Chapter 38 - As the Hammer falls

122 AC

The sixth day of the sixth moon.

Hugh Pov

"Are you comfortable, Hugh?" Ulf asked, his hands busy adjusting my armor.

"Yes," I grumbled curtly, my mind preoccupied with other thoughts.

"Remember, there will be around two hundred knights participating in the melee. So be cautious," Ulf warned, his tone filled with concern.

"Seven hells, that's an overwhelming number," Harlon chimed in.

"I'll crush them all," I declared, breaking free from my daze.

"No," Ulf retorted firmly, his pale lilac eyes locking with mine.

"Remember the plan," he emphasized, his voice carrying a touch of forcefulness. "The melee will go on for hours, and if you engage in combat with every single knight, you'll be in serious trouble."

"So, you want me to pick on the weaker opponents? I'm not a coward," I shot back, my irritation bubbling to the surface.

"You're not the warrior reborn, destined to fight each and every knight, you fool," Ulf snapped, frustration creeping into his words.

"This is your first time participating in a melee, and the last thing I want is for someone to crack your skull," Ulf added, his concern unmistakable.

I dismissively waved off his worries and headed toward my hammer, a formidable and durable weapon.

"Your armor doesn't even come close to matching Ulf's, Hugh. Who was the sorry excuse for a blacksmith who made it?" Harlon jeered, bursting into laughter. Instantly, anger consumed me.

"He is my father, you bastard!" I roared, seizing Harlon by the collar.

Harlon's eyes darted around, desperately searching for an escape.

"Hugh, calm down. Harlon didn't know. Let him be," Ulf intervened, his voice steady but commanding.

Reluctantly, I loosened my grip, and Harlon stumbled backward.

"Harlon, I need you to give me some time alone with Hugh," Ulf instructed, and Harlon quickly scurried out of the tent.

"What's troubling you, old friend?" Ulf inquired, his gaze filled with genuine concern.

"Nothing," I muttered, my frustration lingering within.

"Hugh, I need to understand. Is it something connected to your father?" Ulf pressed, searching for answers. Unable to face the question, I grabbed my armor and stormed out of the tent, desperately attempting to suppress the painful memories of the past.

As I rode towards the grand melee ground atop my powerful steed, a breathtaking sight unfolded before my eyes. The vast array of knights stood tall and resolute, their glistening armors reflecting the golden rays of the sun. Banners of noble houses fluttered proudly in the wind, painting the scene with a kaleidoscope of colors.

I scanned the sea of knights, searching for a familiar figure among the shining armor. And there, in the distance, astride his magnificent steed, stood Ser Criston Cole. Memories of our encounter from the previous day ignited a fiery determination within me, fueling my every stride.

The gossipy crowds hushed into a reverent silence as the king, resplendent in his regal attire, took his place. His commanding presence held everyone's attention, and anticipation crackled in the air. And then, with a voice that carried the weight of authority, he delivered an inspiring speech, stirring the hearts of both participants and spectators alike.

As the king's words concluded, a thunderous roar erupted from the crowd, echoing across the field. The signal was given, a clarion call that shattered the stillness, and the melee commenced.

Adrenaline surged through my veins as I tightened my grip on the sturdy handle of my hammer, a weapon forged to crush and obliterate any opposition. My heart pounded in my chest, synchronized with the thunderous beat of hooves that resonated across the grounds.

With each swing of my hammer, a path was carved through the chaos. Knights clashed, armor collided, and the clamor of metal reverberated throughout the melee ground. The dance of combat unfolded, a symphony of skill, strength, and strategy.

I spotted Ser Criston Cole, his presence undeniable amidst the chaos. Determination burned in his eyes, and a fierce rivalry flared between us. Our paths inevitably converged, and the clash of our weapons sent sparks flying, illuminating the battlefield.

With every strike, I unleashed the full force of my hammer, the weight behind each blow capable of shattering armor and bones. The thunderous impact reverberated through the air, creating a symphony of destruction. Sweat dripped from my brow, my muscles straining with each swing, as I fought with the relentless spirit of a warrior consumed by purpose.

The melee raged on, a breathtaking spectacle of courage and skill. Knights clashed and fell, their dreams of glory dashed upon the blood-soaked ground. Yet, I pressed on, undeterred by the chaos surrounding me. My focus remained unyielding, my resolve unbreakable.

Time seemed to blur as the melee raged on, the relentless clash of weapons filling the air with a symphony of chaos. With every opponent I faced, I honed my skills, my strikes becoming more precise and calculated. The thrill of battle surged through my veins, driving me forward with unwavering determination.

But then, in an instant, the world around me spun as a brutal blow landed on the back of my head. Pain seared through my skull, causing me to stumble and drop to one knee. Instinct kicked in, and I raised my arms in a defensive stance, desperately warding off the unseen assailant.

