Chapter 4: Royal Visit pt. 2

The next day when I finished with my archery practice and moved to the yard where Ser Rodrick taught the guardsmen and boys, I came just in time to catch a scene between Robb and Joffrey.

Ser Rodrick was trying to get them to have another practice bout. Apparently Robb had won the last one, and Joffrey, a spoiled little shit in general and a poor loser to boot, decided to fight with his words rather than a blade. Objectively, it was actually a bit cunning. Within the social context, it was weasel-y. Knowing that Ser Rodrick would never allow the heir to the Iron Throne and the heir to the North to fight with live steel, Joffrey asked for just that.

I saw the flash of fear in his eyes when Ser Rodrick allowed them to use tourney swords, with blunted edges, rather than the weighted wood they’d used previously. Taken aback, the scarred Hound came to his rescue.

“This is your prince!” he said. “Who are you to say he cannot have a sword with an edge, ser?” His tone was derisive, combative.

“I’m Winterfell’s master-at-arms, Clegane,” Ser Rodrick said. He had spent time in southern courts, and knew how biting that address wass, the pointed emphasis on how Clegane was no knight. “You would do well to remember it.”

Honestly, Ser Rodrick was in the right. He was in charge of the training grounds, and brooking his authority was incredibly rude. Lord Stark would think twice before doing so, let alone some unblooded blonde shit who wasn’t even fifteen yet, or said shit’s sworn shield. Clegane knew better, but of course that was the point.

“Are you training men here, or women?” he demanded. I watched on in interest, prepared to intervene if Ser Rodrick seemed to be losing. It wouldn’t do for the Starks to be walked over in their own castle.

“I am training knights,” Rodrick said, again pointing out Clegane’s lack of title. “They can use live steel once they’re of age and ready for it.”

Realizing that he was losing against Rodrick, Clegane turned to Robb. “How old are you, boy?”

“You’d do well to keep a civil tongue in your head, Clegane,” I interrupted loudly. I had my bow to hand, my other hand hovering above my quiver. I was some thirty yards away, and a bit of magic to speed myself could have a half dozen arrows in Clegane before he crossed half that distance. Togo, my massively oversized wolf-like dog stood next to me, his hackles raised.

Clegane realized things were going poorly, but didn’t want to back down. He had his pride. “Bah. I killed a man at twelve, and here the future Lord Stark hides behind some archer and his pet wolf.”

I wasn’t about to let Robb get drawn in. “Togo’s a Northern Mountain Dog, actually, and clearly cleverer than the other pet hound in this yard,” I goaded. “But since you have such disdain for the tourney blade, I propose a bout, Clegane. I’ll have a tourney blade. You can use whatever weapon you like. We start off in the most realistic conditions possible for being off of the battlefield; eight feet apart, with our weapons sheathed. Unless you can only bark, that is?”

“You’ll wish you hadn’t said that,” he warned me.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Ser Rodrick warned me as I approached. He knew I was planning something, that strong and fast as I was I wouldn’t be facing Clegane with a sword if I didn’t have some sort of plan. I smiled at him

“Jon, come here,” I called out. I handed him my bow and arrows, my knife, and my sword. Then I went over to the weapons rack and picked out a tourney blade. I went over to Ser Rodrick, who was overseeing the bout.

The Hound was in a brigandine with plate protecting his neck, shoulders and arms. His helmet, fashioned as a snarling dog, was actually quite imposing. I took up a wide-legged stance, sheathe in my left hand, right hand hovering over the blade, ready to draw while lunging forward. Clegane braced himself, shield forward, hand ready to draw his arming sword.

“This bout, between Odysseus Gangari and Sandor Clegane, will end on my signal, on a surrender, or when one of the competitors is unconscious,” Ser Rodrick announced. There were a four Winterfell guardsmen waiting to help him pull us off of each other if necessary. I will count to three, then drop this stone. When it hits the ground, the match has begun. Do you understand?”

“I do,” I answered clearly. My blood was up, my adrenaline pumping. I prepared the links to my mana.

“I do,” Clegane growled darkly.

“Very well. One,” Ser Rodrick announced.

I pumped myself with a temporary strengthening of Green, toughened my defenses with Bark-skin.

