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A Golden Path by Ideas-Guy
Dune & A Song of Ice and Fire Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Drama, Paul A., Eddard S./Ned, Words: 172k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Jun 17, 2024 Updated: Aug 24
882Chapter 17: Foundation 2-8
'This,' Robert thought as the echoing sounds of warcries and the thunderous steps of nearly a thousand men raced to clash against one another echoed out on the grandest stage in the Seven Kingdoms. 'This is what I'm made for.'
There wasn't a doubt about it in his mind as his horse galloped forward, his warhammer in hand. His blood itched in his veins and his stomach was so full of butterflies, the only thing he could compare it to was the first time he asked to kiss a servant girl in the gardens. The ground trembled under his horse, the air shaking from tens of thousands of people screaming for their chosen victor.
He never cared much for the gods. The Seven, the Old Gods, the Drowned God, and that fire one across the Narrow Sea - he couldn't care less about them. He'd live his life how he wished, and if he was lucky, he'd die the same way. Whatever came after he was done living, and that made it no concern of his. But now, he began to wonder as the sounds of clashing steel began to join the chorus. What exactly would heaven look like? How did the gods reward a life well-lived?
Robert found that answer as he drove his contingent into the flank of the Reach knights. This. This was what he hoped the afterlife would look like. An endless battle that stretched beyond what the eye could see. And maybe a feast at the end of each day where he could drink and fuck to his hearts content, just so he could do it all again tomorrow.
The sight of the Melee was a thing of beauty. Art was another thing he never understood - slapping some colors on a canvas… sure, some were pretty to look at, but the novelty was always quick to wear off. But this… This he could understand the beauty of. Eight sides clashing into one utter cluster fuck of a fight where alliances were made and broken in the same breath. Oh, they all made plans beforehand.
Robert even made a few of his own. Politics had its way of interjecting itself into every damned thing, including this. As he was marrying a princess of Dorne, it'd be rather rude to attack them first. So, Robert agreed to give them a chance at victory. They would fight eventually, but only when the competition had been whittled away.
He saw the other backroom deals take shape on the battlefield - how the Riverlanders, Eyre knights, and the Northerners all kept the fighting to a minimum. They secured each other's flames, with the Riverlands safely nestled between them. Then there was the Westerlands, who were as bold as lions. They challenged the Reach and the North, both without fear. While the Reach found itself being caught between the fangs of the lion and the stag.
It was a mess. A complete and utter mess that was beyond anything he could have imagined. He wanted to weep because he knew that he wasn't ever likely to see such a sight again. So, he would savor it. He would sear it all into his memories and he would make the most of every single swing of his warhammer.
To punctuate the thought, he swung once more and crumbled the collarbone of a Reacher knight, who went down screaming. The shaft of his hammer caught a blade as the Reacher horsemen wheeled around to blunt his charge. And that was exactly what he wanted. Knights or not, twenty men charging you on horseback while you were on foot was enough to fill your britches. And the were few arguments more persuasive than a mounted knight trying to get by, so the foot men parted for them.
Which made things fracture.
All around him as he cut deep into the Reachers, he heard the sounds of the formations breaking. Hundred of warriors, the best each kingdom had to offer, were fighting it out. Their lines stretching or shrinking as they attacked only to find themselves on the defensive a second later. Everyone in the arena thought that this melee would be a grand display of eight factions whittling each other down.
No. That's not how people fought. Two armies on a field would slam into each other until one gave out. Three armies on the field? Whoever moved first lost, so there wouldn't be a battle at all. Four, five, six- it didn't matter. When things got too complicated, they broke. A battle between two armies was complicated enough, but eight?
When Robert found that he had cut through the Reachers and into the Westerlanders, he knew that his plan was a success. The Stormlanders followed his path, forcing themselves to divide the Reacher knights into two groups. Under normal circumstances, it would mean that he was surrounded, but these weren't normal circumstances. So many lordlings who thought they were smarter than they really were, and they were backed by the best warriors in the Kingdoms.
Everyone saw their chance and they pounced. All of them had already been looking for a moment of weakness, a gap in their opponents armor that they could sink a blade through. The divided Reachers were a sacrifice as those who flanked them started cutting a path through. His Stormlanders were facing a similar fate as some lagged behind the main group. The damage was done, and the equilibrium was lost.
The result?
The Melee became a mad house.
Robert could hear himself laughing as he swung his hammer side to side, careful to not kill someone, but not so careful that he might have by accident. No matter. The center of the field was a fever dream, a complete free for all where anyone not wearing matching colors fought everyone else. He could see Brandon keeping his horsemen together, driving them into the side of the Crownlands while the Prince was distracted with Dorne.
He searched for one man in particular. The one man that Robert knew he had to take down if he had any hope of winning the Melee. And, out of the corner of his eye, Robert found him.
Paul Atredies broke into a full sprint at a formation before jumping into the air and flipping over their bloody heads to land in the thick of them. The Crownlanders didn't have a clue what hit them, and it showed. They scrambled to respond to the threat in their midst, only to discover that Paul's blades were as fast as lightning and about as deadly. They flashed forward, drawn to every little gap in someone's armor as if they had strings attached.
It was beautiful. Robert wanted to weep - he really did. Finesse was never his wheelhouse, but he couldn't deny the artistry of it. Smashing in a chest plate was fine and good, but Paul could kill a man a hundred ways in the span of a breath before the poor bastard even realized he was dead. It was only by the rules of the Melee that six of the Crownlands finest weren't dead on the field, though Paul's exposed position didn't lend well to taking ransoms.
Gods. He couldn't wait for the war in the stepstones. With Ned and Paul at his sides, it felt like they could conquer the whole damned world. They wouldn't even need dragons.
