CHAPTER 4 – THE WARRIOR
The day broke in all its southern splendour, nobles prepared to make their way down to the tourney grounds where the entertainment for the day would take place. Raeghun and Claira passed down the halls, the lord Taugere dressed befittingly in leather and the colours of his house; and his lady dressed in a gown of sapphire blue and her throat adorned with a circlet of gold, diamond and aquamarine gems, and seven sentinels following closely. As they walked the path past the gardens, lord Varys made his appearance and smiled broadly.
"My dear Winter lady, the southern comforts truly enhance you. If I may bother our good lord to steal you away to the garden for a short walk?" he asked, and she nodded.
"Of course." Raeghun brought her hand to his lips.
"Be careful." he whispered, but Claira smiled at him.
"He can't hurt me." she said softly, and touched his face tenderly.
"I know lord Varys. It's not him I'm worried about." Raeghun said again, not looking away from her.
"Go on. I'll meet you at the grounds." she urged, and he left her reluctantly; ordering two guards to stay at her side. They wandered down the narrow path towards an edge overlooking the ocean; the guards lingered back allowing the lady and her accomplice an opportunity to speak freely.
"Such lovely weather we have, his grace chose a good season for a tourney." lord Varys said, the smell of sweet lavender coming off him.
"It's a good distraction for my lord husband; things have been difficult of late." she said, her hands folded in front of her stomach as they walked.
"Oh yes; the untimely demise of the great lord Rychard was hard set on everyone. I understand sweet lady Madryde was laid to rest beside him barely a season after. Such a tragedy to part of a broken heart." he affirmed as he glanced her way.
"It was a dismal time, and having to see off his gentle sister to her betrothed left yet another void." she added softly, then he turned to her.
"So troublesome, the difficulties of life. I understand that conception has also been difficult for you, yet another stretch to the emptiness. How long has it been since you relinquished your old home for the new, three years? It must add to the lord's longing that the house has not grown yet." he said sympathetically, the shine of the sun glinting on the still waters of the ocean.
"Some things take time, lord Varys." Claira reminded.
"Indeed they do. After all, frost and flame don't unite easily." he said grinning, but there was no malignity in his eyes. She smiled back at him.
"They don't. Many things don't merge easily; but I do find it interesting, lord Varys that someone who started out with so little melded so easily with the splendour of the court. Hard work rightfully is a measure to judge by." she complimented.
"Truly, hard work does pay off. But it is not the only method used to get by in the world." he said, scanning their immediate surroundings.
"No, but you. The master of whispers... The spider, a less enjoyed name I'm sure. You came from across the narrow sea at some point, and you travelled with a group of pretenders. But I understand, lord Varys, that beneath your bare scalp your hair is still white." she mentioned with a confident smile, and a look of surprise flashed across his features before he smiled again.
"I trust that we can count on each other's understanding." she said, and he bowed his head to her.
"Of course my dear lady, I wouldn't have it any other way." he said, as he straightened up.
"Wonderful. Now, if you'll excuse me my lord. My husband awaits me." she said, and hurried off to the stables with the two guards following. She mounted a grey mare and proceeded down to the road to the tourney grounds with her guards following close behind on the brown geldings.
A group of mercenaries occupied a local tavern near the Lion Gate, whom had come to compete in the tourney in the hopes of receiving a lord's bidding, or at least making enough off winning matches to support them for yet another few days. One sat at a table, secluded from the others, a fearsome great sword rested against the wall next to him and his left hand clasped around the rim of a horn filled with golden ale, while listening to the clamour and chatter and jovial music of the bards, his eyes staring at the wood of the table, how the threads of the wood seemed to flow along one another, like a solid river. He contemplated for a moment how intricate these threads seemed to be, like the many long years he spent just existing and searching for something to put meaning to.
"Nomad! Are you fighting today?" a lean man asked as he came over, then stood resting his hand on the table and leading forward.
"No. I don't feel like it." the sell sword declined, bringing the horn to his mouth and swallowing
"Come on, win us a match. You're the best of us, you can make us a lot of money." the standing man said, and dark eyes looked up at him.
"I'm not the only one, Baret." the Nomad reminded, but he smiled.
"The men's got to eat." he returned, and the Nomad scoffed.
"You can do it yourself, can't you?" he asked, and brought the horn back to his lips.
"Sure I can. But why should I when you can do it so effortlessly? I'm not about to break my back for these odorous lords." he said straightening up.
"But you expect me to do it?" Baret smiled,
"You'll enjoy it much more." he said, the Nomad shook his head.
"I'm not going to be around forever." he said, and Baret laid a hand on his shoulder.
"I know you're not. So while you are, I plan on making good use of you." he said, then turned.
