The Grind (And Helping Heather Potter) [Book 2]

— Tytos Blackwood —

"Please, me'lord! We're dying! We're dying… We won't live to see the next harvest at this point. Ye bear us no responsibility, Ah'know, but we've nowhere else to turn. I beg ye to take us in! We won't fail ye, Ah'swear. Without yer goodness and protection, we'll surely perish by the moon's turn."

Never before had his raven-feather cloak hung heavier around his shoulders… Yet Lord Tytos of the ancient, noble House Blackwood didn't sigh. He didn't show any sign of weakness or weariness. He merely nodded to the petitioner — an elder of one of the Trident's many small villages named 'River's Bend'.

"I've heard your plea, good man. Worry no longer, for it will be granted. You shall have my name and reign for protection. The Blackwood banner shall fly over your homes, deterring those brigands who harry you so. You will defer your annual tax to me instead of your Frey Lords who have proven ineffective in their duties to you and yours.

"Furthermore, I shall not call upon the levies that River's Bend can offer up at this time. Keep your able-bodied men, and I shall send a half-dozen men-at-arms to train them in your defense. Unfortunately, that is all I can spare. I shall pray to the Old Gods and the New that it will be enough to see to the security of your village."

The old petitioner visibly deflated in relief at Tytos' ruling, "I-It's more than enough, me'lord… Thank ye. River's Bend won't ever forget this. Our strength is yers from now 'til the Long Night takes us all in the end."

"House Blackwood welcomes you," Tytos said, the dismissal clear in his voice.

The old petitioner bowed one last time before scampering out of the way on well-weathered but still strong bones. Another petitioner immediately stepped up to take his place. And so it began again. Tytos heard yet another plea from the Smallfolk of his lands and those immediately around it. He'd lost count at this point. Men, young and old. Women and their children. From individuals to families to whole towns. All were touched by the strife that ravaged the Trident.

They petitioned for aid and for protection. They raised issues of brigands and deserters. Others still spoke of burned fields and broken homesteads. Those farther afield — like the old petitioner before — claimed their lieges were derelict in their duties and came to bend the knee to House Blackwood. And even in the midst of civil war, the usual petitioners couldn't rest easy. There was still food to distribute, disputes to settle, taxes to collect, and trade to maintain.

This was the first time Tytos had stayed in his seat of power during such a time. Always before, he was there on the frontlines, fighting and leading his men as a Lord should. He'd stood with Stark, Tully, Arryn, and Baratheon during King Robert's Rebellion. He'd risen to the King's muster when the Ironborn reaved Seagard and the Riverlands beyond. Yet now, he sat out the current conflict, one that could be laid firmly at his feet.

Even now, he could hardly comprehend the actions of his flesh and blood. His two oldest sons acted on their own. They didn't consult with him — either as Lord or Father — or value his wisdom. They thought they knew best, thought they knew war, thought they knew glory and honor. They'd both fought well with him during the Ironborn Rebellion, even if Lucas was only a page then. But that wasn't war. That was stomping out a brainless Squid that was trying to flail around menacingly.

Some of the petitioners carried news from throughout the Trident and Tytos heard about the results of his sons' ambitions firsthand. This… was civil war by any other name, a dozen different battles and feuds across the Riverlands. Brother against brother, neighboring Houses skirmishing over meaningless lands and honors, and a dramatic rise in brigandry throughout the land. Tytos heard tell of all and more. Yet the dice had fallen where they would. The course was set, and Tytos could only look forward and hope that his sons were also seeing what their folly had begotten.

Not all of the strife could be laid at House Blackwood's feet, or even, loathe as he was to admit it, House Bracken's. Their ancient feud escalating was merely the catalyst, the spark that struck the dry tinder and caught flame. Other Houses of the Trident latched onto their cause, choosing sides that would let them grasp power from their neighbors.

Darry and Mooton, for example, both rose to regain what was taken from them and granted to their neighbors in Robert's Rebellion. Except, this time, they were both out for themselves, not united under a Dragon's banner. House Whent rose to arms as well, claiming only to defend themselves against their mustering neighbors. And that was only on one fork of the Trident. Other areas of the Riverlands were similarly embroiled in petty conflicts.

And at the center of it all was House Blackwood, House Bracken, and the legendary feud between them. The sons of their Houses had taken up the ancient grudge and pitted themselves against each other without their fathers' approval or even knowledge. Tytos and his Lordly Bracken counterpart Jonos had been ignorant of the actions until it was much too late. Now, there was nothing to be done, no reconciliation to be found between them.

There were other extenuating circumstances, of course. The bastard son of House Bracken had overstepped, by all accounts. But then, so had Tytos' first and secondborn sons. Tytos couldn't even discern who crossed that uncrossable line first. But no matter the instigator, the resulting conflict was already well in motion.

It vexed Tytos to be so helpless, so powerless even in his own home and seat of power. His own sons took the initiative from him. Just as Jonos' son took the initiative from him. The younger generation threw themselves into the feud, dragging everyone else down into the mud with them. When had they grown so bold…? Tytos couldn't even say for sure…

Perhaps it was the unthinkable event that preceded this all. That one otherwise uneventful morning when Lucas came to him in a daze. His secondborn had been confused and afraid. Tytos soon found the reason. Magic. An awakening. There could be no other name for it. From dusk to a new dawn, Lucas was suddenly blessed by the Old Gods.

Tytos remembered the disbelief. The awe. He remembered Lucas summoning a castle-forged steel sword to his hand from across the training yard. He remembered an iron arrowhead launched from Lucas' hand as if shot from a crossbow. Then sense and reason returned and Tytos was made to take any and every precaution he could. 'Surely,' He thought at the time, 'There will be calls for his head. My son has awakened magic not even seen in the Age of Heroes. The Faithful, the Lords, the Smallfolk… None will sit idly by.'

So he warned Lucas of the likely reaction his magic would garner, swore all who saw it to secrecy and waited for the storm to come. It never did…

It was almost baffling, the lack of reaction. Lucas continued to train and explore his magic in secret, trusting only House Blackwood's most loyal men. He sparred and doubled his time in the training yard. Quickly, he became a terror on the field. He could push and pull metal with a thought, or even twist and crumple it on the occasions that his blood ran hot.

He began a streak of victories and magically-aided skill unmatched in House Blackwood's history. First, one-on-one. Then against Raventree Hall's Master of Arms. Then Tytos himself. Then two-on-one, three, four, until he was dueling a half-dozen men and coming out on top more often than not. By then, Lucas' Gift from the Old couldn't be hidden any longer. At least, not within the castle.

But Lucas' hard work and dedication earned him only praise, whispered though it was. 'The spare proves himself,' the rumors said. House Blackwood's magical arm! He'll lead us to glory regained! A worthy sword for his father and Lord Brynden after to wield in the House's name!

But no word of Lucas' awakened gift spread beyond the castle's walls. Instead, news came inward. Whispers and rumors and even outright petitions that Tytos heard when he held court. Lucas wasn't alone. Magic had returned to the world, and it was seemingly indiscriminate in who it blessed with awakenings and gifts.

Tytos was torn between utter relief and a throbbing migraine. More and more, he heard of magic and the blessings or issues that cropped up with it. Some Smallfolk welcomed it as their neighbors or family members or themselves became more able and capable than they were. Others scorned and damned magic and everyone it touched out of fear or jealousy or misplaced faith. Even now, Tytos heard petitions and pleas of raised issues and disputes that sprung up from the outbreak of magical Smallfolk.

A blacksmith from Raventree Hall's castle town complained that his competitor was now undercutting him with a magical hammer and anvil. A man from a village to the north spoke of his own son suddenly eating him out of house and home to fuel a magic of monstrous transformation. A matron requested permission to expand her orphanage so the magical little ones would have space to play and grow. A farmer and his wife claimed to be able to double their harvests with their combined gifts and asked for the land and seeds to prove it, promising an almost Lordly tax when the first harvest came in.

