Lord Whent's Great Melee
The festive atmosphere gradually resumed following the King's unanticipated arrival, yet a discernible hesitance lingered in the air, accentuated by subdued murmurs. Tristifer's table soon returned to their conversation. He did not miss the dirty stare that Robert Baratheon sent to the man who was arguably the cause of his parents' death, at least in the mind of the young Lord Paramount.
Tristifer, perceptive as ever, found himself unsettled and sought reactions from the other noble tables. His gaze fell upon Lord Hoster Tully, distinguished by his auburn hair and the silver trout adorning his doublet.
The Tully lord maintained a subtle demeanor, nodding in agreement with the discussions among his bannermen. Tristifer however spied the calculated glances that Lord Hoster Tully directed toward the high table. Their eyes met briefly, and it was Tristifer who broke the connection, prompted by the soft sound of breathing near his ear.
Turning to the side he noticed that Tytos had leaned in close. "Lord Hoster is the very picture of a calculating Tully Lord—always in pursuit of the next opportunity, whether it's a superior position or a strategic marriage. They're perpetually unsatisfied. Granted, they find themselves in a delicate position among the Lord Paramounts, with Riverrun's defensibility and the discord among their vassals serving as their primary strengths."
Tristifer raised an eyebrow, and Tytos chuckled lightly in acknowledgment of the irony. "I'm fully aware of my own contributions, but some feuds are destined to resist peaceful resolutions. The blood-soaked pages recounting the history of my forefathers certainly make that point," he conceded, the contradiction not lost on him.
Lord Hoster Tully, as a lord paramount, had the reputation of being more 'grasping' for a lord of his station. However, the Tullys never found it easy to rule as lords paramount of the Riverlands. House Tyrell faced similar challenges, but they were so insignificant before their ascendancy that they at least hadn't been rivals to any of their vassals before they were granted Highgarden.
House Tully was not so fortunate. While they were a storied house with roots that stretched back a long time, their history was marked by bloody conflicts with neighbors and vassals, which did little to bolster their legitimacy as the ruling house of the Riverlands.
"I do wonder what his thoughts would be on Oldstones and House Mudd's return," Tristifer mused out loud.
Tytos, taken aback by the directness of the inquiry, raised an eyebrow. "I cannot say for certain. The abandoned lands surrounding Oldstones hold little significance for anyone. In theory, they fall under the purview of Lord Tully, being the personal holding of the Tullys, alongside the castle of Fieldstone and the banks of the Blue Fork. However, in practice, the lands are patrolled by Lord Mallister and his vassal, Lord Pemford."
Tristifer sighed, contemplating the strategic value of Oldstones. "It does seem to occupy a somewhat disadvantageous position. Isolated and hilly compared to the rest of the Riverlands, it holds some centrality and defensiveness as its best qualities. Moreover, it serves as the source of the Blue Fork, meandering down the hills on both sides and eventually merging with the other forks into the Bay of Crabs and the Ironman's Bay, respectively."
The lands of Oldstones were abandoned for various reasons. It was not home to much more than bandits and hunters, with no villages to speak of, and maybe a settlement or two around the ruins of Oldstones itself. For Lord Mallister, it would be a costly endeavor with seemingly few returns on any investment. It was defensible, of course, but with nothing to defend, what was the point?
Tristifer himself struggled from an objective viewpoint to see any good reasons for him to even endeavor to rebuild the lands. The fact that it was his family's ancestral lands, however, made up his mind—House Mudd would return to Oldstones one day. There surely had to have been some forgotten reasons for his ancestors to rule from those lands for centuries.
Tytos offered a fleeting smile. "If only one could forge a connection between the two. I confess my knowledge of the area is limited, but a link between Maidenpool and Seaguard to circumvent the Sea of Dorne could potentially turn it into one of the most valuable holdings in the Seven Kingdoms." Tytos paused for a moment before shaking his head slightly.
"Although, I doubt Lord Hoster would ever entertain the idea of such an investment." What began as a jest from Blackwood took on a more thoughtful tone as they exchanged inquisitive glances.
