Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 20: Hand's Tourney
"Pretty armour doesn't make a warrior."
– Aedan Greystark
The Wanderer's crew were scrambling across the deck, bursting into frenetic activity as King's Landing slid into view atop its three high hills.
The city covered the shore as far as Willam could see; manses and arbors and granaries, brick storehouses and timbered inns and merchant's stalls, taverns and graveyards and brothels, all piled one on another. He could hear the clamour of the fish market even at this distance. Between the buildings were broad roads lined with trees, wandering crookback streets, and alleys so narrow that two men could not walk abreast. Visenya's hill was crowned by the Great Sept of Baelor with its seven crystal towers. Across the city on the hill of Rhaenys stood the blackened walls of the Dragonpit, its huge dome collapsing into ruin, its bronze doors closed now for a century. The Street of the Sisters ran between them, straight as an arrow. The city walls rose in the distance, high and strong.
A hundred quays lined the waterfront, and the harbour was crowded with ships. Deepwater fishing boats and river runners came and went, ferrymen poled back and forth across the Blackwater Rush, trading galleys unloaded goods from Braavos and Pentos and Lys. There was an ornate barge, tied up beside a fat-bellied whaler from the Port of Ibben, its hull black with tar, while upriver a dozen lean golden warships rested in their cribs, sails furled and cruel iron rams lapping at the water.
And above it all, frowning down from Aegon's high hill, was the Red Keep; seven huge drum-towers crowned with iron ramparts, an immense grim barbican, vaulted halls and covered bridges, barracks and dungeons and granaries, massive curtain walls studded with archers' nests, all fashioned of pale red stone. Aegon the Conqueror had commanded it built. His son Maegor the Cruel had seen it completed. Afterward he had taken the heads of every stonemason, woodworker, and builder who had laboured on it. Only the blood of the dragon would ever know the secrets of the fortress the Dragonlords had built, or so he'd vowed.
Yet now the banners that flew from its battlements were golden, not black, as the crowned stag of House Baratheon flew proudly.
A high-masted swan ship from the Summer Isles was beating out from port, its white sails huge with wind. The Wanderer moved past it, pulling steadily for shore; and Willam could only think how the white-sailed ship was far more impressive than any other vessel he'd seen in the Westeros waters to date; aside from his own.
All the sights, however interesting he found them, were overwhelm by one simple fact. The smell was unbearable.
King's Landing reeked. The stench of it struck them the moment they entered the Blackwater Rush, passing by Red Keep, what majesty might've struck them was blown away by the stench. Most coastal cities he'd seen smelt sharp and salty, and a little fishy too. The way a mermaid ought to smell, he thought.
This place only smelled of rot and it was a wonder anyone could stomach it.
"King's Landing," Willam spoke aloud as the Wanderer pulled into the harbour.
"Why does she smell like an unwashed whore?" Edwyn commented, scowling at the stench.
"Know the smell well do you Ed?" Willam looked at his cousin with feigned horror.
"Piss off," was all the response he got as the others laughed.
"It does smell foul," Aedan found himself agreeing.
Willam looked to Jon, the boy all too eager to be off the boat – for he'd spewed up his guts more than once on the voyage here.
"Glad you came eh Snow?"
"I'll be glad to be off the ship," He replied with a frown.
Jon Snow's first time on a ship hadn't been a pleasurable one. The boy had been seasick for most of the journey.
They'd docked at what was known as the King's Port, given the scale of their vessel – plus the Stark banner they flew – they'd been quickly directed to the finer section of the harbour; walled off from the rest and not far from the King's Gate. Despite this, nobody was waiting to welcome them.
They did however give them distance as Ghost, Wraith and Flash walked beside their group – keeping a low profile was impossible.
It was crowded even outside the city walls, as knights were arriving from all over the realm, and for every knight there arrived two freeriders, three craftsmen, six men-at-arms, a dozen merchants, two dozen whores, and more thieves than could be counted. Not to mention the heat with the sun at its highest…
Still, it was nothing compared to the years he'd spent in the Empire or in the Outlands. Heat didn't bother Willam as it did most northmen.
"A drowning, a tavern riot, three knifings, a rape and two fires," one of the Goldcloaks was muttering conversation to his fellows as Willam passed under the King's Gate with his grey and white cloak streaming from his shoulders. "And the drunken horse race! We're not paid enough…"
From their conversation, it seemed the city was having its share of troubles. These Goldcloaks were either undermanned or incompetent.
Willam looked around frequently as they made their way through the crowded city streets, taking in the sights; while ignoring the smell.
The Street of Steel began at the market square beside the River Gate, as it was named on maps, or the Mud Gate, as it was commonly called. A mummer on stilts was striding through the throngs like some great insect, with a horde of barefoot children trailing behind him, hooting. Elsewhere, two ragged boys were duelling with sticks to the loud encouragement of some and the furious curses of others. An old woman ended the contest by leaning out of her window and emptying a bucket of slops on the heads of the combatants. In the shadow of the wall, farmers stood beside their wagons, bellowing out, "Apples, the best apples, cheap at twice the price," and "Blood melons, sweet as honey," and "Turnips, onions, roots, here you go here, here you go, turnips, onions, roots, here you go here."
The Mud Gate was open, and a squad of City Watchmen stood under the portcullis in their golden cloaks, leaning on spears.
"Spears," Willam muttered as they passed. "Swords. Little else…"
Mail armour, iron cudgels, iron spears, dirks, and the occasional longsword.
It was a far cry from the average Greycloak patrol back home. Wrightport patrols had two crossbowmen present at least, a weapon beloved for how easy they were to use and maintain, not to mention how they could be loaded and carried around on a long patrol, ready to be fired in a moment's notice.
A column of riders appeared from the west, guardsmen springing into action, shouting commands and moving the carts and foot traffic aside to let the knight enter with his escort. The first rider through the gate carried a long black banner. The silk rippled in the wind like a living thing; across the fabric was blazoned a night sky slashed with purple lightning. "Make way for Lord Beric!" the rider shouted. "Make way for Lord Beric!" And close behind came the young lord himself, a dashing figure on a black courser, with red-gold hair and a black satin cloak dusted with stars. "Here to fight in the Hand's tourney, my lord?" a guardsman called out to him.
"Here to win the Hand's tourney," Lord Beric shouted back as the crowd cheered.
Willam turned off the square where the Street of Steel began and followed its winding path up a long hill, past blacksmiths working at open forges, freeriders haggling over mail shirts, and grizzled ironmongers selling old blades and razors from their wagons. The farther they climbed, the larger the buildings grew.
"Halt!" The guardsmen barked at them as they approached the gates to the Red Keeps blood-red walls, warily glaring at the wolves.
"Prince Willam Stark," he declared for himself, with Edwyn and Aedan and Jon flanked by a handful of Greycloaks.
"I-" The guardsman seemed confused. "Who?"
"Just call on Eddard Stark," Willam was mustering his best smile.
"The Hand is busy," the guardsmen frowned.
"No time for mummers calling emselves Princes," the second guard scoffed at the notion.
"Jon," Willam turned to the boy; who looked wide-eyed at being named.
"Aye?" He stumbled over the word.
"Tell these idiots who you are, would you?"
"Um," Jon blinked. "Jon Snow…"
"Eddard Starks son!" Willam informed the guards.
"Lord Stark is expecting us," Aedan added; though it was a lie in truth.
"Who else walks around with wolves at their heels?" Edwyn asked, rolling his eyes.
The two guards looked at each other and whispered hastily, nervously eyeing the wolves.
