Game of Thrones: Paladin of Old Gods

POV: Dacey Mormont

Godswood, Barrow Hall.

Year 290, first day of the first moon.

About seven hours after a Dwarf was tugged in mid-air...

Three hundred guests were welcomed inside the Godswood. The royal family, all the great families of Westeros, the great nobles of the North, the Night's Watch, and representatives of the greatest cities of Essos.

Only a few members were the exception to the rule. House Harwood, Slate, and four more minor new Barrowlands lineages loyal to Lady Barbrey, whose name Dacey could not remember, were granted the privilege of attending the ceremony as honoured guest witnesses.

Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, remained in the capital to rule in the King's stead, and since there were no other Arryn members, it fell to House Royce to represent the Valley.

House Hightower and House Redwine, although they were not two of the Eight Great Protective Houses, still hosted with a close family connection to House Tyrell.

And finally, all the lesser Houses of the land of the Crown, Rivers, Storm and West, who had contributed considerably in the last war.

These celebrations were not only a eulogy to the wedding between her cousin and Lady Barbrey but also a symbol of celebration for King Robert Baratheon's victory.

Dacey made another attempt and looked up again-he was still standing in front of her, less than thirty feet away and still staring at her.

Duncan had a more confident, icy gaze. He was no longer the awkward, hesitant boy he used to be. All those battles must have tempered his inner warrior, along with his shoulders, the muscles in his arms-he was also taller.

The almost 13-year-old's face blushed again.

Those silvery-green eyes, the steel-white hair, even the face looked slightly more rectangular than when they last met in Mormont Keep six long moons ago ... six very long moons.

"You are purple again, sister. Is the loving gaze of all your beaus awakening your bear-hunting instincts?" Aly whispered to her, sneering at Lyra together.

"Shut up, it's only-" her mother Maege gave her a reproachful glare. Dacey lowered the tone of her voice. "It is merely the heat and the cursed woollen dress of House Flint," the girl justified herself with an argument as false as a wooden coin painted gold.

"Sister, it is a grave insult to the Old Gods to lie in the Godswood. But how, you don't know anything about the story?" So whispered the devilish Lyra, one of the most pestiferous little girls in Bear Island.

"What story?" Dacey asked with a hint of concern.

"The story of Baley the Pitchfork!" said Lyra as if it were the most well-known story in the North.

"But yes, of course, I almost forgot about Baley, the pimply one," Aly argued.

"Who is this Baley? You guys are making it up." Dacey didn't fall for it, not this time, after all the pranks the two envious ungainly sisters had played on her in the last period...but her ear couldn't help but listen.

That morning Dacey woke up with a hideous pimple on the outside of her cheekbone. Luckily for her, a Barrowton handmaiden named Wylla helped her change her hairstyle, hiding the horror in the blackness of her hair.

"Baley was the daughter of a minor nobleman of the North whose incredible beauty enchanted all the nobles at the wedding of Lord Cregan Stark, The Wolf of The North.

Baley, confident of the gift that the Old Gods gave her at birth, tried to seduce the future Lord of Winterfell by wresting him from the hands of Arra Norrey, Lord Cregan's betrothed...

When Lady Norrey openly accused Baley after she saw her kissing her man under the Weirdwood Tree, the girl denied the act... She made up a little story by lying in front of the face of the Heart-Tree, awakening the wrath of the Old Gods.

And so the gods punished her by first scarring her face with hideous boils the size of strawberries, making her the most horrible woman in the North!

The girl died sad and alone without any brave young hero who ever wanted to kiss her again." So explained Lyra in a tremendously believable tone making Dacey's eyes widen.

"Poor girl... Legend has it that she ended up being eaten alive by pigs when she tried to kiss a pig in desperation... Pff... Pff... Spuz!." Aly could take no more of the comedy. Lyra also burst out laughing.

"As soon as I get out of this dress, I'm going to hunt you down, and I'm going to make you bloody pay!" Roared the Little She-Bear.

