Highgarden

294 AC

The scent and smoke and sweat of the tourney grounds are nauseating just after lunch.

Ripe with the stench of freshly spilled blood and piss, along with the palpable mix of fear and greed that comes with gambling and betting on the attending knights and squires.

The nervous tension between every single one of the warriors eventually becomes unbearable. The senses awaken and revolt from it.

Starag Mormont knew he had a tough match ahead of him. Though he was confident he could beat almost every man who would step onto the sweat-stained patch of sand, it wasn't those men who were on his mind.

Out in the field waiting for him were some of the greatest warriors of his day. Men like Barristen the Bold, Jamie Lannister, and Thoros of Myr. Even the Mountain deserved honorable mention for his particularly brutal style.

Mormont scanned around the inside of his rather large tent, looking for something else to focus on. The faded green silk was a personal gift from the Tyrells. It was best in the evening when the temperature was cool.

Now though, it was blistering hot. So much so that Starag could feel the sweat beading down his forehead.

He tied his long black curls to the back of his head. He couldn't afford to slip up because of his hair. Not with trained swordsmen like the Kingslayer.

"My lord?" a voice called from outside the tent. Mormont recognized it as his squire's voice. "May I come in?"

Starag almost snorted back a laugh. The boy learned quickly. It had only been one occasion where his squire had walked in on him bedding a serving girl. "Come in, lad."

Jon Stark walked into the tent, his lute strapped on his back. Wild black ringlets down to his neck reminded Mormont of his own hair. When put side-by-side, others often confused them both as brothers.

In the boy's hands was Longclaw, sheathed in thick padded furs and pelts like Starag ordered. "I've oiled your sword, uncle. Like you requested."

Starag grinned. That'll surprise Thoros. Perhaps even get the Hound out of the way, too. "Thank you, Jon." He took his ancestral family blade and lay it gently on the table next to him.

Glancing back at his squire, Mormont raised a stern eyebrow. "And what happened to all 128,000 of our gold dragons?"

The dark grey eyes briefly flashed violet as the boy grinned. "I bet it all on you, uncle."

Mormont said nothing. He reached into his lightly armored coat and withdrew his pipe and a couple of matches. It only took one to light the pipeweed.

Starag sat back in his chair, letting out a large puff of smoke as he thought over the potential consequences. Jon had put him in a tough spot, but Mormont could only blame himself really.

That's exactly what he would've done, were the livelihoods of his people and family not on the line. Jon was just learning how to live a little. Mormont wouldn't admit it, but he felt a deep sense of pride for Jon Stark. The lad would certainly make a great King one day.

How the fuck am I supposed to defeat both the Bold and the Kingslayer?

Those two were by far the most dangerous on the field. Anyone else wouldn't be much of a challenge.

Starag could match the Mountain with strength, but Tywin's dog would more than likely be slower. Simple.

Clegane's brother, Sandor, while an excellent swordsman was deathly afraid of fire. Either Mormont or Thoros would knock him out of the competition.

The Red Priest himself was a strong fighter, but was not so skilled in the way of technique. Mormont would outlast him easily.

Barristen the Bold, however, was another matter. While Mormont had beaten him during the final tilt at the tourney in King's Landing, he knew the Bold would be far more dangerous with a blade.

Lastly, there was Jamie Lannister, the Kingslayer. If all others were beaten, Mormont knew it would only be him and Lannister left on the field.

Starag grinned wickedly as realization hit him like a well-placed arrow. Everyone will be betting on Lannister.

He met Jon's excited grey eyes. The boy had figured it out before him. Jon knew that Mormont absolutely had to win. Otherwise, neither of them would eat for the next few days or even weeks. They'd both be starved and broke for the journey to Oldtown.

But if he won…

Mormont stood abruptly from his chair. He eagerly strapped Longclaw to his belt. His heart pounded thunderously in his chest like the ringing bell of a church. I have to win. There's no other way.

Arthur's words came to mind. He always remembered Dayne's lessons in moments like these.

"Sometimes… you'll just have to burn all the boats behind you. If you cannot afford to lose, you won't."

And Starag would be damned if he went a single day without food or a stiff drink.


When Mormont came to the tourney celebrating Lady Margaery's name-day in Highgarden, he hadn't expected King Robert to show up as well.

