Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, A Song of Ice and Fire belongs to G.R.R. Martin, and the Cover Picture belongs to Bethesda. I do not, nor do I pretend to own the aforementioned IPs. Anything else you recognise from anywhere else is also not mine to own.
~ Tourneys and Knighthoods ~
King's Landing was a city full of hustle and bustle as men and women of all walks in life rushed to attend the most widely anticipated tournament of the year. Of course, when one considers that Robert I was oft known for hosting tournaments whenever he felt like, the Tournament of the Hand would be hardly be different. However, this tournament had the privilege of serving as the celebrations for the Crown Prince's six-and-tenth nameday. Yet the aforementioned prince stifled a yawn as he watched the archery competition in boredom.
"Theon would beat all these would-be marksmen," Harry commented idly.
Beside him was the King. Robert was cheering the competitors on, his right hand hold a goblet full of wine. Having heard Harry's passing comment, Robert turned to face his son.
"What's that boy?" he asked.
"The competitors," Harry gestured towards the archer's line, "They don't have a hope of a chance of equalling Theon."
"Theon? As in the Greyjoy boy that's Ned's ward?" the King frowned.
"Yes, father. He is in Winterfell still," Harry explained, "By all rights, he should be returning to the Iron Islands, but for some reason he keeps putting it off. I don't know why."
"Huh," Robert grunted, "Is he any good?"
"Is he any good?" Harry repeated, "Father, he's the best marksman in the North. If he wasn't due to return to Pyke, I would have him in my service in a heartbeat."
Robert chuckled, "High praising, coming from you."
The father-son duo shared a laugh, as the horn sounded.
"Ah, finally! A winner! Robert loudly cheered, "On to the mêlée!"
"Hm…pity. Ser Balon came second," Harry mildly stated.
"One of your Wolfsguard?" Robert asked.
"Aye. A talented knight. I was lucky to take him into my service, I reckon. He is a second son, so he doesn't really stand to inherit anything," Harry told his father.
Robert laughed, "Ha, you really do have an eye for talent, don't you?"
"Quite. Speaking of talent, Jon's fighting now, so the mêlée will be a good show, I reckon," Harry grinned, "Ah, father, about what we spoke of."
"Yes, yes. I'll see it done. Though, you are rather confident that he will win," Robert replied, with a challenging smirk.
Harry returned the smirk, "Jon is the only one who matches me with the sword. Robb is the better rider and jouster, and Theon is the best with the bow, but Jon and I are peerless when it comes to swordsmanship."
"Hmph, I saw one spar between you and Ned's bastard. If he wants to impress me, your cousin will have to show it," Robert snorted.
"He will, father, he'll definitely surprise you," Harry said.
"I wouldn't be so sure, boy. Thoros of Myr, with his flaming sword, is the regular winner. Your cousin, will be hard pressed to win a fight with that crazy priest taking part," Robert warned.
"I'm sure Jon will relish the challenge," Harry said with a wide grin.
"Bah," Robert waved off his son before yelling at the judges, "Get on with it!"
Jon stood nervously in the waiting area for the mêlée competition. All in all, there were about forty other men in the competition. Knights, men-at-arms, even a few squires were taking part, though the one who stuck out the most was the priest of R'hllor; one Thoros of Myr. Jon wasn't the youngest of those in the mêlée, but he was near enough to the bottom that most others sent a single glance and snorted in derision, quickly discounting him as a challenge.
For Jon, this wasn't about the twenty thousand dragons, should he win. It wasn't about the prestige that would come from winning the competition. It wasn't about catching the eye of the ladies in the stands either, though if Jon was truly honest with himself, then wouldn't say no to earning the attention of Princess Myrcella. Not that anything would come of it, but Jon digressed.
For Jon, this was about proving to himself, more than anyone else, that he was worthy being raised at Winterfell. Worthy of being Eddard Stark's son. That more than anything was Jon's justification for entering in a competition where he could very easily lose his life. He vividly remembered the small excursion, the previous week, with Harry.
Last week
"Why are we here, my Prince?" Jon asked, as he, Harry, and Sers Eyron and Lucian walked along the Street of Steel.
"We are visiting the best blacksmith in the entirety of King's Landing," Harry announced, "The master armourer, is from Qohor, and has some rather boastful claims."
When Jon had revealed his intent to join in the mêlée competition, much to the excitement of Arya, Harry had insisted that Jon was properly outfitted with armour, and lamented the fact that there wasn't enough time for Jon to receive a custom order.
Jon had balked at the thought, and told Harry that he, himself, would get a custom order commissioned when he had stopped growing. Have realised the stupidity of his statement, Harry sheepishly chuckled, and apologised for letting his excitement get the better of him. Nevertheless, Harry insisted that Jon would get the best armour available, as he was in the service of the Crown Prince, and his appearance would reflect back to Harry.
Jon reluctantly agreed, and as such, here they were, walking down the streets of the capital.
"Also, when did you start calling me 'my Prince'?" Harry asked.
Jon blinked, "I thought it appropriate, considering the vast gap in our respective stations?"
Harry laughed, "Jon, I am your cousin first, and your prince second. Only when in a public setting, such as in court, or during a formal dinner, do you call me 'my Prince'. Otherwise, you're a free to call me by name."
"But-"
"You're fighting a losing battle, lad," Ser Eyron interrupted, "He did it with us, until we reminded him that it's inappropriate for knights to call the sworn lords by their given names."
