Chapter 9: A Boy's Dreams
As the entrances into the melee grounds opened up, Martin once more checked his armor and weapons one last time. A sword and mace strapped to his side alongside a heater shield he held tightly by the handle. His armor was all still there as well. Unlike many of his opponents, Martin wore no colours, save for the small cloth of blue wrapped around his left arm. The plate protecting his chest blended rather well with the chainmail surrounding it, the metal having been worn out a long time ago, losing its shine with the many dents and holes accumulated over the years.
He still remembered the first time participating in a melee such as this. Well, not exactly like this, it was a far smaller affair. A tourney in Lannisport by one of the local guild leaders, his first ever taste of combat. A boy, just shy of manhood, he had barely gotten any armor on his skin when entering. Yet with nothing but a flimsy, half-chipped sword, he won that melee, and took a few silver stags from some greedy old merchant lord. That was what he considered the beginning of his journey towards a lifelong goal, an ambition few of his social status are willing to work towards, yet many dream of.
Said dream never felt further from him however. The costs of entering into the tourney were far greater than he had expected, just entering into one of the games would cost many normal men lifetime's worth of pay, and entering into several of them… well, it was clear why the nobility were among the main participants within such events.
He did not bother himself much with the joust, he had only one horse, and was not willing to risk his steed for a multitude of reasons. Seeing what he saw of the whole debacle, he had to thank his former self on making such a wise move. A fight against the Mountain like that, well it was downright a miracle that no one, save the horse, died. The horse and perhaps that Squire boy from the Vale, yet people soon forgot about him, as did Martin, as sad as the reality was.
The melee came second after the joust, an exciting follow up for many and something Martin was far more willing to conform to. Afterwards would be the Archery contest, which Martin had also signed himself up for. While his skills with a bow were nothing too pay attention to, he still took the opportunity as a way for people to possibly see his skills. Indeed, there was never a doubt in Martin's mind that he was going to lose all of this, especially seeing the opponents he would go up against, yet through it all, business is business, and perhaps some fat noble's son would see his endeavors and seek out his services.
Still, as he fastened his belt and sheathed his blade into its scabbard, the thought of winning still crossed Martin's mind ever so frantically. It would certainly make him a rich man, and such a situation seemed almost like a once-in-a-lifetime deal for someone like him. He took one last gaze at his longsword, a precautionary weapon that would be a follow up for his mace should anything happen. Unlike the old and rusted tool he had brought with him all those years ago, this sword was freshly sharpened, wetted with oil and tough enough to cut through stone, to a point of course. If anything, he could be happy that he had gotten this far at least.
The horns blew out in the distance, snapping him away from his thoughts. It was time.
Out in the Tourney Grounds all of the fighters convened in the middle. There were around fifty or so competitors it seemed, a dozen more than the initial fight the happened before this melee. That fight was held for men of higher esteem, knights and noblemen who could pay for participation, as well as fight on mounted combat. This, this was a brawl, performed completely on foot, and using whatever the combatant has or possesses to win. Amusing for the most part, it still looked as if it was a festivity intended for the nobility to enjoy, it was this half of the melee many of the peasants were waiting for.
King Robert stood up in a stupor from his chair and all of the participants perked up as silence overtook the Tourney Grounds. It looked as if the King was going to say something before he cocked his head to the side and spit on the ground and snorted. A wave of his hand was the signal for the standard bearers to lift up the banners and the announcer to begin the game.
"By the grace of the Seven!" he started, reading from a finely decorated parchment, worn from use over the years. "You warriors and knights, ever brave, gather here to fight for glory and honor! With blessings from His Grace, King Robert Baratheon the First, take up your positions, and let the un-mounted section of the Melee begin!"
While this was a free-for-all, the beginning of the melee still had half and half participants going to their respective parts of the Arena. The rules themselves more or less encourage chaos to spread upon the first clash. The halfs would converge upon one another upon the start of the fight, yet afterwards, there were no sides, and it was every man for himself. It was this way that stopped fights from devolving immediately into bloody pits of death.
