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82: The Son of Ice and Fire, The Tourney pt.4
🕑 Added 2024-10-30 14:55:30 +0000 UTCThe Tyrell tents dominated the western part of the tourney grounds—a sprawling expanse of green and gold, with golden roses fluttering proudly in the cool evening breeze. Within these grand pavilions, beneath a canopy of vibrant fabric, prominent lords—the supporters of Prince Aegon Targaryen—gathered under the cover of darkness. This was their first such council: a secret meeting to forge plans, strategize, and solidify their loyalty to Aegon against Maekar.
Aegon sat at the head of the table, his face a mask of controlled tension. Around him sat lords from the Westerlands, Stormlands, the Reach, Dorne, and the Riverlands. Some nursed cups of dark Arbor wine; others stood with arms crossed, their expressions grim.
His gaze moved from face to face, taking in those gathered—Tywin Lannister, eyes cold and calculating; Stannis Baratheon, stern as ever; Mace Tyrell, chest puffed with pride; Edmure Tully, determination and anxiety etched on his features; and his uncles, Doran and Oberyn Martell—Doran contemplative, Oberyn simmering beneath a calm surface.
Doran cleared his throat, frowning. "This should never have happened," he said, his voice soft but edged with steel. "The bastard should never have been given the opportunity to gain this much power."
Aegon nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. "It was my father's mistake," he replied. "He allowed Maekar to rise unchecked."
Lady Olenna leaned forward. "Now is not the time to dwell on past mistakes, my dear boy." She paused, her gaze sweeping across the gathered lords. "The realm is too divided as it stands. When your father, the good king passes, war will come regardless. It's inevitable."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group, a grim acceptance of the reality they faced. Lords shifted in their seats, the weight of the coming storm settling over them.
Stannis Baratheon, his jaw clenched, spoke with his characteristic bluntness. "There won’t be a need for a war if we act quickly.Prince Maekar is defying the laws of the realm. His forces should be brought to justice by order of the king himself."
Tywin Lannister arched an eyebrow, his gaze shifting to Stannis. "Naive of you to think such charges can be so easily levied, Lord Stannis," he said, his voice dry, almost amused. "Do you honestly believe the king would do such a thing?"
Lord Randyll Tarly spoke up. "Lord Tywin is correct. It is foolish to think this can be resolved peacefully. The war is inevitable. Prince Maekar’s camp is weak, and we have the advantage of unity in the Reach, the Westerlands, and Dorne." He paused, a faint smirk crossing his lips. "And this time, we can end the rebellion properly—ensure that those who stood against the Crown during Robert’s Rebellion pay dearly for their mistakes."
The room echoed with murmurs of agreement. Lords shared nods, glances of grim satisfaction. But amid the approval, there were also grunts of disdain.
"A bastard born to a northern savage and a whore," one lord muttered, his voice thick with contempt. "That’s who thinks he can claim the Iron Throne?"
A ripple of laughter echoed in the room.
Another scoffed, his tone dripping with derision. "He’ll be begging on his knees before long."
Tywin raised a hand, the movement silencing the derisive laughter almost immediately. His face remained cold, impassive. "You forget yourselves," he said smoothly. "This bastard, as you call him, has gathered significant power behind him. His hold over King’s Landing is unbreakable. And many of your own bannermen remain divided. Only Dorne, the Reach, and my own Westerlands remain entirely whole. Make no mistake—this conflict could be bloodier than the last rebellion."
Edmure Tully cleared his throat, his face pale but his voice steady. "Then we must secure the Crownlands quickly. When the time comes, we should lay siege to King’s Landing. Trap Prince Maekar within its walls—starve him out, force him to surrender."
Mace Tyrell, who had been sitting silently for most of the discussion, let out a derisive snort. "Isn’t your good brother Lord Stark uncle to Prince Maekar, Lord Edmure?" he asked, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Are we quite sure of your loyalties in this matter?"
Edmure’s face flushed, his hands balling into fists as he shot Mace a glare. "I am nothing like my father, Lord Mace. I know well enough the cost of making the wrong choice." He looked towards Aegon, his eyes sincere. "I am loyal to you, my prince."
