The Royal Box had fallen into a hush when Arthur had been swarmed by the four men. Several among the gathered lords and ladies had leaned forward, gazing with interest as they watched the ambush unfold. Whispers had swept through the shaded box, though they quickly fell silent as Arthur began to fight back. One man against four should have been a swift end.
But it wasn't.
Gasps came when he turned the first strike aside. When he flipped one man over his shoulder and when the other squire got involved, the tension began to shift into awe. By the time Arthur had reclaimed his sword, stood his ground, and then fought off the last of them, the mood had changed entirely.
"Now that," Aegon said as he leaned back in his seat, "was a proper show of strength and skill if I've ever seen one."
Beside him Betha nodded. "He fought like a knight with years of service behind him. There's discipline in him that I've never seen in someone so Young. He must've have an incredible amount of talent."
Aegon's eyes shifted to where his son sat, a few chairs down, watching the same scene. "What say you, Duncan?" he asked.
Duncan Targaryen did not answer at first. His gaze was not on Arthur, nor on the field at all. Instead, it lingered on the young guest across the royal pavilion. More specifically, his eyes were fixed on Cassie, who leaned forward with both her hands clasped in her lap, her face still pale from what she had witnessed.
Aegon called his name again, this time more firmly. "Duncan."
The younger prince startled, blinking before turning his head quickly toward his father. "Apologies," he said, adjusting his posture. He cleared his throat and offered a polite nod. "He has some skill, that one. He adapts quickly and seems to do well fighting multiple opponents."
A soft laugh came from Rhaella, seated near the side with Mira and Cassie on either side of her. Her fingers drummed once on the armrest before she leaned over toward the girls. "He certainly knows how to use his hands," she said under her breath. "I wonder if he's as clever with them outside the ring."
Mira's face turned red as she looked down at her lap. Cassie raised a hand to cover her mouth, then glanced sideways at Mira, who looked mortified. Rhaella sat back with a sly smile but said nothing more. Of course, she already knew the answer to her own question. But that was not something she would ever tell Mira.
Further along the royal box, Jaehaerys sat with his jaw set and his mouth drawn tight. His expression held the sort of displeasure a man might wear while tasting spoiled fruit. He said nothing about Arthur's performance, despite loookinh like he wished to open his mouth and breath fire on him. Instead, Shaera broke the silence by pointing toward the opposite side of the field. "Look there," she said, nudging her husband lightly with her elbow. "Aerys and Steffon are pressing forward. They've done well so far."
That drew attention. Several heads turned to the right edge of the field, where the Targaryen prince and his Baratheon cousin were moving through a cluster of men.
Aegon nodded with approval. "Aerys has found his footing it seems, I worried he'd be overwhelmed by the scale of the melee."
Rhaelleleaned forward and smiled. "And Steffon too. It is a shame his father could not be here. He would have been proud."
"I think your brother fights well," Mira said, glancing toward Rhaella.
Rhaella gave her a flat look. "Do not let him hear you say so. He already struts like a peacock, he doesn't need to get a bigger head."
"He cannot be that bad," Cassie said, brushing her hair back over her ear.
Rhaella shook her head. "Worse. He is already hard to stomach. If someone humbles him before the melee is done, I shall not lose sleep over it."
...
Down on the field, the dust had thickened from the footwork of dozens of fighters, and the sun beat down across the tourney ground. Aerys and Steffon stood back to back for a moment, catching their breath. The men they had just finished dealing with were groaning in the dirt or lying still. A handful of common sellswords and farmboys had dared to rush them, but they had not lasted long.
Steffon gave a boisterous laugh as he disarmed a peasant boy with one violent swing, sending the youth's sword flying into the dirt. He followed the blow with a kick that landed squarely in the boy's chest. The lad fell with a yelp and rolled across the ground. Steffon turned to Aerys with a grin. "This is hardly a challenge."
Aerys parried a half-hearted swing from a smith apprentice, then thrust his blade into the man's shoulder and back handed him with his armoured fist. The man collapsed with a groan holding his bloody nose.
