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The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 8: A New Kingsguard
The afternoon sun beat down on the cleared training yard, illuminating the specks of dust in the air. The silence was thick, broken only by the rustle of the Royal Guards standing at attention and the heavy breathing of the candidates. The dozens of Royal Guards stood along the perimeter, their impassive faces fixed on the center, their intense scrutiny creating an atmosphere so intense that it became like a physical weight bearing down on the five knights.
Ser Damon, the first candidate, stepped slowly into the large circle formed by small rocks in the dirt. He was a capable knight, perhaps a bit stuck up, but well-conditioned and clearly hardened.
Joffrey called out a name for his opponent. "Royal Guard Dravor, step forward."
A young, sturdy soldier—one of the guards that Tyrion had seen on regular guard duty around the Red Keep—stepped forward, his movements sharp and obedient. Joffrey then addressed the candidates and the Royal Guards.
"The rules are simple. You will fight until one is disarmed, yields, or is incapacitated. The last man standing at the end of the day will earn a place at my side, and gain the coveted white cloak of the Kingsguard."
The Royal Guard kept his large, kite-shaped heater shield but was handed a practice spear—the same length and weight of his normal weapon, but with a blunted steel ball at the end, covered in thick leather. Ser Damon was handed a blunted steel longsword. Both combatants handed their swords and daggers off to nearby servants.
They took their individual stances and waited for the King's signal. Finally, Joffrey clapped his hands.
"Begin!"
The Royal Guard moved first, light on his feet, moving and hopping side to side, his shield held high. He aimed the blunted spear for the knight's face.
Swoosh.
Ser Damon leaned his body sharply to the left, avoiding the thrust, before trying to go for a swing with his sword. But Dravor was too quick, slamming the edge of his shield against the blade, creating distance from the knight before jogging around the outside of Ser Damon's attack range.
Immediately, the Royal Guard rushed forward, jumping into the air and going for another powerful thrust. The knight barely deflected it, the force of the blow jarring his arms, forcing him backward.
Dravor pressed his advantage, continuing his attacks, using spear thrusts aimed for Damon's waist, shoulder, and head, twirling the spear in his hand and attacking with both ends of the shaft. The knight continued to parry and block the strikes, growing visibly frustrated by the unconventional weapon, whose length kept him outside the knight's own range.
After blocking another thrust aimed at his head, Damon went for an attack of his own, swinging his blunted blade aimed for the Royal Guard's head. Dravor bent backward, letting the steel fly by his face, the wind of the blow grazing his cheek.
The knight followed up with another downward sword swing that the Royal Guard blocked with his heater shield. The Guard then opened up the shield and went for an upward thrust; the knight leaned back and just barely avoided it, the blunted ball missing his chin by mere inches.
The Royal Guard followed up instantly, swinging his shield like a weapon as well, aiming for the knight's neck. Damon ducked under it and circled out, gaining necessary distance.
Dravor then raised his shield high; holding his spear across the back of his shoulders and neck, he inched sideways toward the knight before thrusting it outward. The knight blocked it, and the Royal Guard followed up by swinging his spear around, directing the blunted end for the left side of his head, which the knight again blocked with a frustrated grunt.
The Royal Guard then went for a powerful, centralized thrust aimed at the center of Ser Damon's chest. The knight blocked it using his sword's pommel, attempting to trap the spear against his cuirass armor, but Dravor countered by slamming his shield into the knight's undefended helmed face, making him stumble back. Ser Damon hit the ring of Royal Guards, who stopped him from falling out of the ring while pushing him back inside.
Dazed and confused, the knight regained his composure, holding his longsword in front of his body, steadying himself. The Royal Guard moved forward, going for more thrusts that the knight parried left and right before finally forcing the spear down and snapping its shaft with a powerful kick to the wood. The loud crack echoed over the entire yard.
Before the Royal Guard could recover, the knight surged forward, battering at the Guard's shield with his longsword before kicking him in the chest. As the Guard stumbled to the floor in a heap, the knight quickly stepped onto the Guard's left forearm and raised his sword, aimed at his face, ready to make the finishing blow.
A single thunderous clap interrupted the action.
