novelraw Chapter 92: ' The Return of an Age '
Chapter 92: ' The Return of an Age '
Chapter 92: ' The Return of an Age '
Hello everyone.
Thank you very much for your patience.
Here's another chapter for you. One of my personal favorites in my personal opinion.
I hope you can enjoy it as well.
I officially announce that by 25 February my new cover will be ready.
You don't know how cool the draft is!!! Can't wait!!!!!
Maybe I'll even be able to post two or three edited and well-translated chapters by that time.
If you would like to support me in that endeavor, here is my lik Ko-fy: /duncanrandargotpaladin
Thank you all.
Happy reading!!!
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POV: Domeric Bolton;
Allied Camp, Pyke Island.
Approximately four hours earlier the breach in the first walls of Pyke was opened...
"The answer is 'NO', Domeric. End of discussion." Said Duncan in a dry tone as he prepared to don rough armour adorned with the blazon of House Greyjoy.
"Why NO! I'm capable of fighting, I've proven it to you several times over the last few weeks. I can help you on this mission... I..."
"You will be in command of the Bolton armies alongside Lord Eddard Stark. This is the task given to you by your Lord and King Robert.
You are an intelligent person, Domeric. So I don't need to explain to you the reasons why 'the last surviving member of the ancient Bolton dynasty' cannot participate in such a mission...
I appreciate your gesture, I do... but I can't let you join the infiltration team. I'm sorry." The friend replied, explaining his reasons.
Domeric didn't want to give up. Although he was well aware that he was no match for the legend 'Bloody Snow', he too was a Knight. The young Lord Master of Dreadfort still felt betrayed that Duncan had not considered him in the mission to attack Pyke Harbor.
His friend Rodrick Forrester had also tried unsuccessfully to join 'Bloody Snow's' side in this endeavour.
Domeric wanted to prove himself. His left hand remained steady in the hilt of his new Damascus steel long sword. A postural gesture to express to his counterpart his iron resolve to want to take part in the fight.
He wanted to fight alongside his friend, to show the North and his people, his men, that their Lord Protector would fight on the front lines for their sake.
"You cannot exclude me! I am the Lord... "The twelve-year old's last attempt was swept into the dawn.
"Aye, you are the rightful Lord of Dreadfort and undisputed Lord of House Bolton...but I am in command of this unit. King Robert himself has granted me the authority to decide who to accept and who not to, Domeric. Even if Lord Stark himself, our Lord Protector to whom we have sworn allegiance, decided to join this unit, he would still have to receive my approval.
Domeric...there will be other opportunities in the future to prove your worth.
Today is not that day. You are not ready yet, my friend.
I must go now... Take care, my men and I are counting on the valiant reinforcements of House Bolton." He concluded his friend by resting a hand on his shoulder.
Domeric returned the friendly gesture remaining silent. The boy had no more arrows to his bow that could plead his noble cause.
It would have been useless to insist.
"Ah, Domeric... In case I don't return... Here... Could you do me a favour?" Duncan.
"Anything!" Domeric promptly replied.
Duncan took a moment before asking the favour.
Domeric sensed his friend's seriousness and difficulty in finding the right words.
After nearly a minute of silence, the boy finally found the strength to pronounce his last wishes...
"Do you take Dacey to be your bride! I'm counting on you, my friend!
Ah, I forget that to do that you'll have to at least defeat her... and I'm afraid you're not up to the task at the moment, my friend.
Watch out for the low blows! Dacey has no qualms about hitting his opponent's weak points!... Pff! Ahahah! ' Duncan rushed out of the tent laughing. He didn't allow time for his still stunning counterpart to respond to the taunt.
Domeric stood dumbfounded for a couple of seconds before regaining his wits and the fury he needed to yell behind him:
"YOU'RE AN IDIOT!!!"
End POV.
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POV: Ser Lyle Crackhall;
Allied Camp, Pyke Island.
A few minutes before a group of men gathered... Follow current novels at novelhall.com)
Ser Lyle Crackhall, Lord Roland's second son-in-law, nicknamed 'Strongboar', had just arrived at the white tent set up, especially for the Kingsguard.
