Professional Documents
Culture Documents
2010
I’m a nerd.
Happily, so are you, probably. That’s why you’re here on Suvudu in the first
place. And that’s why you’re probably interested in having this collection from last
It all kind of began with a simple thought experiment on Twitter: if these two
characters fought, who would win—and why? It wasn’t necessarily an original idea
(heck, in the movie Stand by Me, Corey Feldman and Jerry O’Connell debate a
hypothetical match-up between Superman and Mighty Mouse), but it was something I
And then came the other brainwave—this time from my colleague Kaitlin Heller.
She suggested we use Suvudu to make the platform even more widespread, and the
analysis even more in-depth. To make a forum available where we could have really
What you have in your electronic hands is a collection of some of the best write-
ups from the March 2010 Cage Match. It includes ones we here at Suvudu contributed to
get the discussions going, as well as write-ups graciously contributed by the likes of
George R.R. Martin, Naomi Novik, Patrick Rothfuss, and Brandon Sanderson.
In addition, there’s the write-up from Nathaniel Bokenkamp for the consolation
I know we have.
--dpomerico
We obviously get a lot of comments concerning Cage Match, and we thought we’d use
1) This is all in good fun. We’re not trying to disparage any one character or world,
humor.
2) We do our best to depict the characters as accurately as possible, but we’re going
to make mistakes. Many of you have the advantage of having read one or two of
these series with dedication; we have to try and read as many as 32 series each
year. We’re working to get better at it, and we hope you’ll bear with us as the
project continues.
3) In the meantime, one of our goals at Cage Match is to encourage you to read and
explore new books and authors you might not have. Say what you will about
Twilight (and, having read the comments, you really, really have), but a lot of
people really like those books, and they’re incredibly popular in the genre. We
think there’s value in every book and character we choose, and we hope we’re
exposing you to sci-fi and fantasy you might not have thought to pick up.
4) The stats and write-ups: One thing that’s always tough is deciding which version
of the character is being presented. Should it be the most powerful? The most
popular (i.e., from the first book), some amalgamation? The fact is, there is no
hard-and-fast rule, and often it’s up to the person who helps put the stats together
contest. Personally, we think this is about if one character could actually beat
another. Our write-ups, though, often strive a bit more towards controversy. So,
how you vote (and how you base your vote) is up to you. Just try not to tear each
6) More on voting: We’ve heard the argument that “if it wasn’t a popularity contest,
it wouldn’t be fan’s voting,” but that’s not necessarily true. Consider a show like
“American Idol,” which is indeed a popularity contest. But you’re also supposed
to make your vote based on who you think is the better performer, too. Is that
always the case on the show? Of course not, just like it’s not going to always be
by Suvudu
March 8, 2010
http://sf-fantasy.suvudu.com/2010/03/cage-match-2010-round-1-13-roland-deschain-the-
gunslinger-versus-20-elric.html
The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.
But when he arrived at the ancient killing ground–Golgotha, place-of-the-skull–
the gunslinger was faced with a man he knew not, a cynical, laughing stranger with bone-
white hair and bitter blood-crimson eyes. At his hip was a black iron runesword, the
The gunslinger rested his hands on the sandalwood grips of his guns. His right
hand throbbed where the index and middle finger used to be. He said the old words to
himself. I do not Shoot with My Hand; He who Shoots with His Hand has Forgotten the
hand touched the hellblade’s hilt, the soul-rending chaos of the cursed Stormbringer tore
The cynical slayer chanted to himself the ancient and many-voweled names of his
gods but the chant was cut off: he felt a blood-drenched burning deep in his heart, a pain
deeper than he had ever suffered. But it was not the sinister sword’s curse annihilating the
But Elric had fallen with his hellblade drawn, and now its fiendish strength fired
through Elric’s wasted form. The sword moved with a mind of its own and with a weird
With a shiver of sick pleasure he drank in the gunslinger’s soul. He heard all of
their names and each one burned through Elric and infused him with sinister hellstrength:
Cort Cuthbert Eddie Susannah. The gunslinger had destroyed more lives even than Elric.
It was the richest and darkest brew that Elric had yet drunk and it intoxicated him
dreadfully.
And yet still, though he was bloody and broken, the gunslinger marched forward,
And then Elric raised the Horn of Fate, slung round his neck on a silver chain, and
with the last of his strength blew it thrice. The gunslinger fell to his knees, gazing at the
horizon, waiting for the black silhouette of the tower to appear. “The Horn of Eld! The
Tower is at hand!” At last, after all these years, he was almost there…
Elric sobbed in pain but the demon sword still swung in a black arc and plunged it
into Roland Deschain’s heart. And then came a rush of such sweet sorrowing pain that
Elric fell to his knees full of infinite loneliness and infinite sorrow as the last name
trembled in the Bright Emperor’s feverish brain: Susan Delgado. It was no victory.
by Patrick Rothfuss
http://suvudu.com/2010/03/cage-match-2010-round-2-3-aslan-versus-14-kvothe.html
There wasn't any snow on the ground, but the early morning air was chill as the
cloaked and hooded figure moved through the forest, brushing aside the fir branches as
he went. Eventually the trees thinned and the figure stepped from the pale blue of early
The cloaked figure smiled fondly and ran one hand over the iron lamppost. Then
sighed and walked past it, moving deeper into the forest. After the better part of an hour
he found a clearing where a small stream cut through the thick grass, making a gentle
Still wearing his hood, the figure looked around for a long moment. Then he
spoke: "Aslan," he said, and though he did not speak loudly, his voice was strangely
resonant, striking the air like a bell. "Aslan." He looked around, drew a breath, and
"You can not bid me come," came a deep, sweet voice from the edge of the
clearing. It was like distant thunder laced with honey. "Neither can you bid me go."
"Of course not," the cloaked man said. "You're not a tame lion."
There was a low, throbbing sound that almost sounded like a purr, and a lion
padded softly out of the trees, his huge feet making no noise in the grass. The sun came
out from behind a cloud, warming the air, and when it struck the huge animal he shone as
well, shining like copper and fire. He looked younger than his voice sounded, a boy just
"I will admit," Aslan said. "I did not expect you to come here."
Kvothe unclasped his cloak and lay it carefully on a nearby tree and looked back
up at the lion. His clothes were threadbare, only a half-step away from being truly ragged.
"We are to fight," Aslan said. "It strikes me as odd that you should come here and
give me the advantage of the home ground. It seems your best hope would come from
forcing me to come to you where you might catch me with some trick or trap."
Kvothe smiled. "That reminds me of a joke," he said. "How do you catch a unique
lion?"
Aslan's tail stopped its restless motion. He turned his head slightly to look behind
himself.
Kvothe continued, "How do you catch a tame lion?" Aslan turned back to look at
There was a moment of silence, and then the clearing was filled with a low
"It's been a long time since anyone told me a joke," Aslan said, then shook out his
"And you know you cannot win, especially here," Aslan continued. "The only
Kvothe shook his head seriously. "No, the real question is how much will winning
cost?" The young man smiled a small, sad smile. "Believe me, this is something I have
"If we fight, you'll kill me," Kvothe said matter-of-factly. "You'll win, but there
will be a cost."
"You would bring your death curse upon me?" Aslan said.
"That's Harry Dresden," Kvothe said, slightly irritated. "Come on now. Except for
point of view and a respect for thermodynamics we really don't have much in common."
"There's nothing I could do to you if I lost," Kvothe said. "And honestly, I'm not
sure I'd want to. I'm not really one of those 'from hell's heart I stab at thee' types.'"
"Don't believe everything you hear," Kvothe interrupted, his eyes narrowing. "My
point is this: if you kill me, there will never be a second book."
Aslan was silent for a moment. "So you're threatening me with reprisal from your
fans?"
threatening you at all. I'm just saying that if you kill me now, people will never get the
"Despair," Kvothe said. "Terrible despair in the hearts and minds of thousands."
He gave the lion a frank look. "You've always struck me as the sort of person…"
"Lion."
"Sorry… You've always struck me as the sort of lion that was trying to make
people happy in the long run. Not the sort that would actively cause despair."
Aslan lifted one huge paw from the ground and then pressed it down again. He
Kvothe nodded. "Your books are all finished. You're immortal in ways more
important than the obvious. I'm not quite there yet." He sighed. "That's why I figured we
should talk."
After a long moment, the lion looked up. "So what's the other option?" his voice
Kvothe shook his head. "It's not in my nature to give up or walk away. I'm
psychologically unable to back down from something like this. Hell, I'm a short step from
feral." He ran his hands over his ragged clothes, half embarrassed.
noble creature. You have a precedent for martyrdom. It's consistent with your character.
You better than anyone know that sometimes the only way to win is to concede."