The notion of such an ambitious project lingered in the air. Tristifer mused, "It would be stupidly expensive, maybe Lord Tywin's fortune could finance it or the entire income of the Reach, but digging a canal is possible." Tristifer wouldn't even know where to begin, perhaps with a shovel.
Tristifer, trailing off in contemplation, began, "If it were possible..." Tytos again shook his head, indicating the impracticality, though his dark eyes conveyed understanding.
"Indeed, unfortunately, it's an impossibility," Tristifer disagreed, the idea lingering in his mind. Costly, undoubtedly, but impossible?
"My aim, then, is to pursue the impossible dreams, eh?" Tristifer declared, raising his tankard. Tytos regarded him with an inscrutable expression before nodding and joining in the toast.
"Impossible dreams."
Eddard Stark maintained a stoic expression, seemingly impervious to the relentless sun beating down on him. The heat trapped under his grey doublet grew increasingly uncomfortable as he dutifully assumed his place alongside his brother and sister in the stands, ready to witness the melee.
They were now on the third day of the ten-day-long tourney. After the introductory feast on the first day and the qualifying melee yesterday, they were finally poised to begin the second most prestigious event of every tournament—the melee.
The continuous feasting had already left Eddard's northern sensibilities in a whirlwind. Course after course and barrels of ale and wine every day—his time in the Vale had been less reserved than in the North, but this tourney presented a whole new level of indulgence.
Eddard conceded to himself that he favored the melee over the joust. Perhaps it was due to his more proficient swordsmanship compared to his skills in jousting, or maybe because the melee seemed more practical. The North, being more infantry-based than its Southern neighbors, had a different martial focus.
The most 'chivalrous' or 'pious' knights chose not to participate in the melee. Some directed all their attention towards the renowned joust, while others, as Eddard knew, regarded the melee as nothing more than a brawl. This sentiment seemed to hold true, especially after witnessing the qualifying melee the previous day, where the enigmatic Tristifer Mudd stood out as the sole contender displaying any semblance of grace.
The 'lowborn' melee, however, had not lacked onlookers. Despite skepticism from certain quarters, the Stark family and their bannermen predominantly occupied the highborn seats, with a smattering of squires and landed knights also observing the spectacle. The smallfolk showed up, of course; they enjoyed every event, from the smallest axe throwing to the joust itself.
The shift was now evident, with almost all nobles from every region represented in the stands, ranging from minor Ironborn lords to Prince Rhaegar and Lord Whent. The King was also present, seated under a shaded part of the Royal box, looking surprisingly miserable and not bothering to hide his true feelings, though he did preen when the crowd cheered.
Eddard foresaw that the highborn melee would be far more interesting. His friend Robert cut a striking figure among the contenders, being the definitive tallest competitor. Eddard's brother Brandon looked formidable in grey Stark-emblazoned armor. It was clear whom Lyanna and Benjen supported the most, and for Lyanna, it was most definitely not Robert.
Ned's friend had asked for his sister's favor, something she granted reluctantly. A grey band of cloth proudly adorned the young lord's powerful arm. Unfortunately, news of Robert's baseborn daughter had reached Lyanna and Robert simultaneously, leaving a less-than-ideal first impression. While Ned had been as excited as Robert when the letter of the two's betrothal had reached them.
In the first days of the tourney he only grew more and more nervous about the impending union. One was his brother in all but blood and name, while the other was his beloved sister. Ned wanted nothing but the best for both, but what if the best for the two was contradictory? If only his sister let Robert prove himself. His friend's unwavering loyalty was one of his greatest qualities certainly not something inconsequential in a marriage.
He could, however, see how Robert's promiscuity could definitely turn Lyanna away. Neither her fierce she-wolf side nor her softer side would accept a husband frequenting other women's beds. Ned feared her wolf's blood would make her tear Robert to shreds in such a case.
Ned shook his head before moving on to Yohn Royce, a lord he had met during his fostering under Lord Jon. The Royce lord proved very proficient with a sword, almost resembling a northern lord more than a Valeman, though his family's First Man heritage likely contributed to that impression. The Royce bronze armor, adorned with runes, had a distinctive appearance. Despite doubts about the runes possessing any actual magical properties, they added to the lord's imposing presence.
