I'm back!
I cannot really apologise enough for not updating sooner and I don't really have a good enough excuse for why this has been untouched for so long, but I am now back. Longer AN at the end, because I know you'll just want to read the chapter.
Few adjustments first though; several characters are older than I may have stated elsewhere:
Orys – 16
Joffrey – 17
Sansa – 15
Robb – 16
Jon – 17
This is for reasons that will (hopefully) become obvious – it would be realistically impossible for anyone who was 14 years old to do… well to do what Orys does in this chapter, no matter how skilled they were – wouldn't want to spoil it yet – and for other reasons as the story progresses. If I age any other characters up from what they are in the books, I'll tell you at the start of the chapter. Enjoy.
Orys sat on a chair in the middle of his tourney tent, playing nervously with his hands. On the table next to him was a pitcher of wine and two crystal goblets, both of which were half-full; Jon sat on the other side of the table, though he looked considerably less tense than Orys. They had been sitting here anxiously for the last hour, waiting for the King to arrive – Robert had promised his favourite son a magnificent nameday gift – and the wait was beginning to drive Orys insane; feeling the beginnings of a headache he stood abruptly, startling Jon, picked up his goblet and drained it in one. Orys began pacing near the opening of the tent, his hands clasped behind his back and his brow creased with worry.
He turned to Jon and opened his mouth to speak, but Jon spoke before he could. "For the love of the Gods Orys, will you sit down? I'm sure your father is on his way here. He wouldn't forget about you on your nameday." he said wearily.
Orys groaned in annoyance. "Well where is he? He said he'd be here by now and the joust starts at midday! I cannot miss it! It's my fucking tourney!" he shouted in exasperation, throwing his hands up in anger.
Jon laughed and stood from his chair. "I'm sure that the King would not forget his favourite son on his nameday." he said as he poured some more wine into the goblets and handed one to Orys. "Come on. Have a drink and calm down. He'll be here soon." he continued, as Orys sat back in his chair with a sigh.
As luck would have it, no sooner than Jon had said those words, King Robert Baratheon strode through the tentflaps followed closely by three panting squires, all of whom were struggling to carry a large bulky object – no doubt Orys' nameday gift – covered in cloth, that was making a lot of noise as it swayed about precariously. Behind them came Ser Barristan Selmy and he too was holding a package that was clearly meant for Orys – though its shape, and the way in which the knight carried it, immediately betrayed the fact that it was a sword.
Orys leapt up in joy as soon as he saw his father, running to embrace him. Robert laughed heartily and embraced his son in return, in an unusual display of open affection, the king's fabled strength still managing to crush the wind out of Orys' lungs despite his father's gluttony.
"How are you my boy?" he asked as they emerged from the embrace, as Orys tried to get his breath back. "Or should I say man? After all, you are now of age and a man in your own right." he said, raising an eyebrow in jest.
"Well enough and man enough to beat you senseless father." Orys retorted cheekily.
"Oho! The boy has spirit!" Robert joked, turning to Ser Barristan with a wide grin, who returned it with a smile of his own.
"It would seem so Your Grace. Though mayhaps we'll see if the Prince can support his bold words with bold actions in the tourney." the knight said in a sagely voice.
"Aye, we will at that." Robert replied. "Which brings me to why I have come. Other than to wish you luck of course." he said, beckoning forward the three squires behind him who came and set down the bulky object on a stand in front of Orys.
"Orys, my son, I am proud of you." Robert began in an unexpectedly serious voice. "I am proud of the man that you have become and I am proud of the man that you will be. I wish, with all my heart, that you had been my heir. You would have been a better king than either I or Joffrey ever could be. But, alas, you are not and so on this day, your sixteenth nameday, the day on which you become a man in the eyes of Gods and men, I hope that you will prove me justified in the love that I hold for you – with this, your first gift."