"Stop!" Joffrey's voice boomed.
The knight stepped back, out of breath and sweating. The Royal Guard sprang back to his feet, his breath completely steady, but with shame etched on his face for losing in front of the King.
Joffrey dismissed the Royal Guard, who immediately returned to his brothers and stood at attention. Ser Damon remained in the circle, breathing heavily.
"Congratulations, Ser Damon," Joffrey said, his voice level. "You won the round."
Then, Joffrey's gaze swept over the remaining four candidates.
"Royal Guards Krey and Piler! Step forward."
Ser Damon looked genuinely shocked, staring up at the King, who clarified with a small, chilling smile.
"Now for round two, Ser Damon."
The air in the training yard grew even heavier with tension. Ser Damon, sweating and breathing hard, had barely recovered his stance when two new Royal Guards stepped into the circle, each armed with a blunted spear and heater shield.
Joffrey gave a simple command: "Begin."
The second round started immediately. The two Royal Guards attacked at the same time, using the same aggressive, spear-based tactics as the first. They coordinated their movements, their shields overlapping to block Damon's desperate swings, while their spears thrust simultaneously—one aiming for his legs, the other for his chest.
Clang. Swoosh. Smash.
Ser Damon was quickly overwhelmed. He managed to parry one spear, but the second struck his armored thigh. He tried to pivot, but the Guards boxed him in, their movements synchronized and unforgiving. A shield slammed into his side, knocking the air out of his lungs, and a spear butt cracked against his helmet. He dropped his sword with a dull thud.
Joffrey clapped his hands once, the sound sharp and final. "Stop."
The two Royal Guards immediately stopped, standing at rigid attention. Ser Damon was a bleeding, sweating mess on the floor, slowly rising to his feet, out of breath and unsteady. Joffrey dismissed him, ordering him to be checked out by his Maester's assistants waiting at the side of the ring.
Ser Damon tried to protest, his voice strained.
"Your Grace, this is unfair! To fight two opponents at the same time goes against the code of chivalry and—"
Joffrey cut him off, his expression completely devoid of sympathy.
"The world isn't fair, Ser Damon. And you should not expect your opponents to be polite and take turns fighting you on the battlefield. If you had ever been on one instead of just killing bandits and winning tourneys, you would know that."
He then dismissed the knight from the training yard, though he was generous enough to make sure he was compensated for the wasted trip. Ser Damon snatched the small bag of gold, pushed past the servants, and stormed out of the area, escorted by a pair of Royal Guards to ensure he didn't cause any trouble on his way out of the castle.
Joffrey then called up the next knight, ordering one of the Royal Guards to stand back, leaving only one opponent for the second candidate. The knight looked uneasy as they raised their sword and took their preferred stance while the Royal Guard looked calm as still water, his impassive expression betraying nothing. Joffrey then announced the start of the next match.
"Begin!" He shouted as the Royal Guard rushed forward.
o-O-o
The next three knights were defeated quickly, either in rounds one or two. The fourth knight managed to get to round three, but by then, he was facing three Royal Guards simultaneously and was quickly taken apart.
Tyrion, watching from the side with Ser Barristan, internally contemplated the brutal selection process as well as his nephew's black-armored soldier's skill. He wondered how many knights in the realm could actually face off with the multiple, disciplined, spear-wielding soldiers. This was a test of survival, not chivalry.
Finally, the fourth knight was defeated. Joffrey dismissed him like the others, ensuring he was treated for any injuries and compensated for his journey. Now, there was just one knight left: Ser Balon Swann, the knight whose combat experience during the Greyjoy Rebellion had gained Joffrey's initial interest.
Joffrey ordered him to step forward, while ordering two of the Royal Guards from the previous round out of the circle. Balon would face one Royal Guard to start.
Ser Balon gulped audibly but adjusted his helmet and stepped forward. Becoming a Kingsguard had been his dream ever since he was old enough to swing a stick, and he wasn't about to let a bunch of dark-armored twats stand in his way.
He looked up at the King, his eyes cold and focused—a gaze that made Joffrey smile slightly, a subtle acknowledgment of the knight's inner steel. Ser Balon took a heater shield along with a blunted steel longsword and got into his fighting stance, lowering the visor of his helm as the Royal Guard did the same, readying his spear.
