Seven Hells (Unfinished)

((OOC: This thread is set in the past, and has already been graded.))

The journey to the castle of the Lyddens had taken them more than three months. They had set out with Fifty men, Joined by another Twenty-five and had travelled through the sights that Iain had never thought to see before in his young life.
His father had graciously allowed him to carry a short sword. With warnings as to what would happen if he swung it at anyone with the intention of harming them. As they passed into the Crownland’s, Iain was humming a merry tune to himself. The bear and the maiden fair. A guardsman had thought it to him and he didn’t want anyone to find him singing it. His mother would think he was rude.
Then, Lydden castle came into their sight. His father’s seventy-five men formed an honor guard around them and a scouting party came roaring out of the castle. This was Iain’s first sight of knights and they were everything he expected them to be, shining, gallant, amazing. But little did Iain know that later in life he would kill many of these knights fighting for his true king. Also that many knights were cruel and would think nothing of humiliating him.

“Lord Tristan Domhnail, come with us if you may.” The captain said it simply and together the party thundered towards the big castle in front of them.

When they reached it, the Lord met them graciously along with the maester to where they could talk in private.
“Remember Little Lord, Be careful out here” Augus his father’s chief guard said to Iain “We don’t want you getting hurt”

“I won’t, don’t you worry!” Iain had exclaimed proudly.

Iain was soon crawling over every inch of the castle and he was busy admiring a squires suit of plate when they grabbed him.
“What are you doing wolfboy?” The eldest squire said matter of factly.

“Nothing..But that is a fine piece of armor you have.” Iain’s voice was riddled with surprise and admiration. “Could I be like you?”

A quick glance. “Round up the stable boys, tell them to meet us in that derelict building.” The squire flicked his head at a crumbling building, the only way in was through the side.

Iain followed the big group into the building, which was littered with rubble and other things. They were pushed away and created a stone ring. The boy who had created the idea came forwards with a grin and simply said “You’ll have to beat me if you want to be like us.” He grinned nastily which reminded Iain like one of the wolfs that roamed the forests.

“I’m not sure I want to-” Iain began, but his head shot back as the fist hit him in the face.
The boys began to scream and shout and as Iain’s vision cleared, he managed to duck the punch that came his way. He came up with a quick right under hook and he felt connection as it slammed into the other boys ribs.

The boy grunted and kneed Iain in the stomach, which drove the wind from him and sent him flying to the floor. The boy stood above him nastily and Iain reached out with his hand and grabbed onto a small stone. He brought his fist up and it hit the other boys face with a thud. Blood poured from a gash above his eyes. Iain rose up ready to continue the fight when a wooden sword was placed in his hand and the other boys. Who was lying on the ground. Iain looked around fearing another test. Or maybe someone was coming.

WC=601

In spite of Blueberry's best intentions, their hunt had been fruitless; the older cutthroat had taken Nash and his men to one of his former comrades' best-hidden dens, only to find nobody there. They had combed the surrounding areas of the forest with little success; the only good thing that had come out of it was the large boar his lads had managed to spear. Little was left for them to do aside from trashing the hideaway and blocking its entryway; it was frustrating, but the knight knew all too well that there were many days when they would return to the Deep Den empty-handed. The brigand's younger comrades kept out of his way, probably expecting to swing from a branch, but there was no danger of that happening; the Lydden heir wanted to win their trust almost as much as some of them wanted his. The others, as was the case of the fellow riding beside him, an enormous wart shining on the bridge of his nose like a full moon, acted with the same ease that had defined their robbing ways until the lord's justice, strange as it was, came to smoke them out of their dens.

As they made their way back to the Lydden's seat of power, he reminded himself that they were expecting a nobleman from the North and their men; his father had mentioned something about a marriage with one of their distant relatives, a rather comely young lass just shy of fifteen who had been their guest ever since her mother had died. The strange thing about that alliance, as he recalled, was the fact that her future husband hailed from the North; he hadn't been able to understand why her future husband's kin hadn't looked to find him someone closer to home, but her dowry was to be a hefty one, no doubt, and that was enticement enough for a number of higher-born fellows who sought to expand their holdings or to curry some favor with the Lannisters, their powerful liege lords. Nevertheless, it seemed that something serious had happened, for no sooner had they entered the keep that Iven, the knight's young squire, ran toward them like a madman.

"Ser Nash! Oh, thank the Seven! Come quickly, the Northmen are here!"

"Settle down, lad," he replied, gracefully descending from his steed and giving him a look of concern. "How many are there? Did they do something unbecoming?"

"Seventy-odd," the lad replied, "but they haven't done anything! It's the lord's son, Ser Nash - some of the other squires have taken him to the old smithy and..." Iven wasn't a bad sort, but his enthusiasm often got the best of him. Aside from that, he had taken to the dagger like a fish to water and he was a dab hand at sharpening, so he sometimes forgave him his youthful mistakes.

"Oh, right where you lot gather up to sneak a few ales and ogle the women?" The young man's face grew redder and redder by the heartbeat. "Yes, I'm sure you all reckon nobody knew about that," he commented, the scene making Blueberry send out a hearty belly laugh. "Lads'll be lads, Yer Lordship! Sucking each other's pricks by now, most like." However, the knight was in no mood for jesting; lads'll be lads, indeed, but he knew all too well that the cruel streak of the youth may have meant trouble if anything happened to the child. "Take my horse," he told his squire, running toward the crumbling building with even, stealthy steps.

The scene that presented itself to him made Nash frown; the squires weren't the only one taking part, it seemed that several stable boys had decided to join in the fun - and some fun it was, too. The young Northman seemed younger than most of them, but they still wanted to have a go at him; the knight nodded in appreciation when he saw how the lad defended himself, given the situation he was in, but he was having none of it. "What in the Maiden's tight little cunt are you doing?" he bellowed, making them cease and look at him like a bunch of does that had spotted the hunter. Of course, some rushed to 'explain' and find excuses for themselves, but some others decided to run for it - as was the case of the slighter son of one of the cooks, who tried to duck under Nash's arm, earning himself an open-handed strike to the gut for his troubles.

