novelraw Chapter 328: The Dead Do Not Die? Let Us Hope So!
Chapter 328: The Dead Do Not Die? Let Us Hope So!
JJ moved so swiftly that even Kal had not expected it.
He had meant to take advantage of the moment while Robert was wiping out these foolhardy ironborn to hear what more this woman might say. Who would have thought that in the next instant it would swallow Asha in a single bite.
So fast that Asha did not even finish her words before she changed professions from sailor to headless rider.
It truly left one unable to make head or tail of it.
As Kal stood there slightly stunned, JJ, that wretched hound, came scampering back again. It opened its mouth, and a human head, its eyes wide with disbelief, rolled out from between its jaws.
Spittle smeared with blood mixed with the trampled, muddy snow upon the ground, carrying a peculiar sort of horror.
What else was Kal to say? He kicked it on the rump and sent it after Robert to finish off the remaining ironborn who had dared invade the North. Only then did Kal move toward Robb.
Kal had no intention of letting these ironborn live on, nor even of sending them to the Wall to take the black.
For once this matter was settled, Castle Black would no longer lack for men.
Nor did he require a pirate host whose very blood gloried in taking what they had not earned.
As though it understood his will, JJ, struck on the rump, let out a deliberate howl and rushed toward the battlefield, where the fighting had already scattered.
The ironborn force that had come into the North numbered close to ten thousand.
To slaughter them all would take no small effort. Even ten thousand turnips would take half a day to chop, would they not?
In any case, outside Winterfell, sky and earth alike became a field of butchery—dragon and dog together, a full assault upon these sea-raiders who had trespassed in the North.
The raw strength granted by its level, now above eighty, made the great golden hound like a bolt of lightning. The special device fastened at its neck—the invisibility collar—made it as a phantom wraith.
The ironborn fleeing in panic felt only a gust of wind, and the comrade running beside them would fall in the storm.
Some lost their heads. Others had great holes torn through their chests. Some were ripped clean in twain at the waist, blood and entrails cast into the air.
A ghost they could not see was hunting them.
Yet they had no leisure to look elsewhere.
For the searing heat in the air was a scythe of death.
A sweep of dragonfire, and bones turned to ash.
Upon the snow, Robb still lay unconscious, his heartbeat and breath faint and uncertain, as though a single breath not drawn might see him gone.
Delay but a moment longer, and he would depart this world, grievance still in his heart.
Kal nudged him with his foot and turned him over.
"Poor wretch. A cut to the ear, a stab to the chest, one hand severed—and wounds upon him everywhere."
"If you look like this, I fear that aside from me, only the Lord of Light R'hllor himself could renew your subscription to life."
As Kal spoke, he could not help but jest. Then he lifted his eyes and glanced at the sky.
The blizzard seemed even more savage than before. Yet beneath the sweeping, dreadful dragonfire, such wind and snow could not force their way in.
Kal's lips curved. In the next instant, a glass vial filled with a vivid red liquid appeared abruptly in his hand.
He pulled the cork free, slightly propped up Robb—who had but a single breath left—and poured the potion into his mouth.
Even with Kal's current vitality, a single bottle of this would restore him to his peak condition. It was a divine thing, governed wholly by rule.
Thus, as the potion went down, and the unconscious Robb let out several involuntary muffled groans, the wounds upon his body began to recover at a speed visible to the naked eye.
Even the ear that had been sliced off along his cheek began to sprout tender flesh buds, pressing together as they slowly grew back, pale and soft—almost cute.
Yet the most "endearing" sight was the arm that had suffered the gravest injury.
At the stump of the severed limb, the wound first scabbed over, then the flesh closed. And within that narrow seam of healing skin, a tiny bud of flesh began to grow, slowly swelling larger.
Gradually, from that severed arm there formed a small, tender little hand—its five fingers not yet fully formed.
It gave one the distinct impression of something seen in a Deadpool film.
"In about ten minutes, it should grow back completely. Nothing serious."
As Kal's words fell, Robb, still unconscious, let out another low groan. This time he truly lost all awareness and sank into a deeper state of unconsciousness.
