...
| With Maegor Targaryen, at Harrenhal, during the year of 281AC:
Breathe.
The horse's hooves were irrelevant, as was all the extra noise all around him.
Focus.
Easier said than done, for that first strike had left his arm almost dormant, such was the strength of his adversary.
You are Maegor fucking Targaryen, act like it,— forgo any pretense of what you are not.
The gap diminished, and in a matter of seconds, the second hit would happen.
You are not weak, you are not dumb,— you are a knight, and a prince of the blood.
He focused on Gregor Clegane's movements, as minute as they were,— every twitch counted,— and he knew he would have to be smart about it, for neither strength nor resistance would help him, not against this.
Left shoulder again? Fuck me...
Time was strabgely slowed down all around him, and Maegor wished it was only to him,— that only he could enter such a flowing state amidst battles,— and not every experienced fighter, though he wasn't that arrogant.
Come on, come on!
Both lances struck true to their targets,— Maegor's found Clegane's shoulder, and the Mountain swayed slightly on his saddle, though nothing major. The Mountain's lance, however, found its way to Maegor's shield, and his arm was yet again throbbing in pain.
"Urgh!" He exclaimed no words as he swayed on his horse, clearly shaken. The gods know Maegor would've fared slightly better if this were a melee.
His eyes were quick to focus on the Mountain once more, and he cursed the fact that the man seemed fine through most of it, even if he noticed the way he seemed to be rolling his left shoulder in masked pain.
He sighed, "Ahh, guess I will have to get serious for this simpleton…" he exclaimed, hand high above to shield his vision from the blinding light the sun was sending his way.
"My prince, another lance." Ser Gerold caught his attention back, and he looked toward the man with a confused gaze, until he looked down and noticed his broken lance.
"Huh, did not even notice that." he commented, though he knew Gerold caught on to his changed tone and haughty behavior. He took the lance from his older white knight, not sparing him another glance.
Ah, the duality of a Targaryen man.
"Say, Ser Gerold." he threw the bait, and it worked. "My prince?" Ser Gerold questioned, a knowing and disapproving look on his face.
"What about a wager?" He questioned with a smirk, and he would've laughed at his knight's knowing gaze and rigid posture, as the latter answered him with a bit of caution and exasperation. "About?"
"If I take longer than five passes to unseat the beast there, I will accept any type of punishing training you deem fit for the next moon." he offered, and saw the directions turning inside the older knight's mind.
"And if you take less than five?"
"I've always wondered where Dark Sister ended up… some rumours say it's at the Wall, or even beyond it." he reasoned as best as he could, hoping to convince his knight to accept. "I would think it quite a good wager prize,— having you accompany a prince of the Seven Kingdoms on a journey to find his family's lost heirloom sword, no? Defeating the Mountain is not a simple task, as we both know." He ended with a teasing smirk, and it almost changed to a full smile,— rare,— when he noticed the non-refusal gaze on his mentor's expression.
With a huff, Gerold distanced himself from him. "Better take greater focus on the joust then, my prince." And it was then that he knew he had taken too long to ready himself for the next pass,— not that any herald would dare comment on it or make him take less time in his "lance changing".
"Fine." he relented. "But you will be travelling with me soon enough, Gerold."
Now, to focus on the jousts.
"Are you ready, my prince?" The herald of the joust questioned quietly from his place, not daring to press him for time.
"I am." And the herald nodded once, steadying himself to blow the horn.
And so did he, planting his feet at both sides of his mount in a forceful manner, trying to gain more steady fallback force. His new lance was taken to its position, aiming forward, and his shield, though not in good shape, was not yet traded also.
"Come on, fucker…" he muttered, eyes burning with that usual fire of the Targaryen madness,— though not the mental one.
The horn sounded, and both riders began their run. Clegane seemed irritated at his delay, and Maegor grinned wider than ever.
They were both nearing each other, and as the hit seemed inevitable, Maegor twisted toward his right, bringing his right arm in a downward manner, pinning the lance against the Mountain's helmet with unforeseen agility and accuracy.
The sound was loud and resounded throughout the whole arena, while many onlookers shielded their eyes away.
Maegor came to a stop at the end of the wooden rail and looked back at the figure of the Mountain's as he unconsciously changed lances with the nearby Targaryen guard.
Huh.
For all Maegor was a cool headed fighter and daring prince to most, he was also a really damned good swordsman and jouster. So color him surprised when the Mountain simply "shooed" off dust from his helm, looking directly at him with a murderous gaze.
Maegor chuckled at that, gaining a similar gaze. "So that's how you want to play the game." He shook his arms as if to shake sand from his skin after a beach visit in the Crownlands.
...
| With Robert Baratheon, at Harrenhal, during the year of 281AC:
Robert Baratheon sat where the sun warmed the wooden benches. Beside him were several Stormlanders,— some great lords, others lesser ones.
From this height, the tilt yard looked like a painted story. Pances snapping, dust rising, the crowd a restless sea of faces and voices.
