The day of the grand jousting tournament arrived, and the atmosphere in King's Landing was electric with excitement. The sun shone brightly, casting golden light over the bustling tourney grounds. Robert Stronghammer and his temporary squire, Tyson, made their way to the grounds, both prepared for the challenge ahead.
When they arrived, the area was already teeming with knights from all over the Seven Kingdoms. The air was thick with anticipation as the greatest knights in the realm assembled, each eager to prove their worth in the lists. Robert quickly noticed some of the most renowned warriors in the realm—Harrold Westerling of the Kingsguard, the formidable Steffon Darklyn, Laurent Marbrand
of the Reach, and Rickard Thorne. Among them stood the imposing figure of Prince Daemon Targaryen, clad in dark armor, and the ever-popular Ser Criston Cole, already a crowd favorite.
Knights from the Reach, Riverlands, Vale, and Stormlands mingled on the grounds, their banners fluttering proudly in the wind. Robert recognized many of them from his travels and previous tournaments. The air buzzed with excitement and the occasional clash of metal as squires and knights prepared their gear.
As Robert and Tyson approached the gathering, Robert spotted his half brother, Borros Baratheon, already present. Borros wasn't participating in the joust, preferring to watch the events unfold, but he was in high spirits, clearly thrilled to see Robert.
"Robert!" Borros called out as he walked toward him with a wide grin. "I heard you won the melee yesterday. You're making quite the name for yourself."
Robert smiled, patting his brother on the back. "The melee's one thing, Borros, but today's going to be a real challenge. Plenty of good knights here. But don't worry, I'll give them something to talk about."
Borros laughed. "I don't doubt it. But you've got some tough competition today. I saw Prince Daemon and Ser Criston Cole sharpening their lances earlier. Don't go too hard on them, eh?"
Robert chuckled and introduced Tyson. "This is Tyson, my temporary squire for the tournament."
Borros raised an eyebrow, looking Tyson up and down. "A commoner as your squire? That's a bold move, brother. The other lords won't like it."
Robert shrugged. "I don't care what they like. Tyson's been helping me, and he's doing a damn good job. That's all that matters."
Tyson blushed slightly, feeling a bit overwhelmed in the presence of so many highborn men, but he stood tall and gave Borros a respectful nod.
After their brief chat, Robert handed a big bag filled with the coin he had earned from winning the melee to Borros. "Here, keep this safe for me. No point in lugging it around while I'm busy knocking knights off their horses."
Borros took the pouch with a grin. "I'll guard it with my life, Robert."
As Robert and Tyson continued preparing for the joust, the tension in the air grew palpable. The knights were preparing their horses, adjusting their armor, and testing the balance of their lances. The crowd in the stands grew larger by the minute, with nobles, ladies, and smallfolk alike gathering to witness the spectacle.
Robert could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, but he remained calm. He had prepared tirelessly for this day, and now it was time to prove himself once again. Tyson handed him his lance, and Robert mounted his mare, Mya, feeling the familiar surge of strength that always came with battle.
As the heralds began calling the names of the knights who would face each other in the opening matches, Robert waited patiently, his eyes scanning the field. The knights around him were some of the best in the realm, and he knew this would be no easy feat. But Robert had never been one to shy away from a challenge. This joust was more than just a tournament—it was his ticket into the King's wedding, and more importantly, his mission for the Blackstone Legion.
When the horn sounded for the first round, Robert rode forward, his heart steady and his focus sharp. The time had come to test his mettle against the best knights in the Seven Kingdoms, and he would not be found wanting.
Robert Stronghammer had proven himself formidable throughout the tournament, riding against both famed and unknown knights with remarkable skill and determination. His mare, Mya, galloped steadily beneath him, and with each clash of lance and shield, Robert's confidence only grew.
The opponents Robert faced came from across the Seven Kingdoms. Some were eager to test their mettle against the famous Robert Stronghammer, others simply wanted the honor of jousting in the grand tournament. One after another, they fell before him, unable to withstand the sheer power and precision of his strikes. His practice sessions with the Blackstone Legion had sharpened not just his skill but his endurance, allowing him to stay fresh even as the tournament progressed.
The toughest opponent so far had been Ser Harrold Westerling of the Kingsguard, a knight renowned for his honor and strength. The two knights faced off in what became one of the most intense matches of the day. Both Robert and Harrold were evenly matched, breaking lance after lance against each other's shields. Four times, they thundered down the field, their lances splintering on impact. The crowd roared with excitement, each pass more intense than the last.
On the fifth run, with their armor glistening in the sunlight and the air thick with tension, Robert finally found his opening. He leaned slightly to the left, angling his lance just perfectly, and with a thunderous crash, his lance struck true. Harrold was knocked clean off his horse, tumbling to the ground in a clattering heap of steel. The crowd erupted in cheers, recognizing the triumph of strength and skill.
Robert dismounted and approached Harrold, offering a hand to the fallen Kingsguard. "You fought well, Ser Harrold," Robert said, his voice steady but respectful.