Relations between the Crown and the Tyrells were tenuous at best. Though thankfully, his good-sister's family managed to play it cool. They were even courteous when Robert would drunkenly rave how they got fucked over by Lord Stark during the Siege of Storm's End.

Even better, all the Lannisters in the Seven Kingdoms had shown up with the King as well. Even that pratt of a boy Joffrey.

Mormont hoped he wouldn't see the Prince for much longer.

As Starag strode into the tourney grounds, with thirty-two other knights and warriors waiting for him, he stopped at the entrance. "Jon."

The boy appeared in front of him now. A shade of concern looked back up at him. "Yes, my lord?"

"Go sit with the Tyrells." He smirked as he recalled an earlier memory. "Perhaps the young Lady Margaery will want to spend some more time with you."

Jon's pale cheeks turned a furious red at the implication. "We're just friends!"

The herald was glaring openly at Mormont now. The other contestants were either bored or annoyed at the Lord of Bear Island. He must've spent longer in his tent than he intended.

Fuck 'em.

Starag knelt down on one knee in front of Jon. "You know what I said to the first girl I loved?"

Those sharp grey eyes flashed purple again. "What?"

"Let's stop playing games."

A brief smile flickered across the boy's lips. Jon found his boots much more interesting all of a sudden. "I'm not the Heir of Winterfell. Robb is," he said slowly. "Why would she like me?"

From what Mormont had seen so far, the young girl had taken a liking to Jon all on her own. Gods know Olenna Tyrell didn't want Jon anywhere near her granddaughter when they arrived weeks ago. Now though, the Old Flower was singing a different tune.

"You're too young to be worrying about that right now, lad. However…" Starag tousled the boy's hair. "Ask yourself: is this the girl I want to have my children with?"

Jon looked up and met his eyes, cheeks still blazing red. "And what if I don't want her?"

"Then you don't go for her." Mormont grinned. He rested his hand on Jon's shoulder. "The world is full of girls, Jon. Good and bad. As men, we decide who we want our wives to be, and we live with that decision."

Mormont glanced back to the fuming herald. Now even the King was looking at him expectantly along with everyone else in the stands. All the warriors on the grounds were staring at him like he'd grown a third arm.

He stood up to his full height. Jon stood just above his waistline again. "The trick is to find a girl who wants to stay with you until the day she dies."

Jon's face lit up in a beaming smile. "Like mother and father?"

Starag matched the boy's grin. "Just like your mother and father."

When he first saw Eddard Stark dancing with Ashara Dayne at Harrenhal, Mormont knew that it was love at first sight for both of them. A match he was partially envious of because of the sheer dumb luck behind it.

Mormont finally prodded the boy towards the stands. "Go sit with the Tyrells. I won't be long."

"Thank you, uncle," Jon called out as he ran off. Though he was supposed to call him lord, Mormont knew it couldn't be helped. Not that he really cared anyway. He preferred the boy call him "uncle"

Starag made his way into the arena, much to the relief of the other warriors, whose nerves were likely getting to them.

He realized that the crowd was outstandingly quiet, however. Everywhere Mormont looked, he saw eyes on him, watching him curiously or with disdain at his being late. Those closest likely had wanted to overhear his conversation with Jon.

The herald was another matter. He seemed to be inhaling quite fast for a man as out of shape as he was. Mormont wondered why men let themselves go. Wasn't there so much to fight for?

The question danced around in his mind as the herald began introductions. He barely heard the fat man's squeaky voice.

Mormont's dark blue eyes rested on the sitting form of the King. Robert was now back to swigging wine from his drinking horn, impatient. The King had wanted the fighting to begin hours ago, it seemed.

"Lords and ladies of the Reach, and to our esteemed guests: His and her Royal Majesty, and his grace Prince Joffrey."

The Prince too seemed to hate the lack of action going on. But it was the Queen's golden spun hair that caught Starag's eye.

Cersei Lannister was as beautiful as they come, though she was a bit too old for Mormont's tastes. She pretended to be entirely uninterested, but occasionally she'd grip the arm rails tightly. Something in the field had captured her gaze.

And he followed her line of sight all the way to Jamie Lannister himself.