The match began, and the difference between Ser Balon and the other candidates was apparent from the start. Balon had studied the Royal Guard's movements and attack patterns. He started anticipating his opponent's attacks and maneuvers, countering their moves before they could even make them.
The Royal Guard thrust his spear, but Balon caught the shaft on the flat of his longsword, angling his body away from the shield. He quickly managed to trap his opponent's spear against his armor, just as Ser Damon had tried to do, but Balon followed up instantly with a hard slam of his sword's hilt into the Royal Guard's helmeted face.
Bong. The blow echoed like a bell across the yard.
The guard went down like a sack of grain, stunned and sprawling in the dirt. The Royal Guard was helped to his feet and sent to see the medics, while Ser Balon stood in the center of the ring, staring up at Joffrey, his breath steady.
Joffrey smiled slightly, a genuine appreciative curve of his lips.
"He might be the one after all," he thought, before calling forth two fresh Royal Guards for the second round.
The match began. The two Royal Guards tried to attack in tandem, but Ser Balon, expecting the coordinated assault, countered by taking the fight to them. He used his shield and sword in unison, quickly breaking the Guards apart and forcing them to attack him separately.
Ser Balon quickly gained the advantage, kicking one guard in the chest with a sudden, powerful boot, sending him flat onto his back. He then attacked the other relentlessly, forcing him back until he disarmed him of his spear and held his blunted steel an inch from his neck. He paused for only a heartbeat before turning and resuming his fight with the second Guard who had managed to scramble back to his feet, quickly defeating him as well.
Joffrey ordered the round over. The two Royal Guards stepped back as three took their place. Ser Balon started to get a little winded, his chest rising and falling more sharply, but he steadied himself, taking deep, controlled breaths.
The third round started, and the three Royal Guards attacked as one, a shield wall advancing, their spears flaring out like serpents. Ser Balon started using every skill in his arsenal, parrying, dodging, and striking back, but quickly realized he needed more offense.
After creating some distance with a quick shield bash he called out to Joffrey.
"Begging your pardon, Your Grace!"
Joffrey, intrigued by the interruption, asked, "Yes? What is it, Ser?"
Ser Balon responded, "I would like to trade my shield for my morning star, Your Grace. So that I may use my full capabilities."
Curious what the knight's full capabilities were, Joffrey decided to allow it. Ser Balon turned over his heater shield and took a training morning star—a flail with a blunted ball on the end of a chain. The weight was less than he was used to, but he adjusted quickly.
The match resumed. Ser Balon used the flail and his longsword in a dual-wielding fashion, the unexpected combination throwing the Royal Guards off balance. The morning star whipped and slammed, forcing the Guards to focus on defense. Quickly, his unique aggressive style gained the upper hand, and he managed to win by the skin of his teeth, the last Guard yielding after the flail knocked his shield arm numb and Ser Balon had the tip of his longsword at his throat.
Ser Balon leaned over, breathing heavily, when Joffrey clapped his hands clearly impressed.
"I thought it would be you, Ser Balon," Joffrey said. He then stood up from his chair and began pulling off his crimson brocade cloak, tossing it to Caspen.
"Now there's just one match left."
Joffrey walked down the steps and took a blunted steel longsword from the weapons rack, while his Royal Guards cleared the circle. Ser Balon, Tyrion, and the others stared, confused.
Joffrey handed his gilded steel circlet off to Caspen along with his longsword Lions Tooth. Ser Balon looked around, his confusion giving way to concern.
"You're going to fight me yourself, Your Grace?"
Joffrey nodded, rolling his shoulders, getting accustomed to the sword's weight. Ser Balon looked around, clearly uneasy about the prospect of harming the king. Ser Barristan took a step forward, his hand on his hilt, mouth opening to protest, but Joffrey silenced him with a sharp look.
Joffrey, seeing Balon's concern, spoke out, his voice clear and commanding.
"Don't worry, Ser. No harm shall befall you, no matter the outcome."
He looked over the silent Royal Guards and Kingsguard, making his point clear, and they all tilted their heads in understanding. Joffrey was challenging the knight, and none were to interfere with the duel.