"That's enough, you three! Pay respect to your cousin. I don't want to hear another word until the ceremony is over, or I will personally coach you every morning until you come of age! Do I make myself clear?" The three daughters nodded and instantly fell silent, lowering their eyes to the ground.

There was no master of arms and bare-knuckle fighting more brutal and ruthless on Bear Island than Maege Mormont.

The 45-year-old warrior, castellan of Mormont Keep, and soon-to-be heir to her cousin Jorah kept true to her name by donning a new armour of the finest studded leather from Byk, a strange, rare creature from the Basilisk Isles, according to Karrhold's attendant who delivered the order. A gift from Lady Barbrey to add a dash of elegance to the soon-to-be acquired aunt who had worn nothing but bear fur, boiled leather and rusty chain mail for decades.

The two sisters also kept up the tradition of the women of Bear Island by donning a new custom-made ceremonial armour. Dacey was the only one of the four Mormonts to wear a lady's dress...

The sisters harassed her for days amid all kinds of jokes and taunts about 'the unusual choice.'

Dacey tried to defend herself by explaining that it was for the good of House Mormont, but, each time, those witches teased her by retorting with a: [I would say more for the good of House Tallhart.]

How much pain and tribulation had the poor girl endured in the last few days in anticipation of this moment? Dacey had lost count...

The night before, Maege's eldest daughter was forced to dance with a garrison of inheritance-grabbing scions. The young merchant prince of Lys, Tregar Ormollen, and the plump son of the Archon of Tyrosh were indeed the most persistent and harassing fleas of them all.

The duo nearly came into conflict with Robb Stark, only six years old, for snatching the prize and the honour of the first dance of the evening with Dacey from them.

Ser Andar and Robar Royce, Garlan and Loras Tyrell, Ser Humfrey Hightower, Gerold Dayne, Lyle and Merlon Crakehall, Quentyn Martell, Cleos, and at least a dozen other Freys constantly harassed the poor maiden with courtship gallantries, and these were only part of the vanguard of the army that hunted her the night before.

In the middle of the evening, Dacey was forced to retreat and hide in the training yard of Barrow Hall.

By her luck, she met a promising new friend who helped her hide and hold her ground when the mastiffs, eager to wrest a kiss from her in the moonlight, kicked off the wild chase for the Bear Island inheritance.

'The kiss... that kiss is reserved only for-' Dacey looked up again when another presence caught her attention.

The second most wanted maiden at this event, Lynesse Hightower, was staring at her man...

The little bitch was seeking his gaze, there was no doubt about it.

'Why is the Hightower family so close to the Godswood Heart-Tree?" thought Dacey, reasoning. Except for the royal family and a few odd guests from the East, only the Old Gods-believing lineages were so close to the stage of the celebration...

So why did the Hightowers have a position of precedence over House Royce? They were right next to House Cerwyn, less than fifteen feet away from the Tallharts...

Dacey highly disregarded Ser Humfrey Hightower's nod of greeting.

'But what does that Seven-loving sheep want? Stop eating my Northern man with your eyes, you filthy little Southern whore!!!' Growled 'The Little She Bear' inwardly, gnashing her teeth.

End POV.

-----------------------

POV: The Humble Learner.

Godswood, Barrow Hall.

A few minutes before the bride's arrival...

'Take it easy, Duncan. Remember Master Dywen's teachings...' The boy's mind was struck by a flashback.

****

About three weeks earlier, in the training camp in the Wolf Forest...

Zick was sleeping blissfully in his tent a few steps from the hearth. It was up to Ramas, Narbo, and Will to take turns on watch. As if there was any need...

The entire area within two miles of the camp was surrounded by at least fifty Frost Blades and an unknowable number of Spider Queen agents. A good part of the forces of the Fourth Most Powerful World Organization was stationed in the domains of House Stark to guarantee the terms of the agreements between Carcosa, Oldtown and Braavos.