Another pause, then Aslan spoke. "You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?"
Kvothe smiled again, and for a moment his face was almost boyish. "It's all
Aslan looked up and swished his tail. He drew an impossibly long, deep breath.
"You're welcome," the lion said as he turned his massive head and began to walk
"Um…" Kvothe said. And for the first time since he came into the clearing he
looked unsure of himself. "Before you go…. I was wondering…. Could I?"
Aslan gave a great gusty sigh that was more amused than exasperated. "Very
well."
Kvothe stepped closer to the lion, moving hesitantly. Then he raised his hands
slowly and sank them deep in the thick golden mane. He leaned forward and gave the
After the space of a deep breath, Kvothe pulled his face away, but left his hands
where they were. "I've wanted to do that forever," he said softly, his voice a little choked.
"I would lick your face," Aslan said gently. "But it looks like it's been a while
"When is the second book coming out, by the way?" Aslan asked. "I've been
"What does that mean?" Aslan said. "In a couple months? Sometime this year?"
Another deep, thundering chuckle. "I suppose I deserve that," Aslan said, and
turned to pad silently out of the clearing, where he was quickly lost to mortal sight.
Quarterfinals
by Naomi Novik
http://suvudu.com/2010/03/cage-match-2010-round-3-7-temeraire-versus-15-jaime-
lannister.html
"Only," Temeraire said, "he is so very small." He peered across the field at the lone man
swinging around his sword. He did move it quite quickly, and he had a splendid hand
made all out of gold, which flashed appealingly in the sunlight, but—well.
"I don't see why you are complaining," Iskierka said. "The last one was small,
too."
"Who tried to turn you into a cat," Iskierka said. "Anyway, you had better win,
because I don't see Granby or Laurence anywhere here, either, and we shan't be able to go
"Well, of course I am going to win," Temeraire said, but privately he could not
help feeling that it was not very sporting. "But perhaps we might—fight in some other
There was an odd sort of shimmer in the air around them and above the field, after
he had spoken, and Iskierka jetted curls of steam from her spikes in disapproval. "Now
you have gone and done it," she said. "I ought to just have set him on fire; you know you
"I do not mind in the least," Temeraire said defiantly, because he was sure he
would win a fair fight anyway; although privately he was forced to admit, in justice, that
The countryside where they were looked perfectly ordinary: rolling hills, streams,
and there was always sure to be a cow or a sheep handy if one happened to grow hungry;
only even if one flew for ages one did not seem to come across any towns, or farms, or
anything outside these battles. And when the battles did begin, everything behaved even
more strangely.
There had been quite an exciting moment in the first round, when that fellow
Haplo had begun drawing those magical runes in mid-air. Temeraire would have liked to
discuss them with him and to learn how to write them himself; if, that is, Haplo had not
commentary had not been in the least helpful—and things had seemed likely to go badly.
But a lake had appeared quite out of nowhere at the start of the battle, which had given
Temeraire the notion of driving the water over Haplo, to wash away his runes. The effect
had been all one could have wished for, as evidently a certain sort of salt water drained
Haplo's magic, and had made the rest of the battle easy; so it seemed that whoever had
organised these battles meant there to always be some chance, for either party.
This was evidently the case now as well: a mysterious fog had begun to spread
"So I might as well have said it," Temeraire added, in his defense, "for I am sure
if I had just decided to leap on this new enemy, unfairly, it would turn out that his sword
is poisoned, or there would be a trap of some sort, and it would all turn out badly."
"Nonsense," Iskierka said. "You might have just dropped a rock upon him; and I
The fog had cleared away, and Temeraire flattened his ruff against his neck as he
recognized the woman standing in the center of the field, by the white lock against her
dark hair, and Haplo beside her. "Surely I needn't fight you again," he protested. He had
not at all approved of being turned into a kitten, however briefly—even if it had turned
out that a twenty-ton dragon transmogrified into a kitten still weighed twenty tons, and
Polgara had a little carelessly been standing under him while casting her spell.
"No, of course not," Polgara said crisply, turning to him. "Someone has to work
out a level playing field for your next round, however, and determine a winner; so unless
"But that is scarcely reasonable, when you have just finished being my enemies!"
Temeraire protested.
"Certainly it is," Polgara said. "We will be making the arrangements with Ser
"It's Lady Polgara, isn't it?" a young woman with rather bushy hair asked,
approaching from the other end of the field. "I had rather a question about the
thaumaturgic theory behind the Will and the Word, could I ask you—"
"Perhaps after the battle, Hermione, dear," Polgara said. "Now, then: does anyone
have a suggestion for how Ser Lannister and Temeraire can meet on even ground?"
joining the discussion. He cast a wary eye up at Temeraire. "Make that a large army."
"I don't see why you should have an army, when Temeraire hasn't his crew,"
Iskierka returned.
"That shan't be useful in the least; I don't breathe fire," Temeraire protested.
"It does not seem in the least fair to me that this person should get all sorts of
help," Iskierka said. "That is only cheating to help him, so it won't be as though he were
"He's a damned dragon!" Lannister said. "How else do you expect me to face
him?"
of horror that was not speech nor the absence of speech but its negation. Pitiless and
incomprehensible, it yet spawned a kind of meaning which crept slithering like some
unnatural gasping nameless thing formed of primordial elements into the back of the
mind.
"Well, I suppose that would work," Hermione said, after Cthulhu had finished
speaking.
"But Gong Su isn't here to cook for me," Temeraire protested. "Also, the
Quickfire Challenges would be very unfair, as anyone could see it must take longer to
the episodes which Hermione had shown them as examples, although he would have
liked to be able to taste the food, and not merely watch it being prepared.
"Where any particular challenge did not suit either opponent, we might use Detours to—"
"I am not racing a pair of dragons around the world," Lannister said flatly.
There was a pause, which slowly filled with a creeping, hideous awareness, as a
basin gradually filling with some corrupted essence from an unseen subterranean source.
"I suppose we had better just go straight for the big one," Hermione said.
Temeraire peered down at the small black pole. "And I sing into THIS?" he said,
lowering his head towards it, and pulled his head back startled as his voice went abruptly
very loud.
"Yes, exactly," Hermione said encouragingly, from behind the judges' table, with
"This is blazingly idiotic," Lannister said. "What the hell do I know about
singing?"
"If you prefer, dear, we can go back to the one-on-one fight," Polgara said, in a
Abruptly, the lights dimmed, another extremely bright one shone directly into
your finalists face their toughest challenge yet. They've made it through the first two
rounds, all the way to the quarterfinals. But which one will continue on to the next round?
There was a great deal of very loud jangling music and even more of the flashing
lights, all of which abruptly cut off as Polgara raised a hand and said, "Quiet." She
lowered it again. "Why don't you just go ahead and sing something, dear," she said to
Temeraire.
"Oh," Temeraire said, "what ought I sing?" He was quite sure that Spanish Ladies
would not do; Laurence had often chided the men for singing it where a lady should hear,
but perhaps Roast Beef of Old England, which, he brightened as he realized, would be a
little like the other show about cooking, and so Polgara was sure to like it—
The host looked at him. "Do you want our ratings to tank? Let's try for something
"But that is from this century," Temeraire protested, but evidently the century had
been altered, which did not seem fair; he was offered a list instead, of wholly unfamiliar
songs, and rather doubtfully selected one after listening to it through; it seemed quite
pretty.
"Did you ever know that you're my hero," Temeraire sang, peering at the little
He had never tried much singing before—when he had traveled at sea, the men on
board did not very well like it if he joined in, as he could not much help but be louder;
difficult, although he did accidentally break into a small—quite a small—roar, in the last
His roar caused the brightly lit sign in the back of the stage to shatter; and also
several of the lamps shining down upon him exploded into sparks, and the judges were all
forced to dive beneath the desk while the fire was put out; but Temeraire did not see that
anyone could blame him for that. Anyway, once order was restored, he finished the song
with, he felt, a flourish, and sat back expectantly for the results.
"That's what one says, as I understand it." Haplo shrugged. "I'm a wizard, not a
musician."
Temeraire flattened back his ruff and looked at Polgara. "It's a charming song,"
"That," Temeraire said, injured, "is just the sort of thing one would say if one only
meant to be polite, and didn't like it at all; but I cannot see that you have anything to
complain of, and I sang it much better than only nicely, I am sure."
"We're the judges, dear, you oughtn't argue with us," Polgara said, which
Temeraire did not understand at all, when they were plainly wrong.