Harry grumbled, "It is bad enough I get bootlickers from people I dislike, but I still don't get what's wrong with having friends and allies call me by my given name."
It was Ser Lucian's turn to look exasperated, "My Prince, if you insist on people referring to you by name, it shows that people do not respect your station, and as such, they lose respect for you. As a king, this is disastrous. Consider how the last time the peasantry lacked respect for the king, the Faith Militant rose."
"I know, I know. I get it. It just gets irritating rather quickly," Harry groused. His view on sycophants was a leftover from his past life with regards to the whole Boy-Who-Lived hysteria, "Anyway, here we are. Tobho Mott's the armourer I told you about."
They entered the shop, to see the Qohorik man taking an inventory.
"Master Tobho," the Prince greeted.
The elderly man span on his heel in surprise. He relaxed once he recognised who called out to him.
"Ah, Prince Haraldr. Welcome back to my shop," Mott replied, "I trust the armour I forged for you is to your liking?"
"Indeed, it is. Though, I am still struggling to figure out how you managed to make the silver trim without paint," Harry replied.
"Ah, I would say, but I must keep some secrets," Mott stated with an enigmatic smile.
"Of course. Now. My cousin here is taking part in the mêlée tournament in a week's time," Harry explained, "I need you to fit him with a suitable set of armour. Spare no expense."
"Of course. Unfortunately, I cannot do a custom piece, given the short space of time, but I do have a variety of sets that you can choose from," Mott replied, his expression slightly apologetic.
"I am aware you do not rush art, Master Tobho," Harry said, "And I am also sure that your considerable skills will be put to use in choosing the best set for my cousin."
"You flatter me, my prince, but I thank you for your words," Mott smiled, "Now, what kind of armour do you prefer, young man?"
"Ah. Full plate, Master Tobho," Jon said, "I prefer thicker armour, rather than speed. Though, I would like to have a full range of movement, rather than have my joints heavily protected.
"Of course, continue," Mott encouraged, rubbing his chin.
"I have no preference to the style of the helmet, but a wolf motif wouldn't be discouraged. Though I would like visibility, yet a covered face, so a holed face would be preferable," Jon listed of, "If it's not too much trouble, I would like a snarling wolf's head on the chest piece, but that's not really important."
"I see," Mott considered the stated requirements, before snapping his fingers, "I might have just what you are looking for. I had made it some years ago, back before the Rebellion. The one who commissioned it never came for it, so I assume he died in the Rebellion.
"Now that I think about it, he looked strikingly similar to your cousin, my Prince," Mott's eyes narrowed, "Bah, at my age, the many faces I see eventually meld to make new faces that belong to no one."
Harry blinked, before considering what the armourer was saying, white Mott went into his backroom.
'Strikingly similar to Jon?' he thought, 'It couldn't be, could it? Pfft, what are the chances?'
Chancing a glance towards Jon, Harry noted that his cousin seemed to have glossed over the passing comment made by the Qohorik, but rather was more excited at the prospect of new armour.
Mott re-entered the storefront with an assistant. Both were carrying a box each. Taking in the appearance of the assistant, Harry had a puzzled look.
"Master Tobho, I could have sworn you have a different apprentice last time I was here?" he asked the armourer.
Mott glanced at his assistant, a non-descript boy, before turning to the prince, "Ah, yes. Gendry was his name. I arranged for him to be sent to the Wall. I taught him all I could, but he wouldn't have been able to set up his own shop, given his age."
"Huh, well, the Night's Watch is in need of builders, I suppose," Harry commented.
Mott hummed in acknowledgement, "Perhaps. I simply wished for him to be of use somewhere," Mott then made to open the boxes, "Now, young man…I am sorry, I forgot to ask your name," he apologised to Jon.
"It's fine. My name is Jon Snow, Master Tobho," Jon replied.
The Master armourer blinked at the bastard surname, but made no comment. Instead he gestured to the young man to stand at a particular spot.
"My assistant and I will fit this armour on to you Master Snow," Mott explained, "It will be a little loose at first, as the man I originally created this for was somewhat broader at the shoulder than yourself."
A short while later, and Jon was soon outfitted. The armour he wore was silver in colour, with violet highlights, that clashed well with Jon's eyes. The hauberk was a dull grey colour, as were the parts of the armour that wasn't coloured silver. It didn't however, have the snarling wolf image that Jon would have liked on the chest piece.
The helmet however, was more than sufficient to show Jon's ties to House Stark. It was shaped like a snarling wolf, with its jaws wide open, in a similar fashion to the Hound's helmet. However, the difference here was that the mouth was open permanently, and the space was filled with a closed sheet of metal with enough holes to allow for a near unrestricted view, and freedom to breath properly. The helmet was also coloured in a similar scheme to the suit of armour.
From Harry's perspective, it was a masterpiece. The colour scheme didn't suit him, as he preferred a black colour, but when he looked to Jon, Harry could tell that his cousin was more than pleased.
"It's perfect," Harry stated, "And how much will this cost us, Master Tobho?"
"Oh, it won't cost anything. The armour was already paid for when the order was made," Mott explained, "I couldn't possibly ask to be paid twice for the same work."
Harry owlishly blinked. That was distinctly honest from the elderly man.
"Well, at least let me pay for you time," Harry insisted, pulling out his money pouch. He then paid the appropriate amount, as well as including a small payment for the assistant. He then turned to thank the armour, "As always, thank you for your work."
