Pre-Chapter A/N:Hey everyone, back here with another chapter. Let's go! If you haven't already, I recommend turning on notifications for my stuff so you can see when new stuff drops right as it drops. More chapters on my patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga)— same username as here and link in bio
The joust was a different sort of beast than the melee. Instead of everyone just starting on an equal playing field and moving on from there, there were a series of challengers and champions. The Champions were eight in number. To begin, we had five of the Kingsguard, Gwayne Hightower, Lymond Mallister, and Ser Harwin Strong, who were some of the best jousters in the realm by some margin. The process was simple. A challenger would be called.
The challenger would ride around the field once, and then ride in front of the Champions. When they reached the Champion they wanted to challenge, they would tap their lance against the Champion's sigil. Then they would joust. If the challenger won, he became the next Champion, and the Champion would get one chance to challenge another Champion again. The point was that the Champions would do the vast majority of the dueling and have to defend their spots, but if they lost them, they would have to regain them before the day was up.
That meant that one way or another, there would be eight contestants left in the running after the day was up. It was not the traditional setup, so my plan to distinguish myself would need some amending. If I lost to any of the eight, it would be a good loss, but not making it to the final round would eat at my pride. That meant I had to be careful with whom I chose to challenge.
Once challenged, a Champion was immune from being challenged for the next round to allow them rest. The most efficient way to get things done would be for us challengers to focus on two of the Champions and challenge them over and over again until we wore them down by sheer attrition. Of course, that was far from honorable, and Westerosi knights had more pride than sense. Anyone who was challenged would probably get at least four rounds to rest between challenges. So, that meant my position as fourteenth in the line of challengers meant I could face someone who had gone through as many as three rounds already if my math was right. But that was only if everyone kept to challenging the same set of four, or the same knight every four rounds at least.
Unlikely.
So, I had to find a different strategy. I had only one chance to become one of the Champions.
And since I was the thirteenth in line, I would have a long list of challengers coming after me, so I had to be careful about who I challenged. Ideally, I would challenge someone not too strong so I would be able to eliminate them with no trouble, and not too weak so there could still be softer targets for the next set of challengers to focus on. If I took out the softest target, then I would automatically be considered to have taken his space.
I watched as the first in line, a Redwyne knight, challenged one of the Cargyll twins. It was not a good matchup at all. Even if the Cargyll twins were not storied jousters by any means, they were still Knights of the Kingsguard. Whatever Redwyne that was, he was no Ryam come again for sure and thus did not have much of a chance. He managed to last two tilts by sheer stubbornness as the Cargyll broke two lances on his shield before he finally took a straight blow to the breastplate and was sent flying to the ground. The Cargyll took a victory lap and returned to his position in short order. Borros was next.
He had wanted to be the very first in line, but the Redwyne knight had beaten him to it. Somewhat pettily, I had spotted my cousin cheering louder than any other when the Redwyne hit the ground. Borros' choice must have been a mystery to all as he rode around the paddock, but I knew the man whose squire I had been better than I knew the back of my own hand. There was only one choice he would make.
Borros would challenge the best whether it led to victory or not, and so when he tapped his lance against Harrold Westerling's banner, I was the only one not shocked. Even the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard looked shocked to be challenged this early.
They rode against each other in short order. Where Westerling appeared to be one with his horse, moving easily and efficiently, Borros seemed to be fighting everything from the wind to his lance, to the horse itself as he rode. Yet, when they clashed, it was Westerling that came the worst off. They had both broken their lances on each other's shields. But where Westerling had broken his lance against Borros' with no effect, Borros' lance had been like a bludgeon that had near torn the Lord Commander off his horse.
Borros twisted, turning and picking up another lance as he rode for his target. Westerling did the same. This time, Borros' lance kissed nothing but air as Westerling's shattered against his shield to little effect. Another set of lances, and the same result again. Borros looked far from pleased as he rode with the same lance for the third straight tilt as he had managed to hit nothing with it thanks to Westerling's careful maneuvering. This time he left a clear opening, abandoning all efforts at defense for a single overwhelming attack.
The Lord Commander was too wily to take the bait, and so both of them turned once more with the same pair of lances. They struck at each other this time, both lances shattering as Borros was near torn off his horse from the force with which the Lord Commander struck him cleanly across the breastplate. But he managed to right himself at the last minute. Harrold Westerling was not so lucky as he was sent rolling off his horse. Borros lifted his lance and the crowd cheered at the victory. Just two rounds in and there had already been an upset. The Lord Commander did not seem too displeased at least as he went to take his place at the back of the line.
