274 AC, Winterfell
I don't know when the two weeks flew by, and it's already today's meeting of the Northern Lords.
But looking at Leviathan - it's easy to guess.
It took me a whole week to carve out the runes. I added two new features.
The first: the ability to summon it from any distance. Yes, exactly - as in a certain slayer of gods.
The second: I strengthened its durability even more. Thanks to additional protective runes, the shaft will definitely not break anymore. Neither from a blow. Nor from time. Nor from the stupidity of the user.
And then somehow flew off to play with the axe.
I threw it at targets. At logs. At walls (only the ones I knew no one would count). I tried if it would come back when I was in motion, when I was turned around, when I was underwater. It worked. Always.
Meanwhile, Maester Walys almost had a stroke when he accidentally saw the Leviathan return to his hand on its own.
He watched as the axe cut through the air, slammed into a wooden pole - and then came back to me.
He said nothing for a few seconds. And then he fired:
„This can't be magic."
The tone of his voice suggested that if it was magic, his entire education had just collapsed.
„Of course not" I replied with a stone face. „It's... advanced axe-throwing technique developed by Thorkell."
He blinked.
„What?"
„Thorkell the Great" I added seriously.
Maester Walys opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but then closed it.
„But how does it work?" He finally asked with the desperation of someone clinging to the last shred of reality.
„Only true warriors know how it works." I chuckled coldly. „Maestros like you, who don't even know how to hold a weapon, won't understand it."
Walys furrowed his eyebrows. For a moment he looked as if he was about to answer something about "the power of the pen" or "the superiority of knowledge over brutality" - but he bit his tongue. And well.
Instead, he intertwined his hands behind his back, sighed and chuckled only:
„Someday you'll get run over by this deliciousness of yours."
„Perhaps," I admitted, dragging my hand across the Leviathan. „But at least with a bang."
Since then, he has kept his distance from me, as if I were a plague. Or worse - someone who has proven that magic works, just doesn't fit into the Oldtown textbooks.
I corrected my belt with Leviathan and started down the corridor.
It was chilly in the corridor. But it was the good chill - damp, stony, suffused with the smell of candles and old flags. The smell I had known since I was a child. The smell of Winterfell.
The guard at the council room door looked at me. He nodded his head. The leviathan on my belt cast a shadow larger than it should have.
I walked in.
The hall was almost full.
Everyone had gathered. From the lords of the great families, to their heirs, to a few senior vassals from minor strongholds. The Mormonts. The Glovers. The Karstarks. The Umbers.
They were all waiting.
Father sat at the end of the table, in his throne-like chair. He didn't get up. He didn't have to. His look alone was enough to silence the entire room.
„It's good that you're here, Brandon." he said calmly. „Sit down on my right."
I sat down. Slowly, confidently.
Father waited until everyone's attention was focused again.
And then he spoke.
„Lords of the North" he began quietly, but without hesitation. „I have summoned you because the king wants us to send troops beyond the Wall for the 'cleansing of the lands of the savages'."
The hall froze.
„I will send a thousand men. They will be commanded by Brandon."
A second silence fell. Deeper. Heavier. As if someone had hurled a stone into a frozen lake and everyone waited for it to crack.
And it did crack.
„What!" roared Jon Umber, breaking away from the bench. „A boy with barely twelve name days, and he is to command beyond the Wall?! He still has milk on his lips!"
He stood up so abruptly that his goblet of wine spilled on the table. No one spoke up. Everyone looked at Rickard. Only Jon continued.
„In my time, to command people, you had to have scars, not milk teeth!"
Without waiting for him to continue.
I stood up and walked over to him.
And I aimed a right hook at him.
It was perfect. Quick, precise — and unexpected.
Surprise - that was the key.
The fist hit him right in the jaw. Jon Umber's head spun slightly to the side. He staggered a step. The cup tipped over for good measure. Wine splashed on the table, his beard, his fur.
And then... it became completely silent.
The silence was broken by Greatjon's laughter.
Loud, harsh, sincere. As if someone had just told him the best joke of his life.
„HA!" roared, wiping blood from his mouth „Well, the young wolf has to teeth!"
I got into his words, without waiting for him to finish.
„You drink such weak wine, no wonder you don't think."
The hall trembled with a wave of suppressed laughter. Several lords averted their eyes to avoid parrying outright. Even Karstark raised an eyebrow.
„Father" I added in all seriousness „give him that five-year-old whiskey, if he drinks it, he'll stop whining."
Father looked at me without saying a word.
He nodded at the servant. The one moved immediately, as if he already knew that today he would be needed
Greatjon snorted, rubbing his chin with wine.
„What new liquor do you have again?"
„Wolf whiskey" I replied. „Aged five years in oak barrels. Burns slow, lingers longer."
„And the strength?"
„Such as vodka."
Several lords laughed under their breath. Karstark curled his lips into what might have been a smile. Glover only raised his eyebrows, as if to say "I'm waiting to try it myself."
Whisky appeared on the table - heavy, barrel-aged. The servant poured carefully. Some lords came closer.
Greatjon took the cup, sniffed, raised a brow.
He drank in a choke.
He fell silent for a moment.
And then he slowly let the air out through his nose and said:
„Now we can talk about the wildlings."