Ser Harold Rowan had served as a sworn brother of the Kingsguard for five years. He had worn white with dignity, without stain upon his honour, and without hesitation in service to the Crown. He had never once considered abandoning his oaths, never once wavered in his purpose, never once imagined that his life would end anywhere but in service to the King. He had seen battles, had taken wounds, and had even been Knighted by the Lord Commander himself. He had watched over Prince Aerys like a hawk for two years now, and he had faced men twice his size and come out standing.
But as the ground shook beneath his boots and he turned to see the mountain of a man charging toward him with a maul stained red from crown to hilt, he did regret one thing.
Volunteering for the melee.
The man was easily over six and a half feet tall and built like siege equipment. His arms bulged with muscle and the maul he carried looked as though it had been carved from the trunk of a tree and wrapped in steel. Blood painted his cuirass and his greaves. His white hair clung to his brow. His violet eyes locked on Ser Harol. He did not roar. He did not speak. He just came forward at a pace that would not stop for any man standing in front of him.
He planted his feet firmly on the trampled grass, his white cloak billowing slightly in the wind that swept across the field, and he raised his longsword in a defensive stance while his left hand gripped the strap of his shield. His role as a member of the Kingsguard demanded that he confront the most perilous threats in the melee, especially those that endangered the prince whom he had sworn to protect. This giant, with his overwhelming size and the raw power evident in every stride, posed a danger far beyond what the young prince could manage in single combat, so Ser Harold knew he must engage the brute himself and hold the line until the threat ended.
The giant closed the distance with thunderous steps that shook the ground beneath them. Ser Harold circled to the left and kept his shield angled to cover his torso while his sword remained poised for a quick thrust. The giant lunged forward suddenly, bringing the maul down in an overhead smash that aimed for Ser Harold's helmet, but the knight sidestepped the blow feeling the rush of air as the weapon embedded itself into the earth where he had stood a heartbeat earlier. NHe countered immediately, slashing his sword toward the giant's exposed flank, yet the brute yanked his maul free with surprising speed and twisted his body to parry the blade with the haft of his weapon, the impact sending a vibration up Ser Harold's arm.
The man was strong, Ser Harold realised, a lot stronger than he looked which didn't seem believable.
They disengaged for a brief instant, circling each other once more. Ser Harold noted the giant's heavy breathing, from it he could deduce the man was mostly raw power and had little endurance. He feinted a strike at the giant's legs, drawing the maul downward in a sweeping block, then pivoted and thrust his sword upward toward the brute's shoulder. The giant shifted his weight just in time, the blade glancing off his pauldron with a screech of metal, and then retaliated with a horizontal swing of the maul that forced Ser Harold to duck, his knees bending as he rolled to the side to avoid the crushing arc. Rising swiftly, the knight pressed his advantage, delivering a series of rapid slashes that targeted the giant's arms and chest, each one overwhelming the giants defence and forcing him to rely on his armour.
Despite the man being a colossal warrior with a weapon bigger than the average man, he was still facing a Knight of the Kingsguard and they were some of the finest warriors in the realm.
Ser Harold adapted to the maul's reach by staying close inside its effective range, where the giant's longer weapon became a hindrance in tight quarters. He deflected a downward strike with his shield, the impact jarring his shoulder and splintering the wood slightly at the edges, but he held firm and riposted with a stab that nicked the giant's thigh through a gap in his greaves. The brute grunted, blood trickling down his leg, yet he pressed forward undeterred, swinging the maul in an arc that Ser Harold anticipated and evaded by stepping back just enough to let it pass harmlessly before him. Seizing the opening, the knight advanced with a flurry of strikes that forced the giant to retreat a step, the maul's head deflecting most but not all, as one slash scored a shallow cut across the brute's forearm.