The Kingslayer was the absolute picture of calm. Those emerald green eyes were scanning the assembled knights and warriors like a tiger's eye. A born and bred predator.

He'd be Mormont's greatest challenge yet. But Starag wanted Lannister at his best. Better to let the other contestants warm up the Kingsguard first.

Lannister soon matched Mormont's stare. They locked eyes, neither of them breaking contact even as the herald continued.

"-Patrek Mallister of Seagard! Along with Ser Barristan the Bold!"

You're mine. Mormont said in his mind, and he was mildly amused when Lannister narrowed his own eyes in response.

Get in line. The Kingslayer's unimpressed gaze seem to say, at least before Lannister broke it off, looking back at the herald.

"Ser Jamie Lannister! And lastly, Lord Starag Mormont of Bear Island!" The herald seemed to bite out Mormont's name.

Starag could hear the crowd hush, and the brief whispers among the nobility.

"That's Ser Jorah's brother…"

"Isn't that the man who sold a hundred poachers to a slaver?"

"Lord of Bear Island? What's he doing down in the South?"

"Bad luck, him going up against the Ser Jamie... He was bound to lose at some point."

Mormont ignored them all. He had a much bigger fish, or Lion, to catch. Today would be the day that the Bear had finally put down the Lion.

"The winner shall receive the champion's purse of 25,000 golden dragons, in addition to 20% of any bets wagered against him." The herald announced.

Doubtful anyone bet against the Kingslayer. Mormont kept his face a cold mask. The rest of the money would no doubt go to Jon, and he suspected… The Tyrells as well.

He decided he'd allow Jon a flagon of ale after this was over. Not only had he set them both up quite nicely, but the boy also did a superb job of maintaining his equipment. He seemed to care for Longclaw as if it were his own child.

Starag slowly drew Longclaw from its sheath. The long blade's dark ripples were terrifyingly beautiful, and the white bear's head pommel was polished as if brand new.

Mormont had always wanted to wield the family blade of his house. It fit his hands perfectly. The blade was an extension of his own arm at this point. And he'd only been using it for a few months now.

Thank the Gods Jorah had the good sense to leave it behind.

As he approached his competition, Mormont almost snorted when they realized just how large he was. Even Gregor Clegane looked at him fully now and realized the potential threat on the field.

The Mountain was undoubtedly the tallest man Mormont had ever seen. Layers and layers of muscle were stacked together underneath that black armor. I'll have to put him down quickly if it comes to it.

Mormont figured he himself must've been the second tallest man on the field, just a bit more so than the Hound, who looked warily at Thoros of Myr's now flaming sword.

Everything was silent in the arena except for the crackling of Thoros's sword. Not even the peasants had spoken so much as a word…

Starag spotted Jon sitting with the Tyrells… next to the young Lady Margaery. You should see your nephew, Ned. He's taking after you.

"Begin!" the herald's voice thundered across the stadium.


Starag rushed forward to a young knight, a Blackwood judging by the white tree on his coat of arms. The boy raised his longsword to attack, but was caught by surprise when Mormont simply charged into him with his shield.

The Blackwood boy exploded backwards, his feet leaving the ground. He fell back onto the sand with an audible thud. He was still alive, but Mormont knew the boy was out cold.

He turned around swiftly and was greeted with another unfortunate knight. This one was a Bulwer, holding a greatsword that was about half the length of Starag's body.

Bulwer swung the blade wildly, deliberately aiming for Mormont's head. Amateur.

Instead, the Lord of Bear Island raised his shield, blocking the strike and shoving the sword away from him. He followed up by bashing the large shield into the Reach lord.

Bulwer stumbled backwards, stunned by the impact of the wooden shield. Starag slammed the flat of his blade down on the hand still holding the greatsword.

"Agh!" Lord Bulwer cried out, the sword dropping in the sand. Mormont finished off by slamming his pommel into the back of Bulwer's head.

The Reach lord crumpled to the ground like a wet towel. Alive, but he'd have one hell of a headache for the next few weeks.

Mormont glanced back at the rest of the field. Sure enough, most of the lesser knights and young brash lords had been taken out.

The Hound was among them, too. Having lost predictably to Thoros of Myr, who now sidled up towards Starag, wearing a drunken grin.

