(Cue the intro!)
GAME OF THRONES - MAIN TITLE
- COMPOSED BY RAMIN DJAWADI
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Chapter 2: Pride Before the Fall - Part 1
LOCATION: WINTERFELL
The world was still In darkness. A void filled with nothing more than silence and soundless air; and in that emptiness, he could hear his heart beating against his ribs. It thudded against his rib cage, echoing off the miles upon miles of nothingness surrounding him.
Bran blinked. Something appeared far away across the horizon. There was no way he could tell what it was exactly, just like he was unable to determine where he ended up either. As time passed by and his eyes followed its progress across the horizon, however, the shapes became more distinct and recognizable. They came together into a shape he could understand quite clearly, and as they drew closer, he realized that they were moving towards him. Said shape morphed into an unfamiliar sigil before finally coming to float in front of him.
It was a strange and intimidating symbol. He didn't recognize it from any books he had read, nor did he recognize the image on it. It glowed brightly in red light, and it reminded him greatly of blood. He found the sigil unsettling, despite being nothing more than a symbol—and yet, there was something about it itself which intrigued him. Something was nagging him in the back of his head, urging him to look deeper into it, further down into the darkness that seemed to have enveloped it. He wanted to see beyond this floating sigil, what lay beneath it, and why was it here?
Brian felt a chill run through his body. It was getting warmer—it was always warm—but now it felt almost unbearable as he watched it getting a little brighter. The light grew hotter, and then, it exploded, bathing the world around him in crimson. It blinded him. The burning sensation continued, intensifying throughout his entire body. His breath caught in his throat and the scream died in his mouth as everything went dark.
Throughout the void, a deep voice spoke.
"They are rage, brutal, without mercy. But you… you will be worse. Rip and Tear, until it is done!"
Bran paused.
You will be worse? Bran thought, what does that mean?
Silence permeates the atmosphere yet again.
Bran blinked. He found himself no longer in the void. He was greeted by what looked like the aftermath of a massacre. All of the wooden apartments flanking him had been reduced to debris, the blue sky he'd seen in each passing day was now replaced by a blood red. There was no indication of life around him, save for some faint sounds coming from nearby and the distant sound of roaring flames.
Bran started forward slowly. At first, the rubble crunched under his feet. His boots crunching against the broken glass and metal. His eyes darted to the sides, flames dancing and licking over destroyed apartments. Everything was silent. No movement, no noise aside from his own footsteps.
Bran rounded around a corner and immediately halted in his tracks. His eyes slightly grew large as he stared. Standing ten feet away from him, Bran saw a tall man. Said man donned an ancient armor from head to toe, one that Bran had never seen before. The man's back faced Bran and his gauntlets were at his sides, clenched to a fist.
The armored man turned and faced Bran.
Bran retreated backwards by taking one step. It would be disingenuous for Bran to deny the overwhelming sense of intimidation that washed over him, in the presence of this formidable armored figure. Said figure slowly began to stalk towards the frightened boy. Each deliberate footstep resonated through Bran's spine, traveling up to the nape of his neck and penetrating his very core. Remarkably, the armored giant had yet to engage in any action, and yet Bran could perceive an enigmatic force emanating from within.
The armored man stood before Bran and stared him down.
Bran glanced up at the figure's dark visor. Though he could barely see them, the enigmatic man glared at him. A glare so great and intense that no human should be capable of expressing.
Bran paused.
Was that shouting he heard just now?
Bran looked over his shoulder and his eyes grew more wide. An army of more than ten-thousand men were marching towards the pair. All of them waving banners bearing a mark that the young Stark boy didn't know, each one of them roared a battle cry that would haunt Bran for the rest of his mortal life.
RIP AND TEAR!
RIP AND TEAR!
RIP AND TEAR!
RIP AND TEAR!
RIP AND TEAR!
RIP AND TEAR!
Bran's trance was suddenly cut by a roar akin to a blasting napalm that reverberated through the air. He glanced up in time to see a massive black shape descending upon him.
