Not really sure any excuses will be worthwhile here except for the fact I just lost interest for a while. Also, me saying the interest is back may not be believed so I'm just gonna stop and let you read. Thanks for sticking through the drought.
**I do not own either Warhammer Fantasy Battles/Roleplay and nor do I own A Song of Ice and Fire. I make no profit from this at all.**
Chapter 5
Guillaume's glowing opinion of the land he had been exiled in soured significantly on the first day of the tournament. It was a grand affair, even he would admit that, with much pageantry and splendour, but it was tempered by things less pleasant. It had started well enough in the morn, with all the knights and freelancers gathering to honour their king. In Bretonnia this would have been a marvellous moment. To see the assembled chivalry of the realm pay homage, be they baron, earl or duke to the king the venerated lady of the lake. On this day the knights looked the part, bedecked in their armour and decorations, though a few were simpler, a testament to the fact that mere mercenaries and men of lesser peasant birth had been allowed to attend, but that was digestible, Guillaume could understand that, for it was the way within the Empire he had spent over a year in. It was other things that brought that sour taste to his opinions. The King perhaps most of all.
Instead of a great and noble warrior of renown and skill, he saw but a fat man waddling about, drink in hand. The woman at his side looked every part the queen, regal and beautiful, she would not look out of place beside the likes of Alaric of Bordeleaux or even King Louen himself but that only made the contrast all the worse. Some small part of him knew he should not judge, the man was still a King and in Guillaume's time in the Empire he had met many corpulent nobles, but the thought of seeing the man on the throne overlooking the tourney leading men into battle was simply too much for him to comprehend. And no tales of the man's supposed valour and skill in war and battles fought long prior would allay those thoughts.
Lord Beric at least stood out as gallant and noble. Guillaume would confess to being happy at that. The man who had saved him and helped him along looked quite the knight among all the others, with perhaps only a few others truly competing and few besides who looked above him. He had learnt the names of a few from others who watched with him, mostly lesser nobles, for Guillaume had managed to be seated among them thanks to the helpful words of Lord Beric, another reason to be thankful. A few were chief among these names, the Kingsguard perhaps most of all, though only one in Guillaume's mind warranted much attention, that being the so-called Kingslayer. The revelation of why he was named such sickened Guillaume to his core, an oathbreaker still served as a guard to a King, and apparently all because he was the brother to the queen. Guillaume had nearly stormed off there and then, and it made his judgements of the 'mountain that rode' all the more gentle in comparison. So wroth he was that all around him could see it, and one knight of lesser birth quietly bade him to calm, so as not to raise a quarrel. Guillaume did as they suggested, but remained sickened.
His foul mood was lifted somewhat by the sheer sport of the day. The jousting went on from dawn till dusk, two riders taking to the lists at a time and going until one was unhorsed, or they broke three lances and one was judged superior to another. A few knights surprised him. The eldest of the Kingsguard did well, unhorsing men half his age before falling to the wretched Kingslayer, a man whose skill Guillaume had to grudgingly accept. The Mountain seemed appropriate to his size, being rather unstoppable, and a man Guillaume learned was brother to the Mountain also proved excellent with the lance. Of course, the one that Guillaume actually cheered for was Lord Beric, who was victim to a grave dishonour when his horse was killed under him, his opponent was forfeited but Dondarrion did not last another round, being unhorsed by a priest in red robes called Thoros of Myr. Guillaume did not complain though, for this Thoros rode well and with skill, even if he looked half a sot. The real moment he would remember for some time came later when the Mountain killed his opponent, a fresh-faced youth barely a knight. It could have been an accident, a result of the sheer difference in strength between horse and rider, for the Mountain was near eight feet and riding a destrier to fit his height, while his opponent was maybe three quarters that with a horse to match. Still, it did not to Guillaume seem to be overly accidental, and the Mountain showed little and less chivalry in the aftermath, simply roaring his victory.
Yes, his opinion had soured quite considerably.
