The early morning sun shone down on a scene that was all too familiar to the courtyards of the Gates of the Moon, that of two swordsmen clashing blades amid a dozen other spars, the two had been at it for a few minutes, until one broke the other's guard with a devastating strike, a moment later, the man raised his arms to yield while his younger opponent gave him a small bow of respect.
"Well fought." Jon said, feeling rather good about his victory. "It's two to one, but we can make it a best of five if you wish."
His opponent, Robar Royce, shook his head, then moved to take a seat on a nearby crate and wipe the swear from his brow, his blunted sword rested against his knee and his shield fell to the ground him.
"I'll concede the match, son, I'm far too tired to meet your measure again." Robar said, reaching for a nearby jug of cool water to drink, before splashing some of it on his face, the man had been sparring with every knight and squire in the castle since the early hours of the morning. "My father was not exaggerating; you are unbelievable for your age."
"You're too kind." Jon said, moving to stand next to him, somewhat taken aback that the Bronze lord found him noteworthy enough to mention. "Were you less tired, I'm sure the match would have swung the other way."
"Would haves and could haves serve no one, Snow, a victory is a victory." He said, waving him off, then scratched his leg. "Though, if I could give you any advice, you should work on your feints, none of them were truly convincing."
Jon hadn't really seen it while fighting, but in hindsight, the knight was not wrong, he had never even flinched at Jon's many attempted feints. Good to know.
"And if you would take advice from a squire, you could have avoided or deflected many more blows than you did." Jon said, much of the time the knight had hidden behind his shield when he could have backstepped or battered aside his blows, to do so against a relentless opponent like Jon was defeat, when he fought Brynden, the man wielded his shield as a weapon more than a barrier.
"Hmm, you make a point, Snow." Robar said looking up at him. "Perhaps if I end up participating in the melee, we'll cross blades again and you can show me your improved feints and I can show you my parries."
"I'm afraid I won't be able to join you ser." Jon said, a hint of bitterness to his voice as he crossed his arms. "The gamemaster is being very prickly about requiring a knighthood to participate."
"And the blackfish has not convinced him otherwise?"
"He has not even tried, says I'm too young for it and there'll be other tournaments."
"He's not wrong, but I can understand your disappointment." Rober said, nodding as he looked off to another spar, Ser Hersy and Ser Hunter Jon guessed, from the few hours he'd spent with Baldrick trying to memorize the houses of the Vale. "Regardless, you should sweep the squire's tourney with a sword hand like that."
"I don't care to." Jon said honestly. "I came south to fight against the best, not show up a children's contest."
"There are men in the squire's tourney who're years older than you." The knight said.
"And there are boys as young as ten that are taking part." He said. "The grown men can enjoy beating them, but I desire a real contest."
Ser Roland had immediately been convinced to allow him to participate in the Knights' wargames rather than the squires', and while on the day of the squires' wargame he did take some pleasure in the admiration and envy he received from the other boys, he knew all of it hollow and false. He had no interest in dominating the weak, he wanted to be tempered by the strongest in the kingdoms, to grow into a fighter who could best the Bronze Royce and whoever else, that was what he had come south for, he would hardly find them in some squire's wargames and even less so in some squire's tourney.
"Well, don't tell anyone I'm the one who told you this, but after seeing you fight… perhaps it is better to ask for forgiveness than beg for permission." Robar said, shrugging towards him.
He didn't entirely understand what Robar was implying and still it seemed… wrong to do such a thing, he didn't imagine either his father or the blackfish approving of such an underhanded move. Besides the gamemaster already knows me. Jon thought. I can hardly go back and lie about spontaneously earning a knighthood.
"What about you then?" Jon asked, "How do you like your chances, Ser Royce?"
"I'll give it my best." The knight said, standing up from his crate and stretching his back. "But I am a better a rider than swordsman, if I'm to win anything, it would be the joust, but I don't believe I hold a lance to my father, or Ser Tully, or Lord Templeton, or Ser Edmund Waxley or the Redfort heir, the Vale is home to too many extraordinary jousters, and we have a dozen lords from the rest of the kingdoms participating as well."
"Likely skipping the melee then?" Jon asked and the knight nodded. "Who do you have winning it?"
"Ser Lyn Corbray." Robar said with no hesitation, as though it was as obvious as the sky being blue and water being wet. "It is no contest, no one else in the Vale comes close."
"Is he that good?" Jon asked, his voice a pitch higher than when he usually spoke.
"He's a war hero, he took up his father's sword after he fell at the battle of the Trident and led a charge into the royalist flank, slew the kingsguard Ser Lewyn Martell in single combat." Robar said, "I saw him fight myself a few years ago, during a tourney in King's Landing for one of the crown prince's name days, he eliminated Lord Tarly and Ser Garlan Tyrell by his lonesome, it took a mountain of men to bring him down and even then, he would not go down, the kingslayer did finally best him, but on a different day, it would have been the Lannister who was left in the dirt."