It fell to Tytos to hear out his people. He granted what he could and settled what he couldn't. Already, the benefits of magic were becoming known and softening much of the initial backlash. The phenomenon was impossible to keep secret, widespread and indiscriminate as it was. And from the Smallfolk, the reception quickly became much kinder than Tytos expected as pragmatism and practicality won the day for many.

Because more ground shaking than Magic itself returning, the Faith couldn't denounce or deny it or its awakenings. Some of the magic came notably in sets of seven. An obvious sign, even to Tytos' Old God-inclined perspective. To denounce the returning Magic would be to spit in the faces of their gods and their miracles. To shatter what order remained with Magic's return. That didn't stop all dissent, of course — there would always be madmen whose opinions went beyond the pale — but it did stop the majority, even the most Faithful.

Better a shift than a complete shattering, for magic undeniably changed everything. And the phenomenon was not contained to merely Smallfolk or even members of the Faith either. Tales of other Lords and Ladies awakening permeated as well. Even tales of a revitalized King sitting on the Iron Throne. His son was far from alone. No, Lucas had true peers.

In the end, it was that fact that pushed the current conflict forward more than anything else. Eventually, stories of the Bracken's bastard son came to Raventree Hall. The rumors had infuriated Tytos' sons, infuriated Brynden most of all. A sign that Tytos should have taken more notice of in retrospect…

Brynden pushed Lucas into action. Out of spite, out of misdirected jealousy, Tytos didn't know the reason. But he wasn't dull enough to buy the 'bastardry' excuse. At least, not from Brynden. Lucas, perhaps. He was an upright, hotheaded boy. But Brynden's blood ran colder, Tytos knew. The Bracken's inheritance situation was well-known to House Blackwood. Jonos had no sons to inherit and had just about run out of chances to try for one. As such, his bastard was essentially a Bracken in truth and Jonos' heir. There should've been no reason for Brynden to rile his younger brother up over the bastard's 'overreaching', for Harry Rivers wasn't. Not truly.

Alas, Brynden's thoughts would remain a mystery to Tytos, any potential jealousy concealed by the way events had played out. For the moment, it didn't matter. He and Lucas were off to war. Tytos' only consolation was that he'd ordered his heir to play a supporting role to his younger brother. Lucas would earn the glory of this conflict if there was any glory to be had… But that also meant he would shoulder the scorn and shame.

It was a strange situation that their feud had become, Tytos mused as he called for the next petitioner. For a fleeting moment in the middle of it all, he'd hoped to reach peace with his Bracken peer. Then Jonos' correspondence took an abrupt shift and Tytos was left with no other choice. Both Houses declared in the King's name, yet they fought against each other. And by all reports, the King fought against them both, as well as every other House of the Trident that had called its lands to muster.

The true winner of their feud would be the one to get through to the King's good graces first, Tytos knew. He'd sent out ravens explaining their position, but he was sure Jonos would have done the same. In the end, Tytos was largely at the whims of fate, left back in Raventree Hall with no choice but to let his sons reap what they'd sowed. Seated at the head of his court, Tytos sighed. The raven feathers of Lord Blackwood's cloak hung heavy indeed…

IIIII

— Cayde Gamskep —

Cayde's sister fastened one of his greatest treasures to the leathers of his chest piece. The treasure was a metal pin, costing more than he would earn in a year, that'd been intricately designed in the shape of a badger and painted yellow and black. It wasn't a pin that was unique to him but it was treasured all the same. On his chest, the badger came to life on its own to snarl at his sister.

Caylee giggled as she fussed over him, "All set and looking like a proper 'Puff, Brother. That fierce beastie should see you through."

"Aye, she will," Cayde tried his best to crack a smile for her sake. "Lady Devil's Snare will be watching over me through her eyes."

Brushing imaginary dust from his shoulders, Caylee looked up to meet his eyes, "… Come back to me, Cayde. Don't get yourself killed senselessly for these Lords and Lordlings."

Her worry finally shined through her ever-playful mask and Cayde could only nod firmly to his twin, "I promise, Sister Mine."

"You'd best, Brother Dearest," Caylee's eyes twinkled with mischief's return and Cayde almost breathed a sigh of relief. "Wouldn't want to leave me with your debts and bets, would you?"

Then her words caught up to him and he paled, "Don't even jest about such things, Caylee! If that bastard Big Thyme comes calling, seek out the Cartel. They'll protect you and make sure he gets what he's due."

She rolled her eyes at his worry, "Yes, yes, I know, Brother. None will dare threaten Lady Devil's Snare's brood. Of course, if you tempered our family's urges like I do, you wouldn't be leaving me in this situation."

"Aye," Cayde nodded seriously. "No more dice and cards for me. Err… Starting after I return from Lord Darry's muster, of course."

"Of course~," Caylee smirked. "Make sure to take your future brothers in arms of everything they own before swearing off Lady Luck's draw for good."

"They don't know what's coming for them!" Cayde smiled genuinely for what felt like the first time since the mustering orders went out.

Alas, his time had come. He dreaded leaving his twin alone. They'd been together since birth, and practically inseparable in life. Where Cayde went, Caylee tried her best to follow. And where Caylee went, Cayde shadowed her moves as the ever-present big brother. She put up with his gambling and he put up with her tendency to string poor souls along behind her like little ducklings. It was a happy enough existence…

And now, it might just be torn apart by war and strife. Tensions ran high throughout their homelands. The Lords called for levies and soldiers to bolster their forces. To ignore their call would be to bring doom onto not just himself, but Caylee and everything left to them by their father as well. The Lord's footmen had come to their sleepy hamlet. No able-bodied young man would escape their muster.

So Cayde gathered up his things and went to join the call to war of his own volition. He took his father's bow, his grandfather's sword, and the bits of leather armor he'd managed to scrounge together for himself. Caylee would have the bow he'd crafted specifically for her to defend herself while he was gone, and if the worst came to their town, she could call upon their benefactors. 'Puffs looked out for each other, and Cayde and Caylee had been some of the first in the Riverlands to join the Cartel's movement.

Cayde Gamskep was born into a fortunately middling situation. He was Smallfolk — of that, there was no doubt. But he was also one of the lucky few to have a surname to call his own. And not even one he gave himself, but one passed down from his father and his father's father since times long forgotten. It wasn't a noble last name. Not like the prestigious Houses of the Riverlands. He was no Tully or Blackwood or even Darry — the lieges of his home.

He was merely a Gamskep, the name bastardized from the profession his family had held for as long as anyone could remember. The Gamskeps were Gamekeepers. They hunted for their livelihoods and maintained the forested wilderness of the Trident. When rumors of bears and wolves surfaced, the Gamskeps were first to be called upon. Where there was meat and game to be found, they would find it. What paths needed to be carved, and what tracks needed following, the Gamskeps knew their woods as if they were born to them.

Of course, his name had a double meaning as well, one that was perhaps more prominent and known in the community than the good the Gamskeps did in the woods. For the Gamskeps did so like their games of chance… Cayde's father was a gambler. His grandfather and unknown 'greats' beyond as well. Just as hunting and tracking in the woods of the Trident ran in his blood, so too did luck and dice and cards.

It was by that passed-down pastime of his blood that he came into the good graces of the Cartel. If Cayde's father still lived, he likely would have fallen in just the same. Caylee certainly had, right alongside Cayde. They were hardly criminals, but Cayde did tend to dip his toes in… unsavory places… in pursuit of a good game.

He'd been on a streak of bad luck before the Cartel appeared so suddenly and so thoroughly established itself in the span of a single sennight. Before Lady Devil's Snare swept through the Riverlands, Cayde had been facing a wicked choice. He owed more money than he had. And since he would never let his debts fall to his dear twin's shoulders, he'd been prepared to sell himself into Soft Sal's services — an unassumingly terrifying man who owned several taverns and stakes in the city of Maidenpool.