"I'll arrange you a good one!" he called back as he strode for the door, and the Nomad's eyes scanned the tavern, his comrades as they drank and joked and quarrelled and flirted with the tavern women; and then went back to the table, to the horn in his hand. Was this the meaning he had? To move about the kingdoms with these lumps of muscle that travelled the land and took money for lives. What a pointless being...
Raeghun stood on the steps of the platform that was erected for the nobility to sit and watch the entertainments, waiting for his wife. The young lord Petyr Baelish passed him, and smiled.
"Do you place bets; lord Raeghun." he asked merrily.
"I'm not fond of gambling, lord Petyr." he replied, still scanning the masses that entered the tourney grounds.
"It's all in good fun. A grand champion will be dominating the fields today, ser Loren Masur the Steel Guilded. You can be sure that I'll be making some gold off him." he said smiling.
"Well, enjoy your fun." Raeghun urged, and then breathed out relieved as he saw Claira emerge from the crowd with the two guards following her towards the platform.
"Oh I will. By the way, you've been married to a fine woman for some years now. And still no sons to show? Some may start to wonder..." Petyr said as he looked back to notice whom it was that made Raeghun's uneasiness fade like a cloud in front of the wind, and then Raeghun looked back at him and their eyes met, clear and burning.
"Have them wonder all they wish. Perhaps you may enquire with your grand maester, the promise of our house, lord Petyr." he suggested.
"Perhaps I will. Come, lord Raeghun. One bet!" Petyr urged, raising a hand.
"Five hundred gold dragons, on the champion!" he announced as he turned and faced those around him, challenging anyone to meet his stake. Raeghun grinned, and breathed out.
"Very well. I might buy my beloved wife a new Dornish stallion." he said, and Petyr smiled at him before continuing on his way to find a suitable seat in the centre of the platform. Claira came up the steps then, the guards remaining on the ground. He held his hand for her, and she took it. They took their places on a bench in the front to see the fighters battle in the melee.
Three matches followed, between knights of house Tyrell against Redwyne, Tarly against Baratheon and Royce against Frey before a short breather ensued. The lords conversed on many different topics, and placed their wagers as many did. Wine and ale was served to the lords and ladies in the stands and breads, cheeses and fruits dispensed to the nobility. Finally, a tall man dressed in white, orange and blue emerged from the shadows under the arena gate and raised his hands to the people. The Nomad stood watching him from the darkness under the stands, and noticed all the staring faces excited for the duel to come. All the high-born in their silks and velvets of yellow, red, green, grey, orange and blue.
"My lords! My ladies! Your grace!" he called for the people's attention, and bowed low to the king before he continued.
"For your entertainment, a duel set to match as has not been seen since the great ser Barriston Selmy himself against The Iron Hammer of the Andals! Our champion – Ser Loren Masur the Steel Guilded!" he said holding an outstretched arm to a big fighter, clad from crown to heel in shining plate armour. He displayed himself to the crowd, holding a glinting battleaxe high above his head and roaring like a hungry bear. The Nomad scoffed as an image flashed in his mind, and he could only compare the knight to a peacock prancing in a garden, then the announcer continued.
"And the challenger – Nomad!" he said, motioning back to the arena gate. The warrior stepped out, long dark hair falling about his muscled shoulders. Compared to the shining knight, he must have seemed frail, clad in leather and simple mail armour, a brown cloak fastened around his shoulders and the hilt of a sword projected from behind his right shoulder. He walked across the sand like he was gliding, every step sure and confident. Then stopped in the centre of the arena, and suddenly looked up straight at a lady sitting right in front of him, dressed in blue. Her hair was black as midnight, with wisps of white marbling the lustrous locks falling over her left shoulder. For an instant, his breath caught in his throat when her eyes met his. Blue eyes... the colour of winter frost against in the morning light; and everything else dissolved into nothing. And for that moment, no one else existed. Not the announcer, still addressing the crowds; not the champion strutting like a dominant cock in front of the people, not the lords in their silks and golds; not even the king on the highest pedestal. Only her. A gentle breeze came over him, and the words he had paid no mind to in years rekindled in his head – The Breath of Winter.
"How dare they place you against me? A common sell sword against a knight?! I'm offended!" the knight suddenly called, and the warrior calmly faced him.
"I didn't choose the match, but you underestimate me, ser." he said, just standing there. He didn't make any attempt to ready himself for battle.
"Look at you! You look like dirt!" Loren said, attempting to insult the challenger, whom simply smiled.
"I am of the earth, yes. But so are you. It is the consistency that differs." he agreed, still not removing his weapon.
"I'll carve you like a rock-" the knight called, gripping the axe tighter in his hands.
"When stone strikes sand, it leaves a crater. Would you care to test my words, or stand there spewing your own all day?" the Nomad challenged again, but Loren laughed.