With around twenty of his fellow combatants alongside him, Martin looked over to the other side, the same amount of fighter opposite them. Even here, in the melee meant for the less esteemed members of the tourney's participants, Martin stuck out. He had no fancy regalia to adorn himself with, no banner to fight under, no colors he could call his own. Rather, all he had was a bit of dented armor and some shiny weapons that paled in comparison to some of the spectacles his other soon-to-be opponents had. In the corner of his eye, he could even spot something he was dreading, a white cloak, adorned in silver, shining armor. One of the Kingsguard knights had joined the fray, and not just any knight it seemed. Turning to his side to get a better look at the man, he was in shock to find no other than Jaime fucking Lannister standing just a few feet away from him.
'Just my luck…' was all Martin could think, sighing internally as he put his helmet on and strapped it tight. His only hope would be that someone managed to get a lucky strike at the golden Lion bastard before the two of them came to blows, otherwise, he did not really foresee himself living past this tourney.
The horns were soon raised and the King gave the signal to begin. With a mighty sound the tourney became flooded with cheers from the onlookers, which in turn were quickly deafened by the thunderous charge of the combatants towards one another. Unlike many of those around him, Martin was not aiming for anyone in particular, he pulled his shield up and simply charged forward, being prepared to knock whoever was first in his sight onto the ground.
His mace and shield gripped tightly, Martin prepared himself for the impact. A rather larger fellow seemed to be his target, and the two collided, as did dozens of others, and soon the storm of combat had begun.
For two long hours they all fought, many fell, others surrendered, some most likely were killed in the chaos of it all, yet in the thick of it Martin only thought of his own survival. Though at this point a veteran of combat, he had never truly been involved in a war, the time of the Greyjoy and Targaryen wars long before his time as a Hedge Knight. That did not stop him from picking a few things up in the instances where he did fight actual battles. Tricks and deception here and there, techniques and genuine shows of prowess earned him the spot quickly as one of the remaining few that were still standing.
Battered, bruised and tired beyond belief, Martin stood alongside a dozen or so other fighters. Soon enough they each found their combat partners, those that didn't would gang up on one of a fighting pair before turning on the other. Martin was lucky in that regard at least. He began a duel with some knight, most likely part of a wealthier house if his armor was anything to go by. Clad in pure plate save for the tabard around his chest, the shinning armor had long been dirtied during the entire melee. At this point, the only thing differentiating the two was that one bore a standard, whilst Martin himself was bannerless.
A checkered black and purple field with a lightning bolt in-between it, that was his opponent's crest. Martin did not care what house he belonged to, merely what way he was going to bash the man's skull in with his mace.
"Tired now, are we?" the knight spoke from beneath his helm, it was the first time he had heard another person clearly since the beginning of the fight, save for the screams and grunts of the other fighters.
"Only as much as you good Ser.'' While he never cared much for the nobility, even on the battlefield Martin made a note to himself to at least grant those he fought against basic courtesy, no one was above that much.
"Tell you what, you surrender right now and I'll pay you fifty stags for every head you took down when this is all done." he proposed, doing a mocking bow with his arms and one leg forward, leaving him completely exposed to an attack. "On my honor as a knight…"
Martin had to stop himself from laughing at the man's face. "The honor of any man who would pay his way to the end of a tourney is not a word that aspires much confidence my friend! You ought to be more careful with your phrasings." he replied cheerily. No matter how exhausted he was, it would be a lie to say he was not enjoying the thrill of it all.
"Very well then, don't say I didn't warn you." The knight had shown his hand, with shield raised forward and sword in a lunging angle he charged towards him. Though running purely on his last bouts of strength, he was not ready to end it all here.
A step towards the side was his action the moment Martin's opponent plunged his blade forward. With expectation in his motions the knight was prepared for the move, and from his lunging position used a last ditch effort attack towards Martin, swinging his sword sideways. Had he reacted a second later, the blade could have easily plunged itself into his exposed neck, killing him in an instant, yet thankfully, that was not the case. He raised his shield just in time and deflected the blow and in one swift motion brought his mace crashing down on his opponents head.
