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fan_flashworks2024-12-19 04:55 pm
m_findlow) wrote in fan_flashworks2024-12-19 04:55 pm
Entry tags:
ASOIAF: Fanfic: Born to kill
Title: Born to kill
Author: m_findlow
Rating: M (language)
Length: 1,200 words
Content notes: None
Author notes: Written for Challenge 464 - Joy
Summary: Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon have very different ideas on the qualities of the man who should guard and protect the King’s firstborn son..
‘Pitiful!’ Robert Baratheon cried, frowning at the display of men duelling in front of him. He picked up his goblet of wine and drank deeply from it, droplets spilling from his lips and catching in his beard. He wiped a sleeve of deep red and gold velvet across his face. ‘Where in Seven Hells did you find this lot? I've seen hedge knights fight better than this.’
Jon Arryn didn't flinch at the criticism. ‘They are good, leal men,’ he replied. ‘You put too much stock in them besting a tourney.’
‘A man's got to be able to fend off enemies. That's the whole bloody point. I don't want some ponce protecting my son.’
‘The boy is only eight, Your Grace,’ Jon Arryn reminded him. ‘He is like not to leave the Red Keep. A boy should have at his side a man who will guide him into manhood. That required far more than a sturdy sword arm.’
Robert scoffed. ‘That's what his bloody father is for! And you. He's my first born son and heir to this God awful uncomfortable throne. All of no use if some blaggard puts a knife in him before he ever gets there.’
‘May you live a long fruitful reign first,’ Jon said, trying to temper his king’s ire. ‘These men were selected for their many fine qualities, not just their ability to wield a sword.’
Robert gripped his goblet more firmly. ‘I don't care. You don't see any of my bloody Kingsguard writing poetry and reading books. They're killing machines. Bred for one purpose only. To protect their King.’
‘I think you'll find Ser Barristan is quite well read, Your Grace.’
‘Sod that.’ Robert pushed up his weighty frame from the painfully hard throne, making his way out of the great hall as the men in their best but dented plate armour parted for him, bowing low and unnoticed. Jon Arryn hurried after his liege, hoping to quell his frustration.
‘I want a real man, Jon,’ Robert said, heaving his large frame along the hallways, forcing servants to duck and weave out of his way , scraping together impromptu bows and curtsies. ‘Someone with balls.’
Jon nodded and remained silent, following Robert through the familiar hallways of the Red Keep, knowing that Robert was headed for the courtyard where his Kingsguard and other knights in service trained and honed their skills on a daily basis for a lack of anything else to do that wasn’t entirely ceremonial these days. Long might that peace last, Jon prayed.
Robert came to a stop. ‘Tell me there's not one man out there that is good enough to be guard dog for my Joff. You should hear that bloody mother of his, always fussing that I don’t do enough to keep them safe. Bah! What would women know, eh?’
Before they could reach the training yards, they passed a smaller yard where supplies were brought to the keep. Jon heard troubling sounds from the enclosed space and grabbed the sleeve of his King, regardless of protocol. The Hand of the King was his principal advisor, but he was just as responsible for ensuring that his King was unharmed. ‘Wait here Your Grace whilst I see what the commotion is.’ All he received was a grunt of reply. That was as close to acquiescence as he was going to get.
As Jon moved closer to the low parapet that overlooked the courtyard, he could see that a scuffle had broken out between a cluster of carts, piled high with barrels of apples and bushels of nuts, sacks of potatoes and several large pork carcasses. It was less the shouting than it was the ring of steel that worried Jon Arryn. He gripped the edge of the stonework and leaned out over it. ‘In the name of the King, what is going on here?’ he shouted.
At the sound of Jon Arryn’s words, some of the castle’s many guards seemed to emerge, emboldened to step in to bring the fracas to an end, rather than merely dissolving into the walls to watch it play out as if it were not their business. As soon as they stepped in, the shouting and commotion appeared to end almost instantly, but for one agonising scream.
‘My arm! You cut off my fucking arm!’ The voice led Jon to a peasant man gripping the place where his right arm might once have been, now a fountain of wine red and further screams as he buckled at the knees, still howling.