“Two.” I channeled Blue, accelerating my thoughts and giving myself an edge of combat precognition.

“Three.” Now it was Red, hastening myself to move faster, react just that fraction of a second before my foe.

Rodrick dropped the stone. I saw it hit the ground. Clegane’s muscles tensed as he began to draw the sword.

It was too slow. I dropped my blade as I lunged. He hadn’t been expecting that, and I covered the gap too fast for him to react before I had gripped the bottom of his shield. I yanked up, exposing his legs. Then I stepped to the side of his body with my right leg, drove my right arm forwards under the shield into the chest while my left dropped, pulling on his left leg. It was a textbook perfect karate technique, and Clegane was totally unprepared for it.

He fell onto his back, slightly stunned, sword still half drawn. I didn’t give him any time to react, gripping onto his lower left leg with both hands and rotating it to flip him onto his stomach. I twisted viciously and pulled, dislocating his knee.

“Ssstttt-“ I heard Ser Rodrick begin to shout.

As he pushed his head up in agony, drawing breath to scream I stood up, drew my leg back, and smashed the armored toe of my boot into his helmet strong enough to cave in the side of the metal plates.

“oooppp!” Ser Rodrick finished as Clegane fell limp to the yard’s sand. “Odysseus Gangari wins. You there, fetch Maester Luwin.”

“Thank you, Ser Rodrick,” I said, backing away. The Lannisters and other sycophants around the prince seemed stunned. “And I hope everyone has learned a valuable lesson. That every weapon, whether the sharpest steel or the bluntest fist, is capable of defeating your foes if used with skill. Were this a true fight, Clegane would be dead.”

I took back my equipment from Jon, fastening it to my belts and straps as they processed.

“You cheated. You cheated! What kind of swordsman doesn’t fight with a sword!” Joffrey shouted out.

“Ser Rodrick, did I break the rules?” I asked the knight.

“No, Odysseus, you didn’t,” he replied, a wide smile beneath his mustache.

“So I didn’t cheat. And Clegane said it in the beginning, Prince Joffrey. I’m an archer. Had I actually been fighting, I’d have put a half dozen arrows through him before you could blink. That is, after all, the best way to put down any dog that thinks to bite the hands that I protect. Come on, Jon, Togo. I think that was enough excitement for the day.”

We left as the crowd broke into excited murmuring.

Once we were far enough away, I turned to Jon.

“You know, that was my first real life-and-death fight?”

I’m not sure why, but we both burst into laughter.

===================================

The next day found Clegane still unconscious, and dozens of riders prepared to go out on a hunt. I was atop Aethon, Togo on my side, my bow and a few dozen arrows on the saddle. The king, also mounted, spotted me and called me over.

“Odysseus, come, ride with us!” He was accompanied by his son, Joffrey, Lord Stark, Robb, Jaime Lannister and Ser Barristan, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and a handful of other nobles and knights I didn’t recognize. Joffrey greeted me with a sneer, and not for the first time I wondered how the hell he was such a blond, pretty-boy shit when his father was such an exuberant bear of a man.

Aethon trotted over, and then the king noticed something strange.

“By the Gods, you don’t have any reins!” he exclaimed.

I smiled. “No, Aethon is too clever for me to subject him to those,” I said. Aethon snorted and tossed his head in agreement.

“Amazing. And he just knows where you want to go?”

“Yes, Your Grace. In my homeland, the pinnacle of cavalry has long been considered the horse archer. The mobility combined with the ranged power, and the extra arrows a mounted archer can carry make them worth more than an entire lance of armored knights. But the bow requires both hands to use, so the horses have to be trained to fight without the reins.” That was all true, and all bullshit. Aethon didn’t need reins because he was my familiar, and he was clever enough to do the actual steering part of riding for me. As a note, a lance was a combat section of knight, mounted men-at-arms, squire, etc. Sort of like a squad.

“An entire lance? Surely not,” one of the knights questioned.

I pointed to some trees about four hundred meters distant. “See those trees? Your Grace, would you care to give me a count of the seconds after I begin to draw my first arrow, to see how quickly I can shoot ten of them off?”

