"I fought in New York City and I fought the Jersey shore
My gut stayed full of whiskey and my bed stayed full of whores
They called my right a cannonball and my left they called the same
I left em' all lyin' half in blood and half in shame
I met a man on '32nd and he stuck out his hand
And he offered me a thousand if I'd fall before his man
I said it could be done but only for another two
He smiled at me and nodded as I stuck it in my boot."
John O'Reilly
It's never known what it is that fills the cup of a man, quiet like fighting. What was this great adherence to the sight of blood that makes him crazed, aggressive, and entertained. For years Maesters and scholars, if they could be called that, had pondered this question. If we were created by the grace of the gods, given the wisdom of their seven faces in one, creatures taken from the heavens and made to live on this earth … why this draw to death? Most will tell you it's because the heavens are a peaceful place. And man's enamor with violence is that longing, that sense of curiosity that we, as luminance beings, were robbed of in the perfection below the dais of the Gods.
The small folk had different opinions, a grounded, simplistic idea. The Nobility of the Great Houses would often than not listen to the Septons and Maester rather than a fish wife. But for a soldier or a warrior, he'll always take the simplistic sight seen advice of a farmer over an opulent mystic educated in white halls, nose buried in ancient text that speak of things that no man might ever understand without his own interpretation. A farmer sits on his fencing and looks out on his grazing heard and watches a pale steer with red fiery eyes go out to pasture to breed with the finest heifer in the heard. Across the way a bull of course black hair, covered in thick muscles see's the mating dance. The farmer watches as the bull charge across the field to gore and fight till the pale steer is dead, and then he mounts the other heifers in the herd before his prize. To a farmer it's not so different than the wars these penny lords fight. To an illiterate farmer, who doesn't give a spit what an educated man has to say, we're all animals. Thus, our first and most basic instinct is to fight and kill for all we have and wish to gain.
Whatever it is you believe. Neither belief is right or wrong. And there would always be a roar of a crowd ready for the entertainment of our most basic instinct when trumpets sound.
Out on the field the grass glowed a perfect golden hue covered in frost. Glimmering in the sun, wandering to and fro, were the fourteen great knights that chose to compete. Their grand steeds snort and whicker, breath misting in a thick smoke. There was a damp balmy chill in the air that made everyone feel as if there was a frigid moister that clung to clothing and armor. The frozen plating felt like fire to the touch. Untrained and unsuspecting southern squires lost skin on their palms and fingers when touching their knight's armor with bare hands. Having the tourney later in the day was supposed to have made the conditions better, but as it wore on, hour after hour, the temperature only fell more and more. Though the king wished there to be more pomp and circumstance to this grand spectacle he had created, the cold had changed his mind.
There would be no parade of knights, no standards carried out on the field for ceremony, and no speeches from Pycelle. Just an oath of loyalty to the king and tribute for the most noble of causes he called upon each of them for … the execution of the queen.
From the Stark box, Cersei looked out over the combatants and sneered privately. She recognized all of them. She knew the Hightower boy, who preferred the company of his mother than his betrothed. The Royce, a gallant champion he'd make, squirting his seed in his pants whenever Cersei smiled at him across the dining hall during Lysa and Jon Arryn's anniversary feast. Jason Mallister, one lance and his old bones would shatter like glass. The Redwyne Twins, she could laugh. Cersei remembered fondly Jaime pounding them into the dust two at a time in the yard, when they had hoped to impress her with their knightly skills. She looked to the field and scoffed. Jaime could destroy all of them in his sleep. Even Loras Tyrell, though an excellent jouster, his sword was third at best. The only sword the Tyrell boy knew how to use properly was the one he swallowed and sheathed in his rear.
She turned to Tyrion next to her and glared in frustration. Why couldn't it have been Jaime sitting next to her? He'd sit slouched as he always did and make his same stupid childish jokes at the competition's expense. He'd be enraptured by the action and educating her out loud on what moves the tourney knights would be using. He knew she'd like that, telling her like someday she'd need to know it. If only. That was what she thought. If only she were a man, and could ride out to meet Robert's Champion. She'd take his head with her sword that by now should be dripping with Wilding blood. But mostly her thoughts lingered on her brother and where he might be. She'd feel confident of her plight if he were here. If he was, than she wouldn't have had to take such desperate measures that endangered the one she loved the most of all. And if only he were here, she wouldn't have felt so alone and exposed.
Eddard Stark was a man that Cersei loved. But he was a stranger to her, his ways were old. There was love and longing, but there was no comfort to his presence. Everything about this life was alien and there was no rest of suspicion to those that surrounded and accompanied her in these trying days. Eddard was her love, but Jaime … Jaime was a part of her. To be complete she needed both of them, Eddard her heart, Jaime her soul, and their children at her feet.
Looking out toward the crowd, the beauty thought that she would hate Jaime forever if he did not come soon. She thought of her plans and plots that led to this moment, when her faith in her brother's rescue was empty, and she did something foolish, selfish, and stupid. Now all she could think of was a raven's note and a vow that if she lost "him", if "he" were slain, because she sent for "him". She'd not rest till she would have her vengeance upon Tywin Lannister for keeping Jaime from her, for making her sacrifice her first and purist love in this world while selfishly trying to save herself and her other children. When she thought of this, she tried not to look at Eddard. Fore if she returned his gaze, she'd see "him" in those eyes, see a dead Catelyn Stark raped and murdered on a tavern floor, and Cersei Lannister would know that what she had set in motion on the wings of a raven the night she was captured was truly unforgivable. Not only to the man she loved, but to herself most of all.
On the field the Great Knights, lance and shield in hand, began to form a line in front of the King's patio. Helped and herded by City Watchmen. They'd announce where they were from and what they're intentions were. Then, they'd all pay tribute to the king, all but one. Standing off to the side was the great figure of the Black Knight watching his opponents with sightless darkness in his sinister winged helm. As they passed, each knight of summer looked to him and he'd look back. They all held his gaze for only a second and quickly turned away. But he wouldn't. With each smoky breath he intimidated the men whose sight fell on him before they approached the king.
The tributes where the same old hat as most Tournaments went. It was the same spoken patents of whose grandfather is who, and were they descended from all the way back from the Age of Heroes. It was the same dribble spoken by men with prestigious names who thought it gave them everything. But Cersei and especially Ned knew Robert well enough to know that only blood spilled impressed the King. Robert Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, First Men, and all the other shits as he called them, only respected combat prowess. And since most of these knights would go home and get off from their high born mother's hand, he was less than interested in who fucked who in order for them to draw breath.
There were a few who tried to make it entertaining, to capture Robert's attention. Ser Jason, who served under Robert in every major engagement, shared a laugh with the king. Lady Brienne of Tarth enraptured Robert in that he was probably more interested what it would be like to fuck her, than to give her any respect. And Loras grated with his over familiarity and casual arrogance as he talked and smirked with Margaery who buttered them up. But overall the King had liked the young man and commented many times that he would be a son to be proud of for any father.
