Chapter VIII
King's Landing
Valyrian steel. Nothing cut like Valyrian steel, or so Isildur had heard. The dagger was a long, gently curved, wickedly sharp implement that stood upright in the wood of Isildur's desk where Ned had stuck it. Its blade was dark and covered in the swirling, smoke-like patterns of Valyrian spell-forged steel. The hilt was black, carved of dragonbone.
"This is the dagger that the assassin used?" he asked, regarding the extravagant weapon.
"Aye, Cat brought it all the way from Winterfell to show me. She trusted no other messenger with this," Eddard replied. Isildur picked the dagger out of the table. The dragonbone hilt was smooth in his hand. He tested the edge with a thumb. Sharp as a razor. They said Valyrian steel never lost its edge once it had been honed. In all of his years in Westeros, Valyrian steel was the only metal Isildur had found that could match a blade forged with the arts of Numenor.
"Where would a common cutthroat get a weapon like this?" Isildur mused. He sheathed the dagger and placed it back on the table. Ned grimaced.
"Lord Baelish said it was his, but lost in a bet to Tyrion Lannister," said Ned, though by his face it was clear he had some reservations about Lord Baelish.
"Tyrion Lannister? Some speak ill of him, but he seems too… Scholarly for this sort of thing. Granted, he is the last person I would expect if the Lannisters had some malice for your son, but why? Bran is just a boy"
"Isildur, the Lannisters have tried to murder my son," Ned said, tone beginning to rise.
"I don't doubt that Ned" Isildur said, raising his hands diplomatically "They were the only people in Winterfell whom I would suspect, but the question is why would they do this thing? Ask yourself: Who profits from your son's death? Your second son, not your heir. The Lannisters act for their own profit, why would they wish to kill your son?"
"What if he didn't fall from that tower? What if he was thrown?" Ned said, his face dark and troubled.
Isildur sighed and stood up from his chair. He turned around and stared out the window of his solar. The sun was shining and the sky was blue and fair, but on the horizon he could see distant clouds, a stormy, iron-grey in colour, rolling closer. The sky seemed to match his mood.
"A troubling thought. Is that what your wife suspects?" Isildur said.
"Aye, she believes that Bran must have seen something or someone in that tower, something involved with the Lannisters," answered Ned. "And if what we suspect about the Lannisters is true…" he finished, implications hanging heavy in the air.
Isildur could see it clearly in his mind's eye. The child Bran climbing up the old abandoned tower, happening upon the Queen and her brothers laying some form of plot upon the King's life. Bran would have overheard them. They would have reacted quickly, to hide their plot, and a convenient fall should have killed the boy and hidden any suspicion of them. But something about it all still felt off.
"What news of your son?" Isildur asked, turning back towards Ned. Eddard smiled weakly.
"His strength returns, slowly. He will never run or climb as he used to, but at least he shall walk," Ned said, voice mixed with both sadness and gratitude.
"Does he remember any-" Isildur started.
"No, nothing. He has no memory of that day," Ned cut him off. Isildur frowned.
"Alas, would that he did. What he saw in that tower could have been the key to all this," he said, turning back to his window. "It seems that everything I do goes amiss these days,"
"Robert?" said Ned.
"Aye Robert. I should not have shouted at him as I did. That was ill considered," Isildur replied, shaking his head "I will need your help with him today,"
"He still intends to ride in the melee? That will never happen," Ned said.
"If he can get his armour on, who knows what will happen. That is why I need you to help me with him," said Isildur, looking towards Ned. Ned frowned.
"Surely he must see that a melee is no place for a king. It would ruin it, no one would risk his wrath by taking a swing at him," said Ned.
"I believe there may be those in the melee today looking to strike our king. That's why he must not enter it. If he does… Well my son will be in the melee as well to watch over him, but even Aratan cannot see all things or be in all places," Isildur replied, shaking his head.
"Your son is an impressive fighter, no doubt. I heard Sansa talking about Aratan's joust with Jaime Lannister the other day. And I heard Robert discussing it with the Queen earlier. And I've heard many other members of the court abuzz about it. From all I've heard, it was a spectacular match," Ned said, sitting down in a chair across the desk. Isildur turned and smiled, walking to a nearby table to pour himself a cup of water.
"It was a thing of beauty Ned, you should have been there to see it," said Isildur.
"I have no taste for tourneys, just a bunch of damn southron knights strutting about like roosters," Ned explained.
"I know. I don't particularly care for tournaments Ned, but even I must say that joust was quite the sight. I rarely see Aratan's skills put to the test in such a way, and Lannister may be treacherous cur but he knows his swordsmanship, I'll grant him that," answered Isildur, drinking deeply of his cup. There was a knock on the door. Cirion's voice came through.
"My lord, we ought to be depart soon," the housecarl said. Isildur sighed. One more day, just one more day till this damnable tournament is over he told himself.