"They sent sheep to the slaughter," Aerys said. "I think you might be my only real opponent today."
"Then I'll see you at the end," Steffon said as he ran off toward another cluster of men.
Aerys had just cut down another man, the slash across the peasant's chest shallow but painful and made him screamm. He stepped forward and drove the hilt of his sword into the man's face... once, then again, and again. By the fifth blow, the man stopped moving and collapsed to the floor.
"Steffon!" Aerys called, turning as he wiped blood from the corner of his lip. "Mayhaps I should tie one hand behind my—"
He barely had time to finish the sentence before he had to eat his words.
From the side, a tall, hard-faced sellsword stepped forward. He carried a flail that he swung in slow circles as he approached, a wide smile formed on his face as he looked at the prince, flashing numerous brown and rotted teeth. Aerys raised his blade and took a cautious step back. The man however advanced with three quick strides.
Then the flail lashed out.
Aerys moved aside but not far enough. The edge of the spiked ball clipped his arm, tearing into the sleeve and bruising the flesh beneath. He grimaced and brought his blade up in time to block a second swing. Then a third swing came in low towards his legs. He tried to jump back but his foot slipped on the churned-up soil. The blow caught his side and he crashed to the ground. He rolled quickly, mud smearing across his armour, but the sellsword did not wait. The man swung again and again, forcing Aerys to scramble across the dirt. Twice more the weapon came within inches of his head. He heard the crowd gasping. He heard shouts, though not their words.
...
In the royal box, Jaehaerys was on his feet.
"Why is no one helping him?" he demanded, his hand raised toward the field. "The Kingsguard is standing idle, what is their duty but to guard the Prince!"
"I told him not to underestimate his opponents," Duncan said quietly from his seat. "He's not invincible, though he's right father, perhaps you should not have made the rules so severe for the melee."
Aegon did not frown at his son's words for he understood them. He had made the melee rules much harsher than they had ever been before, and for that he had his reasons. His sons may not understand but if the stirrings from Essos were correct, they would need exceptional fighting men within the next few years.
...
On the field, Aerys's boot caught on a rock, and he stumbled while trying to get up. The flail came down again. But this time, the man overreached. The flail hit too close to Aerys, and he managed to lunge forward and catch the chain with both hands. The weight yanked his arms when the sellsword tried to pull it back but he held on. He drove his boot into the sellsword's knee with all the force he could muster. The leg bent, and the man buckled.
Aerys seized the moment. He threw the chain aside snatched up his sword and rose in one swift movement. The sellsword tried to recover, but Aerys stepped in and twisted his body, slashing the blade across the man's face. Blood sprayed as the nose was sheared clean off and a deep gash tore across his cheek.
The sellsword screamed and dropped his weapon.
Aerys stood over him, chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Blood ran down his blade. The jeers of the crowd sounded distant now. He looked down at the man writhing in pain, and he felt something twist inside him. Anger surged through his veins, at the pure humiliation he felt at being cast down by this peasant... this peon... this ingrate.
He stepped forward and drove his sword into the man's belly.
Then he stabbed again.
And again.
And again.
Each thrust came with a curse spat between clenched teeth. The man's body twitched and shook after each stab, then went still, but Aerys did not stop until blood coated both his hands and the dirt had turned black beneath the corpse.
In the royal box, Aegon had risen halfway from his seat though if he was unhappy about what just happened it was not seen on his face.
"What in the Seven Hells is he doing?" Duncan said with a frown on his face.
The act of brutality that Aerys had shown was something that none of them had ever seen before, yet it disturbed them all in ways that they felt down to their bone.
Though none so more than Aegon.
'Everytime a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin...'
Aegon could only hope that what he had just witnessed had been born from heat and wounded pride rather than from something deeper that could not be corrected... the thought stayed with him even as the noise of the melee rose again and pulled the attention of the crowd back to the field.
...
