Through the pleasant haze of wine coursing through his system, Robert Baratheon had to reflect that thus far the Tournament of the Hand had brought more excitement and joy to his life than he'd been able to experience since leaving the battlefields of the rebellion behind.
Most days it was trying not to fall asleep during the tedium of petitioners coming to make their grievances against the tax collectors or the bandits or whatever else was troubling them at that point in their lives and then trying to find at least a moment to himself where he wasn't surrounded by blonde haired twits courtesy of his wife and father-in-law relentlessly trying to push the useless sods on him in a none too subtle way to curry some imaginary amount of influence with the court.
Perhaps Tywin and Cersei thought that if they stuffed the place to the rafters with enough Lannister spawn, eventually House Lannister would just become the court by absorbing it into the same arse Tywin was said to shit his gold out of.
But here under the blazing sun and before the roar of the appreciative crowd, Robert knew that he'd made the right choice to have this tournament celebrating Ned's ascent to the position of Hand of the King despite his old friend's protesting the expense of it all.
As the competitors catered their horses to their respective ends for the ending jousts leading to the finals, his eyes landed on the heads of black and red hair that remained in Ned's section after the end of the melee fight. He couldn't help but think that a big reason for the tournament turning as interesting as it had thus far was because of the fight his brother in all but blood's bastard had put up and turned what was normally one of the most drawn out portions of a given tournament into one of the single quickest and most brutal displays he could remember seeing outside of the battlefields of the rebellion.
Less than a quarter way through it Robert had been having the time of his life as he beheld Ned's younger doppelganger let a two-handed thrust slide across the back of his own tourney sword whilst barely missing his head before sliding the blade down toward the man's hands. Robert had watched with an experienced eye as his friend's bastard proceeded to let his arms flow down and to his right side even as his body moved toward his opponent before abruptly bringing the sword cracking across his enemy's right knee cap before striking the underside of his still extended wrists and then bringing the tourney sword down on the right shoulder with an overhead downward strike.
In less than ten seconds the young bastard had managed to disarm and disable an older opponent who had taken too long to react to his counter attacks, leaving him writhing on the dirt trying to figure out which injury he was meant to protect from further onslaught.
He'd cheered loudly when the young bastard had teamed up with Thoros of Myr of all people and demonstrated a surprising affinity for fighting in tandem with the mad red priest that to Robert's knowledge he'd not known or met before just then in chaos. A shame that though they fought like twins, Robert could see no chance of Thoros nor Jon Snow being mistaken for Erryk and Arryk Cargyll reborn. Neither was knighted, neither to his knowledge cared anything for chivalry and thus far their first meeting was this improvised team-up on the battlefield of the tourney. Not for the first time, Robert wished he'd refused Cersei's suggestions for additions to the Kingsguard since it left him stuck with the like of Boros Blount and Meryn Trant as he watched Snow and the red priest conquer the other fighters almost as though they'd trained together all their lives.
And just when he thought it couldn't get any better Snow had ignited his own twinned tourney blades by dragging them across the red priest's as they became the last two fighters in the melee and turned their attention to each other.
When Robert had clapped boisterously and proclaimed that this was how true warriors fought, Joffrey had thrown a snit and stormed off in high dudgeon; his bitch of a mother throwing Robert a dirty look before hurrying after him.
Robert however couldn't have cared less for his prissy wife and even prissier ponce of a son: he was too engrossed in the fight playing before his eyes: unable to help but savagely wonder how that raping bastard Rhaegar and his father Mad Aerys would've taken it if Robert had had Thoros and Jon Snow on his side in the Rebellion. Seemed fitting for the Targaryens to fall against fighters who wielded fire the same way he wielded his own warhammer.
But still they fought on, Thoros much the same as Robert remembered him from the Siege of Pyke: all straightforward but effective hacking and chops leading into slashes. Snow was something else entirely however. The two tourney swords he wielded seemed to flash in a rhythm all their own, the flames somehow brighter than Thoros of Myr's as they simultaneously managed to draw the eye and disguise the moves the sword was making. Their paths left brief illuminated trails in the air that confused the eye when they began striking toward the same areas in rapid succession.