"Not another word," he growled, making them swallow their mewling; "this is no way for anyone to act toward a guest - especially if they ever want to be knighted," he added, giving the squires a stern once-over. "A good whipping ought to make you remember," he decided, "but I'll find you lot later. Now, bugger off before I bleed any of you." The threats were enough to make all of them, even the one who'd been at the receiving end for his blow and the one who'd taken a stone to the head from Domhnail's son, quite fleet of foot. Satisfied, Nash made his way over to his guest, inspecting his face and his clothes. "Are you well, lad? What happened here?"

Word count: 879

“Are you well, lad? What happened here?” When the knight had stepped into the ruins quite as a shadowcat. Iain jumped backwards with shock. Several of the boys had decided to run. One of the cook boys had been punched in the gut as a result and after stern warnings, they all left.

“Well..I was looking at a plate of armor and one of them came up to me and asked what I was doing. So I replied that I was admiring his armor. Then he looked at his friend and told him to get everyone and then I came here” Iain took a big breath and restarted his story. “They said to me if I fought the big boy and won I could be like them and then I said I didn’t want to but he hit me in the face. So I hit him back and he pushed me down and then I grabbed that big rock over there and punched him in the face with it.” Iain stopped the story with a big gasp, red in the face from speaking. “My lord.” He added hurriedly

Iain looked over the knight slowly. He was wearing some sort of mud stained leather armor. A testament to that he was outside. Hunting something. Or someone. The thought crossed Iain’s mind in a flash of terror and he hurriedly looked back up to the knight.

“I’m sorry my lord! I didn’t mean to hurt him!” Iain backed away a few steps, the wooden sword clutched tightly in his hand. He watched other men walk into the abandoned building. One of them muttered something and the other said; “Shut up Blueberry..”

“It..Won’t happen again my lord. I promise you. Not while I’m here.” Iain stuttered the words. From fear and shock.

Iain thought that if he could get out and get his short sword that was strapped to his saddle in time. Maybe he could practice with the master at arms there. He just needed to find out who the master at arms was.
“Excuse me My lord..But who’s the Master At Arms here?” Iain asked him attentively.

“I am, ya’ little whippet ya’” One of the men said with a grin on his face.

“Shut up Blueberry..” Another one of the men muttered and the rest of them burst into laughter.

“But who is the Master At Arms?..If not the man named after a fruit?” Iain asked them all innocently with a blank expression on his face and the rest of the men burst out laughing.

WC=425

As the little lordling told Nash all about his adventure, the knight merely nodded in agreement, remembering why he didn't care much for children: they had a way of talking too much. He did, however, clarify everything that had gone on in the decrepit old building, which was good, but what wasn't good at all was the fact that the blasted little shits lacked any trace of honour; the stable boys were one thing, but the squires, with their head full of tales about True Knights and their dreams of becoming heroes of the realm, needed some well-deserved disciplining before they could even begin to hope to take their vows. Clearly, none of them were to become the next Jaime Lannister as far as swordplay was involved, but he had his doubts about the kind of knights the local squires would grow into if they kept things up as they did thus far. "You did what was right, lad," he calmly replied, satisfied with the fact that his guest hadn't been seriously hurt; that would have made for some rather unpleasant aftereffects.

To make things even more interesting, a small band of his men had followed him inside; they were bantering as they had started to some time before, which he appreciated - it had been hard enough to locate the sots, much unlike swaying them into taking up arms against their former comrades, he wanted no trouble to emerge between them and the soldiers and knights of his House. Interestingly enough, however, it seemed that the young fellow hadn't had enough of a beating for a single day, since he asked for the castle's master-at-arms; as always, Blueberry had to chip in with a few of his japes. "Mind your tongue," he hissed, frowning at him, "this is a lord's son you're talking to." Mollified, the former brigand did no less; he was a bright man and an able swordsman, but he had less manners than he had a clean face. "You'd be looking for Ser Weldon," he told the boy. "Tomkin," he called, turning toward one of his other hirelings, "go and tell him that his lads have earned themselves thirty lashes each. More if they give him any lip, less if they reveal any of their accomplices." The shorter man nodded, took a rather rigid bow and went to locate the old knight, who was probably well in his cups by then - which was another reason why the damned little beasts were running rampant rather than training, eating and resting, as proper young warriors should have done.

"The man who trains me, however, is Nicophor over there," he added, turning back to his guest and pointing toward a grizzled old man, fair of hair and built much like Nash was, who stood with his left foot ahead, his weight placed slightly more on it, looking as if he was ready to strike. "As for Blueberry, that's not his name - his parents called him Palben - but we call him that because he's as pretty and sweet as a blueberry," he added, to which even the taciturnal Nico had to join in the general laughter; the giant wart on the former brigand's nose was the reason for his nickname, of course, but there was no reason not to add a little to his misfortune, to teach him to keep his mouth shut. "Come with me," he decided, with a sigh and a little tensing of his jaws, "I am Nash Lydden, heir to these lands, you're my guest and I will be honoured to teach you a few things." Treading as he usually did, he made his way toward the courtyard, where the training area was located. "This one," he added, pointing at Blueberry, "is going to help, since he's so willing today." The double-entendre wasn't wasted on the men, who quickly burst into laughter again.

Stepping unto the training grounds, Nash quickly unsheathed his sword and dagger, the former brigand doing the same with his own blade, as the knight calmly fell into the relaxed stance his trainer had. "See, little lord," the would-be aide began, circling his master, "ye're surely dreamin' of those big oafs in shiny plate who chop people down left-and-right with their swords an' shields. Ye won't see His Lordship like that - 'e's too skinny." With that, he lunged, thrusting toward Nash's kidneys; the knight pivoted on one heel, catching the blade with his dagger and smashing Blueberry into the ground by burying his elbow between the older man's shoulder blades. It was rougher than the usual demonstration, but Palben knew little about holding back and Nash wanted to teach him a lesson. "Again!" he growled, tossing the sword away and waiting for his partner to retrieve it. "What he means, lad," he began, with a didactic tone of voice, "is that you needn't be large and in full tourney armour to kill a man." He faced his hireling, ducking under a high slash to sweep his feet from under him with a kick, then springing up to poise his blade at Blueberry's throat. "Dead," he dryly announced, before withdrawing - as to allow him to get back up and attack again.