He did not stay long after the sport ended. Returning to his lodgings so he could ready Brienne and himself for the next day when the melee would be held. He was a fine courser, bred for war. He might not have been a full destrier, but Guillaume had in fact never ridden one himself, so he did not notice. He was near as pleasant in temperament to his first horse, Dancer. A lump in his throat came unwelcomed then, Dancer had been the last gift he had received from his father before his errantry, a fine horse of pure Bretonnian stock. Though no warhorse she had taken him from Bordeleaux all the way through to the Empire and in the end to Kislev, where a cultists spear had pierced her chest and laid her low. Bretonnians and horses shared a bond, his father had always told him, and right now with Brienne, he was want to believe it. As he brushed his coat he felt his breathing, Brienne was calm and strong. Over the last few days in the lead up to the tourney he had ridden him often, chiefly in the morning and the evening. Brienne was a fine galloper, lovely on the trot and smooth on the walk, even though he was not a palfrey. Guillaume believed that if he rode Brienne, they would make for an unstoppable team, it made for a pleasant thought that evening.
...
When the next day dawned, Guillaume knew it was the moment of truth. The others he lodged with were a mix of hopeful, excited, nervous and prideful, a combination of emotions that Guillaume would confess to also feeling. Anguy in particular personified pride that day, no words from anyone could dissuade him that he would surely win. Over the past few days, Guillaume had come to like the peasant bowman. He was sure of himself to an almost knightly degree, but held himself well and was not taken with needless unpleasantness, so long as you avoided doubting his skill with a longbow, which was supreme even Guillaume would admit. The two sellswords, who had struck something of a friendship in their time in the shared lodgings, were rough, rowdy and skilled, though Guillaume was lough to trust them with anything more than a single rasher of bacon.
More by happenstance than design, they had all gotten off towards the tourney grounds as a group. The peddler alone of the tenants of the room had gone off on his own, wishing all of them well but declaring his place was with the commons rather than doughty warriors. Guillaume had wished him well in return, as had Anguy and Rygel, one of the sellswords, while the other, who had been dubbed Breakwind by Anguy was now known purely by that name despite his many protests that he went by Pate, merely grunted and carried on.
To the other's glee and Guillaume's annoyance, there were still the final tilts of the jousting to be done before they could move on to the rest of the events of that day. Rather than take his place again on the lower stands with the lesser nobles of yesterday, Guillaume for once preferred the idea of the company of his fellows inboard. Anguy and Rygel did not mind overmuch, Anguy even grinned when he said he wished to go with them, but Breakwind scowled.
"Finally lower yourself to our level, ser?" Breakwind said below his breath, earning a look of reproach from Anguy and a shrug from Rygel.
On another day and in a different world Guillaume would have taken the bait laid before him, but instead, he simply shrugged himself. "I need not explain myself to you. Mayhaps I grew tired of the perfume?" While Rygel laughed Guillaume followed it with a pointed look at the sellsword, which only made him scowl even more, though he did not press again.
After the three who meant to take part in the melee left their horses at one of the tourney stables, the group found their place among the commons. They took place near the middle, for a group of four men who were clearly of the martial life were let through by most, with only a few needing turning aside by the likes of Rygel and Breakwind. Rude it may have been, but while Guillaume may have wished to be among them rather than the nobility and regarded the joust at this point as rather boorish, he at least wanted a decent view of it, he would admit weakness here were anyone to ask. No one did ask, however, so he simply carried on with the others until they were at the fence which marked the edge of the lists.
The queen was absent today, Guillaume saw at once, while the king still infested his seat above all the rest. It struck him as odd, for the vile Kingslayer was still among the competitors, surely the queen would wish to see her brother do well, even if he was an oathbreaker. He was still puzzled by it when the horns blew and the first of the days jousting began.
The brother of the Mountain was the first to arrive at the lists. Simple and hardy armour with his only decoration being a hound shaped helmet, lending credence to the nickname Rygel described him by. The Hound and the Mountain, fearsome brothers if Guillaume ever saw any. In fact, were he in the Old World he would find himself insisting they shared some blood of the fierce Norscans so intimidating in figure they both were. Still, for all the dour armour the Hound wore, Guillaume still cheered for him rather than his opponent, for it was none other than the Kingslayer himself.
"Five stags on the Kingslayer." Breakwind announced, looking to have gotten over his earlier sullenness.
Rygel scoffed. "I'll not bet against Lannister. Find someone else."
