Chapter 134: The Cursed Day, or a Historic One
Robert stared down at Bjorn for a long moment. Something unreadable passed behind his tired eyes—surprise, perhaps, or something closer to grim respect for a boy who had just done what Robert himself had wanted to do more than once in his life.
"You sure, boy?"
The hall went utterly, completely silent.
"Let a blade decide what a hundred careful words cannot," Bjorn said. "I would rather face a man in the yard than a court full of men arguing over what my honor is worth in gold and favors owed."
Tywin's expression had gone carefully, dangerously blank.
Robert exhaled, long and heavy, rubbing at his temple as though the weight of the crown had suddenly doubled. "Fine. If that's what you want, boy, that's what you'll get." He didn't sound pleased about it, not exactly, but there was something else beneath the reluctance—an old soldier's understanding, buried under years of drinking and whoring, of what it meant to want your fate decided by steel rather than words.
"But I'll tell you this," Robert continued, voice carrying now with the weight of a decision already made. "I'm not sitting through the bullshit of separate days of this shit. I'd rather see the realm tear itself apart in one day than drag this out longer than it needs to. Ser Gregor's trial and yours will be held the same day. You won't have much time for your Trial of Combat"
A murmur swept the hall at that, quickly silenced.
Bjorn nodded once, accepting it without argument.
Robert studied him a moment longer and sighed at the decision ut continues with his duties nonetheless
" You will require the Champion, or will you stand for yourself?"
"I will represent myself," Bjorn said, without hesitation. "Though With your permission , Your Grace, I would like to ask a permission first from my elders. It's tradition, among my people. A Skagosi doesn't put his own life on the line without his blood's blessing. Usually it's supposed to be my father but My father isn't here to give it, so I'll ask the next closest thing."
Robert nodded, he has somewhat idea of ridiculous traditions of North.
He turned toward the front rows, where Lord Eddard Stark sat with his jaw tight and his hands folded.
Bjorn put his knee down for the ritual and It is one of the most important for a Skagosi blood as they rarely get down on thier knees or even bow. So it shows genuine respect and intentions of Bjorn for this gesture.
"Uncle, I know how much my father loves and admire you and You are one of the few people he truly respects. So I know he would honor your Words and wouldn't mind it. So with that in mind I ask you as your nephew to give me permission, So I can bring Pride and Victory to the Starks , Magnars and The North."
Eddard rose slowly, and for a moment the hall watched a different kind of tension play out—not political, not legal, but not a lot of men see Lord Eddard in this shape and his mood this sour. The tales of friendship between King and Lord Stark is famous among the realm so is the Brotherhood between Lord Stark and Artos. But at that moment it is clear he is raged at both.
Eddard studied him for a long moment, something complicated moving behind his eyes. Then he nodded, once, firm and final.
"You have it, my boy" he said. " You have Skagosi blood in you , and you're also a Stark, You have blood of ancient Warriors and Heroes in you. You have blood of Artos Stark in you so I won't stand in the way of a warrior's spirit when it's already made up its mind. I know how worthless it really is. I have learnt it from experience of your Father, nothing could tame it."
He gestured, and one of his Winterguard stepped forward, carrying a long, cloth-wrapped bundle that made every lord in that hall who recognized its shape go suddenly very still.
Eddard unwrapped it himself, revealing the pale, rippling steel of Ice, the ancestral greatsword of House Stark, and held it out to Bjorn with both hands.
"Your father, My brother carried this blade once," Eddard said, voice carrying now to every corner of the silent hall. "He made his name with it. Enemies of House Stark still wake in the night remembering what it looked like coming for them. I hope you inherit more than his blood today, Bjorn. I hope you inherit his feats as well, and make him proud. Make all of Winterfell proud. Make the North proud."
Bjorn took the blade with both hands, the weight of it settling into his grip like something ancestral finally coming home, and said nothing at all, it is the biggest Honor and Responsibility for a Stark descendant to get Ice and an opportunity to use it.
He felt proud and accepted today, He is really happy but too shocked to react.
The hall sees the gesture and it wasn't simple at all , Everyone knew it. It is gesture to show support to Bjorn by whole of North. Telling the realm you have a made a mistake and if not correct, The Realm will burn or Froze in this case as Winter will Come for enemies of Stark.
Robert watched the exchange with something unreadable in his expression, then turned his attention back to the dais. "Lord Tywin."
Tywin's gaze lifted, cold and composed as ever. "Your Grace."
"You will find a champion to fight against the Bo...," Robert wanted to say boy but seeing his courage and spirit he couldn't . " Young Man. Since it seems you've got a personal stake in this. So I hope you take your responsibility"
Tywin inclined his head, expression giving away nothing—not satisfaction, not displeasure, simply the flat, unreadable calculation that had made him the most feared man in the Seven Kingdoms for decades. "As you command, Your Grace."
Bjorn walked from that hall with Ice slung across his back and now he feared his mother's fury waiting somewhere ahead of him like a storm he had no way of avoiding.
He'd faced Gregor Clegane's blade without flinching. He'd faced Tywin Lannister's cold, calculating stare without backing down.
He even survived the hell by His Father who is literally known as Demon.
None of that frightened him half as much as what was coming.
Yor, his mother had been against this from the moment the word combat left his mouth—he'd seen it in her face even as Stig and the Skagosi thundered their approval behind her, even as pride and terror warred openly across her features.
He dread the time he would to face her, he would rather face 2 Mountain together than that.
He was Bjorn Stark, forged by his Father hell of a training, feared by Warriors three times his age.
And he was still, apparently, not too old to be afraid of his own mother.
---
Day of the Trial.
The day arrived exactly as cursed and exactly as historic as everyone in King's Landing had spent the preceding fortnight whispering it would be. Well it is depending on who you asked.
It is a historic moment A Pair of Father and Son fighting in thier own Combat Trial, ofcourse different situations for both of them one is representing himself and one crown. One is being judged and One is judging other guy himself.
The grounds outside the Red Keep had been cleared and expanded for the occasion, packed earth stretching wide enough and the thousands of smallfolk, lords, and knights who'd gathered to watch history decide itself in blood. Banners hung from every wall—direwolves and lions and roses and suns, a hundred houses come to witness whichever version of justice steel decided to hand down that day.
Bjorn arrived through the western gate. Robb and Loras flanked him, both dressed for the occasion though neither would be the one fighting, and behind them came Eddard, Stig, and a procession of Skagosi warriors who drew stares wherever they walked.
The crowd noise shifted the moment he came into view—murmurs rippling outward, fingers pointing, half the smallfolk craning for a look at the boy who'd demanded trial by combat in front of nine judges and refused to back down even from a king.
Across the grounds, near the section reserved for the Hand of the King, Artos stood waiting.
He wasn't alone. Raka and Ethan flanked him, ropes taut in their grip, muscles straining against the furious, snorting weight of a wild boar tethered between them, tusks gleaming, eyes rolling wild against the crowd and noise pressing in from every side. Whatever purpose the beast served, Artos hadn't explained it to anyone who'd asked, and his expression gave away nothing now, arms crossed, watching his son approach with the same unreadable stillness he wore into every room that mattered.
Bjorn slowed as he drew closer, eyes flicking once toward the boar, then back to his father's face.
Bjorn opened his mouth to press further, but the sound of trumpets cut across the grounds before he could, sharp and sudden, announcing the arrival of the King's procession, and every head in that vast crowd turned as one toward the raised platform being readied at the field's edge.
The day had finally come and he is ready for the challenge.
And whatever answer waited behind his father's silence, Bjorn realized, would have to wait for a bit.
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