After Robert's arrival at Lannisport, the 'War Tourney', as Tywin Lannister took to extolling it, did not commence for an entire week, since the knights' precious horses needed time to recover from the strains of journeying through the storm frequented seas south of the Iron Isles. The Gold Shitter did not mind the delay in the least, as the tent city of ten thousand celebrating knights, men-at-arms, and camp followers erected outside the walls of his port brought a daily river of commerce to his ravaged merchants and smallfolk. The copper, silver, and gold plunder originally taken by the ironborn were now redistributed back by the free spending, heavily drinking looters of Pyke, Great Wyke, and Old Wyke.
Jorah Mormont flung back the flap to the Greatjon's tent and stomped in like a snarling, hairy beast. "Damn, them. Damn them to their seven hells," he swore.
"Grab a stool and guzzle some wine with us, Bear," the Badger called out cheerfully.
Buuuuuurrrpppppp! "Aye, what ales you?" asked Rodrik Locke with a laugh, now holding up two drinking horns. "A brown ale or a golden one in honor of our wretched hosts."
"Ohhhh," groaned Torrhen Stout of the Saltspear Stouts, shaking his head at the poor pun.
Jorah nevertheless snatched one of the proffered vessels and took a deep draught, leaving a foamy residue on his mustache and beard. "Aye, it's the Lion's wretched brother Kevan and their Westerland dog of a Kingsguard, Preston Greenfield."
The names rang a bell with the pleasantly tipsy Lohgun, "Did the lists come out already? The joust's not to start for another two days, is'nt it?"
"Weren't old Lord Vance the third judge?" asked Torrhen rhetorically. "Don't approve who yer matched against, who is it?"
"Why does the lil' Bear care?" cut in the Greatjon, at last joining the conversation. "Your only middling at best with the lance you know."
"The whole list is rigged to aid the Lannisters and their banners," Jorah spat disgustedly. "I'm to cross against Jason Mallister on the first day."
"Then you'll have time to drink with me the next morning," hooted Rodrik.
The Lord of Bear Island ignored the jab, and stridently continued. "And the second day I'd likely come to blows with Bronze Yohn."
Several now whistled in appreciation of his plight.
"The Old Gods are fucking ya hard, Jorah," the Badger sympathized.
"Your horse is shite, you always aim your lance too low. Gods man, you should be happy enough the list is so big at this shindy that they even picked you, a man uglier than his horse, to ride. Besides, the South loves to crap on a Northman," the Greatjon declared in his too loud voice. "Now me," he said with a smile, leaning back in his stool and placing both hands to the back of his huge noggin. "I'm gonna win both the boxin', and the Melee too. Just watch me."
Derisive hoots and catcalls immediately followed the huge man's lofty prognostication.
Lohgun leaned in close to the ale draining Jorah. "The Greatjon's got a point, Bear. Why so unhappy?"
The thirty-some year old Lord Mormont suddenly looked embarrassed and shy, "There's … there's a girl; a high born one."
'Women,' the Badger thought, drawing up an image of Catelyn in his mind's eye. 'Always trouble.'
The first day of the tourney featured foot races, the two rounds of the both the heavyweight and middleweight boxing competitions, and the first round, a hundred and twenty eight separate tilt sets in total, of the joust. Too close to dawn for his liking, Lohgun met a squat Dornish sailor in one of the sparring circles, with only the early risers or the late to sleeps in attendance at the match. The Badger let the far southern brawler throw the first haymaker, and he tucked his chin down to his chest to receive it. Snap. Several of his foe's fingers and knuckles broke on impact with the wildling's very, very tough forehead. Lohgun saw a star or two which he rapidly blinked away before setting to against the now one armed fighter. The man had a few rudimentary skills to scrap with, but being just under the six foot height limit that denoted heavyweight versus middleweight competitor, the Dornishman clearly relied more on his strength to win fights. Two minutes later the Badger's first round adversary's lay sprawled on the green grass within the fight circle.
Lohgun then wandered around the sward set aside by Tywin Lannister for the more ignoble Tourney games, sipping a beer he'd bought from a saucy arsed wench until he found where the lumbering giant of Umber waited to give battle. The Greatjon's bout lasted less than half a minute. He simply waded at a thick sturgeon of a Riverlander, effortlessly shrugging off blows to chest and chin and at last, close enough, dropped an anvil sized fist atop the man's skull. "Next!" the Northern Lord bellowed when the sturgeon didn't so much as wiggle upon hitting the turf.
After, the Badger, the Greatjon, and Rodrik Locke switched fields and pushed their way through to the rail in time to watch Mandon Moore's lance smash some hapless hedge knight from out of a cheap leather saddle. One of the Freys beat a Belmore or a Sunderland from the Vale on a third pass, though the three friends held a spirited debate during the match as to which particular house the knight's coat of arms belonged. Next, Addam Marbrand needed a single gallop, lance shattering, to throw a third rate Crownlands' piker. All three friends cheered lustily when the Joust Barker yelled the name of Jorah Mormont and booed unequivocally at the announcement of Jason Mallister, an agreeable enough figure to the three at any other time.