"And thank you for your patronage, my Prince," Mott smiled.
Harry, Jon and the two knights then left the store and made their way back towards the Red Keep.
"I will have Edric assist you in putting on the armour," Harry told his cousin, "The joust takes place the day after the mêlée and archery competitions, so Edric won't have anything to do otherwise."
Jon blinked at his cousin and liege lord, before nodding in acquiescence. Sometimes it was best to not argue with Harry.
Present Day
Jon was brought out of his thoughts by a call from his left.
"What's a whelp like you doing with armour like that?" a man's voice asked.
Turning to the voice, Jon found himself in the company of a sellsword with a lean and wolfish appearance. The man had dark hair and eyes and his face was covered with a stubble of a beard.
"My liege lord insisted a wear a decent set of armour, else I get myself killed," Jon replied.
"Liege lord? What's a knight doing in a competition like this, when you can enter the joust?" the sellsword asked with a raised eyebrow.
Jon blinked, "I'm not a knight, Ser. I'm a squire to Ser Eyron of the Wolfsguard. The liege lord I mentioned is Prince Haraldr."
The sellsword snorted, "I'm no knight neither. Name's Bronn."
"A pleasure, I'm Jon Snow of Winterfell," Jon introduced himself.
"I'm sure it is. Well Jon Snow of Winterfell. I wish ya the best o' luck, but those dragons are mine," Bronn said, before walking off, "Fancy armour ain't gonna help ya win, whelp."
Jon shook his head, smiling slightly. At the sound of the judges calling the competitors to the ring, Jon took a deep breath to steady himself. Putting on his wolf-head helmet, Jon then joined the rest, and waiting for the starting signal.
As he stood waiting, the judges went over the rules. Striking to kill was forbidden, so elimination was by surrender or submission. As such all weapons would be blunted. The last man standing would be the outright winner.
The forty competitors were then split into four groups of ten and led to gates from where they would be let into the circle.
Standing at his designated gate, Jon began rotating his arms, and swinging at his waist to loosen up his body.
"Look alive, whelp," came the voice of Bronn from his side.
"Bronn," Jon nodded back.
"What say you an' I team up for the first bit?"
Jon was taken slightly aback at the rather blunt request.
"Why would you want to team up with someone as young as me?" Jon asked.
"Maybe I wan' an easy opponent in the singles," the sellsword smirked.
Jon snorted, "If you want, old man. Just try to keep up."
Bronn barked a laugh, as the warning call came. The gates shuddered, and slowly started to rise. This prompted Jon to draw his sword.
Within a few moments of the gates opening, the four separate groups immediately clashed at the centre of the ring. Thoros of Myr had already managed to down several others with his flaming sword, whilst a giant of a man, not unlike Gregor Clegane had managed to take out a couple of his own opponents. Jon, without even meaning to, had managed to find himself back-to-back with the wolfish sellsword, who laughed in joy, thriving in the fight.
Jon took out his fair share, mainly focusing on those of his age. Surprisingly enough, Bronn was willing to cover Jon's blind spots, which led to Jon subconsciously returning the favour. Ducking under a wild swing from a squire, Jon returned the attack by knocking his opponent's aside, and moving behind to drive the pommel of his sword into the base of the squire's neck. Unfortunately, this manoeuvre led to Jon being separated from Bronn, though the latter seemed to be having the time of his life, holding off two grizzled sellswords by himself.
An inarticulate roar caught Jon's attention, as he deftly parried a blow from the side. Turning to meet his aggressor, Jon was subjected to the attention of four other squires, who were clearly allied together.
The squires exchanged quick glances before charging at Jon, all yelling out war cries. Victory was not theirs, as Jon ducked and weaved in and out of each swing and attack, utilising hours and hours of practice to non-lethally take down each squire.
"I thought we were stickin' together, whelp?" Bronn called out, as he took down another opponent before coming to Jon's side.
Jon let out a snort, "Sorry old man, I was waylaid."
"I bet you did," Bronn grinned.
Smashing the flat side of his sword into a sellsword abdomen, Jon spoke up, "How long have we been at this?"
"Hell if I know," Bronn replied, with a bloodthirsty smirk, "Time loses meaning when in a fight."
Eventually, Bronn and Jon managed to defeat all the competitors closest to them, leaving just the pair. At the other ends of the ring, the giant stood alone, surrounded by the down forms of his opponents, whilst Thoros managed to come out victorious in his own battles.
"Guess our partnership's at an end, whelp," Bronn remarked.
"Guess, so," Jon absently replied, his eyes never leaving the remaining two competitors, "May the best man win."
"Oh, I intend to," Bronn grinned.
The four men stood equally apart, silently gauging each other for weaknesses and the like. A moment passed by, and then the four simultaneously moved to attack one another.
Jon found himself in a duel with the Red Priest, who had his flaming sword grinding against Jon's own. The heat from the green flame was causing Jon to start sweating profusely, which prompted him to take a step back. This turned out to be a clever move, as Myrman wasn't expecting it and stumbled. The brief respite gave Jon the time to regain his footing, and made attack the priest. The onslaught of swings and slashes proved too much for Thoros, who overcommitted on a parry, given Jon the opening he needed to smash his sword into Thoros' knee. The Myrman fell to the blow, which then gave Jon the opportunity to land a kick to the side of Thoros' head, knocking the priest unconscious.
