Game of Thrones: Paladin of Old Gods

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Forgive the delay. A very messy week. I hope the chapter is good enough to partly make up for your dissatisfaction. Happy reading, dear readers!

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POV: Sandor Clegane

On the arena fence staff and competitors.

Just before three duels began...

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Sandor cursed himself for the umpteenth time for his weakness. The Hound silently grunted another twinge of pain as he clutched the wrist of his sword hand, blindfolded with splints and garnished with a linen band tied around his neck.

That damned fractured hand wasn't even suitable for wiping his butt, let alone holding and wielding a sword or spear... His swollen and bruised left foot and knee also begged for mercy, but at least, albeit with difficulty, Sandor could still walk.

The shameful fight he had lost to the Drunken Knight had taken a heavy toll. It would take at least two more weeks of rest to get back into the game. So the Hound was forced to withdraw from the contest... It would only have been pointless and ridiculous suicide to participate in the Great Melee.

Maybe, just maybe, Sandor had a slim chance of participating in the joust. His wrist could not move, but his hand could still close firmly and grasp a shield. Wielding the lance with his left hand and relying on the horse for weight on his legs, Sandor could still beat some inexperienced rider...

'Tsz... What good would that do? Risking my last assets for some second-hand horses and rusty bits of scrap metal?' Sandor thought bitterly. Even if he had unseated a third-rate competitor, the armour and horse he had won would not have relieved his bitter situation.

The truth was that the Hound didn't give a shit about gold or his own well-being. Sandor just wanted a favourable battleground to cause his brother every possible evil.

To prove to that evil Mountain of dung and steel that, now, he too could fight. He, too, could hurt, kill, and inflict pain and humiliation... But this was not the day.

If there was one thing Sandor had learned from that tragic lesson of two nights before, it was:

'I'm still too fucking weak. You're fucking weak!' Sandor cursed himself again when...

"Does it bother you if I join you in this good vantage point, Not-a-Ser?" a devilish, irritating, and excruciatingly recognisable voice caught him off guard... It was the fucking Drunken Dancer.

"... If I answer, 'Of course I fucking do.' Would you leave? Or would you break my remaining good limbs to make me?" Haymitch laughed, shamelessly taking his seat without permission.

"I apologise for the wrist, 'but' you hadn't left me much choice... You were stubborn about not letting go of the sharp blade, and you were so pissed off. I wouldn't have gotten away with a few rough cuts or a simple hole in my belly. Am I right?" Ser Haymitch asked ironically.

"You say right. If I could have, I would have gutted you from your tongues to your neck and shoved that wooden stick up your arse." Sandor replied with a furious grunt as he turned to point out the jester and dozens of other injuries for which he had not received an apology.

The good side of his face was swollen to the point that it looked like the face of someone who had chosen to use a beehive instead of a pillow for the night.

"... It remains nicer to look at than the other side." Sandor cashed in on the barb quietly and with such... such patience. As much as Clegane wanted to hate the man, the Hound remained indebted to him...

If he had wanted to that night, the drunkard could have claimed his life or not cared and let Sandor charge badly towards an inevitable end. Haymitch had even dragged his unconscious ass between the comfortable, warm sheets of the Singing Maiden instead of leaving him in that forlorn alley in the cold and filth.

Clegane would never admit it openly, but receiving the warm care and attention of the tavern's finches, especially Jenny, had been alright.

Sandor resumed observing the chaotic and brutal unfolding of the melee. Haymitch gave him the grace of a scarce minute's silence... But, strangely enough, that silence was becoming increasingly uneasy.

"Why are you here?" Asked the Hound, always keeping his gaze firmly focused on a pile of armour almost eight feet high. Apparently, Gregor was not going to have much fun at this early stage. The Kingslayer was exploiting the Riding Mountain as the keeper of the banner, and no one was trying to test the defences of Tywin Lannister's Dog.

"I have already told you. This is an excellent observation point. From here, there is a good view of all the competing factions, and it can also enjoy shade and discretion." Haymitch replied.

"I meant, 'Why to stay and observe when you can participate...?' Are you so full of coins that you can ignore an eighty thousand gold dragon prize?"