The knight fell limpless, sword and shield falling from his hand as he hit the ground. Another one down.
There was no time to celebrate however, yet while keeping himself aware of his surroundings Martin did take a moment to regain his breath, it was safer no doubt, yet he could never get over how hard it was to breathe in this helmet of his. Quickly scanning his surroundings he saw that most of the other fighters had also been taken out whilst their exchange was happening, leaving only two others for Martin to face. 'Just two more… two more and I win…' he thought to himself, a stream of hope entering his mind, only for it all to be dashed away the moment he saw who he would inevitably face.
Jaime Lannister and Thoros of Myr fought against one another in a heated exchange of blows, the Kingslayer fearlessly facing off against Thoros' famous flaming sword with a smile on his face and nothing but excitement in his eyes. From where he was looking, Martin could not fault anyone in the audience paying little attention to his endeavors, even he was mesmerized at the dance of blades happening in front of his eyes just a few feet away. He took this chance and crouched down, these two would tire themselves out, and as the fight went on Martin already made peace with himself on how he would lose, intent at this point on just not dying, his little scrap back there being the closest he had been so far to actually biting it all. He wasn't intent on intervening in this bout between the two, using the opportunity to regain what little stamina he could while trying to keep the blood flowing in his veins.
It looked almost like something out of an old wives' tale. The gallant knight in shining armor taking on the dragon drenched in fire, yet both figures he knew were nothing like their storied counterparts.
Soon enough it looked as if the Kingslayer was victorious in the battle, dodging one of Thoros' fiery blows and striking the knight over the head with the butt end of his pommel, knocking him to the ground unconscious. As the crowd cheered Jaime Lannister quickly turned his sights on the last remaining opponent. Helmetless and without even a shield to protect him, the Kingslayer spotted Martin as a Lion would spot its newest prey, ready for a fresh meal. Martin got back to his feet and quickly readied himself.
"Seems it's just you and me then, Ser Knight." the Lannister spoke. "Tell me, what's your name?"
"Martin, Ser Lannister." he replied simply, eyes too focused on the Kingslayers weapon to be an active part of the conversation.
"Of which house? I recognize your accent as one of Lannisport. Wouldn't happen to be one of my cousins now, would you?"
"I'm afraid not Ser." Martin replied once more. "I am of the House of fame, fortune and adventure, from the distant lands of cow shit and pig styes."
"Ah, a Hedge Knight." Jaime Lannister grew a smile on his face once more. "You're a regular Duncan the Tall then aren't you. I suppose that makes me your Targaryen Prince, the big bad dragon for the hero to slay."
"I'd hope not. There's not many knights who've faced dragons and lived to tell the tale, has there my lord?"
"Hah! Right you are, now come, let's end this." he raised his sword with both hands, still haughtily mocking Martin with a relaxed stance. Where he looked to be on the verge of collapsing, the Kingslayer never seemed to be more lively.
'I suppose he's right.' Martin thought, 'No point in delaying the inevitable at this point.' while he was certain of his defeat at this point, it did not mean he wouldn't give it an honest effort, and so he charged bravely towards the dragon's gaping mouth.
The moment his first swing had begun, Jaime Lannister looked ready to deflect, parry and dodge all the same time, yet what he did not seem to expect was a feint, and that was exactly was Martin performed. Just as he had brought down his weapon his pulled the mace back and jumped a few feet backwards, putting distance in between them. With an air of confusion on his face Martin used this moment to surprise the Kingslayer even more. He threw his mace at the man with everything he got, and though it proved ineffective, it gave Martin just the right amount of time to disable him and let him move in for a strike. Pulling his blade from the scabbard Martin struck a sideways swipe with the longsword, paying attention to the Kingslayers every move. Masterfully, his opponent recovered just at the right time and blocked the attack in but a single stroke. His trump card was gone, and there was no more element of surprise. A flurry of blows soon descended, and Martin quickly began struggling to keep up with the Kingslayer, eventually just putting his shield dead forward to his opponent.