All the while, Bronn had managed to defeat his opponent, using his superior manoeuvrability against much larger man. The sellsword then turned to face his erstwhile ally, sword held aloft. Jon mirrored Bronn's stance, as the crowd was silent with bated breath.
Bronn was the first to move, and move he did, dealing a heavy blow that Jon only just managed to parry. However, Jon was forced to the ground, and had to role, to get some distance between him and the sellsword. Yet as soon as Jon stood back up, Bronn was upon him with a flurry of strikes that Jon barely managed to defend against. A second wind from Jon allowed him to bring about his own attack, leading to a blade lock between the two swordsmen.
"Give up whelp. There's no shame in concedin' at this point," Bronn taunted.
"Would you?" Jon challenged.
Bronn snorted, "Fair point."
The crowd were roaring in encouragement, with all parties enjoying the bout. The King was yelling, Harry was on the edge of his seat, while Arya was struggling to remain seated in hers. The Lord Hand wasn't outwardly showing anything, but when one looked closely at his facial expression, it was clear that he was proud of Jon.
Soon enough, the blade lock broke, as Jon took a step back. Unfortunately, Bronn was far too wily to lose his footing, and managed to stay balanced. A flash of light caught Jon's eye, causing a momentary lapse in judgement. This allowed Bronn get past Jon, and smash his sword into the back of Jon's knee, which buckled.
"Never take your eye off the fight, whelp," Bronn chastised, "Get up. I want to win the properly."
Jon struggled to get up, and gingerly placed some weight on the leg that was hit. Seeing that he could stand properly, Jon took guard once more. The crowd continued to shout in excitement, as the combatants circled each other. Bronn then struck out at Jon, trying to press his advantage. Jon, however, narrowed his eyes, and prepared to use a disarming manoeuvre Ser Rodrick taught him. The flat side of Jon's blade hit the base of Bronn's own sword, and promptly Jon twisted. He then put all his weight into a downward thrust, which forced Bronn to drop his sword lest the sellsword find himself with a broken wrist. Almost immediately, Jon raised his sword to Bronn's unprotected neck.
The crowd was silent. Seconds turned to minutes as everyone waited for the end result, until:
"I surrender," Bronn drawled, putting his hands up.
The crowded exploded in applause, as people were jumping up and down in excitement and awe. Arya was out of her seat, yelling her voice raw, as Eddard stood up, clapping his hands. Jon also saw that Harry had a proud smirk on his face, while the King was boisterously laughing.
The cheering and applause continued until the crowd was silenced by the King standing up. Gesturing for one of his squires to get his sword, Robert motioned for Jon to stand before him in the pavilion. Jon did so, and knelt before the king.
"Hm, you're actually as good as my son tells me," Robert commented, "And here I thought he was exaggerating."
Jon did not look up, but pride swelled at the offhanded compliment.
"Now, I had a deal with my son," Robert continued, "A deal that was dependent on you winning the mêlée."
Robert then drew his sword, causing Jon to softly hold in his breath.
"Jon Snow," Robert began and tapped Jon's right shoulder with his sword, "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave," a tap on the left shoulder, "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just," a tap again on the right, "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent," and finally on the left again, "In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. Rise, Ser Jon Whitehart!"
The crowd once again erupted into rapturous applause, as cheers went out for the new knight. While this was going on, however, a single thought ran through Jon's mind.
'I have a name…'
"So, have you chosen a coat of arms, yet?" Harry asked, the following morning.
Jon, who was elated that he had finally earned a name of his own, had been frustrated at his inability to decide what his heraldry would be. He had considered the use of a white wolf on a black field, but the parallels of that design to the heraldry to House Blackfyre's caused Jon to worry.
"No such luck," Jon grumbled.
Harry raised an eyebrow, "What happened to the white wolf on black field?"
"I didn't want Lady Stark to think I had any ideas of taking Robb's birth right," Jon explained.
"What? You wouldn't do that," Harry frowned.
"House Blackfyre," Jon merely stated.
Harry opened his mouth, but paused when he ran through his mind what Jon was trying to get across. The founding of House Blackfyre hadn't caused any problems, initially. It wasn't until Daeron II was crowned that things started to deteriorate. During the rule of Aegon the Unworthy, Daeron's parentage was under doubt, with accusations of the then Queen Naerys committing adultery. Trumours were quelled after Aemon the Dragonknight defended his sister's honour and slew the accuser, one Ser Morgil Hastwyck, in a trial by combat. However, the rumours resurfaced following the death of the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys.
Historians could never quite agree why Daemon revolted, some saying it was because he was denied the right to marry his cousin Daenerys, others said it was because Daemon resented his status as a bastard. Whatever the reason was, the First Blackfyre Rebellion occurred, and Daemon lost. Yet, for decades later, House Blackfyre continued to harass Westeros, until the War of the Ninepenny Kings, where Ser Barristan the Bold slew Maelys Blackfyre. Maelys was, at that point, the last male to bear the name Blackfyre, and subsequently, the House was declared extinct.
"You aren't Daemon I Blackfyre, Jon," Harry argued, "Besides, there is already a cadet branch of Starks. House Karstark."
"And what about House Greystark?" Jon returned back.
"House Greystark was extinct well before the Conquest. Their history has no bearing on your future!" Harry said in earnest.
Jon sighed, "It doesn't matter what I think. If Lady Stark sets her mind to something, where it concerns me, she won't change her mind."