Then he'd taken the stab to the shoulder but turned it around by somehow causing Thoros' sword to shatter with his bare hands before pulling the shard still stuck in him out and holding it to the astonished Myrnish man's neck.
Needless to say, Robert had possessed no qualms about proclaiming Jon Snow the winner of the melee portion. Any man who could not only take a flaming blade stabbing into his own flesh but use the piece still stuck in him as a weapon deserved every gold dragon of the prize money.
And now they were drawing close to the end of the tourney with Loras Tyrell and Gregor Clegane facing off in the final joust.
They made quite the contrast in competitors: Loras Tyrell in his brilliantly gleaming steel filigreed with golden vines across the gauntlets and arms leading to the golden rose whose petals were adorned with small emeralds upon the chest piece while Gregor Clegane was clad in what looked to be a custom-made iron suit that made his already near seven foot frame look even bulkier than normal: his legs guarded primarily by a scale mail skirt that came down to his greaves, the thinking likely being that he was near seven feet of pure muscle clad in all iron he'd never be able to walk if they didn't at least compromise between leg protection and weight. As it was his massive black destrier horse seemed twitchy and impatient in sharp contrast to Loras's sleek white charger. Over the course of the contestants charging each other, Robert absently noted that Gregor's younger brother Sandor had apparently left with Joffrey before Myrcella's gasp in front of him alerted him that he should pay more attention to what was happening. Even through the wine induced haze, Robert couldn't have failed to notice that upon crossing lances, Clegane's mount had reared and whinnied so much that it had accidentally last its balance: the bulk of its rider bringing it down onto the dirt and unseating the last competitor.
An unexpected but pleasantly brief match to end the tournament on. As Ser Loras rode toward the middle of the field to receive the adulation of the crowd and for Robert to proclaim him the winner, Clegane ripped his helm from his head and angrily called for his sword from his squire. The young Joss Stilwood brought it at a run, rightly fearing the temper of a man known far and wide as The Mountain That Rides. Before anyone could blink, Clegane had drawn the blade and brought it down upon the destrier's neck: cleaving halfway through it with one stroke as the poor animal died with a loud cry and a wet slicing noise.
The Myrcella's hands flew to her mouth as she screamed, her voice not alone in her horrified surprise. In a few steps he was next to the still mounted Tyrell boy and his sword had struck his armored torso hard enough to unseat him from his now startled and bolting horse. He brought his sword down toward Loras in a rage fueled swing: apparently trying to cut into him here and now on the tourney field.
The sword splintered the Tyrell crest upon the other knight's shield as Robert rose to try and put a stop to it. But before Clegane could bring the sword down a second time, another figure had flown at him, a passing strike across the face leaving deep bloody gouges across his right cheek and dangerously close to his right eye.
As it rolled past him after landing on the ground, Clegane howled in pained rage and whirled to face the person who did this. His somewhat beady eyes beheld none other than Ned's bastard crouched on the ground, his right hand in a claw shape with the Mountain's blood still wet on his fingers while his left remained firmly in the sling in front of his body. His grey eyes were narrowed in concentration and his lips were drawn back in a snarl that made him look almost freakishly like the direwolf matriarch Robert remembered from Winterfell.
Robert couldn't help but think it was a twisted reflection of nature: the biggest dog ever bred to hunt against a natural born but smaller wolf. The battle-lust the melee had awoken in him was still fading, its compulsion powerful enough to push him to let it play a bit and see what came to pass even as he knew Ned would likely be livid that it had come to blows to begin with.
Apparently angrier with the boy who'd drawn blood than the one who'd beaten him in the joust, Gregor moved forward with a speed that belied his great bulk, sword coming up for a diagonal swing. Instead of moving backward, Snow charged forward, his right hand grabbing Clegane's discarded helmet in the process. As the sword rushed to meet him, Snow briefly leaned his body back before quickly rushing forward and taking a leap: the helmet in his right hand coming up to meet Clegene's face and smashing into his nose with a loud crunch.