The giant roared in frustration and his movements slowed subtly, his swings becoming more predictable as if fatigue weighed on him. Ser Harold noticed this apparent sluggishness, which aligned with his earlier assessment of the man's reliance on raw power, and he grew bolder, pressing attacks that aimed to exploit what seemed like openings in the giant's guard. He parried a telegraphed overhead blow with his sword and shield, then spun to deliver a backhand slash toward the brute's midsection. Yet as he committed to the move, the giant's eyes flashed with cunning, and he accelerated his recovery far quicker than before, revealing the deception in his earlier pace. The maul whipped around in a wuick arc that caught Ser Harold off-guard, slamming into his side with bone-crushing force despite the fact that the plate armor absorbed some of the impact.
Pain exploded through Ser Harold's ribs as the giant roared and went to follow through with his swing and toss the knight away like a ragdoll.
But this was no ordinary Knight.
He was a Knight of the Kingsguard.
Ser Harlan dropped his shield and used his free hand to grab onto the heft of the maul to stop himself from being launched away. He had never felt so much pain in his life, it felt like every rib on his right side had been shattered, but he pushed that pain down and he lunged forward, his sword arcing upward in a fluid motion that the giant partially dodged, yet the blade connected with the brute's face, carving a deep gash from jaw to brow that split skin and muscle in a spray of blood.
The giant bellowed, one eye blinded by the wound, and he retaliated instantly, swinging the maul to again at the Knight. The maul's head came crashing into his armored side once more, this time with enough momentum to send him sprawling onto the ground, his sword skittering from his grasp.
Ser Harold gasped for air on his back, the world blurring around him as his cracked ribs protested every attempt to inhale, the pain so intense that words failed him entirely, he could not even muster the breath to yield.
From the Royal Box, King Aegon stood half out of his seat. "We must stop this, Call the melee," he said angrily.
"Father—" Duncan began.
"Now!" Aegon snapped.
"Father, if you call it now, the Lords will talk," Duncan said quickly. "They will say we favoured our own. That we do not care for other Knights that put themselves at risk. Things are already tense enough with the lords of the realm we cannot make them worse."
Betha placed a hand on Aegon's arm. "He is right. As much as it pains me to say it, if we stop the melee, we will look like cowards protecting our own."
Aegon's jaw clenched. He sat back slowly. "Then may the gods forgive me..." he was responsible for this as he allowed the rules to be changed.
Back down in the arena the giant loomed over Ser Harold, a grim smile twisting his bloodied features, evidently pleased by the knight's silence, which spared him the need to grant mercy. The giant looked down at the Knight before he said something to him, though whatever it was got drowned out by the sounds of the crowds. Though whatever it was made Ser Harold's eyes widened in panic. But it was too late to do anything about it, with one hand the brute raised the maul high overhead, its shadow falling across Ser Harold's form, then he brought it down in a final, devastating smash that connected with the knight's chest, the plate crumpling under the force as his chest exploded outwards.
Many people had paused to watch the fight between the Goliath and the Kingsguard, Aerys and Steffon included. All of them were shocked to see the man so blatantly kill one of the Kings own men even if it was allowed.
Arthur had watched every moment of the duel, rooted to the ground as Ser Harold fought with a level of grace and skill that few men in the realm could ever hope to achieve. There was no question in Arthur's mind that the white cloak had been the superior fighter in that clash. His footwork had been perfect. His timing had been exact. His understanding of the battlefield, of the way the giant moved and how to manipulate his own reach and angles, had been masterful. And yet, even with all that skill and experience, Ser Harold had fallen. His body now lay crushed beneath the twisted wreck of his armour, the pristine white of his cloak soaked in red where it pooled in the dirt beneath him.
Arthur stood a short distance away while he stared at the place where the knight had been struck down, unable to look away from the bent metal of the chestplate that no longer rose or fell with breath. The giant had not remained. After his victory, he had turned and moved on, taking his bloodstained maul with him. Each step had left a print in the bloodied dirt as he searched for another opponent.