Then it came down to just one. The Black Knight sat on his midnight steed that snorted mist like he had fire in his lungs. His lance matched the dark armor, and yet there was a strange contrast to his shield. It was rounded and made of heavy steel. On the front was heraldry of a snarling Direwolf of House Stark. It was an odd mismatch of Ashai oriental dragon armor, and a standard Stark Shield found on any common Winterfell Soldier. But as far as the Black Knight went, he stood his ground, denying the King any homage as he stood off center, facing away from the king, waiting for recall.
Ser Barristan walked up to him, waving away the two gold cloaks on his flanks. "It's your turn, Ser." He reminded the Black Knight. The man only stared at the legendary figure and turned his head away. With a kick he urged his horse forward toward the Stark area of the Stadium. Suddenly a hand captured his stallion's bridle. He turned in his saddle alertly to see that Barristan held him captive in his spot.
"Ser, you pay homage to the king." He chastised. He was met with a hostile snort from the war horse, a mood matched by its master. Sensing the words unspoken, the old knight looked into the mask and was stern, unmovable, like how any boy would want to see their hero when faced with the terrible sight of fear itself. "Whether you consider him your King or not, Lad, you give respect to the patron of this fight." He sounded like a chastising grandfather with a thundering hand of satin. For the only time that day, the Black Knight was moved by something other than his own interest. He wheeled his horse and trotted him toward the King's box.
He halted just in sight of Robert, Margaery, and Melisandre. The Tyrell girl, for her part, looked uncomfortable. The feline faced beauty stared at his chest, his lance, anywhere but his face. But Robert … Robert Baratheon couldn't look anywhere but straight into the darkness. The King of the Seven Kingdoms had already seen the worst of humanity on the battlefield and the worst of himself in the high tower cells of the Red Keep. Looking into the war mask was like his own reflection in the blood of the child he murdered. The blood that smeared hotly on the sleek belly of the child's mother as Robert raped her on the mutilated corpse. When a man see's what he's capable of in his darkest moment he does not fear the abyss … he lives in it.
For the longest moment the King and the Black Knight stared, as if seeing the very souls of one another. In the King's heart he could feel the hatred within the Knight that did not bow, nod, blink, or speak to him. It was as if the sinister figure could see the monster inside the hairy brute and deemed him not worthy of respect. It made Robert's blood run hot, helped by the dragon armor as black as night.
A mystery knight, a black knight … these weren't uncommon in a tourney. They kept the interest up, the intrigue of who it could be part of the fun. But for the first time since Barristan Selmy was but a boy, there was a mystery knight that had come to a King's tourney for a purpose.
"Where did you get that armor?!"
Melisandre strode forward. In her alluring face of mystical attractiveness there was a deep offended glare of outrage. She was affronted with some sort of heinous blasphemy that mocked everything the Red Priestess stood for. The Lord of Light was her savior, her beacon, and her purpose. Her great enemy was the great shadow and darkness. And she would not sit idly as a man wore ancient armor in her enemy's tribute, fashioned by the ancient heretics of her own homeland.
To her outburst the Knight turned his helmet toward her and looked into her eyes. She shook her head and spat a curse upon him dramatically in Valyrian after peering too long in his gaze. "You are a vile creature to wear the face of evil so arrogantly!" She preached in her accented voice. The Black Knight's only response was a hard visible breath of frozen mist which he lobbed at her like a glob of spit. She twitched her eyebrow ready to explode.
"Quiet Woman!" Robert's voice snapped like a backhand to her pale cheek. The fire witch, who had lost her ever unshakable temperament in all other things in life, took a deep breath of hatred and stepped back. The King turned toward the Knight.
"Who are you?" He asked.
The Black Knight spoke no words.
A red nose spread to a reddening face. "Where are you from?!" he was becoming agitated.
The Black Knight made no noise.
"What do you want, damn'ya!"
But the Knight said nothing as he continued to stare at the fat man as if he would carve him up like a boar on a feasting table.
"Do you speak?!" He roared.
For the first time the man in shadow armor gave a sign of life. He gave a curt nod in answer. There was a murmur from the crowd as they watched the tension build in front of them. From the Stark box, Robb was sitting straighter, Tyrion was sinking lower, and Both Cersei and Eddard watched with suspicious frowns that matched.
Satisfied by his small victory, the king gave a long sigh. "What Language?!" he forced out like a battering ram. The boisterous boom gave Margaery and Ser Balon a sudden startle. The Knight responded by suddenly presenting his Lance and audaciously pointing the tip at the king's heart.
There was a rip-roar of movement as the Gold Cloaks at the foot of the patio drew their spears and Ser Balon stepped forward reaching for his sword. Most took it as a threat, but it was the King's answer. The Black Knight did speak … with the point of his lance.
From all around, both peasant, high born, and everyone in between had watched everything crescendo. They were sure that the Black Knight had made his last insolent gesture. Now everyone waited for whatever would happened next to happen.
But as the rancid sweat of alcohol began to poor down a red, bearded face … a smirk grew to a smile. From behind the Kingsguard there was a loud howl of laughter. Robert gave a good slap to his gut. There, for a moment, his eyes were alive with the sudden gleam of violence, the need to strike something dragon shaped. The Black Knight had threatened him, the King of all eight kingdoms. But it was the kind of threat this king, this man respected. It wasn't money grubbing and ass kiss scheming from a family of arrogant blonds that corn holed his wife when he wasn't looking. It was the kind of threat that made him feel young again, a threat from a fighter with a tested metal. Gods bless the bastard son of a whore, whoever he was.
"I like you …" He nodded with an old danger in his voice that gave him a thrill.
This was the kind of man he had been waiting for, the kind of fighter that he could bestow his new office upon. Wordless, audacious, and bold, this was Robert Baratheon's kind of knight. It also was a plus to see him crinkle the Red Woman's fur from time to time. With a meaty hand the king motioned for his departure. The Black Knight gave a parting nod to the King as he trotted away. In his wake he left a broodingly vengeful Melisandre, a pale Margaery, and an engaged King.
Every Lord, Lady, and Knight watched from the Stark Benches and box as the mysterious entry trotted to the fencing in their point. From across the field, at other star points, teams of ten to twelve men and boys assisted their liege in preparing for the fight. Brushing the horse's coat, checking it's shoes, polishing weapons, tightening armor, providing wine and light fruits. Each Redwyne had a boy whose only job was to hold their helmets. But the Black Knight had only three young men helping him.
Each wore his trademark colors, to a mismatch assortment of other travel worn clothing. Cersei noticed that Eddard seemed particularly keen on the knight's armorer. He was a young lad, barely out of apprenticeship. He had big trunk sized arms and for a boy his age, carried not an ounce of fat on him. This handsome walking muscle had black hair and piercing blue eyes that haunted Cersei since her first marriage night. Her only mercy from completely hating the bastard boy was that he was too old to be a slight upon her. His big hands carried a bladder of steaming hot water he was trickling on the thin, flexible shadow armor's joints.
