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The Best of Suvudu Cage Match

2010

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 1


Hi.

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

year’s inaugural Suvudu Cage Match.

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

thought would be a fun way to engage fans.

Turns out it was.

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

have these arguments.

Hence, Cage Match.

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

match between Kvothe and Drizzt do’Urden.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 2


I hope you enjoyed the little scenarios we all created, and more importantly, I

hope you’ve enjoyed the discussions they’ve fomented.

I know we have.

--dpomerico

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 3


A Few Notes on Cage Match

We obviously get a lot of comments concerning Cage Match, and we thought we’d use

this opportunity to clarify some things:

1) This is all in good fun. We’re not trying to disparage any one character or world,

and we definitely encourage everyone to approach these matches with a sense of

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

to determine how a character will be handicapped.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 4


5) As for the voting: there’s a lot of debate whether this is a power or popularity

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

others’ heads off—keep the fight in the cage!

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

the case here. But it’s something to consider.

And now—to the actual write-ups.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 5


Round 1

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 6


Roland Deschain, the Gunslinger versus Elric

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

dread Stormbringer, forged of ancient and alien sorcery.

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

Face of His Father.

“I’ll kill you,” the gunslinger said.


The albino shrugged. “As soon as you like. I care not.” As one elegant, alabaster

hand touched the hellblade’s hilt, the soul-rending chaos of the cursed Stormbringer tore

through his fragile brain, his wretched spirit.

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

tattered remnants of his broken soul.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 7


It was a bullet.
“We were well met, sai,” he said, looking down at the wreck of the albino’s body.

“Your world has moved on, too.”

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

devil scream plunged straight through the gunslinger’s chest.

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,

reloading both guns with blinding speed.

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.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 8


Round 2

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 9


Kvothe vs. Jaime Lannister

by Patrick Rothfuss

March 17, 2010

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

morning into a warmer, richer, light.

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

sound as it rolled over the stones.

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

squared his shoulders. "Asl--."

"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

if made from molten gold.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 10


"Nice entrance," Kvothe said pushing back his hood. His hair caught the sun as

well, shining like copper and fire. He looked younger than his voice sounded, a boy just

on the verge of becoming a man.

"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.

"I thought we should talk."

"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?"

The lion cocked his head.

"You neek up on it," Kvothe said with a straight face.

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

him, and Kvothe gave a slightly embarrassed smile. "Tame way."

There was a moment of silence, and then the clearing was filled with a low

thrumming noise that could conceivably be the sound of a lion chuckling.

"It's been a long time since anyone told me a joke," Aslan said, then shook out his

great golden mane. "But we still have to fight."

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 11


"We do," Kvothe agreed. "Though it might be more accurate to say that we are

forced to come into conflict."

"And you know you cannot win, especially here," Aslan continued. "The only

question is how much you might hurt me before the end."

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

some personal experience with."

"I… I don't know if I follow you," the lion said.

"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."

"Oh," Aslan cleared his throat. "Right. Sorry."

"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.'"

"Actually," Aslan said, "From what I've heard, you've…"

"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?"

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 12


Kvothe shook his head again. "You're missing my whole point. I'm not

threatening you at all. I'm just saying that if you kill me now, people will never get the

chance to read the rest of my story."

Aslan looked thoughtful. "And the result is…"

"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

cleared his throat. "Tricky."

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

was low and uncertain.

"Forfeit," Kvothe said. "Just walk away."

"You could forfeit," Aslan pointed out.

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.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 13


Then he made a sweeping gesture to the huge lion. "You, on the other hand, are a

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

stories," he said. "That's what I do."

Aslan looked up and swished his tail. He drew an impossibly long, deep breath.

"Fine. Fair enough. I concede."

Kvothe sagged with relief. "Thank God."

"You're welcome," the lion said as he turned his massive head and began to walk

from the clearing.

"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

huge lion a hug, burying his face in the lion's fur.

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.

"My mom used to tell me your stories."

"I would lick your face," Aslan said gently. "But it looks like it's been a while

since you've washed it."

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 14


Kvothe laughed and stepped back from the lion.

"When is the second book coming out, by the way?" Aslan asked. "I've been

waiting frikking forever."

"Soon," Kvothe said.

"What does that mean?" Aslan said. "In a couple months? Sometime this year?"

"I call all times 'soon'" Kvothe said.

