STRAACHAN
"Hedge knight!" The voice rang out with anticipation. Though his eyes pained him and darkened, though his knees were stock still, though the blood in his veins ran cold and black, he would not shrink from the call. Like a corpse with tasks undone he rose to meet his final foe.
In the days that had passed, his vision had grown worse with exertion, to say little and less of his other ails. The sword had been revealed to the men who had reached the last bouts, its deadly gleam of gold cast a pale lightning storm across the dark plane white with snow. It was Denys Darklyn who held it aloft, and it was he who merited the focus of the moribund man. Men already eliminated from the ranks, but fortunate to have left the melee with their lives, would come by him from time to time. Though it was not his concern, he had spared one or another, and they would sooner see him win than another. From time to time one would ask what he meant to do with the sword. Having thought about it, he designed to leave it to the owner of the estoc. The archer was not a good man, but he was not a Sword, not for true. For his own designs, he would not live to enjoy the steel.
"Ghost of Harrenhal!" He had not heard the name, but it made no matter. His enemy wore steel plate and carried a thin sword in both hands, bearing no shield. He raised his own weapon, ignoring the feint and catching the true strike on his shield, striking at the knee and up to his opponent's side. A boot met his shield and he pulled back, feeling less strength than he expected. Straachan struck quickly with the pommel, but the skeleton in steel plate managed to extricate the weapon without being hit.
Already I recognize my enemy. Might be my vision returns.
The armored man parried the blow of the two handed sword, knowing rightly it would come with little enough force. All at once the thought filled his mind that his final bout would be too easily won, that so close he had come to death to fight a skeleton. Swinging with greater strength, the ghost easily evaded the blows, perhaps earning the name once more, but the moribund man knew it was weakness rather than agility. His opponent had been worn to death before fighting him, and had not the will to keep alive. Flying into a rage greater still, he mistepped and was easily struck with the pommel, a blow that might have broken his neck had it come from a worth adversary. He drove his enemy to the ground with his shield arm, retrieved a belt knife, and stabbed through the weak throat.
Forcing himself to stand as the skeleton sputtered lifeblood, he found sympathy difficult.
"You have no place on this field. Your death is your own doing."
"Gentle knight… remove my helm." The voice came out almost a whisper, higher than he might have thought. "… as once I… removed yours." A strange sickness crept into his mind as he undid the fullhelm and removed it. The face was of a woman with flaxen hair. A shout of fury escaped his throat, one the crowd in the wood arena mistook. Forcing the estoc into his scabbard, he replaced the helm and stood, shaking with hatred.
"First I would die for poison." He muttered, teeth like to break from grinding. "Then I would die for killing the Sword." The cheers at last stopped, confused at the man who stood stock still over a body. "Now I die for just deserts."
A halfmaester came to look him over before sending him onward. Straachan refused to remove his armor and simply walked past the man. Uncertain, the scholar rounded and kept in step.
"I mean no slight, yet your wounds may-"
"They are no worse than what a man can bear. Should I die, be sure and care for the body lying aside." He spoke, eyes not leaving the doors to the keep, lest once more they leave him and impel him to keep straight until they deigned to return.
"Do you expect to die?" The question came sincerely, the man of letters was truly unsure.
"I die as all men must." The moribund man stopped at the doors, allowing them to be opened for him, not trusting his body with further strain. Stopping and starting, as he walked, the halfmaester may have passed for contemplative, but such was naught more than the way of men who learned from the Citadel but not yet the realm.
"You know what I meant." He nodded to the boldness he had not expected.
"Death is not the worst of evils." The scholar ceased his wasted pursuit and rounded as the vaulted doors opened and the armored man walked inside.
The visage of Denys Darklyn aligned with his helm from across the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, the dark holes for eyes with a maudlin expression. The man had a fondness for the grape.
"So you are the victor, then? I was sure for nine parts in ten the woman would have you. She was quite skilled, for true. I once knew another with such stoutness, pity they seem to disappear on me." Straachan said naught, keeping his pace toward the Sword, with all his will forcing himself not to run. There were archers in the room, men the leader let not out of his sight. His hand gently rested on the hilt of the estoc, providing no cause for concern.
Mere feet from him, the leader smirked. "Do you know why I thought you would fall?" he asked. Before he could but blink, the steel flew and cut into the shoulder as arrows thudded into his chest, forcing him to the ground before he could complete the strike. "It is your skill, hedge knight. Had you believed I would forget you?" He coughed blood as an archer grabbed his sword and prized it from his grasp. "You are but a worm, for true, yet your valor is easily remembered."