"I've won every match in this tournament, I never lose. No one has ever seen you fight, your name is a blowing leaf." he tried to insult the warrior again.
"My name is a blowing leaf, because none whom have faced me survived to spread it." the Nomad said simply.
"You piece of hog shit! I'll remove your head before you draw your sword!" the knight threatened, but the Nomad remained smiling.
"Come and take it then." he invited, rather heartily. Claira gripped her husband's fingers, seeing the vast difference in the fighters. He placed a comforting hand on hers.
"Ser Loren Masur-" the knight started, and then the Nomad turned slightly.
"If you're not going to do something, then I'm leaving. I have better things to do than to waste my time on a squealing coward." the warrior said, and the knight raised the head of the axe.
"Coward? Coward?! I'll have your guts for hall draping!" he shot forward, and the Nomad turned to face him again. Loren raised the axe, and brought it down hard towards his challenger's head, and steel rang against steel. In an instant, the Nomad's hand was around the grip of his sword and he pulled the sword up, leaning his head slightly to the right side. The beard of the axe caught between the grip and the cross-guard, and the knight struggled. The warrior stood firm, not seeming to apply any effort at all. A muscled arm released the sword from his back and he moved, gliding the axe away from him and the knight sprawled on the ground. The Nomad turned, holding a sword that was almost as long as he was tall, easily in his hand. The knight got up and charged. Three more times he lunged at the challenger, and three more times steel rang against steel before he was left with sand in his plates, or idling around the ring. The Nomad remained in the centre, watching him intently and warding off every attack like it was practice, like it was all a dance he had done time and time again before.
"Look at that. He's playing with him." one of the nearby lords commented, and his friend stood, gripping the railing with a gloved hand.
"Fight, you miserable lout!" he called, and ser Loren charged at the challenger again his axe held high. He brought it down hard, roaring. The warrior raised his blade, blocking the attack; but then he moved again twisting the long blade and taking the axe with it before drawing blood and a gauntlet fell to the ground.
"My hand! You bastard! You fucking crazy whore-son!" the knight cried out, attempting to grip the open wound where his hand once was, the blood spewing out and darkening the ground under his knees.
"Now, now. Be respectful; my parents loved one another." the warrior said, turning around to face him again. The knight screamed in pain and then in rage.
"I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you! You're fucking dead!" Loren roared as his remaining hand gripped the axe and he flung it at the challenger, but it slipped from his blood-soaked hand and soared high through the air towards the lady in blue. As she raised her hands the blade of the great sword pierced into the sky and again steel struck against steel, and the axe fell and buried in the sand.
"Are you as blind as you are foolish?" he asked, and the knight stood. He pulled a knife from his belt and charged forward again. The warrior moved once more, swinging the blade to rest on his shoulder as he did, using his speed and agility to drive the edge through the remaining wrist and another gauntlet found the arena grounds. He looked back at the champion wailing on his knees in the sand staring at the open spaces where hands once were. Hands that would never again commit atrocities.
"I won't kill you like was expected; this match is over." he said, and then walked towards the lady in sapphire and her husband, he knelt in front them and lay his sword on the ground before bowing his head.
"I offer you my victory, your elegance; to honour your house." he looked up again, at her. Her hand clenched her husband's, and she glanced at him. With a soft smile he inclined, and she stood before showing her approval; and the entire crowd joined in with immoderate applause, cheering, whistling, some even laughed. The handless knight was escorted from the tourney grounds. Then the lord wreathed in fire stood.
"Win me three more victories; and I may offer you a meat and mead at my table, and a place in my hall!" he bid, and the warrior bowed his head low again.
"Three more victories shall be yours, sire." he assured, then stood and left the arena after replacing the great sword in its place on his back. He could hear the contrasting temperaments of the spectators, the demands for due bets and accusations of cheating. And a lighter tone when a lord said: "Come, lord Petyr. You can help me pick out my wife's new horse." There would be no further matches today, but he didn't feel compelled to return to the tavern yet; and spent his time wandering the fair erected near the tourney grounds, noting all the different objects. Dornish wines, silks from the reach, jewellery from the Lannisport, Spices brought from Pentos and oils from Myr, fresh game from the kingswood... all manner of novelty that would be shoved under the noses of any who dared pass the edifice. A party of guards went by him, wearing the gold of the city watch. What a bunch of rabble. The thought occurred, and then he looked the other way, his gaze floating above the heads of the people footling about trying to fill their time. For a time he remained there, pondering at the simplicity of what life came to. The high exchanged what they had in their pockets for the sweat of the lowest, and they in turn gave up what they could for what might or might not be called a roof over them for shelter in the rain from the high. On and on it goes, in a never-ending circle that could only be broken by the hunger of the earth. He thought then that it may be best to return to the tavern after all, wait out the night and meet a new challenge. He turned, and then stopped. Before him stood the lady dressed in sapphire blue, her bewitching hair reflecting the late day sun, and the cold of winter in her eyes. Clasped in her delicate hands, was a bottle of dried herbs bought from one of these merchants, three guards stood vigilant on all sides. He bowed low.