The bearded man who'd done the cutting with a rusted looking, yet clearly still sharp blade, stood close by. ‘And I'll cut off your fucking tongue as well if you don't get out of my way and stop your bloody screaming, you cunt.’
Before Jon could feel incensed that the guards had let into the keep a man with a sword, he felt the bulk of Robert Baratheon lumbering up beside him. ‘That's what I like to see. A man who takes joy in hurting people that cross him. It’s a man like that should be protecting the King’s heirs. Give him the task.’
Jon cringed at the savagery as the man with the amputated arm was carried from the courtyard, no longer screaming but only whimpering, the severed limb still lying just feet from a cart full of apples. ‘Your Grace, I really must insist…’ He begged for Robert’s indulgence to see common sense, just for once.
‘You there!’ the King bellowed. ‘What's your name?’
The man looked slightly put out as being asked the question then realised who had asked it. He took his time to wipe off his sword with his cloak and then slide the blade back into its sheath at his hip, before looking up. ‘Sandor Clegane.’ There was no “Your Grace” attached to the end.
Robert frowned and pulled himself up to his full, beer-bellied height. ‘Clegane? Never heard of you.’
Jon Arryn leaned in close, trying to impart what little knowledge he had. ‘The younger brother of a minor holdfast to the west, Your Grace.’
Robert nodded. ‘Good. Then he won't be fussed about giving up an inheritance to land.’ The King leaned back out over the railing. ‘I want you to be guard dog for my eldest son, Clegane. I need a man who can fight and has no qualms about hacking off the arms of anyone who gets in his way. You’ll be paid handsomely for the task. What say you?’
Clegane turned and spat into the dirt before replying. ‘I suppose.’
‘Good. That settles it. Jon, sort this fellow out with proper sword and armour and pay him whatever his goods are worth twice over, the cart included.’
Jon blinked, as if he’d stepped from a dream. ‘But, Your Grace… You can’t just give a man a sword and expect him to serve loyally.’ He begged Robert to see sense.
‘Give him the job or I'll bloody well give him your job. You think Clegane would make a decent Hand of the King instead? ’
Jon bit the inside of his lip, praying that they weren’t about to make a grievous error. ‘Yes, Your Grace.’
Author: m_findlow
Rating: M (language)
Length: 1,200 words
Content notes: None
Author notes: Written for Challenge 464 - Joy
Summary: Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon have very different ideas on the qualities of the man who should guard and protect the King’s firstborn son..
‘Pitiful!’ Robert Baratheon cried, frowning at the display of men duelling in front of him. He picked up his goblet of wine and drank deeply from it, droplets spilling from his lips and catching in his beard. He wiped a sleeve of deep red and gold velvet across his face. ‘Where in Seven Hells did you find this lot? I've seen hedge knights fight better than this.’
Jon Arryn didn't flinch at the criticism. ‘They are good, leal men,’ he replied. ‘You put too much stock in them besting a tourney.’
‘A man's got to be able to fend off enemies. That's the whole bloody point. I don't want some ponce protecting my son.’
‘The boy is only eight, Your Grace,’ Jon Arryn reminded him. ‘He is like not to leave the Red Keep. A boy should have at his side a man who will guide him into manhood. That required far more than a sturdy sword arm.’
Robert scoffed. ‘That's what his bloody father is for! And you. He's my first born son and heir to this God awful uncomfortable throne. All of no use if some blaggard puts a knife in him before he ever gets there.’
‘May you live a long fruitful reign first,’ Jon said, trying to temper his king’s ire. ‘These men were selected for their many fine qualities, not just their ability to wield a sword.’
Robert gripped his goblet more firmly. ‘I don't care. You don't see any of my bloody Kingsguard writing poetry and reading books. They're killing machines. Bred for one purpose only. To protect their King.’
‘I think you'll find Ser Barristan is quite well read, Your Grace.’
‘Sod that.’ Robert pushed up his weighty frame from the painfully hard throne, making his way out of the great hall as the men in their best but dented plate armour parted for him, bowing low and unnoticed. Jon Arryn hurried after his liege, hoping to quell his frustration.