As black surrounded his eyes, he knew not for his vision fading, he heard the taunting voice request he be disarmed.
His dreams were fleeting and easily misremembered.
The moribund man sat alone at a long table for what seemed the first in years. Overcome with an ineffable lightness, he found that he wore no armor, but the elegant raiment of a lord. When pain returned to him in his back, it was from the arrow wounds, bandaged, yet bleeding beneath.
"You are well and truly defeated, my Faceless Man. I must tell you, your face looks rather unlike what even I imagined, but I suspect your greying skin and black veins strangling your blue eyes are fitting for a man soon beneath the ground." Darklyn carried a goblet of wine, a purple vintage.
"What is it you want?" He knew well enough, but having him say it would get him closer.
"More wine, at the moment." Noticing a goblet on the table, Straachan took it. His enemy smirked. "A pity you will not live to enjoy it, but I suppose I could pour by way of hospitality. Worry not, you will have no bread and salt, and Harrenhal is not mine." Taking the wine, he was sure to sip little and less of it, replacing it close to his chest.
"What do you want for the realm?"
"Ah. The brute hedge knight begins to suspect I have plans. For true, my ways are not without violence." You burned a maid to cinders. He lurched forward suddenly, but restrained himself as his heart nigh on stopped. "Of yours, I can say little and less of the same." The leader of the Swords stepped away from the table, not quite pacing, merely walking about as though interested by what should pass before his eyes more than the conversation. "Were there aught you could do about my plans or me, you would not encounter either. I am an elusive man, a mystery to all the great crowns. To us, there were plans three, each not counting on the others."
"I know enough of your plans. I want to know why children have to die for them." Darklyn turned his gaze aside as the moribund man leaned over his own goblet. It may be my only chance.
"I make no illusion of necessity. The maid was a mere instrument by which to release my anger. Men about me truly believe the Volantene plan would work here. The truth is, the realm is accustomed to a powerful man, and when one dies, he is replaced. When we seize control of King's Landing, kings entire will be replaced, not by a successor of blood, but thought. The good people of the Seven Kingdoms deserve a new class of leader. The higher Swords tell me I merely serve as the head of our armies if they can be called as such. They will see how I fill the hole left by the crowns, how much clearer I shall make things for simple minds. Should the men want bread, they will have gold. Should they bore, they will have war. Here make I all the illusions, hedge knight."
He sank back into his chair, dark blood now streaming from his wound, unable but to move his limbs.
"Why did you seize the maid?"
"The one who was with you, I presume? It was a choice of the swordsman who took her, I remember not his name. He may have wanted naught more than a way of halting your pursuit. Myren believed she could be questioned, but little and less came of it."
"I have heard the name."
"Yes, she was once my hand, if you will." He turned away once more. "I made the position to suit a woman of wit and mock the hands the crowns possess. Many of them, queens oft as kings, would die before having a woman as a hand. The idea amused me." His eyes went dark, worse than ever before, as though his body had held his departure until the very moment. Straachan had not slept, not dreamed in days, fearing never waking and failing.
"What of her?"
"When she returns to Westeros with the body of Escanane Waters, whose passing my men only just-" Darklyn turned, emphasizing the point "only just let slip through the captain of the ship first bearing him back. It was a moon's turn or near enough before the entire world of men who lead secret lives knew of the bastard and the place from whence he returned. No matter, he will once more serve us in death. Of course, should she die, by malady, like as not, I have already arranged a replacement, one I can easily remove."
"Will you remove her like Catelyn Blackwood?"
"That was well and for true none of my doing. The brigands may have been working for another party, but I know of only the Old Queen with men running about. She seems to be in a desperate attempt to regain some degree of control in the little game they play in King's Landing." Unable but to draw breath, his arms were locked in place, his feet not but feeling.
"I … die."
"For true? I had begun to suspect as much when I saw your face. It appeared as a malady of the blood, naught I might suspect like to spread." The Sword looked up and down the table. "It is a pity, really, I found you droll for a man soon to die, and you have not but touched the Myrish purple." A gleam came into his eyes. "Shall I force it down your throat, brute? Would you appreciate the vintage?"
He summoned what little strength remained and twisted his spine, leaning overmuch to the side and falling to the floor.
"No, it would be wasted even yet." The voice of a maid called out to him from the distance.
