The strongest?
As the Frey mob roared with unholy glee, Igor's grip on me tightened like a vice. My body, fueled by raw grief and fury, thrashed against his hold, every fiber of my being yearning to reach the Frey bastards who had butchered my family. But Igor, his face weathered and etched with sorrow, understood the perilous futility of my rage.
With a firm yet gentle shove, he led me out of the blood-stained hall, the din of jeering laughter fading into the oppressive night. Once outside, he turned me to face him, his gaze holding a mixture of sorrow and disappointment.
"Matthaus," he growled, his voice laced with urgency, "what were you thinking? Charging into that den of vipers like a mad bull? You wouldn't have lasted a heartbeat against their blades."
His words, however harsh, were a dose of cold reality against the fever of my grief. I screamed, a primal howl of anguish and denial, the image of my sisters' lifeless eyes seared into my mind.
"They... they killed them!" I spat, fury momentarily overriding the despair twisting my insides. "My father, my sister... I can't just do nothing!"
Igor sighed, his eyes weary with the world's cruelties. "Only a fool, boy," he said, his voice heavy, "would seek vengeance amidst a lion's pride. Old Frey may be a serpent in a gilded cage, but he's cunning and ruthless. You wouldn't even get close before they snuffed you out like a gnat."
His words, though harsh, pierced the haze of my blind rage. He was right. Charging in like a berserker would only bring swift death, another senseless casualty on the Frey's altar of cruelty. But where could I go? Where could I find solace, or perhaps, the flicker of a just flame?
With a surge of desperate hope, I stumbled from Igor's grasp and broke into a run. Day and night blurred into a relentless journey, my legs numb with exhaustion but fueled by the flickering beacon of Raventree Hall. My uncle, though distant, was still family, still bound by the same blood that had been so brutally spilled. Perhaps, just perhaps, he would offer sanctuary, a chance to mend the shattered pieces of my life and, someday, seek a semblance of justice.
Arriving at Raventree Hall, I found myself utterly drained and covered in dirt, having only paused briefly for water on my journey. The castle stood before me, a grand testament to its age and storied history. As I approached, I halted in front of the guards, wearied but determined. I informed them of my demand for an audience with my uncle, the current Lord Blackwood. Despite their evident confusion at my disheveled appearance, they allowed me to pass.
Entering the main hall, I was greeted by the sight of a middle-aged man, strikingly similar to my father, seated on a throne adorned with a raven motif. Kneeling before him, fatigue evident in every fiber of my being, I spoke with hope in my heart.
"My lord," I began, "I am the son of your brother, Marcus. I come seeking justice for my family, slaughtered by the Freys. I implore you, to enact justice upon them for the sake of our blood," I pleaded with unwavering resolve.
Lord Blackwood regarded me with an impassive gaze and signaled for his steward, whispering something in his ear. Suddenly, two guards approached, seizing me by each arm. Confusion painted my face as I glanced back at Lord Blackwood.
"What—why? Let me go!" I protested, attempting to resist, but my exhaustion betrayed me. As the doors closed behind me, I couldn't help but unleash a desperate proclamation.
"You won't get away with this, Blackwood! I will hunt you all down and drench the Riverlands in your blood, you and every noble like you!" My words echoed through the hall as they forcibly dragged me outside.
Once in the courtyard, the guards tossed me to the ground, unleashing a barrage of blows and kicks.
"How dare you threaten the Lord, you bastard!" one of them bellowed.
Lying there, pain numbing my senses, blood trickling from every wound, I felt a strange detachment. As blows rained down, my consciousness waned. In that haze, I mumbled to myself, "Is this what dying feels like? I won't forgive them.
Even in death, I understand now. The gods aren't real; the only faith one needs is in oneself. The gods don't save anyone." And with that realization, I succumbed to unconsciousness.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Awakening to aches rippling through my body, I noticed bandages wrapped meticulously around my form, while green ointments adorned my wounds. Attempting to sit up, I was greeted by the presence of a grey-haired old man with an eyepatch, his voice carrying a playful undertone.
"Easy there, young Matthaus. Your wounds risk opening up," he cautioned, his gaze both caring and seasoned. "You there, tell Helsen to come check on the boy."
As I adjusted myself, Igor entered, accompanied by an old man sporting a singular eyeglass over his right eye. The latter wasted no time in scrutinizing my injuries. In a solemn tone, I addressed Igor, seeking clarity.
"How long was I out, and where am I?" I inquired, yearning to piece together the fragments of time lost in the abyss of unconsciousness.
"You were out for three weeks, boy. We found you teetering on the brink of death. Luckily, old man Helsen is the best at patching people up," Igor responded, his gruff voice carrying a mixture of concern and relief.
The old man with the eyepatch, identified as Rickard, interjected with a seasoned warmth. "You're in the hideout of the Brotherhood of the Open Hand. My name is Rickard, an acquaintance of your father's. Rest up for now; we'll talk later."
With those words, the trio departed from my tent, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The fabric of the tent encased me in a cocoon of solitude as I contemplated the events that led me to this unexpected refuge.