As things broke down, it got both easier and more difficult to maneuver. He kept his core of Stormlanders close, but the horses made them a target without foot to protect them. And, even with it, Robert saw some of his men trying and failing to remain in the saddle as Reachers, Westerlanders, and even Northerners or Riverlanders. The lack of cohesiveness meant that he didn't have to fight through what amounted to a stone wall, but the shattered bricks made for uneasy footing. There were so many individual fights or small teams that it was next to impossible to take a step without getting involved in three separate battles.
"Lord Robert! What is our heading?" A lord asked of him, his face red and sweaty with exertion. Robert wanted to turn up his nose at the man - politics. Men unworthy of fighting on this field were on it anyway, denying a spot for someone more deserving, all because of their last name. But, the question was a good one.
He achieved what he set out to achieve - he smashed the equilibrium. Now his eyes scanned for those that reacted better than others. His own force was largely intact, which made the Stormlanders the natural enemy on the field. The others would pounce like shadow cats because they'd rather drag him down with them rather than rise up to face him. So, he needed to engage with the second largest foe as a whole before his men were picked off in a dozen small battles.
However, that choice was made for him when a surge of horsemen raced towards his position, uncaring of the bodies they had to plow through to reach him. Robert looked over and grinned madly as his gaze landed on the man leading the charge of the Westerlanders.
Jaime Lannister.
"Ha!" Robert half laughed and half urged his one horsemen to meet the Westerlanders. His horsemen followed his lead and he could hear the thundering of hooves even over the crowds roaring anticipation. Jaime was aiming right at him, unwilling to swerve one way or the other, every bit as bold as the lion helmet he wore while he readied a longsword to thrust into his heart.
Robert wasn't one to back down from a fight so he charged right ahead. His heart pounded at his ribs like a warhammer, trying to jump out his chest and breastplate as he saw the distance shrink between them. Them it was simply too late to back down even if he wanted to.
The next second was a blur of activity that his brain struggled to keep up with. Their horses charged right into each other and the next thing Robert knew, he was hitting the ground face first. Thankfully, his head was thick enough that he was fine, as he seemed to have lost his helmet. The air was filled with the horrid sound of dying horses, and that was a sound he could never get used to.
Men dying? Hard but doable. A man could pick up a weapon by his own will, for whatever reason he might have. And the moment he picked up that weapon, he made the declaration of 'I am willing to kill.' Thus, he had better be prepared to die.
A horse, though? Trained since birth to ride into battle, the natural instincts to avoid collision trained and bred out of them. They obeyed their riders commands and sometimes it killed them for doing everything right. It's why horses sounded confused and frightened as they cried out in agony. It broke his heart. It really did.
Stumbling to his feet, he shook the stray thoughts out of his head to see that the rest of the horsemen were about in the same state he was. The horses destroyed each other, some managing to survive the encounter, but fewer managed to keep their riders. Some were picking themselves up from the dirt, and Robert's eyes found one in particular.
Jaime grabbed his helmet and tore it off, gasping for air as if it had been choking the life from him. Shaking his golden hair, Jaime looked at the field much like Robert did and their gazes met. Robert grinned and, despite himself, Jaime smiled back. On some unspoken cue, they began to stride towards one another. Robert hefted his warhammer while Jaime leveled his blade. With but a handful of steps, they met in the middle and they both swung.
Jaime went low, his blade flickering like the tongue of a snake, while Robert went high, feinting with a blow to the head before making a jabbing motion with the spike of his warhammer at Jaime's elbow. His sword bounced off Robert's plate as Jaime dodged his attack before flicking his sword up at Robert's exposed face.
With a hand, Robert batted the sword away, using his gauntlet to catch the edge before he took a step forward and tried to strike Jaime in the head with the butt of his warhammer. When Jaime weaved his head out of the way once more, he followed the little lion and tried to punch him in the face. Jaime smirked, telling Robert he just made a mistake a split second before he felt a pinch at his elbow. He glanced down to see the point of Jaime's arming sword finding purchase through his chainmail.
"Huh," Robert grunted, unbothered and instead reacted by delivering a kick as Jaime tried to seize the initiative. His foot caught Jaime in the chest, knocking him back a good couple of feet, but Jaime rolled back and stood up. "You're a fast little bugger. Makes me wish I hadn't taken off my helmet," Robert admitted, stretching and clenching his injured arm. He could feel a trickle of hot blood and a small pinch - it wasn't a deadly wound, nor was it a bad one. It was just in a really irritating place.
"If you need the handicap, I won't begrudge you for it, Baratheon," Jaime replied, taking a stance with his sword. His expression was unbothered, his smirk cocky because he had taken first blood. "I'd even encourage it. That neck of yours is a tempting target."
Robert snorted, "This some politics thing?" He asked, making Jaime's eyes narrow a fraction before he offered a small shrug as Robert approached.
"Partly," Jaime admitted as they met in the middle once more. The Lannister was fast. He knew that. He made sure to watch some of Jaime's duels so he wouldn't be caught off guard by his speed, but it was one thing to witness that speed as a spectator and another to have a three foot razor sharp piece of steel darting at you. The shaft of his hammer blocked one thrust, only for it to become a slash at his cheek. And just as Robert was perking his head out of the path of the blade, Jaime shifted his grip to attack with the backswing.
It might have drawn blood if Robert hadn't thrusted with his warhammer, striking Jaime in the chest. The spike didn't get through his breastplate, but even a hasty thrust from him was enough to dent it and send Jaime stumbling back.
"Partly?" Robert echoed, taking a step forward and feinting an overhand seing on the left, only to reverse his grip and attack from below, forcing Jaime to take a step back. His awareness was sharp because he sidestepped the thrashing body of a horse, but it brought him near another fight. A northerner? Ah, he missed his view from atop a horse. Even being a head and shoulders taller than most, he couldn't see a damned thing about the broader battlefield.
"You fight like such a boar, how could I not want to skewer you like one?" Jaime replied, that smirk still firmly in place but it didn't reach his eyes. They looked at him with wariness - it was a look that Robert was used to seeing. When people saw the warhammer, they always thought he would be slow and that they could get him with speed alone. A fact that he used frequently during his spars.