Cthulhu then conveyed his own boundless and infinite approval of the
performance, and also somehow the impression that Temeraire's soul would be
exceptionally delicious, which was at once gratifying and unpleasant; then Hermione
said, flatly, "Well, it's a bit schmaltzy, isn't it? Not what anyone would like to hear on pop
"It's not current, is all I'm saying," Hermione said. "You could at least have done
for a dragon—and watched Lannister take his turn. And brightened rapidly, as it turned
out that Jaime Lannister, while he might be a splendid swordsman, could not sing in the
slightest. He had chosen a very peculiar song, all about this girl named Lola, and a pub of
some sort, called the Copacabana. Temeraire was rather envious of the elaborate clothing
which Lannister had been given to wear, however—no one had offered him anything like
Lannister also seemed to realize things were not going well, because he stopped
short of the end and merely threw up his arms, exasperated, and said, "There, that's
enough; damn you all, I have my dignity." He looked down at his clothing. "What's left
of it."
"Pitchy," Haplo said again, this time without so much as looking up from the
Polgara had a rather peculiar expression on her face, as though she were tasting
something not very pleasant. "I've heard better from Garion when he was drunk," she
said.
Hermione made up for that quite thoroughly by saying, "That was utterly atrocious. It
was a bit like—a cat being murdered slowly, if we were the cat."
reappearing like a jack-in-the-box on the stage and saying, "And now it's up to you,
America! Which contestant will make it through to the next rounds? The lines are open
now!"
The voting seemed to be taking a very long time. "Mayn't we just declare me the
"Er, well," Hermione said. She was using a sort of magical box called a laptop.
Hermione looked rather furtively over her shoulder, at where Lannister was
standing with a tall, beautiful woman who looked very like him, speaking to her in low
"But what has that to do with singing?" Temeraire said. "Surely no one of sense
Temeraire crept away, rather staggered, and told Iskierka the dreadful news. She
snorted and sat up. "This is the outside of enough; we will never find Granby and
Laurence like this," she said, and stalked over to speak with Hermione.
Temeraire did not see what there was to be done; the contest itself had ended, and
they could not change anything about it, nor—what Temeraire most keenly felt unfair—
did it seem as though there were a change which would have made any difference, if
injured, as though he were not himself generally held a handsome dragon, which one
might have thought would count for something, in such a case—but perhaps dragons did
Shortly they were summoned back to the stage, to hear the verdict: the cheerful,
impersonal voice announced brightly, "The voters have spoken, and the winner is—"
Temeraire sighed.
"—Temeraire!"
There were a great many small bits of paper suddenly falling all over him,
wedging inconveniently into his harness; Temeraire snorted and shook his head, rather
taken aback.
"Pray don't think I am in the least ungrateful," he said to Hermione, when he had
managed to clear enough of them away, "but I thought Lannister was far out in front?"
"That was before I had her post the information that he mates with his sister to
those people in the box, the ones at TMZ," Iskierka put in smugly, and crisped away a
The practice did not seem very sensible, as it was sure to cause problems with the
eggs, but Temeraire did not entirely see what it had to do with singing, either, so he could
not help but feel this equally improper grounds for victory, particularly as it had all been
Laurence, that was of all things the most necessary. But he could not help thinking—
when he should find Laurence, and Laurence should ask how Temeraire had found him,
that it would be quite awkward if he were to have to confess victory by such means.
rematch: anyway I would quite like to try that other song, that one about one's heart going
on—" He turned decisively to speak to Lannister, and startled to hear a rather awkward
wet thump.
"Oh—oh, no," Temeraire said distressed, pulling away his hind leg and looking
down. Lannister was—rather flattened. "Whyever was he standing just there, where I
could not see—" Then Temeraire looked a little more closely: Lannister's sword had been
in his hand, and there was a stain of faintly glowing, greenish ichor upon the blade.
Temeraire looked reproachfully at Cthulhu, who conveyed a shrug like the rough
slouch of some inescapably monstrous and amorphous beast, its flesh rippling with
"It is just as well," Iskierka said. "Now, if you are quite done being absurd,
perhaps we can move on? I do not like to think what may have happened to Granby in all
this time."
Semifinals
by Patrick Rothfuss
http://suvudu.com/2010/03/cage-match-2010-round-4-14-kvothe-versus-15-jaime-
lannister.html
It was midmorning, and the autumn sun was hot as Jamie Lannister opened the
door of the Waystone Inn. The place was oddly quiet as he peered through the door, one
The taproom was empty except for a dark-haired young man lounging behind the
Jamie stepped inside. "I'm looking for the owner. We have… business."
The young man stood up straighter. "He's stepped out for a moment. You're
Jamie?"
Jamie frowned slightly as he looked the young man over. "I am. And you are?"
"Bast." The young man said with a grin. "He said I'm to make you comfortable if
you showed up early. He shouldn't be more than an hour or two. Can I get you something
to drink?"
Jamie moved to sit at the bar. "I don't suppose you have any decent wine out here
Jamie waved a hand dismissively. "Why don't you bring out your best bottle? I'll
"Something from behind the shelf," Bast said proudly. "I can't keep track of what
the wines are called in these parts, but I'm guessing when you hide a bottle, it's the good
stuff."
Bast opened the bottle with a deft flourish. Then he brought out a tall wineglass,
poured an inch of deep red wine into it, and held it out with an ingratiating smile.
Bast glanced down at the glass, then back up, his smile fading. "It tells you a lot
Jaime showed his teeth in a sharp, joyless expression that had the shape of a
smile. "It says a lot about you," he said smugly, "that you aren't willing to drink it."
Bast gave a dismissive sniff, picked up the glass, and took a mouthful of the dark wine.
Then he raised his eyebrows and made an appreciative noise as he picked up the bottle
and eyed the engraving on the neck. "I can see why he hid this one," Bast said, pouring
Jamie shrugged. "Ah well," he said. "You know what they say. Better safe than
Bast brought the glass close to his chest, his blue eyes icy. "This is my drink
now." He took another sip of the wine. "Rude guests go thirsty. Drink your own piss for
all I care."
They stared at each other for a while across the bar. After a moment, Bast set the
bottle down hard on the bar. "Fine," he said, nudging it so it slid forward. "I won't insult
you by offering you a glass or anything. I could poison that too. You'll just have to drink
Jamie picked up the bottle. "Boy," he said. "If it makes you feel brave to show
your teeth to me, go right ahead. But I'll only tolerate so much." He took a drink straight
from the bottle, paused, and took another slower drink as if to make sure of something.
Bast looked down at his feet. "A couple hours," he said with an odd tone in his
"Don't look so glum, boy," Jamie said. "Look at the bright side. In a couple hours
Bast looked up and his eyes were anxious. "I don't suppose I could convince you
Jamie gave a humorless laugh and took another drink. "God lord, boy. Why on
Something about this struck the golden-haired man as funny, and he erupted into a
great belly laugh that lasted for nearly a minute. Eventually he trailed off, wiping the
"Look, boy." Jamie leaned forward onto the bar. "I can tell you're a talker. You
probably learned that from him. I hear he's got a silver tongue on him. Talked his way
right out of the fight with the god-lion." He gave Bast a serious look, his eyes hard as
Jamie took another drink from the bottle before continuing. "You see, I've done
some asking around. Your Kvothe has a bit of a reputation. Clever, quick. Devil with a
sword. Strong as a bear. He can call down fire and lightning." Jamie shook his head. "But
I think all that is just stories. And the parts that aren't just stories, well…." He looked
around the empty inn. "He wouldn't be hiding in a little shithole town like this if he still
"I'll offer him a chance to surrender," Jamie said magnanimously. "As thanks for
this excellent bottle of wine." He took one last drink and pushed it away from himself on
"With what?" Jamie said, laughing again. He pointed to the wall behind the bar.
"That sword has dust on it, and his magic's gone from what I hear. His silver tongue isn't
any good on me. What does he have other than that? Nothing. That's what."
"I need to show you something," Bast said. "come here behind the bar."
Jamie turned his shoulders, then frowned, looking down at his feet.
"Why can't I move my legs?" Jamie said, his voice quiet and incredulous.
"Sethora," Bast said simply. "It tends to start with the legs. You can probably still
move your arms. But be careful or you'll…." Jamie turned on his stool and toppled
Jamie writhed a bit, turning onto his side. Moving his arms sluggishly he
managed to pull a long knife from his belt and throw it at Bast as came out from behind
the bar. But the throw went wild and sunk into one of the thick timbers of the tables.
Bast approached where the big man lay, stepping gracefully as a dancer. He stayed well
out of arm's reach through the man's final struggles, watching with a cool detachment
until he saw the tall man's breathing grow stiff and labored.
"It was in the wine," Bast stepped close and brushed the man's golden hair out of
his eyes. "I can't believe you managed to drink so much of it. You must have the
constitution of an ox."
"But you…" Jamie's mouth shaped the words though he lacked the breath to say
them.
