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-- Euros (Europe)
-- Libre (Mexico)
-- Parts Unknown
-- Puros (Asia)
-- Wrestleros (US/Canada)

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-- Backbreaker Bay (Chesapeake)
-- The Emerald Ocean (The Indian)
-- The Frozen Ocean (The Arctic)
-- The Golden Ocean (The Pacific)
-- The Great Divide (Mississippi River)
-- Lake Gotch (Superior)
-- Lake Thesz (Michigan)
-- Lake Sandow (Huron)
-- Lake Savage (Erie)
-- Lake Watson (Ontario)
-- The Sea of Titan (The Atlantic)
-- The Southern Sea (The South Atlantic)

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-- Death Valley (Southwest)
-- The Great White North (Canada)
-- The Kingslands (Mid-Atlantic)
-- The Lakelands (Great Lakes)
-- The Midlands (Mid-South)
-- The Old East (New England)
-- Phatu Island (Samoa)
-- The South (Deep South)
-- The Westerlands (West)

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-- Badstreet (Atlanta)
-- Bittersound (Seattle)
-- Columbia (Washington D.C.)
-- Dudleyville (Philadelphia)
-- Eastbridge (Boston)
-- Harthome (Calgary)
-- Highmount (Denver)
-- King's Crossing (Memphis)
-- Lewistown (St. Louis)
-- New Eden (New York)
-- Port Crockett (Charlotte)
-- Rhodesdale (Tampa)
-- Riverbend (Cincinnati)
-- Seventh City (Chicago)
-- Snowspear (Toronto)
-- Strongbow (Pago Pago)
-- Theszfort (Detroit)
-- Tombstone (Houston)
-- Twin Lakes (Minneapolis)
-- Vinland (Stamford)
-- Westcoast (Los Angeles)

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[House McMahon of Vinland]
Seat- Titan Tower, Vinland
Lord- Vincent II
Region- The Kingslands
Heir- Shane McMahon
Titles- King of The Territories, The Freeholds and The Federations of All Men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms; Ruler of Wrestleros
Overlord- none; Sovereign



[House Hart of Harthome]
Seat- Harthome
Lord- Bret I
Region- The Great White North
Heir- (Disputed)
Titles- The King in the North (formerly); Supreme Ruler of The Stampedelands (formerly); Warden of The White; Duke of The Dungeon
Overlord- House McMahon of Vinland



[House Flair of Port Crockett]
Seat- The Four Chariots, Port Crockett
Lord- Richard I
Region- The South
Heir- David Flair
Titles- The Warden of The South
Overlord- House McMahon of Vinland



[House Cena of New Eden]
Seat- New Eden
Lord- John I
Region- The Old East
Heir- N/A
Titles- The Warden of The East
Overlord- House McMahon of Vinland



[House Hogan of Westcoast]
Seat- Hogan's Hill, Westcoast
Lord- Hulk I
Region- The Westerlands
Heir- Nicholas Hogan
Titles- The Golden King (formerly); The Warden of The West
Overlord- House McMahon of Vinland



[House Orton of Lewistown]
Seat- The Stranglehold, Lewistown
Lord- Randy I
Region- The Midlands
Heir- N/A
Titles- King of The Arch (formerly); Warden of The Midlands
Overlord- House McMahon of Vinland



[House Maivia of Strongbow]
Seat- The Sea Tower, Strongbow
Lord- Rocky II
Region- Phatu Island
Heir- N/A
Titles- High Chief of The Sea (formerly); King of the Open Oceans (formerly); Warden of The Sea



[House Bearer of Tombstone]
Seat- The Royal Crypt, Tombstone
Lord- Paul I
Region- Death Valley
Heir- Glen Sands
Titles- King of Death (formerly); Warden of The Valley

(PLACEHOLDER)

The answer in short is - yes - this is indeed WWE meets Game of Thrones. The caveat being that, if you were hoping this follows the GoT storyline scene-for-scene, you will ultimately be disappointed. Instead, this imagines the WWE landscape being a uniquely real place and world, but draws heavily from George R.R. Martin's ''A Song of Ice & Fire'' fantasy book series.

The series is intended to blend some traditional professional wrestling fanfic within a fantasy world modeled in the image of both wrestling & GoT lore. For example: Rather than Winterfell, we have 'Harthome', named in reference to another village in the books & show named 'Hardhome', with the wrestling twist being that it is the seat of House Hart (The Hart Family) and a representation of Canada (the North) being much different culturally than the US (the South, ie King's Landing).

I hope this portrays a decent enough picture of what to expect here, as I've been toying with this idea for years and the massive disappointment of GoT Season 8 has only further driven my desire to finally make this project a reality. Pro wrestling [and the WWE in particular] after all is a family affair involving power struggles, deception and the two worlds are strangely not all that different from each other:

"Power resides where men believe it resides. It's a trick; a shadow on the wall." -- Varys

Though [outside of true breakthrough and charismatic talent] pro wrestling often likes to paint a black-and-white picture of their world, I can assure you that such will not be the case here in Wrestleros. I do thank you for taking the time to read this and for your interest to hopefully pursue onward - I sincerely hope it entertains you.

So without further adieu, ladies and noblemen of the royal court of PW Fanfic, I proudly present to all of you --

SPOILER: Click to show

"A SONG OF HELLFIRE AND BRIMSTONE"


BOOK ONE:
"A SLAM OF THRONES"

PROLOGUE


The sound of crunching was all around them. From the movement of their worn leathers on the snowy ground, to all the other sounds that Robert Holly could not make sense of and the many fallen leaves between -- The Great White North was truly a harrowing place. No matter how long he'd been here, Robert had always felt a stranger here in this even stranger land. Even stranger still was the company of new Jobswatch recruits he had been assigned to train in ranging a frequented area surrounding the Great Cage.

After hours of scouring the surroundings and both hunting and foraging for food, Robert finally decided to call it a night and make camp. In his company was Albert Snow, the son of a bastard turned thief from the Lakelands who suffered from some form of mental deramgement, having befriended and constantly conversing with the detached head of a young girl's doll. There was The Blue Meanie, a mysterious former court jester turned merchant from Parts Unknown who cried for three straight weeks when told he could no longer wear the color blue while serving in the Jobswatch. There was Duane Gill, a slender and weak-willed son of a farmhand trying desperately to fit in, who's name Holly wouldn't even know unless he had to. And then there was Scorpio, a foul-mouthed sellsword who just happened to plunder from the wrong royal fleet.

Snow: "C'mon now, Head! Don't make fun of everybody!"

Scorpio: "Silence your tongue or I'll do it for you, Snow! Stop talking to the damn doll!!!"

Snow: "SHE has a name and it's HEAD!"

Blue Meanie: "BLUE! I WANT BLUE!!!!!"

Robert wasted no time notching his crossbow while still seated, soon landing his bolt just slightly enough to pass above the top of Snow's head and firmly into the bark of the cedar tree behind him.

Holly: "I suggest you ALL shut the hell up and get some rest, or next time -- I won't miss."

The talking, or better put - the ranting - never truly ended, but it did die down enough for Robert and most of the others to fall asleep, all but Albert Snow that is. When Holly awoke though, he discovered to his dismay that Scorpio was trying to strangle his brother-in-black... Holly wasted no time notching his crossbow and putting a bolt straight into Scorpio's thigh.

Scorpio: "AAAAAGGGWWWHHHHH!!!!"

Holly: "You better stop your whining, baby bird -- you only need one leg to make it out of here. The second one's debatable, but I guess that depends on how willing your brothers are to carry your ungrateful ass. So… any takers?"

Scorpio: "Fuck YOU, Holly! I couldn't get a wink of sleep because of this dumbass and his dol-"

Another bolt launched, this time into the front of Scorpio's right foot. The screams heard were now much louder than before, echoing through the perfect chamber of the vast woodlands all around them.