Borros' victory seemed to have buoyed the crowd of challengers somewhat. The third in line, a Lannisport Lannister, challenged Criston Cole in a move that was pure stupidity. He was sent from his horse before they finished their first tilt, and on it went like that.
Five more rounds passed before we had someone manage to last longer than three tilts. It probably had as much to do with the choice of opponent as it did the skill of the challenger. The Fossoway I had dueled in the melee turned out to be a far better jouster than he was a fighter as he broke seven lances against Gwayne Hightower.
The Queen's brother's frustration was palpable and easy enough to see even with his helmet hiding his face from the world. He had only broken a single lance on his opponent. Every other attempt to get his opponent had gone skidding off a well-angled shield as his opponent predicted where he would aim every single time, like he had Gwayne figured out. Their eighth tilt was where things came to a head.
Hightower, in his frustration, overextended, and one didn't need to be a prodigy like the Fossoway knight to take full advantage of it. He kissed the dirt and managed to rise in good order, tossing his helmet at the ground in a brief display of petulance. Looking over at the royal box, it was unclear whether Otto was pleased with what he saw or not. The man might as well have been watching paint dry for all the emotion he showed at his son being so thoroughly outmatched.
The next round passed without consequence as some fool decided to test whether Lymond Mallister had lost a step since he had unhorsed Criston Cole himself to claim victory at the Tourney of Maidenpool. The answer to that question was not at all. The fool lasted two tilts. The next challenged the second largest man in the crop of Champions, Harwin Strong. The man showed that his name was not for show as he tore his opponent from his horse with so much force that there was an audible crunch when he hit the ground. That had not sounded good and no one was surprised to hear the Bracken knight begin to scream from within his armor. That leg had to be broken, I thought to myself, looking at the angle it was bent at.
Strong was the first at his side but was sent away by the maesters some seconds later as they appeared to gather the man onto a stretcher and then off the field. His screams didn't cut off for some minutes until the maesters had either taken him too far away, blocked his mouth with something, or he'd just lost consciousness on his own.
After the mess with Strong's opponent, I would have expected the next two to go up to be somewhat more hesitant. They were not. They approached the joust with even more fervor than any other before them. The first challenged Cole, and lost after four tilts where it was clear that only his determination kept him in it past the first. The second was a touch wiser in his choice of opponent, but no less enthusiastic. He practically raced straight to the Fossoway knight that had unhorsed Gwayne Hightower to throw down the gauntlet.
The Fossoway kept his wits about him in the face of his opponent's enthusiasm. Unlike Cole and indeed most others who tried to end the joust as quickly as possible, Fossoway stretched things out. He teased out his opponent's weaknesses slowly and steadily, and then when the time came, he unhorsed him in a single brutal push.
And now it was my turn. My choice of opponent had to be deliberate, I thought to myself as I rode around the paddock to the cheers of the smallfolk. I could see why they had been given that name. From here, up on this warhorse bred to make killing easy work, they looked so small. I offered Laena a wink when I passed the royal box and then came face to face with the Champions. Eight of them. Cole had just been challenged so even if I was feeling ambitious, he wasn't an option. There was only one real choice, to be honest. Or rather two choices. Either or didn't matter. Not when they were identical twins.
I tapped my lance against the banner of the first Cargyll twin in line, offering the man a wink, and then rode to my position at one end of the field.
"Pray to the Seven, boy. Two dragons for you if I win this," I said to the boy who had become my page for this event. He nodded excitedly before clasping his hands together and closing his eyes.
I sighed and faced my opponent. Erryk? Arryk? One of them, didn't matter which. The Cargyll was a good jouster, but nothing special. I hadn't seen him challenged enough to pick up on any specific tics so there was no advantage on that end, but this was his first time seeing my duel at all so we were going in evenly matched from an intel perspective.
Except I had a single advantage he lacked.
The horn blew, and I felt Igneel wrestle his way into my mind, wanting to watch what happened. I allowed him to share my vision just as I had shared his many a time, and I felt my blood boil with his power. Cargyll looked to be moving in slow motion. His attempted feint was a basic thing, designed to get me to commit. I was not fooled though, and he would have to try harder if he wanted to fool me.
All the world fell away as we approached. It was seconds from impact when I decided where I would aim my attack. Right for the center of his shield with all my strength. His attack would skid off mine, I knew.
And it happened just like that. We collided to the sound of exploding wood as the world snapped back into focus. I could hear the sound of the crowd screaming again. His lance had slid off my shield, not finding purchase just like I'd planned. And mine shattered against his, the force sending him reeling, falling arse over head—off his horse and to the ground.
