Post by The Stranger on Jul 25, 2008 17:42:17 GMT -5
“I hear the Lord Regent knighted you.”
Brynden turned to look for the person who had spoken to him. It was late evening, and they were on the city walls near the Lion Gate, watching the Kingsroad. Brynden stood with the gold cloaks, the spears gleaming. It was a gold cloak who addressed him now.
“He did,” Brynden said coldly.
“I can see that, my lord,” the watchman said, eyeing him up and down. Brynden no longer wore the white wool of a squire of the Kingsguard, but his own armor – a knight’s armor. His breastplate was of gleaming bronzed steel with the black stallion of Duskendale rearing in the center. It was a bittersweet gift from Ser Podrick Foote, who had maimed his mother. Brynden closed his eyes. No, it would not do to think of his mother, or Foote, just now.
Brynden did not reply, but turned back to watch the road.
“Well, they aren’t here yet tonight, and it’s best that we keep our swords sharp,” the impertinent watchman continued unabashedly, gazing out onto the dark road with disinterest. “Will my lord do me the honor of sparring with me?” There was a faint mocking edge to his respectful tone.
“Find another to spar with, and stop wasting my time,” Brynden said shortly.
“I had no idea my lord was so busy,” the watchman drawled. Brynden’s hand went to his hilt, and he gripped it, but did not speak. Neither did the watchman, or any of the other gold cloaks. They all silently watched the desolate darkness out of which they feared their doom was coming.
“I remember you, my lord,” the watchman said finally. “A year or so ago, when you were even younger than you are now. You were riding a palfrey bareback, and chased a horse thief on a half-crazed chestnut destrier down to the King’s Gate, where I was standing guard. And then you vaulted off your horse, drew your sword, and beat the thief to a pulp. He was bigger than you, and had the advantage in the beginning, but you were unstoppable.”
The memory started Brynden, and he turned and to give the man a long, measuring look. “That was a long time ago.”
The watchman half smiled. “It makes me grin to this day, to imagine a skinny little squire knocking a thief about, fancying himself a noble knight. It’s a good thing,” he added, seeing Brynden’s eyebrows draw together. “And now, I’m looking at that boy today, and he has really become a knight.”
“And I’m looking at this watchman,” Brynden said. “And wondering if he knows how to shut up.”
The watchman grinned. “There’s one way to find out.” He drew his battered sword. The other gold cloaks looked his way, a little nervously. The sergeant looked furious, and was about to intervene, when Brynden said, “Please relieve my post, Sergeant Rickard.”
The young Royce knight stepped forward and drew his own sword. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, old man.”
The watchman just laughed, and leaped at him.
Brynden raised his sword to block the attack, and there was a loud ring of steel on steel. They disengaged and flew at each other again, circling and trading parries. Brynden’s speed and strength impressed his older rival, but Brynden felt the alarming deftness and power behind the watchman’s blows. It was as if the older man could read Brynden’s mind, anticipate his moves. The watchman also had the advantage of height – Brynden was very tall, but still a boy, and still growing. They danced back and forth, each gaining and losing the edge as the fight wore on. At times each lost their feet, only to jump up and carry on. Then Brynden began to push the pace, moving faster and faster in an attempt to get through the older man’s guard and catch him off balance, in a weak spot, and faster and faster came the blows, the dodges, the cuts and slashes. Brynden was sweating, finding it hard to keep pressing the pace, but something inside him was ignited by the furious sparring – a strange, savage bloodlust, howling for the kill. The watchman was proving more than a match for him, but it made Brynden only more determined to beat him.
Finally, Brynden managed to get a blow in, and the watchman stumbled. Seizing the opportunity, disarming him with another hit and then
knocking him off his feet.
“Not bad,” the watchman rasped, trying to catch his breath. Brynden, also panting, helped him back up. “You are not bad for a young knight.” Cheeky old bastard.
“You aren’t bad either, for an insolent old gold cloak,” Brynden said. “Now, perhaps we can save our strength for when the real fighting starts, eh?”
The watchman laughed, winked, and walked back to his post. The others stared at him and shook their heads, muttering. Only a madman would laugh like that when their deaths were upon them.