Harry's shoulder slumped, before another idea struck him.
"Why not speak with Lord Edric Dayne? Your cousin on your mother's side?" Harry asked.
"What? What purpose would that serve?" Jon gawked.
"Well, why not ask permission to add a falling star to your heraldry? It would show that you're trying to make a name for yourself, by honouring both your parents, yet wanting to be independent."
Jon looked unsure, "I don't know Harry."
Harry raised his arms up in frustration, "Look Jon. Who cares what Aunt Catelyn, thinks? As far as I'm concerned, you have no plans to usurp Winterfell from Robb. And I'm quite sure you'll do right by any children you may have, so what is there to worry?"
Jon fell silent at that. Eventually he looked up, and half-smiled at his cousin.
"Fine. You win," Jon sighed, "I'll ask Lord Dayne for his permission. If not, then I'll go for the white wolf on a black field."
"Finally! He decides!" Harry groaned, "Now why couldn't you have done that earlier. Whatever, come on. I need to get ready for the joust."
Jon blinked, "Right, of course."
The pair then headed towards Harry's quarters. Outside the doors stood the four Wolfsguard. As per usual, one of the four would stay close by to guard the Crown Prince, whilst the remaining three were free to take part in the joust. Normally, the knights would come to an agreement, so Harry decided to ask which of them would stay with him.
"So, who's staying with me, and who's competing?" Harry asked.
Ser Eyron spoke for the four of them, "I will guard you, my Prince. I have little interest in competing, so I am fine with the others competing instead."
"Very well. Is Edric waiting for me?" Harry asked the knights. Seeing them nod in affirmation he turned to the first of his Wolfsguard, "Ser Eyron, stand guard of the door with Jon. The rest of you are free to ready yourselves for the joust."
Harry then entered his quarters to find that Edric was waiting for him, standing next to a mannequin which held Harry's armour.
The armour consisted of a silver coloured hauberk that required a black leather belt to hold in place. The cuirass was layered in triangular segments, while the pauldrons were layered similarly to the cuirass. Across the cuirass was a green cloth tied to where the cuirass and pauldrons met. The arms were covered by gauntlets and elbow guards. The legs were protected with a combination of leather greaves, diamond shaped knee guards, and metal plates over the greaves. The armour was coloured black, as was his preference.
The helmet was a simple design that had chainmail at the back for protection, while the sides were long sheets that met the centre of the face, leaving a T-shape opening.
With deft hands, and much practice, Edric managed to assist Harry is putting on the armour within an hour. Tightening a few straps, Harry looked to his younger brother.
"Well, how do I look?" he asked.
Edric started slightly at being addressed, but hastened to answer, "I think you look magnificent, my Prince."
Harry laughed, "And the honest answer?"
"Ah, you look intimidation," Edric stuttered out.
"Well, I best get going. Come. You'll be win Ser Eyron, and I don't think Jon will ride in the lists," Harry said.
With that said, Harry strode out of his quarters, Edric hurrying after.
Riding atop his destrier, Harry cast his eyes across the other knights and men-at-arms taking part in the joust. As per usual, the Kingslayer was there. As was Ser Barristan Selmy, and the rest of the Kingsguard. Both the Hound and the Mountain were competing. All three of the Wolfsguard were there as well. Idly, Harry noticed that heated words were exchanged between Ser Jaime and Ser Lucian, before the latter rode off, with a furious look on his face.
'Hm, I wonder what that was about,' Harry wondered.
Ser Robar's elder brother and father were both here. Lord Yohn's bronze armour was certainly eye-catching. Supposedly thousands of years old, and engraved with ancient runes. Harry vaguely remembered a third son, Ser Wyman or something or another, had joined the Night's Watch some years previously.
Thoros of Myr was also riding, even after his loss the previous day. Lord Beric Dondarrion was also there. As was Lord Jason Mallister, with his silver-chased violet armour and eagle-winged helmet. Several men from the North were also taking part, including Jory Cassel. The Tourney even had an exiled prince from the Summer Isles, one Jalabhar Xho of the Red Flower Vale, as one of the riders.
Many knights were riding, and soon enough Harry found himself facing against one of the multitude of Frey's, Harry forgot which. The Frey knight was barely a challenge, as Harry managed to unhorse his opponent in a single tilt. The next to fall was one of the Northern cavalrymen, though this took to the second tilt, before the man was unhorsed. The joust with Yohn Royce was close, and required the adjudication of Harry's father who, surprisingly, judged fairly and awarded the win to Harry. Harry then faced his uncle, crowd favourite Renly Baratheon. It was a pity, though, that he didn't inherit any of his brothers' martial skill, and so he was rather violently unhorsed to the point he flew backwards off his charger. He landed with such force, that one of the stylised antlers on his helmet snapped off clean. When Renly got up, he earned a loud cheer from the crowd. Waving to them then, he graciously accepted his defeat and handed the golden antler to Harry, who rolled his eyes. The Crown Prince scanned the crowd briefly, before handing the token to an elderly woman, who accepted it with a teary smile.
Harry's next opponent was the Lord of Seagard. This, too, was a closely fought contest, as Harry was very nearly unhorsed on the first tilt. In spite of that, Harry managed to rally and unhorse Lord Mallister on the third tilt.
Harry final joust of the day was against the Hound, where a victory would see him through to the semi-final the following day. As he prepared for the first tilt, he heard the distinct whiny voice of his younger brother calling for the Hound to 'crush him'.