The tournament had gone on for three days now. The jousting had been concluded on the second day with Ser Loras Tyrell as the victor. He had ridden gallantly and well, unhorsing Sandor Clegane in the final tilt of the day to claim victory. The crowds had cheered long and loud for their champion when Ser Loras rode around the lists, brandishing his broken lance triumphantly. On the third day, nobles and smallfolk alike gathered for the only part of the tourney that Isildur took genuine pleasure in watching: The archery competition. Every bowman with a mind to compete before his King was welcome in the archery competition. There were Andals and Northmen with longbows of every description, and Dornishmen with their recurved bows, and the exiled prince of the Summer Islands Xalabhar Xho entered with a great double-curved bow made of goldenheart wood, as tall as a man. Isildur's housecarl Huor too entered the contest, wielding the steelbow of his people, which only the Dunedain possessed the strength to fully draw. The day had been calm and windless, stiflingly hot, and the crowds had not been nearly as large as for the jousting, but Isildur had taken great pleasure in the archery regardless. The whole day had been filled the hiss of flying arrows and the thock of well-placed shafts hitting their targets. First hundreds of archers had shot, then as others were eliminated it was down to dozens. It had come down in the end to Huor and an Andal longbowman named Anguy. Anguy first outshot Ser Balon Swann and Xalabhar Xho with a mighty shot from a hundred paces, but even the young Andal's skill could not match the power of the steelbow, and Huor buried a black arrow into his target from a hundred and twenty five paces. In recognition of his opponent's skill, Huor shared his prize with Anguy. It had been a fine day, a fair show of strength and skill, and if the tournament had ended there Isildur would have been satisfied entirely. But of course Robert still wanted the centerpiece of any Westerosi tournament: The melee.
Barbaric practice, so-called knights bashing and bludgeoning each other for nothing more than glory. Isildur thought, finishing his water.
"Cirion is right, we must depart," Isildur said. He grabbed Narsil, sheathed along with his belt, from his table and buckled it around his waist. He was dressed in the simple colours preferred by his people, but his clothes were richly made enough to match any member of King Robert's court.
"Will you accompany me to the tournament grounds? I feel it would be wisest for us to speak to Robert together," Ned said.
"Aye, you may be right," Isildur agreed. Ned rose from his chair. He was already dressed in his finery for the tournament, in gray doublet and white cloak, a silver broach in the shape of a direwolf's head fastening his cloak round his shoulders. The pair of them quickly departed from Isildur's solar. Belegorn and Cirion were waiting outside, and they fell in behind their lord as he walked past.
The sun was still shining outside as they descended the last steps to the entrance hall of the Hand's Tower. As they walked into the courtyard, however, Isildur could see the clouds blowing closer, towering thunderheads in a grey like a stormy sea. The world seemed quiet and calm, but the clouds made Isildur feel uneasy. There was something fell on the air that he disliked.
Fleetfoot was pawing the ground anxiously where he stood, a stablehand holding his reins for Isildur outside of the tower.
"There, there Fleetfoot, be calm my friend," Isildur said, stroking the horse's strong neck before swinging easily up into the saddle. Behind him, Ned mounted his own bay palfrey. In the distance, Isildur heard a faint echo of thunder. The stablehand looked up at him.
"Pardon me milord, you think the storm will hold off until after the tourney?" the boy asked. Isildur arched an eyebrow, it was not usual for servants to speak to him so plainly.
"It may, I hope that it does," he replied. The stablehand opened his mouth to say something else, but he was cut off by the sound of the portcullis opening and the clattering of hooves on cobblestones. Isildur looked up and met a sight he did not expect.
A column of horsemen thundered up through the gatehouse and into the courtyard. They were armed and mailed, and above their heads floated the black stag of the Baratheons on a silken banner. But the man at the head of the column was not Robert, he was too lean. Nor was he Renly, for his harsh, leathery face with its stony brow and set jaw had not the handsomeness of the Lord of Storm's End. Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and the King's Master of Ships, had returned to King's Landing.
Stannis brought his horse to a halt before Isildur and Ned. Hard blue eyes regarded them. Stablehands ran out to take the horses of Stannis and his men.
"Lord Isildur, Lord Stark," Stannis said in greeting. "We must talk," he continued without preamble. Isildur exchanged a glance with Ned.
"Lord Stannis, I am gladdened that you have returned to King's Landing. We shall talk as soon as the tournament is concluded," Isildur said.
"Tournament? My Lord Isildur, I wish to speak to you now, privately. This matter is very urgent," Stannis replied. He glanced up towards Maegor's Holdfast. His shoulders were set like a man carrying a great weight.
"And we shall discuss this upon my return, Lord Stannis" Isildur said, voice sterner than he intended. "King Robert means to ride in the melee today and we must attend to the king,"
Stannis narrowed his eyes.
"The King rides in the melee? What business has he in the tournament?" he said bluntly.
"It is his wish to compete, though against the will of his Hand. Lord Stannis, we will speak when I return. Now we must depart," Isildur replied. Stannis stared at them hard, then grunted a wordless noise of agreement and dismounted his horse. Without another word he handed his reins to a stablehand and marched off towards the great hall.
Isildur shook his head at Ned, and then the pair of them set the spurs to their horses and trotted away. Behind them, a guard of Ned's northmen and Isildur's housecarls followed on horseback. The sound of shod hooves echoed in the tunnel of the gatehouse.
The tourney grounds were to the south of the city, and so Isildur and Ned set out along River Row, the looming city walls on their left, heading towards the King's Gate. They started off at a brisk trot, but the streets were busy and crowded that day so soon they were slowed to a walk. River Row was bustling, full of fishmongers loudly hawking their day's catch and foreign traders of the Free Cities bearing their wares to shops, markets and warehouses in the city. The air smelt of fish and smoke, salt and city filth, and the sea.
"Odd of Stannis to choose this moment to return to the city," Ned remarked.
"Yes, it is strange. He had not responded to the ravens I had sent. I do wonder what is on his mind, I wish I could have stayed and spoken to him, but that can wait until after the tourney," Isildur replied.
"Have you any idea what may have brought him back?" said Ned.
"My summons, I would hope, but I feel that it was not," said Isildur.