Angrily, the former brigand went at him with a series of wide slashes, which Nash dodged with increasing ease. "No control," he calmly commented, "no precision." Meeting Blueberry's sword with his own in mid-strike, he then thrust the pommel of his dagger into the man's stomach, making him clench downward; after that, he sent him to the ground with a pushing kick. "Enough," he commented, with a sigh, "get up, sheathe your sword, go and have a drink with the men." He went toward one of the stands, sheathing his blades and retrieving a wooden practice sword of his own. "Now, show me what you can do," he told his guest, motioning him over with his free hand.

Word count: 990
Total word count: 1869

Iain was dragged from the small little out house which he would later learn was a smithy. They made their way to where they could hear the thunks of metal on wood and and leather and arrows hitting targets. It was the first time Iain had seen a training yard bigger than the one in Green Hill. It made for a magnificent sight. There was laughing and jesting going on all around them and to the corner near the pig pen was an old man drinking away all his problems in the world or so Iain thought. He lurched to his feet drunkenly and stumbled against the pen and when he finally got to his feet, he did a drunken bow to Nash and muttered “M’Lord..How nice it is to see you..after..five years..” He drew the words out drunkenly and when he straightened up he took a swig of Ale and looked at Iain. He stumbled over and looked at him drunkenly, picking up his right arm and left arm and letting them swing down. “You fight with one or two Hands?..” He asked drunkenly, blinking like a rat does when it comes into light after so many days in the dark. “I fight with my right..And use my left as my shield hand..” Iain replied back to him somewhat warily.

The Master-At-Arms nodded and walked away, singing some song to himself and suddenly fell in between two buildings where he began to snore softly like a bear. Iain had watched him warily and watched Blueberry and his leader. Nash was like a blur of lightning, when he thought that Blueberry was going to strike him down multiple times, Nash would turn the blade aside and make a comment. Blueberry would get so angry he would begin to attack wildly. Nothing was more worse than attacking badly, it made you reckless and inattentive and you might just find yourself on the end of a sword point. “No control” Clang! “No Precision” Swoosh! Then Blueberry was on his back, with a disgruntled look on his face which was mainly one of anger and annoyance at being put down by a man much much younger than him. Iain watched Nash warily as he went over to where a row of wooden swords were stacked against each other neatly. He picked one up and motioned for Iain to grab one as well. He also grabbed onto a heavy wooden practice shield and walked over to a space in front of Nash. His men formed a circular ring around them.

Iain did an upper slash from his right shoulder down to his hip at Nash, Iain pressed the attack once more. Iain slashed at him from left to right. “Keep your shield up..Stop swinging so wildly.” One of the men muttered from the circle and they all muttered in agreement. Iain obliged by holding the heavy shield up In front of him and moved forwards in a crab like walk. Iain suddenly leapt forwards and slashed from his left hip to his right shoulder, Iain shoved his sword forwards the tip caught onto the wooden pommel of the wooden sword and Iain twisted his blade to the other side, hoping that His sword would be tossed away to the side, Iain didn’t see because his long hair got caught in his eyes and he was forced to retreat.

Iain swung his sword across and away from his body ready for Nash’s counter attack.

WC=680
TOTAL=1706

It soon became clear that Tomkin either hadn't found his man or he simply hadn't begun looking for him, instead going toward the nearest tavern like a bear to a beehive. As it were, Nash's men had already presented a shameful spectacle to a guest of House Lydden not long after the lad's father and his men had arrived; there was still plenty of time for them to embarrass themselves and their liege lords before the Northerners left, but never fear, dear readers, for they also seemed to be wasting little of it in that regard. Indeed, Ser Weldon, who was too busy with his drink to pay any attention to his trainees and the gaping holes in their ranks, was just sober enough to recognize his lord's son and acknowledge him; that would have been enough, but no - he also had to pull off a feat of stamina and address the little Northern lord, no doubt adding to his shock, as his host told himself, clenching his hands into fists until his knuckles where white and his nails made themselves plainly felt into the flesh of his hands, even through the blasted gauntlets. Maybe someone else needed those lashes he had ordered for the squires more than they did, he decided, his bad mood translating in an even harsher treatment toward Blueberry than he had intended.

After the demonstration was over, Nash returned to his initial position on the grounds, the tip of his wooden sword pointed squarely at his guest, who had also taken a shield that seemed a smidgen too much on the heavy side for him; he sighed and rolled his eyes at that, because bad habits like relying on a certain item too much took roots all too quickly, but said nothing about it. Instead, he parried the lad's first diagonal swing, aiming to rattle his shield with a shin strike that he tried to sweeten as much as possible before withdrawing with a backward leap in front of his guest's horizontal sweep. He did have the movement of the heavy knights, indeed, and he was nimble enough for it as well; in fact, when Nash pushed his sword arm as far ahead as he could, to see whether he'd take advantage of it, his wild strike caught the tip of his practice sword between the knight's hand and his implement's pommel. Noticing it, he nearly released the grip he had on it, allowing for the twist the lad imprinted on his weapon to disarm him. "Yes, just like that!" he called, letting his sword fly off, a look of satisfaction on his face. In the meantime, Nicophor had decided to step in, taking a practice sword of his own and moving to the young swordsman's side. One of the lads had made a useful comment, but it was time for some applied instruction.