Not deterred Breakwind looked at Anguy. "C'mon Archer, five stags then? Or if you're poor I'll take you not calling me Breakwind."
While Anguy grinned at the idea he shook his head and waved off the idea to a now all but forlorn-looking Breakwind. "I'll take it. Five stags." Guillaume said when it became clear Breakwind would not turn to him.
It earnt him a scowl from the sellsword, but Breakwind soon broke into a small smile and nodded. "I'll enjoy taking your money, Ser." He offered a greasy hand, which Guillaume dutifully shook. The deal now sealed both men turned back to the joust itself.
Once again, despite the calibre of men involved in the joust, it made for fine sport. Both riders went at each other, driving their horses on and lowering their lances. The Kingslayer had more skill by the looks and scored the first hit, sending the Hound reeling in his saddle, on the second pass the Hound anticipated the Kingslayers moves and sent him flying back and to the ground, to much cheering of the commons. Happily taking the stags from the grumbling Breakwind, Guillaume let up a cheer of his own to the younger Clegane brother. That cheering was soon overshadowed by the mirth of all on the field, be they commoner or noble. For in his fall the Kingslayer's helm had become bent and stuck fast. Unable even to lift his visor there was much laughter, including from a not at all regretful Guillaume, as the Kingslayer was led from the field to find a blacksmith who could release him from his blindness. Of all present, the king himself seemed to find it the most enjoyable.
By the time the laughing died down, the next competitors were ready to begin their own jousting. Seeing the Mountain brought a scowl to Guillaume's face. For after his killing of an opponent the previous day the elder Clegane had managed to find himself lower than the Kingslayer in Guillaume's esteem, for he was now sure that the Mountain either intended to kill the boy, or elsewise cared not at all that he had. The other opponent was a fine one at least, and one Guillaume would admit to overlooking due to his youth, Sir Loras Tyrell, a boy of no more than six and ten. In Bretonnia the so-called Knight of Flowers would still be short of his errantry and not yet a full knight worthy of joining a joust proper. Yet here he was, and Guillaume did not mind overly much, not least because the boy was clearly exceptionally skilled, if ostentatious even according to the tastes of a Bretonnian.
After the young Tyrell made a show of granting a white rose to a girl among the nobility and returned to his position, the joust began. There were no bets on who would win from Breakwind, for he was too engrossed in the event to even consider it as the opponents thundered at each other. The Mountain clearly had trouble controlling his mount, a grievous sin for any knight, but a horrific calamity for him at this moment. Such was his struggle that he was still trying to control the animal when Tyrell deftly struck him in just the right part of the chest to send him flying from his horse and onto the ground. Cheers went up all around, chiefly from the commons that surrounded Guillaume.
The cheers however swiftly turned to shrieks, as the Mountain, after untangling himself from the reins of his horse, took up his sword from his squire and slew the beast in a single stroke, before clearly making to move on to Tyrell.
Guillaume at once moved. He vaulted over the fence that separated him and the commons from the lists and when he landed he drew his sword. By then Tyrell was on the ground, having already taken a blow from the Mountain but saved by his armour. Guillaume vaguely heard someone yell "Stop him!" as he charged.
Only he was not the first there, for the Hound had arrived. "Leave him be!" The younger Clegane snarled as pulled the elder off of the young Tyrell. Guillaume was upon them then but the Mountain and Hound were locked in a duel between themselves, so Guillaume instead helped Tyrell up and away. The youth seemed for a split second loathe to accept aid but swiftly got over his feelings and grasped Guillaume's hand and they both backed up, leaving the brothers Clegane to fight their own battle.
At length, after several strikes from each brother, the king himself ended it with a mighty bellow. "Stop this madness in the name of your king!" The Hound had kneeled, the Mountain had not, who instead looked ready to sully his name even more in an attack on the king before thinking better of it and merely storming off.
Guillaume himself was quite ignored, and rightly in his opinion, as the Hound was given the accolades that followed. A cheer from the commons, a forfeit from Tyrell who declared he owed Clegane his life and gave him the day by refusing to joust against him in the yet to happen finals. The Hound, for his part, merely glowered and took the winners purse, while Tyrell took the second-place purse. As Guillaume walked back to his companions, who clapped him on the shoulders for doing what he needed to, he felt the Hound at least showed some chivalry, even if he appeared to detest being referred to as a knight.
