Game of Thrones: Paladin of Old Gods

Chapter 180: The Ex-Squire

***Forgive the delay, Dear Readers. Yesterday I was on the verge of publishing it when at the last minute I decided to edit it, rewriting it almost in half!

Thank you for your patience and support.

Power stone me if you can or leave a comment.

I need points of view! So many different points of view! Did you enjoy the chapter? Did you not like it? Was it badly written? Did a sentence or a linestory not make sense? Do you want a character dead and buried? Do you want another one to survive and shine until the end? Feel free to write it in a comment.

Thank you all and happy reading!!!***

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POV: Jaime

In a mountainous basin of the Silk Road, Second Arena.

Year 290, the tenth day of the first moon. The following morning at the First Phase Celebration Banquet...

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Jaime barely took two gulps of fresh water, the amount needed to recover the liquids lost during the pre-race warm-up. Stuffing one's belly too much before a gruelling battle only slowed one's reflexes and generated a constant urge to reject...

A hundred or so knights, scattered outside the vast arena enclosure, prepared themselves just as carefully and sparingly for the imminent start of the melee.

Given the rich prizes offered beforehand during the archery contest, no one wanted to leave anything to chance... As a result, many of the gazes had the tension of those about to descend into a real battlefield, in which a single mistake, a single misstep or missed slash would spell his end.

Some took a straw puppet to warm themselves up, some chose to conserve every ounce of energy, studying desirable rivals, others warmed up in a friendly sparring session to loosen up and become familiar with padding and paraphernalia, and even those who invoked the blessing of the Warrior or any other supernatural entity that might favour a victorious day...

And Jaime was no different.

The Paladin used his supernatural advantage to assess every possible threat, scouting from time to time and missing those worth giving a face a name.

The vast majority of the competitors ranged between Levels 5 and 6. A very high average by the quality standards of Westeros. Generally, a professional-veteran soldier was between 4 and 5.

A tenth among them was branded with a glowing 7. Less than one in forty sported a skimpy Level 8, and occasionally, even a rare King-class '8' popped up... That Ser Archibald Yronwood, Lord Yronwood's nephew, was one of the chosen ones.

However, among the armed crowd, with a more significant and more notable symbol, for the moment, Lord Leyton's second son, Ser Garth Hightower, excelled with his [Level 9, Class Lord]. An opponent to whom the Kingslayer would pay considerable attention during the contest.

'House Hightower lives up to its good name...' Jaime thought to himself, trying to imagine and quantify the realistic level of the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the one who welcomed him into the brotherhood and invested him with the white cape, Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull.

'Ser Gerold was unquestionably skilled with a blade and unassailable with a shield in his hand, but still a step lower than Barristan and Arthur... Between the peak of the 9th and the beginning of the 10th... Would that mean I might have already reached the level of the White Bull? Tsz, but you watch me think!' Jaime didn't want to rely too heavily on his extreme power.

The Knight laughed, imagining an eventual scene where he tried to intimidate and force his opponents to surrender, shouting at them: {"Surrender, Knights! You are a measly Level 6 and 7, but 'I' am a Level 10 Rank Squire!!!"} Only to find himself soon afterwards on the ground, stunned and surrounded by swords, axes and clubs repeatedly descending upon his dying remains.

Basking in the laurels of numbers was the perfect recipe for a stupid and gloryless death.

"That will do, for now, Raynald. Stay behind the fence and wait there. I will call you should I need anything else." The Knight passed the water canteen to his new page and future squire, young Raynald Westerling.

"Y-yes, Ser Jaime!" Replied the boy bursting with energy and excitement in anticipation of the race. The page blindly followed, without complaint, whatever orders or thankless tasks Jaime gave him. As if every word addressed to him was in itself a bag of gold.

Raynald was the first heir of Gawen Westerling, Lord the Crag and the bannerman of his father. Although House Westerling was a minor house and among the poorest in the West, his father insisted that Jaime take the eight-year-old boy under his wing.

There had to be a political or economic reason behind it. Lord Tywin Lannister never granted courtesies or favours without anything of equal value in return... But Jaime did not care, as long as the replacement obeyed and fulfilled his meagre page duties.