Their company soon entered a broad, open square, busy with people. The River Gate, which the common folk called the Mud Gate, sat to their left, flung open, a stream of people flowing in and out. Gulls cried in the air. The cacophony of noise grew even louder than it had been on the street behind them. In the distance, Isildur heard the faint clatter of hammers on anvils from the Street of Steel. From the direction of the smithies came riding a few of the tourney knights, plate harness newly polished and gleaming in the sun, holding plumed and crested helmets beneath their arms. The knights threw boisterous taunts and boasts back and forth between each other as they rode. Their laughter mixed together with all the other noises of King's Landing.
"The knights of summer," Ned said disdainfully.
"Thoros! Thoros of Myr!" yelled one of the knights. A portly man with flowing red robes over his armour rode past the other knights, raising a hand in greeting to them.
"Don't burn yourself Thoros!" yelled another, and there was a round of laughter.
"Don't fall off your horse again you drunken bastard!" Thoros yelled backed. Laughing, the knights and the red priest spurred their horses into a trot and rode off towards the King's Gate, the crowds parting before them.
"Thoros of Myr? I do not believe I know him," Isildur said, turning towards Ned.
"A red priest from the east I hear, came to King's Landing to preach but spends so much time fighting and drinking that he doesn't get many converts," Eddard replied.
"Ah, a fire-worshipper then…" Isildur said, feeling a creeping unease along the back of his neck.
"Aye, he fights with a flaming sword. Dips it in wildfire and sets it alight for the melee," answered Ned. Isildur arched an eyebrow and looked at Ned questioningly.
"Frightens the horses, and many of the men too I imagine," he said. Isildur shook his head.
On the other side of the square, the crowds were thinner, and Isildur and Ned quickened the pace to a brisk trot, the grey direwolf and the white tree and moon of their banners drifting above their heads. Soon the King's Gate, sitting at the southern corner of the city, yawned open before them. Outside the city, the breeze of the approaching storm was rustling the leaves of the trees and the banners and pavilions on the tourney grounds flapped and snapped in the wind. Again, Isildur heard a low, distant boom of thunder, the storm still some miles away but blowing towards, borne upon the sea-wind.
The tourney grounds were covered in the colourful tents and pavilions of knights and lords from every part of the Eight Kingdoms, some pavilions bore sigils of renown like the grapes of the Redwynes or the eagle of the Mallisters, others carried the unsung symbols of unknown hedge knights and freeriders. As Isildur rode amongst them towards the king's pavilion, he could sense the lust for glory amongst the knights that day. The melee would be their last great chance for fame and fortune in the tournament. The fighting men wore wolfish smiles as squires attached plate harnesses and saddled chargers.
At length they came before a huge pavilion, larger than the rest, rich in cloth of gold, covered in the prancing crowned stags of the Baratheons. Stooping through the tent flap, Isildur and Ned found their king. Robert stood in the centre of the pavilion, his expansive stomach poured into an ill-fitting set of armour, his face already looking red from the squeeze of the breastplate upon his chest. One of the king's squires was just finishing attaching the pauldrons to the king's harness, encasing Robert fully in steel. It only took a glance for Isildur to determine that this was the armour that Robert wore in the Rebellion years ago, and that it no longer fit properly at all. The plates were not sitting correctly, leaving larger gaps between them than there should have been, nor would they deflect the forces of blows as they should. Ser Barristan Selmy stood to the side. The look on the old knight's face told Isildur that he saw exactly the same as Isildur did. Robert, on the other hand, seemed jovial, and it was then that Isildur noticed a second squire standing next to the King, a wineskin in hand. Robert was in the middle of laughing at one of his own stories.
"So there's this stupid Leygood boy riding down on me, mace in hand. He sees 'The Usurper' on foot, figures he can end the rebellion right there, ha! I'm on foot so he thinks he has the advantage, but I had the hammer in my hands and there was no way some shit of a lordling was going to best me that day! So he comes galloping down on me, and at the last second I lunge with the hammer and hit his horse's forelegs so hard it probably broke every bone in its body! Down goes the horse! Down goes the knight! Both of them sounded the same when they screamed, hahaha!" Robert said with a great guffaw at the memory.
"A fine tale Your Grace," said Ser Barristan dutifully.
"Ned! Isildur! We're telling war stories!" Robert slurred as he saw his friends enter the pavilion. "Come on Isildur, let's hear it: Who was the first man you ever cut down?"
"I don't think now is the time for such things Your Grace. Your brother, Lord Stannis has returned," Isildur replied.
"Finally got him out of his pout in Dragonstone? Ahh the Seven Hells can take him, now tell me: First man you ever killed?" Robert replied, his eyes shining with too much wine. Isildur sighed, rubbing his brow. An ocean of men's faces seemed to swim up before his eyes, some as clear and as sharp featured as the day he had ended their life, others murky and barely remembered amongst all the other dead in his long life of bloodshed.
"It was a guard in the palace" Isildur said at last, reluctantly. "In Armenelos, many years ago. I was very young, fifteen perhaps, sneaking into the palace at night. I had been there before and thought there was a way that would avoid any guards, but there was one, standing by a postern along my route. I had no other choice. I killed him with a dagger in his neck, right here," Isildur pointed with a finger to a point right at the base of his chin.
"A dagger in the dark? Hardly worth mentioning! Who was the first man you killed in battle, you dolt," Robert replied. Isildur smiled humourlessly.
"The same night. The guard's comrades found him, since I had forgotten to hide the body. They found me not long after. I was quite hard put to it, but they got worse than I did. Still bear a few scars from that day,"
"Why were you sneaking into the palace anyways? A little affair with the King's daughter?" Robert asked, taking a long swig from his wine.
"No, it was for a piece of fruit," said Isildur. Silence fell on the tent as the Westerosi looked at him strangely.
