Game of Thrones: Paladin of Old Gods - Chapter 175: A Raven, a White Tree and a Drunkard... (III)

Chapter 175: A Raven, a White Tree and a Drunkard… (III)

*****Dear faithful, knowledge-hungry readers, I have some news. Good for me, and annoying for you….

I’ll rip off the band-aid right away.

Bad News: until the end of the month I will not be publishing any new chapters of Paladin of Old Gods.

Good News (Mainly for me): These past two weeks I have been thunderstruck by flashes of inspiration for a new original story (Not Fanfiction).

Unfortunately, due to my monetising and subsisting job, I don’t have the time and energy to work on both. I have tried and failed miserably by not concluding anything….

Having said that, I need to stop for a few weeks and throw down the wordbuilding and plot drafts of this new work, which, I think I’ll christen {Chronicles of Sand and Iron}.

Also, I need to steal everything that can be stolen on some original ideas I was thinking of putting into Paladin of Old Gods.

I have a few draft chapters in reserve, which I will have to rework, but fear not, I hate to leave works unfinished. I have the distant ending of this Fan Fictions always on my mind, and it haunts me every morning. I absolutely must keep writing!

As a humble but insufficient gesture of apology, I will publish two chapters.

Thanks again to everyone for your continued support and endless patience.

See you soon, and happy reading!!!****

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POV: Brynden Blackwood

Tournament Arena.

While a Silver Trout, filled with bile and frustration, brooded among the noble stands…

——-

Brynden’s eyes and ears, like the rest of the two hundred and fifty-five participants, were totally focused on Lady Barbrey Mormont. Two hundred and fifty-six souls waiting to hear the first coveted prize up for grabs for the winner of the Archery Competition.

“… And, leaving the best for last, the prize for the First Runner-up!” A hundred servants and guards armed with escorts paraded in front of the contestants, carrying and parading the contents of chests, parrying dozens of sets of armour, armed with plenty of white bows and quivers. A most peculiar trunk in the centre was still closed.

“A hundred thousand Golden Dragons!” A roar of astonishment followed the first part of the prize.

‘A hundred thousand?! That’s an infinite number of coins! One could demolish and have Raventree Hall rebuilt from scratch with that sum!!!’ Thought the heir of House Blackwood, recalling the notions of economics and trade learned during his lessons with Maester Barnabas.

In times of peace and commercial prosperity, and in the unlikely event of no unexpected extra expenditure, House Blackwood would have had to tighten its belt for at least four years to be able to set aside such a sum. Brynden’s eyes drifted with greedy dreams of prosperity as the boy stood entranced by the mesmerising golden glitter just a few dozen feet from him…

“Twelve Finest Archer’s Sets, fitted with twelve bows in Weirdwood and Golden Heart Tree, and our pride and joy…” Two servants stepped forward between the rows, carrying a long black case. “Found, two years ago, by intrepid research adventurers attempting to explore the perilous lands of the Long Summer, near the ruins of an ancient Valyrian town…” The ebony wooden crate was opened, and an attendant lifted with two hands an imposing double-curved longbow, nearly six feet high, its black handle and arms etched with several fiery red runes from the base to the top.

“A treasure from the Ancient Empire of Valyria… My lords and ladies, House Mormont, has the pleasure and honour to offer as a prize to the winner: a Very Rare Dragonbone Bow!” Applause and jubilation of wonder flared up like a fire. The gaze of almost all the opponents-competitors became more determined than ever.

If one of the challenges for the competition was to shoot, with a single arrow, a mother clutching an infant in swaddling clothes, Brynden surmised that at least more than half of those men would shoot the arrow without batting an eyelid.

The wake of the boy’s eye shifted to a rival gaze focused on him… It was Henry Bracken, the first nephew of Lord Jonos Bracken and current heir to Stone Hedge. Lord Bracken, unlike Tytos Blackwood, had sired only daughters by his two marriages.

Lord Jonos’s brother and Henry’s father, Quentyn Bracken, had died at the Rebellion due to a sword wound that went gangrenous. Therefore, unless Jonos had sired a male shortly, it was that slender, muscular boy of just sixteen, with rough brown hair and dark brown eyes, the current heir to the Bracken House.

