Game of Thrones: Paladin of Old Gods

POV: Eliot Flint

At a table in the middle of The Singing Maiden.

While 'A Rose of Gold' was sung by the Maiden named Charlotte...

------

Eliot was once again amazed by the charm and warm simplicity of that Tavern. He was having just another lovely evening in the company of his new friends and squires of the same age, Jerha and Garoan.

Jerha Ged was the son of a family of minor knights of White Harbor and personal squire to Lord Wyman Manderly, and Garoan, though not of noble birth, was the trusted squire and sworn shield of Lord Jon Umber.

Of the three, Eliot was the most dressed up for the evening, as was only to be expected... But the 18-year-old still felt a little guilty about his chosen outfit. His set of the finest Flint wool and Karstark leather made his companions look bad, making them look like ordinary Eliot guards... but his great-aunt insisted, repeating to him:

["You are the future of House Flint, my dear. From the day of your appointment, your every image, deed, or word will be weighed in the eyes of Westeros... So stop whining and put on the gown I have had tailored for you by the finest tailors and leatherworkers in the North!"]

Lady Lynessa Flint's only son, his second cousin Robin, had tragically passed away, leaving no heir, falling valiantly a few moons ago in the naval battle for the conquest of Pyke's Port...

A treacherous stab in the belly by a dying Ironman ended the rightful heir to Widow's Watch. So now, Eliot, the great-nephew of Lady Lynessa, became the only unlikely heir and future Flints of Widow's Watch.

But this was not what Eliot desired. The boy had never imagined that he might one day become Lord.

If Robin had not died in battle before his time, if his brother, Ser Byam, had not joined the Night's Watch, if his deceased great-uncle's sons had not been struck down by smallpox last winter, if his older brother, Dale, had not been unhorsed by a crazed horse two years ago, Eliot could still have pursued his path... Living a free, adventurous life travelling all over the vast, unknown world, earning a living as a tournament knight or, if need be, as a sword in the pay of some peculiar lord of the East.

Perhaps spending a year of his life in each great Known City... Oldtown, King's Landing, Sandspear, Pentos, Volantis, or even Qarth... and who knows, he may one day make it as far as the legendary Asshai of Shadows. So many possibilities, so many places to see and discover... Just imagine such an experience brought a smile to his face.

But now, Eliot was certain that his duty to his family was to remain at Widow's Watch for the rest of his existence...

His Aunt Lynessa had been clear. She would not allow her only heir to put himself in uncalculated danger before giving birth to three or four successors who could pass on the name of the Flints of Widow's Watch...

[Participate in the Great Tournament, or any other tournament in Westeros...? Forget it].

[Going on a boar hunt...? What for? If you want boar meat, you'll get it on a silver platter before dinner!]

[To go around in the evening, in the streets of the most heavily guarded city in the North, without at least an escort of four armed guards and a healer ready when needed with a needle, suture thread and a supply of antidote?! Have you lost your mind, nephew?! Do you know how many enemies House Flint has?]

And this was no joke... Two men from House Flint were just outside the Tavern waiting, and two others, along with a new healer hired by his Aunt, were at a table just behind. The shields and Eliot's personal healer were pretending to enjoy a pleasant evening.

Should Eliot perish, Lynessa's legacy could be passed on to the Flints of Flint's Finger. There had been bad blood between the two family branches for centuries. Not to the extent of Blackwood and Bracken, of course, but his Aunt would instead have locked Eliot in a tower with a hundred maidens to impregnate than see her manor, her lands or riches at risk at the hands of arrogant rival Flints...

There were worse fates, that was certain, but still, Eliot could not get used to the idea.

The Flints of Widow's Watch were becoming famous across the continent for the profitable wool trade.

In the last three years, Flint's clothes, quilts, tapestries and carpets were among the most sought-after in the market. Finally, a real fashion had broken out among the nobles of Westeros. Demand was so high that Widow's Watch was forced to acquire 20,000 sheep's clothing lots and triple production...

The 'Overlady of The Sheeps', as the envious lords of the South nicknamed his Aunt Lyness, the one who was gaining a monopoly on the wool market, forcing the other lords, ladies and great merchants of Westeros to sell off their lots... No one could rival him in quality and workmanship on woollen clothing. There was even a rumour that many merchants had requested an audience with the Crown to remedy the injustice...

"Hey, Eliot! Cheer up, my friend! You're not even casting a single glance at sweet Charlotte on stage. What's that? Has your beautiful Flint bewitched you already, by any chance?!" So asked a tipsy and festive Jerha.

"Ahahah! More than bewitched! Last night, that beast of a maiden must have scaled the mansion walls to sneak into Eliot's rooms. Our little prince of Widow's Watch must have been secretly drained to the bone!" Retorted Garoan, soundly patting Eliot's shoulder.

"Spuzz...!! Cogh...Cogh! Pff...Ahahahah!" A beer trickle escaped Jerha's nostrils as a cloud of saliva, and hops ran over Eliot.