Soft Sal was not a man to cross. Cayde might have become a poacher or a thug in his employ, always risking the headman's axe as he worked to pay off his dice-driven debts. But at least his burdens wouldn't have fallen to Caylee. His sacrifice would've kept her safely tucked away back home. But then… his sacrifice proved unnecessary, for the Cartel swept into Maidenpool like a storm in the night.

Soft Sal was one of many who fell into the Devil's Snare's path. He was given a firsthand account of what it truly meant to be terrifying. The hardest of the hard and the worst of the worst were snipped and pruned from Maidenpool like a gardener lovingly tending to her patch. And in their place, the Cartel came to be. It changed… everything.

Many a debt was absolved that first night. Dominance was established, first through fear. Then through awe, as every system they thought they knew was turned on its head. Whorehouses and brothels found a protector and kind matron. Smugglers found a patron who would pay for what the Smallfolk needed, not just what the Lords and merchants wanted. Moneylenders were given new terms to which they were to abide. Work was provided to those who needed it most, for the Cartel always had something to be done.

Lady Devil's Snare inspired fear, yes, but also loyalty. Those who met her spoke of a kindly and surprisingly spry grandmother. Those who crossed her didn't last to do so twice. The worst actors in the community were pulled like weeds and Lady Devil's Snare set to nurturing what was left.

That was how Cayde got involved. With his debt relieved, he was free to take another gamble. This one didn't consist of dice and cards, but instead of opportunity and trust. He was approached for work one night when he was looking for drunks to swindle. Someone had spoken kindly of him to the Cartel's Lady, it seemed. And not merely about his tendency to take drunkards down to their boots and small clothes in games of chance.

Soon after, he found himself called upon for his family's career. He would hunt and bring his kills to Maidenpool. The meat was to nurture the youngest and oldest alike. Those urchins and old folks who couldn't reasonably look after themselves, not even in a city of Maidenpool's size. He was even paid well for the good work he did in feeding the lowest of the low, people nobody would look at twice. Nobody but Lady Devil's Snare…

Cayde became a 'Puff shortly after. Nobody was quite sure what the name meant. Just that Lady Devil's Snare referred to herself as such and she accepted every loyal man, woman, and child with open arms. It truly was as if they were her family. There, under the Devil's Snare's watchful eyes, a community set down roots, from street urchin to providing poacher to Lady Crimelord. They were all 'Puffs and 'Puffs looked out for each other.

Cayde kept his eyes out for any more of the snarling badger pins as he answered the Lord's muster. He didn't expect to see any among Lord Darry's men. Thus, he was rather surprised when the captain of the Lord's footmen caught his eye and gave him a knowing nod. The captain wore an identical pin to Cayde's own fastened to his satchel.

None of the others bore the pin in any shape or form. And only a few other men from Cayde's village were able enough to join the Lord's muster, none a 'Puff, Cayde already knew. They set out then and Cayde waved his sister goodbye. He'd be back. He knew he would. The 'Puff badger watched over him. And their group's captain as well, it seemed.

Cayde sought out the captain as they went from small town to small town, continuing to gather men for Lord Darry's command. It didn't take long for them to reach their full strength, nearly a hundred men from every walk of life in the Darry lands. It was on that final leg of the short journey that Cayde found the time to speak to the captain alone.

"Brother," Cayde nodded.

The captain was an older man with a weathered face, salt-and-pepper hair, and a kind smile that twitched upward with amusement at Cayde's greeting, "Uncle, more like. The pin is my son's, not mine. He told me it would gather allies I wouldn't expect. I see he was right."

"Ah," The reply brought Cayde up slightly short. "But you know what the badger means?"

"Aye, the sign of a 'Puff," The captain nodded. "You tend to notice when your son comes home with a trinket worth as much as a good sword. One infused with magic, no less… I had him explain it to me then, and now that I'm off to war, he felt the need to bestow it upon his old man as good luck."

"Well, it'll certainly bring you that and more," Cayde smiled welcomingly. "Lady Devil's Snare watches over you just as she does me, my sister, and many others."

"Explain that to me, lad," The captain requested. "Listening to my son, you'd think the Mother had descended as this 'Lady Devil's Snare'."

"That's not so far off," Cayde chuckled. "More faithful 'Puffs than I say she acts with the Mother's blessing. In my opinion, though, she's just a good woman. And she's doing what she can for whoever she can. Just so happens that she can do a lot more than most."

"I'd like to meet her, I think," The captain considered.

"You'll never forget it if you do," Cayde promised, believing every word he spoke.

At Lord Darry's seat — the unoriginally named Castle Darry — their group met up with the rest of the Lord's muster. A good-sized canvas town sprung up outside the castle's walls. Cayde asked the captain how many there were because he certainly couldn't count that high. The captain told him they were expecting about two and a half thousand men. A Lordly sum to Cayde's ears. 'Twenty-and-five hundred' made the number more clear. Part of being a 'Puff was the education that Lady Devil's Snare insisted upon but Cayde personally hadn't gotten to the 'thousands' yet.

Still, it was more men gathered for a single purpose than he'd ever seen. He quickly found that he hated it. It was smelly, disorganized, and chaotic in the worst of ways. And even their short stay there was draining the land dry. Cayde couldn't get a good hunt in to save his life. Instead, he spent their time camped at Castle Darry doing just as he'd told Caylee he would: taking his brothers in arms for every valuable they had.

Through it all, Cayde didn't see Lord Darry or his Lordling son once…

But soon enough, they were on the march again. Cayde didn't know why they were marching or what they were marching to. Neither did his fellows. Only the Lord and his commanders would know, the captain said. Not lowly men-at-arms like him or barely-trained levies like Cayde. The whole thing was frankly a mess. Cayde couldn't help but think there was a better way. Maybe a way to spread at least the overview of the plan to trusted men throughout the army. Like the Cartel trusted its brothel matrons and smuggler captains and merchants to see Lady Devil's Snare's work done. What did the Lady's scowling second-in-command call them? Sergeants?

Sergeants would shape this mess right up. The best cheaters and swindlers didn't rely on one big card to win out, they were subtle about it, using a lot of small tricks and false draws and so on to drain a sucker dry over a whole night rather than one game. Cayde didn't know why the same couldn't apply to armies. Just, uh… differently. Surely, the Lord could trust men-at-arms like the captain and have them each wrangle a section of the levies, instead of having them all march into the unknown with just the Lord and Lordling at the head.

He'd be sure to keep the idea in mind in case the Cartel ever needed to raise an army. Cayde didn't owe Lord Darry any real loyalty though. Just the obligation to respond to his call to arms that came with living on his land. So he'd save his probably useless thoughts for those he actually cared about.

Speaking of, Cayde stuck with the captain during the short march to the border of House Darry's land. Toman Ist, his name was — a man of middling importance to House Darry's men-at-arms. But that wasn't why Cayde stuck with him. 'Puffs stuck together, even honorary 'uncle' 'Puffs like Toman. And they gathered the rest of the 'Puffs in the army, or at least, those they came across. A sort of muster within the larger muster, Cayde made fast friends with 'Puffs from Saltpans to the edge of Lychester lands. He didn't even take the boys for everything they owned during their nightly games!

It was in good spirits that Cayde and the 'Puffs arrived at their destination with the rest of the army. But it was only upon seeing the banners flying above the army across from them that they gained any clue as to what they were really doing. Lord Darry was still infuriatingly quiet, expecting them to die for him and not ask any questions. As Lords were wont to do…

"A fish…?" Cayde asked 'captain' Toman — he wasn't truly a captain, Cayde had learned. "Are we fighting the Tullys?! None of us signed up for that!"