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.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 15


Round 3

Quarterfinals

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 16


Temeraire vs. Jaime Lannister

by Naomi Novik

March 24, 2010

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."

"But she was a sorceress," Temeraire protested.

"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

on looking for them unless you do."

"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

fashion," he suggested, "which would be more fair?"

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

cannot just go saying things in this place."

"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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 17


peculiar things did seem to happen in here.

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

been trying to kill him with them at the time.

Temeraire had suffered a few anxious moments of dodging attacks—Iskierka's

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

across the battlefield.

"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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 18


should like to see him make a trap big enough for you. Whatever is going on there?"

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

you have someone better in mind, we've been appointed."

"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

Lannister's prior opponents."

"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?"

"I'll take a moderately-sized army, and my choice of terrain?" Lannister said,

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.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 19


"The battle must be individual," Polgara said.

"We might arm Lannister with magic weapons," Haplo suggested.

"Oh!" Hermione said, enthusiastically, "and the Flame-Freezing Charm would

keep fire from hurting him—"

"That shan't be useful in the least; I don't breathe fire," Temeraire protested.

"Ow!" He looked at Iskierka reproachfully; she had nipped him.

"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

beating Temeraire at all."

"He's a damned dragon!" Lannister said. "How else do you expect me to face

him?"

There was a brief moment of hideous, unfathomable silence—a shuddering void

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.

"I don't understand," Temeraire said, doubtfully. "What is 'reality television'?"

"We have to be able to form an educated opinion," Polgara said.

"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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 20


make a dish in my size." He raised his objections a little regretfully; he had quite enjoyed

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.

"It seems to me we might devise reasonable Roadblocks," Haplo suggested.

"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.

Everyone blanched and said, "No!" in unison.

Cthulhu sulked. He was extremely fond of Dancing With The Stars.

"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

her ears covered. "Only not so close, I don't think."

"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

deceptively calm tone.

Lannister glared at her and muttered, "Witch," under his breath.

Abruptly, the lights dimmed, another extremely bright one shone directly into

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 21


Temeraire's eyes, and as he winced away a voice behind him said, "Tonight, America,

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?

The choice is yours. This... is [TRADEMARK CENSORED]."

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

from this century."

"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.

"Just watch the Teleprompter," the host said.

"Did you ever know that you're my hero," Temeraire sang, peering at the little

screen. "And everything I would like to be—"

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;

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 22


and one could not very conveniently sing while flying. He was pleased to find it not very

difficult, although he did accidentally break into a small—quite a small—roar, in the last

chorus, the bit about flying higher than an eagle.

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.

"Pitchy," Haplo said.

"It was not!" Temeraire said indignantly.

"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,"

she said, calmly. "And you sang it very nicely."

"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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 23


radio these days—"

"Radio?" Temeraire said.

"It's not current, is all I'm saying," Hermione said. "You could at least have done

the Weird Sisters or U2 or something."

Temeraire rather despondently retired to the side—there was no room backstage

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

a fringe, or sparkling beads.

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

tome he had conjured to read.

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.

Cthulhu applauded perhaps even more enthusiastically for Lannister, but

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."

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 24


"So I have won!" Temeraire said, jubilantly, only to be interrupted by the host

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!"

Temeraire deflated, and settled in to wait.

The voting seemed to be taking a very long time. "Mayn't we just declare me the

winner yet?" Temeraire said, nudging Hermione a little.

"Er, well," Hermione said. She was using a sort of magical box called a laptop.

"According to this website, Lannister's taken an early lead, I'm afraid."

"What?" Temeraire said, appalled.

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

voices. "He's really good-looking?"

"But what has that to do with singing?" Temeraire said. "Surely no one of sense

could vote for such a dreadful performance."

"Rather a lot of the voters are tweens?" Hermione said.

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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 25


Lannister were only winning because he were handsome. It was not, Temeraire thought,

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

not vote in this contest.

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

swath of the little bits of paper with a small gout of flame.

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

Iskierka's doing. He wrestled with his conscience—certainly he had to go on and find

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.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 26


"No; I cannot allow it to do," Temeraire said, reluctantly. "I shall offer him a

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

horrors. He approved of evil, after all.

"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."

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 27


Round 4

Semifinals

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 28


Kvothe vs. Jaime Lannister

by Patrick Rothfuss

March 30, 2010

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

hand resting lightly on his sword.