The last thing he saw was a wide gaping maw filled with sword-like teeth before the jaws closed shut, engulfing him in darkness.
Bran's eyes shot open. He bolted upright from his bed, turning his head side to side finding none in his surroundings as if to defend himself from the last remnant of his memory. He paused, his muscles twitching as his chest rose and fell quickly. He could feel his heart pounding wild against his ribcage, beating as though he was still living through the last waking moment, even though he vaguely became aware he was no longer in danger.
Fresh adrenaline coursed through his veins - eager and waiting for something that would happen, which it already had. Not only was his body motivated to be alert thanks to the adrenaline, but it also sharpened his other senses. Completely aware he was no longer feeling the dread of incoming physical danger, he closed his eyes and tried to get his body to slow down, bringing himself out from the last memory of whatever it was.
Bran placed his hand over his chest. He could feel his heart beat rapidly against his palm as he inhaled air into his lungs.
Bran sat on his bed in a cold sweat.
LOCATION: OUTSIDE THE WALL
The Haunted Forest was primordial and is a substantial woodland. The forest extends for several hundred miles to the north, along the foothills of the mountain range before dying out in the subarctic wastelands of the Land of Always Winter. Snow blanketed the land, as well as every tree in the forest which were able to stand. Scant sunlight filtered through the clouds and layers of the canopy. The snowy forest was empty; there were no animals, critters or birds, nothing lived within its boundaries.
That meant they were the only living ones.
Will walked alongside his comrades through the Haunted Forest. He walked slowly, feeling the cold forest floor sink beneath his boots. He stared over the undergrowth, past the trees, to the lingering mist in the space beyond. They'd been walking for nearly an hour and haven't found a single Wildling. Wind chafed at his skin, chilling him to the bone as they pushed forward.
Will kept up with the others but was beginning to wonder why he had bothered to come on this foolhardy journey. Maybe it wasn't worth it, maybe he should have stayed back at the wall. It also didn't help how cold it was out here either. Were it not for his gloves, his coat, and his boots, he would've been shivering uncontrollably as if a-thousand knives were stabbing all over his body. He pitied any poor soul lost in these woods without the clothing he and his companions wore.
Ser Waymar Royce led the way as he and his brothers of the watch stride forward through the Haunted Forest. He and his brothers departed from the Wall to investigate reports of wildlings in the Haunted Forest which lies beyond the Wall. Only for the trio to find nothing, much to their disappointment. But Royce insisted that they keep searching, not wanting to drop his guard when a potential trespassing Wildling might present themselves.
Will could understand that reasoning. The last time Royce left someone else in charge of investigating any Wildling trespassers outside of the wall, one of the brothers in the search party was slain. Simply because they left their guard down. When Royce found out what happened he was furious, and so were the superiors. So to make up for that mistake, Royce took it upon himself to oversee the investigation.
"Ser Royce, we've been searching for half an hour now," Gared complained. "There are no Wildlings out here. Maybe we should head back."
Royce glanced at Gared briefly before returning his attention to the front line.
"Not yet, Ser Gared," Ser Waymar Royce replied coolly. "And keep watch of your surroundings, as I will do."
Royce halted in his tracks. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the forest surrounding them. His gaze moved to the far side of the forest, where a lingering mist shrouded some trees and bushes. Royce kept on looking before turning his gaze towards his two brothers of the watch.
"Okay, let's split up," Royce instructed, pointing finger at one path to another. "Ser Gared, you take right, Ser Will, you take left, and I'll go forward. Once we regroup, report back to me if you find anything."
Gared and Will nodded in acknowledgement before splitting off into different directions. Will took off in one direction while Gared went in the other, and Royce proceeded forward at the same slow pace when they started their journey. Will kept his hand gripped on the sword's handle, feeling it quiver slightly, a sign that he still trembled despite trying to stay strong for his brothers. He entered a clearing filled with a few trees and shrubs peppered with snow.