"Greetings again, Young Bear. It's an honor."

Mormont raised an eyebrow at the Red Priest. He hadn't been called that for some time now. Not since the Greyjoy Rebellion. Of course… Thoros was with us on Pyke.

Starag returned the smile. "Likewise, Thoros. Shall we?"

"We shall." Thoros charged first, his flaming sword held out in front. Yet before Starag could knock it aside, the Red Priest had fainted and had swiftly darted to his left.

Mormont danced away, getting Thoros back into his line of vision. The Red Priest came forward again, though Starag met his charge with Longclaw.

Clang! The exact moment their swords clashed was the moment that Longclaw had been set ablaze.

The crowd looked at the two flaming swords in awe, chattering furiously and making the inevitable: "Ohhhhhhh!"

The Red Priest's eyes widened in surprise as he saw flames dance on Valyrian steel. Exactly what Starag had wanted.

He rammed his shield into Thoro's midsection, slamming the wind out of the smaller man. Though he heard a crack as the Red Priest went into the sand.

Probably his ribs. Shit.

Mormont waved to some Tyrell guards as he glanced behind him, making sure nobody else would attack him. "Take Thoros to the Maester. Immediately."

Both men had seen what Mormont had done to the Red Priest and neither wanted the same for themselves. They picked up Thoros by the arms and began lugging him away.

"Hahaha!" The Red Priest laughed voraciously as he was being carried away. "I'll get you one day, Young Bear! Hahaha-"

Mormont felt that brief twinge of guilt flutter in his mind. Hadn't meant to hit him that hard… He banished the feeling. It had no place on the battlefield.

Especially as he was confronted with his next opponent.

Standing a few meters away from him and as tall as his namesake, stood Gregor Clegane. He held his massive greatsword with one hand.

Lannister and the Bold were the only two fighters still on the field. Both engaged in a flurry of cold steel.

Mormont focused all his attention back on the Mountain-that-rides. Clegane seemed to have some sense of patience, as he must've waited while Starag called the guards to fetch Thoros.

Now that patience had run out. Clegane walked towards him, each footstep was heavier than the last. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

Starag could feel those malevolent eyes cast upon him underneath the great iron helm. Clegane didn't say a word. Not one.

The greatsword arched forward. Starag didn't trust his shield, so he quickly darted away to the right, making some distance between Clegane and himself.

He quickly loosened the strap on his arm that held up his wooden shield. Mormont caught it before it fell to the ground, instead opting to throw it at the Mountain like a plate.

Clegane snapped his sword upwards, carving the wooden shield in two.

Wood splinters flew everywhere as Mormont readjusted his stance, holding his blade out in front of him.

Starag wore an unimpressed smile. "Come now, Clegane. Is that the best you've got?"

That seemed to do the trick. Now the Mountain stomped towards him, sand bouncing off the ground under his feet.

Mormont went forwards as well. Clegane was not as imposing as he imagined he was. He was a rabid dog that needed to be put down. Once and for all. Tourney rules be damned.

Enraging the Mountain would certainly give Mormont the excuse he needed to kill the bastard. Everyone knew Clegane was a poor loser, and it would be no surprise if he finally got what was coming to him.

Clegane's sword met Mormont's in a violent crash. CLANG! Starag nearly fell off balance, but he sustained the blade lock and even began pushing back against the might of the Mountain.

Something which seemed to briefly puzzle Clegane. Much more so than the fact that Starag's sword was still on fire.

Mormont took advantage of the confusion and shoved the Mountain's sword back, sending Clegane off balance. Sloppy. He aimed for the Mountain's midsection.

Longclaw cut through Clegane's armor like a knife through butter.

But Mormont didn't want to instantly cauterize the wound. No. If he was going to kill the Mountain, he wanted it to be an agonizing death. As soon as the Mountain stumbled back and actually growled at him, Starag patted Longclaw down on the sand, dousing the flames.

Clegane charged forward again, this time breaking into a dead sprint. Starag knew he had to conserve his energy for Lannister. Better make it quick.

The Mountain's sword came down from above. Mormont easily stepped to the side, though he knew any normal man would've been cleaved in half. He placed another surgical cut behind Clegane's right knee.

