"There is an art in creating your own legend. In Westeros, the best narratives begin with tourneys, and when they tell my story in some distant future, the bards would start with today." - Galladon, the Titan of Tarth.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Stepping onto the stirrup of my horse, I blew out a steaming breath from beneath my full-face helm and swung my foot over the saddle. My body settled easily above Smoker, the white courser so familiar with my armored weight that he barely even twitched. Still, I leaned down closer to his head, running a gauntlet through his pale mane.
"Ready now, boy?" I said. "Just you and I again. You and I against these medieval bastards."
The horse whinnied softly, twisting his neck back to shoot me the equine equivalent of a 'do you really have to ask?' glance.
I was no warg as far as I knew, but the connection I'd formed with Smoker, the way we could read each other's intentions from the most minute of movements, could never be considered natural. Certainly not with my old notion of natural possibilities. A quirk of this world, certainly.
Footsteps hurried across the sand.
I lifted my gaze as a red-haired squire jogged toward me from the weapons' tent with four jousting lances held over his shoulder, the weight of the lances seeming no problem for the tall, stocky boy. He skidded to a stop just short of jabbing Smoker in the flank.
"Some of the lances, ser," he said, not even having the decency to appear out of breath. "For your choosing."
I looked down at the boy, my interested expression hidden beneath the helm.
Beyond his size, the squire seemed completely unremarkable. No glimmer in the eye that hinted at hidden potential, no embroidery on his clothes marking him out as the son of a noble house.
In fact, the only characteristic that sparked any reaction was the constellation of red pimples breaking over his nose and cheeks like firecrackers, the acne all the more noticeable given his large and pale moon-like face.
Earlier, I had paid a few coppers to the closest unattended squire I could find to carry my lances and help me with my armor after every joust. But since my last tilt before the noon break, moon-face here had eagerly latched onto me without asking for a penny.
I usually made a concerted effort to learn the name of all those around me without regard for station or family name, but considering my current situation, I had not given that social job any thought.
Now, I found myself regretting that.
"Your name, squire?" I asked.
My voice came warbled from inside all the metal. It helped to make it sound deeper than it really was. The boy snapped to attention at my question.
"Me? I am, uh, I mean, it's Pate, ser. Pate."
"Just Pate?"
The squire cringed. He looked down to his feet, scratched at his red hair with his free hand.
"Yes, ser."
Smallfolk, then. How did he get to squiring at such a prestigious tournament?
I shrugged. "Very well, Pate." I said, deciding to give him something to look forward to. I could use a squire once they knighted me. "After today, I will be counting on you two days hence to squire for me as well. Understood?"
"Two days, ser?" He seemed to puzzle that for a moment, fiery eyebrows scrunching together in thought. Then he caught my meaning. "You mean… you mean for the finals, ser?"
I gave a subtle nudge with my knee and Smoker neighed and pranced beneath me, turning in a circle so that we stood facing the tilt lane.
On the other side, my next adversary emerged from a corner, some Westerlander knight wearing silver-enameled armor over a beautiful chestnut prancer.
I felt my blood rising in anticipation, the roiling heat of pre-battle stoking my resolve to see this through, the start of my very own legend. I found myself smiling in my armored darkness.
"I didn't tell you before, did I?" I said, only loud enough for the squire to hear me. "I'm winning this whole damned thing, Pate. Count on it."
xxx
The afternoon sun hid behind a great chain of iron-gray clouds, and the air beneath the walls of Lannisport was crisp and only slightly tinged with the collective stench of humanity as crowds of smallfolk and nobles packed the stands around the tiltyard.
Good weather for knocking men off their horses with long sticks.
Opening up my visor, I wiped away the sweat that had built up on my brow over the last few tilts. The sun wasn't out, but the enclosure of the armor and the heat coming off Smoker beneath me still felt stifling.
Even then, I did not feel any fatigue. My breathing was calm and paced, my muscles sore and well-used but not anywhere near their limit.
From the corner of my eyes, I caught Pate jogging over with a waterskin. Unclasping my helm for a moment, I took a deep pull from the skin, exposing my jaw to some fresh air.
The smallfolk crowd gathered along the sloped embankment cheered as they got a glimpse of the mystery knight beneath the armor, though they were much more subdued in their adoration as they had been in previous matches.
I didn't blame them.
Across the tiltyard, another Westerlander, the eighth of the day and third of the afternoon, though not a minor knight like all those before.
Ser Tygett Lannister sat tall above his dappled stallion, red-and-gold armor unmarred despite the three lances I'd already broken against his shield.
Tygett was a large man, blessed to have been born with a soldier's physique in this violent world. Yet as I watched, he tested his left arm with careful movements before accepting a fresh shield from his squire.
Had I put my full strength behind the blow, I bet I could have taken the arm off at the shoulder. I chuckled lowly. No, I wasn't that strong. Not yet, at least. I was still a growing teenager.
The crowd went wild when Tygett took up his lance again, lifted it up straight in the air, and bowed his head slightly toward me. He was good to keep going, then.
Handing Pate back the waterskin, I picked up the lance from where I had it resting across the saddle and offered the same salute back at the Lannister knight.
People seemed to have enjoyed our exchanges so far, but three tilts had been plenty. It was past time I took the man down.
I could've gotten him before but, given what I planned, I didn't want to humiliate the host's brother. Or accidentally kill him.
No amount of brute strength would save me from Tywin's wrath then, even if he would play nice in front of the King and the rest of the nobles. I didn't fancy having my throat slit in my sleep in a few months from now, so Tygett would live. His ego might be bruised for a bit though, especially once he found out it was a fifteen year old boy who got him on his ass.
Although, by then, I'd wager he wouldn't mind it that much. Not when I planned to sweep the entire field along with him.
Tygett trotted up to his lane and I matched him on my side. A gust of wind blew from the ocean, carrying with it the familiar scent of brine and fish. I had grown to enjoy the smell of the sea in this life.
Red and gold streamers, which decorated the tourney grounds and the streets of Lannisport, flapped high in their posts as if cheering for their homegrown knight.
Above the royal stand to my left, which towered over even the other noble-packed bleachers, a giant flag bearing the symbol of House Targaryen came alive in the air—and for a moment, dragons danced in the sky once more.
xxx
AN: This is a story I started a while ago, and even posted the first couple of chapters here in WN. Back with it and it will go the long distance. Hope you enjoy it!
Throw some Power Stones my way if you like the story! Reviews and Comments also help! Thanks for reading!