-------Time skip, Kerith is now 12----
----Garmond's pov-----
As I dashed through the dimly lit corridors, my heart raced with fear, and every nerve in my body screamed for escape. Behind me, the Master's pet, once a loyal companion, now seemed like a relentless predator, his snarls echoing off the walls as he closed in on me with frightening speed.
I glanced back over my shoulder, only to see the creature gaining ground, his eyes glinting with a predatory gleam. "Gods be damned!" I cursed, my voice trembling with panic.
But my momentary lapse in focus proved to be a grave mistake. As I turned my gaze forward again, I collided with an unseen force, knocking the wind out of me and sending me sprawling to the ground.
I lay there, dazed, until a deafening roar pierced the air, shaking me to my core. At that moment, I felt as though the Stranger himself had reached out to claim me, his icy embrace beckoning from the shadows.
As I struggled to regain my senses, I saw the source of the roar—a massive tiger, his eyes blazing with primal fury, poised to strike. I braced myself for the inevitable, my heart pounding in my chest as I awaited my fate.
But just as the beast lunged forward, another roar echoed through the chamber, commanding the attention of every creature within earshot.
To my astonishment, the tiger faltered, his aggression giving way to submission as he joined the rest of the Master's menagerie.
I watched in awe as Simba, grown into a leader, emerged from the shadows, his presence commanding respect from every lion and tiger in the pride. With a calm and calculated demeanor, he ushered the cubs, playing on his back to their parents.
It made me wonder if this is if the king of the jungle mentioned in stories by mother.
As I struggled to calm myself, I felt Simba's gaze upon me, his eyes betraying a hint of amusement at my mess.
"You really are taking after the Master's bad habits, Simba," I muttered, my voice filled with embarrassment.
The mention of the Master's name sent a shiver down the cats. It was a fear born of the ritual that had forever altered their lives and one that they couldn't shake, no matter how hard they tried.
Only my master, Kerith, can mentally scar monstrous lions and tigers before he is a grown man.
I couldn't help but voice my frustrations aloud as Simba and I made our way back to the hidden passageways. "This was not what I signed up for two winters back when I accepted the Master's offer," I mused bitterly.
"When I was ten and five, I imagined having great power and even being persecuted by society when the Master named me a wizard. But at twenty, I take care of all of you and learning to bore knowledge that's on par with the requirements of most Maesters. I'm forced to stay fit because I'm constantly running from you guys."
Simba gave me a disdainful look with his intelligent eyes, as if he could see right through me. I couldn't help but wonder where his intelligence came from. Maybe it was from the ritual, or more likely his connection to the Master's mind. The Master was a prodigy, excelling in every subject offered by the Citadel. He had achieved all seven links in his core subjects of healing and history, which would make him eligible to become an archmaester at the young age of twelve. But despite his potential, the Master always postponed taking his vows, using his young age as an excuse. There were rumors that this made the old men in the Citadel uncomfortable, but what could they do against such a brilliant mind?
As if sensing my thoughts, Simba let out a resounding roar, cutting through the silence like a thunderclap. "Yes, I get it already," I muttered, rolling my eyes at his interruption.
With a nod from Simba, we continued on our journey, the rest of his pride following obediently behind him.
"Hey Simba, do you look down on me because I have no talent in combat? I mean, even Master gave up on trying to teach me combat."
All I heard in response was a series of farts.
-------------
It took a refreshing bath under the new shower head installed by Master. The warm water cleaned the lingering smell of wild animals. "Say what you want about his spending habits. Master truly has style, especially when enjoying the comforts of life," I muttered to myself.
But as I lathered up, my mind couldn't help but drift to the other extravagances the Master indulged in. Like the elaborate system of pipe ways he had constructed to bring water from a large tank outside the manor, using gravity for its flow. "Nice touch," I admitted begrudgingly, "but did he really have to use copper for the pipes? Such a waste of gold dragons."
I shook my head, frustrated by the apparent frivolity of the Master's expenditures. "Bags of gold spent on such menial things," I grumbled to myself. "Generations of workers could have been hired to do these tasks for that kind of money."
But whenever I voiced such doubts, all I received in response was the Master's enigmatic reasoning. "The first discoverer or inventor spends a fortune for their invention," he would say, his tone in matter of fact. "After knowing the benefits, others would follow suit, either by requesting him or imitating. Then, once a certain threshold is crossed, just by availability and competition, the cost will reduce. Besides, I am doing this to make my ambition more beautiful. Think of it as a trial run."
Such talks always left me feeling more confused than enlightened. Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I focused on the traveling sun in the sky, knowing that the name-day tourney of Heir Ormund Hightower must have already begun.
