Chapter Sixty
….
Winterfell Entrance Gates
"Do we have to go out this early Robert?" Ned stifles a yawn threatening to come out of his mouth. Suffice it to say that he has gotten very little sleep the last night.
He has after all does the "honorable decision" on informing his wife about his plans heading South. Suffice it to say her reaction is both positive and negative. Positive in the way that she's elated that her daughter is about to be married to the Royal Family and Negative due to his decision in asking her half-sister for help. Ned of course expects that she wouldn't be happy about it. Catelyn and Delianah's stations in lives make them naturally polar opposite to one another. Add Catelyn's southern upbringing and way of looking at bastards and you get a volatile mixture akin to that of wildfire only waiting for the slightest spark to go KABOOM in the worst way possible.
Long story short, an exhausted, extremely worried, but full Ned Stark has to sleep on the floor after getting his ear the argument of century from his wife. Apparently for her, if he needs some political help and advice, her good friend Petyr Baelish would be the logical choice, the current Master of Coin. While normally Ned would have no worries trusting the connections of his wife, the warning of Delianah last night about not trusting anyone from the capital rings like a doorbell. Thus he disagrees much to the anger and annoyance of Catelyn.
Now Ned is stiff and sore from sleeping on the cold hard ground. He has been waken rather rudely by one of the Baratheon guardsmen sent by his friend. Apparently a now fully fed and watered Robert is wanting a hunt now. While Ned would have no issues at such a request usually. He is stressed from yesterday's worries and his rather not so comfortable rest only adds to his lack of enthusiasm about Robert's request.
Unfortunately Robert is not just some young lordling that he can say "fuck off" and go back to sleep anymore. He is the king and despite his insistence that Ned treats him like when they're younger. It is expected of Ned to adhere to his wishes due to his station.
Thus Ned is here right now, pale-faced and swaying in his saddle with Jory and other Northeners. Robert on the other hand is his usual jolly self talking about how much they would have fun and recalling how much fun they would have back at the Vale during hunts like these.
Suppressing a yawn once more and wanting an innate desire to go bath in the hot springs to relieve his stressed muscles, Ned forces himself to nod along with Robert's words and desires. He just hopes that Catelyn would not cause a ruckus while he's gone. He has left Ser Rodrik in charge alongside Maester Luwin. He has also recruited extra guards from Wintertown. For some reason Ned can feel the cold touch of Fate reaching its unwanted fingers today.
…
Winterfell Training Yard
Robb has always known that Jon is better than him with the sword. He does not take it personally to heart despite the fact that his ego is getting a bit hurt during the bouts. His brother after all would inherit less than nothing due to his status as a bastard. However right now as he backpedals fast to avoid his brother's longsword from ringing his head like a bell, he somehow can't help but wonder if he has been neglecting his training somehow.
It seems the change in Jon is not limited simply on his economic and facial status. As they fight on, Robb realizes one thing, Jon fights extremely dirty instead of the honorable way that Robb is used to from before. Every sword strike is followed up by a kick, an elbow or a punch. More than once Robb has to lean back to avoid his jewels from being permanently damaged. As it is, the result is inevitable. Frantically raising his shield to block the savage downward stroke of Jon, the sudden pain in his gut forces all the air out of Robb's lungs before he finds himself flying and landing hard on his back at the ground. Before he can pull himself up again, the cold feeling of steel at his neck stops him from moving.
"Yield," the amused voice of Jon sounds as he stares down at him.
Robb only scowls at the triumphant look of his brother pushing the sword away with his fingers. "I yield. Did you really have to kick me that hard? That will surely bruise," he scowls touching his tender stomach where the kick makes contact. Already the cheering crowd of onlookers can be heard around them. Many are changing money making Robb scowl in annoyance as he realizes that many are betting against him. He pointedly takes note of the angry look at his mother's face at Jon winning.
"Training is supposed to be practice for real time fighting," answers Jon sagely making Robb throw a side-swing at him half-heartedly which he dodges.
"He's right you know my lord," interjects Ser Rodrik. "In a real battle there would be no such thing as fighting fair. It is who gets to kill the other that matters,"
"I will remember your words Ser Rodrik, thank you," Robb replies backing away from Jon and readying himself for another round. Unfortunately their sparring comes into a jarring pause as an alien drawl sounds out in the yard.