The act of desperation did not go unnoticed by Jaime Lannister it seemed, as the Kingslayer quickly maneuvered his blade around Martin's defenses without him even realizing it. Slowly and surely he was putting dents into his armor, chipping away at him with small jabs and kicks here and there. One strike even managed to graze his neck, and Martin could feel the cold sting of the Kingslayer's sword slicing through his skin, leaving a small cut, thankfully, it was not lethal.
'Not working…' Martin thought, before quickly switching up strategies, both men had longswords, blades intended to be fought at mid to long range in terms of sword combat. The solution then was simple. 'Cut off his angles.'
A desperate charge towards the Kingslayer soon proceeded, with Martin dropping his longsword on the ground and gripping his heated shield with both hands. The last ditch effort seemed to prove successful and he quickly closed the distance between them. With one hand still on his blade Jaime Lannister grabbed the edge of the shield with his other and threw a quick jab at Martin's helmet with the pommel of his sword. Martin, in return, grabbed Jaime Lannister by the throat. This move seemed unorthodox to even the Kingslayer, and from the look on his face it was clear he was never expecting anything like it. Sweeping a leg over one of the Kingslayers, Martin shoved the shield forward and sent both him and the Lannister to the ground.
Pinning his opponent in the dirt he unfastened the belts on his shield and held the Kingslayer in place with one knee on the shield held against his chest and a foot that came crashing down the Kingslayer's sword arm to keep it pinned. Martin raised his mailed fist high up in the air and brought it down to the ground, inches away from his opponents face, causing him to flinch and instinctively tug his head in the opposite direction. The crowd fell silent, and the only thing that could be heard was the two's ragged and disheveled breathing.
"Yield?" Martin asked honorably, breaking the silence the lingered between them. Was this it? Had he won? Had he finally achieved the first step towards his lifelong goal? It all felt so surreal, as if he was dreaming it.
Jaime Lannister sighed, "No." and just like that, Martin fell for one of the oldest tricks in the book. Using his free hand, the Kingslayer threw a clot of sand towards his eyes, blinding him. In one swift motion, the roles soon became reversed, and his opponent now stood over him, a blade just by his throat ready to cut it open in an instant. "Now," the Lannister asked, "Are you ready to yield?"
The world was a cruel place, yet its ruthlessness was something Martin had gotten used to a long time ago. Which is why he simply threw his arms back on the ground to lay in the dirt and nodded in response, admitting defeat.
Jaime Lannister rose from Martin's lying body, the crowd cheering his name as they no doubt did many times before.
"AND WE HAVE A WINNER!" the announcer cried, "Sir Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, has won the melee!"
"Careful there Maester, I don't need you breaking my fingers any more than that lumbering giant already did." Roland said as the old bearded hermit of a Grand Maester continued wrapping a salve around his broken and battered hand. "If Robert loses his best sword hand, I'll have just the person to blame."
The old fool choked back his fear at those implications. "O-of course, Ser." he replied, only mildly hiding the annoyance and scorn in his voice. The two never had a very good working relationship, then again neither did many of Roland's associates. Such is the price to pay for being one of the few loyal men of the King it would seem.
"You've truly outdone yourself this time." Renly commented, slicing up an apple with some ornate knife a noblewoman no doubt gifted him. "I've heard many men growing desperate in times of danger, but very few of them thought of such a scheme as beating the Mountain into submission."
"How very sneering of you Renly, I'm only used to you being condescending. Lost a bet now have you?"
"You never fail to prove me wrong in my thinking of Robert being wrong in taking you in Roland. Had I known you were a mind-reader as well as a monster in melee, why I'm sure men would be lining the streets looking to hire you." the Baratheon chuckled, taking a bite out of his cut-up apple.
Just then, the flaps of the tent opened up to reveal Roland's Lord Commander, still clad in that pearly white armor he himself was in a few hours ago. Renly and Luwin both arose from their seats and bowed in respect and greeting at the Lord Commander, and Ser Barristan did the same to them both respectively.
"My lord." he greeted Renly, a small smile on his lips. "Maester Luwin." nodding to the old Maester, he kept his tone equally polite yet without the smile. It was only when it came to Roland that the pleasantries seemed to stop. "Roland," the old knight started "that was quite the match you had."