Will search for any movement by scanning the area. No movement aside from the rustle of wind through trees and the occasional sound of snow crunching beneath his boots. As Will drew closer he crouched to one knee, darting his eyes from spot to another. Looking for any tracks in the snow that would indicate a passing Wildling. But he found none.
After a few minutes Will retraced his steps to where he left his brothers. By the time he reached his checkpoint he saw Gared and Waymar Royce approaching him. Will approached Gared first, and Royce soon joined them once he caught up.
"So, did you find anything?" Will asked, looking at Royce closely. "Any Wildlings?"
Waymar Royce shook his head.
"No, nothing," Royce replied, shifting his gaze towards Royce. "What about you? Find anything on your end?"
Gared shook his head.
"Same here," Gared said as he scratched his beard.
Royce sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. He acknowledged that they didn't find much at all in this forest, and there aren't any Wildlings here. But even so a part of him wanted to stay and maybe do one more sweep of the woods, just to ensure no Wildling snuck away under their noses. But he understood that they can't stay here for too long. The weather was slightly increasing and their bodies would become numb from the cold if they stayed out here.
"All right, we're done here," Royce announced to Will and Gared. He turned around to face his brothers and started past them. "Let's head back to the wall."
Royce led the way as his brothers trailed after him. None of them uttered a word through their trek back, the silence filling the air between them, punctuated only by the crunching snow beneath their feet. The cold wind kissing their faces and the icy snow underneath their boots served to remind each man of the bitter cold they're experiencing. After a few minutes they finally made it to their horses, all three of them climbing aboard and riding back to the wall. The galloping gave way to silence.
Somewhere in the far off snowy forest, a lone bipedal silhouette stood watching, silent in its watch.
Its blue eyes gazed ahead to where it saw the three men ride away before retreating backwards into the cold mist.
LOCATION: VILLAGE
The Dothraki are a race of nomadic horse-mounted warriors in Essos. They inhabit the vast central plains of Essos, known as the Dothraki Sea. Their bond with horses is such that Dothraki are said to be born, fight, and die in the saddle.
And Khal Drogo was born to be a fighter.
From an early age Drogo was an extraordinarily gifted warrior even among the fierce Dothraki; before the age of thirty he led a khalasar forty thousand strong, the largest on the Dothraki sea. Never has he been defeated in battle. Which earned a lot of respect and fear from his kin.
For eighteen years the Dothraki swept across the vast central plains of Essos in search of plunder. Most of their society is centered around their horses: even their name for themselves in their own language, "Dothraki", literally means "riders". All Dothraki boys learn to shoot bows from horseback when they are only four years old. Even Drogo was taught how to properly use a bow and successfully landed his targets effortlessly, making him a prodigy at a very young age.
Drogo gripped the neck of the young man kneeling before him with one hand before swiftly slicing the boy's throat with his sharp dagger. Blood sprayed all around the room, drenching the floor and the walls. A grin graced his lips, satisfied with his kill while ignoring the mother's wailing for the loss of her son.
Frantic high pitched screams echoed from behind him as villagers tried to escape. Men, women, and children ran away from the Dothraki, chasing their fleeing prey with swords in hand while others were not so fortunate to escape the curving blades. Many corpses littered the city's sandy floors with blood staining and darkening the orange sand. Women were dragged by their hair away from their husbands, while said husbands were being beaten mercilessly in front of them, and children were unceremoniously snatched away from their mothers and fathers. With each person the Dothraki slain, they piled the corpses on top of one above the other, creating a small mountain before setting the pile on fire.
Drogo glanced at a tall Dothraki next to him. He gestured his head towards the father, his wife, and his children in front of them before exiting the room. The tall Dothraki step towards the father. Right hand reached for the handle to his side, unsheathing the steel and raising it up to his shoulder. The family before him cowered.
"Please… please stop. Please just kill me and leave my family alone." The father pleaded. The mother covered her little girl's eyes and the youngest boy whimpered, looking terrified.
The Dothrakis' eyes narrowed. He couldn't care less if they begged or pleaded for their lives. He's been given orders; they will be followed.