Aegon nodded, his gaze softening slightly as he addressed Edmure. "Lord Edmure has my trust. He is an honest man, true to his word. And his loyalty has never wavered."
Edmure shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. "I only ask for the safety of my sister, Catelyn, and her children during the coming conflict. That they be spared from harm."
Aegon inclined his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. "You have my word, Lord Edmure. And as for young Cregan, perhaps he should be brought under my care—much like you were under my father’s." He paused, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.
One of the lords from the Reach chuckled, his tone mocking. "Might do the North some good to raise a lad less like a savage. Teach him the ways of proper southern nobility."
The laughter that followed rippled through the gathered lords.
Tywin leaned forward, his fingers steepled, his expression cold. "It would be better for Prince Maekar to be dealt with before this conflict truly begins," he said, his voice carrying a weight that silenced the murmurs around the room. His eyes grew sharper, and his tone took on a steely edge. "Strike him down before this becomes a conflict that engulfs all of Westeros."
Stannis shot Tywin a glare. "You suggest we kill him?" Stannis' voice was taut, filled with a mixture of disdain and indignation. "A stain like that on our honor will not easily be erased, Lannister. He must be brought to justice before the king."
Tywin turned his head slightly, his gaze now focused fully on Stannis, his lips curling into a barely-there smirk. "Honor means little here, Baratheon. Not when the realm is at stake."
The tension between the two men simmered, both refusing to look away, the lines of the debate clearly drawn in their expressions.
Aegon, watching the exchange, found himself smiling, a faint curl of his lips. His mind drifted toward his own plots—the steps he had taken, the pieces he had maneuvered. Tywin understood the stakes, as did Aegon, but Stannis, for all his supposed wisdom, was shackled by his sense of honor.
‘Naive fool,’ Aegon thought.
Yet, as he glanced around the table, Aegon caught a glimpse of his uncle Doran, who was wearing a similar, almost knowing smile.
When the discussion lulled, Aegon rose to his feet, calling the meeting to an end. "My lords, that is enough for tonight," he said. "A lot can change by the end of this tourney—" he allowed a small, almost wicked smile to touch his lips, his gaze flickering around the room—"anything can happen."
The lords murmured in agreement, some nodding, some exchanging unreadable glances. One by one, they began to leave, some whispering to one another, others casting lingering glances at Aegon before stepping out of the grand tent.
Once the tent had emptied, leaving only Aegon and Doran behind, the prince turned toward his uncle. "You wished to speak with me privately, Uncle?" Aegon asked, his voice calm.
Doran met his nephew’s eyes, his own expression cautious. "Have you thought of what I proposed?" he asked, keeping his tone low.
Aegon frowned, his eyes hardening. He already knew what Doran was referring to. "No, Uncle. I am to marry Margaery Tyrell," he said, his voice clipped, each word delivered with forceful finality.
Doran's lips pressed into a thin line, his frustration evident. "Aegon, you must understand. Rhaenys is the better choice for you..."
Aegon's eyes flashed, and for a moment, the rage he kept buried beneath layers of control bubbled to the surface. His face flushed, his jaw clenching as if he were about to lash out, but then he caught himself, swallowing his fury. He straightened, his eyes locking onto Doran's with cold, hard determination.
"My decision is final," Aegon said, his voice low but filled with menacing weight. He leaned in, his eyes never leaving his uncle’s. "Rhaenys will marry a son from one of the many loyal lords who just left, just as Daenerys is to marry Joffrey. The alliances are already set. We will speak of this no more."
Doran’s expression shifted, his frustration evident, but he did not challenge his nephew. He simply nodded, though his eyes held an intensity that showed he was far from pleased.
Without waiting for further argument, Aegon turned and strode out of the tent, Gerold Dayne following him.
As he walked into the cold night air, he found himself craving something—an outlet, a way to release this rage that simmered inside him. His fists clenched at his sides as he moved into the darkness of the camp, the need to hurt something, anything, consuming his thoughts.
