281 AD
Riverlands, Harrenhal
The fourth day of the tournament
P. O. V Oberyn Martell
"And I'm telling you—send him to the Water Gardens. That's where all the children of Dorne are raised. Your Lyon will quickly become one of them. He'll make connections, friends, and respect." Once again, I tried to persuade my friend to send his son to be raised by us. Not only were my daughters pestering me to take them to "Uncle Felix," but Doran was hinting at persuading Felix to send a hostage. "With his cute face, all the girls will be chasing him." I glanced slyly at the golden-haired boy sitting next to his father, who promised to grow up to be quite the handsome man.
— Smack…
For which he immediately received a strong slap.
"Oberyn, I've told you no many times," my best friend said, settling into the chair set up on the Dornish rostrum. "I won't tear my son away from his family, no matter how much you beg. Forgive my bluntness, but children are only sent to the Water Gardens for three reasons: as hostages, if their parents have angered Doran; as a way to get closer to future lords, which is the only way for merchants' children; and finally, like you, to simply get rid of them and move on with your life."
What I always liked about Felix was his straightforwardness and honesty, without it ever becoming the kind of extreme stubbornness that the middle Baratheon brother, Stannis, is said to possess.
"Yes, I know you love your family very much," I said thoughtfully, trying to straighten and stretch my legs, which had gone numb from sitting in one place for so long. "Especially your wife. Look how hard you try—the third one is already on the way."
Having dodged yet another slap on the back of the head, which over the years of our travels together and the friendship that arose from them had turned into a kind of ritual, I just laughed, realizing that the joke had worked and I had managed to embarrass this stony face.
"Considering your exploits, catching up with you will be too difficult," Felix remarked, turning back to the arena.
"Knowing you, you can do it," I said, also turning and watching as two unknown knights entered a clinch once again. "I always could..."
- Oh?
- Don't pay attention.
It was the morning of the fourth day of the tournament, and I was already getting bored.
Just the day before yesterday, at the end of the day, when I and most of the visiting lords had gotten rid of the hangover (by drinking several jugs of wine) earned at the feast, Walter Whent announced that due to the poisoning of his two sons with some kind of muck, a regular elimination tournament would be held, where at the end the winner would announce his queen of love and beauty, instead of the promised seven-star (p.a., that's what they call a padarm in Westeros).
"A strange decision," I thought then, looking at the slightly sad and melancholy faces of the lords. "After all, seven stars are much more spectacular than the usual form of a tournament... Why would old Walter decide to change his mind?"
Judging by the indifferent expressions on the faces of the First Prince's group at the time, it wasn't a surprise to them, and Rhaegar could well have been the one initiating the shapeshifting. But why...
I didn't think about it for long. My fight was scheduled first, and I was matched against a most unlikely opponent: John Royce. The Lord of Runestone from the Vale was the same age as me, but equal in height to Felix, though noticeably narrower in the shoulders. But it was enough. Where I tried to gain the upper hand with agility and skill, he countered with strength and endurance. In the end, after the fifth ride, already tired and battered, I was simply unhorsed.
"Doran will surely laugh heartily when I return," I thought, remembering my brother's satisfied expression as I departed for Harrenhal. My sister-in-law, after years of trying, was pregnant again, and my brother didn't want to leave her. "He promised to take first place and lay a wreath on Elia's lap, giving his sister a small gift. And now he's eliminated in the first round..."
"Lords and ladies, please welcome the final competitors of the fourth race!" The master of ceremonies' booming voice and the trumpets blaring in time with his owls brought me out of my thoughts. Two riders rode out onto the lists, already red with the spilled blood of the fifteen knights who had died here. The first was one of the numerous brood of Freys, who could be found anywhere in the Riverlands. But the second attracted attention.
"Little one," I thought, looking at the mysterious knight introduced as the Knight of the Winter Rose. Even his armor made it clear he was either very young or very small from birth. Such people don't make good warriors. "But how did he get so far? Ah, he shouldn't have drunk yesterday. He missed so much... Wasn't he the one who, by the king's order, was always being hunted down to find out who he was? And they still haven't caught him?"