Joffrey then gripped his blunted longsword with both hands and slowly raised it up over his head, taking his preferred high guard stance. The King looked at the weary knight and gave a single, final order.
"Begin".
The match began with a fierce, unexpected intensity. Joffrey pressed the attack, using his longsword mostly with both hands, battering at the knight with a barrage of attacks. Though Ser Balon was tired, he was shocked by the young King's strength and the power behind his blows, realizing Joffrey's swordplay utilized nothing less than the force of a killing strike.
Tyrion, watching from the side, was stunned by his nephew's swordsmanship skill, and the speed and aggression with which it was deployed.
Every time Balon tried to attack with his sword, Joffrey would parry and immediately counterattack, taking back the initiative. Balon began fighting in earnest, utilizing his flail along with his sword, the chain whipping dangerously around Joffrey's head. Joffrey bobbed and weaved, avoiding the blunted ball at the end of the chain, and wouldn't block the flail directly, remembering Ser Barristan's previous warning about getting his sword tied up.
After ducking his head under the whipping softball, Ser Balon went for an overhead swing. Joffrey stepped just far enough back for the ball to slam into the ground with a dull thud. Before Ser Balon could pull the chain back, Joffrey stepped onto it, trapping the chain under his heel and forcing him to lean forward. He then gripped the knight's helmet's plume, dragging his head down, and slammed his knee into Balon's face.
The blow made Balon let go of the flail. Joffrey quickly kicked the weapon out of the circle, and the two resumed their duel, sword against sword.
Joffrey hacked and hammered at the knight, forcing him back. The impact from the blows rattled Balon's teeth even through the helmet. They locked blades for a moment, Joffrey using his superior strength to force Balon's sword down before throwing an inside leg kick into the knight's left calf, making him lean forward, right into Joffrey's sword pommel that struck his helmet.
Clang!
The blow made Balon's ears ring and his helmet fly off. Joffrey didn't let up, continuing a barrage of strikes with both hands, pushing the dazed knight back. Joffrey overcommitted to a horizontal slash aimed at the knight's neck. Ser Balon, seeing his chance, ducked underneath the swing, getting behind the young king.
Before Ser Balon could press his advantage, Joffrey turned and kicked him in the center of his breastplate with a front leg sidekick as he charged at him, the force sending Balon flat on his back with a heavy thud and a loud exhale of expelled air. Joffrey stood back, his breath completely steady, while Ser Balon got back to his feet, his breathing ragged.
Refusing to back down or quit, Ser Balon banged his fist against his chest plate and pushed forward. The two clashed again, and after a barrage of exchanges, Joffrey guided his sword's blade to Ser Balon's hilt, twisting the flat of the blade up and disarming him.
Clatter! Balon's sword launched into some nearby sword racks.
Ser Balon stood weaponless, but refused to yield. Joffrey moved forward instinctively, going for a powerful thrust; Ser Balon twisted his body, letting the blade glide against his armor before locking both of Joffrey's hands in his right arm. He then raised his left arm high and brought his forearm down on the King's wrists, forcing Joffrey to let go of his sword.
Ser Balon, without thinking, immediately spun and followed up with a sharp right punch to the undefended King's face.
Smack!
The sound was sickeningly loud in the quiet yard. Joffrey's head snapped back, and he staggered a few steps. The courtyard froze in absolute horror.
As one, all of the Royal Guards instantly readied their spears, leveling them at Balon's chest. The Kingsguard drew their white steel with a singular, deadly hiss of metal. Sandor Clegane took a massive step forward, a growl building in his throat, ready to cleave the knight in two. Ser Balon froze, eyes wide, realizing he had just punched the King in the face.
"Hold!" Joffrey shouted, raising his hand immediately.
His command froze the guards in place. They hesitated, looking at the blood trickling from the King's lip, but they obeyed, lowering their weapons slightly. Joffrey pushed his slightly disheveled hair out of his face. He then looked at Ser Balon, a happy, blood-stained smile growing across his face, shocking the knight and the onlookers. Joffrey's lip was split and bleeding freely.