Robert waved his hand before wiping away a solitary tear, and the squires lifted off the cloth covering the bulky object, revealing the most beautiful suit of armour Orys had ever seen. In all his short sixteen years, he had never seen craftsmanship to match that which now lay before him; it was without equal – and it was his. Every single piece of the armour had been dyed a deep jet-black and each piece shone brightly in the sun that streamed through the slits in the tent. The helmet, with a closed visor, was eerily similar to the one his father had once worn into battle; though it was black and not unburnished steel, two antlers – ones that Orys realised had come from the first stag he'd killed in the Wolfswood outside Winterfell – had been painted with gold and fastened to the top of the helmet and an aventail hung down from the edge of the helmet, the dark grey mail interspersed every three rows by a row of gold rings. The breastplate was black all over, except for a piece in the centre in which had been engraved the stag sigil of his House; it too had also been painted in gold. The gauntlets too were black and had small pieces of golden plate over the knuckles. The pauldrons, vambraces and couters, cuisses, greaves and sabatons – to which golden spurs were attached – were also dyed black, all edged in gold plating, contrasting brightly with the dark colour of the rest of the armour. It was magnificent and it left Orys – quite rightly – speechless.
Robert chuckled when he saw Orys' reaction. "Beautiful isn't it? Not just for decoration either." he said, walking up to the armour and knocking on it with his fist. "Proper Stormlander steel this is. Thicker and stronger than any other heap of shit armour Tywin Lannister could forge – lighter too." he continued. "Come, feel how light it is." Robert said after a pause, beckoning Orys towards him.
Orys walked over to his father and took the proffered breastplate, expecting that he would struggle to hold it up. The look of shock on Orys' face sent Robert into a howling fit of laughter, making him so weak at the knees that his father was forced to sit down. Orys turned to his father with a perplexed expression on his face, his surprise still showing.
"Father, how can this be so light? It weighs almost nothing! Certainly no more than what I am wearing now!" he said in amazement.
"Truth be told, I don't rightly know myself. Don't really care either!" Robert said, with a grin, wiping away his tears of laughter. "All I know is that it's light and strong. That's all that matters in battle so that's all that should matter to you." he continued with a grunt as he stood up. "Now. The tourney will be starting soon and I've one last thing to give to you," he said, walking over to Ser Barristan and taking the package from his hands. "and it's more valuable than that entire suit of armour."
As a quizzical expression appeared on Orys' face, the cogs began to turn in his mind as he tried to think of something that could be worth more than the monstrously expensive gift he had just received, dismissing them each in turn almost as soon as they came into his head; there were a few things, such as a dragon egg, the fastest and strongest horse in Westeros, the Golden Company and a Kingdom of his own, but only one thing stuck in his mind as he realised what it was – as he realised the only thing it could be.
"Valyrian Steel." he whispered in awe.
Robert pulled off the cloth that was covering the gift with a flourish, revealing the most beautiful sword Orys had ever seen. It almost seemed to glow with a light of its own, even in the bright light of the day. A single white ripple ran through the dark grey metal of the hand-and-a-half longsword from the sharp and pointed tip to the crossguard, like lightning in a storm, forking out and spreading to the razor-sharp edges. The crossguard was intricately forged, gold entwined around the metal bar like the golden roots of a flower, a stark yet beautiful contrast to the otherwise intimidating metal of the blade. The grip was as magnificent as the rest of the sword; a solid piece of opaque crystal, with swirls of milky-white running through it, had been fitted around the stick of steel attaching it to the blade and the crossguard. Thin strips of stingray leather, dyed red, had been wrapped around it, leaving regular gaps of crystal in which miniaturised depictions of great victories and heroes had been carved. As Orys reverently walked towards it, his eyes moved further down the sword to the pommel, his eyes widening as he saw the large, round, multifaceted ruby set inside the thick circle of gold; it looked heavy and hard and would no doubt be more than capable of smashing a nose or two.
"Father..." Orys said, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. "How did you get this?" he asked, running his hand softly over the cold steel.
Robert chuckled. "Me? No, I didn't get this. Ser Barristan did. I sent him to Essos to try and find a sword worthy of my son. He tells me he only found the blade. The rest was done back here by some smith in the Street of Steel." he said, moving to the table and pouring himself a glass of wine. "I trust you like it?" he said with a smile before draining the cup in one.
