Chapter 7: A Squire's Life
The banners flew high the first day as clouds parted and the sun gave way to a blinding light. The capital was buzzing with hundreds of thousands of people pouring in from all around the continent. And as the noble flags of houses North, South and West flew afront from the ramparts and tents lining around the Tourney grounds, Cregan mainly focused his attention to the mess currently happening in the King's tent.
"Come on, push harder you nancy!" Robert Baratheon bellowed, his breath so tainted with the stench of wine Cregan could hear it from the other side of the tent.
"I can't, your Grace, the armor-... it's too small." Lancel frantically tried fastening the chestplate, yet to no avail.
"Your mother was a whore with a fat arse, did you know that?"
This was the scene Cregan was forced to play witness to fort the past decade, or so it felt like. In reality it must have been only a few minutes or so, but by the Gods, old and new, did it not seem that way. His only reprieve was the entrance of his father through the capes of the tent, the gold chain of the Hand shining brightly even in this dim place.
"One ball and no brains, that's what you are. Can't even put on a man's armor properly." Lancel unfastened the plate armor that barely held on to the King's 'figure'.
In a way he couldn't help but feel that Lancel's appointment to this role was some kind of sick joke by his family. Being the King's Squire lent you some level of prestige perhaps, and it most certainly made his name and face known among the Red Keep's inhabitants. Yet if it means going through these motions day to day, perhaps being an unknown is better.
'They're Lannisters. I'm surprised Lancel was only the first to be offered up.'
"You're too fat for your armor." Eddard spoke, driving Cregan off his train of thought.
The King looked at his Hand incredulously, "Fat, is that how you refer to your King?"
Silence, as there always is, and then a wheeze, followed by a laugh, as there always is. Cregan remained still as a statue, not giving anything away with his face, while Lancel once more looked like a lost puppy looking for a way home. Eventually he even started to laugh with the two old men, if a bit nervously. Before Robert turned to face the squire.
"That was funny, is it?" Robert's laugh turned hollow in an instant, and his expression became sour.
Like a performer Lancel managed to turn himself off immediately as well, "No, your Grace." his eyes darted back to the ground and Cregan sighed internally.
"No? You don't like the Hand's jokes?" Robert said before quickly turning to Cregan, "And what about you, eh? You don't laugh at your father's own japes?"
"Not at all, your Grace. I'm very amused as you can see." The sight was more sad than anything, but Cregan couldn't help but be fascinated at the scene unfolding in front of him, and just how much one person can be ridiculed into the dirt.
Robert scoffed. "Seven Hells, remind me not to start calling you Ned when I get too drunk lest I'll start confusing the both of you." that one did manage to get a breath out of him at least, both him and his father. "Now you two heard the Hand, the King's too fat for his armor, go fetch the breastplate stretcher! NOW!"
Without a second thought Lancel nearly bolted out the tent. If Cregan had not stopped him at the exit he was sure the boy would have most likely been halfway to Casterly Rock at the speed he was running. Once Cregan put a hand on his shoulder however the Lannister stopped dead in his track and looked at him confused.
"There is no breastplate stretcher." Eddard explained to Lancel before quickly turning to a wheezing Robert. "You're torturing the poor boy."
"Aye, I am. I'd say he finally has another pair of brains to help his brawn but I'm not sure if this cockless little twat has a single muscle in that spindly little body of his." the King marched himself over to the small wooden table to his right and grabbed an empty glass. "Still, you two make yourselves useful and fetch us some more wine."
"Of course, your Grace." Cregan responded, bowing alongside Lancel with his hand still on the boy's shoulder and leading them both out of the tent.
The two exited outside together and Eddard and Robert continued their conversation, yet that was of no concern to him.
In the actual Tourney ground life was bustling as ever, and many squires like Cregan and Lancel quickly scurried around to fetch something or other. Knights were practicing for the upcoming events, and servants of other natures went to fulfil their own tasks. Were it not for their arguably more lavish attire, the two might now have stood out much.
Between his golden locks Lancel attempted to hide the scowl forming on his face. It was something the Lannisters seemed to do quite often, those who had enough hair on their head that is. The right thing to do would most likely have been consoling the poor man, and while Cregan was sympathetic to his issues, he knew all too well Lancel would not have any words of encouragement, especially from him.
"You really should go against him more, you know?" Still, a guilty conscience is a tired conscience.
"What?" Lancel replied almost immediately, it seemed he did not want to be found out.
"The King, you need to stand up to him more." he replied simply.
Lancel looked at Cregan as if he had grown not one, but several heads on his shoulders. "Tell me Stark, does that Northern Wind blow out all of intellect along with it? Are you utterly mad? Going against the King…" Lancel finally regained some color to his face, at least.
"Why do you think he treats you so harshly?"
"You really are daft aren't you? He hates us, that's why. It was clear from the first day he never wanted us to squire for him, me or my brother."
"And why do you think he allows me to talk to him as I do. My father may be the Hand, but I am still his squire, am I not?"