"You didn't sign up anyway," Toman joked. "You were conscripted. But take faith, good gambler. That's the salmon of House Mooton, not the trout of House Tully. We're not rising up against our Lord Paramount just yet."

"Oh. That's… good, I suppose?" Cayde half-said, half-asked.

"In a way," Toman sighed. "It's worrying, in another. The Mootons are powerful. More so than the Darrys, ruling over the most powerful city in the Riverlands after Seagard. Yet they still covet more. And worse still, their Lord is infamously craven."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Cayde asked.

Toman just shook his head, "Craven men are nigh impossible to truly predict. You'd think they'd just run at the first opportunity, but cravenness can take many forms. Some dirty and underhanded."

Cayde nodded his understanding, "Something to raise with Lady Devil's Snare then. So how many of those 'thousands' are we up against?"

"About three, I'd say," Toman answered, chuckling with amusement. "But having only footmen is strange."

"About evenly matched then?"

"Perhaps… But we'll have to cross the small river to reach them. And they have the forest at their backs… I can't shake a bad feeling about all of this."

"Well, if you've noticed something, surely the Lord has as well, right?"

Toman gave him a weary smile, "One would hope."

The Lord brought the march to a halt across the river from the opposing army. The land there was something of a shallow valley, sloping away from them until it reached the river and sloping back up more shallowly on the other side until it reached the army and the start of the forest behind them. Cayde didn't think it was enough to affect the result of the day. But then, he wasn't trained in warfare. He only understood the bare minimum, like that giving up the high ground was typically not a good idea. Yet that was the course their Lord seemed set on, while the other army didn't move an inch from their position.

Lord Darry gave a short and ineffective speech, summed up rather well with, "Some of you may die, but that is a sacrifice I am willing to make!"

… Inspiring. Or actually, what was the opposite of that? Disheartening. Yes, that rather captured his current feelings and impression of the Lord of his land, Cayde thought. Not a man he would fight willingly for, much less die willingly for. Unfortunately, he and the rest of the men didn't have much choice in that at the moment. The Lord's cavalry behind them, pushing them forward as the army began its charge, made sure of that…

The levies were to be the blunt hammer and shield for the men who 'actually mattered', as Toman put it. Quite literally at lance-point, they were forced to march down their side of the valley and cross the river. War horns urged them onward. An uncoordinated mass of two-and-one-half 'thousand' men, armed with spears and only what they could bring with them was forced to charge upon a slightly more coordinated — and defensively prepared — army of similar size.

It was a mess. An utter mess of everything. A single man could hardly do anything to change the course of events. Somehow both slowly and quickly — as if watching a horse stumble at a river crossing — the two frontlines came together in a clash. Man slammed against man. Steel clanged and rang. Men yelled and screamed and cried. Yet still, they were forced forward with the threat of the Lord's cavalry behind them to discourage desertion.

Almost immediately, Cayde and Toman decided against trying for glory or attempting to personally win the day. Instead, Toman rallied the 'Puffs they'd gathered — more than 50 from the whole army — to himself. They were from each and every walk of life. Yet they all bore the same snarling badger pin in common. These were his true brothers, in Cayde's mind. For them, he would fight and die.

They were the only source of organization within the levied Darry men. Toman's commands and experience were a lifeline for the 'Puffs. None of them rushed forward into the chaos. The melee reached them, but it was on their terms. Long spears warded the enemy away and they held their place in the line. The other line tried to pierce them. Without the connection and camaraderie of every one of them looking out for their fellow 'Puffs, the enemy's spears and numbers found no purchase.

Yet as they rallied, men began to fall around them. Some died instantly, bloodcurdling cries rising above the din. Others were left wounded or immobile. Sharp spearheads punched through leather as if it wasn't there and into flesh. Here and there, swords flashed, maces bashed, and shields were smashed in defense. But the variety — like Cayde's own heirloom sword — was the exception. Mostly, they faced a wall of spearheads and gave the same in return — stabbing, stabbing, stabbing at everything they could see.

The smell of blood and voided bowels quickly began to fill the air, overwriting nature's peace. Red painted every spear in sight. The earth beneath their feet became a muddy slog. Warhorns and death screams were a constant, terrible symphony. A music that no bard could hope to capture. It wore down every ear, cutting spirits and morale as low as any of the dead men on the field.

Through it all, the 'Puffs held. The few who fell were immediately dragged back behind the lines by their fellow badgers. They were defended fiercely. Like the pins on their chests and belts and sleeves, the 'Puffs bared teeth and snarled at any who would encroach upon their declared territory. The tight-packed melee seemed to go on for hours. Or perhaps Cayde just lost track of time. He'd somehow found himself as Toman's second-in-command, doing everything he could to keep the 'Puffs together. They didn't have to win. They didn't have to push. They just had to stay together and they would survive.

One of the Mooton men managed to push through their spear wall. Cayde was there as quickly as he could be. His sword — one of the few among them — carved easily into the man's chest. Too easily. As the bloody wound overtook him, the man had just enough time to look up at Cayde with sheer shock and horror across his face and in his eyes. It never faded into peace or acceptance as the songs said it would…

Cayde didn't let the sight shake him. He couldn't. Not when there were more 'Puffs to defend. 'Hardwork. Loyalty. Family,' Lady Devil's Snare's words echoed in his mind. 'Puffs stick together.'

And they did. They would forevermore. Bonds formed by choice and dedication were forged and tempered with blood on that field. Cayde cut down another Mooton man, one who was unfortunately pushed forward by his fellows. He barely hesitated. A spear glanced over his shoulder and into another who sought to take advantage of Cayde's bare hesitation. That man fell, clutching his split open throat. Cayde memorized the face of the 'Puff who saved him as he withdrew within their ranks again.

When he could, Cayde loosed arrows into the enemy line. He was a shot to rival any tourney archer, except his skills were hard-earned and practical. He was used to taking hares at a hundred paces. From so close, his arrow shafts buried themselves in eye socket, bare neck, and barely armored chest over and over again. Those deaths didn't shake him nearly as much as using his grandfather's sword…

On and on, it went. Toman and Cayde held the 'Puffs together. The attacks eventually began to dwindle to a wary stalemate as the Mooton men realized they couldn't breach the 'Puffs organized defense. Then came a strange development. As the battlefield shifted and flowed, the 'Puffs met another organized group.

The two groups stared each other down. Almost to a man, both sides noticed a single constant in the other. An intricate and magical pin that said so much without words. Eyes widened and shouts of recognition rang. 'Puff met 'Puff across the battlefield and in an instant, that connection won out over their Lords' petty squabbles.

Toman stepped forward into the sudden peace between the two armies. A counterpart from the other side did just the same. They locked eyes and an unspoken understanding seemed to race between them. Toman ripped Lord Darry's brown and black colors from his arm and his counterpart matched him, removing Lord Mooton's red, white, and gold.

Cayde was the first to follow their leads, declaring firmly what almost didn't need to be said, "'Puffs stick together."

Heedless of the confusion and chaos around them, the two groups of 'Puffs merged into one. They weren't two lines facing each other, but a pocket in the center of it all. And as one, they turned their spears outward. Just in time for a break to finally emerge. Finally, Lord Darry's cavalry and Knights actually did something.

Compared to the bloody, hard-fought melee that had consumed the Cayde's world, the Lord's cavalry charge was outright unfair. They came in from the flank in front of the now-combined 'Puffs and immediately plunged deep into the remaining enemy's ranks. The noise and sheer force of the charge was horrifying. A thunder of hooves. House words and Knightly battle cries — shouted and screamed. The complete and utter shattering of poor men with mere spears that could never hope to pierce plate armor and chainmail. Of men just like Cayde and his fellow 'Puffs… only on the wrong side of the charge.

