Y Ddraig Goch

[Leektheratking]

"Hark the tale of the Dragon Ddraig, knight awesome.
Wielding his brand, tongue of fire fearsome and axe hanging.
The Dragon Ddraig, the knight who went a killing"-Excerpt from the song "saga of the Dragon Ddraig"

---

Riding a horse was easy...He didn't know why it was easy however, having never ridden one in his life, hell he hadn't even seen one in person before.

Yet here he was, adorned in strange pale armour with strange pale weapons at his side on top of a strange pale horse. If he knew any better, he'd think he had gotten a job as a certain rider.

"think, think. where the hell were you?" the man questioned himself, as the pale horse underneath him stepped forward slowly but surely. Untiring under his armoured heft, struggling however to lift the helmet for but a moment the man freed himself of the metal, now understood to him as of eisenhut design. The large aventail draping like a curtain from it hiding underneath the bevor, extending itself upwards on stilted plates to cover up to the man's own nose.

Looking down to see his armour the white came clear to view, as untainted cloth covered over what he could clearly feel was metal on his chest.

"a brigantine? No...a jack of plate" the man confirmed to himself, staring at the only colour that corrupted the white of the armour's cloth, a Dragon, red as roses clasping its tail tightly around a blade that pierces its throat, a single upside down scale, black as coal visible where it was stabbed.

"strange" the man spoke, as he rubbed his hand slowly over the art, not painted on as he first assumed but threaded itself into the weave that made up the cloth, alternate coloured thread having been used, taking notice of his arms, mail gloves with leather liners attaching closely to splint armoured vambraces.

All in all, the man was more armoured then he knew how to react to, he had his moments of wishing to become a reenactor before, as any self respecting young boy who grew up did, but like many. He was bereft of that dream in life.
Yet still to his confusion. He rode on, looking to the saddled pale horse underneath him, the saddle itself he took notice of. Some deep memory reminding him of what it looked like.

"A Spanish saddle? Old design too. Whats your name big guy?" the man spoke slowly as he pat the horse on the side of its neck, the braying neigh of the horse lugging him around sounding full of vigour as the man pat him.

"don't have a name huh? That won't do, an animal as beautiful as you needs one I'd think, if you give me time I'm sure I can come up with one" the man said, unsure with himself If he spoke just to fill the void in the air the silence left or for some greater purpose.

"Perhaps bucephalus? The ox head? Though you don't seem too stubborn...nah that won't do you" the man slowly thought. Picking through names as they came, each shot down im measure.

Llamrei was unfit, the horse beneath him was not one capable of carrying four men broad across its mighty back. Nor would Hengroen, that name didn't fit either.

Rabicano was tossed quickly too, for the horse beneath him was not of wind and flame, and he didn't bear pink hair.

"How about Red-hare? After all as amongst men..."

Yet eventually, his musings were cut short as he spoke, a scream shredding the air like a runaway turbine. Wailing deeply into the distance, in an instant the horse beneath the man was to full gallop, running steel hooved legs across the uneven rocky plane around them with ease, stepping around rock and puddle so that not a drop found its way to his clothes.

Speeding through the man began however, to bounce. Almost uncontrollably as he did, the roughness ride no matter how smooth each step the horse took began to toss him about.
Thinking quickly, the man began to sing, a familiar and common song he would listen to that would follow the beats he could feel of the horses hooves.

"UPON MY SWORD, UPON MY BLADE. BLOOD SHALL RUN AS I SLAY!"

The words, which at first were a murmur rang out louder and louder as he placed the helmet back upon his head. Driving the horse beneath his thighs faster, coming quickly to see figure in the distance rapidly approaching, as well as the smoke that was left in the wake.

Reaching down almost unknowingly, the man felt a handle slip into his hands, a deft clearing sound as the air separated from sheath came to ear as he brought a weapon to bear.

Now, however he could see the figures, men in mismatched and furred armour attacking carts bearing goods, what appeared as made items like clothing and fruits and refined instruments most prevalent amongst the collection of items, the smoke; The man noted seemed to originate from a last cart, pushed in front of the standard five, this older one seemingly filled with dry straw or hay and lit ablaze. Stopping the people in their tracks.

Looking out quickly from the helmet, the man could make sense of two groups, one wearing what appeared to be coats and clothes made of wolf and others wearing what looked to be the most accurate medieval clothing he had seen since today.

The closest amongst them, however confronted him quickly, as Riding and singing upon his horse, the man saw a tall and brusk hulk of a human draped in brindle fur tackle a young woman, tearing at her clothes rapidly and swinging with a sharp axe that appeared as simple stone or roughshod iron.

If just for a moment, the man thought it all an act, some farce that confused his mind. Until he saw blood splattering from the woman's arm as she blocked a swing of the brutal instrument in the mans arm. Still peeling at her clothes.
He didn't progress any more.