His former trusted squire, Merlon Crakehall, was now 'Ser' Merlon. An honour the boy richly deserved during the siege of Pyke.

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It was barely an hour before the start of the competition. Many other competitors joined the large group already present... How many in all must have been present? Three hundred? Maybe more...? And many more were still to come.

Jaime had never witnessed such avid participation in a tournament... Even during the Harrenhall melee, the participants barely numbered a hundred.

In terms of numbers, this would not be a mere melee but a real battle. A battle where 'stamina' and 'thrift' would count for far more than martial skill.

Lady Barbrey had spared no expense. In addition to the mammoth prizes of gold and treasure, two separate arenas had been set up for this tournament. This arena, in particular, was a veritable Amphitheatre built of wood and stone, almost as large as the Dragon's Pit at King's Landing.

The structure reached an elliptical surface over six hundred feet long, five hundred broad, and a hundred feet high...

The bleachers, arranged in circular, tiered tiers around the pit of beaten earth and sand, were supported by tall columns and well-piled at the base of the surface to support a sizeable elliptical canopy that covered half the surface of the arena.

The covered space provided a shaded area, away from the eyes of the public, for all waiting competitors. Only the arena in the centre was in plain view.

Here the melee and future jousting would take place.

How many builders, time and money would it have taken to erect such an architectural work from nothing?

In all likelihood, the arena was designed to host other future events. Events and wrestling competitions that would have attracted wealthy merchants and squires from distant cities and seeking entertainment filled the Silk Road coffers with coins.

Tyrion, too, had a similar idea planned for Lannisport... During the winner's banquet the night before, Jaime and Tyrion spent the entire evening and much of the night conversing and drinking. His brother talked for hours about his thousand ideas and plans for raising Lannisport as the shiniest city in the Seven Kingdoms.

Tyrion did not seem daunted by the surprises and novelties that had just been built in the North. Quite the contrary, the dwarf seemed to welcome the competition with open arms, spurring him on to come up with new and original ideas that could outclass even Oldtown's millennia-old wonders and grandeur.

The New Governor of Lannisport requested and obtained, with the blessing of the rich and powerful Lord of Casterly Rock, the funds and the green light to implement and renovate the entire town.

Tywin Lannister seemed to recognise the true potential hidden in the seeming symbol of shame of the House, granting his almost disowned son an opportunity for prominence.

Dawn would finally dawn for Tyrion of House Lannister, and Jaime could not have been happier for him. If there was a lion who deserved all the happiness in that shitty, merciless jungle called the world, it was Tyrion...

'No...! Not now. Stay focused, you idiot! Never, ever indulge in guilt when wielding a sword.' Jaime forced himself to erase the thought of Tysha. Another of his greatest shames. This was neither the time nor the place for painful reminiscences.

After the events of Pyke, a small and fragile spark of hope manifested itself in that hell of betrayals, secrets and dishonour that was his life.

In his final months, Jaime strove to guard and nurture that spark with all his might. For perhaps, and only 'perhaps', that faint light in the dark could lead him to a different path... A path that could bring a new dawn even on the Knight Without Honour.

The Kingslayer pursued the sacred path of sword and spear with every effort, sparing Nothing. Jaime felt with his fingers the multitudes of calloused scars and furrows, which had been added to his palms in the last few moons. Those blisters erupted and healed, by dint of drills and wear and tear on the sword grip, were evidence of his commitment to the way.

"It is the right choice, Ser." A calm, warm male voice, smooth and gentle as a summer breeze, caressed the Knight's ear.

Jaime turned to put a face to the unfamiliar timbre of voice, and, in a single blink of his eyes after turning, intending to ask the stranger a justified "I beg your pardon?", his face, arms, torso and legs became petrified with dismay.

Jaime recognised the old man with rapt eyes. He knew 'who' he was, 'whose' Master he was, and most importantly, 'what' he had been able to teach him... But what Jaime did not know until now was what unnatural number stood above that individual's head.

