The Hand's tourney came quickly, a scant few weeks after their arrival in Kings Landing, and Sansa found herself brimming with excitement. It felt as if the capitol was finally showing what true southern finery really was all about, and she found herself unable to hold back her anticipation; the splendor of it all nearly took Sansa's breath away. The shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind… and the knights themselves, the knights most of all.
Sansa knew her stories, knew what knights were meant to be. Knights were to uphold the honor of the country, showing those of lower and lordly stations an example of propriety, punishing those that would fall to wickedness: murderers and rapers and thieves and such. And she'd once thought that they all did this, that all knights were to be honorable. But Sansa knew her stories, and more than that, she knew the true stories now. Knights rarely upheld their sacred charges as stately lawbringers. Knights were men, and men were filled with faults, greed and lust and wrath among them.
But she still believed, dearly, even through their faults, that knights were the best of men.
"When's something going to happen?" Arya asked from her left side.
"When the king announces it all to begin," Septa Mordane answered, sat on a bench on Arya's left. "The knights and soldiers and competitors have yet to all be settled. Bets have yet to be tallied, and squires yet to spur their master's horses."
"But most of them look ready." Arya said. "Why can't they just start? The rest of them can get ready while the games are happening."
"Because, as your septa said, bets have yet to be tallied, and men like to know what they're fighting for before they start a fight." A voice said from Sansa's right. She craned her neck towards it, noting a skinny man approaching, with salt pepper hair and a well-groomed goatee over a plain face.
"Ah, girls, look." Mordane clapped. "This is Lord Petyr Baelish, he's known for-"
"Being an old friend of the family." The lord said. He took the seat to Sansa's right, the one she'd been holding for Jeyne Poole, and continued to speak. "I've known your mother a long, long time."
"Why do they call you Littlefinger?" Arya asked, bending to get a better look.
"Arya!"
"It's quite alright," Lord Baelish said, motioning Septa Mordane lowly. He turned to Arya. "When I was a boy, I was quite small. And I was born on a little spit of land in the Vale called the Fingers, so you see… It's an exceedingly clever nickname."
"And you know our mother?" Sansa queried. Mother would speak on her past readily, but only of family and of Uncle Brandon who had been her initial betrothed. She'd not heard of this Petyr Baelish, or at least, if she had, it was from many years ago.
He nodded, offering a small smile. It looked quite handsome, even if the man was not particularly so. "I fostered in Riverrun as a child and grew up with your mother and aunt and uncle. I was fast friends with Cat and Lysa, though I admit Edmure and I did not get on well. Your mother used to be quite the minx, you know. She loved to swim, and when Hoster Tully, your grandfather, once forbade her from it in punishment, she would jump off the lower ramparts into the waters without heed or care."
"Really?! Oh, that sounds so-…" Sansa began, only to trail off as a trumpet sounded and the commonfolk scattered from the jousting arena. The king stood from his dais in anger whilst father held a look of bewilderment. Sansa soon found why.
A pair of horses trotted through the middle lane, bearing the lion of Lannister as their standard. An elderly man with fading hair and an impressive presence sat on a majestic white destrier, and by his side was a younger blonde boy on a black filly. A boy Sansa recognized quite easily.
"That's Joffrey," Arya hissed. Though it had been over a month since their altercation at the Crossroads, she had not forgiven the prince. Sansa could not blame her. Joffrey looked more subdued, but also looked to hold more confidence. That boded poorly. "What's he doing here? I thought the king had sent him away."
"The king did send him away, to play squire for Lord Tywin." Petyr Baelish said. Even he looked disquieted, though Sansa knew not why. "And the prince is doing his part. That there's the Old Lion. Though I find it odd for him to come here, for a tourney of all things to celebrate a station he dearly wished to hold."
Sansa knew who Tywin Lannister was. Everybody knew who he was. The Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, the Lord of Casterly Rock. Father to the queen and the Kingslayer, grandfather to the royal children, and the rumored man behind the butchering of the last batch of royal children. A hard, cruel man that did as he pleased and demanded his dues with a fist of iron. Father had warned all of the Stark clan about this man.
But Littlefinger's words echoed through her head as the pair approached the red-faced king. Their hushed words were made public curiosities to those that attended the tourney, and it seemed that one question was on the tips of tongues all throughout. What was he doing here?
