Pre-Chapter A/N:First of all, Happy Holidays to all who celebrate. Gift yourself some good cheer with 10% off all plans on my patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga) page. 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
We tore across the field at each other while I felt a million thoughts fill my mind. 'Why me?' I didn't think I was the weakest duelist of the lot. Moore had looked shaky when he'd unhorsed Waynwood. Fossoway was practically running on fumes with how many opponents he'd faced already. I braced for impact at the last second. Shattered lances in both cases. I kept going, tossing my broken lance off the field before accepting a new one from my page. I turned my horse, and then I was racing down the field again.
I wasn't the strongest jouster of the lot either. Neither Cole nor Borros had had any difficulty with any of their opponents. Mallister was of the same mold. So why would he challenge me then? There were no rules saying you had to challenge who eliminated you, but surely he wanted to face Borros again. Doing that made sense. Doing anything other than challenging me for no reason made sense. So why?
Another tilt of shattered lances and no effect. I turned to face him again when I reached the end of the line. There was no discernible expression on his face. Not the little of it I could see through his helmet at least.
I sighed, spurring my horse forward. 'Did it matter why?' I had come too far to lose now. It didn't matter why he had chosen me as his opponent. All that mattered was that I had to win, and to do that, I had to focus like it was nobody's business. We reached each other. I attempted a feint to his side. He was not fooled even for a second. My lance shattered dead center against his shield while his did the same. 'That was stupid,' I thought to myself. Of course a feint would not work.
This man had been dueling the best in the Kingdom before I'd even been born. There was nothing I would think of that would surprise him or catch him off guard. I needed to approach things differently.
Borros' strategy had been to rely on superior physical ability rather than trying to outskill who was probably the most skilled Knight in all the Seven Kingdoms. Could I do the same though? Westerling was not a mountain of muscle in the same way men like Borros and Strong were, but he was still packed with muscle and easily two stone heavier than I was.
My major advantage was going to be Igneel providing extra backing while I caught him off guard with my strength. We ran at each other again. This time I didn't attempt any sort of feint. I just put all my weight and strength behind my attack while bracing myself the best I could at the same time.
Both lances shattered, we returned to square one and repeated. He tried a feint. I read it like a book, blocking where I needed to and attacking at the same time. The result was the same—two shattered lances. We went back to the beginning and tried again. Two shattered lances, and no progress.
I ignored the part of my mind that urged me to change my approach. This was classic joust, so there would be no ending this via points. We would clash lances until one of us was unhorsed. And tiring out a man decades my senior while I had a nuclear reactor of magic feeding me both strength and energy was going to be child's play. I just had to keep my focus.
And that was what I did. We broke twelve straight lances against each other before I began to see the very first hints of fatigue on the older Knight. It was nothing so easily apparent as stalled reactions or a lessening in the strength of either his thrust or his guard. It was something far more subtle. He took more of a pause after every exchange. Where before we had met in the middle of the field for almost every clash, now we met further and further down. And I would not be stopped. I kept going, round after round, I turned as quickly as possible, intent on putting him down with sheer attrition.
It was on the nineteenth tilt that I turned straight after breaking another lance and receiving a replacement to see my opponent almost visibly struggling. He was gassed at the end of the field. He turned to me when he heard my hooves approaching before spurring his own horse onwards. One, two, three, four, five, was how many steps his horse covered before we clashed. With the momentum so obviously on my side, it was no surprise that his thrust felt like a feather and mine tore through his guard with barely any resistance. He flew to the ground and I smirked in victory, lifting the remnants of my lance in victory. The crowd had grown more and more amped with each tilt and now they were practically frothing at the mouths.
I heard the sound of steel leaving a scabbard and turned to see Harrold Westerling on his feet again, holding his sword and waiting.
"On feet," he challenged. It was well within my rights to refuse him. I had won the joust fair and square. Yet, I was getting off my horse before seconds had passed, and calling my page to bring me a sword.
The boy arrived with my sword in a matter of moments. In that time, I got to see both Laena and Rhaenys trying to tell me to cut it out as subtly as they could manage. I would be hearing about this for a while if I lost for sure. But refusing would be worse. The whispers, the loss to my reputation, all that. No. I would not have it. I slid my blade from its scabbard, tossing the scabbard back at my page and ushering the scamp off the field. I would probably have to remember his name at some point. He deserved as much at least.
"Are you ready?" Westerling asked.
"Waiting for you, old man," I said with a smirk. 'Igneel, don't leave me now,' I silently begged. The roar in my mind told me my oldest and best friend was offended at the very request. He would never abandon me, and together we were unbeatable. I settled in my stance, tightening my grip on the sword with both hands. My page hadn't brought a shield. Or another blade even. But needs must, and this was acceptable.
