Chapter 125: The Storm God

Hearing King Robert's shout, the few men exchanged helpless glances before walking together towards the middle of the field.

“Huh? Today is really interesting—the lion is actually with the rose,” someone in the crowd muttered upon seeing the group approach.

Jaime's gaze swept coldly over the source of the remark, his eyes narrowing in disdain.

The group quickly reached the center of the field, where space had been cleared by the earlier jousting matches. King Robert’s expression shifted to one of surprise as he took in the sight of them.

“Why are you all mixed up together?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Lynd replied naturally, “Your Grace, everyone was just looking for a quiet place to rest, and we all happened to find the same one.”

“Haha! I knew it, I knew it! These jousting matches are so dull they can’t even keep children or dwarves entertained,” King Robert mocked loudly, his tone unabashed.

Hearing the king’s words, the knights who had fought so fiercely in the royal tournament couldn’t hide their embarrassment. They had given their all in front of the king and the lords, only to be dismissed as boring.

“I still remember the team competition in the tournament more than a year ago. Now that was a contest, that was a battle,” King Robert exclaimed, taking a long drink from his cup. His gaze flicked to Lynd, his expression tinged with disapproval. “Who would’ve thought that you’d throw your weapon aside and come flying at me with a kick? Such an odd move. I mean, not just me—even if you counted all the knights of the Seven Kingdoms, no one would have seen that coming.” He rubbed the corner of his eye with a wince and added, “Damn it, every time I think about the corner of my eye, it stings. Your fists pack quite the punch!”

Lynd responded calmly, “Your Grace is exceptionally strong. At the time, I had to use my full strength to suppress you. But had I done so, I wouldn’t have been able to control my dual swords. The outcome might have been that I’d kill Your Grace and then be executed by the Kingsguard. That’s why I chose to rely on my fists to resolve the situation.”

The crowd fell silent for a moment, staring at Lynd in astonishment. None of them had expected him to speak to the king so directly.

What surprised them even more was King Robert’s reaction. Instead of anger, he roared with laughter. “I knew it! I knew you were holding back on purpose back then, you sly Bear Hunter!” He rose to his feet, pointing at Lynd with a broad grin. “Over the past year, I’ve heard all sorts of wild stories about you—fighting a hundred enemies, slaying thousands. Some even compare you to the ancient legendary gods! To be honest, I don’t believe half of it. So let’s settle this right now. Show me your true strength, Bear Hunter Lynd!”

The crowd erupted into a cacophony of murmurs and gasps.

“Are you mad? You’re the king, not some common warrior!” Queen Cersei interjected sharply, her voice filled with alarm.

“No, I am a warrior! The king is just something you all forced on me,” Robert shot back, his words slurring slightly from drink, his tone brimming with defiance.

“Your Grace, fighting is not your duty,” Lord Tywin cut in, his voice cold and firm as he stepped forward. “Ruling the realm is. And let me remind you, no one handed you the Iron Throne—you had to fight for it yourself.”

Robert seemed to acknowledge Tywin’s words, his expression briefly serious. Yet, his determination didn’t waver. Instead, he turned to Barristan and ordered him to fetch his warhammer.

The commotion drew the attention of everyone nearby. Lords, nobles, and their families all turned their gazes toward the center of the field. Conversations buzzed through the crowd as people whispered to their companions, trying to piece together what was happening.

Before long, Barristan returned, carrying the massive warhammer. It took both of his hands to lift it, yet Robert seized it effortlessly with one hand, his grip steady and strong.

Cersei opened her mouth to object, but Lord Tywin placed a hand on her arm, silently urging her to hold her tongue.

Eddard Stark couldn’t remain silent any longer. He stepped forward, his tone firm yet cautious as he said, “Your Grace, neither of you are wearing armor. Fighting under these circumstances is far too dangerous.”

King Robert waved off the concern without hesitation. “That’s fine. I have confidence in my battle hammer, and I’m sure Ser Lynd has confidence in his dual swords.”

Lynd, calm and composed, did not reject the challenge. “Lord Stark, please don’t worry. I can control my swordsmanship well enough to ensure that His Grace remains unharmed.”

“Arrogant brat,” King Robert muttered with a smirk, his voice tinged with amusement. “Let’s see if you can keep your word.” With that, he strode confidently to the center of the field.

The spectators fell silent, their murmurs ceasing as all eyes turned to the makeshift arena. Every gaze followed Lynd and the king, tension building as they prepared for the duel.

Lynd removed his shoulder cape, which might obstruct his movements, and loosened up with a few subtle stretches. Then, with deliberate precision, he drew the broad-bladed half-sword from his back.