The crowd screamed their excitement and I joined them. A Knight of the Kingsguard in a single tilt—in my first tourney at that. I lifted my lance, what remained of it at least, in the air, cantering about the field and delighting in my victory for a moment. After I finished my victory lap, I moved back to Cargyll's position in the line of Champions.
"Well done, cousin," Borros welcomed me. I offered him a smile and wave before taking my place and waiting for the next joust to start. And so it went. I would watch knights come, tap their lances against a banner, and then they would go to the field and last a single lance or two before inevitably being eliminated.
It took two rounds since I had taken my position for me to receive my first challenge. I looked at the sigil. A pink dancing maiden in a swirl of white silk over blue. House Piper of Pinkmaiden if my memory served me well, and it almost always did. His red hair blew through the air as he rode off to the challenger's position.
I rode to the other side—the opposite side to the one I had taken for my first tilt. I was now a Champion—the one in charge of crushing the dreams of others. Piper nodded across the distance before he put on his helmet. It was a simple, unadorned piece of metal with slits along the front to give him good visibility. I did the same with mine and took a breath as we waited for the horn to sound.
When it was blown, both horses shot off with a lurch. Once again, Igneel came in to watch, and once again, I felt his strength flow through my veins. He did not make much of an attempt at attacking, just aiming his lance for my center mass and focusing all his attention on mine.
We collided with an explosion of sound and wood. His lance shattered against my shield to no effect just as mine did the same to his. Scratch that. He slid backwards some small bit, but not so far that it was anything to be noticed. We broke five more lances against each other before I felt a small amount of frustration creep in. He wasn't even trying to win. Just focusing on lasting to the next tilt no matter what. This was no way to joust. Just a mockery of the art and nothing more.
We rode against each other again, and this time I disregarded his attack. I knew it would be impotent. I focused all my energy on catching him out this time. If we were not wearing helmets, maybe I would have caught the flash of triumph as it appeared in his eyes. I lifted myself up from my saddle slightly to push even further against his defense.
Igneel practically screamed a warning in my mind right before we collided. It was all I could do to move my shield in time to block his last-minute switch-up. My lance dug into his shield, catching him off angle for the first time and pushing straight through. His lance, on the other hand, was just barely caught by the edge of my shield. The length of wood pushed against me, nearly leading to a double elimination as I fell backwards against my horse. But in the end, I managed to right myself at the last moment, pulling myself upright to the roar of the crowd.
That was close. Way too fucking close. I completed the victory lap with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Igneel's warning had been the only thing that prevented me from losing right there and then. If something like that happened again, it was a coin toss as to whether I'd survive it. And losing once was all that I needed to get eliminated. But why did I care? I'd eliminated a Knight of the Kingsguard and survived another round against what was no doubt a talented jouster.
My goal had been to give a good showing, no? If that was the case then what did I care if I lost in the next round? But I knew the answer to that question just as surely as I knew the number of fingers I had, or the number of toes. It was because I was a fucking liar. That was why I cared. Giving a good show? That was bullshit to calm Laena down. I wanted to win the fucking thing. That was the truth. Victory meant more to me than anything else, and I could get it. I deserved it.
It took six knights before another was brave enough to issue a challenge. This time, we rode at each other and after two tilts, he was left rolling along the floor. I pumped my fist in the air, and returned to my position in short order. In the end, I faced about eight different knights before the line of knights was basically at its end. Changes among the Champions had been rare as well. The other Cargyll lost to a Manderly who then lost to a Rowan before a Royce ended up taking that slot. Lorent Marbrand was eliminated by a boisterous Thaddeus Rowan who maintained the slot against all challengers. Harwin Strong's slot proved to be the most contested. He lost it to a Bracken who then lost it to Blackwood who then lost it to a Tollett, who lost it to Waynwood afterwards, and now it was occupied by a Moore.
By the time it was Harrold Westerling's turn for his rematch, the only Champions who had been in the original eight were Criston Cole and Lymond Mallister. Borros, myself, the Fossoway who somehow dispatched opponent after opponent, Royce, Rowan, and Moore.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard rode around the paddock to the loudest cheers so far. He slowed down as he approached the line of Champions, meeting each person in the eyes as he passed. I expected he would keep going until he got to Borros. Instead, he stopped right in front of me and tapped his lance against my banner.
"Show me your worth, Velaryon," he whispered, riding off to his position as the challenger.
A/N: Da da dummmm. Cliffhanger? Next five chapters up on patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga) (same username as here and link in bio), support me there and read them early.