"You think I wouldn't drink poison for him?" Bast asked, incredulous. "You don't
Bast knelt, his expression dark and hard and angry. "You swagger in here,
thinking you'll kick him when he's down. It's true, he's not what he used to be. He's lost
everything. No family. No future. No music. No hope. No joy. You know what's left?
young man spoke, his voice was low and vicious. "Me!" he said in a furious whisper. "He
has me!"
The young man stood, took a fistful of the tall man's golden hair, and began to
http://suvudu.com/2010/03/cage-match-2010-round-4-14-kvothe-versus-15-jaime-
lannister.html
The three Lannisters rode along the forest road side by side.
"Let me understand this," Jaime said, still incredulous. "I've defeated a witch, a
mad god, and a dragon. So now they match me up against an innkeep." He did not like
the sound of that one bit. Cutting down common serving men was hardly the path to
glory. There had to be some trap here, some hidden danger. "What did the fellow do that
Tyrion grinned. "Don't protest too much, brother. You've killed innkeeps before."
Jaime had almost forgotten about him. It annoyed him to be reminded. "Only the
"Must I be blamed for everything?" Cersei's green eyes blazed. "The man
"Kvothe is rather more than an innkeep, actually, " Tyrion said, mildly. "Or he
"An innkeep and a singer. I may well piss myself. Does he knows 'The Bear and
Tyrion laughed. "He may. He's an educated fellow. Went to a famous school."
Jaime groaned. "Not another one from that Hogfart's place? Seven save me."
"No, not Hogwart's," said the dwarf. "This school was more like our Citadel, truth
"That's what I have you for," said Jaime. "What else do you know about this
Kvothe?"
"I suppose we had best fight indoors, then," Jaime said. "That should make it
Which describes me as well, Jaime thought glumly. Long practice had made him
almost adequate with his left hand, but it would never be the equal of the right the Bloody
Mummers had taken from him. The golden hand strapped to the end of his stump was the
next best thing to useless. It still amazed him that he had survived his first three matches.
They reached the village not long after. A dismal place, Jaime concluded after a
quick glance around. The villagers looked fairly dismal too. They stared at the three
Lannisters as if they had never seen a lord before. Perhaps they haven't.
Kvothe's inn was called the Wayfarer. The common room was crowded when he
entered with his siblings. More rustics gaped at them from every hand. Come to see their
innkeep die? he wondered. That's one swift way to settle your account.
One glance from Cersei was enough to send the locals scrambling out of their
way. The three Lannisters settled themselves at a table near the door, ignoring the stares.
Jaime looked about for his foe. He was not hard to find. He was back by the wine casks,
talking intently as his companion scratched upon a parchment. "Who is the scribbler?" he
Jaime frowned. "Is he writing out some spell or charm to protect him?"
Cersei's laughter filled the inn. "Oh, how droll. An innkeep with a biographer.
That was when the youth appeared, with a flagon of wine and three cups. "Our
Jaime was not thirsty. Nor did he much like the look of the serving man. He got to
his feet. "Time enough for drinking when we're done." He strode across the room.
The innkeep broke off what he was saying. "Ser Jaime. You come early. Have a
"Actually, you are." Jaime slid Widow's Wail from its scabbard and slashed at the
redhead's neck, all in one swift motion. That might have ended it then and then, but the
scribbler was so startled that he raised his hands in dismay, which cost him half a quill
and two good fingers... but gave Kvothe the half a heartbeat that he needed to avoid the
blow. Jaime kicked the table over as the innkeep came scrambling to his feet, but Kvothe
leapt back adroitly. A moment later his own sword was in his hand.
The swords did all the singing then. Back and forth across the inn they fought.
Jaime pressed the attack at first, hoping to end it quickly, but Kvothe was not unskilled,
and his blade turned every blow, and answered cut for cut. The tide turned suddenly as
the red-haired singer went on the offense, pressing Jaime back. One slash almost took his
Kvothe was good, he had to grant him that. Probably as good as Jaime was,
fighting without his proper sword hand. But where he still trained every day with the
likes of Ilyn Payne, the innkeep spent his time drawing ale and washing dishes and
serving bowls of stew, and after a time that began to tell. And Kvothe's sword was not
worthy of its wielder. A decent weapon, no doubt, but Widow's Wail was Valyrian steel,
forged with dragonflame and tempered with spells, and every time the two blades
And all at once, the innkeep found himself holding half a sword.
That was when the young serving man tried to interfere. But Tyrion had crept up
Then Jaime put an end to Kvothe. A feint to the heart, checked by the broken
The scribbler was huddled in the corner, cradling his bloody hand. "Every tale
needs an ending, chronicler," Jaime told him, as he wiped the blood off Widow's Wail.
"There's yours." He turned and smiled at the smallfolk. "The drinks are on Casterly Rock,
my friends." Cersei left a pile of golden dragons on the table, to cover the cost of all the
wine and beer. "A Lannister always his debts," she announced, as they took their leave to
by Nathaniel Bokenkamp
April 6, 2010
http://suvudu.com/2010/04/cage-match-2010-consolation-match-14-kvothe-versus-17-
drizzt-dourden.html
It was night again. Silence fell across the land, and it was a silence of
considerably more than three parts. It was the silence of a thundercloud about to burst,
poised waiting above the Earth. This silence ebbed and flowed in tides, sweeping the
heavens with a current of vagabond souls. It ricocheted off of distant mountainsides and
From out of the silence, a dark figure appeared, running alongside a sand dune.
His cloak and skin were the same midnight black as the Spider Queen's webs, and from
each hip hung a scabbard of steel and wound leather. Above him, painted across the
night's sky, were strange and riotous visions: of dragons and armies and pillars of flame.
Somewhere, far far away, awesome battles were being waged between men and Gods,
A sound rang across the sand, shattering the silence into a thousand glistening
shards. It was music, the skillful plucking of the strings of a lute. To the elf's ears the
music seemed to be telling a tale—a long, mournful ballad, of love found and lost, of
“Well met, Drizzt, prodigal son of House Do'Urden.” From behind a rock
emerged a man with flame-red hair, still caressing the strings of his lute as he walked.
twinkled in the deep glow from the sky. “Who are you?” asked Drizzt.
“I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have talked
to Gods, loved women, and written songs that make the minstrels weep.” A discordant
note sounded from the man's lute. He sighed and looked down at his fingers, as if
resenting their betrayal. “And then I was killed by a crippled swordsman and his dwarf of
“Heard of you? I could smell you from fifty feet, human. You reek of cheap ale
Kvothe laughed. “You're one to talk, trying to sneak past me with hair that's
whiter than a Frost Draccus. And you call yourself a 'dark' elf.”
perhaps the voice of Mielikki in the back of his mind—told him that, despite the man's
mocking tone, he and this Kvothe were on the same side. But nothing had been as it
seemed, not for a long while now. He had lost all his companions, one by one, round after
death-robot. Catti-Brie, named into nothingness. And now even Guenhwyvar had been
taken from him, screaming in pain as a mad wizard's fire had burned away her fur and
flesh. Drizzt struggled to push back the tears from his large, soft, elvish eyes.
Kvothe turned his back to Drizzt and looked up, watching the distant pageant of
war and destruction playing across the sky. Drizzt followed his gaze. It's so far away.
From down here even the Gods look like ants. “Do you know where in the Realms we
The Gods themselves are warring across the sky for final supremacy.”
“And we're stuck down here.” Drizzt listened very carefully to the silence, and
thought he could make out the far-off thunder of the dice the Gods were said to roll.
“Yes.” Kvothe sighed. “But the Rules do give us a way to get back up there, if we
so desire.”
“The Rules?”
“Look, I didn't write them. It says that if one of us kills the other, we can retake
chord on his lute. “I don't know who's managing this whole situation, but they're certainly
a bloodthirsty lot. Anyhow, I don't give a damn. I'm sick of all the killing. I've got my
lute, I've got the quiet, and I'm perfectly content just to stay here.” He shrugged. “So I
Drizzt spun his scimitars, considering. He had no reason to kill this man, this
Kvothe. But if he could return to the realm of the Gods, perhaps he could bring back
poor, sweet Guenhwyvar. “Kvothe, I do not wish to hurt you, but I must accept this
challenge.” As Drizzt spoke the words, a glowing circle appeared, etched on the desert
“Very well.” Kvothe played one final chord, a plaintive major seventh that hung
in the air like a falling feather. When it ended he set his lute down on a rock, well outside
the circle. “Wouldn't want it getting hurt again,” he said, more to himself than the drow.