She quickly learned that her question would receive no answer. The pair dismounted and Joffrey was escorted away from the tourney by the Hound while Lord Tywin trudged towards the competitors wing. King Robert shouted for the tourney to start.
Two more mounted men came to field, this time armored and ready for glory. One was a dashing sort of man, his silver-white armor polished like clean marble, and it made him look all the more handsome atop his white steed. The other was seemingly the opposite, a hulking man, nearly eight feet tall, covered head to toe in an armor that was black as pitch with a horse near as menacing, with unnatural red eyes and somehow sharp teeth. Strapped over his back was a weapon of some kind, though it was wrapped so thickly in cloth and leather that nobody could make out what sort of weapon it was.
"Who's that?" Sansa asked, biting at her bottom lip.
"Ser Gregor Clegane." Petyr Baelish said uncomfortably. "They call him the Mountain. The Hound's older brother. Not the type you'd want to associate with."
Sansa knew as much. The tales told of the Mountain were never the pleasant sort. It was said in hushed whispers that he murdered Prince Aegon Targaryen and raped Princess Elia Martel to death. That his great size was granted to him for consorting with the vilest of magics, giving him a hairs worth of height for every person he'd killed, which also told tale of how many he'd killed. That after the deaths of the Targaryen babes he never took off his armor or bathed so that he could keep their blood always on his hands.
"And his opponent?"
"Ser Hugh of the Vale. Jon Arryn's old squire. Look how far he's come."
They took their positions, lances poised to strike, and rushed at one another once the horns sounded.
And Sansa became witness to murder.
A sorrowful hush fell through the tourney grounds, Ser Hugh's death heavy on the heart. He was not well known or well liked, but his death was not a pretty one, and the Mountain had sullied the man even further by whipping out his cock to take a piss on the body.
"Shame that," Rickon Stane said, not sounding ashamed at all. "If only he'd had a unicorn as his mount, might not have died. Moler would have done him right."
Jon snorted, taking the jest for what it was. Moler, one of their unicorns, had been seen by a squire of House Brax during an armor fitting with Mott. The sigil of House Brax was a purple unicorn on a field of silver, and so the squire reported his findings to his master, Ser Flement Brax. The heir to Hornvale was quick to come upon them in Tobho Motts shop, and very much wanted to make trade.
While Jon and Rickon had not initially wanted to barter the unicorns, they were not averse to it. Riding one in a joust might have been good for a laugh, but it was not a clever idea by any degree. The unicorns belonged to Rickon in any case, and Jon happily allowed his bannerman to make his own decisions.
Which meant that the men of Brax were quick to return to the Westerlands with a pair of unicorns, and Rickon returned to his tent a far richer man than he had been prior. House Stane was looking to be wealthy soon enough, and Rickon was open in his intent to start breeding unicorns now that he'd a taste of the coin they might provide.
Being fair, unicorns were beasts of burden on Skagos. They were used to trudge goods over the steepes, and to fill bellies when such was impossible. Rickon would never have thought unicorns were such gold to somebody, and he was quick to take advantage while able.
It was well worth it in his mind to trade the animals for the three thousand gold coins that were now safely tucked away in their quarters. Nobody could think that Rickon did not come out the better.
Thus, without a mount, Jon settled with Jory Cassel's brown destrier. The horse was unfamiliar, but strong and sturdy enough, and with the Thu'um at his beck, a simple thing to tame.
"M'lord!" A voice called. Jon's tent opened, and a boy came in with a worried look in his blue eyes. Gendry Waters. A strong boy with a knack for more than just being a smith. It became apparent to Jon that the boy was one of King Robert's get. Jon had offered to let Gendry settle with his entourage for the tourney, and the boy had been happy to do so. Playing squire was a common dream for lowborn boys. "M'lord, they- the Lannisters. They're asking for you."
"And what would the queen want with me, hm?"
"It's not the queen. It's her father, Lord Tywin!"
Blinking, Jon watched as the tent flap opened once more, revealing the Lion of Lannister. In his sixties, Tywin struck an impressive figure. Every movement was one of confidence, and every action seemed measured. His green eyes, flecked with gold, were hard, and there were no laugh lines on his face.
"Jon Skruul." The lord said, taking a seat without so much as a by-your-leave. "I've heard of you."