Because, much like a boar, he only needed to hit someone once. Even if he didn't kill someone, their ability to fight with ribs that were shattered like glass or an arm that just flopped around… well, it was severely diminished.
"That so? Well, how about you come over here and give it a shot then?" Robert replied, goading him. However, even as Jaime took the bait, he knew that Jaime wasn't telling the whole truth.
Politics. He found himself submerged up to his ears into the stuff. No doubt the Proud Lion himself was still fuming how he had been replaced. Robert wasn't deaf nor was he blind, and he wasn't even a fool. Most of the time. It was impossible to miss the friction between the Stormlands and the Westerlands.
And in Tywin Lannister's mind, this was an opportunity to dim his father's star.
Robert didn't really care about politics, but he wouldn't let an attack on his family stand, regardless of the justification. He didn't have any ill will towards Jaime himself, but he was the tool of which his father was wielding against House Baratheon. So… Jaime only really had his father to blame for what came next.
Jaime's blade flashed forward in a series of feints, trying to get Robert to react and overextend. He didn't dare to. Robert knew that the moment he did, he'd find a sword in his throat. Both of them had tested the other, gotten a feel for how the other fought and reacted, and now it was time to end things as both of them had plenty more opponents to fight before the day had ended.
The sword came at Robert fast and in short goading jabs, flickering in and out with finesse that Robert found that he envied. But beneath that speed was an anchor called caution. The Lannister fought fast and light because he knew that it'd only take one swing. One swing and the heir to House Lannister would be lucky if he escaped with his life. Or, perhaps they were cut from a similar cloth - Robert would vastly prefer a quick death rather than living decades as a cripple.
The others gave them their space to fight, recognizing them as heirs to kingdoms and that this wasn't a fight they had any right to meddle in. Not the Stormlanders, who saw Robert on the defensive, constantly blocking with his hammer or his armor. Nor the Westerlanders, who saw Jaime running himself ragged with constant movement.
Steadily, Jaime's face became red with exertion while a sweat dripped from his brow. That caution was getting heavier and heavier for him, Robert could see. Nothing sapped your strength like a fight. A day of hard labor felt every bit as exhausting as ten minutes in a ring. It was only a matter of time. And they both knew it.
Jaime would either have to cut the anchor or he would need to back off from the fight. The first was inadvisable, but the latter was cowardice. For better or worse, Jaime Lannister was no coward - he could give him that much as Jaime took a step forward, going for another feint at his face before adopting a half-sword stance.
The blade raced up to his face, and Robert felt a stinging pain in his cheek. He accepted it as it was better than feeling that same pain in his neck as Jaime intended. He didn't begrudge him the strike. All the politics aside, when the rest of Robert was armored, his face was a natural place to strike.
Still, it was a strike that he punished.
Robert choked up on the shaft of his warhammer and drove it against Jaime's ribs. The blow was a light one, but it was still enough to throw him off. Then, with a sharp pivot, as Jaime recovered, he slammed his warhammer against his upper arm. The metal plating dented inward and a scream ripped itself from Jaime's throat as he went down, his sword falling from his hand.
It was a bad break, Robert knew as he checked his cheek to find that he couldn't find a hole with a tongue, so the cut was across his cheekbone. Jaime was likely to lose the arm. So, it was a good thing that Robert didn't take his sword arm - that would have been a real pity.
"Right," Robert muttered to himself as he stepped over Jaime Lannister, who clutched at his arm that flopped unnaturally just below the shoulder. "Now, where is Paul?" There was no telling with this fight going on, but he was sure that they'd cross paths eventually.
Without another thought, Robert moved on, leaving Jaime in the dirt behind him, completely forgotten.
...
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A Golden Path by Ideas-Guy
Dune & A Song of Ice and Fire Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Drama, Paul A., Eddard S./Ned, Words: 172k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Jun 17, 2024 Updated: Aug 24
882Chapter 18: Foundation 2-9
The only thing more dangerous than a competent enemy was an incompetent ally. Brandon knew it in his gut even before the Melee began that Paul would be singled out. His father's vassals, for all they disparage the South, had their own petty pride and Paul's inclusion to the Melee had been a sore spot for many of them. Brandon and Ned had both been warming the others up to the idea, but the Crowned Prince tipping the balance? It made it feel like a command rather than a choice.
Paul was aware of that fact and reassured him that it was nothing to concern himself over. Brandon had been inclined to take him at his word - Brandon couldn't claim he knew Paul particularly well, but Ned thought highly of him, his father feared him, and he was man enough to handle himself. Brandon had accounted for the fact that the hundred men under his command wouldn't help Paul if needed. But, what he hadn't accounted for was his sister.
He didn't know what possessed her to grant Paul her favor. He hadn't thought them particularly close either. While that had alarm bells ringing in his skull about Paul having seduced his sister, the reaction from the lords of the North was… intense. The very moment that Lyanna adorned Paul's wrist with a slip of blue silk, Paul became the enemy. Not the seven hundred warriors on the field.
Paul.
His meteoric rise was simply too much - it was one thing to be a new vassal. It was another to be a rich one through trade, something that the other lords already looked down on him for. But to be perceived as courting their liege lord's only daughter?
As soon as the Melee began, Brandon muttered a prayer to the Old Gods under his breath, hoping that Paul had a brother. Because there was a very real possibility that he could die on the field. If not from the rival knights and warriors, then possibly from his fellow vassals. All it would take is a slip, a fall, an excuse of 'I didn't see him there.' The melee was always bloody, deaths weren't uncommon, so no one would bat an eye even if they suspected what Paul's death really was - a murder. An assassination.
As much as Brandon would like to think better of his people, he knew enough not to, which is why it had been his intention to stick close to Paul. Close enough that no one would dare try to strike at him with a sly hand. He couldn't be his shield in earnest, but he would do what he could for the centerpiece of all of his father's plans. Because, while the plotting of his father weighed him down like an anchor tied around his ankles, Brandon knew that his father wanted what was best for the North.