Harrold, though winded from the fall, took Robert's hand and pulled himself up, nodding. "As did you, Ser Stronghammer. You've earned your victory."
As Harrold left the field, the tournament continued, and Robert found himself watching some of the other matches. Prince Daemon Targaryen was a force to be reckoned with, riding like a man possessed. His joust against Laurent Marbrand had been a brutal one, with Daemon knocking Laurent from his horse with a ferocity that few could match. The crowd was mesmerized by the Rogue Prince's skill and daring, though his wild and reckless nature was evident in his every move.
Meanwhile, Ser Criston Cole was also making his mark, dispatching several unknown knights with precision and grace. His reputation as one of the finest jousters in the realm was well-earned, and the crowd was buzzing about the possibility of a match between Criston and Robert.
But despite the intensity of the competition, Robert remained far from tired. His training with the Blackstone Legion had paid off handsomely, not just in terms of skill but in endurance. While other knights grew weary after multiple rounds, Robert's stamina held strong. He felt as if he could ride all day, knocking down one opponent after another without losing his edge.
As the tournament drew closer to its final rounds, Robert knew that the toughest challenges still lay ahead. Both Daemon Targaryen and Criston Cole were carving their paths through the competition, and it seemed inevitable that Robert would face one—or both—before the tournament was done. But he was ready, his body strong and his mind clear. He had a mission to complete, and every victory brought him one step closer to entering the Red Keep and fulfilling his duty to the Blackstone Legion.
As the tournament drew closer to its climax, the field narrowed to the finest knights in the realm. Prince Daemon Targaryen had been on a relentless streak, winning match after match with a fierceness that set him apart from the rest. His boldness on the field and the skill with which he wielded his lance made him a crowd favorite, and it was no surprise when he secured his place in the final round.
Now, only two competitors remained to face off for the other finalist spot: Robert Stronghammer and Ser Criston Cole. The tension on the field was palpable as the two knights prepared for their joust. Robert knew that Criston was a skilled knight, with excellent control over his lance and an air of calm precision that made him a dangerous opponent. As they lined up for their first pass, Robert could feel the weight of the match pressing down on him. Winning here meant a chance to face Prince Daemon in the final—and a step closer to entering the Red Keep for his true mission.
The first clash came with thunderous force. Both knights charged down the list, their lances poised for impact. When they met in the center, the collision of wood and steel was deafening. Their lances shattered against each other's shields, sending splinters flying into the air, but neither man was unseated. They rode back to their ends of the field, prepared to go again.
The second pass, and the third, followed in similar fashion. Both Robert and Criston displayed incredible control, their lances striking with precision but finding no purchase to dismount the other. The crowd watched in awe as the two knights broke lance after lance, their resilience and skill on full display.
By the fifth pass, Robert began to feel the strain in his arms and shoulders. The weight of the lance and the repeated impacts were taking their toll, but his training with the Blackstone Legion had prepared him well. His endurance was far superior to what it had been in the past, and he was able to push through the fatigue, determined not to show any weakness.
On the sixth pass, they broke lances once more, neither knight giving an inch. The seventh was no different. Each time they returned to their marks, their squires handed them fresh lances, and each time they rode with the same focus and determination.
It was on the eighth pass that something unexpected happened. As Robert and Criston charged toward each other once more, their lances poised to strike, Robert felt a sudden shift in his grip. His lance wavered slightly, and in the moment of impact, he thought he had lost his chance. But fate had other plans. In the very moment that Criston moved to block with his shield, Robert's lance found a tiny opening—a gap in Criston's defenses that he hadn't even seen.
The force of the hit sent Criston flying from his horse, landing hard on the ground with a thud. Robert reined in his mare, Mya, and turned to see Criston lying on the ground, dazed but unharmed. He blinked in disbelief. That had been sheer luck, a strike that had found its mark entirely by accident. But luck, as they say, is often a knight's greatest ally.
The crowd erupted into cheers, recognizing Robert's victory. Ser Criston, ever the honorable knight, stood up and saluted Robert, acknowledging the outcome with grace. The tournament announcer declared Robert Stronghammer the victor, and with that, he had secured his place in the final.
Robert dismounted and approached Criston, offering a hand to his fallen opponent. "That was no easy match, Ser Criston," Robert said, his voice sincere. "You gave me a hell of a fight."
Criston smiled, a bit wryly, as he accepted the hand. "Luck was on your side today, Ser Stronghammer. But a victory is a victory."
With Criston now out of the tournament, Robert's mind turned to the final match: a joust against none other than Prince Daemon Targaryen. Daemon had been watching from the sidelines, a calculating smile playing on his lips. The Rogue Prince was a dangerous man, both on the battlefield and off, and Robert knew that the final match would be the most difficult challenge he had ever faced.
But for now, he took a deep breath and savored the moment. He had won his place in the final round, and soon, he would face Prince Daemon in a joust that would decide the champion of the tournament.
