P . O . V Arthur Dayne
281 AD
Riverlands, Harrenhal
"Interesting…" I said thoughtfully, looking at my opponent and barely containing an anticipatory smile. "I hope you can give me a good fight."
This tournament was supposed to be different from the previous ones. It was supposed to be special. This was where Rhaegar planned to hold the Great Council and depose his mad father, who had long since fallen into their famous dragon madness. The plot, so long and carefully planned, would have almost succeeded, if not for one bald eunuch from Essos. He threw a wrench into all our plans by telling the king everything and convincing him to come here, nipping the possibility of holding a secret council in the bud. So we had no choice but to play the role of innocent lambs and enjoy the tournament as usual.
But my mood was already spoiled.
Neither the horse fights nor the general melee, which stirred the blood, helped. Neither the dozens of jugs of wine drunk at the feast, nor those three pretty maids who hadn't left my bed for three days now.
Everything was wrong.
But right now everything has changed.
The familiar weight of armor, a light breeze at my back, the heavy scent of spilled blood, the sword's center of gravity, a feeling like my own... And the overwhelming pressure I felt from the knight standing before me, sword and shield in hand, adopting his usual eagle stance for attack, sword raised high into the sky. My body sensed that this would be a good fight. No worse than the one with the Smiling Knight. And it invigorated me, returning me to my usual state of mind.
"I'll give him the right to start," I thought, smoothly moving from the main stance to the middle defensive one, placing the blade of the sword parallel to myself.
My opponent understood the message and immediately went on the attack, striking diagonally from top to bottom, forcing me to redirect his sword to the side and sharply jump away from the shield that almost crashed into my unprotected shoulder.
"Not bad, but what if so?"
Slightly lowering my center of gravity and bending my legs, I instantly flowed into the window post, took the weapon with both hands at eye level, and made a thrusting blow with the sword into the center of the solar weave.
"Gotcha," I thought, watching my sword deflect off the shield and veer off to the side. A sharp half-turn, leaning on one leg, and a sudden strike to the longsword, aiming to knock it out of my hands.
But my opponent didn't disappoint—he raised his bastard sword sharply, parried the blow, and transferred it to his guard, then attempted the same. A slight step saved me from a blow with the sharp end of my shield to the first third of the sword's base, allowing me to transfer the blow to the center of the blade without drying out my fingers. That round was a draw.
"It's time to show him what a two-handed sword is," I decided, and using the momentum from the previous attack, I struck the shield with all my strength, which I had just brought up, leaving a noticeable crack on it.
I was in full swing. For the next minute, my Dawn replica pounded my opponent relentlessly, forcing him to go on the defensive and expose his creaking shield to attack. But I have to give Cold his due—in those rare moments when my rhythm faltered, he found it and immediately counterattacked with precise and dangerous thrusts, leaving noticeable chips and scratches on my armor.
But soon the parity ended - his only defense fell apart, leaving only a small piece of wood hanging on his arm, which had previously been a shield.
"You were a good opponent, but it's time to finish," I thought, smoothly moving into a two-horned stance, holding the sword in front of me and starting a stabbing motion into Cold's collarbone.
But the Westerner didn't even think about giving up - he twisted his sword and tried to block my thrust and go on the attack himself.
"Naive," the thought flashed through my head as I twisted my wrists, wrenching the enemy's bastard from his fingers. "Your longsword won't be able to fully deflect a two-handed sword."
But then Cold did something strange, which instantly stunned me. Instead of retreating and regrouping with his brother, he suddenly lunged at me, ending up almost right next to me.
"What do you want to do..."
Bang!..
The next thing I saw were numerous black dots, appearing and disappearing before my eyes, and splinters. Multiple splinters of wood from the stub of the shield that bastard had hit me on the head with!!!
"I'll kill you," the thought flashed through my mind as the anger welling up from the depths of my soul effortlessly brought me back to consciousness. So much for a simple tournament—I didn't even get hit in the head like that during the raid on the Royal Forest Brotherhood.