He drew his sword and stepped into the ring. As he did so, the ring's glowing surface
Drizzt crouched warily, regarding Kvothe. Montolio had taught him never to
underestimate a foe, but rather to be patient and gauge their strength. “Kvothe, I believe I
have heard of you. I heard you were once a great sorcerer and a famous warrior. Once. I
heard you lost your magic, though. That now you are old and weak.”
“Who told you that? A little bird? Or perhaps a chatty dragon?” Kvothe tested his
blade, taking a few practice swings. “You shouldn't believe everything you hear.”
Drizzt struck with the fury of a Yochlol, hoping to end the battle quickly. His twin
blades sang in the night's air, and Kvothe was hard pressed to parry each in turn. He was
driven back, his heels finding purchase on a rock perilously close to the raging fire. At
the last moment Kvothe spun left, dancing away with a speed that surprised even Drizzt.
He must have magic bracers too, Drizzt thought, though I can see no enchanted metal.
Though Kvothe twisted and turned, Drizzt's attacks continued, relentless. “Where
is your magic, wizard?” Drizzt taunted. “Why don't you name me out of existence?”
“This whole naming business has been taken completely out of context.” Kvothe
scored a strong riposte and scratched Drizzt's shoulder. “It's almost as bad as those bales-
Feinting to the right, Drizzt brought Icingdeath to bear as he spun, cutting a deep
gash in Kvothe's right thigh. Kvothe looked down at the blood, and for a moment Drizzt
thought he saw a wisp of something different pass across the man's face—a stone-faced
combat. I'll show them all that a drow doesn't need to sneak in shadows or stab in the
Kvothe was limping slightly, struggling to repel Drizzt's double onslaught. “I just
want you to know,” Kvothe said, gasping, “that I understand what you're going through.
You've lost your best friend, I sympathize, I really do. You know, what's her name—
Drizzt hardened his brow. That was it. Now he was going to enjoy killing this
one. “Don't even think her name!” He thrust at Kvothe with both scimitars. Kvothe
stepped aside at the last moment and, with sleight of hand that could only belong to an
“Ow. What the hell was the point of that?” Drizzt readied his scimitars for his
next strike, envisioning bringing them together and slicing clean through the irritating
human's throat.
Kvothe backed away, moving still closer to the ring of fire. He had nowhere left
to flee. He was losing blood from his leg, and his sword arm wavered slightly. Drizzt
tensed his back leg and toed the sand, preparing to charge.
“As I mentioned, I really do have a certain sympathy for your situation.” With that
Law of Conservation, and settling into the Heart of Stone. He felt the old sympathetic
Within half a second, what was once Drizzt Do'Urden was now a pile of smoking
ashes, and his fine twin scimitars had melted to the sand.
The ring of fire vanished without a trace. A beam of blinding light descended
from the heavens, spotlighting Kvothe. A tinny fanfare played, and a small banner
unfurled above his head reading “¡Third Place Wiener!” A sprinkling of confetti fell on
him. Kvothe looked about, confused, but he was alone. After a moment, the music
sputtered out and the confetti settled, leaving only the desert's quiet. Kvothe looked up,
into the beam of light. A vision was projected into his eyes, blurry at first, then slowly
coming into focus. He could see three people, Denna and his parents, waiting for him in
green Elysian fields. They were happy and at peace. They beckoned to him, urging him
forward into the light. He knew that he could go to them now, and turn his back forever
“Screw that, I need to find the way back to the my inn.” He knew Bast would be
waiting for his Reshi. Taking his lute, Kvothe began to trudge into the trackless desert.
by George R. R. Martin
April 6, 2010
http://suvudu.com/2010/04/cage-match-2010-championship-5-rand-althor-versus-15-
jaime-lannister.html
A cold wind was gusting from the north, but the tourney grounds beside the river
were crowded nonetheless. The smallfolk had begun streaming out the city gates in the
early morning, to claim the best places in the great wooden grandstands that had been
The battle to be fought today would be one to tell their grandchildren about; a
champion was coming from another world, a sorcerer of terrible power, to face Ser Jaime
Lannister in a Trial of Seven. Hardly a man there had been alive the last time a Trial of
Seven had been fought in Westeros, and none had ever seen one like today's. The talk
around the city was that this wizard Rand al'Thor meant to fight alone, against the
Kingslayer and six companions. Some of them would be from distant realms as well, with
powers and skills that made them legends in their own right. "There will be songs sung
about today's battle," the old men told themselves, as they settled onto their benches,
Ser Jaime's pavilion stood at the west end of the lists. All of crimson silk, it was,
with a golden lion's head adorning its center pole. Within, Jaime Lannister sipped at a cup
of Arbor red while his squires armored him from head to heel in gilded steel. "Does this
Rand have a title?" he asked his brother. "How shall I address him? Ser Rand? Lord
Rand?"
"He's not a knight," said Tyrion. "Nor a lord. He started as a farm boy, but he's
"Is he a king?" Jaime had killed a king before. Royal blood did not daunt him.
"Kings and queens and princes do his bidding," said Tyrion. "He's become
something close to a god in his own world. Which seems to be called Randland, by the
way."
"Just a city," said Jaime. "Even father wouldn't presume to name the whole world
after us. What was this land called before it was called Randland?"
"The books do not say. Or if they do, I missed it." The dwarf shrugged. "What can
I say? They're thick tomes. And I had to do a lot of other reading to find six champions to
fight beside you. I can tell you that Rand's a blademaster as well as a sorcerer. He
believes he is destined to save his world from someone called the Dark One. Oh, and he
has three women." He grinned. "Must be nice to be the destined savior of the world."
Jaime briefly considered what his own life might be like if he'd had three sisters
instead of just one. He almost felt sorry for this Rand al'Thor. One Cersei was more than
any man should need to deal with. "So where are these six stalwarts of yours?"
"My life depends on them, according to you. Yes. Show them in."
Tyrion hopped down from the camp stool. "As you command, brother."
He brought them in one by one; three men and three women. A one-eyed man, tall
and fair, with straight blond hair falling almost to his shoulders. An older man, round-
shouldered, plump, and past sixty, whose eyes peered out from behind a pair of glass
a nose that had been broken more than once. A pregnant priestess all in red, with a ruby
glowing at her throat and two red eyes that matched its hue. A girl skinny as a stick,
scowling, with a vermilion streak in her stringy brown hair. And a pale young woman,
slim, lovely, her hair a coal black waterfall with half-seen hints of red, held in place by a
circle of dark metal that cast strange shadows in her deep-set eyes.
Tyrion named them each in turn: Klaus, Tom, Jay, Melisandre, Joey, Sharra.
Jaime Lannister greeted each one courteously, but after the last of them was gone,
he turned on his little brother and said, "Tyrion, have you taken leave of your bloody
wits? The red priestess, aye, she may be of use, but the others... old men, cripples, and
children, and soft, soft, soft. I might have had the Mountain and the Hound, Jon Snow,
"You killed a dragon round before last," Tyrion reminded him. "Do you imagine
Rand couldn't do the same? No seven knights could hope to stand against Rand al'Thor
"Watch and find out," said Tyrion. "And now you must excuse me. Our guests
Rand al'Thor stepped through the gate, into the teeth of a cold north wind that set
his cloak to flapping. The women came behind him: Egwene, Nynaeve, and Elayne
garbed as ladies, Birgitte with her bow and Avienda with her spears, Min in her men's
clothes.
grounds erupted in shouts and cheers and whistles. On the walls of the great city behind
them guards began to beat their spears against their shields. Avienda slid into a fighting
crouch and Birgitte nocked an arrow to her bowstring. Nynaeve eyed the throngs and
sniffed in disdain. Egwene frowned and smoothed her skirts. Min shook her head. "We
should not have come," she said. "I saw all this in my vision. Rand, we should leave
now."
"Soon," replied the Dragon Reborn. "This will not take long. My foe this time is
only a swordsman. A swordsman without his sword hand." He glanced about, looking for
this knight called Jaime Lannister. To the south was a wide, swift river, and behind them
a great walled city. It was not at all what he had expected. He had thought to face this last
meadow, perhaps a castle yard... not on a festival ground, with thousands looking on.
"Destroy them all," Avienda urged. "Let the ground open up and swallow them,
Rand, your foe and all these others too. The sooner we leave this place the better."
Rand frowned at her. "There are children here," he pointed out. "Half the crowd is
women. Young boys, old men, the poor and lame and halt." He could hear the cries of
peddlers selling roasted meat and hot pies to the people in the stands, the shouts of
gamblers proclaiming odds (if Mat had come, he would be taking bets already, Rand did
not doubt). They have made a carnival of this, he thought with disapproval. With the One
Power, he could destroy all this in the blink of an eye... but to kill so many innocents just
to bring down one feeble foe would be an act worthy of the Dark One.
"If you will not end this now, allow us to fight beside you," said Birgitte.