As I fought to regain my footing, the echoes of the attack reverberated through my mind, jolting me back to a conversation I had shared with my father.

Flashback

Hugh, there is a man who has come to meet you," Ser Robert Quince informed me.

I nodded, acknowledging the knight's words, and made my way towards the castle gates. As I approached, I spotted a figure standing at a distance, and a mix of emotions flooded my heart. I immediately recognized him, the man who had been absent for so much of my life.

"Why are you here?" I asked, my voice tinged with bitterness.

"Son," he replied, tears welling in his eyes, "you have become a grown man now."

I couldn't help but feel a surge of resentment at his sudden appearance. The years of longing for his presence mixed with anger and disappointment spilled out in my words. "I will not ask again why you are here.

I said, the weight of my emotions seeping through.

"I am dying, Hugh," he said, his voice filled with frailty. As I observed him closely, I noticed the gauntness of his frame and the loss of weight that had transformed the once robust figure into a mere shadow of his former self.

"So?" I retorted indifferently. "What does it matter? You never loved me," I repeated, my pain and abandonment resurfacing.

"I wish to make amends, son," he pleaded, tears streaming down his face.

"After all these years?" I asked, my voice a mixture of disbelief and skepticism.

"Yes," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

His next words caught me off guard and momentarily stopped the flow of my anger. "I saw your mother in my dreams," he confessed.

The mention of my mother, a woman I had only known through stories and the empty space she left behind, stirred something within me. "Did she tell you to kill yourself?" I asked, the bitterness still evident in my tone.

He simply looked sad, the weight of his past actions etched upon his face.

"She told me that I had been a bad father and that she was proud of the fact that you have become a knight," he shared, his voice tinged with remorse.

I stood there, overwhelmed with conflicting emotions, struggling to control the flood of feelings surging within me.

As if sensing my turmoil, he retrieved something from his horse. It was a set of armor, the plates gleaming in the sunlight. "I made this for you," he said, his voice filled with a mixture of pride and sorrow. "This is my last gift for you, Hugh. You may not have my name, but you have my blood."

He slowly approached me, his steps heavy with the weight of regret. With a gentle touch, he caressed my cheek. "You have her temper, my boy," he said softly. "And that's the very thing that I fell in love with."

His words sparked curiosity within me, a yearning to know more about the woman who had brought me into this world. "Could you tell me more about her?" I asked, barely able to contain my whispered plea.

"Very well," he acquiesced, surprising me with his willingness to speak of her. "She had hair as dark as the night sky and eyes as blue as the seas. She was as tall as me, and although she wasn't conventionally beautiful, she possessed a strength that few could match."

"Where was she from?" I inquired, hoping to gather any piece of information about her past.

He let out a defeated sigh. "She did not speak much about her past, but she said she was from the Stormlands. I never pressed her for more details."

A deep sadness settled upon his face as he continued, his voice laced with regret. "When she died giving birth to you, I blamed you, even though it wasn't your fault. And for that, I am sorry," he confessed, tears mingling with the weight of his remorse.

"Goodbye, Hugh," he concluded, his voice filled with a mix of resignation and hope. "I hope you make something out of yourself and become a better man than I ever was."

As I watched him depart, a complex array of emotions swirled within me. The wounds of the past were far from healed, but a glimmer of understanding and a flicker of forgiveness began to take root.

As my senses snapped back into focus, I realized the imminent danger that awaited me. The knight who had struck me from behind was already poised for another strike, fueled by his desire to incapacitate me. Reacting instinctively, I swiftly unleashed a powerful punch, catching him off guard and sending him crashing to the ground. The force of the blow reverberated through my hand, fueling the fire of determination within me.

Without a moment's hesitation, I descended upon the fallen knight, my rage and frustration fueling each strike. Blow after blow rained down upon him, the ferocity of my attacks mirroring the torrent of emotions coursing through my veins. The sickening thuds of impact echoed across the melee ground, blending with the sounds of clashing weapons and the cries of combatants.

But the adversaries were relentless, pressing forward with a relentless resolve. One after another, knights closed in on me, seeking to subdue the unyielding force that stood in their path. Yet, I refused to hold back. Gripping my hammer with unwavering determination, I swung with an unforgiving intent, shattering armor and bones alike. The sickening crunch of breaking bodies filled the air, melding with the cacophony of the battlefield.

In the midst of the chaos, a distant voice pierced through the commotion. Prince Daemon's voice carried the weight of grave news. "Your father died," he declared, the words striking me like a thunderbolt. The reality of his passing crashed upon me, a painful reminder of the fragility of life. The morning had begun with a somber raven's arrival from Dragonstone, bearing the news of my father's demise, delivered by Maester Gerardys.

