GoT: From Mud To Iron

Jero Lege knew the old knight possessed a vast, seasoned knowledge of the world. He gripped the hilt of the sword tighter, a sudden tremor running through his body, his breath hitching in his throat.

His eyes were glued to the blade. In the flickering torchlight, the dark steel seemed to shimmer with an inner, abyssal glow. The twisted, rippling patterns folded over each other, appearing to physically move like dark water beneath the flames. It was entirely unearthly.

He reached out his other hand, tracing his fingertips along the freezing flat of the blade. The sensation of unnatural, impossible lightness stood in grotesque contrast to the lethal, razor-sharp edge.

Jero's face twitched. He muttered to himself, his voice thick with a profound sense of absurdity. "Impossible!"

"How is this possible?!"

"It's absolutely impossible! A family like them?! How could they possibly possess something like this?!!"

His mind simply could not bridge the gap between this legendary, mythical weapon and the miserable, dung-wiping House Solomon his family could crush underfoot. It was more incomprehensible than seeing a pig take flight.

Ser Adam ignored the boy's bewildered mockery. With trembling hands and a hard swallow, he carefully reached out and took the longsword from Jero's grasp, handling it as if it were a sacred relic bestowed by the gods themselves.

He held the blade close to the torch, his clouded, weathered eyes tracing every distinct, dark ripple.

The old knight lifted the sword high into the air, his voice suddenly spiking, echoing loudly over the sounds of the soldiers still digging in the graves. "There is no mistake! Young Lord!!"

"This is a masterpiece forged by the blood magic of Old Valyria! It is a treasure the Lannisters could not buy with a literal mountain of gold!"

His eyes never left the steel as he spoke, his voice vibrating with absolute awe.

"In all of Westeros! You can count the number of Valyrian steel swords on two hands!"

Jero Lege's expression shifted violently. Greed, like a starving wolf, instantly devoured all his previous confusion and contempt.

He stared at the sword. He didn't see a weapon; he saw an impenetrable fortress, a fully armored army, and an endless river of Golden Dragons. It was a treasure that could secure unimaginable glory for his House.

He clenched his fists. This sword can buy me everything I deserve as the heir of House Lege.

"For a man to wield a blade such as this!" Ser Adam's voice dragged Jero back from his fantasies. "The master of this grave could never have been a nobody!"

The old knight respectfully handed the priceless Valyrian steel back to Jero. Without a moment's hesitation, Ser Adam turned and jumped down into the deepest, oldest grave they had unearthed.

Ignoring the ankle-deep muck and the scattered, ancient bones, he dropped to his knees, his bare hands frantically sifting through the rotted remnants of the coffin.

Ser Adam cared nothing for the filth. Like a devout pilgrim seeking truth, he dug through the desecrated earth. To wield such a sword and have your story lost to time is a tragedy. As a follower of the Warrior, it is my duty to ensure this knight's tale is known.

Unable to suppress his own morbid curiosity, Jero stepped to the edge of the pit, peering down into the dark.

Ser Adam let out a low, triumphant shout. "I found something!"

From beneath a layer of rotted wood and foul-smelling mud, he pulled out an object tightly wrapped in layers of hardened oilcloth.

The cloth was heavily decayed, crumbling apart at the slightest touch. Within its folds lay a small, leather-bound journal.

The old knight's hands shook as he held it. The journal had been violently ravaged by time; the leather cover was curled and split, and the pages within were yellowed and brittle, looking as though they might disintegrate into ash if the wind blew too hard.

Cradling it like a newborn child, Ser Adam carefully climbed out of the grave. Several knights immediately crowded around him, raising their torches to cast light upon the hundred-year-old relic.

Jero Lege shoved his way through the circle of knights. Let's see what filthy secrets this miserable family is hiding.

Ser Adam gently opened the cover. On the very first page, a line of script leapt out at them.

The handwriting was elegant yet incredibly forceful. Even though the ink was faded and blurred by dampness and time, it still radiated an undeniable, heavy presence.

And woven between the strokes was a profound, deeply seated hatred.

"To the Flames of Prophecy. I am the Oathbreaker, Falo of the Reekfort."

Jero let out a disdainful snort. Interesting. He calls himself an oathbreaker right from the start.

He spat on the ground. Exactly what I'd expect from a Solomon. "An Oathbreaker?!"

"Hahaha! It seems their ancestors were just as honorless and pathetic as they are today."

Ser Adam ignored the boy. His thick fingers gently brushed beneath the line of text, carefully turning to the next page. As the contents of the ancient diary were slowly revealed under the torchlight, the noise of the graveyard seemed to fade into a heavy silence.

"My name is Falo, squire to Lord Davos Deddings, son of Lord Leonor Deddings. As I write this, I stand upon the blackened ruins of the Dragonpit in King's Landing, committing my story and my legacy to the Flames of Prophecy."

"My father and his liege, Lord Leonor, are fighting on the front lines for Queen Rhaenyra and the Blacks. I, along with my two elder brothers, were ordered to remain in King's Landing as squires, tasked with protecting young Lord Davos."

"Since the Queen took the city, her rule has grown increasingly soaked in blood. The air in King's Landing grows heavier by the day. In the streets and alleys, there is no joy in the eyes of the people—only a suffocating terror."

"The patrols of the Gold Cloaks have doubled. But they do not patrol to bring safety; they patrol to squeeze more blood from the smallfolk, enforcing an ever-tightening grip of oppression."

"I watched as the Gold Cloaks cornered a commoner in broad daylight. They planted a Green faction pamphlet in his pocket right in front of the crowd, declared him a traitor, and beat him to death in the street."

"And their only true reason for doing so was to seize his moderately pretty wife and daughter and sell them to the brothels."

...Ser Adam frowned deeply, letting out a heavy sigh. A large section of the following text had rotted away entirely, but the surrounding fragments made it clear it was a continuous account of the horrific suffering of the King's Landing smallfolk. He skipped down to the next legible passage.

"King's Landing is a massive pile of dry timber soaked in oil. It needs only a single spark to ignite a fire that will consume everything."

"Today, my eldest brother, brave Denver, pleaded with young Lord Davos. He urged him that we must leave King's Landing immediately and return to the Riverlands before the city tears itself apart."

"Young Lord Davos refused outright. He said: 'Our fathers are bleeding for the Queen on the front lines. How can we flee like cowards?'"

"I looked at Davos's face. It was so pale, so soft from a life of absolute privilege. A face that had never known true suffering. And for some reason, in my mind, that soft face suddenly overlapped with the starving, hollowed-out faces of the people bleeding in the streets below us."

Jero frowned. He hadn't expected the diary to be a firsthand account from the "Dance of the Dragons." It was an era of history every noble child knew by heart, a time the bards had sung about for over a century.

Still, he was fascinated by noble history. He impatiently urged the old knight on. "Keep reading."

Ser Adam cleared his throat and carefully turned another page. The brittle paper let out a dry, agonizing crinkle, threatening to tear in half. Large portions of ink had vanished entirely.

"I am growing to despise everything here. I despise the hypocritical smiles of the high lords at their feasts. I despise how they pontificate on the virtues of knighthood, how they endlessly invoke the name of the Seven Gods, while entirely blinding themselves to the agony of the people crushed beneath their boots."

"These nobles! These knights! They are demons! They are no followers of the Seven! They use lies and steel to enslave the people! To bleed them dry!"

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