Chapter 151: Ten Ordinary Soldiers
The morning after the feast, almost everyone within Winterfell gathered outside the eastern wall.
A wide training field had been cleared beside Jon's camp. Snow had been removed from the hard ground, and wooden posts marked the boundaries of a large square.
Northern soldiers stood along one side.
Knights, guards, servants, and members of the royal court crowded along the other.
Robert occupied a raised wooden platform with Cersei, Ned, and Catelyn. The royal children and the Stark children sat nearby, while northern and southern nobles gathered behind them.
Robert appeared far more enthusiastic than he had during any council meeting.
A heavy fur cloak covered his shoulders, and a cup of heated wine rested in his hand despite the early hour.
"Now this," Robert declared, "is a proper way to begin the morning."
Ned glanced at the wine.
"You have barely finished recovering from last night."
"I am the king. I decide when I have recovered."
"You decided before leaving your bed."
"And it was an excellent decision."
Robert drank deeply.
Cersei ignored them both.
Her attention remained upon the training field.
Ser Jaime Lannister stood near its edge in polished armour, carrying a blunted practice sword. Beside him waited Ser Barristan Selmy, Sandor Clegane, and seven renowned fighters selected from the royal party.
Some were household knights.
Others were veteran royal guards who had survived tournaments, rebellions, and years of service.
Together, they represented some of the finest warriors currently within Winterfell.
The same could not be said of Jon's side.
At least, not by appearance.
Ten soldiers stood in a straight line before Alex.
They wore the same dark armour as the thousand men encamped outside Winterfell. None possessed decorative weapons, golden cloaks, family crests, or marks of command.
The oldest appeared to be in his early thirties.
The youngest could not have been more than eighteen.
They carried identical blunted swords and round shields.
Robert frowned.
"Those are his men?"
Ned studied the line.
"They wear Jon's colours."
"I can see that. Where are his champions?"
"He said he would select ordinary soldiers."
Robert looked toward Jon.
The young king stood several steps away from his men, dressed in black and grey. Longclaw rested at his side, although he had shown no intention of participating.
Ghost lay behind him.
The enormous white direwolf watched the field with red eyes, his great head resting upon his paws.
Farther back, fifty direwolves sat in disciplined rows.
Beyond them stood the giants.
Torghal and nine other armoured giants watched over the camp like living towers. Their presence should have dominated the gathering.
Instead, everyone's attention remained upon the ten ordinary men standing before Alex.
Robert raised his voice.
"Nephew!"
Jon turned toward him.
"Uncle Robert?"
"Are these truly the men you selected?"
"Yes."
"They do not appear particularly extraordinary."
"They are not."
A few southern knights laughed.
Jaime smiled as he rolled the practice sword in his hand.
Robert gestured toward Barristan, Sandor, and the remaining fighters.
"I have given you the finest warriors in my company."
"I noticed."
"And you have given me farmers wearing armour."
The ten soldiers did not react.
Jon's expression carried faint amusement.
"They are professional soldiers."
"Are any of them commanders?"
"No."
"Royal guards?"
"No."
"Members of your elite companies?"
"No."
Robert stared at him.
"Then what are they?"
"Ordinary members of my standing army."
Alex stepped away from the soldiers and joined Jon.
Ned looked between the two groups.
He had personally witnessed one of Jon's injured soldiers defeat Greatjon Umber, but this was different. Jaime Lannister and Barristan Selmy were among the greatest swordsmen alive. Sandor Clegane possessed terrifying strength, while the seven remaining men had been chosen precisely because of their experience.
Ned approached Jon.
"Are you certain this is wise?"
Jon looked toward him.
"Which part concerns you?"
"You are placing ordinary soldiers against Jaime Lannister, Barristan Selmy, Sandor Clegane, and seven experienced fighters."
"Yes."
"You could have selected commanders."
"That would be unnecessary."
Ned lowered his voice.
"If your men are badly injured, this demonstration will accomplish nothing."
"They will not be injured."
There was no arrogance in Jon's answer.
Only certainty.
Ned glanced at the ten soldiers again.
"You have that much confidence in them?"
Jon followed his gaze.
"I trained them."
That was the only explanation he offered.
Robb, standing nearby, heard the exchange.
He remembered asking Jon the previous night whether his men would win.
Jon had replied that victory was not the question.
Robb had assumed it was a boast.
Now, looking at his brother's calm face, he was no longer certain.
Robert clapped his hands impatiently.
"Explain the rules before I die of old age."
Alex stepped toward the centre of the field.
"Ten fighters from each side. The contest ends when every member of one side has surrendered, lost consciousness, been disarmed and placed in a fatal position, or forced outside the boundary."
