Season I, Episode I, Part II: The Crown

The Training Grounds

Mance Tarstark, Crown Prince to the Six Kingdoms

"Higher, Mance, Higher!"

Mance raised his sword higher, to try and deflect the hit that he knew would hit him anyways.

Clang!

Had Mance not been wearing thick armour, and had the sword that hit him sharper, he'd have certainly died. Duncan the Tall had been growing old, yet, he had sworn to make the Heir to the Six Kingdoms a knight before he died. And Duncan the Tall would carry through with his vows.

Mance took a few steps back.

"You are not trying your hardest, Mance." said Duncan.

Mance took off his helm, sweating profusely. "Sorry, Ser."

"Do not apologize, Your Grace," Duncan said. "If you were to ever go into battle against a foe, they will not be so merciful as I am now. Do you understand that?"

"I'm sorry, Ser," Mance said sheepishly as he looked down to his feet.

Duncan sighed before responding, "You have heard of the Game of Thrones, yes?"

Mance looked up and nodded.

"Tell me about it." commanded Duncan

"Well… Before my father became King, your ability to become powerful was not decided on merit or accomplishments, but rather, on how much you schemed along with, and against others."

Duncan nodded, prompting him along.

"Well, many innocent people lost their lives to this, because they weren't scheming enough. And sometimes, people went through too much scheming, they went mad."

Duncan nodded, before speaking. "You may think of it as nothing more than a bunch of lords and ladies clawing and scratching at each other's throats to gain more power for themselves, but it is different."

Mance's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "None of the lords and ladies that I know of do that… and how is it different?"

"Well, not the lords and ladies of now, but I have met quite a few in my time," Duncan said. "In any case, the Game Of Thrones is more of a match of wits, of sorts. Like Cyvasse, you basically get an evaluation of how your opponent's methods work. How clever are they? Can you trust them? What secrets do they hold back? If you're not too careful, your enemies will surround you and eat you up alive."

"And swordfighting is no different than the game of thrones?" Mance asked eagerly.

The elder knight nodded. "Very much so. After all, most swordsmen are trained differently. Myself, for instance. And then there is Sers Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, Barristan Selmy, and of course the Lord Hand, of course."

"How come Lord Jaime never wants to duel with me?"

Duncan saw vulnerability in the boy's eyes even though his face remained passive. "Oh I wouldn't say he doesn't want to duel with you. I'm sure he does, it's just the matters of the Realm tend to take his time away from any swordplay he wants to partake in. I'm sure if you were to ask him, he wouldn't mind."

And he wouldn't, Duncan knew, for he had constantly seen the look of disappointment in the Golden Hand's eyes when they passed one another in the corridors. Disappointment and longing to a time where things seemed much simpler. Hopefully a duel with the young Prince could lift the dark clouds looming over Lannister's head. And any ghosts that he had.

"You really think so?" Mance's eyes brightened softly.

"I do," Duncan said. "Now shall we try again?"

Mance lifted his sword and got into stance, more determined than before, and waited as Duncan went on the offense.

The Crown

A little birdy

No name. He'd lost his original name long ago. He was merely a "spy" now, merely a set of far - eyes, for anyone to view through. Well, not anyone, per se, more like merely Larys, and whoever else offered him a free meal.

And now, as he crept silently along one of The Crown's many passageways, he heard a conversation that he was sure certain people would love to hear about. Perhaps they'd even give him a full meal because of it.

Victarion Harlaw was speaking with another man. The other man was taller, but more lean. No Name guessed he was likely a spy as well.

"I have completed the assasination. I require the second half of my payment now."

The Kraken nodded. "That, you shall get."

The Kraken handed the man a pouch of gold coins. The man accepted.

"I look forwards to doing business with you, Your Grace."

No Name nearly fell from his hiding spot. Your Grace? What the hell was wrong with these people? Only Aegon Tarstark was fit to be King, a Kraken would never be King.

No Name knew that his life was of little importance to anyone, least of all himself. But he wanted to die a hero.

And so, No Name followed the Assassin. Victarion Harlaw turned around, his 'stylish' robes spinning with him, like an octopus, and swirled the other way. The Assassin himself began to walk out, but No Name knew that the assasin wouldn't dare exit The Crown from any of its main entrances. The guards would question him thoroughly if they found him leaving with a pouch full of coin.

No Name also knew that there was a secret passageway a few dozen yards ahead. It had been carved out of the wall, literally, when Balerion the Great Black Dread had attacked Harrenhal. When the Fortress was being repaired, the builders found it easier to just patch up and cover the holes then actually fill them in, which made a passageway through the four meter thick walls of the fortress, leading to the Outer City.

The passageway opened up sixty feet in the air, but that wasn't a problem, because there were heaps of old cow dung, fertilizer, that would soften the fall of anyone who came through.

Had the heap been placed there deliberately?

Most likely, it had. Unlike the mythical Red Keep, Harrenhal hadn't been built with thousands of secret passageways.

Yanking himself back into the present, No Name forced himself to slow down. No need to alert the assassin to his presence. While calling the guards on the assassin would likely be the most sane course of action, the guards, and while they might arrest the assassin, they wouldn't believe a boy of a mere nine name-days that Victarion Harlaw had hired the Assassin, nor would they believe that he was plotting to be king.

So, No Name needed to find out more information. And so, he found himself unconsciously reaching through the secret passageway, steeling himself for the sixty foot drop. He needed to go before the Assassin, because if the Assassin went through instead, he'd be able to just turn around, and see a young boy standing there.

Three. Two. One. No Name let go of the sides of the passageway, allowing gravity to pull him down.

Fwump!

No Name grunted as he slammed into the dung pile, then slid over the side of it, and hid behind a hay bale. The Assassin might come through any second now. He tried to catch his breath, but it appeared that his fall had been harsher than intended.

Fwump!

The man rolled as he fell, which allowed him to absorb the shock better than his younger adversary. The man got off of the heap, shaking his robes clear of any residue, and was about to leave, when -

He froze, and seemed to remember something. The Assassin turned around, moved over to the dung heap, and felt it.

No Name realized his mistake. If one person jumped off, the heap would only soften a certain amount. But if two people jumped off, it'd be a lot softer than normal.

No Name was suddenly very aware of his hyper - breathing, and of the aching in his ribs. He tried to inch away.

The Assassin himself was looking around, clearly panicked. Then, he attempted to steel himself.

"Someone must've come through earlier… Way earlier… " The Assassin mumbled, clearly trying to encourage himself.

No Name tried to quiet down his breathing, but he only succeeded in making it louder.

Realizing that he needed to kill the Assassin, lest the uninjured man realize he was there and murder him, No Name attempted to get up.

Bad move.

He'd clearly broken a rib. Unfortunately, he didn't realize this until he tried to take a deep breath, and ended up yelling with pain from his rib, which was poking into his lungs now.

The Assassin turned around, and threw the dagger.