After all that came the archery, and Anguy's time to shine in the sun.
They again walked as a group. following the general surge of folk towards the place of the competition. Rather than attempt it within their group, for he knew the folly of trying there, Breakwind managed to get a few bets in Anguy's favour from others, the largest being twenty stags from a travelling knight of lesser birth. Rygel and Guillaume by comparison simply wished Anguy well, sentiments that the youth insisted he did not need to win his victory.
And win it he did. Anguy outshot all others on the field. First at twenty yards, then forty, sixty, eighty and finally a hundred. He was weighed down by a mighty purse of gold when next they met and his beaming face was a sight to see. Breakwind also was beaming, collecting his money from some less than enthused victims of his games.
"Told you I'd win!" Anguy declared, voice thick with adrenaline, pride and no small helping of smugness when he came to them.
"That you did, lad," Rygel said through his chuckles. "That you did."
Breakwind also laughed. "And you won me some coin. Though nothing as compared to yours!"
Guillaume kept quiet, merely smiling and clapping the boy on the shoulders, while Anguy's grin grew ever wider. "Damn fucking right!" He jiggled the heavy purses to hear the sounds of the coins. "I'll never go poor again! To my bow arm and all the wine and whores I'll buy with it!" He declared to the cheering of the others, including many commoners who wished to gather around the victor. It was with this crowd that Anguy took his leave of the group. Departing into the city to make good on his promises of wine and whores. Guillaume and the others wished him well but were very much drowned out by the tide of lesser men who now flocked around the young archer. They did not follow him of course, they had other business.
The time had come for the melee.
"I say we join forces for it," Rygel said as they made their way to the field of the contest. "Better together than alone."
Breakwind nodded quickly. "Aye. There'll be near forty others there and going by our lonesome would be foolish." The man may have been somewhat cantankerous but unwise he was not. To his credit, he looked over at Guillaume and said something he didn't expect. "I apologise for my words earlier, ser. They didn't mean nothing."
Guillaume shrugged slightly to Breakwind. "Do not worry yourself. I was distant with you and..." He shrugged again. "Let us instead focus on the coming fight?"
Both sellswords nodded happily to that. "Aye." They also said in unison, before Rygel carried on. "Course we'll split before the end can only be one winner! I'll throw you some if it ends up being me." He flashed a wicked grin. "You both do the same?"
Guillaume smiled, Breakwind laughed, and both gave their assent to the plan. "Don't make a fool of yourself Ryg! If it's either of us it'll be me!" Breakwind declared proudly. Guillaume did not offer his own counter boast but merely smiled again.
The field for the melee was large, larger than the field given over to the lists of the jousting. The stands too were larger to compensate but this merely meant each noble had more room to sit upon, the common folk were still expected to make do crowding around the fence on two of the other sides of the field, the fourth given over to the tents and pavilions of the knights and lords who had them. Lacking any of those themselves, Guillaume, Rygel and Breakwind simply retrieved their horses from the stables that had housed them, then waited near the entrance to the field going over final checks and readying their horseflesh for the fight.
Guillaume had had his shield repainted in the days leading up to this moment. No longer was it a simple bare oaken board, now it showed his heraldry, the swan and fleurs-de-lis. He went without a surcoat, not having found the time or the right people to make one for him, and he also went without his cloak. Brienne too was unarmoured, for that was well beyond his budget. Still, compared to his fellows he stood out as well-armed. Rygel had a simple coat of mail and a brigandine with a likewise unarmoured horse, another courser by the look. While Breakwind wore a gambeson with sections of plate over his arms and his horse, much like the others, went into battle with only a saddle. Of them all bore a shield, with Guillaume and Rygel also bearing blunted swords provided by the tourney and Breakwind making do with his own mace, having convinced the master of the tourney to allow it since it bore no edge.