He began slashing them one after the other. His blade cut through skin akin to slicing butter, blood splattered on the floors and walls by the screaming family. When the screams cease, the Dothraki man turns away and exits the room. Passing by a few of his Dothraki brethren taking a few luxurious, he continued walking down the winding hallways until he was outside and stood by Drogo's side.
Drogo stared at the city around them. He looked around in fascination at the massacre before him. His Dothraki brethren slaughtering the city's citizens akin to wolves ripping apart the sheep, piles of bodies dotting the city's floor set ablaze, and many women being forced against their will by his own men. Just as Drogo liked to see.
Some Dothraki split up to five, breaking down any house and killing the inhabitants before they had even managed to awaken from their sleep. Those that were awake, however, had enough time to scream before being skewered with spears or impaled upon arrows, which pierced them like hot skewers. Some children that couldn't flee fast enough were carried away and despite their efforts pulled themselves free the raider proved to be too strong.
Shopkeepers and traders alike cowered behind their counters or ran for the protection of their homes. All too terrified to stay outside, especially when there was a Dothraki prowling around looking for unsuspecting prey to slay. Others inside their shops shut themselves inside, locked their doors tightly in their homes, and hid in their beds.
An army of royal guards gathered before the Dothraki. Spears flew through the air and crashed into the knight's head, sending one after the other toppling over, dead before they hit the ground. In a display of bravery, a few royal guards took to their second swords and swung them at the Dothraki and a great battle ensued. The other troops from the other side of the city moved forward to block the path of the Dothraki raiders before them, ready to take on the threat that was fast approaching the left gate. But it all proved futile.
The Dothraki won in the end. Many knights fell dead with their swords in hand while others died before they could even swing their weapon. The Dothraki raised their swords high, followed by a victorious war cry. The war cry was answered by a similar cry, and then another, until the atmosphere was filled with the cries of victory. The sight alone filled Khal Drogo with pride and satisfaction.
In the midst of the celebration, Drogo notices two Dothraki men dragging a naked woman towards him. The pair brought said woman on her knees in front of Drogo, giving him a closer view of her face and body. Drogo slowly dropped to one knee and stared at the quivering woman.
The woman ventured and glanced up to meet his narrowing eyes. She was an attractive and eye-catching woman, with a curvaceous body and long black hair cascading down her shoulders. Her brown almond shaped eyes showed signs of fear and apprehension. As she saw Drogo staring right at her she felt the urge to look anywhere else. But she held his piercing gaze and dared not falter.
Khal Drogo grabbed her by the arm as he and the woman stood back up. Leading her inside towards a room.
Drogo threw her into bed before shutting the door behind him.
LOCATION: PENTOS
Every time a Targaryen is born the Gods flip a coin to decide if they would be a brilliant statesman or completely insane. If there was one trait House Targaryen carries in its bloodline was simply insanity. Over three hundred years of heavy inbreeding, marrying brother to sister whenever possible to keep the bloodline pure, resulted in many of the medical problems seen with incest, particularly mental instability. The most prominent example of the Targaryen madness was the last Targaryen king, Aerys the second, who subsequently became known to all of Westeros as the Mad King.
Aerys was initially perceived as charming and ambitious in his youth. But as he grew older, Aerys suffered from what his doctors diagnosed as some sort of paranoid schizophrenia. He heard voices in his head that weren't real and these voices told him to burn people alive because they were all plotting against him. Many people endured his reign because they hoped his son Rhaegar would right the realm once he take the iron throne. But that unfortunately never came to be.
For now there are only two Targaryens left. At least that is people's assumption. Prince Viserys Targaryen is the heir of his father, following the death of his older brother during Robert's Rebellion. The war turned Viserys and his younger sister into exiles from the Seven Kingdoms who can only plot to regain control of the Iron Throne.
Daenerys Targaryen Stormborn is also one of the last members of House Targaryen. She was the youngest child of the family. She's a young woman in her early teens, and has the classical Valyrian look; She has violet eyes, pale skin, and long, pale silver-gold hair. She also had a slender frame, with a small bosom: She is said to resemble Queen Naerys Targaryen, though Daenerys is taller and stronger.