"Just fetch Jory Cassel or anyone from the Hand's party," Willam scowled, too tired from the journey to keep up his otherwise friendly demeanour.
"Fetch your damn King for all we care," Edwyn added, a hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
One of the guardsmen wandered off casually, muttering something about entitled nobles and overgrown dogs.
It wasn't long before Jory found them, the look on his face spoke volumes when he noticed Jon Snow among their group. "Jon!" He'd barked the name aloud, hurrying over to clasp the lad on his shoulders. "What are you doing here lad? I thought you were off to join the Night's Watch?"
"Change of plans," Jon admitted with a nervous grin.
"Your lord father will want to see you," Jory assumed, smiling wide. "Come, follow me."
It was a short walk to the Tower of the Hand, where colours of black and gold gave way to stark greys and whites; as a man dressed in a plum-coloured doublet with a mockingbird embroidered on the breast in black thread walked past them in the hall. He eyed them warily as he passed, and Wraith let out a low growl.
Jory knocked at his lord's door. Once, Twice, Three times.
"Enter," Lord Stark's voice called out in reply.
Alone in his solar, Ned made to close a great thick tome as they entered. It was a huge thing with cracked yellow pages of crabbed script, bound between faded leather covers. "Lord Stark," Willam spoke first as they entered. The wolves stayed outside the room except for Wraith; who stubbornly refuses to part with his master.
"Jon!" Eddard stumbled briefly over his surprise.
"Father," Jon smiled, clearly happy to see the man.
"You-" Ned halted, and something akin to fear flashed in his icy eyes.
"I didn't take my oath," Jon was quick to explain, fighting the urge to lower his gaze.
"The lad decided to accompany us south for now," Willam added with a shrug.
"At least until I'm older. The Wall isn't going anywhere…"
"No," Ned supposed it wasn't. "I'm glad to see you Jon, truly – this is just unexpected…"
There was something the man wasn't saying, this much Willam could read easily enough.
"I've docked the Wanderer at the King's Port," Willam began to explain, absently scratching at Wraith's ear beside him. "We thought to visit before setting off to see what else this country has to offer – along with any who wish to accompany us."
"This tourney business seems worth seeing though," Edwyn chipped in with that.
Ned's features scrunched at the mere mention of the thing.
"Not happy eh Ned?" Willam smirked at the man.
"It may be called the Hand's Tourney, but I assure you, I want no part of it."
"A shame," Edwyn frowned. "The city seems fit to overflowing for the event."
"Too much so," Ned sighed; his hand on the book at his desk.
"I've some hundred fighting me with me if you need more hands Ned."
"Gladly," He happily replied. "The city watch is undermanned and stretched thin."
Among the crewmen of the Wanderer – who were sailors and not true warriors – there was perhaps a hundred fighting men and women that had joined them; not counting those few that went south with King Robert. Many remained at White Harbour too or had left with Cregan on the Sunwright.
"I'll send word," Willam said simply. "And what of those I sent with Suko? He hasn't scared them away, I trust?"
Ned stifled laughter at that. "They've been a great help guarding the wolves, and the children…"
"Guarding the wolves?" Jon asked, curious.
"What danger could direwolves be in?" Aedan wondered.
"There was some trouble on the road involving Prince Joffrey."
"That little shit?" Edwyn scoffed, uncaring who heard him.
"Careful," Ned scolded the Fisher. "Such talk is dangerous."
"We can speak again later Ned," Willam dismissed the notion quickly.
"Jory," Ned called on the man. "See to it that Prince Willam and his men have rooms prepared, would you?"
"Aye my lord. And for young Jon?"
"My son stays close," Ned was determined.
For whatever reason, the man didn't seem thrilled with Jon's presence.
"There's a spare room in the tower, I'll see to it Lord Stark."
Willam's own room would be close by too, though outside of the Hand's Tower; it was not far away. The Jousting would take place in the morning, once they'd had a decent night's rest; that Jon Snow was particularly glad for even as he wondered why his father had seemed so concerned with his presence.
Beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions had been raised beside the river, and the common folk came out in the thousands to watch the games.
The splendour of it all took Sansa's breath away; the shining armour, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind and the knights themselves – especially the knights – were like something straight out of a song.
"It is better than the songs," she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling.
They watched the heroes of a hundred songs ride forth, each more fabulous than the last. The seven knights of the Kingsguard took the field, all but Jaime Lannister in scaled armour the colour of milk, their cloaks as white as snow. Ser Jaime wore the white cloak as well, but beneath it he was shining gold from head to foot, with a lion's-head helm and a golden sword. Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, thundered past them like an avalanche. Sansa remembered Lord Yohn Royce, who had guested at Winterfell two years before. "His armour is bronze, thousands and thousands of years old, engraved with magic runes that ward him against harm," she whispered to Jeyne. Septa Mordane pointed out Lord Jason Mallister, in indigo chased with silver, the wings of an eagle on his helm.
He had cut down three of Rhaegar's bannermen on the Trident. The girls giggled over the warrior priest Thoros of Myr, with his flapping red robes and shaven head, until the septa told them that he had once scaled the walls of Pyke with a flaming sword in hand; the champion of some strange fire god.
Other riders Sansa did not know; hedge knights from the Fingers and Highgarden and the mountains of Dorne, unsung freeriders and new-made squires, the younger sons of high lords and the heirs of lesser houses. Younger men, most had done no great deeds as yet, but Sansa and Jeyne agreed that one day the Seven Kingdoms would resound to the sound of their names. Ser Balon Swann. Lord Bryce Caron of the Marches. Bronze Yohn's heir, Ser Andar Royce, and his younger brother Ser Robar.
The Hound entered the lists as well, and so too the king's brother, handsome Lord Renly of Storm's End. Sansa could admit the man looked dashing.
Jory, Alyn, and Harwin rode for Winterfell and the north – as did the bustard Jon Snow.
"An embarrassment," Septa Mordane frowned when he appeared. Sansa, for once, found she disagreed with the septa.
Jon's armour was dark grey plate with silver ornament and the colours of House Stark reserved on his shield, with a grey cloak that hung from his shoulders. Sansa thought her bastard brother acquitted himself well, unhorsing Horas Redwyne in his first joust and one of the Freys in his second.
Jory rode three passes at a freerider named Lothor Brune. Neither man lost his seat, but Lother's lance was steadier, so the king gave him the victory.
Alyn and Harwin fared less well; as Harwin was unhorsed in his first tilt by Ser Meryn of the Kingsguard, while Alyn fell to Ser Balon Swann.
The jousting went all day and into the dusk, the hooves of the great warhorses pounding down the lists until the field was a ragged wasteland of torn earth. A dozen times Jeyne and Sansa cried out in unison as riders crashed together, lances exploding into splinters while the commons screamed for their favourites. Jeyne covered her eyes whenever a man fell, like a frightened little girl, but Sansa was made of sterner stuff than her friend was.
A great lady knew how to behave at tournaments. Septa Mordane noted her composure and nodded in approval.
"Are you not enjoying the jousts, Prince Suko?"
He looked at her with his dark onyx eyes and smiled.
"I find it a strange sport little lady," Suko admitted from his seat to the side.
Sansa didn't fail to see the glare Septa Mordane sent their way. She'd warned her away from the man, calling him a "rogue" and "dornishman" simply for his tanned olive skin; despite his and Prince Willam's stories to the contrary. He was always smiling, or so Sansa found, she couldn't see why the Septa disliked him so…
It's true he was unlike the others in Willam's party, carrying a thin curved sword on his hip; but he was always merry. Sansa thought the Septa mistaken.