Meanwhile, Cold had already regained his balance and, adopting a woman's stance, brought his sword behind his back, and rushed into the attack.
"I'll be damned! He was holding back!"
A hail of various blows rained down on me, which I barely managed to deflect—my balance hadn't returned and my head was buzzing. But the worst part was that the battle itself had changed. Whereas Cold had previously displayed standard, well-honed fencing, now he was using a strange style, with fluid blows that abruptly changed direction.
A seemingly simple chop suddenly stops and turns into a thrust, leaving a chip on the unprotected shoulder pad. And then, stopping abruptly, another sudden blow follows, delivered with the force of the wrists alone, leaving a shallow scratch on the thigh.
A very unpleasant and dangerous style, with sharp and unpredictable strikes. My only saving grace was that every time he changed direction or attacked from an unexpected position, he lost a significant amount of damage and speed. But my opponent easily overcame this weakness by using my recent tactic—he attacked constantly, preventing me from getting into the attack.
But…
"Glory to the Seven, people aren't perfect," I thought, noticing Cold make a small mistake, raising his center of gravity too high. Counterattacking and knocking my errant opponent back a few feet, I was able to regain my stance, catch my breath, and even keep one eye on the other fight.
If my duel with Cold could be called a test of our swordsmanship (except for the moment when a piece of wood shattered on my head), then the clash between the lords of Storm's End and Sunfire Valley was like two wild bears clashing with each other's paws. Axes and hammers clashed every second, producing a deafening ringing sound. And yet, it wasn't exactly barbaric—every movement of these boars was technical and honed to the utmost, demonstrating how much blood and sweat had been spilled on the training grounds. But the furious aura and almost bestial roars emanating from beneath their visors easily overshadowed these moments.
"This is the first time I've seen anyone match Baratheon in strength," I thought, distancing myself from the rest of the world and returning to my fight. I had a formidable opponent, one I shouldn't underestimate. "I didn't want to use him, but that would be disrespectful. It's a shame it's not as effective without the Dawn."
Taking a plow stance, holding my sword at an acute angle, I rushed into the attack at the same time as Cold.
The next two minutes could be summed up in three words: a clash of water and stone. The Westerner's style, based on frequent and unpredictable attacks like the shifting currents of water, clashed with the style of my House Dain, crafted specifically for the two-handed and indestructible Dawn, devised eight thousand years ago. Consisting of simple and straightforward movements, it sought one thing: to break the opponent's weapon and kill them as quickly as possible. As my House's derisive critics called it, the Stone Style.
And now the stone was struggling to withstand the onslaught of the water. This ice knight's blows rained down from all sides—from below, from above, from the sides, from the center. He even managed to strike me from behind with quick dashes, but my defense and rare but powerful counterattacks prevented him from exploiting his success.
The difference in experience decided everything.
Aerys Cold was well trained and, by all appearances, had experience fighting various opponents, but not those equal or superior in skill. He became too carried away. He forgot about one of the most important things for a warrior: endurance. As a result, his attacks developed a stiffness and slowness, which are critical to his style.
Ring…
So a perfectly timed series of thrusts knocked the halberd from his hands, and the dull steel stopped half an inch from his neck.
The victory was mine.
Bang…
Just a second later, I heard the sound of seven pounds of flesh and metal falling to the ground. Reflexively turning, I saw a curious sight: Robert Baratheon was sprawled on the ground, and above him, like a giant, stood Temper, holding a severed steel antler, to the loud applause of the spectators. He didn't look too bad, though—the numerous dents and chips clearly showed that the fight with the stormtrooper hadn't been without consequences.
"Although the same could be said about me," I thought, lowering the sword and feeling at least twenty serious cuts and bruises left on me by Cold.
"Well, let's continue." A grin spread across my face as I took up an attack stance, just as Temper, who had stopped showing off and was ready for battle, did the same. "This tournament will be one I'll remember for a long time."
Rushing forward headlong, once again giving myself over to the dance of battle, I had no idea how true this thought would turn out to be.
*
P . O . V Felix Temper
281 AD
Riverlands, Harrenhal
The fourth day of the tournament
— Are you okay?