"What do we have here? Boys playing with practice swords," the pompous form of Joffrey, heir to the Iron Throne appears with The Hound close behind him. Immediately everyone in the yard bows at his presence though the Northeners' expression looks like they have been forced to swallow a lemon whole.
"My prince, to what do we owe your presence here?" Robb leads diplomatically.
"Just checking to see if the rumors are true," answers Joffrey with a sniff. "I have grown up of tales of my father bringing down the mighty Targaryen dynasty with the help of the gallant knights of the Vale and the great warriors of the North. Somehow I am disappointed to see the latter fighting with practice swords. It doesn't seem to the give credit to the tales does it?"
"Pardon me your highness but the reason we use training swords here is to perfect the form of many. There's no point after all in training if every mistake ends the boys here with wounds and cuts. It is only practical after all," interjects Ser Rodrik.
"Hmm, what you call practical I call cowardice Ser Master-at –arms. Back at the capital, we do not practice with toy swords but with real live steel like all knights do. Maybe it's because there are so few knights here at the North that fighting skill becomes unnecessary leaving more brawlers than warriors, a pity," he boasts.
The sound of grinding teeth can be heard across the yard as every Northener who heard the implied insult is itching to get their hands on the prick. Those with cooler heads perceive the tension and more than one Northener is stopped in one way or another by his fellows to prevent escalation. Even Robb himself has to hold his own temper and if not for Jon stepping in and holding his shoulder, he might have challenged the prick to a bout of real live steel and see how much Northern brawliness is needed to put him in his backside.
Fortunately for Robb, his desire to put the prince to the test comes sooner than he expects.
"Then why don't you show them a bit of "Princely chivalry" brother," the clear voice of Princess Myrcella cuts through the thick cloud of anger of the Northeners. Immediately everyone turns to see the beautiful form of Princess Myrcella also approaching the Training Yard.
Approval immediately shines on the eyes of the Northmen. Unlike her younger brother who is dressed like he is about to head into some kind of fancy dinner, the eldest Royal is wearing practical clothes of white shirt, pants and boots. Her blonde hair is in a ponytail and there are no ornaments clinging to her as Joffrey is. A sword is strapped at her waist with a belt. Following her are two Death Dealers as silent as statues and the lithe figure of her guard in full Death Dealer leathers with two swords strapped at her waist.
"Your highness, Princess Myrcella," for the second time the Northeners bow though Joffrey scowls at her arrival.
"What are you doing here sister? Shouldn't you be doing some sewing with mother?" he drawls out in annoyance.
"Like you brother, I am here to train. Though I must say after that bold declaration of yours, I would rather like instead to watch and see how your mettle tests against our proud Northern allies," her smile is like that of a cat that has its canary.
As for Robb, he is almost grinning as he realizes the opportunity to thrash the overgrown pillock that is the Prince of the Realm. He is itching to draw his sword and do some live steel testing of his own the moment the proud Prince accepts. He will accept for his pride will he?
"Princes do not have time to play around with toy swords," his sudden answer and voice's indecision makes the Northeners blink as more and more of his personality starts to show. "And little girls don't belong to the training yard!"
"Oh really? Then you would have no problem beating a girl then brother in a bout?" replies Myrcella back slyly catching everyone's attention. This time Robb is forced to step in.
"My lady no offense, but are you planning on fighting your brother?" he asks in bewilderment.
"Me? Of course not!" she responds in what is clearly mock outrage with over exaggerated gestures. The predatory smile however that follows almost makes Robb make a step back. "My guard however would have no qualms for a spar or two," she responds pointing at the other young woman with Dornish features who grins at them all before removing the belt off her waist alongside her two swords which she hands over to one of the Death Dealers. She then proceeds to one of the racks at the field containing wooden and blunted swords. With a flourish, two blunt blades are on her hand as she walks to the center field.
"This is Raerae, my guard. Surely you wouldn't be afraid of fighting a little girl half your size right brother? Especially with you using a real sword instead," Myrcella mercilessly pouts insultingly at her younger sibling who looks as red as a tomato right now in anger.
If not for the fact that he is rather concerned about the little girl actually on field about to deal with a real weapon, he might have laughed at the baiting. The little shit that is the Crown prince simply has no other option. If he pulls back publicly then no one else will take him seriously. He would be a complete laughingstock.
As such he only has one other option.