The knight who had recently turned twenty-five years of age was one of the strongest and most imposing men in the Seven Kingdoms. He was exactly three inches short of seven feet in height. He wasn't as massive as the 'Riding Mountain' sure, but he was second only to him in strength. Ser Lyle was the pride of his father and all of House Crackhall. While not one of the brightest minds in Westeros, the man-made up for it in values such as courage, loyalty, martial prowess, and charisma.
He was one of the few men in the Seven Kingdoms who would never leave a battlefield for cowardice, gold, or anything else that could corrupt a knight's honour.
His father and the militia of House Crackhall had followed Lord Tywin to Gret Wyk. Only a few dozen knights and about three hundred men from the West had remained in Pyke to represent House Lannister and protect the Old Lion's eldest son.
Lyle had recently been informed, thanks to his younger brother Merlon, Ser Jaime's direct squire, that a group of fearless men would soon be embarking on a dangerous mission for the good of the army, the King, and the Kingdom.
He and his longtime friends, Ser Wiston, Ser Arlan, and Ser Quellon, wanted to follow Ser Jaime on this mission. Not only to protect the Young Lion, but also because they wanted to take part in this great undertaking.
A feat is worthy of a ballad that would be told for entire generations...
Ser Lyle and three of his fellow knight-at-arms did not want to be left out.
"Ser Jaime!" Lyle called, recognizing the face of the man disguised as Ironborn.
Jaime turned and walked over to the group of four men.
"Ser Lyle... Ser Wiston and..."
"Ser Quellon of Sunset-Crag, my lord.", "Ser Arlan of House Spycer, Ser Jaime." Replied the two men who had never had the honour of meeting the son of their Lord Protector.
The breathing technique did not increase my current base level (Level 9 Class: Lord). In all likelihood, those techniques would momentarily raise my physical or mental attributes, such as Perception, Constitution, or Strength...
But if I had used all Eleven of the learned Locks, my level would have jumped up to rank 10 Class: Knight.
Just by simple logical reasoning, Ser Barristan was superior in technique and experience... A true living legend.
I was ready to answer the question, but the words choked in my throat...
Next to that man was someone I never expected.
'PETER!!!" I shouted inwardly thinking how such an event was possible.
Both Peter and I harboured an unconscious, though undeserved, grudge against Ser Barristan. All of Torrhen's Square knew that Tom, the father of Peter, Ronan and Brywen had fallen in the field because of that man.
Tom's children deserved to know the truth about the devious plans of Lord Bolton, the true culprit in the deaths of so many good men in the service of House Tallhart... But even so, I never expected Peter to walk alongside the man as if nothing had happened.
I had pondered too long; my silence was beginning to come across as rude.
"... Living legends are always welcome, Ser... It is an honour for me to make your acquaintance, Ser Barristan 'the Valiant'." I said.
"The new legends seem to have long since surpassed the old, young lord. The honour is mine, Hero of the North 'Bloody Snow'." Barristan.
"Deputy General Peter...I thought I made myself clear. I am surprised by your presence here." I said turning to the person concerned.
"You have been, Lord General... However, I fear I have overstepped your authority by asking for authority higher than yours, my Lord...
The Supreme General has given me his authorization to take part in this mission.
With all due respect General...eleven of my men are participating in a highly risky mission, and I am not abandoning them by holing up behind the rear." Peter.
'It hasn't even been twelve hours since I last saw him in person... Yesterday he was on the cusp of [Level 7 Class: King], and now he shows up here as [Level 8 Class: Page]... What has happened in this short interval of time, Peter?' I assessed inwardly.
'... An honourable choice, Deputy General. And your... fourteen comrades behind you?" I asked, scanning the two's retinue.
"Volunteers who joined us along the way. Men of the Storms, the North, and other Knights-errant in the service of the Crown... We vouch for each of them, Lord Duncan. I know many of them personally and tested the skills and motivations of others." Ser Barristan replied, taking a step forward.