— Can't you tell from me?
"Well, I don't know," Oberyn said thoughtfully, looking at me appraisingly. "But this is the first time I've seen anyone emerge from a fight with the Sword of the Morning intact and on their own two feet."
"What does that change?" I asked irritably, adjusting the bandage on my arm. "A loss is a loss, and it doesn't matter to whom—to the first sword of Dorn or to a mangy vagabond from Flea Bottom."
"That's just your opinion," the prince replied, pressing his lips to the cup of undiluted wine.
"He's drinking again early in the morning. He'll end up a drunkard someday." My irritation, already high due to the constantly itching bruises and contusions, rose even higher.
I lost yesterday.
It wasn't shameful to lose consciousness with a single blow, nor to stumble stupidly or twist an ankle at the last moment. My defeat was entirely natural—Dain was a far superior warrior, and that was all there was to it. Incredible skill, sound tactics, sparse and perfectly calibrated movements, control of his breathing, his stamina, and his opponent. He was superior in every way. Yes, I had the advantage in brute strength, yes, my armor was stronger and more reliable than the light armor favored by the Kingsguard, and the cuts and bruises Baratheon had inflicted on me didn't significantly hinder my movements, unlike the numerous cuts Aerys had inflicted, but the end result was still defeat.
And the reason was that I am not a warrior.
Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Dawn of this generation. One groomed for this title from birth. Every day, he took up a sword and trained. Thousands of ligaments, thousands of blows, gallons of sweat, blood, and tears. Unlike me, who tried to combine the roles of husband, father, merchant, lord, and fighter, dividing my attention too widely, he was and remains the perfect warrior and knight to the core. He cares nothing for titles, lands, women, or other worldly things. There is only the sword and the service to which he has dedicated his entire life.
"I'm feeling a bit pathetic," the thought flashed through my mind, making me smile involuntarily. "But it's still a shame that victory was only in the cards for me if I was extremely lucky."
At the end of the battle, I found myself on the ground, my axe knocked out of my hands, my hands and feet blue from the blows I'd inflicted, and a blade pressed to my neck. Of course, Dane wasn't spared either—unlike me, who escaped with only cracked ribs, he had a broken left arm, where my axe landed at the last moment.
The audience was delighted.
For the first time in my life, I was probably treated with respect, even reverence, rather than as a show-off. But at that moment, I didn't care—my only desire was to quickly get to my tent, wrap myself in bandages and some herbal cooling ointment, and get ten hours of sleep. So I did, and now, looking more like a mummy with only its head unbandaged, I sat in the stands with Oberyn, Elia, who had decided to watch the end of the tourney with her fellow Dornishmen, and the rest of the Dornishmen, watching the final battles of the tournament.
- There! Doo-doo!! Doo-doo!!!
The trumpets sounded, announcing the third duel of the quarterfinals, which I had been so eagerly awaiting. I had staked too much on it, and if I won, my lands would acquire such trade preferences that most of the merchant guilds of the Seven Kingdoms and Free Cities would die of envy.
"It's lucky the lords are so passionate. And greedy," I thought, remembering all those fat, expensively dressed nobles worried only about the size of their purses, while the master of ceremonies announced the participants:
"Dear sirs and ladies! Allow me to announce the participants of today's third duel!" "Bread and circuses. The crowd is the same in all worlds." Hearing how people would once again try to kill each other, she roared furiously, welcoming the new participants.
"And the first to enter the lists is the Lord of Storm's End! The one whose hammer can crush the head of the fiercest boar with a single blow! A man whose strength is almost unparalleled! Ser Robert Baratheon!" I don't know how, but this man, the designated announcer and master of ceremonies, managed to shout over the crowd without losing his voice.
The Grandlord of the Stormlands rode out on a gigantic bay stallion with a long black mane, its muscles rippling like steel ropes. His armor, which had acquired dozens of rips and scratches from the previous day's battle, had been replaced, and only his helmet remained, its iron horn severed at the base. Robert, however, is a very open and kind man and took the defeat without any hard feelings, declaring upon awakening that until he took revenge, he would walk around "one-horned."