The weight of grief mingled with the intensity of battle, threatening to consume my focus. Yet, I refused to succumb to the despair that threatened to overwhelm me. With renewed determination, I channeled my anguish into every swing of my hammer. Each opponent became a conduit for my pain, a vessel to release the tumultuous emotions that surged within me.

The melee ground transformed into a tempest of violence and raw emotion. The clash of steel, the thunderous impact of my hammer, and the cries of both victory and defeat merged into a chaotic symphony. Time lost its meaning as I fought with a tenacity forged from the depths of my being. The weight of grief and the desire for redemption fueled my every strike, pushing me beyond the limits of physical endurance.

Through the haze of battle, I glimpsed faces contorted in pain and fear, their futile attempts to defend against my relentless onslaught. The taste of victory mingled with the metallic tang of blood in the air, as shattered bodies littered the ground around me. Each fallen opponent marked a step forward, a testament to my unyielding spirit.

In the midst of the melee, the memory of my father's passing threatened to consume me. But I fought to compartmentalize, to set aside the grief for a moment and focus on the task at hand. For in this brutal dance of combat, there was no room for sorrow or mourning. There was only the present, the clash of weapons, and the drive to emerge victorious.

And so, I pressed on, hammer swinging, the weight of my father's death etching itself into my resolve. . In the midst of the chaos, I sought solace in the unyielding rhythm of battle, finding strength in the dance of blood and steel.

As the dust settled on the melee ground, a moment of respite embraced us both. Ser Criston Cole, a formidable opponent, stood before me, his white armor gleaming defiantly in the radiant sun. In his hand, he wielded a morningstar, its spiked head poised for devastation. The weight of anticipation hung heavy in the air as we locked eyes, the intensity of our rivalry fueling the fire within.

"Ser Criston," I bellowed with unyielding determination, my voice echoing across the field, "I will defeat you!"

With a steely resolve, Ser Criston raised his stance, a silent acceptance of the challenge laid before him. The battlefield trembled with a palpable energy, awaiting the clash between our chosen weapons—my mighty hammer and his fearsome morningstar. It was a collision of sheer force and relentless power, a clash that would determine the victor.

As the battle commenced, the air crackled with anticipation. Our movements were a symphony of skill, each step calculated, each swing measured. With each clash of our weapons, sparks erupted, casting an ethereal glow upon the battlefield. The sound of metal meeting metal resonated like thunder, reverberating through the core of our being.

I swung my hammer with unwavering strength, aiming to crush the defenses of my formidable adversary. Ser Criston, equally formidable, countered with precise strikes of his morningstar, seeking to exploit any weakness in my defense. The air became charged with the heat of our struggle, the weight of our weapons a testament to the determination burning within us.

Our duel evolved into a breathtaking display of skill and strategy. Each movement was a calculated risk, each parry a dance of danger. Sweat poured from our brows, mingling with the dirt and grime that adorned our armor. But neither of us faltered; we pressed on, locked in a deadly dance of honor and glory.

As the sun reached its zenith, the tempo of our battle quickened. The resounding clash of our weapons reverberated with increasing intensity. The ground beneath our feet trembled as the impact of our strikes threatened to rend the very earth apart. The crowd surrounding us watched in awe, their voices silenced by the sheer spectacle of our confrontation.

Time seemed to slow as we exchanged blow after blow, each strike carrying the weight of our relentless determination. The world faded away, leaving only the two of us locked in combat, the epitome of strength and skill. The clash of our weapons echoed through our souls, our spirits entwined in a struggle for supremacy.

A fierce determination burned within me, fueled by the memory of my father's passing and the desire to honor his legacy. Each swing of my hammer was imbued with the weight of my grief and the drive to prove myself. I sought to channel my pain into a force that would propel me forward, leaving nothing but triumph in my wake.

Ser Criston, an equal match for my resolve, fought with the precision and finesse of a seasoned warrior. His morningstar whirled through the air, seeking to exploit any opening in my defense. But I remained resolute, deflecting his strikes with the strength of my armor and countering with resounding blows of my own.

The battle raged on, the clash of our weapons accompanied by the thunderous beat of our hearts. With each passing moment, exhaustion threatened to seep into our muscles, but we pushed beyond our limits, unwilling to yield. The melee ground had become our arena, and we were its fierce competitors, unwilling to relinquish victory to the other.

And then, in a moment that felt suspended in time, I seized an opportunity. With a calculated swing of my hammer, I struck true, aiming for a chink in Ser Criston's armor. The impact resounded, the force of my blow sending him staggering backward, his grip on the morningstar momentarily faltering.

But Ser Criston, undeterred, quickly regained his footing. The fire in his eyes burned with renewed intensity as he launched a counterattack, his strikes a testament to his unyielding resilience. Blow after blow rained upon me, testing my endurance and forcing me to summon every ounce of strength within me.