Upon seeing Lynd’s weapon, King Robert frowned, his expression darkening. “Bear Hunter, are you mocking me? Why are you using those two little blades on your back instead of the greatswords hanging from your waist? Are those just for decoration?”

Lynd met the king’s gaze seriously. “Your Grace, I would never treat this duel lightly. I choose not to use the knightly greatswords at my waist because doing so would make this fight unfair to you.”

“Unfair?” Robert asked, his confusion evident.

Jaime Lannister interjected with a sardonic edge. “Is it because they’re Valyrian steel swords?”

The banquet grounds were so silent that Jaime’s words carried across the space with ease. His remark immediately turned every gaze toward Lynd’s waist, where the pair of knightly greatswords hung. Whispers rippled through the crowd, punctuated by visible surprise and curiosity. Tywin Lannister’s sharp gaze lingered on the swords, his calculating expression betraying a rare flicker of interest.

The significance was not lost on anyone. Valyrian steel swords were so scarce that even the most prestigious houses in the Seven Kingdoms regarded them as priceless heirlooms. House Tyrell, one of the wealthiest families in the realm, did not possess a single Valyrian steel sword. Yet Lynd, a bannerman of the Tyrells, carried two Valyrian steel-forged knightly greatswords, an extravagance that made even Lords accustomed to wealth feel uneasy. Mace Tyrell himself appeared uncharacteristically discomfited.

King Robert, for his part, seemed unimpressed. He eyed the swords briefly before shrugging. “Valyrian steel or not, it doesn’t matter to me. Sure, they’re lighter and stronger than normal steel, but the material of my warhammer isn’t much worse. There’s no need for you to worry about weapons.”

Lynd shook his head slowly, his calm demeanor unwavering. “Your Grace, it’s not just the fact that they are Valyrian steel. These knightly greatswords are enchanted and imbued with powerful magic.”

The crowd froze. Silence reigned for a heartbeat before bursts of laughter erupted. The claim sounded so outlandish that most assumed Lynd was making a jest. Only a few individuals—those who had spent time around Lynd—remained quiet, their expressions marked by surprise rather than amusement.

King Robert, however, did not laugh. He studied Lynd carefully, his eyes narrowing. Of all those present, Robert understood Lynd’s nature best, even if their interactions had been brief. Raising a hand, he silenced the jeering crowd and addressed Lynd with grave seriousness. “Bear Hunter, you’re not joking, are you? You truly mean what you say?”

Lynd offered no verbal response. Instead, he calmly unsheathed one of the greatswords at his waist, holding it by the hilt with a practiced grip. “Your Grace, these swords can only be wielded by me. If you doubt my words, I invite you to test the hilt yourself.”

The laughter in the air dissolved, replaced by a collective sense of astonishment. Lynd’s composed invitation left no room for doubt. Such confidence was impossible to fake, especially with a test so easily disproved. The shift in the crowd’s demeanor was palpable as they realized Lynd might not be exaggerating after all.

At this moment, they couldn’t help but recall the scene from not long ago, when they dealt with the prisoners from the Iron Islands. It was then that they remembered that Lynd was someone who had mastered a mysterious power.

King Robert’s eyes moved from Lynd, calm and composed as ever, to the Valyrian steel sword in his hand. His curiosity got the better of him, and he took two steps forward, reaching out to touch it. Before his hand could make contact, Ser Barristan stepped in and stopped him.

“Your Grace, let me try first!” Barristan advised, his tone heavy with duty.

Robert shook his head, ignoring the caution, and grasped at the Dragonbone hilt of the Knight’s Greatsword. The moment his hand touched the hilt, it was forcefully knocked away by an unseen force.

Lynd’s usually impassive face showed a flicker of surprise. He noticed that when King Robert touched the hilt, the third dragon rune on the Banished Knight’s Sword—the one symbolizing Storm—activated. The force that repelled Robert’s hand was none other than the power of Storm.

To everyone else, the moment appeared unremarkable. From their perspective, the king had simply touched the sword and let go. No flashes of light or extraordinary phenomena revealed the power within. But Robert, as the one directly affected, understood what he had experienced. After a brief pause, he reached out again, curiosity driving him. This time, he used all his strength to avoid being repelled.

Yet, as his hand approached the hilt, it met an invisible barrier of air. No matter how much force he applied, his palm couldn’t move any closer. A subtle whirlwind began to form around him. Though small in scale, it was unmistakable. The wind stirred his clothing and hair, while Barristan and Lynd, standing mere steps away, remained untouched.