Scorpio: "YOU SON OF A BITCH! STOP SHOOTING ME!"

Holly: "You should be grateful it was the same leg and that I'm feeling nice today. Alright jobbers, get your shit together -- the days up here are a helluva lot shorter and you've already wasted enough of my time as it is, so move your ass! I've got a lot of bolts and a short list of targets!"

Albert Snow attempted to help Scorpio back up to his feet, though the former sellsword made no attempt to accept, opting to try and get up himself as he hastily shoved Snow away. Duane Gill stumbled over a rock, as his paranoid pressure for dutiful obsession to detail and personal standards for perfection only seemed to be working against him. The Blue Meanie didn't move.

Blue Meanie: "Blue… I want Blue….."

Holly: "Don't make me repeat mys-"

The sound of running footsteps behind him was unmistakable; a shivering chill suddenly ran cold through the top of Robert Holly's spine to the absolute bottom. He tried to remain calm and resolute in the eyes of his recruits, but this was a presence that Robert had never felt before. He grew more uncertain when the same sound circled to his front, an uncanny blur of color speeding its way through a line of trees behind Al Snow. It was unlike any motion he'd ever seen. Too fast to be a human; too slow to be an animal. Robert then addressed all of them in a mere whisper:

Holly: "Get the fuck down. All of you. Right now."

Blue Meanie: "Blue, blue… Someday..... we'll all die SOON!!!!!"

Suddenly, the Meanie's skin froze as white as ice; his eyes transformed to a vividly crystal blue. He bruised purple when moving his body upon points of impact, soon displayed for all to see as the Meanie now rose to his feet. Tackling an unsuspecting Duane Gill to the ground from behind, he clenched his teeth deep into the veins of Duane's neck. Robert Holly, bewildered and too shocked to react properly for a moment, suddenly snapped to, quickly notching another bolt onto his crossbow before firing it at the Meanie's head -- but he missed.

Scorpio's instincts kicked in as he tried running away, but he buckled under the pain of his right leg, falling down and only further aggravating his injuries. Robert notched another bolt -- another miss, this time from Meanie now standing up and inadvertently dodging Holly's shot.

Holly: "I'm going to kill you one way or another, ya broken blue bastard!!!!"

Robert then notched one more bolt, walked his way towards the Blue Meanie, and struck him across the head with the full force of his hefty ranged weapon. The Meanie was not amused, slyly smiling before lifting Robert up by the throat with ungodly strength when just as quickly as it began -- thwfffft -- a bolt to the head ended with both Robert Holly and the Meanie violently collapsing to the ground.

Holly: "Seven... fucking... hells…"

-- Robert Holly said as his eyes adjusted open from the fall. Al Snow was long gone, Scorpio not what he once was and standing before Robert was the bright running flash he had seen earlier, now only realized and standing before him.

Cold… blue… eyes.

CHAPTER ONE
SHANE


"HERE YE, HERE YE!!!" the royal jester Goldust cried out to the crowd, halting the sound of soldiering trumpets giving life back to the cool autumn air, before lifting his right index finger up to his mouth:

Goldust: "Shhhhhhhhhhh - Let the games BEGIN!!!!!"

As Goldust bowed whilst slowly walking away backwards, the entire crowd of nobles and smallfolk alike suddenly rose to their feet in thunderous cheer and applause. The Slam of Thrones had been an ancient staple of Wrestlerosi culture, dating back many centuries before, and had often been credited with keeping relative peace within the continent. This very day marked the beginning of a new season, and all the usual suspects of nobility looked on in utter grandeur and spectacle, flaunting themselves humbly above towering house banners of noteworthy tradition:

The fiercely loyal northern House Hart of Harthome; the cunning southron lords of Houses Flair, Jarrett and Rhodes; the many bastard sons and daughters of the queer House Bearer of Death Valley - All of them had found fortune and success both within these hallowed halls and outside in the battlefield. Yet every single one of them are dwarfed in comparison to the might, strength and resolve of the royal house itself - House McMahon of Vinland.

King Vincent, second of his name, sat at the center of attention in a chair made of gold within the most extravagant chamber of the gallery, seated to his right by Prince Shane, with his daughter Princess Stephanie on his left.

Vincent: "I think the time has come for a new jester..."

The urge was there, but Shane knew better and said nothing. Goldust had been with the family since he was a young lad; a ward of House Rhodes that the king had claimed as one of his many trophies from the Monday Night War. Considering it a sign of humility, his own father renounced all of Goldust' titles, inherited lands, forced him to wear a wig and painted him in black and gold to be paraded around as nothing more than a two-bit comedy routine.

Stephanie: "A splendid idea, Your Grace. Personally, I find it insulting that so much air is being polluted by these southron rebels already in attendance, best to just kill the boy and be done with i-"

Shane could bite his tongue back no longer:

Shane: "Killing Goldust would only create more problems for the Crown than it already has - House Rhodes still holds great sway over the South and we can ill afford an insurrection."

He could feel the cold gaze of his father coming from his left, before noticing his normal stern expression was beginning to contort into relative concern.

Vincent: "My dear, but troubled and ignorant seed - the South is weak, the North is blind and the West is distant - and I am the man who broke them all into utter submission. One-by-one, they bent the knee at the foot of the very man who gave you life: You think I feign concern if they are stupid enough to rebel me once more? Let them war with the One True King again and they'll be eating the ashes of their loved ones thrice!!!"

While the King and the Princess shared a good laugh with one another, Shane watched on towards the main entrance hall of the arena as Goldust now disappeared from the sight of the crowd. A collection of different fighters then began to make their way out from the backstage one-by-one, eventually forming the shape of a square around the circular pit of the arena. Once all of the combatants had made their way out individually, he saw that Lord Gene of House Okerlund was following them out from behind, a man who had long been one of her father's most trusted advisors. Once more, the trumpets sounded to quiet down the onlooking crowd.

Gene: "Ladies and noblemen of the gallery! I WELCOME you to the bi-annual Slam of Thrones, a long held tradition nearly older than Wrestleros itself! Tonight, we will bear witness to the first two fights of the opening round!"

Banners reading "APPLAUSE" are then raised high enough for the audience to read and respond accordingly.

Gene: "As always, these brave men you see before you have sworn an oath to put their lives on the line for both your enjoyment and the chance to call themselves the one true champion of the world! M'ladies and noblemen, please give another round of applause for these true warriors of the squared circle!"

Once more, the banners were lifted and the audience reciprocated the soft demand.

Gene: "Thank you all, you may now take your seats as we are nearly ready to begin the night's festivities! But first, for the uninitiated among us, you must know that we have but one rule here in the Slam of Thrones, that being… there are no rules. When you play the game, you either win… or you die. MAY THE GLORY BE YOURS AND YOURS TO KEEP!!!"

Shane felt a jolt of energy rush through him as the entire arens erupted all around from every single side of the massive structure. The feeling was inspiring, and for a brief moment, he felt himself escape from everything. All this considered, his royal father was a loud man:

Vincent: "This is what it's all about, my precious Stephanie! Give them bread and they'll tolerate you: But give them blood and they'll forever serve you!"

The comment made the Prince feel sick to his stomach again, though he tried his best to lose himself once more in the spectacle. It had been a dream of his to compete in the games, but King Vincent had disapproved, fearful of keeping his line of secession intact should anything unfortunate happen to the Princess or her potential pre-arranged suitors. Many of the men in Stephanie's life had strangely disappeared in the past, leading to many rumors of foul play, a curse and even black magic rituals, most of which Shane could confirm to be very far from the actual truth.

As the trumpets blared for the last time in a crescendo of tension, Shane watched on as the square of bodies now filed out from the arena and to the back, leaving behind just two men: a man who towered far above all opponents, "The Beast Incarnate" Brock of House Lesnar, a specimen who looked more myth than mortal man. Unjustly left in his presence was the same jester who introduced us -- Goldust. Shane quickly stood to his feet and sharpened his glare towards his father.