He could almost hear Euron’s voice taunting him to give in to his dark desires.
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Maekar POV
"The king summoned me yesterday," Brandon said as he watched Maekar swing the tourney sword, testing its weight and balance.
Maekar glanced at his uncle, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Yes, I heard."
"He had strange questions for me," Brandon continued, his brow furrowed.
Maekar paused mid-swing, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Let me guess," he said. "He asked about the Wall, if the Night's Watch had reported anything unusual."
Brandon's eyes widened in surprise. "Yes, that's exactly what he asked."
Maekar smirked, giving the sword a final swing before resting it. "And what did you tell him?"
"I said there was nothing," Brandon replied. "No reports."
Maekar shook his head, a hint of disapproval in his expression. "Well, that's not entirely true, is it? There were reports."
Brandon huffed, crossing his arms defensively. "What, those drunken watchmen's tales? Stories of grumpkins and snarks? None of that is important."
Maekar fixed his gaze on Brandon, eyes serious. "Maybe they will be, in the future."
Brandon frowned, confusion clouding his face but it quickly dissipated. He uncrossed his arms, his voice softer. "What's your plan here, Maekar? I've talked to Jon Arryn—lords of the Vale, even those in the North—they're worried," he said, changing the subject.
Maekar smiled, studying his uncle for a moment before speaking, his tone almost casual. "Have you noticed how my allies from the Riverlands, Crownlands, and Stormlands are all so confident in my chances?"
Brandon nodded warily. "I've noticed," he said slowly. "They seem almost too sure, if you ask me."
Maekar sighed, setting down the practice sword and stepping closer. He spoke softly, his eyes meeting his uncle's "I haven't been completely truthful about my plans to you, Uncle. And for that, I apologize."
Brandon's eyes widened, his patience wearing thin. "What are you saying, Maekar?"
Maekar glanced around the empty tent before turning back. "Uncle, you cannot tell anyone about this. I want it to remain a secret until the right time. I want my enemies caught off guard."
Brandon shook his head, impatience clear in his tone. "What is it, Maekar? Out with it already!"
Maekar hesitated for a moment, then spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "A dragon."
Brandon blinked, his face frozen in disbelief. He repeated the word, as if saying it again might make it more plausible. "A dragon?"
Maekar nodded, his expression deadly serious. "Yes. A dragon. I have a dragon."
Brandon burst into laughter. He laughed so hard he had to hold his side, tears forming in his eyes. "That's a good jest, Maekar! You almost had me there. Reminds me of your mother's jests."
But his laughter slowly faded as he noticed Maekar was not smiling, not laughing at all. Instead, his face was unwavering, gaze fixed on his uncle. The amusement drained from Brandon's face, replaced by bewilderment.
"What do you mean... a dragon?" Brandon asked, his voice hushed, filled with disbelief.
Maekar took a deep breath. "This is why the lords from the Stormlands, the Crownlands, and the Riverlands aren't worried. They have seen Neferion."
"Neferion?" Brandon repeated the name, testing its weight in his mouth.
Maekar nodded again. "Yes, Neferion."
Brandon shook his head as though trying to clear his thoughts. "How? How is that possible?"
Maekar smiled. "I found it on Skagos."
"Skagos..." Brandon's eyes widened, realization dawning. "Euron," he muttered.
Maekar's grin hinted at secrets. "Yes, a dragon was hiding on Skagos. I have bonded with it."
Brandon's mind raced, a distant memory surfacing. "When I was a child, Lord Crowl visited Winterfell. He told tales of a dragon on the island. I thought it was just a story to scare children," Brandon said, shaking his head.
Maekar's expression remained serious. "It's not a story. It's real. Nearly the size of Balerion."
Brandon leaned back, his face slack with shock. "The size of Balerion..." he whispered. "A fukin dragon."
Maekar laughed, stepping closer and clapping a hand on Brandon's shoulder. "Don't worry, Uncle. When it's all done, I'll take you for a ride. You'll be the wolf who flew."
Brandon remained silent for a moment before whispering again, his voice almost incredulous. "A dragon..."
