slowly the last boys filed in and began to take their final preparations. Thoros pulled his blade across his palm, and when he flung the blood onto it, it burst into flames. The boys eyes widened at the spectacle as they backed into position and waited for Ser Arthur to signal for the horn to be blown and the melee to commence. Ser Arthur raised the mighty Dawn slowly and swiftly swung it to the ground. The horn pounded through my chest, as the first cries of war echoed, and the chaos ensued.
The air filled with the clashing of swords and the thudding of shields. The smell of sweat and blood quickly fouled the air and me gag. Most of the boys paired off for one-on-one duels but the Redwyne twins had chosen to attack The Mountain as a team. Gregor had shattered Hobber's nose and taken a piece of Horas's ear before they gave their yield and made their way to Qyburn who waited on the edge the battle to see to the wounded. With most of the boys still tending to their first opponent, Gregor would come face to face with the only competitor who could look him the eye, Tywin Serrett. The first meeting of their swords caused such noise that several boys lost focus and were forced to yield by their more determined opponents. Tywin bloodied Gregor's lip causing him stumble back and let out a shriek not of pain but of holy unbridled anger. Up to this point, the boys had all offered their opponents a chance to yield but the look in Gregor's eyes whispered murder. The two brutes traded blows until Gregor planted Tywin firmly on his rear. As they fought on, the eight remaining boys took a moment to catch their breath and wait for an out come from these two titans. Gregor rained down blows with fury and cleaved Tywin's sword hand from his arm. Without a whimper, in his last breath, Tywin's pulled a dagger from his boot and plunged it into Gregor's lauded thigh with his off hand. Gregor raised his sword high and split Tywin like the young sampling he was. Weary, he dropped his sword and fought to catch his second wind. Thoros saw the advantageous position and charged at Gregor but was met with force. His flaming sword didn't intimidate Gregor. The Mountain choked Thoros with one hand while forcing Thoros's flaming sword to his own biding with his other. The blade seared Thoros's chest and he dropped in pain. Gregor pulled Tywin's blade from his thigh, fell to a knee and ran it through Thoros's shoulder. Thoros fell like a half filled sack. Qyburn rushed to his aid but was pushed away by the red priest. Much to my surprise, Thoros rose and walked off the field. Syrio challenged The Mountain next. Gregor was weakened, his leg spurting blood. His blade was now slow and with every miss Syrio pierced him again. I don't think the poor boy possessed the strength to run him clean through. Gregor began to stumble and abandoned his sword. Syrio's face gleamed with joy as the giant swayed like a willow in the wind. With the last of his strength, Gregor tackled the small boy. No sword could save Syrio now. With The Mountain's hands throttling his wee neck and blood falling to his face, the young Braavosi repeated, "Not today. Not today." As his eyes rolled back in his head, Gregor collapsed down on him. Both boys were pulled from the field with their lives intact.
Only six boys remained: Andar Royce, Robert Tarly, Jaime Lannister, Ramsay Codd, Gerold Dayne, and Daemon Waters. The boys matched up for the last time and went back to battle. Andar Royce faced Jaime Lannister, Robert Tarly faced Ramsay Codd, and Daemon Waters matched with Gerold Dayne. Robert quickly slit Ramsay Codd's throat and assisted Jaime in forcing Andar's yield. Rather than face off, the boys took rest and watched Daemon battle Gerold. Gerold's best attacks were being thwarted at every turn though Daemon could not score a blow offense of his own. When their blades at last met, the boys came face to face. Within inches of each other, Dayne spit in the face of the bastard. Waters answered with a short but powerful elbow that broke three of Gerold's teeth. Dayne backed up and spit them from this bloody mouth with a smile. Both boys displayed brilliant swordsmanship as they circled each other rebuffing one advance after another. Their swords joined at the hilt and again they came face to face. Daemon pushed off with a violent kick to Dayne's stomach before being spat at again. Gerold fell to the ground and appeared as though he were about to yield, but instead, he managed to rip a gash in Daemon's calf. Gerold fought well from his back but was no match for Valyrian steel as it snapped his much weaker blade. Even defenseless, with Daemon's sword pointed at his heart, Gerold refused to yield. Daemon took pity, and rather than kill Gerold, he mounted the boy and chipped two more of his teeth with his pommel. After another blow, blood gushed for Gerold's mouth and he went limp. Daemon stood back up and sized up the two remaining competitors. Jaime just nodded, and Robert took to his feet to square off with Daemon and his incredible Valyrian blade.
Randyll's face beamed with pride as his younger brother rambunctiously advanced toward the freshly wounded Daemon. The boys traded shoulder bumps, punches and kicks but neither of their blades could find their mark. They traded blows for well over an hour before it became painfully obvious that both boys were winded. It was as this time Jaime chose to rejoin the fray and charged Daemon. Fending off Robert with his shield, Daemon match swords with Jaime. Daemon refused to kill Gerold, but Jaime and Robert were forcing his hand. If he wanted to survive this ordeal, he would be forced to at least consider ending one of these boys lives while their guardians watched. Daemon reversed position and took the weaker Lannister off his with a vicious blow from his shield. Jaime was shaken and struggled to regain his composure giving Daemon time to establish his position against Robert. Robert's sword whistled through the air like an arrow as he made a swipe that would have beheaded even the largest of men, but Daemon dropped to a knee and opened Tarly from scrotum to chin with a swift upward stroke that sounded like the quick popping of buttons in passion. His organs fell from his body to the ground wish a sickening splash as if he were game freshly butchered after the hunt. The horrible scene and smell caused, the still woozy but close, Jamie to vomit and sent Randyll into a blinding rage. He unsheathed Heartsbane and charged at the bastard but was intercepted by the tall slender man who had unsheathed a Valyrian sword of his of his own from beneath his black cloak. It was here that the tournament ended and the insanity of seven Hells broke loose, as Gerion recognized the tall slender man's blade and cried out, "Brightroar!" so loudly that it stopped every one dead.
Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan stepped between the tall slender man and Randyll as Gerion walked on to the field and accusations started flying.
Gerion exclaimed, "That is Brightroar, the house sword of Lannister lost to us long ago. It belongs to my family thief."
The tall slender man responded, "This sword has been wielded by the sworn protector of the high priest of the House of Black and White since before my father, and his father, and his father before him. If it was once called Brightroar, it is no more. It is an unnamable blade."
Gerion retorted, "If! If!. It is called Brightroar. It has been described in great detail to me since I was a boy. That blade will come home with me or you will pay. A Lannister always pays his debts."
" You seem as though you are a student of history," he started as he pulled down his hood and revealed his face, "Look at my face and know the Lannister's have already paid their debt."
The tall slender man covered his face again as Gerion dropped to his knees in tears like a beggar, "Then the boys blade, my lord. Please leave it as remembrance of you."
The tall slender man scoffed, "It is queer that you recognize this sword you call Brightroar but held the much mightier Blackfyre in your hand and failed to realize it. If I wouldn't give you your so called Brightroar, I certainly won't be allowing anyone to take Blackfyre. I will kill every man who dare tries."
Daemon steeped forth and began to speak, "Randyll Tarly, I know you feel loss, but Robert died a good death by a great sword. That is far more than most knights are treated to in battle. Today you all know the hand that waits in the darkness, the hand of the Bastard King. You will all remember me, Daemon Waters, but don't dare speak my name. Let no others learn it and you will keep your tongues. Spread word of my victory and we will find you."
Ser Arthur kept the still bloodthirsty Randyll at bay by the tip of Dawn as Ser Barristan helped Daemon and the tall slender man make haste out of camp. No one followed them and Jamie Lannister was declared the winner. The fearful camp began to empty as I sat in my tent realizing that those who were here witnessed four Valyrian blades meeting on a battlefield. It may have been the first time since the doom of Valyria and no one could know. The greatest young warrior in the world would never be known though Jaime Lannister gladly accepted the title when informed of his win by default. My first secret as Master of Whisperers came not from the chirp of a little bird but from the roar of a mighty dragon. I thought of the power such a secret could afford me with the king but was convinced by the white cloaks to never reveal it. The last thing the realm needed was a paranoid king given validity to his madness by the reestablishment of a long dead line that once threatened the iron throne. It was a secret that every attendee agreed to keep without ever verbally committing to do so. I would strike all mention of Daemon from my official record of the tourney before we set out for King's landing but his memory lingered like a fog on my mind. Night after night, I fought to sleep struggling with the memory of the day I handed Daemon over to the House of Black and White and the high priest's promise. Had I made a mistake that day? Had I let my craving for revenge blind me? I assured Daemon would be raised to be a killer when I just as easily could have had him raised to be king. The guilt of it overwhelmed me and I believed it would haunt me for the rest of my life. We set camp for the night on the last leg of our trip, only miles form King Landing, when I was welcomed with a pleasant surprise from the shadows. The tall slender man and Daemon stepped out of the darkness. I kneeled and confessed my guilt to the Bastard King. The boy laughed at my humble confession and thanked me. Without me, he could have ended up a slave, a whore, an unskilled drunken slob, or another corpse in the street. He would have never known his true lineage or been reunited with his family's sword. Daemon had refused to return to Braavos without first thanking me. As they went to leave, I assured them that though his name may never be spoke again, his face will never be forgotten, and his enemies will never stop hunting Daemon Waters. The boy turned back and lowered his hood, his black hair gone, replaced with that of dragon fire red and dragon blood white, and he spoke with a fresh face, "Daemon Waters is dead now. They will never find him. My name is Jaqen H'ghar." They vanished like an apparition and I'd never see them again.
King Aerys II would keep his promise and many of the boys would quickly rise to fame. Jaime Lannister would be knighted two years later and two years after that become a king slayer when he plunged his sword through the Mad King's back as member of the King's Guard during the time of Robert's Rebellion. Gregor Clegane was also knighted two years later and become the most feared man in Westeros, even killing the Mad King's grandchildren as infants and raping their mother. The name the Mountain would never leave him. Syrio Forel would go on to become the first sword of Braavos. Benjin Stark would gain the title of first ranger of the Night's Watch at Castle Black. Thoros earned a reputation as a feared tourney knight and notoriety for being the first man over the well during the siege of Pyke. Roderick Greyjoy died in the siege defending Pyke. Black Walder Frey would help his father engineer the betrayal of Robb Stark at the infamous "Red Wedding". Balon Swann would be the second to join the King's Guard. People came to call Gerold Dayne the dark star. So many of them would have success, others would die too early, and some would be resounding failures. Gerion would become obsessed with finding the tall slender man and set sail to Essos in 291 AL never to be seen again. Randyll Tarly would swallow his despair and become a miserable man who mistreats his children. Ser Arthur Dayne died in The Tower of Joy and Ser Barristan Selmy would be dismissed from the King's Guard by King Joffery in disgrace. The men who left Deadman's Spine would all carve their names in history but The Bastard King, Daemon Waters, would only live on embedded in their memories.