Arthur's eyes stayed fixed on the body, even as others around him shifted or ran. He could not bring himself to move at first. Part of him told him it was over. That the man was dead and there was nothing more to be done. But something deeper compelled him to act. A man like Ser Harold deserved more than to be left alone in the dirt, abandoned after dying in service to the realm.
Arthur moved cautiously, his eyes swept across the battlefield with each step. He was careful not to let his focus rest solely on the knight. He had nearly been taken out of the fight because he had let his guard down earlier. He reached the place where the Kingsguard had fallen and knelt beside the man.
The injuries were worse up close. The chestplate had collapsed inward, folding along unnatural lines, the impact having flattened the armour over the ribs so thoroughly it no longer resembled human anatomy. Blood soaked the lower part of the mail beneath it, and Arthur could not see how the man could have ever survived even a moment past the strike.
He was leaning forward to check for breath when the man's eyes snapped open.
Arthur froze.
Ser Harold's body shook as he gasped and blood bubbled up into his mouth. His head turned from side to side in a panicked movement as though trying to place where he was and what had happened. His gaze landed on Arthur with confusion, then it fell to his chest, and the panic grew worse as the pain started to set in.
"I nezgd ble..." the knight tried to speak, but the words were lost under the volume of blood that spilled from his lips. His body convulsed slightly, and a thick wet sound came from his throat as he choked.
Arthur reached for him, his hands resting on his forearm and then gripping his hand. "You're all right," Arthur lied. "Stay with me. I'm here."
More blood poured from the man's mouth, staining his beard and soaking down into his collar.
"Prixge heks..." he said, trying to speak once again.
Arthur leaned closer trying to listen. "What is it? Say it again."
Tears welled in the man's eyes as he fought to shape the words. He gripped Arthur's hand tightly now, their hands pressing together with surprising strength.
"Black..."
"Black..."
"Prince..." he forced out.
Arthur blinked. "Black? Prince?" he repeated.
"Prince..." the man said again, then his whole body tensed, and the hand around Arthur's squeezed even tighter.
Arthur looked up immediately, scanning the field until his eyes landed on the figure of the giant. He had seemed to have wandered over to the Prince and was now thirty paces from where Prince Aerys and Steffon stood. The two young men had clearly tried to confront him together, but it was already clear that it was not a fight they were going to win.
Arthur looked back down. "You want me to help him?" he asked, even though the answer was clear.
Ser Harold gave no reply. His body had gone still.
Arthur let out a slow breath and reached over with his other hand, pressing his palm gently over the knight's eyes and closing them. Then he lowered his head. "May the Seven guide you," he said quietly. "You did not deserve such an end... but you died doing your duty."
He stood, sword still in hand.
Across the field, the giant had reached the two young nobles. Aerys had tried to strike him with a wild overhand slash that missed entirely. The giant had laughed and stepped forward and kicked him. Steffon had charged at him with his sword raised, but it had been knocked away with a single swing of the maul. The Baratheon boy barely kept his feet as the force of the impact spun him around.
Arthur watched.
The giant was playing with them.
He struck just close enough to knock them back, baiting them into moving poorly, never fully committing to a killing blow. He moved slowly at times, allowing them to press forward, then shifted and punished them when they overreached. Neither of them looked like they knew how to handle it. Their stances were wrong. Their timing was off. Their strikes held no coordination.
Arthur's hands tensed around the hilt of his sword.
Should he go?
He looked around the field. There were maybe ten or so still left standing. Many of them were pulling back or lingering near the edge. Some were fighting still, but most had seen enough to know they had little chance against the monster with the maul. If Arthur waited, if he stayed clear, he could still last long enough to be one of the final three. Perhaps even win.
He turned his eyes back toward the Prince.
Did he want to help him?
His mind pulled back to the future he had seen. The fires. The screams. The broken Queen in the tower. The madness that had consumed King Aerys. What he would do to Rhaella. What he would become. The cruelty. The tyranny. The innocent people that would burn because of him.
Arthur breathed slowly.
Would the world be better if Aerys died here?