Maekar nodded. "A dragon. And with it, this war will be over quickly. You won't even need to send men from the North."
Brandon looked at his nephew, disbelief slowly giving way to awe. He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I don't know whether to be terrified or impressed."
Maekar chuckled. "I'd say both would be appropriate."
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Maekar left the Stark tent, leaving his uncle wide-eyed and stunned. Brandon would need time to digest what he'd just learned—perhaps a lot of time.
As he rode through the tourney grounds, Maekar thought of today's and tomorrow's events. Today would be the first of two melees—a chaotic free-for-all where every knight and lordling would fight for their own glory. The Grand Melee, as it was called.
Tomorrow would host the Melee of the Banners, where representatives from each of the major regions of Westeros would fight together as teams under their respective banners. And then, of course, there was the matter of the Kingsguard. His father and the current Kingsguard would be watching closely, seeking men worthy of filling those esteemed white cloaks. Maekar knew he would need an entirely new Kingsguard himself—he had no illusions about the loyalty of the current knights when the war began.
Tomorrow's melee was important, as he himself would enter the fray. It would feature knights and lords from each region, representing their respective homes—the North, the Vale, the Reach, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, Dorne, the Westerlands—all under their regional banners. Lastly, there would be a royal team: men representing the Crown, including Maekar himself, members of the Kingsguard, and the five finalists from today's tourney.
He was well aware that Aegon had schemes to kill him during the chaos of the event. But Maekar had plans of his own—strategies that could disrupt Aegon's machinations and advance his influence over certain territories, particularly the Westerlands. Either they would align with him, or they would become neutral, unable to threaten his cause when the conflict began.
He crossed the bustling grounds, where knights and young lords from across the Seven Kingdoms made their final preparations—adjusting armor, giving weapons one last sharpening. As he moved through the crowd, he spotted Lyonel sitting quietly with eyes closed, seeming to meditate amidst all the chaos.
Maekar approached, his boots crunching on the grass. Lyonel's eyes opened immediately, and he stood, bowing with practiced precision.
"My prince," Lyonel said.
Maekar gave him a once-over, noting the focused determination on his sworn shield's face. "So," he asked, "think you can win this?"
"I will try to win and bring honor to you," Lyonel replied, his voice calm and certain.
"If you win," Maekar mused, folding his arms, "my father might make you Kingsguard on the spot."
Lyonel's expression shifted, a brief flicker of discomfort crossing his face. He shook his head slightly. "I don't want that, my prince."
Maekar blinked, taken aback by the response. "You don't?" he asked.
Lyonel's eyes met his, earnest and unwavering. "I would rather it be you, my prince, who makes me Kingsguard. When you are crowned king."
For a moment, Maekar was silent, caught off guard by the loyalty Lyonel showed—so genuine, so absolute. Warmth swelled in his chest, an emotion he quickly masked. Instead, he allowed himself a smile, the corners of his lips curving upward as he regarded his friend.
"Very well," Maekar said, nodding. "I wish you luck, Ser Storm."
Lyonel bowed again.
Maekar clapped Lyonel on the shoulder, then turned and left the young knight to his preparations, a smile lingering on his face. He had many things to plan, many players to move on the board—but Lyonel, at least, was one piece he could count on.
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It was time for the melee.
Maekar arrived at the royal box, accompanied by Daenerys and Viserys, with Ser Oswell Whent trailing behind—the Kingsguard maintaining their watchful presence as always. Maekar felt the weight of another matter pressing on his mind: telling Daenerys about his plans. Plans that involved marrying her... and Rhaenys. It was a discussion he had been postponing, knowing well that it wouldn't go over smoothly. But he had promised himself he would tell her before the tourney ended.
As they approached the box, they saw his father already seated, flanked by the Kingsguard—Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy.
"Son, sister, brother," Rhaegar greeted them as they arrived, his voice soft but warm.
"Where's Allyria?" Rhaegar asked Viserys, noticing his wife's absence.
"She's not feeling well," Viserys replied curtly.
"Ah, I hope she feels better," Rhaegar said.
