To the Warden of the Capital of Queen's Landing, to thy ex-future employer, the House of the South, the beholder of the chain e-mails, the herald of the CCs and trunklines:
I have written and sent to you my account of displeasure and disappointment on the recent event. It is with my deep regret that now the offer to be of your service has now been withdrawn. I may not have been fit to be your Champion in your chosen battle, and you have stated clearly that you have found a more suitable and qualified warrior and superior caliber of expertise.
It is a shame that I might have thought I have gotten your initial blessing as a man of your word and code of honour as stated by the House of the South. Your standing is highly regarded and well known across the realms, but it is now tainted on my eyes.
You have given me the pleasure of being accepted after a series of tests and face-to-face combat interviews with your high council. I battled through spears of questions and sword wielding words, I've combatted myself with sheer will and determination and you spared my life with an acceptance hours after that fateful combat.
I may not have prepared enough, but I managed to survive that Battle of the Interviews. Off I went with then a winning heart, and desire to scale up the ranks. I prepared mightily and it was a difficult decision to accept the challenge.
I have ridden numerous horses on the underground tubes to reach your walls many times, and it felt good.
Then I encountered the Blacksmith on the House of HR. They displayed their armoury of weapons of papers and folders tucked neatly on their walls. They fielded me with countless of paper works, and sent them numerous crows to deliver the messages swiftly and safely.
Swiftly. Safely.
Those two words shall never be used again on my ordeal afterwards. Yes, it was indeed swiftly. After a number of sunrise and moonrise, I was told through your messenger that there has been a mistake! Lo and behold, the town-crier awoken! The challenge for the post of being a Champion to the Queen's Landing have been altered! The call should have been plastered and spread out all over the kingdom for a total of one full moon and not half of it as it had been.
I have been relegated to a 'purgatory', 'waiting area', a 'stable of reserved warrior.' My supposed knighthood proceedings were halted. I have to refrain myself for leaving my current post, and was told to wait. It was as bad as being friendzoned.
Safely, it was not.
And wait I did for them to meet the demand of the Guardian of the Market, the Overseeing Eye, 'They.' All I wanted was a straight as an arrow answer: Yay, or Nay. My unwielding spirit was ready for a Nay, but I left it for some glimmer of a fighting chance.
'If they chose me, I will give my undying service as their chosen Champion; if they do not, then damn 'em all.'
Then there it was, a call.
It was like being the King, and stabbed on a wedding feast.
A message was sent. I heard the voice. There were: Sorry. Someone else. Thank you. I felt freedom, finally an acceptance. I felt disappointment. I did not despair. Was it a waste of time in the hourglass? Maybe. Do I want revenge and launch an attack to your army and find your now supposed Champion? Nay.
'What is dead may never apply' probably someone was thinking.
True and False. I may have died a little in my spirit, but as always on due regard and over time, I shall rise and apply again. I will try to close this chapter between us for now. I might come across your fortress in the future, but I shall promise you this on the eyes of the faceless gods of awful weather and on the souls of our lost mailerdaemon emails, that you have made a mistake.
My weapon that was handed to me by the gods of the Border is not the weakness. This will be my notice of my comeback fight. I will be gathering my army and seek retribution on this rejection.
'Winter is coming, so is hayfever.'
On the names of my fathers and mother, on behalf of my brothers and sisters in arms, I shall prevail. Even if it means climbing and killing the Mountain, I shall. I will emerge as a worthy champion, and I shall thank thee for this lost opportunity on your realm.
'What do we say to the god of Death (and Debt)? Not today.'
Yours in spirit and with the gods of the internet unbowed, unbent, unbroken,
Reagan,
First in his name, from the House of Decena, Conqueror of the Overseas (FW), trained under the Castle of Pacquiao, night-watcher, and Wall Cleaner.
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