On the whole, they looked rather plain compared to many of the men they would be fighting. Some looked alike with the three, being lesser knights or sellswords in mail and coats of plate. Others looked much more formidable, wearing harnesses of full plate and riding armoured destriers. One stood out, as Guillaume was noting he always did. That being the red priest, the shaved and mad Thoros of Myr who had bested Lord Beric the day before. Guillaume made a quick vow that he would avenge his rescuer.
Before they were called forth one final moment of preparation was required. Bidding Rygel and Breakwind go one without him for a moment, Guillaume bent to his knees and began to pray. It was a common ritual for Knights of Bretonnia, and Guillaume would go so far as to say it had saved his life on many an occasion. Contemplating on the Lady of the Lake, he asked for strength in his sword arm, nay, begged for it. He remembered all the times it helped him in the past, from the depths of the Drakwald to the cold snowfields of Kislev. He knelt there for over a minute until he knew he had done all he could and rose again. He did not feel anything, he never did. He would know only when he struck an opponent in fury. That done, he mounted Brienne, gave him a reassuring pat and once again made to join his companions.
...
The melee itself began with some ceremony. Each of the more important competitors were heralded. There were over a dozen knights of higher birth who were announced, few of which Guillaume really paid attention to despite his own interest in heraldry. He only noted that besides Thoros there were none of the major names from the jousting taking part. After that followed another one for the king, who still sat on his throne above the proceedings. All of the gathered men, be they knight or sellsword, raised the tips of their weapons up on high to salute him and then all but Guillaume loudly declared they fought in his name. Thankful for the helm and the clamour of the others, Guillaume hoped to the Lady he was not noticed in ignoring this 'duty' he had no wish to be part of, for the only king worth declaring for in his mind was that of Bretonnia itself. One other thing stood out. When everything was said and done the red priest, Thoros rode over to the fence and with the help of a squire, dipped his sword in a barrel of something and then retrieved it, now flaming and sending tendrils of green smoke into the sky. The madman had set his sword on fire.
Then a trumpet blew and away everyone was away.
Guillaume, Rygel and Breakwind immediately broke off and formed their group, joined by a couple of other sellswords it soon became clear Rygel had talked into it. Together the brotherhood of the sellswords manoeuvred to one of the edges of the field and awaited the telltale sign of another alliance forming. They did not have to wait overlong for one to indeed form, or two in this case. One was of the more highborn knights, the other of another group of men around the sellswords own standing. Thoros, oddly, was not in any one of them and instead had spent the first opening moments of the melee battering away at an unlucky fool who had not broken away quick enough, to the great enjoyment of the crowd and the king alike.
The fighting started in earnest then. With a great cry, each group charged forth. The two groups of poorer warriors, Guillaume included to his growing chagrin, charged at the clearly richer ones. They were expecting it, how could one not, wealth had a way of drawing attention, and met and checked each charge and soon the field was awash in smaller melees between individuals or small groups battering away. And in the middle of it all was a half-mad holy man with his flaming sword.
Guillaume was not indolent during all this. He had charged with the others and met a knight with a white ram upon his surcoat charging his own way. Their horses circled each other, Brienne moving with more grace and control Guillaume was pleased to note, and they started the sword song. The clash of steel was all around them but for them only one clash meant anything. Guillaume turned away strike after strike on his shield, the paint scratching. His own sword strikes met the same fate. But then, the ram knight made a folly and overreached, trying to strike at Guillaume's head, but instead lost balance. In the small opening, Guillaume lashed out, striking the man across his plate armoured chest. It was a mighty blow and filled Guillaume with pride and hope that his prayers had been answered, but the man recovered and they continued. Eventually, they broke off, for other challengers had arrived to interrupt them. A knight in plain plate had struck at the knight of the white ram and that demanded address, while a rider in mail and boiled leather had struck out at Guillaume, who likewise needed to be taught the error of his ways.
This fight proved easier. The rider struck wildly, seeming to rely on strength and speed rather than finesse, but was turned at each point either by Guillaume's shield or his sword. In no more than three strikes Guillaume found an opening and thrust forth, taking the man in the mailed gut, winding him and sending him reeling. Suddenly thinking better of his opponent the man made to ride off, but Guillaume gave him another strike to the back of his halfhelmed head to remember him by.
