Game of Thrones: Paladin of Old Gods - Chapter 176: A Raven, a White Tree and a Drunker... (IV)

Chapter 176: A Raven, a White Tree and a Drunker… (IV)

POV: Haymitch the Drunker

Arena of Contenders.

Roughly three hours after a Night’s Watch took the first semi-finalist spot in the first round…

——-

It was the fourth heat of the second round. Of the sixty-four contestants in that round, only eight remained. One contestant had to prevail in all six heats to reach the semifinals.

The first three challenges had been almost a piece of cake. Haymitch couldn’t even explain how that Gyllen of Grafton (his last opponent) made it through the second round… Except for the first round, in which even the wimps, who barely grazed the pigeon feather and miraculously snatched a point, passed, the second round was a different story. Each heat increased its difficulty. In the second and third rounds, the number of winged feathers doubled, but only one red point remained. The only valid target to score points. On top of that, the contestants’ circle moved back ten feet. The two competitors were now ninety feet away from the towers.

In the fourth round, the number of pigeons remained at four, but in addition to the increase in distance, a second bird was marked with a yellow dot to throw off the archer’s eye…

Needless to say, there was a massacre of poor innocent pigeons. But at least the meat of those feathered heroes (the one still slaughterable) would later be served at the victor’s banquet.

‘Hmm… Luck is also a factor to always take into consideration. Another lesson I’ll have to teach those two little brigands over there.’ I pondered Haymitch casting a glance at his two livid young disciples sputtering with false elation on the northern stands.

“Courage, Ser Haymitch!!!’, “You can do it, Ser!…. Come on, you rabble! A chorus for the number one archer of House Stark!” In a joking mood, the little pack of ruffians joined the chorus fomented by Robb and Jon.

They were sorely mistaken if the two brats thought they could buy it a sneaky little chorus to save them from the punishment that would soon descend upon them. Haymitch was still terrified of drinking from his personal flasks.

Two evenings ago, during the usual daily training, the small band of criminals accompanying the Wolf Cub had replaced all the precious contents of the flasks with vinegar mixed with copious doses of black pepper powder… The man almost rejected the first swallowed gulp from his tongue.

Haymitch’s response came the following day, doubling the training session’s duration and soundly thrashing the duo. But then, that very morning, Haymitch awoke from his rooms with an unbearable stench of horse shit… Sure enough, the pack was behind it. The problem was that Haymitch still had no idea where the stench came from. The poor man had searched everywhere without finding the slightest trace of dung…

But at least the duo did not seem to lack ingenuity and cohesion. Essential elements in any battlefield.

Ned had been unmistakable… Haymitch had to squeeze those two children without qualms to prepare them as best he could. The Lord of Winterfell wanted Robb and Jon tempered and ready for any danger or future threat. Six years was the time limit. By their twelfth name-day, those children had to be prepared for {The Winter}…

Only the Quiet Wolf and Bloody Snow seemed to know the extent of that metaphorical and ominous ice storm that would soon hit the North.

“You have a great cheer in the stands, Ser Haymitch of Raventree Hall.” Said the massive, dangerous individual beside him. Squared face, marked by slight scars, iron gaze, broken nose, a taurine neck and muscular chest shoulders supported by at least six feet of bone hardened by several battlefields. The leather armour and tunic worn underneath were as worn as the faded but still visible crest of a white tower crowned with flames on smoke grey.

Even the elm bow was visibly worn from its possible use. Weapon and armour were fully attuned to their possessor, who, in all probability, was used to brandishing and wearing it even in his sleep.

It only took Haymitch one glance to realise that this individual was no mere scion of noble origins with titles bestowed by his middle name. No… the man had earned the title ‘Ser’ in blood and steel.

Haymitch replied to his first real competition opponent, Ser Garth Hightower, known as ‘Greysteel’.

“I won’t deny it, Ser. Lately, I’ve been gaining certain annoying notoriety… And by the way, I’m Ser Haymitch of Winterfell now. But if you prefer, you can simply use my old namesake of Drunkard.” There was no hostile intent in Haymitch’s tone, as there was none in his counterpart. The two battle dogs were merely sniffing each other before showing their fangs.

“So I beg your pardon, Ser Haymitch of Winterfell… The Blackwood crest engraved on your magnificent bow deflected my initial conjecture… A bow almost identical to those up for grabs,” replied the second son of Lord Leyton Hightower with sufficient respect, casting a suspicious glance at the same bow that had dominated the first round.

“Ah, this toy? A fair bow, I cannot deny it. In fact, it was my cousin, Lord Tytos Blackwood, who gave me a gift of it… A small reward for past services rendered at Raventree Hall. I understand it can be easily confused. No offence taken, my good Ser.” Said Haymitch, trying to close the subject there.

The bloodhound Hightower is on the hunt for information…’ It was still a minute or two before the start of the round that Garth still had time to pester him with more annoying questions.