"A piece of fruit?" Robert said at last. "You broke into a castle and killed men just to eat a piece of fruit?"
"No Robert, it wasn't for eating…" said Isildur. Robert shook his head.
"You will have to tell me the rest of the story later. I have some skulls to bash in," he said, turning around to grab his warhammer from the rack of weapons at the rear of the pavilion.
His squire had finished his task and Robert was now completely armoured, though his harness still did not fit properly. Isildur and Ned both winced as they saw Robert sway as he walked. The King's war hammer was a beast of a weapon, a long, two-handed hammer nearly as tall as a man, with a shaft of ash shod with iron, and a heavy tip of black steel. The tip carried a hammerhead on one side, a wickedly sharp beak on the reverse, and a long spike at the very end. Yet Robert still hefted it over his shoulder as easily as he had as a young man fighting a rebellion. He looked back at Ned and Isildur and gave them a boyish grin of immense and drunken happiness while one of the Lannister squires pulled an arming cap over Robert's head of dark hair and tied the knot under his chin. The other squire picked up the King's helm, with its huge rack of golden antlers displayed from its crown.
"Robert" Ned said "You cannot fight like that,"
Isildur looked sideways at Ned and he could see it breaking his heart to have to speak to his best friend in such a way.
The grin died on Robert's face and was replaced by confusion.
"I can still fight Ned, you just watch me knock these fools around," he said, trying to brush off Ned's objections
"Robert" said Ned. Many found Eddard Stark to be cold and distant, yet even in his level tone Isildur could hear the weight of emotion.
"I've watched you grow up with me, I've watched you fight wars for the crown and the realm, but I cannot watch you kill yourself for childish glory," he said at last. Robert's eyes flashed with insult and anger. Before he could lash out, Isildur spoke up.
"Robert, you are an experienced warrior. You know armour. We both know that your harness does not fit properly, you are not properly protected, and you are putting your life and the stability of the realm at risk by riding in this melee," he said.
"Seven Hells, can't a king do as he pleases with his own damn life? I want to hit somebody!" Robert complained.
"And who will hit you back?" asked Ned.
"Anyone who can!" the King replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"And if they do and you take a tumble from your horse and break your neck? What happens to the Realm then Robert? With your only heir still a boy?" Isildur snapped.
"Robert, a king has no business in a melee. Leave that for the young men. And there's not a man in the Kingdoms that would risk hurting you, it would ruin the competition," Ned added.
"Piss on that! I thought being king meant I could do whatever I wanted?" Robert said, voice rising in outrage.
"To hold power means you do what you must, not what you wish," said Isildur.
"Oh yes, thank you for the Numenorean wisdom oh mighty Lord Isildur," the King shot back at him.
"Robert, we do not wish to see you hurt," said Ned.
"You think I'll fail? Is that it!? You both know me, we've fought together. There's not a man out there who is a match for me," Robert replied, beating on his armoured chest bravely. No amount of bravado could hide his wince of discomfort from the tightness of his cuirass though.
"That was then Robert, you are not the man you were when you won the crown," Isildur said, his voice rising.
"I am! I can still ride! I can still point a lance and swing the hammer," Robert replied angrily.
"You cannot and you will not!" Isildur snarled loudly.
A quiet fell upon the tent, not a word was spoken. Isildur could feel Robert's anger, thick in the air. The King's blue eyes smoldered with fury.
"I've told my whole damn court that I will ride in the melee today. How will it look if I back out now? You think men will follow a king they laugh at in their cups? Do you think an unmanned king will inspire loyalty or fear? You say that power means that we do what we must? This is what I must do," Robert said at last, his voice cold and calm. Then he turned and stalked out of the tent, his squires following in his turbulent wake.
Isildur sighed and rubbed his brow again.
"Fool, proud fool," he said.
"He has always been stubborn," said Ned.
"As have I. I fear I may have done more harm than good in this," Isildur replied.
"Robert is quick to anger, but quick to forget as well. I shall speak to him by myself, perhaps that would be better," Eddard said.
"Yes, that may be," said Isildur. Ned grimaced apologetically at Isildur and then quickly exited the tent, following Robert.
"When the King has sobered and calmed himself, he shall realize the folly of his words," said Ser Barristan. Isildur turned towards him.
"Aye, I only hope he has not had his skull stove in by then," he said. Barristan chuckled as the two walked out of the now-empty royal pavilion.
With Ser Barristan beside him, Isildur set off through the camp in the direction of his son's tent, picking his way through a forest of colour and heraldry. A strong wind made banners and flags snap in the air, and Isildur heard the thunder roll lowly in the distance again. All around him, knights tossed jests and insults back and forth, squires polished armour whilst grooms braided the manes and tails of caparisoned chargers. To his disgust, Isildur saw one knight elaborately coiffing his hair.
"The knights of summer indeed," he said.
"My lord?" said Ser Barristan.
"Two hundred years ago, a tournament was no gaudy spectacle. It was training for the business of war. Now? Half these men are more actors than soldiers," Isildur replied.
"The young knights always love a crowd, especially in times of peace. Gives them a chance for fame and renown," said Ser Barristan. "Life is strange Lord Isildur, it seems not so long ago that I faced you at the Trident,"
"You fought well that day Ser Barristan, better than any Andal I've ever faced," said Isildur.
"And you still won," Ser Barristan said "I should have chosen my opponent more wisely,"
They passed by the broad lists where the jousts had been held. Servants were pulling up the stakes that marked out the edges of the field and moving those outwards to make the lists wider and squarer, turning it into a battleground for the melee. Threescore of knights would fight in each company, and each conroi would need enough room to ride.
