24th day of the 8th moon, 269 B.C.
The Hour of the Throne (12 P.M.)
Ser Alaric Mormont, outskirts of Lannisport
The rest of the first event passed without any issues. Murch hit the center with his two remaining arrows once again and moved on to the next round, which saw the number of contestants reduced to sixteen.
Just as I did during the second half of the first round, I avoided looking at the Reach section of the stands. Even if it is perhaps already too late, I do not want to start rumors, especially with someone like Olenna keeping an eye on me.
In the second round of the event, the target was moved further away, but for Murch, it was as easy as the first.
Hitting the center five times in a row for the second time, the crowd began to pay attention to him, shouting and applauding at every perfect shot, especially the last one, the tenth consecutive perfect shot, which was met with a strong reaction from the public.
Seeing that the support did not come only from the Northern section, Murch flashed a confident smile, receptive to the adoration even though he had been reluctant to compete in a way he considered cheating.
With the conclusion of the second round, which was faster than the first, the eight archers who advanced were presented to the crowd by the Lannister announcer once more before being ushered off the field so it could be prepared for the next event.
"Damn, I didn't know the Flint had that in him. Ten for ten." I hear Lord Galbarth Glover, who was sitting next to his brother, comment behind me.
Although Aerys gave carte blanche for the use of magic, having even forced the Septon and his group to participate, we want to avoid any drama caused by the use of magic, so we keep it a secret from those outside the plan, including the Northmen themselves.
"He'll do the same in the Axe Throw. Just wait," Harren Glover replies.
I don't see him, but I bet he spoke with a grin on his face. And it wouldn't surprise me if Maege was also smiling beside him.
"How much time is left?" Rickard murmurs at my side.
He was looking at the straw dummy targets being replaced by wooden versions as he asked.
"Nearly two hours."
"Enough."
This was about the time remaining until Enhance Ability wore off.
Watching the last five wooden dummies, which 'posed' with their wooden 'arms' spread wide in an embrace, I cannot disagree.
It seems I will be able to cast three instances of Enhance Ability on Calon Snow and on the horse that Benfred Manderly will ride.
***
The axe throw was different from archery.
While archery required hitting as close to the center as possible with the target placed increasingly further away, the axe throw had the target, the wooden dummy with open arms, at a much closer distance and with four different spots to be hit.
The center of the forehead, both centers of the 'arms,' and the left 'chest.' All four locations had a red circle painted on them, marking the spot for maximum points, with a yellow circle surrounding the red marking another acceptable area that would award less.
Those were not arbitrary choices. Those were two fatal points, the head and heart, and two immobilizing points, the elbows.
With four spots, four axes to be thrown, and thirty-two competitors.
And once again, Murch crushed the event. This time, embedding all four axes into the four red circles.
Since the audience was paying more attention to him this time, they watched him from the beginning and cheered at every axe that struck home.
At the end of the first round, the dummy had its four circles pierced by axes.
As shown by the other competitors, the norm would be to retrieve the axe after it was analyzed and scored so that one could try to hit the same spot, but Murch did it differently.
This was not our, Rickard's and mine, plan. It was all Murch.
In the end, he succeeded, and the crowd went wild at the sight.
"What the hell do the Clans drink in those mountains?" Galbarth comments in a hushed tone.
Moving on to the next round, Murch managed to repeat the same feat with the dummies even further away, driving the crowd into a frenzy.
"Now he's just showing off," Harren jokes, making Maege laugh and agree.
By the massive smile the mountain Flint was wearing, they were right.
"He can show off as much as he wants if he keeps winning like this," Rickard says.
There was no disagreement.
With the end of the second round, the announcer once again presents the eight finalists and announces a longer break for the next event: Turf.
***
The King arrived during the interval.
Bringing his family with him, he joined the Lannisters in the private box. Which wouldn't be a problem if he hadn't sent an 'invitation' for me to join him.
"It seems you Northmen have dominated archery and the Axe Throw," Aerys says. "You will also compete in the Turf, Melee, and Duel, will you not? Does the North intend to snatch all the prizes?"
There was genuine amusement in his voice.
"We are merely demonstrating our strength, as Your Grace said the tournament would serve for."
His face lights up at my words.