"So I have been told." Roland rested his bandaged hand on one knee, dressed in nothing but a tunic and pants, the two provided a stark difference in appearance once his armor was off, with one resembling more a simple pauper than a knight and the other looking like an old king off to battle. "What brings you here Lord Commander, doubtful that you've only come to congratulate on a battle well fought." he got right to the point.
Though he was never on any hostile terms with the other members of his order, Roland was very much the figurative black sheep of the white cloaks. This status undoubtedly was earned due to his circumstances of entering into the Kingsguard, having only been knighted seconds before being handed the cloak. Compare that with the high and mighty noblemen who had a lifetime of practicing in knighthood under their belts, well, it was clear who thought themselves more superior in that regard. Trant and Blount were of course the main perpetrators of such hatred, the Kingslayer, while pompous, did not seem to care much of him, and neither did Roland have any intention to change that, and Oakheart was at least kind in his discrimination, yet there was still an apprehension that Roland easily caught on whenever the two spoke.
The Lord Commander was a somewhat different story however. As the figurative leader of the Kingsguard, it was the old Selmy who welcomed Roland into the order, and for lack of any alternative, Roland found himself talking most often with the old man, though through no small effort of his own, as Barristan was most often the one who initiated any conversations. Indeed, most of their conversations revolved around the King, or the Royal Family, sometimes he would even have full conversations with Robert and Roland in the King's office, yet those moments were few and far between. While better than his relations with his fellow Kingsguard, Roland could not call anything he and the Lord Commander had more than a formal working relation, and he was content on keeping it that way.
"Indeed I have not." Ser Barristan confirmed Roland's assumptions. "Yet that does not mean I will not congratulate you all the same. You fought bravely back there, better than most men would against such an opponent. I wanted you to know that had Lord Loras and Ser Sandor not intervened when they did, I and our brothers were already on the way to help."
Roland smiled at the thought of Blount trying to punch the Mountain the same way the Hound did at the Tourney Grounds, one had to smile a little bit through the pain. "Well then in whatever time that does happen you shall have my thanks, but for now, I shall stay said gratitude for those who did actually help me."
"You shouldn't be so rude Roland." Renly interjected. "You might not have seen the crowd's reactions whilst being chocked out, but everyone, including Robert, was damned about ready to jump in there and help you. It was quite the sight if I do say so myself."
"Which you did." he replied to the Baratheon before turning his attention back to Ser Barristan. "Anyways Lord Commander, anything else you wished to tell me?"
"Yes, there is." Ser Barristan placed his hands on his belt. "I have a request for you, Ser Roland. One that I'm afraid I cannot let you refuse."
The day had passed and gone sooner than Martin would have liked it to, the celebrations, jubilation and festivities having run their course for the day and with King's Landing's people returning to their homes after a long days of entertainment, so too did Martin. He had envisioned himself at this point, coming back to the tavern a rich man with enough dragons to last him a lifetime, several even. Yet as life was want to do with him, such aspirations were shunned by pure bad luck.
Still, he got out of that whole endeavor in one piece, which he was at least thankful enough for. Yet the bruises and pain he was feeling from fatigue did not help in his gratitude. Not only that, it would appear he had gotten himself lost.
Roaming the outer reaches of the Tourney grounds, Martin never realized to himself just how similar everything around the area looked. Tents and banners flew haphazardly, and unfortunately for him he did not think to memorize the way he came in from. Everything simply looked the same, and even worse it seemed everyone was in an ever bigger rush to prepare for the coming days, not even sparing a moment for him when he pleaded for help to oncoming servants and strangers.
As such, Martin spent a majority of his time wandering around, until eventually coming across someone who just might might be his saving grace. Three men stood completely still around a fire, rather, one stood, the other two sat. The two men sitting looked to be of a more common status, homely kept and with little in the ways of care in terms of attire, while the standing boy was far younger than them, a much more composed and well-kept nature about him if his appearance was anything to go by. 'No doubt some landed page or squire', Martin thought.