The taproom was empty except for a dark-haired young man lounging behind the

bar. "Can I help you?"

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

in the ass end of nowhere?"

"What do you mean by decent?" Bast asked.

Jamie waved a hand dismissively. "Why don't you bring out your best bottle? I'll

tell you if it's something worth drinking."

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 29


Bast's expression was offended as he headed down the basement stairs, returning

a moment later with a dusty bottle.

"Something off the top shelf, I hope," Jamie said.

"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.

Jamie made no motion to take it. "You drink half."

Bast glanced down at the glass, then back up, his smile fading. "It tells you a lot

about a man when he says something like that."

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

more into the glass. "That's just lovely."

Jamie shrugged. "Ah well," he said. "You know what they say. Better safe than

sore," he held out his hand.

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."

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 30


Jamie's expression went dark. "I'm not here for you," he said. "But killing you

wouldn't be far out of my way."

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

it right from the bottle…" Bast grinned. "like an unlettered cretin."

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.

He looked surprised. "Well, that is good, isn't it?"

Bast nodded and took another sip.

"Did he say when he'll be back?"

Bast looked down at his feet. "A couple hours," he said with an odd tone in his

voice. "He wasn't expecting you until noon."

"Don't look so glum, boy," Jamie said. "Look at the bright side. In a couple hours

I'll be on my way and you'll be the owner of this fine inn."

Bast looked up and his eyes were anxious. "I don't suppose I could convince you

to call this off?"

Jamie gave a humorless laugh and took another drink. "God lord, boy. Why on

earth would I do that?"

"Human decency?" Bast said.

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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 31


water from his eyes. "You just earned yourself a tip, boy." He shook his head in disbelief

and took another drink.

"It's just that…" Bast began.

"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

flint. "But that isn't going to do him any good here."

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

had a scrap of power to call his own."

Bast looked dejected, but he didn't say anything.

"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

the bar. "That's enough of that. Start to turn my head, otherwise."

"He might surprise you." Bast said.

"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.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 32


"Never mind," Bast said, starting to walk around the bar. "I'll come over to you."

"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

messily to the floor. "..Yeah. You'll do that."

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

know anything about him. You don't know anything at all."

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?

You know what he has?"

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 33


Bast leaned closer until his mouth was right next to Jamie's ear. When the dark

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

drag his body across the floor.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 34


Kvothe vs. Jaime Lannister

by George R.R. Martin

March 30, 2010

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

they want him dead so badly? Piss in someone's beer?"

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

one." The things I do for love. "Our sweet sister insisted."

"Must I be blamed for everything?" Cersei's green eyes blazed. "The man

deserved it. The service was wretched."

"Kvothe is rather more than an innkeep, actually, " Tyrion said, mildly. "Or he

was. He sings as well. Plays the lute."

"An innkeep and a singer. I may well piss myself. Does he knows 'The Bear and

the Maiden Fair?'"

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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 35


be told. You know, brother, it would not hurt you to read a book from time to time."

"That's what I have you for," said Jaime. "What else do you know about this

Kvothe?"

"He's dabbled in sorcery. Knows the name of the wind, I hear."

"It had best not be Mariah," Jaime said darkly.

Tyrion chuckled. "No, that's from an entirely different tale."

"I suppose we had best fight indoors, then," Jaime said. "That should make it

more difficult for him to blow me away. Can he use a sword?"

"After a fashion," said his brother.

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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 36


asked.

"His chronicler," said Tyrion.

Jaime frowned. "Is he writing out some spell or charm to protect him?"

"I think not. Just the story of his life."

Cersei's laughter filled the inn. "Oh, how droll. An innkeep with a biographer.

'Chapter the Fifth, I learn to scrub out pots! '"

That was when the youth appeared, with a flagon of wine and three cups. "Our

best wine," he announced. "With the compliments of the house."

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

drink, I will be with you shortly. I am not quite done... "

"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.

Jaime grinned. "Good," he said. "Steel on steel. My favorite sort of music."

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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 37


nose off. Tyrion and I could have passed for twins, he thought as he danced away.

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

touched another chip was carved from Kvothe's sword.

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

behind him with a dagger, and that put an end to that.

Then Jaime put an end to Kvothe. A feint to the heart, checked by the broken

blade, became a killing thrust through the throat.