"Because you Starks share a history with him, plain and simple. The King would sooner bed Eddard Stark than show our family even a morsel of kindness."
"Incorrect." Cregan raised a finger, prompting Lancel's attention. "It is because I know when to call on his bluffs, I can recognise his speech, the way he talks and what he wants to hear. There are times when he wants approval, other times he wishes for banter, most often he just wants a drinking partner."
The Lannister squire squinted his eyes at the Stark, the two were similar in height, though Lancel was of a far more lanky build than him. Where his shoulders were tight and formal, walking with confidence and control, Lancel often struggled to pace himself. Where Cregan stopped and observed, Lancel put his head down and listened for nothing other than the King's summons. Over the time since he had become Robert's squire, Cregan silently tried breaking down Lancel's habits. Stopping and going at random intervals during walks, slowing down or speeding up at indeterminate times. When they would be standing about Cregan would make sure to put himself right beside the Lannister, with proper form, head held high and arm behind his back, over time Lancel would notice and attempt to imitate him. When Robert called for wine, Cregan would not carry the jug around in his arms, but pick it up and place it back down on a nearby table, showing that he was ready to perform any other action the King required of him.
"Yes, and he tolerates your remarks because you're Eddard Stark's son. If I were to do such a thing he'd have me flogged and my head on a pike before supper."
"How do you know? You've never attempted it, you've only kept your head down and mindlessly followed whatever he told you to do or say. I thought Lannisters were meant to be proud, to keep their heads held high like the Lions they are."
"There's no use keeping your head high when you'll be pierced for it…"
Cregan sighed, 'If only you were this stubborn with him, maybe he'd respect you more…' It was a slow process, but in some strange way Cregan felt it was his duty to help him, though why he was so inclined he could not say. Lancel was a good 4 years older than him, practically a man grown with whiskers grown on his lip, yet from the way he acted you would think the two's ages had gotten mixed up.
"All I am saying, Lancel, is that if you don't grow a backbone sooner or later, only one of us will be knighted eventually." The title of 'Ser' was a contentious point for the Lannister, it was clear he admired his cousin in the Kingsguard very much so, there were even certain mannerisms Cregan could distinguish as him trying to imitate the Kingslayer.
"Oh of course, next time our King goes and does a little joke about his girth I'll be sure to laugh in his face about it like your father does. What is the worst that could happen?" Lancel replied with all the sarcasm a westerner could bring about in conversation. It was the one thing he hated most about conversations in the South, everything always had to be tinged with a coat of condescension.
"You'll most likely lose your position as Robert's squire, get sent back to Casterly Rock, fulfil the squireship you have left with a far lesser master, and then spend the rest of your life inheriting your father's position as castellan of the Rock married to some noble girl from the Westerlands."
"Very funny."
"I don't really see what's funny about that, or have the Lannisters just been so marred down with lies their entire life that the truth has become nothing more than a mummer's farce to you?"
To the sides, Cregan spotted a white cloak, and heard the rattling of chainmail and plate. Ser Barristan stood at the battlements overlooking the fields in which the joust would take place, his helm to his side, the old man looked almost like the image of a fairy tale knight. Were he only a few decades younger Sansa would no doubt have added him to the long list of charming cavaliers she's fallen for. For the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, he did not paint the very lordly image that would come with that position. Servants and squires simply walked past him without acknowledgment, fellow knights paid no heed unless greeted directly, and the few who did notice the man's presence responded to it with hushed whispers.
"Go on without me Lancel, I'll catch up. The wine barrels are just south of those tents, keep going for a few miles and head left. And-..."
"I know where the bloody wine is." Lancel marched off without a second word.
"-don't forget the breastplate stretcher." Cregan added, much to the Lannister's continued grumbling.
Ser Barristan remained where he was, yet despite the man's age it seemed his senses did not wain one bit, he knew that much at least. It was for this reason he didn't even attempt to hide the fact that he was approaching the Lord Commander. Barristan greeted the Stark with a warm smile and the same stoic gaze he always had. Since their training session this morning the two had gotten to know each other somewhat, yet it was never anything past simple pleasantries. Still, Cregan was glad to have an opportunity to speak to the old man.
"A fine day to you, my lord."
"Still caught up in formalities, Ser Barristan?"
"I wouldn't have it any other other way."
The two stood side by side near the ramparts. The tourney grounds were still in the process of being set-up, albeit it was in the final stages. Only a few hours more and the festivities shall finally begin proper. All of the nobles and guests of honor shall be seated, and the peasantry shall have their spaces to gather as well.
"Do you intend to participate?" he asked the Lord Commander.
"No, I am afraid not."
"A shame, I had hoped to see your prowess with a lance as much as I've seen your swordsmanship."
"Of that you shall see in the future, have no doubt." Barristan readjusted the helmet in his arm, leaning it gently against the sword strapped to his sides. "Tell me, do you have any expectations of the coming games?"
"No." Cregan replied simply. 'I suppose they do all seem like nothing more than games to someone like you.'