"Would haves and could haves serve no one, ser." Jon said, but he was still taken by the pageantry of it all. "A wise man told me that once."
The man laughed at the that, then patted Jon on the back.
"You're not so bad, young wolf."
He left Jon standing off the side and went back to the long line of squires and knights eager to cross blades with him, most people wished to spar the legendary Yohn Royce, but if he wasn't available, they bid fight his heir, Andar Royce, and when he wasn't available, they settled for his second son, Jon couldn't blame them, that was what he had done as well.
He's still good, nowhere near his father, but few men are. Jon thought. I'll be one of those men, one day, if only I could compete in the melee.
The occasion for tournament was to celebrate the fifth year of a long summer with no end in sight, but in truth it was also an excuse to celebrate the return of Lord Arryn to his seat in the Vale, however brief his stay would be before he would need to return to King's Landing to resume his duties as Hand of the King.
Lords from across the Vale had made the trip, and many more from the Riverlands, the Reach and even the Westerlands had come as well, it took most of them weeks on the road, it had taken the Lord Belmore of Stongsong and Lord Lynderly of the Snakewoods a whole month to make the treacherous trip across the snakewood and the Mountains of the Moon to arrive to the Gates, but Lord Arryn was well loved by his vassals.
I should have asked father about him, maybe I'll write to him.
He had received a few of letters from Winterfell and had sent a few back as well, most were from Arya and Robb, a couple from his brothers and father, but not a one from Sansa or her mother, not that he expected them, they wrote of wishes of luck and prosperity, questions of the Trident and Riverrun, of the Mountains of the Moons and the Gates.
It was nice to stay in contact with them even when they were kingdoms away, every letter Baldrick gave him was cause for celebration, he liked to think his ravens to the North evoked the same delight in at least some of his half siblings.
But as far as the tournament was concerned, he spent most of his time in the training yards of the Gates of the Moon where the tournament was actually being held, the castle had flung its gates open to all, it's humble sept was drowning in wax from the hundreds of candles lit by commonfolk and lords and every follower of the Seven in between, its septons and septas overwhelmed with countless men and women begging for their blessings. Jon wished for a heart tree to lay some of his own prayers, but none were to be found in the Vale, at the very landing of the Andals in Westeros.
In the shadow of the castle, there had been erected a small city of pavilions for every noble house that attended but couldn't be given rooms in the castle proper, luckily, the Bloody Gates were only a few minutes ride away, so he and the blackfish had no need for either rooms or tents.
Next to the castle and the noble pavilions, there had once been an expansive meadow of green grass and black mud intersected with streams and rivers, on most days he knew children liked to run and play in the fields and water.
But in the course of a month, a score of workmen and labors had descended on it, and transformed the empty field into something that reminded him of Fairmarket more than any valley or vista he'd seen on his journey south, it held the same bustle of people and activity, except even more joyful, lowborn girls and boys ran about freely under the shade of cloth drapes freely wandering the stalls, minstrels sang the days away and mummers and puppeteers ran shows and plays around the hour, he saw more variations of King Robert downing Rhaegar Targaryen than he ever thought possible, one was a puppet show where both were men, one was a play where mummers dressed as stags and dragons, very poorly if he might add, one saw a King Robert smash the prince's breastplate only to find that it had been his aunt Lyanna in the suit all along.
The lords had come from all over the continent, but the merchants manning the stalls seemed to come from all over the world, they sold everything from clothes to treats to foreign arms, none of the vendors were that far from distributing random discounts either, though Jon had already spent most of the money the Blackfish had given him on buying himself and Mya exotic food and trinkets that ultimately turned out to be useless, as well a rather well-made dagger he was happy with of.
That and an oversized cloak the clerk promised him he would grow into, Jon was already taller than most men so he doubted the man's words, but it looked like the cloak the blackfish wore some days, so he didn't mind it trailing behind him.
Beyond the vendors were the tourney grounds proper, where he was headed now, there were the lists where the contest would take place, for the joust there were long rows of mud lined with picket fences, for the melee a large circlar arena, and for the archery contest, a small field with targets and spotted ranges, but there were also dozens of smaller lists to side for men to practice boasting horse tracks, sparring circles and small targets.
"Snow." Said the Blackfish, appearing behind him. "What're you wearing?"
"A cloak." He responded, but the man only shook his head and laughed. "He said knights around the realm are wearing it."
"How much did the man charge you for it?"
"A silver star."
"It's a simple travel cloak, you can get the same trim for a copper or two, maybe even pence."
"I knew that." Jon said, though his face went a light shade of red. "I knew all of that, I just wished to support the caravan."
"Of course." Brynden said. "Now, I know your father dislikes tournaments so I assume you've never been to one?"
"No." Jon said. "But I've heard of plenty."