Among the contenders were notable figures such as the Blackfish and other Northern Lords recognized by Ned through their sigils. However, his attention was drawn to the winner of the qualifying melee, Tristifer Mudd.
While the maester at the Eyrie may not have devoted much attention to the River kings of old beyond a dry and brief mention, Eddard still retained memories of tomes recounting the ancient First Man kings—from his ancestors, the Winter Kings, to the Mudds and Fishers of the Riverlands. The presence of a supposed descendant from this ancient line was not something he had anticipated when envisioning the Tourney of Harrenhal.
Initially, when Ser Tytos and Brandon had introduced him, Ned did not care much. Just another southern lordling, he thought. However, the events of the previous day had dispelled this indifference. There was certainly nothing unremarkable about the young man, especially considering his lack of actual noble blood. No matter how fervently Tristifer claimed his heritage until he possessed some land, it did not hold much weight.
When the man had practically danced about his opponents, almost resembling a performer in a poorly executed theatrical play, the hopeful smallfolk competitors fell over themselves in futile attempts to match his moves. The spectacle elicited raucous applause and laughter from the smallfolk watching. There was no great challenge for Tristifer Mudd, who effortlessly defeated all—from the lowliest farmhand to the most experienced Hedge Knight—bold enough to challenge him.
He had certainly not been forgotten, as when Tristifer Mudd raised a hand, he was met with a great roar from the smallfolk. In contrast, the nobles appeared quite confused, perceiving an unknown hedge knight biting off more than he could chew. Ned even observed his brother Brandon leaning over to Tristifer, gesturing to the cheering crowd. His brother leaned back with an impressed grin after a small exchange.
Ned's youngest sibling Benjen seemed captivated by the enigmatic Tristifer Mudd, joining in the cheers with the smallfolk. This drew some curious looks towards the Starks, but they paid them no mind.
A resounding horn echoed around the entire arena, and the clamor quietened. Prince Rhaegar rose to his feet, joined by Lord Whent from the Royal box.
"Welcome, my Lords, ladies, and dear subjects," the silver prince exclaimed with a polite smile on his handsome face. "To a melee that will surely match the tourney, an event that will be remembered for centuries!" The announcement prompted loud cheers of excitement from both the lowborn and highborn alike.
"I shall not delay the excitement for too long, so let our heralds announce the competitors for the winner's prize: 20,000 gold dragons!" The announcement elicited a large, shocked gasp from the gathering.
It was indeed a remarkable prize. Ned couldn't help but imagine that one would have to win numerous northern melees just to match it. The last tourney he had witnessed in the Vale at Redfort had offered a prize of 1,000 gold dragons for the melee. This was unquestionably a tourney for the ages, and he doubted that the treasury of Winterfell housed many more coins.
The North was not renowned for its wealth, given its modest trade and significant wintertime expenditures. Winter is coming, and hoarded gold did little to provide warmth.
"Lord Paramount Robert Baratheon of the Stormlands!" As the names were announced, Ned couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement for the upcoming event. Once again, his gaze found the armored form of Tristifer Mudd.
It was a plain set, yet sturdy and well-maintained, with the brown tabard featuring a stitched golden crown as the most interesting feature of his figure. Among his siblings, the only one who didn't seem to care for Tristifer Mudd was his sister, who cheered fervently for Brandon.
It remained to be seen what would become of Tristifer Mudd, but if Eddard was sure of anything, it was that the man would not fall into obscurity after this tourney. The only question was, to what heights would he rise?
Tristifer swung his sword experimentally. It was no masterwork, but like much of his equipment, it would serve its purpose.
He couldn't help but glance at the roaring crowd surrounding him. The moment felt surreal, as all the planning, travel, and hard work had finally culminated in this. This was the make-or-break point; either he would rise to fame or forever remain in obscurity. Perhaps his son could pick up the torch in the future? No, this was the most crucial moment of his life yet. As the horn sounded to start them, his heart seemed to want to beat its way out of his chest.