'Because that doesn't show family unity,' Harry observed.
Regardless, Harry charged down at Sandor Clegane, and raised his lance. He struck the Hound cleanly on the chest, but Clegane managed to stay atop his horse. Harry, in turn, was hit where his arm met his chest.
The blow unfortunately deformed the armour slightly, making it difficult access the full range of motion in Harry's left arm. This made it difficult for him to properly hold up his shield. Deciding to discard it, Harry held his lance aloft, and prepared for the second tilt. This time, Harry had the advantage, as he managed to land a hard knock to the Hound's stomach, winding the man. This made Clegane land a mere glancing blow to the side of Harry's armour. This resulted in the scores being tied into the final tilt.
As the trumpet sounded to signal the final tilt, Harry whipped the reins of his horse and kicked his spurs, willing his horse to go as fast as it could. At the opposite end, Harry saw that Clegane had also discarded his shield. Closer and closer the opponents thundered towards each other. The contact cam fast, and it came hard. The Hound lost his balance at the last moment, and only managed to graze Harry on the right shoulder. The Crown Prince, however, managed to compensate for Clegane's last-minute movement, and jerked his lance forward in a spear-like fashion, straight into the face of the Hound's helmet. This resulted in Clegane falling of his horse in a similar manner to Renly Baratheon before him.
As such, Harry was the first to secure his position in the semi-finals. He then rode off to his private tent, where Edric was waiting, to assist in removing the armour. As he got off from his horse, Ser Eyron fell in step with the Crown Prince.
"Well fought, my Prince," he said.
"Thank you Ser Eyron," Harry replied, "The Hound was a worthy opponent."
"Aye, he was. But you were better," the knight stated with a smile.
"I suppose I was, wasn't I?" Harry grinned.
After Edric assist Harry in removing the latter's armour, the Crown Prince headed to the pavilion to watch the remaining jousts, alongside his father. He passed by his maternal family who all offered him congratulations, Arya being to most vocal while Sansa was somewhat more subdued. Harry's uncle simply offered a proud smile, and a pat on the shoulder.
Harry then moved to sit at his father's right side, as was his right at the heir to the Iron Throne. The King had a goblet in hand, and was cheering on the competitors. Glancing towards his son, Robert thumped Harry on the back.
"Haha! Well fought, boy!"
Harry nodded with a smile, "Thank you father."
"Heh, make sure you win tomorrow, boy," Robert warned, "You'll shame our house if you don't otherwise."
"I know father, don't worry," Harry rolled his eyes, "It'd be a pity to lose a tourney dedicated to me."
By this point, the second semi-finalist, Ser Loras Tyrell, had managed to unhorse several knights, including Ser Robar.
"Ah. That was unfortunate for Ser Robar," Harry commented, "He was hoping to impress his father today."
"That Tyrell looks more like a girl than a boy," Robert grunted. He gestured for his squire to pour another cup of wine.
"Speaking of Tyrells," Harry began, as the crowed groaned when Ser Barristan Selmy was unhorsed by Ser Jaime, "What's this about my betrothal being broken in favour of Margaery Tyrell."
Robert snorted, "Renly had it in his mind that the girl looks like your mother. Poetic symmetry he said…or something like that, anyway."
Harry stared at his father.
"Margaery Tyrell looks like…my mother?" he slowly asked.
"Aye, according to Renly, anyway. Brought a fancy portrait of the girl. Thing is though, he brought it for me, not you," Robert explained, "Said I ought to remove the Lannister influence in court, by divorcing Cersei."
Harry burst out laughing, "And do what? Replace it with Tyrell influence?"
Robert joined in the laughter, "Bah, the girl is your age. I know Jon married a girl when he was old enough to be her father, but that's not something I would do."
Harry wisely didn't point out that Robert had slept with whores the same age, as he watched the Kingslayer defeat Ser Lucian.
"How is it that you earned the loyalty of a Lannister?" the King asked his son.
"Most of the cadet branches of House Lannister have no love for Tywin and his ilk," Harry explained, "Not all of them are bad, father."
Robert nodded, then cheered as two knights clashed. Eventually, the Kingslayer, joined both the Crown Prince and the Knight of Flowers in the semi-finals.
It was time for the final bracket, which included the dreaded Gregor Clegane. The Mountain That Rides was a juggernaut in that no one could even land so much as a glancing blow before being unhorsed, sometimes violently so. Such was the case when he face one Ser Hugh of the Vale.
"That's a green boy as ever," Harry commented, "Who is he?"
"Hm? Oh, that was Jon's old squire," Robert answered, "He was recently knighted."
Harry frowned, "Knighted for what? And when?"
Robert's brow furrowed in thought, "Do you know what? I can't remember why exactly. I just did it in Jon's memory"
Harry sighed, "Perhaps he might know something of Lord Arryn's movements before he died?"
"Probably," Robert grunted, "Ned's on it, so don't worry lad."
'The fact that it's Uncle Eddard who is investigating, and not your Master of Whispers, is why I'm worried,' Harry thought.
Staring at the knighted 'boy', Harry noticed something.
"That is a rather expensive armour for a newly anointed knight," Harry stated.
"He was probably left something by Jon, boy," Robert answered, waving away the statement from his son.
"Perha-" Harry was interrupted by the violent manner in which Ser Hugh was unhorsed.