"Nha, I'm fine like that. I've already won fifteen thousand at the archery competition. Between taverns, whores and other fancies, the hoard should last me for at least three or even four moons..." The Hound could not hold back a slight grimace of a smile mixed with a rusty grunt of laughter. Not even a garrison would have managed to squander so much money quickly on booze and whores. That gold was enough to build a small manor from nothing and maintain a servant for decades.

"Ahah, I finally managed to wring a grin from those hardened pieces of leather you call lips. And by the way, am I supposed to take that question as a compliment? Are you implying I am skilled enough to prevail in the fray?" Sandor had dropped his breeches; he bit his tongue at his stupidity. The Hound replied with a grunt of contempt at the catch, then spilt the beans.

"...Goldfinch sang a ballad about you... There was a time when you weren't thought to be just a harassing drunkard. You were Ser Haymitch of Raventree Hall, 'The Imperious Drunkard'. The most frequent tavern-goer in the Riverlands and the blade most feared by the Brackens and every rabble of bandits from Tumbleton to the Twin Towers."

"Long ago... Now I'm just 'The Drunkard'..." Jenny had told him of the reason for his retirement from the Riverlands.

Then Haymitch darted. "Oh, look at that! The Young Lion and The Red Viper are about to go at each other's throats. And the skirmish between Bloody Snow and the Knight Corbray is also getting more heated." The Hound did not overlook the glissade on the subject, nor did he miss the direction of the man's gaze. Haymitch was looking for someone else in the middle of that quagmire.

"I bet a jug of red on the Dornish!" Came out suddenly the Drunkard, extinguishing the veil of melancholy altogether.

"Without poison and with blunt fangs, the Red Viper doesn't stand a chance against the Kingslayer... I'll take that bet." Even if he lost, the Hound could get away with serving the Drunkard some sour, cheap wine. But if he had won, he might as well have grabbed the best red in that City of Fucking Rich People. Then, he could play along and win a little satisfaction in the heath of misery.

"Do you still intend to join the joust, Clegane?" Haymitch asked before the duel began.

"And how the fuck do you think I could participate looking like this?" The bastard liked to throw salt in the wounds.

"That wasn't a 'No'." Then Haymitch continued, "… Maybe I could help you get back on track."

"What if the answer was a 'Yes'? How do you think you could help me? By squiring me? By holding up my running spear? Pff... I can barely wipe my arse, let alone hit a target with a spear, and the jousting will begin in less than two days." The Hound.

"Maybe I could... I happen to know a Healer. The guy is a real pain in the ass and triple entendre, but he also possesses a portentous healing art. And as it happens, this individual owes me a couple of favours and is right in this town, within reach..." Sandor scrutinised the interlocutor carefully... Was this another joke, or was the guy serious?

The Hound had already received a visit from a Maester, and the healer told him it would take at least a moon of absolute rest to fully recover...

But strange rumours and stories circulated throughout the taverns of Westeros. Many claimed to have known fellows or acquaintances of friends who had been miraculously healed by a barefoot Septon from Quiet Isle... And Ser Meryn Trant had recently recovered from wounds far more serious than his own.

Sandor knew this from first-hand experience. It took months, if not years, to recover from burns like that, and instead, that pussy Meryn was on her feet after only two weeks...

"What would this 'Miraculous Healer' want from me in return?" Asked the Hound after a few seconds of pondering.

"From you? Oh, nothing you can't afford. Only that you don't mention it to anyone... Would you be able to keep a vow of silence, Not-a-Ser?" Clegane remained impassive and silent for almost a minute.

Why was the man so insistent on helping him? To what end? What did he want from him? Another sword to command for the ranks of the Wolves?

This shitty world took a toll on everything. And anything true or pure had to be defended day and night without ever letting your guard down if you didn't want the world to take it away... Bullshit like 'Honour', 'Love' and 'Friendship' only existed in bedtime stories.

"What do you care about me...? Why are you doing this?" Asked the Hound. Haymitch also needed a few seconds to remove his mask, but the man replied.