"I shall take your leave now my lord, I shall attend to the king," said Ser Barristan, stopping and bowing courteously.
"You do not ride in the melee Ser Barristan?" asked Isildur. The old knight chuckled.
"Melees are for young men who haven't felt their teeth crack in their own mouths yet, I prefer to keep my skills sharp in other ways," Barristan replied
"Perhaps we shall have to spar, you must have learned a few tricks since the Trident," Isildur said with a smile.
"Come to the yards when the Kingsguard practices and you shall see," said Ser Barristan with a sharp grin of his own. Bidding Isildur farewell, Barristan strode off across the field.
Isildur found Aratan outside of his tent. He was already fully armoured in mail hauberk and coat of plates, his black surcoat reaching below knees. His grey warhorse stood nearby, snorting and pawing the ground impatiently, tied up to a picket line. Aratan was sitting on a stool near the tent flap, sword unsheathed, examining the blade for rust or nicks with a critical eye. He looked up and spotted Isildur as he approached.
"Father," he said, standing and sheathing his sword as he did. "What news?"
"The King will ride. Against all counsel and all good sense, the King will ride. Where is Ohtar?" said Isildur.
"He is off speaking to the heralds about the stakes. He tells me there is some augury to be had in the choice of wood for the stakes they use to mark out the field," said Aratan. The wind rose, carrying a scent of distant rain with it as it blew.
"He has always believed such, and there are times when he does see more than other men. Regardless of whatever signs Ohtar might see, I have need of you son," Isildur replied.
Suddenly, there was a blast of horns from the melee grounds, the signal for the combatants to gather. Isildur cursed, time was short. He untied his son's warhorse from the picket, and then knelt down and quickly gave Aratan a leg-up into the saddle. He handed his son his helmet and shield and a long tourney lance, then took the grey by the bridle and led him towards the battleground.
"Robert will ride in this melee, and you must ride alongside him, even if that means riding alongside the Kingslayer and denying him another chance at you," Isildur explained as they walked through crowds of mounting knights and busy squires running to and fro, fetching swords, lances and shields. Over a hundred knights from across the Eight Kingdoms would ride in this melee, and the air nearly crackled with the nervous energy of dozens of young men hungry for glory. Everywhere Isildur looked he saw heraldry of every kind: A helm on black, silver terns on blue, maple leaves on a field of yellow, a pine tree on white, three griffins on red, a white horse running on a field of green and gold. Heraldic beasts and birds pranced and soared across shields and banners of every colour.
"Who would dare strike the King though? Even in a melee, no one could be that mad," said Aratan.
"I hope you are right, but we cannot count on that. You must ride at the King's side, keep him safe Aratan, no matter how he curses you or what he tries to do, keep him out of the fight," said Isildur.
They arrived at the field, which was thick with a throng of men-at-arms and shieldbearers, the conrois of mounted knights shaking themselves out into two equal companies, one at the northern end and the other at the south. Armour gleamed in the sun, the banners were bright above high crested helms. The stands were already filling up with nobles and smallfolk by the hundred. The noise was overwhelming, the excited chatter of hundreds of people about to watch a spectacle of violence and pageantry. Isildur spotted the Troll, Gregor Clegane, sitting atop a massive black destrier, in the south-company. Across the field, he saw the Hound in the north-company, his snarling dogs-head helm obscuring his face. Many others he saw taking their places, Beric Dondarrion in the south, Ser Loras Tyrell in the north, the Royces in the south, Ser Balon Swann and Thoros of Myr in the north, Lord Mallister and his son in the south. Heralds were raising their voices in argument with knights, as they sought to divide the fighting men up into two roughly equal companies, but many of the men wanted a chance at a particular opponent and were continually switching sides to get their chance. Isildur saw Ohtar pushing his way through the crowds.
"My lord, the heralds tell me that King Robert intends to ride in the north-company," said Ohtar.
"Then the north-company is where I must go," said Aratan. Bidding his father farewell, he trotted off towards the northern end of the field to take his place amongst the others. Ohtar met Isildur's eyes, and then jerked his head to the side. Understanding him, Isildur pushed his way off to the side of the battleground, Ohtar following, the crowds splitting before the Hand of the King.
"What did you see Ohtar?" said Isildur when they had found a quieter spot, a little away from the crowds. The old squire placed his fists on his hips and shook his head.
"The King rides in the north, the northernmost stake was oak," said Ohtar.
"A good strong tree," commented Isildur.
"Aye, but this oak was struck down in a storm, and the stake split right down the middle when the herald went to hammer it down. The western stake was hazel, a hardwood, and sunk deep with one tap of the mallet," the old squire continued.
"Our home was in the west, and the Valar dwell still in the Uttermost West," Isildur said.
"True my lord, but closer than either are the Westerlands, lands of the Lannisters. Now the southern stake was yew, an old knotted piece of yew, and I lost count how many times the herald struck it before it fully sunk. In the east, willow, and when the herald struck it in, water squeezed out of the wood, as if it was weeping,"
Isildur stared hard at the melee grounds. Across the field, he saw the golden antlers of Robert's helm as the king took up position in the centre of the northern company, right in the first row.
"We do not lack for omens. What do you make of this?" he said.
"Hard to say my lord, sometimes I think the whole business with the stakes is an old Andal wives' tale, but there are times when it does forebode things. There is some change coming, I can feel it in my bones," said Ohtar. Thunder echoed in the distance, but closer now. The sky was rapidly greying above their heads. The horns and trumpets of the heralds blasted again from the arena.
"That will be your call my lord, your tourney awaits," Ohtar said wryly.