The Bracken boy flashed him a defiant grin, which Brynden reciprocated, pointing out his new white weirdwood bow, lent to him by his uncle Haymitch.

Henry Bracken gave him a dirty look, trying to conceal his yew-wood bow as much as possible. A good wood for a short bow, but comparable to the difference between bronze and hardened steel when compared to weirdwood…

Brynden was a good archer, not the best in Raventree Hall, but still a marksman who hit the bull’s eye nine times out of ten. His father put a bow and arrow in his hand from his fifth name day.

House Bracken boasted the best light and heavy cavalry in the Riverlands, while House Blackwood could boast of the best units of archers in central Westeros… The Bracken could have beaten him in a hypothetical quintana. But with a bow and arrow? With that prize at stake? With the magic bow that Uncle Haymitch had given him?…. Never.

Weirdwood was an excellent building material, though scarce and expensive. Wood never rotted and became stronger and more fireproof with time until it became harder than stone.

When Maester Barnabas first explained to Brynden the peculiar characteristics of that wood, the child, then only six years old, ran to his father and asked him why House Blackwood did not use all the weirdwood from their dead-heart tree to resell it or build weapons, ships, gates or structures out of that fantastic material. After all, their legendary ancestor, Brynden Rivers, known as Bloodraven, possessed a wondrous weirdwood bow.

From there, his father began to tell him of the legends of the Sons of Forest and the bloody, thousand-year wars that had lasted between the Singers of Life and the First Men. And of the ancient pact sealed by the two warring races more than eight thousand years ago in the Eye of the Gods.

[“If one day you want a weapon from the wood of those sacred trees, my son, you must first go to the Isle of a Thousand Faces in person and ask permission from the Old Gods… This is what my father and grandfather taught me. And that is exactly what my great-grandfather’s cousin Bloodraven did to obtain his.”]

As fate would have it, the two bitter competitors, Blackwood and Bracken, ended up in the same quadrant. Four quadrants consisting of sixty-four competitors each… If both boys from the Riverlands made it through the first two rounds, Brynden and Henry would face each other in a 1 vs 1 contest in the third. An event the Blackwood eagerly hoped for.

Brynden would prevail and bring prestige to the good name of his household. The boy looked at his bow, which he held firmly. It was a bow unlike even those recreated here in the North. That ancient masterpiece of craftsmanship had not been contaminated by the Golden Heart Tree… No.

Incomprehensible runes were engraved all along the inside of the wood. Some were blood red, others were black-oxidian. The engraved symbols were almost imperceptible. The harder Brynden tried to read and remember them, the less he could.

The boy stared at the man behind him and began to recall his uncle’s advice…

****

The day before…

“A magic bow?… Are you kidding me, Uncle Haymitch?” Brynden asked with jovial scepticism.

“Not at all. See for yourself… Doesn’t the bow already look bigger than before?” It was true! The bow must have stretched at least two inches in that short minute!

At first, the instrument looked like a child’s toy, but now, that bow was growing… Moreover, that object was feeding on his blood; it had only taken a few drops.

“It belongs to a Children of Forest. To be precise, to the granddaughter of the King of the Children of Forest. It is not a gift… it was only loaned to you for the duration of the tournament. So, be sure to treat it with proper care, nephew.” His uncle replied, patting him affectionately on the back as a warning gesture.

“A Son of the Forest…! Pff, don’t talk nonsense, Uncle. The Children of the Forest have been extinct for millennia now.” Brynden searched Uncle Haymitch’s face for a sign of playfulness but found only seriousness and concern.

“Trust me, not the owner of that magic bow. If you do not believe me, try to keep that object for yourself beyond the time limit, and then let me hear from the individual to whom you have left your last will said.”

****

Brynden held the enchanted wood tightly, pleasantly warm to the touch, smooth and soft… The archer felt more confident than ever with that instrument. The boy had spent most of the night gaining confidence and shooting arrows at straw targets. The best marksmanship he had ever demonstrated… Brynden felt like a distant chosen descendant of the legendary Ancestor Hero of House Fossoway, Foss, the Archer.

That bow read his will, helping his hand to draw, dole out the proper force, aim, wait, and shoot just right. Quite simply, a Treasure-Companion-And-Guide that once tried could not be exchanged for anything else in the world.