The women exchanged looks. Elayne sighed. "Men," said Nynaeve, sniffing.
Rand had never intended to bring the women with him. He did not know what
dangers this strange world might present, and he did not like the idea of exposing them to
peril. Even when his latest foe had challenged him to a fight of seven against seven, he
had insisted that he would fight alone. There was no keeping the women away, however.
They would not listen. They never did. Though he seemed to accumulate more women
everywhere he went, he still did not know how to talk to them. Perhaps if Mat had been
here... or Perrin... his friends had always had an easy way with girls.
A dwarf was waddling toward them, leading a big black horse. The little man was
richly garbed, but scarred, with only half a nose, and a pair of mismatched eyes, one
green and one black. "Welcome to Westeros," he announced. "I am Tyrion of House
Lannister. I see you brought six companions after all. Will they be fighting with you?"
"Yes," said Min. "Yes," said Avienda. "Yes," said Egwene. Nynaeve sniffed.
"Our gods here may not like that," the dwarf warned. "We have seven of them
here. A trial of seven does them honor. Fight alone, and you insult them."
"The Creator is the only true god, and there is but one of him," said Rand.
"I would not be so sure of that." Tyrion Lannister patted the big black stallion. "It
is customary to begin this sort of fight ahorse. I have brought a mount for you. If he does
"He'll ride, then. And he will be armored. I see you wear neither mail nor plate"
"I am armored in the One Power," said Rand. "And my patience is wearing thin.
"The Last Battle, yes," the dwarf said. "I've read of it. Well, I shan't keep you any
longer." He turned to Rand's women with a lascivious smile. "My ladies, if you will be so
good as to come with you, we have places reserved for you in the royal box."
Tyrion had expected three women, but the royal box was large, and it was easy
enough to find places for six. The dwarf let the Dragon Reborn cool his tail in the middle
of the tourney ground whilst he introduced his entourage to his own sweet sister and her
son, the little king. Several of Rand's women were "channellers" who commanded the
same sort of sorcerous powers that he did, and Tyrion was half hoping that Cersei would
say something especially snotty to one of them and get turned into some sort of reptile, or
perhaps just flamed into a cinder, but unfortunately the queen decided to be on her best
behavior this morning and was all grace and warmth and smiles.
And Tommen charmed the women, as the dwarf had expected he would. Cersei
had brought some documents for him to sign and seal, and the boy king was soon happily
showing how the Randlanders how he melted the wax and pressed the seal down into it to
make an impression. Thankfully, none of Rand's ladies read the Common Tongue of
Westeros, so they did not notice that the documents Tommen was signing were all death
warrants. After a few moments, all of them but Min were cooing happily over him.
dangerous, he did not doubt, and the channelers doubly so with their sorcerer's skills, but
only Min truly seemed to sense the peril their lord was in. "Keep an eye on that one," he
whispered to Jay and Joey, as he settled down between them, just behind Rand's women.
Jay nodded. Joey scowled. "If I fucking feel like it, I will. Where are my real
clothes? I feel like a fucking idiot dressed up in this shit. You didn't tell me we were
going to a RenFaire."
Jaime Lannister trotted onto the field on a chestnut courser with a tawny mane,
His helm was wrought in the shape of a lion's head, maned and roaring. His
mount was caparisoned in flowing crimson silks emblazoned with the golden lion of
House Lannister, and the white cloak of a Kingsguard knight flowed from his shoulders.
A heavy oaken shield was on his right arm, a steel-pointed lance clasped in his left hand.
His right, the golden hand, could no more hold a lance than it could a sword.
There was a time, not long ago, when Jaime was as good a jouster as any in the Seven
Kingdoms, with a good chance to win any tourney that he entered. That time was gone.
The crowd grew hushed for a moment. Then a sound swelled up, a mix of cheers
and curses. King's Landing had no reason to love the Lannisters, though Jaime himself
had always been a favorite of the smallfolk... if only because the cleverer ones had won a
deal of coin wagering on him. He wondered how the betting was going today.
His foe stood waiting at the far end of the lists, his cloak flapping in the wind.
had refused both horse and lance, just as Tyrion had said he would. It ought to be a
simple thing to ride him down and drive a lance point through his chest, but Jaime knew
better.
"Do not try to take him by yourself," Tyrion had warned him. "He has a dozen
ways to kill you before you get within ten yards of him. This is a Trial of Seven. You
The idea rankled. Jaime pulled up and raised the visor of his helm. "Al'Thor," he
shouted, "I am told you are a swordsman. So am I. Swear that you will not use your
wizard's tricks, here before the eyes of gods and men, and I will not call upon my six
companions. We can settle the matter as men should, just the two of us, sword to sword."
Rand smiled. "You will not gull me so easily, Lannister. What you call my
'wizard's tricks' are as much s part of me as my arms and legs. I will not cripple myself
for your convenience. Bring on your companions. I fear them no more than I fear you.
But come, let us be done with this. I am the Dragon Reborn, and the Last Battle awaits
me."
Well, I gave him a chance. "This is your last battle, farm boy," Jaime replied. He
Klaus was the first to appear. Tall as Jaime and even blonder, with broad
shoulders and long legs, a patch covering one eye. He was clad in wool and leather,
unarmed. Next came Sharra, cloaked and hooded, a crossbow in her hands, a quiver of
bolts on one hip. Around her brows, half hidden by her hood, was the dark crown. Then
Melisandre stepped forward, great with child, her red robes blowing about her swollen
behind Jaime's pavilion, a grim grey shape floated up into the air; something like a bowl
turned upside down and armored all in heavy plate, but as large as the tent that concealed
it. Up and up and up it rose, though it had no more business floating in the sky than an
Rand al'Thor studied each in turn. "Five," he said. "I was told there would be
seven."
"The farm boy can count." Jaime dropped his visor, and gave his horse the spur.
Rand al'Thor watched them come, waiting, channeling, drawing deep of the One
Power. Lannister was charging at a gallop, his lance point lowered. The closest threat and
the most obvious, but the one that he feared least. He knew Jaime and all that he was
The hooded woman had loaded her crossbow and lifted it to her shoulder. She
was walking forward too, slowly and deliberately, but quarrels were another known
quantity, and posed no real danger to a channeler. The giant iron tortoise shell was more
of a mystery, but it was ponderously slow. He would have time to deal with it, he did not
doubt.
The last two troubled him the most. The big blond man appeared to be unarmed,
and the woman... Rand had always been reluctant to harm woman, and to send a pregnant
woman against him... that was a clever stroke, almost worthy of a Forsaken. Do they
think that if they make me kill an unarmed man and a pregnant woman in front of
Jaime Lannister and his friends were about to learn that hard lesson.
The hooded woman loosed her quarrel. Rand could feel it flying toward him, the
cold morning air rushing past its vanes. A heartbeat later, the red-robed woman cried out
the name, "R'hllor," and loosed a fireball toward him with a snap of her wrist. Rand could
hear it crackling as it sped across the field. He could hear the hoofbeats of Jaime
Lannister's warhorse too, coming closer and closer, tearing up the ground with every
stride.
Rand reached out with the One Power. A sudden gust of air seized the crossbolt
bolt and sent it at the one-eyed man with the straight blond hair. Rand grasped the fireball
in mid-flight as well, and flung it upwards toward the huge steel tortoise. By then
Lannister was almost upon him, the point of his lance leveled at Rand's throat. Rand let it
get within a yard of him, then opened a gate, stepped through it, and reappeared at the far
end of the field, beside Jaime's tent. The crowd gasped, and began to roar and shout.
Across the field the Kingslayer reined up suddenly and wheeled his horse about,
searching for his foe. The red-robed woman was closer, though, and she was the first to
find him.
No more than five yards separated them. The ruby at her throat blazed as she
flung another ball of fire at him. Rand shunted its aside, and smiled as Lannister's tent
began to burn, the flames licking up its sides. "For your sake and the sake of your child,
leave this field, my lady," he called out to her. "You cannot hope to defeat the Dragon
with fire."
Before the red woman could reply, Rand sensed another crossbolt bolt flying at
had been. This time he reappeared beside the hooded woman, just as she was reaching for
another quarrel. He channeled, and the crossbow flew to pieces in her hands. Jagged
shards of wood glanced harmlessly off the One Power in which Rand had encased
himself. The girl cursed and reached for a knife. A knife? Does she truly think she can
harm me with a knife? Rand made the earth beneath her feet rise up, knocking her aside...
then turned just in time to confront a new foe. Another knight. Where did he come from?