"ARGH!" The Mountain lunged again, but Starag stepped back and sliced the artery in the dog's left wrist. Clegane's fate was sealed.

Starag watched as Tywin's dog dropped his greatsword and clutched his wrist. The dog's nursing its wounds…

Mormont saw the Old Lion watching, a snarl that promised pain and terrible things to come. Starag only winked at the old man and turned back to Clegane.

The Mountain was back on his feet now, though the cut on his knee was certainly doing most of the work for Mormont.

"Good job, old boy!" Starag grinned wickedly at Clegane. "You got back up! I knew you could do it!" he paused, bringing his voice low. "I wouldn't want to beat the Mountain on his knees, now would I?"

Clegane tore off his helmet. Anger in its rawest form was all Mormont could describe on the Mountain's face. He hefted up his sword and charged again.

Slow. Mormont beat the dog to it. He strode forward and batted Clegane's sword away. Longclaw met Clegane's right wrist this time.

"GRRRAAGH!" The Mountain dropped his sword again. Mormont cut behind his left knee, severing the tendons and muscles without resistance.

Now the Mountain actually fell to his knees. A soon-to-be-dead man, though most in the crowd likely didn't know that. Who would've thought that a Northerner of all people would finally put down Gregor Clegane?

Mormont was no fool, though. He made no attempt to approach Clegane. That would've been a death sentence. Instead, he made his voice so low that only the Mountain would hear.

"Do you think they'll remember you when you're gone?" Starag asked emotionlessly. "Will they'll bother to think even a second about your pitiful existence?"

Clegane didn't answer. He only tried to pick up his sword, though his limp hands were disagreeing with him.

"Your life was wasted on paranoid old men and the needless torturing of others!" Mormont growled. He circled Clegane, Longclaw at the ready. "Pathetic."

Starag calmed his voice. He spoke stolidly to the injured dog. "Songs will be sung about this day. 'The Bear who slew The Mountain' I imagine they'll call it."

"RAAGH!" Clegane dove towards him again, this time head first. The Mountain could still use all the might in his arms.

Mormont was tiring of him, though. He danced away on his feet, letting the Mountain fall back into the blood-red sand. Nobody spoke a word. Nobody cheered. For once, everybody's attention was focused on the Bear and his prey.

Starag left another cut on Clegane's bicep. Now was the time. "Yield, Clegane. Or the next time you attack me, I'll take your head." he thundered, so everyone in the stands had heard his decree.

The Mountain knew he was a dead man. There would be no point in pretending otherwise, and too much blood had leaked out onto the sand.

With all his might, Clegane attempted one last charge. He miraculously got up on his feet and speedily tried to wrap his arms around Mormont. Slow.

Mormont was briefly surprised that Clegane had gotten back up, but not so surprised to let him get away with it. He sharply ducked underneath the Mountain's arms and tripped the larger man with his steel boot.

The Mountain crashed to the ground, but before he could get back up on his knees, Mormont followed through with his promise. With Longclaw raised high, Starag brought it down on Gregor Clegane's neck.

Clegane's severed head fell to the ground with a thud.

Mormont glanced around the stadium. Everyone was staring at the Bear Lord in awe, especially Jon.

The King was on the edge of his seat, though he seemed more like an overly excited child. The Queen was much worse, her eye twitching dangerously at Starag, threatening all sorts of fun ways to be killed.

The Old Lion was cool. His face was that of stone, but Mormont could see behind those emerald eyes… yes… there was the Lion's fury.

"Ahem."

Starag glanced in the direction of his last opponent. The man's presence hadn't escaped him. Now it was Mormont's turn to cast the unimpressed glance. "Lannister."

Jamie Lannister stood waiting ready for him, sword held down low. "Mormont." he acknowledged the Young Bear. "I admit, I was no fan of Clegane's… I thought I'd give you two all the time you needed."

"I wouldn't expect anything else, Kingslayer." Mormont gave the golden-haired man a half-smile. He was pleased when he saw Lannister's eye twitch at the mention of his title. Now you'll give me a good fight, Lannister.

He turned away from Clegane's corpse and faced Jamie Lannister, holding up his sword with both hands. All the nerves that had been calm earlier, were now hitting him with full force.

"Come, Kingslayer. It's time somebody wiped that smirk off your face."