Such tit for tat fighting coloured much of the next few hours. They were fighting with blunted weapons and avoiding each other's horses as well. Guillaume fought against more than a dozen individuals in the first hour alone. Twice more again the knight of the white ram, who seemed to be singling him out above all others. A few had fallen from their horses and been declared out, at least two had yielded, Guillaume was sure there were more but could attest only to two. Rygel had fallen, that much he knew, for his fellow lodger had taken a vicious strike to the head from Thoros of Myr and begged his yield. Breakwind, as far as Guillaume knew, was still at large among the throng of the melee.
In the second hour, announced by a trumpet, Guillaume once again came against the knight of the white ram. The teams had fallen apart for now by then and it was just the two of them for several yards around. Both of their shields were rent with many a blow but still they went at it. the white ram managed a surprise strike against Guillaume's helm, sending him dazed and confused for a moment. he recovered just in time to stop another strike aimed once more at his head, sending it aside with his half-ruined shield while he trusted in his sword arm and managed a strike again the white ram's own helm. The clang of steel on steel seemed to overtake both of them and the white ram stalled, giving Guillaume a chance to strike at his sword hand. The blow struck home and a sword clattered to the floor. Finally manoeuvring Brienne closer to him Guillaume grabbed the man and demanded, "Yield!"
"I yield!" The knight of the white ram declared after a short losing struggle. Upon being released, the ram knight left the field, to be helped off his horse by a squire.
Half drunk on his victory, Guillaume threw himself back into the fray. Only to be struck out of the blue by another sword to his back. Crying in pain he turned at once and saw the laughing red draped form of Thoros riding away, flaming sword still in hand. He turned to chase but saw that none other than Breakwind himself was already in pursuit, throwing curses and prayers to his own gods as he went, what was more he smashed his mace into one half of another duel on the way and sent said half crashing out of its saddle and to the floor.
Laughing to himself and promising to let Breakwind have his own glory, Guillaume decided upon other prey, that being the half of the duel that Breakwind had not driven to the dirt. Driving Brienne on he fell upon the other duellist, a knight in plate and a surcoat of red. This new opponent, half confused by the sudden defeat of his opponent, barely had time to react before Guillaume was upon him. He had only half raised his shield before a blunted sword point drove into his shoulder plate, leaving him reeling on the saddle and quite unable to mount a proper defence. For the second time in as many moments, Guillaume had another opponent begging his yield after he started hammering at the exposed helm. Graciously accepting, Guillaume felt it time to help his erstwhile ally Breakwind.
Looking around through a by now slightly foggy helm, Guillaume found Breakwind locked in a fearsome duel with Thoros. Breakwind was showing skill and valour but his horse was struggling beneath him, wishing to be away from the burning sword of his foe. Before Guillaume could rush over to aid him, Breakwind had been driven from his uneasy saddle by the laughing holy man. Thoros, upon seeing his new challenger only laughed his jolly laugh and kicked his horse on again, leading a merry chase once more.
The chase did not last long, being interrupted by other challengers almost as soon as it began and once more an hour passed with intermittent duelling, then another. It was in the third hour, where once more two alliances had been formed and broken, that Guillaume would face Thoros again.
By then the field was near empty, most of the others either having retreated back to the safety of beyond the fence, been unhorsed or forced to yield. In fact, there were no more than eight now afield. Of six Guillaume took little and less notice of, however, for they were dealing with themselves quite handily. Guillaume only had sportingly vengeful eyes for Thoros of Myr.
At last managing to catch the red priest without interruption, Guillaume charged at the madman with all the strength Brienne had left within himself. As with Breakwind's steed, Brienne was not overly enthused by the flaming sword, however, and it took Guillaume a few moments to calm him, by which point Thoros was more than aware of him.
Exchanging insults and mockery, Guillaume and Thoros battered at each other. His shield was little more than fragments of wood left on his arm by then but still, Guillaume was able to keep the flaming sword away from him, while Thoros' battered but still whole shield did the same. Guillaume thought he could hear the crowd egging both sides on, but it was mere background noise to the sword song before him, and what a song it was. For whole minutes they duelled, striking this way and that, each landing blows on their chests and Thoros managing one on Guillaume's head, a blow that for all his might Guillaume could not inflict upon the holy man. Still, they slashed and thrust and cut at each other yet more. Until Guillaume's helm rang and he felt himself thrown from his saddle.