Looking again at this Pink Knight, who was already standing at the start of the lists and preparing for the start of the fight, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was missing something, but I couldn't figure out what.
— Tu- du-u-u-u…
And then the signal sounded to begin. Both riders almost instantly whipped their horses into a gallop, gathering their full speed.
The collision occurred exactly in the middle of the lists.
— Bang…
The spear strikes occurred almost simultaneously and hit the opponents' shields, breaking their spears into splinters.
"Not bad," Felix commented, over the roar of the screaming crowd.
"What are you talking about?" I asked with interest, realizing that this was the first time I'd seen my friend so interested in the tournament.
"Did you notice what the Knight of the Winter Rose did a second before the impact?" At my negative nod, Fel pointed at the knight's shield. "He took the blow at an angle, dissipating its force a bit and not taking all the damage he could have sustained."
His words left me stunned for a moment... Until I realized he was just making fun of me!
"But that's a standard tactic in any tournament!" I said indignantly, taking a sip of fortified wine from the wineskin hanging on my belt. "Only ignoramuses like this Frey, who somehow managed to defeat his previous opponents, can't do that!"
Felix merely smiled at my words, making me realize one thing: this stranger knew something about this mysterious knight and was openly making fun of it. As if I should have figured it out, but still hadn't... Who are you, Knight of the Winter Rose?
— Tu- du-u-u-u…
— Bang…
— Tu- du-u-u-u…
— Bang…
While I was pondering this knight's identity, the two riders had already crossed and broken their lances twice, and were now making another pass. It became clear how Frey had managed to hold out so long in the tournament—his shield had already been struck with all its might three times, and he hadn't even wavered. Phenomenal endurance. The same couldn't be said of the dark horse, however—the rider's small frame was already swaying and couldn't hold the lance as firmly as it had at the beginning.
"This clash will decide everything," the thought flashed through my mind, forcing me to concentrate as hard as I could and watch the events unfolding in the arena.
- Tu- du-u-u-u!!!
The trumpet's roar this time seemed deafening to me, as if even it understood that this was the little knight's last chance to snatch victory. He wouldn't survive two more blows.
With only 10 feet left before impact, time slowed down for me as usual, as if I were in the heat of battle, giving me a chance to see every detail of the ongoing fight.
8…
Now Frey began to move back and forth through the forest, trying to break his opponent's concentration.
6…
It became clear that these efforts had no effect on the little rider...
4…
So Frey stopped his spear at the solar plexus, planning to deliver an almost always surefire blow and knock his weakened opponent from the saddle.
"Victory is his," I already thought…
2…
Suddenly, literally inches before the impact, when the horse pushed off the ground with all four legs, the mysterious knight sharply raised the lens to the level of Frey's head, who was not expecting this.
0…
- Shanda-rah! !! …
The blow was so powerful that the lance shattered into pieces, finally throwing the stunned Frey from the saddle, who only managed to brush the edge of his spear across the shield of the Knight of the Winter Rose.
"And our final winner for today is the mysterious Knight of the Winter Rose!" The announcer's cry was nearly drowned out by the enthusiastic roar of the crowd, who had witnessed a rare fight on equal terms. It's not often that opponents of comparable skill and capable of putting on a good show are found.
"And there are the pursuers!" I heard Felix's voice and, following his gaze, saw several men with red three-headed dragons depicted on their doublets rush out from the crowd after the knight who had blown a kiss to the stands. The king's men. Although it was of little use—the joyful crowd was too wild and the knightly solidarity too strong to catch the escaped rider.
"My friend, why are Aerys's subordinates chasing after this little knight?" My question made Felix, who had already stood up and was about to leave, freeze and give me his traditional "stop drinking so much, you damned alcoholic" look.