Westerling advanced, and his first swing was obvious, telegraphed, and very much a distraction. I stepped backwards, allowing the blade to kiss nothing but air. Of course, it was just the beginning. He moved with the momentum of the first swing on his side, taking advantage of the exaggerated motion and turning it into a thrust.
I swung out, and the sound of steel on steel rung out across the field for the first time that day. My blade sent his thrust askew. He withdrew and attempted a straight cut from my left shoulder to my hip.
"Too slow," I whispered in the most mocking tone I could while weaving out of the range of his blade.
My words washed over him, no reaction coming as he took a step forward. His footwork was almost the opposite of mine. I was light on my feet in a way few trained in the Stormlands could be. It was effective so Borros and Manfred had not bothered beating it out of me even if my cousin had described it as prancing about in his most disgusted tone more than a few times. Harrold Westerling on the other hand was like a mountain. He moved slowly. Each advance was carefully measured and considered. Something told me he was extremely unlikely to slip in battle because of his approach.
But when I said he moved slowly, that only applied to his feet. His blade was practically a blur as he painted with it. Without Igneel he would have rung my head five times already while cutting me to pieces. I ducked underneath his straight slash and weaved to the side to avoid a knee that nearly turned my head into a bell.
I attempted a darting stab with my blade once I got myself in good order but he deflected it with what I would almost describe as contempt. I turned to the side and slashed down. He blocked and we strained against each other for a second before I dragged my blade along his and then aimed for his feet.
His feet, previously slow and lumbering, became as agile as a cat's as he jumped out of the way. I tried to make a thrust as he retreated, but he deflected it again. There was no sign of what the old man thought as we fought. I knew he had to be tired from the joust, but barely any of the expected tiredness was showing.
Instead, he seemed to just be moving as if it was business as usual. He attempted another attack. Hastily, I tried to step into his guard to counter and got a knee to my gut for the trouble. I stepped backwards. He slashed out with his blade and I blocked it, bringing us to another deadlock. I stared at his helmet, meeting his eyes through it.
Where I would have expected to see anger, impatience, maybe even disdain of some sort, there was nothing. It was like he felt nothing at the prospect of dueling me, and if that was the case, then why was he doing it? Perhaps he had been ordered to do so. Igneel's warning roar was the only thing that allowed me to react as he pushed out with his blade and attempted to tangle my feet in his and bring me to the ground. I skipped over his outstretched foot easily in a move that most knights would not have attempted. Very few people were fine with leaving the ground entirely while fighting. Especially when weeks of beginner training was designed to teach how to avoid slipping in mud. Too many knights had died, weighed down by their armor and terrible footwork in the muddy terrain that a battlefield inevitably became thanks to the number of horses and people that would be involved.
He stepped forward, not much surprised it seemed, and kept his onslaught up. And I absorbed it. I met every slash, thrust, and stab with deft parries where possible and dodges where it wasn't. It was difficult to tell who the better fighter was. If I was more willing to take risks then maybe we would get an answer to that, but the more we fought, the more I realized that even if he hid it better there was no way the tiredness that came from the joust was already gone. So I would just have to wait him out. Bear attack after attack, allowing him to take the initiative in the duel at the cost of him also bearing the burden of having to break down my defenses.
No one could train under the Baratheons for as long as I did without learning to just grin and take a thrashing. It was even better in this case as every swing of his weapon didn't feel like an attack aimed at my very soul. Borros' swings hurt like a motherfucker. Even when you blocked them, they still worked to wear you down. Keeping ahead of Westerling took more focus and mental exertion than keeping ahead of my cousin did and when it came down to it, my body would tire before my mind ever did. And his body would tire before mine.
Sure, I was still struggling to see the signs of the tiredness but that just meant he was hiding them. I couldn't get impatient and jump the gun. No matter how skilled a Knight Harrold Westerling was, he was still human and biology was biology.
I lashed out from the left, forcing him into a block before I retreated, and then pressed the attack from the right. He pushed forward right as my attack was about to land to make me slip up, but I could see it coming from a mile away. Our blades clashed, and then he lashed out with a fist. I barely managed to prevent him from securing a clean blow but that left me unbalanced and open for his follow up.
His blade sought the gap between my armor in a probing attempt and I slapped it away as he stepped closer. I backpedaled and he stabbed out again to no avail. He attempted a straight slash that I ducked underneath. His knee came up again, but I was prepared for it and had a much easier time avoiding the attempt as I straightened and stepped backwards again.