Ser Gregor lance had rode up in such a manner that drove through the Valeman's gorget and pierced his throat, leaving a splinter from the broken lance lodged in his neck. The crowd watched in eerily silence, as no one moved to assist the boy who was desperately clinging to life. However, Ser Hugh was effectively drowning in his own blood, leaving little possibility of surviving.
Coming to a decision, Harry rose from his seat, and drew his dagger. The crowd watched in bated breath, their eyes following the Crown Prince, as he approached the fallen knight. In the corner of his eye, Harry noticed a flash of auburn hair, and grimaced.
'This isn't something Sansa ought to have seen,' he thought.
Kneeling down, Harry placed a palm on the boy's chest. Once he did so, Ser Hugh grasped at Harry's wrist, weakly as it was. The knight looked at the Crown Prince, his eyes pleading. Catching on to Ser Hugh's request, Harry nodded, and bowed his head.
"May the Stranger guide you on your path," he murmured. In the back of his mind, he heard Death voicing her approval at what he just did.
Harry then drove the dagger straight into Ser Hugh's chest. Not even a second later, the latter's arm fell uselessly to the side, as a small smile graced his lips in contentment. Harry gently closed the sightless eyes, and then stood up. He then gestured to several nearby servants to clean up the blood, and followed as two other servants carried the body away on a litter to be attended to by the Silent Sisters.
A brief enquiry told him that Ser Hugh had no friends nor family in the capital, so Harry took it upon himself to stand vigil for the deceased knight. As he watched the Silent Sisters attend to the body, Harry idly heard footsteps approach.
"Your Highness," an aging voice called out.
"Ser Barristan," Harry returned.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stood next to the Prince.
"You will be needed at the feast, your Highness," Ser Barristan said.
"I am standing vigil for Ser Hugh, Lord Commander," Harry returned.
"As you say, your Highness, but you will be missed. I will stand in your stead," the elderly knight said.
"Forgive me Ser Barristan, but I would rather not sit at a feast dedicated to me, when blood has been spilt in a tourney dedicated to me."
Ser Barristan blinked, "I did not take you for a superstitious person, your Highness."
"Not so much as superstition as a healthy respect for the gods," Harry corrected.
"I see. I will inform his Grace, your Highness. Though I doubt he will be please."
Harry waved Ser Barristan off, "My father can be as displeased as he wishes. He is fully aware that once I set my mind to something, I am hard pressed to change my mind."
The knight smiled, "Of course, your Highness."
The following morning saw Harry preparing for his semi-final round against the Kingslayer, the lots having been drawn the previous evening. As he did so, Jon walked in while munching on a sweetroll, Ghost following him. Upon seeing the fellow wolf, Fenrir made to lunge at Ghost, if not for the warning glance sent by Harry.
"You were missed at the feast last night," Jon said.
Harry turned to face his cousin, "I know. I was standing vigil."
"Ser Barristan told me," Jon said, "Also asked if I would consider joining the Kingsguard."
"Would you?" Harry asked, as he tightened the straps.
"I don't know. I quite fancy getting married and having children, now that I have a name," Jon answered, as he finished his roll, "Why were you standing vigil, anyway?"
"It gave me time to think," Harry replied, "I don't think Ser Hugh's death was an accident."
"Oh?"
"Aye, he squired for Jon Arryn. He might have known something, and someone else wanted him silenced."
Jon watched his cousin in silence, as Harry fully donned his armour, and left for the stables. Falling in step with the Crown Prince, Jon spoke up once more.
"So, what's the plan?" he asked.
"Once the tourney is over, the pair of us, and all of my usual retinue will leave for Dragonstone. I plan to meet with the Lords sworn to me, among other things," Harry informed Jon, "After that, it's off to White Harbour, and then to Castle Black."
Jon blinked, "Why?"
"The Free Folk are rallying behind a King-Beyond-The-Wall. Should they attack, the Night's Watch are woefully outnumbered," Harry explained, "I want to take stock of the situation in person."
The pair soon reached the stables. Mounting his horse, Harry turned to Jon.
"Head to Ser Balon. He should know your duties for today," Harry told him. He then rode off, Fenrir beside him.
Soon enough, Harry reached the pavilion and dismounted to greet his father, who thumped Harry on the back.
"Win glory for our house, Harry," Robert boomed, "You'll knock the Kingslayer clean on his arse."
"Of course, father," Harry smiled.
As he and Ser Jaime were first, Harry remounted his horse, and headed towards his end, in preparation for the first tilt. Waiting at the other side, was the Kingslayer himself, wearing his white cloak, golden armour and lion's-head helmet.
At the sound of the trumpet, both competitors charged towards each other. The crowd cheered, while Robert roared encouragement from his seat. When the opponents collided, Harry was unfortunate to land a mere glancing blow while taking a hard strike to the abdomen, knocking the air out of Harry's lungs. Harry could literally see the smugness oozing from the Kingslayer as he rode to opposing end of the list. Harry, too, rode to his end, and readied his joust. Chancing a look at the pavilion, Harry saw that Joffrey was calling for Ser Jaime to crush his opponent. Next to the blond prince was Sansa, who looked somewhat uncomfortable, but had a distinct look of adoration towards Joffrey.
Rolling his eyes, Harry whipped the reins, and began charging towards the Kingslayer once more. Drawing his lance back, Harry then drove it into Ser Jaime's chest, knocking the knight backwards. This resulted in the member of the Kingsguard losing his balance, and was only able to weakly thrust his own lance, which Harry caught on his shield.
