Hundreds huddled behind the walls of the Lady Eleanor's manor, the expansive halls and rooms were now packed so tightly that the men, women and children inside could hardly move their limbs. The smell and heat of their bodies grew unbearable as the hours passed them by, and all were reduced to a sea of warm, jostling flesh, and still they could not leave, still they heard the footsteps and laughter and occasional banging from outside the heavily barricaded doors and windows.
Only a few of them had an inkling of what the clansmen had planned for them, and none of them shared it, a panic would kill a clustered group like theirs faster than any fire would, all they could do was close their eyes and offer silent prayers to the Seven.
Outside, the clansmen were having a far better time, they spread over the market square surrounded by the now ruined and looted buildings. They drank plundered wine, laughed at stories of battle and comfortably lounged about with no worry in the world. In one corner of the square laid their hoard of pillaged plunder, gold and silver of every kind was piled high, besides it was cattle, steel, grain and more that they would carry with them back into the mountains.
Near the manor, however, were a few of them piling wood and kindling along its walls. Whatever they could not take, they would burn, leaving only desolation and ash in their wake.
Until, seemingly from nowhere, one of the clansmen piling wood would catch an arrow to his neck and thud dead against the ground, his blood coloring red the lumber and cobblestone. It took a moment for anyone to notice, another clansman caught sight of it and opened his mouth to yell, but the thundering footsteps and war cries of the small, charging host would drown out his voice and alert both the clansmen and those huddling inside the manor to their presence.
Jon led the host as they rushed the square, running well ahead of the rest of his men, Gilbert ran behind him, his one remaining arm wielding a steel longsword that could slice open many a man. The militiamen, men at arms and surviving townsmen were there, wielding everything from swords, axes and spears in hand. They ran once more into gruesome battle, for many, it would be their last, but as long as the fate of their families hung in the balance, as long he stood and hope of triumph remained, they would fight like men possessed.
And still Jon remained ahead of them all, the first two he cut down were half drunk and witless, they loosely reached for their weapons even as his greatsword cleaved them apart in mists of red. The next two he crossed were armed and ready, they fought with shields and axes, their swings were fast and brutal. Jon danced and blocked them, yet when he came to swing back towards them, they raised them up in time to perfectly parry him.
Soon his men would reach the clansmen, and his first real battle would take place, the din of steel, screams of pain and echoes of death exploded around him like the crashing of a wave against the shore, but he spared it no attention, could not spare it any attention, his will wholly bent on the steel in his hand and the ugly faces in front of him.
He knocked aside one of their shields as he practiced doing a thousand thousand times, yet now when the man's guards broke, there was no friendly banter, no yielding to be offered or accepted, only another life snuffed.
He turned his attention to the other man, but then, in the corner of his eye he caught the sight of an axe. Fast, far too fast for its great size, and it sailed through the air to separate his head from his shoulders.
In that moment, he found the presence of mind to duck out of its way, then he swung back in retaliation. Yet when steel met steel, his arm came to complete halt, as though he was trying to strike a mountain side amd there was a high, deafening ring in the air, and a deep, guttural laughter accompanying it.
When he turned to face the man, he was met with a stature near seven feet in height, it reminded him of Lord Manderly, if the man's width was muscle rather than fat, and his height his own rather than lent to him by a dais. His arms thicker than a horse's thighs and his chest as wide as a great oak keg, both his face and arms bore many scars, and his beard and hair were braided, they flowed down to his chest and were caked in the dried blood of countless slain.
But even this menace of a man paled in comparison to the weapon in his hands, an axe of the likes of which Jon had never seen before, the wooden handle was ornate and engraved with many runes and sigils with a heavy bronze ring wrapped around its base. But it was the steel itself that left him starstruck, the dark, flowing patterns of Valyrian Steel, mesmerizing to even gaze upon, given form and strength in a Freehold which had been extinguished centuries ago, and yet, this weapon had somehow found its way into this barbarian's hands.How?
Terror filled him as the man laughs thundered and shook the nearby buildings, but only for a breath, when the Chieftain gripped the base of his axe to swing out in a vicious slash, Jon ducked out of the way.
It traveled far, far faster than it had any right to given its size, but such was the nature of Valyrian Steel. Once it swung by, Jon shot forward in a lunge, but the clansmen only raised his foot and brought it down on his blade, the same trick the shirtless maniac had stumped him earlier at the quarry. The giant slid his axe in his hands to hold it right at the blade with both hands, then swung it forward in two short arcs ahead of him, as though he wielded a dagger rather than a greataxe.