He telegraphed an obvious overhead slash, sacrificing surprise for strength and speed. I lifted my blade, trusting Igneel's strength to be enough to weather his. It was. The blade came to a dead stop as the sound of the two swords clashing rang out across the field.
The cheers from the smallfolk were deafening as Westerling executed a move I hadn't seen coming and struggled to even fully understand because of how quickly it had happened. He slid his blade along mine, nestling the edge in the cross guard and wrenched with one strong heaving motion. So much strength used so abruptly that I did not even get a chance to resist. He moved my blade out of position and since all my training had beat how bad of an idea it was to let go of one's weapon in the middle of a fight, I followed it.
I felt my head ring before I could process the punch that slammed into my helmet. I moved with the punch, following lessons learned in another lifetime as I fell to the floor and felt for my opponent's feet. I couldn't fully describe what happened, my head was ringing all through and I was seeing stars, but even in the blur, I could see Westerling's boots in my line of sight.
I shot out for them, reaching them with strength I had never had, and dragged the man to the ground with a single heave. I could hear Igneel's roar in the back of my mind and taste boiling blood in my mouth as I wormed my way up his body. He tried to flip us, but I would not be having it. I ignored his hands pushing at me—too little and too late, and when I reached my target, I punched straight down with all my might. There was a crack as his helmet dented before my fist and his struggles ceased. Everything came back into focus almost immediately. Igneel's presence retreated and reason returned.
'Did I just kill the Lord Commander of the fucking Kingsguard?' I wondered as I rolled off his body.
The answer to that question, thankfully enough, turned out to be no. The Maesters, consummate professionals that they were, were able to confirm that he was still breathing before they took his unconscious form with them. So he was taking a mandatory time out, so to speak. I was jealous of him, of course. Because as a Champion, heading into the medical tent was to be seen as withdrawing from the contest. So with my head still ringing, I returned to my horse and rode her back in line with the others.
Borros said… something. I honestly couldn't make much of anything out at this point. The next person in line, Gwayne Hightower, rode up the line, and expectedly enough placed his challenge to Fossoway. The Queen's brother acquitted himself well, going five tilts before it became obvious to all watching that even tired as he was, Fossoway was still too much for the Knight to handle. In the end, it took eight tilts for Hightower to kiss the dirt.
Cargyll numero uno rode up next, staring at me all the while before ultimately shaking his head. I wondered how bad I must have looked for him to have abandoned any chance of his revenge in favor of challenging someone else. I knew it was bad. I was slumped against my horse despite my best desire to cut an impressive feature. Igneel had left and taken his energy with him, and my body was only human in the end. A full day of jousting and then nearly going twenty tilts and adding a foot duel on top of that meant I was tired beyond comprehension. Even my tired was tired. At this point, I'd give the page boy good odds of managing to unhorse me in my present state.
Cargyll one tapped his lance against Moore's banner of three bronze spearheads on white. And challenge rendered, he rode back to the field. Moore followed, seeming hesitant to do so.
After the first tilt, it became clear why. He'd made it this far by beating Waynwood who had been well on his last legs at the time and had only had to defend his spot twice. Cargyll, while far from a jouster of renown, was still a cut above. And the difference in quality showed. In three tilts, it was over, and Cargyll's lance was lifted in the air as he completed a victory lap.
Cargyll deux came after his twin brother and placed his challenge to Royce who he had not lost to, but who had taken his slot after beating the Mooton he'd lost to with some ease. The match passed as the closest since mine had been. They broke twelve lances against each other before Royce ended up proving to be just a shade more skilled than his opponent and Cargyll's white cloak tasted the ground once again.
Marbrand and Rowan's rematch was expected. There was a hush as the famous jouster approached the lineup and no one was surprised when he tapped the right banner. It seemed the time he needed to rest had done him a load of good. The older man had lost a close joust in the first instance. Now, it wasn't close and he was the clear victor after seven tilts.
Strong marched up, looking down the line before he placed his challenge to Borros. Borros who had received the fewest challenges so far. To put it respectfully, one could say Strong lasted two whole tilts before the difference in quality was undeniable. Of course, to add insult to injury, Borros got off his horse the second he'd defeated his opponent, offering to continue the battle on foot. Strong was wise to refuse. My cousin wouldn't purposefully harm anyone in a joust but even I didn't like the enthusiasm with which he spun that hammer.
So in the end, the final lineup consisted of myself, Borros, Cargyll uno, Royce, Marbrand, Fossoway, Cole, and Mallister.
A/N: And so we have day one of the Joust coming to an end. 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.