| Author's Note: I apologize for the delay,— the past five days were quite hectic.
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| With Aerys II Targaryen, During The Tourney Of Harrenhall, 281AC:
Shouts and gasps were heard all around the royal booth as Aerys looked down at the starting fight without a single care in the world.
All around him, inferior beings spoke over each other, be it in between gasps or murmurs, and he was tiring of it all.
Above all, he was tiring of his eldest son's wife. "Why are you still pestering me, woman?"
His eyes did not leave the dirt expanse below him, where Gregor Clegane had just kicked his second son. To his eldest son's side, however, the voice of Elia Martell came yet again. "Your Grace... the prince, your own son, he could die if you do not stop this." She tried to reason with him, worry colored in her voice, and he fought back a smirk, showing only disdain for the frail Dornish woman.
"Nonsense." he replied, eyes wide and molten purple, never straying from the fight below. "He is a dragon,— if he dies, it merely shows how useless of a son Maegor is."
That seemed to do the trick, and he mentally cackled, were it not for the pestering woman retorting once more. "But,—..."
He sighed, nails rasping against the great wooden chair he was seated on. "That's enough out of you, woman." he warned her, thrice, patience thinning. "If my son dies in such an unimportant way, it only shows his uselessness to our family. And if he wins, well... Tywin Lannister will lose his golden dog." He cackled like lava, clearly having one of his madness fits, which coincidentally happened during his second son's jousting match against the Mountain.
And yet, that would only settle Maegor's name throughout the Seven Kingdoms even more.
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| With Maegor Targaryen, During The Tourney Of Harrenhall, 281AC:
The onslaught of attacks from the Mountain had somehow dimmed as they faced each other, walking slowly in a circle,— both armed, both wary, and both keenly aware of each other's skill with weapons.
That stayed their hands slightly, and by now the onlookers were more interested in seeing them fight than in watching the King stop this madness.
Their armored feet stirred dust into the air, as a dark cloud high above allowed brief relief from the scorching sun.
Gregor Clegane stalked before him, circling, his greatsword dragging across the dirt with a rasping metallic sound,— a sound that sent a shiver down Maegor's spine, one he contained, refusing to grant the brute before him the satisfaction of seeing fear.
Maegor shifted his rigid stance, leveling his spear low, violet eyes scanning for any opening,— for he had already ingrained in his mind that he would have to kill this absurdly strong foe, because his mad father would not order a stop to this...
As they circled, he sent a few thrusts of his spear in the Mountain's direction, hoping to breach his defense, to find a weak spot,— and yet, for all the brute seemed just that, a brute, he also possessed a surprising degree of fighting skill.
So, how will I make you fall? he wondered, breathing raggedly,— not from fatigue, but from focus.
Maegor then sent a lightning-quick thrust, aiming at the Mountain's helm, hoping to pierce between the visor and end the fight in a single stroke.
To no avail. The giant of a man swung his greatsword, batting aside the spear with a force that made Maegor's hands tremble and rang out with a booming metallic note.
Faced with that failed attempt, Maegor opted for an in-and-out pattern, hoping to probe or tire the Mountain's defenses.
A quick thrust,— parried. A withdrawal and a sidestep,— another thrust, again deflected.
That was Maegor's strategy, to test, to wear him down. And yet it seemed futile, though he noted the Mountain's caution,— no longer hammering forward recklessly, perhaps wary now of the weapon in Maegor's hands.
Maegor wasn't stupid,— dense at times, perhaps, but never stupid. He knew the songs sung of him, the rumors of his ventures across the Seven Kingdoms, fighting and killing bandits and outlaws,— tales that spoke of skill rivaling his brother's or even Ser Arthur Dayne's on Maegor's best days.
Coupled with his imposing height,— six foot six, equal to his namesake,— he knew the Mountain had begun to realize the fight could go either way.
So Maegor capitalized on the man's defensive posture, lashing out with his spear, aiming for the vulnerable gap at the neck.
Gregor Clegane, however, seemed keenly aware of the danger, short-parrying his thrusts with surprising agility for a man burdened by such heavy armor.
Then Maegor stepped back and to the side,— and the Mountain, with sudden cunning, used his sword to fling dirt at his face. It struck true, and Maegor stumbled back, cursing as he raised a hand to his helmet, trying to clear his eyes. "Fuck!"
He heard the man advancing like a bull. In a desperate attempt, he swung his spear in a wide clockwise arc, keeping himself away, trying to divert the greatsword's deadly momentum.
It bought him a heartbeat,— enough to clear his vision, enough to duck the next sword slash,— but not enough to avoid the bull charge that followed.
Maegor staggered backward, nearly falling, but caught himself with the spear, planting its butt firmly in the dirt.
As he regained his stance, Gregor feinted left, then brought his greatsword down in a brutal vertical strike,— one that would have killed him, had it not been for Maegor's superior speed.
"Come here, fucker!" the Mountain roared in barely suppressed rage and bloodlust, and Maegor cringed at the sight of the twisted, bloodshot eyes behind the helm.
Why does he seem… altered? That brought him questions...
He dove aside, letting the greatsword bite deep into the dirt, sending dust and shards of earth flying where he'd stood moments before.
That gave him time. As Clegane regained his footing, Maegor whirled and swept his spear low, the shaft cracking against the giant's legs,— enough to trip him, to drive him down onto one knee with a pained grunt.
That earned a curse from the man and gasps from the crowd all around, though Maegor had long forgotten their presence.
Clegane staggered for only a few seconds, not down but off balance,— and Maegor seized the moment, thrusting for the visor gap. Yet the Mountain twisted away, knocking the spear aside with his armored forearm.
