Night yielded grudgingly to dawn.
A dim blue light softly illuminated the land and the rows of tents that dotted it like strange mushrooms after rain. The sky was clear, without a wisp of cloud, and hanging there was not the sun, but a round, bright moon that cast its pale luminance across the sleeping camp.
The breeze moved silent as a shadow, the bonfires burned with quiet determination. No man moved or spoke, and even the distant hills seemed locked in slumber.
What a quiet, peaceful time.
Tens of thousands of recruits lay in dreamless sleep, bodies recovering the strength and spirit they had spent the day before.
Then a lone figure strode to the center of the camp. In the dim half-light, he raised a long, slender instrument to his lips and blew a mournful call that split the silence like a blade.
One sound followed another, like the shrill screams of the dying, like the desperate call of a mother for her lost child.
Wake up. Fight. That's what the horn commanded.
Eyes snapped open throughout the camp. Hands immediately and skillfully snatched up tunics, breeches, and belts from beside bedrolls. Legs slipped into breeches and boots with practiced efficiency, and then men rushed toward their tent entrances, charging out without a backward glance.
Clang! Clang!
An even more piercing gong sounded at the entrance of each tent. The soldier tasked with rousing stragglers used a long mallet to lift the thick curtain of each tent door. "Lazybones! Hurry up and crawl out of your warm dung heaps! Didn't you enjoy enough last night?"
"If you're not even enthusiastic about morning exercises, you're useless in this life. What's the point of living?"
"Warriors, please, continue to sleep, and then pray that your instructor suddenly died outside last night. Pray that all the adults have gone mad and granted you a day of rest."
The admonishments that slower recruits or those who slept more soundly heard each morning were rarely the same twice.
In what little leisure time they had, recruits would compare which camp had received the most cutting insults, the most creative mockery. They even held informal contests to determine the two most memorable of those who woke them: the one with the sharpest "needle tongue," and the "mute" who could express the deepest contempt with naught but a withering glance.
Regardless, none dared show sloth at this hour.
The horror of the small dark room was well known to all by now, and those who were deemed truly worthless, it was said, would be sent to the Research Department. The instructors always spoke of this fate to the recruits under their command with terrible smiles, assuring them that everyone had an irreplaceable role in the Research Department. Everyone.
Vague rumors sink deepest into men's hearts. Under the weight of such dread and the constraints of martial discipline, the recruits quickly transformed and grew hard as castle-forged steel.
Today's performance, mercifully, was better than usual.
In but a quarter hour, the training ground had fallen silent, all recruits already neatly arrayed in armor, gathered in their teams and squadrons before their instructors.
Only a quarter hour.
The recruits dared not show any expression on their faces, but pride kindled in their hearts nonetheless, a small flame of accomplishment.
The instructors, however, remained as unmoved as the stone faces in a sept.
"Attention!" The instructor's first command never varied.
The recruits under his command straightened like prey-birds catching sight of a mouse. "Long live King Joffrey the First!"
"Justice will prevail!"
The full-throated shouts of a hundred men, teeth gritted with fervor, resounded throughout the training ground. The roar was clearly audible even to those stationed a thousand paces distant.
Each man felt certain their shouts were loud enough to echo throughout the city. But was this truly so?
They looked to their instructor's face for judgment.
The instructor nodded slightly. This meager gesture was the highest praise they might hope to receive.
Immediately after, the shouted slogans rose and fell across the training ground, each team striving to exceed the volume of all others.
"Long live King Joffrey the First!"
"Justice will prevail!"
Again and again, again and again. The sound came from before them, from behind, from either side, until it seemed the very air trembled with their fervor.
What an emotional and enthusiastic display it appeared to be.
Yet the recruits' hearts remained calm, dispassionately judging which team produced the loudest and steadiest voice, and which suffered the shame of a member whose voice cracked like a boy's.
They had heard these slogans hundreds of times each day. Some even shouted them in their sleep. After mere days of training, any novelty or genuine feeling had been completely scoured away.