It was just a damn shame that what was best for the North wasn't what was best for his children.
The moment that the horn rang, signaling that the Grand Melee had begun, Brandon urged his horse forward. One flank was secured by the Riverlanders. The other was open to attack by the Dornish. Before him were the Iron Islanders, which were a very tempting target, and the Crownlanders, which were led by the Crowned Prince. The plan was to grind kingdoms up between the three of them - the North, the Eyrie, and the Riverlands.
That plan promptly fell apart the moment that Paul darted forward, moving away from the main group, to jump over the frontline of Crownlanders, flipping like a mummer in a trope, and landing in the gap of their formation. In a burst of speed, the small dirk like knives in his hands had disabled a handful of fully trained knights, jabbing into the gaps of their armor with such accuracy that it was as if they were attached by a string.
Paul had always been unnerving. His father feared him, and during their brief interactions down the King's Road, Brandon found that every word penned by Ned had been true about their newest vassal. How Paul always seemed to be smiling at a joke that only he could hear, and how sometimes it felt as if you were the punchline.
But seeing him fell a half dozen trained knights, the very best that the crownlands had to offer, was… disturbing. Terrifying might be a more appropriate word, Brandon amended as he urged his horse forward, belting out commands to seize the opportunity. Robert was already leading the Stormlanders to cut deep into the Reach lords, and Brandon could already sense the fragile balance of power cracking underneath so many well-laid plans.
Brandon considered himself a good swordsman. A great one, even. He had trained since he could hold a sword by some of the greatest warriors the North had, and he took to it like a fish to water or a bird to flight. To that end, it felt like his position as Heir was almost like a curse, as he couldn't ever be certain that if every victory he won was through his own skill or because the defeated feared winning against the Heir.
But, as he charged his horse forward directly into the gap that Paul single-handedly created, there was a pit in his stomach. As, in the second that it took for Brandon and his horsemen to arrive, the gap widened further. Another three men were on the ground, grasping at their wounds in shock and pain. The sight of it chilled his blood, freezing it in his veins. Because, as he watched Paul fight…
Brandon couldn't see himself winning in a fight. If Brandon was great, then Paul was exceptional in the truest meaning of the word. Even if Brandon faced Paul with a dozen of himself, he couldn't see even the slightest possibility of victory because he was watching Paul turn great knights into children who had never held a sword before with the sheer ease of which he dispatched them.
He moved with such ease, such grace, that the fights almost felt scripted. Worse, even as Brandon led the charge that pounced on the unprepared Crownlanders, he knew that Paul was taking it easy on the knights. Every time his narrow blades struck out, piercing chainmail or finding gaps in their armor, he perfectly controlled the thrust so no lives were taken. They all lived. He was going out of his way to avoid killing anyone… and it truly made Brandon wonder what Paul could do if he discarded such restraint.
There was an echo in his ears as he watched Paul fight a deadly dance. Words that echoed from Qhorin Half-Hand back when he was on the frigid Wall, investigating rumors about a 'Maud'Dib.'
How Maud'Dib trained the children of his tribe himself.
If the thought of facing one of Paul filled him with dread, then the thought of fighting a dozen? Dozens?
"He's on our side. For now," Brandon forced himself to take a breath and refocus on the task at hand. Paul was fighting on the side of the North, and they were in a pitched battle that would bring great glory to their House and Kingdom. He couldn't afford to get distracted like this. He needed to focus and win. He needed to show all the Southern ponces who hadn't even considered them to be the winners of the Melee what the North was made of.
He turned his attention to the battle around him, finding that his Northmen were carving through the Crownlanders like a knife through butter thanks to Paul's single man charge. The prince was reacting, countering his charge with his own horsemen as the Crownlands was being flanked heavily by the Dornish. Meanwhile, the Reach had been cut in two, with the Stormlands clashing against the Westerlands. The carefully constructed plans were falling apart as the Riverlands surged forth to attack the Ironborn, dragging the knights of the Eyrie forward along with them to clash against one half of the Reach, the Stormlanders, and the Westerlands.
Robert really had made a right mess of it, Brandon thought to himself, finding that he didn't exactly mind as he dove into the fight himself. He fought conservatively, partitioning his strength and stamina as he knew the day would be long. His crafted blade struck out like a viper's tongue, smacking and thrusting at the Crownlanders who tried to slow his charge. His horsemen followed him faithfully, presenting a wall that pushed through their formation, paving the way for the foot in their wake, while they slowly ground down the Crownlander's numbers.
It hadn't been his expectation to take down Prince Rhaegar first of the day, but Brandon found himself hungry for victory against the Prince. Let him be disgraced by being the first to be eliminated at the Grand Melee. That was a stain on his reputation that would never wash off.
Though even as Brandon shouted orders and took to the task, he could admit that Prince Rhaegar was hardly idle and making it easy for him. Five of the Kingsguard rode with the Prince, and the Prince led the countercharge himself. His black plate with red rubies cut an impressive figure, Brandon noted. It was almost unthinkable that Rhaegar could come from a pathetic waste of a man like King Aerys. But, that was hardly important.
Brandon urged his horse to put himself on a collision course with Prince Rhaegar's horsemen, and unlike the collision between Jaime Lannister and Robert Baratheon - this charge was no fast-paced collision. It was slow and deliberate, as both sides were forced to wade through men to reach one another. Which is why it felt like he was forced to wait for days before he found himself clashing blades with Jonothor Darry, a member of the Kingsguard.
Fighting from horseback was a tedious affair. Brandon liked to move on his feet in a fight, and he felt entirely too stationary as steel clashed. They circled one another, shining their blades that were either caught by the opposing sword, or upon their shields. Staying still on horseback in a field of men was a death sentence. If it wasn't for his own footmen, Brandon imagined he'd have been unhorsed by now. The same for Ser Jonothor, with the Crownlanders clashing with Northmen around them.