"You two imbeciles! Lyanna Flint was not my choice. I would like to see you in my place! The next beer, you pay for yourselves!" Trilled Eliot feigning false indignation. The boy laughed too, but the melancholy thought of his sad fate managed to hold back his laughter.

Just before the duel between Bloody Snow and the Waterdancer broke out, his Aunt forced him to dance with the young and 'Subjectively Pretty' Lyanna Flint...

The girl's face was not ugly, despite her crooked teeth and hunter's eyes, but her physique... It could be said that the 16-year-old girl had been a little too hardened by the rigid and unfeminine life in the mountains north of Wolfwood.

The girl still had difficulty communicating in the common tongue, slurring the Old Tongue between terms. But more relevantly, Lyanna was more muscular and fucking taller than him.

Artos Flint's daughter looked more like a Wildling than a Westerosi... Moreover, the girl was famous in the Flints clans for having managed to kill two wolves with her axe during a hunting accident... It was like marrying a bloody 'Queen-Beyond-The-Wall'!

Having finished his duties as heiress, the lady from Widow's Watch informs him that this girl will be his future bride. And the wedding would take place just a week after the end of the tournament...

Eliot knew that to a future lord, the chance to choose his own mate was more unique than a rare event and that his Aunt wanted another nephew as soon as possible, but his whole fucking world had turned upside down all of a sudden!

Not even three moons ago, Karhold and Widow's Watch had agreed on a marriage arrangement between Eliot and little Alys Karstark. On the one hand, the boy was dismayed to learn that he would have to marry his second cousin (thirteen years younger!), a child he saw as a younger sister. Still, on the other hand, Eliot was delighted at not having to bind himself to the marriage bond for at least another ten years. Alys would have to reach marriageable age for the celebrations sooner.

A period of freedom to travel, venture across the sea and straits, and perhaps never return. But now, all his plans were turned upside down.

"... Changing the subject, Jerha, a "singing frog" from the Neck, told me the stories of a "fearless" and "careless" Squire of White Harbor... To be exact, of a squire who "forgot" his Lord's sword..." Eliot turned the omelette around, going on the attack. Taken aback, Jerha paled.

"What? Did you forget Lord Wyman Manderly's sword, Jerha?! Pff... Phruhaha!" Thundered Garoan, attracting the attention of the neighbouring tables with his big, fat laughter.

"You...! Who told you that?! Ssshhh! What the heck are you yelling about, Garoan?! The purpose of the evening was to seduce some maiden! Do you want to make us look like fools?" Jerha assaulted Greatjon's honest servant to sit him down and shut him up before the blonde Maiden he was trying to flirt with noticed anything.

****

Thirty minutes of laughter, bickering, storytelling and drinking later...

Of maidens who voluntarily approached their table, there was not a shadow. Instead, all the bees kept buzzing towards two tables: the one with the handsome knight, intent on seducing every Maiden in creation, and the other with the ranting men of Winterfell.

For some reason unknown to them, the filthy and troublesome Ser Haymitch, 'The Drunker', had not yet been kicked out. And not only that... More than five maidens, including the Fairy of the North who had bewitched his friend Garoan, continued to laugh and show favouritism to the strange foursome, consisting of three merry and festive Stark's men and the dark and silent scarred beast...

The three boys basked in their misery amidst alcohol and mouth-watering treats. Earlier, Eliot had covertly beckoned to his Aunt's men so that the Tavern's finest wines and dishes were served to the trio and so that it seemed as if it was the Singing Maiden who was offering them.

Garoan earned a respectable first guard's salary of around 18-20 gold dragoons a year, but poor Jerha, still only a squire, didn't even get a third of that amount... On the other hand, the rich and generous Lady Lynesse guaranteed her only heir a disproportionate monthly allowance of over 1,000 gold dragoons.

A few gold coins less were worth ten times the delightful and distracting company his friends offered him.

A more sprightly Garoan than usual promulgated:

"Igh!... I tell you, I will succeed instead! In three days, I'll be juggling well in the fray and... Guurrhp! And I shall conquer the Green Knighthood! From there...! The Goddess Jenny will fall into my arms! We will wed, I will take her to my future manor as a knight-vassal of House Umber, and I will give her sssiiix... No! Seven! Seven children: Jon, Berth, Lily, Caspian, Bethany, Melissa...and-" Jerha interrupted him.

"Yeah, yeah, right, Garoan... You will see, my friend. First, you will defeat the Kingslayer, then the Riding Mountain, and finally, Bloody Snow himself. In fact, I tell you what, Ser Duncan himself will appoint you a Green Knight and Defender of Beauty, and in doing so, he will give you his steel sword of Valyria, promulgating before the Seven Kingdoms: [Ser Garoan, ever since "that day" I lent you my sword, "Red Rain" no longer answered to my will... This sword has always been yours, Ser. "You are the worthy"]." Eliot doubled over in laughter, involuntarily spilling half a cup of red on the tablecloth.