He did not know.
...
Aerys roared as he slashed at the giant multiple times, his sword moving from high cuts aimed at the head down to low sweeps toward the legs, yet each strike met only air or steel as the giant deflected them with the shaft of his maul or stepped aside with ease. The giant laughed and when Aerys thrust forward again, the man reached out with his gauntleted hand, caught the blade between his hand. With his other foot, he kicked Aerys hard in the chest, sending the prince stumbling backward onto the ground.
Aerys scrambled up and spat curses at the giant. "You filthy dog," he shouted. "I'll have your head on a spike above the Red Keep. I'll feed your guts to the hounds while you still breathe. I'll burn your house and salt your fields, and every kin you claim will beg for the stranger's mercy before I grant it." The words spilled from him, each threat louder than the last, as he gripped his sword tighter and advanced again.
Hoping to take him by surprise Steffon Baratheon came in from the side, his greatsword raised high for a massive overhand strike that he brought down with all his weight behind it. The giant lifted the heft of his maul to meet the blow, the reinforced wood and steel clashing with a thud that rang out. The giant pushed back against the sword, forcing Steffon's arms upward, and in the same motion slammed the centre of the maul into Steffon's face. The blow snapped the lord's head to the side, blood spraying from his split lip.
Before Steffon could recover, the giant wrapped the maul's handle around his neck, yanked him close, and drove his own face into Steffon's once, twice, three times, each headbutt crunching against bone. Then, with both hands, the giant lifted Steffon bodily off the ground and hurled him down, where he landed hard and lay groaning.
Aerys roared in anger at the sight and charged forward with a thrust that finally found purchase, the point of his sword slipping into the joint at the giant's elbow where the mail gave way. Blood welled where he struck and the giant growled angrily in his throat, he then yanked his arm free, and drove his fist into Aerys's helm, the punch lifting the prince off his feet and dropping him to his back.
The giant looked down at Aerys, his one good eye narrowed beneath the gash that still bled across his face. Syt jēdri hen, īlon Targārien hen syt kostōba hen syt īlva kostōba syt īlva." (For years, we have heard of the strength of House Targaryen, my brothers and I have trained ourselves to the bone to ready ourselves.)
"Ñuha pryjatan hen syt īlva... kesīr issa mirre skoriot." (I came here to test myself... only to find this disappointment.)
"Targārien hen syt mirre skoriot hen syt muña hen syt īlva." (The Targaryens seem to be nothing more than weak crybabies still drinking milk from their mother's teat.)
Aerys stared up at him, shock plain on his face for a heartbeat before rage took its place. "Skoros ao issa naejot ivestragon bisa naejot nyke?" (Who are you to say such things to me?)
The giant smiled then, his teeth red with blood. "Ñuha perzys issa Maegor Blackfyre, se ñuha pryjatan issa naejot ossēnagon ao." (My name is Maegor Blackfyre, and I am here to kill you.)
Aerys's eyes opened wide, the name striking him like a second blow, and he threw himself sideways just as the maul came down, the head burying itself in the earth where his chest had been a moment before.
When Aerys got up and attempted to fight him again it was not even close, it seemed Maegor had stopped playing around and was finally being serious. Aerys swung and thrust with everything he had left, but Maegor Blackfyre met every attack with ease, batting the sword aside or stepping inside its reach to strike with fist or elbow.
As they circled, Maegor mocked him.
"Ao sagon daor vala se ao ivestragon." (You are not a man, you are barely even a boy.)
"Ao sagon daor perzys, ao sagon daor āeksio." (You are no dragon, you are no prince .)
"Ao sagon mirre skoriot hen syt muña." (You are nothing but a weakling.)
Each taunt landed as surely as any blow, and Aerys's movements grew wilder and less controlled until he was just screaming and slashing in anger. Maegor caught his leg with a sweep of the maul's handle, cracking a bone in his leg. Aerys fell with a cry, his sword slipping from his numb fingers, he lay helpless on his back as Maegor raised the weapon for the finishing strike.