‘… Better to attack early and buy time.’ The guy also had a sharp gaze and a talent for weapons. The rumours Haymitch heard in the Oldtown taverns rang true: House Hightower diligently instructed every family member in faith, body and mind.

“I have heard much of you, Ser Garth. The great deeds of ‘Greysteel’ in the Disputed Lands were recounted in every tavern or dive bar from Oldtown to Golden Grove… But, if I may ask, Ser, is it true that you managed to gain the rank of lieutenant in the Second Sons after only your first battle?” Garth squinted slightly, sharpening his gaze more.

“Tavern exaggerations, Ser… I did not achieve that rank until my seventh month of service.” The Knight of Oldtown attempted to narrow the topic he had just raised. But before the Hightower opened his lips again, Haymitch anticipated him again.

“Seventh month? Well, a remarkable achievement nonetheless, Ser. From what I understand, one needs a minimum of six months to obtain a position as a simple lieutenant among the Second Sons. And tell me, was the crushing victory over Khal Pemmo’s thousand also an exaggeration, or is there some truth there too? It is said that you faced three consecutive duels against the blood knights of Pemmo.” Greysteel was beginning to sense Haymitch’s game.

“Well, that depends, Ser. Are the rumours about a certain lone Raventree Hall Knight who emerged victorious and unharmed from an ambush of twenty armed bandits equally true?” Haymitch smiled at the witty quip and replied:

“Mh mh mh…There were thirteen of them, and only half could be considered ‘armed’. It took me more than a day and a night to shoot them down during various retreats, night attacks, and dishonourable assaults in the woods. Two of them I slit their throats in their sleep, one was mortally wounded by a passing wild boar, a fourth I impaled while he was taking an emergency dump, and a fifth was put to the sword by the leader of the band himself… Some wanted to retreat, and that rabid dog called Brace, or Brade, as I remember, had to set an example… I shot him sixth. From there on, it was a simply frightened fox hunt.” Greysteel returned the admission with an amused grunt.

“Khal Pemmo’s was only the dying shadow of a true Khalasar… Among the famous ‘Thousand’, six hundred were women and slaves. There were barely four hundred Dothraki exhausted and exhausted after a long flight against a rival Khalasar.

Four hundred ill-armed barbarians, mainly consisting of old men or teenagers posing as warriors, had the misfortune to face nine hundred armoured mercenaries on horseback eager for an easy victory. Our heavy cavalry passed through their ranks like a hot knife through butter. The first blood knight I knocked down was already one step away from death with an open flank. But they still credited me with the kill. The second one I decapitated with a surprise slash immediately after he had finished shooting down one of my comrades. Only the third could be called a duel.” Garth confessed in turn, getting a nod of respect.

The competition judge called the attention of the two archers about to compete.

Greysteel pointed his eyes to the white bow, asking a final silent question.

“… Let’s do it this way; if you beat me in this trial, you will get some of the information you seek, Ser Garth.” Proposed Haymitch.

“Mmm… And should you prevail?” asked Garth.

“You will wait like everyone else… And you will reveal what you can reveal about that monster shielding your Lord Father. Your brother-in-law, if I am not mistaken… Emm, Ser Jon Coop?” Haymitch needed help remembering the middle name.

“‘Cupps’… gone. May the Warrior guide the hand of the best.” Garth replied.

‘Pff… Really good at wordplay.’ Investigator Hightower wanted to find out whether or not Haymitch was still a believer in the Seven.

“And may the ‘Father’ judge this contest fairly.”

*****

About two minutes later…

“Thigh! A point for Ser Haymitch! Wing! A point for Ser Garth!” Shrieked the line guard.

Each arrowhead was soaked in dye to leave a mark. Blue for Haymitch and green for Garth.

‘Tzs, shit! He gave up accuracy to play ahead…!’ Haymitch inwardly scolded himself for not having foreseen such a possibility. Had the bumbling drunkard hesitated a moment less, he might have hit the redhead. But, instead, Greysteel’s arrow had intentionally reached the bird first to destabilise the target.

“Ser Garth advances to four points! Ser Haymitch follows with two points! Last try, contestants…!” Announced the competition judge loudly amidst ovations and roaring applause.

‘Greysteel will not miss… He will aim for at least one more easy shot. I must score Head or Red Centre. Otherwise, I’m out…’ Haymitch reasoned instinctively. The Blackwood Bastard certainly had a better bow, but Greysteel compensated for that deficiency in his greater confidence with his instrument.

Haymitch had had little time to become familiar with his… But the more significant problem was that Garth could focus the red-marked bird in the middle of three other fictitious targets before him. Greysteel had finer eyesight than his own.

Haymitch’s eye slid in search of the boy Sorcerer… Duncan Tallhart was less than fifty feet away, silently offering him a hand.

‘No… That card will serve Ulmer or Brynden more.’ Haymitch raised his left little finger, refusing help.

To use that magic, Bloody Snow had to come within thirty feet of him. A suspicious movement that could be justified twice at most.