Carefully, he navigated away from any infamous names. Tristifer needed to warm up before tackling someone like Brandon Stark or the Blackfish—both formidable fighters with varying experience. Gods forbid, facing Robert Baratheon would be a daunting prospect. The glinting warhammer of his did not look any less intimidating up close. Tristifer knew he could not take him in a straight fight; that was for sure.
It seemed the gods were in his favor as Tristifer remained unchallenged until he came face to face with a young Frey knight. Most likely a son or grandson of the Lord of the Crossing, the Freys had a tendency to worm into every possible event.
The knight, around his age, didn't seem very confident as he charged Tristifer and threw some experimental jabs. They were easy to evade, and the few more concentrated strikes were swiftly met with Tristifer's sword.
There was an unwritten rule not to interfere in duels, and Tristifer exploited this by responding with his own strikes. Nothing decisive, they soon fell into a rhythm that resembled an almost choreographed duel. It would be prudent to let the competitors thin out, preserving his strength as well. Not the most honorable, but what was honor in this cruel world?
His gaze occasionally snapped over to other duels. Many of the toughest competitors had already dispatched their first and even second opponents, gearing up for more challenging matchups. Tristifer noticed Brandon Stark eagerly engaging in a duel against his betrothed's uncle, the infamous Blackfish.
A flash of steel interrupted his observations, forcing Tristifer into an acrobatic leap backward to avoid being skewered by the Frey knight's castle-forged steel. The thought of being killed by a Frey, the humiliation of it, he would die again.
After a brief but fierce power struggle, he managed to lock blades with the Frey knight. In the end, Tristifer emerged victorious, with the knight's blade in the sand and his own at the knight's throat.
"I-I yield!" The young knight's voice cracked, and Tristifer nodded, lowering his blade and quickly looking for his next opponent. He admitted to himself that toying with the Frey knight had been reckless.
"Ser Raymund Frey yields to Tristifer Mudd!" A herald shouted, met with a great roar of approval from the crowd.
His eyes soon found a Reach knight bearing a yellow sigil with red ants. Tristifer couldn't recall the house's name, but as they clashed in a flash of blades, he recognized that this knight was older and did not seem to be a slouch with a blade. However, there was something stilted in the man's strikes, perhaps an injury.
Recognizing the potential weakness, Tristifer was remiss to exploit it. He moved faster and faster, employing feints and powerful strikes at almost random intervals. There wasn't much thought behind them, as Tristifer soon realized that the Ant Knight, if not injured, was not accustomed to more dynamic duels. Likely more used to choreographed and 'proper' knightly duels.
This assumption proved true as the knight blocked ever more desperately, with less and less practiced blocks devolving into wild swipes of his blade, leading further into the inevitable.
Inevitable it was, as Tristifer made his way inside the Reachman's guard, with his sword tip positioned vertically in front of the Ant Knight's exposed throat and his opponent's sword hand blocked by Tristifer's broad shoulder.
"Ser Edmund Ambrose yields to Tristifer Mudd!" The roar that followed was even more enthusiastic at the herald's announcement.
Tristifer couldn't hide his unease as he saw Robert Baratheon himself walking directly towards him. Another unwritten rule dictated that once challenged, one had to accept. It would only end with a yield or one being incapable of continuing.
"Mudd! Let's see if you can handle a real warrior then!" Robert bellowed in greeting. Although they were not friends, Baratheon remembering him while sober surely counted for something. "These flowery tourney knights have less fight in them than a straw sack."
His mind raced at a fierce speed as he calculated his chances against the giant man. Tristifer realized he needed to do something unexpected. Baratheon was a fierce warrior, but he was not the sharpest weapon in the armory, nor the fastest.
As Robert closed in, Tristifer tensed his muscles in anticipation. When they were only about a wagon's length away, Tristifer dropped his blade to the sand.
The crowd fell almost silent as most kept their attention on the upcoming duel or lack thereof. Robert's eyes blinked in confusion, widening when Tristifer suddenly leaped forward.