After a moment's thought, Kal drew out another bottle—an energy potion—and another— a spirit potion—and poured them down Robb's throat to ensure there would be no mishap.
These things were of no great worth to him. He had given quite a few to the young Lord Robert Arryn of the Vale.
When he had finished, having snatched this follower back from the Old Gods, Kal seized Robb by the belt at his waist and lifted him one-handed.
Only then did Kal cast his gaze toward Balon, who by fortune had not been consumed in the first sweep of dragonfire and still yet lived.
From the moment JJ bit off Asha's head to the moment Kal saved Robb, the Lord of Pyke had seen it all.
His eyes were wide, filled with disbelief.
Yet before the man who sought to become King of the Iron Islands, Kal could not even be troubled to acknowledge him. He stepped forward, passed him by without a glance, and with Robb in hand continued toward Winterfell.
Within Winterfell at this moment, as the dragon descended without warning, the chaos that had taken place here had already come to an end.
The soldiers of Roose Bolton who had neither died nor been subdued occupied the gate and a small corner nearby, while the rest within Winterfell surrounded and blocked them.
Yet even so, not a single person continued to strike.
Weapons still dripped with blood, and every gaze and all attention were fixed upon the man who walked slowly into the castle, carrying someone in his hand.
This was the second time Kal had come to this place.
The first time he came, he had set in motion the turmoil that swept across the Seven Kingdoms, serving as a driving force behind it.
And now, upon his return, he had come to end with his own hands the chaos that had endured for nearly a year.
The last time he came here, his identity had been the King's bastard, a mercenary newly granted knighthood.
This time, he was King.
A mortal god who held dominion over the life and death of all.
"We pay our respects to His Grace, King Kal the First of House Baratheon!"
Within the castle, all knelt and bowed before King Kal, including Roose.
Outside the walls, flames soared to the heavens, and cries of anguish filled the air.
A single figure stood between these two worlds, clad in fine garments and draped in a white cloak, apart from the world.
Kal did not speak. He casually dropped the heir of Winterfell—the man who would one day be his goodbrother—from his hand.
After sweeping his gaze around once, it settled at last upon Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort.
"Your Grace…"
As though sensing Kal's gaze fall upon him, Roose called out in a low voice that trembled despite himself. He wished to say something, yet found his throat parched.
"Open your own throat. That is my mercy."
Kal's voice was calm and steady, echoing slowly through the silent Winterfell.
Those who heard this command, styled as mercy, could not help but tremble, their faces marked with sorrow and desolation.
Yet Roose, upon whom the sentence of death had been pronounced, did not argue. Kal had indeed granted him his final dignity.
He rose and drew his longsword, setting it against his neck.
Roose cast one last look upon the world before him—most of all at the man who had pronounced his doom.
He fixed Kal's face in his memory.
Then he shut his eyes, hardened his heart, and pulled with force.
Blood sprayed outward, spattering even upon the boots of Rodrik, who stood not far from him.
Having cut his own throat, Roose's hand slackened, and the iron blade fell to the ground.
His eyes were wide. His longing for life and his final instinct to survive made him lift both hands to clutch at his torn throat. Yet the blood poured eagerly through the gaps between his fingers.
Warm and hot.
It was wholly different from the feeling of leeches drawing blood from his skin.
A strange smile curved at the corner of his mouth. With eyes still wide, Roose fell upon the soil of Winterfell. After a few convulsions, he gradually ceased to move.
Seeing that Roose had died with a measure of backbone, Kal gave a slight nod and turned his gaze toward the Bolton soldiers who had witnessed his suicide with their own eyes.
"All soldiers of House Bolton will lay down their arms and surrender. They are to be sent to Castle Black."
"If any refuse, kill them without mercy."
…
A day passed swiftly. Only now did the aftershocks of the war that had taken place by daylight gradually subside.
Though more than half of the soldiers from the various houses who had ridden out to pursue the fleeing ironborn had yet to return to Winterfell.
Under the slaughter of dragon and dog, these pirates who styled themselves ironborn had long since scattered in terror. Once the greater part was done, the golden dragon and the great hound had returned, yet the remaining work still had to be finished by the men themselves.