Orys nodded dumbly before regaining his senses and turning to Ser Barristan. "You have my most heartfelt thanks, Ser Barristan, for this wondrous gift upon my nameday." he said solemnly, putting his fist above his heart and bowing his head in gratitude.
"It was an honour, my prince. I hope one day to tell you stories of how I managed to find it. I am sure they would interest you." the old knight replied graciously. Orys smiled in return.
"I look forward to it." he said honestly. He turned back to his father, taking the scabbard from Ser Barristan – a beautifully worked sheathe of red leather with a chape and throat of polished bronze – and sheathing the sword.
"You know it needs a name." Robert said before Orys could speak.
Orys was puzzled. He knew, as everyone did, that all Valyrian Steel swords had names – he had simply assumed that it already had one.
"It has none?" he asked.
"If it does it is lost to time." Ser Barristan replied. "You are a Baratheon. If I were you I would choose a name that has a relevance to your House. After all, you have neither won any great battles nor slain any great foes." he continued.
Orys nodded thoughtfully, thinking back along his family's history to the famed lords of his House as he drew the sword once more to look at the blade. Lord Lyonel the Laughing Storm, Orys, the founder and his namesake, and his wife Argella, the last scion of House Durrandon. The Stormlands that his family and their predecessors had ruled over for millennia, Storm's End their seat – and then, all of a sudden, a name that perfectly suited the sword popped into his head.
"Stormbringer." he declared triumphantly, holding the blade up. "After the Storm Kings." he continued, looking at his father with pride. As his father made to reply, someone else entered the tent.
"Father, the people are waiting for you to start the tourney, why is this..." Joffrey began, trailing off into silence as he saw Orys holding the sword aloft. As his eyes roved across the metal, a look of recognition sprang into his eyes and his face stilled, turning sour as he realised what it was. He shot Orys a look of pure malice, turned and strode out of the tent, followed by his sworn sword, the Hound.
Orys lowered the sword awkwardly, and turned back to look at Robert. His father stood quickly, clearly angered by what he had seen, and strode to the entrance of the tent.
"You'd better put that armour on." he said, turning back to Orys. "You're riding in one of the first jousts. You don't want to miss your tourney after all." he continued with a wink before walking out of the tent, followed by Ser Barristan
Orys looked at Jon with a wild grin, the excitement and anticipation of his first tourney finally setting in as he forgot about his arse of an older brother.
"Well? What are you waiting for? Help me get this on!" he said, placing Stormbringer gently down on his chair.
…
An hour later, Orys charged down the lists atop his warhorse Fury, the screams and cheers of the crowd blocked out by the thundering of the hooves and the clanking sounds of armour rubbing and clashing together. For a moment, the world seemed to still as a deathly silence fell upon the tourney ground, the nobles and smallfolk alike all waiting with bated breath to see who would emerge the victor – and then, with a resounding crash as the lances of the two knights found their marks and the wood splintered and shattered, the crowd erupted with noise, cheering and whooping and whistling filling the air as their Black Prince knocked his opponent cleanly from the saddle.
This was Orys' ninth joust of the day and his ninth victory. Of course, given the poetic and fanciful nature of the heralds that announced the competitors and his – quite frankly stunning – victories over older and more experienced knights, such as Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard and Lord Beric Dondarrion, the spectators had been quick to christen him with this title; his latest victory over Ser Loras Tyrell – an excellent jouster and a man already idolised by many young ladies, and indeed young men – would only add to the rapidly growing adoration of the Prince.
Orys took off his helmet and pumped his fist in the air triumphantly, trotting his warhorse around the lists, waving his hand to the smallfolk that screamed and cheered his name as they reached out to him, desperate to touch him and gain some sense of closeness to their new favourite. As he completed his circuit of the lists and approached the Royal Box where he could see his father standing and clapping vigorously, he turned his head to the side and found himself looking straight into the eyes of Sansa Stark. She had a small smile on her face and was clapping politely, ever mindful of her manners and decorum, her sapphire blue eyes sparkling brightly with admiration. As she realised that Orys was looking at her, she blushed, a gentle rosiness spreading across her cheeks – though it seemed she had not forgotten the incident with her beloved Joffrey, as she composed herself and put on an air of indifference and looked away. Orys smiled sadly as a pang went through his chest but shook his head gently and lifted his head to his father as he came to a stop in front of him.