Cayde saw two men impaled by a single lance. He saw two more cut damn-near in half by a swinging slash of castle-forged steel. He couldn't count how many were trampled under the horses' hooves. And it seemed that not a single levied spear found leverage against the charging Knights and men-at-arms. The cavalry flattened everything in front of them and the shock spread like wildfire through the rest of the Mooton men.

They began to break and rout. But just as victory seemed to be on grasping fingertips, more warhorns sounded from the woods behind the routing army. Arrows arced out from the trees and the darkness beneath them. Horses whinied and shrieked as they were felled en masse, the main targets of the barrage. Then, like immediate comeuppance, another thundering of hooves filled the air.

Lord Darry's Knights and cavalry were caught in the open, practically stationary and stuck in place. And they were divided. A few turned to face the new cavalry charge head-on. Others looked to their Lord for guidance. But most turned and bolted in all directions in hopes of regrouping and charging again. Unfortunately, the 'Puffs just so happened to be behind the suddenly dwindling cavalry and directly in front of the surprise charge…

Horse struck horse, steel struck steel, and most of the charge's momentum continued right on through to descend like the Seven Hells upon the 'Puffs. Cayde found himself spinning through the air. He didn't know how or why. All he saw was brown fur. All he felt was a bone-cracking crash, then open air, and then blissfully forgiving mud.

His mind was dazed. His body was broken. Cayde could only look upon the remains of his fellow 'Puffs in horror. Both sides of the combined force were devastated, Darry 'Puffs and Mooton 'Puffs alike. Men lay battered and broken, but only after the charge. Miraculously, their spear wall had held long enough to fell a fair few horses and armored Knights. But it was a poor consolation compared to the pain. Oh, Stranger, the pain…!

The rest of the charging cavalry paid their victims no mind. They quickly gave chase to Lord Darry's cavalry. Cayde felt invisible and detached as he watched the battle quickly move away from them. As he was left lying on that bloody, muddy field with the rest of the 'Puffs, his broken but true brothers.

Then came a series of pops in quick succession and Cayde thought himself to be going mad. In the middle of the broken 'Puff formation, the world and air twisted and warped. A matron stepped out of thin air, moving quickly and efficiently among them. Then came more, a handful of young women and a few young men. The group of them began seeing to the bodies of his fellow 'Puffs. A few of the broken bodies sat up almost immediately, right as rain and practically gaping in awe.

'A… healer…?' Cayde's dazed mind wondered. 'Sent by the gods? By Lady Devil's Snare?'

Quickly and efficiently, the healer and her assistants moved through the 'Puffs on the field. Steadily, man after man sat up. The shock and awe didn't disappear, seemingly settling in the air itself. Wounds healed, breaks mended, and the healer and her people staved off death with mere waves of their hands and the strange sticks in their grips. Soon enough, the healer came to Cayde himself.

"I made it through the Second World War without losing a single soul brought before me. I'll not have this little kerfuffle blemishing my perfect record," The healer muttered to herself. "Let's get you up, young man. Honestly, Pomona has me running right ragged for her newest 'Puffs!"

World… War…? Cayde had only tasted a single battle and he already dreaded a true war. One that ravaged the whole world? He could scarcely begin to comprehend… Yet the healing matron had seen it. Lived and worked through it. She must have saved countless men just like him…

"Hmm, simple enough," She hummed. "Quite a few breaks. Even more bruises. That ruptured lung isn't pretty though. We'll have to put you on some rather unpleasant potions for that one."

She pointed at him and flicked her stick and Cayde suddenly found himself able to breathe again. He hadn't even realized he couldn't… Words came tumbling out of him in a healthy wheeze, "A-Are you a 'Puff too, Milady…?"

Her lips quirked up in a slight smile as she worked, "As a matter of fact, I am, young man. Once a 'Puff, always a 'Puff. But none of the 'milady' stuff. I'm a Madam, not a Lady."

"What's the… difference…?" Cayde couldn't help but ask.

The healer laughed, "Madams actually have to work for a living! But any man I put back together can call me Poppy. Poppy Pomfrey."

"Poppy… Saint Poppy…" Cayde could never have expected everything he put in motion with the title that came from his dazed mind…

IIIII

— The Sparrow —

"Seven hails to the Father Above, may he protect his children evermore."

"Six hails to the Mother Above, may she be ever-merciful to her sons and daughters."

"Five hails to the Warrior, may he see us through this strife."

"Four hails to the Smith, may he mend what is broken."

"Three hails to the Maiden, may she preserve innocence and keep our daughters pure."

"Two hails to the Crone, may her wisdom guide us through these trying times."

"One hail to the Stranger, may their embrace welcome those souls taken too soon and quickly claim those who most deserve it."

His flock repeated the prayer with him, and the Sparrow knew true peace. He knew his gods' will and their favor. He knew everything that had been done and that had yet to be done. He knew where he was needed most and thus, where he would travel next. His bare feet would walk the lands of the Trident, strife or no. He would bring the will and gifts of the Seven to those in the most need — the Faithful caught in the conflict, the men made to take up arms, the widows who remained behind, and the misguided Lords at the start of it all.

All would feel the touch of the Seven, for never before had it been more prominent. The Seven were with them now, with them all. None could deny that truth. Everyone from the smallest of children to the highest of Lords could feel it in the air, and when they prayed, and with every candle lit in the Seven's names.

That such grace would come with the return of magic, the Sparrow mused. Truly, the Sevens' will was not theirs as mortal men to know. Many of his holy and faithful fellows raised concerns and cursed 'Magic's return'. The Sparrow couldn't help but wonder if they were truly as holy and well-read as they claimed.

Nowhere in the Seven-Pointed Star was magic condemned by name. If the most holy book did not condemn magic, how could he, a mere Sparrow, do so? Oh, there were references. But they could be interpreted in multiple ways. Magic itself was never damned or scorned in the most holy of texts. Those who abused and commandeered it for their own twisted purposes and faiths were. However, the miracles of the Seven were a magic of their own. They were magical blessings from the Seven highest divines.

The evidence was right before their eyes. If they would only look. Miracles straight out of the holy histories returned alongside Magic. They came in sevens and could not be denied, no matter how much the more corrupt of the Faithful tried and wished them to be. The Sparrow knew this, for he worked the renewed miracles with regularity. Yet despite what those corrupt and stubborn septons claimed, his faith had never been stronger, his purpose never clearer, and his connection to the Seven never so blessed.

The Sparrow had spent much of this time on such miracles. They were always necessary, and quickly became a cornerstone of his personal faith. But in a time of war and conflict, they were even more necessary for the mortal children of the Seven Above. The wounded and wretched needed healing. The widows and sullied maidens needed comfort and guidance. And the men off to war needed the protection of holy arms and blessings in the Warrior's name.

He was keenly aware that he was in a perfect position to fulfill these divine obligations. The Sparrow was merely a conduit. A vessel for the Seven to act through. His miracles were theirs in truth. His 'magic' was carried by the Seven true divines. His teachings came from his lips yet held only the Seven's truth within.

And unlike many in his holy order, the Sparrow loathed to be tied to one place. Loathed to be limited in the good he could do. The Seven saw as much and took pity on his poor soul that yearned for nothing more than to help their faithful. Thus, they guided his path and blessed his travels throughout the torn Trident. He spread their good word on the back of visions granted, magical-born miracles, promises kept, and sermons spoken at length. The poor, humble, and common masses gathered to share his faith, and the Sparrow worked tirelessly to spare them of the sins and evils inherent to every mortal man.

In some towns, he would spread miracles of protection to ward against the terrors of a wartorn land. Seven ward stones, he would place to border the town and guard its innocents. Seven idols, each painstakingly carved in the Seven's image. For the Father, for the Mother, for the Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Crone, and Stranger. Candles burned atop the idols' heads. For as long as their flames burned, the town would know no strife.