Lady seemed to like him at least, sitting at her side watching vigilantly. Prince Willam had said how the wolves were good judges of character.
"It seems impractical," Suko continued to watch as the Kingslayer knocked Ser Andar Royce clean from his saddle.
"A southern tradition," Ned Stark added from his seat with the ghost of a smile.
"We've a similar tradition I suppose, though it serves more purpose…"
"May I know it?" Sansa asked with all her courtesy.
"How could I refuse such a well-mannered little lady?"
Again, the Septa was glaring daggers – though it seemed to Sansa that Prince Suko hadn't noticed.
"It's a game really," Suko began to explain, leaning forward in his chair with his usual smirk. "Two teams of White and Black – to symbolize night and day – each with a general to lead them. The other participants are divided into captains and soldiers and they meet in mock-battle to decide a victor from the conflict."
"A melee then?" Ned assumed from his seat, happily ignoring the jousting for a moment.
"No," Suko doubted for a moment. "At least, from what I know; your melees would be more akin to the games of Willam's people…"
"What are the rules?" Jeyne Poole asked from Sansa's side.
"A soldier is worth one point, a captain is worth five and a general is worth ten."
"The team with the most points wins?" Jeyne assumed aloud.
"But then," Sansa frowned in thought. She raised her head and asked, "How do you count the points?"
"A plate of pottery is worn atop each man's head," Suko smirked at their confused expression. "Break the plate, then said man forfeits – but there are rules. General's may break a captain's plate, but he cannot break a soldier's. Captain's may break a soldier's but not a general's. Soldier's may break a general's but not a captain's."
In practice, each team had a hundred men, with the goal of encouraging strategic thinking in the Empire's military leaders.
"That's not how true battle works," Ned criticised.
"No," Suko agreed. "That's not the point however – it's all about strategy and awareness."
"It sounds confusing," Jeyne mumbled under her breath.
"Any more so than men hitting each other with sticks atop horses?"
As they spoke, a young man was flung from his saddle; landing not ten feet away from where they sat. The point of his opponent's lance had snapped off in his neck, killing him instantly as his life's blood flowed out in slow pulses, each weaker than the one before. His armour was shiny new; a bright streak of fire ran down his outstretched arm, as the steel caught the light. Then the sun went behind a cloud, and it was gone. His cloak was blue, the colour of the sky on a clear summer's day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one.
"Or killing each other with sticks," Suko muttered, a brow raised, his smile fading away as he looked at the dead man.
Lady had released a rare low growl when the dead man was flung too close to the stand, but she'd quickly quieted down.
Jeyne Poole wept so hysterically that Septa Mordane finally took her off to regain her composure, but Sansa sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching with a strange fascination. She had never seen a man die before. She ought to be crying too, she thought, but the tears would not come.
After they carried off the body, a boy with a spade ran onto the field and shovelled dirt over the spot where he had fallen, to cover up the blood.
Then the jousts resumed as if nothing had happened. Sansa's eyes scanned the grounds for her little brother.
Renly Baratheon was unhorsed so violently that he seemed to fly backward off his charger, legs in the air. His head hit the ground with an audible crack that made the crowd gasp, but it was just the golden antler on his helm. One of the tines had snapped off beneath him. When Lord Renly climbed to his feet, the commons cheered wildly, for King Robert's handsome young brother was a great favourite. He handed the broken tine to his conqueror with a gracious bow.
Bran watched from his knight's side with an array of looks from shock to glee when Lord Renly had behaved so heroically, even in defeat.
He was with Ser Barristan as other squires rushed about around like so many busy ants, doing their best to be seen but unheard, never a burden as they made some effort to avoid Summer at Bran's side. "Need I worry about your brother?" Barristan asked kindly as Bran attached a silken white cloak and clasped it onto his knight.
"Jon?" Bran frowned, knowing that Jon had the misfortune of drawing Barristan the Bold for his next tilt. "My brother Robb is better with a lance…"
"I see," Barristan hummed, flexing his shoulder; finding it stiff from a previous bout. "He has carried himself well so far though, has he not?"
Jon had unhorsed several men far older than him, though some would call it luck of the draw – that luck had clearly run dry.
"He's the best with a sword," Bran was quick to praise him; bastard or not. Robb himself admitted that Jon was a better swordsman.
Ser Barristan stifled a chuckle at the boy's confidence in his kin. "I shall have to spar with the boy someday then."
"He'd be honoured Ser," Bran smiled genuinely. "I'm done, if that's all Ser?"
"Come, we'll pay a visit to your brother. Wish him luck. How does that sound?"
Bran gave a nod and spoke "Yes Ser" while struggling to contain his excitement. Jon was so lucky getting to joust against Ser Barristan, he thought; envious of his bastard-brother all the while as they walked to the Stark tent beside the tilting yard. It was a short walk as a hedge knight rode against Beric Dondarrion.
The voices from the Stark tent were clear as they approached, the guardsmen parting happily enough for the Kingsguard and his Stark squire.
"We don't have jousting, that's true enough," Willam was pouring a cup of arbor red when they entered. "We've duelling and arena games though; keeps us sharp – but we've always put more stock in footmen and swords than cavalry for the most part. Horses are House Ryder's area…"
"Finest damn beasts in the Sunset!" Qrow Ryder barked, beaming with pride.
"Careful now Qrow, if your ego gets any larger – your head may pop like a cherry!"
"Oh, piss off Fisher!"
"We've guests," Aedan spoke with a shake of his head.
"Bran," Willam looked at the boy. "And you must be Ser Barristan? Ned said you'd taken the lad as your squire…"
"An honour," Barristan spoke clearly. "Bran wished to come and wish his brother luck in his next bout."
"Ser Barristan," Jon Snow had gone wide-eyed at the man's entry. "It's an honour, Ser!"
All of Jon's built-up worries and anxiety had seemingly vanished in a heartbeat.
"You've ridden well so far lad. This is your first journey, yes?"
"Aye," Jon nodded, still a little star shocked.
"You should be proud to have come this far then," the old knight said with a smile.
From anyone else, such words might've seemed akin to mockery – but there was no malice in this knight's eyes,
"My brother is the better with a lance," Jon replied nervously, absently scratching the back of his head.
"That'll be my fault in part eh?" Willam scoffed a laugh. "Afraid that I might've neglected the lads training in that regard…"
In truth, Willam wasn't much of a rider – though he could ride a horse as well as the next man; he'd found nothing to gloat about. The Sunset Islands had its share of mounted troops in times of strife, but most battles turned upon the strength of sword and shield and wargs.
"The Kingslayer spoke highly of you," Barristan looked to him with an odd look, as if weighing his merits.
"Did he now?" Willam found that odd. "I've never spared with the man…"
"He saw you fight the Hound, if I recall?"
That wasn't so much as fight as a theatrical performance.
"Perhaps one day Ser Jaime will summon the courage to fight me?"
"Perhaps I shall too," Ser Barristan was smiling at that.
Bran was watching the exchange with wide shining eyes.
"Gladly," Willam said happily. "I welcome the challenge, Ser."
"After the tournament then?"
"At your leisure," He agreed easily.
"We'll be in the yard early," Aedan added. "If you'd like to join us Ser."
The old knight seemed glad to do so. Willam didn't know if he could best the man, truly; but that wasn't the point. It sounded fun.
As the old knight and his squire left, with Summer at their heels, Jon muttered "I'm so dead" again and again to the amusement of those gathered.
Ghost only offered a huff in encouragement, not bothering to raise from the floor.
"You'll be fine lad!" Qrow slapped the boy on his back. "He's an old man; past his prime no doubt!"