Next to him, Eddard Stark looked half-amused, half-wary, like a man watching a fire he didn't trust too close to his coat. Robert wondered how Lord Rickard Stark had even let one of his sons stray from his sight.
"Gods, look at him,— the size of that bastard! The Mountain, they call him?"
Robert asked, his voice half-laugh, half-growl, leaning forward.
"Aye. Ser Gregor Clegane, a sworn knight to House Lannister, last I heard." Ned's tone was calm and steady.
Robert frowned. "I'd think him more a sellsword bastard than a knight. A knight doesn't ride down and kill people for sport like he does. Look at him,— built like a bloody siege tower, with no grace or skill."
"He's near twice the size of his opponent though…" Ned shaded his brow, watching the two riders line up.
"Near? Ha! If the lad's smart, he'll turn his horse and call it honor enough." Robert's laugh rolled out, loud and rough, and the stag on his surcoat shook with it.
"That lad's Maegor Targaryen. You think he'll yield before he falls?" Ned asked.
"Right, the Targaryen second son, eh? Seven hells, that makes it better, let him and the beast crack each other's bones. Might knock some madness out of him." Robert chuckled and took a long drink from the flagon at his feet.
The wine warmed his belly, and the tilt yard seemed brighter for it.
"Keep your voice down, Robert. You know very well not every Targaryen is mad." Ned said quietly, though there was warning in his tone.
"Alright, alright… But look at him,— calm as a stone, he doesn't even flinch with each hit. I think I might like that one."
"You would. You always like the ones who don't know when to stop fighting." Ned's eyes crinkled at the corners.
"That's what makes it worth watching, Ned. All that silver hair and royal blood won't save him if the Mountain hits him square, and that's the fun of a tourney." Robert grinned wide enough to draw a punch,— or a serving girl.
"But he's holding his lance right, balanced. Whoever trained him knew what they were doing,— and I'm no expert, as you'd know, being from the North." Ned spoke softly, eyes fixed on the field.
"You can tell that much though. We squired long enough with Jon for you to catch some toruney knowledge, ahahah." Robert nudged his shoulder. "I'll tell you what! I'll put a stag on the Targaryen, just to make it interesting."
"You'd bet against the Mountain?" Ned's voice carried a hint of disbelief,— and a rare smile.
"Big men fall harder, Ned. And I'd rather cheer for the one who's not raping and killing tavern maids for fun." Robert laughed, rough and bitter, shaking the boards beneath them.
A serving girl two rows down giggled and sent him a look he returned with a wink.
"Right."
"Hush,— they're moving again!" Robert leaned forward, squinting through the sun.
The trumpets sounded, and the crowd's roar hit him like a gust of wind.
The third horn blew, long and low, and the yard erupted in noise that made the rafters tremble.
"Gods… did you see that hit?" He almost shouted, and the benches went silent as the lances met.
"Broke his lance right on the helm." Ned said, his voice quick with excitement he tried to hide. "Ha! Seven hells, that's a blow! I'd drink with that one, prince or not." Robert's voice rose with the cheering crowd.
"The Mountain's still in his saddle for now, though…" Ned muttered, eyes sharp, as he watched the man like a hunter watching a wolf.
"But I bet he'll remember that strike come morning — from pain or from shame."
Robert spat again, grinning at the thought.
He could already see the Mountain waking in his keep, arms sore, pride bruised,— a fitting punishment.
"Perhaps. Prince Maegor seems just the sort you'd enjoy drinking with." Ned said, a trace of amusement in his tone. "Maybe. But I'd still knock him on his arse if we ever fought."
Robert laughed deep and loud, and Ned couldn't help but picture the two of them,— Maegor with his silver hair and calm fire, and Robert beside him, laughing over spilled ale.
Dust drifted down from the stands, and somewhere, a child began to chant a name.
The sun moved slow and steady above them, and Robert watched the prince ride for the fourth pass, feeling the rhythm of the tilt,— strike, breath, strike,— stirring that familiar hunger inside him.
The hunger for battle, for glory, for songs that outlived men.
Gods, why did I not enlist in the jousts… he thought.
Beside him, Ned sat solid as a shield. Robert felt the quiet strength in his friend's hand on his arm,— the kind of steadiness a stag could lean on when the hunt turned foul.
He grinned to himself.
Not all wagers were for the biggest man in the saddle, sometimes, the best bet was on the one still standing when the rest would've already fallen.
...
| With Maegor Targaryen, at Harrenhal, during the year of 281AC:
His breathing was uneven, but even then, Maegor was not that shaken.
This will be the fifth tilt, so I guess I will have to make it work.
His hand flexed, and he gripped another lance from Ser Gerold, spinning it once, and then twice, showing off.
"The fifth pass, my prince. Are you sure you will be able to take him down?" Gerold asked him with a barely concealed smirk.
"Gerold..." he began, putting the lance on his shoulder and looking back at his sworn shield. "You better buy some coats already."