"Look, I can beat the Mountain if I want to...! Igh... I've been training with Greatjon for years! And I tell you, I've held and wielded that sword in my hands!!! I dare you to call me a Lia-" This time, Garoan fell silent to himself...

A shadowy, almost eight feet tall, gargantuan and massive, dressed in black and yellow, bearing an emblem depicting three Dogs in a yellow field, with a sizeable two-handed broadsword sheathed on his left side, walked past the table followed by five other men in the same colours. The general hubbub quieted down as the six men passed by.

It was the fucking Mountain himself! Ser Gregor Clegane!

Garoan paled and trembled, as did Eliot and Jerha... but by grace granted by the gods, the group did not seem to have heard Garoan's bold bluster. The giant and the five followers passed the table without even giving them a glance...

A few steps later, the biggest and most muscular man Eliot had ever seen stopped in front of his target... A secluded, enamelled ash-wood table half-attached to the wall, more spacious and luxurious than the other positions. The small group of four merchants, seated at the best table in the inn, looked anxiously and fearfully at the monumental predatory figure, who cast a shadow of doom over their pleasant and sumptuous evening.

After a few seconds of murderous stares, a moustachioed merchant shivering and clad in silks and valuables about to be larded with excrement hesitantly asked:

"D-do you need help, S-ser?" The black shadow did not answer, but his hounds beside him snickered with malicious laughter as if they were waiting for a macabre and delightful spectacle.

"... Let us leave!" Finally, one of the four merchants succumbed to fear, and his companions tried to follow him at breakneck speed, "but" one of the Mountain men stopped the last poor wretch.

"My good friend, what are you doing? You and your companions are running away like this without even paying a shred of a penny for the drinks... ? Here on the Silk Road, there is no leniency for thieves." Said the tall, half-bald man clutching his long arm covered in leather and iron studs.

"In truth, S-ser, w-we have already paid... Consumption, here, is paid in advan-" The other man with rotten teeth anticipated him:

"Yet, to us, it didn't look like we saw any fucking coins coming out of your pockets. Are you calling us liars, perfumed ass?"

"Come, come, Shitmout...Our good friend here had no intention of calling us liars, 'Am I right?" That vile rabble certainly wanted to extort some coin from the merchant...

"N-no, Ser... Now that you mention it, m-maybe, my drinking friends and I forgot to pay for our consumptions..." The poor guy shakily pulled out his semi-inflated purse. Not even time to open it, it was snatched from his hands.

"We will take these, my good friend. We will be sure to pay our dues at the Tavern, leaving a just tip to the waitresses for the inconvenience and paying the fine to the relevant authorities to redeem your good name to the city guard since you are thieves...

Don't look at us like that, my good friend. You admitted it yourself just now, don't you remember? There is no need to alarm the guard too much for a trivial 'involuntary' theft... Don't you agree?" All the men turned predatory glances at the poor man with faces with expressions mixed with fear and outrage... But fear won out.

"No... There will be no need. Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen." The man slipped out of the loose grip and ran for his life.

The Black Giant began to sit in the middle of the table, his back to the walls and his buttocks resting on the cushion of fine-treated leather goose feathers. It was only after the undisputed leader had made himself comfortable, pouring himself what remained of the fine and expensive liquor left by his victims, that the rest of the vile pack began to laugh and howl at the success of the heist, putting their asses on the spoils of the raid.

Like the other witnesses who witnessed the scene, Eliot was scared shitless of this individual. It wasn't just the build, the height, the muscular arms as thick as tree trunks, but the look... That was the look of a merciless being.

That dark, angry face that repudiated any glimmer of love or kindness gave him goosebumps. Every survival instinct screamed at him not to approach that individual under any circumstances.

Seeing the fearful expressions on their faces, Jherna and Garoan must have had a similar feeling to his own... But then, one of the three gritted his teeth and managed to overcome the instinct of fear.

*Sbam!* Garoan pounded his fist on the table, growling:

"Tsz... What a bunch of bastards...! They literally robbed those poor people under vile blackmail. We should intervene!"

Jerha pounced on the drunken comrade intent on getting up, holding him in his seat.

"No...! Garoan, those are looking for trouble! They are twice as numerous, better armed, armoured, polished than us and ready to draw their blades at the first legitimate opportunity." Eliot joined in support:

"Calm down and look at their faces; they're practically begging for someone to bother them.

Jerha's right... It's none of our business, and should that vile rabble go too far, the city guard will take care of it, kicking their asses and throwing them into the dungeon of the Frosty Queen." Garoan hesitated, still tugging slightly at his restrained arms and shoulders.

"But..." grunted the Umber's man, but Eliot insisted, "Please, Garoan... You will force Jerha and me to follow you if you stand up. If you drag me into a fight, in the off chance that I don't come out with a broken neck, my Aunt would have a tower built especially for me, complete with moat and garrison, for the sole purpose of segregating me until next spring." The impetuous boy, worthy of the name Umber, dropped the bone, spitting jokingly but with a hint of relief:

"I'm only doing this to save your quivering asses, pussies!"

****

End Part II

****