"Don't underestimate him Jon," Willam said, suddenly more serious. Qrow was often a fool.
"I won't," Jon shook his head. "He's bloody Barristan the Bold!"
"He was certainly confident," Aedan thought aloud, stroking Flash's fur as he sat back down.
"I could take him," Qrow scoffed at the notion.
"I'd pay to see that!" Edwyn laughed at the man.
Given the lack of experience with a lance, Willam strongly doubted that Qrow could. Ignoring that however, some men grew old for good reason.
Jon was better than any of them with such a tool, in all honesty – while jousting was a southern tradition; he'd at least been taught to wield a lance properly. The Sunset Islands had never used such weapons in war nor in play. Their cavalry was spears and swords, not long sticks – though one could see the merit in said sticks.
"You've done well to get this far lad," Willam assured the boy.
"Thank you," Jon muttered, messing with the strap on his shoulder.
"Just do your best," Aedan assured him. "Nobody can fault if you fall Jon."
Qrow scoffed at them all. "Don't listen to them Snow, you got this!"
Jon chuckled nervously. It was not the attention – for he'd grown past that – but the pressure was unyielding.
"You couldn't do a worst job than Qrow," Edwyn teased openly.
"Fuck you Fisher!"
"You wanna go, Ryder!?"
"Any time," Qrow countered, hand on his swords pommel.
"If you're going to fuck," Willam interrupted them, smirking. "Please, do it elsewhere?"
Aedan and Jon laughed as the two men growled at each other. In his mind, Willam could see sparks fly between them.
Qrow scoffed, regaining his composure. "Fisher should stick to fucking mermaids and-"
The helm Edwyn grabbed and threw at the wall behind Qrow missed him by an inch, clanging to the ground and scaring a few of the squires. "Hm," Qrow picked up the helm and inspected it thoughtfully, a smirk on his lips. "You throw like a damn woman, Fisher!"
"You fucking-"
"Give him the helm back Ryder," Willam sighed wearily, as if dealing with bickering children.
"Yes ser," Qrow rolled his eyes, mocking the andal title before tossing the helm at Edwyn with some force.
Jon took the helm from the man and moved to wear it. His bout with Barristan was due any moment now.
It was a short walk to their seats among the high lords and ladies, leaving Jon and Ghost alone with multiple parting thanks and words of encouragement. The word "Bastard," greeting them on route, as Will's eyes darted to the woman. Ashlyn Amber was staring down some freerider in a checkered cloak.
"Piss off girly," The hedge knight scowled as he walked away.
Arya Stark stood with her, scowling at the man as he left.
"Friend of yours?" Willam asked as they walked over to the pair.
"No," Arya frowned with a huff of derision.
"Loser of the last bout," Ashlyn explained with a blank glare. "He killed his opponent's horse…"
"So, he won?" Qrow assumed aloud.
Ashlyn's glare hardened at the man. She was NOT happy.
"What did I do!?" He looked confused, darting to the others for some explanation. He found none.
"What are you doing here?" Ashlyn eyed the prince, tired and impatient; trying her best to ignore Qrow's existence.
She didn't like him or was perhaps just upset – it was hard to read, Willam couldn't say.
"Just heading to our seats, Lady Amber."
"Is it time for Jon's bout yet?" Arya asked, her head slightly tilted to the side.
"Aye," Aedan confirmed. "We were just going to watch…"
"Oh!" Arya practically jumped with joy. "Ashlyn and I were just seeing to the horses and-"
"Ashlyn?" Willam smirked at the young Stark girl. "On a first name basis with the fair lady, are we?"
Ashlyn glared at him and scoffed, a fire burning behind her amber eyes.
"Shut up," Arya rolled her eyes, uncaring.
Willam could only smirk. "Shall we go see your brother then?"
Arya gave a nod and darted off, clearly knowing where she was going; with Nymeria hot on her heels.
"Coming too Ash?" Qrow asked her, clearly hopefully.
"No," She barely acknowledged him. "I prefer horses to people, thanks…"
"A queer taste," Edwyn feigned thought in his mockery. "I suppose that's why you're betrothed to this oath?"
"Piss off Fisher," Qrow scowled, though it was half-hearted.
Ashlyn simply rolled her eyes and returned to caring for her horse without a word.
Willam did wonder, as Ashlyn walked away from them, exactly why they were 'betrothed' at all. He'd never asked because frankly it wasn't his business to care about, but the pair seemed constantly at odds – and they were both well past being able to marry. So why hadn't they? Ashlyn seemed to despise the man.
Not that she seemed too taken with Willam either, actually; but the woman seemed to dislike Princes. She at least tolerated him though.
None of these things had stopped Qrow from very obviously staring at her arse as she walked away from their group, however.
"Shall we?" Aedan snapped Will from his thoughts then, as their group moved to their seats to watch Jon's bout.
At their seats it wasn't long before Jon Snow rode out onto the yard on his black charger wearing his grey-steel plate with the white direwolf on black that served as his device; reversing colours of his father's house – as was customary for many bastards of noble birth.
"Jon Snow of the House Stark," The announcer shouted upon his arrival. "Natural son of Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King!"
The crowd cheered, though more for the Hand than the lad himself. 'Natural' was just a polite way of saying Bastard.
It was a quiet thing indeed compared to what followed.
"Ser Barristan the Bold of the House Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard!"
The crowd erupted into cheers, as the old knight was among the crowd's favourites.
"I'm beginning to think these andals hit each other with sticks to keep the smallfolk happy," Qrow muttered.
"Is it any different than us?" Willam asked aloud, not bothering to turns his eyes off the joust.
Jousting wasn't a thing back home, not, but Wrightport often held competitions of duelling and archery.
"The melee seems more our style," Edwyn added as the two knights got into position.
The flag was raised, and the signal given, as the announcer swung. On three the bout would begin.
One.
Two.
Three!
They were off, the gallery trembling as their horses broke into a gallop.
"Go Jon!" Arya was cheering from her seat. "Jon!"
"Arya!" Sansa scolded her. "Sit back down!"
She struck her tongue out and returned to cheering.
The first clash was in Selmy's favour, striking a glancing blow to Jon's shield and sending him staggering in the saddle.
"No!" Arya exclaimed, on her feet.
Jon to his credit managed to remain seated.
"Think the boy can win?" Edwyn asked, curious as he eyed the lad steady himself for another run.
"I-" Willam made to give his thoughts.
"YOU'VE GOT THIS JON!" Arya yelled; locked onto her brother with eyes full of hope.
"Ser Barristan is a true knight," Sansa countered politely. "I'm sure he'll win."
"Nope," Arya denied, popping the P with effort and a roll of her eyes. "Jon's gonna win – you'll see!"
"Perhaps he'll name you Queen of Love and Beauty?" Lord Renly said from behind them, with an innocent look on his face.
"I-" Arya pouted, looking a little terrified as she briefly turned to deny the man. "He wouldn't! Shut up!"
"Arya!" Septa Mordane was quick to scold the girl. "Apologize at once young lady!"
Renly was laughing, however. "No need dear Septa, it was my fault for teasing the poor girl."
Ned Stark hadn't seemed to notice the exchange. There was a forlorn look on his face, as if he'd seen a ghost.
Jon had pushed his horse into a gallop, having removed his helm; charging without hesitation.
"What's that idiot doing!?" Willam snarled as he noticed the lack of a helm.
"GO JON!" Arya practically screamed her support, jumping on the spot and waving her arms.
