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Chater 79: Bronze and Blood! - Part 2
🕑 Added 2024-04-25 15:22:28 +0000 UTCBlood trickled onto the earth, streaming from the edge of the bronze blade. Damian held it laterally, his breathing steady and even, betraying no signs of exertion. Sawane Botley lay prostrate in a growing pool of his own blood.
Two storm guards approached to check on Sawane. After a brief examination, they confirmed the cessation of his breath and solemnly declared, "Lord Sawane is dead your grace."
"Hmm," King Robert responded. "Take him away. Return his body to his kin and allow them to perform the last rites."
King Robert then turned his gaze to Damian, his voice carrying a weight that silenced the murmurs. "What would you do with House Botley, Damian?" His question hung heavily in the air, catching the attention of all the Iron Lords present.
Damian's response was measured and resolute, his voice echoing clearly across the crowd. "Lord Sawane Botley will be the last of his House. No descendant of his shall have a claim on House Botley's castle, assets, and Lordsport. Their status will be reduced to that of commoners. They will be allowed to reside anywhere on Iron Island only if they swear fealty to me, never take up arms, and choose another profession for at least one generation," he continued, his gaze sweeping the assembly. "If they disagree, they are free to leave Iron Island forever and migrate elsewhere."
A hushed silence followed Damian's decree, the implications of his words slowly settling among the spectators, especially the lords and captains of the Iron Islands. After watching how easily Damian had slain Botley, a stark realization dawned upon them—the fear of losing to a young man and facing the consequences thereafter.
Witnessing the unfolding events, King Robert declared with renewed confidence, "House Botley is no more. Lordsport, Botley's cattle, and their assets shall go to Damian." His proclamation cemented Damian's authority and his faith in the young Stark's capabilities, having observed his combat prowess firsthand.
"Who's next?" Damian's voice cut through the tense silence, causing Triston Farwynd to flinch. Whispers and wary glances were exchanged between each lord and captain.
Having agreed to be the next challenger if Damian emerged victorious from his duel with Botley, Triston now faced the reality of stepping into the dueling ground. His hesitation was palpable, which was similar to the sudden unease that gripped all those who had initially been eager to challenge the young Stark.
Damian's gaze sharpened as he observed Lord Triston Farwynd hesitating on the edge of the dueling ground. The middle-aged lord, still in his thirties but carrying the weight of apprehension in his eyes, moved forward with visible reluctance. Sensing the fear masked beneath a facade of determination, Damian decided to seize the psychological advantage.
"Lord Triston, you seem to be afraid to fight me," Damian called out, his voice carrying clearly across the field, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. The challenge hung in the air, drawing the attention of all present.
Feeling cornered by Damian’s observation and the scrutiny of the gathered lords and spectators, Triston bristled at the remark. His pride stung, he replied with a bravado that belied his true feelings, "I fear no man"
Perceiving the underlying tension in Triston's response, Damian saw an opportunity not just to win another duel but to enhance his reputation among the Ironborn. With a strategic smirk, he raised the stakes publicly. "If that is the case," he continued, his voice ringing clear across the assembled crowd, "I shall allow the two next challengers to accompany you to fight me." His bold proposal sent a wave of murmurs through the westrosi crowd, mixing shock with a palpable sense of excitement.
Triston, momentarily caught off guard by Damian's audacity, felt a rush of impulse to accept the challenge immediately. The words "Are you serious? I agree," nearly escaped his lips, but he managed to hold them back, turning instead to gauge the reactions of his peers. His eyes scanned their faces, seeking any sign of support or dissent amid the gathered Ironborn.
The Ironborn, known for their fierce desire to win at any cost, often set aside personal pride in the heat of battle. It didn't take long for Dunstan Drumm, another of the challengers, to voice his acceptance, his tone cutting through the tension with scornful resolve. "Arrogant brat, if you have a death wish, then we shall grant it to you," he declared, his voice dripping with disdain. Yet, his eagerness to seize this unexpected advantage was unmistakable to those observing closely.
Prompted by Dunstan's words, Lord Qohrin Volmark and Lord Balon Tawney stepped forward, their expressions a mix of determination and opportunistic malice. They positioned themselves alongside Dunstan, forming a trio that looked more like a war band than duel challengers.