"My pardon, your elegance." he excused, but then she smiled at him.
"You fought well today, ser." she complimented, and he raised up.
"Not ser, your elegance. I'm not a knight." he corrected, his eyes fixed on her flawless features.
"Regardless. You saved my life today. Had you not raised your weapon, ser Loren's axe would have split my chest open, if not my head." she revealed. He bowed his head.
"I am glad, that I could have been of service to you, your elegance." he said, just as a guard came from the side.
"Lady Claira, your lord husband requests your soonest attendance." he issued, and she acknowledged him.
"Where is lord Raeghun?" she asked.
"He's at the stable yard, my lady." the guard informed.
"Where is the stable yard?" she asked, looking up.
"I know where it is, your elegance. If it please you, I may escort you?" the Nomad said, and she looked back at him, still gently smiling.
"I would like that." she said, and he bowed before extending a hand in the direction that would take them to the stable yard, and allowing her to pass him. The guards followed with mistrustful looks. They made their way through the throngs of people, he guided the way easily, being near to a foot and a half taller than the average man. They came to an extended wood building, the entrances barred with simple dock ropes and horses hanging their heads lazily over the twines to nibble on the straw strewn about the grounds. Then they glimpsed him, lord Taugere speaking with a dornish man clad in rich silks. They approached, and he looked towards her, smiling. The Nomad stopped, permitting her to continue the next few steps freely to her husband.
"You summoned me, my lord?" she enquired, and he wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders.
"I did, my love. I would like to show you something." They stepped through a throng of people, to behold a man of bronze skin and black hair clad in red garbs; a lead of chain and leather in his hand. The other end of the chain led to a halter around the head of a prancing stallion, his mane and high raised tail drifting in the wind like banners. His pelt was of rose gold, with ivory points and a blaze of pearl white down his face; his thick mane and tail the black of onyx, and clear amber eyes regarded her from where he stood. She gasped at the sight of the animal, the shine of silk on his contours.
"He's beautiful..." the lady said through fingers clasped over her mouth.
"He's yours." lord Taugere said, his smile broadening.
"Raeghun... I-" she started.
"He's yours." he insisted, taking her hands and bringing them to his lips. Claira looked at the horse again, and the man with the lead came towards her, the stallion following eagerly.
"My lady, I present to you Brazier, the sire of horses. Powerful, sturdy and faster than the south wind." the man took a big brass bell from his belt, and tolled it three times. Brazier paid no mind to it, but kept staring at the lady with his big clear eyes. She smiled then, letting her hand run down the white on the stallion's face, a tear trailed down her left cheek.
"Thank you, my beloved. Thank you so much. There are no words..." she said as she wiped the tear away, and the lord went to her and put his arms around her.
"You deserve him. And so much more. I've been unkind to you lately, and I hope you may forgive me." he whispered, and her arms went around his shoulders.
"There is nothing to forgive." he kissed her. The Nomad looked on, and felt a joy he had not experienced in years revive inside of him. A love so pure that it reminded him of a past he would never again have, and a desire to be with these people, to be part of their lives and a part of their house grew stronger. He turned and made his way silently back to the tavern where he resumed his place in front of a lively fireplace with a horn of ale and a plate of bread and cheese. Baret fell down in the chair opposite from him.
"I told you I'd arrange something good for you." he reminded, taking a slice of cheese from the plate and stuffing it in his mouth.
"I don't kill for sport, or did you forget that?" the warrior asked, but Baret smiled.
"How did you know it was a death match? I didn't." he asked, still grinning.
"Firstly, because ser Barriston had to kill the Hammer, or he would have been killed. And secondly, that knight intended to kill me." he pointed out, but Baret sat forward.
"Well then, you made sure that didn't happen. And you made sure that he would not hurt another poor, innocent girl. Not to mention you made us a good bit of gold. Everyone wins. Three flies with one swat. Or is it three birds with one stone?" he said, seizing another slice of cheese.
"Your japes grow tiresome." the Nomad said as he looked away.
"By the way, were you serious?" Baret asked as he chewed.
"About what?" he asked, staring at the fire.
"About winning three more matches for that lord? I'll have to line quite a few up for you, you know." he mentioned, and the Nomad looked back.
"Of course I was serious. And I only need three, no more." he said, and Baret nodded.
"You're going to win them all, are you?" he asked, his fingers bringing another piece of cheese to his lips.
"I'm the best of you, you said so yourself. So make what you can off me, and be done with it." Baret sighed, shaking his head slightly.