The following day, Rickard came to check up on me. He spoke of the Brotherhood of the Open Hand, a motley crew of bastards, orphans, and outcasts who banded together for survival and a sense of belonging. Rickard himself was an experienced warrior, having fought valiantly in the Nine Pennies War. He assured me that I would begin my lessons soon.
"Old Helsen will oversee your studies," Rickard explained, his voice filled with reassurance. "He's a wise man, well-versed in many subjects. And for your fighting lessons, you'll be under Igor's tutelage. He's a tough one, but you'll learn how to fight."
The prospect of learning from these seasoned mentors filled me with a sense of purpose. Despite the tragedies that had befallen my family, I saw a glimmer of hope in the camaraderie and skills of the Brotherhood.
The Riverlands, 274 AC. A gnarled oak cast its shadow over a clearing near Riverrun, dappling the damp earth in a mosaic of light and dark. The air hung heavy with the scent of pine and damp soil.
Rickard POV
The whelp was a firecracker, all spark and fury. Igor and Helsen had only good things to say about him, a flicker of the old Blackwood spirit perhaps. Back in the day, I was a knight myself, one to be reckoned with. But those days were best left buried. My gaze fell upon the boy as he struggled to his feet, a defiant glint in his eyes despite the grime and sweat caking his face.
"What creature, lad," I rumbled, my voice seasoned with gravel and old battles, "holds dominion over all?"
He clutched his sword and shield, panting, brow furrowed in thought. "A dragon, perhaps? Balerion the Black Dread, they say, could melt castles with a single breath. But dragons are naught but whispers in the wind now."
A smirk played on my lips. My blade, honed to a razor's edge, sang a deadly song as I parried his clumsy swing. Instead of a punishing counter, I swept his legs from under him with a deft maneuver. He landed with a thud, a groan escaping his lips.
"Dragons were fearsome indeed," I conceded, my voice echoing through the clearing. "They carved a bloody path across Westeros. But forget not, boy, men have slain dragons before. We tamed them, even. Lions, wolves, stags, all creatures great and small - mere playthings before the cunning of man. We are the apex predators, for we can adapt."
He clambered to his feet once more, a raw determination hardening his features. Steel met steel in a flurry of blows, the clang of the practice swords a counterpoint to the chirping of unseen birds. I pressed him relentlessly, exploiting his every misstep, until a searing gash bloomed across his chest, painted crimson with his own blood.
He stumbled, his breath ragged. Yet, there was no surrender in his eyes. A flicker of something primal, of unyielding spirit, ignited within him.
"We are the strongest," I rasped, my voice hoarse with exertion, "because we adapt. I will push you to your limits, boy. But with each battle you survive, you will transform. The strongest isn't the one who wields the mightiest sword, but the one who rises again, and again, until there are no more challengers left."
The weight of my words hung heavy in the air, a promise and a challenge. The boy, bloodied but unbroken, met my gaze with a newfound fire. In that moment, under the watchful gaze of the ancient oak, I knew I had not taken on a student, but a survivor in the making.
An hour bled into the next. The air itself seemed thick with the clang of steel and the boy's ragged breaths. He lay sprawled on the blood-soaked earth, his body a testament to his grit.
Looking down at the boy covered in blood I tell him, "Go to Helsen, you've earned your rest, crawl if you must, you have your lessons to get to"
With a grunt that could have been either agreement or exhaustion, the boy shifted. I left him then, his determined struggle echoing in the clearing. He was a rough diamond, yes, but beneath the grime and blood lay the potential for greatness.
—------------------------------------------
A ragged groan escaped my lips. The world tilted on its axis as I tried to rise, the metallic tang of blood filling my mouth. A weathered hand gripped my shoulder, steadying me.
"Stand still, boy," a gruff voice rasped. "We can't have those wounds festering."
The old man, his face etched with the map of a life hard-lived, worked his magic, cleaning and binding my injuries. As the throbbing pain subsided, a worn leather book landed with a soft thud on my lap.
"History is the forge that birthed the present, you must learn from the past to understand the present," the old man rumbled, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Let us delve into the chronicles of the Seven Kingdoms."
Despite the exhaustion gnawing at my bones, a thirst for knowledge bloomed. I devoured his lessons, interrupting with questions that tumbled forth like a rushing river.
"So, the Baratheons," I rasped, a hint of amusement bubbling up, "descended from a bastard?"
The old man chuckled, a dry rasping sound. "Indeed. Orys Baratheon, bastard brother to Aegon the Conqueror, claimed his own destiny by marrying into House Durrandon. Thus, a new lineage was forged."
"Seems the definition of 'bastard' is ever-changing" I mused, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. It held a tinge of self-mockery, a flicker of defiance masking a deeper pain.
Abruptly, I slammed the history book shut. "Enough talk of houses," I growled, pushing myself upright with renewed determination. "Let's delve into the secrets of Valyria today."
The old man met my gaze, a flicker of approval dancing in his lone eye. With a curt nod, he retrieved another book, its leather cover whispering of ancient magic. The air crackled with anticipation, a new lesson about to begin. The path to vengeance might be fraught with blood and hardship, but within me, a warrior was being forged - a warrior armed with knowledge and fueled by an unwavering will.