The two mounted knights charged down the lists, around them a crowd of hundreds and thousands drowned out the sounds of thundering hooves with deafening screaming, the onlookers were split between a tangled mass of bodies where lowborn farmers, miners, maidens and septons were clambering over each other for a view of the tilt, and the spacious noble stands erected a few feet off the ground, they allowed the many visiting nobles and knights comfortable seating and a clear view of the opening day of the tournament.
He saw three women for every man in those stands, most were flush with anticipation, eagerly awaiting their brothers', husbands' or fathers' turn on the lists, he made out Mychel and his brothers and father, Hardyng with his foster mother and siblings, he made out Myranda and Ysilla Royce, he saw the white arrows of House Hunter and the bronze spearheards of House Moore embroidered on great banners hanging in front of the families, as well the colorful sigils of House Mallistar, Celitgar and Stokeworth, and in the highest balcony sat the Lord Arryn and his family, though his son sat on his wife's lap, shaking and quivering at the loud sounds. That boy is Robb's cousin?
Jon was in neither the stands nor mangled between the commonfolk, rather he stood in one of the two tents at the edge of the tilts, he had a clear view of both men from here, but a poor view of their clash, only knowing when their lances crossed from the sound of shattering wood and the brief elation of the crowd.
Neither man was unmounted, though Brynden's opponent, a knight of House Borrell, swayed in his saddle as he rode up to Jon's tent, wordlessly passing by him before heading back towards his own squire and tent, Brynden circled around as well, his niece the Lady Arryn's favor still wrapped around his wrist as he threw his shattered lance into the pile of a dozen others.
"What's the score?" Brynden asked from his horse, a merry look on his face as he extended a hand towards Jon, which he quickly filled with a fresh lance.
"I can hardly see from here." Jon said, it was one point for a strike on the shield, three for a strike on the shoulder, five if they made contact with the head, and an immediate win if someone managed to dismount their opponent. "But I think you're ahead."
"Aye." The old knight said, a smile on his lips, in the months that Jon had been around him, he knew those were rare, but Brynden seemed to revel in this competition. I can only imagine it. "But better to be sure."
Jon smiled back at his words, that was sentiment he could appreciate well enough, the knight kicked his horse into a full gallop, faster yet than any of his previous charges, his arm was braced and his lance steady, Jon saw it shatter a moment later, and Ser Borrell hung in the air before slowly disappearing behind his horse as he tumbled into the dirt.
The crowd erupted at that, nothing pleased them more than seeing someone unmounted, truth be told, it hardly mattered who flew out of their saddle, they were simply happy to see someone triumph.
There were rare exceptions, they were silent when Ser Edmund Ambrose, a reachman, unseated Ser Albar Royce, a local and Lord Nestor's son and heir, but that only made the crowd explode when Ambrose was in turn unseated by Lord Belmore.
These tournaments seem like such wonderfully festive, competitive things. He thought. I wonder why father dislikes them so?
"Ser Brynden 'Blackfish' Tully is your winner." Shouted the herald from atop a pile of crates towards the roaring crowd.
No one expected the Blackfish to be eliminated on the first day regardless of his age, but Jon had still worried for him, he didn't realize he was so invested, nor that the contest would be so nerve wracking. And I still have to enter the melee today.
Brynden rode back into the tent and Jon took the lead to his horse as he unmounted, the two made their way out of tent, making space for the clash between Lord Monford Velaryon, the Lord of Driftmark, and Ser Samwell Stone, the man at arms of Runestone and by far the most fearsome fighter Jon had sparred against in the last few days. I must cross blades with him again. The knight had found an easy fondness for him, a fellow bastard trying to earn his knighthood, and Jon had learned more sparring with the man for a few hours than he had in his last month in Winterfell.
"Do you have much need of me today?" Jon asked innocuously, they made their way across the grounds near the lists, they were surrounded by a dozen tents, each belonging to a knight, some who had already completed their tilts for the day, others who were nervously pacing in anticipation.
"Do you wish to watch the rest of the joust?" Brynden asked.
