A sudden surge of muscle memory ran through his entire body. What he lacked was speed, and while he may never compete with the likes of Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur in speed, what he could use to counter was peak reflexes.
Body reflex, an instantaneous movement in response to a stimulus. A quick, automatic response that didn't require conscious thought or decision-making. Only that could give him an edge in a battle like that.
He no longer had to think.
Swoosh!
Wylis rolled his massive body away, his sword scraping against the dirty floor. His wounds stung like hell. But he successfully created some distance between himself and the three Kingsguards.
"Come on!" He roared and gave a quick glance at the hourglass. Five more minutes, he estimated. But it already felt like he'd been battling the three monsters for hours.
Wylis exhaled once and rose to his full height. His heartbeat vanished behind a wall of calm. He forced it; he needed it. He had to win there, or at least defeat one of them.
And then they came at him, together.
Barristan attacked first, blade flashing.
Clank!
Wylis deflected with the flat of his sword and slammed an elbow into the knight's face, caving the Kingsguard helmet in and drawing blood from Barristan the Bold's mouth.
Wylis pivoted, like a man dancing. His motion was triggered by pure reflex, without a second of thought spent behind it.
Arthur was already there—quick, deadly. Dawn came down in a blur.
Wylis stepped into the arc and killed the momentum, letting it scrape his shoulder and draw his blood with a purpose. With a snarl, he drove the hilt of his massive sword into Arthur's stomach, leaving the Knight shocked by his strength, staggering.
Gerold struck from behind him.
Wylis spun mid-air, right as he ended countering Ser Arthur.
He clashed with the White Bull, steel on steel.
Sparks flew.
He parried one blow, then another, then ducked under a third that whistled past his ear.
Barristan and Arthur quickly joined Gerold side by side—Three blades now—Every second.
Clank! Clash! Clank!
Steel howled endlessly, and now Wylis wasn't the only one bleeding.
While Baristan bled from his nose, Arthur bled from his mouth. They fought like a machine—three perfect killers in sync, their swords dancing, crashing, spinning around him like a cage of death.
And Wylis kept pace, like a man in sync with the three Kingsguards. He parried, he countered, and deflected each incoming strike. At times, he struck gold and landed a blow; other times, they scraped the corners of his body and made him bleed more.
"Haaaaaaaa!" Wylis roared at the top of his lungs. His groan echoed like a raging beast in that massive, magnificent hall. Women flinched, and the men, who knew blades, felt their palms sweat by the sheer display.
He deflected a strike from Ser Arthur, shoved Gerold with the flat of his greatsword, and dropped to one knee to dodge a sweep from Barristan.
Then he leapt up with a roar, a move so sudden and unexpected from a man already wounded in one leg.
His massive form took the men by surprise at how high he lunged in the air.
"Wraaaaaa!"
His six-foot greatsword crashed into Arthur's breastplate, denting it with full, brutal, blunt force, even cracking his own blade. And as soon as his feet landed again, he kicked the Knight of the Morning to the ground, only to catch a pommel strike to his temple from Gerold from the right.
The White Bull struck red, and Wylis felt sore in his jaw. Blood spattered the air as he spat and… grinned, revealing his reddened teeth.
Then he retaliated with a brutal reflex. His massive blade drove upward into Gerold's chestplate, staggering the old knight.
Before Gerold could recover, Wylis grappled and ripped the Kingsguard's sword from his grasp and flung him aside like driftwood.
It was a shame for the Kingsguards. Ser Gerold, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, was thrown face-first into the ground in front of the full court. But the King only seemed to know how to cheer.
With that, Wylis held two swords. His six-foot greatsword in his right hand. Gerold's longsword in his left.
It was a matter of pride now. Arthur and Barristan gathered themselves from the unexpected change of tides and struck in unison, one high and one low. Both Knights were in their prime, hence more dangerous.
Wylis blocked the low swing with the greatsword and used the longsword to parry the other, twisting at the last second to elbow Barristan's helmet. It was all unplanned. His body moved on its own; he just had to focus and watch everything, keep his senses sharp.
Not done, he spun, pivoted, and reversed his grip. The longsword struck Arthur's gauntlet, snapping one of the armored fingers.