This knight was all in white from head to heel. Wings sprouted from the temples
of his warhelm. On his breastplate was engraved a chalice. And all his armor glowed,
suffused with a soft and ghostly radiance. One instant he was unarmed. The next a sword
was in his hand, white, shining, alive with radiance. Callandor, Rand thought, for just an
instant... but no, that was impossible, no man but the Dragon Reborn could safely wield
Callandor.
The white knight was right on top of him. He did not have time to draw his own
blade, but Rand was unafraid. So long as he was armored in the One Power, no blade
could—
The slash came down like lightning, and met his protective aura where with a
blinding flash of light and a sound like a doomed soul shrieking from the pits of Shayol
Ghul. Then the pain hit, and Rand al'Thor realized that it was own scream he was
Tyrion Lannister smiled a crooked smile as he watched Rand vanish again, only
to reappear a few feet from the royal box. The farm boy's face was pale with pain, and in
might be in real peril here. No blood, though. He had been hoping for blood. Rand's
invisible armor had been strong enough to stop Lohengrin's ghost steel blade, else the cut
would have taken off his arm clean at the shoulder... but not quite strong enough to blunt
Rand's women saw it too. The two who had been talking quietly to each other
suddenly fell silent, and the one who had been pulling on her braid this whole time gave a
gasp. It was the short-haired girl who worried him most, though, Min in her men's
clothes. The way her eyes narrowed. She will not let him die, the dwarf realized. Not
He gave Jay a judge in the side with his elbow and nodded at her. "I know," said
Jay.
The fight almost ended then and there. Rand was hurting, half-dazed by the
unexpected blow, and his foes were closing in for the kill. Lohengrin raced toward the
Dragon from one direction, Jaime on his destrier from the other. Forty feet above, the
Turtle's shell was drifting nearer. And halfway across the field, bathed in the light of the
burning pavilion, Melisandre of Asshai had shrugged off her robes to stand naked in the
heat of the fires, her pale skin glistening, her thighs trembling, giving birth. The crowd
was screaming for blood, and for half a heartbeat even Tyrion dared to hope the end was
near.
Then, all at once, Rand seemed to recover himself. Perhaps he had used his
channeling to heal himself, or perhaps one of these women in the royal box had done it
for him; some of them were channelers as well. Go on, the dwarf thought, channel all you
his scar, grow him a new nose, make him strong and tall. If they could do that, I might
even go back to Randland with them and fight in the Last Battle. The notion of a last
battle appealed to him. In Westeros, there was never a last battle. Nor would there be, so
long as men played the game of thrones. Maybe Rand would give me one of his women if
I went over to his side, the dwarf mused. It's not as if he doesn't have enough of them.
Down on the field, the ground beneath Jaime's charging horse exploded upwards
in a rain of dirt and stone, sending his brother and the poor horse spinning through the air
like leafs in a storm. Half a heartbeat later, Lohengrin slowed and staggered, then went
down to one knee. His sword winked out, and then his armor as he gasped and clutched at
his throat in a way that reminded the dwarf grotesquely of his nephew Joffrey's death.
Air, Tyrion realized. Rand has shut off his air. Klaus cannot breathe. Stones began to fall
from the sky, chunks of rock as big as a man's head, rained down by the Turtle up above,
but every one of them burst before they got to Rand, shattered by the One Power.
But the greatest danger remained. Melisandre had given birth, and the twisted
shadow that had emerged from her womb was flying toward the farm boy, swift as
thought. The sight of it made even Tyrion afraid. In the stands grown men began to shriek
like little girls, their cries and shouts mingling with the screams of Jaime's dying horse.
Rand threw up a wall of earth to block its path. The shadow flew through it. He
summoned a whirlwind, but winds cannot touch a thing that has no substance.
The beam was so bright that it seared the eyes, and Tyrion had to throw up his
arm across his face. The shadow was so black it seemed like a hole in the world,
dwarf could hear the world groan and feel it shudder underneath his feet. For a moment
he was half afraid the stands were going to collapse, and kill the lot of them.
When he could see again, the shadow was gone and Melisandre of Asshai as well.
My son, Tyrion thought. Somehow he did not mourn him. On the field, Rand was using
the balefire once more, against the Turtle's shell... but this time the beam was feeble, red,
like the last light of the sun as it fades in the west. The shell's thick armor smoked, but
elsewise took no harm. After a moment Rand realized it too, and reached instead for the
earthy blaze that had consumed Jaime's pavilion, shaping it into a fiery dragon and
Then the feet went out from under Rand, and he was jerking into the air and
shaken violently. For one instant Tyrion thought the boy was flying, but if so, it was not
of his own volition. Struggling against the invisible hands that had seized him, the
Dragon Reborn writhed and kicked and twisted. The Turtle lifted him about twenty feet,
dropped him on his head, lifted him again, smashed him down once more.
Melisandre was gone, not even a pile of burned bones remaining to show where
she had died, and Lohengrin was down and maybe dead as well, but Sharra was
advancing knife in hand, the Turtle floated ominously above, and Jaime himself was
Rand's women saw his peril too. All at once three of them were moving. The
archer stood and pulled an arrow from her quiver, the spearwoman nimbly leaped from
the box down onto the field, and one of the ladies got a look of concentration on her face
that made him certain she was channeling. Trying to channel, at least, the dwarf thought,
Still, no sense taking chance. The dwarf gave Jay Ackroyd another poke in the
Jay shrugged. "Might as well. Can't dance." He raised a hand, lifted his thumb,
pointed with his forefinger. The archer vanished with a little pop as she drew back her
arrow to her ear. Another pop, and the spearwoman was gone as well, caught in mid-
stride. Pop, pop, pop, and the three ladies blinked out one after the other.
Tyrion caught hold of Jay's hand and pushed it down just as his finger was
moving toward Min. "Not yet. I want to talk with this one."
The girl's face was dark with fury. "What did you do to them?" Her knife was in
her hand.
"Wish I could," said Popinjay, "but my trick only works one way." He nodded at
Sharra, down below. "She's the one you want. Better hope your boyfriend doesn't kill
her."
"Who is she?"
"Sharra, she's called," said Tyrion. "The girl who goes between the worlds."
Where do you think I got all these books I've been consulting, since this madness began?
Rand's wounds had opened again, the old wounds that would not heal. When he
got to his feet he could feel the throbbing in his side, the agony stabbing through him like
a dull knife. His head was pounding as well, and enemies were all around him. When he
remained. The rest were gone, though where he could not say.
And worse of all, he could not channel. When he reached for the One Power,
Jaime looked as bad as Rand felt. He had lost his golden hand, so his right arm
ended in a stump. He was limping visibly, favoring his left leg. Blood spatters covered
his chest and arm, from cutting the throat of his dying horse. Yet Lannister's sword was
in his hand.
He was Rand al'Thor. He was the Dragon Reborn. He would not die meekly. It
cannot end this way. Not here, in this world even the Creator has forsaken. I am ta'veren.
I must fight in the Last Battle. He drew his own sword, with its Heron Mark blade.
"That was all I ever asked for," said Jaime Lannister, from behind the lion's head
It did not take Jaime long to realize that Rand was better than he was.
If he had not lost his sword hand, they might have been well matched, but having
to learn to fight all over again with his off hand had robbed him of half his skill. Every
cut he made was a beat slower, every parry came a half a heartbeat too late. Against an
ordinary opponent, none of that would have mattered... and battered and bruised as he
was, in obvious pain, Rand al'Thor was still as quick as any man that Jaime Lannister had
ever faced. If Rand had not been so badly hurt -- blood was seeping through his clothing
Bold. Ser Arthur Dayne would have proved his master, Jaime did not doubt, but only
How does a farm boy get so good with a sword? Jaime wondered, as he stepped
back from a slashing attack so quick that Rand seemed to have three blades. In Westeros,
a boy of noble birth began training almost as soon as he could walk. He served years as a
page and then a squire, training every day for long hours, first with wooden swords and
then with blunted tourney steel, practicing until his hands were hard with callous and
every move and cut and stance became second nature to him, and fighting came as easily
as breathing. Few farm boys could ever hope to equal that, no matter how big or strong or
fast they might be. It was not something a man could master between plowing fields and
milking cows. And yet here he stands. Jaime gave more ground. He did not know what a
His sword was special as well. A curved blade, and light, yet somehow it stood up
to Widow's Wail, which no common steel could ever hope to do. Nor could Jaime doubt
its edge. Had he been unarmored, as Rand was, the farm boy would have killed him half a
dozen times by now, slicing through cloth and flesh and bone as if it were cheese.
But Jaime's gilded armor was well-forged and heavy, a full suit of plate and mail,
and no blade, no matter how sharp or swift or well-balanced, was going to cut through it.
Rand's only hope was to find a weak spot. Weak spots there were, of course... but even
with his sword hand gone, Jaime Lannister was still skilled enough to protect them.
