Chapter 5: The Little Tournament
"There's no sense in going to a tournament if you don't believe that you can win it."
So no shit, there Marq was. Sitting in his tent, nary 20 minutes until the squire's tournament begins, and now of all times, he begins to freeze. He was pacing around the mostly empty tent, save for his weapons and armor and a few pieces of furniture. Sure he had fought before, but never outside of training grounds, and certainly never against multiple people at once.
The day was hot, and he was in three layers of armor and clothing. A plain brown gambeson, with a mail hauberk and chausses. Then over all that, a brown surcoat with a golden crown studded with emeralds was proudly emblazoned.
His choice had already caused no small amount of debate amongst the royal family. Well, precisely one person in the royal family. Prince Maekar, the man who has quickly become his most ardent opponent for reasons Marq has no idea.
Maybe it was that one time he dueled against him in the training yard, where Marq lost but left a nasty bruise on the prince. Perhaps it was his casual way of greeting him the first time they met. Whatever the case, Maekar had made it his life's mission to oppose Marq. He is torn from his thoughts by a rough shove on the shoulder. Causing him to step back and look at who had done it.
Marq raises an eyebrow, "Torrhen? When did you get here? How did you get in?" The other boy hadn't much changed, still shorter and skinnier than Marq. His face had changed the most, quickly having lost any baby fat and seemingly inheriting the same pretty boy genetics that made his father so famous.
Torrhen swiftly responds, making his way to the other side of the tent and sitting on a wooden chair. "Yes, just now, Ser Quentyn ran into me while I was looking for you and pointed me in the right direction."
"Oh… well, why are you here?" Marq forces him to sit in the other chair in the tent.
"I came here because I knew you'd cripple yourself by brooding or overthinking things if left alone. Also, I got lost in the crowd, so I went to the tents to find you." Torrhen shrugs.
"Sounds like you… what if I don't do well?" Marq looks up at Torrhen.
"Well, then you don't do well, try again next time, I guess? It's a squire's melee, not a duel to the death." Torrhen seems entirely unconcerned.
"I know that, but almost everyone expects me to do well here. Daemon won one of these at twelve. What would it say of me if I couldn't win one now." Marq winces at the end, realizing he is all but whining now."
"Well, you've been trained by the best knight for the last six or so years? Of course, people expect you to do well, and if you don't, then I suppose there is always another tourney isn't there?"
Torrhen sighs as he sees Marq's face. Going over to pat Marq on the shoulder. "Listen, you'll do fine. Stop being a big baby, and get out there already. They are about to start."
Marq finds himself not reassured at all, but Ser Quentyn would throw him from the highest tower of the keep if he didn't show at all. He stands up, picks up his shield and war hammer, and starts to walk out.
"Marq." He is stopped dead in his tracks by Torrhen speaking up again. Marq turns around to face the lanky boy. Who is holding out a helmet to him, Marq's enclosed helmet, to be exact. "You might want this."
"Oh yeah. I probably do. Thank you" Marq feels his ears burning slightly as he grabs the helmet and roughly puts it on.
Marq barely hears what he thinks is a 'you're welcome' as he quickly jogs away, going to the tourney grounds. From what he remembers when Ser Quentyn signed him up. It's a foot melee and a free for all at that. He's just glad it doesn't involve horses.
It doesn't take long for him to arrive on the field. He sees masses of squires awkwardly stand around under their respective banners, unsure, nervous. At least he isn't the only one. Marq looks around at the flags around the field. Blackwood, Bracken, Rosby, Darkyln, and then he spots his own and moves over to stand under it.
Marq stands at least a head over most of the other squires and has a much more robust frame. A fact that has the two other squires, Vance boys judging by their banner, already sending glances at him, likely planning on rushing him. One skinny one wields the classic sword and shield, and a slightly chubby one wields a large two-handed sword, almost taller than he is. He checks to ensure his shield is strapped on tight and digs his heels into the dirt, waiting for the melee to start.
The horn blows, and everything seems to slow. Squires rush at each other from across the field, and more importantly for Marq, the two Vance boys also begin to run at him. He exhales a single breath, letting his muscles relax for a moment, then moves. Taking two long strides toward the boys rushing him.
He tenses his muscles and swings with his shield arm in one quick motion—the heater shield slams into the helmeted face of skinny Vance. Marq hears something break under the boy's helmet as the skinny boy goes sprawling to the ground.
Before he has time to demand the boy yield, though, chubby is on him. Swinging his large sword with the intent to try and chop Marq in half. He steps forward into the weapon's path, bringing his shield to bear to intercept the greatsword while bringing his hammer onto the other boy's shoulder.
It somewhat works. Marq feels the sword hit the shield dead on with a loud clang. The force of the blow nearly knocks Marq to the ground, but he holds, and his hammer hits true, hitting the other squire's shoulder with a crack as the hammer meets the armored shoulder. The chubby boy cries out in pain and drops his weapon, unable to wield it with only one arm in action.