‘A regal gift on loan from Torrhen’s Square… Is House Tallhart simply showing friendship towards the future allied house? Or is this a ploy by our future business partner to advertise the Blackwood/Tallhart product line… ?’ I ponder the boy.

‘But who cares. The important thing is that the glory and the prize go to House Blackwood!’ Brynden abandoned those thoughts, refocusing his attention on the prize in front and the ancient rival to be shredded.

“Now, we will let Barrowton’s master-at-arms, Ser Wyatt of House Stout, conduct the first contest!” A man in his thirties made his debut, bowing to the audience.

*Clap!* Barbrey clapped his palms elegantly and sonorously once, then officiated:

“Without further ado, let the Games begin!”

****

End POV.

****

POV: Ulmer of the Kingswood

Arena of Contenders.

About half an hour, a clapping roared through the stands…

——

Ulmer carefully scrutinised his first opponent. A wealthy and plump scion of House Buckwell named Jhona. The experienced archer of the fraternity in black noticed at once that those clothes worn by the competitor from House Buckwell, made of tight velvet and adorned with an uncomfortable ceremonial breastplate, were not suitable for the kind of competition…

‘The boy will pay the price for his noble lustre… I ask your forgiveness in advance, Brother Jarman.’ Ulmer thought, spitting out a bitter piece of chewed red leaf celery.

Ser Jarman Buckwell, the boy’s uncle or great-uncle, was his sworn brother and a worthy Ranger of renown among the guardsmen. A true Ranger tempered by seven years of frosty and honourable service. Ulmer had the honour of patrolling on two occasions on the other side of the Wall together with Jarman. But now more than ever, the archer in black was sure that his confrere would forgive him for the necessary lesson he would teach that immature and softened member of House Buckwell.

The Night’s Watch needed that gold and that paraphernalia. Lord Commander Jeor had been clear:

[“Take this bow and do all you can to bring the brotherhood that prize, Ulmer.”]

And Ulmer would obey. If the former bandit had to publicly humiliate the King himself, Ulmer would not have hesitated for a second. Now, the Wall was his home and the Night’s Watch was his family to protect.

Seventeen years ago, another family welcomed into its ranks a humble woodsman with nothing left to lose… the Kingswood Brotherhood.

Simon Toyne, The Smiling Knight, Wenda the White Fawn, Oswyn Longneck, Big Belly Ben and Fletcher Dick… the latter taught Ulmer how to use a bow.

Fletcher Dick was undoubtedly the best archer of his generation, if not of the millennium. No one could compete with his former teacher. With bow and arrow, Fletcher could unbutton a bowstring from a moving target, in complete darkness and at a distance of more than 150 yards… And it was not a figure of speech. Ulmer witnessed the scene of the hunt for the trembling prisoner of the Swann house, who was freed and then recaptured in the middle of the woods for amusement… At the end of the run, the poor man was left with only his trousers, breeches and boots.

Not even after all those years of practice at the Wall, wielding that sublime bow given to him by the Lord Commander, would Ulmer have been able to match Fletcher… But at least the Ranger could boast of being the most valuable archer in the Brotherhood in Black.

Fletcher would have ransomed King Aerys himself for such a bow…’ Ulmer thought with mild nostalgia as he felt the masterpiece of the northern master gunsmiths with his calloused hands.

A gift from House Blackwood for the Brotherhood in Black, which Commander Mormont, in turn, gave to him.

The short double-bowl’s hilt, back and knuckles were made of pure Weirdwood, while the belly and limbs were made of Golden Heart Tree. The two types of wood were joined together by animal glue and wrapped in an elegant layer of waterproof birch strips. The rope was a finely woven mix of catgut and unicorn hair bred in the lands of Skagos.

Stiffness and flexibility of the two kinds of wood married perfectly, creating a balance never experienced with any bow… An excellent weapon for both short, medium and long distances. Simply perfect for hunting.

Ulmer even envisaged the instrument as an excellent substitute for the longbow and a sublime range weapon for horseback. The Dothraki lords would undoubtedly have sold off herds of stallions, mares, or even sons and daughters for such a bow.

“Three targets, three attempts. Each pigeon will be released from the turret at each bell chime… The bird is trained to travel perpendicular to you between the two turrets. The arrow that hits the target will score the point.