The other companion in this ragged company was a young boy. Head cowled from the cold, and mounted on the fence next to the Knight. His attire matched his master, with a dyed black leather duster that seemed familiar to the Queen. He wore baggy black pants with a single red stripe down the outer seams, and a travel stained Lannister sergeant's crimson cloak. The boy's black knee high boots had rags tied to the ankles so he didn't step out of them. His face was obscured by a cowl to protect himself from the cold. Cersei was drawn to the Knight and Squire sitting shoulder to shoulder, in strategic conversation. Something tugged on her heart and made the Queen anxious, watching the boy familiarly point out the other knights preparing for the bout. With each point and nod, the small boy was seemingly explaining each one of their opponent's tendencies to his master. He seemed assured of his advice as if he had been a patron of many useless tourneys in his life. Seeing them together was in many ways so similar to how Jaime would explain tourneys to Tyrion and herself in their youth.
But Cersei was sure her grief was playing tricks on her.
There was a cringe from the benches as a hammering of wood against steel rose from the track. The last of this mysterious company was the most head scratching. As knight and squire spoke, pointing and nodding, Robert's Bastard sat on the fence and pointed to pieces of plate. Then, with a loud smack of a tree limb, a large boy, egregiously overweight, with short dark hair, and attempted but failed facial hair would strike it with a blow. The dark steed flinched with each strike, but the Knight did not. Again and again he hammered the overly light and flexible shadow armor under the young armorer's instruction, yet the Black Knight felt nothing. Finally when it was starting to become tedious for all involved, the knight snatched the large boy's wooden club mid-swing. Tossing the limb in the air and catching it on the opposite end, the knight struck his companion in the arm with it. The fat boy looked hurt at the action, while the armorer leapt off the fence, hands up defensively when the Knight threatened him with the same fate.
Suddenly the trumpets sounded again. As the pomp sound of grandeur echoed through the stadium it was met with a brand new excitement from the crowd. There was something exhilarating that could pump the heart of a dead man as a deafening roar ripped through the field. It only got to a fever pitch as all fourteen knights armed themselves with shield and lance and rode out. Traveling on each side of the mid-center of the field were two painted white lines that seven knights took their marks on, opposite another.
Cersei's breath had become short and sputtered; a glare falling over her tense face. She turned to Eddard and saw that he remained solemn, but his eyes were alight with adrenaline. It must have been the crowd, the arrangements of the knights. She wondered if this was what he looked like before battle. On the other side of the Hand, Robb's face was tense and hard as if he was on the field there with the others. She looked down and watched the young Lord of Winterfell's leg tremor in anxiety. Finally, she turned to Tyrion who was in the process of downing the last of his flask in hearty gulps in raw nerves of the like she had never seen before. As she watched on with a confused frown about just what her little brother was hiding from her and everyone around them, she felt someone take her hand. She turned and saw that it was Eddard. It was only then that she noticed that she had been trembling. Slowly it died away in his impossibly warm grip, and despite what she continued to tell herself, there was a comfort in it. For once the Queen didn't ask or speculate. She simply wrapped herself in the man's reassuring gray eyes and watched for the flags to drop as she held her breath.
Amongst the competitors staring each other down were two Knights of the Kingsguard, two heirs of the great kingdoms, three lords of minor houses, three heirs of minor lords, three second sons, and a Mercenary. All of them faced against one another head to head across an evenly spaced field. Their helmets shimmered in the sunlight, their lances blunted, and their ears pounding with blood and noise from the deafening crowd. All around them the stands and towers were shaking with excitement and anticipation from almost a year of waiting for this one moment. Each shout and anxious breath created a coagulation of a great cloud of mist that fogged around the arena. The minutes passed, or maybe it was seconds that turned to hours. Then, just as the crowd was about to tear the place apart …
The trumpets blazed to life, a fluttering banner fell on a tall tower, and the crowd exploded.
The field shook under the thunder of hundreds of pounds of steel, adrenaline, and horse flesh. There was something bafflingly beautiful and nightmarishly terrible of such a marshal sight that was provided as glimmering knights, heroes of tapestries and story books came to life as they splintered wood against shield and breast plate at midfield. Then like coordinated flocks of birds, they came apart from each other, fleeing to their star points.
In the opening salvo, Black Walder Frey and the heir of Old Town were crushed by Oberyn Martell and Brienne of Tarth's lances. In a highly unorthodox move, the Black Knight did not charge Yohn Royce's heir but instead, turned his horse and rode across field at an angle. The crowd made a verbal cringe when Ser Boros Blunt, who had barely survived breaking lances with Loras Tyrell, was struck full speed and unawares by the Black Knight right in the chest. The splinters doused the fat man as he slammed head first on the frozen tundra of glossy grass. Foot hooked in his stir up, a path of exposed golden grass was made as his horse struggled mightily to dragged his unconscious body across the frost frothed field back to the track.
The reprieve was a show of who was a seasoned veteran and who was a green boy. The experienced knights immediately drew a secondary weapon from under cloak or saddle. Those who rushed to get back to their squires and servants for their weapons became the hunted, with only shield and anonymity as their sole protection. Though, those who were unarmed weren't so wholly defenseless, as Horus Redwyne learned. Coming head to head with an unarmed Oberyn Martell, the youth took a large arcing swing, trying to take the man's head off. But the Lightly armored Dornishmen arched back in his saddle as if he had no spine and watched the young knight's sword slash the air above his nose. Upon catching his blunted metal spear from his squire, he twirled it, and cheekily saluted his opponent mockingly. The boy was flushed in anger as the prince pursued a fight elsewhere.
Meanwhile, across the field, the Black Knight continued his head hunting of Kingsguard, armed with a blunted morning star. His victim was Ser Meryn Trant who was armed with both sword and shield, but it didn't matter. The Black Knight was merciless as he galloped with attack speed meant for a field of battle not tournament and trapped his prey against the fencing in front of the Leaping Trout. His blows were trained and angry as he slammed his weapon on Trant's shield with ear splitting rings of metal on metal. Each powerful hammer backed the political appointee down. Though unseen, the Black Knight's eyes were afire with some old grudge that only he knew and remembered against the King's Guardsmen. Brynden Tully and a horrified Sansa watched the villain pound on the white knight with such a deadly and steady pace till the morning star was slamming against the golden helmet with angry clanks. In a bloody and stricken shell of prestigious armor, Ser Meryn slumped in his saddle. Finishing him, the Black Knight kicked Trant off his horse, leaving him in a heap of unmoving limbs on a dirt track. Shouts of outrage and fear from the Tully benches followed the villain as he rode away.
In front of the Baratheon point, there was a crowd of knights hacking and slashing. All converged on Brienne the Maid as she attempted to rearm herself. The large muscular woman roared in pain as she hid behind her shield, as sword, flail, and morning star beat on her. Horses were gnawing and biting, trying to climb over the fencing in the violent frenzy. While on the perimeter Loras Tyrell, trailed by his Redwyne personal guard picked enemies off that had tried to stay away from the mess. Twice Loras clashed with Prince Oberyn, and twice the prince out maneuvered the Redwyne Twins that tried to trap him against the fencing while engaged with Ser Loras.