"Look at Nico," the fair-haired man spoke, with his sing-song voice and honey-laden accent, carefully measuring him from head to toe. "You are small and fast, he is big and slow!" Winking at Nash, he added something else: "And stupid. Big is often stupid. Big and smart is very, very bad. Why do you make yourself slow?" In saying so, he tapped the lad's shield with the tip of the practice sword, to explain just what he was talking about. "You must move from up to down, all the time," he added, tapping the lad's shoulders with his practice sword. "Like Nico," he explained, rolling his shoulders back and forth, adding the same circular movement to his sword arm and wrist, then snaking his torso to each side and, finally, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Why do you try to chop harder than him? He chops harder, he is big! Look at eyes," he added, tapping on his protruding cheek bones for emphasis, "they say when he attacks. For every man, for every creature, the eyes." Taking a couple of steps back, he inspected the little lord's stance with a careful gaze. "Knees bent just a little, you must be fast," he told him, tapping his thighs with the wooden sword for emphasis. "Up-up-up! Yes. Now look at him. He has no weapon! What will he do? Maybe he takes your weapon, yes? Maybe he runs away. Maybe he goes after the sword on the ground. You control him, not him you! Show Nico."

Nodding in agreement, Nash eyed his guest, his arms stretched out to the sides. "Listen to him, lad - what do they call you? Maybe you could even remove the shield, if you believe him. I don't have a weapon; what will you do?" Observing him with a calm gaze, ready to evade another series of blows, he waited for the little lord's next move, while Nicophor returned to the side of the grounds.

Word count: 812
Total word count thus far: 2681

Iain had watched the foreigner warily and looked at Nash; arms outstretched waiting for Iain to make his move. His sword was lying a few feet away. In battle he would be Iain’s hostage to do with as he pleased, but this was practice. In battle Iain would never give his enemy a chance to pick up his sword. Iain had thought Battle and War were full of glory. Iain dropped his shield and while it rolled away, he never took his eyes away from Nash’s own. Iain tried not to give trace of what he was going to do next. His eyes just remained blank. Slowly, ever so slowly Iain inched his way to Nash’s sword and bending down without taking his eyes off of Nash, he picked the sword up and tossed it to Nash. “Aah. The boy gives his enemy another chance! Many would say that it is honorable. But others would say that it is foolish and that in battle, it would cost them their life!” The foreigner stepped away and Iain said to Nash slowly. “My father calls me Iain..But the guards call me Red..” One of the guards had said that after Iain had been seen running around with a big stick, saying he was the founder of the house. The name had stuck since then.

“Well Red, Do you know why he is so thin?” The foreigner asked and Iain shook his head slowly. “It is because when he is so thin that people will have trouble hitting a small thin, moving target. When he fought that man Blueberry, all of his first attacks were turned away because he was so thin? Do you see now? Many of you Westerosi say that you see. But you do not see properly.” The Foreigner clapped Iain on the shoulder and when Iain looked around him, he saw that members of his father’s guard had joined the group along with all the other men that had been on guard duty and had just been relieved. But soon after, the Deep Den Guards had went away, but the Wolf Hill guards had stayed where they were. They had seen how important it was for this little lord. He was observing the customs of the Knights of the South, which one day hopefully he would never have to fight. Iain breathed in deeply and readied himself with one hand of his sword and slowly pointed the edge of his blade to point at Nash’s chest. Then he said rather slowly, without taking his eyes off of Nash and keeping the group of men in his peripheral vision.

Iain continued to walk across Nash like a crab, his eyes displaying no emotion. Iain decided to stab at Nash’s chest before he did a feint and slashed at his left leg. Iain’s arm twitched and it gave away what he was going to do for he stabbed at Nash’s chest and a foot away from his chest and pulling away he slashed at Nash’s left leg. His hair once more pushed in front of his eyes and he couldn’t see if his hit had actually connected. He heard a tsk noise and when he looked up, one of his father’s guards had a dagger and sawed Iain’s loose hair off until his own head was shaved bald with only stubble covering his head. Iain was breathing heavily and sweat was drenching his eyes. Without waiting he leapt at Nash and feinted to his left leg, brought the wooden sword up to his left arm and danced away again more quickly then he would have thought of. Iain wiped his sweat from his eyes and backed away from Nash, sword held in front of him.


WC=624
TOTAL=2330

Had he known about the the younger man's perspective, Nash would certainly have agreed - up to a point, at least. As far as he was concerned, battle was more about killing one's foes while remaining blissfully alive and healthy yourself, but that was hardly an opinion of a knight of the realm, so he tended to keep it to himself. Therefore, a disarmed adversary was a dead adversary - preferably just after he had disarmed him, to minimize any other risks. However, they were practicing - and it seemed that they were both observing the knightly ideals, as it were. "Thank you, Iain," he commented, going to lift the practice sword off the ground with a flick of the ankle and a quick grab. That particular move was something Nico had never accepted - "what if you'll do the same with a live blade?" the Myrish sellsword always liked to ask, but he had never gotten hurt that way and he had been smart enough to avoid doing so with true swords, no matter how live or dull they were. Old habits, however, seemed to die rather hard, but, in the end, there was Nash with a practice weapon in hand again, frowning at the newcomers while moving his body so as to feel the familiar weight of his sword and dagger; if things did get out of hand, as he had feared before, they weren't about to catch him with his breeches down.

It was strange to be finally training someone else, in all honesty. Ser Weldon had always chased him and his trainer away from the grounds back in the day when he hadn't taken as much to the drink as he had back then, because he believed that they would put strange ideas into the squires' minds. In truth, they were as much strange as they were foreign, but he had been far less physically endowed as a child than his guest appeared to be and his interest toward slashing at a dummy or drilling moves among the prospective knights had, obviously, been quite low. Instead, Nash had quickly taken to the style of the old sellsword, who had learned how to train him just as his student learned how to use a blade - but there was no time for reminiscing. He did, instead, chuckle at the old man's comments - having heard the one about the Westerosi and their sight one time too many - , even if he did agree with them, much like he didn't agree with his lads going about their merry way while the Domhnail men became more obvious within their crowd; even if he had bested each and every one of them, that didn't make him an invincible and lightning-fast warrior with no care in the world.