"Come on then! Let's see how the little bitch fetch eh?" and with one flourish, the ceremonial sword from his waist is out and drawn before he over exaggeratedly marches towards the field where the Princess' guard is waiting.
One look at the start of the bout immediately tells Robb two things. First of all is the fact that the guard of the Princes is no slouch. Her form is perfect and there is no sign of hesitation in her movements. This only means that it is natural to her. Secondly, it becomes perfectly clear to all that Joffrey knows jack shit about fighting. His stance is wrong, his angle is all open spaces and he might as well be shouting to the entire world where he is aiming at in slow motion.
With an (overexaggerated) yell, Joffrey makes a downward stroke, using both hands. Raerae simply moves her shoulder to the side, the attack of Joffrey with all his weight behind it suddenly going against him as he is caught off balance. Using the pommel of her practice sword, she slams it into the gut of Joffrey before going past his choking form and whacking the back of his knees making him fall unto it immediately.
"Oh my, I never thought I would saw the day that our dear Crown prince would be beaten by a girl," comments Myrcella. If not for the fact that the Crown Prince looks extremely enraged, Robb might have laughed.
As it is he pulls himself up and wit another yell makes a wild overhead stroke that the girl blocks with her sword, eyebrows rising at how pathetic and off form it is before kicking him again in the gut forcing Joffrey back a few steps. Panting he makes a sudden stab dash forward which she simply again avoids by standing aside but letting her blade slide against his but this time putting a foot in front. With a panicked yell, Joffrey fells face flat on the muddy ground due to tripping. A few sniggers can be heard at the yard at the very sight of the Crown Prince eating dirt.
"Enough of this!" the muddy and murky Crown Prince of Westeros stands up with mud and dirt clinging to his pristine outfit. His face is almost invisible with the mud peppering it and his blonde hair is askew.
"YOU! YOU! YOU! AND YOU TWO COME AND HELP ME PUT THIS BITCH DOWN!" he roars pointing fingers at Robb, Jon, Theon, Ser Rodrik and a random Northman. When no one immediately follows his command as everyone looks at each other in confusion, he points his sword at them.
"IT IS A COMMAND FROM YOUR PRINCE OBEY ME!" he roars in anger. Robb can't help but sigh as he steps forward. Despite not liking the little bastard, he is technically the Crown prince and Robb owes him his allegiance. It is what his honor dictates after all.
"I'm really sorry about this," Robb says out loud as he steps forward in the yard with the rest that Joffrey has pointed also following suit though all of them obviously looks like they wanted to be anywhere but here.
"No worries, five against one is a fair fight now," the young dornishwoman replies, drawing her second blade as Robb draws his own practice ones with the rest of his retinue following suit.
"Beat her and drag her bloody form to me. Your prince commands it!" the idiot at the back wails loudly making Robb roll his eyes. As it is he stares at the young woman contemplating how best to start his attack. He already plans not to damage her badly, maybe disarm her and humiliate her a bit. She is after all….
His thoughts are broken when the random Northern guard made the first move as he charges forward with a shout with his own practice blade. Whatever thoughts of taking it easy on her disappears as she blocks the charge with her right sword a half-step backward, before doing the exact opposite, her weight pushing the locked blades unevenly. The sudden movement catches the guard off course and before he can regain his footing, she slides the blade in an angle catching him off guard as it cuts into his throat. If it is a real sword, he might have been dead, as it is, it is just a paper thin scratch as he falls off to the side clutching his wounded throat with a new realization about life.
Robb immediately forward attacking with his blade with a series of normal strikes to test the capacity of his opponent. She gives way to his blows nullifying his advantage of weight. It also prevents the others of his company from interfering and finding a blind spot on her since Robb is being forced to push alone. As he strikes more and more, Robb can feel as if he's being played as his attacks are easily blocked and with ease. Already his arms are getting stiffer and stiffer. The damned woman is not only blocking but is making small twirls of her own blades at each contact resending the jarring motion back of Robb's strikes echoing into his own arms. If not for the fact that he's the recipient of such jarring counters, he might have appreciated the flawless technique.
"Robb get out of the way!" the sudden shout from Theon makes Robb instantly disengage as he is replaced by his best friend who charges forward with a shield and a buckler. He parries the stab following Robb with his crossguard before making a three sixty twirl followed by a shield bash which forces the young woman a step back. He attempts to follow up with an overhead strike from above only to be surprised to be unable to do so, courtesy of the momentum of the shield which misses its bash. There is a good reason why shields are not used as offensive weapons. They tend to mess around with coordination and footwork due to their weight and ungainly design as a weapon. As it is, he has a split second pause as he tries to regain his balance only to freeze at the feel of a blade tip at his throat.