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

begin the long ride home.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 38


Round 5

Finals and Consolation

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 39


Kvothe vs. Drizzt do’Urden

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

swept with great winds across the endless deserts.

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,

vicious struggles for mastery.

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

kingdoms won and burned.

“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.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 40


Seeing the sword at the man's belt, the drow drew his twin scimitars, one of which

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

a brother. My name is Kvothe. You may have heard of me.”

“Heard of you? I could smell you from fifty feet, human. You reek of cheap ale

and pig slops.”

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.”

Drizzt stood in a guarded pose, still prepared to strike if necessary. Something—

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

round of this senseless battle: Bruenor, bewitched by a sorceress. Wulfgar, impaled by a

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

are? And what's happening up there?” Drizzt asked.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 41


“It's the end,” Kvothe said. “The Last Battle. Ragnarök. The Day of Judgment.

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

our rightful place in Valhalla. Or Olympus. Or whatever.” Kvothe strummed an angry

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

suppose that means the decision is yours.”

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

floor. Drizzt stepped into the circle.

“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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 42


began to smoke, then smolder, then flame. Within seconds the two combatants were fully

enclosed by a ten-foot circle of fire.

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.

Perhaps he wears Leg-Warmers of Blinding Agility.

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-

of-fire everyone keeps going on about.”

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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 43


look, old and strange. Finally, thought Drizzt, a foe I can beat honorably, in single

combat. I'll show them all that a drow doesn't need to sneak in shadows or stab in the

back with a poisoned dagger.

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—

Guinevere, your big kitty-cat?”

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

Edemah Ruh, plucked a single, silver hair from Drizzt's head.

“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

he tossed Drizzt's hair into the billowing fire.

Kvothe concentrated completely, invoking the Principle of Consanguinity, the

Law of Conservation, and settling into the Heart of Stone. He felt the old sympathetic

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 44


magics flow again through his body, channeling the fire's massive energy through the

hair and back to its owner.

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

on this world of violence and sorrow…

“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.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 45


Rand al’Thor versus Jaime Lannister

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

thrown up beneath the massive walls of King's Landing.

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,

eager for the fray.

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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 46


risen high."

"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."

"Randland?" Jaime laughed. "That's modest."

"And the crow calls the raven black. Remember Lannisport?"

"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?"

"Oh, they're here. Would you like to meet them?"

"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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 47


lenses. A non-descript fellow, brown haired and brown eyed, with a commoner's face and

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,

Brienne, Barristan Selmy... I might have had a dragon or three."

"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

for more than a moment."

"And this lot can?"

"Watch and find out," said Tyrion. "And now you must excuse me. Our guests

will be arriving soon, and I should be there to welcome them to Westeros."

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.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 48


A roar greeted their appearance, as the crowded stands around the tourney

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

foe on some desolate moor or blood-soaked battleground, in a forest glade or mountain

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.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 49


"I have given my word to face these foes alone. This Jaime Lannister has no

weapon but a sword. He is no threat to me."

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.

"No," Rand al'Thor said firmly. "I fight alone."

"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

not suit, we have others."

"I will not require a horse," said Rand.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 50


"Do you wish Jaime to dismount?"

Rand shrugged. "Ride or walk, it makes no difference."

"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.

A war awaits me on my own world."

"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.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 51


Min worried him, if truth be told. The archer and the spear maiden were

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,

clad in golden armor that flashed and glittered in the sun.

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.

The wrong 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.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 52


Young, Jaime thought, looking at him. Hardly more than a boy. Rand wore no armor. He

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

cannot win it by yourself. Use the help I've brought 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

put two fingers in his mouth and gave a whistle.

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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 53


belly. Flames danced around her fingers, and the ruby at her throat pulsed red. And from

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

anvil might have

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

capable of; these others were unknown, and therefore dangerous.

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

thousands of witnesses, that somehow that will break me?

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 54


Perhaps it would have, once. But Rand was no longer the boy that he had been.

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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 55


him. He made another gate, stepped through, and let it pass through the place where he

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

hearing. Reeling, he opened a gate and staggered through.

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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 56


his eyes the dwarf saw just a hint of doubt, as if he had realized for the first time that he

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

the shock of the blow entirely. Klaus had hurt him.

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

without taking a hand.