The lad's stance wasn't half-bad, truth be told, so the knight readied himself for the assault with the one both he and his trainer had previously demonstrated. Seeing the Northerner's first feint of the day, he merely sidestepped, pivoting ninety degrees to the right on the ball of his foot. "Keep to it!" he called, not at all satisfied with the way in which he'd depicted his true intentions from an hour away, but everybody had to start from somewhere. As it seemed that the young man's hair had gone to shroud his eyes again, one of his guards nimbly stepped unto the training grounds with his dagger poised; Nash readied himself to strike the man down if his intentions proved to be dishonorable, but, instead, the man-at-arms relieved his lord's son of all the hair on his head; arching an eyebrow, their host observed the procedure with a flabbergasted look, but it was not for him to make a call about what was and what wasn't appropriate. Surprisingly enough, in any case, was the fact that he was still raring to fight after a treatment that painful; Nash amply dodged his blow and watched his eyes as he withdrew, trying to determine whether he was willing to have another go at him - and, at that point, that didn't seem likely.

"Good, Iain! Remember to work on those feints when you go back home, they may save your life someday!" he called, with a satisfied smile that was as rare as a warm day beyond the Wall. Nash wasn't the only one satisfied with the lad's performance; he could hear some of his guards muttering their appreciation as well, but he paid little attention to them. "Now, knees up, sword at the ready! I'll be attacking you this time," he decided, rubbing his two-day-old beard pensively with his free hand. "I'll announce the spots you're supposed to defend." Wasting no more time, he lunged toward the young Northerner much like he usually did, to see how he would fare against a real attacker. "Left shoulder!" he announced, going for an overhead strike and switching his practice sword to his left hand, to soften the blow. "Right hand!" he then decided, aiming for the lad's sword hand with a fine thrust. Finally, to see if he'd been paying attention, he decided to go for a more devious approach. "Right shoulder!" he declared, with a sharp feint that allowed him to switch hands again; with his right hand, he delivered a diagonal whipping slash aimed for the lad's left arm - and it was going to leave a mark for a while if it connected.

Word count: 912
Total word count thus far: 3593

Nash seemed a fair tutor and he kept correcting Iain’s stance for the better. He blocked all of Iain’s blows with only a flick of the wrist and it helped that Iain’s hair had been cut out by the guardsman. It felt strange having wind blow onto his scalp, where in the North it would most likely just have frozen your head. Iain continued to watch and learn and he decided when he got to the North in Wolfs Hill, he would learn to train with two handed weapons. It seemed an amazing fighting style if it did leave you open for attacks without any power to block them. Iain had often dreamed of being the battle on the battleground, with maidens swooping after him and knights coming to offer him their services so that they could get plunder and booty and be known as one of those men who had fought in his service. He had often played the game with Robb and Jon and Theon. One of them would be the evil lord and would be out to kill the other lord. Robb was mostly the good lord and Iain and Jon would be his defenders one day, or Theon and Jon or Theon and Iain. It had made for a good game for all of them. Even if they did cause havoc.

Iain slowly turned to the foreigner and asked him what had been troubling his mind. “How are you meant to see their eyes to betray their intention..If their wearing a Mask or a Great Helm or something like that?” the thought troubled Iain and the one they called Blueberry chuckled and said, “His got ya’ there he ‘as.” The foreigner glared at Blueberry and walking with long elegant strides, he knelt in front of Iain and said to him. “Then you are not seeing, yes? You must look over their body and see if they betray their emotion. A twitch might mean an attack, no? Once you can see that, you will know you are one of this Dumb Westerosi who can truly see with their eyes. While the rest of these fools can remain blind as a bat. That is true seeing young Red.” The man patted him on his head with a smile on what Iain thought must be an old face which had seen many battles and walked back to the group of men with purposeful long strides, glaring at Blueberry as he walked past. Blueberry just remained innocent and smiled at him.

“Good Iain! Remember to work on those feints when you go back home, they may just save your life Someday!” Nash called out to him helpfully. Iain was nothing but a bundle of nerves when Nash said that it was his own turn to be attacking Iain. Iain rolled his shoulders trying to get himself relaxed and loose, a tense swordsman was supposed to be a very bad thing, you might seize up at the wrong moments apparently to some people.

“Left shoulder!” He announced and his wooden blade flashed through the air. Iain blocked it just in time and a crack of wood on wood punctuated the air. “Right hand!” The blade came whistling down to his sword hand and Iain pointed the blade at the ground and Nash’s wooden blade smacked off of the dark cross guard of Iain’s wooden sword. “Right shoulder!” He announced. Iain thought it a bit odd that he would continue to go right instead of left, but there was something in his eyes that betrayed him. Iain managed to block the attack in time, but it left a stinging blow on his forearm that brought tears to his eyes and pulling his blade back quickly while Nash’s was still on the ground, he brought it above his head and then down with two hands onto Nash’s own blade. A technique he had been thought at Wolf’s hill that would bring the blade smashing out of their hands. Iain had always been useless at it, mistiming it.

WC=674
TOTAL=3004

"What he means, lad," or so Nash stated after deciding to pipe in when Nico made his way back to the border of the training grounds, "is that you need to drill your form, your footwork and your strikes until someone could wake you up in the wee hours and you can still fight without thinking about what you're doing. After that..." He paused, trying to find his words for a way that would make him easily understood. "After that, you're free to pay attention to your opponents and your surroundings - and well you should. As Nico would put it, chop like an idiot in battle and you'll chop like an idiot in life." His final words brought forth another bout of laughter from the few of his men still remaining to watch what the liege lord's heir had to show his young guest, but they were his men, at least, the sort whom the knight trusted to aid him if he truly needed them to. As for the entire chopping business, as he reminded himself with a frown, most of the knights he knew tended to be boisterous windbags whose only true strength lied in their superior armor and their numbers. Of course, there were some exceptions to that rule, but it seemed to him that a few brilliant individuals weren't enough to change his opinion about a certain group - one that, ironically enough, counted Nash himself amidst its members.

Back to their training, however. His trainee parried his first two blows quite ably, especially for someone around his age, but what was interesting was that he had paid attention to the lessons he'd been taught that day, rather than reverting to more familiar patterns, so he even managed to deal with the third attack decently enough. He didn't seem content with doing just that, however, so, when he withdrew his practice sword, having clearly been hurt, the lad aimed directly at his trainer's weapon and brought his own down, much like an executioner's axe. Nash didn't evade, just as he didn't simply attempt to stop the little lord's wordless reply. Instead, he brought the wooden blade upward, in an outwardly-pointed arc, so as to absorb some of the blow's force and redirect it toward its origin at the same time. It was strange enough for him to be the stronger man in a clash, but to actively use that strength - even if he had only done so for didactic purposes - was an even queerer thing for him. Only then did he leap backward, saluting the viewers, the gods and the opponent with his outstretched sword arm much like a bravo would have before bowing.