"Well, even if you can't compete, you do still have a role to play." Brynden said. "In the joust, between tilts, I need you to hand me fresh lances."
"I can do that." Jon said, it would also give him a good viewing of the joust, something he'd never seen before. "I sparred with Robar Royce earlier, he said you're one of the favorites to win the joust."
"In my younger days mayhaps." The knight said, stretching his back. "I might still have a tournament win or two in me, but my best jousting days are long behind me, some might even call me too old."
"You're too old and I'm too young." Jon said, laughing at it. "This does not seem like our tourney."
"Aye, but better to be too young than too old, I'd say, you've far more than a win or two in you." Brynden said. "Just give it some years."
He nodded, but then someone caught his eye, well not the person, rather the sigil he wore, and the manner with which he carried himself. "Is that Ser Corbray?"
The man was tall, thin and with shoulder length brown hair, his expression reminded him of the Septa in Winterfell, but Jon was too starstruck to be bothered.
"Yes." Brynden said in a serious tone. "Why?"
"He's a phenomenal swordsman is he not?" Jon asked. "I'll go ask him for a spar."
"Jon," The knight said. "I would ask that you don't associate with him, he's a violent, prickly man and he has… a reputation among some."
"What kind of reputation?" Jon asked, though Brynden only shook his head.
"I'm no gossipmonger, but there are bad rumors about him and it is better to er on the side of caution, stay away." Brynden said, then repeated when the boy looked to ready argue. "Stay, away."
Jon's head sunk to the ground, but he nodded regardless, the conversation soon turned lighter and more jovial, until the two parted ways, with Ser Brynden needing to talk to Nestor Royce, both of whom seemed overwhelmed with the work of organizing the tournament and Jon needing to go give that merchant a piece of his mind.
Unfortunately for Jon, he could not find the stand to save his life, and spent the better part of an hour running up and the stalls, past countless merchants and artisans and mummers looking for the trader in question, he ran past old men with leathery skin and glad expressions leaning against their canes and young maidens carrying the smell of lilac giggling in pairs twos and threes, there was the familiar smell of a forged steel in some corners and that of freshly baked bread near others, and the sound of song, laughter and clanking cups was everywhere, but nowhere could he find the merchant he was looking for.
There were also a score of knights and nobles frequenting the grounds as well, he saw knights of house Crackhall and house Stokeworth but there were also countless Freys dotting the tourney grounds, dressed in grey and blue and sitting under banners of two twin towers connected by a bridge, and every corner he turned he saw another rat faced man locking blunted blades with another or with a women's arms around his neck, the tourney was only a stone's toss from the Twins, and the old lord had sent every one of his sons and half his household to the Gates to participate.
We should go and mount an assault on that castle. Jon thought humorlessly. There must be two cooks and three old crones left to defend it.
But in between his endless wandering, he came to a complete and sudden stop when he saw a suit of expensive plate.
Plate armor in a tourney ground was nothing unusual, what did catch his eye, was the color, a deep, dark charcoal black, with some velvet accents around it.
It brought back memories of his uncle Benjen's vivid recounting of the tourney of Harrenhal and of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, the man had humiliated the knights whose squires were ridiculing a northern lord.
A man with Jon's face may have ruined his chances at competing, a mystery knight however… The image of him returning to the gamemaster but wearing a helmet and putting on a deep voice came to him, but it was more comical then realistic, but then he recalled being swindled at the Twins and how they should have just ridden through before they were caught by the Frey...
Would any man stop an armored knight coming to the grounds? If so, what could they do if he just pushed past them into the melee and won?
The idea felt deceitful, mischievous, and… wrong but it excited him to no end.
Better ask for forgiveness than beg for permission.
"Excuse me." Jon said, waving the smith manning the stall over, and he was not a man that could be missed, more than six feet tall with arms the size of trunks with braided red hair and beard that looked more in place in the North. "How much for this suit?"
"Six dragons, but I'll give it to you for five." The man said, wiping his brow with a dirty cloth and crossing his arms. "It's the last one I brought along from Redfort, though I can't sell it, men worried it'll make them look villainous."
"Truly?" Jon asked, he doubted anyone in the north would have cared for such vanity, and at the wall something like this would have been the Lord Commander's prized possession, what was it that Lord Wyman Manderly had told him once? The blackest hearts hide behind the most gallant smiles and noblest souls reside in the ugliest men or something along those lines.
"Black steel's not been popular since the rebellion ser, and the accents do not help." The smith said. "But it's been almost two decades since the rebellion, I can take your measurements and have it fitted for you on the morrow."
Five dragons was expensive, it was more than half the wealth his father had given him when he departed the North, wealth that was meant to last him for years, all for a suit that made him look malevolent for a scheme he might not even see through to the end…
But he had not come South seeking obscurity, and he had was not a man to live by the strict rules of some gamemaster drunk on his meager authority.
"You've a deal."