"Aerys, when he saw that rider on the first day, he first thought it was Jaime Lannister, whom he'd sent to King's Landing to guard Queen Rhaella. So he sent men after him," Fel said, standing and straightening the wrinkled sides of his surcoat. "Later it turned out that Lannister was still on his way to King's Landing and that this knight was someone else, so the search was called off. But our idiotic king never gave an official order to end it, so a few unfortunates are still carrying it out, afraid of incurring the monarch's wrath."
My shoulders shook at the words I heard, and I almost immediately burst out laughing, clutching my stomach in pain. This situation, caused by my sister's father-in-law's suspicion and stupidity, was simply too funny and strange.
"Although it's a little scary," I thought, laughing and sitting back in my chair, watching as people began running around the arena, preparing it for the upcoming all-out battle. "I hope Eris's madness passes Rhaegar by, otherwise it'll be very hard on Elia. What do you think, Fel?"
Turning my head, I saw only two empty chairs where the two Tempers had previously sat, leaving while I had to fight back my laughter.
"What a bastard," I thought, turning my head towards the arena being prepared.
*
P . O . V Lyanna Stark
- Hurt!
"Be patient, my lady. If we don't do something now, things will get even worse later."
"Oh, oh, oh! But it really does hurt! I haven't had so many bruises since I fell off my horse a few years ago!" The pressure, rubbing the intoxicatingly herbal ointment into my aching ribs, was so intense that my eyes almost started to blur.
"Then you shouldn't have participated. My lady, you're a young girl! It's not fitting for such fragile creatures to engage in duels between savage men." The woman with curly black hair and a tan surpassing even that of Dornishmen continued to lament. According to Temper, her name was Mara and she was a native of Meereen. I'd only read about that city in distant Slaver's Bay in the atlases of the Winterfell library, and on other occasions, when those thin and long, but very firm and strong, fingers weren't rubbing a nasty, stinging medicine into my bruises, I'd always asked about the people there.
"Can I come in?" I heard the voice from behind the tent flap, the one who's been responsible for my sores and bruises for two days now.
"Wait a moment, my lord! We're almost done," Mara shouted, and began rubbing the ointment into me with even greater zeal.
— Ow! It hurts! It hurts so much! Grab it!..
So, after just a few minutes, Temper was given permission to enter to see me, disgruntled, sitting on a lounger in a light blue dress, and Mara, washing her hands in a specially designated basin.
"You did well, Lady Stark. I must admit, I was a little nervous at the end, when you had your last encounter with that Frey. But you showed exceptional skill, using a technique not every skilled knight could master." I barely listened to his praise, busy tying the ribbons of my sandals along my calves and thinking about how to get out of here as quickly as possible.
"Do you want something from me?" I asked with slight displeasure, and only now did I look at the enterprising merchant who was profiting off me. And I was very surprised.
Instead of his usual surcoat, trousers, and light shirt, Temper was dressed in armor. Proper battle armor. His battle cuirass, greaves, bracers, armored collar, shoulder pads, elbow pads, and knee pads sparkled clean and reflected the rare rays of light filtering into the tent. Combined with his height, which was a head and a half taller than mine and shoulders as broad as my fiancé's, the Lord of Osgiliath was quite impressive. And considering that his armor barely clanked and he walked no louder than any other man, it was clear he was accustomed to it.
"Very familiar," I thought, looking not at the merchant and cunning lord I had previously taken Temper for, but at the warrior. A very dangerous warrior.
"Your brother can't hold back the rest of the family anymore." Temper's voice brought me out of my slight stupor as he approached Mara and handed her a few silver coins. "We need to hurry."
"Of course," I agreed and quickly walked out of the tent following the man who had stepped forward. "The amazing thing is that Eddard was able to hold them back at all."
It wasn't long before we reached the right place, where my slightly spiteful older brother was already waiting. Edd knew about my gamble and initially tried to dissuade me from "getting involved with barely known scoundrels," but in the end, as always, he gave in. My older brother didn't know how to refuse me.
