The horns echoed across the tourney grounds, deep and rolling, like the call of some ancient beast waking from slumber. At once, the field stirred, shouts, snorts of horses, the brittle clatter of blunted steel, and the melee began. Arthur lifted his arm, signaling his men into motion.
Ser Robert Gale and Ser Daemon Sand took the mounts as planned, each astride a swift horse fit for maneuver rather than charge. They carried three lances apiece, their helms shuttered, their visors down. The mounted flank would be the shield-wall's eyes and teeth, sweeping the sides, buying time.
Arthur himself remained afoot with the others, Orson Wells, Kyle Condon, Sandor Clegane, and Prince Oberyn. A strange brotherhood, one bound not by blood or fealty but by purpose.
More than honor or glory hung upon this day.
Gregor must not die here, Arthur reminded himself. He must not be lost in the chaos. Not killed by accident. His death must be witnessed, named, and judged. It will be a spectacle. A reckoning.
That outcome required Patience. Discipline. Survival.
The tourney-yard had been reshaped for the event. Many small hills were made to break the line of sight and provide shelter. Felled trees lay like barriers, and shallow moats carved by laborers who had never once seen a battlefield yet mimicked one well enough.
The chaos of the field moved like a living thing, quick, snarling, hungry. The arena had erupted fully now with knights fighting for their grounds. And Arthur's band pushed hard for the terrain he'd marked. And Arthur knew they were not alone in wanting it.
A knot of armored warriors swept toward the same rise, their banners flashing. Lord Jason Mallister rode at the front, leading the merry band.
The proud lord of Seagard was a formidable foe. One that must be taken away quickly. Arthur could not afford to lose today.
"Well, it seems they want your hill ser," Daemon Sand called from the flank.
"Aye, that's why we shall take them first," Arthur replied.
Arthur raised his hand, and like hounds loosed from the leash, his men surged. Ser Robert Gale broke ahead of all of them.
The young knight set his heels into his courser and tore across the churned earth toward Jason Mallister. Dust rose behind him. His lance leveled, the ashwood shaft steady as a drawn bowstring.
Lord Jason saw him too late.
The crack of impact rang sharp as splitting timber. Robert's lance struck Lord Jason square in the breastplate, lifting the Mallister lord from the saddle. Jason tumbled into the grass in a spray of dirt and curses, helm ringing like a church bell. His mount reared and bolted.
Then the rest of the band came on.
Sandor Clegane met Ser Hosteen Frey like two boulders crashing together. The Hound had chosen a huge blunted mace for the melee, and yet somehow the weapon looked small in his broad arms. Sandor swung it with terrible ease as if it were a part of his own arm. Arthur couldn't help but compare him with Donnel and wonder who would win in that fight.
Ser Hosteen, a similarly large and strong man, bore an axe and shield. But the first blow Sandor gave him hammered the Frey's shield so hard it staggered him sideways.
Hosteen snarled through his helm. "Cur!"
Sandor spat back, "I've eaten curs tougher than you."
Their weapons clashed in a storm of blows, Hosteen's axe chopping low and wide, Sandor's mace smashing downward, each strike throwing sparks and grunts into the air. Dirt flew beneath their boots. Hosteen was strong, but Sandor was stronger, his sheer ferocity pressing the Frey back.
Meanwhile, Ser Marq Piper and Ser Raymun Darry closed on Arthur's line, their shields high.
Arthur stepped forward, poleaxe in hand, feeling its solid weight in his grasp. "Hold formation," he ordered, voice steady, heartbeat calm despite the chaos around him.
Ser Raymun called out, "Yield now sers and we'll let you keep your teeth!"
"Try and take them, my good ser," Oberyn answered lightly from behind Arthur, spear spinning once in his grip.
Marq Piper gave a bright laugh. "Seven, forgive me, I've missed this."
Arthur watched the shifting lines, reading each man's position.
Robert was circling back after making Lord Mallister yield, Daemon was moving to flank another. Orson and Kyle held shields braced before two other attackers from different bands.
Oberyn Martell charged like a flame loosed from a brazier, bright, hungry, and unbound. Marq Piper met him with a longsword raised high, though laughter still danced in the man's eyes.
"A blunted spear in a melee, my prince? Seems hardly fair." Marq said with a smirk.
Oberyn answered him with a low thrust so quick it blurred. Marq barely caught it on his shield, stumbling a half-step.