'Is this not a hallucination! May the Warrior fulminate me...! That old man is a [Fucking Level 13, Rank King!!!].' Roared the terrified Lion inwardly. And it wasn't just a standard Rank King pinnacle; that number was as dazzling as a second sun and abnormally gigantic, like an overflowing sack of grain just one grain away from breaking! That symbol was begging in agony to burst out and leap onto the podium [14]... Not even Barristan's former Level 10 Rank King, which kept overflowing for years, could be compared to such a thing!

''Huh? Do I have something dangerous above my head...? Ah, right... What a fool I am. You share the same gift as Duncan. Forgive me, Ser. I did not mean to disturb your peace." Said the man, nicknamed The Watcher, casually, breaking away from the wooden fence where he was leaning to step back a little over thirty feet from Jaime. The limit range where his power as Paladin had an effect.

The monstrous and illogical silver number faded. And the Knight, within seconds, regained a semblance of self-control. Enough cognitive capacity to roar: 'He knows! He knows of my abilities!'

Jaime looked around. That old man knew of his unnatural abilities and had just blurted out dangerous claims to the four winds... But, in an inexplicably peculiar manner, no other person was around. Yet, Jaime was quite sure that, a few minutes earlier, that area was crowded...

"Fear not. This is and will remain a private conversation. Not even Varys's little birds would make it past the perimeter. My friends are impeccably thorough and annoyingly overprotective... Mmm, from bad to worse. That might sound like a threat, haha!" Specified the old man, singing and playing to himself.

"N-no... I'm the one apologising. It's just... Why all this trouble to talk to me alone...? Emm... Old Master?" Jaime was struggling to find a proper appellation. How was he supposed to address the martial monster two and three-quarters feet above Barristan fucking Selmy?

The terrifying old man came to his rescue. "You can just call me Zick if you like In all sincerity, I only came here to observe. It's my great passion and habit to stand on the sidelines and watch and study potential future warriors or already-established fighters. But, taking advantage of a small and propitious occasion, I also hope to exchange a few words with you...

And in answer to your unspoken question, Ser, just before you turned around, I was referring to your wise choice to cut ties with any futile thoughts." The last sentence needed clarification; Jaime still required to understand what he was talking about.

The old Master, with jovial patience and his constant smile, clarified a second time.

"When a warrior draws his sword intending to use it, the past must become a dull and dusty history book to be left behind, and the future an incomprehensible and intricate constellation of stars that must not draw your gaze upwards... But the Present... The Present becomes the whole.

In a struggle, you look forward. And the only voices you must listen to are the Sound of Breathing and the Song of Steel."

"... You have a strange way of dispensing advice, old man. It sounds more like a lesson in philosophical poetry than fighting." Jaime bit his tongue at letting that final "Old Man" slip out. The Knight had no intention of offending. Yet, for some reason, Jaime unconsciously lowered the shield of etiquette and courtesy, embracing inappropriate confidentiality.

"Ahahah! Yes. You may be right. But I assure you I am neither a poet nor a philosopher. I only have a decent memory and good plagiarism skills. I shamelessly stole sentences from men and women far more erudite than myself." Luckily for him, the old man was affable and easy to laugh with...

The man's presence alone was enough to change the atmosphere of the air around him.

Despite the impressive contradictory number, Jaime could perceive no threat or feeling of danger coming from that individual.

Regarding measuring danger, it was as if an infirm, harmless, homeless flea-bitten man from Flea Bottom was standing before him. But in terms of presence and eyes... it was like standing in front of a mountain with a human face. A calm and solitary mountain, in total harmony with the surrounding hills, plains and forests, that could see 'Everything'.

'Unique... That man is unique. I wouldn't know how else to describe him... There are no individuals like him.' Thought the Knight.

"You are Duncan's Master? Are you the creator of that fencing technique?" Jaime asked, heedless of formalities, letting himself be carried away by the tsunami of confidence and harmony.

"The one and 'Unique' haha! And you... You are Ser Jaime, son of Tywin, of the Ancient and Mighty Lannister Dynasty. The Lion who, during the siege of Pyke, led the rearguard and fought in the front line to prevent my mad pupil from being surrounded and crushed by enemies... I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you, Ser. I am in your debt. And I am that kind of man who, like your father, always repays a debt sooner or later." Jaime was stunned for a moment.