And now, as soon as Eddard saw me, he rushed forward and, having confirmed that I was alright, sighed with relief and cast such an angry glare at Temper, as if he wanted to incinerate him on the spot. The Dornishman didn't even smoke. So soon, under the disapproving gazes of my parents and older brothers, I was already sitting in the box reserved for us, feebly fending off Benjen, who was trying to find out why I had been gone for so long.
- Tudu-tudu... Tudu...
A loud blast of trumpets, which silenced all conversation in the boxes, stands, and common areas, announced the beginning of the next event of the tournament.
General fight.
"Ladies and lords!" the master of ceremonies' high, slightly obnoxious voice echoed across the arena, which had recently been a jousting ground. "Allow me to announce the beginning of a new stage of our magnificent tournament! A grand battle! And not an ordinary one! By popular demand from some of the participants, this competition will be the most brutal and spectacular of all. A cat fight!"
The roar of the crowd was deafening, sending a strange wave of joy through me. If I hadn't had bruises all over my body and the fatigue from the day before yesterday's training, I would have been screaming with joy right now, just like Benjen, sitting next to me.
"This must have been Robert's idea," I thought, watching Baratheon, wearing his famous horned helmet, step first onto the arena sand and cheerfully wave his warhammer at the cheering crowd. "He always loved that kind of thing."
More and more participants stepped onto the sand of the arena, accompanied by the loud comments of the master of ceremonies, who announced the name, title and merits of the knight.
"He came here from the scorching desert sands. A successful merchant who amassed an unimaginable fortune and became a vassal lord of House Martell at such a young age. I can't wait to see if his martial prowess matches his commercial acumen! Ladies and lords, before you stands Lord Felix Temper of Sunfire Vale!" The spectators greeted each man entering the lists with a storm of applause, regardless of title or origin. But from the intensity of the applause directed at the Dornishman, it was immediately clear to me that most of the lords present were not particularly friendly toward him. However, Temper, flexing his wrists and twirling a large battle axe, showed no sign of it.
"Nobody likes upstarts," I thought, almost going deaf when the Sword of Dawn, Arthur Dayne, stepped out onto the sand.
The participants continued to march for a few minutes, accompanied by cheers from the crowd. Everyone was there—Hays, Oakharts, Grimms, Mallendores, Swanns, Mertins, and dozens of other coats of arms unknown to me flickered on the surcoats of the knights entering the arena.
The only one who managed to catch my attention was the head of the small knightly house, Kold. Judging by the snowflakes on his coat of arms and the short tail of blond hair peeking out from under his armor, it was he who was with Temper on the day of the feast.
"They're brothers," Eddard's voice sounded nearby, making me almost jump in fright. Seeing my puzzled expression, my brother continued. "Felix Temper is Aerys Cold's younger brother. He left home as a child, became rich, and became a lord in Dorne." My gaze turned suspicious. "And don't look at me like that! I should have learned something about him after your outburst."
Thank the Old Gods he whispered his last words, otherwise Brandon and Benjen, who had begun to eavesdrop, would not have given me any peace.
— Tudu-tudu…
A blaring horn signaled that all participants had assembled and the fight would soon begin. Quickly scanning the crowd of nearly a hundred, I quickly found the people I was interested in—the Westerner brothers (not Dornishmen, as I had assumed) stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the arena, awaiting the start.
"Dear friends!" Walter Went rose from his seat, level with the royal family, and shouted across the arena, silencing all sound and raising the guards' voices. "One more word and…" "Let the general melee begin!"
— Tudu-tudu!!! …
— Blade- blade- blade… Bang- bang…
- Aaaa-aa!!!
Swords, axes, hammers, spears… all were instantly put to use. Blades clashed against blades, breaking or chipping, axe handles ripped open steel breastplates like lizard lions through the shells of swamp turtles, spears, finding weak spots in armor, impaled themselves on people like stakes on criminals… I won't even mention what Robert's hammer did, hurling unfortunate opponents several meters in all directions.
The fight quickly turned into a massacre, drenching the already not-so-white sand of the arena with blood.
"And they like it?" I thought, watching as the knight with the falling star on his surcoat struck his opponent across the helmet with the flat of his sword, sending him into the realm of dreams. And turning around, I realized that yes. They do.