"So that's where the bugger's been," Rodrik announced, pointing at Torrhen who was helping Jorah's squire to finish arming the Bear.
"What's that on his arm," rumbled Greatjon.
"The Stout?" asked Lohgun.
"No, dumb arse. The hairy bear. Looks like lace or silk. Got a pattern er somein' on it."
"Ha-ha," Lohgun burst. "He did it! The cheeky, love starved chump did it!"
"Did what? Did what?" Rodrick complained.
"Won the favor of Lynesse Hightower," the wildling explained.
The Tilt Starter dropped the flag and two armored destriers burst from a standstill to charge one another, knights mounted on their backs. CRASH! To the amazement of none, the Lord of Bear Islands wobbled heavily in his saddle but just managed to keep his seat. To the amazement of any who frequented tourneys, the estimable Lord of Seagard tumbled to earth.
"HUZZAH !" the crowd roared, appreciating an upset.
In the afternoon of the first day of the Tourney the Badger punched the breath out of a bantam quick, skinny rooster of a man-at-arms from the Stormlands. And the Greatjon quickly pummeled someone even hairier than Jorah Mormont into submission. But of the Lord of Bear Islands, there was no sign that night as his compatriots happily drank their way through some of the more disreputable parts of Lannisport and some of its more disreputable ladies. For Jorah was too busy surreptitiously pitching woo to his new noble lady sweetling.
The second day saw both the Badger and the Greatjon triumph with little trouble against the pugilists arrayed against them in either of the two rounds of the boxing competition run in the isolated corner of the elaborate Tourney. Lohgun, due to the timing of his second bout, missed watching Jorah triumph over Bronze Yohn in what Stout and Locke excitedly retold him required three tilts to decide. The wildling contented himself to swig the juice of the grape and watch a few other fisticuffs, as well as the axe throwing contest allotted that day to the same back field as the boxing.
And again that night, the Lord Mormont performed a disappearing act on his friends, in favor of spending time with sweet Lynesse as the Bear now called the golden haired beauty and youngest child of old Lord Leyton, the Master of Hightower. They did splurge for a round to help console a group of Cerwyns who lamented the breaking of their Lord Medger's arm in a loss to a dastardly Lannister, Lord Tywin's brother Gerion.
The third morning of the War Tourney found the Badger one of only four middleweight boxers left. Lohgun strode into the circle to face Mark Flowers, who he'd heard was a prizefighter that travelled with a Mummer's Show and for groats, stars, stags, and occasionally even higher stakes would beat the local village or town's toughs and bullies. The man's bare torso, arms, and legs were muscular, but not overly bulky. And as his foe stretched, the wildling could see speed and balance too. But what drew Lohgun's attention most were the prizefighter's dead eyes and the fact he wore a Maester's collar.
"Did you wallop one too many stupid noble novices or acolytes at the Citadel, and the Seneschal throw you out on your arse?" the Badger called out, trying to distract his opponent.
The man stopped his warm up exercises and focused his unfeeling eyes on Lohgun. A mirthless smile crossed the boxer's face, and in a cold voice he announced, "The Maesters broke the mold with me."
The answer sent an unnatural shiver down the Badger's spine, raising the hackles on his hairy neck. The wildling decided to be cautious with this one.
"Boxers to the ready!" shouted the Barker. The fight bell rang.
The two men judiciously approached each other and exchanged tentative jabs, each bobbing heads and swerving bodies. Lohgun launched the first combination, which the ex-Maester deflected with the padding of the bottom of his fists before pivoting out of the way and launching a punch just below his ribcage. 'He's watch me,' the wilding thought. And then the Badger dangerously stuck out his lowered head, tempting the bastard child of the Reach with an easy target. The man simply took the opportunity of Lohgun's lowered gaze to side step and hit him quickly in the kidney. "Damn," the wildling swore. Four minutes later the bell rang, ending the first round.
Returning to his corner, his friends all yelled at him. "What's the problem, Badger?!" Rodrik complained. "Thump him, shorty! You're boring me" the Greatjon grumbled. "You been drinking already?" Torrhen whined.
"He's good. Damned good," Lohgun acknowledged.
"And yer the fewkin' Badger. Beat his arse!" the Greatjon demanded.
The bell rang, and the next five minute round started. The Badger landed a few hard licks about the bastard's chin, but in exchange the Prizefighter kept working on his kidneys. The second round turned into a third and the third into a fourth. As the crowd grew larger and louder, watching the lightning quick and technically brilliant fight, Lohgun decided to use his near limitless stamina to simply wear his skilled opponent down.
Round four passed to five and five on to six as the sun rose higher in the sky; and the Badger's strategy was paying off. The ex-Maester's left eye was swollen half shut, causing him to keep shuffling to the right to be able to keep a good eye on the wildling. And each step seemed a tiny, tiny bit slower than the previous; the jabs lost speed and hit softer. Lohgun smelled victory and smiled ferociously, though he knew he'd piss blood later, for the bastard had never once stopped working the lower body, organs unprotected by bones sheathed in metal strong as Valyrian steel. The Badger jabbed quickly with his left towards the chin. The good eye widened in recognition at the incoming blow and the Prizefighter's head jerked back while stepping yet again to the right.