The Stormlord had no time to react, and Baratheon's reflexes only managed to move his great Warhammer out to the side, ready to swipe—something that never happened as Tristifer collided with the Stormlord.
While not as ridiculously big as Robert, Tristifer was still no lightweight, and when they collided, they both ended up on the ground. It quickly devolved into a mess of limbs as Robert finally woke up with a surprised roar. Tristifer, nevertheless, was more prepared, and through swift maneuvering, he soon ended up behind the big man, his arms in an unyielding lock around the Stormlord's neck.
Robert again seemed completely blindsided before both their eyes landed on the long dagger attached to Robert's waist. Baratheon was the first to reach out toward it, but Tristifer tightened his arm with the last of his strength, then used his foot to kick the dagger out of its sheath.
The dagger landed to the side, out of arms reach from both.
"Do you yield?" Tristifer hissed at Robert. The lord only answered with a roar, and his last heave to relieve himself of Tristifer almost threw him off until Tristifer swung his legs around Robert's arms and waist, locking them.
"Yield!" Tristifer shouted. He had Robert completely locked up, and while the Stormlord kept struggling, rolling about, he eventually seemed to recognize the futility.
"HA ha ha, I fucking yield, you bastard!" Robert eventually answered with a great belch of laughter, though there was a bitter undertone.
Tristifer nodded and immediately released the man. As they got to their feet, he immediately received a great muscular fist right into his cheek. He fell back into the sand, and while there was some outrage from small parts of the audience, it seemed like no one was trying to stop them.
His eyes swirled around his head as he simply lay in the sand. An attack after a yield was a big no-no, but considering how Tristifer 'defeated' Robert, he couldn't really claim the moral high ground.
Tristifer was probably the most shocked when Robert reached down with a hand that he hesitantly allowed to help him up.
"Teaches you to trick me, the next time we fight, no shite," Robert said to him bluntly, but there was a hint of respect in the man's blue eyes, even if they carried a painful promise as well.
"You have my word," Tristifer said resolutely. Robert kept his gaze before shrugging.
"We shall see what your word is worth. Go win this then; I will not lose to the second place!" Robert eventually said with some humor as he picked up his Warhammer and dagger.
Tristifer then surveyed the field. Except for Baratheon's retreating form, the only opponent left was the bronze-covered Yohn Royce.
"Lord Brandon Stark yields to Lord Yohn Royce, and Lord Robert Baratheon yields to Tristifer Mudd," the herald announced. The crowd was hesitant before beginning to increase in volume yet again; the excitement and anticipation for the final fight were almost tangible in the arena.
Tristifer then noticed his blade trapped under Royce's armored foot. They shared a silent exchange before Royce eventually kicked the blade over to Tristifer. It was obvious that the valeman was wholly uninterested in any shenanigans from Tristifer.
"May you prove to be a good fight," Royce called out.
Tristifer knelt down, picking up the blade. Again, he checked its weight before moving into a ready stance. This would undoubtedly be the most challenging duel of the entire tournament—only a display of skills and endurance.
"And luck to you as well, my Lord," Tristifer returned.
He decided to take the initiative by charging forward, this time with the blade in hand. Royce easily matched his strikes, and the duel soon started in actuality.
The two were surprisingly evenly matched. Tristifer possessed an impressive natural affinity for the blade, combined with diligent practice from both his time as a Hogg man-at-arms and beyond. His youthful energy was also a great asset.
Yohn Royce, on the other hand, had experience in heaps. In addition to having trained for longer, and being a lot more mature than Tristifer, Royce was also a veteran of the War of the Ninepenny Kings.
War and a duel were admittedly not the same, but as Tristifer felt almost overwhelmed by a series of strikes from the older man, only stopped by a somewhat lucky block that halted the assault long enough for him to gather himself, he concluded that Royce's war experience had undoubtedly played a significant role.
They continued for several more minutes with no clear winner, just a seemingly unending series of strikes, stabs, and blocks. The enduring duel seemed to excite even the loftiest of lords as they all looked on enraptured. The smallfolk cheered wildly at every strike.
It was like a duel out of a story—sword on sword, two armored men simply trying to defeat the other in a match of arms.