Shane: "Stop this madness before it starts! This isn't a fair fight, this is MURDER!"

The king wasted no time firming his stance and sticking out his chest as he stood toe-to-toe with his heir-to-the-throne.

Vincent: "Fair!? The gods cursed me with a boy wearing men's attire to inherit MY father's throne and you wish to gripe to me about what's FAIR!?!?"

Shane went to open his mouth to respond, but it was met with a swift backhand across his face in front of the entire crowd to see. Some obviously didn't notice, but to Shane, the entire arena now felt cold and silent. Goldust turned his head to their direction, and the look of acceptance on his face was enough for the Prince to halt his outcry to the King. "This is no life worth keeping," he thought to himself, "Better to die fighting than to live in fear."

Gene: "I apologize my lords and ladies, as I was left unaware that we have a special treat for those here in attendance! 'The Beast' himself, Brock of House Lesnar, is here to dine on the pitiful cries of the royal court's own jester!"

They were stomping their feet, clapping their hands and cheering till their throats went hoarse. Shane just wanted it all to end, but there was nothing he could do other than to reclaim the seat below him.

Gene: "Yes, yes! But the Seven are merciful, and so is the Crown! The Beast will not be provided or allowed to use weapons of any form, while Goldust on the other hand has been fitted with a treasure trove of true carnage!"

His sister Stephanie then softly rested the palm of her hand along the broad, dipping bridge of Shane's shoulders -- he hadn't even noticed she'd left her seat. The Princess then slowly moved her mouth closer to his ear, speaking to him in a loud whisper:

Stephanie: "Nothing too rash please, little brother -- no one who crosses father lives long enough to tell the tale, and I dearly pray not to see your head on a spike before the games are even finished. Best to watch -- he'll know if you're not looking."

The Prince didn't care, he wasn't going to be apart of this. Shane bolted from his seat, attempting to hastily exist the gallery until finding himself abruptly blockaded by the Kingsguard.

Vincent: "Guards! Let him pass! No son of mine walks away from a good fight! He does not belong in the presence of a KING!!!"

Shane expected no less from the most powerful man in all of Wrestleros; no more from the man who gave him life and never let him forget it. He still didn't care, yet his only regret was not being able to leave sooner -- thudddd, craaaack!!!! The audience erupted into a frenzy of cheers and applause; Shane could feel the arena rising to its feet.

Gene: "Lords and ladies, your winner -- Brock of House Lesnar!!! Let's all give a bi…."

The Prince of Wrestleros could finally hear Okerlund's voice trailing off into white noise as he made his way out through a hidden exit behind. He knew the arena like the back of his hand from days wandering around it in his youth, so making his way out seemed at first like it would be a quick affair. Reaching a hidden door closed off to the public reserved for the royal house and chief nobility, Shane found himself perplexed discovering a stout figure wearing the worn robes of a maester, though the figure bore no chains around its neck and a hooded cowl made it difficult to analyze its face.

Shane: "-- May I help you?"

Hooded Figure: "No. But I can help you…"

The figure's lips then curled up into a devious smile, illuminated by the light of a candle gripped firmly in its left hand. It removed the cowl to reveal itself to be a man with a receding hairline wrapped into a ponytail and sporting big, wide eyes beneath a concerningly broad forehead. He bent to his knee, head bowed before the Prince.

Hooded Figure: "You can call me Heyman..."

He then lifted his gaze back to that of Shane's.....

Heyman: "Long live the Bastard Prince… Shane-of-East."

CHAPTER TWO
FATHER BROOKS


The town bell rang seven times to greet the Seventh City in tribute to the seven to a brand new day, yet Father Brooks was up early per the usual. Every morning the most powerful man in the self-proclaimed 'holiest of cities' conducted his routine of morning prayer in complete silence, starting from the very moment he awoke and concluding with the aforementioned seven strikes of the town bell. Suddenly, his eyes pierced open; Brooks knew the presence standing behind him as if it were a shadow of his very own, and in many ways, it was.

Father: "You're rather early… So? Do you bring fair news, Brother Steel?"

Steel: "The heretics have yet to provide much useful information, Father. They are… resourceful in their resolve."

Father Brooks shook his head with a gentle smile; he could feel Brother Steel's unease steadily thickening the godly aura all around them. Slowly, the Father stood up from his straw pillow, gently brushing off the dust and dirt that had gathered itself upon his modest linens during his time of prayer. He then turned around to face Brother Steel, before slowly walking towards him to rest his hand upon his shoulder as eyes-met-eyes.

Father: "Remember the day I found you, Brother Steel?"

Steel: "Of course, Father… How could I forget?"

Father: "Forgive me, son, but man forgets much -- we are but a husk of the holy -- the Seven forget nothing. I remember you were nearly naked, nothing to call your own; destitute and broken. Have we not given you wings to fly, my child?"

Steel appeared hesitant to respond……

Steel: "Why but of course, Fathe--"

Brooks pulled Brother Steel in for a hug, wherein the very same motion, he grabbed Steel by the scruff of his neck, pulling him in much closer so that his words would not be wasted on dead air.

Father: "Then find out what they know, or I'll find someone else to fly -- Praise be to the Seven, my son."

The Father kissed Steel on the forehead, considered a blessing of good faith and fortune in the holy city. Brother Steel, though obviously terrified of this barely veiled threat, immediately dropped to his knees, bowing before the Father with eyes closed and hands clasped.

Steel: "Seven blessings to you, Father! FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM!"

Father: "For Faith and Freedom. Please rise, my child."

Brother Steel hesitated yet again, but slowly, he rose back to his feet -- only to receive a kick to the chest that sent the brother formerly known as "Ace Steel" suddenly falling back again to the floor. Frantically, he tried clawing himself away when he heard the sound of several doors closing all around him, then one-by-one, each door was promptly locked. Steel could feel the presence of his brothers-in-robes now surrounding him from every side and angle: the "Seventh City Saints", as they were famously known. Each member was carrying a small band of rope, all but Father Punk himself, as Brother Cabana, Punk's most trusted disciple, now handed over a long strip of leather hide. Brooks could feel a smile let loose from his face as he slowly began winding the leather around the base of his palm.

Father: "I'm afraid that was a test, Brother Steel, and sad to say -- you failed with stagnant shades. Now, allow your family to bring color to your world, so that you may better appreciate the grace of the gods! Let us BATHE in their mercy, BROTHERS AND SISTERS!!!!!"

Brothers Cabana and Gallows then grabbed Steel by his hair, lifting him up in a knelt position to better face the patriarch himself: ***Smaaaacccckkkkk*** -- the Father could feel the contraction of the leather strap around his hand as he powerfully open-palm slapped Brother Steel across his face, instantly drawing blood. Brothers Cabana and Gallows then forcefully removed his attire. Steel was then doused over the head with a voluminous chamberpot by Sisters Brooks and Deeb, containing a rotten mixture of ice-cold water and human waste. Brooks loosened his grip on the strap, catching its base with all five fingers as physics unfolded along its now widened exterior: ***Whooooosh***, ***WHOOOO-CRAAAAAACK!!!!!*** Brother Steel screamed in agony as tanned leather met the bare flesh of his back. Brother Gallows then grabbed him by the chin to keep his head facing Father Brooks:

Father: "When under the light, darkness has nowhere to go but deep down beneath the cracks. I wonder… do you have any cracks to show, my child? Or do we have to make them for you so you can finally see the light of day?"

Steel: "I… I… I can see it, fath-"

Another dirty bath of frozen filth, followed by another stroke of the artist' brush, this time across the canvas of Steel's face. Brooks could feel himself come alive with each movement; with every action and subsequent reaction.