The third tilt was a little more evenly matched, as Harry manage to score a hit to the Lannister knight's abdomen. However, he also took a blow to the right side of his chest. This left the result needed to be adjudicated by the King. Robert had narrowed his eyes in thought, while casting a slight glance to his second wife. Grinning, he called out for Harry to be the winner.
'Figures that I'd be used for Father to insult Cersei,' Harry thought with an internal eye role.
Riding back to his designated area, Harry dismounted his horse, and handed the reins to Edric. The squire had a grin reminiscent of the King's as he face liege lord.
"That was well fought, my Prince," Edric congratulated.
"Thank you Edric," Harry replied. He turned to Jon who was standing close by, "Jon, take the reins. Edric fetch me a drink."
The squire passed of the reins to Jon, before rushing off to fulfil the command. The pair stood in companionable silence, as they watched the second semi-final. As the two horses stood close by which the knights paid homage to the King, Harry noticed how Ser Gregor's destrier was unsettled. The horse was pawing the ground, screaming and shaking its head, and it took a swift and hard kick from the Mountain to regain any semblance of control.
"Well, now. That's rather underhand," Harry offhandedly commented.
"What is?" Jon asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Tyrell's mare is in heat. It's attracting the attention of Clegane's stallion," Harry explained.
"That's…not honourable," Jon said with a troubled expression.
Harry snorted, "Honour? Honour gets you killed in the South, Jon. No one in the southern kingdom adheres to it."
Jon's brow furrowed, "That seems…I don't know the word for it."
"Depressing?" Harry offered.
"Maybe, I don't know…SEVEN HELLS!"
Jon was interrupted by the sight of the Mountain killing his horse with a single ferocious blow that half severed the beast's neck. By the time the horse fell silent, Ser Gregor was striding down towards Ser Loras.
Over the cacophony of shrieks and cries, Harry idly heard his uncle shout out for someone to stop the Mountain, but none dared make the attempt.
Harry tutted before turning to Jon, "Fetch Ser Eyron!"
Not waiting for an answer, Harry grabbed his live steel swords, and made to intercept the Mountain. It wasn't a moment too soon, as Harry managed to block the heavy blow from Ser Gregor, by crossing his own swords above his head.
'Bad idea! Bad idea! Bad idea!' was what was going through Harry's mind, as he was forced down to a knee from the weight of the strike.
"Get out of here!" he gritted out, to stunned Knight of Flowers. The Tyrell obliged as he scrambled away. Harry then released the blade-lock, and rolled away. Harry used the brief moment Ser Gregor stumbled to strike out at the Mountain, but the thick armour managed to absorb the blows. This left Harry wide open for a strike, had it not been for Ser Eyron barrelling in from the side to parry away the strike from the Mountain.
The two continued to attack each other, Ser Eyron trying to disarm the giant of a man, who was lost into the Warrior's Madness.
"STOP THIS MADNESS!" Robert boomed, "IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!"
Ser Eyron instantly went to one knee, neatly avoiding a decapitating strike. This in turn caused the Mountain to regain his senses. He dropped his sword, and balefully glared at the King. Wordlessly, Clegane strode off, shoving past Sers Balon and Lucian. The latter two turned to apprehend the man, but an order from Harry saw them standing down.
A moment later, Ser Loras had returned to the field wearing a simple linen doublet.
"I owe you my life, your Highness. The day is yours," he conceded to the Crown Prince, who gracefully accepted.
This earned cheers from the crowd, as applause rang through the commons. They quietened as Robert stood up to appraise his son.
"Ha! Now that's how a son of mine should act!" he declared, "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my son, Prince Haraldr."
He ambled from the pavilion, and then stood before Harry.
"Kneel," Robert commanded and Harry did so. Robert then gestured for a squire to bring his sword, and just like with Jon, the King began to knight his son. He tapped the sword on Harry's right shoulder, "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave," a tap on the left shoulder, "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just," a tap again on the right, "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent," and finally on the left again, "In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. Rise, Ser Haraldr Baratheon!"
'I don't even follow the Faith of the Seven,' Harry groused.
Author's Notes: I can only sincerely apologise that I did not update sooner. I had an exam on the previous Monday which required my attention, and I was free until today to proofread this chapter. However, I made this one extra-long as a peace offering, so I hope you enjoy it!
Now to answer some reviews:
Joffrey getting off lightly: Try to remember that Robert backhanded Joffrey. Also, Robert considered the broken arm punishment enough. Or at least...That's what I'm going for.
Crown debt: I did try to explain that the Rebellion left the coffers empty, and money was needed for the repairs and the like. Robert is marginally better, but the 3 million debt is the remaining amount from the initial loan. Also, the Crown is not in debt to the Faith, or other Westerosi Houses.
Magic: Okay, a lot of people are wanting magic. First of all, it won't come for a while yet, but I do promise that it will. Harry just requires a catalyst. The magic that appears will be a mix of ASOIAF magic (warging, etc) and HP magic.
Betrothed/pairing: It will come to play in the next chapter
Neroj - The way Caius speaks is typical for all Lorathi people. Jaqen H'gar only speaks like that because he is impersonating a Lorathi when Arya first meets him.
Next update: I cannot promise that I will be able to update next week, but I will tell you that this story will not be abandoned like my older stories. It may take up to two to three weeks for the next chapter. If otherwise, I will let you all know.