Fortunately, the King's command was execution on the spot—none spared—so the task was not a difficult one.
Winterfell, the Great Hall.
As he looked upon this chamber, Kal could not help but feel a tide of emotion rise within him.
The last time he had come to Winterfell, on the very day of his arrival, its master, Eddard Stark, had entertained King Robert and them here.
In the blur of memory, Kal could almost see the fat king—so heavy he could scarcely sit upon the bench—bellowing at the top of his lungs, cup in hand, a woman in his embrace, indulging himself without restraint.
With a faint sigh in his heart, Kal put aside his thoughts.
He turned his gaze toward the center of the hall, where Balon knelt bound tight with ropes, forced down by the hand of Rodrik himself.
"Where is Tywin Lannister?"
Kal had no mind for pleasantries and spoke directly.
The remnants of House Lannister's army had been absorbed by Balon. With Kevan dead and Tywin nowhere to be found.
In this accursed North, if those men wished to have any hope of survival, they could only choose to follow Balon.
Yet now the battle was finished. Even the Lannister soldiers who had once taken the black only to betray it had been put to the sword. Still, Kal had not received any word of the man he most wished to see.
At his feet lay the great golden hound, the blood upon its fur already dried.
In his hand he held the Valyrian steel greatsword, Heartsbane, its point resting upon the ground before him.
His original intent had been to kill Tywin with his own hand, to hack off his head and carry it back to King's Landing, to mount it upon a spear and set it upon the city walls.
Yet he had waited an entire day and received no tidings of Tywin whatsoever.
In response to Kal's question, Balon regarded the King—young beyond reason, yet radiating immense authority—and let out a cold laugh, offering no concealment.
"No one knows where he is. Perhaps he already lies dead in some forsaken wild, or perhaps he has long since passed into the belly of a wolf."
"You seek to kill him with your own hand, to avenge Robert Baratheon?"
"Bastard, it seems you will not have the chance. Hahahahaha… ugh!"
Knowing the tide had turned beyond recall, Balon burst into loud laughter, mocking and cursing Kal.
Yet his laughter had barely left his mouth when Rodrik, who was pressing him to the ground, drove a heavy fist into his face, cutting off his arrogance.
Frail of frame and already aged, Balon could not withstand such a blow. Rodrik, tall and broad, not only broke his jaw with that punch but shattered half the teeth in his mouth.
With a pained groan, Balon stifled his cry, spat out blood and broken teeth with a wet sound, and simply lay upon the ground, continuing to let out a low, cold laugh.
Kal showed no anger at Balon's curses. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and regarded him where he lay.
"You killed him?"
There was a faint chill in Kal's voice. The rippling blade in his hand reflected a cold light.
At Kal's words, Balon merely lay there and cast him a glance, saying nothing, the cold smile still upon his lips.
"It seems so…"
Kal understood his meaning.
After a few moments of silence, he drew a slow breath and rose.
Under the watchful eyes of the northern lords, he said no more and began to walk toward the hall's entrance.
Yet as he passed Balon, he halted.
"Before I came to the North, I went first to the Iron Islands…"
"I recall I gave an order then."
"I said: 'Drown them.'"
"Pray that the Drowned God shows you mercy."
Kal turned his head and spoke each word clearly to Balon upon the ground.
Having said this, he made to leave.
Yet at that moment, Balon, lying there, laughed again when he heard those words.
"What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger!"
Struggling, Balon rolled onto his side and looked toward Kal's back, loudly mocking his folly.
"You think drowning me is punishment? Hahahahaha!"
Kal's steps paused once more.
"Oh? Is that so?"
"Thank you for the reminder."
Without turning his head, he said, "Bind him to a table and secure his head. Lay a cloth over his face, and set a man beside him. Every minute, pour cold water over the cloth."
"What is dead may never die? Heh… I shall grant your wish."
Balon, who had been laughing, could laugh no more. All expression froze upon his face.
And the King, who had already reached the great oak-and-iron doors of the hall that opened onto the castle yard, left one final command.
"Find Tywin Lannister. Alive, I want the man. Dead, I want the body."
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