"Pardon me gentlemen." he approached the three. "I hope I am not intruding however I need some assistance."
"'Course friend." one of the older men spoke up, the smaller of the two. "What'd Ya need?" his tone was friendly and inviting as he swung back a bottle of ale, causing a sigh and rather disappointed look from the younger man.
"It's rather embarrassing to admit yet I seem to have gotten myself lost. I came for the tourney here and have a room in a tavern on Cobbler's Street. Getting to said tavern has proven to be an issue however as I cannot find the way out to King's Landing's main streets." Martin explained.
"Aaaah, I see…" the man responded, listening intently to his explanation before taking another swig. "You're a newcomer just like us then, well, I'm afeared we cannot much help you in terms of gettin' to Cobbler's Street."
"That's quite alright, rather, I was hoping to ask if any of you men knew the directions to get out of here. The rest of the path I can easily traverse myself." he replied courteously.
"I'll show you." the younger man replied, turning his attention to Martin. "I'm done speaking with these two bufoons either way."
"Oh come now m'lord…" the drunk man said. "You know you love us, otherwise we'd be off with our heads a long time ago." his words caused a chuckle within the man, no doubt already long affected by his drink, and a nervous smile from his much bigger compatriot.
"I can't deny that. Anyways, stay out of trouble you two, don't let Jory catch you again or he's going to be the last of your concerns." the young man's voice was rather monotone and drab, yet somehow his two other companions seemed to regard it with a manner of camaraderie, Martin at this point had no intentions of interjecting, the fatigue taking hold of him by the second. "Follow me Ser." those same monotone words caught his attention quickly as the dark-auburn haired boy began walking away, Martin quickly following behind.
As they went past all these Gods forsaken tents once more, Martin began noticing a pattern. Yet in all honesty, he had long given up trying to decipher what that pattern was, only being thankful that someone gave him the time of day, or night rather.
Taking another good look at the boy, he noticed some more striking features Martin hadn't noticed before. Aside from the rather strange auburn hair, the boy also possessed striking steel blue eyes, irises seeming almost nonexistent from within. From the look of him, Martin could have easily mistaken the boy for some nobleman's son, yet if that were the case there was no way he would be speaking with some commoners on the tourney grounds, much less be dressed in such simple attire. He thought of striking a conversation with the boy to pass the time to their destination, perhaps that would relieve some of the dead air surrounding them. From the look of him, the boy did not seem to be the talkative type though.
"I saw your fight today in the melee Ser." to his surprise however, the boy was the one to break the silence between the two, yet it was of a topic Martin unfortunately would have rather not brought up.
"Is that so? You were part of the audience?" he did not really know how to respond, having been caught off guard by the boy's sudden speaking up.
"I was." a simple reply, followed up by a look from those steely blue eyes. He had half expected the boy to begin outright mocking him for the display, to even think of having a chance at beating the Kingslayer of all people. Yet, once more, to his surprise, the boy simply gave a small nod of what Martin could only interpret as approval. "You fought well."
In some ways, that small praise was worth more to Martin than a thousand screaming cheers or a million congratulations from enamored onlookers. Again the boy had somehow caught him in a corner, and so the only thing Martin did was sigh in relief. "Thank you." he replied back.
A few more moments of silence followed as they finally reached their destination. The young boy pointed out to the dirt paved road that led in town and in his mind Martin could only curse himself at how simple it all looked now in terms of layout. "Keep going straight and you'll be back in the city in no time."
"Excellent, you have my thanks." as he was about to leave and say his goodbyes to the boy, a thought struck him. "One final request. May I know your name, friend? I don't know many people in this city, yet if more of them are like you then perhaps I might like it here more."
"Doubtful." the boy once again gave the simplest of replies, looking down at the ground for a moment before locking eyes with him again. "Cregan. My name is Cregan."
"A pleasure, I am Martin." he reached out his arm, hand open. "Thank you for your help, Cregan." the boy stared at his open hand for a moment before shaking it rather timidly.
"Not a problem. Stay safe, Ser."