"ARIOCH CAN YOU HEAR ME CRY, FOR YOUR GLORY I SHALL DIE!"

the roar rapidly came as the blade in the mans hand, a faussart with glimmering pearl handle swung one handed off the side of his saddle, cleaving deeply into the shoulder of the fur bearing man, cutting and catching through bone. That the man was sure if his grip was not as tight as it was. Them his blade would have been wrenched from his hand or worse, the blade dragging through the bone rapidly out of the bandit alongside his screams.

"Bastard!" was all he heard as the man looked forward more. Seeing a few men at arms failing slowly but surely against the greater numbers, for each footman in armour there stood three or four men and women in fur, hurling stones or swinging with stone instruments. The greatest amongst them from what the man could see was a large woman.

Large was an easy way to describe her. Rather rotund and covered in a mix match of armour. Wielding a two bit great axe of steel as she swung to a gambeson wearing men at arms, said men at arms falling quickly as the blade sunk into his chest without resistance.

"Shit, knight! Grab the good and get going lads!" the woman barked, four men in fury besides her running forth to the carts as the rising fever pitch of the bandits screamed forward. Trying to drive forward against the men at arms.

Yet in counter to the roar of the bandits, did the man at once roar louder. His own song, now a delirious shout to the heavens came forward.

"ARIOCH! ARIOCH! I SHALL SLAY AND BLOOD WILL FALL. ARIOCH! ARIOCH! GODS OF HELL, HEAR MY CALL!"

The man called forth to the heavens and forward, swinging his Faussart with reckless abandon as his horse drove forward, itself neighing with increasing fever.

Each swing of the blade contacted another bandit, and each fell, even as he felt a rock pelt against his helmet. Did the rider of the nameless horse swing, catching fingers and hands and heads with equal measure from his pearl gripped sword.

Yet even as he swung away without rest, the song playing at his lips rapidly again and again, repeating his foul prayer to distant deities of chaos, did more bandits come from the edge of the woods. Yet still he swung even as his arm burned and the breathing of the horse underneath him became laboured.
Until finally a horn was blown, stopping only then as the man saw the bandits in front of him begin to retreat, finally turning his head. The man saw soldiers riding forth wearing blue and white, both on foot and horse back.

Outriders drove forward from what the man saw, shooting arrows from horse back with practiced ease driving back the waves of bandits as footmen bearing spears and armoured men on horseback came forward with swords and maces.

As finally calming down, did his mind come to bear, slowing down the horse underneath him with his off hand finally. The man saw the blood dribbling down the blade, steam still coming from it cleanly as he heard the battle begin to die out.

The blood, running down the blade, down to his hand soaking through the chainmail to his hands, the hot wet running between his fingers as a single came from his chest, looking down to see red splashed against the entirety of his armour, the man couldn't speak, not fully at least.

As even when the man stared at a slowly descending drop of blood rolling down the jack did it look like the Dragon upon his chest was gushing blood.

"...eetings?"

He needed off, he knew as much. He didn't know why, getting off the horse by its saddle with practiced ease that was never practiced, he felt his hands trying to slip the blade back into its place on the saddle as more blood spilled down his body.

"Maester...et him now!" he heard words come out, a blurry figure coming forth and grabbing his shoulders, as the man who once rode the nameless steed attempted to remove his helmet, slipping off its edge at first before peeling it off finally, all he could see from the once white washed armour was a spill of red within it as the large dent in the side made itself known.

Dropping the helmet as if it weighed a thousand tonnes, the man marched forward even as the youth, he could now tell in front of him urged him to stop, a flat faced and broad shouldered child. Couldn't stop him as he moved forward.

"the woman, a thousand hells to any who touches her..." the nameless man tried to speak, slurring out the words as he attempted to move towards the fur clad bandit who he knew was still alive, a swing like that to his shoulder would not kill a normal man.

Or so he thought.

As he approached, soaked in blood and shaking. Did he see the woman, her decency hidden by agents in blue and white covering her. But the man, a burly bald headed man with clipped ears and a short distended nose.

He was dead, a wound rapidly festering on his shoulder as his face showed a single expression of rapid agony, tongue bloated until it burst through his lips, eyes blood shot and muscle contracted until he curled like some demented spider from ancient myth.

It was only then, at the surety of the worker safety, that the man began to collapse. Seeing a beige robed man running up, an assistant behind him carrying numerous instruments.

And he faded from consciousness.

 

[Leektheratking]

The man floated, he felt a million miles away within the cusp of a dream.

Yet as he floated forth, staring unblinking into the void around him, he began to hear something. Wicked and wrathful.

"Hello dearest partner of our pattern" it was a sickly voice, sounding as if it was never well a day in its life, as rotten words spilled from the voice, the man tried to respond. Only to stop, feeling as if a gnarled and twisted finger that was not there pressed against his lips a faint taste of almond and poppy left soaking on his lips.

"shush, don't ruin that lovely voice of yours dearest, you sound so much better screaming out for blood and war, oh just like that red eyed ghoul." The voice echoed out into the distance as flashes blinked through the dreaming void, he found himself in, memories it seemed of a pale and tall man wielding a runesword.