Father: "No… No I don't think you can quite yet, my child. But praise be to the Seven, they beg of me to have faith in you, cut from a strand of the same cloth I wear for them. I do not wish you harm, Brother Steel -- I only wish to guide you to the pastures of paradise. Won't you please…"

Father Brooks then half-kneeled, drawing himself closer to his son of seven so that his words may never leave him.

Father: "Allow your Father to help save you -- from yourself???"

Steel: "I--I will…"

Father: "Splendid -- My children, please escort Brother Steel to the cell opposite of our guests tonight, so that he may better see the darkness. Hopefully, he reveals unto us and himself the light for which his soul so desperately requires. For Faith!"

Saints-in-unison: "ANNNDDD FREEEEDDDDOMMMM!!!!!"

The Brothers and Sisters-in-robes then teamed together to drag and pull Brother Steel from out of the Father's chambers and down to the dark and treacherous prison hidden beneath the Seventh City. Only Brother Cabana remained left behind from the company, as the Father's most trusted Saint now promptly closed the main door shut. Father Brooks then let the harsh leather strap fall from the grasp of his fingers and onto the cold dirt floor, ignoring the feeling of the now raw, irritated skin of his hand.

Cabana: "Brother Steel grows weaker by the fortnight: He will not last long down there, I assure you of that, Father."

Father: "It is known, Colt."

Cabana: "So then what exactly do you wish to accomplish by sending him down there?"

Father Brooks then poured himself a tall chalice of water before devouring every bit of it in one holy swig; Maintaining dominance was certainly proving an exhaustive affair. He then turned back around to better see Brother Cabana, a wry smile now on his face as he now dried away the corners of his dampened mouth with the edge of his wrist.

Father: "Take a foundation, no matter how strong, sprinkle it generously with doubt -- and watch it crumble."

CHAPTER THREE
BRET

The Lord of Harthome was a broken man. One of the greatest fighters the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen, now reduced to a withering lord with no trueborn heir to take his place; a man who could barely hold himself up by the hilt of his skull-head cane. That too was starting to show its age.

Lord Bret struggled to remember what it felt like to be awake, vibrant and full of life, but could never forget the days when you could break a man's will and force him to submit, rather than be forced to end it yourself. It was all just a bloodbath now.

"What a waste…", said Natalya of House Neidhart, niece of the Warden of the North and one of many disputed heirs to Harthome.

Bret: "Nothing is wasted here in the capital, Natty -- everything has its reason. The Crown is cold, calculating, manipulative -- but it is all done for a purpose, it's just hidden beneath the veil of shadows. All you need are the eyes to see beyond all that black snow."

Natalya: "I know of Owen, m'Uncle… I unfortunately remember. I know of what they did to you, t--"

Bret: "You know nothing, Natty."

The Lord of Harthome took notice of Natalya shuddering at the sight of royal attendants now dragging away the corpse of court jester Goldust, a wide crimson trail now being painted upon the pit's grounds like a macabre red carpet.

Bret: "Notice the trail? More blood will be soon to follow in the passing days. It's a sacrifice to the old gods of Titan, not to the Seven as they would lead you to believe. These practices are banned in all of Wrestleros, but when done under the cloak of competition and grandeur to suspend any and all disbelief? No one even questions it."

Natalya: "If everything has its reason here, why sacrifice a jester of all people? Wouldn't one imagine that to be an insult to the gods if anything?"

Bret: "Because the very man we just witnessed die before our eyes was Dustin Summers, a bastard son of the late Lord Dusty Rhodes, the former King of Rhodesdale. He was taken as a ward of the crown after the War of the Territories in return for peace, and King Vincent wasted no time mocking Lord Dusty by forcing him to become a walking, talking, living joke."

Natalya: "Do you think Lord Cody had something to do with this?"

The Lord Bret could not help but give his niece a look of passing judgment, shaking his head before turning to view in the upward direction of the royal gallery above.

Bret: "Has a single word I've said failed to reach your ears? Vincent is a bastard, both literally and figuratively. He rose from those disadvantageous odds to become the One True Ruler of Wrestleros. He inherited a small kingdom and transformed it into an empire, forcing well over fifty different kingdoms to either bend the knee or perish beneath the heel of his insufferable boot… so whatever pull Lord Cody thinks he may have, at the end of the day, Rhodes is nothing more than just another pawn in the King's sick and twisted game."

Natalya: "Forgive me for saying it, but it almost sounds as if you admire him, m'Uncl--"

Bret: "Never confuse admiration with respect, Natty, and the King receives neither from me."

Natty: "If that's the case, then why are we here? Aren't we too just potential pawns in this elaborate game? Why put yourself, our home, our great house… our birthright at such a risk? Is this why you truly brought me here, and not David, Theodore, or m'Tyson?"

The Warden of The White took in each and every question of his bold, young and inquiring niece, allowing it all to individually season within his mind. Yet before he could formally respond, the sounds of trumpeteering once again filled the arena airs:

Gene: "My lords and ladies, do not think we take you all for fools, for that is but a mere sample of tonight's planned festivities! Rejoice! The night is still young and full of frenzy! All we ask is that you give one more round of applause for Brock of House Lesnar, as he prepares to face off in his second consecutive bout to officially begin the Slam of Thrones!"

The "APPLAUSE" banners lifted once more and the audience responded in absolute fervor and delight. If not for his bitter and unforgiving spine, Lord Bret would have walked right out at that very moment. "Natty may be right…," the Lord of Harthome thought to himself, "Maybe this was a mistake."

Gene: "As you all well know, the Beast Incarnate needs little introduction! He has represented King Vincent of House McMahon, Second of His Name in the past two events, winning both against the greatest fighters in the world with little to no struggle!"

The audience continued to cheer and yell all around them. The Beast was certainly a unique physical specimen of mammoth proportions; Bret most certainly understood his appeal. Brock never spoke, not even in public, but everyone saw something dark come alive from within him once the bell sounded and a bout began. That was, after all, how he had earned his nickname. The Lord then remembered that he had yet to answer even one of Natalya's many questions.

Bret: "In truth, I brought you here because out of those you just made mention of, I believe that both your counsel and even your protection is a cut above the rest. Your mind is more often than not just as sharp as your sword, and your beauty is unquestioned in all reaches of the Great White North. I need your presence here with me in the capital just as much as you require it of mine, m'niece."

Lord Hart could see Lady Natalya slightly smiling in his peripheral. He knew that would soon change the more he spoke.

Bret: "Our great house is dying, Natty. As much as it sickens every fiber of my being to even be here in this god-forsaken cesspool, these are not the fickle shores of Libre -- I have a face and I must show it or the great name passed down to me by my father and his father before him will ultimately perish just like the sun in a Great White winter."

Natalya: "And now you are mistaken: they only care to see the pain and struggle, not the actual face itself or the man who wears it so well, my dear uncle. You will never be equal to them in their eyes. How can you be so blind as to not see that?"

Bret: "You're both right and wrong. Nothing is equal in the South, but with what army do we defend Harthome and Snowspear with on the day when we stop paying lip service to the capital? We cannot afford to idly sit by as we twiddle our thumbs in the cold."

Natalya: "Then mayhaps it is you we have to blame for the current state of our great house, uncle; We northerners were once proud kings and queens. We made our own rules. We fought our own wars, worshipped our own gods of old and most vital of all? We bent no knees to southron scum. The very same ilk who murdered your brother and stripped you of your honor, and so again I ask you -- why exactly are we here?"

"There she is...," Lord Hart thought to himself, "sharp as a sword, indeed." In that very same moment, a swift and heavy gust of wind encircled its way across the arena, winding itself both downwards and outwards through the arena's pit like a natural funnel. It pained Lord Hart to move his neck, but he forced himself to lift his head ever so slightly in order to better see the sky above. Bret instantly noticed dark canopy of foreboding clouds were staring down upon the gallery below.