This was the place chosen for Duncan's training before the tournament.

The debate among the various master companions grew increasingly heated. Ramas had already warned the drunken and festive group more than once to tone it down.

"No, young Khalakka of the North, do not listen to effeminate Braavosian. You listen to master Cohollo. A young filly only desires to see her dominant stallion fight for her by killing all opponents of Khalakka.

You open the belly of enemies by cutting off their hair, and she will grant you her body under the Sea of Stars riding you until Mother Mountain donates to you little stallion." Affirmed Cohollo splashing the wineskin wine into the flames, getting a group dissent.

"No, she won't. A man's vigour is shown with beard and axe mastery, young pupil. Listen to Baragh. No woman ever wanted silver and gold after experiencing the mighty vigour of the Priest of Norvos." Baragh No Dua interjected, shooing the drunken Dothraki to the side.

"Guys, guys, sit down-you're just confusing the boy.

Leave it to the Westerosi for tips on seducing a Westeros woman." Then, it was Master Dywen Stone's turn to stand up, drawing everyone's attention.

"Duncan, Duncan, Duncan..." Dywen walked around the circle friendly, accompanying Recallio, Cohollo and Baragh to their seats. Then, the charismatic blond master, originally from Gulltown, conquered the stage.

"Love, but more importantly, 'the love of a woman' is a tricky business and very hard to understand. Am I not right, Duncan?" Asked the womanizer of the group.

"It is, maester Dywen. It is indeed." The boy was already hanging on his every word.

Dywen walked in circles reaching the master Water Dancer, resting both hands on the latter's shoulders.

"You might listen to the wise, sound advice of Master Recallio, a true Water Dancer swordsman who challenged dozens of duelists to win the favour of the New Black Pearl ... but, alas, failing honourably since he did not understand that only the noblest blood was the only jewel she sought." Recallio lowered his gaze in an admission of guilt.

Then Dywen moved toward the Dothraki.

"You might pay heed to the wild ruler of fillies, who, to our deep regret and full sympathy, suffered a tremendous injury forcing the entire group to seek out the best healer in Volantis, as our drunken comrade Cohollo here decided one evening to attempt an approach with Jhosua of Jhala... 'too different' from the culture of the Summer Islands." Cohollo instinctively closed his legs, eliciting a crotch shiver from the entire group.

It was the Norvos Priest's turn.

"You are reasonably good with the axe, so you might as well go the Norvos way, waiting...mmm...let's say seven to eight years for the beard to reach the right size to show your true vigour." Baragh showed the boy the long, shiny red beard, trying to entice him to grow it.

"Or..." Dywen paused, increasing the suspense.

"Or else, master?" Bloody Snow asked desperately for a spark of hope.

"Or...you could listen to the advice of former young stable boy from Gulltown. A boy who without money, fame, dexterity in arms, or a good name to fall back on won the hearts of dozens of humble young maidens, or those of good family throughout the Valley, with nothing more than a handful of glances, smiles, whispers, and subtle caresses...

The only individual in existence in the Known World to have managed to wrest a kiss from none other than Syggha 'the Merciless' herself. And look here...I still have both lips and all three of my sacred attributes intact to rely on..."

The boy looked at Dywen as if he were the goddamn winning golden ticket to the Chocolate Factory...

"Master Dywen, I bow to your infinite wisdom. I am your humble disciple.

Please teach me!"

****

["During the ceremony, devote almost all your attention to her. But remember, lest your prey senses your discomfort and embarrassment].

'Stare at her as if she were a potential enemy! A potential threat ready to draw a blade on Zick at any moment.' Bloody Snow refocused his total attention on the imaginary attacker.

['Eyes on the prey, Duncan. Fierce enough to intimidate her and a gentle smile into contradicting her first thoughts. The maiden will have to torment herself with inner questions such as:

'Why is he looking at me like that?'

'Did I do something to him?'

'He is furious with me ... but then why is he smiling at me?'