Tristifer could feel his arms burning with every strike, and while he carefully regulated his breath, he knew he couldn't do this for much longer.
Something that reassured him was that Yohn seemed similarly afflicted, maybe even more so in some ways. Royce moved his body a little less, his footwork worsening, and let the blade do more of the defensive work.
Tristifer began to try to figure out how to end this duel, but before he could prepare for long, Royce suddenly rushed into yet another fierce series of strikes. Tristifer's moves were soon only determined by reflexes and shots of adrenaline.
The seemingly never-ending swings made Tristifer take step after step backward, simply trying to survive now. Eventually, he saw the exhaustion register in Royce's fierce expression. The strikes became weaker, and Tristifer soon came back onto the offensive yet again.
While Tristifer had managed to close any gaps in his guard with his mobility, Royce had an uncanny ability to always have his sword in the right place at the right time.
The older man's body eventually failed him, however, and while Lord Yohn managed to once again block his blade, his foot remained still for a moment too long as Tristifer kicked into Royce's exposed leg.
The knee buckled at the impact, and while Tristifer hissed and was sure his foot would be decorated with quite the bruise tomorrow, he was successful in making the lord fall to a knee.
In a move that shocked everyone, the Royce lord managed to roll backward to the side and would have recovered if Tristifer had not been faster, finally landing a clean hit on the man's sword, and sending it flying to a side of the arena.
Tristifer was completely exhausted as he shakily leveled the tip of his blade at Yohn Royce's wrinkling throat.
"Yield?" He managed to breathe out.
The lord bowed his head in graceful defeat. "I have no shame yielding to you, I have seen few non-Kingsguard with such skill I will admit."
"I thank you for your kind words, but this victory was no certainty in my mind I assure you." Tristfer returns respectfully. "I am sure the victor of any rematch could easily be you, your handling of the blade is the best I have ever seen."
Lord Yohn smiled tiredly. "Three decades of practice will yield results," The vale lord said simply before rising and walking to one of the exits.
This time, the roar of the crowd was absolutely deafening as Tristifer turned his attention away from his last adversary. Robert Baratheon may be a better warrior, but Trisitfer's duel with Bronze Yohn was most certainly the hardest in his life yet.
"And the Winner of the Melee of Harrenhal in the year 281 after conquest is Tristifer Mudd!" The herald announced, somehow managing to pierce the roar of the onlookers.
Tristifer's tired eyes first landed on Prince Rhaegar's polite smile, seemingly unfazed by the excitement surrounding him, playing the perfect otherworldly Valyrian prince. His gaze then swept over the smiling and cheering faces of the smallfolk before landing on Addam and Robin—his family, his most loyal and trusted friends.
A palpable hush descended upon the Royal box, and a shiver ran down Tristifer's spine as King Aerys rose, his unsettling smile adding an air of ominous anticipation. Whether the king's expression was a calculated gesture or a consequence of his less-than-graceful aging remained a mystery to Tristifer.
The arena, too, succumbed to an abrupt silence as the monarch, with a noticeable hobble, made his way toward the edge of the royal box.
"A most impressive victory," the King began with a cruel smile playing on his lips, his gaze shifting toward the Baratheon and Royce delegations present at the tourney. "How far some have fallen," he remarked, his attention lingering on the now indignant faces of Robert's brother and extended family. The bronze-colored Royces remained completely stony in their expressions, hiding any reaction to the King's veiled mockery.
Turning back to Tristifer with an uneven smile still firmly etched on his face, Aerys inquired, "And others have risen, you are no knight, correct?"
Tristifer bowed his head in silent acknowledgment, not daring to utter a word in the presence of the Mad King.
"Something that will change soon enough, I am sure. Congratulations," announced Aerys, prompting an enthusiastic if somewhat hesitant applause. His eyes swept over the masses, a giddy expression on his face. He then turned to his Kingsguard, leaving an air of uncertainty lingering in the Arena.
"The King requests the presence of young Ser Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister!" The proclamation echoed through the arena, the voice of the white-clad knight cutting through the ambient noise. Tristifer shifted to the side, realizing that the King had moved on to other matters.