In others, he lent his services as a humble speaker of the Seven Above. He preached their teachings to all who would listen. He provided guidance without judgment — until judgment itself was called upon, of course. Then, he let the Seven speak through him, seeing to each issue according to their most holy words. Wanton women were guided to penance. Gamblers and the destitute were shown better paths. Those who indulged in the true wickedness of war instead of merely dutiful righteousness were punished and scourged of their sins.

Yet in every town and place the Sparrow traveled, there was one common thread. He found himself calling upon the Mother's healing light constantly. There were always sick or injured to see made whole. For some, the Sparrow merely lit seven candles and prayed for their recovery, and it was done. For others, he was made to take a more hands-on approach. He sewed wounds and burned-out infections with prayer. He sat vigil over many a bedside. He gave every hurt and pain its due.

In doing so, he came across a strange emerging phenomenon, "Saint Poppy…?"

"That's what they're calling me, isn't it? Honestly, I think they go a touch too far with that one. I'm merely doing my duty as a healer. I swore an oath to help all that I could, to heal, and to never do harm. This isn't my first war, and it certainly won't be the one that makes me break my oath. Besides, it's a good working experience for my little ones."

The kindly matron rolled her eyes at the title bestowed upon her but never stopped working. Wounded man after wounded man passed beneath her kind, efficient hands, and healing magic, each coming out the other end more whole and hale than they arrived. She and the Sparrow met by pure coincidence. Or so she claimed. The Sparrow knew better. It was the will of the Seven, as all and everything was. 'Saint' Poppy Pomfrey and her assistants were uniquely blessed. They healed and healed and healed and seemed to never stop. The Sparrow couldn't hope to match their efforts, he knew, but he could bring the element of faith that they were missing. As such, he willingly worked alongside the 'Witch' as they saw to the aftermath of one of the many skirmishes that currently plagued the Trident.

"Your humility does well by you, my Lady," The Sparrow said. "Yet I find a measure of truth in your moniker. You do the benevolent will of the Seven with your healing."

"Madam," Poppy absently corrected, waving her hand in a way that somehow sewed up a nasty gash without even touching it. "I work for a living."

"That much cannot be denied. My apologies, Madam," The Sparrow nodded.

The Madam was a wonder to watch work. She was a miracle, given life and matronly feminine form. There was a method to her magic, the Sparrow saw. It sprang forth from her blessed stick and did the same thing every time. With each pass — wounds were sealed and spilling blood was staunched. The Madam's hands were kind and gentle, yet still firm enough to invite no-nonsense that would interfere with her duties. Truly, the Seven were good to call upon her for this purpose.

The Sparrow supposed he should have been more confrontational. After all, the Madam was self-admittedly no true believer. Perhaps others within the Faith would have proclaimed her a heathen and a heretic. Yet… The Sparrow was watching her work with a keen eye. He was seeing firsthand the good she and her magic did. And while he hadn't seen inspiring faith, he also hadn't seen anything to damn her soul.

The Madam held no pagan gods. At most, she exalted her ancestors and Magic itself. But if magic was merely an extension of the Seven, was there truly any room for the Sparrow to protest? And she made no sacrifice to enact her healing, not of blood, or life, or otherwise. She even claimed her people held such sacrifice as taboo, just as the Seven did. The only aspect the Sparrow could hold against her was her lack of prayer. Yet even the Faith of the Seven was practiced in different ways across the land. Perhaps the words she muttered under her breath as she worked counted as divine devotion to her.

After meeting her, the Sparrow found he could make no issue with the Madam. The thought would have terrified many of his fellow Faithful. They would see only a threat where good could be done. Where good was being done. But the Sparrow had seen what they hadn't, couldn't, or refused to see. The Madam was good and benevolent. She did more good for the common flocks of man than his holy brothers and sisters in their ivory towers ever did.

So the Sparrow watched the Madam. He watched her do good unto the world and expect nothing in return. He watched magick after magick, feats that could only be considered blessed. He watched her title spread, bestowed upon her by those she touched and healed. And as he did, the Sparrow saw the beginnings of an opportunity. An opportunity for… reform…

IIIII

— Harry Rivers —

His sharp sword glanced off an armored plate. His opponent's blade caught on the chainmail under his arm but didn't penetrate. He lashed out with his free fist. The caught blade dislodged with a start. His sword came down with fury, singing through the air on a path to the crux of his opponent's neck. His opponent caught the strike with his free hand, the sword seemingly stuck in the air above an unarmored palm for a moment before they both stepped back.

Harry Rivers — bastard in name alone — stared down his opponent. A bare few meters in front of him, Lucas Blackwood returned the favor in kind. All around them, Knights, men-at-arms, and Smallfolk levies fought for their opposing causes. This was the climax of their feud. Ending in a duel — the only possible outcome. Boys-turned-men too early, they were destined to clash.

The original reason for their feud had been lost to him. To Lucas as well, Harry imagined. Not to time as was the case with the ancient feud between their two families. No, Harry and Lucas' personal conflict only lasted a month. But that single month was enough to exhaust even the most legendary of men. The original reason for their feud hadn't been lost to time but to escalation. Lost to skirmishes and minor battles seemingly every other day, the constant campaign of two armies who didn't have to travel far to meet. There were less than two dozen leagues between Raventree Hall and Stone Hedge. And in the land between, Lucas and Harry met on the field again and again.

Neither struck a decisive blow against the other. And now, they'd come to the final leg of their feud. The King's men were hot on their heels. In fact, Harry heard them join the battle, just as they had at the beginning of this all. The King himself would be upon them soon enough. The ugly business between Lucas and Harry… was settled now, or never.

Harry's armor flexed and morphed around him as he lunged. Over the past moon and change, he'd grown well-used to wearing it. It seemed he wore full plate more than he wore silk, cotton, or wool. Now, he moved in it as easily as breathing and Lucas matched his skill and familiarity.

The longsword in his hand sang. It cut toward Lucas' head. Lucas parried with infuriating ease, stepping with the blow to open Harry's side. His longsword came back around with a whistle. Harry mirrored his earlier move, catching it above his unarmored palm. His magic flexed and tensed within him. It wished to sing with their steel. Across from him, Harry could practically hear Lucas' magic calling out for the same.

"You will see justice, Blackwood," Harry bit out through gritted teeth.

"No, you, Bastard!" Lucas shot back.

"Nuh-uh!"

"Yes-huh!"

"Damned spare!"

"Wretched baseborn fuck!"

Harry stabbed his sword at his dreaded rival, aiming for a gap in Lucas' armor. Lucas twisted his body away so the sword's point glanced off a solid plate. Yet his sword was still caught in Harry's magic. He lashed out with a fist, backed by that same magic. It landed without landing, with more weight than it should have carried. Harry winced as his armor dented and he was forced to release his rival's sword.

That was perhaps the most infuriating aspect of their rivalry. They were evenly matched and even evenly equipped. They both wielded single swords and let their magicks act as their shields. And when they did, they brought the same mastery over metal to bear. Lucas would push and Harry would pull. Lucas would pull and Harry would push. They always ended up right back where they started.

Harry roared and unleashed a flurry of blows. Lucas bellowed and matched him. Faster and faster, their steel sang. Magic punched and dented steel plates. It pulled accurate swings and slashes off course. They shoved each other out of their solid footing. Lucas lunged for Harry's face. Harry rose with a furious upward swipe to meet him. Panting and bruised, they ended right where they started…

Then came a familiar shout that shook the battlefield, "Alright, you feuding fucks! Face me!"

Like an unstoppable storm, the King cut through the men around them. He carved a path all on his own. Thunder and lightning echoed with every swing of his mighty warhammer. Men fell or scrambled to get out of his warpath. Royal justice was finally upon them, and the 'feuding fucks' found that they were no closer to finishing their feud.