"I wish to be in time for the melee." Jon half-lied. "Will you be in attendance?"
"I'm too tired." Brynden said, shaking his head, Jon let out a sigh of relief, if anyone could recognize him, it would be the blackfish. "Just help me with my armor and go enjoy yourself."
The knight went through the flap of his tent while Jon tied his horse to a post outside before following him in, it was a small and simple thing, only meant to give the knights some privacy on the grounds. Brynden had taken a seat on a stool and drank a deep gulp of water, brushing aside his greying black hair while Jon moved behind him to undo the straps of his chest plate, a moment later, a familiar man would come through the flaps of the tent, Ser Hersey, the first man the Blackfish had unmounted, he had come to surrender his armor and his horse, but Brynden forgave the debt and waved him off.
"If you win a joust, you can claim your opponent's horse and armor?" Jon asked, a thoroughbred palfrey cost anywhere from three to ten dragons depending on the age, breed and spryness, a suit of plate went for four to eight dragons. "Is it the same for the melee?"
"No." Brynden said, much to Jon's disappointment, he wasn't competing for wealth, but he wouldn't have minded the gold. "But I believe Nestor made it so that participants receive a small bounty for every stage they qualify."
That sounded a good deal better, soon Brynden was free of his armor and waved Jon off. He broke into a sprint once he was out of sight, there was still some time before the jousts concluded and the melee began, but it was a long way to run to where he hid his newly purchased armor, he ran out of the knight's encampment, through the noble pavilions, and into the Gates of the Moon.
The castle was bare, almost completely deserted, save for a stray cat or drunk or lonely servant, everyone had gone to watch the bouts, so no one saw him make his way towards one of the castle's many storehouses, no one saw him pull away barrels and crates, nor dig through a pile of tarp and empty sheaths until he found the armor that he had bought a week before.
He took a moment to marvel at the black steel, to run his hands along it's smooth, impenetrable surface, the blacksmith was not wrong, it did have a chilling, almost villainous aura about it, but that only served to endear it further to him.
Let them shiver in dread.
It took longer than he thought to don it, he had no squire of his own and had to spend minutes contending with the straps on the back, then there were the accents he had to attach, the armor came with purple velvet, but he had swapped it for a bolt of grey silk, the color of his house.
My father's house. He corrected himself, but that did not stop him from draping the grey cloth around his right shoulder and attaching it to his left hip, allowing it to hang loosely around him, then he slipped into the steel greaves and gauntlets, before strapping the helmet to his head.
He rushed back through the castle corridors and noble pavilions towards the tourney grounds, on the way, he tapped into his new formed connection and flew over the lists.
The lists had been turned from two long lanes of a joust into a circular arena for the melee, the commoners having been pushed back to make space, and it seems he was too late for the first group of the melee, something which would not have disappointed it him so, were it not for who he saw fighting.
In the arena were twenty-eight men, though by the time Jon ran out of the castle, that number had been whittled down to twenty or so, the last seven men standing would proceed to the next stage, this process would repeat itself three more times through three more groups of twenty-eight.
The seven who qualified from the each of the four groups would form another band of twenty-eight and would face off again, and the last seven standing among those would qualify for the final, where the best fighter among them would be crowned the winner and receive a generous bounty of three thousand gold dragons.
Every other day would have a round of jousting and two groups of the melee, with a day of rest in between, until the final day, which would start with the finals of the melee before moving into the semifinals, then finals of the joust, then in the middle of the week on a break day, the squire's games would take place.
He could have signed up for those, likely dusted the competition and walked away with a purse of fifty dragons, five times the sum his father had given him when he departed Winterfell, but he was not here for gold, nor easy competition. Rodrik had told him all he lacked was experience, and he would not find valuable experience in any children's tourney, he was here for the best.
And the best it seems, had been drafted into the first group of the melee, one he had just missed.