"Lord Tywin." Jon returned. "Few haven't heard of you. What do you need?"
"My grandson has… alluded to me you do not do well with honeyed words, and my daughter wrote you have something of worth." He surveyed the room, noting the sword belt sat on the far table. His eyes never trailed away from it. "So, I shall endeavor to keep things simple. I make to purchase Valyrian steel."
Jon shifted in place, grabbing his swords and placing them on his waist. Then, with a steady breath, he faced the aging lord fully. This he could do. "I have enough material to forge a hand-and-a-half blade at the most. I kept the largest batch of the stuff for business."
"Then that shall be what I demand."
Grunting, Jon took a seat before the lord, drumming his fingers on his knee. "Price?"
"Five hundred thousand dragons."
A generous sum to be certain, more than Jon would need to build a proper port on Skagos.
And yet…
"Not enough." Jon bluntly said, lips thin. "I spent time on the Wall and spoke to Jeor Mormont often enough to have been told a story about you. You once offered him two million dragons for Longclaw, a sword of the same make and length as what I mean to forge for you. I'll not settle for a quarter the price."
"I made that offer thirty years ago, before Cersei and Jamie were old enough to walk." Tywin said with narrowed eyes. "Parenthood made me generous in my offerings. It was too much. One million."
Jon snorted. The Lord Commander had told a different story. For five years straight, at least thrice a year, the Old Lion would send this request, incrementally increasing his wager. Starting from one hundred thousand, he eventually reached the two million dragon mark before Jeor, in his aggravation, sent his sister Maege south to tell Lord Tywin that Longclaw would never represent a lion.
"Two million."
"One million, one hundred thousand."
"Two million."
One million, two hundred fifty thousand."
"Two million, two hundred fifty thousand."
"That is not how negotiation works, boy!" Tywin growled, slamming his hands against his knees. The chair he sat upon rattled beneath him.
"You're right, it's not. But I have what you want, and you've nothing I need. Gold can come and go, but Valyrian steel lasts eternal. You know this, just as I do. I am doing more than any other House you've contacted on this matter has; I've actually entered negotiations. Do not expect me to play by rules not of mine own making."
They glared at one another, unyielding in their dynamic. Then, after a few minutes of silence, their wills unbending, Gendry returned.
"They're calling for you, m'lord." He said. "For the lists."
Jon broke the stare with the Warden of the West and trained his eyes on the lad. "Prepare my armor. Rickon, settle my horse."
Tasks given, Jon rose from his seat. Tywin did as well. "Shall we speak more on this later, my lord?"
"Yes." Tywin said, looking contemplative. "We shall. After the tourney, we will speak in the Red Keep. At your leisure, of course."
"Would you be willing to break your fast with me in the morning then?"
"Indeed." Tywin acquiesced, looking stubborn and unhappy, but willing all the same. "On the morrow it be."
And then he left, the tent flaps billowing with a dramatic sort of flair. Gendry rushed to Jon then, fastening his armor as best he could.
"I've never heard numbers like that being discussed outside of fancies." Rickon said, holding the horse steady by the reigns.
"Nor have I." Jon admitted. The coinage of Westeros could not be compared to that of Tamriel. Only gold septims were counted in Skyrim, whilst Westeros partook in copper stars, silver stags, and gold dragons. The values were different, but all said, this was talk of more gold than Jon could spend reasonably in his lifetime.
But then, he had in intention on using it reasonably.
It could be stated that Jon should refuse to even consider bartering with Tywin Lannister. It was a well-known rumor that the Moutain was his attack dog, happily doing any order of violence that the Warden of the West bade, and it was also well known that Tywin held his legacy above all else. Most believed that it was he that ordered the murder of Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen, along with the despoilment of their mother, Elia Martel.
And while Jon believed that to be the case, believed that Tywin did indeed order such horrors, coin was coin.
Jon intended to bleed the Old Lion dry.
Bran had come to love Kings Landing.
It was here that he would spend the rest of his life, he'd decided, as a member of the Kingsguard. Sansa was still betrothed to Joffrey, if tentatively, and it was possible she would become queen. Or maybe even Arya to Tommen, if that didn't work out. He could look after his nephews and nieces, and their children after.
To be Kingsguard was his dream, one he'd had ever since he was a boy of six, when Old Nan told stories of Ser Duncan the Tall.