And he turned towards the Mountain.
One last pass,— you can do it.
He straightened his lance and shield, and the trumpet sounded. Cheers rang all around him, and he noticed the various prominent lords all around in the crowd.
The Starks and the Northmen, the Lannister twins, and the Westerland lords. His father and brother, alongside Princess Elia, her brother Oberyn, and then her usual companion, Ashara Dayne.
Quite the well-known crowd.But it was to be expected, that's exactly the kind of tourney my brother hoped for.Well, I must give them the show of their lives then.
Mere moments separated them from connecting their lances, and as Maegor's focus kept on his adversary, his purple eyes shone with otherworldly attention.
Lances poised high, armor clinking, horse hooves thundering, and the crowd cheering.
Yet, all it took was but a single moment of bad luck, for the horse to fall, and for a resounding crash to be heard all around the arena.
Maegor adjusted his eyes and surveyed the scene, breaths evening out and arms throbbing with relaxed pain, though his mind was slightly fuzzy.
Shouldn't have drunk that wine, even if watered down...
It was then that the herald's voice rang out, loud and clear above the surprised gasps and cheers.
"The victorious jouster! Prince Maegor Targaryen!"
And cheers went wild,— wilder than before,— and he noticed some insults thrown towards the Mountain's rising figure. His deeds well known, and unfortunately for him, quite detested too.
He then turned his horse around, directing it towards the royal booth, slowly. Upon reaching it, Maegor bowed his head in his father's direction. "I hope I haven't made a spectacle of myself, Father." Amusement was easily noted in his words, and he thanked the gods that none could see the dislike he pressed on them.
Keep the act on, you are a dutiful son, Maegor...
"You rode well, Maegor." the king,— his father,— said aloud, though his eyes twitched and a deranged smile took place on his expression, much to Maegor's confusion.
But it was, surprisingly, Ashara Dayne's voice, in her black long hair and purple-eyed beauty, that brought him to his senses.
"My prince, behind you!" she screamed suddenly, and he turned the horse's reins in the opposite direction, confusion on his face, as a sword came his way with tremendous speed.
Reflexes came in quick, as he ducked out of the way, falling off his horse in a desperate attempt to evade the slash.
What in the...?
All he knew at that moment, besides the various shouts and gasps, was confusion, as he took in the image of his horse falling to its side, blood pouring out of its severed neck, slashed in half.
He gripped the dirt below, armored gloves rasping against the ground, as his mind raced.
"You damned boy! You tampered with my horse! Or else I would've easily thrown you to the ground on that last pass!" The Mountain screamed, heavy longsword raised high.
He rolled out of the way of its falling path, stealing a quick, breathless gaze towards his father, obviously knowing he would be putting this childish tantrum off.
And yet...
Why are you smiling like that?
His father said nothing, holding only his hand up in a way that showcased his intent on not having anyone stop this madness.
He saw Elia and Ashara's expressions,— a mix of confusion and fear,— and his brother's neutral gaze.
What's this...
Pain then overtook his left arm, as a kick planted itself against his side, making him roll like a sack of potatoes on the dirt.
He could hear Gerold's worried shouts, but he too was unwilling to go against his father's intended orders.
Why? Had he not won the round clean?
"Come here, fucker!" the Mountain screamed, and Maegor could bet his life that every single noble and commoner alike in this tourney were horrified at the fact that his father was letting this happen so easily.
I don't even have a sword to defend myself!
He jumped up and took several steps back, gaining distance between them. And then a voice rang out. "Is that all you can do?" He looked up to see his father peering down at him. "Your adversary accused you of tampering with his horse, and demanded a continuation of the round by sword."
"That makes no fucking sense!" he raged, his voice burning with indignation. "I did no such thing!"
"Then prove it, my prince." This time, Oberyn spoke up, throwing a strong-made spear from a nearby Martell guard his way, a smirk ever present in his dornish features.
And he caught it in time to put distance between him and the Mountain, slashing at the exposed neck of the man in a single strike.
Though luckily for Gregor Clegane, it had not gotten close to his skin, thanks to the distance being greater than Maegor's reach.
"Bastard!" Maegor spat, spear held proudly in his hands. "You better let this folly go, or I swear I will put your head on a spike. I had nothing to do with whatever you say your horse has!"
"Urgh! It doesn't even matter."
So be it,— if that's the game everyone wants me to play,— if you want to show me as your aggressive little soldier son, then so be it, you fucker of a father.
No sound was heard besides the pleading of Elia for the king to stop this madness, and he noticed Ser Gerold getting closer to them, clearly torn between his duty to his father and his desire to protect him.
But neither made any sentimental change in Maegor... he was tired from the joust, and even more mentally tired of these fucking games being played all around him by mad people.
"Come then, beast. Let us finish this damned madness." he said to all, and to none.
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| Author's Note: Thoughts? Also, please leave some comments! I love reading your words, opinions and wishes. Pretty please?