The crowd took a collective breath of air as time seemed to slow. The sound of splintering wood ripped through the world around them, even as Jon was knocked out in his saddle – his horse kept running as the boy struggled to stay seated. To his credit, he'd tried; but fell from the saddle and onto the dirt.
"NO!" Arya shouted, her excitement giving way to fear.
"The idiot's fine," Willam motioned, for Arya's sake as much as Ned's it seemed – for the man seemed paler than usual.
"Why in the gods name did he take his helm off?" Aedan held to a frown at how foolish the young Snow had been.
They saw Jon lifted to his feet with Ser Barristan's aid; as the old knight had dismounted to check on his opponent, an action the crowd adored him for.
"Victor!" The announcer declared for all to hear. "Ser Barristan the Bold!"
It was long past that Jon Snow found his way, clearly worse for ware, to the seats beside his father.
"What were you thinking Snow!?" Willam had scolded him heavily.
"He was better than me," Jon argued boldly. "The helm obscured my vision and-"
"Prince Willam is right Jon," Ned sighed wearily. "That was reckless. You could've died…"
"I think you did great!" Arya argued with a brave face.
Jon smiled at her but sighed. "I'm sorry father, you're right – I just wanted to win…"
In that moment it was clear how much Ned cared for the boy. Willam hadn't ever seen the man quite so pale as when he saw Snow jousting.
The journey quickly boiled down to four competitors after that; the Hound and his monstrous brother Gregor, Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer, and Ser Loras Tyrell, the youth they called the Knight of Flowers. Ser Barristan had been unhorsed by Ser Jaime in a very hard-fought match.
Ser Loras was the youngest son of Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. At sixteen, he was the youngest rider on the field, yet he had unhorsed three knights of the Kingsguard that morning in his first three jousts. Sansa had never seen anyone so beautiful. His plate was intricately fashioned and enamelled as a bouquet of a thousand different flowers, and his snow-white stallion was draped in a blanket of red and white roses. After each victory, Ser Loras would remove his helm and ride slowly round the fence, and finally pluck a single white rose from the blanket and toss it to some fair maiden in the crowd.
His last match of the day was against the younger Royce. Ser Robar's ancestral runes proved small protection as Ser Loras split his shield and drove him from his saddle to crash with an awful clangour in the dirt. Robar lay moaning as the victor made his circuit of the field. Finally, they called for a litter and carried him off to his tent, dazed and unmoving. Sansa never saw it. Her eyes were only for Ser Loras. When the white horse stopped in front of her, she thought her heart would burst.
To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red.
"Sweet lady," He said, "no victory is half so beautiful as you."
Sansa took the flower timidly, struck dumb by his gallantry.
The horns soon blew for the final jousts. Sandor Clegane was the first rider to appear, a far cry from the gallantry of Ser Loras.
"A hundred golden dragons on the Kingslayer!" Littlefinger announced loudly as Jaime Lannister entered the lists, riding an elegant blood bay destrier. The horse wore a blanket of gilded ringmail, and Jaime glittered from head to heel. Even his lance was fashioned from the golden wood of the Summer Isles.
"Done!" Lord Renly shouted back. "The Hound has a hungry look about him."
"Even hungry dogs know better than to bite the hand that feeds them," Littlefinger called dryly.
Sandor Clegane dropped his visor with an audible clang and took up his position.
Ser Jaime tossed a kiss to some woman in the commons, gently lowered his visor, and rode to the end of the lists. Both men couched their lances.
Ned Stark would have loved nothing so well as to see them both lose, but Sansa was watching eagerly.
The Hound leaned forward as he rode, his lance rock steady, but Jaime shifted his seat deftly in the instant before impact. Clegane's point was turned harmlessly against the golden shield with the lion blazon, while his own hit square. Wood shattered, and the Hound reeled, fighting to keep his seat.
Sansa gasped. A ragged cheer went up from the commons.
"I wonder how I ought to spend your money," Littlefinger called down to Lord Renly.
This time, when Jaime shifted his seat, Sandor Clegane shifted with him. Both lances exploded, and by the time the splinters had settled a riderless blood bay was trotting off in search of grass while Ser Jaime Lannister rolled in the dirt, golden and dented.
Sansa said, "I knew the Hound would win!"
"Pretty armour doesn't make a warrior," Aedan commented on the show.
Qrow laughed as Jaime struggled to take off his helm, trying to get to his feet only to stumble back down.
Littlefinger overheard. "If you know who's going to win the second match, speak up now before Lord Renly plucks me clean," he called to her. Ned smiled.
Jaime Lannister was back on his feet, but his ornate lion helmet had been twisted around and dented in his fall, and now he could not get it off. The commons were hooting and pointing, the lords and ladies were trying to stifle their chuckles, and failing, and over it all Ned could hear King Robert laughing, louder than anyone.
Ser Gregor Clegane was in position at the head of the lists. He was huge, the biggest man that Willam had ever seen.
He was tall himself; as his grand-mother had been an Umber and the Umbers had wed Towers for years – so it was a rare thing indeed for Willam to find a man that towered over him. It was a wonder the man could get through any doors. "How tall is that monster? Eight, Nine Feet?"
"He'd give Lord Towers a run for his money," Edwyn muttered, leaning forward in his seat.
Gregor was well over seven feet tall, closer to eight, with massive shoulders and arms thick as the trunks of small trees. His destrier seemed a pony in between his armoured legs, and the lance he carried looked as small as a broom handle. It was a sight to behold…
When the Knight of Flowers made his entrance, a murmur ran through the crowd, and Sansa whispered, "He's so beautiful…"
"Father, don't let Ser Gregor hurt him," Sansa said, suddenly clustering her father's arm.
"These are tourney lances," Ned told his daughter. "They make them to splinter on impact, so no one is hurt."
"No one other than that dead knight in that cart," Suko added absently, leaning back; looking rather bored with things.
Sansa was looking afraid for her gallant knight while Ser Gregor was having trouble controlling his horse. The stallion was screaming and pawing the ground, shaking his head. The Mountain kicked at the animal savagely with an armoured boot. The horse reared at that and almost threw him.
The Knight of Flowers saluted the king, rode to the far end of the list, and couched his lance, ready.
Ser Gregor brought his animal to the line, fighting with the reins; his stallion all too eager to ride.
"A hundred golden dragons on the Flower boy!" Qrow declared loudly, earning a few shouts of challenge.
Willam eyed the man. Qrow was oft a fool; but the man knew his horses…
"I'm afraid Lord Renly has bled me dry," Lord Baelish spoke from behind them.
It was apparent that He and Qrow knew something that many others didn't.
The Mountain's stallion suddenly broke in a hard gallop, plunging forward wildly, while the mare charged as smooth as a flow of silk. Ser Gregor wrenched his shield into position, juggled with his lance, and all the while fought to hold his unruly mount on a straight line, and suddenly Loras Tyrell was on him, placing the point of his lance just there, and in an eye blink the Mountain was failing. He was so huge that he took his horse down with him in a tangle of steel and flesh.
Ned heard applause, cheers, whistles, shocked gasps, excited muttering, and over it all the rasping, raucous laughter of the Hound. The Knight of Flowers reined up at the end of the lists. His lance was not even broken. His sapphires winked in the sun as he raised his visor, smiling. The commons went mad for him.
"EASY GOLD!" Qrow Ryder cheered, up out of his seat earning the cowls of those he'd beaten in his wager.
In the middle of the field, Ser Gregor Clegane wrenched off his helm and slammed it down onto the ground. His face was dark with fury and his hair fell down into his eyes. "My sword," he shouted to his squire, and the boy ran it out to him. By then his stallion was back on its feet as well.