With a sense of urgency, I hurried to the tournament grounds, bypassing festive crowds and peddlers with ease. My gigantic frame, honed from being chased by hungry carnivores, parted the crowds effortlessly as I made my way to the stands.
The vibrant energy of the tournament wrapped around me as I stepped onto the platform, the thunderous roar of the crowd echoing in my ears.
NEIGHHH
Ser Ronas Redwyne, the skilled jouster and brother-in-law of Lord Hightower, showcased his prowess as he unhorsed his opponent in the final joust.
THUD
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, their excitement rose in the air.
Ser Ronas, his demeanor noble and gallant, gracefully dismounted his steed and approached the center of the arena.
With a flourish, he lifted the wreath of flowers, a symbol of victory and honor, and placed it upon the head of Alicent Hightower, the niece of Lord Hightower.
Alicent Hightower, radiant in her beauty, smiled happily as the crowd cheered even louder, their admiration for her clear.
Ser Ronas, his chivalry, was on full display as he bowed before her in a gesture of respect and admiration.
As I watched the scene unfold before me, I couldn't help but be swept up in the excitement and pageantry of the tournament.
After a brief search of the crowd, I finally spotted Master's friends among the crowd.
Walder gestured for me to join them, showing an empty spot nearby.
I nodded in acknowledgment and began weaving my way through the stands, still curious why everyone remained seated when the jousts typically marked the last competition.
Walder soon addressed my unspoken question, explaining that the squire melee in which Heir Ormund would take part had been moved to the last event. I nodded understandingly, knowing full well the extensive education and training Heir Ormund had received since he could walk.
With such advantages, there was a strong likelihood of his victory. Not to degrade the other squires but inherent blessings given upon the Hightower lineage, much like other great houses, puts the scale on Heir Ormund. Though it would be better to say magic empowered. I remember master ranting about a House founding ritual and some more nonsense.
"Of course, nobility and royalty have been integral to Westeros for thousands of years," he muttered, frustration clear in his voice.
"Unlike the nobles of European countries which were false, the core basis of nobility status is true in Westeros.
Fucking, Hell."
His exasperation mirrored my confusion as Master's impassioned rants often jump from magic to history and then into nonsense that left me perplexed.
I listened intently, knowing that there was often wisdom to be gleaned from his words, even if they were delivered in moments of frustration.
I was broken from thoughts by the gossip around. Remembering Master's words to always hear and report them. I followed my duty.
As the final just concluded and the excitement of the tournament waned, anticipation for the squire melee built among the spectators.
"Have you heard? Heir Ormund squire is said to be among the best in the realm," remarked a noblewoman seated nearby, her eyes alight with excitement.
"Aye, I've heard the same," replied her companion, a man adorned in the sigil of House Hightower. "But let's not forget the other squires. Some of them may surprise us yet."
As the conversation continued, I couldn't help but overhear snippets of discussions about the various squires competing in the melee.
Names like Ser Mernod's squire, Ser Ronas's protégé, and even some lesser-known candidates were mentioned with eager anticipation.
"Who do you think will emerge victorious?" asked a young boy, his eyes wide with excitement as he turned to his father.
"It's hard to say, son," the man replied with a smile. "But one thing's for certain–it's going to be an exhilarating contest."
As the squires assembled on the field, the crowd erupted into cheers and applause, eager to witness the spectacle unfold.
The squire melee begun with a thunderous clash from the Drums as the young warriors charged into battle, their swords raised high and adrenaline coursing through their veins.
The arena echoed with the sound of steel meeting steel, shouts of determination, and the occasional cry of pain.
Heir Ormund's squire, clad in the colors of House Hightower, fought with skill and ferocity, drawing cheers from the crowd with each well-aimed strike. His opponents fell before him, unable to match his prowess in combat.
Beside him, Ser Ronas's protégé displayed a similar level of skill, his movements fluid and precise as he deftly parried and countered his opponents' attacks.
The crowd erupted into cheers as he delivered a powerful blow that sent his adversary sprawling to the ground.
But it wasn't just the prominent squires who captured the audience's attention.
A squire bearing the sigil of House Tarly fought with impressive strength and determination, his blows landing with enough force to knock his opponents off balance.
As the melee raged on, the arena became a whirlwind of chaos and excitement, with squires from various houses clashing in fierce combat.
Some fought with elegant swordplay, while others relied on brute strength to overpower their opponents.
-----Walder's pov-----
As I stood among the spectators, my attention keenly focused on the ongoing melee.
While the common folk marveled at the surface level blows exchanged, I saw beyond the surface to the true essence of the warriors on display.