I scrutinized the determined face of each new candidate who seemed ready for anything at any time. Fierce, hard eyes that had already experienced much of the weather of the battlefield. The minimum standard was more than exceeded.
"Well... I'd say we're all here. We can begin then." I turned to the hundred or so members all around me.
"It's about time in the name of R'hllor! One more volunteer and I would have broken my promise of 'Staying sober before the plan is laid out..." Thoros of Myr.
"I think you just invoked the name of your god in vain, Thoros." Beric Dondarrion.
"In a few hours, we may all invoke him if you do not pay attention to what I am about to tell you."
End POV.
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POV: A Knight in new armour.
Allied Camp.
About ten minutes after a plan was laid out and discussed...
"So you were the uninvited spectator." Said a teenage voice catching the man still reeling from considerable hangover migraines off guard.
"Caught in the act, Bloody Snow... I admit I'm a big fan of battle plans. I'm always looking for different points of view and new ideas of a military nature..." Replied the man raising his hands in surrender.
Ser Haymitch Rivers, also known as 'The Drunk', was on his way to the vanguard's rallying point before Bloody Snow cut him off.
"Very impressive... You managed to slip through the ranks of my men unnoticed. Also, you managed to stay consistently in spots that were blind to me throughout the entire encounter." Praised the boy with a tone of sincerity.
"It wasn't as easy as I thought it would be... You were always on the lookout for an unwelcome presence, and your 'men with murderous eyes' weren't as easy to fool. On the other hand, I admit I have an innate gift for being mistaken for an ordinary knight-errant." Ser Haymitch.
"Credit to Thoros of Myr?" Bloody Snow.
"Yes, that's right... I took advantage of my new friendship to go unnoticed. Thoros is a good guy. He used to hold my hand now and then." Haymitch.
"I see... How do you find your new armor, Ser?" The boy asked, quietly changing the subject.
"Disturbingly overly tailored, my Lord... I'm beginning to think that you somehow managed to get my exact body measurements... Do you have any moles in the brothel in Winter Town by any chance?" Haymitch.
"No... Or rather, yes, but they're not the ones who provided us with your measurements, Ser. Do you remember the morning you were forced to visit Maester Luwin?" Bloody Snow.
"Unfortunately I do remember it... Well?" Haymitch.
"Lady Brisea managed to get your measurements by stealing your clothes the night before. That girl is also an excellent seamstress as well as having an innate talent for the art of flour." Bloody Snow.
"I KNEW IT! The damned 'Bread Witch!!!'... But... that explains why I woke up naked in the castle hallway... As for... 'The sickness?'... "Ser Haymitch.
"A true Knight always defends a maiden's honor. Let's just say I hoped you and Lady Brisea would bond more positively over time... She's a good girl." Bloody Snow.
"I'm pretty sure your 'Good Girl', kicked me in the balls that night when I was totally helpless!!!
... Anyway... The armor's not bad." Ser Haymitch.
"Glad you like it, Ser. I'm glad Lord Stark put you in charge of protecting Lord Jorah. I am heartened to know that you will also be at his side during the first assault... I really must go now. I wish you good luck, Ser Haymitch." Said the boy preparing to walk his way.
"Wait... Why did you set up all that drama?" Ser Haymitch.
"I don't know what you're referring to, Ser." Replied the boy in an unexpectedly sincere tone.
"You know what I'm referring to-your plan of attack.
You had already planned a strategy that required at least one hundred well-trained men to succeed... Yet this morning, before more than thirty volunteers showed up, your squad consisted of only sixty men-at-arms at most...
It was you who caused rumors of this 'heroic secret enterprise' to blaze throughout the camp... And here I ask 'Why'?
Why bother so much? I don't think you would have had any trouble rounding up the men needed for this mission....
Why did you want all those volunteers?" Ser Haymitch.
The boy paused and turned his gaze back to the knight.
"Nefarious and dark times are approaching. The world must return to its old beginnings." Said the boy.
"... What does that mean?" Ser Haymitch.
"The world needs that bygone Age to return, Ser Haymitch....
'The Age of Heroes' must return."