"We've had a good run, Nomad. The men won't like you abandoning us. But all these years, I've considered you a friend, not just another rusted sword. I won't stand in your way if this is what you want to do. Igon may have his conflicts, but you've handled him better than most." he said and his eyes went to the fireplace.
"I told you, I won't be around forever." the Nomad reminded.
"I get that. You don't fight for us any more. It was good while it lasted." they brought the horns together, and spent their evening inside the tavern while the others did what they did.
Two days passed as expected with the nobility packing the arena and the commoners attending wherever they could. Baret managed to arrange matches against formidable foes, all with the expected outcomes, and then the jousting followed. Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Rides came into the ring, heavy dark steel plates covered his body from head to heel, and his fearsome warhorse displayed the colours of their house draped across him in brilliant yellow with black hounds on his flanks. The knight had won every joust these past two days, unseating his challengers with shattering lances. His strength seriously injured two of his opponents, and killed another. The Nomad mounted his horse.
"You're not properly armoured ser." The squire came and took the reins to the warrior's horse.
"Not 'ser', I'm not a knight. And this is all the armour I need." he responded, taking up the reins.
"Are you seriously going up against The Mountain, looking like that?" the squire asked.
"Steel weighs me down, I'd rather be able to move freely." The Nomad said, checking the girth strap from his position on his bay stallion.
"You need a helm, ser… I mean… um.." The squire stammered, but insisted as he held up a steel helm with two narrow slits for eyes.
"I can't see with a helm. You can just hand me the lance when it is time." He said and rode out in front of the crowd; the greater part cheering and screaming. They rode to the centre of the arena and faced the king. Gregor opened the faceplate of his helm, looking stern and bowed his head to the king before glancing over at his challenger. The Nomad bowed to the king and looked at his opponent before bowing his head again.
"Ride well, ser." He greeted him, but the Mountain just stared at him, and then turned his horse to canter down and return to his position. The Nomad turned his horse and started down to his own position, but stopped in front of lord and lady Taugere before bowing to them again.
"Such a fine-looking man. And how well-mannered he is, lady Claira. I'd bet he fancies you." One of the court ladies whispered next to her, making her blush.
"Don't be ridiculous…" she whispered back, and then watched as the warrior made his way down to his position, the calm and gentle bay stallion from a moment ago now seemed wild with bright eyes and pricked ears, he seemed like his very hooves were burning on the sand as he hopped around excitedly. The competitors took their places and two brightly coloured lances were brought out to them. At the announcer's instruction, the horses reared up and bolted down the runways in a flash of black and bay, the competitors' armour clanging and ringing as their horses charged full ahead with nostrils flaring; the sound of thundering hooves on sand almost echoing in the enclosed area and the distance between them closed like ocean waves from both sides. Claira shielded her eyes with her hands, not wanting to witness the murder of another man, and in that single terrifying moment a deafening blow shook her and lances shattered, a horse was left galloping alone down the arena while a fighter sprawled in the sand; and the other rode on holding a brightly coloured broken lance high above his head to display a devastated shaft while the crowd cheered and bellowed and applauded. She looked to see Ser Gregor Clegane stumbling to his feet and then threw the helm from his head while his opponent turned and came back down the runway.
"You! I'll fuck your corpse!" he screamed and pulled a sword from his side before the sharp point of the broken lance rested against his cheek.
"You are in no position to make threats, ser." The Nomad said calmly from the back of his once again placid horse. Gregor looked up in to the eyes of the warrior, and for a moment felt hesitation strike through him. Strong as he was, this man's skill was above his own; and he had little chance if he faced him in fair combat.
"It's over." The warrior concluded before dropping the broken lance on the sand in front of the knight and then turned to bow to the king, and then continued on his way down the arena and then stopped in front of Raeghun and Claira again.
"Four victories I've claimed for the honour of your house, sire." He reported, and bowed low. Raeghun stood and approached until he stood against the wood railing.
"You have. You are both truly skilled, and brave, ser. To the point that some would call you fearless. A place among my sentinels may be yours, should you want it and if you are willing to serve." He said,
"It shall be a great honour, sire; to fight for your name. A pleasure, to lay down my being for yours, or that of your lady." He said, and Raeghun smiled.
"Good man. I will meet with you later." He said, and the sell sword bowed his head again before leaving the arena. Claira looked up the runway to where they were clearing the way for the next riders, the completely destroyed lance that the warrior in brown dropped, and held by ser Gregor, the yellow and black spiralled lance where the colours meshed together at a broken tip. The Nomad returned to the tavern, leaving his horse to be tended. He sat at the table at the fireplace as the day lingered on, rubbing his shoulder; the impact was harder than he'd expected. The Mountain earned his name rightfully. Some of the men came to congratulate him on his victory, and they shared a horn of ale. A guard stopped next to the table.