And so they fought. Rand slid from one form to another, always graceful, always
balanced, as swift on the parry as on the attack. Jaime let him lead, the better to get the
slipped through glanced harmlessly off his plate. Rand's strokes grew ever more ornate
and elaborate, complex combinations of cuts and thrusts and feints, designed to make a
foe open himself up for a killing stroke. Swordplay was a dance with him, and every step
had its own name. Tyrion had warned him of that. The Boar Rushes Down the Mountain.
The Arc of the Moon. The Courtier Taps His Fan. The Dove Takes Flight. Chips of
gilding flew from Jaime's armor, and chunks of mane from his helm.
And then the Lightning Struck the Oak. That one almost did for him. An intricate
blend of attack and parry, somehow it allowed Rand to slide a leg behind his own. If
Instead he shoved forward, slamming his full weight into Rand, their blades still
locked together. He was the bigger man, taller, stronger, and his armor made him much
heavier. It was Rand who went down. Jaime kicked her sword from his hand, then pinned
his wrist to the ground with his heel. "I call that one, 'the Lion Knocks the Dragon on his
Tail,'" he said as he laid the point of Widow's Wail against the apple of Rand's throat.
"Now yield, Dragon. Unless you care to be reborn again, and do the whole thing over."
Even when it was all done, the girl named Min did not understand how her man
had lost.
The tourney ground were deserted by then. The dead had been carted off by the
silent sisters, the peddlers had closed their stalls, the winners had collected on their
wagers, the losers had paid up or run off. Jaime's pavilion had burned down to the
ground, so the Lannisters and their remaining entourage had adjourned to the Red Keep.
Reborn.
Jay and Joey had already taken their leave -- and Joey was an angry as she'd been
when she arrived, complaining that he'd dragged her off to some fucking RenFaire world
for nothing when she should been partying at Mardi Gras. Jaime sat quietly in the corner,
As Tyrion poured cups of Arbor gold for Min and Sharra, the dwarf explained as
"That should not matter," Min insisted stubbornly. "All worlds are but spokes on
"No," said the girl called Sharra, with the dark crown and the shadows in her eyes.
"There are more worlds than there are stars in the sky, more than all the grains of sand on
all the beaches on every earth there is... and on every one of them men tell themselves
that theirs is the true world, their gods the true gods, that what is true on their world is
true everywhere. It never is. I have walked a thousand worlds, Min. This I know."
Tyrion nodded. "The One Power that Rand al'Thor and these Aes Sedai of yours
employ in their channeling... well, think of it like water. On your world, it is a great
invisible ocean, deep and inexhaustible, flowing everywhere but for a few desert islands
you call steddings. Here on Westeros, though... this world is bone dry by comparison to
your own. Oh, we have a few deep wells, to be sure.... here a river, there a lake... but oft
as not, what looks to be a lake is really just a puddle. That is what Rand found here, in
King's Landing. There are magical places in this world, but this is not one of them. When
Rand came through the gate and began to channel, he drew upon the power to be found
him, he is VERY powerful, as I knew from reading the books Sharra was so kind to bring
me, so he drained that puddle very quickly, especially when he made use of his balefire.
A few short moments, and he had made a desert. Once that happened, he could no longer
channel."
"No one is ta'veren in Westeros," said Tyrion. "Our gods are fickler than yours.
They have no favorites." Though there a few they like to piss on, now that I reflect on it.
"I knew your Creator," the dwarf broke in. "Lord Jordayne, he was called here."
He took a sip of wine and smiled sadly. "A good fellow, warm-hearted and generous,
with a rare fine humor. He lived down south, at the Tor, and was famous for his
hospitality. Lord Jordayne has been much missed by all who knew him. The tales he told
will be fondly remembered by all those who heard them. But he did not create Westeros,
my lady, no more than Lord Costayne or Lord Vance or Lord Peake. We have our own
Creator here... a crueler one than yours, I fear. In his domain the only pattern is the one
Sharra rose. "If you would like to go home now, I will take you," she told Min.
"We will go by way of another world I know. You may find it of interest. The princes
there are sorcerers of great power and warriors without peer. They insist that their world
is the only true one, and all the other worlds but shadows of their own. A colorful lot, but
quarrelsome."
"No," said Tyrion, "but Sharra will return for him, when the maesters have
finished bandaging his wounds. She can only take one person at a time."
The dwarf made a face. "That will take a bit more time. Jay can only pop his
targets to places he knows. As it happens, he only knows two worlds. One is a dismal
place called Earth. The other's worse. But we'll return them to you, never fear. You have
my word as a Lannister. Rand may need them for this Last Battle of his." He grinned.
"Can't have this Dark One winning, after all. He might turn up outside our own walls
next."
When they were gone, Tyrion turned back to his brother. "Well, that's the end of
that."
"I suppose." Jaime sounded weary. "A pity we don't have a Dark Lord here. At
least in Randland a man knows who his enemies are. " He studied Tyrion. "One question,
brother. When we parted in the dungeons, certain things were said... "
"Nor forgiven?"
"A Lannister always pays his debts, brother," said the dwarf.
"Why help me, then? I would never have survived any of these contests, but for
you."
Tyrion Lannister grinned a savage grin. "Why, Jaime," he said, swirling the wine
in his cup, "we are one blood, you and I. No one gets to kill my brother... but me."
by Brandon Sanderson
April 6, 2010
http://suvudu.com/2010/04/cage-match-2010-championship-5-rand-althor-versus-15-
jaime-lannister.html
So, from what I've heard, Rand won the Suvudu cage match.
This leaves me with mixed feelings. On one hand, I am pleased and proud. On the
other hand, George R. R. Martin's write-up of how he thought things would go was
simply epic. In his version, the fight went as it should have in many ways, particularly
near the end. Rand and Jamie, sword to sword, man to man. A win without a kill, respect
Time world) then what Mr. Martin wrote did indeed happen. And it didn't. And
However, in the version imagined by Brandon Sanderson, here's how the fight
goes down:
Mr. Martin's narrative is more or less dead on until the end. Rand and Jamie
struggle and fight, and it comes down to man against man. However, neither man can
Then something flickers in Rand's vision. Perhaps it's a trick of the light. Perhaps
it's an assassin's bolt, dipped in the poison of an asp and fired toward Rand in a moment
thinks he's being attacked by someone other than Jamie and his allies. Treachery, a
by anger, perhaps delusion (or perhaps when the One Power pool surrounding King's
Landing was used up, some started trickling in from surrounding areas through One
Power drainage ditches and has just come close enough for Rand to tap). He creates a
gateway through which to escape, but also lets loose a brilliant bolt of balefire, firing it at
A column of liquid light springs forth, passes through the gateway, and hits
Suvudu itself.
Now, it's hard to say what effect this should have. Balefire, for those unaware, has
the power to burn threads from the pattern and rework time itself. Kill someone with
balefire, and things they did prior to being killed will be reversed.
Perhaps this should mean that the battle never happened. Perhaps it should wipe
the entire experience from our minds. But balefire is an odd thing, as is a contest such as
this one. And so, Rand's actions remove the previous fights from existence, but don't
Through accident, Rand's balefire brings back each and every fighter who
Aragorn, Garet, and Hiro have a conversation about who is really the greatest
swordsman in the world. It involves much stabbing, some pizza, and very little coding.
Kahlan exclaims that she was never part of a "fantasy" novel in the first place, and
Dumbledore tries to send Lyra on a quest to find some random magical object that
is going to save the world, really, and is terribly important. So important that he can't go
himself. Honestly.
Roland ponders for twenty-two years before telling you what he does.
Harry Dresden decides this is really all too much work, and wanders off to get
himself something to drink. He gets beaten up seventeen times on his way, but saves two
orphanages.
Ender writes a poem about the Shrike, entitled "It Might Be a Demonic, Sadistic,
Terrible Monster Made of Blades, Thorns, and Terror—but It's Really Just
Misunderstood."
Kvothe flies in, riding Temeraire, Hermione at his side, and— (I've written the
second two thirds of this sentence, but I'm not giving them to you yet.)
SPEAKS IN ALL CAPS and wonders if this is all going to create a great big paradoxical
Edward broods.
who is most likely drinking with Mat, Tyrion, and Harry at this point.
Haplo and Raistlin get into an argument about how to pronounce Drizzt's name.
Elric tries to decide just who among these people he likes the most, so that he can
personal angst.
Gandalf and Aslan eye everyone mysteriously, then have a discussion over tea
Locke steals Gandalf's staff and sells it on eBay as an authentic prop from the film
And at that point, the great Cthulhu himself awakens, and his terrible, alien nature
Rand wins by default, since he was already insane, and Cthulhu showing up