"It is the only thing that makes it fair, ser," the prince replied, circling with panther grace. "For someone like you."
Their weapons rang like struck bells, Marq's sword cutting in bold, heavy arcs, Oberyn's spear weaving between them, jabbing for thigh, throat, visor-slit. A dozen watching eyes widened as Oberyn spun, dipped low, and flicked the spear end against Marq's ankle. The Riverlander toppled, rolling in the dirt with a startled grunt.
Oberyn pressed the spearpoint to his neck. "Yield, sweet ser Piper, lest I bruise more than your pride."
Marq slapped a gauntlet to the ground. "Yield! Damn you, Dornish snake."
"Venomous too," Oberyn corrected pleasantly. "And yet you would know, wouldn't you, ser Piper."
Arthur had no time to savor their banter. Patrek Mallister came charging at him mounted. Arthur noted that Patrek had his lance discarded for a sword better suited to close quarters. His horse thundered down the slope's edge, aiming to break Arthur's line.
Arthur shifted his poleaxe to a forward grip, braced a foot, and waited for Patrek to commit. The young Mallister knight lowered his blade and shouted something lost in the roar of hooves. Arthur stepped aside the instant before the collision, turning with the horse's momentum. His poleaxe swept in a low, brutal arc. The hooked beak struck Patrek square in the knee of his cuisse, where the armor jointed.
The scream was sharp, muffled by the helm. Patrek pitched sideways, torn clean from the saddle. He crashed hard onto his back, sword flying from his grip. Arthur prayed he had not been wounded badly.
Arthur stood over him, poleaxe resting lightly against the man's throat. "Yield, ser," he said quietly. "No shame in losing your seat."
Patrek wheezed, waving a gauntlet in surrender. "Yield… damn you…I yield."
Kyle Condon retrieved the fallen sword and tossed it clear, while Sandor dragged Patrek out of the way with unexpectedly gentle hands.
The hill was theirs.
Arthur turned, scanning the ground they had taken. Arthur knew he had chosen their ground well. It was in a narrow rise where the hills curved like two cupped hands. A shallow moat lay before them, muddy and reeking, but a serviceable barrier. No horse would cross it cleanly, and no man would cross it quickly. A stronghold amid chaos.
"This will do," Arthur said calmly.
Sandor snorted. "A rat's hole."
"A defensible rat's hole," Ser Robert Gale replied.
"I have fought from worse and against worse," Arthur replied calmly.
"Nicely done, my good men," the prince said, surveying their vantage with a predator's satisfaction. "A hill won with only a handful of bruises. You Northerners do know how to fight your battles."
Arthur's grip tightened on the poleaxe. "The real one is yet to come, my prince."
Robert Gale and Daemon Sand took up their mounted positions on the flanks, circling slowly to dissuade any early assaults. The rest formed a tight knot upon the hill's center, shields ready, visors lifted for breath for now.
Across the battlefield, men clashed, shouts, dust, and the crash of wood-on-steel rising like some crude symphony. Men fell, were dragged off by stewards, or were pinned beneath others and claimed as captives. Colors blurred, greens, grays, silvers, blues, bronzes, and bloody crimson.
Arthur watched Gregor move through the chaos like a stormfront. Men scattered rather than face him directly. Those who dared were broken, battered aside by his sheer mass.
Sandor grunted. "He's enjoying himself."
Oberyn's smile thinned. "Let him enjoy his sport. Soon it shall be our turn."
"They'll whittle themselves down," Arthur ordered. "For now, we hold this ground. We only move when the field calms."
And so they waited. The chaos swirled beyond their hill, but their small chosen ground remained still, like an eye at the heart of a storm. Arthur felt his heart drumming in time with the distant horns, the pounding hooves, the screams of combat. Every moment brought them closer to the moment the Mountain would break.
Two hours of chaos had churned the tourney grounds into a scarred field of mud, splintered wood, and groaning men. Yet atop their chosen rise, Arthur's company stood largely unblooded, breathing hard, but whole.
"Our luck will not hold forever," Kyle continued. "Lord Royce has kept his men tight as a mailed fist. They will not break."
Kyle Condon's words carried the weight of a battlefield tally, the sort spoken by men who knew numbers could decide a fight as surely as steel. Arthur wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his gauntlet, the leather hot under the afternoon sun.
"Aye," Oberyn said, leaning lightly on his spear, as though the past hours had been little more than vigorous dancing. "Bronze Yohn defends well. Solid but predictable." His smile sharpened. "And predictability can be used."