"You should, the participants this time around seem to be quite the batch. Come what may, we could be seeing a very interesting tourney unfold here." he had not expected the old knight to be so optimistic sounding of the whole affair, yet Ser Barristan's voice was filled with a momentary bout of life. "I started my own path to knighthood at a tourney, as do many promising warriors."
"The tourney of Blackhaven, yes, I know."
"You're familiar with the story then." Barristan smiled humbly, his steeled and pale blue eyes shining against the sun.
"There's a rare few children who don't know tales of Barristan the Bold, even rarer few who've had the chance to speak with him in person as I'm doing now."
"Yes and rare few of said tales that aren't overembellished I'm sure."
A knight on a dark brown horse trotted onto the tourney grounds opposite the two. He wore the notable Kingsguard raiments same as Ser Barristan, and Cregan soon recognized the man. Ser Roland Storm. The Kingsguard knight trotted around with his horse, doing a few circles about the field, it seemed he was doing it as nothing more than an attempt to pass the time.
The Kingsguard themselves were an odd bunch, Cregan found. Tales could be spun on end of men like Barristan Selmy or Jaime Lannister, they were men who still remembered a time when being a knight meant something. Yet then there were others like Meryn Trant, Boros Blount and Preston Greenfield. Trant and Greenfield were fine warriors as far as Cregan knew, yet their moral character left much to be desired. Blount on the other hand lacked both, how someone like him could even earn the title of a knight was beyond comprehension for Cregan. But despite the bad apples, there were also men such as Arys Oakheart. While he had never properly spoken to the man, Myrcella had not but good things to say about him, not as a knight but as a person.
But then came the issue of Ser Roland. Where he knew of Ser Barristan and the Kingslayer from stories, and the others from pure happenstance, Storm remained a mystery. He often stood apart from his brothers yet not in a distinguishing way, more from the fact he seemed more soldier than noble. It was understandable, of course, the man was a bastard, his name gave away that much at least. Yet unlike many of his other contemporaries it did not seem to affect him at all. He did not try to hide himself away like a man ashamed of his existence, yet he does not carry himself as a man who is proud of his gained rank as a knight.
"Tell me Ser Barristan," Cregan said, "how much do you know about Ser Roland."
"Roland… Well, not much, all things considered. He's a fine man, relatively speaking, with a good head on his shoulders and as skilled a warrior as would befit a knight of the Kingsguard. Although… ah, it is not my place to speak ill of my brothers."
"Very well, I'll not pry." There was no point in trying to get more out of the Lord Commander. While he may seem loose-lipped he means every word he says, and rarely goes back on it.
"You ask many questions, Cregan, yet when faced with an obstacle you do not face it. Why is that?"
"A force of habit, Ser. One I picked up from my time-"
"In Highgarden, yes, I am aware." there was a resonant scorn in Barristan's voice, one Cregan had not heard until now, which only made it that much more noticeable.
"You have issues with the Tyrell's?" it was clear on where his points of contention lie. For all his worth, Cregan did not need to have a Maester's worth of knowledge to deduce of how Barristan felt about Robert's Rebellion, yet in some way it made the old knight far more worthwhile in his eyes. He did not need to continue serving the Baratheons after the war, yet Robert helped and spared the man knowing full well he would. Duty was the most important thing to Barristan Selmy, no matter what else his convictions were.
"None you should worry yourself about. I know you are close with Mace Tyrell's children, you'll find no disagreements from me there, they seem like a fine bunch."
"One does not usually describe children and a family as 'a fine bunch', however I am glad you do not disprove of my history."
"It is no business of mine."
"Indeed, it isn't." a silence befell the two as they parted gazes from one another, perhaps too hard of a response, but Cregan did not care much to rectify that mistake. The past was the past, leave it and move on. Speaking of moving on however. "I should return to my duties, Ser. The King gets very grumpy without his wine you see."
"Before you leave Cregan, one more moment of your time."
"Of course."
"I know we have just started your training, as well as the princes. However there is something I want to ask of you. When the time comes for the tourney to begin, watch what unfolds, look at every event that happens. When it is all over, tell me what you saw."
"You ask me to be a spectator for an event I am already going to watch, Ser."
"Not watch, I want you to see it all. Can you do that Cregan?"
The realization dawned on him on what Barristan was referring to. He nodded. "Of course, Ser." and bowed to the knight, who smiled once more.
"Good lad, now go. We shall have our next training session once this whole business is over, and I shall begin training you both proper."
As the two parted ways Cregan thought of the old knights words. There was of course something he wanted him to "see" in this tourney, but what it was escaped Cregan. There was no point in speculation though, he shall only have to wait and find out then.
His time as Robert's squire was not as momentous an occasion as Cregan would have hoped, yet there was still something to be learned from the experience. Now that he would be trained in the arts of war proper as well by Ser Barristan, Cregan began thinking of the ways in which he himself could improve without others' influence, lest he become reliant on the goodwill of others to succeed.
The life of a squire may not be so glorious yet come time and patience opportunities arise eventually.
The horns began to bellow, and soon the tourney would commence.