"Pardon my interruption, ser." he discontinued their conversation.
"I'm not a knight, don't refer to me as 'ser'." he corrected, and the guard bowed slightly.
"My apologies, then. Lady Claira Taugere has requested your presence, she awaits you outside." he informed, then turned and left. The Nomad swallowed a mouthful of ale, then stood and made his way outside. He found her with four guards attending her, her hands folded in front of her and her hair flowing in waves down her chest.
"You're the one named Nomad." she directed, and he bowed to her.
"It's a description, your elegance. Not a name. The Nomad Blade. But it does seem odd to call on one in a third person's perspective. I have no name that I care to share." he said, and she glanced at the tavern full of people.
"And the company you travel with." she indicated.
"The Black Bannermen, your elegance. A mercenary band, hired swords and bows." he said, and her eyes went to him again.
"You are no longer part of them. You will be Falgon." he knelt and bowed his head low.
"I swear to serve, to shield and to obey no matter the cost." he said, and she smiled.
"Relish your last night here, and join us at the Red Keep come the morn." she instructed, and he looked up.
"As you bid, your elegance." she left then, and he returned inside resuming his place and his company with the men he shared a part of his life with. Suddenly a large man approached and slammed his hand down on the table hard.
"You're leaving us? You're truly leaving us?!" Falgon looked up at him.
"I've spent five years with you; and now it's over." he said simply.
"You traitorous bastard! We had a good thing going here." the man accused.
"And I trust that you can keep it going, without me. Or are you so miserable to see me go, Igon?" he remained calm, bringing the horn to his mouth.
"You're turning your back on everything we've built!" his voice was loud, drawing the attention of those at the surrounding tables.
"I owe you nothing. My road takes me down a different path than yours." he indicated, Igon's face reddened.
"I'd rather fight and live off the land freely, than sell my balls to some delicate lord who'd expect you to lick his ass for breakfast." he said, and Falgon scoffed at him.
"As a whole, the Black Bannermen had to do a hell of a lot of ball licking to get by, before you found me." he reminded, and Igon breathed in deep.
"We were doing fine before you came along; and we'll do it again. We should have killed you." he reflected scornfully.
"But you didn't; and despite abhorring me you've been living off my actions ever since. My will is still my own; since you've been eager to prove yourself, go and do it. Leave me be." he brought the horn to his mouth again, and swallowed.
"Someday I will, and when I do; I'll take the castle you'll sit in with your beefed-up ass, slaughter your guards and castle hands, give the maidens to my men; and then I'll murder your lord and have my way with your lady. Over and over." Falgon stood, towering over the man, but he grinned spitefully.
"Oh, so that's what gets you, eh? Yeah, she's a pretty one, I saw you staring at her. Maybe I'll get to fuck her in front of you." he threatened, in a voice lower than before. Falgon breathed in, attempting to stifle the urge to break his face. Then Baret appeared behind them.
"Igon. He'll pound you like bread dough, you know that." he warned, but the mercenary remained where he was.
"He's a traitor. A backstabbing, lying, hedge born mongrel." he accused.
"Let him go his way. You've beefed up your own ass enough with what was bought with the gold made off that man's back." Igon turned towards Baret, his temperament not subsiding in the least.
"You're taking his side? You're just going to let him walk out on us?" he asked, challenging Baret for an answer.
"Where he walks is none of my business, and even less of yours. Go find yourself a whore and let it go." he instructed. Igon left then, knowing that he would not win this match. Baret fell down in the chair at the table as Falgon sat down.
"I'm sorry about that, Nomad. He's been living good with you around. Suffice it to say, many of the men don't want it to end." he mentioned, and looked at his friend staring at the fireplace.
"My name is Falgon. It is the name my queen gave me." he said softly, and Baret nodded.
"I hope that things go well for you, my friend." he said, and then excused himself to seek entertainment elsewhere. Moments later four guards clad in dark and red leather surrounded the table, and a tall man with gold whiskers and green eyes approached him.
"I want to congratulate you. I've not seen the Mountain unhorsed like that since his very first tournament. You're either very lucky, or you know exactly what you're doing." he complimented and Falgon stood, bowing to the lord.
"My thanks, lord Tywin. Long hours of training and the right horse does tend to tip the scale every so often." he said, and the lord picked up a crust of bread from the plate, and inspecting it before discarding it again.
"You're an expert warrior. You're daring, and you're smart. A man like you may be put to better use in my own guard. I will pay you three times as much as lord Taugere, of course; if you abandon his offer and accept mine." he offered with a smile.
"I'm not interested in gold, my lord." Falgon said, as an old memory resurfaced. Lord Tywin took as single step forward.
"Truly, so what is it that you do want, then?" he asked softly.
"My wants have little to do with it, lord Tywin." he assured, but the lord simply smiled at him.