‘I want a real man, Jon,’ Robert said, heaving his large frame along the hallways, forcing servants to duck and weave out of his way , scraping together impromptu bows and curtsies. ‘Someone with balls.’
Jon nodded and remained silent, following Robert through the familiar hallways of the Red Keep, knowing that Robert was headed for the courtyard where his Kingsguard and other knights in service trained and honed their skills on a daily basis for a lack of anything else to do that wasn’t entirely ceremonial these days. Long might that peace last, Jon prayed.
Robert came to a stop. ‘Tell me there's not one man out there that is good enough to be guard dog for my Joff. You should hear that bloody mother of his, always fussing that I don’t do enough to keep them safe. Bah! What would women know, eh?’
Before they could reach the training yards, they passed a smaller yard where supplies were brought to the keep. Jon heard troubling sounds from the enclosed space and grabbed the sleeve of his King, regardless of protocol. The Hand of the King was his principal advisor, but he was just as responsible for ensuring that his King was unharmed. ‘Wait here Your Grace whilst I see what the commotion is.’ All he received was a grunt of reply. That was as close to acquiescence as he was going to get.
As Jon moved closer to the low parapet that overlooked the courtyard, he could see that a scuffle had broken out between a cluster of carts, piled high with barrels of apples and bushels of nuts, sacks of potatoes and several large pork carcasses. It was less the shouting than it was the ring of steel that worried Jon Arryn. He gripped the edge of the stonework and leaned out over it. ‘In the name of the King, what is going on here?’ he shouted.
At the sound of Jon Arryn’s words, some of the castle’s many guards seemed to emerge, emboldened to step in to bring the fracas to an end, rather than merely dissolving into the walls to watch it play out as if it were not their business. As soon as they stepped in, the shouting and commotion appeared to end almost instantly, but for one agonising scream.
‘My arm! You cut off my fucking arm!’ The voice led Jon to a peasant man gripping the place where his right arm might once have been, now a fountain of wine red and further screams as he buckled at the knees, still howling.
The bearded man who'd done the cutting with a rusted looking, yet clearly still sharp blade, stood close by. ‘And I'll cut off your fucking tongue as well if you don't get out of my way and stop your bloody screaming, you cunt.’
Before Jon could feel incensed that the guards had let into the keep a man with a sword, he felt the bulk of Robert Baratheon lumbering up beside him. ‘That's what I like to see. A man who takes joy in hurting people that cross him. It’s a man like that should be protecting the King’s heirs. Give him the task.’
Jon cringed at the savagery as the man with the amputated arm was carried from the courtyard, no longer screaming but only whimpering, the severed limb still lying just feet from a cart full of apples. ‘Your Grace, I really must insist…’ He begged for Robert’s indulgence to see common sense, just for once.
‘You there!’ the King bellowed. ‘What's your name?’
The man looked slightly put out as being asked the question then realised who had asked it. He took his time to wipe off his sword with his cloak and then slide the blade back into its sheath at his hip, before looking up. ‘Sandor Clegane.’ There was no “Your Grace” attached to the end.
Robert frowned and pulled himself up to his full, beer-bellied height. ‘Clegane? Never heard of you.’
Jon Arryn leaned in close, trying to impart what little knowledge he had. ‘The younger brother of a minor holdfast to the west, Your Grace.’
Robert nodded. ‘Good. Then he won't be fussed about giving up an inheritance to land.’ The King leaned back out over the railing. ‘I want you to be guard dog for my eldest son, Clegane. I need a man who can fight and has no qualms about hacking off the arms of anyone who gets in his way. You’ll be paid handsomely for the task. What say you?’
Clegane turned and spat into the dirt before replying. ‘I suppose.’
‘Good. That settles it. Jon, sort this fellow out with proper sword and armour and pay him whatever his goods are worth twice over, the cart included.’
Jon blinked, as if he’d stepped from a dream. ‘But, Your Grace… You can’t just give a man a sword and expect him to serve loyally.’ He begged Robert to see sense.
‘Give him the job or I'll bloody well give him your job. You think Clegane would make a decent Hand of the King instead? ’
Jon bit the inside of his lip, praying that they weren’t about to make a grievous error. ‘Yes, Your Grace.’