Lucas met Harry's eyes and apprehension was shared in both gazes. A strange sense of camaraderie. They were both heirs of the Trident. They were both young men in a situation that had escalated beyond their control or intention. They'd both been swept along for the ride. They'd both proven themselves in their own chaos. And most of all, they'd both likely see the headsman's block before this was all through. An understanding passed between them then.

"C'mon then! Give me a proper fucking fight, both of you!" The King roared. Thunder boomed with his royal request.

"In your name, my King!" Harry shouted.

Lucas mirrored him, "For your glory, my Liege!"

By all sense and reason, the King should have cursed them. He should have doomed them to die with only a few words. Instead, he laughed, "Good! Good fucking show, boys! This is how things should be decided between men! Show me your swords and I'll show you my hammer! The one to strike the final blow shall have the right of it!"

"No duels to the death, Father," A gently chiding, feminine voice cut through the breathless, intense silence that followed the King's declaration.

Bemused and baffled respectively, Lucas and Harry looked upward toward the voice. The princess and an unknown young woman hovered over the battlefield, sitting astride a broom as if it were a horse. Alongside them flew three other strange broom-steads. One carried a young man of noble bearing and the Lannister Imp. The other two carried only young Ladies, heedless of how impossible a sight they were.

"Indeed, Robert," The Imp smirked. "You can't get out of running the realm that easily."

"Aim for his lightning," The young man beside the Imp advised Harry and Lucas, his words making little sense in their minds.

"Oi!" The King shouted, sounding all too amused by what by all reasonable accounts should have been the heights of treason. "Don't help them cheat, Atlas! Aren't you supposed to be my magical advisor, not theirs?!"

Atlas shrugged, "It didn't seem like you'll be needing much help. Not compared to them."

"Yeah, this is practically a co-op boss battle at this point~," One of the young Ladies — a striking maiden of messy black hair and vibrant green eyes — giggled.

"There's a thought," Her darkly attired companion hummed flatly.

"Oh, yeah~!" The Lady behind the princess chimed. "Hey, 'Cella~? How's your choir singing? Can you solo-harmonize yet?"

"I-I…" The princess hesitated in thought. "I suppose I could try."

"Then give us some background music to go along with this epic battle!" The Lady encouraged.

The princess composed herself briefly. When her lips parted again, a haunting symphony overtook the battlefield. It carried all the weight of a holy choir within a sept and somehow brought instrumental echoes to life from nothingness. It was chilling and inspiring, and Harry couldn't help but draw strength from her wordless song.

The King looked up at his daughter with earnest appreciation, "Myrcella, I have scarcely ever been more proud to call you mine. You do right by your old man, my girl."

The princess blushed brilliantly but the praise only saw her redouble her singing. Harry and Lucas were left reeling and confused by the irreverent interruption provided by the flying folks. Then the King slammed his warhammer against his palm with a crack of lightning, and they had no choice but to give him all of their focus.

"Don't go pulling your fucking blows, boys! I sure as fuck won't be! You feuding fucks either die here at my hammer or you live to become gods-damned legends! Set aside your petty, limp-wristed differences and fight me together! It's the only way you muddy cunts will stand a chance, HAHAHA!"

Harry exchanged a glance with Lucas, "Now or never, Blackwood."

"Prove yourself beside me, Riv-… Bracken."

The princess sang to their very souls, a glorious song of building tension. Ghostly instruments clanged and echoed, rose and fell. Horns and woodwinds and drums galore. Harry stood with a straight back, strong and proud. Lucas stood beside him. A grinning, laughing Storm King stood across from them, crackling with lightning. The Demon of the Trident had returned, stronger than ever and larger than life itself.

It was strange to stand with his rival. But surprisingly, not unfamiliar. Perhaps their ancestors had done the same, putting aside their ancient feud during the most trying of times and against the most legendary of foes. As one, Blackwood and Bracken raised their swords to a swelling score. Then came thunder and lightning, magic and steel…

The King lunged into action first. No man so big should have moved so fast. He seemed to glide across the ground as he shot forward like an arrow from a taut bowstring. His hammer reared back. Lightning flashed along its length. The princess' song reached its first crescendo, thunder incorporating itself like drums amongst her wordless vocals. The King's warhammer descended like a storm upon the land.

As one, Harry and Lucas found only one course of action open to them, only one way to escape the descending fury. The King roared and their blood rose to match him in a panic. Just as suddenly as he lunged, he was between them. Both Harry and Lucas could only throw themselves to the side, dodging and rolling out of the way. Then came the King's hammer in their wake like a literal lightning strike. And the world itself shook beneath his legendary royal fury.

Thunder cracked and boomed. For the briefest of moments, the air seemed to catch aflame. The blinding flash of heat all but slapped Harry in the face. He hurried back to his feet after his dodge-roll. On the King's opposite side, Lucas did the same. The ground where the King's hammer struck — the place they just stood — was gone. Simply gone. Evaporated like a riverbed during a drought. The King rose from the crater he'd created and turned to face them with a wide, almost feral grin.

"Come at me! Come test your might and magic against mine! Come, and face the Demon of the Trident! Come, and be made legends!"

Sharing a glance and the briefest of nods over the King's shoulder, Harry and Lucas obliged their royal liege. Harry dashed right. Lucas dashed left. Down, came their swords. Down, came armored fists. Down, came might and metallic magic against thunder, lightning, and gilded steel.

Harry pulled none of his strength with the blows. His sword sang through the air. It cut across his body, a devastating deathstroke to any normal man. His fist followed, punching forward with magical weight beyond its own. His blade was caught and almost negligently parried by the long shaft of King Robert's warhammer. But his fist struck true. Slamming into a steel breastplate that danced with flashes of lightning, it didn't even stagger the monster of a man that the whole realm called their King. The only sign it impacted at all was the brief stutter of dancing lightning.

The King's parry threw him away. Even as it did, Robert's attention was split. Lucas' sword scored the metal plate at the King's left side but it didn't split. His follow-up punch was caught forearm-to-forearm by the King, and with a great heave, Lucas was sent flying ass over end.

Robert roared his exhilaration as he turned his attention back to Harry alone. His steps reached longer than they should have as if the King was flying with each churn of his tree-trunk legs. Harry found himself rolling to the side once more. Lightning licked at him with flashing arcs, sending painful jolts through his whole body. Yet still, he stood and stabbed forward.

The King wrenched his warhammer from the ground, batting away Harry's skewering stab as he rose. Harry felt his arms and his footing shake with the parry. He couldn't follow through as the King turned his attention to Lucas just in time to catch him in the side with the head of the hammer. Lucas' 'surprise' strike was forcibly aborted. Harry could practically see the breath driven from his rival-turned-comrade's lungs with the blow.

Still, Lucas pushed himself back to his feet as he wheezed. The princess' song drove them onward against her royal father. Her voice swelled and crooned and urged them to continue. To rise again, and again, and again, even against insurmountable odds. Magical inspiration thrummed in Harry's chest. Ghostly instruments beat a march ever forward — in, in, into battle once more.

Harry struck. The New Gods and the Old smiled upon him. His blade caught the King's shoulder as he raised his hammer to smash Lucas again. For the first time, the impossible happened. The King stumbled. It didn't last long… Robert stepped with the stumble, and Harry found himself facing down a swinging, spinning hammer that was drawn from across the King's whole body.

His life flashed before his eyes. Lightning screamed toward his face. A bloody smear on the grass below stared back at him from the very near future — all that would be left of him from the King's fury. But again, the gods smiled upon him. Lucas — his weak and wheezing rival — chopped downward on the King's turned back. Dazed as he was, his sword missed entirely. He struck the King with a two-handed hammer blow more than anything else.

It was enough to shake the King's furious focus. The head of the hammer grazed Harry's nose. Still, the lightning coating it lashed out with an impossibly physical weight and Harry felt his nose crack straight sideways despite the King's near-miss. Blinding pain made his eyes water, yet Harry still moved forward. His free hand locked the King's hammer in a disadvantageous position, his magic straining to do so.