Maekar took his seat to Rhaegar's left, just as another figure approached—his elder brother. Maekar couldn't help but notice how Aegon moved with more ease these days, his limp seemingly diminished, the use of his cane now more occasional than necessary. Their eyes met, holding each other's gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, each assessing the other, before Aegon moved to take his seat at their father’s right.
Maekar exhaled, turning his attention to the field below. There, knights and lords were making their way onto the grounds, fully armored and holding their tourney swords—each one eager to prove himself.
Rhaegar leaned slightly forward, his eyes flicking over the assembled warriors. "Who do you think will win, Maekar?" he asked.
Maekar glanced at the field before answering. "I believe my sworn shield, Lyonel, will win, Father."
Arthur Dayne, standing nearby, chimed in, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "I've seen young Lyonel fight. He is an exceptional warrior."
Rhaegar nodded, though he coughed shortly after—a sharp, almost painful sound that echoed through the royal box. Ser Barristan quickly stepped forward, handing Rhaegar a cloth to cough into. To Maekar's surprise, he caught a glimpse of specks of blood staining the white linen.
Viserys's face turned worried as he leaned forward. "Brother, are you..."
Rhaegar, with that same weary smile, waved him off. "It's nothing. I'm fine."
Maekar felt the tension among them all, especially as his gaze met Aegon's across the box. Aegon's eyes mirrored the same realization that dawned on Maekar—that their father's time was running out, and sooner rather than later, they would have to face what came next.
Rhaegar glanced around, frowning slightly. "Where is Rhaenys?" he asked.
"Here, Father," came Rhaenys's voice from behind. Maekar turned to see his sister approaching, Ser Jaime Lannister in tow, his white cloak billowing slightly as he followed.
Rhaegar motioned for Rhaenys to take the empty seat beside Aegon, but to Maekar's surprise, she ignored the gesture. Instead, she walked over to where he sat and smiled at Daenerys. "Aunt, may I take your seat? I have some matters to discuss with Maekar."
Daenerys's face tightened slightly, a flash of something Maekar could only describe as annoyance crossing her features. Viserys noticed the tension and quickly stood, gesturing to his own seat beside Daenerys. "Sister, you can take my seat. I'll sit with our nephew," he said, his voice calm and diplomatic as he moved to sit beside Aegon.
Daenerys glanced at Maekar, who gave her a slight nod. She stood gracefully, her gaze lingering on Rhaenys for a moment before she moved to sit where Viserys had been sitting. Rhaenys then took the seat beside Maekar.
"Rhaenys," Maekar acknowledged.
"Maekar," she replied, her voice measured.
"So, I hear your sworn shield is competing today," she said.
"Yes, yes he is," Maekar responded, his attention momentarily pulled back to the field as the knights and lords gathered.
He caught sight of Daenerys from the corner of his eye, her gaze fixed on the field, her face a mask of neutrality. He sighed inwardly.
‘Great,’ Maekar thought to himself. ‘Now I'm really not looking forward to that conversation.’
He was brought out of his thoughts by the herald announcing the start of the melee, his voice ringing across the grounds and signaling the beginning of the chaos below.
Maekar fixed his gaze on Lyonel as the melee began, watching his sworn shield move with the precision and strength he had always admired. Lyonel fought with a confidence that was almost mesmerizing; he danced across the melee field, his blade a blur of swift and deadly strikes.
He was nearly an unstoppable force. Maekar watched as he dispatched one knight after another, his strikes quick and precise, sending opponents sprawling across the dusty ground. There was a grace in his movements—each attack calculated, each block perfectly timed.
For a few moments, Maekar lost sight of him amidst the chaos of the melee—too many bodies, too many banners, and weapons clashing all at once. The entire field was a cacophony of metal on metal, grunts of exertion, and the cheers and jeers of the crowd watching from the grandstands.
Then, as he spotted Lyonel again, Maekar’s heart lurched.
To his shock, Lyonel seemed to be the focus of multiple combatants—eight knights converging on him at once, weapons ready, intent on overwhelming him. It was no ordinary confrontation; it was a deliberate, coordinated effort to take him down. Lyonel's focus narrowed, his stance shifting as he prepared for the onslaught he had even lost his shield.