"Such loyalty. And a learned man at that. Take up my offer, and I will pay you six-fold whatever lord Taugere offers you, I will persuade the king to knight you himself, and name you a castellan of one of my small holds." he offered again, and Falgon bowed his head.
"Your offer is truly generous, lord Tywin. But again, I'll decline." he said surely. The lord took yet another step closer.
"Only fools refuse a Lannister's offer." he said.
"Then a fool I am, my lord." Falgon agreed.
"Your first victory, you offered to the lady directly. Why?" he enquired.
"There is no specific reason for that, lord Tywin. Victors often offer their triumphs to honour a great house." Falgon indicated.
"Yes, yes they do. The victory is often offered to the lord, though. And your reference 'your elegance' may leave some confused." Tywin agreed.
"Is it only the house of royalty that must be addressed appropriately? Both rulers are addressed with the same words." Falgon said with a smile.
"You're a clever man, and well-spoken for a commoner. You know how to play with your words." Lord Tywin placed a hand on his shoulder.
"I hope that the lord will realize how fortunate he is, to have one such as yourself in his service. But given the fact that your attention was more on lady Claira Taugere than lord Raeghun, I'm assuming that you're not entering his service solely for him?" he observed.
"I will be whatever they need me to be. Sword and shield." Falgon clarified, and lord Tywin grinned almost knowingly.
"Stay close to her. Before too long you may find yourself handling more than one sword." he advised, and then left with his guards following close behind him. He was left to reflect on that.
Morning cam swiftly, and he left the tavern with what he had for the Red Keep. The guards met him at the gate, and granted him entry to the castle on the orders of lord Raeghun. He was met with stares from the castle hands and guards, both distrustful and admiring, but he moved forward. He was escorted to Maegor's Holdfast where the lord of Mount Ardor met with him.
"Four victories you've claimed for my name. Four times you've been undefeated." he mentioned, and Falgon bowed low.
"Four victories you ordered of me, four I gave you, sire." he said, and Raeghun smiled.
"You are a man of strength, and resolve; and more so a man of you word. This is a rarity of late." he mentioned, and Falgon straightened.
"A man is known for his word, sire. If your word means nothing, then so do you." he said, and Raeghun smiled.
"Truer words have yet to be spoken. I am glad to meet someone who still keeps to the old ways." he said,
"The old ways are all that I know, sire." he said. Lady Claira entered the room then, dressed in deep red and a belt of gold amulets; her hair brought back from her brow and pinned in a swirl before the strands fell down her chest and back naturally. He bowed to her.
"Good morning, your grace. You are as lovely as the sunrise, I trust you slept well." he greeted, and she blushed., offering her hand to her husband whom held his hand for her and brought her hand to his mouth.
"Good morning, ser. I did, thank you." she returned.
"I'm no 'ser', your grace. I've not been knighted." he corrected, once again. She looked at him.
"And I'm not 'your grace'. I'm no queen." he smiled softly.
"You are mine." he said. Raeghun looked at him, with an understanding smile.
"You will attend us for the remainder of the tourney, as a personal guard. Remain close, and vigilant at all times." he instructed, and Falgon bowed his head.
"As you bid, sire." he acknowledged. They departed the holdfast, on their way to attend the last of the tourney events. Ser Jaime Lannister met them in the hallway, smiling broadly.
"Are you contending, lord Raeghun?" he asked, and Raeghun looked away, debating his choices.
"I might, if I have a worthy opponent." he said, and Jaime grinned.
"I'll challenge you." he offered, and Raeghun looked back at him.
"You?" unsure of his motives.
"Why not? Some healthy competition." Jaime confirmed, glancing at the lady.
"Raeghun, please." she begged, but the lord kissed her cheek confidently.
"Don't be concerned for me." he assured.
"I'll accept your challenge, ser Jaime." he recognized.
"Wonderful. I'll have the preparations made." he insisted, then disappeared down the hall on his mission. Raeghun turned to his wife.
"I have a score to settle with him. Besides, I need the practice." he said, and she leaned against him, her arms winding around his waist.
"I don't want you hurt." she whispered.
"I'll be fine. I need a quarry for my thwart." he said, holding her close to him. They went down to the grounds, where he was informed that he would be the first to enter the arena this day. He ensured that she was seated, and turned to Falgon.
"Keep her safe for me. I'll return as soon as I can." he bid, and Falgon bowed.
"As you bid, sire." he acknowledged, and Raeghun left. She sat on the bench while Falgon stood at her side. Moments, what seemed like hours later, ser Jaime emerged a knight emerged from the gate in polished armour, a longsword held in his right hand and a broad shield on his left arm. The announcer took his position and introduces the fighters as Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, and his opponent as Lord Raeghun Taugere of Mount Ardor, the Warden of the Corridor. Claira gasped as her husband emerged, in light steel plating, no helm and a single longsword. Falgon looked down to the lady, the anxiety clear in her posture. He moved slightly closer, trying to offer the little comfort he could. Jaime raised his sword and laughed.