It would have butchered Jon like a swine had he not pulled his sword back to deflect the blows in time, but still, he could see the axe's eversharp edge scratch away shavings of steel from the flat side of his sword. The clansman slid the axe in his hands once more, before raised it above his head and bringing it down like a bolt of lightning, were the circumstances different, Jon would have tested his strength and tried to block it, but here he only dashed out of the way, hearing it carve apart the cobblestone where he stood seconds before.
The battle lust in his veins now burned like an inferno, the divine flame of the Warrior found even in his bastard, heathen blood, a steady beating forever on the verge on exploding. Despite the dire cost his failure would bring, the hundreds of lives hanging in the balance of every swing and parry and the endless death and suffering he had seen today, he could not help but smile, the fervor of battle was exhilarating beyond compare, it gave his life a meaning, a purpose he would never find elsewhere.
Jon swung as he dashed and struck the man's side with a devastating blow, the man's armor bent under the force of the strike, yet steel could not cut steel, and a pained groan was all he received before another flash of Valyrian steel came his way.
Dashing from its path once more, he bent his knees, mimicking another lunge, the man's foot twitched in anticipation, yet when he shot forwards, he shifted his momentum, and rather than a lunge he swung his sword upwards and struck the man in the side once more.
He shifted his weight and weaved in another swing, hoping to strike the chainmail under his shoulders and draw blood, but the clansman was a tier above those he had been slaughtering all day, he recovered in time to block with his axe, then swung the handle at his face. Jon tried to back away in time, yet it still caught his jaw and burst his lip, he tasted blood and for the first today, it was his own.
The clansman continued with a kick and another swing, but Jon's sword was up time to stop both, and the clash between them resumed anew.
Jon swung out with two slashes of blinding speed, two slashes that caught only Valyrian steel and chipped the edge of his greatsword once more, the giant retaliated with a bash of his axe which Jon backed away from, then sunk his knees and returned to what had worked before.
This time, there would be no feint, no trickery, only a lunge of overwhelming strength, aimed low at first, so that man did not think he could block it, but then coming up higher than his foot could be raised to parry it. Were the man wearing any other armor, it would have run him through, were the man of any slighter build, he would have been thrown off his feet.
But thick armor and even thicker bones allowed the man to remain standing. He raised a filthy hand to Jon's face and pushed away, near toppling him over. The youth fell back on his knees, only looking up in time to see another arc of Valyrian steel moving to cut him apart, with no time to dodge he struck the tip of his blade against cobblestone, then braced his grip, shoulders and knees.
What should have been an insurmountable defense collapsed the moment their weapons collided, the sharp, undullable edge of Valyrian Steel bite into his sword and did not stop until it split the castle forged blade in two, the axe then flew to strike him in the chest and sent him flying near ten feet away onto his back.
The breath was knocked out of him as he landed, then the pain in his chest blossom like a winter rose. Suddenly the ongoing battle and slaughter around him manifested in his focus once more, dozens of clansmen, militiamen and men at arms laid dead or dying, there was no beauty to any of their deaths, no songs or poetry to be written, only dead eyes and red blood.
A moment later he could raise his head to look down at his chest, twas an ugly, painful gash, and still he was lucky beyond compare that his steel plate and sword had absorbed so much of the impact else he could have been cut in two. The thought terrified him, a fear that crescendoed when he turned his gaze to what remained of his greatsword and the clean edge that had been left where it had been broken in two. Then there were heavy, labored footfalls that loomed ever closer, and he turned his gaze back towards the clansman who slowly approached him with bloodlust in his eyes and an unbreakable greataxe in his hands.
"Run." The man said, his tone cruel and merciless, and his posture like that of a bear encroaching on a wounded doe, in that moment Jon felt himself drowning twice over in fear, every nerve in his body was pulling back and he could not help but quiver and crawl backwards. "Run away, little boy."
He wished for nothing more, Grey could arrive in minutes and he could ride and ride and ride and not stop until he was in Winterfell once more, back in warm halls and even warmer embraces. He thought of Mya and Robb, of his father and his little sister, the grief that would bury them should he fall and the relief they would know if he escaped and committed himself to other pursuits, any other pursuits, even if it came at the cost of the militia rooting and the village perishing, at the cost of Lady Eleanor and every one of her children burning.
Yet, even as his grip trembled, even as his knees near buckled and every instinct ordered and screamed and shrieked for retreat, he found himself rising to his feet, feet which would not turn nor run nor cower irregardless of what his mind or heart demanded.
