Rodrik Guld, son of Skoll, leaned closer to the mirror, studying the face of the man who stared back – a face he hardly recognized anymore. His once thick beard was gone, along with every strand of hair from his scalp. Where he once saw ruddy cheeks and a strong, weathered brow, he now saw hollowed cheeks, skin pale as the moon, lips a stone gray, and eyes that gleamed an unsettling, unnatural crimson – a predatory glint that hadn't been there before. When he blinked, the red lingered, smoldering back at him from the glass. He almost didn't blink at all. It was the day that demanded he shut his eyes, the daylight that felt sharp and biting, stinging his skin, sapping the edge from his thoughts. He could still lift a dozen men if he needed to, but he found himself shying from the sun, longing instead for the cool embrace of dusk.
He bared his teeth. Fangs slid into view, sleek, sharp, as natural now as drawing breath. With a thought, he let them retract, but the metallic taste that lingered reminded him of their purpose. No longer did he crave the comforts of roasted meats, the sweetness of wine, or the warmth of bread. Those pleasures had turned to ash on his tongue. Now he hungered for blood, rich and warm from the living. Fresh and alive. The scent alone set his senses ablaze, like a heady perfume no mere mortal could resist. And how easily it all fell within reach. Many of the faithful offered themselves willingly – a cup a day, as their Lord decreed. Those who worshiped Jason Lee, the Lord of Life and Death, knelt before him with smiles and bared wrists, exalting in what they called "the honor" of sustaining the Death Knight, their fervor unwavering.
The thought of Jason Lee, the Boner Lord himself, filled Rodrik with pride. In his reflection, he saw not a curse but a gift. Jason's power was mighty and vast, and to be molded, shaped, and given this form—what greater honor could a mortal ask for? He, Rodrik Guld, was no mere soldier now; he was Jason's first Death Knight, the eldest and strongest of those chosen. And if the faithful offered him blood, his lord permitted him so much more from the damned, the sinners, the vilest among men. They were his feast, his true purpose.
The corner of his lip quirked, almost a smile, though the coldness of his eyes remained. He clenched and unclenched his fist, watching his veins stand out like dark rivers along his forearm. The strength coursing through his body was like a river poised to burst through a dam. It ached for release, and in the night, he moved with such silence and speed that even those who saw him claimed he'd been but a shadow, a ghostly streak against the moonlit sky.
He could still remember the pain and shock of the transformation, the burning fever that had raged as Jason's magic wove through him, threading power into every fiber of his being, and finally leaving him spent and remade. It had frightened him at first – the rawness, the endless thirst. But now he wore his new nature as easily as armor. The night had never felt so vast, so filled with purpose. His hands clenched tighter, savoring the whisper of strength at his fingertips, the power to crush and maim, to defend and destroy. He belonged here, just as he was.
Rodrik's gaze dropped to the mirror once more. Perhaps, one day, he might ascend further, even beyond his current station. Lady Halga was the only one who ranked above him, the first of Jason's Chosen and the bearer of the Lord's divine fragment. Her power was fearsome, nearly beyond his grasp. But he, Rodrik, would rise. If he proved himself worthy, if he served with strength and loyalty, all things were possible under the shadow of the Boner Lord.
Yes. He was blessed.
And so, with that in mind, Rodrik, once again, donned his helmet, black and matted and given the likeness of a bat-winged skull. It offered him protection from harm, but – more importantly – it shielded him from most of the sun's rays, minimizing the weakness he'd feel in the day. Rodrik stepped out of his dark quarters, hidden in the darkest and deepest halls of Winterfell itself, ancient and forgotten, unused since the ancient days of the Kings of Winter. A servant greeted him, bowing as he sauntered forward. "Ser Rodrik. Another challenger has appeared."
Rodrik paused for a moment, before nodding. "Where is he now?"
"In the yard, Ser."
There were only two means with which a man may become a Death Knight, like himself. They could either somehow gain the attention and favor of the Boner Lord directly, which would've been simpler in the early days of Lord Jason Lee's conquest, but was now almost impossible, unless one truly performed a feat worthy of the greatest of heroes and stories, something worthy of impressing a God. Thus far, none had managed to impress the God of Life and Death – many tried, oft performing foolhardy stunts only to meet death or injury in doing so. The other method, which Lord Jason Lee himself assigned to Rodrik, was through a simple challenge of combat. Those seeking to become Death Knights must prove themselves worthy of the title by engaging Rodrik himself in the field of battle – no rules or codes of honor. Lord Jason Lee specifically forbade any form of limitation for the challengers.
Rodrik imposed rules upon himself, of course, or else the challenge would lose its meaning. He wasn't allowed to make use of anything other than a single weapon of his choosing, though – to avoid fatalities – Rodrik often made use of a quarterstaff, which – while deadly – was not nearly as deadly as a sharp spear or a sword.
The previous challenger had chosen to hold their battle in the deep woods. The man had been a trapper and had made use of many clever tricks and traps to try and ensnare Rodrik. Some worked, most did not. In the end, Rodrik caught the man and he was thoroughly unimpressed with the hunter's admittedly intriguing approach to battle. The challenger before that had chosen to fight in Winterfell's sparring yard in an attempt at an honorable duel, but Rodrik defeated him quite easily.
This latest challenger appeared uninterested in tricks, like the last one had been.