...
Up in the royal box, Jaehaerys rose to his feet, his voice cracking as he screamed down at the field. "Guards! Get the guards down there now!"
King Aegon turned at once to Ser Duncan the Tall, who stood beside him in his white cloak. "Ser Duncan, take the rest of the Kingsguard and stop this fight at once."
Ser Duncan nodded and started toward the steps, the other white cloaks moving with him, but Prinxe Duncan caught his father's sleeve. "Wait look!"
All eyes turned back to the field.
Maegor had Aerys on the ground, the maul lifted high, yet before he could bring it down, something remarkable happened.
Arthur had come up behind the giant unseen, he had stripped away most of his own plate wrmour while he moved; greaves, vambraces, pauldrons discarded in the grass so that only his mail and padded jack remained. He stepped hard onto the back of Maegor's knee, forcing the joint to bend, and used the height to vault upward until their heads were level. With his left hand he seized Maegor's shoulder and arm, pulling back sharply, while his body twisted. At the same moment he drew upon every reserve of strength he possessed, activating [Demon Back], [Novocaine] and he threw Maegor Blackfyre over his back in a single clean motion. The giant's great weight left the ground, his maul flying from his grip as he crashed down onto the earth with a thud that silenced half the crowd.
In the royal box, Mira and Cassie clutched each other's hands, mouths open in astonishment and fear alike, unable to look away from their husband.
Arthur landed lightly beside the fallen giant and spun toward Aerys at once. "Yield, my prince," he said quickly. "He cannot hurt you if you yield."
Aerys stared up at him looking at him like he was speaking a bunch of drivel "You fool! You idiot! He's a damned Blackfyre, he's here to kill me!"
Arthur's eyes widened as the name sank in. A Blackfyre. Here, in the heart of Kings Landing, declaring his intent to murder a prince of the blood.
What had he just walked into?
He turned slowly with his sword rising, and saw Maegor already surging to his feet with a roar that shook the air. The giant snatched up his maul again and cursed them both. "Ao mirre skoriot! Nyke ao ossēnagon se ao mirre hen syt īlva!" (You pieces of shit! I will kill you both and piss on your corpses!)
"Ao sagon daor vala se ao ivestragon, ao Blackfyre hen syt mirre. Nyke ao ivestragon naejot fuck ao muña hen syt ao own āeksio." (Fuck off Blackfyre bastard. I would tell you to fuck your mother, but you would probably have to wait in line.)
Maegor's eyes widened as he heard the man in front of him, who appeared as nothing more than a Westerosi peasant in simple mail, speak in perfect High Valyrian. That surprise lasted only a moment before it twisted into raw anger once the meaning of the words sank in.
Arthur stood there, his own heart pounding, shocked at what had just come from his mouth. He had never spoken high Valyrian in his life, yet the words had spilled out as if they belonged to someone else— he guessed he had to thank [Linguist] for that.
Why was he even doing this, risking his life against a man who could crush him with one blow? He had killed before, seen men die before, yet here he was, stepping between a prince and death. In truth, he knew why, the reason sat plain in his mind, as clear as the sky above the field.
The Kingsguard had died doing his duty. In his final moments the knight had not begged for mercy or cried out for himself. He had thought only of his charge, the prince he had sworn to protect. He had looked Arthur straight in the eyes and asked, with the last of his strength, for someone to finish what he could not.
That man had been everything a true knight should be, everything Arthur himself wanted to be. Arthur could not turn his back on that. He would also not condemn Aerys to death for sins that belonged to a future not yet come, and he would not deny the dying wish of a Knight of the Kingsguard who had fought until his body gave out.
He stood ready to fight against the giant. He had stripped off most of his plate earlier, discarding chest plate and pauldrons in the earth, for he knew the heavy steel would only slow him against this giant.
Speed was the only advantage he had and the only thing that would keep him alive.
