The Adventures of Wundertweek: Ahmer's story in the Arena of Honor

Ahmer leaned back in his virtual stronghold, the wind howling through the castle walls in Game of Thrones Winter is Coming, when a new raven arrived at his roost. It bore the familiar markings of K73, and that could mean only one thing. The parchment, scrawled in Wundertweek’s distinct, slightly chaotic handwriting, brought a grin to his face—his old friend never missed a chance to spin a tale, especially after surviving the intensity of the Arena of Honor.

Wundertweek’s letter pulsed with drama, most of which Ahmer knew was bluster for entertainment’s sake. But sometimes it was fun to avoid letting the truth get in the way of a good story. The story was about the Arena of Honor match Wundertweek participated in some while ago.

He described the thunderous cheers of the crowd and the chilling silence that followed each brutal skirmish. “I faced someone named SerThornblade in the match,” he wrote, “and I swear, his buffs were forged in the shadow of Valyria itself. But I danced with dragons—and dodged his wildfire surprise with seconds to spare as I led my troops toward the City of Glory in a valiant effort.” The letter detailed how Wundertweek’s House Greyjoy eked out a third-place finish against a powerful and cohesive House Stark contingent. Ahmer smiled as he read his friend’s prose, realizing but at the same time relishing the exaggerations.

But it wasn’t just combat that Wundertweek captured—it was so much about the dynamics of the experience, in a way Ahmer had not considered before, despite participating in the arena on several occasions. Wundertweek wrote of the way that lords and ladies came together, probably for only that one time, in a united cause, and then went their separate ways. “Some players wield swords, but others wield whispers,” he mused. That line stuck with Ahmer, who had seen his fair share of varied motives. “Next time, fight beside me. Let’s turn the Arena of Honor into a stage for legends.”

Ahmer folded the parchment, eyes scanning the horizon. Maybe it was time to dust off his gear and return to glory, with Wundertweek at his side once more. But today, things were somewhat rushed for him and it was not possible to do so.

It was time for the event to begin, and preparations were being made as they always were. The words of his friend’s message began to almost coalesce into physical form as Ahmer looked at the camps nearby on the field, and felt the same feelings of uneasy, almost forced, comradeship that filled the air. For a brief time, all would work together, but then depart separately, like ships leaving a port. Every camp bore the mark of different kingdom’s server, similar but yet so different and distinct.

Ahmer looked towards the towering City of Glory, far in the distance, and then noted that between the City and his camp stood the unfurled flag with the notorious sigil, the crimson red lion of House Lannister. “Good thing all my debts are already paid,” he mused. The Lannister lion and the Stark direwolf had battled for what seemed like centuries, and this was yet another chapter in that battle. House Stark always seemed somehow to bring the most power to bear to the arena event. But this time, there were other houses involved, and the tides of battle were always uncertain.

The match started as always, with troops edging towards the centre of the field, controlling their castles and strongholds and engaging in the familiar builds. The other Lannister competitors seemed to be keen to win the day for its rewards, which was not always the case. Their efforts put them in a dogfight with House Tyrell, each house amassing points and power and alternating between second and third place, with House Stark firmly in the lead already.

The aggressive play left many soldiers with injuries, so Lannister took control of the Sept of the Seven for critical healing speedups. It was at this time that Ahmer noticed the new Lord Custody feature that had been announced for absentee participants. It seemed to be an interesting idea to attempt to maintain a level of control for a faction, but he could not really spend too much time thinking about it, as the battle continued to rage on.

House Lannister had fallen to fourth place while he was pondering the new feature, with House Baratheon mounting a massive attack to grab the Glory City and nearby buildings, so it was time to try and release the lion’s roar. But there was enough power and acumen in the lion’s den for Lannister to swiftly occupy the valuable Mines and Mining Shaft to quickly harvest the associated minerals and riches inside, bringing them back into second place, vaulting over Houses Tyrell and Baratheon.

But in the end, the northern direwolf howled louder across the field, and House Stark firmly re-established control. And as the final tally was announced, Ahmer stood among the proud lions, knowing they hadn’t taken the throne—but they’d fought like kings.

Ahmer just smiled and whispered, “Winter may be coming, but I’m already warm with glory.” His troops gathered for the short journey home, and once he arrived he sat down at his desk. Wundertweek’s raven was still there, feeding on the meat and fruits that had been left for its stay. Adding a few more items to its dish, Ahmer sat down at his desk and began to write…

The next day, far away from it’s home in K55, the raven fluttered in with tired wings, its scroll bound in the deep red of Lannister silk—Ahmer’s reply to his longtime comrade, Wundertweek on K73.

“Brother-in-arms,

Your recent stories of your adventure in the Arena of Honor lit a fire in me sharper than Valyrian steel. I read every word as if I were in the stands of the Arena itself, gripping the hilt of anticipation. You always had a way of weaving battle and poetry—turns out the latter was good armor too.

As for me, House Lannister marched into the Arena of Honor with the roar of lions—but roars don’t always bite. We stumbled early, and like you, found that somehow or other the Stark direwolf always managed to remain highest in the end. Yet even through the mire, our banner refused to fall.

We rallied. We fought tooth and claw through the fields, rallying behind a new strategy—flank hard and burn fast. I led the final charge in the semis, cutting through ranks with my Shadowmarchers. The crowd erupted. You’d have laughed at how messy it got.

We wavered in the score – fourth for a while, third for a bit. In the end, we stood second, battered but unbroken. I’m proud. No golden crown, but golden pride—and isn't that more lasting?

I do not know if you’ve seen this new ability to take custody of Lords who for some reason or other fall asleep or take a walk in the wilderness during the battle. You can heal the troops, but I couldn’t figure out how to order them to do what needed to be done. I wonder if there will eventually be a Wall of Shame for Lords who go into custody repeatedly instead of fighting? Or some other kind of penalty akin to flogging? What do you think?

Your invitation wasn’t ignored. Until then, sharpen your blades and your tales. I expect both to gleam.”

Wundertweek laughed uproariously when reading about the ‘Shadowmarchers’, custody suggestions, and other exaggerations that he knew his friend had thrown into his reply. It was a much needed episode of mirth in what sometimes was seemed like a laborious grind. Though they were in two different world kingdoms, the two would always be able to share such moments. And there would be more exciting adventures to come.