Heir Ormond and the Tarly squire fought with commendable skill, their prowess clear to every strike and parry. Yet, despite their impressive abilities, it was a source of disappointment for me to witness Ser Ronas's squire. His skills could be called a glass sword.
The weapon looked nice and strong, but it was impractical in combat. It was too fragile to be effective against a genuine threat. He relied on his physique and good equipment to stay in the fight. This made me grateful for Kerith's teachings. Unlike traditional sword exercises, Kerith's training targeted every muscle in the body with precision and intensity. I spent hours perfecting sword forms and sparring under Garell's watchful eye. I honed my skills to perfection. As I clenched my hand, feeling the strength in my veins, I grew more confident. I knew I had the strength and skill to beat any opponent in the squire melee.
Indeed, at the tender age of sixteen name days, my prowess had already surpassed that of many seasoned squires.
So fuck you, Waldric Frey. Bastard in mind and soul. I am happy to have foresworn any relation to you.
Looking at my Maester chain, I realized the power of money. Kerith hired the best Maesters in each subject to teach me every day so that I could forge the minimal links needed to become a maester.
According to him, I am between a high school graduate and a university student. Though I know little about his classification of knowledge, at least they are at the upper end of the pyramid. However, I can feel he disapproves of my swearing vows just to cut off relation to him. He doesn't know just how much I hate him.
Bloody fucker, Perverted Sin fucking asshole.
I breathed slowly to knock the Freyness in my language out.
Besides, A Maester is only below the knights and lords in the spectrum. The prestigious ones can lead a life rivaling them.
I am quite proud of my knowledge at this age, though I remember Kerith commenting that it is possible to ensure everyone in a society achieves it at the same age. The surety and ease with which he says it made me unable to question back.
"AHA,"
As Garmond's enthusiastic shout filled the air, I followed his gaze to where he pointed, curious to see the object of his admiration.
There, amidst the chaos of the melee, stood a cloaked figure wielding a peculiar mace with a large, round head that seemed almost comically oversized.
Despite his average size, the man moved with fluid grace, each movement executed with precision and purpose.
"WHOAH,"
I nodded in agreement as I observed the cloaked warrior in action. His mace, though unconventional, possessed a well-formed balance that lent itself to his style of combat.
With ease, he parried a broadsword's overhead slash, countering swiftly by knocking his opponent to the ground with a single powerful strike.
"He's quite the interesting one," I remarked to Garmond, acknowledging the man's unique approach to combat. "He seems to be a creature of both strength and agility, much like Ser Ronas's squire. However, unlike the latter, this man's advantages are even more pronounced. His use of the brute weapon, combined with his formidable physique, allows him to overpower his opponents based on sheer strength rather than skill. No, that in itself is a skill."
"A skill?"
Even at 12 name-days, he still possesses his innocent baby face. At least he matured in mind, under the constant badgering of Kerith, describing the so-called 'Game of Thrones'. From the recorded history of Starks to the current dragon lords, the blood-filled politics of westeros.
I answered with an impressed tone, "It is the skill of a heavy weapon user. No need to go for complicated forms or strategies like a swordsman. Just use their blessed strength to crush the opponent. The rest is combat experience. Of course, such users grow faster in combat skills until their body grows stronger. But when the body is damaged or degenerated, it will also be lost."
Just then, the cloaked warrior was momentarily surprised by a surprise shower of sand from the hands of a nearby opponent.
Though distasteful, the sudden release of sand into the locked warrior's eyes proved to be an effective distraction, leaving him open to coordinated offensives from multiple adversaries.
Observing this scene, I realized the hooded warrior lacked extensive combat training, especially for facing multiple foes.
Contrary to my expection, the fight turned into something else altogether.
The sight before me left me speechless, my eyes wide with astonishment at the spectacle put by the cloaked squire.
With a single wave of his mace, the head of mace detached from its handle, spinning through the air like a circling star, striking down all the attackers who dared to approach him.
I watched in awe as a chain, previously concealed within the handle, extended from the hilt to the squire's hand and armor, revealing the true extent of his weapon's capabilities.
I observed a small figure crawling towards him using the chance. He then started attacking with a dagger from downward-up slashes.
As the cloak tore from the dagger attacks of a nearby assailant, the squire, as if knowing about the insult, wasted no time in retaliating, delivering a powerful head slam with the handle of his mace that literally twisted the body of the assailant sideways.
With each movement, he showed a mastery of his weapon, running with the chains extended, controlling the trajectory of the mace's massive head with precision and strength that left no doubt to be a skill.