The blow nearly tore the weapon from Maegor's hands, and he barely managed to keep hold of it.
Fuck!
Now they were too close,— far too close for the spear to serve its purpose. So, mere breaths apart, Maegor's instincts took over.
He shifted his grip halfway down the shaft, wielding it like a quarterstaff. They exchanged half-sword blows,— spear-butt cracking against greatsword guard, sparks and grunts echoing through the now-silent arena.
The Mountain tried to crush the spear outright, pressing his brute strength against Maegor's leverage, while Maegor fought desperately to twist away, to keep his weapon intact.
Things were reaching their climax. The onlookers held their breath, while both men,— Gregor and Maegor,— panted hard, worn by their deadly dance.
Then Maegor dropped low, scooping a handful of dirt with his armored glove and flinging it straight through the slit of Gregor's helm. The man bellowed, momentarily blinded.
Maegor spun left, regripped his spear, and thrust backward,— driving the point under the armpit seam of the armor. He narrowly avoided a wild slash that whistled past his shoulder.
The spear didn't pierce deep, but it forced the giant to step back. They separated again, breathing hard, dust swirling around them like mist. Yet Maegor's grip failed then,— his strength faltered for a heartbeat,— and the Mountain wrenched the spear from Maegor's grip, and then from his wound, tossing it aside with a vicious snarl.
Maegor didn't panic.
He inhaled slowly, eyes sharp, then kicked a broken lance from the ground with his heel, from the previous broken lances of the jousting, and then another a few steps away.
Catching both in midair, he hurled one like a short spear. The Mountain blocked it, but it staggered him,— just enough. Maegor closed the distance, using the second broken lance like a battering ram, slamming Gregor against the wooden rail of the arena with tremendous force.
The impact echoed, and even Clegane's eyes widened in shock before he snarled and shoved forward, breaking free, swinging his sword in a savage horizontal sweep.
Maegor dropped the lance, ducked under, and rolled through the dirt behind him,— his armor scraping, his body aching with bruises and cuts.
As Gregor lifted his greatsword high once more, snarling, Maegor saw the exhaustion in his movements, the heaviness in his breath.
He was slower now.
Maegor threw the broken lances to the dirt, and spotted his chance,— darted forward,— and reclaimed his lost spear from the dirt.
The Mountain didn't even notice his intent until it was too late. With both hands gripping tight, Maegor drove the spear beneath the neck joint of Gregor's armor.
Gasps erupted all around, and his vision dimmed slightly from the exhaustion.
A burst of blood misted the air. The Mountain staggered,— then fell,— his massive frame collapsing onto Maegor. The weight drove him to his knees, the taste of hot, metallic blood on his lips.
Hands clutched at his neck,— still strong, still fighting,— before finally falling limp. The greatsword dropped with a heavy clang, and the Mountain slid from atop him into the dirt.
Maegor stayed there on his knees, black armor heaving, spear discarded, vision darkening, arms trembling.
"Fuck." And he passed out, but not before seeing the awed wide eyes on the royal booth, and his brother strange and frowning expression.
...
| With Ser Gerold Hightower, During The Tourney Of Harrenhal, 281AC:
"How is the prince?" Gerold asked as the maester stepped out of the chamber, quietly pulling the heavy oak door closed behind him. The Lord Commander's voice carried the composed weight of duty, but beneath it ran an undercurrent of unease.
"The prince will manage well." the maester replied, his tone calm but weary from long hours of tending to injuries. "He bears no threatening wounds,— only shallow cuts and large bruises across his body. Painful, yes, but all will heal soon enough."
At those words, Ser Gerold's broad shoulders eased, though only slightly. The tension in his neck lessened, but the guilt pressing upon his mind did not waver.
"Thank you, Maester." he said, inclining his head with quiet gratitude. "There is no need for thanks." the maester murmured, his hands folding neatly over his robes. "I made a vow at the Citadel,— and I am merely keeping it."
"Right." Gerold said after a pause, his hair catching the torchlight that flickered in the corridor. "I thank you nonetheless."
"Rest your mind, Lord Commander." the maester advised. "The prince will recover well enough. Though, I must confess, it is remarkable that he sustained so few wounds after crossing blades with the late Lord Clegane."
Gerold's gaze drifted to the door, where faint light seeped through the cracks. "Thank the gods for that." he said solemnly.
"Indeed." the maester agreed with a thin smile. "Or rather, thank the prince's tutors,— for without the skill he's gained, the encounter might have ended very differently. It takes more than valor to face a monster such as that and live."
Gerold's jaw tightened slightly at the word monster. "Indeed." he murmured, "And he is still but a boy to me."
"Boys grow into men by their deeds, Ser Gerold." the maester said gently. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must report to Lord Whent. Remember,— no one is to disturb the prince until he wakes,— let him rest completely."
"I will see to it." Gerold promised. Then, after a brief silence, he added, "And… about the jousts?"
The maester gave a faint, almost amused breath. "Worry not. The prince's strength will return swiftly, and as such, he may yet ride and fight in his matches as planned."
Gerold exhaled, a long and weary sound that seemed to echo down the stone hallway. The soft torchlight flickered across his white cloak, gilding it with faint gold.
"Seven keep him." he muttered, more to himself than to the departing maester.
The healer gave a courteous nod before retreating down the corridor, his steps fading into the murmur of distant voices and the muffled sounds of the tourney continuing beyond the keep.
When Gerold was left alone, he turned once more toward the prince's chamber door,— and for a long while, he simply stood there, listening to the quiet hum of the torches and the faint, steady rhythm of his prince's breathing on the other side.
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| Author's Note: So?? Any thoughts on my first ever action scene? Powerstones and comments would make my day!