Result:
-Brynden continues to move towards Master in Swordsmanship
Brynden turned to look for the person who had spoken to him. It was late evening, and they were on the city walls near the Lion Gate, watching the Kingsroad. Brynden stood with the gold cloaks, the spears gleaming. It was a gold cloak who addressed him now.
“He did,” Brynden said coldly.
“I can see that, my lord,” the watchman said, eyeing him up and down. Brynden no longer wore the white wool of a squire of the Kingsguard, but his own armor – a knight’s armor. His breastplate was of gleaming bronzed steel with the black stallion of Duskendale rearing in the center. It was a bittersweet gift from Ser Podrick Foote, who had maimed his mother. Brynden closed his eyes. No, it would not do to think of his mother, or Foote, just now.
Brynden did not reply, but turned back to watch the road.
“Well, they aren’t here yet tonight, and it’s best that we keep our swords sharp,” the impertinent watchman continued unabashedly, gazing out onto the dark road with disinterest. “Will my lord do me the honor of sparring with me?” There was a faint mocking edge to his respectful tone.
“Find another to spar with, and stop wasting my time,” Brynden said shortly.
“I had no idea my lord was so busy,” the watchman drawled. Brynden’s hand went to his hilt, and he gripped it, but did not speak. Neither did the watchman, or any of the other gold cloaks. They all silently watched the desolate darkness out of which they feared their doom was coming.
“I remember you, my lord,” the watchman said finally. “A year or so ago, when you were even younger than you are now. You were riding a palfrey bareback, and chased a horse thief on a half-crazed chestnut destrier down to the King’s Gate, where I was standing guard. And then you vaulted off your horse, drew your sword, and beat the thief to a pulp. He was bigger than you, and had the advantage in the beginning, but you were unstoppable.”
The memory started Brynden, and he turned and to give the man a long, measuring look. “That was a long time ago.”
The watchman half smiled. “It makes me grin to this day, to imagine a skinny little squire knocking a thief about, fancying himself a noble knight. It’s a good thing,” he added, seeing Brynden’s eyebrows draw together. “And now, I’m looking at that boy today, and he has really become a knight.”
“And I’m looking at this watchman,” Brynden said. “And wondering if he knows how to shut up.”
The watchman grinned. “There’s one way to find out.” He drew his battered sword. The other gold cloaks looked his way, a little nervously. The sergeant looked furious, and was about to intervene, when Brynden said, “Please relieve my post, Sergeant Rickard.”
The young Royce knight stepped forward and drew his own sword. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, old man.”
The watchman just laughed, and leaped at him.
Brynden raised his sword to block the attack, and there was a loud ring of steel on steel. They disengaged and flew at each other again, circling and trading parries. Brynden’s speed and strength impressed his older rival, but Brynden felt the alarming deftness and power behind the watchman’s blows. It was as if the older man could read Brynden’s mind, anticipate his moves. The watchman also had the advantage of height – Brynden was very tall, but still a boy, and still growing. They danced back and forth, each gaining and losing the edge as the fight wore on. At times each lost their feet, only to jump up and carry on. Then Brynden began to push the pace, moving faster and faster in an attempt to get through the older man’s guard and catch him off balance, in a weak spot, and faster and faster came the blows, the dodges, the cuts and slashes. Brynden was sweating, finding it hard to keep pressing the pace, but something inside him was ignited by the furious sparring – a strange, savage bloodlust, howling for the kill. The watchman was proving more than a match for him, but it made Brynden only more determined to beat him.
Finally, Brynden managed to get a blow in, and the watchman stumbled. Seizing the opportunity, disarming him with another hit and then
knocking him off his feet.
“Not bad,” the watchman rasped, trying to catch his breath. Brynden, also panting, helped him back up. “You are not bad for a young knight.” Cheeky old bastard.
“You aren’t bad either, for an insolent old gold cloak,” Brynden said. “Now, perhaps we can save our strength for when the real fighting starts, eh?”
The watchman laughed, winked, and walked back to his post. The others stared at him and shook their heads, muttering. Only a madman would laugh like that when their deaths were upon them.
Result:
-Brynden continues to move towards Master in Swordsmanship