Others, however, weren't faring so well. From the corners of his eye, he could see men being pulled from their horses before vanishing underneath the feet of clashing armies. The neatly defined lines that marked the frontlines had been lost, turning everything into a mad frenzy of violence.
The lapse in attention nearly cost him as Brandon felt a blade rap against the side of his helmet, attempting to lift his visor for a clear shot at his face. The maneuver might have worked if a Northman hadn't jumped up to grab the offending arm. He tried to pull Ser Jonothor down, eating a shield bash to the face that'd likely have the man spitting out teeth, but he did his duty well as Brandon spied an opening.
His sword darted forward, biting into the mail coif under the Kingsguard's helm, and jabbed him in the throat. The narrow tip of his arming sword found purchase, breaking through the few chain links that prevented his sword from sinking past it and into flesh. Yet, the very moment that Brandon felt the chainmail give, he stilled the thrust. "Do you yield, Ser?" Brandon asked sharply, keenly aware that he had nearly killed a Kingsguard.
While killing in the Melee was common, it wasn't something that was exactly condoned. The field of battle wasn't a true one, and even on a killing field, honor and mercy were expected of the victor. In particular, to those of noble birth, at least.
Ser Jonothor breathed in sharply, stilling for a moment as if he was considering how to escape his blade before Brandon could push it through. Then he sighed, "I yield to you, Lord Brandon. What ransom would you have of me?" He asked, holding up a hand and making a show of sheathing his sword.
"I would have your horse, Ser. For the duration of the Melee. He shall be returned to you afterwards, hopefully hale and healthy as you gave him to me," Brandon said, withdrawing the blade.
"You are generous, lord Brandon. Though I hope you will forgive me if I don't wish you well in the battle to come," Ser Jonothor remarked, inclining his head to something over his shoulder. It was then that Brandon saw that Ser Arthur Dayne was forcing his way through the crowd of people, his blade Dawn flashing with speeds that simply didn't belong to a greatsword.
All of a sudden, Brandon found his mouth rather dry. "Expect? No. I would appreciate some luck, though," he griped, earning a ghost of a smile from Ser Jonothor. However, he discounted his horse all the same, holding up his hands as he dutifully walked to the fringe of the battle where the wounded and defeated gathered.
Dealing with the Sword of Morning was a bit beyond Brandon's expectations. He had spared a hope that someone else would simply drag him down or deal with him before Brandon found himself in the sights of one of the greatest swordsmen in the Seven kingdoms. They said that Dawn was equal to any valyrian steel sword. Something that Brandon had no eagerness to test, but he was no coward. After taking a bracing breath, Brandon urged his horse forward to meet Ser Arthur.
Only for a dagger to fly by Brandon, spinning beneath his arm so close that when Brandon initially saw it, he thought the dagger had been meant for him. Right up until it was implanted into the horse Ser Arthur rode on, giving it the appearance of a unicorn for a brief moment before the horse buckled under the Sword of Morning.
Brandon didn't even need to look over his shoulder to tell who did that favor for him, but he did just in time to see Paul launch himself off the horse Ser Jonothor had ransomed, flipping through the air and landing but mere feet from the fallen Ser Arthur.
It wasn't just him who held their breath as Ser Arthur began to lift himself up, proving that he was unharmed from his horse giving out. Everyone who caught sight of the two suddenly found their weapons stilling as, even on the battlefield, their curiosity got the better of them. A question that no one had thought to ask before today, but now they were being served it on a silver platter.
Ser Arthur's prowess was already legendary. He had carved his name into history for their generation. Brandon had few doubts that Ser Arthur would be remembered in the same breath as the Aemon Targaryen, the Dragonknight. However, with just this one battle, Paul Atreides proved without a shadow of a doubt that he was cut from the same cloth.
"Hold! Hold! Let them duel!" Brandon found himself shouting, raising up an arm and waving it madly to get people's attention. His voice was nearly lost in the chaos of the larger battle, but when his voice was joined by Prince Rhaegar.
"Form a square! Let no one interfere!" Prince Rhaegar shouted, and that stilled his side of things. There was confusion rippling out, amongst the stands and the broader fight, but the two were granted room. It was entirely informal. It was downright foolishness. But everyone on the field was on it for glory and the love for battle - and there was no promise of a finer fight than this.
Ser Arthur ripped the dagger out from his mare's head before returning it to Paul, who caught it deftly. Paul offered a nod, then a strange salute to Ser Arthur - his arm over his chest, then raising the blade to his forehead. He must have said something because Ser Arthur responded as he leveled his broadsword at Paul.
"Dawn is made of sterner stuff than that."
What that meant, Brandon didn't know but he found himself looking to Prince Rhaegar, catching his gaze. The Prince's violet eyes met his own steel gray before the Prince inclined his head, and Brandon found himself returning the gesture. The truce wasn't spoken with words, but Brandon knew the terms all the same.
None shall interfere. They shall not fight until the victim was decided. There were no consequences for breaking the truce, but Brandon couldn't imagine himself breaking it first.
The two stood still for a moment, and it felt as if the arena itself was holding its breath.
Then they both moved.
Faster than Brandon thought possible, faster than he had any right to, Ser Arthur swung his greatsword three times in the span of a breath. The air whistled as it split, cutting where Paul had stood a split second before. Paul leaned out of the way of the first vertical downswing before he reversed his grip to create an X with his dirks for the second horizontal backswing. Then, as Paul stepped forward, Ser Arthur made to strike Paul with his pomel.
Paul countered flawlessly, a dirk going up towards the armpit of Ser Arthur, before the blow had to be abandoned by Ser Arthur, halfswording Dawn with a swipe of the blade that nearly took Paul's head off. While that blow had to be abandoned, Paul merely attacked with his other hand as he leaned down to avoid it, attacking Ser Arthur's knee. He managed to find purchase, but only briefly before Ser Arthur jerked his leg back.