Daenerys stared wistfully outside of her window on the waters of the bay. The square brick towers of Pentos were black silhouettes outlined against the setting sun. Dany could hear the shouts of ragged children playing games beyond the walls of the estate. For a moment she wished she could be out there with them, barefoot and breathless and dressed in tatters, with no past and no future.
Daenerys closed her eyes. A gentle breeze kissed her face, slightly fluttering her silver-gold hair around her face. She could feel herself falling through the peace of the moment, carried away by the wind like an untethered bird. She could feel herself floating in the air, maneuvering through the brick houses of Pentos, drifting beneath a clear blue sky to the distant horizon.
Daenerys blinked.
She perked up upon a soft knock on her door.
"Come in," Dany said, turning away from the window.
Illyrio's servants entered, bowed, and set about their business. They were slaves, a gift from one of the magister's many Dothraki friends. There was no slavery in the free city of Pentos. Nonetheless, they were slaves.
The old woman was small and grey as a mouse. Never had she said a word, but the girl made up for it. She was Illyrio's favorite, a fair-haired, blue-eyed wench of sixteen who chattered constantly as she worked.
They filled her bath with hot water brought up from the kitchen and scented it with fragrant oils. The girl pulled the rough cotton tunic over Dany's head and helped her into the tub. The water was scalding hot, but Daenerys did not flinch or cry out. She liked the heat. It made her feel clean. Besides, her brother had often told her that it was never too hot for a Targaryen.
When she was clean, the slaves helped her from the water and toweled her dry. The girl brushed her hair until it shone like molten silver, while the old woman anointed her with a special flower perfume of plains Daenaerys know not, a dab on each wrist, behind her ears, on the tips of her breasts, and one last one, cool on her lips, down there between her legs. They dressed her in the wisps that Magister Illyrio had sent up, and then the gown, a deep plum silk to bring out the violet in her eyes. The girl slid the gilded sandals onto her feet, while the old woman fixed the tiara in her hair, and slid golden bracelets crusted with amethysts around her wrists. Last of all came the collar, a heavy golden torc emblazoned with ancient Valyrian glyphs.
"Now you look beautiful princess," the girl said breathlessly when they were done. Dany glanced at her image in the silvered looking glass that Illyrio had so thoughtfully provided.
Viserys was waiting in the cool of the entry hall, seated on the edge of the pool, his hand trailing in the water. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Daenerys appear before him. Viserys rose to his feet and smiled warmly at her.
"Sister," Viserys greeted her, coming forward with his hands behind his back.
"Brother," Daenerys returned, smiling gently at him.
Daenerys blinked. She noticed Viserys' right hand was wrapped with bandages. Her eyes darted from her brother's gaze to his right hand.
"What happened to your hand?" Daenerys asked, looking at her brother's hand with a frown. Viserys shifted his gaze to his hand then back at his sister.
"Oh, worry not Dany," Viserys assured her. "It is nothing. Just a small cut from this."
Viserys slightly twisted his torso which prompted Daenerys to glance down. Around her brother's left side was a sword sheathed in its scabbard. She couldn't believe her eyes; her brother has his very own sword. She wanted to ask why he had a sword, until Viserys turned away and walked forward.
"Come along, Dany. We must get a move on," Viserys urged her. Daenerys arched a brow at him as she trailed beside her brother.
"Why? Where are we going?" Daenerys asked.
Viserys glanced at her with a smile.
"We're going to meet an old friend of mine."
LOCATION: BANDITS' HIDDEN HIDEOUT
There were a few things Conin Rowan was afraid of facing in his life. An army of more than ten thousand men at their backs would most likely top that list. But nothing could prepare him or his friends for the sight of one lone armored man slaughtering all of his companions with effortless ease. The fact that they were the only three who survived was just icing on the cake.