"There is goodness in you." Sandor instinctively averted his gaze, hiding it in the face of anger and scars.

"You don't know shit about me," Sandor replied defensively.

"…I know that when you were ten, you begged Prince Rhaegar to dismiss Gregor from his knighthood, trying to warn him of the monster he really was... I know who you are. I know about your childhood, your father, your sister... and your brother." Sandor froze. No one could have known... It took him months and all his father's political influence to get a private audience with the prince. Rhaegar swore to the Seven that he would keep this confidential...

"Don't try to hide it with that shitty attitude of yours, Clegane. There is goodness hidden in your gaze. And something more than mere revenge. Something desperately yearning for a just reason to fight." Haymitch concluded, "... Because you are a broken sword, Clegane. You and I are two broken swords, consumed by pain, rusted by loneliness. But unlike me, you are still young, with a life full of possibilities. You haven't yet discerned the little good in this lousy world... you can still heal."

Sandor had never felt so uncomfortable in his life. A cowardly part inside him longed to escape and get as far away as possible from the cause of that discomfort.

The man was undecided whether or not to accept the help offered him... but then, the Hound's head and neck made this small but at the same time mammoth leap of stupid and naive faith, and he nodded.

"Good... You will receive a visit from my healer by next dawn." the drunkard pulled out a flask and, only after suspiciously sniffing its contents, took a small sip. Then the man handed the flask to Sandor and proposed:

"Now let us enjoy this Steel Show."

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End POV.

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POV: Duncan

In the middle of a duel.

While two spectators were enjoying a show between alcohol and silence...

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I intercepted a mighty slash from above and dampened the energy of the blow by deflecting it to the side.

Corbray was physically stronger than me. After various tests and research, with the help of Qyburn, I realised that strength statistics were very subjective. Other factors came into play, such as the difference in mass. Currently, my body mass was around 100 pounds. In a mere Strength contest, my 15 points would be suppressed at the same statistic against a grown man twice my weight...

It was a theory similar to the weight divisions of professional boxing, where 15 or 20 pounds more or less was too abysmal a difference for two boxers.

One example was Ramas. The man probably possessed the hardest and strongest 160 pounds of flesh in the Known World, but Baragh or Narbo would still have fractured his wrist and hand like dry twigs in an arm wrestling contest.

The Closure of the Gates, exploited to its limits, had allowed me to last a few minutes against Victarion Greyjoy's 300 pounds of muscle and 19, if not 20, killing points. A monstrous strength that would have crushed even Denys Drumm's.

*Stiiin!*, *Clang!*, *Stiing!* my sword and Lyn Corbray's continued to generate sparks and clangours. The Knight of the Valley had stopped wasting his breath with vain words.

Corbray was becoming more and more tired. I held my own without too much effort in a forced blade-to-blade clash. I could feel his arms trembling. I tried to kick my left foot forward to destabilise him, but Lyn preceded the surprise blow by changing position.

There was no denying it. Corbray's footwork and fencing technique was excellent.

Ser Lyn compensated for his lack of stamina and his injuries with technique and strategy.

"Ruaargh!" The Knight attempted another fierce assault, landing a feint from below and a left fist. Then came in rapid succession four blade swings from all directions.

I parried two of them and dodged the third, but the fourth swing hit my forearm. The armour made the blow negligible. I began my counter-offensive by harnessing the strength of my legs and went for a lunge which Lyn dodged by leaping to the side, but the man had landed right where I had intended. I curbed the charge and threw myself to the side, swinging a long sweeping slash. The man dodged the second blow with difficulty and threw himself too far back. I pressed the unbalance and smashed the opening in front of me with a barrage of lunges and half-slices.

Corbray closed in his fragile metal shell like a turtle surrounded by dogfish.

Shoulder, chest, belly, knee and head... I rang that man like a bell. I also gave a hard blow to his left hand, which Lyn absorbed with a grunt of pain.

The man retreated further, looking for a way out of that hailstorm and, impressively, found it by rolling forward through sand and dirt. In the process, Lyn lost his helmet, drenching his head in wet sand... Now the upraised man had not only been injured but humiliated. The beautiful bright colours of House Corbray had been stained from head to toe with brown loam, yellowish sand and drops of blood.