Ser Arthur took a half step back, readjusting his stance, but retreated no further when Paul approached once more. His attacks were more restrained, realizing that Paul had no fear of Dawn's deadly edge or his advantage of range. This time, Paul launched into a dizzying flurry of attacks - it felt like no less than a dozen, yet half of them were feints. Ser Arthur's reaction proved that he was worthy of the stories told of him, and he was larger than them all as he kept up with the flurry, blocking the true blows while ignoring every feint.
Yet Paul was proving that he was his equal in every single way as he took another step forward, forcing Ser Arthur to retreat another half step, before hooking the edge of one dirk around the back of Dawn's hilt, yanking the blade forward in an attempt to disarm Ser Arthur. Ser Arthur responded by going to shoulder check Paul, but was forced to abandon the attempt when Paul thrust up with his other dirk. Masterfully, Ser Arthur deflected the blow using the cheek of his helmet, but in doing so, he presented his face to Paul to strike him with an elbow with the same thrust.
Ser Arthur stumbled back, but Paul wasn't keen on letting him recover from the blow. With Ser Arthur's helmet ever so slightly out of position, blocking his view, Paul spun one dirk in his palm and jabbed it into his armpit. Ser Arthur reacted by attempting to deliver an elbow of his own, but the balance of the fight was tipped irrevocably with a single mistake.
Brandon watched on with awe as Paul withdrew the blade, dodging the elbow before he kicked out with a foot that knocked Ser Arthur's leg out from underneath him. Even as he fell, he thrusted up with Dawn, attempting to skewer Paul, only for the blade to skirt off the edge of one of Paul's dirks. Paul pounced on the fallen knight, using the dirk to push Dawn out of position to thrust the dagger towards Ser Arthur's throat, stopping just shy of his chin.
Ser Arthur stilled, but then Brandon watched as Paul's lips moved. The crowd cheering deafened him utterly - he wouldn't have been able to hear a warhorn being blown, even if it was directly into his ear.
It wasn't a demand for Ser Arthur to yield. That wouldn't have gotten the reaction that Ser Arthur gave to hearing whatever Paul said. Instead of relaxing, accepting his defeat, Ser Arthur flinched, almost as if he had been struck. His body went tense, as if he were expecting another blow as Paul's lips continued to move… only to go limp like a puppet whose strings had been cut once Paul finished.
Uncertainty pooled in Brandon's gut. The victory, however temporary and short-lived that it might be, was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment. Instead, he found his thoughts consumed by a single thought.
What did Paul tell Ser Arthur?
...
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A Golden Path by Ideas-Guy
Dune & A Song of Ice and Fire Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Drama, Paul A., Eddard S./Ned, Words: 172k+, Favs: 2k+, Follows: 2k+, Published: Jun 17, 2024 Updated: Aug 24
882Chapter 19: Foundation 2-10
"Yes! Yes! Brandon- get them! Get them- yes!" Rickard heard his only daughter hiss with approval, and he found himself very grateful for the private booth that was arranged for the Wardens and Lord Paramounts. She was entirely transfixed by the conflict below, as his son and her brother were putting on quite the show. Rickard hadn't quite been sure what to expect from such a grand battle where eight sides fought for supremacy.
Perhaps that the Melee would be more fragmented. Those that couldn't find ready alliances being crushed beneath those that code, until only the grand alliances survived. Then the same fate would happen to the lesser alliances, until the victorious then turned on each other. One would remain the victor, and with victory came glory and prestige.
Rickard was a greedy man. He knew that. Which is why he had tried to restrain his hopes - placing in the top three, with Brandon remaining whole, was the most that he could ask for. That's what he told himself. But, much like his daughter, Rickard found himself hoping for more.
It had been an hour since the Melee began, and the reality of it was nothing that Rickard had expected.
The Reach had been eliminated entirely. The Stormlanders carved them in two at the onset, and they simply never recovered. And, with their fall, one of the strongest contenders for the victor had fallen first. Next came the Iron Islanders. On the sea, they were peerless. Rickard loathed them, but he could recognize that. But, on foot and dry land? Surrounded by those whose coasts they had raided and pillaged for millenia?
The only shock about them being eliminated was that they hadn't been eliminated first.
The Westerlands weren't fairing so well. Jaime Lannister had fallen to Robert Baratheon in single combat, and they lost their leadership with him. Worse, because of that reckless charge, both they and the Stormlanders had lost their cavalry. They were looking to be the next eliminated as their numbers were being ground away. Meanwhile, the Stormlanders managed to put up a united front with Dorne, and with it, they were hitting Rickard's own alliance - the North, the Eyrie, and the Riverlands.
All the while, the Crownlands were being pushed to the side, crushed between the grand alliances.
A dark part of Rickard wondered if he was watching history in the making. A sign of the future.
"Yes! Yes!" Lyanna nearly jumped out of her seat to cheer, and was only held at bay by Ned grabbing her hand before she could fully rise to her feet. Ned seemed entirely too amused for his own good, but he still did his duty in preventing her from making a scene. Though, Rickard was sure tongues would still wag about her obvious excitement. They'd call it unladylike - a Northern barbarian who got excited by the fight and bloodshed.
It pricked at his pride, but Rickard mollified himself by watching the centerpiece of the Melee, and that was the North.
Or, rather, Paul Atreides.
In an event that was already going to be spoken about for generations, Paul had placed himself in the center of it. His duel with Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of Morning, was already the stuff of legends. But in the time since, he had also dueled Ser Lewyn Martell and Ser Oswell Whent - the best of the kingsguard felled one after another. It was with his daggers that he cut lines through the formations that Brandon exploited to full effect.
And it was now that the legend that Paul was crafting for himself was gaining another stanza as the audience was enraptured by the duel between him and Robert Baratheon. Overwhelming strength against pure speed and dexterity. The rest of the Melee felt almost like a distraction as the two young men fought to dazzling effect.