Maegor growled in his throat, the sound rolling out like thunder. "Nyke ao ossēnagon se fuck ao lyks. Nyke ao fuck se ao kostagon daor ivestragon." (I will kill you both and fuck your corpses. Before I feed you to my dogs.)
Arthur drew his sword, the pale blade of Sunset catching the sun as he dragged its point through the dirt, carving a straight line in the earth between them. He lifted his gaze to meet Maegors. "Pār bisa līnen, ao šōragon mirre skoriot, ñuha valyrio, se ao's bartos." (Past this line, you will find only silence, my steel, and your last breath.)
Maegor roared and charged, his boots shaking the ground as he raised his maul up. Yet at the same moment, dozens of Goldcloaks poured onto the field from every gate rushing straight for the giant.
Arthur's eyes widened in shock as the city watch swarmed in. Of course it made sense; a Blackfyre had declared himself in open tourney and tried to murder a prince of the blood. The melee had to end after that for sure.
Maegor spat a curse toward the royal box. "Aōha āeksio hen syt lēkia, ao daor syt gaomilaksir!" (Your king is a dishonorable coward, unfit for rule!) Then he turned and met the Goldcloaks with savage fury.
The first man to reach him thrust a spear at his chest, but Maegor batted the shaft aside and brought his maul down in a brutal arc. The head struck the Goldcloak's shoulder, caving mail and bone alike, driving the man to his knees before the follow-through smashed his helm and skull into ruin. Blood and steel fragments sprayed across the grass. A second guard slashed at Maegor's leg, yet the giant kicked out, his boot catching the man in the chest and hurling him backward into two others. Maegor swung again, catching a third across the waist; the maul tore through mail rings and cracked bones.
While Maegor carved a path of ruin, a smaller group of Goldcloaks broke off and hurried to Aerys and Steffon. They lifted the wounded prince onto a shield used as a litter, while others helped Steffon to his feet and half-carried him toward the edge of the field.
Maegor saw them and bellowed. "Daor! Nyke daor emagon ao naejot glaesagon! Nyke daor ōdrikagon bisa bartos skoriot ñuha maul issa daor bloody lēda least hen hen Targārien!" (No! I will not let him live! I will not leave this place until my maul is bloody with at least one Targaryen!)
He shoved past two more Goldcloaks, crushing one helm with a backhand swing that left the man twitching on the ground, and charged toward the retreating group. Arthur stepped into his path. Maegor tried to barrel straight through, but Arthur pivoted on his heel and swung his sword at his legs. Sunset bit deep into the meat of Maegor's thigh, slicing through mail links and flesh beneath. Blood welled quickly and the giant's momentum carried him forward; his wounded leg buckled, sending him crashing to one knee.
However Maegor rose almost instantly, slamming his fist into the earth with a roar, and swung his maul in a blur of speed that belied his size. The weapon whistled through the air, faster than Arthur expected. Arthur cursed under his breath and gave ground, dodging each swing rather than trying to parry or block, for he knew the sheer force would shatter any guard he offered. He twisted aside as the maul crashed where he had stood, ducked under a horizontal sweep that would have taken his head, leaped back from an upward scoop that tore clods of earth skyward. Every strike came close enough that he felt the wind of it, he stayed on the back foot, boots sliding in the churned earth, barely avoiding being crushed.
Maegor overcommitted on a downward smash, putting his full weight behind it. Arthur stepped inside the arc, caught the giant's wrist with his off-hand, and redirected the momentum sideways. The sudden shift tore the maul from Maegor's grip; the weapon spun away and thudded into the dirt ten feet distant.
Sadly the opening cost Arthur dearly. Maegor's free hand shot out, his fingers closing around Arthur's neck. He yanked Arthur forward and hurled him to the ground. The impact drove the breath from Arthur's lungs in a rush. Before he could roll away, Maegor's boot slammed into his ribs once, twice, three times, each kick lifting Arthur's body from the earth. Arthur slashed upward with Sunset, but Maegor caught the blade in his bare hand, blood running between his fingers, and wrenched it free, flinging the sword far across the field. Then he hauled Arthur up by the throat with both hands, lifting him until his feet dangled.