I watched in awe as the dancing round head of the mace, under his control, made a parabola strike an opponent that was attempting to rise.
CLANGGG
The resounding impact of steel against steel echoed across the field, a testament to the weight and power of the weapon wielded by the cloaked squire. The tattered remains of his cloak billowed in the wind, revealing gleaming silver armor underneath, a stark contrast to the shock and fear unfolding around him.
The squire turned his attention to his chief adversary, the cowardly opponent who blinded him with sand. I call him a coward because he was trying to run away from the cloaked guy.
I watched in amazement as the squire, who was becoming more familiar to me every second, effortlessly closed the distance between them. With a fluid motion, he leaped over six feet into the air, his chain retracting to wrap around his hand as the mace's head was rapidly pulled towards him. With a swift motion, the head of the mace was drawn back towards the cloaked squire, its momentum pushing aside the downed bodies of his defeated foes. In a mesmerizing display of, the mace once again caught the golden rays of the sun, gleaming with an ethereal light as it descended upon the cowering coward.
As he fell to the ground, the cloaked squire harnessed the force of gravity to amplify the power of his overhead strike, tracing a crescent arc through the air. The impact was thunderous, the force of the blow sending shockwaves through the ground as it crushed the coward beneath its weight, scattering dust and debris across the field in its wake.
As the dust settled, my gaze fell upon the chain, a Maester's chain, disgustingly long and adorned with various metals, yet somehow bearing the strain of the intense combat.
And there, amid the chaos, stood Kerith, my scholarly friend, wearing a proud smile as he bore the massive, bulky mace on his shoulders, looking like a warrior rather than the most talented member of the citadel's history.
---Kerith's pov----
As I watched the Valyrian steel links in the chain whirl around me, I couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. It had taken persistent prodding and countless debates with the old archmaesters, but I had finally gained official access to magic.
They had initially rejected my pleas, demanding proof of my knowledge across all subjects. It was only after I showed my mastery of each discipline that they relented. However, they may have a heart attack if the true extent of my knowledge of magic comes to light.
This was my first magic artifact created by me. I had referred to various journals of Magic Archmaesters for this. I had ritually added my blood and sap mixture to the mold bearing the symbol of the knowledge I gathered - My Maester chains.
It was the significance of chains to me that helped in the ritual's success. Though seeing this absurd chain, the old man would be on my ass to take the vows. Oh well, if all goes right, I no longer need to worry about that after today.
Not like the metals magically fused or did it have any new properties. Well, it had one. It seems to share all the strain equally among itself and as long as certain is not applied, it won't break.
Perhaps because of my connection to it, enforced by magic, it was just easy to train and use it. In just 5 years of playing and training with it, the chain became like a limb to me.
The mace was just an efficient use of my current strength and chain.
Each day, I am becoming more envious of the Danes. They somehow magically inherit their talent for swords. As far as I can gather, as long as a Dane will put in the hard work needed, he can become a master swordsman.
In a way, I am also lucky. My warg bond with Simba is that I am training using the sap. I felt his intoxicating strength, senses, and agility. After each bond, I grew more disconcerted with my body, wanting more. I started exercising and even delved into magic rituals.
But seeing the insanity in the tomes, I stopped myself and obediently put in the hard work. By throwing wealth, I had herbs brought to me to numb the pain each night while going to sleep.
Though again, I must be thankful to Simba must be because of a side effect of feeling his body. I at least know the experiences of his senses. For example, the idiot that is attacking me now just felt plain slow to me when compared to experiencing the fast hunts for Simba.
[Gada= Indian Mace, Image]
With a single wave of my Gada, I had sent him tumbling. Another approached from behind. Because of the bulky nature of my weapon, I let it go and turned around. I gave a series of punches to the idiot who didn't wear his helmet. Not like I am one to talk.
The influence of Simba extended to unbearable irritation at the suffocation from wearing a helmet. Just like he wants the air to hit his mane. I want the same for my hair.
With a shake of my head, I felt the air hit me, making me feel relaxed. With a calm mind, I went back to the chaotic fray. I need the calm because the cannon fodder is more or less politely encouraged to dream on the ground. Most of the ones I faced till now were weak, skinny common folk or an arrogant idiot.
I always wondered why they allow anyone into Squire's melee or Melee. It is because of the cost of 10 gold dragons, which is a profit for the host. Especially if more of the fodder took part. I might be arrogant while saying this, but they knew there was no chance of winning, but they still took part as a gamble.
Scratching my growing beard and mustache. I prepared for the actual combat, the nephew to the future hand of the king. And a tarly squire, who is also from another house like Danes.