295 AC
Few knew of his plan to participate as a mystery knight. The King gave Artys leave to participate in the archery contest as he usually did, but unbeknownst to him, Artys had plans for the joust as well. Lannisport was even more splendid than he remembered. If Littlefinger did his job, then he would get knighted for the whole realm to see. Jon Arryn wouldn't be here—a pity, thought Artys. He wanted his father to see the display he would put on here.
The trumpets blared to herald the start of the tourney, and King Robert boomed, "Begin!" The first joust was to begin. Artys rode up to salute the dais where the king and other great lords sat. Through his great black helm, he saw King Robert already gulping down ale from a huge horn, with a big hand patting Lord Tywin on the back and laughing about some jape. The Lord of Casterly Rock stood there stone-faced, clearly displeased with the state of the world. Queen Cersei sat wearing Lannister crimson and gold, looking perfect and regal. Next to her sat Joffrey—the shit—Tommen, round and pink, and Myrcella in a beautiful dress of crimson and gold, much like her mother. Unlike her mother, Myrcella had a playful smile as she looked at him. He gave her a quick nod, which no one noticed except Tywin, who seemed to never miss anything. He glowered at Artys so hard, Artys thought his helmet would melt.
The trumpets sounded. The Knight of the Crescent Moon rode forth. His armor was black, unmarked by sigil or device save the silver crescent painted upon his black shield, riding a black destrier. Borros the Fat was going to be his first opponent—and at least he would have a warm-up, thought Artys. Ser Borros Blount of the Kingsguard, thick-necked and pale under his armor, was competent if uninspired. The first pass shattered Blount's lance against the crescent knight's shield. The return tilt sent Blount flying from the saddle, armor clattering as he hit the ground. The fall had knocked the wind out of Ser Borros, who could not rise. Multiple squires scrambled. Artys simply rode away to the pavilions. The commons murmured at the mystery knight so easily unhorsing a Kingsguard. Well, Borros was a Kingsguard knight, but he was the worst of the seven. Shadrich helped with Artys's armor, looking forward to all the gold he was going to collect from the bookmakers.
The next joust was going to be Ser Gregor Clegane. The Mountain That Rides loomed in blackened steel, his destrier near as monstrous as he was. The man was so big he made the destrier look like a pony. Myrcella paled at the sight of the man and gave Artys a worried look. Artys, as the mystery knight, could not take his helm off, but he would put the princess's mind at ease soon. Gregor Clegane was a violent man who was rumored to be the one who raped and killed Princess Elia and bashed her baby's brains in. During the Greyjoy Rebellion, Artys had heard Gregor killed his squire for not polishing his armor fast enough. Artys was going to kill him today, he resolved.
The ground seemed to tremble as they rode towards each other. Artys couched his lance and did not aim for the shield or the chest, but for the head—a smaller target, even with someone as tall as the Mountain. The lances splintered with a crack like thunder. Gregor's lance hit Artys square in the shield. If Artys were not near superhuman, he would have been flung off his horse and broken every bone in his body. The crowd gasped. Artys simply shrugged off the lance, but his own hit Gregor straight in the head.
The Mountain collapsed from his horse with a thud so hard the shudder could be felt through the ground. Myrcella rose from her seat to clap. The people on the dais were giving curious glances as to why the princess would support a mystery knight. Robert Baratheon was made speechless by the fall, and even Tywin Lannister looked wide-eyed before sending brisk commands. Close to ten men had to carry an unconscious—possibly dead—Gregor Clegane out.
Littlefinger had done his work well, giving him the best knights in the realm to prove his strength against. The semifinal tilt was here. Rumors in the camp said Gregor Clegane was still unconscious. The Hound, Sandor Clegane, trotted toward him in his fearsome dog-head mask. As they saluted the king, Sandor said, "If my brother dies, I will kill you. Only I get to kill my brother," he snarled through his ruined mouth and galloped off. Artys was so stunned he did not move for a minute before chuckling and racing to the other side.
Artys let Sandor survive for two tilts before finishing him off on the third. Sandor managed to break his fall, gave Artys a look of pure loathing, then stomped off muttering angry curses about "mystery cunts."
The Knight of the Crescent Moon was in the final. Artys waited in his pavilion and gulped down an entire skin of wine. Shadrich looked wide-eyed at him. "My lord, you have to tilt soon—you can't be drunk!" Artys could drink the Arbor dry and still never be tipsy; the serum prevented any toxin from affecting his body. Sadly, that included alcohol as well.