Robert had come prepared to fight Paul, that much was evident. Likely armed with knowledge and experience of their time together on Skagos. The young man, who normally fought like a raging bull with entirely too much precision, was fighting defensively, waiting for that one opportunity he would need to end the fight. Paul was no less aware of it, so he sent a dizzying amount of feints, attempting to provoke a reaction that would decide the outcome.
There was part of him that wasn't certain who he wanted to win. Paul had covered himself in glory already, and any more could overshadow his son. He was gaining great influence and riches already, but that came from trade. Something that all lords looked down upon, but that distaste for it and him could be tempered. Westeros loved its warriors and knights, Northerners and Southerners alike. Rickard had witnessed first hand exactly how much you could get away with when you were good in a fight.
After this? Defeating three members of the Kingsguard, and one of the finest fighters of his generation? Even as lords would look down upon him for his sparse holdings and wealth through trade, they would admire him as a warrior. It felt as if one of the levers that Rickard could use on Paul was being greased against his palm.
The other part, and the admittedly much larger part of him, wanted Paul to win. To pave the way to victory, making the North the uncontested greatest warriors of the Seven Kingdoms. To make his son admired because he was the one that led them on the field, and Rickard would make damn sure that everyone knew it.
Rickard was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly missed it when it happened.
Robert saw his opportunity or he simply got tired of the feints. His warhammer, three times the size of a normal one, yet he swung it twice as fast. For a split second, Rickard wondered if he was about to watch Paul die as the swing was sent at his head. His heart lurched in his chest, the foundations that he built his vision of the future on felt like they were built on sand.
Yet, Paul simply leaned his head out of the way by pivoting on a foot so he spun around it. Then, with the very same action, he trusted up at Robert's throat with his dirks. Robert went so still that Rickard then feared that Paul had just killed the heir of the Stormlands, only for Robert to throw his head back. He couldn't hear it, but Rickard recognized the same deep bellied laugh that he had apparently inherited from his father.
"Robert lost?" Ned muttered, sounding as if he didn't know how to feel about that. "He'll be sore about that. I think he bet all his winning on himself."
"Will he hold a grudge?" Rickard asked, startling Ned out of his thoughts, but his son quickly shook his head.
"Only if Paul refuses to fight him again," Ned reassured him and Rickard breathed a bit easier. His relationship with Steffon was strained, and it would only grow more strained as Steffon realized what the others were doing in recruiting Tywin. However, Robert and Ned had a fine friendship that reminded him of his own when they were their age. And, as much as it made his heart ache at the thought, if Steffon died then that friendship would be the bridge to bring the Stormlands and Dorne into the fold.
Five of the Seven Kingdoms.
There was an errant thought in the back of Rickard's mind that he couldn't quite quash. Even as he watched the rest of the Melee unfold. It was a shameful thought. One that disgusted him, but it came to him all the same and he pondered it as he watched but paid no attention to the Melee.
The Westerlands were eliminated next, following the Stormlands. Dorne ground away at the Crownlands, with Oberyn Martell being the one to fell Prince Rhaegar. Something that brought only momentary relief that it hadn't been Brandon to do it, as that would polarize things with the Crown and jeopardize the temporary favor they enjoyed.
After that, Paul defeated Oberyn Martell in another duel, which in turn led to Dorne being crushed under the weight of three relatively intact kingdoms.
There was a slight twitch from Rickard when both the Riverlands and the Eyrie fell upon the North as they were the last three standing. However, it was to be expected. Brandon dueled Elbert Arryn, while Paul dueled the Blackfish. It became nothing less than a brawl - three hours of nonstop fighting was brutal, and none had the manpower reserves to cycle the lines that they fought in. The once graceful and noble fight became filled with brawling, exhausted offense against a spent defense.
The Riverlands were the next eliminated, leaving only a dozen men of the North against thirty of the Eyrie. Rickard braced himself for second place, yet one by one, the Eyrie knights were brought low.
Then, with Brandon's defeat of Elbert…
"We won!" Lyanna cheered, and this time Ned didn't bother to stop her because he was on his feet alongside her. The crowd was roaring at the unexpected victor, enjoying a good show even if it had cost them their bets. New life had been breathed into the victors as they began to strut about along the battlefield, arms and weapons in the air as they shouted back at the roaring crowd.
Rickard breathed in slowly, allowing himself a moment to savor the victory. And hoped desperately that it was a sign of things to come.
…
"Yes," Tywin Lannister uttered the words with a heavy since of finality and barely concealed rage outside of the medical room. The Proud Lion's hands were clenched into fists so tight that they trembled with white knuckles. His gaze was boring a hole through solid stone as he sat with a quite unrelenting fury.
Rickard hadn't said a word yet. He just made the approach under the guise of wanting to wish his son well, as Jaime had apparently been badly injured during the Melee. Rickard only heard about it after the whole ordeal was over, and he realized it was an opportunity to draw Tywin into the conspiracy. "Yes?"
"Yes," Tywin confirmed through gritted teeth, turning his gaze to Rickard and he saw the unrestrained hatred in his bright green eyes. "Your efforts have hardly been subtle, Stark. Fosterings, marriages - only the goal remained obscure. Aerys is under the impression that it's for coin, especially now. However, I recognize a snake when I see one." Rickard supposed he should be insulted, but he wasn't. It was hard to take offense when the remark was true.
"Now, you come to me - out of favor, my son and heir crippled." He spat the word out like the bitterest of poisons. "All on the order of the king."
Ah. Tywin saw a conspiracy against him. And, perhaps, he might be right to. From what he knew of Robert, the boy didn't have a thought in his head that someone else hadn't given him. Simple but direct. It could very well be possible that Steffon, or even the king himself, had approached him about what should be done should he face Jaime Lannister on the field. There was no guarantee, of course, but luck was simply opportunity meeting preparation.
"Twenty years. I've given him twenty years of service and this is how I am repaid," Tywin continued, and Rickard found himself… unsteady. Never before hard he heard such a maddened how of rage be so tightly restrained in a man's voice. Tywin sounded like he was furious enough to tear the whole Red Keep apart with his own bare hands, yet that rage was bound in a leash and chains. Turned into an ice cold fury as chilling as winter. "Your intentions are plain to me, Stark."