'What does he want from me?'

You'll have to torment her with doubts and questions, boy. Drive her mad until she comes to you in an attempt to soothe the chaotic storm that plagues her thoughts."]

'Yes, that's right! The storm!... Phew... Calm down, Duncan. She is not 'the Goddess.'

That being is just a mere assassin of the House of Black and White. A very, very expert assassin in disguise... She is a blade, and you are the shield ready to intercept her.' So repeated Duncan for the umpteenth time while maintaining the same cold inquiring gaze on the prey in front of him.

The complexity of the task was extreme. It was challenging to imagine that Valkyrie-Elphic face decorated by hair as black as night, scented like spring dew, and silky smooth as nothing but a mask.

If she was indeed a masked assassin, why were her chest, slim hips, and Olympic champion gymnast arms identical? Bloody Snow immediately discarded the forbidden lascivious images from her head by refocusing on the exercise.

'Wait... Why is the Goddess angry now? Did Dacey manage to read my impure thoughts, perhaps? 'No... She is not looking at me.

Who is she staring at with that murderous look?' Duncan turned in search of his victim.

Lord Leyton's pretty younger daughter was staring at him, throwing him a seductive, warm smile as soon as both their eyes met.

At that instant, music began to play, covering the sound of a little female growl some 30 feet away.

The bride had arrived, catching the attention of hundreds of noble gazes.

The beautiful 27-year-old bride from the North stood out like the sun in the clear sky. The wedding dress was the crown of rays adorning the brightest star. A sumptuous masterpiece of tailoring made of wool, velvet, leather and silk embroidery, assembled to shape an elegant and refined warrior's ceremonial robe...

The silvery embroidery on the bodice and left shoulder pad, sewn on soft shadowy panther skin, came together like roots giving shape to a half-plate armour. The bare right shoulder began the only portion of the body uncovered, giving spectators a view of the neck and a small portion of the breast. The entire lower part of the yellow, white and black robe was dotted with fine stitching of hundreds of small artistic representations of the coat of arms of House Dustin and Ryswell.

The jewels crowning the beauty of the Promised Lady at the apex were two: a gold and platinum jewel-studded symbol of Love and Beauty, which every Lord and Lady of the North recognized as the prize won and given four years ago by Jorah to crown her Queen of Love of Beauty, and a rough pendant of dark steel in the shape of a heart...

The Queen Lioness's face frowned when she saw the less imposing but much more refined crown of her...

The woollen ceremonial cloak bore the last glimmering symbol of House Dustin's history: Two rusted longaxes with black shafts crossed, a black crown between their points, on yellow. A very elegant Lord Rodrick Ryswell walked arm in arm with his daughter at a slow and steady pace toward the groom, the man in the most elegant and expensive men's suit in all the North, Jorah Mormont.

At the highly anticipated event, the Godswood boasted an element not seen among the ritual marriage ceremonies of the North in hundreds of years. A priest of the Old Gods...

An inhabitant of the Eye of the Gods consecrated to the defence and service of the Isle of a Thousand Faces; an old acquaintance of Howland Reed who boasts the title of Green Man called Welk Green Oak.

The hard-faced, grizzled Priest was clad in dark green leather robes adorned with light green leaves, moss and white root covers that lined his forearms and chest in a kind of chainmail more decorative than helpful in the fray.

Very few among those present knew that the man was, in fact, a spellcaster of the magic of life in faithful service to the Guardian of Beauty. And not a weak one at that...

The level six hovering above his head gave Duncan confirmation that the man was a spellcaster of the third circle of Druidic magic. A rare individual and not to be provoked.

Father and daughter reached the Heart Tree...

"What First Man grants this woman to this man?" Asked the Priest in a gentle but thundering voice.

"I, Rodrick, son of Holland of House Ryswell, grant my daughter, Barbrey of House Dustin and Ryswell, to Jorah, son of Jeor of House Mormont." So replied the Lord of the Rills in a proud and firm tone.