Robert nodded.
"Simple enough."
"No sharpened weapons," Alex continued. "No deliberate attacks to the eyes, throat, or other vulnerable areas. Every fighter will stop once his opponent is incapable of defending himself."
Sandor examined his blunted sword.
"What if the other man refuses to stay down?"
"Then put him down again," Alex answered.
Sandor gave a humourless smile.
Robert leaned forward.
"Will they fight individually or together?"
Jon answered from beside the field.
"Together."
Several knights immediately began murmuring.
Robert raised an eyebrow.
"I thought warriors preferred proper duels."
"Warriors might. Soldiers do not."
Jaime turned toward Jon.
"You are afraid your men cannot face us individually?"
"No."
"Then why deny them the chance?"
"Because you asked to test my army, Ser Jaime. Armies do not wait patiently while men arrange ten separate duels."
Jon looked across the southern fighters.
"You have ten men. I have ten men. Use them however you wish."
Barristan nodded slowly.
"A reasonable condition."
Jaime glanced at him.
"You sound as though you expect difficulty."
"I expect nothing," Barristan replied. "That is why I am watching carefully."
Jon turned toward his soldiers.
"Basic Breathing only."
The ten men struck their right fists against their chests.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Silence spread across the field.
Robert glanced at Alex.
"What does that mean?"
"The technique permitted for this demonstration."
"You have more than one?"
Alex looked toward the soldiers.
"Yes."
"How many?"
"Enough."
Robert slowly turned toward Jon.
Jon offered him an innocent expression.
Robert pointed his cup at him.
"You have taught your men that damned answer."
"I encourage consistency."
Several northern lords laughed.
Alex lowered his voice.
"Your Grace, even Basic Breathing may be excessive against these opponents."
Jaime heard him.
His smile disappeared.
Sandor shifted his grip upon his sword.
Barristan watched the ten soldiers with renewed concentration.
Until that moment, they had appeared perfectly ordinary. Their breathing was calm, their bodies relaxed, and their weapons held loosely at their sides.
Then they inhaled.
All ten did so together.
The change was subtle.
There was no light.
No magical energy surrounded them.
The ground did not shake, nor did the air distort.
Yet everyone close to the field felt it.
Their chests expanded.
Their backs straightened.
Muscles tightened beneath their armour as enormous quantities of air entered their lungs. Their heartbeats accelerated, forcing blood through their bodies with greater speed.
White vapour escaped their mouths into the cold northern air.
Their eyes sharpened.
The relaxed soldiers vanished.
Ten predators stood in their place.
Barristan raised his sword.
"Be prepared."
Jaime did not mock him this time.
Robert lifted one hand.
Every conversation ended.
Arya leaned so far forward that Catelyn placed a hand upon her shoulder.
Bran stared without blinking.
Joffrey sat beside Cersei with a confident smile.
"They will lose," he whispered.
Myrcella looked at the soldiers.
"You said the same about the direwolves obeying him."
"This is different. Uncle Jaime is the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms."
Cersei heard them but said nothing.
Her eyes moved from Jaime to Jon.
Jon was not watching Jaime.
He was watching his own soldiers with the calm attention of a craftsman inspecting familiar work.
Robert dropped his hand.
"Begin!"
The southern fighters moved.
The soldiers of Winter's Heaven disappeared.
A collective gasp swept across the field.
They had not truly vanished.
They had simply moved faster than most of the spectators could follow.
The first royal knight had barely completed his opening step when one of Jon's soldiers appeared before him.
A blunted sword struck his wrist.
His fingers opened.
Before his weapon touched the ground, a second strike slammed into his breastplate.
The knight flew backward and crashed onto the frozen earth.
Another soldier passed between two royal guards.
His shield struck the first man beneath the chin. As that guard's head snapped backward, the soldier turned and drove the pommel of his sword into the second man's chest.
Both collapsed.
Three men had fallen before Robert lowered the hand he had used to signal the beginning.
"What in seven hells—"
Two more impacts interrupted him.
A knight attempted to swing his sword, only for a soldier to step inside the attack. The soldier seized his arm, turned his hips, and threw the armoured man over his shoulder.
The knight struck the ground hard enough to lose his breath.
The fifth southern fighter tried to assist him.
A dark figure appeared at his side.
The soldier struck the back of his knee, caught him as he fell, and placed a blunted blade against his throat.
"Defeated," the soldier said.
He withdrew before the knight understood what had happened.
Half of Robert's chosen fighters had fallen within seconds.
Nobody cheered.
The northern lords stared in disbelief.