He tasted metal. Blood, his blood, he knew instantly. Opening his eyes he ripped his helm off and drank in the air at once. He was on the ground, that much he saw instantly. But it had not been from a blow from Thoros. No, as he looked up and saw Brienne running off to another side of the field he heard Thoros curse and spittle and yell at the rude interruption to his duel. Turning back he found himself doing so just in time to see Thoros drive a knight in a surcoat of blue and black from his saddle, to the deafening screams of the crowd. Taking a moment, Guillaume saw why.
Thoros had just won the melee.
Striking the ground in fury, Guillaume righted himself and at once ran after Brienne to calm his horse. Brienne did so, to Guillaume's happiness, and he also saw his fine beast was unharmed, a small miracle given his violent unhorsing earlier. Deciding to thank the Lady he was just unharmed after such a long battle, Guillaume walked Brienne out of the field, leaving Thoros to soak up the adulation of the crowd. As he walked his body slowly started to realise just exactly what it had gone through and he was struck with tiredness and legs that were want to wobble slightly. He managed to make it out of the field and to the fence at least before he needed to steady himself, breathing in and out to calm his body and make it heel to his commands to just behave. It was truculent but gradually accepting the commands.
He was joined by both Rygel after a short while, along with a gaggle of other competitors. He looked in decent humour and once more clapped him on the shoulders, something Guillaume could say he wasn't too enthused about given the bruising no doubt forming there. "Almost!" Rygel declared a look of abject sympathy on his face. "But Ser Gerald didn't take kindly to you it seems!" He added with a laugh.
Still being in a foul mood, Guillaume struggled with a smile. "Was that the Blaireau in black and blue?"
Rygel laughed and nodded. "Aye. Thoros beat him bloody for you though!" Yet more laughing from those around them. "Don't worry so much, ser. You got a couple of good ransoms. Though I owe Thoros one you do not, lucky bugger, only getting thrown from the saddle."
Ransoms! of course. Guillaume had quite forgotten about them in all the excitement and disappointment. He had made two men yield to him and they now owed him their equipment or their worth in gold. He smiled widely but quickly controlled it, offering his own sympathy to Rygel, for he too now owed his equipment to his victor.
"Don't worry. I'm not so poor to have to give him my gear or steed!" Rygel said, noticing his look. "If needs must I can see to Anguy and take some of his winnings. He'll be too deep in a whore to notice a lighter purse!" For once Guillaume shared his laugh. Ten thousand dragons, aye Anguy wouldn't notice losing some of that.
Guillaume again thanked Rygel and begged his leave. He had to find his ransoms. The sellsword wished him well and departed with the gaggle of other of his ilk he had seemed to gather, leaving Guillaume to his own little quest.
In the end, the ransoms proved adequate for his time. Four golden dragons from the knight in red, a Sir Joff of Fair Isle, who was in good spirit and congratulated him on his deft strike and damned the name of the rider who had stolen his prize before he went down. Guillaume decided against telling the knight his great foe was as a man who had woken him with a strong break of wind. The other, the knight of the white ram, proved a little eager for a rematch. Sir Tyland Rambton was his name and the first thing he declared upon meeting his vanquisher was he'd challenge him afresh once his wounds had healed. Despite the bravado, he did pay the ransom, a healthy eight golden dragons. Still, Guillaume did not know their true worth but going by how Brienne had cost him a single one of these coins, it was a healthy amount.
When all was said and done, Guillaume could not say he had not enjoyed this second day. But he was also painfully aware that he was indeed not in Bretonnia anymore. He was conflicted, on one hand, he had tested his mettle and not found it wanting in a field of glory, on the other he had seen disgraces to the very word of knighthood, chiefly from one man in all truth. It was... difficult to reconcile.
He decided as he later brushed Brienne of any dirt and grime his fine beast had gathered in the fight, that his time in King's Landing was done. The next day he would set out, and continue on the quest he was sworn to. He had money again, he had a horse, he had some small renown he supposed, and he knew now that this land was not so perfect and may just need a Questing Knight of Bretonnia to right some wrongs.