A voice inside him screamed at him to seize the opportunity right then and there, get down on his knees and beg that individual to grant him every ounce of his knowledge... But common sense and dignity prevailed.

"You owe me nothing, old man. That day in Pyke, I simply fulfilled my duties... I am a Kingsguard, and I answer to my King's orders. Robert Baratheon ordered me to join and obey the commander of the infiltration expedition. Your apprentice and, at the time, my superior-in-chief commanded me to protect and prevent the enemies of the realm from passing through. If you feel indebted, Master, it is to the King you must address." Jaime struggled not to cut his tongue out and swallow it.

The same voice shouted at him [You filthy worthless piece of dung from my boots! Do you want to leave that drunken pig all the credit?! What the fuck is wrong with you, you crazy, ungrateful maniac?!]

"Mh, mh, mh... A tad constructed and not very truthful answer, 'Kingslayer'. I don't need these eyes to tell me with certainty that you loathe and loathe your king, at least as much as you hate being nicknamed by that namesake." The Royal Guard did not retort to the accusation. Those yellowish, mystical, rapacious eyes pierced his armour as if it were made of soft wool... It was a battle lost before it had even begun. Instinct screamed at him that no lie could be concealed from this man.

The Watcher loosened the pressure of his gaze and added: "It may well have been honour and obedience to the king that motivated your heroic deeds, Ser. Nevertheless, it was not the horns of the Crowned Stag that prevented the enemy from crossing that threshold... The dexterity of the claws, the strength of the fangs and the ferocity of the roar that held back the Kraken." The lion remained silent.

"Besides... You don't even know with 'what' or 'how' I would like to repay such a favour. Mmm... I don't think Robert Baratheon would care, nor could he do much about it. 'But'... I won't insist further if you really don't want to." Zick snorted meekly with a falsely surrendered air, preparing himself in gestures to take his leave.

"Wait, Old Man...!" The veteran fisherman had cast his hook, complete with bait, and the fish took the trick with all thirty-two teeth.

"Mpf...! You are rude to call me 'Old', Young Lion. Look, I'm barely past fifty. I'm in the prime of my silver years. And I still remain a youngster in spirit." The old fox did not stop, turning his back on his interlocutor with an offended air and moving further away.

"Forgive my bad manners, 'Noble and Wise Master'! With what?... With what 'noble' and 'virtuous' gift would you like to return the favour?" A predatory eagle's eye turned.

"Umm, that's better... But before you open the chest, Knight, I would like you to answer a question of mine." Promulgated the cunning hunter, and the prey nodded.

"Why do you walk the way of the sword, Ser?"

What kind of question was that? Was the old man serious? Of course, any noble male of Westeros could have given the same answer... But, in the blink of an eye, Jaime glimpsed the depth of the question addressed explicitly for him.

'Why, of all the possible paths I could have taken, did I choose this one?'

Was it for Cercei that he accepted the white cloak? To free himself from marriage to Lysa Tully and to be close to his one love...? No... It was not that.

The Young Lion's introspection transported his thoughts to a specific memory... That day fourteen years ago, between the gates of Casterly Rock, when Rheagar Targaryen crossed the bridge riding his white steed in all its splendour and royalty. And, beside him, followed the man whom the child, barely ten years old, could not take his eyes off even for an instant. The man, the heir of Casterly Rock, hoped to become... a True Knight. A sworn sword without equal, honoured, feared, recognised in every corner of the continent and enshrined in legend: Ser Arthur Dayne.

Simple, sincere words were all Jaime's voice could muster.

"Because I wanted..." the Lion corrected himself. "Because I want to walk a parallel path to the Sword of the Morning... To reach that peak and surpass it."

The Watcher neither judged nor disputed any words. Simply, the old Master relaxed the hardened wrinkles on his face and answered in turn:

"I have had the opportunity to observe and get to know Ser Arthur in person... Mh, mh. You and I have met before, Ser Jaime, during your reconnaissance among the villages of Kingswood. The Kingsguard was on the hunt for notorious bandits... At the time, you were the squire of the Sword of the Morning, his faithful, silent shadow spewing hope and dreams of glory." Jaime was stunned by the revelation.