Joffrey, after spitting out a wad of blood, said only two words, his voice clear despite the injury.
"You pass."
Joffrey stepped closer to Ser Balon, the blood from his split lip staining his chin, yet his demeanor was one of profound satisfaction.
"That was excellent, Ser Balon," Joffrey said, his voice ringing with genuine admiration. "You utilized the flail perfectly, managing the distance and forcing me to adjust, and even when weaponless you didn't lose your composure and managed to pull out a victory. Only a truly battle-hardened man could've pulled that off. You demonstrated courage, skill, but most importantly, the ability to think while under duress."
Joffrey signaled for Caspen to return his items, taking his gilded steel circlet back. He also unsheathed his personal longsword Lion's Tooth from its scabbard, its castle forged steel blade gleaming in the light.
The King gestured for the still ragged knight to kneel, which Balon promptly did, dropping down to one knee. The five existing Kingsguard members encircled him, their white cloaks a silent promise of the life he was about to embrace.
Joffrey raised his blade, the sharp steel glistening even more in the afternoon light, and placed it on the knight's right shoulder. He then began the solemn recitation of the vows.
"You will now swear the oaths of the Kingsguard," he said, his voice low and serious. "Words that will bind you all your days, until your last breath leaves your body, and your watch is ended only in death."
He met Balon's eyes, which were steady and resolute.
"Do you swear to obey?"
"I swear it, Your Grace."
Joffrey moved the blade to his left shoulder.
"Do you swear to protect the King, his family, and all who wear the crown, with every beat of your heart?"
"I swear it."
He placed the blade back onto his right shoulder.
"Do you swear to take no wife, father no children, hold no lands, and claim no titles so that your honor may be undivided, your loyalty unbroken?"
"I swear it."
"Then rise, Ser Balon, new brother of the Kingsguard."
Ser Barristan stepped forward, the ancient white silk of the Kingsguard folded neatly over his arm. He placed the immaculate cloak over Ser Balon's shoulders. Its weight was nothing compared to the oaths he had just spoken, yet somehow it settled on him like destiny itself.
"Rise, Ser Balon," the King repeated, a faint, proud smile touching his lips. "Rise and serve."
Balon stood. The Royal Guards along the perimeter erupted in a thunderous response, banging their spears against their shields in unison. The white cloak unfurled behind him. For the first time, he felt its meaning: not a garment, but a mantle of purpose.
Ser Balon of the Kingsguard. Bound by oath. Steadfast in duty. And sworn for life.
Joffrey reached out and placed his hand on the knight's pauldron.
"Welcome home, Ser."
Ser Balon's smile was ear to ear, tears misting his eyes. His new brothers, including Ser Barristan, stepped forward, welcoming him with open arms and firm handshakes. Joffrey informed him that he would need his measurements taken immediately so that his new armor could be commissioned.
"We will discuss the specific details for your own set of armor soon. I require my Kingsguard to be as well-protected as they are skilled."
He then began walking with Ser Balon side by side, the other Kingsguard trailing behind them.
"You will be teaching me that disarm technique you used, Ser," Joffrey casually remarked.
"It would be an honor, Your Grace," Ser Balon responded.
Ser Balon then attempted to apologize for the final strike.
"Your Grace, I must apologize for striking you. I was caught up in the heat of the moment. I assure you—"
To the knight's surprise, the King waved it off, unbothered, wiping the drying blood from his face with the back of his hand.
"You reacted. That is precisely what I needed to see. A Kingsguard must react, not hesitate, no matter who they're facing. Had I been a threat, you would have saved my life. So feel no guilt nor the need to apologize."
Ser Balon was pleasantly surprised. The King was nothing like the rumors he had heard when he was the crown prince. He was demanding, yes, but thus far had been completely fair, and seemed to appreciate genuine skill, and he was glad for it.
The King and his newly completed Kingsguard entered the Castle, while the Royal Guards dispersed, resuming their normal duties of patrolling and guarding the Red Keep, the echoes of the trial fading into the stone walls.
o-O-o
A thousand miles away in the Riverlands, Tywin Lannister was holding a war council in a requisitioned hall in the Saltpans, a room dominated by a large, scarred oak table, and lit by flickering oil lamps that cast long uneasy shadows. The atmosphere was thick, charged with the barely contained frustration of seasoned commanders who felt they were fighting with one hand tied behind their backs.