Several southern knights instinctively placed hands upon the hilts of their swords.
Robert slowly stood.
The smile had disappeared from Joffrey's face.
Sandor roared and charged.
Unlike the defeated knights, he did not waste time testing his opponent. He raised his blunted sword in both hands and brought it down with enough strength to break bone through armour.
One of Jon's soldiers stepped before him.
Their weapons collided.
The impact echoed across the field.
The soldier did not move.
Sandor's eyes widened.
He was taller, heavier, and renowned for possessing strength that few men could match. Yet the ordinary soldier had stopped his full attack without being driven back a single step.
The soldier inhaled again.
His arms moved.
Sandor was forced backward.
One step.
Then another.
The spectators watched the Hound lose ground before a man almost half his size.
Sandor attempted to twist his weapon free.
The soldier struck the flat of his sword.
The blunted weapon tore itself from Sandor's grip and spun through the air.
Before Sandor could reach for it, the soldier's blade stopped against his throat.
They stared at one another.
Sandor breathed heavily.
The soldier appeared completely calm.
"You are defeated."
Anger crossed Sandor's burned face.
Then he looked at the sword touching his throat.
He stepped backward.
The soldier lowered his weapon, turned away, and rejoined the battle without another word.
No celebration.
No mockery.
No pride.
Defeating Sandor Clegane had been nothing more than another completed order.
Jaime finally understood that Jon had not exaggerated.
He moved before three soldiers could surround him.
His sword flashed toward the nearest man's shoulder.
The soldier blocked.
The impact sent a painful vibration through Jaime's hand.
The man was stronger than he appeared.
Far stronger.
Jaime changed direction instantly and attacked low. The soldier avoided the strike by a distance so small that the blade brushed his armour.
Jaime smiled.
At last, an opponent worth facing.
Then the second soldier arrived.
Jaime sensed him rather than saw him.
He turned just in time to block a strike aimed at his side.
A third attack came from behind.
Jaime twisted away, feeling the weapon pass through the space where his ribs had been.
His smile vanished.
Each soldier was fast.
Together, they were suffocating.
They did not compete for the honour of defeating him. They did not interfere with one another or offer him a clear target.
Whenever Jaime attacked one, another forced him to defend.
Whenever he changed direction, the third was already waiting.
Jaime had fought great knights.
He had fought the Smiling Knight and survived.
He had trained against members of the Kingsguard and defeated men whose names were celebrated throughout the realm.
These soldiers possessed none of their reputations.
Yet their attacks were faster.
Their bodies were stronger.
Their coordination was nearly perfect.
Jaime drove one soldier back with a brilliant series of strikes and saw an opening.
He moved to exploit it.
The opening disappeared.
The soldier had created it deliberately.
A sword locked beneath Jaime's weapon and forced it upward.
A foot struck behind his knee.
His balance vanished.
Jaime hit the ground.
Before he could rise, one blunted blade touched his throat while another stopped over his heart.
The field became silent around him.
Jaime stared upward.
The two soldiers were not even breathing heavily.
"Defeated," one said.
Jaime looked toward his sword lying several feet away.
He released a slow breath.
"I noticed."
The soldiers withdrew.
Jaime remained on the ground for another moment, attempting to understand how quickly the battle had changed.
Then he heard steel striking steel behind him.
Barristan remained standing.
He was the only one.
The old knight moved with a precision none of the others had matched. He did not attempt to overpower Jon's soldiers. He watched their shoulders, feet, and eyes, predicting attacks before they began.
A soldier struck from his left.
Barristan turned the blow aside.
Another attacked from the right.
Barristan stepped away before the sword reached him.
A third entered from behind.
Barristan spun and nearly touched the man's chest with the end of his blade.
Nearly.
The soldier bent backward with inhuman speed.
Barristan's sword passed above him.
The old knight retreated before the others could surround him completely.
For the first time since the fight began, respect appeared in the eyes of Jon's soldiers.
Jon watched Barristan closely.
Robb stood beside him.
"He is better than the others."
"Yes."
"Could he defeat one of your men alone?"
"Perhaps."
Robb looked at him in surprise.
Jon continued watching the field.
"Skill should be recognised wherever it is found. Barristan Selmy has spent his life mastering the sword."
On the field, Barristan blocked another attack.
"But he is still human," Jon finished.
Barristan's experience allowed him to understand what was happening.
His body could not respond quickly enough to stop it.
The soldiers moved faster than any men he had previously fought. Every breath strengthened them. Every movement appeared to draw upon reserves that should not have existed within ordinary human bodies.
He blocked one sword.
A second struck his weapon from another angle.
Barristan's grip weakened.