"Argh!" Arthur groaned out, but his blade didn't falter.
For a moment, the two Kingsguard stopped raging forward and gathered themselves. Ser Arthur tightened his grip despite a broken finger. Ser Barristan shook his head violently, feeling blood ooze from his nose and mouth.
They circled each other. Fast, desperate, and alert.
Clank!
Then the steel clashed again. The air was overcome with grunts, clangs, and gasps from the crowd every time Wylis used both swords and pushed the two knights back. It was clear that the Kingsguards were inflicting more wounds on Wylis. But as if his skin were stone, Wylis ignored those flesh wounds and kept hitting back, pushing the two knights.
Arthur slashed. Wylis blocked. Barristan lunged. Wylis ducked, rolled, and kicked his leg out.
Barristan went stumbling.
By then, Wylis was up again, swords moving like extensions of his fury.
A stab to Arthur's side. A slice at Barristan's ribs.
They countered.
One nicked his arm, another sliced his brow.
Blood streamed down Wylis' face. But he didn't stop. Although his movements finally started to become sluggish. But he wasn't the only one.
The two Kingsgards had also slowed down.
Clank! Clash!
Arthur drove him back with a furious flurry. Barristan followed with a shoulder bash. Wylis used the momentum, turned his body, and rammed both swords into their chest plates—hard enough to knock the wind from them.
"Wraaaaaaaah! Come on!" He screamed, a primal sound.
He followed up and kept lunging forward into the staggered knights. His greatsword smashed into Arthur's right shoulder with brutal force. The other struck Barristan's wrist. The sound was audible, like a crack of metal.
Clank!
Barristan's sword dropped from his grip.
Wylis headbutted Arthur right then, grabbed his sword hand, and bent it until the bones groaned.
Arthur, too, dropped his blade with a groaning roar.
Quick to take advantage, Wylis stomped his heavy feet on the two swords and aimed the two in his hands at the knights. They were as breathless as he was, but they stood unarmed, ashamed.
Wylis stumbled a little, drenched in blood, his own. His body was shaking. Muscles twitching, the adrenaline fading.
But he remained standing and eyed the hourglass. Not a quarter, it was half full.
Fuck… I can't stand anymore… just end this madness.
Clap! Clap!
Wylis looked to the right since the clap didn't come from the throne. No, it was Jaime Lannister in his Kingsguard armor.
And that seemed to wake up the Mad King. He stood up from the Iron Throne and started clapping furiously, his hideous nails once again coming in the way.
"Marvelous," Aerys whispered. Then louder. "Marvelous! My champion bleeds, but my champion does not fall!"
The Mad King laughed and clapped louder. The court followed him like a puppet and erupted in cheers.
At last, Wylis took a breath of calm and let the swords drop. Both of them, one on each of his sides. Sadly, as soon as his six-foot great sword hit the floor, it shattered into two pieces.
Clap! Clap!
"More than I hoped for! My champion, my flaming sword! A dragon's roar in flesh! My roar!" Aerys laughed, descending from the Iron Throne with wild delight. "Wylis of Winterfell! What a terror you are! That blade, that brute strength—ha! Not just a beast, the realm's mightiest—aye, let them all see!"
That fanatic praise unsettled Wylis. But titles had to be respected. In pain, he took to one knee again as the King approached him.
"Your Grace, your words do me great honor."
"Yes, they do—as they ought. Ser Arthur, fetch me the sword." The King demanded, since he couldn't grab the sword from the floor, his long, filthy nails would come in the way. "No longer shall you bear that dull name. Ser Wylis… Ser Wylis, the Northern Sword… blade of House Targaryen… Ah… what a wonderful name. Isn't it glorious? Like fire licking the heavens. Kneel, knight. Accept it. Burn with pride."
What a mad little shit! How the fuck did he live this long?
Wylis prayed, hoping that no more surprises waited for him. He lowered his head, his body reeking of blood, something that surely excited the King.
Soon, those weak, thin feet stopped before him, and once again, Wylis felt the flat blade of Ser Arthur's sword land on his right shoulder.
No more surprises. I'll fucking twist your neck, you sick fuck.
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