“Archers in position!” Ser Wyatt signalled. Haymitch would not have wanted to resort to so much… Being the demonstration jester of House Tallhart and Mormont pissed him off.

No matter how hard the Knight tried to wriggle out of that demon’s shadowy pincers, Bloody Snow, one way or another, always managed to find a way to tie him up and smoke him like a ham at his mercy.

Not to mention that with those glass things in his face, he felt ridiculous…!

Haymitch grabbed the buckskin cloth out of his pocket against his will, pulled out those strange lenses tied with wire, and fastened them over his ears. A slight murmur of laughter went along with the unexpected gesture… The magic of sight struck Haymitch’s eyes once more. Now, any detail more than a hundred feet away from him was clearly in focus.

Haymitch could even glimpse the cracks in the wood of the tower, along with a myriad of details that at first appeared as a blur…

The judge hesitated for a second as he witnessed the scene.

“Reading glass, Ser…? Why are you putting those weird Maester magnifying glasses on your face?” Garth asked with a hint of derision in his tone of voice.

“… They’re ‘Archer’ lenses, Ser.” Cut the publicly mocked counterpart short.

Ser Wyatt stood spellbound for a few seconds…

“Any problem with the rules, Ser Wyatt?” Asked the annoyed four-eyed man.

“Eh…? Emm… No. I guess not, Ser…” The judge cleared his throat to pronounce better:

“No regulation prohibits ‘personal effects’ or ‘decorations’ of any kind!” Despite the announcement, the judge did not stop staring him in the face…

Haymitch dazzled him with his gaze, casting a subtle expression of [Do you also want to weave a tapestry in the process? Then what the fuck are you waiting for to give the signal!]

“K-Knock…!” replied the judge after the silent rebuke.

Archer Stark noticed the absence of wind. ‘You like to play ahead, huh?’ Haymitch anticipated the pull by a couple of seconds, pointing his bow towards the tower on the right. Garth was taken aback for a moment, but he, too, replicated the sudden movement.

It was a contest of endurance and speed… The seconds ticked by, and the tension in his arms and shoulders began to show. Then, at the ninth second, the *Dong!* came.

Haymitch’s eye caught the crimson glow just after the second flap of his wings… and he fired without hesitation. Garth delayed half a second. The target’s head jumped, and when the second dart attempted to reach it, the winged body of the prey was already in a vertical dive…

Garth’s arrow missed the pigeon by at least two inches.

The line guard did not even need a second check to announce publicly:

“Heads! Three points for Ser Haymitch! Missed shot! Zero points for Ser Garth!” The stalls exploded, Jon and Robb cheering loudest of all.

“Ser Haymitch Rivers accumulates five points. Ser Garth Hightower follows with four points. Ser Haymitch prevails!” The Knight slipped off his jester’s glasses before bowing respectfully to his opponent.

“… A fine contest and a well-deserved victory, Ser Haymitch.” Garth complimented, returning the bow with reluctant humility.

“Good and hard-fought for sure, Ser Garth. Your dexterity with bow and arrow is a voice I would certainly confirm in any tavern in Westeros…” Haymitch replied in the same tone.

“I wonder if you might have a chance to demonstrate my dexterity with sword and spear as well, Ser…” Garth cast him a first accurate defiant glance.

“… Not in person, I’m afraid. My rusty knee reminds me every morning not to perform the actions of swaggering youth. But you will always have the attention of my watchful eye in the stands, Ser Garth…” A thin bubble of tension was forming between the two. A bubble that isolated the two veterans amidst the confusion of the audience.

“But from the sounds of it, your knees juggled well during Pyke’s recent siege, deftly breaching its walls first.” Garth retorted, moving two steps closer to create more discretion in the conversation.

“What can I say…? A limb responds most readily in the middle of a real battle.” Replied Haymitch in a jovial tone but with erect shoulders.

“… Ahah, well said, ‘First Commander of the Winterfell Militia’.” Garth had also done his homework. Even his recent appointment had not escaped his ears…

The knights’ eyes remained wide open and ready to perceive any trace of threat. Greysteel had no swords with him, but Haymitch would bet his head that the Knight always concealed at least one emergency blade. The tension in the air seemed to beg for a blood tribute… But then Garth broke the bubble first by lowering his gaze.

“I will send my most trusted squire to collect your questions in writing. You will have part of the answers you seek by tomorrow, Ser Haymitch of Winterfell.” Greysteel gave a final slight nod, taking his leave.

For a moment, Haymitch was tempted to invite that individual to drink a cup or two of good red, but he quickly repressed the foolish idea…

It would have been an invitation to a bloodbath.

Not for hatred or any offence caused. The two knights did not need an excuse to be at each other’s throats… It was pure curiosity.

Both veterans were quivering with desire to find out which of the two had managed to prevail over the other.

Ser Haymitch ‘The Drunker’s’ last thought, before turning his gaze in the opposite direction, was:

‘Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated for a second to offer him that cup…’

——-

End Chapter.

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