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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 57


want. Healing especially. Maybe if he asked very nice they would even heal him. Close

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.

It was almost on him when he used his balefire.

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,

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 58


impossibly dark, twisted, deformed. They came together in a silence so profound that the

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

sending it flying skyward... only to break apart against Tom's armor.

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

rising once again.

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,

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 59


when the look of concentration gave way to one of dismay and confusion.

Still, no sense taking chance. The dwarf gave Jay Ackroyd another poke in the

ribs. "Time to do your little trick."

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.

Jay shrugged. "They're all fine. They're just not here."

"Bring them back," the girl demanded.

"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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 60


looked about for his women, hoping one of them might be able to heal him, only Min

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,

there was nothing there.

"Step away," he heard Jaime Lannister say. "Al'Thor is mine."

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.

"Sword to sword, then," said Rand.

"That was all I ever asked for," said Jaime Lannister, from behind the lion's head

helm that hid his face.

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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 61


all along his side -- his skill at swordplay would have been a match for even Barristan the

Bold. Ser Arthur Dayne would have proved his master, Jaime did not doubt, but only

with Dawn in his hand.

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

ta'veren was, but plainly, Rand al'Thor was exceptional.

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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 62


measure of him. Widow's Wail caught and turned most of his attacks, and those that

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

Jaime had tried to backpedal, he would have ended on the ground.

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.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 63


Tyrion had invited Min to accompany them, while the maesters tended to the Dragon

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,

nursing a cup of wine and a healthy collection of fresh bruises.

As Tyrion poured cups of Arbor gold for Min and Sharra, the dwarf explained as

best he could. "This is Westeros, not Randland," he said.

"That should not matter," Min insisted stubbornly. "All worlds are but spokes on

the great wheel of time."

"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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 64


here, and soon exhausted it. Your... lover, is it? husband? paramour?... whatever you call

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."

"Even if what you say is true," said Min, "Rand... he is ta'veren."

"There," said Sharra. "Not here."

"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.

"Your gods are false," Min insisted. "The Creator -- "

"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

men make themselves, There are no ta'veren. No man is ever safe."

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."

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 65


"What of Rand?" asked Min, as she rose. "Will he be able to open a gate?"

"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."

"And Nynaeve and Egwene and the others?"

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... "

"I have not forgotten," Tyrion said softly.

"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."

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 66


Rand al’Thor versus Jaime Lannister

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

given on both sides.

Robert Jordan is smiling somewhere, Mr. Martin.

If we take an infinite multiverse view of things (as is suggested in the Wheel of

Time world) then what Mr. Martin wrote did indeed happen. And it didn't. And

everything in between happened as well.

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

gain advantage over the other.

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

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 67


of weakness. Perhaps it's Rand's madness asserting itself. Regardless of the cause, he

thinks he's being attacked by someone other than Jamie and his allies. Treachery, a

violation of the trial of seven.

It may be real. It may not be.

Rand, in desperation, somehow forms weaves of power. Reckless weaves, fueled

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

shadows moving on the other side of that gateway.

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

change what is happening between him and Jamie.

Through accident, Rand's balefire brings back each and every fighter who

participated in this tournament. Everyone appears on the battlefield at once.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 68


Rand and Jamie stare in wonder at the chaos that follows.

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

so disappears in a puff of hypocrisy.

Arthur Dent says, "Oh no, not again."

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.)

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 69


The Wee Free Men start chatting about this interesting fellow they met WHO

SPEAKS IN ALL CAPS and wonders if this is all going to create a great big paradoxical

mess he will have to fix.

Edward broods.

Ged, Vlad, and Conan give Eragon a wedgie.

Polgara throws something breakable at somebody, then goes to find Belgarath,

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

be forced to feed them to Stormbringer at a terribly dramatic moment, causing much

personal angst.

Anita takes out Edward for good measure.

Gandalf and Aslan eye everyone mysteriously, then have a discussion over tea

about whose resurrection was more meaningful.

Locke steals Gandalf's staff and sells it on eBay as an authentic prop from the film

trilogy. He then does the same thing with Hermione's wand.

And at that point, the great Cthulhu himself awakens, and his terrible, alien nature

drives everyone irrevocably insane.

Rand wins by default, since he was already insane, and Cthulhu showing up

doesn't really change him at all.

Copyright © 2011 Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. 70

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