Bloody, stricken, and surrounded, Brienne was about to fall from her saddle when a force of nature entered the fray. Like a bowling ball to clubs, the Black Knight rode into the frenzy and began swing his weapon, wielding it with devastation. He slammed, bullied, and smashed shield, helmet, and breast plate of every knight but Brienne of Tarth. His ferocity and anticipation of counter blows spoke that battle and tourney had no difference in his mind. Those smart enough to see that they were at a disadvantage retreated, while those awestruck by the hurricane in a sweeping black cape found themselves crumpled on the ground. When the other's cleared out, the Maid raised her shield ready to be finished by the sinister entry. But The Black Knight only knocked a fist against his breast plate and raised it to ear level. Armor dented, covered in blood, and sore, the female fighter did the same. She gave an uncomfortable but grateful nod before both went separate ways. To this sign of chivalry there was a roar of dissent from an unhappy crowd. If hunting down Knights of the Kingsguard, men of revere and high standing, with unsanctioned brutality wasn't bad enough, his rescuing of an unnatural and unwanted anomaly like Brienne of Tarth only made the Black Knight even more hated by the crowd.
As the field began to thin, the shadow armored knight moved back to the Stark area. But in doing so he suddenly came against Prince Oberyn galloping head to head toward him. Frost crushed and trailed the Dornishmen's desert horse like dust on his home dunes. The tip of the Prince's blunted spear glimmered in the cold sunlight as the mad man raced out of the stadium shadows at an opponent he had been looking for. If it wasn't stupidity, than it must have been bravado and pride that made the Black Knight charge forward at an opponent with a much greater reach than his morning star. When they met, the Knight suddenly rolled his shoulder back, and the prince's spear scraped with a torturous squeal that grazed across the snarling Direwolf. In kind, with a savage blow, the Black Knight struck Oberyn's shield right in the center of the Sunburst coiled by a snake. The crowd took up a roar as the morning star snapped in half, and the wooden supports in the Prince's shield gave way. In the aftermath both riders nearly fell from the mounts at the force of the collision. Both rogues deliberately avoided any pursuit to return to their respective corners before their next round.
Limping toward his companions, another anticipating anxiety exploded from the crowd that made the Shadowy figure aware that danger was coming. He saw it in the wide eyes of all on the Stark benches, and on Tyrion Lannister's pale face as he nearly stood as if to warn him. His battlefield wits were about him then, and the young knight could feel the blow coming. Controlled by muscle memory, with no thought at all, the unarmed knight threw his leg over his saddle and dragged it on the ground, hiding on the other side of his steed. A swing of a sleek tourney sword engraved with roses and thorns grazed the matching mane of The Black Knight's horse. He watched Loras Tyrell fly by. Afterward The Black Knight hopped back in the saddle and spurred on. His young squire ran to the fencing and with pure instinct he tossed his master a sword as he passed by. The shadowy figure caught it mid-air by the handle and gave an expert twirl with a flick of a wrist.
As he rode by, Lord Jon Umber, Lady Mormont, and several other Northern lords rose to their feet in anger and shouted in dismay when they saw the Black Knight's amazing horseman feat. The Queen felt Eddard's hand tighten angrily. Green eyes were confused and alarmed when the Lords of the North turned to Eddard and pointed at the dark figure in protest. There was suddenly a cold fury in the Hand's eyes as he kept them trained on this Black Knight.
"What is it, my lord?" She asked placing her free hand on top of a larger of his shoulder worriedly. But Eddard refused to speak. "What is it?!" She asked forcefully, demanding that someone answer her.
Robb seemed cold as well. "Wilding …" He said with all the hatred only a Northerner could have for those who lived across the great ice wall.
Cersei frowned. "Wilding?" She scoffed. "That's impossible." She turned to Eddard but he wouldn't look at her.
"That was a Wilding trick with the horse …" Robb explained.
"Wildings aren't the only ones who know how to do that."
When Eddard Stark finally spoke it was with a frigid anger that bordered helpless rage.
Back on the field the young fighter was fully expected to give Loras chase, but he didn't. He instead wheeled his steed and charged at an angle where he crashed right into the unsuspecting Redwyne twins. Recognizing the trap that the heir of Highgarden was trying to set, having his cousins ambush him when he attempted to pursue the Knight of Flowers. Both Horus and Hobber were taken unawares by their villainous opponent. Their planned ambush was broken to pieces when The Black Knight rushed them whilst they were unprepared.
War horses neighed and whickered loudly as the shadow knight took on both brothers at the same time. The imposing figure swung his blunted blade with quick furious blows. His opening slash caught Hobber on the visor, snapping his neck to the side. When Horus retaliated against their opponent, his blow was met with an aggressive shield that pushed against the blade's strike at its apex, knocking its owner off balance. Continuing to use his heavy shield, the Black Knight swept the edge across his body to slam Hobber in the helmet with a mighty rattle. With an aggressive shout Horus crossed blades with his enemy. Ear piercing rings of parry and counters echoed through the field as Horus and the Black Knight fought in a vicious back and forth. It ended when the eldest of the twins gambled on a high arcing horizontal swing, which again in the melee, missed when the opponent reared back in his saddle. In counter the blunted blade of the shadowy villain thrust its point into a soft spot in the armor under the shoulder. Reeling back gave The Black Knight enough time to pull Hobber from his saddle. So when Horus swung his sword in one last desperate strike to unhorse his opponent, He found only the helmet and breast plate of his own brother being used as a human shield. There was a sickening thunk when the blow landed. Horrified at his actions, he left himself open for a vicious and brutal counter right to the visor. There was an audible snip of a jaw dislodging as sinew and teeth spilled from under Horus's helmet as he fell violently to the earth.
Slung over the Black Knight's saddle, a gauntlet of talon fingers ripped the beautifully crafted helmet from Hobber's head and cast him down on top of his brother. From the pile of armored limbs that used to be the Redwyne twins, he thundered across the field and halted in front of the Tyrell bench and box. Mace Tyrell and his mother Olena were horrified and enraged as they watched the villainous knight fling their nephew's helmet at their feet as a warning for any other dirty tricks that the Tyrells might instruct their sons to employ in the future.
Margaery who was on her feet shouting, stomping, and cheering as loud as any of the small folk turned to complain bitterly and loudly at the insulting action to the king. It was a highly unusual and aggressive moment, but then it was a highly unusual tourney. From the Black Knight's overt brutality toward Lords and Heirs of the highest offices in the realm, to the blatant cheap and dirty tricks that Loras Tyrell and his cousins were using on the field. It was becoming a dangerous free for all, where almost anything went. The King was supposed to be the supreme administrator and standard setter in the event. But all anyone could hear from Robert was the gut busting laughter and glee of watching the knights fight. Only Eddard knew why Robert hadn't put a stop to the madness. He was looking for the right kind of man, the knight he had dreamt of fighting himself on that field. Only when he had found him, would he feel secure of his champion. Till then he would say that this is where he sorted out the true fighters from the maidens.