'Gottcha!' Lohgun thought, launching a haymaker right toward the target of the swollen left eye. To his stunned amazement, the man swung his head low, towards the Badger. The wildling's arcing punch glanced off the top of the Prizefighter's head and in return Lohgun received a jab to the face. Crack! The bastard moved left. Crack! Crack! Two lightning fast, powerful jabs slammed him in the face again, and then the trickster danced to previously unused left. 'You've been suckered!' he thought desperately.
The wildling raised his arms to try and catch the blows as he pivoted to keep up with the bastard. Lohgun squinted, the sun now shown directly in his eyes. Crack! Crack! He felt his nose break, tears welled up at the sting of pain. He flailed out, placing ill-aimed shots that bounced off shoulders and upper arms. More walloping smacks pummeled him. Nearly blind, the Badger grabbed for the safety of a clinch, snaring one of his foe's arms. He buried his face right into the ex-Maester's neck, up against the collar of alternating metals. To his amazement, the iron, brass, steel, bronze, cooper, platinum, and Valyrian steel forged links of the collar started to glow and sizzle with heat. Lohgun felt the chain burning into the flesh of his face.
"Yeeeeooohhhh," he screamed, pushing away from the clinch.
Crack!
The Badger barely felt the blow, or a second later the touch of the earth on his back. The world spun. The crowd cheered.
Lohgun felt a wet cloth laying across his face. He swiped it away and found himself laid out on a cot inside the partially darkened Umber pavilion.
"The wildling lives," said a kind voice.
"Want some wine?" asked another.
"Helman? Galbart?" the Badger wondered, mind fuzzy and unsure of his surroundings.
"And Medger too," announced Lord Cerwyn. "We're having a meeting of the Tourney losers. Glad you woke up in time to join our frightful little party."
"What happened?" he murmured.
"To you? Looks like you got kicked by a mule," said the Lord of Deepwood Motte. "Or at least you did. Whatever it is the Old Gods have blessed you with seems to have worked again, you're back to your regular ugly self."
Helman Tallhart and Medger Cerwyn chuckled at the insults.
"Where's the Greatjon?" he queried, trying to sit up in the cot, innards giving him a dull ache for the effort.
"He won," said Helman, Lord of Torrhen's Square. "Stunned both his foes like a cow right before slaughter."
"Which means," Medger continued, "he and his cronies are out drinking, whoring, fighting, and generally making the Lannisport militia miserable tonight."
'Where's Jorah?"
Galbart shrugged his shoulders and said, "He beat two sons of the Twins today, Hosteen and Rymer, Ryman? I think. But Helman, here, lost to Lord Whent in the morning. I beat my man, some sellsword scum, and then Ser Barristan the Bold laid me low in the afternoon. But where the Bear disappeared to? Well he weren't here earlier with the Greatjon nor Stout or Locke."
"And now yer stuck babysitting me?"
"We came to congratulate Greatjon on his victory, then he offered us wine and ale to sit with you, so we took him up on his offer," Helman explained.
"Did any of them say how I lost?"
His three companions looked at each other mutely, at last Galbart responded, "Rodrik said you got blinded by the sun."
"I'll say," the Badger agreed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in vain hope of massaging away the sharp pain lodged behind his eyeballs. "Now where's some of that wine. I'd like a sip before I go find a bucket to piss blood into."
The fourth day of the Tourney witnessed the champions' matches for the heavyweight and middleweight boxing. The Greatjon won his bout, just like the big ox boasted all week he'd do, but at the cost of one ear turning the size of a cauliflower. Mark Flowers, relentless as the waves pounding on the beach, hammered his way to final victory. Each fighter won a purse of five hundred gold dragons that Robert happily enough gave away to the winners, as the coins belonged to his goodfather and not the crown. A croft holder from the Reach, possibly beholden to House Rowan won the archery contest to earn two thousand gold dragons and a new weirwood bow. Jorah, inspired by the beauty who's favor he carried, continued his improbable run at the tilts, defeating first Lord Whent, thus avenging Helman Tallhart, and then Lyle Crakehall, the powerful Lannister bannerman known as 'the strongboar.' At least that night the Badger suffered no ill effects from his previous day's loss and so celebrated his friend's boxing championship in true wildling fashion, stealing away for pleasure on three separate occasions with the wives or daughters of minor Westerland lordlings who'd caught his fancy.
The Badger missed the War Tourney's final day. A raven arrived in Lannisport with word that soon spread like wildfire through the Northern encampment, Eddard Stark's lady wife Catelyn had given birth to the third of his line, a girl child. With that news, all joy in the tournament fled from Lohgun. The thought of participating in the Melee and even cheering on Jorah in the last two rounds of the joust now sickened him. The wildling could no longer pretend to himself. He knew what honor demanded of him; where his place lay, far to the north, in Winterfell. So Lohgun quietly packed his meager belongings onto his sturdy little garron and slipped away from camp without a word of goodbye for his friends, just the briefest of notes scrabbled in charcoal on a table in the Greatjon's tent, "Gone North, B."