Near seconds after, Bret felt a drop of rain gently colliding and dispersing from the top of his wrist. One drop became two, two became three and within mere moments, a couple droplets soon transformed into a widespread shower. Thunder rumbled stuck between the hooves of dark, sinister clouds; lightning cracked and the sounds of delicate noble ladies wilting in the wake of nature were there for all to hear. Ser Gene of House Okerlund then cupped his hands over his mouth so he could better project his voice:

Gene: "My lords, ladies! Please exit the venue with caution! Single file, SINGLE FILE!!!"

Lord Bret remained seated as he watched on with amusement as the innumerable patrons of the venue now scattered and dispersed like a broken pack of wild dogs. Natalya stood to her feet, clutching her woolen smock ever closer above the crown of her head, facing herself towards her uncle with a look of confusion.

Natalya: "M'uncle, let me help you. The rainy pits of the arena are no place for you. You will catch fever if you remain here much longer…"

Bret: "If I can withstand the yearly blizzards of Harthome, then what harm will a little rain in the capital bring?.... Fever? I'm already dying, Natty."

Natalya: "Aye, that you are -- but the fact remains that this is no place for a King of Winter to sing his final song. Come now."

Lord Hart finally relented, accepting Natalya's hand as he slowly but surely made his way back up to stand. "Fiery and strong-willed, just like her father was…", Bret thought to himself, "Blood runs thicker than rivers in the Great White North." Bret smiled to himself through the pitter-patter of declining rain: "Father's famous dying words…"

The arena was an extension of a grand, similarly unrelenting tower located in the safe southeastern section of the capital, used as a meeting place for both attendees and combatants alike. There were lodges to accommodate those traveling the farthest reaches of both Wrestleros and the known world, scattered among a labyrinth of seemingly never ending marbled crimson-gold halls and corridors; Just finding one's way around the place proved quite the challenge.

Natalya edged Lord Bret closer to the huddled mass gathered within the expansive main hall. Bret promptly gripped his skull-heart cane, firmly planting himself in a fixed stance in contrast to Lady Natalya's forwarding motion. Even at this age, Bret's strength was enough to impose upon another when he really wanted or needed to, even in opposition to a woman of Natalya's physical prowess. Bret then spoke to her in a loud whisper, attempting to camouflage his words for any potential listening ears:

Bret: "Not there, Natty -- the exit. Anywhere but there."

Natalya: "Naye, m'uncle, I couldn't hear you -- Repeat that again?"

Two pairs of firm, rough hands then grabbed the Warden of The White from behind. It all happened so quickly, Bret had little time to discern exactly what was happening or whom was making it happen, yet the song of familiar voices still remained the same:

"Blood runs thicker than rivers in the Great White North."

CHAPTER FOUR
SHANE

Shane: "I guess I'm as much a bastard as you are a maester, Ser… Heyman was it?"

Heyman bellowed out as deep a laugh as he could quietly muster.

Heyman: "Just Heyman."

He then slowly rose back to his feet, taking his time to stand properly after having knelt so long, constantly shaking his head in disbelief.

Heyman: "You poor, blind soul -- yeels are but a fly, needlessly buzzing around the web of a spider. 'Cept in this case, the very thing that wants to trap and eat you is also what gave you life… and then yeels mock the very man trying to shew you away from the web? You're a real slice of pigeon pie, mee'lord..."

Shane: "My father is many things, but he wouldn--"

Heyman: "-- He would, he will, he did and here we still remain. Take a walk with me, bastard -- We have much to discuss."

The Prince was completely taken aback by the sheer brashness of this imposter maester who called himself Heyman. Yet in spite of his many doubts, Shane still felt compelled to follow his lead. Before he knew it, the Prince of Wrestleros soon realized that they were descending down a pathway to the ''Crypt of Champions'', an infamous area buried deep below the stadium ground commemorating the infamous legends of the game's past.

Carved out in crisp, cool limestone statues were Eddard "The Strangler", the near myth of a man for which Lewistown had been named after, also called "The Bear Knight" as a result of his penchant for fighting full-grown adult bears in combat, living to tell the tale each and every time; Georg Hackenschmidt, a giant Eurosian warrior who represented his countryside with pride amidst the battlefield; Lou of House Thesz, ruthless but beloved, the very founder of the impregnable yet decaying hold of Theszfort. There were several more standing as they continued walking, but Shane was learning quickly that Heyman surely loved to talk.

Heyman: "What if I told you some choose death over life? And what if I told you that some do not choose at all? Such is the Slam of Thrones. You either win or you die, but nothing is ever quite as it appears: The death is certainly real, yet the route to get there is nothing more than a mummer's trick. You gaze on with wonderment and envy, yet fail to recognize that the champions you see before you were nothing more than politicians in armor. Your armor has yet to crack, Shane-of-East -- I can help you wear it better, mee'lord."

Shane: "How exactly do you propose to do that?... And what if I'm unwilling?"

Heyman: "I can unfortunately not predict the future; I have only what my little birds tell me, but what they do tell me is that you, Shane-of-East, are in grave danger. You are a bastard -- Queen Linda is not your trueborn moth--"

The Prince had heard quite enough:

Shane: "-- You amused me at first Heyman, but enough is enough. I can find my own way out of here, no need to--"

Heyman: "She is a loving and dutiful mother in spite of and in the stead of your father's drunken, out-of-town, middle-of-the-weeknight wenc--"

CRRRAAAACCCCCKKKKKK!!!!! -- As if without his own body's permission, Shane suddenly felt his hand flying from his arm, clenched tight and positioned straightforwardly at Heyman's face. He nearly sent the old man crashing into the statues of the legendary duo -- Ser Martin "The Farmer" of House Burns and Ser Francis of House Gotch.

Heyman: "Hate to be the one to tell yeels, but the truth hurts worse than your punches, mee'lord."

Once more, the faux maester cackled aloud while The Prince attempted to shake off the tension from his wrist.

Shane: "Dare I say it? You really have a mouth on you; do you not, Paul?"

Heyman's inflated face flushed white in shock at first, then red with frustration.

Shane: "A disbarred initiate of The District in Columbia, you never earned a single chain. Spent most of your adult life scheming, drinking and failing at leading, stuck in the sour streets of Dudleyville with that atrocious accent of yours. Yee'fool -- are the true joke. You can kindly go back to fucking off now."

Instead, Heyman smiled. Shane started walking, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of listening to his absurdity any longer.

Heyman: "I see you've done your research too, mee'lord… But it would be ill of me not to tell you that your father is prepping your sister for the crown… and securing the arrangements to frame you for the Queen's murder."

Shane stopped walking...

Heyman: "The Princess wants yeels out of the picture... All of yeels. I have no reason to lie to you, mee'lord… Honestly, I'm here to help, you must believe me."

The Prince then finally turned back around to face Heyman, soiled in sweaty robes, sounding with honest spoke words for the very first time.

Shane: "For some odd reason -- I think I'm finally starting to."

Heyman: "It's about time. I'll have yeels know, since we're on the topics of trust? I have yeels surrounded, regardless. We have a Plan B for the crown, and we need ye--"

Shane: "And what if I resis--"

SPOILER: Click to show

Raymond: "We weren't asking yeels."

Von: "No sudden movements, grease."

Robert: "We just need you…"

Thomas: "To join us in our dream…"

Taz: "Or we'll make certain..."

Sabu: "See sun? You will not..."

Raven: "Nevermore."

CHAPTER FIVE
BROTHER STEEL

"So he awakes…"

Ace heard the voice and saw not the man, but the shadow just before cold water was splashed violently into his face. *Slapppp* -- the sound rang out through the cold, iron bars.

"We're here… and now… you're here with us. But my brother… we are men of mercy, dear pray the Seven and all those fanciful gods of ole'!!!"