Orys bowed his head, flourishing his hand in an extravagant bow before looking back up with a grin.
"Well father?" he asked.
"I've seen better." Robert said bluntly before grinning back. "Go on. Go and rest a while before your next tilt. You'll need it." the King continued, his grin turning to a grimace.
Orys swallowed nervously as he realised what his father meant; by defeating Ser Loras he now had to face Gregor Clegane should he want to pass through to the final – a feat far easier said than done. He nodded quickly and wheeled Fury around, heading for the exit from the lists and towards his tent. On his way there he passed Ser Loras who had by now dusted himself off and remounted his horse with the help of his squire.
"My Prince!" the knight called out. Orys stopped and turned to look at him.
"Ser Loras. You rode well today. I am sure that it was luck not skill that gave me the victory." Orys replied.
Loras waved away the compliment. "Nonsense, you were better than me. I am just glad that I do not have to face the Mountain. I wish you luck in that my Prince. May the Warrior give you the strength to defeat him."
"Thank you Ser. I wish you luck in the melee tomorrow." Orys said, before kicking his heels into Fury's flanks, sending the horse forward at a trot.
"I will cheer for you." Ser Loras called after him. Orys did not turn to reply, instead just raising his armoured hand and continuing on his way.
When Orys reached his tent he dismounted and tied the reins to a post before walking in. Jon was sitting there waiting for him, two goblets of wine at the ready. Picking one up and downing it in one, Orys sat heavily on the chair, the combined weight of his armour and his body making the wood creak.
"Only the Mountain left before the final?" Jon asked.
Orys nodded mutely, too tired to speak.
"I'll be watching from the stands." Jon said.
"You'll get to see me lose then." Orys replied weakly.
"That worried?" Jon asked.
Orys nodded again. With a soft laugh Jon refilled Orys' goblet and passed it to him.
"You'll need this then."
…
An hour later Orys sat atop Fury at the end of the lists, waiting anxiously for the heralds to announce his name to signal the next round. As he sat there, preoccupied by thoughts of grisly deaths at the hands of the gargantuan man he was to face, a voice jogged him from his brooding.
"Nephew, I have come to wish you luck against that...thing." the voice said jovially.
Orys looked down and smirked when he saw his uncle Tyrion. "Why thank you Uncle, your confidence in me does me great honour." he replied mockingly. Tyrion laughed in reply.
"I'll have you know that I have fifty Dragons on you to win. I would like to think that I am not mistaken in my gambling, but...if you're so sure that you're going to lose I suppose I will just have to retract said bet." he countered with a wry smile.
Orys snorted. "You can do whatever you like Uncle. I'm sure that none of it will help me against him." he said, his eyes widening slightly as the heralds sounded the trumpets and the Mountain rode on to the field.
"It seems your opponent has arrived dear Nephew. I would quite like to win my bet so try not to die." Tyrion said, walking off with a smile.
Orys laughed and pulled on his helmet. "Of course not Uncle. I'd hate to disappoint." he said, spurring Fury on. He cantered gently up to the Royal Box and bowed his head quickly, the need to show respect for the king lessened by the fact that he was his son. As he turned and began to canter back to his end of the list, he caught Sansa's eye once more and, seized by an inexplicable feeling, winked at her before slamming shut his visor, just managing to see her bright red cheeks – that matched his own – before he rode off.
As he reached the end of the fence separating his side of the field from that of the Mountain he made the sign of the Seven over his chest, bring his fingers up to touch his visor to finish the sign, before taking the lance that a squire was holding out for him.
Resting the butt of the lance on his foot, he leaned forward and patted Fury's neck, stroking his horse softly and murmuring in his ear.
"Come on Fury old boy, we can do this. All you have to do is stay steady and true in your path and we'll carry the day. I'm sure of it." Orys said, though he felt anything but.