But to say they were annoyed would not be wholly true. The ritual had simply become a familiar habit, taken for granted, rendered ordinary by repetition.
Like air, bread, and water—bland and without savor, yet an essential part of life.
Dong!
A massive drum sounded, its deep voice silencing all others.
The recruits stood quiet as septons at prayer, waiting for the music to follow.
A melody gradually rose from nowhere, somewhat melancholy, somewhat serene, somewhat lighthearted, and carrying some feeling that defied description.
It bore no resemblance to the music of court bards with their golden harps.
This song was called "Mother Westeros."
The prelude faded.
And then, as one, they began to sing:
"Summer is gone, summer is gone
Winter is coming, the light will rest
We have finally overcome the obstacles ahead
As for the glory, let it belong to heaven
Let the golden years we once had remain in song after song
Remaining in that headwind of victory
In order to make you stand proudly on top of the world
For you, great mother!
We will persevere
For you, great mother!
We will eventually return in triumph
For you, great mother!
Shout 'Long live!' three times for you
For you, great mother!
Westeros, I will always be your child
Summer is gone, summer is gone
Winter is coming, the light will rest
Fighting on your suffering body, I still remember
The rushing Blackwater brings fish
The dancing golden millet exudes fragrance
The swaying red apple oozes honey
Lying on your suffering body, I still remember
Winterfell, where hot springs flow, is your outpost guarding the north
The Eyrie, towering into the clouds, is your watchtower guarding the east
Riverrun, with its turbulent waters, is the tip of your Trident
Casterly Rock, which never falls, is the mountain and mine you bestow with gold
Storm's End, which stops the storm, is your toy placed by the sea
Highgarden, rich in fruits and flowers, is the land where you feed your children
Sunspear, cast in sand and stone, is the tenacious fortress on your severed arm
And your cherished pearl, King's Landing, surrounded by the Blackwater
Westeros, I will always be your child
Summer is gone, summer is gone
Winter is coming, the light will rest
We have already set off
For you, mother!
Walking in the vast fields, I can't help but whisper
'I love you...'
Strolling on the endless coastline, I whispered
'I love you...'
Wading through the vast ice and snow, I silently confide
'I love you...'
Westeros, I will always be your child
Wherever I am, you are always in my heart
Until death do us part"
It was said that the king himself had penned these words.
After the singing ended, the instructor's emotions lingered but briefly, no more than the span of a few shallow breaths. Then he issued his orders without hesitation: "Right turn!"
"Running stance!"
The first team of recruits took the lead in entering the outermost track. This lap measured a full thousand paces, and they would run ten in succession to complete their morning exercise. No man could fall behind. The team with the poorest showing would have their breakfast withheld.
For recruits who trained from dawn to dusk, breakfast was as precious as gold from Casterly Rock, and each man competed with mad determination to secure his meal.
At the end, Hot Pie collapsed against Gendry as had become his custom, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth.
Compared to when they had first arrived, Hot Pie was considerably leaner and stronger, his muscles harder beneath his skin. Yet he still failed to reach the average standard of the other recruits, and training remained a trial that tested him sorely each day.
"I figure, see, coming out, the Security Bureau really, is nothing, just, threw us, here, with you, guys, extra, benefits, not a single, one," Hot Pie panted, managing to voice his complaints between desperate gulps of air.
Gendry handed a breakfast box to Hot Pie. "Hang in there," he said. "It won't be so taxing tomorrow. We all have outside missions."
He had been granted divine grace and would lead the team in the next day's endeavor.
Hot Pie's eyes brightened with hope. "Then today's training?"
Gendry shook his head, his expression calm as still water. "Morning standing in military posture, afternoon practicing skills. Unchanged."
Hot Pie sighed deeply, the sound of a man who sees the shore but must still swim a great distance to reach it.
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Marvel : The God Of Punishment System
I Am Raditz
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