In that moment, the world narrowed down to the clash between our weapons, the thunderous symphony of our battle. Each strike brought us closer to the edge of exhaustion, but neither of us showed any signs of retreat. Determination etched deep into our faces, our eyes locked in a fierce gaze, reflecting the relentless spirit that drove us forward.

The final moments of our epic confrontation drew near, the culmination of our struggle impending. Every ounce of energy surged through my veins as I prepared for a decisive strike. With a surge of power, I swung my hammer, aiming to deliver the blow that would determine the outcome of our battle.

The world seemed to hold its breath as my hammer connected with Ser Criston's defenses, the impact resonating through his armor. Time stood still as his grip faltered, his body swaying on the precipice of defeat. And then, with a resounding crash, he fell to the ground, his weapon slipping from his grasp.

A collective gasp rippled through the onlooking crowd as the realization of my victory settled upon them. The battlefield erupted in applause, the thunderous roar of approval echoing in my ears.

With a surge of exhilaration and pride coursing through my veins, I thrust my hammer high into the air, a symbol of triumph held aloft. The crowd erupted into a symphony of applause and thunderous cheers, their collective voices echoing in the expanse of the grand melee ground. Their adulation washed over me, fueling my spirit and filling me with a sense of invincibility.

As I scanned the sea of faces, seeking familiar eyes to meet, I caught a glimpse of my father amidst the throngs of spectators. His presence, unexpected and poignant, sent a jolt through my being. The world around me seemed to fade into insignificance as his gaze met mine, a mixture of pride and longing shining in his eyes.

In that fleeting moment, a whirlwind of emotions overtook me, tumultuous and conflicting. The magnitude of his presence, the weight of our complicated past, and the flood of memories crashed upon the shores of my consciousness. The smile that had adorned my face only moments before faltered, replaced by a torrent of thoughts I struggled to comprehend.

And then, as if fate had chosen that precise moment to intervene, the ground beneath me shifted, as if conspiring against my newfound glory. My balance faltered, betraying me in the midst of my triumph. Helplessly, I spiraled into a chaotic descent, my body colliding with the unforgiving earth.

"Wake up, Hugh," a woman's voice whispered, pulling me from the depths of my dreams. Slowly, I opened my eyes, and there, before me, stood a woman with dark, flowing hair and eyes as deep and blue as the endless ocean. In that instant, recognition sparked within me, and the word escaped my lips, "Mother."

A soft smile graced her face, but as I reached out to her, she faded away like a wisp of smoke, leaving only echoes of her presence behind. Confusion and longing swirled within me, but they were swiftly overtaken by a surge of determination.

Pain, which had once gripped my body, dissolved like mist under the morning sun as I rose from the ground. My senses sharpened, and an inexplicable energy surged through my veins, driving me forward.

Stepping outside, I found myself standing on the precipice of a towering cliff, the vast expanse of the ocean stretching out before me. Each crashing wave seemed to consume a piece of the land, while above, the heavens unleashed their fury, casting bolts of lightning that illuminated the stormy sky. Rain soaked my body, mingling with the sweat of battle.

Amidst the tumultuous elements, the sounds of steel clashing and men fighting echoed through the air. Turning my gaze, I beheld a gruesome scene—a battlefield painted in shades of blood and despair. Men fought valiantly, their lives slipping away in a macabre dance of war. Above them, a dragon soared, her fiery breath raining down destruction upon the helpless souls below.

"That was the Battle of the Last Storm," a deep, gravelly voice resonated from the shadows, jolting me from my observations.

Startled, I turned and found myself confronted by a towering figure, cloaked in darkness, its presence foreboding and terrifying. In its hands, a massive hammer gleamed ominously.

The world around me shifted, and I witnessed a vision—a dragon, its scales shimmering with an ethereal blue hue, engulfing the men in cobalt flames. Panic gripped the air as they scattered, desperate to escape the wrath of the beast. And then, in a single, thunderous strike, the shadowy figure's hammer descended upon the dragon, its life extinguished in an instant.

"When the hammer shall fall upon the dragon, a new king shall arise, and none shall stand before him," the figure intoned, its voice echoing with an otherworldly resonance.

"You, Hugh, shall be the instrument of destiny," it proclaimed, it's words echoing in the chamber of my mind.

The weight of its words settled upon me, their implications sinking deep into my core. I felt a mix of awe and trepidation, an understanding that destiny had woven its threads around my very being. The figure, shrouded in darkness, exuded an aura of mystery and power, its presence both terrifying and captivating.

With darkness closing in, enveloping my senses, the vision faded, leaving me standing alone amidst the void. The echoes of the figure's words lingered, whispering of a future veiled in uncertainty and promise.