"And the sooner it is over, the better, I must go. Take care of Aratan for me, will you?" Isildur replied.
"Always do my lord, you can count on that," said Ohtar, and the two men walked off in opposite directions: Ohtar to the north of the field, Isildur to the royal viewing stand where he would watch the melee.
As he ascended the steps of the dais, Isildur glanced towards the other members of the court that were watching the melee that day. Ned was sitting with his daughters, and his look towards Isildur was apologetic. Both of his daughters, finely dressed in Stark grey, were oblivious of their father. Sansa looked as if she was in love with every knight that rode past, her eyes wide and sparkling with excitement. Arya Stark on the other hand seemed bored, and kept glancing about as if she wished to run off and was only held in place by the presence of the formidable septa sitting beside her. Nevertheless, Arya favoured Isildur with a small smile as he passed by. Behind them, Isildur saw the rest of the small council. Baelish and Renly were bandying jests and barbed words back and forth, whilst Maester Pycelle pretended to doze.
Further up, and in the centre of the stands, was the royal dais. Of the three royal children, Joffrey regarded the proceedings with an air of feigned boredom, whilst Tommen and Myrcella watched their father on the field with trepidation. Isildur ascended the wooden steps to his seat, set at the right hand of the empty throne were Robert had sat the day before. His housecarl Cirion was standing behind the chair, hands crossed on the pommel of his sword, and eying up Ser Mandon Moore who stood to his left. The knight was staring back at the housecarl with his pale, fish-like eyes, as if he was a woodsman sizing up a tree he wished to fell. On the other side of the throne was the Queen, her hair brushed out till it shone like spun gold, and a gown of green that matched her eyes and was decorated with the stags and lions of the Baratheons and Lannisters, set in jewels and precious metals in the fabric. She looked as beautiful as ever, yet when she glanced at Isildur he saw contempt and even fear in her eyes. Fear of what? He did not know.
"My queen," he said in greeting, then turned around at the top of the dais and looked out upon the field. He was met by the waiting, expectant stares of a hundred and twenty knights, over two hundred squires, and countless hundreds of noblemen, women and smallfolk, all looking to him for the signal to begin.
The chief herald stood alone in the middle of the field.
"My lord Hand," the herald cried aloud, with a courtly bow "The companies are arrayed for battle, we await your signal," then he turned and quickly ran to the sidelines.
Isildur nodded, and raised his open hand high above his head. The skies above were an iron grey. He looked to the King.
Eru forgive me Isildur thought, and he slashed his arm downwards.
The trumpets blared, then the rumble of a hundred and twenty sets of ironshod hooves roared like an avalanche in the mountains.
Twin heaving formations of iron and men and horses came galloping together across the field. Rows of lances snapped to horizontal. Robert rode in the very centre of the north-company, yet he went before them, like the sea-foam at the breaking of a great wave. He raced ahead, the fire of battle was hot in his veins and he was laughing as he went.
Isildur drew in a sharp breath and the lines struck home.
Horses screamed. Lances shattered. Men flew through the air. The crowds brayed for blood. And then, as suddenly as they had crashed together, two ragged lines rode off again towards opposite ends of the field, leaving wreckage in their wake. Men littered the field between the two companies. Some were groggily trying to pick themselves up, others lay very still. Squires leapt into action, some running to pass fresh lances to waiting hands of knights, others to pick up the men who still lay dazed or dead upon the field.
Isildur spotted Robert amongst those still in the saddle of the north-company. He released a sigh of relief. Despite the wine and the ill-fitting harness, he had survived the first pass intact and still on horseback. The King was swearing and cursing between laughter as his sandy-haired squires ran him a fresh lance. The two companies struggled to turn around their surly warhorses and reform their ranks. To the gasps of the crowd, as soon as some semblance of order had been formed, the companies went charging back again, leaving squires and wounded men to scramble out of their way as the two lines slammed close again. The noise of the impact was deafening.
"Lord Isildur," said the Queen "These things tend to go on for some time, you may wish to take a seat,"
He realized that he had remained standing for the whole first charge, so engrossed had he been in watching the king's ride. Thanking the Queen, he quickly took his seat.
Men were shouting orders and insults as the conrois swung apart again, grabbing another set of fresh lances and then they came rushing together once more. Squabbles and fistfights between squires broke out on the periphery of the field, some trying to secure hostages on behalf of their lords and others seeking to save their man from being taken for ransom. With no regard for any of the men on foot, the companies of knights swung apart and smashed together again and again, the air filled with a hail of splinters as over a hundred lances burst on impact. Through all the chaos, Robert rode untouched.
"How many times are they going to do that? Daft bastards," Cirion mumbled behind him as the companies hit once again with a sickening crunch of metal and muscle.
Now the fighting in the melee waxed furiously as the men abandoned lances and fell into the hard work of sword and mace and hammer. Conrois lashed out at each other with steel. Swords thrust and parried and met in the air, men shouted and spat curses. Though they fought not to kill but to take captives and ransom, the melee was a brutal, grinding fight, and the field was soon trampled to a morass of churned earth by the hooves of the warhorses.
On and on the melee wore. Isildur watched as Ser Loras Tyrell, distinct amongst the other knights in his floral armour, took three men-at-arms captive, first unhorsing them with skilful strokes of his sword and then demanding their surrender from horseback, accompanied by the delighted applause of Sansa and many other noblewomen. There was a gasp of the crowds and then Isildur saw the red priest Thoros of Myr go cantering through the field, his sword blazing green wildfire, horses and men shying away from him as he struck out with the fiery weapon. Ser Balon Swann and Beric Dondarrion were locked in combat, horses circling each other as blades flicked and struck between them.