The third soldier hit the blade near its guard.
The practice sword flew from his hand.
One of Jon's men caught it before it reached the ground.
Three blunted blades stopped around Barristan—one at his chest, one near his throat, and one behind his back.
Barristan looked across the field.
Jaime had fallen.
Sandor stood beyond the boundary without his weapon.
The seven other men remained on the ground or had already surrendered.
All ten of Jon's soldiers were standing.
Not one was injured.
Barristan lowered his hands.
"I yield."
The soldiers immediately withdrew their weapons.
Jon stepped forward.
"Ser Barristan Selmy has demonstrated why his name is respected even beyond the Wall."
Barristan turned toward him.
There was no mockery in Jon's expression.
The praise was sincere.
Barristan inclined his head.
"Your soldiers have taught this old knight something today."
"Then the demonstration was worthwhile."
Alex looked toward the wooden platform.
"Forty-seven seconds."
Robert stared at him.
"What?"
"The contest lasted forty-seven seconds."
No one spoke.
The ten soldiers returned to the centre of the field and formed a perfect line.
Their breathing slowed.
The tension within their bodies disappeared until they once again resembled ordinary men wearing ordinary armour.
They struck their fists against their chests.
"Your Grace."
Jon nodded.
"Return to your unit."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The soldiers turned together.
"Wait!"
Robert's voice stopped them.
He descended from the platform and crossed the field. His eyes moved from one soldier to another as though expecting to discover some concealed explanation.
He found none.
Their armour was ordinary.
Their practice swords were the same as those given to the southern fighters.
They carried no enchanted objects.
Robert stopped before the youngest soldier.
"How old are you?"
"Eighteen, Your Grace."
"How many battles have you fought?"
"Three major engagements and several smaller encounters."
Robert looked at Jon.
"This one is eighteen."
"Yes."
"And he is an ordinary soldier?"
"Yes."
"Not a commander?"
"No."
"Not one of your royal guards?"
"No."
"Not one of your elites?"
"No."
Robert pointed toward Jaime and Barristan.
"Your ordinary soldiers defeated two of the greatest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Ten of my soldiers defeated ten of your fighters."
"In forty-seven bloody seconds!"
Jon glanced at Alex.
"He was measuring."
"That is not the important part!"
"It appeared important when you repeated it."
Robert stared at his nephew.
Under different circumstances, he might have laughed.
He did not laugh now.
"What did you call that technique?"
"Breathing."
Robert's expression darkened.
"I know they were breathing. Every man breathes."
"Not like them," Bran whispered from the platform.
Jon looked toward the ten soldiers.
"Basic Breathing strengthens the body by controlling the lungs, heart, blood, and muscles. It increases strength, speed, stamina, concentration, and reaction time."
Tyrion stepped closer.
"And every soldier in your army knows this technique?"
"Yes."
"How many soldiers?"
Jon turned toward him.
"Enough."
This time, the familiar answer produced no amusement.
The courtiers looked toward the camp.
One thousand soldiers stood beyond the training field.
They wore the same armour.
They carried the same weapons.
Until that moment, the southern court had viewed them as disciplined but otherwise ordinary men standing beneath impressive banners.
Now the sight had changed.
Every soldier became a threat.
Every silent formation contained men capable of moving faster than trained knights could follow.
Every sword belonged to someone who might overpower the Hound or surround the Kingslayer.
The giants no longer appeared to be the only monsters within Jon's army.
Joffrey rose abruptly.
"They cheated!"
Several heads turned toward him.
Cersei's jaw tightened.
Robert looked exhausted rather than surprised.
Joffrey pointed toward the field.
"They moved before the signal."
"No, they did not," Barristan said.
The prince stared at him.
"You could not have lost fairly."
Barristan's expression remained calm.
"I was upon the field, Prince Joffrey. You were not."
Joffrey looked toward Jaime.
"Uncle Jaime would kill them with a real sword."
Jaime climbed to his feet and retrieved his weapon.
"With real swords, I would have died before making my second attack."
Cersei turned sharply toward him.
Jaime ignored her.
He looked at the ten soldiers.
"There is no shame in recognising the truth after it has placed two blades against your throat."
Joffrey's face reddened.
"They attacked you together!"
Arya laughed.
"It was ten against ten."
"A true knight fights honourably!"
Jon finally looked at him.
"That belief is why your knights lost."
Joffrey stepped forward.
"You know nothing about honour!"
"The dead rarely care whether the man who killed them waited for a formal duel."
Robert snorted.
"He is right. No one at the Trident waited for his bloody turn."
Joffrey looked toward his father for support and found none.