An odd parlance to be used as the crowd watched a battered Brienne of Tarth fight a bitter losing battle against Ser Loras. The coordinated trap of trying to defeat the Black Knight could have gone both ways. Loras had turned his beautiful white mare to help his cousins and to completely surround their target. But in payment for the chivalry shown to her, Brienne used her giant body and father's war horse to wall him off from ambushing The Black Knight. Her shield arm was numbed and useless, her right eye was swollen closed, and her swings were wild and punch drunk. She had become nothing but a practice dummy as Loras Tyrell beat her over and over again trying to unseat the large woman. And yet no matter how hard he hit the Maid she still fought on. Nearing her end, and with no hope of victory she made one last attempt for glory. Driven in a moment of rage from a cruel sword blow to the helmet, the woman used her monstrous size to leap from her saddle and tackle Loras Tyrell from his mount to the ground. There she bashed his head against the floor till his yields were slurred. Satisfied with the concussion she had given him, she blanketed the young knight with her body as she lost all consciousness.
Then there were two.
On one side of the field rode the quick and agile Prince Oberyn Martell. He had taken the last few moments away from the fighting to empty the rest of a bladder of Dornish Red. He gave a hardy laugh when he saw Lady Brienne's gambit. Then his small dark eyes, filled with a wild blood lust, fell across the field toward his opponent. The Black Knight was trotting away from the Tyrell corner and watched the squires of Tarth and Highgarden untangle their master and mistress and drag them from the field. His sightless gaze then also turned toward the sunburst corner and both men locked eyes.
Trumpet's sounded as the finalists returned to their corners for a reprieve as the squires and Maesters took the grass to collect their fallen Knights and clear the field. In that time Prince Oberyn was tossed a new metal spear that glimmered with a slick coding on the leaf shaped head. He gave an impressive and boastful demonstration with it that elicited a wildly excited cheer from the Dornish benches and crowd.
In front of the Stark side the Black Knight turned his back on the field and took only a moment to converse with his squire and armorer. He was instructing the bastard boy to remove several pieces of thin plating from his shoulders, to give freer movement, while his squire reported what the Prince of Dorne was doing.
It didn't escape Cersei's notice that from the benches and leaping down onto the track jogged Tyrion's Squire Podrick Payne. On instinct she turned to find that indeed the boy was missing. She gave her dwarf brother a suspicious look to which he didn't seem to notice. He was gripping his hands together tightly, a nervous tick he inherited from their mother. It only stung the Queen even more. She turned back and watched Podrick converse with the Knight and his men before he handed an item into a gauntleted hand. It was a vial of blue liquid, a tonic or elixir of some sort. Armorer and squire both craned their head to find Tyrion, before turning back toward Oberyn, specifically the viscous coding on his spear head, as if both pertained to the explanation being given. When Podrick left, the Black Knight uncorked the vial and found the Dwarf. With a salute, he downed the entire liquid in one knock back.
The Queen rounded on Tyrion angrily. "Just what kind of game are you playing here, Imp?!" She snarled with all the lifetimes worth of hatred and loathing for the little worm that she could muster from the moment she saw their mother lying undignified and naked. The golden haired woman so radiant and beautiful, dead in the birthing bed, covered in blood and sweat, drained of her life and beauty.
Cersei had come to know what it was to be alone, completely abandoned by her family. But never in all her life had she thought that her own brother, vile and full of a base cunning as he was, would be plotting her own demise like this. If she wasn't so shocked and outraged she might have strangled the little lecher before he had his chance to see her beheaded.
But to her snarling and teeth gnashing of what game he was playing, Tyrion only replied stiffly. "The only game I've ever been good at, Cersei … The only game I've ever been good at." He sounded as if he wasn't talking to her but assuring himself of what he was doing. They both however found the edge of their seats as trumpets sounded again.
There was no lance this time, no pomp or grandeur to the fight at hand. Both Prince and Black Knight rode out to the center of the field. The shadow's sword glimmered in the blinding light of the late afternoon, and the Prince's spear rarely stayed still as he continued to twirl it. Oberyn had removed his helmet and threw away his broken shield, facing his fully armored opponent. They were complete opposites in every way. Prince Oberyn was built for speed and agility, a desert dancer with a quick jabbing spear like a viper's flickering tongue. The Black Knight was a juggernaut, violent as a hurricane that matched his rage within. He had a fighter's heart and a great swordsmen's skill. They didn't go after one another from the jump; they merrily circled at midfield.
There was a natural hatred that was unexplainable and yet it came so fundamentally to them. Oberyn Martell had come to Kings Landing in order to avenge his murdered sister and her children. He was promised many dark things by the King when he arrived, and much more unsavory deeds when he won the tourney. The only thing that drove the Prince now was the need, the obsession for revenge that fueled his madness. He swore he'd live to see the day that Tywin Lannister, the man who gave the orders to defile and murder his sister, would one day feel Oberyn and his brother's pain. This was that moment for the Dornishmen. From the first sight of the beautiful queen sitting proudly as the study of contempt, the Prince would've liked nothing better than to deliver her to her father in the manner they had delivered Elia to Dorne. But from out of nowhere came this monster, appearing out of the shadows. The Black Knight drove him from the Queen and stood between the Viper and his vengeance.
What Oberyn Martell hated about the Black Knight the most was that he was a liar and a murmur. He wore the face of evil and brutalized Great Knights to create a persona. But in his heart as black as his colors he wasn't who they thought he was. From that first confrontation only Oberyn had come to deduce why this young fighter had come here. And that reason made him the Prince's most natural enemy out of anyone that drew breath in this world. That one reason was all that stood between the revenge he so longed for and Queen Cersei slipping through his fingers and into the Black Knight's arms.
This battle between Prince and Rogue wasn't a simple finale to a grand spectacle. It was the culmination of all the wrongs and tragedies committed in the days of rebellion that pitted the search of vengeance against the search of the most fundamental truth that a child searches for when robbed of a name of his own.
Taking a wider orbit, the Black Knight charged his steed after the Prince of Dorne. Over head, Oberyn twirled his rod to build up momentum before he swung it downward to meet his opponent's blow. Their clash gave a loud ear drum rattling metal on metal that drew a mighty roar from the crowd. Sparks threatened to flash from the collision as both blunted weapons grinded against one another. Between sword and rod the roguish handsome face of Oberyn gritted teeth in locked struggle as he came within inches of his opponent's mask. The cold set fire to their lungs, as if the air was made of daggers. Their combined breath clouded their view of one another.
Breaking apart, the shadow warrior came at the Prince again. His broadsword caught the center of the spear's body. This time the Viper used the grinding weapons and the reach to his advantage. The head of the spear came hinging toward the knight's head. Quickly a Stark shield met the spear head with a scrape, but when he hinged the butt on the other side, he caught the Black Knight on the helmet. The violent clank was met with a cheer and knocked the knight off balance. But the aggression didn't let up when the rogue pressed forward again. His sword flashed in the sun as it came at the prince. The clash's results were the same. But this time the Black Knight allowed Oberyn's less than dull spear to catch, scratching a scar on his unprotected shoulder. It cut through his black leather Lannister duster and drew blood. It however allowed him to rear back, and with a deafening recoiled groan from the crowd, the Black Knight hit the Prince in the mouth with a gauntleted haymaker from his sword hand. Blood dripped down the lips of the prince, skinned by black metal. Rage grew wild in the Viper's eyes.