There had been a grand melee just a few weeks ago, but the ones who showed up then were... less than desirable.
Rodrik entered the yard with steady, deliberate steps, the weight of his armor pressing into the earth beneath him. His gait was silent, each step absorbing the anticipation that crackled in the air around him. Winterfell's soldiers, gathered in quiet clusters along the edges of the sparring ground, watched with rapt attention. Few dared to whisper when Rodrik entered the field, for he was as much a legend to them as the gods themselves - a towering figure who had transcended mortal constraints to become something darker, something both revered and feared.
The challenger stood at the center of the yard, rigid and ready. He was a young man, lean and hardened, his stance betraying a warrior's practiced balance. Scars crisscrossed his forearms, and his shoulders were squared, his gaze unyielding as he stared Rodrik down. The man held a thick, iron-forged mace in his right hand, its spikes glinting faintly in the pale winter sun. He wore a simple padded cloth armor and what appeared to be a bucket-shaped helmet.
"I would have your name, young man." Rodrik said. "Before we begin."
The challenger breathed in. "Jon."
Rodrik nodded. "Very well, Jon. As the first Death Knight of the God of Life and Death himself, I hereby accept your challenge. If you win or otherwise impress me, I shall take you to our lord and he shall grant you the same boon as I possess."
"I shall not fail."
"There is no shame in failure." Rodrik said. "The great and benevolent lord of all that is alive and dead has not forbidden any fallen challengers from trying again."
Without a word, Rodrik unslung his weapon of choice from his back – a simple, solid oak quarterstaff reinforced with an iron core. The staff had no ornate carvings, no intricate design. It was plain, unassuming, and in Rodrik's hands, it felt like an extension of his very self. The crowd shifted, sensing that the duel was mere moments away.
Rodrik inclined his head, a faint nod to his opponent, the closest he'd come to acknowledgment. Jon squared his shoulders and returned the gesture, no hint of fear in his eyes. This one would not rely on traps or cunning; he would rely on grit, pure and stubborn. Rodrik respected that.
Then, without warning, the challenger surged forward, the mace arcing toward Rodrik's shoulder in a strike meant to end the fight quickly. Rodrik moved as if gliding, sidestepping the blow with deceptive ease. The challenger's mace crashed into the ground, splintering stone and sending shards flying. Rodrik pivoted, his staff snapping forward with the precision of a coiled serpent, landing a swift blow against the man's ribs. The impact echoed across the yard, the challenger stumbling back, his breath catching from the force.
If he wished, even with just a quarterstaff, Rodrik could've split the young man in two.
The young warrior regained his footing with a grimace, tightening his grip on the mace. Without hesitation, he swung again, this time aiming for Rodrik's legs. Rodrik leapt, his movement fluid, and brought his staff down in a sharp arc. The challenger twisted away, his quick reflexes keeping him just out of reach. Rodrik grinned beneath his helmet, savoring the rare thrill of a worthy opponent. He felt the weight of the man's determination, his fierce will to prove himself to the One True God of All.
They exchanged blow after blow, their movements weaving a deadly dance of wood against iron. Each strike from the challenger was met with precise blocks and counters, Rodrik's staff always in motion, a whirl of calculated strikes that kept his opponent at bay. Sweat began to bead on the challenger's brow, his breaths growing harsher, but he did not falter. Instead, he pushed forward with renewed ferocity, his attacks relentless. Rodrik almost found himself smiling.
Then, in one swift motion, Rodrik stepped inside the challenger's guard, his staff sweeping upward with a force that lifted the man off his feet. The challenger crashed to the ground, the breath knocked from his lungs. Rodrik placed the end of his staff against the man's chest, holding him pinned. For a moment, silence hung in the air, the weight of it pressing down as everyone held their breath.
Rodrik met the man's eyes through the slit in his helmet.
"Yield," he said, his voice calm, carrying the authority of one who commanded death itself.
The challenger lay still, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. For a heartbeat, defiance flickered in his gaze, a spark that refused to be snuffed out. But slowly, that spark dimmed, replaced by a reluctant respect. He lifted a hand and nodded, acknowledging his defeat.
Rodrik withdrew his staff, offering the young warrior a hand. The man hesitated, then accepted, pulling himself to his feet. He bowed his head in deference, and Rodrik returned the gesture. This was not a battle of enemies, but a trial of worth, and the man had proven himself with honor, if not victory.
The crowd began to disperse, murmurs filling the air as they recounted each strike, each near miss. Rodrik watched the challenger walk away, his steps heavy but his head unbowed. The young warrior had earned Rodrik's respect, a rare gift, but respect alone would not grant him the title of Death Knight. That honor would remain just out of reach, reserved for those whose strength could match his own or for those who fought hard enough to impress him.
As Rodrik turned to leave, he felt a strange flicker of satisfaction. His lord had granted him the gift of his new existence, and in return, he would be a steadfast guardian of that gift, upholding the Boner Lord's will. For as long as he drew breath – or whatever coursed through his veins now – he would answer every challenge, test every spirit. The legacy of the Death Knights demanded nothing less. And then, behind him, the boy declared, "I will challenge you again someday, Ser! I will challenge day after day, no matter how many times it takes, until the Lord of the Living and the Dead himself acknowledges me!"
Rodrik turned and nodded. "See that you do."
AN: Chapter 50 is out on (Pat)reon!