The final match of the grand tournament had come. The crowd held their breath in anticipation as Robert Stronghammer and Prince Daemon Targaryen faced each other in the lists, both men seated high on their mighty warhorses, lances held at the ready. Robert's heart pounded, not from fear but from the thrill of the fight. He knew Prince Daemon well; both were renowned warriors in their own right, and this match would be a true test of strength and skill.
Daemon sat tall in the saddle, his silver hair catching the light, his black armor gleaming under the sun. His smirk was the same as ever, a mix of arrogance and confidence. Robert, on the other hand, kept his focus, his eyes narrowing as he gripped his lance, feeling the familiar weight of it. Tyson stood ready, ever watchful by his side, prepared to provide whatever aid was needed.
At the command of King Viserys, the trumpets blared, and the joust began.
Both knights spurred their horses into motion, charging at each other with thunderous speed. In the first pass, their lances collided with such force that both shields buckled under the impact, splinters of wood flying through the air as the lances shattered. Neither man was unseated. Quickly, Robert wheeled Mya around, and Tyson was at his side in an instant, handing him a fresh lance with practiced ease. Robert gave his squire a nod of appreciation, impressed by how fast and efficient the boy was.
The second pass came just as swiftly. Daemon's lance struck true, but Robert's reflexes, honed by his training with the Blackstone Legion, allowed him to absorb the blow and remain firmly in his saddle. Robert's own lance struck Daemon's shield, splintering upon impact but leaving no significant damage. Once again, they wheeled their horses around, and Tyson was there, handing Robert a new lance with lightning speed.
The third pass was even more intense. Both men charged again, their lances crashing into each other's shields with a deafening roar. The force was so great that Robert could feel the vibrations through his entire arm, but he held fast. Mya, his trusted mare, galloped with unwavering speed, her hooves pounding the earth beneath them.
And then came the fourth pass.
As they charged once more, Robert focused his aim, timing his strike with precision. Daemon was fast—faster than most—but Robert's experience and endurance paid off. His lance connected squarely with Daemon's chest plate, the force of the blow so strong that it knocked Daemon out of his saddle. The crowd erupted in cheers as Prince Daemon hit the ground, his black armor clattering as he rolled to a stop.
Robert had won. The victor of the tournament.
Before Robert could even celebrate his hard-fought victory, something shifted. Daemon, furious from his defeat, leapt to his feet. His eyes burned with rage as he drew his sword, the gleam of steel catching the light. In his other hand, he grabbed a shield, striding toward Robert with a look that promised violence. The crowd's cheers turned to gasps as they realized this was no longer part of the tournament.
Robert, never one to back down from a challenge, felt the familiar surge of adrenaline rush through him. His training with the Blackstone Legion had prepared him for moments like this—moments where survival meant quick thinking and strength. He looked to Tyson, who immediately understood. With a sharp nod, Tyson tossed a sword to Robert, the weapon landing perfectly in his grip.
Daemon approached with murder in his eyes, and Robert stood his ground, ready for the fight to come. The clang of steel rang out as their swords met, and in an instant, Robert realized the Prince wasn't playing games. This was no tournament match—this was a fight to the death. But Robert was ready.
He parried Daemon's first blow, sidestepping and countering with a powerful slash that forced Daemon to block with his shield. The Rogue Prince was fast, but Robert was stronger, his endurance far beyond that of any knight Daemon had faced before. With each clash of their blades, Robert pressed the advantage, driving Daemon back step by step.
It wasn't long before Robert felt he was in complete control of the fight. His strikes were more forceful, his movements more deliberate. Daemon was fast, but he couldn't match Robert's sheer strength. The crowd watched in stunned silence as Robert continued to dominate the duel.
And then, with a mighty swing, Robert struck Daemon's helmet with such force that it flew off, landing with a clatter on the ground.
But what Robert saw next stopped him cold.
The face beneath the helmet wasn't Daemon's. For a split second, it wasn't even a face Robert recognized—it was Rhaegar Targaryen. The man he had long held responsible for the rebellion, for everything that had gone wrong in his life, for his own betrayal. The sight of Rhaegar's face on Daemon's body sent a jolt of fury through Robert's entire being, crashing into his mind like a tidal wave.
A red haze descended over him, and suddenly, Robert was no longer in a tournament. He was on the battlefield, fighting the man who had betrayed him. The man who had stolen everything. Rhaegar. His grip on his sword tightened, and he attacked with renewed fury, his strikes wild and relentless. All thought of the crowd, the tournament, the consequences—it all vanished. There was only Rhaegar, and the need to destroy him.
Daemon, or rather Rhaegar as Robert now saw him, barely had time to react as Robert's rage-filled strikes came crashing down upon him. The sheer force of Robert's assault drove the prince to his knees, and it was all he could do to raise his shield in defense.
For Robert, there was no stopping. Not until Rhaegar was dead.
Author's Note:
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