His enemy didn't wait. The Black Knight pressed his assault, sword flying aggressively at his opponent. Oberyn twisted and twirled his spear, blocking and parrying with both ends. The prince's counters crashing against a Winterfell shield being used like a second weapon. All the while their two horses danced around each other snorting and snapping at one another. Up close the Viper's speed and reach was useless, his pride had done him ill. But every time he tried to escape, the Black Knight followed, grabbing the Prince by the belt buckle at every turn. The knight's young squire's lifetime of scouting was being used to brutal effect. The truth to the fight was simply that Oberyn Martell wasn't ready for such a violent onslaught, nor such a physical fight to break out. He'd dance, poke, and tire out his armored opponent. But from the moment he had been punched, he knew this wasn't going to be a normal tourney fight with an amateur enamored with chivalry, who knew only how to use the blade of his sword. This was the kind of fight he had been looking for with a man who wanted the prize almost as much as he did.
When they came together again, the Prince jerked his horse out of the way suddenly, and the heavy vertical slash the Black Knight fired missed completely. The blade cut through the air with no target. When he dipped in the saddle from the weight of his swing, he was left open. Oberyn pivoted and slammed the pummel of his spear into the side of the Knight's helmet. The strike snapped his head to the side violently, rocking him in his saddle. In concussed retaliation the Knight swung his Stark shield backward like a backhand and made contact with the side of the Dornishmen's face. A yellowed bruise topped with a swollen cut marred the prince's cheekbone as he darted away, free of his opponent.
By the time The Black Knight recovered and wheeled his steed to charge, the Dornish Prince was riding circles around him. From above the crowd was snarling, foaming, stamping, and shouting till their voices were hoarse, encouraging the bloodshed. The Prince remained in the center of the field jabbing and dancing with his long weapon at his imposing enemy. Sword and shield rang against spear point, as the Black Knight slashed defensively, knocking it away. But as he moved to charge forward the spear point jammed against the Stark shield violently. It gave enough of a pause for the prince to escape before being engaged at close range.
Again and again, Oberyn used his strategy against his aggressive opponent, attempting to wear him down. Each time the Black Knight charged, the spear head changed targets. It would catch his shield, but also sometimes his helmet, and his shoulder. He made no sound, but there was a visible wince when the shadowy knight rode into the deceptively sharp spear. It cut his shoulder and parts of his neck covered by the collar of his duster. By the fifth time it had happened blood was running freely from down his shoulder, neck, and between plating. Anyone with a good eye could tell that the Black Knight was pushed to the limits of his patience and pain tolerance.
When the Prince escaped and rode away again the rogue halted his pursuit. There was a confused interest from all watching when the Black Knight dropped his shield onto the field. Oberyn Martell quirked a curious eyebrow as his opponent spurred forward at full charge right for the Dornishmen.
It seemed like the same dance as before. When the dark fighter got close enough the prince jabbed at the knight's chest. Sword and spear rung as the Black Knight swept it out of his way at a cautionless speed. It became all too clear that by the time the Dornish Prince pulled back for another, the Black Knight had thundered right into attack range. Desperately he jabbed for the knight's unprotected left. But it was too late. A talon gauntlet captured the spear around the neck. With a powerful rip, he pulled the Prince from his saddle by spear and into an angry right-cross of a sword hand propelled by the force of a full gallop.
Sinew splattered heavy with the smell of iron in the frozen air. The sickening munch of a nose and a gurgle from the Dornishmen's throat echoed inaudibly under the rumbled explosion of the fever pitched crowd. The blow unhorsed the Dornish Prince, sending him spinning to the frosted glaze below with a crunch. In the aftermath the Prince weakly pulled himself across the ground toward the mounted villain. Fighting his bloodied swollen face, Oberyn Martell spouted a slurred curse and vengeful remembrance of what had been taken from him this day. Giving one last defiant look into a war mask, the Prince of Dorne dropped face first into the ground.
Then it was over.
Many of the Lords and their Ladies rose to their feet and applauded the Black Knight for his victory. Some of the adoration was out of respect of a well fought battle, some for chivalry, and most out of tradition. There was no love for the violent and brutal knight that had viciously bloodied many of their son's, nephews, and cousins. From the King's patio Margaery Tyrell clapped graciously, her eyes alight with a secret contempt. Melisandre took up the chorus as well, her applause was measured and calculated as she looked on in private disgust. King Robert however laughed as if he had seen the greatest thing in his life. The King was jovial and lively, like a small boy on the morning of his name day. Robert Baratheon had found the man he would name his champion and now was the time he had been waiting for. The time to finally avenge his honor that had been taken by a woman that he knew should've been a wolf's mate, not a stag's.
The Black Knight held his ground, watching Oberyn's squire cautiously drag away his master under the terrifying sight of the shadow's war mask visor. But the crowd in their elation of the violence and the spectacular finish they had just seen had forgotten their hatred and fear with a show of great love for the fighter that everyone now wanted to see the true face of. Robert stood with Margaery who held the prize for the victor's ceremony in her hand and wore the rose crown so the mystery knight may name his Queen of Love and Beauty. But the Black Knight did not ride toward them. He instead galloped toward the Stark benches.
For a long while now Eddard Stark looked to be made of stone. He was unmoving and hard, an angry look upon his face as he sat in his chair. His eyes never left the black armored man. Cersei hadn't given it much thought until she saw the victor ride onto the dirt track and come to face her. Many things ran through her mind. She feared that he had come to challenge her, demand her to name a champion or come upon his saddle to be claimed as his prize till Robert had named a day for her execution. It seemed her life and her entire existence rested upon a man who sat like a marble carving in his family's crypt. It was as if the entire stadium fell into an eerie silence as every soul watched on baited breath to see what would happen to the beautiful queen.
But the Black Knight remained silent as he drew his stare toward the radiant goddess of golden tresses. The longer he stared as the world became bereft of sound, the angrier she got. By each moment passing the lioness's blood boiled hotter as the entire world watched her. She grew more humiliated the longer Eddard sat and said nothing in her defense of all the things unspoken between the waiting Black Knight and her response.
She was gripping Eddard's arm tightly, quietly begging him to say something, to do something. She looked out to the crowd, a moment's fantasy dreaming, praying that Jaime would show himself. But no one had come to save her. She pathetically looked to Eddard and saw that he continued to stare at the Black Knight with a hard look of anger and disbelief, silently enraged. Would he not do anything? Had she been betrayed again? If she truly had no one in this world now, she'd rather surrender herself to the mercy of this rogue. She'd spend her last nights the victim of whatever evil carnal perversity he had planned for her body, than spend it in the chambers of a man who would not stand for her when she needed him most.