"He's an impressive one," Ser Barristan said then, looking towards the field. "Your brother."
Bran craned his neck and saw that Jon had just unhorsed a Frey knight. The crowd was clapping and cheering, and Arya was jumping up and down from her seat, barely held in place by Septa Mordane. Sansa was calmer, but still quite enthusiastic.
"I'll be better than him some day." Bran vowed.
Ser Barristan barked out a laugh. "Well, I'll try my best to make it so, but promises cannot be made."
Bran believed him. In the three weeks that he'd been squired to the legendary knight, he'd learned and done more with a sword than the rest of his ten years combined. Ser Barristan was a hard driver, just as father said he would be, but he was not unfair in any manner. He gave honest council, corrected forms without cruelty, and lowered his ability in spars and drills.
Ser Barristan then mounted his horse and left for the field, and the joust felt as if it began in truth at that moment.
Ser Barristan was a strong competitor, beating out three riders from houses Bran didn't know before being unhorsed by Ser Jamie. Then there was Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, heir to Highgarden. Ser Loras had made a smashing show, beating out three members of the Kingsguard back to back. It was everything Bran wanted.
The only fault, he found, was the Mountain. The Dark Knight had yet to be unhorsed in any manner, staying on his stallion as if a stone statue. Bran did not know why he was disliked, but Ser Barristan and father both didn't like the Mountain, and Bran didn't like him either because of it.
The first of the last jousts began with Jon and Ser Loras. Jon had more height and weight and power, but Ser Loras was swifter, and proved to be more experienced with a lance. They traded three tilts before Jon was flung from his horse, hacking out a harsh cough that had his shoulders rolling. Bran worried for his brother, until the cough settled and he learned that Jon was actually laughing.
He stood without issue and offered Ser Loras a hand. The Knight of Flowers took it happily, and the pair spoke with a quiet sort of enthusiasm. Ser Loras nodded solemnly at something Jon said, and then took off. Unhorsed, Jon did not remount his destrier, and instead had his bannerman take it by the reigns while he walked over.
"How've you liked it so far?" Jon asked. He smelled of sweat and mud, his hair a tangled mess, but there was a broad, happy grin on his bearded face.
"It's great." Bran said honestly. "And you did great too!"
"Indeed you did," Ser Barristan chimed. "First time on a list, right? Fourth place is a very impressive first showing. Injured?"
"Only a bruise on my back, it'll heal in a few days I think," Jon shrugged. "And I likely won't be returning for more bruises. I find it not to be my take, this jousting. A shame that father demanded there be no melee from the king. I would have preferred to partake in that."
"Just the opposite for me." Bran's master noted. "The melee can get chaotic, too many people and horses out to gut one another. And there's this one man, Thoros of Myr… He likes to light his sword up with wildfyre to intimidate his opponents. No, that sort of chaos is best saved for war, I say. Jousts are structured and fair, at the very least."
"Ah, but the chaos of it all is what makes the melee fun."
They shared a hearty chuckle, and the horns blew for the next joust. Ser Jamie Lannister, the Kingslayer, verse Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain.
"Ser Jamie will win, right?" Bran asked, looking between the two.
Jon frowned thoughtfully. "Much as I would prefer it, the Mountain likely has this bout. Likely has the joust itself, being honest. He's too big, too strong… and his horse. …I thought it impossible."
Bran noted the strange tone in his brothers voice at the end. "What about his horse."
"I've seen its kind only once before." Jon said. He sounded confused, and a little worried. "Only once. I thought it an uncommon creature."
"What is it?"
"A shadowmere." He furrowed his brow, licking at his lips. He looked genuinely perplexed. "A horse born in… Asshai, born in the Shadowlands, said to feed on ghost grass as a colt. The sturdiest, meanest breed of horse to ever walk the known world. Only horse to eat meat, too."
It sounded perfect for the Mountain then. In looks and personality. And it showed once the joust began, sprinting far quicker than Ser Jamie's horse. Faster than expected, the White Lion fell from his horse, the crowd booing and cheering at the scene. The Kingslayer moaned in pain, his left arm limp, and a pair of men had to carry him off the field.