The Priest nodded, and the father released his daughter from his grasp by kissing her on the cheek before retreating to the side.

"Do you, Jorah of House Mormont, wish to welcome this woman under your protection until the day when Earth, Water, and Wind welcome you back into their arms?" So asked the Priest of Life.

{"I do."} Jorah replied, smiling at his maiden as the woman returned glances and smiles.

"And do you, Barbrey of House of House Dustin and Ryswell, want this man's protection until the day you are reunited in the Earth, Water and Wind?"

{"I do."} Barbrey replied while keeping all her attention on the front man.

Both spouses offered their palms. The Priest took a Dragon Glass dagger from his belt and lightly cut the skin of both just enough to let out a few drops of blood.

The pair joined their wounded hands, mixing the blood that began drip. A young green acolyte of the Priest slipped silently under the source of lifeblood, collecting the drops in a Weirdwood basin.

"Make your promises before the Old Gods and your ancestors by swearing it on Blood, Fire and Ice, descendants of the First Men."

["When everyone's attention is turned to the climax of the ceremony, that is when you will have to strike with the most intense and yearning gaze you can muster. The world will cease to exist; she will be your world!"] The boy followed the essential suggestion by redirecting his eyes toward Dacey.

In the corner of the maiden's eye noticed the impressive attention turned toward her, and she turned her gaze back to her.

Jorah and Barbrey's voices intoned the vows in unison.

{"Ancestors, First Men, Old Gods, hear my words: I'm hers/his, and he/she is mine for this night and all those to come.

Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter, hear my words: my Light is hers/his, and hers/his Light is mine for this season and for all those to come.

Blood, Fire, Ice, hear my words: my Heart is hers/his, and hers/his Heart is mine and shall be mine until the Day or the Night when, Bronze or Iron, Shadow or Death, Fire or Ice, shall not claim my Soul, my Light and my Heart.

I swear this to you… Now and Always."} A faint cyclone of wind arose an instant after the end of the last verse eliciting verses of astonishment from many enchanted guests.

'Please, Seraphinus, tell me the wind has done its duty...' thought the boy, still focused on the figure in front of him as he blindly cast the Druidcraft trick.

Lady Barbrey had been clear. If her dress rose higher than her ankles because of the wind, the boy, as penance, would have to run naked three times through all the ramparts of Barrow Hall.

Duncan could not tear his eye contact away from those magnetic honey-amber eyes.

The time had come for the final act. Bloody Snow could only rely on hearing.

'Now they should have knelt before the Heart-Tree... The Priest should anoint them with the mixture of blood and sap of Weirwood... and he should speak.' The voice came a few seconds later.

"Jorah Mormont, wrap your bride under your protection and lift her up as part of your Soul, Light and Heart."

'Here we go... Yes, that's the sound of the Dustin cloak falling. Jorah's footsteps ... and ... Now!'

Duncan whispered the exact words, imagining the spot about twenty-five feet away from him.

[Druidcraft]

*UrROaaarhuu-Fruush!....* a faint bear growl mixed with the rustling of the wind hovered in the air, eliciting more soporific and heated murmurs.

"Did you hear it too?" Lady Cerwyn whispered to her husband.

"Yes, I heard it... The bruit was not from Lord Jorah, I am sure... This was the work of the Old Gods." Lord Cerwyn replied.

"Medger..." called his wife. "Yes, my dear?"

"I want to renew our vows. I want the same ceremony blessed by the Old Gods..." said Lady Cerwyn with a childish whine.

"Shh...not now, my dear, not now. We will discuss it later..." Medger replied in a low voice.

Duncan sighed with relief...

Eye contact broke the moment the new Lord of Barrowton, greeted with a roar of applause and invocations of jubilation, crossed the threshold carrying in strong arms his lovely, extremely wealthy, influential, dangerous, and powerful new wife...

Lady Barbrey Mormont.

****

End Chapter.

--------