When Conin first saw the man, he immediately knew that something wasn't right. It would be disingenuous for him to deny the overwhelming sense of intimidation that washed over him and his friends, in the presence of that formidable armored behemoth. Remarkably, the armored figure had yet to engage in any action, and yet Conin could perceive an enigmatic force emanating from within.
Even now Conin had to hold his hand steady from shaking out of fear as he stared down at the table. But while he was trying to keep himself composed, his friend Hugo was briskly traversing the room while the other bandits remained seated. His sister, named Miana, positioned herself against the wall, arms crossed and staring skeptically at Hugo. The bandits in their seats discreetly observed Hugo, their eyebrows slightly raised. A tall muscular man named Dustran stood behind the bandits, his countenance devoid of emotion, also raising an eyebrow at Hugo.
"So, let me get this straight," Miana began. Her voice sounded bored, almost mocking. "You came across an armored green knight, your fool of a leader charges at him, dies brutally by said knight, and that assailant killed all of your friends all by themselves?"
Conin winced visibly at the description, and his mind involuntarily conjured up pictures of the carnage.
"Yes, that's about it," Hugo responded calmly before pulling the hood of his cloak behind him. Everyone else reacted in similar ways. "Trust me, I wish I can tell you guys that I'm joking. I fool around a lot, that I admit, but this is no laughing matter. They were using weapons, weapons I've never seen before…"
Dustran clicked his tongue as he shook his head disapprovingly.
"Sounds like a load of bullocks to me," he stated bluntly. Miana frowned as she eyed her older brother. "Its one thing that you all stood there like a bunch of cowards, but the fact you allowed that knight to kill your leader without doing anything to stop it speaks volumes about your lack of courage…"
Hugo glared at Dustran.
"Did you fell on your head while I was away, Dustran? What in seven hells were I and my brethren supposed to do?" Hugo asked, his voice rising slightly in frustration.
"Kill the bastard of course! You know the rules, Hugo. We don't run from our battles, we faced them head on with our blades rasied high!" Dustran countered hotly. He turned to Hugo. Hugo turned away from Dustran and face palmed.
"You clearly have not been listening to our story…" Hugo muttered.
"We still need a new leader," Conin announced loudly. The attention shifted back onto Conin, who was now looking at everyone. "Our leader died horribly today. There's nothing we can do about it now. But this clan needs a new leader and someone strong to lead us forward."
The atmosphere grew tense. After a brief moment of silence, Dustran stepped up.
"Well, I guess that leaves me then," he remarked. A few bandits glanced at each other uncomfortably.
"Wait, why you?" Hugo questioned, bewildered.
"Well, Dustran was placed second in command," Miana commented, turning her gaze toward Dustran. "So what do we do then?"
Dustran grinned at his sister.
"Oh, I know what we're gonna do," Dustran declared confidently. "This interloper made a big mistake messing with us. So we're gonna find him, and not only make him regret crossing us but make him an example."
The bandits on the table cheered as Dustran raised his sword in the air, grinning madly. Miana sighed, shaking her head in exasperation.
Conin and Hugo stared wide eyed at Dustran. The pair glanced at each other with fear etched on their countenance.
They knew that this was not going to end well.
A/N: Well, there you have it young readers! Hope you enjoyed not only the second the chapter but the first part of these poor Bandits downfall. I apologize for taking so long to get this chapter out. During my time writing this chapter I was thinking about removing ourselves from the Slayer's POV and expand the world by checking on other locations as you all have read just now. Originally this was gonna be a long chapter like the last one but I decided to cut it into two parts, and also I didn't want to drag the wait even longer than I already have.
Have any of you guys saw the first episode of House of The Dragon Season 2? I haven't, but I planned to very soon. Judging by what I have seen in the trailers I can tell it's gonna be even crazier than last season. But with all of that said, I'll be taking my leave now. See you all in the next chapter.
Pride Before The Fall - Part 2
SNEAK PEAK
"So you're the bastard that killed my men." Dustran said, grinning at the Slayer.
Doom Slayer slowly shifted his mean gaze toward the bandit.