Lord Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the table, his posture rigid, his face a mask of granite perfection. Yet, the tension in his shoulders and the slight, almost imperceptible clench of his jaw betrayed his inner turmoil. He was, to his deep annoyance, being outmaneuvered by a boy, a mere nineteen-year-old, repeatedly. And to add insult to injury the northern savages still had his son and heir in their clutches.
"I demand a report," Tywin stated, his voice low, yet possessing the cutting edge of polished steel.
Ser Kevan Lannister, Tywin's younger brother and trusted second-in-command, cleared his throat and stood.
"My Lord, Ser Gregor continues his raids across the countryside with success. We have seized valuable stores and disrupted the flow of supplies to the northern host." Kevan paused, choosing his words carefully. "However, the Northern forces remain staunch. Our attempts at a decisive offensive have met with mixed results. The minor skirmishes have often gone against us. Robb Stark's men fight with a desperate ferocity, and their commanders are proving surprisingly competent at defensive maneuvers."
Tywin remained stoic, but the anger was palpable, a cold, controlled fury.
"Success in raiding is the work of brigands, Kevan. It is not a strategy. We have superior numbers, superior training, and superior resources. We should not be trading minor victories for major defeats."
He leaned forward, his hands resting flat on the table.
"I will not be remembered as the Lannister who only won because of a numerical advantage. We need to make a decisive strike, a victory so complete it breaks their resolve."
Internally, Tywin could not help but concede a measure of praise to Robb Stark. He had severely underestimated the boy's strategic mind. Stark held the advantage of terrain and morale, and his refusal to be drawn into a pitched battle on Tywin's terms was infuriatingly intelligent.
A few of the assembled lords offered tentative ideas for a plan of attack.
"We could feign a retreat, draw them out onto the plains…" offered Lord Brax.
"Foolish," Tywin cut him off instantly. "Stark is not so easily fooled. He'll smell the trap faster than a bloodhound smells a wounded deer".
"Perhaps a direct assault on Riverrun, my Lord?" Suggested another, Lord Prester.
"And waste thousands of lives in a siege?" Tywin's eyes narrowed. "The walls are thick, the garrison well stocked. I did not ride north to play children's games."
The Lords quickly fell silent, chastened by the cold dismissal. Kevan then broached the subject that was heavy on everyone's mind.
"Has Tyrion procured any of the Stark children, or any high-value captives, to trade for Ser Jaime?"
Tywin let out a small, contemptuous sound that was not quite a laugh.
"No. It turns out my grandson is quite stubborn. He continues to send me letters, giving me orders to stand down, to cease my war with the Northmen and focus on the Baratheon brothers."
Tywin kept a straight face, but internally he remarked on the utility of the documents, noting how they warmed his fireplace in his solar at least. The council started to break down into nervous discussions of supplies, logistics, and even veiled suggestions of suing for peace. The low murmur of chaos threatened to overwhelm the room, with only Tywin's silent, powerful presence and authority keeping everyone in line.
Just as they started formulating a detailed strategy for a surprise attack on Stark's flank, a plan requiring immense logistical coordination, the heavy oak doors to the chamber burst open.
A messenger, sweat-soaked and clearly having ridden hard, stumbled into the room. Tywin's annoyance at the sudden intrusion was visible in the tightening of his lips. The messenger quickly fell to one knee, panting heavily.
"My Lord Hand! My Lords! The spies report Northern forces movements!"
Tywin's eyes, usually cold, sharpened to points of amber focus.
"What direction?" He demanded.
The messenger gasped for air forcing the words out.
"North, My Lord! They are marching north! A large host, moving quickly across the Neck!"
A wave of surprise washed over the assembled lords. Tywin, however, remained still for a long moment, processing the unexpected news. A slow, almost imperceptible smile—a dangerous, predatory curve—grew on his face. He turned to his Lords, the tension in the room snapping taut.
"Get the men ready to march. It seems the Young Wolf has finally made a mistake."
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