"Ser Jaime Lannister unhorses Ser Barristan Selmy!" he heard the herald boom. "My turn is coming," Artys thought. The final tilt before he became a knight. Ser Artys Arryn. That sounded gallant, he thought to himself.
Artys stood in front of the king for the final salute, still waiting for Jaime. The golden shit was making him wait, no doubt to gain some psychological advantage. Artys saw Tyrion Lannister on the dais. They had not seen each other in a year, yet they corresponded often enough via raven. Tyrion was one of the smartest, most cunning men Artys knew. They both had a passion for obscure books and history. He was also a sexual degenerate like Artys, but as heir, Artys could not be seen in brothels or bedding serving girls. Tyrion seemed to have no compunction of the sort and lived like a lecher. Artys envied his freedom. The dwarf was looking at him with a smirk—no doubt he had bet on his big brother to win. The thought of taking the dwarf's gold filled him with glee.
Then a sudden roar from the crowd broke him from his thoughts. Jaime Lannister rode on a white destrier, wearing golden armor, and stopped in front of the king. His helm was tucked beneath his arm, and a cocky grin sat on his face. The queen gave him a wide smile, and even Tywin Lannister looked slightly less angry at the world. Through his helm, Artys saw Myrcella give him a worried look. They bowed before the king and wheeled their horses to move to their ends.
The crowd roared as Jaime galloped past them. The Lannisters were despised in King's Landing, but here in Lannisport, Jaime was treated like a hero. He was the hometown favorite, after all. The crowd hushed as the two contestants waited for the trumpet to begin their tilt.
Artys wanted to make it seem competitive. The first tilt shattered both lances. The second did the same. By the fourth, sweat slicked Artys's palms. "Not bad, Kingslayer," he thought. Although he could see Jaime's shield was moving a little slower. Two more lances shattered as both knights were still ahorse. Seven was an auspicious number—no doubt that would make it seem more impressive. Artys decided to finish the match.
Omega, his destrier, was breathing hard, foaming at the mouth. "One more tilt, my friend," Artys thought. "You will have nothing but apples and oats." Jaime charged, and Artys couched his lance, leveled it straight at Jaime's chest, and threw him clean off his saddle into the dirt. The Kingslayer rolled on the ground and got back to his feet, yelling, "Sword!" Artys did not expect that, but he had to meet him with swords now—it would be considered unchivalrous otherwise.
He dismounted his horse and called for his own sword. A squire in Marbrand livery ran to him with a tourney sword. No sooner had he taken it than the Kingslayer swung his sword, trying to ring his head with a devastating blow from the left. Artys leaned back and began the counterattack with steady rhythm. Their swords met each other with tremendous force. Artys was impressed; no matter the man's faults, Jaime Lannister could fight.
The fight went on for what seemed like hours. The cocky jeers were gone—Jaime Lannister was fighting like his life depended on it. All of Lannisport was watching. His father was watching, as was his sister. Jaime Lannister could not lose. Then a perfect counterparry sent the mystery knight's sword clattering to the floor—but it was a trap. Artys's shield of oak and iron slammed into Jaime's temple, and he crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
There were thirty thousand people watching, but you could hear a mouse pissing. Then there was a massive eruption—it was equal parts cheers and outrage. The mystery knight had beaten Jaime Lannister with both sword and lance.
Robert rose, voice booming. "The mystery knight will present himself!"
A septon placed the crown of love and beauty upon Artys's lance. He guided his horse before the royal dais and lowered the wreath into Myrcella's lap. She curtsied, cheeks flushed scarlet.
Robert laughed till his crown near fell from his brow. Tywin's jaw was tight. The Queen's smile was brittle as glass. Joffrey's face looked as though he'd swallowed a lemon.
"Off with your helm, ser," Robert said.
Artys did so. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"Seven hells," someone muttered, "it's the Arryn boy."
Robert's grin widened. "Selmy! Sword!"
Ser Barristan brought the blade. For a heartbeat, the crowd held its breath. Then Robert's great voice boomed again. "Kneel, my squire."
Artys knelt.
The King's sword tapped his shoulder seven times.
"Rise, Ser Artys of House Arryn—The Fighting Falcon!"
The crowd erupted anew, a thunder of sound rolling over the lists. Myrcella was smiling still. Tywin's face was unreadable.
.