Arthur was already moving when the sound got louder, he had moved away from the bodies of Rudges men and moved closer towards the centre, it was there that Two men approached him together from the left, close enough that he could see the similarity in their faces and the way they mirrored each other's steps. Brothers most likely. They did not rush him however. They spread slightly, each angling to take a different side, their blades held at midd height while they tested his reactions.
Arthur shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet and let his shoulders relax. He did not charge. He let them come to him.
The first brother stepped in with a quick cut aimed at Arthur's shoulder while the other followed a breath later with a slash meant to catch his leg. Arthur stepped back and to the side in one smooth motion, his blade turning just enough to guide the first strike away while his feet carried him out of the second. Both quickly reset before they pressed him together, their blades rising and falling in turns, both trying to keep him fixed in one place.
Arthur let himself give ground, then shifted suddenly and stepped between them as their timing slipped. His sword flicked out and struck the flat of one blade, sending it away, then swept at the others legs to knock him aside. He turned with the motion, his body flowing through the space they left open, his feet never planting long enough for them to trap him. This was the main advantage of using Waterdancing, it had unrivalled footwork compared to other styles and easily let him avoid their strikes.
One brother tried to close the distance and grapple him so his brother could take advantage. Arthur twisted his torso away, bent backward at the waist in a way that let the man's arm slide past him, then snapped upright and struck the man's wrist with the flat of his blade. The sword fell from his hand. Before the other could react, Arthur stepped through him as well, his blade pressing against the inside of the elbow, then sliding down until it caught the hilt. With a sharp twist and a pull, the second sword dropped into the dirt.
Both brothers froze.
They looked at each other, then at Arthur, and slowly lowered their hands.
"We yield," one of them said though they sounded disappointed.
Arthur stepped back and lowered his sword. "You fought well," he said, his breath steady though his chest rose and fell more heavily than before. "Both of you have talent, keep training and I have no doubt you'll get much further."
"Thank you," they both said quietly before they picked up their weapons and moved off the field.
Arthur stood where he was for a moment and drew in a long breath. Sweat ran down his spine beneath his armour and his arms ached in a deep way that felt as though it had settled into the bone itself. He looked around the field and tried to judge how much time had passed. It was hard to tell. Bodies lay scattered everywhere, some still moving, some not. Others knelt or raised empty hands as they were escorted out.
He counted quickly. There could not have been more than a hundred fighters left. Perhaps fewer. Closer to fifty, if his eyes did not lie to him.
He rolled his shoulders and adjusted his grip on his sword, he had to pace himself. Fighting in armour was a lot more difficult than without it and he was already feeling it.
"Prepare yourself, warrior."
The voice came from behind him.
Arthur spun around as fast as he could preparing for an ambush and found himself facing an armoured man around his own age. Red hair fell to the man's ears beneath his helm and he carried a large sword with two hands. Arthur's eyes went to the sigil on the man's arm and he raised his brows.
"I thank you for announcing yourself," Arthur said. "It would have been easy to strike me from behind."
"I am Brynden Tully," the man replied, his chin lifting slightly. "I would not dishonour myself or my family by striking someone unaware. Now ready yourself."
Arthur nodded and raised his guard.
A moment later they both closed the distance together.
Brynden moved first, stepping in with a quick feint aimed at Arthur's head, then shifting his grip and cutting toward the hip. Arthur turned his blade and met the strike, then stepped around it, his sword sliding along Brynden's and pushing it aside. He tried to follow with a strike of his own, but Brynden was already moving, retreating just enough to avoid it, then coming back in with a thrust that Arthur barely turned away.
They circled each other their boots scraping against the dirt, occasionally slashing as they tested each other. Brynden pressed with a series of fast strikes meant to drive Arthur back. Arthur yielded ground, then suddenly stepped forward, his blade snapping out in an arc that Brynden blocked at the last moment. The impact rang through both of their swords though more so Brynden's as Sunset chipped his sword.