Maegor leaned in close, breath hot against Arthur's face. "Nyke kessa pop aōha bartos hae melon." (I will pop your head like a melon.)
His grip tightened, thumbs pressing into Arthur's windpipe, fingers digging into the sides of his skull.
Arthur, still dazed from the slam against the ground, clawed at the massive forearms. He kicked, tried to pry the fingers loose, but his strength waned as blood pounded in his ears. He felt his neck creak and a scream tore from his throat as the pain worsened.
This was it. He was going to die here, on this field, beneath the eyes of half the realm. Part of him felt a strange relief settle in; he hadn't had a nice life, when he wasn't being tortured by his family he was merely forgotten about... and when he finally got out from under their thumb he ended up killing his father and then being enslaved for two months, stabbed and nearly killed multiple times. Maybe he could rest a little now.
Though.
There were some good moments.
Then his mind flashed to Cassie and Mira. His wives. Their faces, their laughter, the warmth of their hands in his. Their kisses on his lips.
The life he still wanted with them.
No. He could not give up. No.
No.
No!
He struggled harder kicking his legs out and theashing, reaching his hands upward. His fingers trying to reach Maegor's face but fell short. He stretched again, desperation lending strength to him, yet still he could not reach.
No, I won't make it...
No...
*NO!!!*
Maegor's grip faltered. His arms went slack as his eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment. Arthur did not question the gift. He seized Maegor's neck with both hands and flicked his right wrist.
*Schink*
The hidden blade sprang from its sheath beneath his bracer and drove straight into Maegor's throat. Arthur wasn't done there however, he sawed sideways opening the wound wider until arterial blood fountained out in a hot crimson waves that soaked his clothes and face.
Maegor staggered back his hands clutching at the ruin of his neck, blood pouring between his fingers. He dropped to his knees, then forward onto his face, as the strength left his body.
Arthur stumbled away and fell to his knees. He flicked his wrist; the blade retracted with a soft click. Exhaustion crashed over him like a wave. He was surprised he had not yet blacked out.
He pushed himself upright, swaying, and looked around. The field lay empty of other competitors. Bodies of Goldcloaks dotted the grass, along with a few fallen knights, but no one stood ready to fight him.
Only Goldcloaks remained at the edges, along with several white-cloaked Kingsguard moving toward the center and one figure with white hair.
Did that mean he had won?
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[QUEST COMPLETED]
STEEL AND BLOOD
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Description:
The horns have sounded and the gates are about to open. Hundreds will enter the melee dreaming of glory, gold, or a lord's favor. Most will leave broken.
Some will not leave at all.
Main Objective:
➤ Survive the melee ⚔️ ✅
Optional Objectives:
➤ Win the melee 🏆 ✅
➤ Place within the top three 🥉 ✅
Hidden Objectives:
➤ Save Prince Aerys Targaryen from Maegor Blackfyre ✅
Rewards Earned:
• +2 Strength
• +2 Constitution
• +5,000 XP
• Magic Token
• Heritage Token
• New Class Unlocked: Squire
Failure Avoided:
• Death
• Being unremarkable
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Arthur stared at the notification for a moment. 'Oh,' he thought dimly. 'Thats nice.' Rhen he fell back onto his knees as the exhaustion caught up with him and darkness started creeping in at the edges of his vision.
(AN: So yeah there we go a Blackfyre has launched an aggressive attack against the Targaryens setting the stage for the upcoming war. Btw if any of you are confused Maegor Blackfyre is not Maelys.... I didn't mix up their names or anything. Maegor is Maelys son. Now due to this world being different there has been a small alteration to Maelys... he is incredibly lustful and has been since he was younger. Anyway hope you enjoyed the tournament.)
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