"Yield," Marq demands. The chubby boy looks like he wants to spit at Marq, and the skinny boy is knocked out cold.
"I yield," The chubby boy says petulantly as if he had a toy taken away and didn't have his shoulder nearly dislocated.
Marq lets out another breath, and with the most immediate threat dealt with, he can look around. He sees an unorganized mess. Suppose this happens when you put a bunch of teens into a field with weapons and armor and tell them to beat each other up.
However, as he looks around the field, he feels a sharp pain hit him in the back and suddenly finds his face hitting the ground. He tries to recover his bearings and turnover to look up at who hit him and sees a Frey boy, wielding a mace and shield, looking down on him.
"Yield." The boy demands in a whispery weaselly voice. Marq is faced with a choice. Either he can accept defeat and move on. Or he could do something idiotic. He chooses the latter and kicks out with his leg, hitting the Frey in the knee and making him collapse like a sack of potatoes.
It's a scramble as Marq quickly crawls over and tries to restrain the boy. Grabbing him and putting him in a headlock. The Frey tries to scratch at his arm but is unable to free himself.
"I think you should yield now." Marq gently suggests
It takes a few moments for the Frey continues trying to free himself, but the boy eventually whispers out. "Fine, I yield."
Marq lets him go and stands up, moving over to recover his war hammer, which had slipped from his grasp after he had been knocked down. Almost all of the squires in the melee had been knocked out or forced to yield, leaving only two. Had it already been that long?
And it's just Marq's luck that the other boy still standing in this mess was Prince Maekar, him and his ridiculous two-handed mace and all-black armor. At least he had the good sense to forgo the dragon designs most Targaryen helmets have, instead favoring a great helm. And keeping in line with his luck, the Prince spots him and starts to stride towards him.
"Here we fucking go…." Marq shakes himself, readying himself. Then starts moving across the field to meet Maekar.
Maekar swings first, roaring as he does so. The drama queen aims right at Marq's head. Forcing Marq to step to the side, the hammer hit the dirt where he had been standing with a loud thump. Marq starts to wonder if Maekar forgot this is a tournament for a moment, only to have to dodge again as Maekar swings once more.
Marq once again thinks back on his lessons with Daemon. Sometimes you have to take a hit to get a hit. Through how Maekar is swinging, he might break a few things if he gets hit. Instead, he chooses to wait. Letting Maekar swing his giant mace at Marq's head again. This time dodging under it and moving towards Maekar, swinging into the Prince's ribs with all his might, just as he had with Daemon.
Unlike with Daemon, however. Maekar is sent backward, ending up ass first on the dirt. Allowing Marq to move and stand above him.
"Yield Prince Maekar." Marq is on top of the world. He won. He won! It's all he can do not to break out in a dance in front of the entire crowd. However, suddenly he isn't on top of the world. He's on his ass.
Maekar tackled him to the ground and now sits on top of him, and unlike Marq, he doesn't have any intention of demanding a yield just yet. Instead, he rains punch after punch on Marq's helmeted face, which begins to dent under the continued force of Maekar's blows.
Being punched in the face hurts a lot, even when one has a helmet, so he does what any sane person would do. He brings his head forward, slamming into Maekar's helmet. A deafening clang comes from the collision, making Marq's ears ring and his vision blur for a moment, but he can shove Prince Maekar off of him.
The angriest little prince lays on his back, and while Marq thinks he is beaten this time, best to make sure. He stands and moves over, kneeling beside the Prince, bringing his fist back and sending it flying into the Prince's helmet.
Holy fuck, that hurts. Marq immediately withdraws his hand and swallows a scream. How Maekar was able to do this continually, he doesn't know.
"Do you yield?" Marq questions, on his guard this time in case Maekar tries something again.
"Yes." Or at least Marq thinks that is what Maekar says. It's hard to tell with the gritted teeth.
He stands, tearing off his helmet, and throws up his hands in victory. Half the crowd roars in approval, while the other remains dead silent. Oh yeah, he beat up the King's son, tournament or not. Only followers of a specific bastard claimant to the throne would do that.
Marq looks up at the royal box and sees the disappointed face of the King. He didn't earn much favor with this, did he? However, the King whispers something to Ser Quentyn, who swiftly makes his way down, striding across the field to Marq.
Marq thinks he sees a hint of pride in the knight's face. However, it's hard to tell by how stern he looks.
Ser Quentyn speaks in a loud and clear tone, carrying across the field, which is then repeated by criers who have formed up closer to the stands. "By command of his Grace, as the winner of the squire's melee, I ask you to kneel."
Marq immediately does so, dropping onto one knee. However, he looks up and quietly asks Ser Quentyn. "Make sure to call me Mudd if you will. Don't need the King to think he has me also trying to claim the Iron Throne."
The knight rolls his eyes, "Yes, he should think you are only trying to claim the Riverlands. But if that's what the name you wish to take."
The knight draws his sword, gently tapping it on Marq's shoulder. "In the name of the warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the mother, I charge you to defend the innocent. Rise Ser Marq Mudd."