"Good start, Iain!" he called, with a look of satisfaction mixed with a little envy: even with the mistake he had made at the end, the lad was still a better warrior than any of Ser Weldon's present trainees, no matter their age. "Nevertheless, this is what happens when you go for brute strength alone: if the other one's stronger, may the gods have mercy on your arse." Obviously enough, the knight was a stranger to notions such as shielding young and impressionable minds from language like his own, just as he didn't mind teaching the odd painful lesson from time to time: Nicophor hadn't shied away from that sort of thing and he was grateful to him for it, because that had easily made him reconsider when he caught himself about to make an already-known mistake. "Do you want to continue?" he added, wondering if he hadn't gone a smidgen over the top with his latest strike. "If you do, it's your turn," or so he stated, presenting him the tip of his sword.

Word count: 625
Total word count thus far: 4218

Iain was breathing heavily by the time that the parries were over. His arm was stringing smartly from where Nash had hit it and his hands ached from when he brought the sword down like an executioner ax. Iain stepped back away from Nash as he spoke to him about striking and such. “Good start Iain” Nash had called out to him “Nevertheless; this is what happens when you go for brute strength alone: If the other ones stronger may the gods have mercy on your arse.” It seemed strange that Nash would say that when before he hadn’t uttered a curse word. Apart from, ‘what in the maidens tight little cunt are you doing?’

Nash pointed the tip of his blade back at Iain. Asking did he want to go again. Of course he did. He was learning things he would never learn in Wolf Hill. Iain did the simple thing that came to him, he swung his blade towards Nash’s to try and get it away from him.

Iain dodged out of the way before he could attack again and bringing his sword around his head clock wise, he struck down at Nash’s right calf before he danced away from him again. Iain watched Nash carefully. Ready for a twitch or a flick of the eyes to betray his own intentions. Before he could react or attack, Iain lunged forwards and feinted to his left leg, but then he feinted down to the right quicker then Iain thought possible himself and stabbed his sword at Nash’s chest. Iain blinked at the last Moment and he couldn’t tell if he hit Nash or not though.

Iain backed away and began to circle Nash like a crab, his blade held in front of him and his eyes narrowed watching Nash’s every move, ready for his body to betray his intentions and attack him. Iain slowly licked his lips and feinted once more down to Nash’s right sword arm and then brought his sword away from Nash’s body in a counter clockwise motion and seeked to hit the pommel of the sword once more to drive Nash’s sword away from his body.

“Lower your legs.” One of the men called out and Iain obliged. “Keep your sword in front of you, a little higher. Now to the right. Yes right there” He called out again.

Iain began to circle Nash once more His knees bent to slightly accommodate his weight evenly on the cobblestoned ground beneath his black leather boots. By now, Iain’s jerkin was wet from sweat and he had several bruises on his hands and arms. More than he had when he set out from Wolf Hill. He silently vowed to himself that he would spar against someone new everyday to better his reaction systems and to let him get used to different fighting styles. After all, you never know who you could accompany on the battlefield and as many people one said to him, there will always be someone be better then you out there.
Iain stopped while he was circling Nash and a thought crossed into his head slowly. Without taking his eyes off Nash, he suddenly darted forwards and rolled past him, but as he rolled and came up on his feet, he swung at the back of Nash’s leg, seeking to numb it or at least bring him down. But Iain was up before Nash could retaliate.

“Ser Nash..Have you ever been in any wars?” Iain asked Nash quietly. He had always heard war stories. “What’s it like?” he added quickly.

WC=596
TOTAL=3600

In a fighting style like the one the old sellsword taught, breathing was everything. While Nash could notice that his guest's impetuousness had left his heart racing and his breathing followed suit, he had gotten too much used to being unable to fill his lungs with enough air that he hadn't even noticed the signals his body had been giving him about the way in which he moved. It might have been a subtle enough thing for many of their observers, but Nico did notice - and the way in which he frowned as he watched his prized student sparring spoke tomes. Indeed, the knight had returned from the battlefield mere months before and, since then, Maester Elgar had taken to neatly wrapping his lower torso in bandages soaked with a foul-smelling concoction that did away with most of the swelling, true enough, but they also made him take in even shallower breaths than without them; he had refused to drink any milk of the poppy, as if to punish himself for not being able to keep many of his men alive, so there was little else the learned man could do for him. He coughed, with a visible wince, as Iain came at him for another go, and withdrew his sword when the lad attempted to disarm him again; that was a good lesson in itself, showing him that he wouldn't be allowed the same trick twice with some opponents.

As Iain withdrew again, he pursued his movements with slitted eyes, allowing him to gradually wear himself out as he observed his powerful swing and took another leap backwards. One feint, two feints - the Northerner had started to take advantage of his size, just like Nico had taught him, and there was little Nash could do aside from a rather sluggish dodge that allowed his chest to remain untouched, which he paired with another pained wince. Having been several hours in the saddle of a horse that bounced more than a harbour whore on the pricks of her customers hadn't helped at all; as he replied to the young lordling's circling by presenting him his more defended right flank, the knight's moves were little beyond a beginner's swaying. Even then he managed to maintain a glimmer of his usual practiced grace, but the men's whispers had already started to emerge. Blueberry, who had been a squire at some point, had donned a breastplate against the Iron Islanders and it had proven to be a wise choice; unlike his commander, he had known that keeping from getting hit in a clash of that scale would have been a near-impossible task. One of the men who watched them from the sides attempted to correct the visitor's position - truth be told, his impromptu trainer hadn't even thought of doing so, having forgotten himself for a while, abandoning himself to his instincts and senses.