Body: one point.

Head: three points.

Red Centre: five points.

Should both arrows hit the target simultaneously, both competitors will get the respective points.

The archer who scores the most points will pass the heat. If the competitors do not achieve a single point, both will be out of the competition… Good luck, competitors.” Explained the competition judge for the fourth time.

It was a very different competition from the mere motionless straw target. That competition favoured experienced hunters or well-advanced archers.

“… Don’t take this the wrong way, honourable brethren. But I have been hunting pheasants and ducks every moon cycle since I was six years old.” He tried to intimate the noble peacock, flaunting all his arrogance and confidence.

‘Pff, a hunt every moon cycle…?’ Ulmer laughed inwardly.

‘Beyond the Wall, if you wanted to eat anything other than mouldy oatcakes and dried mutton, tougher than ironwood bark, you had to hunt: morning, noon and dusk, every day. And if you used a bow, you had to make sure you brought back every single arrow with its iron point and all the nibs still intact.

‘Quite a bit of noble practice, Ser… So, I’ll let you shoot the first arrow. These old but still curious eyes are always eager to learn.” Ulmer replied in a calm but amused tone.

“Archers, in position…!” signalled the judge. “Inching.” Both Buckwell and Ulmer answered the call.

‘… Four seconds and four or five wing beats tops before the blind spot.’ Evaluated Ulmer after observing the exact same route some twenty times. In that first round, each pigeon traversed the same three-hundred-foot distance almost identically.

The two competitors, positioned at the apex corner of the triangle, were fifty feet away from the midpoint, each spaced six feet apart and placed within a circumscribed circle of three feet radius, which could not be crossed.

Ulmer lightly wet the tip of his nose with saliva to keep track of the wind. The man felt the standard ash arrow with fingertip and forefinger and waited patiently for the bell to ring before extending the bow.

Which his opponent did not do… The boy, overcome with anxiety and impatience, began the draw, straining his arms more than necessary to keep the longbow taut. This was a hazardous choice, as the signal varied with every stroke. The bell could be rung immediately or delayed for up to fifteen seconds…

To the relief of the contestant with the flushed face, the *Dong!* came six seconds after the pull.

The grey bird showed itself, splashing like a thunderbolt perpendicularly towards the second turret. The boy named Jhona released the tightrope an instant later…

*Sdruiff!* “Uuuu…!” there was a soft roar of disappointment compounding the boy’s despondency and embarrassment. The Buckwell had not at all taken into account the average morning breeze from the west.

The arrow did not even take root on the wooden beam of the tower, tipping directly onto the ash wood. At the same time, the attendant at the top, responsible for opening the cages, stepped back fearfully to avoid danger.

Before stretching, Ulmer waited another second, and, with lightning-fast and fluid movements like summer silk, the archer pulled, aimed and shot.

The bow followed each gesture with imperceptible resistance, releasing the accumulated energy without recoil. The dart had absorbed all the power of the pull, releasing a force capable of piercing steel.

*Stonk!* “Wuoooooo!!!”, “Yeees!!”, “Come on, Ulmer!”, “To the Watch, Brother!” The audience cheered, and his brothers in black put on the most show.

The arrow still vibrated when the judge raised the point flag.

The bird was pierced right through the back, skewered like a chicken on a spit on the beam of the opposite tower, a foot and a half away from the blind spot… After a quick check, the second judge proclaimed loudly from the tower: “Red Bull! Five points for Ulmer!”

The audience and the noble stands applauded loudly towards the incredible display of skill just displayed. It was the first Red Centre since the start of the tournament. Even King Robert designed to give him a round of applause from the royal stands.

Ulmer bowed to his audience elegantly, giving a triumphant wink to his sworn brethren and blowing a kiss to a brunette damsel in her thirties with gigantic tits, swaying rhythmically in his name.

The lapwing of House Buckwell was still left with his mouth half open and his face catatonic. The challenge could already be said to be over. It would have been a miracle if the rival archer had snatched at least one point in the last two remaining attempts…

Ulmer threw an additional weight onto the boy’s already burdened shoulders.

“Thank you, Ser Jhona… Without your remarkable display of skill, I could not have learned the ‘where’, ‘how’ and ‘when’ of never having to shoot my arrow.”

****

End Part III.

****