Sandor snorted behind his helm. "Royce ain't the fucking trouble. It's the bloody lions. Six of them left, and one's the bloody Mountain."
Arthur followed Sandor's glare. Across the field, the Lannister remnant moved like a pride indeed, tight, aggressive, hungry. Ser Jaime glittered in the sun, every movement smooth as water over steel. Addam Marbrand's auburn hair shone beneath his helm as he circled on horseback, ready to strike where Jaime directed. And behind them loomed Gregor Clegane, towering over friends and foes alike, his dented armor streaked with the dust and sweat of the men he had broken.
Arthur had watched the carnage unfold. Gregor moved like no knight, only a blunt instrument of death given spurs and a lion's cloak. In the first hour, he had smashed two men senseless with a single sweep of his sword. Another he'd knocked down, horse and all. Two more he'd cracked with his shield like a butcher tenderizing meat.
Ser Jaime rode with lethal grace, his lance shattering, his sword singing, his movements so precise and fierce they seemed to imitate the Warrior himself. Ser Addam Marbrand had matched him charge for charge, the two of them hunting in tandem, carving paths through weaker teams with almost playful cruelty.
Arthur breathed slow, steady. This is the moment.
The melee had thinned to hunters now, no more fodder to distract or delay. Only the worthy remained. And the beast they needed to corner was at last without lesser prey to occupy him.
"Royce's strength is his shield wall," Arthur said, surveying the Bronze Lord's camped circle. Every man of the Vale stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shields locked, spears angled outward like the bristles of a hedgehog. "He will not break unless forced. Nor will he advance unless provoked."
Kyle nodded grimly. "They're waiting for us to clash with the lions."
Daemon's horse thundered up the slope. The young man's helm was plastered with sweat and dust. "Lord Renly is moving," he called, breathless. "His greencloaks make for Royce's hill. They mean to box the Vale men in."
Arthur felt the shift ripple through the field. If Lord Renly fights Bronze Yohn their numbers would surely thin. And the lions would sweep in after them, finishing what remained. Two great forces would be grinding them to dust.
No more waiting. It was time to make their move.
Arthur lifted his poleaxe, the weight of it grounding him like an old friend. "My lords," he said, voice firm, steady, "The final hour is upon us. We take the fight to the lions now, before they choose the ground for us."
Kyle Condon tightened his grip on his shield. Ser Robert Gale lowered his visor. Daemon Sand wheeled his horse, eager as a young blade always was before the charge. Oberyn alone remained perfectly still, spear resting against his shoulder, dark eyes fixed on the distant shape of Gregor Clegane.
The Mountain paced like a caged bull behind Jaime's line, his great helm blotting out the sun as though even light recoiled from him.
Oberyn said softly, "The mountain is mine."
Arthur turned toward him. "Aye. He is yours..... but only to enrage, not to kill."
The Viper's jaw tensed. "You would deny me what I have waited half a life to take?"
"I would deny you a farce," Arthur answered. "If you kill him here, he dies a knight, and you become a murderer. He will be honored by tourney lords and cheered by half the realm. While you will be tried and scorned. Will that be your justice? A venomous end? A shameful death?"
Oberyn's nostrils flared, but Arthur pressed on.
"If you strike him down in the melee, you do Clegane a kindness he never once offered to anyone. And you lose the chance to get Dorne what they have been denied for years, a lawful reckoning. Before gods and men. A sentence written not in dust and chaos, but in truth."
The prince studied him, face unreadable.
Arthur lowered his voice, letting the weight of his words settle like a shroud. "Dorne deserves to know the truth of Elia's sacrifice and torment. You deserve to know the truth. Gregor must stand before a court, unmasked, unshielded, and damned. The Mountain must name his master before the realm, then… and only then you may claim what you are owed."
Oberyn exhaled slowly, a hot, controlled breath. "You speak of justice like Doran, as though it were a blade one kept sheathed."
Arthur met his gaze. "No, my prince. Justice is the blade one sharpens for years. Do not dull it with haste."
A long moment stretched between them, taut as a drawn bowstring.
At last, Oberyn inclined his head. "Very well. Today, I only make him bleed rage, and tomorrow I shall make him bleed in pain."
Sandor barked a low growl. "Won't be hard. Gregor's always one heartbeat from madness."
Arthur raised his poleaxe and pointed it toward the lions forming ranks below and said, "Then let us give him the reason. Form on me."