Almost all the southern lords, along with their ladies, practically bouncing on the spot, watched with undisguised joy at the horror unfolding in the arena. And, shameful as it is to admit, most of our vassals weren't much different. The same joyful eyes, trembling hands, and loud cries of joy or grief whenever their challenger was eliminated.
The only exception was Prince Rhaegar, who sat like a mute statue next to his wife, looking disapprovingly at what was happening around him.
Suddenly our eyes met and I realized that I had almost drowned in these purple lakes... They were too beautiful and deep, like the endless abyss of the sea, calling you to itself and not allowing you to emerge.
I barely managed to tear my gaze away from the prince's eyes, which had become slightly cheerful and warm. If we were noticed, there would be trouble. Although I remained calm on the outside, inside I was shaking. This feeling of heat, rising from somewhere deep within my soul, grew stronger and stronger, and as soon as I glanced at the prince out of the corner of my eye, everything inside seemed to flare up.
"What's wrong with me?" I thought, and to distract myself, I looked at what was happening on the lists.
The situation there hadn't changed much. The number of warriors, halved, continued to dwindle under the constant pounding of enemy weapons, and bodies, bleeding or unconscious, were slowly dragged away by squires, trying to avoid any stray blows. But three "islands of calm" had already formed. In the first, Baratheon was raging like a war boar, breaking shields, swords, ribs, and arms with blows from his gigantic hammer.
In the second, Arthur Dayne, the last remaining Kingsguard, was performing his war dance. Oswell Wend had taken a breastplate from Robert, and Jonothor Darry, struck in the head by a Tully knight's sword, lay unconscious under a pile of undisturbed bodies. The Sword of the Morning fully lived up to his reputation—with his two-handed sword, a replica of the famous Dawn, he demonstrated that very edge our weapons master once told me about, when combat becomes not a matter of memorized movements and tactics drilled into you by your teachers, but an art where every movement, every step, every muscle contraction is part of something greater than a simple battle.
The third circle, unsurprisingly, formed around the Cold brothers. Masterfully combining attacks with a heavy axe and a longsword, they knocked out their opponents without breaking a sweat. Before my eyes, a feeble alliance of five knights attempted to attack them. The Westerners dispatched them in a matter of minutes, suffering only a few scratches on their armor. Ice and Fire, skillfully combining attacks with a heavy axe and a swift sword, effortlessly dealt with all their adversaries.
"The manager was right after all – Temper's skill is not far behind his trading skills," I thought, watching the dark horses of this fight with interest.
And the battle was gaining momentum. The remaining knights, realizing they had no chance if these four monsters remained in the line, began to form small alliances, aiming to knock the favorites out of the game. But their efforts were futile. Even I know that attacking masters of their craft in a disorganized mob only makes their task easier.
So soon, around the Sword of Dawn, the Cold-Temper duo, and Robert, there were piles of groaning or unconscious bodies, slowly dragged away by their squires. The only one who was more or less unharmed was my fiancé, whose armor was riddled with dozens of scratches and dents, but it didn't affect him much. Quite the contrary—the longer he fought, the stronger he became. A true northern berserker.
The four exchanged glances and formed a kind of triangle, each standing at an equal distance from the other. A pause ensued as the fighters caught their breath and prepared for their final approach.
"It all depends on whether the stormtrooper and the Dornishman will unite and whether they will be able to defeat the well-coordinated pair," I thought, watching every movement of the knights in the lists.
And then something happened that made me, and everyone else on the scene, widen their eyes in surprise. The Western duo, who could have defeated the two remaining participants individually, after some small talk, suddenly separated and stood facing their chosen opponents.
Aerys Cold, his sword raised to the sky in an eagle stance, against the smiling, two-handed Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne.
And Felix Temper, rhythmically tapping the shaft of his axe against his palm, against Robert Baratheon, grinning through the slit in his helmet.
The general fight, which had already presented more than one surprise, suddenly escalated into two duels with an unknown outcome.