The King's lightning arced along his magic, crossing the space between his free hand and the locked-in-place hammer. Yet it didn't hurt nearly as much as it did. Harry stepped forward into the bind and punched with his sword's pommel. Once, twice, and a third. He knew he couldn't kill the King. But a not-so-small part of him wished to pay his royal grace back for the broken nose.

Lucas fell from Robert's back as Harry wailed on his King, the breath-stealing blow from before finally catching up to him. Robert caught Harry's pommel and armored fist in a single hand and held him there. The glare Harry faced would haunt his nightmares. And swell his ego in equal measure, for he and Lucas had driven the Demon of the Trident to a bloody nose and an already swelling black eye.

Harry held strong, his magic still locking the King's hammer in place. But he quickly found out that his monster of a King didn't need to rely on things so pedestrian as 'limbs'. Robert's head shot forward. The royal forehead met Harry's broken nose and exhausted visage. With a crash that shook his bones, Harry began to fall backward. The last thing he knew before blissful unconsciousness claimed him was the sound of fading strings, drums, and a choir of voices that sang of a good fight…

IIIII

— Atlas Black —

I swear, King Robert might have been the sole man that made this world's Stat cap so damn high. He was, simply put, a monster. A Demon of the Trident. A Merlin-damned demigod in all but name. And with his awakened Storm God bloodline and newfound sobriety with it, he was better than he'd ever been. The poor Bracken and Blackwood boys discovered that firsthand, and were even kind enough to give the world a nice little demonstration.

Heather couldn't have been more right when she called their two-on-one duel a 'co-op boss battle'. Robert smashed his way through them with overwhelming force and no small amount of skill. His magic came to him instinctively — as all bloodlines in this world seemed to, to some degree — and raged like a thunderstorm, more specialized than most Wizardry and all the more potent for that fact. The area around their duel was now littered with hammer-made craters and lightning-scorched grass.

The girls and I (plus Myrcella and Tyrion) watched the duel play out from the air. But we were far from alone. Both the Bracken and Blackwood armies halted their fighting on a dime to watch their Lords and King duel, and the men that Robert had gathered from the rest of the Riverlands did the same. A good twenty thousand men got 'front-row' seats to see their King in action. The legends made today would likely live forever knowing this world's weird sense of time and scale.

I'd bet Myrcella also made a name for herself on this day. She sang beautifully at Astoria's prodding. I don't think the princess realized the full extent of her song until she was already singing it. A ghostly choir harmonized with her while ghostly drums, strings, and woodwinds were quite literally invoked by her magical voice. Her contribution was what made the scene below us truly legendary.

Now that it was done, she was breathless and blushing at Astoria's honest praise. Tyrion was clapping lazily. I don't know how, but I was pretty sure he was drunk. Maybe that was his bloodline magic… Below, Robert was panting and bloodied, but I'd never seen him happier. Still, there'd be more to deal with before the day was done…

"Atlas!" He called up at me. "Come wake these fine young men up so I can give 'em what they deserve!"

Despite knowing it wasn't a good idea, I couldn't help but call back, "Do it yourself, King! Just give them a little zap!"

Thankfully, Robert just laughed, his blood still up and buoying his mood, "I would, but I'm just as likely to kill 'em as wake 'em up!"

That was true enough, I conceded, "Fine. Just don't go executing them after my hardwork."

He just grinned, "They'll get what they deserve."

I flew down to the battlefield below. Tyrion stumbled off the broom with me as I dismounted. He waddled up to the King and pulled his arm back. For a moment, it looked like he was going to slap Robert on the ass before thinking better of it. Not quite that drunk, I see. Rolling my eyes with a snort, I moved to enervate the Bracken and Blackwood boys. I gave them both quick once-overs with my wand while I was at it.

"Fuck," Bracken groaned. "I think a castle keep fell on my nose and my nose alone."

Blackwood wheezed, "Can't… breathe…! Ribs… shattered…!"

"Nope," I cheerfully corrected. "Just so bruised that they'll likely be black for the rest of your life. Good thing they're nice and hidden inside your chest, eh~?"

"Alright, boys," Robert said. "Stand up. Stand, I say! I won't have you kneel as I pass my judgment."

Slowly, shakily, and stiffly, they both stood. Their faces were grim, only marred by the Bracken's very broken nose. Still, they stood to face their fate. The King stared both of them down, not giving anything away…

Until he did, and his face broke into a wide, toothy grin, "Good fucking fight, boys! Just bloody brilliant! I haven't had a fight like that since the Trident! Now, I did say you'd either die or be made legends today…"

Both boys tensed as the King paused, "-And you two cunts still look like you're breathing to me! Barristan! Oi, where's the Bold? Someone fetch him for me!"

"I am here, Your Grace," The white-haired and bearded Kingsguard stepped forward to Robert's side.

Robert treated him to the exhilarated grin that had overtaken his face, "How do you feel about getting two younger sworn brothers? I think these boys would look good in white, haha!"

The world itself seemed to blink in surprise at Robert's offer. The Bracken and Blackwood boys froze, and their mouths slowly fell open into honest, uncomprehending gapes. Barristan was much quicker to adjust to his King's words, eying the bloodied boys speculatively before wincing slightly.

"Unfortunately, we have a full guard, My King."

"These two fuckers are worth a dozen Blounts and Trants each!" Robert waved dismissively. "Ask those worthless fat fucks to step down. If they refuse, these two can duel them for their spots."

Barristan's eyes seemed to light up with relief at that. I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in the background. Politics in the Kingsguard? Or were more personal differences at play?

The Lord Commander bowed shallowly, "It will be done."

"Good riddance," Tyrion muttered. "Blount is more useless than he is fat. And I never liked the way Trant looked at Myrcella…"

Robert caught the Imp's words with a suddenly sharp glint in his eyes, "Change of plans, Barristan. Stab Trant through the gut and use him as an example of why Blount should step down with honors when I give him the chance."

Barristan — tellingly — didn't even flinch at the brutal command, "It will be done, My King."

Robert turned back to his newest Kingsguards, his smile quickly returning, "And that's what you two deserve for a fantastic fucking fight like that!"

Still gaping at their sudden turn of fortune, the Bracken boy hesitated and spoke for both of them, "We are… honored, Your Grace. But we can't possibly accept. We broke your peace. Surely, you would not see us rewarded for-…"

"Actually," I interjected. "You were purposefully misled. Both of you. By your maesters, who were colluding for their own ambitions. Me and my girls have the evidence to prove it too."

Strangely, Robert seemed ecstatic at my reveal, "Fucking perfect! I love it when a good scapegoat trots itself in front of me to die! Their heads then! That'll be you boys' first duty under the white cloak."

The boys were appropriately more horrified at my reveal but it quickly turned into rage, both of them shouting in eerie synch, "Your will be done, My King!"

Robert nodded to himself in utter satisfaction, "It's good to be King when all the shit sorts itself out."

"That's it?" I raised an incredulous eyebrow at him.

"What else is there?" Robert asked, looking honestly confused.

I shot him a deadpan look, "A pair of maesters orchestrated a civil war in one of your Kingdoms and you're satisfied with just their heads?"

Robert guffawed, "Ha! They're just maesters! What are they going to do, learn me to death?!"

And there it was, I rolled my eyes. Robert was thankfully much better than the stories we'd heard about him but he was not a man without flaws. And the blindspot that the natives of Westeros had toward the maesters didn't help matters. He honestly didn't see the issue or the sheer influence that the maesters held over Westeros. If something was going to be done about them, the problem would have to be thrown in his face over and over again until his Thor-coded brain saw sense.

Honestly? That sounded like much more fun than I made it out to be…