Through the heart of this maelstrom of iron and muscle, the King rode hither and thither as he pleased, striking left and right with the war hammer. Aratan rode hard by his side, like a loyal hound following his master's steps, warding the king from the thick of the fighting with broad shield and bright sword, striking down any who came too close. Again and again, Robert swore and snarled at Aratan and tried to pull away for the thick of the fighting, but Aratan stuck close by him and kept him out of it. Isildur could plainly see that Robert no longer had the speed or flexibility of his youth, but still he struck with tremendous power, and each man hit by Robert's hammer went down stunned by the bone-crushing force of his blows.
As the first hour of the melee wore on to its conclusion, the fighting had devolved down into dozens of petty individual duels, conrois split apart by battle and men sucked into private squabbles with their rivals. Isildur was beginning to doubt himself. Had he been wrong? Was there in fact no plot upon Robert's life in this tournament? He glanced out the side of his eye at the Queen, and saw that Cersei's gaze was not watching Robert at all but was fixed on her brother as he made a fool out of a knight of the Reach who been rash enough to challenge him. Renly, he noted, was watching Ser Loras as closely as Sansa did. Baelish had the look of a merchant watching the scales. In Joffrey, Isildur saw only an eager bloodlust.
"My lord, look there, at the south end," Cirion whispered.
Ser Gregor Clegane sat unmoving upon his huge horse, a massive greatsword in one hand and the reins in the other. His conroi of Westerlanders had gathered up tightly around him, knee to knee upon their chargers. With a lurch, Isildur realized that he had not seen the Troll in the fighting so far, he had been keeping his men back, keeping them out of the worst of the fighting, keeping them fresh and unbloodied, until they were the only formed body of men-at-arms left upon the field. Now he saw them taking reins in hand and snugging their helmets on their heads.
At the head of his men, Gregor Clegane snarled a bestial cry and then sent them charging, the whole conroi as tight as an iron fist like the one atop his war helmet. Isildur swept his gaze across the field and in an instant he knew. The rest of the men of both companies were scattered, all caught up in individual fights. Aratan was on the other side of the field, dueling with Robar Royce.
And alone, directly in Clegane's path, King Robert wheeled on his warhorse.
Isildur sat up in his chair, gripping the arms of it so hard his knuckles went white. Time seemed to slow. Too late, Aratan saw the coming wedge of Clegane and his men. Too late, Aratan tore away from Robar.
"To the King!" Aratan cried, a ragged conroi of his own forming up around him. Too late, too slow, the distance was too far. They would never arrive in time.
Then, unlooked for, as swift as a speeding arrow, Sandor Clegane rode past the King. A fresh lance was couched under his arm, and the Hound charged right at the centre of the oncoming wedge. He rode straight and unswerving for his brother. Three galloping strides of his warhorse and he was upon them. A single lance, perfectly placed, and Gregor's charge exploded and burst apart. In the carnage of the impact, both Cleganes went flying out of the saddle.
Their horses had come hurtling together head on and now lay stricken upon the field. The Troll and the Hound lay still upon the ground to either side of the wreckage. Squires ran from the sidelines, but to the crowd's amazement Sandor was already struggling to his feet. He pushed his squire back and hauled his sword from his scabbard as he started towards his brother. Gregor's men closed up tightly on foot around their lord, and the grim looks on their faces told Sandor to come no closer. It took six men to bear the unconscious Troll from the field of battle.
Isildur leaned back in his chair and exhaled sharply in relief. Whether Gregor was acting on his own or under orders from his Lannister masters, he did not yet know, but either way his move had been checked and the King remained safe.
Both companies now drew apart again, riding back to the north and south ends of the field. A sort of shocked silence reigned in the aftermath of the charge. The fighting men seemed listless, exhausted, and they drank water and wine in great gulps, breathing hard from the exertion of the melee. The break did not last for longer than a few minutes. Robert drained his wineskin, then tossed it back to his squire and brandished his hammer above his head.
"Back at the bastards!" he yelled out so loud it echoed across the battlefield, then he slammed his visor down and spurred his horse into a charge.
With reluctance, the north-company's conrois formed up and charged again behind the King. The southern company came rumbling up in a ragged line to meet them. For the fifth time that day, the charges of both companies crashed together mightily.
The breather had revitalized them despite the shock of Gregor's charge, and the fighting intensified once more. They rained blows on each other with a renewed vigour, they fought each other tooth and nail. They thrust with swords, beat upon each other with maces and flails, even wrestled and grappled in the saddle. On and on the fighting wore throughout the day, with a noise like a hundred blacksmiths hammering on hot iron all at once, and the sound of the rattling of plate harness was overwhelming.
Aratan fought to stay by Robert's side, but the King rode with reckless abandon into the heart of the fighting. He was struggling to stay alongside the King amongst the currents of battle. Eddies of vicious combat swirled in between them, and they were forced apart. If Robert noticed, he cared not, for the fierce joy of battle was upon him and burned brightly within him as it had not done in many a year. With hammer in hand he smote down one knight and then another, laughing as he did.
Forced further and further away from Robert, Aratan was momentarily submerged by a tide of foemen all around him. With quick strokes of his sword he cut free and burst out from amongst them just as men of his own company rode in to join the fight. Left alone and unfought for the moment, Aratan looked about the battleground to find his King. In the narrowed vision of his helm, he did not see what his father saw from the dais. He did not see Jaime Lannister riding hard towards him. He did not see the leveled lance. Too late, he turned and saw the oncoming foe. The Kingslayer's lance burst upon the white tree blazoned on his shield, and Aratan was thrown from the saddle, falling heavily to the ground.
