Chapitre 8: The Blade's Baptism
Daemon's mind raced as he processed the flood of new information the old villager had provided. Dragons, kings, kingdoms - it was all so foreign and fantastical, yet the man had spoken of it with such conviction.
How could such a world exist, parallel to his own? Daemon felt a growing sense of disorientation as he grappled with the implications. Was he truly no longer in his own realm? Had some unseen magic transported him to this strange land of Westeros and its Seven Kingdoms?
As Daemon considered his predicament, his eyes were drawn to the large castle the villager had described - Harrenhal. A cursed seat of power, where a tyrant king had met his fiery demise at the jaws of dragons. It was a legend that both intrigued and unsettled Daemon.
Yet, the prospect of attending the upcoming tourney at this mysterious, haunted castle piqued his curiosity. Perhaps there, amidst the gathering of lords and princes, Daemon might find the answers he sought.
Daemon turned to the old villager. "This tourney at Harrenhal - when does it take place, and how might I gain entry?" He needed to get to the heart of this mystery, to understand his strange new circumstances. The tourney represented his best chance.
"The tourney is to be held in a fortnight's time, milord. As for gaining entry, that may be a challenge - Harrenhal will surely draw the greatest knights and lords from across the Seven Kingdoms. But if you have skill with sword or lance, you may be able to earn yourself a place amongst the competitors."
Daemon rose from his seat, his brow furrowed with purpose. "Alrick," he called out, his voice commanding the young man's attention. Alrick, who had been engaged in conversation with a woman in her mid-thirties, her long dark hair framing a weathered countenance, quickly excused himself and hurried to Daemon's side.
"Yes, ser?" Alrick replied, falling into step beside the seasoned warrior.
Daemon turned to face the boy, his piercing gaze appraising Alrick for a moment. "Alrick, what do you wish to do?" he asked, his tone leaving little room for uncertainty.
Alrick hesitated, his youthful features betraying his uncertainty. "I... I still don't know, ser," he admitted, bracing himself for Daemon's reaction.
Without warning, Daemon brought his hand down firmly on the back of Alrick's head. "Idiot," he berated, "I've been instructing you to become my squire. What do you think?"
Alrick's eyes widened, the reality of Daemon's offer sinking in. "Squire? Me? But I'm just a farmer, ser," he stammered, only to receive another sharp slap.
"Not anymore, you're not," Daemon declared, his tone leaving no room for argument. "So, what do you think?"
Alrick swallowed hard, a mix of trepidation and excitement coursing through him. "Yes, ser. Thank you," he replied, a newfound resolve settling in his gaze.
"Good. Then go say your goodbyes. We leave tomorrow morning," Daemon instructed, already turning to attend to the preparations for their journey.
Alrick POV:
Alrick hurried to his modest shack, his heart pounding with a mix of excitement and apprehension. As he approached the small, thatched-roof cottage, he spotted his mother, Elara.
"Mother!" Alrick called out, drawing her attention.
Elara looked up, a concerned expression crossing her weary features. "Alrick,what is it?" she asked, wiping the dirt from her calloused hands.
Alrick took a deep breath, struggling to find the words. "Mother, I... ser Daemon has asked me to be his squire," he blurted out, his voice tinged with a mixture of pride and disbelief.
Elara's eyes widened, and for a moment, Alrick feared she might protest. But then a bittersweet smile graced her lips, and she placed a weathered hand on his cheek.
"My Alrick, a squire to a true knight," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.
Alrick felt a lump form in his throat as he saw the pride shining in his mother's eyes. "But, Mother, I know not the first thing about being a squire. What if I fail?" he confessed, his self-doubt creeping back in.
Elara pulled him into a warm embrace, her hand gently stroking his hair. "Hush, now. ser saw something in you, Alrick. You must have the makings of a fine knight, and I have no doubt you will rise to the challenge."
Alrick returned the embrace, drawing strength from his mother's unwavering faith in him. "I will make you proud, Mother. I promise," he whispered.
Elara pulled back, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I know you will, my dear. Now, go, and take care of yourself. I will be praying for your safe return."
Alrick nodded, his own eyes stinging with emotion. He helped Elara gather a few meager provisions for the journey, and as the first light of dawn began to peek over the horizon, he made his way back to where Daemon waited.
As Alrick approached the village square, the scene before him was one of turmoil. The elderly village elder was on his knees, begging and pleading with Daemon, who stood tall and unwavering.
Beside Daemon, a man was bound in ropes, his clothes in disarray and his face a mix of terror and exhaustion. It was clear that this was one of the bandits who had attacked the village.
"Please, ser, show us mercy!" the elder cried, his voice trembling. "Our village lies in ruins, and only fifty of us remain. We have nowhere else to go. We beg you, allow us to accompany you, to find shelter and safety under your protection."
In the realm of Westeros, the social order is rigidly maintained, and the smallfolk are bound to their liege lords by a web of feudal obligations. Under normal circumstances, the villagers leaving their assigned lands without their lord's permission would be considered a cardinal offense, punishable by severe consequences.
Daemon's gaze swept over the gathered group, his brow furrowed in contemplation. Alrick held his breath.
Finally, Daemon looked at his direction let out a heavy sigh. "Very well," he conceded, raising a hand to silence the elder's cries of gratitude. "You may accompany us, but you will all be expected to pull your weight. No slacking, no complaints. Understood?"
The elder's face lit up with relief, and he nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes, ser! We are in your debt. Thank you, thank you!"
Daemon turned to the bound bandit, his expression hardening, then he looked at Alrick and a thoughtful expression crossed his face "Wait, elder, not so fast. I will only take you and your people under my protection if this boy proves worthy of being my squire. I want him to come and end this bandit's miserable life. If he cannot do even that, then he is better off remaining a peasant with you."
The villagers looked to Alrick, hope shining in their eyes. They silently pleaded with him to do as Daemon demanded, lest they lose the knight's patronage and be left at the mercy of their lord.
Alrick's heart pounded in his ears as he approached the bound bandit, the weight of the villagers' futures heavy on his shoulders. The man spat at his feet, sneering. "You don't have the stomach for this, boy."
Alrick's hand trembled as he drew his dagger, the blade feeling unfamiliar and unnatural in his grip. He paused, his resolve wavering as the bandit thrashed and cursed. Taking a shaky breath, Alrick stepped closer, trying to steel his nerves.
Raising the dagger, he hesitated, his arm quivering. The bandit seized the opportunity, twisting violently in his bonds. "Can't even finish the job, can you?" he taunted.
Alrick's brow furrowed in concentration as he lunged forward, slashing clumsily at the bandit's neck. The blade glanced off, drawing only a thin line of blood. The bandit let out a guttural laugh, his eyes alight with malice.
Gritting his teeth, Alrick tried again, his movements erratic and uncertain. The dagger sank into the bandit's shoulder, eliciting a howl of pain. But the man refused to go down, his defiant gaze fixed on Alrick.
Sweat beaded on the young man's brow as he struggled to deliver the final blow. After several more desperate attempts, he finally managed to drive the dagger into the bandit's throat, the life fading from the man's eyes.
Alrick stepped back, his hands shaking as he wiped the blade clean. The villagers watched in a mix of relief and unease, their silent gratitude tempered by the raw display of violence.
Daemon observed the scene, his expression unreadable. "Well done, boy," he said, a hint of approval in his voice. He gestured to the villagers. "Gather your belongings and prepare to depart. We ride in two hours."
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone