Victory led to drinking, and before too long drinking led to singing.  Voices rose above the fire.

“There was an old man, who swallowed a bee…”

The Shark’s fist slammed down on the table.   “When he stops making fools of you, then I’ll hear your songs.”

The Shark stalked off into the night, Moreno watching his back as he departed.  He understood that nerves and tempers fray under the strain of a campaign of this nature, but even so he was unaccustomed to seeing the Shark rattled like this.  Moreno was uncomfortably aware that his own performance had been somewhat lacklustre, and not wishing to draw the ire of the Shark he dropped his gaze and concentrated on his food.

The Shark had regained some advantage on the Old Man, it was true, but victory was far from assured and the relentless rhythm of attack was even taking a toll on the fabled L’Astana man.

The man in the stripes was tired, a tired no amount of sleep would refresh, and once again, winter was coming for him.  He looked down at the livery of the champion that he had fought so hard to earn, trying to draw comfort from the display of his status amongst the sea of riders, but those coveted stripes now seemed to do nothing but highlight his failure.  Gilbert was being damned by his own success, these stripes a constant reminder of the pressure to perform.

‘They’ said the stripes were cursed; a poison chalice.  They said it with a smile on their faces, but still, in this game, where every victory could be your last, superstitions run deep.  Gilbert knew all too well how cruelly paper thin the margin between rapturous victory and crushing defeat could be.  He was nothing if not hard on himself, as only a true champion can be.  And now it had been 11 months.  The whispers had long since started, questioning his commitment, his hunger.  Last year had been bad, rescued with precious victories right at the death, but this was looking worse, ad desperation was sinking in.

With a practised eye, Gilbert surveyed the field, taking in the action all around him.  He saw Basso try a move, expertly parried by Nico, finally demonstrating the tactical nous that had defined his father.  He saw the young man Bling lost in the heat of battle marshalling his comrades to lead a charge.  And he saw the black cloak of Boasson Hagen, escaping through a gap that barely existed.

Without thinking, Gilbert hurried after the speeding figure.  Just as Boasson Hagen raced for the victory that look assured, he was brought down by a mighty blow, and the man in the stripes exploded in a roar of victory.

He was Ironborn.  The Argoans of the Iron Isles had taken many by surprise with their speed and ferocity.  Seemingly exploding out of nowhere, they had heaped victory on victory, destroying any in their path, with no concern for status or reputation.  The formidable King of the Iron Isles Kittel had sent a select party to strike at the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, headed by Barguil, still barely a boy, who despite his tender years led with the skill and determination characteristic of his House.

For the first time, the Argoans had involved themselves in the politics of the realm, electing to engage in the Game of Vuelta, and they were determined to leave their mark.

Infiltrating a select group of frontriders, Barguil let his anonymity work for him.  They’re too busy watching each other to watch me!  In a burst of speed he slipped away, almost daring them to come after him.  There was no response.  Shocked at the ease with which the group had handed this victory to him, Barguil almost laughed.

He had honoured the words of his House.

“We Do Not Slow”

Nico was suffering, wrongfooted by the harsh conditions.  The battle had moved to hostile terrain, and here it was easy to believe that winter was coming.  He wasn’t the only one caught out by the cold; few were sufficiently dressed for the conditions, save of course for the Old Man, but nothing seemed to catch him unawares.

Nico longed for the warm days of summer.  He was fighting the battle of his life, and not only were his enemies all around him, but now even the weather was turning on him.  This had felt like the longest day of his life.  He had no idea who was winning or who was losing, he only knew that the Game of Vuelta was having the same effect on everyone.

Holding his breath so as not to give away his position, he could overhear a couple of L’Astana men taking stock of the day’s heavy casualties.

“There’s a lot of men no longer with us.  And many more won’t make it to tomorrow.  Basso’s gone.  Kreder, Nuyens, Henderson.  We’ve lost Sanchez too.”

“Which one?”

“God knows. I can’t tell them apart.  The Belkin, I think.  The sellsword is still with us.”

“I expected more from the Belkins.”

“I expected more from a lot of them.  There’s plenty maintaining a careful neutrality.  I think they’re still waiting to see which way the winter wind blows.”

“Whatever we do, we mustn’t underestimate the Old Man.  He’s matching us move for move.”

“He thinks he is.  The Shark’s got a few moves in him the Old Man will have no answer to.”

“And Nico?”

“Nico.  The Shark or the Old Man will deal with Nico.  And if they don’t do for him the weather will.”

They’re probably right, thought Nico shivering.  I’d better get used to being cold, and fast.

He liked an adversary he could have some respect for, and now he had two.  Watching Nico, the Shark was impressed by the dogged determination and tactical nous demonstrated by the young man.  He could see that the conditions were taking their toll on him, as they were with everyone, but despite the setbacks and struggles he was facing the young man was clearly comfortable with the leadership role he had taken on, reading the battlefield like a veteran – prepared to scrap for every last advantage.

The Old Man, flanked by his faithful lieutenant Kiserlovsky, he was another story all together.  While the Shark undoubtedly respected Nico, he was an open book to him, so straightforward.  But the Old Man, he was full of surprises.  Catching up with Rodriguez, the Shark walked across the battlefield to see who was the hero of the day.

The Shark and Rodriguez approached the young victor, surrounded by his supporters.  In fairness, the boy had taken some impressive scalps, especially considering the conditions, but the Shark wasn’t in a mood to be generous.

“Which one are you again?”

“Geniez, sir.” The young man stammered.  “I ride under the banner of House De Jeux, sworn to the L’Astana’s, sir.”

The Shark said nothing as turned to walk away.  “House what?  It’s just so Goddamn hard to keep track of them all…”

“That was cruel,” Rodriguez said, looking back to see the young man’s face fall.  “You could at least have let him have his moment.”

“Let him have his moment.  This is all this is to them.  There is more to this than moments.  There’s far more at stake than a moment.”

Surely, it couldn’t work twice?  The first time he had had the unquestionable advantage of anonymity, but after a display as audacious as the one he had put on, surely he wouldn’t get away with it twice?

Caught up in his youthful enthusiasm, Barguil ignored the advice from his bloodrider to hang back, not draw attention to himself.  He knew he felt good, he knew he could take them all again, and yet again had infiltrated a group of outriders scouting ahead of the main group.  Biding his time, he could feel the adrenalin start to pump throughout his body.  They had no idea what was about to happen!  They were exhausted, their concentration waning after a full day in the saddle, and Barguil was determined to capitalize.

As before, Barguil judged his moment and raced away from the group.  Opening a gap, he eased into his rhythm, sensing the victory ahead.  But unlike before, someone had been watching for him.  A black shape appeared from nowhere, and Barguil had to dig deep to maintain contact as the shape threatened to pass him.  Uran!  The man of House Sky was no fool.  Barguil had one last trick.  He feigned exhaustion (God knows that wasn’t hard), and allowed the rider to pass, hiding in his shadow then bursting forward once more, catching Uran unawares, snatching the victory the other man had thought he had won.

Surprise had worked once, deceit had worked once; he was going to need more tricks.

We Do Not Slow!

“Sworn enemies, working together.”  Rodriguez looked perturbed.  It seemed that the Shark and the Old Man had in some way worked together to control Valverde of House Movistar.

“Eliminate the opposition together, ‘til it’s just them left then finally they turn on each other?  To the winner, the spoils.”  Moreno was finding it all but impossible to keep up with the shifting sands of alliance and betrayal.

“And take us all with them.”  Moreno could see the wheels turning behind Rodriguez’s eyes.  “And this is the second time the dependable House Sky have snatched defeat from the jaws of victory,” sneered Rodriguez. “Maybe they’re losing their touch?”

Maybe they’re not fully committed to a campaign that could see them dead or worse, thought Moreno.  He supressed a shudder as the vivid image of the glowing blue eyes in the cold dead face of Martin jumped in to his mind.  “Possibly,” he conceded.  “Many of the Great Houses have not, uh, performed as might have been expected.  And now it appears that even the Shark can have an off day.”  It was possible that the Shark had enlisted the help of the Old Man to subdue Valverde because he wasn’t up to doing so alone.  He had demonstrably reduced his advantage.

“Yes.  That was unexpected.  An interesting development.  We shall have to watch the Shark and the Old Man closely.  Things can turn on a sixpence out here, there’s a lot still uncertain.  It’s up to us to secure the best possible outcome for House Katusha.  That might be behind the L’Astana’s, and it might not.”

Moreno knew Rodriguez was right.  An off day might be just that; or it might be a sign of a greater shift in the fortunes of House L’Astana.  While all around were dropping like flies the Old Man was steadfastly refusing to die.  He was certainly showing himself as more formidable a foe than anyone had expected.

The second guard leaned back against the wall, enjoying the warm evening air.  “I wouldn’t bother if I were you, you’ll see nothing.  They’re all inside.  Winter schtick?  That’s the North all over.  Winter is always coming.  But the people here love a tourney.”

The first guard shifted uncomfortably, and leaned on his pike. “A tourney the realm can ill afford, if you ask me.  Story is the rebellions in the North are gathering apace.  I even heard tales of things in the woods beyond the wall…”

“It’s only money,” grins his companion. ”Tales from beyond the Wall are meant to frighten kids,” he snorts.  “And as for rebellions, what care the likes of us if the likes of them start up again with their Game of Vuelta?  They all look the same to me anyways.”

“The Shark, though.  He terrifies me.  Did you see him in there?  I mean, they said he’s not looking to draw attention to himself.”

“They say a lot of things.”

“About the Shark?  Mostly in whispers and looking over their shoulder.”

‘The L’Astana’s wanted to put on a show.  It’s the Shark’s job to make sure there is a show.  It was Brajkovic who won today anyway, not the Shark.”

“A L’Astana man.  And therefore the Shark’s man.  If Brajkovic won, it’s because the Shark told him to.  And if the Shark tells you to win, you win.”

“The old man did well though, I thought.”

“He’s been talking himself up to anyone who’ll listen.  Reckons he can shake things up.  If you ask me, he was brave to show his face here at all the way he’s been shooting his mouth.  I’m amazed the L’Astana’s allowed him to leave with his head.”

Above, cloaked in shadows, the man they call the Shark moved silently away from the open window.

How hard, to be the son of a legend?  To live in the shadow of your father, bowed by the weight of expectation.  To exist beneath the cloud of potential unfulfilled.  Nico was uncomfortably aware of all his father’s famous name had bought him.  Above all, he yearned to earn for himself the respect he had always been shown, and now it looked at last like he might get his wish.

One by one, the great Houses of the North were rising against House L’Astana buoyed by camaraderie, seeking to alter the balance of power in the realm.  A series of slights had led to grumbling.  Grumbling had led to dialogues.  Dialogues had led to allegiances.  And allegiances had brought them to open rebellion and the point of no return.  Finally, here they stood, on the edge of battle.  Nico’s father’s warning rang in his ear.  You play the Game of Vuelta, you win, or you die.  “I have no intention of dying,” he thought.  “Guess I’d better win.”

Here they were at Baiona, and Nico had volunteered to lead the charge.  An isolated outpost, poorly defended; a skirmish more than a battle. The attack was over almost before it began.  Nico led from the front, taking a couple of outriders with him, leaving them behind to race alone to the keep, accepting the surrender himself, immediately sending word of the success to those waiting in the North.  At last, the sweetness of a victory in his own name, and the message to House L’Astana had been sent.

Hidden in plain sight, visible for those who would but think to look, the old man bides his time as they battle up the coastline.  Deceptively unremarkable, his body scarred and battle-hardened, his gait misleadingly awkward, he maintains his position, ready.

The sad truth is that they aren’t taking him seriously.  He had made his intentions clear from the outset, seeing which way the wind was blowing, and fully intended to capitalise on the change he saw coming.  But the reaction to him at the tourney had proved to the old man that the L’Astana didn’t even see him as so much as a threat.  He hoped that arrogance might just prove to be their biggest mistake.

A barely perceptible nod to the captain once they reached the bridge was all it took to force the pace of the onslaught to slow just enough that critical momentum was lost.  It is all but imperceptible to the masses, grinding away, but the old man notes the effect it has on them.  He watches attack after attack after attack as they come thick and fast; all predictable, all hopeless.  The battle is all but done when the he takes the initiative, timing his own attack to perfection, and none can match the explosive pace of the old man as he breaks through the lines.

Astonished by the speed and strength of the old man, riders hurry to his banner.

“What now?” they ask.

“We ride.” he says.

“House L’Astana is furious. They demand we help them crush this rebellion and scatter the insurgents to the winds.”  Rodriguez seems unperturbed by the call-to-arms.

“They may have a point.  It sounds like they’re more worried than they’re letting on, if our assistance is so urgently required.”  Moreno wonders how he can turn the rebellion to his advantage.  There must be an angle for him somewhere; uncertain times can have unpredictable outcomes.

“We need to look like we’re playing ball.  But we’d be fools to burn our bridges.  The old man surprised them yesterday, we shall be ready for him today.”

The wheel turns again.  Things change quickly in the Game of Vuelta.  On the hostile road to Mirador de Ezaro, the gradient forces many riders to dismount, upsetting the momentum of the old man’s progress.  Following his orders to the letter, Moreno launches a perfectly-timed assault, surprising the old man and reclaiming the initiative for House L’Astana.

The Shark watches from a distance.  Satisfied, he prepares a message.

He hadn’t appreciated how boring it was going to be.  Young and battle hungry, he had been caught up in the perceived glamour of what was unfolding, unaware of the crushing boredom that was to define the vast majority of his time.  An age of exhausting monotony, then five minutes of furious, heart-thumping adrenalin fuelled action, followed by another age of exhausting monotony.

He knew he was quick.  Quick and fearless, not afraid to get to the front and involve himself in the sharp end of the action.  And he was making a name for himself, he was sure of that.  He was where he was supposed to be when it counted; other than that, no-one really paid him much mind.  Emulating the heroes of his childhood, he found he had a natural feel for the battlefield.  When he thought about it, this was all he’d ever wanted, but he’d expected war to feel a little more exciting than this.  All he really felt right now was tired, hot and tired.

He’d had his five minutes of action today, and what action it had been! Afterwards he’d been cheered, and clapped on the back, accepting the plaudits with a laugh and a shy downwards look.  But that was then, and now he was back to exhausting monotony.

If I look back, I am lost.

There had been a time he thought he had lost them all.  He had powered away from the braying horde, falling into a rhythm they simply couldn’t match.  A couple of them had thought to bridge to him as he escaped, but fuelled by adrenalin he spurred ahead and shook them off.

There was a time he thought they might just give up, let him go.  Even then he hadn’t dared ease up, but struck out for home as hard as he could.  It had been merely hours ago, but now it felt like days.

If I look back, I am lost.

They are close enough to smell him, he can tell.  The bunch, thundering behind him, are almost upon him.  They’ve been almost upon him for what feels like forever.  “Are they playing with me,” he wonders, “or am I really holding them off?”  He’s experienced enough to know his chances are slight, and yet his mind sings with the faintest of possibilities that he might make it after all.  There could be a chance.

The only sound is the rush of the air and the hammering of his pulse in his ears.  Mere seconds away he can see the flag of home; he’s held them off for so long, just a few more metres.  I can hold them off a little longer.

If I look back, I am lost.

As he is swallowed by the bunch, their eyes glow blue.

A flash of the unmistakeable Orange livery of The Brotherhood was enough to send Nico’s heart hammering into his throat.  Soldiers of Fortune. Mercenaries.  Many names, many faces, many enemies.  He recognised their leader, Anton, riding out front, but why was he here and what did he want?  More importantly, who was paying him?

Another shock – Konig.  He had been there at Baiona.  Nico had ridden past him, barely registering him in his haste to taste victory.  Anton had crept away from the main field, with Konig following right behind, but for what purpose Nico could only guess.

Nico wasn’t the only one to notice the move by Anton and Konig.  The duo were being chased by Moreno of House Katusha, sworn to House L’Astana, and a skilled and dangerous adversary.  Barely pausing to consider his options, Nico hastened away after them, determined not to let Moreno thwart whatever it was Konig and Anton had planned; realising just too late the very real possibility that the three of them could be working together.

Konig raced ahead of Anton, with Moreno on his heels.  Roche spurred forwards, trying to get in between them and allow Konig to reach whatever destination he was aiming for.  Although unable to reach the two of them, Moreno however sensed Nico coming up on his shoulder, and the effect was enough that Konig was able to hold him off.

Watching Konig reach his destination, Nico turned back to the main battlefield, unsure of the role he had just played.  News brought to him cheered him immediately – Konig had been able to take an important hostage, and the victory was sealed with surrender.   Although it appeared the potentially valuable Moreno had slipped away, an unexpected victory from a surprising ally had handed Nico an opportunity he couldn’t have predicted.  And he fully intended to capitalise.

“I nearly had Konig, but young Roche got in the way.”

“You nearly had him, but you didn’t.  And we have lost Martin.”

‘These are my roads.  This is my home.  I know this place like no other.  They can’t get away from me here.”

“We’ll send Basso and Rodriguez with you.”

“As you wish.”  Moreno turned to leave.  He hated being made to feel like a naughty child.  The L’Astana’s were desperately trying to keep control.  He could sense it, and it was unsettling him.  Desperation made men unpredictable.

The rebellion was moving ever south.  Moreno was tasked to meet the advancing army on his home roads, and cut off their route.  The rebels had sent a single outrider ahead to prepare the next town for arrival, but he was quickly dispatched by Basso and Moreno, who drove forward to successfully interrupt the progress of the army.  Roche broke from the ranks to try desperately and fight a way through, but to no avail.

Roche again.  This Roche was an interesting development, thought Moreno.  Alliances are all very well, but only if you picked your allies wisely in the first place.

He’d shown them once, and yet they’d made the same mistake again – let him though again.  And once again, he’d caught them all out with his deceptive speed and strength.  Give him an inch, he’d take a mile; it was all the same anyway.  Ahead was ahead.  A second, a minute, a metre, a mile.  He’d attack them all.

He’d gone again, and none could follow.  The only response had eventually come from the Shark himself, furious that no-one else could match the old man’s speed, but even he had left it too late to chase the old man down.

This was supposed to be their arena, the battlefield where younger men played out this Game of Vuelta, but the old man was making fools of them all.  For now, anyway, he was in control.

Settling back as he contemplated his next move the old man knew one thing.  This Game of Vuelta was far from over.  It was only just beginning.

***