Ser Cressy was a terror, the giant swung his greatsword with enough force to send men flying off their feet, but still knew how to defend and retreat when needed, another stand out was lowly hedge knight of no renown, he fought viciously and brutally, preferring to send his foes unconscious rather than demand surrender, and nothing was beneath him, from dirt in the eyes to tricking his opponents into believing he was surrendering, Jon found it distasteful, but realized he should be prepared to face such tactics in the group he joined.
But by far the most extraordinary performance in the first group was by Ser Corbray, he was more akin to a flurry of steel and force than a mortal man with a sword, to the point that the entire melee seemed to center around him, men would scurry out from his path, sometimes two men engaged in a desperate duel would notice his approach and call a peace to hold him off, and on rare occasions the foolhardy would seek him out, those lasted the shortest.
He wielded only a bastard sword, but he regularly switched which hand was holding the steel, if they were used to wide arcs from the right and small, quick strikes from the left, he would switch hands and completely throw them off, and he always unleashing a brutal attack whenever he swapped, a strike with slightly more reach and much more force than any of his opponents expected.
He wreaked havoc on the of the competition, putting down as many as five other knights by his lonesome, among his victims were lowly hedge knights and powerful lords like Lord Grafton and Lord Lynderly, this was a man who'd managed to best kingsguard in the Battle of the Trident before he was even a man of twenty, this was the measure Jon had come south to match.
Right now, he was engaged with the second largest man in the arena, Ser Lyle Crakehall who was visiting from the Westerlands. The man fought with a savage sword in one hand and a massive shield that seemed all but impermeable in the other, Jon had previously seen it holding back as many as half a dozen men at once in the training yards, but Corbray's blows would land on the right spots with such ungodly force that it left the giant reeling back, unable to find his footing and unable to return the offensive, the scene resembled a bear being pushed around by a wasp.
The melee was nearing its conclusion now, ten men remained standing, but Jon could see thousands of eyeballs fixated on the fight between those two, Corbray seemed to revel in the attention almost as much as Crakehall was annoyed by it, often showboating between strikes as the larger man's face grew redder and redder.
Eventually Corbray went for a risky maneuver, so risky that someone as frustrated as Crackhall would have no way of expecting it, the valeman began an assault that would have sent any other man to the ground, he neglected his defense completely and accepted a few grazing blows on his arm and helmet, sacrificing safety for more attacks.
Then he relaxed his assault, allowing the other man to stand straight and push forward again, Corbray took advantage of the change in momentum to hook his blade onto the side of the shield and pushed it aside, before charging forward. Now, he was behind the larger man's shield, Crakehall had been too stunned and taken aback to do much of anything and fell victim to a basic trip, a moment later, a foot landed on his chest and a blade to his throat as the roars of thousands reached the Eyrie.
I cannot believe I missed the chance to face him.
Jon shook his head awake, his hawk flying away towards the mountains.
What is this connection to the bird? He wondered, but not for long, there was only one more group of the melee being played today, and he was getting into it.
He felt the same mix of anxiety and excitement that had become a constant these last few days, but this time greater than he had ever felt before, and his hands shook as he balled them up, his breathing quickened, and every second seemed to stretch.
But the closer he got to the tourney grounds, the louder the crowd grew and the more his worries faded into determination, until he was met with a wall of noise to match the army of people standing out ahead of him.
Commoners darted out of his way, a few children tried to grab at his feet while their parents tore them off and bowed their heads, a few maidens turned in adoration only for their expressions to turn fearful when caught sight of his armor.
Once beyond the crowd, he hurried his step to approach the armored men gathered at the edge of the arena, next to them was an armory of dulled steel weapons and wooden shields. Jon usually preferred a great two-handed sword, but he had practiced something else for the tourney, he hurried to lay claim to both a bastard sword, which was a hand shorter than his usual greatsword, and an arming sword, which was hand shorter than a normal sword, he strapped one on his back and the other on his hip.
Most of the other men didn't even seem to register him, some were shaking in place, other were all smiles and boasts, old men with crowds of hopeful greenbloods hanging on their every word and bored lords awaiting the clash, he saw a few of Mychel's brothers, he saw the Bronze's Yohn's eldest son and knights bearing the sigils of House Lynderly and Brune on their shields, even saw the lion of House Lannister, and lastly stood the game master with a wax pad in hand, the same man who had rejected Jon's participation in the melee some weeks ago on account of him not having a knighthood.