"I fucking hate these wildling Wyatts..." Brother Steel thought to himself but knew better than to say aloud whilst locked away in a cage with them. Just as his vision started to return, Ace then felt himself being dragged by four hands so that his back rested hard against the jail cell bars.

Bray: "That's what you sound like. Heretics is what you calld us? Pfffftttttt! We're just a bunch of misunderstood, honest-livin' folk here to give your world some much-needed COLOR!"

They started in with their feet, both kicking and stomping all over the front surface of Brother Steel, as the predator had now become the prey. Closed-fist punches then forwarded the one-sided melee, until the towering Braun, formerly of House Strowman, lifted Brother Steel all the way up to the ceiling of the cell by the scruff of his tattered robes.

Bray: "You better pray about this, son -- my gods don't give two shits about saving you; They would rather watch the world burn with you dying in it!"

Steel: "Kill me and you'll die with me. Let me liv--"

Braun then adjusted his colossal hand from Brother Steel's collar to the wide breadth of his neck, constricting his vocal cords and making it difficult for the Saint to speak any further. As he needlessly struggled, Steel watched on as he saw Bray Wyatt taking joy in his petty suffering. "Wildling scum…."

Steel: "-- let me LIVE AND I WILL FREE YOU!"

Bray: "How does one free a man who is already free? And how can such a powerless man have any power? I don't know what world you think you're livin' in son, but you've been invited to eat dinner with the Family… and you wanna leave all of the sudden!?!? Let's sing a song, Preacherman's PUPPET!!!"

A hammerfist to the ribs from Brodie, followed by a swift hook to the gut by Erick from the left side. Brother Steel truly hadn't felt this much pain since his initiation into the Seventh City Saints, the day he was reborn by the one true grace and wisdom of the Seven, not the foul, bastardized tree-loving gods of the Wyatts.

Bray: "Your body is an instrument. Sadly -- it is NOT finely tuned. Still, the Preacherman plucks your strings, and so you sing the muddled medleys of a thousand blathering fools redesigned anew. But we sing better songs; more specifically -- The Song of Hellfire and Brimstone."

Steel: "Wha--"

Brother Steel then screamed out in agony as he suddenly felt the back of his head being crushed between the bars by the force of Braun's encroaching hands, both now firmly grasping his face.

Bray: "You speak when spoken to, BOYYYY!!!!! The song is sung unto us as we speak, but you my enemy, speak far too loud and ask much too little to even hear it's sweet, sweet BLISSSS!!!!!"

Bray Wyatt then turned his back to him. Ace could still see him in the now thinning gaps of Braun's giant fingers, still firmly pressing his face into a jail cell flapjack. "So this is how I die… for Faith and Freedom."

Then, as if prayers had magically been answered, Brother Steel instead heard the sweet, sweet sounds of the jail cell door clanking open. Braun then finally released Ace of his two-palmed deathly grasp, sending Brother Steel collapsing to the ground like a lifeless sack of flesh and marrow.

Brooks: "Blessed be the day you kill one of my own, Wyatt, and your foul, old gods will be enjoying your suffering, too…"

Bray: "Seven fuckin' hells -- you've always been the biggest critic of your own work, Preacherman -- this is known. Why don't ya ever give yourself some artistic liberty?"

Brooks: "I'm afraid we are not into the same kind of art, you and I."

Bray then finally turned around to face Father Brooks, the remaining three Wyatts now surrounding him on both his sides. Steadily, Bray made his way closer to Brooks, while conversely, Colt Cabana and Doc Gallows matched their opposition by forming a barrier around the High Septon of the Seventh City. Wyatt then mockingly bowed:

Bray: "Different strokes for different folk, Father -- but wrong you still remain. Say now -- do you fancy sweet music, Preacherman?"

Brooks: "As the High Septon of the Seventh City, Father of the Saints -- my spirit will forever sing the song of the Seven."

Bray: "HAR! You sing no sweet songs there, Father. You are a drum marching out of beat; a conductor who's the single patron of his own symphony! You're rotten meat, Preacherman!"

A smile then formed from Father Brooks expressive face, a truly rare sight whether it be between or beyond these walls. Brother Steel fumbled around with his hands before finally finding his grip to readjust himself more comfortably along the bars.

Brooks: "Flesh is flooring, whereas the spirit is the foundation. You will freeze to death if left bare between no walls and that relentless, biting cold, but with walls and the eyes to see them built, there is the potential for paradise."

Bray: "And what about the foundations of your former city, hmmm? What about those sunken floors of buildings burned at the edge of you and your owns torches!?"

Brother Steel refused the passing thought, but Bray's wide, menacing eyes still darted over, trying to read his mind and heart to determine the best ways to verbally puncture them. Ace shuddered from the aching pain in his abdomen and the ringing in his head, reflexes Bray misconstrued as relative to his accusations of the High Septon, as he smiled wickedly, inching ever closer to meet his face with Steel's.

Bray: "Preacherman left that part out of the sermons, DIDN'T HE BOY!?!?"

*CUURRRAAAACCCCKKKK!!!* Brother Gallows struck Bray in the back violently with his whip.

Bray: "-- HARHARHARHAR!!!!! That all ya got, ya big hairy BASTAR--!?!?"

*CUURRRRAAAACCCCKKKK!!!* This time, Brother Cabana followed with an equally vicious strike of his own but to face, sending Bray falling to one knee. All the same, Bray Wyatt continued to both insult and laugh his way through the pain as he was physically laid out on the ground in the process. The consecutive blows were many, and yet all the while, Brother Steel found himself slightly disturbed watching on as he noticed a sick smile starting to reveal itself on Father Brooks face. Steel then heard the fast movement of running feet before he heard it --

*CRUWUUSSHHH!!!* Erick came running from the back of the cell, tackling Brother Cabana easily to the ground, sending his whip sliding out of the cell along the floor. Brodie and Strowman followed suit by ganging up on Brother Gallows. "For Faith… and Freedom", Brother Steel said to himself before taking a deep breath and returning himself to stand. He then leapt onto the back of Strowman, attempting to bring the big man down with a reverse chokehold, only to find himself further broken after being flung backwards into those unforgiving iron bars. Brother Steel collapsed to the ground, his vision growing blurry. He felt like he was dreaming, and maybe he was, yet either way he saw it: Father Brooks closed the cell, locked the door and walked away. Steel's eyes then grew far too heavy, as he quickly capsized himself into the foggy abyss of slumber...

Awesome shit. Loved this last encounter with Wyatt and his family and Punk and his Saints.

CHAPTER SIX
ROCKY

Confusion and near panic was abound; soldiers bearing the crests of both House Hart and House Neidhart now spilled through the crowd within the greeting hall of the arena, splitting the mass in half just like the Great Divide. Rocky demonstrated keen reflexes by halting Maester Foley's approach, preventing the wiley old sage from being quickly run over by rushing units.

Rocky: "Watch yourself--"

The maester proceeded to hand the Lord of Strongbow a pint of honey meade he had just purchased from the built-in tavern bar behind them.

Rocky: "No thank you. White wine tastes like a boar's ass. Besides, aren't maesters forbidden from taking drink? How the hell'd you even get that!?"

Foley: "This isn't wine, m'lo--"

Rocky smiled, had a laugh and then rested his hand on the maester's shoulder.

Rocky: "Anything you Wrestlerosi drink on the mainland is called 'white wine' back on Phatu, my friend."

Foley: "What's with all this commotion?"

Rocky: "Two men; one larger, one smaller; grabbed the Lord of Harthome from behind, kidnapped him against his will and fled through one of the exits down the hall -- your every fortnight, run-of-the-mill, capital bullshit..."

Maivia then changed his mind, grabbing the pint right from out of Foley's hand just as the maester was about to drink from it. He polished it off in one massive gulp before expelling a sour expression from his face and then taking a few seconds later to clear out flem from his throat.