“Alright,” he said somewhat confused. Then I took out the bow and unlatched one of my arrow bags. I stood up in the stirrups, placed a handful of arrows in my hand, nocked the first, and took a deep breath. A true expert archer, without supernatural assistance, could fire twenty arrows a minute, or one every three seconds. Lars Anderson from Earth, a lunatic Dane who spent far too much time on archery, could do ten arrows in just under five seconds. I wasn’t that good, though I was training with some of the concepts he proposed in mind. But with Haste and all my other combat boosts to help me, I thought as I activated them, I didn’t need to be.

With the energy from the temporary buffs running through my veins I started. One, two, three, four, five arrows. I knew without looking they were hits, reached forwards to the take the arrows held ready in my bow hand, transferring them to my draw hand, then continued. Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten.

“Time!” I called out.

“Five seconds. Gods be good that was fast,” Robert said, stunned. “I want to see how many you hit, but even if they missed that would be brutal to a formation. And you can manage that at a canter?” the king asked.

“Not quite as quickly. It would take me six or seven seconds at a canter, and my accuracy suffers slightly. Only two in three arrows would hit a man sized target at that range were I cantering across their front,” I replied.

“Ha!” the bulky man scoffed. “Only two in three would hit a man, he says. Ser Barristan, how far do you make that?”

“A shade over four hundred paces, Your Grace,” the knight replied.

“If one in three arrows could hit at four hundred yards I’d be impressed, Odysseus. I can see how your people would value horse archers so highly. Unless they were pinned, they’d be absolutely murderous on open terrain. Even sending light cavalry to chase them wouldn’t work, the horses would just be shot out from under them. I’d guess they were worth what, twenty to fifty times their number in infantry?”

“If used against infantry in the simplest fashion, yes Your Grace. But commanders would often send a company of the horse archers forward first. As they got to be close to the enemy, but still outside of the range of thrown weapons, the company would split, breaking left and right before turning back, shooting all the while. Then as the infantry’s formation was damaged, the lancers positioned a few dozen paces behind the horse archers would finish their charge, breaking the enemy. The archers could draw their spears, and join the pursuit as light cavalry or continue on to break another formation. Used that way, properly supported by other cavalry, they were worth twice what they were alone.”

“Amazing. I suppose I should be glad your home is so far away; if your siegecraft is half as good as your field armies then I worry we wouldn’t be able to win a war!” He was smiling, but it was a true sentiment. The Westerosi weren’t exactly the most sophisticated combatants, with more in common with medieval France or the Holy Roman Empire than a truly efficient military.

Then we came up to my targets. I’d missed one of the arrows, but the other nine had hit trees next to each other, one by one. I grinned while the king whistled at how deep the arrows had penetrated.

“Damn. I think you may have lost these arrows,” he said.

“It’s no matter, Your Grace. I’m glad my demonstration interested you.”

“Interested me? I have half a mind to give you a commission to raise a company of your horse archers, but Ned’s already made me agree not to poach you without both your agreement and his. Hells, I thought I was tempted to take you into my service after I heard how you beat Clegane; not many could manage that.”

Robert was obviously hinting that if I wanted to, I could petition Lord Stark to allow me to enter the king’s service. If I was truly a local, or didn’t have my magic, I’d be tempted. But in the end, I owed the Starks, and my place was not in this land.

“Sadly, Your Grace, Lord Stark found me first,” I deadpanned. Robert burst out into laughter, and Lord Stark even cracked a bit of a smile.

“Well, I think everyone’s had enough time to get themselves sorted. Shall we be off?” Robert asked. As the rest of our party agreed, he motioned to his squire, another Lannister, who brought up a horn to his lips and blew the beginning of the hunt.

“What would you like to hunt, Your Grace?” Eddard questioned. “My huntsmen reported signs for both deer and boar in the area.”

“Hmm. It would be excellent to have a nice roast boar,” the king mused. “I think that, if we can find it.”

“I have full faith in Odysseus’ abilities, Your Grace. Or at least in Togo’s nose,” Ned replied.

“Oh, that’s not fair. Now you’re just teasing me,” Robert complained.

“Go on then, Togo. Find us some nice boar.”

We had just killed and butchered the first boar, a large male, when the riders found us.

Bran had fallen from the Broken Tower.