"Dead!" Raerae smirks victoriously before turning to the rest of them remaining.
"She's too good, we attack her together. Surround her!" barks Ser Rodrik making the rest of them , him and Jon nod wordlessly before charging together.
Three against two might have been overkill for anyone else. But for the current fight, it is a balanced fight. Robb is truly impressed with the bodyguard of Princess Myrcella. Wielding two practice blades, she pounces and parries their attacks like a dancer, gracefully twirling and turning, leaving no opening for them. Even Jon's style of graceful sweeps which throws Robb off the entire morning is being defended against as if she's simply taking a walk in the gardens. For a while the uneven duel continues. The teamwork of the three Northmen giving them a balanced edge against the skill of their opponent. The thing about teamwork though is, one single mistake can cause a complete damage to a perfect equilibrium that can cause it to cascade like a deck of cards.
Ser Rodrik tries a sweeping undercut by falling on his knees which the Dornish woman evades. His attempt at rising again however gets a hiccup as his bad knee fails at first try to get him up. Their opponent sees the opportunity, disengages and attacks the rising knight ringing his head like a bell.
"Rahh!" seeing their mentor and friend falling makes both Jon and Robb charge forward recklessly now trading seamless coordination into aggressive strikes.
For a while it seems that their sudden advance has caught the Dornish woman off guard as she is forced back due to the ferociousness of their charge. For Robb it seems that it is working only for his stroke to be blocked mid-air before a sword is at his brother's throat eliminating him also from the fight. As it is Robb gets a full front view of his opponent up close. Her face is sharp and angled with a high jawline with sharp features. Her eyes are slanted a bit like a cat with her eyes the deepest violet. All in all she looks positively divine.
A cold blade being pressed at his throat brings Robb back to reality as he looks down to see the sword now at his throat. He sweatdrops at the realization that he has been staring like a moron and everyone has seen it.
"I won," the Dornish beauty simply says before pushing him away and walking off to a very terrified looking Joffrey.
As his brothers and friends gather around to check on him, the only thing that is bouncing around Robb's head is the beautiful face of the Dornish woman. He barely even cares at the pained yelps and sounds coming from a certain blonde twat who is getting the beating of a lifetime.
The only thing bouncing inside his head however is the gorgeous face of the enemy that just whooped his ass nine ways of hell into seventh heaven.
….
Crags of Rivendell
Normally the Roosts of the Gryphons do not require cleaning or any kind of maintenance. Nature after all takes care of everything that needs cleaning in this part of the mountain no matter how smelly. However it all changed when the Rivendell staff receives an unwilling addition with very specific instructions on where to assign him.
"Old" Walder Frey gags as he tries for the hundredth time to scoop up another pile of poop on the crags. He cursed in his mind the whore that massacred his entire family, take his castle and riches then abduct him and reduce him to some kind of servant. Now here he is bound by her sorcery and the promise of a gory death if he dares even think about any kind of rebellion.
He now serves his days scooping and scrubbing piss and poop of the giant animals of Rivendell who is only waiting for the excuse to rip him to shreds. Old Walder does his new assigned duty in life to the best of his worst enthusiasm. Above all else after all, he is a survivor and if it means that he clean and scrub to be alive, he would do so and wait for the perfect opportunity to bite the hands that bind him.
He just doesn't understand why must he wear a "name tag" that says Argus Filch instead of his real name though. Plus he is also given a cat as a "friend". Judging by the non-stop staring it is giving him which gives Walder the cooties and creeps, he would bet his left ball sac that it is an unnatural beast too.
A Gryphon flies overhead making Walder squawk in fear and alarm again. He curses as he slips on the pile of poop he is cleaning and lands on another pile.
"Argus Filch! Get your bony ass back to cleaning!" he just sniffles at the shout reprimand of one of the Death Dealers supervising him.
…
Author's Note:
Okay so this chapter is more of a filler but I want a break from our rather doom and gloom serious previous ones. Hope you like this chapter anyway. Sorry for the long update. Busy again with life and I kinda broke my foot so my focus is somewhere else.