“Magic! There really is magic!” gasped the onlookers. Exclamations erupted as the skeptical expressions of the crowd melted into wide-eyed astonishment. Mouths hung open, their disbelief replaced with awe as they beheld the miraculous scene.

King Robert, despite feeling the sword’s rejection, refused to let go. Stubbornly, he continued to force his hand closer to the hilt. His persistence only intensified the sword’s magical response. The whirlwind around him grew fiercer, escalating into a full-blown tornado. The wind distorted the flesh on Robert’s face, kicked up dust, and lifted bits of debris into the air. The tornado spiraled skyward, creating a spectacular display.

Seeing the danger, Barristan stepped forward, intent on pulling Robert away. But even as his hand pierced the whirlwind, it was repelled as soon as it touched the king.

Recognizing that things had gone far enough, Lynd intervened. Before Barristan could resort to drawing his sword, Lynd reached out and pried Robert’s hand away from the hilt.

The moment Robert’s hand left the sword, the storm ceased abruptly. The silence was so sudden it felt unreal, save for the dust and debris that began falling from the air, proof that the whirlwind had been real.

“By the Seven, this is a miracle, a miracle!” exclaimed the High Septon, seizing the moment to proclaim divine intervention.

Many Lords and nobles loyal to the Faith of the Seven echoed his sentiment. Lynd was widely regarded as the Chosen of the Seven, and the magical display of the Knight’s Greatsword seemed to confirm it. To them, the sword’s power, rejecting all but Lynd, could only be an artifact blessed by the Seven.

For others in the crowd, the scene was beyond belief. They stood in stunned silence, their thoughts drifting to the ancient myths they had dismissed as mere fairy tales. Those stories, once thought to be the fabrications of nannies and minstrels, suddenly felt more real than ever. What Lynd had shown them was undeniable proof that those legends held truth.

“Damn White Walkers! For a moment, I felt like I had gone back thousands of years to the Age of the First Men, full of all kinds of myths!” King Robert muttered, his voice thick with lingering fear as he recovered from the tornado. His eyes lingered on the Banished Knight’s Greatsword in Lynd’s hands.

Calmly, Lynd reattached the sword to his waist and spoke. “Your Grace, I think you should believe me now, don’t you?”

Robert nodded slowly, his expression a mix of unease and curiosity. “Yes, I believe you,” he admitted, though his tone betrayed how deeply shaken he was. He glanced at Lynd again, his brows furrowed. “They all say you are the chosen one of the Seven Gods. I thought it was just something those Septons dreamed up. But now, I never thought—” He stopped himself, then added, “I never thought it was real.” His eyes narrowed with fascination as he asked, “What kind of power do you have when you use those swords? Can you show us?”

The question caught Lynd off guard, and for a moment, he hesitated. The expectant silence of the crowd around him only deepened the weight of the king’s request. Lynd’s gaze swept over the onlookers, their eyes brimming with anticipation.

After considering it briefly, Lynd decided that a demonstration could work to his advantage, solidifying his authority. He nodded firmly and motioned for King Robert and Ser Barristan to step back. “Stand back, Your Grace,” he said.

Not just the king and Barristan, but the entire crowd instinctively took a few steps back, even though most of them had no idea what Lynd was about to do. The air seemed to grow heavier, tension mounting as Lynd slowly unsheathed the two Banished Knight’s Swords from his waist.

When the swords were fully drawn, the crowd finally saw their complete form. Gasps of admiration rippled through the gathering as they marveled at the intricate craftsmanship and the exquisite beauty of the weapons.

The moment stretched in silence. No one moved. All eyes remained fixed on Lynd. The anticipation was palpable as they waited for the miraculous to unfold. At first, nothing happened, and some began to murmur among themselves, wondering if the display had failed.

Then, faint streaks of silver-blue light began to flicker around Lynd’s body. The light grew stronger, intensifying until the onlookers realized it wasn’t light at all—it was lightning. The scattered streaks of lightning soon thickened, forming bolts that crackled and danced across Lynd’s frame, wrapping him in a dazzling, electric aura.

The lightning’s intensity increased, leaping into the air before arcing back into Lynd’s body. Sparks surged out of his eyes, adding to the otherworldly spectacle. In that moment, Lynd appeared less like a man and more like a deity, a being who commanded the forces of nature itself. His presence was overwhelming, radiant with raw power.

The crowd could only stare, stunned into silence, their breaths stolen by the sight before them. Then, from somewhere in the throng, a Maester—one who knew the old stories of the Ironborn—broke the silence with a shout that echoed over the murmurs of awe.

“Storm God!” he exclaimed, his voice trembling with both fear and reverence.