In the meantime, the lad launched himself into another attack - and a surprising one it was, at that. A sudden advance, followed by a roll, which was something the older man hadn't ever expected from him. Nash attempted to pivot on his better leg and give him another little sting for having exposed himself so much, but, as his shoulders turned to bring the rest of his body around, he suddenly tensed up after another painful objection from his ribs; that caused him to do an incomplete turn and, as his little trainee's sword came at his lower area, it caught him squarely in the shin of his still-healing right leg, causing him to breathe out a pained hiss and making his entire body tense up for a few seconds, having been hit in an area that wasn't even protected by his leather boots. Lucky shot or not, that had been a very good effort. "Yes, Iain, just like that!" he growled, the tension even more obvious in his voice, as his killer ways took over for a few seconds and he countered with a coarse whipping strike aimed for the lad's neck, his gaze steely and merciless - but, with a final effort, he stopped before having the chance of doing any damage. If he had decided to fight wounded, it certainly hadn't been the boy's fault.

As he withdrew, with a long sigh, he became aware of the questions his guest had asked. He was in no mood to spar anymore, so he threw his sword aside - his first decision his old master-at-arms had agreed with that day. "I yield!" he announced, causing clamor in the ranks of the Northerners, who acclaimed their little lord and began chanting his nickname over and over. Taking a seat right there, on the well-trodden ground, he eyed his guest wearily, memories of battles he had fought not long before flooding his mind. "Yes, Iain; I have gone with King Robert against Lord Balon Greyjoy. My lads and I were right where the ironmen counterattacked during the siege of Pyke." He paused, giving him a stern once-over; unless he'd heard what had happened from one of the men who had aided them, he didn't think the lad had heard of that event. "You'll grow to be a good warrior if you keep on training, lad, but nothing can truly prepare you for war," he added, a sorrowful expression taking over his features. "My wounds will heal, but nothing will bring the men I lost back from the dead. Look at Blueberry and my other lads you've met," he gravely stated; "not long ago, they were brigands. I caught them and delivered them from the noose, only to have them killed just because an old fool got too big for his breeches." Spitting sideways, he sighed and looked away. If all went well, Iain himself would come to lead armies someday; he didn't know how his father did things, but, if the lad learned to care about the people under his command, that would have been a more valuable lesson than anything he could gain from the training grounds.

Word count: 1011
Total word count thus far: 5229

“I yield!” Nash shouted as Iain did the complex move and hit his right knee. It obviously pained him and Iain had still flinched when he slashed at Iain’s neck. It was a risky move considering the amount of Northmen present. He stopped himself at the last moment, just a testimonial as to how good Nash really was. He was just simply moving his muscles with Iain, he wasn’t trying or so Iain thought.

“Yes, Iain; I went to war with King Robert against Lord Balon Greyjoy. My lads and I were right there where the ironmen counterattacked during the siege of Pyke.” He seemed to give Iain a once over right there, as if testing him to see if he had heard a different story of events that had happened. Iain had heard about the counterattack though. One of the men who had went to Pyke and lost a leg said that the southerners fought bravely against the Ironborn when they attacked. Appaerently the Ironborn had a larger force then the southerners and had almost defeated them except that their commander had pushed them back. Iain’s eyes widened and he looked at Nash slowly. “You! You were the commander when the Ironmen counterattacked, you pushed them back!” Iain’s face was brightened up with excitement. He was talking to the commander who had pushed them back without thought. He had fought against those savage fish eaters.

“You’ll grow to be a good warrior if you keep on training lad, but nothing can truly prepare you for war.” Iain had brightened up at the thought of the commander telling him if he continued to train hard enough, he would be a good warrior, but then he listened solemnly at how Nash had commented on how nothing can prepare you for war. “My wounds will heal, but nothing will bring the men I lost back from the dead. Look at Blueberry and my other lads you met.” Nash had that look that exactly looked like Iain’s father looked when he got talking about the Greyjoy rebellion. His father had lost a lot of men there also. There was Muirtagh, the friendly man who’s father had been a Dothraki and had fought with an Arakah. Iain had that Arakah in his room, hanging up proudly. The curved blade running down to the handle with the horse head in the pommel. His Arakah had not been meant for the stone walls of Pyke and since he had been friends with Iain and thought him everything he knew about Horses and Horse riding, one of the Guardsmen had given him the blade. Iain had worked day and night refurbishing the blade back to its former glory with Whetstone and such. There was Yvo the archer. A formidable one he might add. Who had fallen during the press of people following Thoros Of Myr and Tristan Domhnail and others. The throne of people heavily armored had crushed him. There was numerous others. Cyclops, the one eyed man with the great massive two handed axe. Iain never found out what had happened to him, something grisly apparently.

“Not long ago they were brigands. I caught them and delivered them from the noose only to have them killed because some old fool got too big for his breeches. Then Nash had hawked and spat sideways onto the ground. Iain could tell he had thought of those men as his friends and companions and it had saddened him when they had died fighting for a cause because Balon Greyjoy had decided he wanted to become a king like his ancestors.

“My father was one of the first men through the wall in the breech. He had swung Wolfspaw around him and killed Ironborn with Thoros of Myr, When they got through with some man called Jorah Morment they had to fight every step of the way just to provide ground for the rest of the men to get through. King Robert had knighted Jorah Mormont and given my lord Father additional lands and hunting grounds. My father likes hunting.” Iain had often went hawking with his father. They used to have a magnificent eagle to hunt wild goat and the such with. Once they had let it fly after a heron, intending to bring it down. But the eagle had simply flown away. Iain’s father had searched high and low for it. When he finally found it, an arrow had struck it in the breast. Killing it.

Iain had somewhat sensed that this was a touchy topic for Nash and decided to quickly change the subject with a series of questions. “Do you have a family weapon?” “Do you like hawking?” “What was the most intresting fight you’ve ever seen?” But then Iain finally ended it with. “My father will probably want to go hunting. Do you like it?” Iain smiled at Nash with all the innocence of a eleven year old boy. Who had not a worry in the world so far.