"He's the one who's become the most unknown secret of this tournament! Yes, he's small in stature, and his hands are fragile, but his spirit and will easily overcome these shortcomings! A mysterious knight, who, against all odds, broke through his enemies!" "Yes, this master of ceremonies has lost his talent as a master of ceremonies. Usually, at tournaments, they simply announce titles, nicknames, and names, without egging on the crowd, but he..." "The Knight of the Winter Rose!"
"I'll have to invite him over. I could really use someone like that."
Lady Lyanna was magnificent. While Baratheon emphasized brute strength and power, creating the image of an armored killing machine, Stark was his complete opposite—elegant and graceful, mounted on the fine-boned Dornish mare I'd borrowed, her armor polished to a mirror shine, she resembled a razor-sharp rapier, capable of piercing anyone.
"Who do you think will win?" I asked Oberyn, taking a sip of wine. I'm not much of a drinker, but the Arborsoke wine, so generously poured by the Whents, was considered the finest in all of Westeros, if not Planetos, for good reason.
"Baratheon," the Dornish prince answered without hesitation, not even looking at the lists. His gaze was fixed on Elia, seated nearby, and the ladies-in-waiting surrounding her.
- What makes you think so?
"That's clear to everyone," said the Red Serpent, still staring at one spot. Or at one person. "This mysterious knight isn't bad, but he's as far from the Stag as he is from the Wall. It'll all be over in the next round."
— A bet?
My single word sent a shock through Oberyn. He flinched and quickly turned to me, giving me a very strange look.
"What are you planning?" I wasn't even surprised by the way the question was put. The Second Prince of Dorne has known me for many years and understands perfectly well that I should only wager if my victory is guaranteed. I've stepped on that rake many times myself.
"Nothing illegal." Sometimes a smile can frighten or confuse far more than the most vicious grin. So it was now—my Cheshire cat grin made a passing page involuntarily flinch.
The speed with which the Red Serpent leaped from his chair, taking out his purse as he went, and rushed towards several lords standing nearby, clearly showed how much he trusted me.
Meanwhile, the horsemen had already received their lenses from their squires and were preparing for their first fight.
"And lastly," I thought, noticing how my smile involuntarily turned into a grin, frightening everyone nearby, except Lyon. He'd seen worse from me during training at the castle.
- There!
The trumpets blared, signaling the riders to begin. The horses broke into a gallop almost simultaneously, reaching their maximum speed. All the spectators were already anticipating the collision, the shower of splinters, and the fall of one of the riders, when suddenly Baratheon's horse reared sharply, nearly unseating its rider. To Robert's credit, despite the surprise, he remained in the saddle, but the impact of Lady Lyanna's lance left him no chance. Splinters flew from the broken lense, and the roar of the eighty-pound knight's fall to the ground drowned out all other sounds.
Silence reigned.
— And the winner is the Knight of Winter Ro!..
- Oh, you scoundrel!
The steward's loud cry was interrupted by a thunderous roar from Baratheon, who had already come to his senses and, gushing with an almost physically palpable rage, was approaching Lady Stark, who was ostentatiously blowing kisses to the ladies of the court.
"Oops, looks like he discovered my little trick," I thought, internally tensing up and preparing to rush to the aid of the young she-wolf, if necessary.
"How dare you use such baseness!" The Lord of Storm's End grew increasingly angry, quickly approaching the rider, seemingly oblivious to the plate armor he was wearing, and grabbed Lyanna's horse by the bridle. "Now show me your vile mug! I want to see your filthy face!"
He was about to grab Stark by the hand and, without politeness, throw her off the horse in order to take off her helmet, when suddenly the northern lady showed that the women in her family were not considered she-wolves for nothing.
- Crash!
A simple, unpretentious blow from the remaining spear shaft struck Baratheon's long-suffering helmet, momentarily disorienting Robert and causing him to fall flat on his backside, much to the amusement of the immediately laughing crowd. This was enough time for Lyanna to blow a kiss somewhere in the direction of the royal tribune and flee the lists, pursued by the storm knights, who had not forgiven their master for such a loss.