"Ah, yes! It seems at least one of the kingdoms is not paralyzed with fear and understands. Very good work. Pass my compliments to Lord Stark."
His tone was heavy with satisfaction.
"I will, Your Grace."
"But do not think the North will manage to take everything home. Archery and axe throwing were easy because no one cares about them." His tone was now thick with contempt.
Aerys was a man who seemed unable to feel things in balance. It was all or nothing with him.
"The real challenge will be in the Joust, Mock Battles, and Duel. My Kingsguard will be present in all of them."
"It certainly will not be easy, Your Grace," I say, trying to put an end to the conversation.
Giving him more rope would only fuel his interest in me.
It is much better to remain in uncomfortable silence, which is what would happen if it were only the two of us in this box.
"Stop staring, Rhaegar; it is impolite," the Queen tells the prince, who was staring at me with wide eyes.
-
Name: Rhaegar Targaryen (10)
HP: 9 / 9
Sex: Male
Race: Valyrian
Class: Sorcerer
Sourcerous Origin: Draconic Bloodline
Level: 2
Exp: 480 / 900
Ability Score
Strength: 6
Dexterity: 7
Constitution: 6
Intelligence: 10
Wisdom: 6
Charisma: 9
Skills
Arcane(Int): A habilidade de aprender e recordar conhecimentos sobre magia, itens mágicos, símbolos arcanos, tradição mágica, os planos de existência e os habitantes desses planos.
Persuasion (Cha): The ability to convince people to believe in something.
Feats
Gift of the Chromatic Dragon: You've manifested some of the power of chromatic dragons. Can infuse acid, cold, fire, lightning, or poison damage to a weapon of choice for one minute, dealing 1d4 extra damage. Also, gain resistance to those types of damage.
Mounted Combatant: Gain combat advantage while mounted and not incapacitated.
Talents
Dagger: 1 / 4
Darts: 1 / 4
Slings: 1 / 4
Quarterstaffs: 1 / 4
Light Crossbows: 1 / 4
-
He was a sorcerer with this 'Draconic Bloodline' as his sorcerer's origins. Just like his father.
The prince momentarily shifts his gaze to her before turning back to me and finally saying something.
"Are you a Warlock?"
"Rhaegar!" His mother rebukes him, while the boy continues to stare at me.
Sitting beside the Queen, Joanna played with the twins in her lap, trying to keep them entertained during the break, but as soon as the word magic leaves the prince's mouth, they turn to us.
They weren't the only ones. All the other Lannisters mimic the movement, with Tywin being the most disinterested, moving only his eyes without moving his head like Kevan and Gerion.
"Leave the child alone, Rhaella. He is a Targaryen; it is normal for him to be interested in the magical. You are the outlier for not wanting to know more." There was weariness in his voice, as if this wasn't the first time they had spoken about it.
Hearing the King's words, his sister-wife turns her face away with a sigh, causing her brother-husband to turn to me.
"Answer him," he commands.
The prince not only opens his eyes even wider in anticipation of my confirmation, but he also begins to scratch his gloved hands, as if trying to feel something beneath them.
"Yes, my Prince. I know how to perform magic."
His purple eyes widen even further, as does his mouth, until he closes it in a confused expression.
"That was not my question."
"It wasn't?"
"I asked if you were a Warlock, like those from Essos. That is what people say."
It seems the prince is quite perceptive.
"What is a Warlock?" I hear the twin dressed in feminine attire, Cersei, ask Joanna, receiving a 'shush' in response, which causes the girl to pout.
"I understand. Well, I have never seen a Warlock, so I cannot claim whether we are the same-"
"They say they perform rituals to gain their power, which sometimes even involve blood sacrifices."
I can feel the eyes directed at me grow sharper and more accusatory after this lack of tact.
"Do not listen to him, Ser. He listens too much to those who talk too much," his mother says with a polite smile while she holds his shoulder, trying to lean him back against the chair and make him retreat.
"That makes sense!" the boy says to his mother, still oblivious to the situation he created.
I was wrong. He isn't perceptive at all.
"There is no problem, Your Grace," I say to the Queen before turning to the prince. "I am not a Warlock, Prince Rhaegar. But I would like to know the reasoning behind that assumption."