WC=834
TOTAL=4439

As weariness of limb and body slowly took over him, Nash told himself that the boy's enthusiasm could well prove to be a valuable tool for him as he grew more and more into a man and began doing the things expected from him."I was, for all the good that did," he slowly replied, his voice even and his face relaxed - but, all the while, his eyes sang a different tune, one of sorrow and anger. "Still, no matter what my lads and I have done, it would all have been for naught without the intervention of a pack of Stark troops, without whom we'd all have died." He wasn't sure whether the lad's father had taken part in that particular campaign; with the sheer amount of banners that had been with them, even he had stopped taking note of them after a while, aside from those belonging to people he'd already known. "I don't know why our lot always insist that mounted knights are the answer to any question - mine were shattered as soon as they had to defend against a sudden attack from behind." As he spoke, bitterness became more obvious in his tone. For pragmatists like Nash, different types of troops responded better to different challenges; against the swift and lethal ironmen, the hard strikes of the mainland heavies mattered little while on a ship or when they could kill their horses from beneath them - which was painfully common.

Well, his wordless question had been answered: Lord Domhnail, whatever his first name was, counted himself among the de jure heroes of that battle. It seemed that their family was also one of the few who made use of a Valyrian steel weapon - a sword, most likely - and, as the young man recounted what he knew about that battle, the knight listened attentively and nodded, his breathing having become somewhat less ragged after less sudden moves. The Mormont family was not one he could claim knowing, aside from their crest; whoever they were and whatever they did, those were someone else's problem. "No, Iain; we fight with castleforged weapons, like each of my men you see here, when we do," he replied, realizing that owning such a valuable weapon had never been much of an interest neither for his father nor for him. For all the vaunted traits one such sword had to have had, the swordsman still had to adapt to it, rather than it being the other way around; Nash didn't appreciate that one bit, but he kept it to himself, not willing to offend anyone with his personal views - especially since many coveted theirs and their neighbours', rather than focusing on becoming better warriors themselves.

"Game has started returning to the nearby woods after there were less sots preying on whatever they could eat," he theatrically offered, peering at Blueberry with mock anger; just as light-hearted was the man's deep, albeit rigidly-exaggerated bow that he gave as a reply. "My father's probably told yours all about our hounds by now - I've even used them a few times," he added, thinking about the dizzying amount of methods he had employed to flush the damned brigands out of their foxholes. "Neither of us is much of a hawker, however," he concluded, with a final shrug; while Lord Lewys took advantage of the places his beloved heir cleared of human threats with some frequency, Nash himself took little interest in those activities, preferring to withdraw to one of the more secluded areas to work on one of his carving ideas or to try and observe what the groups of deer, graceful and stealthy as was their way, were up to. That aside, he had little in the way of interesting battles to speak about, but he did have one to offer in an emergency, for the sake of any noble sort with whom he had little else to speak with. "I could tell you about how I came to be knighted," he decided, adjusting his leather jerkin gingerly to leave some more room for his injured ribs.

"I am a hunter of men, Iain," Nash replied with a frown and a heavy heart, clashing with the warmth the lad, like many boys of his age, had shown thus far, "and not by choice. Still, while I don't enjoy it, every victory makes the roads here safer and, with luck, bolsters my ranks with able-bodied men who still want to live and don't want to go all the way to the Wall." A sudden thought came to him, so he whistled shrilly, causing his squire, face flushed and breathing heavily, to sprint toward them. "Fetch the prancing horse from my saddlebags," he demanded, causing the lad to run off toward the keep without a word; indeed, there was a certain pastime that he enjoyed quite a bit; as he spied the young man running back with a carving of a horse standing on its hind legs, the plinth beneath it assuring that it could properly stand on a mantel or a desk. Standing up with a visible wince, he took it from his squire's hands, nodded in appreciation and dismissed him. "This is something I like far more," he explained, drawing his dagger to correct a few rough edges on it before handing the carving to his guest. "I'd like you to have this, to remember your time in the West."

Word count: 909
Total word count thus far: 6138

Iain was happy that Nash said that game was returning to the woods now. That was after giving Blueberry a stern look. “My father’s probably told yours all about our hounds now – I’ve even used them a few times.” Iain caught images of Nash in his mind’s eye, hunting bear just by himself and the pack of loyal trusting and yet daring Hounds, it somewhat seemed right that Nash would do that. Fight the bear, save the Maiden, earn eternal gratitude. Become a great man.

“Neither of us is much of a Hawker either.” Nash added. It seemed that Nash took little interest in Hawking or anything like that, but it seemed strange considering Nash used the hounds to hunt. Iain was of the mind that Nash liked to hunt with hounds, many people did in fact. Then Nash’s face became slightly confused and it seemed like he was thinking, when he spoke it seemed to Iain his whole face lit up. “I could tell you about how I was knighted?”

And so he told Iain of how he helped his father’s friend when he was attacked by brigands. Of how proud his parents were when he was knighted by this man and Iain gained new respect for this man. Nash was what a true knight was, he helped others and he was kind, generous and he was everything that a knight should be. What Nash said next shocked Iain to his core, but he soon forgot about it and it raised Iain’s respect for Nash to new levels.

“I am a hunter of men Iain” Nash stated "and not by choice. Still, while I don't enjoy it, every victory makes the roads here safer and, with luck, bolsters my ranks with able-bodied men who still want to live and don't want to go all the way to the Wall." Then, something flicked across Nash’s face and he whistled shrilly, managing to get the attention of his own squire. “Fetch the prancing horse from my saddle bags.” He said and watched as the lad ran off. Iain was filled with levels of curiosity.

Iain saw that the squire had a horse carved into a likeness of it rearing back on its hind legs. It was mounted on a slab of wood and Iain gazed at it curiously while Nash whittled his knife over it.

“This is something I like far more,” Nash explained and handed the carving to Iain. “I’d like you to have this, to remember your time in the west.” Nash said.

Iain took the carving and smiled at Nash in thanks just as his father emerged. He was leading a big hunting dog by a collar and lead and Nash’s father was holding a small sack of gold. “Thank you Ser Nash, I hope to see you again.” Iain called out over his shoulder and followed his father on horseback away from Deep Den. Iain would never see Deep Den again he speculated, but he may see Nash Lydden.

WC=502
TOTAL= 4941