Finally, the end was there. Ser Loras and the Mountain cantered towards King Robert, offering bows of courtesy. The Mountain's shadowmere rustled in annoyance being near to Ser Loras. When the king nodded his ascent, they rode off to their sides of the list.
The horn sounded, once, twice, thrice, and they were off. When they were near one another, the shadowmere rustled again in annoyance, and that singular movement allowed Ser Loras advantage. He pressed his lance through the Mountain's defenses quickly, and knocked him down, decimating the wooden barrier that separated jousters in the process.
The crowd burst into a thunderous applause. Nobody had liked the Mountain, and the Knight of Flowers was a favorite of the crowd after his defeating Jon and those Kingsguard members.
Ser Loras rode around the track, waving merrily to the people. Even King Robert stood and clapped for him, laughing merrily at the display.
Then, when Ser Loras rode near the Mountain, it happened. Ser Gregor unfurled that covered weapon from his back and clubbed it into Ser Loras' horse. It was an instant kill, sending the knight careening, stopping some ten feet from Bran.
The Mountain approached, weapon raised, and made to smash the heir to Highgarden's brain in. Would have to, had Jon not raced over and caught the blow with his twin swords. Sparks sounded from between them, a clash of metal on metal, and when they broke apart, the cloth that covered the Mountain's weapon tumbled away, revealing a ghastly mace of dark grey steel with spikes and skulls for bases.
"Where did you get that mace?!" Jon exclaimed.
"Wouldn't you like to know." The Mountain growled; the first time Bran had heard his voice. It was like gravel and ice, hard and unforgiving and cruel.
"Krii Lun AUS! Gaan Lah HAAS!"
They rushed at one another again and held a harsh battle, the Mountain swinging harsh and swiftly, Jon blocking with his blades and kicking when he could. The Mountain was far quicker than his size would let on, but Jon was still the faster by far, and was able to parry, block, and retaliate swiftly against most attacks. It was a surprisingly even fight, and Bran was on the edging on worry and sheer excitement as a proper duel occurred right in front of him.
King Robert caught up to what was happening, or perhaps he had somehow grown bored of their blows, and exclaimed loudly to "STOP IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!"
And yet, even with that command, they did not stop. Not until the Mountain swung his weapon once more, and Jon rolled away, using the catspaw dagger that was meant to kill Arya to stab him through the visor of his helmet. Blood burst from within, and the Mountain knelt, and then fell.
A hush settled over the crowd. King Robert looked barking mad, the queen far worse, and yet the crowd exploded. They cheered and cried and thanked him. Women and children ran the field, hugging and kissing at Jon's body and face for all he was worth. Bran's brother ignored them though, shoving them away with a gentle shake of the head, and picked up the Mountain's mace. He inspected it, a grim frown on his face, and then approached the shadowmere. With a single movement mounted the dreadsteed.
Without offering a word further, without looking to the king or his family or even to the body he'd slain, Jon gripped at the horse's reigns and sped off.
Well… hi. Been a while.
Life has taken a disappointing downturn. The position I came here for has shown to be not what I was after, and while I learned a lot, I found I learned more what I wouldn't do than what I could do. Important stuff to learn, but still. Not what one travels to the other side of the country far.
Ah well, I've recently been binging on a fantasy series and it kickstarted thoughts towards this story. Some fun stuff happened, and the next chapter (whenever I get to it) will explain a lot! For now, though, I'll answer some very basic things.
Yes, that was the Mace of Molag Bal. Yes, that was a real shadowmere. No, the story Jon told Bran about the horse was not real. Yes, the unicorn thing was just for giggles, it was never going to happen.
And no, I didn't let Jon win. There's no question he'd kick Loras's ass in general terms, but jousting is not his specialty. His training for jousts is limited to courtyard scuffles with Robb from when they were kids. Of course he's gonna lose. Hell, were he to face the Mountain on horseback he'd have lost too.
And yes, another change has occurred in canon. Tywin came to the Tourney of the Hand. Why? Because Jon has Valyrian steel, is willing to sell it, and Tywin wants that stuff bad. As do lots of other lords and nobles. Where Tywin goes, Joffrey goes, as is expected of a squire, so no, we're not away from him yet.
Plots are developing without issue. Divergences are leading to new storylines and new possibilities. And with the inclusion of daedric shenanigans, there is no telling what could happen.
So, if you like this chapter, please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review!