"Ned …"
She spoke his name with a strangled whisper of betrayed grief when suddenly Tyrion next to her motioned for the guards to allow someone through. Her grief turned to rage at the smug look on the dwarfs face. She knew the Imp loved every minute of her humiliation. She could almost hear his laughter when he allowed Robert's men to drag her from her seat and into the Black Knight's saddle. She swore in the moment that she'd kill the Imp before they dragged her away, that he'd finally get his.
But to her surprise it was not the Gold Cloaks or Kingsguard. It was the fat boy that had accompanied the Black Knight. He wore a long padded surcoat that could be found in The Reach, dyed black. Underneath it was a southerner's brown linen shirt. The boy that this fearsome knight had sent to her looked anxious and ready to topple over in sheer nerves. In his hand was a sword sheathed in a black scabbard. It's one and a half handed handle was wrapped in supple black leather. Its pommel however was what attracted her. It was white wolf's head with red albino eyes made from rubies.
As the seconds past the large boy stood in front of the Queen, breathing heavier than she. One might have thought that he was on trial himself for an offense worse than that of Cersei's. He might have heaved himself into unconsciousness had Tyrion not given the boy a kick. With a yelp he moved closer to the queen and suddenly dropped to a knee in front of her.
"My-my master … My master offers you-you … He offers you his sword … his sword and services to Your Grace in her time of need."
He never made eye contact as he stuttered through his scripted lines, keeping eyes pasted to the floor boards. When he was done, to illustrate his point, he held out the sword to the Queen as if to deposit it on her silken lap. She quietly, dazedly took the sword from his chubby hands and examined it. Next to her, grey eyes saw the white wolf pommel in one part fury and one part worry as if they had opened to some waking nightmare. Cersei half drew the blade from its scabbard and was pleased to see the Valyrian steel glinting back, shining her emerald eyes.
She turned back to the Black Knight with his blade in her hand. She knew now what Tyrion was hiding. Her father had hired an eastern mercenary to compete, Tyrion had planned it, and now the Lannisters had shown their claws, and robbed Robert of his moment of triumph. When all things had looked bleak, Cersei realized that her family had never truly abandoned her. If Tywin Lannister would go to war for Tyrion, than he'd save his masterpiece to save his only golden daughter from certain death. In that moment Cersei had felt truly invincible. She had found a way to bloody Robert's nose, take back her dignity, and save Eddard.
The Queen stood from her seat with sword in hand. There was a prideful toothy grin on her lovely face as she moved to look over to Robert. The King was in a sweaty dismay that was becoming beat red in anger when it finally dawned on his drunken mind what was going on. He would soon be in a black rage, and gods be good, Cersei wished she could be there to see it. Radiant, beautiful, and smug the Queen gave an excepting curtsy to her champion giving his pommel a chaste kiss of chivalry. The Black Knight gave a curt nod and wheeled his steed. Cersei watched with a pleased look of victory when someone snatched her arm aggressively.
Eddard who had been almost catatonic and stone faced was shocked into rage as he shot out of his seat when she accepted the Valyrian blade. He had grabbed the Queen by the arm and whipped her around to face him. Never before had she ever seen him as angry or scared in his life. All the smug and prideful feelings that had overcome Cersei in her moment of invincibility had come to haunt her. She felt the color drain from her cheeks with one look in gray eyes that told her that she had no idea what she had just done.
On the field the Black Knight rode out to the King's box where a dumbstruck Margaery, an oddly pleasant Melisandre, and a speechless Robert stood. The King was nearly purple and his entire body was shaking with pent up fury of murderous passion. The Black Knight halted his horse in front of the patio just out of thrust range of the City Watch's pikes. The Queen's champion's armor looked stricken and scraped, blood poured out from wounds received by the Viper's spear. He was in his moment of triumph a very imposing figure. With an aggressive movement he threw down his tourney sword like a dart. Cutting through frost and packed earth, the blade's dulled point dug into the turf, swaying back and forth next to the knight's boot.
"In your name and by the demand of your gods, I hereby challenge you! Robert Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals and the First men, name your Champion! Or foreswear your Queen, Cersei Lannister Baratheon of the crimes in which you have so accuse her!"
For the first time the Black Knight spoke. His was a booming northern voice born from command on a frigid ice wall battlefield fighting Giants, Mammoths, and Wildings. As he spoke he pulled one of his talon gauntlets, stained with a Dornish Prince's blood, from his sword hand. When he was done speaking he tossed the gauntlet so that it landed at the King's feet. There was a sudden bluster of confused noise from all in the stadium. What everyone thought was going to be a presentation of a victor's purse and ceremony had turned into a challenge of the most powerful man in the entire world.
Blue eyes filled with fury when they looked out on the field, on the dirt track. Lining the fencing the King saw stretchers occupied by great knights, every one of them sworn to compete for him. It was only now did it occur to him why this rogue used such brutality in the melee. He had the pick of thirteen knights, the best in the land, and all of them were beaten bloody. The Black Knight had head hunted the best and brutalized them while the King had laughed. Robert knew now that those who had survived this melee that might have been able to hold a sword were scarred psychologically. Watching what this man had done to Knights of the Kingsguard with just blunted weapons, no sane knight fit for battle would want to fight Cersei's Black Knight with real weapons.
Robert's fury shook him to the core. But he was still speechless, he couldn't form a sentence, couldn't see words. His world was one big red blur. "Damn yea …" He grumbled at first when faced with his position. He turned toward the Stark box where he saw Cersei with a look of horror on her beautiful face, understanding now what she had done. Eddard was pressed into her back his hand clapped on her arm watching in defeated shock at what was happening. "DAMN ALL OF YOU!" He roared with a voice deep and powerful enough to echo through the stadium. He had been beaten and he knew it.
"Name your champion or foreswear Queen Cersei!" The Black Knight challenged while everyone else was startled and frightened by the boisterous beast of a man with a stag crown upon his brow.
At the demand, the King ripped his seat from the planks violently and tossed it at the Knight. It missed completely and yet Cersei's Champion did not flinch. "Do you know who you're speaking to, boy?!" He exploded. "I'm the King, Damn'ya … you don't order me!" He growled pushing Margaery aside and came up to the railing.
"Foreswear the Queen!" The Black Knight demanded.
"Never! I didn't suffer for seventeen years for that whore to escape my executioner's blade to rot away in Winter-fell to shoot out solemn faced bastards from that shriveled up cunt!"
"Then name your champion!"
To this Margaery Tyrell came to Robert's side. "Your Grace, name Loras, t'was a dirty trick Lady Brienne used against him. He is more than worthy to fight this … creature!" She compelled with manufactured anger of her own, to compliment Robert's hot emotions.
But her plan backfired when she placed her hands upon the king. In a rage Robert leveled the girl with a backhand that sent her to the floor. Margaery hit the boards with a heavy thud. Her hand gingerly covered the welt on her face as she looked up. True human tears formed in her eyes at the humiliation.
"Bastard!"