Damian, standing alone against the three formidable Ironborn lords, appeared unfazed. He assessed his opponents with a calm, calculating gaze, the weight of his sword in his hand a familiar comfort.
The duel commenced with the heavy tension of anticipation. The three Ironborn lords, each wearing their armours and seasoned in the brutal ways of combat, converged on Damian with a ferocity fueled by the consequences of losing to him. The crowd, their voices a low murmur of excitement and apprehension, leaned forward, their eyes wide with the spectacle unfolding.
Damian stood poised and focused, facing the combined assault of Triston, Balon, and Qohrin. His eyes flickered between his opponents, calculating angles and movements in the split seconds he had. As the three lords closed in, the clanging of steel armour filled the air.
Qohrin, driven by brute force, was the first to lash out, his blade slicing through the air with a menacing whoosh. Damian, relying on his exceptional speed, dodged the blow, allowing Qohrin’s momentum to carry him forward. Utilizing his agility, Damian spun around Qohrin’s flank, the sound of his own blade swishing as he targeted the less protected joints in his opponent’s armor.
Triston, seizing an opportunity, thrust forward sharply. With a clink of steel on steel, Damian deflected Triston's sword, redirecting the force sideways. In a swift, fluid motion, Damian stepped in close, his blade plunging into the exposed armpit area with a sickening squelch. Blood spurted, dark and thick, as the blade pierced through the thinner fabric of the gambeson, finding flesh. Triston gasped, a guttural sound of pain escaping his lips as he staggered back, his armor clattering loudly in the sudden hush that followed.
The crowd's murmurs turned into gasps of disbelief as Triston fell to his knees so quickly, his lifeblood pooling around him, soaking into the ground.
Enraged by the swift downfall of his ally, Balon attacked with a roar, his heavy blade descending in a fierce arc aimed to cleave Damian in two. The sword’s descent cut through the air with a deadly hiss, but Damian sidestepped the descending blade, countering by sweeping his sword across the back of Balon’s knees. The strike landed with a thud, slicing through the joint's armor and into the flesh beneath. Balon's scream of agony was piercing as his legs buckled, sending him sprawling to the ground with a heavy clank of metal.
With Balon now prone, Damian delivered the coup de grâce. He drove his sword down through a gap in the shoulder armor with a gruesome crunch, the blade sinking deep, puncturing the heart. Balon's body jerked once, then lay still, the finality of death marked by the silence that enveloped him.
Qohrin, the last man standing but visibly shaken, hesitated—a fatal error. Damian pressed forward, his blade singing a deadly tune as it sliced through the air. Qohrin managed to parry the initial thrust, but the relentless assault overwhelmed his defences.
"Wai-!" Qohrin's plea was cut short as Damian, with a swift and precise pivot, found his mark. His blade slipped through the small opening at the side of Qohrin’s breastplate. The sword entered with a gruesome, wet sound, tearing through tissue and lungs. Qohrin fell to his knees, a gurgling noise rising from his throat as he clutched at the mortal wound, his breaths coming in wet, bubbly rasps.
With the battlefield now silent except for the dying echoes of battle, Damian turned and walked over to where Triston lay. The first to fall, Triston was still barely clinging to life, his fingers twitching weakly in the dirt, faint moans escaping from his lips as he struggled with the pain.
Damian stood over Triston, his shadow casting a dark veil over the wounded lord. Observing the feeble signs of life, Damian showed no hesitation. With a grim finality, he positioned his sword at the back of Triston's neck. The blade descended sharply, a swift and sure movement that was over in an instant. There was a sickening crunch as the blade severed the spinal cord, silencing Triston's moans forever.
Damian stepped back, his breathing uneven, showing slight distress and exertion from the gruesome tasks. His face looked tired, but his eyes were cold and resolute as he scanned the silent crowd. He had dispatched his three opponents with a brutal efficiency that left a stark impression on all who witnessed, especially Dunstan Drumm and the rest of the Iron Lords.
Comments
Michael Marquardt
Man what do u do in that moment