"My fate is to die with blood on my lips and no scars upon my back." He said, his tone sharper than his ears had ever heard and a smirk more dangerous than any he'd ever mustered crossed his lips as he raised the broken sword against the clansman. Every ounce of tension left him at once, he felt the burning pain in his nose and chest, but he ignored them, he heard the symphony of steel still being sung around him, but he paid it no mind, he could feel the soft, steady beating of his heart, the pulsing in every vein and artery, but both his gaze and mind were fixated on the gargantuan chieftain. "But until then? I'm unstoppable!"
It was in that moment that a mad glint glazed his eyes, one not seen since the kingslayer earned his moniker and the fervor in his uncle Brandon's eyes had been strangled, not since the Hungry Wolf stalked Andalos and dragons arrived on the continent.
The unyielding will of a conqueror, in the body of a nameless bastard.
There was little more terrifying.
The clansman laughed and raised his axe once more, and so too did Jon his halfsword, gripping it with both hands before the two men flew into combat once more.
As men were impaled and carved apart around them, as they bled and shat themselves in their final moments, they would turn their final gaze to the clash between their leaders and believe themselves hallucinating at the sight. Soon the doors of the manor would swing open and men and women would rush the clansmen with kitchen knives and table legs and ceremonial blades, and still they could not tear their eyes from the where the Chieftain and the bastard danced with fury unbridled and brutality unmatched.
Jon's sword was now the length of a shortsword, it meant he had a difficult time threatening the mad clansman without putting himself at great risk. Once their range had been evenly matched, but now the advantage was almost entirely in the other man's favor.
But it had not made a difference, not when he fought as he did now, nigh feylike in grace and with the strength of storms in his limbs, ever since he had arrived in the Vale, Jon had fought relentlessly time and time again, sharpening his skill in the blood of his enemies, the great chieftain was nothing more than another fool bled, and another lesson learned.
Until finally, in a feat of athleticism few in the world could match, when the clansman would swing out his axe once more, Jon would run and leap near five feet in the air, comfortably flying over the swinging greataxe. He coiled his arm like a scorpion's stinger near his right ear, and as the panic set into the clansman's eyes, Jon's sword shot forward in an dazzling stroke of steel.
It carved into the flesh on the right side of the Chieftan's throat, and as Jon sailed in the air next to the man, it would tear out one half of his neck.
The Valyrian Steel axe clattered against the cobblestone as the clansman's hands moved to his neck and fell to his knees, desperately trying against all hope or convention to hold the pooling blood inside. His beard and his fingers were soon soaked and when he gazed upwards once more, he saw only Jon, looking as though he were the Stranger, he reared his broken blade back and swung it down one final time.
Some twenty feet away, three clansmen had teamed up against a lone man at arms, they were soon to overwhelm him when something hit one of them in the back of the head. The man turned and looked to the ground where it landed, and he found the decapitated head of his Chieftan staring up lifelessly at him, when he looked at where it had come from, he saw a greataxe Valyrian Steel flying towards him, the last thing he would ever see.
Jon was upon it in an instant, he grabbed the handle and bent his knees, pulling the weapon onto his shoulder then swung as he exploded upwards, carving apart the two other men in half. He exchanged a nod with the man at arms, before his attention was turned back to the remaining clansmen, some would raise their shields only for them to be cut to splinters, some tried to overwhelm him only to be reduced to mincemeat, some had their chest torn open, others, their skulls, but in the end all of them were crushed under boots of wroth.
It was after the body of the last clansmen fell that Jon allowed himself to breath, near collapsing to the ground in pain. He saw the men and women of the town surrounding him, looking equal parts awed and fearful, before he turned to face the authoritative and feminine voice of Lady Eleanor behind him.
She had bags under her eyes and her arms trembled with exhaustion, her once spotless dress was stained in blood and grime, and her soft and delicate hands were dirtied and scratched by the handle of the bloodied sword she held, and she had cuts across her arms and a wound on her cheek, one which likely scar, a scar earned defending her home.
"Kneel." She ordered, Jon was confused but was all too happy to fall to one knee regardless, until he soon felt the gentle tap of the blade on his shoulder. "I charge you in the name of the Father and the old gods to be just."
He then realized what was happening, in truth, he had never yearned for knighthood, always assuming it would arrive on his lap when the time was ripe.It seems the time is now.
"I charge you in the name of the Mother and the old gods to defend the young and innocent, I charge you in the name of the Warrior and old gods to be brave, I charge you in the name of the Maiden and the old gods to protect women, I charge you in the name of the Smith and old gods to be diligent, I charge you in the Crone and the old gods to act wisely in times of uncertainty, I charge you in the name of Stranger and the old gods to deal death to the wicked and spare the innocent, do you accept this oath?"
"I do."
"Then rise, Ser, a man and a knight."