"Spuit! Damn you... I'll kill you, Bastard." Intimated Ser Lyn under his breath after spitting a lump of blood and sand.

My opponent was at a disadvantage. For every hit on the armour plates, two of mine entered more precisely and decisively between the exposed joints. Lyn's left hand was almost useless, and the right could no longer wield the weapon's weight.

"If I had-" I anticipated the threat.

"If you had used Lady Farlow, I would have taken out your insides with my Red Rain at the start of the second assault, Ser. You would have already died three times before you could even wound me."

"Bullshit...! Without that armour, you wouldn't have been able to stand up to me for even a minute!" Corbray. I raised my guard and repositioned myself with my sword, ready for the final act.

"You are right... Words without actions are only wind. I will prove it to you in this final assault." The feeble defence left to my opponent had no more secrets for me. In those three minutes of exchanges, I had even memorised the habits of footwork.

I did not grant the Knight the mercy of regaining his strength. It was not an honour he had deserved nor one he would ever bestow. I advanced slowly but surely towards my prey.

Corbray tried to fend me off with sluggish, chaotic blows. I parried and deflected each blow, delivering a gloved right to the liver. The man's breath broke as he trudged backwards with his sword quivering.

I advanced again. This time I only had to deflect a slash on the level of a novice page, and I swung at the victim's bare face with a backhanded blow, causing him to spit blood and collapse to the ground.

"On your feet." Corbray was still slumped on all fours coughing up blood.

"I said, On your feet, Ser! I do not stoop to rage on helpless men on the ground. And my hand quivers to strike you again." I released my grip on the hilt, removed my helmet and grabbed Corbray's ruff to raise him. The body and armour were too heavy to lift with my teenage body... I cast the spell [Bless] to have better control over my will. At that point, I loosened the chains that bound the Beast's right arm and tapped into some of that chaotic and violent dormant force. As expected, the demon took advantage of that small window of opportunity, attempting to gain the upper hand... Impulses of endorphin and adrenalin tried to seduce me and drag me back into that oblivion of chaos and madness, but they failed...

The strength in my right arm overflowed. I quickly lifted Corbray's two hundred and fifty pounds of flesh and steel and then slammed him back down with a devastating left hook. I lifted him again, hitting him in the belly with another hook and a headbutt to the nasal septum. A wave of blood spray ran over me.

Lyn could not have withstood another one without losing consciousness. So, before delivering the third blow, I release the most minor possible portion of Lay of Hands. Sufficient to keep him from passing out but not strong enough to reinvigorate him. And so I did for the fourth and then the fifth...

I took my time... I went on, striking until the victim's swollen, purple face was on the verge of collapse. But before the last spark of lucidity withered, in the same tone of voice I used with a certain witch from the East, I whispered the exact words into Lyn's ear:

"This is for Barge, you Arrogant Piece of Shit.

Always remember, Ser... {We Do Not Forget}." I dropped the body in the sand and turned around.

A dozen men from the Valley standing there to witness the event stood petrified by the brutal spectacle. Their faces were demoralised masks polluted with terror.

This was only the beginning. Ser Corbray had only been the appetiser for the reply message I wanted to send to Lord Leyton and his daughter.

I searched the stands for Lynesse's gaze and found it. The maiden was beside Benfred, smiling and jubilant at my victory... Benfred was still too young, naive and unsuspecting to understand what kind of evil snake was at his side. It was up to me to intervene.

In the next round, my fury would be directed at the pride of Oldtown.

'Approach my brother, Lynesse, and I will approach yours. Before long, we shall find out together if the fame and trust in Greysteel are well placed.'

By now, William and the rear guard had ultimately repelled the remaining assault attempts of the Triarchy coalition. Only the Vale remained.

I gathered my helmet, sword and shield and turned to my remaining eighteen comrades with sky-high morale, eagerness for action and impatience to receive orders...

"The duel is over. Assault what remains of Ser Corbray's faction... Tear to pieces those who still have the will to fight and bring me that damn flag."

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End Chapter.

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