Brynden shifted his stance and attacked again, this time changing rhythm, cutting high then low then high again. Arthur moved with it, his body flowing through the spaces between the strikes, his sword guiding each blow aside while his feet carried him out of danger. He countered with a sudden cut toward Brynden's shoulder that drew a hiss as the edge bit through cloth and skin.
Brynden grunted and answered with a strike of his own that caught Arthur along the arm. The blow was not deep, but it stung and forced Arthur to step back. They separated briefly, both breathing harder now.
"You are skilled," Brynden said, his voice steady despite his breath. "And your sword... it's strange I've never seen the like of it."
Arthur gave a short nod. "You are skilled as well my Lord, and the sword is a family heirloom," he replied.
"Then let us continue!" They went at each other again, though a lot faster now.
Brynden pressed forward, using the length of his sword to keep Arthur at bay, cutting and thrusting in quick succession. Arthur shifted between patterns, sometimes giving ground, sometimes stepping inside the reach of the blade, twisting his body in ways that let him slip past strikes that should have caught him. He rolled over a low cut, came up on one knee, then sprang forward and struck. Brynden blocked, but the force drove him back a step.
They clashed again and again, blades meeting and sliding, each looking for an opening. Arthur felt the strain in his legs now, the ache in his shoulders, but he kept moving, letting momentum carry him through each motion. Brynden caught him across the side in a gap in the armour with a glancing blow that drew blood. Arthur answered with a cut that grazed Brynden's thigh.
Both men slowed for a heartbeat, their chests heaving as they looked at each other.
"We can't let this draw on much longer, there is still plenty of melee left," Brynden said, his grip tightening on his sword. "Let us end this now."
Arthur nodded.
They attacked with renewed force. Brynden drove forward, pushing Arthur back step by step, his strikes coming in a relentless pattern that left little room to breathe. Arthur found himself on the back foot, his heels digging into the dirt as he parried and retreated. It was clear that Brynden was giving it his all now and by doing so made it hard for Arthur to switch styles or even launch a counter attack. If he didn't do something soon then he'd lose.
A small feeling settled over him in that moment, he'd felt it before but it was more pronounced now, it was strange... and for a moment when Arthur looked at Brynden... he just knew.
*Brynden shifted his weight and began a wide cut meant to force Arthur into a block.*
Arthur moved before the blade reached him. He stepped inside the swing, twisted his body, and struck upward at the wrist with perfect timing. Brynden's sword flew from his hand and landed several feet away.
Bryndens eyebrows rose in shock as he stared at it, then looked back at Arthur. "That was a spectacular move," he said. "I yield."
Arthur lowered his sword. "You are an incredible swordsman my Lord," he said. "Thank you for the fight. I enjoyed it a lot."
Brynden picked up his sword and sheathed it. As he turned to leave, he paused and looked back. "Your name... what is your name."
"Arthur of Harrowfield," Arthur replied.
"I will remember you, Arthur of Harrowfield," Brynden said, then walked away.
Arthur stood for a moment, pride settling into his chest despite the exhaustion, but it didn't last long as a scream tore through the air.
He turned toward the sound.
Across the field, a familiar large man wielding a maul was moving through fighters as though nothing could stop him. Men fell in his wake every time he swung his maul. He looked like an unstoppable juggernaut, his armour was too heavy and thick to be slashed by regular blades and no one seemed brave enough to get close enough to try and aim for one of the joints. That was till a knight charged him and struck his helmet hard enough to knock it free. The helm rolled away and revealed a man in his twenties with white hair and purple eyes. The man roared and brought the maul down, caving in the knight's chest plate with a single blow.
Arthur watched as the man lifted his head and turned, his gaze locking onto a Kingsguard who was engaged with another fighter.
Then the man began to move toward him and the prince who was behind him.
(AN: Next chapter will be the last one of the Tournament. Who is this mysterious man, is he a Targaryen bastard who hates the King? Maybe he is Aegons bastard son, or maybe Jaehaerys' who has a hate for his brother. Anyway hope you enjoyed it)
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