Rickard lingered a moment before he walked forward and took a seat next to the fuming Lannister Lord. "How is he?"
The question got a crack on the mask that Tywin struggled to hide. "He's lost an arm," he informed, his tone harsh. As if he had to force the words out his mouth. "Not his sword arm, thank the gods, but-" Tywin didn't so much as trail off as he cut himself off, not trusting himself to continue.
There wasn't really anything to say to that. Ant reassurance would be worthless. The loss of an arm was crippling. Debilitating. Jaime had been reputed as a potential great warrior, and he'd never realize it with a single arm. Still, he had to say something. "He's young. He can adapt."
Tywin said nothing, but his jaw clenched. Rickard could hear his teeth grinding, and it was a wonder that they didn't shatter. But, when he did speak, his voice was tightly controlled, "My daughter will wed Elbert Arryn. My son will marry Lysa Tully."
Rickard swallowed his indignation that his children hadn't even been considered. "Aye. You'll have to discuss weddings with them, but they're prepared to agree to that." He agreed, equal parts apprehensive and relieved at how easy it was to bring Tywin on board. "Anything else?"
"He dies," Tywin voiced, and there was no room for argument.
That wasn't ideal. No, it was quite the opposite - that was the exact opposite of what Rickard wanted. The goal of the alliance was collective bargaining power that would impose limitations on the King. Limitations that should have been put in place the moment the royal family lost their dragons.
Killing the king delegitimizes the conspiracy. It made it a coup, even if they did install Rhaegar onto the throne after removing Aerys from power.
Yet, it was a condition that Rickard had been prepared to accept. "The king is ill as it is… and these are trying times," Rickard replied, his voice low. A public execution wouldn't be accepted, but in the months following the imposition of their demands? When Aerys was shuffled out of sight and forgotten?
People would suspect, of course. They'd be fools not to. But, without proof, it became difficult to act.
"So they are," Tywin agreed, and with that, they sat in silence.
…
Rhaegar felt like someone had kicked his legs out from underneath him, "He said what?" Even now, when he wanted to shout the question at the top of his lungs, he didn't dare to. He whispered the question sharply, his face paling and his mind racing.
Arthur seemed every bit as uncertain as Rhaegar felt as they recuperated in his quarters. "He said… 'tell the prince that he has an ally against those that lurk beyond the Wall.'"
Rhaegar hadn't meant for Arthur to repeat himself, but the words only truly settled when he heard them again. Paul Atreides, the unofficial grand champion of the Melee, and the man who plagued his dreams like a chill he couldn't cast off… was an ally? "How could he… how could he know?" The question felt weak and feeble as he uttered it, and more than anything else, Rhaegar felt…
Scared.
Fear gripped his heart because everything was tossed into disarray. The assumptions that he was building off collapsed like a sandcastle before the tide. He had more questions than he could count, and he was afraid of the answers. Yet, even as fear gripped him, there was hope.
An ally. Something he never dared to hope for. Even Arthur, his fastest friend and closest confidant, struggled to believe him at times when he spoke of the White Walkers. Rhaegar didn't begrudge him fir his doubts. Rhaegar rather wished that he was simply mad.
No, he realized, leaning heavily on a chair. He had hoped that he was. He hoped that every preparation that he would ever make would prove to be unneeded. That all of it was a figment of an overactive imagination. He'd likely be remembered as a fool, but Rhaegar would take that over something dreadfully worse - that he was right.
And now Paul was offering a hand in alliance because he also believed in the threat beyond the Walls.
"I must speak with him," Rhaegar heaved, struggling to breath through the lump in his throat.
"Is that wise, my prince?" Arthur quickly challenged him. "He claims to be an ally, but allies don't lurk in the shadows and speak through intermediaries. He's had ample opportunity to speak with you about this. The only reason he would tell you this now is if he wants you to come to him on his terms." Rhaegar bit his tongue, knowing that Arthur was right.
Why now?
What changed?
"Perhaps," Rhaegar readily agreed. "But perhaps he had reason to wait? House Atreides is young, Arthur. Very young. Perhaps he wished to solidify himself before rumors swirled around the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms meeting with him? Not many could survive that kind of attention without solid foundations."
Arthur clenched his jaw, telling Rhaegar that he didn't entirely disagree but still didn't like the idea of it. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became - what changed was that Paul had a flawless reputation as an exemplary warrior. There was no question that he was one of the greatest in the Seven Kingdoms - there couldn't be when he handily defeated some of the greatest one after another.
It was alarming how skilled he was, if Rhaegar was being honest with himself. He was talented with the blade, and he was trained by some of the greatest swordsmen in the Kingdoms. He never shirked his training either. Yet, Rhaegar had felt nothing short of relief that he hadn't joined the tally of great knights Paul bested.
"Wait until the celebratory banquet, my prince," Arthur said, and there was a note of pleading in his voice.
He considered it, but he shook his head all the same. No. He had waited long enough. Fretted long enough. In every vision Rhaegar had seen of Paul, it was him bringing the Long Night to the Wall. He wasn't yet sure if he was an ally or an enemy, but he wouldn't hide from confrontation any longer.
"It is not unnatural that I would like to speak to such a renowned warrior," Rhaegar voiced, standing taller as he settled on a course of action. For better or worse. "Or that I would like to speak to him prior to the banquet. He did distinguish himself, after all."
Arthur, his friend, couldn't quite keep his disappointed sigh silent and Rhaegar offered a rueful grin as compensation. All the same, Arthur bowed his head. "I'll bring the message to him myself. Where would you like this meeting to be held?"
Rhaegar gave it but a moment of thought. "The godswood," he decided easily. The one place they could speak in peace with privacy.
There, at long last, he would finally get the answers he so desperately sought.
Who was Paul Atreides?
...
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