Gregor Clegane killed the horse with a single blow of such ferocity that it half severed the animal's neck. Cheers turned to shrieks in a heartbeat. The stallion went to its knees, screaming as it died. Willam had seen horses die before, just as he'd seen men die; and neither tended to go gracefully.
"Stop him!" Ned shouted, but his words were lost in the roar as Gregor was striding down the lists toward Ser Loras Tyrell, his bloody sword clutched in his fist. Everyone else was yelling as well, and Sansa was crying. It all happened so fast. The Knight of Flowers was shouting for his own sword as Ser Gregor knocked his squire aside and made a grab for the reins of his horse. The mare scented blood and reared. Loras Tyrell kept his seat, but barely. Ser Gregor swung his sword and swung hard.
The blow took the boy in the chest and knocked him from the saddle. The courser dashed away in panic as its rider lay stunned in the dirt. Gregor lifted his sword this time for the killing blow, only for a rasping voice to warn, "Leave him be," and a steel-clad hand wrenched him away from the boy.
The Mountain pivoted in wordless fury, swinging his longsword in a killing arc with all his massive strength behind it, but the Hound caught the blow and turned it, and for what seemed an eternity the two brothers stood hammering at each other as a dazed Loras Tyrell was helped to safety. Thrice Ned saw Ser Gregor aim savage blows at the hound's-head helmet, yet not once did Sandor send a cut at his brother's unprotected face.
It was the king's voice that put an end to it. The king's voice and twenty swords.
A king needed a commanding voice if he expected to lead men. Robert Baratheon used that voice now, as loud as thunder.
"STOP THIS MADNESS," He boomed, "IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!"
The Hound went to one knee. Ser Gregor's blow cut air, and at last he came to his senses. He dropped his sword and glared at Robert, surrounded by his Kingsguard and a dozen other knights and guardsmen. Wordlessly, he turned and strode off, shoving past Barristan Selmy.
"Let him go," Robert said, and as quickly as that, it was over.
"Is the Hound the champion now?" Sansa asked Ned then, confused.
"No," He told her. "There will be one final joust, between the Hound and the Knight of Flowers."
"Hard wager that," Willam spoke, eyes darting to Qrow.
"A true gambler knows when to take his winnings," He smirked.
A few moments later Ser Loras Tyrell walked back onto the field in a simple linen doublet and said to Sandor Clegane, "I owe you my life. The day is yours, ser!"
"I am no ser," the Hound replied, but he took the victory, and the champion's purse, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, the love of the commons.
As the Stark party walked to the archery field Lord Baelish and Lord Renly and some of the others joined. "Tyrell had to know the mare was in heat," Littlefinger was saying. "I swear the boy planned the whole thing. Gregor has always favoured huge, ill-tempered stallions with more spirit than sense." The notion seemed to amuse him.
It did not amuse Ser Barristan Selmy. "There is small honor in tricks," the old man said stiffly.
"Small honor and twenty thousand gold." Lord Renly smiled.
Ryder had known it too, Willam knew now – and he'd gladly jumped at the opportunity.
"A fact I am grateful for!" Qrow was smiling, a now slightly richer man; as many a fool had wagered on the Mountain to crush the flowers.
That afternoon a boy named Anguy, an unheralded commoner from the Dornish Marches, won the archery competition, outshooting Ser Balon Swann and Jalabhar Xho at a hundred paces after all the other bowmen had been eliminated at the shorter distances. Next up for the melee, where true skill would be tested.
Near forty men took part were present for the melee. Freeriders and hedge knights and new-made squires in search of a reputation. They were to fight with blunted steel in a chaos of mud and blood, small troops fighting together and then turning on each other as alliances formed and fractured, until only one man was left standing.
Willam and Suko were placed together alongside one of Lord Royce's sons, Hobber Redwyne, Balon Swann, Lothor Brune and a Frey lad that Willam couldn't name.
Jon Snow had wanted to join, but his father had forbidden it and that was that. The boy was badly bruised from his jousting tumble besides.
"I can't wait till I'm hold enough to fight!" Arya spoke from beside them, having jumped at basically acting as Will's squire.
"Little ladies don't fight," Ser Robar Royce answered her with an amused look.
"I can too!" Arya huffed, glaring at the bronze knight with annoyance.
"My squire has spirit," Willam remarked, though she wasn't truly his squire.
Aedan would usually be helping with his armour, but the man had been placed in another team; as had Edwyn and Qrow – so the task had fallen to Ivar.
"We have a plan I assume?" Suko asked in common as Ivar grabbed Will's armour – effectively doing Arya's job for her as the girl was too short to reach.
"React at first," Willam said simply, rolling his shoulder slightly as the silver-enamelled pauldron covering his shoulder was fastened.
"We should just rush the fools," Lothor Brune suggested. This one wasn't the patient type.
"If you like," Willam regarded them, a small man with a stocky build. "You'll do so alone – unless any of you plan to join him?"
"Your plan is a decent one," Ser Robar agreed easily enough.
"Aye," Ser Balon gave a simple nod.
"I'm with you Stark," Suko said, though he needn't have.
These melees started a team exercises, but there were no rules about working together – or even betrayal among teams.
Willam was dressed in a lightweight breastplate with faulds attached to protect the front waist and hips, along with matching gauntlet and some basic light protection for his legs. The prominent feature was the silver pauldrons covering his shoulders and the close-fitting Y-shaped slit helmet that he held under his arm.
While most of his armour was dark blackened steel, the pauldrons and helm were engraved with silver, plus an onyx direwolf head on his breastplate.
"Try not to die eh Stark?" Suko smirked as Ivar tightened the strap on Willam's shoulder.
"Ouch!" He frowned; feigning hurt.
"Silence," Suko cursed in imperial.
"You're fine my Prince," Ivar scoffed at the joke.
It earned at least a chuckle from Hobber at least.
A horn blast made to summon the combatants from their tents.
"Shall we then?" Willam proposed, walking first out from the tent and onto the field with Suko acting as his shadow.
It was across the yard that they caught the first glances of their opponents in team groups of their own – eyeing Aedan and Qrow together in one, while Edwyn was alone in a party of what seemed to be Reachmen and Stormlander knights whose names Willam didn't know or care about.
"Stay together and wait for-" Willam was cut short as Ser Lothor charged headlong against the enemy.
The Frey lad in their group followed the man and charged ahead into the fighting, no doubt thinking he'd earn all the glory.
"Fuck," Willam cursed before charging after the fools to join the fray.
Suko stuck close to Willam as they each engaged targets, while Lothor was off ahead fighting two men at once; appearing stronger than he looked.
Willam had his own target, a large man, opting to wear him down; as every opponent had a weakness be it his strength or his pride, a strong man was often slow when a prideful one would be easily taunted. "Let's see what kind of man you are," Willam thought with a smirk as their steel sang.
"Is that all you've got? You hit like a woman!" Willam taunted him, a lie in truth; but an angry man was a reckless one.
The man's face turned red as he raised his sword and charged with a scream of "Aaaarrrrhhh!"
Willam tossed sand into the man's visor as he charged, then stepped aside, evading the charge and tripping his disoriented foe.
"Yield!" His blade pointed at his enemy's neck. He ignored the few shouts of disapproval from the stands for his 'dishonourable' tactic.
"I yield," The man's eyes burnt with a fury as he grumbled some andal curses.
It hadn't been the cleanest fight, but time wasn't on his side – so it had proven the most effective.
Suko had defeated his own man, though he wasn't used to the tourney blades; he'd made quick work of his enemy.