The outraged voice echoed strongly to the patio from the distance. But all in the accompaniment of the Tyrell benches and box remained stone faced and quiet. Mace Tyrell and his mother looked away as if they did not know their own daughter. Renly remained in stunned silence in his seat above the Storm Lords. Loras was still unconscious on the track. No one saw where the insult had come from when Robert had stricken Margaery. But it was noticed though most determined it unrelated that Robb Stark was being restrained back into his chair by the sell sword Bronn and Podrick Payne.
Back at the Eyre it was said that when Robert Baratheon's mood was black it was like a storm on Ship Breaker's Bay. You closed shop, boarded the windows, and waited it out somewhere dry and underground praying it didn't find you. Margaery was the ignorant shop keeper and the storm had found her. "Spare me your cock sucking, I've had enough of it to last me a life time. I won't have my brother's sword swallower fuck up twice! Beaten by a woman!" He roared at the girl on the floor dismissively.
"Your Grace, allow me!" Ser Barristan Selmy climbed the patio and stood at attention next to his King. In the time he took to purposefully distract Robert, Melisandre had scooped up the Rose of Highgarden and hid her behind red robes.
There was no reasoning with Robert Baratheon now. He was humiliated and consumed with a deep hatred. He saw his life and his deeds done while living with the golden haired beauty in the time that it took to realize what she had pulled over on him. He thought of all the things that he had done because of her. All the midnight rapes he swore to her that he never remembered, and the blows he had leveled her when she thought herself clever enough to insult him. He thought of all the things she had thrown at him, the bastards she had murdered in their cribs. He hated what Cersei had turned him into; this monster that he knew was all her making. By all rights she should have been executed long ago for her treason. But here he was, the most powerful man in the world and he had been outwitted by the sneakiest of little shits that plotted and money grubbed behind his back. This had been the world he was thrown too. The King had tried to play the game like the others, listen to his council when they told him that this was what Kings did. But what use was it to be a King in moments like this. Deep within himself Robert Baratheon knew he was no king, he was a soldier, and soldiers knew how to do only one thing.
And it was something he should've done in the first place.
The King didn't break eye contact with the queen's champion when he picked up the gauntlet. Ser Barristan reached out a hand so he may receive it … but it never came.
The old Knight took a step closer. "The King must not engage in open combat!" He protested when he saw what Robert intended to do, robbed of any other champion.
King Robert pushed his Lord Commander away. "The King does what he pleases damnit!" He snapped. He then turned to the Black Knight. "You should've chosen different armor, boy …" Robert snarled. "The last man who fought me with dragon armor ended up washing down current spit'in rubies! I'll expect the same end for you." He threatened throwing the gauntlet back at his enemy.
The Black Knight caught it easily. "We'll see." He replied with a cold insolence.
There was a thunderous cheer from the crowd when it came down the line that the King was his own champion. In that deafening roar a snort from a midnight steed, accompanied the mystery knight pulling on his reign and began galloping away.
The Black Knight rode onto the track in front of his team. Looking up with bleary eyes and covered in sweat, he caught only a glance of a sudden chaos above. Eddard Stark had pushed Cersei Lannister back in her seat with disgust and was being restrained by guards and his son as he ripped Tryion Lannister from his seat, and began to throttle him. The young knight's world began spinning when the Queen grabbed the Hand's arm. But Lord Eddard Stark knew everything now. Nearly a year of secrets exposed. Why a raven left for The Wall the day she had been captured, why their bastard son met the Imp at the Inn at the Crossroads, why Catelyn was raped and murdered along with her brother, Why Stannis Baratheon died on the Blackwater, and who the Black Knight truly was.
A boy he had come to know well was calling a name the knight had somehow forgotten in the time he had donned the armor. Tear stung emerald eyes and fiery gray had stopped what they were doing to suddenly watch him with fear and panic from above. Those in the stands had gotten to their feet in alarm. The wounds on his shoulder and his neck were on fire. Sweat poured down his face mixing with blood. He was slumping in the saddle as voices drew him to the middle of the field were two youths lay on a blanket.
Leaning back on her elbows was a supernaturally beautiful woman with silvery blond hair. The violet eyes of a conqueror were filled with an unnatural and uncompromising strength. Though this warrioress's hard exterior was lightened in a moment of honest happiness. She was smiling and laughing while eating a berry, focused on the Queen's Champion that lay on top her legs. She wore a lounging dress of Astapor that was held up by straps and exposed much of her creamy skin. The hero's hands were placed gently on her exposed hips as he kissed and nuzzled her navel, as if trying to kiss through her supple skin.
"I want to name him Rhaego."
"Mmm … it sounds like a sauce that Tommen and I were served in Bravos once. I don't think we should name him after food."
"Afraid of what the history books will say my brave avenger?"
"Aye? I care little for what the world will say. But the Maesters will curse us. How will their students ever take them seriously if they expect them to believe that the cruel House of Bolton was brought to heel by a brave, princely jar of sauce?"
The girl gave a hearty laugh, pulling the head of the one that filled her with a life time of deep endless love to her. The empty demon armor embraced the girl as she pressed her lips to the frightening craftsmanship of its war mask. When they broke apart, her breath caught as a cold metal gauntlet left trails of deep crimson cuts as it slipped down her bare chest to her flat exposed belly. The regal beauty still looked to be blinded by love even in pain as the faceless armor sank its talons into her sleek stomach. The silver warrior queen gasped and heaved as she slowly fell back on the blanket with love on her lips as the demon armor began to disembowel her. The horrible carnage was only worsened as the sound of an unborn baby's crying assaulted the champion's burning ears. The armor turned to stare sightlessly at its counterpart as he began to rip a tiny body out of a womb. The traumatizing violence was suddenly blotted out slowly by a pulsating red light of a ruby choker that blinded the wounded and feverish Black Knight. Then with one long drawn out fogged sallow breath …
Jon Snow fell from his steed.
"They rang the bell two times before I let him have my nose
And I let him work my left until my eye was swollen closed
Then I let loose a right that they still talk about today
For that guinea didn't know that I had bet the other way"
"John O'Reilly" – Charlie Robison
Author's Notes
This chapter is the culmination of years in the making, literally years. I've been waiting years to write this. You guys have no idea how long I've waited to write this. So please leave me feedback, I'm serious. Because it all lead up to this. Review whore? Maybe. Desperate for attention? Eh … good, bad (take that with a grain of salt, assholes of the world.) I just want to hear what you thought of it, because we've all waited for this moment … Me, maybe more than anyone else.
If you even just mildly enjoy the spirit of the Jon and Tommen stuff that has come after the rewrite of chapter three. (Yes, chapter 3 is not original chapter 3 that was posted.) Then you owe everything to the song that this chapter is named after. "John O'Reilly" By Charlie Robison.
In a fit of dislike of the original plans for this story, that song came on my Ipod (one of the oldest and most favored in my library ) And in a shot in the dark spark of inspiration I began redeveloping till everything you've spent the last several years reading with Jon and Tommen have been a tangential inspiration/adaption of this song as the opening and closing excerpts of this chapter forever attest.
As always if you see typos don't hesitate to keep to yourself, and tell me what you think of the chapter instead.
PS. This story will be finished by the end of Season 5.