In the distance, he observed the handsome blond Lannister making his way towards the royal box, eventually gaining admission. From his vantage point, Tristifer could only catch glimpses, but it became apparent that the young man had fallen to a knee in front of the Kingsguard knight next to King Aerys.
"Welcome, Ser Jaime Lannister, to the Kingsguard, completing the final seventh place in His Grace's esteemed ranks," the Kingsguard eventually declared, the culmination of a brief 'ceremony.' The Lannister scion was soon draped in the iconic white cloak of the Kingsguard. The smallfolk burst into enthusiastic cheers, elated at the prospect of a new addition to the legendary order. Conversely, the response from the lords and nobles was restrained, characterized by courteous applause.
Among the Westerlander lords, outrage was evident; they saw it as nothing more than a farce. Lady Cersei attempted to maintain an impassive expression, but a fierce look gleamed in her gorgeous green eyes, betraying a deep-seated discontent.
Some lords who harbored no love for House Lannister displayed visible satisfaction at the obvious humiliation, relishing in the spectacle. In contrast, the more neutral faction appeared disturbed by the entire stunt, recognizing the lack of honor in the King's decree.
King Aerys wore an undoubtedly cruel smile, and Tristifer was convinced it was his deliberate intention. "My first command to you, my young servant, is to travel back to the capital and take on the duty of protecting my beloved wife and son," the King hissed as he mentioned his wife.
Ser Jaime appeared visibly torn, unable to conceal his disappointment. Tristifer even caught glimpses of some older Kingsguard knights whispering towards the King, but the monarch remained unmoved. With a deep bow of his head, Ser Jaime reluctantly moved out of the royal box.
Tristifer suddenly found Addam and Robin flanking him.
"A humiliation and a double-edged 'honor'," Addam remarked quietly as the cheers of the smallfolk continued to echo.
"It was no honor, and everyone knows it," Tristifer retorted. "Lord Tywin loses his heir, and his house is once again demeaned as mere servants by our king."
As they moved into one of the tunnels, the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd faded into a dull murmur. Robin voiced his concerns, "All this cannot end well, and I am not sure it will conclude with Aerys's death, whenever that may happen."
Addam interjected, turning to Tristifer, "He even set you up against Baratheon and Royce, turning their defeats into a means of shaming them. If they see you as the reason, they might cause problems." Addam looked somewhat nervous as he voiced his concern.
Tristifer grunted, "It's a possibility, but Baratheon can respect a victory regardless of the means, and Royce is mature enough to realize that the King is simply stirring discontent for the sake of it."
"Prince Rhaegar, on the other hand, is the epitome of a perfect heir. He still commands considerable support, even without his alliance with Dorne. His connections with the Tyrells of the Reach and the Crownlands are strong. No one has a bad thing to say about him."
Robin and Addam nodded in agreement. "Indeed, if there's anyone to fix this mess, it seems to be the prince," Addam conceded.
"House Mudd will rise regardless, whether under the king or the silver prince. It matters little; we have taken our first step toward a renaissance," Tristifer declared to his friends, and they responded with excited smiles.
Amidst the dragons' internal conflicts, House Mudd, led by Tristifer, poised itself to seize every opportunity. With nothing to lose and everything to gain, Tristifer eagerly embraced the unfolding game. Let it begin.
End of Chapter
Thank you for reading yet another installment of my little story. Tristifer is making a name for himself and a knighthood may not be too far away on the horizon. Jaime becomes a kingsguard and Aerys keeps stirring the pot.
Robert Baratheon does not win the Melee and is not even the final two. I knew Tristifer had to beat Bobby B, but I was unsure how of course, and this was my attempt. Hope it was not too 'unrealistic' if you want to call it that. Tristifer is not rich enough to have ridden a horse before chapter 2 and that was a workhorse so I refused to have him win or even compete in the joust, and that left the Melee.
At present, I have a couple of chapters more in Harrenhal before we begin moving out of 281 AC and into Robert's Rebellion. Jousting and the Knight of the Laughing Tree next.