"Prince Orys Baratheon and Ser Gregor Clegane!" the herald shouted, the shrill trumpets and the cheers of the crowd announcing the imminent start of the joust. Orys nervously licked his lips under the visor as a bead of sweat began to trickle down his cheek, his eyes watching his father's hand as it waited to drop – after a few tense seconds, Robert lowered his hands, the signal for the joust to begin.
Orys jammed his spurs into Fury's flanks, the motion sending the huge warhorse charging forwards, as he couched his lance and leaned forward in the saddle, the eagerness and anticipation of the impending clash sending all doubts from his mind. Closer and closer they rode, both knights' horses galloping as fast as they could, the distance getting ever smaller, the impossibly loud sound of the drumming beat of the hooves and the snorting of the horses drowning out the sounds of the crowd. Twenty metres, ten metres, five metres, the two riders were now almost on top of each other – but then, at the last possible second, the Mountain raised his lance, as did Orys, and they rode past each other to the end of the lists where they turned, ready to face one another once more; they had chosen not to strike each other on the first run as neither were satisfied with the hit they would have given. King Robert raised his hand once more and promptly dropped it. They rode again and once more, passed each other by. By now, the noise of the crowd had reached a crescendo – the screams and cheers of the smallfolk were so loud that it had begun to unnerve their horses and had put both the riders off their mark.
So they turned once more and again, Robert's hand rose and fell, and again they both charged forward. This time, however, would be different. Orys knew from the second that the Mountain begun to kick his horse that the huge knight he was facing had had enough of waiting and had decided to try and end it here and now. As they got ever closer, Orys saw the tip of the Mountain's lance begin to edge upwards and realised that the lance would strike him in the neck, the fear of such a public and ignominious death running through him as his short life began to flash before his eyes. Both riders leaned forwards, one filled with murderous intent, the other with an ardent desire simply to live through this engagement, the distance between them rapidly disappearing – and then, as if the Gods themselves were watching over Orys, the Mountain's horse stumbled, he was thrown forwards and his lance drove itself into the ground. Orys' lance, however, did not and struck the Mountain squarely in the chest, knocking him cleanly off his horse, the ground seemingly shaking under the colossal weight of the knight.
Orys dropped his shattered lance and continued to ride onwards in shock, barely able to comprehend the fact that he had vanquished the Mountain that Rides – or rather, now that he was on the ground, the Mountain that Rode. It was when he stopped in front of his father, who also wore a shocked expression on his face – which was rapidly turning into one of pride – that he realised that every single person in the tourney grounds had fallen silent. Everyone from the highest of lords, to the lowest of the low were quiet as they tried to process the fact that the Mountain – a man who was supposed to be nigh on impossible to defeat and famed for his strength and prowess in battle – had been overcome by the young prince. It was one quick witted man in the crowd that stood and shouted at the top of his voice who broke the silence.
"The Black Prince!" he shouted, the lone voice carrying across the grounds which remained silent for a few more seconds until, as one, the spectators took up the cry and shouted his name at the top of their lungs, their praise and adulation for their prince carrying all the way to the very top of the Red Keep.
But their cries of joy did not last for long. They turned to screams of horror and cries of alarm as a sickening squelching sound came from behind Orys. Turning his head quickly, his eyes widening as he saw that the Mountain had cut through his horse's neck and was now rapidly advancing on him, a look of fury on his face. The Mountain swung his greatsword, knocking Orys out of the saddle and continued to advance on him, feral growls coming from his mouth. Orys frantically scrambled backwards, looking desperately around him for anything that he might use to defend himself, looking up in fear and closing his eyes as he saw the Mountain raise his sword once more, preparing to swing it downwards and split him in half – but the swing never came. As Orys opened his eyes, he saw that Sandor Clegane, the Mountain's brother, had run down from the Royal Box and put himself in front of his brother, steel meeting steel as the siblings locked swords.
Scrambling to his feet, Orys looked to the stands, trying to find Jon who was in possession of Stormbringer, his eyes flitting across the many faces before alighting on Jon. His friend had scrambled down to the front and had just ducked under the barrier separating the seats from the lists and was now sprinting towards Orys, holding Stormbringer in his hands. Jon ducked under a swing of the Mountain's sword and darted out of the way of Sandor Clegane's charge before reaching Orys and pushing the sword into his waiting hands. As Orys drew Stormbringer, he turned to Jon.