- Take him!
"Yes, Robert has had bad luck in this tournament," I thought, seeing the Arryn knights also setting off in pursuit, their master unable to tolerate such mockery of his protégé. "First I chopped off his horn, then the bride hit him over the head with a piece of wood... Karma, perhaps?"
I was pulled from my thoughts about why Fortune had so tormented the stormtrooper when Oberyn's laughter echoed nearby. He, like most of the stands in the lists, roared with laughter as he watched the Stag curse. Still, such occurrences are rare in this world, and it's no sin to laugh at the misfortune of one of the Grandlords (unless, of course, you're his vassal).
"How did you do that?" Oberyn asked a few minutes later, having calmed down and stopped laughing.
"Heat. That mare was in heat, so Baratheon's horse reacted," I said, lounging comfortably in my chair and enjoying Lord Mooton's curses, audible even from here. He was one of those who had made a bet with me, and now my ships won't pay docking fees at Maidenpool for twenty years. "Beautiful." Robert realized this before anyone else—it's not for nothing that every heir of the Great House receives a good education—and he was furious at being outwitted in such a dishonest manner.
"And hitting him on the head with a lense—was that your plan, too?" Oberyn asked thoughtfully, but it was clear he wasn't there. He was obviously calculating how much he'd won today.
"No, it was the knight's own initiative," I said, imagining Lady Stark's satisfaction. For her, the very fact that she'd unhorsed her fiancé was wonderful. And now this "blow." She's probably in seventh heaven right now.
- And how did you come up with this idea?
"I don't know myself," I replied, but Oberyn again stared somewhere in the direction of his sister's ladies-in-waiting and withdrew into himself. Has he fallen in love or something?
I was fibbing about the heat idea, of course—I blatantly stole it from the show. I didn't remember who used it, but I did remember my granddaughter's outrage at how such a noble knight could use such a dishonorable method. Although I still wonder who that "noble knight" was.
The rest of the day was spent in knightly duels, which I found uninteresting. Of all the participants, Prince Rhaegar, Arthur Dayne, and Barristan Selmy advanced to the tournament semifinals, proving once again that the best knights have always been the Kingsguard.
The fight between the Silver Prince and the Sword of Dawn was interesting, but predictable. Still recovering from yesterday's wounds, Dane lost, falling from his saddle on the seventh pass. Although, in its own way, it was surprising to last so long with a broken arm.
Ser Barristan, however, was able to conserve his strength, as the "mysterious knight of the Winter Rose" was sitting next to her father at the time, actively watching the tournament, so his opponent was disqualified amid loud curses from Baratheon, who had not abandoned hope of revenge.
But the finale was truly satisfying and even captivated me. Full of energy and drawing on all his experience, Selmy clashed fifteen times with the young and talented prince, refusing to lose. I even wondered why the old veteran was exerting himself so much, but in the end, the young dragon prevailed. The young man had too much strength and stamina, unlike the guardsman who was beginning to lose his stature.
"Where next, my friend?" I asked thoughtfully, watching as a crown of rare winter roses was placed on Rhaegar's spear so he could declare his queen of love and beauty. "Perhaps we could have a drink in my tent? I have a good keg of summer wine lying around."
"With pleasure, Fel," Oberyn said seriously, even as the heir to the Iron Throne rode past him. "I just need to tell you something—"
Ring…
He was interrupted by the sound of my goblet breaking as it fell to the floor, followed by a loud murmur of bewilderment and surprise. The Dornish prince turned and…
Ring…
… also dropped his glass, just like me, being in severe shock.
Targaryen, instead of placing a wreath on Elia's lap, which she had been waiting for since Ser Barristan fell from the saddle, rode past without even looking at her, bestowing the crown of the Queen of Love and Beauty on a completely different girl.
She already had a fiancé, wasn't particularly familiar with him, and had recently been riding here as a mysterious knight.
Lyanna Stark.
My good mood immediately disappeared.