If they are painting me as a dark mage who sacrifices people for power, I want to know the logic of the accusation, even if I am forced to give him more rope and discuss magic.
"See? He doesn't mind. Let the boy go," Aerys says.
Is he using his own son to draw information out of me?
Judging by the poorly contained, satisfied smile on his face that I catch at the edge of my vision, yes.
"It is because of the Weirwoods," the prince begins in a dramatic tone. "According to the legends, they were created with human sacrifices. And since you are a follower of the Old Gods, who pray to the trees, it was assumed you had done the same."
'Pray to the trees.' Apparently, it will not be possible to end these rumors, as they are rooted in religious ignorance.
"I know you don't pray to the trees."
Oh.
"But rather the Old Gods behind them. But the point that the Weirwoods were created with sacrifices stands. And you also told father that you learned your magics from the gods themselves."
He narrows his eyes, as if thinking of how to say what was on his mind.
"So... if the Old Gods taught their followers from millennia ago to create the trees with blood magic, did they not teach you the same type of magic? From what I have read, Bear Island even has Weirwood Heart Trees, the rarest of the sacred ones."
He is smart. Very smart, more than his 10 Intelligence demonstrated. Or perhaps I am viewing that 10 the wrong way. Although it is average for an educated adult, he is still a child.
A precocious child.
"I understand why you would think there is some truth to these rumors, but tell me, Prince, who said the trees were created with sacrifices?"
He freezes, not knowing how to answer.
"... The Maesters?"
"Correct. Therein lies the problem. You must understand that the Maesters and their Citadel are an Andal and relatively modern thing. All their books that speak of the North's mythological past postdate their content by centuries. By the time they finally wrote about the creation of the Weirwoods, everyone who could have known about their creation no longer walked Westeros, to the point where even we can only theorize about their creation."
I can feel the air changing as I speak. It is all nonsense, but it seems to have an air of credibility sufficient to convince them. Especially Rhaegar, who watches with extreme fixation.
"This forced the Maesters to write based on rumors and superstitions. Rumors and superstitions that are not even of Northern origin. And since the Citadel is thousands of kilometers from the North, it took years to receive people from the North who could have shed light on the matter."
"Did the North not write about its own beliefs?"
"The North did not have the habit of writing as much as we do today. The idea of writing down everything that occurs and what people think is an invention of the Maesters. The North used to, and still does, although with less intensity, pass down its knowledge and tradition orally."
I have no idea if what I said is true. I am basing it on the Viking peoples of the past, who had this same custom, which was the cause of much of Norse mythology being lost to time.
I assume George R. R. Martin drew inspiration from them when creating the North. I hope I'm not wrong.
"Ask yourself this: Do you think a religion that abhors slavery and prizes freedom would practice blood magic?"
I think so. But that doesn't matter. Rhaegar, who shifts his gaze to the floor and thinks in silence, seems not to believe it.
"I see..."
Good. Now I can-
"But then what are you?"
Bloody hell.
"Father said you aren't the same as a Septon either."
"Not a Warlock, but not a saint," I reply vaguely.
Though telling the truth, that I am a druid, wouldn't necessarily put me in trouble, it would invite him to ask more questions on the subject. Now that I've found out what I wanted, I just want to end the conversation.
"What-"
"He doesn't want to answer, Rhaegar. Stop pushing him."
"Ugh," Aerys grunted in response.
In contrast, Rhaegar leans back in his chair without complaining and begins to reflect.
It's time to seize the moment.
"King, Queen, Prince, it was wonderful to spend time in your presence, but it is time for me to take my leave. It seems the preparations for the Turf are finishing up, so I will return to my family. And I need to speak with our man who will be competing beforehand," I explain.
"There is no need to keep listing reasons. Just go," Tywin says, looking at the field being worked on.
Great.
"Tywin!" Joanna exclaims.
I rise from my chair.
"It was a pleasure to have you," Rhaella says.
"The pleasure was mine, Queen Rhaella." I start walking toward the door guarded by two members of the Kingsguard.
"See you later, Ser!" the prince shouts moments before I exit.
I turn and reply, "Farewell, Prince."
"We will talk later!"
I hope not.
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