"... Forgive me. I have no memory of it. Not to offend you, Master, but you are not an individual who, once met, goes so unnoticed." In an instant, as if by magic, the man's clothes transmuted, taking the form of an old, hooded, ragged beggar.

A flash illuminated Jaime's memories. It was an event too peculiar to be forgotten.

"That old man... You were that beggar who begged Ser Arthur for a blanket and a hot meal!"

That day, near Wendwaters, Dayne detached himself from the group to make sure in person that beggar had a hearth and meal for the night. A few hours later, Ser Arthur joined Jaime and his brethren, not uttering a word until the following dawn... The Knight wanted to be left undisturbed in his thoughts, staying awake all night.

"Ser Arthur did not only leave behind a name and an ancestral sword as a legacy for all future aspiring knights in search of honour and glory... He left behind an incomplete and crude fencing technique but with incredible potential. A raw ore that, if heated, bent and tempered properly, could shine as brightly as the Valyrian Steel wielded by my disciple."

'A fencing technique that could rival the Gates Locks? The Legacy of Dayne?!' Roared the Young Lion inwardly, as lips and eyes remained open and petrified.

"And do you know 'who', to this day, keeps that martial legacy alive and secretly guarded?" There was no need for an answer. But what Jaime, in a flare of frustration and guilt, retorted was:

"The Sword of The Morning would not wish such an inheritance to pass to a sworn brother who betrayed his Prince and King."

"...Few know the true wishes of the dead, Ser. And in any case, Ser Arthur passed that Inheritance to me. I am now its guardian. The choice is mine...And I could choose you, Jaime Lannister..."

{"I could"}... something was missing from the roll call to grant that 'gift'.

'In the end, it's always a matter of gold...' Jaime thought, a good dose of disappointment.

"How much...? How much gold do you want?" Asked the former squire.

"Gold...? Ah, no, no, you misunderstand me, Ser. I'm not looking for gold, I-" Tried to answer the old man.

"What, then...? Lands? Titles? My father's favour?" Jaime asked with celerity. Perhaps the Watcher was seeking a position at court as First Master at Arms.

The Kingslayer wanted to settle this question quickly. However, a nagging feeling of unease and bitterness gripped him in his stomach...

''Nothing like that! Have a little patience, Boy! I was getting there!" Replied the Watcher in an indignant voice... Jaime fell silent, waiting for the verdict.

"Erm, umm... As I was saying. What I would like from you in return is a 'demonstration'. Nothing more and Nothing less.

A Red Knight will also take part in this competition. I wish you to fight him...'" Promulgated the old Zick with sparks of expectation.

"A Red Knight...? And who would that be?" Jaime did not expect such a request.

"Eheh... That's for you to find out." Zick replied, grinning with amusement.

"Do you want me to defeat him or 'kill' him...?" Jaime was already in the process of telling the old fool to fuck off... Perhaps the former squire did not know The Sword of the Morning so well as to know exactly his true last wishes. But what the Kingslayer did know was that Ser Arthur would never, ever have approved of the disgrace of murder in a knightly competition.

At least this infamy, towards the memory of an honourable man, Jaime would have avoided it.

The old man laughed. "Mh, mh! I doubt you can pull it off, especially with a blunt blade..."

After the amused and openly defiant look, the Watcher explained:

"It is not murder that I ask, Ser Jaime. 'But'... fight just the same as if you were facing an enemy of the House Lannister on a real battlefield. Face the Red Knight with nothing spared." Was the old fool serious?

To fight 'seriously' meant to strike with the intention of killing... No. That curious but, at the same time, confident and soothing look was looking for something else.

"Give it your all in this ordeal, Young Lion.

Prove to me 'Why', at the time, Dayne deemed you worthy of knighthood.

Prove to me not with words but with the "Song of the Steel"

Do this for me and the legacy of The Sword of the Morning will be yours."

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End Chapter.