Aedan could be seen fighting two men and seemed to be struggling even as he dispatched one, a wave of groans came from the crowd as the man fell flat.
Qrow had dispatched a foe of his own, taking the time to wave at the audience; much to their approval. Willam couldn't see Edwyn anywhere though…
The Frey boy was on his back, having been easily defeated when he tried to turn his steel against Ser Lothor; no doubt hoping to take the knight by surprise.
"He'd be a much better swordsmen if he was not so bloody reckless," Willam found himself thinking as he watched Lothor charge at another foe.
One man charged at their flanks screaming "Spottswood!" atop his lungs. It was a fool who announced his attack…
The knight clashed against Willam's blunted steel, but not for long; leaving the knight of Spottswood in the dirt – not that Willam knew what a 'Spottswood' was exactly.
He turned to leave the victor against the knight but unbeknownst to him his defeated foe was not quite finished, wielding a dagger in a mad rage the knight leapt to his feet and charged – only to be met with screams from the crowd as Willam whirled around, to see Suko having knocked the knight unconscious.
"Watch your back Stark," He scolded with a frown. "I said not to die, didn't I!? I could swear I did…"
"I would've gotten him," Willam shrugged; quite certain – as he had heard the man coming.
"Only because the idiot screams every time he attacks," Suko kicked the unconscious knight with ease.
It didn't take long for some squires to drag the man off the yard as King Robert declared him disqualified and all but exiled the knight for his actions.
"See that one?" Suko motioned at a bald tall knight in flapping red robes, wielding a flaming sword against a slight man with red-gold hair in a breastplate of dull black steel; displaying a forked purple lightning bolt. The flaming sword struck against his opponent's steel and sent sparks flying to the amusement of the crowd.
"Oil?" Willam assumed, standing by Suko absently watching the flaming knight fight the lightning knight.
Suko could only shrug, though it seems that the fire seems to dull the tourney blade more than it already was…
It wouldn't do to interfere in the two's bout, even if there weren't technically rules against it.
That left only one 'honourable' course of action.
"Shall we?" Willam asked, smirking.
"Thought you'd never ask Stark."
Willam tightened his grip on his sword, falling into an easy stance, adjusting his step and circling to his right.
The pair closed the distance between them quickly as steel kissed steel, exchanging rapid blows out of the gate without a heartbeat's hesitation.
Prince Suko was no pushover with a blade, though Willam had more experience; the Prince of Dawn had access to some of the best swordsmen growing up – though sadly for Suko, his style was all wrong for what he considered 'clunky' longswords. The man was more used to thinner lighter steel than these tourney blades.
His razor-sharp curved single-edged blade wasn't something the tourney allowed for, nor did they have tourney blades of the same design.
"Have you gotten rusty Lóng?" Willam teased as the pair locked swords.
"Perish the thought Stark," Suko growled out, as Will used his superior strength and height to his advantage.
It seemed that he had the upper hand, pushing Suko further and further; but the Dawn Prince continued to hold his defence, waiting for his opponent to make an error that in truth he was beginning to think would never come. Again and again and again Willam pushed him back, forcing the defensive.
He lunged then only for Suko to quickly move his sword to parry, taking a step closer in some attempt to get around his foe.
Willam shuffled, shifting to keep Suko in view. He held himself with an easy confidence, assured in his advantages.
"You're getting old eh my friend?"
Talking in battle wasn't wise, the man who spoke was oft the one not paying attention; but this was more fun than fight.
"I'm barely older than you are," Suko scoffed, swinging his sword in circle to test its balance. He wasn't a fan of longswords.
"So, you admit it!" Willam laughed as he kept him at a distance.
He continued to drift around him, maintaining the same distance and poking at Suko's defence with the odd prodding.
They'd completed two circuits of the same position before Suko leapt forward with surprising agility, swinging his sword in a blur of strikes.
It was a marvellous flurry of strikes, but for all the swiftness of the attacks, signs of intent had been readily clear to Willam. He responded after some parries by slamming the pommel of his sword and his forearm against Suko's arm, blocking one of his blows before it could be fully delivered.
He was close now. Far too close to Suko for the man's comfort.
To his credit the Prince of Dawn reacted quickly, folding his arm back to act as a desperate shield.
The blow landed despite his efforts to back away however, as Willam's momentum carried him forward, he punched hard at the base of Suko's rib cage. With a pained huff, the less-armoured Prince of Dawn felt half his breath abandon his body in an instant; leaving him gasping for breath.
"Yield?" Willam was smirking, sword to Suko's neck; towering over the kneeling man.
"Damn it," Suko cursed in imperial. "Cheap shot, Stark."
"Won though, didn't I?" Willam asked, offering the man his hand; that he took with a roll of his eyes.
The crowd cheered as Suko got to feet and the flaming knight wandered over to them both.
"You're to be my next victim then?" The flaming knight said, smiling wide; his burning sword aflame with nothing but dying embers.
"Willam Stark," He introduced himself with a flamboyant bow. "A pleasure, Ser whoever-you-are."
"Thoros of Myr," The now named knight bowed too, still smiling; having a joyous time. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to surrender?"
Now that was an incredibly un-funny jest if they'd ever heard one.
"Fancy trick with the sword," Suko commented from the side.
"The Lord of Light blesses me, my friends!"
"What is he?" Suko asked in imperial, to the confusion of Thoros. "Some kind of fire mage? A mummer?"
There wasn't any of the seven that represented fire, was there? Willam wasn't sure; but he knew the fire was no magic.
"What of the andal gods do you worship, friend?"
"None," The strange balding priest shrugged at that.
"Well then," Willam swing his sword for good measure. "Me neither…"
Thoros seemed to smirk at that, a chuckle on his lips.
"Let's dance then, Stark!"
Willam replied with steel rather than words.
The fire on his opponent's sword was flickering and dying long before their bout, and as Thoros swung, the fires lessened; his steel seeming to grow duller and even misshapen as the wielder grew desperate to achieve a quick victory. Willam was unphased by the flames, even as embers came flying from the sword.
He dipped and weaved left as the priest slashed downwards, hoping to end things quickly – as the flame on his sword was fading – parrying with a shriek of steel clashing that sent embers into the air as the priest's sword barely held its form. Thoros sidestepped just enough then for Will's blade to pass a hair above his head.
As he stumbled back, the priest seemed fixated on the dying flame, his concentration shifting for a moment with confusion in his eyes.
He looked at that dying fire like it held all the answers. Whatever the answers were, it had shaken the priest.
"Your sword is in ruins Ser Thoros," Willam told him, not taking advantage of the opening provided.
"So it would seem," The priests gaze darted away from the blade once the fire had wholly gone out.
His breath was haggard, his sword half melted from his fire trick. Oddly, the man seemed conflicted about something.
"Fetch another," Willam offered. To continue this fight would be certain victory; and that sounded dreadfully boring. "I'll wait…"
"A noble offer," Thoros of Myr threw aside his sword then, its cheap metal hot and warped from use and wildfire. The blade was all but useless now. "I decline though Ser – even a drunk such as I knows when he's beaten; yes? The day is yours Ser Willam Stark…"
The priest's smile returned – though it was strained, he offered his hand, that Willam shook gladly.
"I'm no Ser," He told the red knight simply as they shook hands and crowd cheered.
"No?" Thoros seemed surprised. "You're better than half these knight's, friend..."
The crowd was cheering for the victory as King Robert got up from his feet, laughing heartily at the show to declare "Prince Willam Stark is your victor" to further cheers and shouts of "Stark, Stark, Stark!" even though some seemed confused at the Prince title; most didn't seem to care.