Isildur was sitting forward in his chair, glancing rapidly back and forth between his son on the ground and the King still fighting on horseback. He was gripping the arm rests hard once again. Aratan quickly got up again, sword still in hand, to Isildur's relief. Jaime Lannister was circling him on horseback, his gilded sword in hand. No words passed between the two of them, the Kingslayer just silently dismounted his horse and stalked towards Aratan with sword in hand. They circled each other as Aratan settled behind his kite shield, leaving nothing for Jaime to swing at except helm and armoured shins.
Tearing his eyes away from his son's fight, Isildur looked back at the King. Robert was swaying in the saddle slightly, though whether he was drunk on battle or on wine alone, he could not tell. The success of his onslaught had betrayed him and now he had punched straight through the lines of the south-company, and was alone and unaccompanied behind them. No one had dared land a blow on him yet.
Yet one knight turned away from the rest of the melee. He was a fighter of the southern company, taller than some and broader than most, and his arms bore a red leopard on a field of green. He saw the King alone and away from the battle, and, perhaps remembering Robert's words at the feast, he spurred his warhorse straight for him. Murmurs ran through the crowd as they watched the Leopard charge, watched him raise an iron mace above his head.
"Turn around Robert, turn around damn you, you wanted this fight now here it is," Isildur muttered as he watched. It was no use. Robert did not see.
With all the speed of charging horse and swinging arm behind it, the mace hit hard on Robert's back. Taken by surprise and addled by the wine, Robert was flung forward and fell from the saddle. The Leopard went galloping past as Robert's startled warhorse ran. The crowds gasped in shock at the man who had struck a king. Even Cersei let out a gasp of surprise. Knights of the Kingsguard made to rush onto the field to the aid of their King.
"No!" yelled the King. He had risen from the ground to his knees, leaning on his war hammer heavily. His visor was up, his face red with exertion and slick with sweat. He waved his Kingsguard back, then stood up. The Leopard was wheeling on his warhorse, looking at the King expectantly with mace in hand. Robert slammed his visor back down and raised his hammer. King Robert Baratheon would not go down so easily.
More gasps and murmurs ran through the crowd as the Leopard charged, still on horseback, against the King on foot. Isildur wracked his mind, trying to recognize the Leopard's arms. Was it a knight of the Reach? The Westerlands? Who was this knight?
Robert swung his hammer at the oncoming foe, but his blow was wide and clumsy and the Leopard shifted in his saddle and easily avoided it. He countered with a swift swing of his mace that struck like a lightning bolt upon Robert's shoulder. Robert cursed and swung again, missing wildly as his opponent went cantering past.
Isildur swept his eyes across the battleground. Aratan was trading blow for blow with Jaime Lannister, the rest of the northern company were scattered across the field in fights of their own. There was no one to aid King Robert. The Leopard was circling just out of Robert's reach. Again and again the mounted man charged the King, over and over again he smote the King down with heavy blows of his mace. Robert's own swings grew slower and wilder as he tried to fight back. Even in well fitted plate armour, the blows of a mace could shatter bones, and Robert's armour did not fit properly at all. With every blow, he got slower, his movements became more pained.
Robert leaned on his hammer heavily, whilst the Leopard wheeled his horse around for another pass.
This must be stopped. King's Servant, King's Friend, Hand of the King, do something! Isildur thought desperately. Again time seemed to slow, he was rising to his feet, he was roaring for a stop to the fight, but if the Leopard heard him above the din of battle, he did not respond.
The Leopard charged again. Isildur knew with a cold certainty that Robert could not take another hit.
There are times during the hunt when the boar finds itself brought to bay, surrounded by a circle of barking hounds and thrusting spear points. In desperation and hatred, the boar will drive itself upon a spear and up the shaft to gore its killer with its last burst of strength. Like a boar at bay, King Robert drove himself into the Leopard's final charge, leaping down the Leopard's throat. And just as he had done to the Leygood lordling all those years ago, he swung for the horse's forelegs. His blow was crude, unsophisticated, swinging his war hammer like a woodsman's ax, but it did its work.
The horse screamed as its forelegs were shattered by the blow. It tumbled hard, tossing its rider off its back in the fall. The Leopard rolled to a halt past his stricken mount and lay very still. Robert approached the fallen knight, limping as he went. The field had gone silent, the melee had stopped at Isildur's command, and the Hand of the King felt a wave of relief wash over him.
But as Robert stood over his fallen foe, suddenly the Leopard lunged one last time. There was a flash of steel, a dagger was drawn, and then Robert cried out in pain. The crowds screamed in shock, pandemonium erupted. Isildur shot down from the dais at a run, his housecarls around him, pushing through the crowds.
The Leopard had bared his fangs, a misericorde dagger. He had thrust up from the ground, thrust above the cuisses and below his tassets, stabbing beneath the breastplate, deep into the King's lower gut. Robert's snarl of rage was like unto a clap of thunder echoing off the cliffs of the Stormlands. He seized the Leopard's hand upon the hilt of the dagger in a crushing grip and force it out of him, dark blood seeping down the steel of his armour. He hurled his hammer aloft and brought it crashing down upon the Leopard's head. With a sickening crunch, helmet and skull alike were crushed beneath the hammerhead. Noiselessly, the knight fell dead.
For a brief moment, Robert stood alone. He was strangely calm amongst all the chaos and shock of the Leopard's treasonous attack.
Then his knees buckled and failed beneath him and he fell over next to his dead enemy.
With a crack of thunder, the rains began to fall heavily over King's Landing, as Isildur finally reached the King. Robert Baratheon lay unmoving, as still as death.