Rocky: "Tastes like piss, I swear! Where was I again!? Oh, RIGHT!!! -- The crowd's in a frenzy, a bunch of Hucklehart's just stormed the building and you're serving me this filthy white wine…"

Foley: "Of which you're more than happy to keep drinking, apparently…"

Rocky: "As long as you're more than happy to keep paying for it, maester!"

Lord Rocky then struck Maester Foley with a friendly, yet firm slap to the back of his shoulders before turning to his side to approach an attractive young lady situated over to his eight-by-noon at the bar table. Foley hesitated at first before making the impulse decision to keep the Lord of Phatu Island grounded on these foreign shores.

Foley: "They could hang you for that, m'lord."

Rocky: "For doing what… her? Do you even know who that is, maester?"

Foley sighed quietly with irritation.

Foley: "Of course, m'lord -- The Lady Charlotte of House Flair. She is the most powerful woman in all the Sout--"

Rocky: "Good, 'cause I had absolutely no clue until you said that just now. Thank you, maester -- You're just the gift that keeps on giving!"

Rocky then gave the maester a patronizing wave before turning around to reapproach the stunning Lord Charlotte, who was oddly now nowhere to be seen all of the sudden.

Foley: "The one that got away..."

Rocky: "You can shove it up your candy ass, bookender--"

Before Foley could quip back any further jest at the Lord's expense, the sound of blaring trumpets hailed the arrival of the king and his royal entourage. The Lord of Strongbow quickly turned the aimlessly large Foley around to face their entrance forward on bended knee.

Rocky: "What kind of rent-a-maester are you!? Kneel, you fool!"

Foley moved nowhere and he said nothing, just looking on blankly like a moth fluttering ever closer to an encroaching wildfire.

Rocky: "Fine, you imbecile: it's your funeral, but I'm not going down--"

The Lord of Strongbow then halted his speech as soon as he saw the royal procession finally make its way into the room. To both Rocky's shock and dismay, the maester finally moved, but rather than bending down to his knee, he moved still standing, away from the file and into the clearing beyond. Foley then outstretched his arms for all to see, now standing like a statue directly in the path of the oncoming Kingsguard.

"What.. the…… hell!?" Lord Maivia thought to himself, watching on in disbelief as the very flesh of his assigned maester began to grow several shades more ivory, his normally calming, brown eyes soon following suit as they seemed to almost roll backwards into his head.

"Remove yourself this instance, maester, or we'll gladly do it for you!", Ser Hunter of House Helmsley, esteemed knight of the Kingsguard, bellowed out for all in attendance to hear. The maester did nothing in response, not even a flinch of the face or a blinking of those dead, white eyes. Silence overtook the hall, the sound of fluttering wings and cawing slicing through it like the sharpened edge of a knife. A crow landed itself on Foley's left shoulder, bending it's head to the side as it's eyes now met Ser Helmsley: *KUH-CAAAWWWWWW!!!* it shrieked out in response. Ser Helmsley turned himself in the king, a face of disgust still oozing repulsion.

Hunter: "He's a bloody tweener; known practitioners of the dark arts, Your Grace! Those chains are made of LIES! One word and I'll swiftly cut him dow--"

Foley: "The fear of death is far greater than death itself…"

The maester sounded nothing like usual, his voice hoarse and rigorous; almost otherworldly.

Foley: "You cannot kill that which is already dead… Rest… in peace."

The Lord of Strongbow on the Phatu Islands, the Warden of the Sea, then rushed to his feet in an instant. Rocky dove to catch the maester as his eyes and skin returned to normal coloration, the crow quickly flew off and Maester Foley near collapsed to the ground. King Vincent, Second of His Name, brushed his Kingsguard aside as he approached the two men closer. A grim smile forebodingly appeared, his grace mockingly slow-clapping with each methodical step forward.

Vincent: "Bravo! Bravo! Quite the performance there, would you not concur, Chief?"

Lord Maivia slowly laid the maester to the ground. He then checked Foley's pulse for a brief moment: "Good… still breathing." Rocky then resumed his previous kneeling position.

Rocky: "My deepest apologies, Your Gra--"

Hunter: "Your King asked you a question, wetlander!"

Maivia seared with anger over the derogatory remark; it was a word that had fueled hatred, discontent and division between the Phatunese and mainland Wrestlerosi ever since the two cultures first met many centuries long ago.

Vincent: "THANK YOU, Hunter, but YOUR King can also speak for himself. You know…"

The King now stepped closer and closer, both hands curled together upon his lap, tapping the elaborate crimson fabric of his tunic before his feet met just inches away from Lord Maivia's.

Vincent: "If the Phatunese would adopt or even encourage the practice of maesters on your many scattered, beautiful islands, we wouldn't have to assign you the District's leftovers, Chief. Interruptions such as this one could be avoided altogether…"

Rocky looked up for a moment to see the King still sporting a devious expression before motioning his hand in a sweeping formation, as if to signal something. Briefly looking to his side, he looked on in surprise as two members of the Kingsguard now dragged the maester away along the marbled floors of the hall; the Warden of the Sea knew better than to object to this.

Rocky: "We are a proud people, Your Grace; Old customs die slow deaths on Phatu, but we are truly grateful for your watchful guidanc--"

Vincent: "Strongbow was an old stomping grounds of mine in my youth -- The coastlines are truly magnificent to look at. The weather? Even better. The women!? Beyond description! But the rest of your islands are useless jungles shielding useless animals and useless savages, all of which and whom have yet to bend the knee to the ONE TRUE KING!!! Rise now… ALL OF YOU!!!"

Lord Maivia clenched his fist, but rather than throw it, he dug deeper down to use it as leverage in order to stand on his own two feet once more in near perfect unison with the other attendees in the hall. The King then turned his full attention to the onlooking crowd beyond them, the entire Kingsguard marching in a full-step turn with them.

Vincent: "Subjects of the gallery, we are more than happy to inform you that the rain has since passed! We implore you all to return to your seats, exiting out of the hall in a civil and orderly fashion! Let the great games continue!"

The sound of cheers and applause rung loud throughout the wide Vinnish arches of the tower ceiling. Soon after, first line soldiers of the Royal Army made their way in, in order to conduct security detail as they directed this mass traffic back to the arena grounds. Rocky thought this as best a moment to remove himself as any, before quickly finding the king's hand stopping him by the shoulder.

Vincent: "Not you, Chief; you know the rules -- I cannot have a lord unaccompanied in my arena. Since you are without your guide, you'll be joining us. Come now, we do have MUCH to speak of!"

Rocky: "Your Grace… I believe someone took the Lord Bre--"

Lord Maivia then felt the edge of Ser Helmsley's sledgehammer now gently resting along his throat as King Vincent, Second of His Name, looked on at Rocky in a much more stern disposition.

Hunter: "Best not to speak too loud, wetlander -- I like to carry a BIG stick."

Loved it. Fucking awesome. I am so intrigued.

CHAPTER SEVEN
ROBERT


Robert Holly felt the foreign emotion of fear lingering in his bones, in his mind and in his heart. He had a thousand questions with no possible answers and a thousand more reasons to stop asking them to himself, yet still they persisted on and on. "What in the seven hells did I just see?" seemed to be the most prominent of them all.

Fiercely he clung his right hand to the most damaged wound on his right leg, desperately trying to stem the flow of bleeding as he fumbled over his cumbersome crossbow with the other hand. Step-by-step, Robert found it harder and harder to make progress through thick dunes of treacherous, crystal white snow. "I knew I shoulda made a strap for the old bastard…"

Then finally came the rich feeling of relief, as Holly finally saw the breathtakingly decayed facade of the Black Chamber, the most notorious of the three towers left standing at the edge of the Great Steel Cage. "It's about fuckin' time…" Holly thought to himself, almost feeling guilty for looking forward to the climactic moment of being able to rest once and for all. The sound of a single horn then resonated boldly between the spaces of thick northern pines. Even from this distance, Robert Holly could hear one of his brothers in black: "JOBBER RETURNING TO POST!!!"