Jon returned his attention to Barristan and Jaime.
"Individually, both of you possess greater swordsmanship than any one of the soldiers who faced you."
Jaime raised an eyebrow.
"Yet we still lost."
"You fought as ten famous individuals. My men fought as one unit."
Barristan nodded.
"They sacrificed opportunities for personal victory to strengthen one another."
"That is what soldiers are trained to do."
Barristan studied the youngest man again.
"Any one of them could stand among the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms."
Alex spoke from behind Jon.
"In Winter's Heaven, they are considered average."
The words settled over the gathering.
Average.
Robert slowly examined the line again.
"Then what do you call your finest?"
Jon's eyes shifted briefly toward Alex and the commanders standing behind him.
"Necessary."
Robert held his gaze.
A strange silence formed between the two kings.
The previous night, Robert had proudly declared Jon his nephew. He had laughed at Jon's boldness, admired his kingdom, and envied Ned for raising such a son.
Now, for the first time, he understood how little Jon had shown them.
The giants had been impressive.
The direwolves had been terrifying.
The Winter's Titan had been impossible.
Yet all of those things had distracted them from the thousand quiet men who had marched behind Jon.
Robert looked toward Ned.
His oldest friend did not appear frightened of his son.
Only proud.
Robert returned his attention to Jon.
"If I possessed soldiers like these during the rebellion, I would have reached King's Landing before Tywin left Casterly Rock."
"Perhaps."
"And you have thousands?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
Jon smiled faintly.
"Enough, Uncle Robert."
Robert released a slow breath.
"Gods, I am beginning to hate that word."
This time, a few people laughed.
The sound was uneasy.
Jon dismissed the soldiers.
They saluted once more before walking toward the camp.
Nobody attempted to stop them again.
The crowd separated instinctively as they passed.
Men who had laughed at their plain armour now avoided meeting their eyes.
The soldiers did not notice.
Or perhaps they simply did not care.
Jaime watched them disappear among hundreds of identical warriors.
There was no way to distinguish the ten who had fought from those who had remained within the camp.
That disturbed him more than the defeat.
He turned toward Alex.
"You called that Basic Breathing."
"Yes."
"What comes after it?"
"Advanced Breathing."
"And who receives that?"
"Frontline units and specialised formations."
Jaime's gaze moved toward Jon's officers.
"And the elites?"
Alex looked at him.
"They are not relevant to today's demonstration."
It was not an answer.
That itself was an answer.
Jaime watched several commanders speaking near the giants. None appeared impressed by the result. One had barely watched the fight, as though the outcome had never been in doubt.
Tyrion approached his brother.
"You appear unusually thoughtful."
"I lost."
"I noticed."
"In less than a minute."
"I also noticed that."
Jaime looked toward the camp.
"Those were ordinary soldiers."
"So everyone continues insisting."
Jaime's expression became serious.
"If ordinary soldiers can do that, what can their elites do?"
Barristan joined them.
The old knight had recovered his practice sword, though his attention remained upon Jon.
"That is not the question which should frighten you."
Jaime glanced at him.
"What question should?"
Barristan watched the young king standing beside Ned Stark.
Jon had not entered the field.
He had not drawn Longclaw.
He had not raised his voice or displayed even the smallest part of his personal strength.
Yet those ten soldiers had moved according to techniques he had taught them.
Their discipline was his discipline.
Their speed and strength were the result of knowledge he had brought to their kingdom.
"The question," Barristan said quietly, "is what the man who trained them can do."
Jaime followed his gaze.
Across the field, Jon turned.
For a brief moment, his grey eyes met Jaime's.
Jaime had challenged legendary swordsmen without fear. He had once dreamed of testing himself against Arthur Dayne. Even after witnessing Jon defeat thirty northern fighters, part of him had wondered how he might fare against the young king.
That desire disappeared.
Not because Jaime had become a coward.
Because he finally understood that he had never possessed enough information to judge the distance between them.
Robert remained in the centre of the field.
Around him, the royal court whispered about breathing techniques, impossible speed, and an army of men stronger than knights.
He stared at the nephew he had claimed so proudly the previous night.
He had believed Jon's giants were his greatest weapons.
He had been wrong.
The giants were merely the easiest weapons to see.
The ten ordinary soldiers disappeared into the camp, becoming indistinguishable from a thousand others.
One thought passed silently through every noble who had witnessed the demonstration.
If these were merely ordinary soldiers, what were the elites of Winter's Heaven capable of doing?
Then, one by one, their eyes returned to Jon.
And a far more frightening question replaced the first.
What kind of monster stood above them all?
End of Chapter 151
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Author's Note
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