Maekar’s eyes widened, his gaze shifting to Aegon, who sat to his left in the royal box. Aegon’s eyes met his, and a slow, wicked smile spread across his face. It was a smile that held no warmth, only malice. Aegon knew exactly what was happening, and he was relishing it.
Maekar’s jaw tightened. He hadn't anticipated this move from Aegon, and it made his blood boil. He turned his attention back to the field as he watched Lyonel become surrounded.
Rhaenys, beside him, leaned closer, her voice barely a whisper. "Did Aegon...?"
Maekar nodded, his eyes not leaving Lyonel for a second. "Yes."
Daenerys, too, looked worried, her fingers tightening around the edge of her seat as her eyes stayed glued to the melee below.
Lyonel, to his credit, did not falter. With his single sword in hand, he snatched up a discarded blade from the ground, now wielding two weapons. He twirled them in a show of intimidation, spinning them both in a wide arc—a clear warning to the knights surrounding him, a challenge that seemed to say: come and face me.
Just then, he heard Daenerys say, "There she is."
Maekar looked to his right to see Brienne of Tarth running toward Lyonel, her large frame moving with surprising speed and agility. She made her way through the knights and positioned herself with her back to Lyonel's, facing down the enemies before her.
Maekar smiled at the sight, but they were still outnumbered.
Lyonel and Brienne stood together, surrounded but unbroken, and then the chaos truly began. The knights charged, and Lyonel swung his blades with precision. He slashed at his enemies, the dual swords giving him an advantage—one weapon to block, the other to strike. He moved with ruthless efficiency, cutting down his opponents one after another, his strikes powerful and relentless.
Beside him, Brienne was a force of nature. She parried blows with her greatsword, her swings wide and devastating, forcing the knights to fall back. Together, they were like a whirlwind—Lyonel with his fast, precise attacks, and Brienne with her powerful, sweeping strikes.
The crowd roared as the melee unfolded, the sight of two warriors holding their own against overwhelming odds a spectacle unlike any other.
Maekar held his breath as Lyonel was momentarily forced backward, but then he found an opening. With a spin and a quick slash, one of his opponents fell, blood spurting from a slit throat—an accident, perhaps, but one that seemed inevitable in the chaos of the melee. Brienne followed through, her blade crashing into a knight's shield, splintering it with the force of her strike.
Slowly but surely, the eight knights that had surrounded them fell, one by one, until Lyonel and Brienne stood alone, victorious, their chests heaving from exertion.
Maekar let out a sigh of relief, leaning back in his seat, a weight lifting from his chest. He turned his gaze toward Aegon once more, and their eyes locked across the distance. This time, it was Maekar who smiled—a slow, confident smirk, accompanied by a deliberate wink.
Aegon's face twisted in fury, his lips pressing into a tight line, his eyes narrowing at Maekar.
Maekar turned his attention back to the field, watching intently as Lyonel and Brienne continued to work together. Their coordination and teamwork proved highly effective against their opponents. For some time, they had been an unstoppable duo, defeating any who dared to challenge them. But now, the melee was down to five combatants.
Besides Lyonel and Brienne, the third remaining fighter was a tall, slender knight bearing the sigil of House Coldwater, his body already showing signs of exhaustion from the earlier bouts. The fourth was a sturdy, broad-shouldered knight wearing the colors of House Tarly.
‘Dikon Tarly,’ Maekar realized. He wondered idly what had happened to Samwell Tarly. Perhaps he had been sent to the Night's Watch, as he was always meant to be.
The final combatant was a tall, wiry knight whose sigil Maekar did not recognize.
‘A bastard,’ Maekar mused.
Rhaegar leaned back toward Arthur Dayne, his eyes still on the field. "This Lyonel Storm could be better than you, Ser Arthur," he said in a strained voice.
Arthur gave a faint smile, his eyes following Lyonel's every move. "With a bit more training, yes. Ser Storm could surpass us all," Arthur replied.