Halfway to the gates, Holly grew too weak to physically stand any longer. He felt himself slowly collapse to the soft tundra below, everything thereafter becoming a slow, hazy blur. The next thing he knew, Robert's kaleidoscope vision focused to form the face of Lord Commander Lombardi himself, seated directly across from him on a smooth, granite stone ruptured from the frozen ground below. It took just seconds more to realize that he himself had been tied down from head-to-toe with rope, completely unable to move anything other than his head.

Holly: "-- the hell kinda shit is this, Steve!?"

Lombardi: "You will address me as your Lord Commander, Holly -- and I assure you, this is for your own protection -- as well as there's."

Holly looked to his left, then right, as Lord Commander Lombardi promptly pointed to both sides surrounding them. Standing circular were several higher ranking brothers of the Jobswatch: Barry of House Horowitz, Lann of House Poffo, even the infamous foreign transplant himself -- "The Purosi Tiger", Chung Lee. Most notable of all though was Scorpio: "Hmm -- I guess that asshole didn't die after all…", Robert thought to himself. Each and every one of them looked on at Robert Holly as if they were a pride of lions stalking an injured, lone stag.

Holly: "Good for them -- bad look for you though, Steve. I don't give a damn what these arsefuckers think about me, but I'm not here to make friends with you, I'm here to turn boys into men of the Jobswatch, ya one-eyed prick."

Lombardi chuckled, then adjusted the string of his eyepatch as he was ought to do occasionally, especially when irritated. He then slowly, yet surely stood back up to both feet, walked over to Robert and unsheathed his sword, pointing it to his face with a wry smile as the wind began to gust just a little bit stronger around them.

Lombardi: "Call me Steve or 'one-eye' again… and you'll be wishing it was this sword that I had killed ya with."

The Lord Commander then sheathed his sword back forcefully, but not before using the pointy end to taunt Holly with a slight tap to the throat. Shortly after Lombardi remained standing, his back now turned to Robert and his brevity, the remaining members of the onlooking Jobswatch now proceeded to take their seats… that is, all of them but Scorpio.

Lombardi: "Folks say 'Blood Runs Thicker Than Rivers' up here 'cause there's been a lotta damn blood shed in these rivers, Holly -- I'd hate ta feed those same waters with yours, but I will if I have ta. You've been accused of mistreatment and abuse imposed from your hands and unleashed upon your own recruits…"

Holly: "Well it's nice to finally meet ya, Pot -- the name's Kettle. Pretty damn certain this right here counts as mistreatment and abuse!"

Lombardi: "Using ulterior methods ta produce results is one thing, Holly -- abandoning your post and leaving your recruits behind is something else entirely."

Robert scoffed mockingly and swiftly at this statement: "That Scorpio sure is one vengeful twat" he passingly thought to himself.

Holly: "Those are big words for a man who wasn't even there, who didn't see what I sa--"

Lombardi: "You're right, I wasn't there -- but Scorpio was."

Scorpio: "You left me there to die, you asshole… all of us!"

The Lord Commander then finally turned back to face himself to Robert, extending his arm in front of Scorpio to prevent him from moving any further towards Holly.

Lombardi: "We understand your frustration, brother, but defeatin' a man who cannot defend himself is no victory ta be had. We will get ta the bottom of this, I assure ya that. In the meantime…"

After Lord Commander Lombardi gave Scorpio a friendly tap on the chest, he boldly snapped his fingers above their heads, two young stewards now approaching from the side as they carried with them two flagons of ale on a silver tray. Lombardi handed Scorpio one, and then took the other for himself.

Lombardi: "A toast… ta brotherhood!"

Just as the Lord Commander and Scorpio prepared to clank their cups together in a joined drink, Robert began to laugh to himself aloud. Both of them stopped to listen, whilst Lombardi clanked their glasses by himself, then retrieved Scorpio's ale back, beginning to drink as Holly now spoke.

Holly: "The Outsiders… call me a madman, but that's what we saw, ya old crone. I'm a lot of things in this world, Steve, but even you know that a liar isn't one of them. I watched with my own two eyes as the dead came alive all around us. That Blue sonuvabitch wouldn't shut the hell up and ol' frisky fingers here threatened to murder him, so I shot 'em in the damn foot."

Scorpio: "LIARRRR!!!!!"

Lombardi: "Calm your damn self, recruit, or I'll find a matching slab of stone ta join ya with your elder over there! That goes for the rest of ya, too!!!"

The men of the Jobswatch seated around Robert Holly now finally ceased their chattering in hushed discussion, returning their attention solely to their Lord Commander.

Lombardi: "That's better…"

The former pit fighter nicknamed "The Brawler" then downed his second flagon of ale in just a handful of gulps, the golden spirits cascading down his neck and absorbing into the course, black leather of his ripped overcoat. He then turned his back once more before chucking the flagon to the snowy ground below, pointing a single finger into the air.

Lombardi: "The Outsiders are a myth; the fabled fantasy of lechers and vagabonds of old. They're as real as blunderbeests; as true as snorks, grundlers or dingles. How dare ya insult me within these walls, Holly; I thought ya were man enough ta spare me of that at the very least!"

Holly: "Believe me or not, I don't give a rats ass what you believe. Scorpio saw what I saw, he just doesn't like that I humbled his ass by shooting him before the fact. Where do ya reckon the rest of my unit's gone to, Steve!?"

Lombardi: "Dead by your own hands, he claims…"

Robert scoffed loudly before hocking a thick wad of spit towards Scorpio, which landed on his exposed breastplate.

Scorpio: "MOTHERFUUU--"

Quickly, Horowitz and Poffo rose up to hold Scorpio back from charging any further.

Lombardi: "Chung, won't ya be a dear and help escort Mister Scorpio here ta somewhere else within the Chamber where he can better relax?"

Chung Lee nodded in response, now joining Horowitz and Poffo as they now chaperoned Scorpio away from the premises. The Lord Commander's solemn grin was discerning to Robert, something he now noticed as Lombardi turned back around with both hands resting behind his back. The Lord Commander then moved his mouth to speak, yet it was the voice of another whom rang aloud:

"He is telling the truth, Lord Commander Lombardi -- I have seen them in my dreams; in my many sleepless flights. You would be wise to listen to him -- and to me."

Lombardi: "Is that so? -- Are ya sure 'bout that???"

Robert Holly saw the darkened figure better as the cover of clouds now briefly unshielded themselves from the pure light of the sun above. The man had shoulder-length hair as black as night seated above a mailed trench coat of the same shade, clasped together with the broach of a scorpion.

His facial features were almost lifeless, but nearly as white as the caps of mountains, with deep black pools surrounding his eyes like veins of static electricity. Clasped between his hands was a scratched and brittle-looking thin black sword that shone like the reflection of a mirror amid its rough edges. Robert Holly felt that foreign fear grow once more as he watched the man's eyes roll back from white to black in but what seemed like just an instant. The man of black-and-white then spoke once more, this time turning his head to the left to meet his eyes with those of the Lord Commander's:

SPOILER: Click to show

Sting: "The only thing that's for sure -- is that nothing is for sure."

That was a fun little chapter/segment. "Robert" being his ol douchebag self was pretty spot on, too. I love the way you wrote this shit out. The "blood in the water" was such a great read. Excellently executed and written. I'm not sure how I feel about this being the debut of Sting into the story, but I guess we shall all see.

The Jobswatch is such a genius idea; I fucking love it. It's so obvious to do too and I would've never done it. Jobbers are basically what the Nightswatch was in GOT anyways. Just genius and so in my face I can't believe I never thought about it. This is going to be one of my favorite storylines. I just know it.