"Do you want to die? Your poor widow-" he started, but Raeghun's voice silenced him, loud and powerful.
"I'm not dead yet, ser. So either come at me, or surrender now." he offered his terms, and the duel started. Swords clashed as they met, the sounds of steel against steel ringing around the arena and each clash made the lady more worried. Falgon bowed down, low enough so she would hear him.
"If I may, your grace. Your lord husband won't lose. He is moving very well." he assured, and she looked at him.
"He doesn't use a shield, because it throws one off balance. He doesn't use a helm, because it limits one's vision. Most knights give up their senses for these limited protections." he explained, and she looked back at the fight, slightly more at ease than before.
"Strategic. He knew that ser Jaime would use everything that would be available to him." she concluded.
"Not all understand the importance of thought before action." Falgon further indicated. Suddenly, Jaime swung the sword back after a failed lunge, striking the sword from Raeghun's hand, sending the sword flying and landing in the sand some feet away. He swung again and Raeghun drew back sharp, avoiding the blade. Jaime swung again, and again, each strike failing. Then he arched the blade in another attack, the tip caught Raeghun's neck drawing blood, and Claira stood suddenly, her hands wringing the tips of her hair. Raeghun stepped back, and wiped the blood from his neck. With a smile, he shot forward, driving a shoulder into Jaime's ribs and the air from his lungs. Raeghun moved, and a hardened fist found the knight's jawline, he fell backwards dazed and breathless on the sand, then Raeghun took the sword and threw it to one side. He stepped back, grinning.
"Finally, you're serious!" he called, and Jaime slowly moved to stand up.
"Come, Lion of Lannister. Make me relive that day… the day I killed your proud symbol." Raeghun challenged as Jaime found his feet. He discarded the shield, and rushed forward to return the blow, but Raeghun stepped to one side and turned, sending Jaime straight into a padded knee, Raeghun's elbow found his spine and he dropped to the ground again.
"Are swords the only weapons you are capable of using, knight?" the lord asked as he circled, and Jaime raised to his knees.
"I'm afraid I didn't go brawling in taverns as much as you did, my lord." he said, and took a deep breath.
"Oh, tavern brawling has nothing to do with it, ser." he mentioned. Claira looked up at Falgon, for any explanation and he smiled.
"Your husband is a wise man, your grace. On the battlefield, your enemy won't wait for you to retrieve your sword. If you lose it, your hands are the only weapons you have left. You must know how to use them." he clarified, and she suddenly understood why lord Rychard Taugere insisted that the men practised unarmed combat for at least two hours during their training each day. The fight continued as Jaime lunged forward and threw his arms around Raeghun's waist, then Raeghun turned and they fell on the ground as Raeghun twisted and assumed a place above the knight and brought his fist up to land a blow; but Jaime brought his hands up to protect his face.
"I yield!" he announced, and Raeghun lowered his fist.
"So much for the fearsome lion." he said, and stood. He held a hand to help the knight to his feet, which he accepted. The announcer decreed that lord Raeghun Taugere was the victor of the melee in front of the spectators, and they hailed him heartily. They left the arena and attending squires prepared the field for the next match. Claira turned to leave the stands, but Falgon blocked her way.
"Falgon, please I must go to him." she said, but he remained standing there with his back to her.
"My pardon, your elegance. But, please don't move." he advised, not turning towards her, his attention fixed on the people below the platform. She glanced past his arm to see a large man in leathers standing at the foot of the stairs, staring at him with venomous eyes. Then he grinned, and vanished between the moving people. After another moment, he stepped aside and allowed her to pass him. She hurried to the other side of the arena where she entered one of the pavilions to find her husband sitting on a wooden bench and a squire assisted him in removing the armour plating. Falgon remained at the entrance while she went to her husband and knelt in front of him, then he smiled at her.
"Raeghun, you're hurt." she said as her fingertips gently touched the scratch on his neck.
"It's not as bad as it looks; it doesn't even hurt, and it won't leave a scar." he assured, and her hand went to his face.
"It could have been worse." she whispered, and he took her hand in his.
"It could have. I expected more from him." he confessed, and with the last of the armour removed, he placed his arms around her and held her tightly.
"I offer you my victory, my lady." he whispered, and she buried her face in his neck.
"You've already given me everything I need." she praised. Falgon found himself smiling. What these people shared could be found once, even in multiple lifetimes. When they were together, when they held each other, when they spoke to one another, it was something you could feel; a sweet scent dispersing through the air around them. What an honour to be able to witness something like that, and he would be able to give himself to defend it.