Flashes of him riding upon a boat that sails upon land and sea, of chasing through the land of dreams in pursuit of a young woman's safety. Of the fight that destroyed chaos once.

Each memory, strange as if not from the perspective of any human amongst the visions, until slowly and with dawning it came to the man.

"...the sword" he uttered, even as the gnarled not finger pushed into his lips tighter.

"Yes...now you get it, the sword is me and i am it, yet so much different than that ancient horrible runeblade. Nor am i a radioactive horror waiting for its champion alone." The voice spoke. As flashes of numerous men flashed by, locations they inhabited.

Tannelorn, Nuremburg. Immrryr.

"I am known by names as plenty, 'The Envenomed blade' 'Bitterblack' 'gungnir' for i am the wickedest act of the wickedest men upon any plane where I not share myself" the voice continued in pride, as flashes of its horrible life came to bear.

Flashes of containers stuffed to brim with unquenchable horrors, basilisk and hydras and manticores, starved and murderous, until their venom was collected at once and used in forging of its wicked form.

I am the toxin in your blood. The rage that fuels you, I am no enigmatic beast as Storm bringer, nor of the dullard kin of that blade Kanajana, grant of me as I grant unto you, life for life. Strength for strength. Blood for blood" the wicked voice spoke slowly and carefully, what seemed to be its strange attempt at a sultry voice as he felt taps impact his lips from the bony force.

I will grant you this mercy killer, for i am a loving death." It continued. A cold reaching forward as the man felt a breath pulled from his lips, pulled by ghost fingers.

"you have a month"

Wake up.

---

The bed was straw, the man thought. Or at least some kind of metal by how it stabbed into his back.

Sitting up quickly now that consciousness flooded his body, a gasping yell came from the room he found himself in. Turning quickly he found his hand reaching strangely for his waist for an item that was no longer there. A knife he was certain that should have been in the position yet wasn't.

'Why was he reaching for a knife?' the man would think to himself as he looked to the squirrely looking man in the robe.

"Wuh...what? But how, i was certain you were fit to pass...the sheer amount of milk of the poppy i granted you..." the Robed maester spoke in a fit as he rocked backwards to the desk in the room, a small accommodation that fit the nameless man well he thought, though clearly not without its problems as maester sprinted the moment their eyes broke contact, running out of the door with movements he was sure nigh impossible for the rail thin man.

However, as the nameless man sat, waiting in confusion at the sudden exodus of the maester, a roiling in his stomach alerted him to a need to be fulfilled, standing up swiftly, he found himself walking on firm legs as left the room through the open and drafty door, seeking a toilet.

---

Maester Colemon was stumped, he was certain that the hedge knight his lord had brought to his care out of respect for lord Eddard Stark's concern would die.

The wound to his head had been grievous beyond the normal survivability of any regular humans, not least of which when the wound was already pervaded by the onset of rot from the sweat that collected in the shallow open basin that was left in his skull.

Yet, just after he gave the young yet brave man a dose at least four times what was needed to make sure he was comfortable and ready for the stranger to take, the man simply sat up.

No, it was impossible. Maester Coleman thought to himself, fiddling with the lone valyrian steel link amongst his chain, thinking of the unread horrors he had read and researched the origins of in the Citadel.

Be it the myths of the Others in the north, or the ibbenese crawling dead, creatures that are either some extant form of unread rise different Colemon thought to himself as he found himself facing through his nearby quarters, his mind absently. Hand patting over his writing desk slowly as he looked down, seeing the glimmering rounded edge of a letter opener.

If...and i mean if that man truly is some kind of monster would it not be right to... Maester Colemon began to think to himself, however quickly cut off as a quick rasp came to his chambers door.

Picking up the letter opener slowly. The maester called to the door in a careful tone, measuring his response as best as the thin man could.

"Yes who is it?"

---

"its Elbert, Colemon, I wished to check up on the mystery knight, but has gone. Do you know where?" Elbert called through the thick wood of the door, some vane attempt. He would think to combat the monstrous draft that passed through the eerie without fail.

Yet as he just finished that thought, the maesters door slammed open with truly surprisingly force for a man as squirrely and thin as Colemon.

"He left!" the small maester all but yelled, Elbert was able to, however catch under his tone afterwards mutterings of dosages and reliability.

He didn't much care in truth for those things however, Eddard had been bugging him for the better part of the two days the knight remained bed ridden to check up on him.

Almost pushed past, Elbert stood confused as the maester ran from his room, looking to each shadow and corner as if trying to track disease rats.

Even as he slowly lazily followed behind. Half hearted and non committal to the urgency shared by his grey robed compatriot, didn't stop Elbert from carrying himself to a sprint upon the moment of the maesters scream.

Running through the halls of the eerie, the smooth stone plates under his feet almost slipping in the early morning cold, catching up quickly to find maester Colemon unconscious on the ground and the strange unnamed knight sitting upon the privy.

"excuse me, I do think I scared him" was all Elbert heard from the young man as he looked down to the maester.