Maekar raised his eyebrows in surprise. High praise from Arthur was not given lightly. Lyonel had truly proven himself here today.
On the field, Maekar saw Lyonel nod at Brienne. Their alliance had come to an end; it was time for each of them to fight for victory.
Lyonel moved swiftly as he charged toward the slender knight of House Coldwater, who was already exhausted from the earlier rounds. Coldwater attempted to block Lyonel's strike, but Lyonel was relentless, his attacks coming fast and forceful, overwhelming his opponent. With a swift maneuver, Lyonel disarmed him, sending his sword clattering to the ground. The knight raised his hands in surrender, yielding to Lyonel as the crowd cheered.
Brienne turned her attention to the bastard knight, her greatsword raised as she faced him. They exchanged a few blows, but Brienne’s strength and skill quickly became apparent. With a forceful swing, she knocked his weapon from his grasp, and the knight had no choice but to yield, bowing to Brienne in defeat.
That left only Lyonel and Dikon Tarly. Lyonel faced him, his twin swords at the ready. They clashed in the center of the field, the sound of metal on metal echoing across the grounds. Dikon swung heavily, trying to force Lyonel back with sheer strength, but Lyonel was too quick. He parried each of Dikon’s strikes effortlessly.
Dikon became visibly exhausted, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he swung his sword again, only for Lyonel to sidestep and avoid it. Seizing the opportunity, Lyonel delivered a swift kick to Dikon's chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. Dikon looked up at Lyonel, his chest heaving, and after a moment, he yielded graciously.
Brienne, who had won her own bout, now turned to Lyonel.
Maekar glanced at Daenerys beside him, her eyes fixed on the field with a cold, neutral expression, not glancing his way.
‘Great, just great she is pissed at him,’ Maekar thought miserably.
Their sworn shields were about to face off something Daenerys would have been very excited about.
Lyonel and Brienne faced each other at the center of the melee field. Brienne raised her greatsword, her stance strong and unwavering, while Lyonel twirled his two swords, preparing for their final bout.
Brienne swung her greatsword with all her might, her blows powerful and relentless. But Lyonel was simply beyond her. He moved with incredible speed, dodging her strikes and delivering quick, precise blows of his own. He parried her attacks, and when the moment presented itself, he disarmed her with a swift maneuver, sending her greatsword clattering to the ground.
Brienne paused, breathing heavily, then bowed her head, accepting her defeat gracefully.
The herald’s voice echoed across the field. "The winner of the Grand Melee in honor of three hundred years of the rule of the Iron Throne: Ser Lyonel Storm!"
The crowd erupted in applause, the sound almost deafening. Maekar looked to his father, who nodded approvingly.
"He's quite the warrior," Rhaenys said beside him, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. "My cousins will be saddened that he will be joining the Kingsguard."
Maekar turned to her, raising an eyebrow. "Arianne?"
Rhaenys gave him a wry smile. "Who else?"
Maekar laughed, shaking his head. It seemed he would be denying her a second time—this time through Lyonel.
His father stood slowly from his seat, raising his hand, and the crowd gradually quieted, all eyes turning to the king.
"You have fought well today, Ser Lyonel," Rhaegar said, his voice carrying across the field with great effort. "You have shown yourself to be a warrior as capable as Ser Arthur Dayne himself." He paused, letting the words sink in. "At the end of this tourney, you will be given the opportunity to join the Kingsguard, should you wish to."
Maekar was prepared to intervene if his father intended to induct Lyonel immediately, but he was relieved that Rhaegar gave him the choice until the end of the tourney.
The king then turned his attention back to the field. "The final five of this Grand Melee will be invited to join the Royal Banner in the Melee of the Banners tomorrow!"
The crowd roared in approval, the cheers echoing across the field.
Lyonel stood tall, raising his sword high in triumph.
‘Yes, all according to plan,’ Maekar thought. ‘Now tomorrow has to go this smoothly as well.’
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There were 6,000 more words in this chapter, but I keep changing parts of it. I’ll post it tomorrow or the day after; I need more time to perfect it.