And he still lacked one, all he had was a knight's armor and whatever false impression he could muster.
It's a game of Flush. he thought. Small deceptions and stoicism.
The man was waving them into the arena one by one, while crossing away at his wax pad as he did, Jon fell in step with the rest of the men, he hoped to just slip by, but when it came to be his turn, the game master extended a hand to stop him, his expression turning confused.
"Who're you?" The man asked.
"A Mystery Knight." Jon said, trying to deepen his voice to disguise it.
"I can see that much, but were you meant to compete today?" the gamemaster asked, raising an eyebrow. "What's your name?"
"I can hardly just say it aloud." Jon said, crossing his arms and raising his chin, trying to channel Mya during their Frey kidnapping. "I do not care if you fumbled your groups, I prepared to compete today and I am competing today."
"I cannot allow it."
"I hardly care for what you allow." Jon said, raising his voice and arms, he should have felt his heart drop and panic, but he enjoyed confrontation a little too much.
"Can we move it along." The man behind him said, a tall man, near seven foot, he wore an open-faced helmet and his ugly mug was on display for all. "I'll put our mystery knight down in the first minute, and all will be fine."
"It must be four groups of twen—"
"You will choke on your words." Jon said, pushing aside the gamemaster's arm and entering the arena, he turned to look up at the giant behind him, but in truth his eyes were on the game master, wondering if he would escalate, if he would call the guards, if he would have Jon exposed.
But the man only looked flustered, he lowered his eyes back to his wax pad, and returned to gesturing men inside.
A small man with an even smaller pad of wax. He thought. He was never going to stop me.
Now that he was inside the circle, he saw the countless eyes on him, both noble and commonborn, hundreds of smallfolk were kept at bay by a fence of wood and a few guardsmen, there were so many bodies that the reek from it assaulted his nostrils. Then in the noble stands, he saw lords from across the Vale and the rest of kingdoms, noble ladies who had been watching all day and lords who had participated in the joust hours before, men and women he knew and others he had only exchanged looks with, their low whispers morphed into a steady hum, and scattered about the nobles and smallfolk alike were many pointed fingers and money changing hands.
And yet, and yet, he was almost completely at ease, perhaps it was the helmet or the identity he was hiding behind, perhaps it was the relief of finally bypassing the gamemaster, or perhaps he had always been this comfortable with attention, but he'd never had the chance to find out. But all that matter was that he was as cold as the winds of his homeland, calmer now than he had been all day, it was his tournament life on the line rather than Brynden's, this was his story to write.
"My lords and ladies, the second round of the melee!" the Herald called out, his voice overriding the mummer of the crowd and near deafening him this close as he unsheathed his weapons, how is he so loud? "It shall commence in five, four, three, two—"
The herald did not have time to finish before the arena descended into chaos, the seven foot, ugly giant seemed intent on making good on his promise of eliminating Jon immediately.
Jon did not think when he saw the monster rushing him with a sword overhead, he never did, he only acted, a brutal blow connected with man's knee, Jon had to dart out of the way to avoid the collapsing body before striking him on the back of the head as he fell to the ground.
He felt a familiar fire surge in his veins at the sight, the same fervor that burned in him during the squire's wargames, but increased tenfold, spurred by the screaming crowds and armored men around him, it sharpened his mind to an edge, dulled the pain from any blows he took, and his swords would reap a cruel bounty across the lists.
The first man he approached was one bearing the twin towers of House Frey on his shield, the man was standing to the side, likely hoping to scrape by and survive for the next round, and while Jon may have had his vengeance on the boy who set Hardyng on him, his disdain for the Freys and their liege was not so quickly forgotten.
The Frey's eyes widened as he noticed a suit of black and grey plate running towards him, he took a step back as Jon leapt off his feet, then brought his shield up to block Jon's bastard sword, the dulled steel bounced off the wood, but he felt the knight's shield arm weaken from the blow.