The Mountain roared angrily, bringing the sword back again and catching Snow off guard as the boy barely managed to land on his feet before the sword carved through his leather armor and flesh underneath. Snow barely managed to roll off it, the right side of his leather armor already showing a visible darkening from his blood spilling even as Clegane advanced again.
Robert didn't think he was imagining the pale color in Snow's pallor even as he backed up toward the center railing that was partially collapsed from Clegane's horse acting so oddly earlier. Snow gathered dirt in his right hand before throwing it as Clegane's face.
Robert thought it was a safe bet that no one, least of all Gregor Clegane, had expected the dirt to flare into a bright flash of fire upon leaving Snow's hand. As The Mountain bellowed like a wounded boar, Jon Snow's hand grabbed then broke off a large wooden shard of the broken posts near him before charging forward without a sound.
Drawing his hand back to his left shoulder, Ned's bastard stabbed downward with vicious accuracy: managing to get the shard between the flaps of Clegane's scale mailed skirt to the tree trunk like leg underneath. The Mountain bellowed again trying to spin around backward, the gigantic two-handed sword brought toward Snow as he moved past, the boy rolling underneath it before coming up in a crouch before the royal stands facing his livid giant of an opponent.
As Clegane's eyes finally cleared and he moved toward the boy who'd proven far more troublesome than most fully armored and prepared soldiers had to the veritable juggernaut, Robert let his voice be heard.
"In the name of your king stand down at once!" He ordered, his voice taking on the tone he might've on the battlefield when in the chaos of the fighting the royalist army wore on their soldier's spirits and he needed them to hear his defiant shout.
Clegane glared murderously at Robert even as he came to a halt. Robert met his gaze without fear; the last of the wine clearing from his system as every nerve in his body challenged The Mountain to try his luck against the man dubbed by his own soldiers The Anvil of Summerhall. Clegene was a large man, but he was still only one man. Whereas Robert had challenged and smashed three armies and the lords commanding them at Summerhall before taking the remainder of their forces for his own and bringing two of the royalist lords and the dead third's son to his side.
Apparently, Gregor Clegane was not so great a fool that he was willing to continue throwing his childish temper tantrum in the face of Robert's stormy gaze. He threw down his sword in the dirt with visible disgust, stomping away with a barely noticeable limp in his left leg from the wooden shard Snow had jammed in it just now even as Robert commanded the Gold Cloaks of the city watch to let Clegane go.
Snow very slowly straightened up, his right hand coming to rest on the gash adorning his right side even as the Tyrell boy came to him with his helm removed: his brown hair disheveled and brown eyes disbelieving as though he couldn't quite comprehend what had just happened.
"You-You saved my life ser." He said, sounding as though he'd survived a great battle instead of merely had Snow step in to take his place in a brawl.
Ned's bastard inclined his head toward the Tyrell boy, right hand still gripping the wound in his right side.
"Don't mention it." He grunted as he briefly clapped his left hand on the young Tyrell boy's right shoulder before he started walking toward the pavilion of the Silent Sisters. The pretty boy, apparently more concerned with trying to help the person who'd been injured in his defense, quickly rushed to his right side and put his right arm over his shoulder, apparently intent on helping him reach the Silent Sisters.
As his daughter enthusiastically clapped and added her audible approval to the general swell of cheering that greeted such a show of camaraderie, Robert caught the look of annoyance that graced Snow's face when his new Tyrell friend treated him as though he couldn't walk and so let loose a boisterous bought of laughter.
Following the feast that night, Robert awoke the next morning as he usually did: hungover and desperately needing to piss. By the time he managed to evacuate everything into the chamber pot, it was approaching noon. He ordered the servants to make him look halfway decent so that he could speak with the Hand of the King.
He thought it high time he looked at setting aside Lancel Lannister and taking on a new squire as king. After all, if there was one person he should be able to trust with his life, who better than his best friend's son: bastard or not?
A/N: The conclusion of the tournament. Coming up on the home stretch everyone. -Mx4