Thoros seemingly did care, as his eyes seemed clearer, and his smile was more at ease.
"Prince is it?" He asked, seemingly amused or even gladdened for it.
He'd not introduced himself as such to the man as he didn't think it mattered.
"Not one for titles," Willam shrugged. "Never have been…"
"Is that so?" Thoros hummed in thought for a moment even as the king called Willam over.
King Robert took a mightily gulp of his drink before he spoke again, his voice thundering. "Willam Stark!"
He took up at the man, seeing he was quite drunk; at a glance. "Your Grace," Willam bowed ever so slightly.
Robert took another gulp, "Well fought lad! The champions purse is yours, just try not to spend it all in one night eh!?"
The crowd was cheering "The Black Wolf" as their king showered drunken praise on the victor.
"No promises Robert," Willam smiled at the fat drunk king as he bellowed another laugh.
Ned was by the man's side, looking sheepish – no doubt glad the King hadn't joined the melee. The final tally of the melee was three broken limbs, a shattered collarbone, a dozen smashed fingers, two fractures, and more cuts, sprains, and bruises than anyone cared to count.
"I've a reward of my own, if you'd have it Prince."
Willam's eyes darted to the red priest, a brow raised as Wraith bounded over to his master. The crowd look extra interest as the wolf arrived.
The wolf didn't seem to bother Thoros, that was strange; as few men didn't balk at their first sight of a direwolf – even half grown as this one was – Wrath had sprouted to near twice the size of a hound and made for a fearsome sight in his pitch-black coat. Though, the way his tail wags made him seem less wolf and more puppy.
"Kneel," Thoros said, with a smirk on his lips; as if he was in on some jest.
"Why?" Was the answer he got as the crowd grew silent as the grave.
"I saw you in the fire," Thoros seemed equal parts excited and conflicted by his own words.
"Well why didn't you say so?" Willam raised a questioning brow. "If the fire told you, what choice do I have?"
"Are you drunk again Thoros!?" Robert laughed from his high seat.
"No," The man denied vehemently. "Well, somewhat; but no!"
The crowed had turned to laughter now at the priest's expense.
"Buy me a drink Ser," Willam offered, smirking. "We'll call that enough, yes?"
The red priest seemed disappointed, but quickly shook it off; nervously scratching the back of his neck as he spewed "As you say Prince" and heartily agreed to buy the man some of the finest wine out of Essos. King Robert was quick to jump at that; granting Willam a place of 'honor' at tonight's feast.
Thoros wandered away at that, muttering some nonsense under his breath as the lightning knight came to his side.
"Odd fellow," Suko had walked back up beside him.
Willam couldn't help but agree with that as an announcer presented him with a purse full of silver and gold.
"Give this to Aedan," He handed the coin to Suko, uncaring for it. "Have him share it evenly among the crew…"
"You sure about that Stark?" Suko was thinking. The wheels turned in his brain.
It was never a good thing when Suko Lóng decided to think. Never. Not once had it gone well.
"We could get drunk on the best with this," He insisted. "Fine whores too – though I know that's not your-"
"Give it to Aedan," Willam repeated with a sigh. He'd had his fill of whores for one lifetime.
"Fine," Suko rolled his eyes. "Fine. As you wish…"
What his people decided to do with their share was their own business, but Will cared nothing for coin.
The feast that night was much the same as all the past nights Robert held a damn feast. The whole tourney had spanned the course of days and doubtlessly cost the kingdom a pretty sum of gold, in expensive not counting the well over twenty thousand in champion purses – largely for the jousting alone.
The whole affair had proven to be the high of extravagance and Willam for one was glad when his head finally hit the feathered bed.
My Note(s): Jon entered the jousting and was unhorsed, as is to be expected. I've read many fics that have Jon somehow win his first tournament but that's fairly unrealistic given his competition. Willam wins the Melee; a feat usually reserved for Thoros of Myr more often than not, but the man uses cheap swords because the wildfire he coats the blade with (to scare his competitors) always ruins his sword. Without that edge though he's been bested by men like Lord Royce before.
Willam has yet to really fight any of the best that Westeros has to offer so next chapter should change that. The Melee really had slim pickings. Plus, he doesn't use Frostbite outside of actually trying to kill his opponent; because the blade's a bit of a crutch in his opinion since it'll cut through chainmail like its butter.
Next chapter is some PoV from Bran / Willam spars with some Kingsguard / Robert goes on a Hunt
: Sansa doesn't really interact with Willam because they don't really share any interests and have less than nothing in common. The same isn't true for the rest of Ned's kids except for Rickon; because he's a baby. Will & Sansa just don't click as characters, so it would feel Very forced to write them mixing so early in the story. As for Ned, he's a grown man, dude's not gonna change his personality n beliefs just because he's known Willam for two years now – be they friends or not.
I've a strong aversion to writing stories that have been done a thousand times before, that's why I picked Brandon the Shipwright. If it's not unique, it bores me :)
Willam won't match with any andal girls, if he matches with anyone at all – the guy doesn't exactly trust women and that's no basis for a relationship. As for Jon, like I said I've a strong aversion to writing stories that've been done before by lots of other people, so I go for 'unique' story concepts that are at least reasonably realistic.
I'm not sure what you mean by prehistoric fauna though? The dinosaurs in Sothoryos? That's nowhere remotely near to the Sunset Starks :P
Atos Dawn: A review about scurvy, oh joy, an excuse to ramble about naval history and bore 98% of readers. Again. For context (those somehow unaware of what this is) it's the lack of vitamin C for prolonged periods lasting over a month with too little or none; resulting in lethargy, bruising, gum disease, loss of teeth, generally bad stuff. Crusaders frequently suffered from it. The 'cure' so to speak was already known as early as ancient China; as the damn knowledge is lost and found and lost again through history. It's commonly taught that James Lind 'discovered' the cure in 1747 (don't bite me if I got that date a little wrong, I'm going off memory) but ultimately, it's apparent that the 'cure' was discovered multiple time by multiple people over history… but for whatever reason it wasn't until around 1740 that it was publicized… and even then, seemingly multiple accounts have people being unaware of the damn cause. Hell, for the longest time AFTER our friend James, people thought acidity was the 'cure' and if I recall the British Navy swapped from lemons to West Indian limes (to buy from British suppliers rather than the colonies) that results in more scurvy and deaths.
Long story short, while it's doubtless the case that Brandon the Shipwright had cases of scurvy; it's not a prominent issue with 800 years of naval experience having passed by the time we're on Chapter 2. In regard to having a compass, not in the modern sense no, but then the Han Dynasty in 200BC had early versions of the compass (though they didn't use it for navigation) and more commonly celestial bodies were used to determine ones location; or things like a sun compass to determine 'true north' etc. As for 'advanced ship building' again, if one reads past Chapter 1 we've already covered how advanced the navy is. This includes the ability to navigate fairly well.
I personally like the idea that the Sunset Starks use pine needle 'tea' as one vitamin C supplement. They've no shortage of trees; so just gotta boil water.
Westeros is actually also aware of the cure for scurvy, though its never named as such; you'd find Maester Aemon mentions lime juice and fresh meat would remedy "bleeding gums and loose teeth" that's a clear reference to scurvy being an issue that the Citadel is aware of the cure for and has been for many years.
I don't tend to ramble in my chapters with the tiniest details of what characters eat. I feel it'll bore people; and I'd rather write more interesting things.
Betmen123: Yep, velociraptors are actually canon in Asoiaf; go figure huh :) made that whole chapter just to write about the pet raptor haha