He unleashed a relentless assault on the Frey, not of the Andal, nor the northern style, rather, something entirely of his creation, practiced to perfection over countless grueling days and sleepless nights.
Heavy, unstoppable blows rained from his bastard sword, he would strike down, then up then across in a fluid motion, and with every strike he saw the man's blocks grow sloppier and his knees buckle more and more.
Then when the knight tried to attack him back, he would rest the bastard sword on his shoulder and turn his stance to make use of the arming sword in his other hand, blocking blows as Brynden and Roland had taught him then retaliating with quick slashes as to never let up the attack.
The Frey tried to back up and catch his breath, but another overwhelming barrage of strikes from his bastard sword would descend on him, the knight's grip faltered, then failed, and with his shield in the mud, the man raised his arms in surrender.
The combination of weapons was Jon at his best and most aggressive, it was highly volatile and took immense strength, endurance and skill to execute, but he had all three in spades, and the payoff made him unstoppable.
He felt a violent strike on his shoulder, one which dented his armor and would leave a nasty bruise in the coming days, but in the moment, it barely registered as a thud. He spun around with a fierce swing of his bastard sword, but the man who struck him had managed to parry perfectly, sending as painful jolt up Jon's arm.
The man wore a helmet that obfuscated his face, but on his shield was the golden tree of House Rowan, and Jon realized who the man was quickly enough, Lord Mathis Rowan. He had not crossed blades with him in training, but he saw the lord demolishing many a man at the yard, by every measure, he had the might to qualify for the next round of the melee at the very least.
Finally, Jon thought. I've traveled a thousand miles for you, my lord.
And he only had one chance to win, or he would be eliminated for good, likely never fight a man of this caliber for a long time.
He started with two quick slashes of his arming sword, the lord parried them perfectly again, and before Jon could continue, the man counterattacked with a thrust and slash, his movements both graceful and robust, Jon deflected the first and parried the second, before retaliating with a strike of his bastard sword.
The clashing of steel fell into rhythm with the beating of his heart, his armor and silk grew filthy with dirt and sweat as two of them kept matching blows, a dance which pushed both Lord and bastard to the edge, an exhausting affair of flying steel where both men were desperate to attain any kind advantage.
Then he heard it, another sound had joined the chorus, he thought it coincidence at first, but soon noticed that the cheers of the crowd were in sync with their song of steel.
All eyes on me.
The energy of crowd poured into him, feeding his sapping stamina, they gave a speed and strength to his blows he thought he had grown too tired for, he struck twice with his arming sword, then instantly flowed into a flurry of strikes from his bastard sword, each more powerful than the last.
But when it looked like he was done, he brought up his sword once more, but rather than a slash or strike, he thrust the blade over his head, it slipped past Lord Rowan's shield and struck the man directly on the throat.
Jon roared as the lord fell gasping for air on the ground, a thousand cries matched his.
Littered around him were a dozen more bodies which had fallen to duels and fights of their own, he could have kept his head down, fought to survive and made the next round, but he was not done yet, not with a ravenous bloodthirst pushing him forward.
"You!" He yelled towards a random man, he did not know who he was, he did not recognize the sigil on his shield, but he did not care, he charged towards him, reveling in the momentary look of fear on the man's face, then spun to strike him with both blades at once.
It pushed the exhausted man's shield aside and allowed Jon an uninterrupted double strike to the man's shoulder, sending him down with a thud.
He sprinted towards two others engaged in a duel, he reared his foot back and kicked one in the shield, he went flying to the ground, then Jon began destroying the other's man's guard with a torrent of steel.
"The second round of the melee is concluded!" He heard the herald yell, his voice hit him like a bucket of cold water, he almost continued his rampage, but found the presence of mind to stop himself. "And your winners are Ser Andar Royce, Ser Daven Lannister, Ser William the hedgeknight, Ser Jasper Redfort, Lord Beron Elesham, Lord Theomar Smallwood and the Ashen Reaver."