"Get back to the stands, get my father to stop this, quickly!" he shouted, before turning back to Ser Gregor.
What he saw next caused half the noblewomen in the stands to faint and the other half to retch in horror. Gregor Clegane held his brother's sword in one hand and raised his other – the one holding his greatsword – the look of hate on the Hound's face undiminished despite his impending doom, still tugging with all his might in an attempt to loosen his sword from the Mountain's grip. Then, with a mighty roar, the Mountain's hand came swinging down, the sharp blade of his sword cleaving his brother in twain, the Hound's blood spraying out across the sand.
Orys looked on in horror, then in rising outrage, as he helplessly watched the Hound die. Looking down at his sword, he whispered a prayer to the Gods that it would still hold strong after three centuries and charged at the Mountain, a guttural war cry on his lips. Gregor looked at him with what seemed like disdain and turned his body to face this new attacker, raising his sword once more. As the Mountain brought his sword down in a red arc, Orys raised Stormbringer, the two swords clashing together. Orys noticed a small crack appear in the Mountain's blade, though it went unnoticed by its master, as he pulled away and slashed with his sword at Clegane's head and then legs in quick succession, the featherweight sword feeling more like an extension of his own arm than a weapon. The sword passed through the Mountain's armour with surprising ease, drawing blood both times, both times eliciting a roar of pain and anger from the Mountain, driving him to an ever higher height of rage.
Despite the danger of the situation he currently found himself in, Orys couldn't help but laugh as something his father had once told him popped into his head.
"Never fight a crazed animal, Orys, its sure to get you killed." Robert had warned, wagging his finger at Orys' younger self. "It had better bloody not." Orys thought with a savage grin as he parried three of the Mountain's strikes, seeing the crack in the Mountain's steel greatsword grow larger every time. Abstractly aware of rapid movement coming from the stands behind him, Orys surged forward in an aggressive attack, unwilling to let someone else be the victor in this savage battle, smashing his sword down repeatedly on the Mountain's sword as he pushed the giant onto his back foot.
On the last of Orys' swings, Stormbringer sliced through the Mountain's greatsword. Gregor Clegane stopped mid-stride in shock, unable to believe that his sword had just broken in two. Unfortunately for him, Orys did not stop there. The Black Prince swung once, taking off the Mountain's sword-hand, swung again, taking off the Mountain's left hand and swung once more, taking off the Mountain's head.
Orys stood there in shock as he watched the fountain of blood spurt forth from Gregor Clegane's headless body, staining the yellow sand a bright, ruby red.
The head of the once-feared beast rolled slowly towards Orys, coming to a stop at his feet, the sand around him rapidly turning red with gore.
So here it is guys, Chapter Five. I hope you enjoyed it, I know that it wasn't really that long, especially after how long it has taken me to update this, but it's here now and I haven't abandoned it, so for those of you who have been wondering whether I am continuing this or not, don't worry.
On another note, I am going to rewrite all the chapters before this, simply because I have read back over them and it was painful for me – I doubt there will be any major changes, just polishing and more development of the characters. That said, I will not be prioritising that over continuing the actual story; it will happen, just not if it gets in the way of writing the next chapters.
T.j.98: Thanks I'm glad you like it. Though I've now aged them up, I think Joffrey and Orys would still behave in this way because they are princes and, therefore, quite spoilt. I did recognise that parallel, especially given that Orys is the odd one out in his family, much like Tyrion was – I think that's also why Orys likes Tyrion more than Jaime; they simply have something in common.
mrneb: I agree, it's been corrected now. Horrible now that I think about it.
Fapman: 1. Sansa won't be a simpering idiot in this story. 2. Wait and see.
Thanks to everyone else who reviewed!
I will try and update this within the next two to three weeks but if I don't, keep hounding me and I will get around to doing it. Please leave a review and let me know what you thought, it helps me know how the chapter is received and it keeps me inspired to write!
Thanks for reading!
