Pre-Chapter A/N:First of all, Happy Holidays to all who celebrate. Gift yourself some good cheer with 10% off all plans on my patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga) page (discount ends by 11pm GMT tonight). If you haven't already, I recommend turning on notifications for my stuff so you can see when new stuff drops right as it drops. More chapters on my patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga)— same username as here and link in bio
THE KINGMAKER
He stood behind his Princess, his Queen-in-the-making, as the feast went on. She was wearing that necklace that Velaryon had gotten her, he noticed. But what did it matter? He had seen Velaryon eliminated by a lesser fighter. The loss was so embarrassing that the boy had bowed out of the night's feast shamefully early to 'rest'.
Criston had seen the duel between him and Swann. There was nothing the boy needed to rest from. He hadn't even managed to achieve anything against the obviously superior warrior. If that was the boy's measure as a warrior, then it said a lot about Westerling, who had lost to the boy.
Perhaps it had been fatigue, but even that was no excuse. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard owed them a duty to be the greatest of them all, and a world where their Lord Commander was losing jousts to boys too young to have even used a blade on his face more than two times at the very most was not one he had much interest in being a member of the Kingsguard in.
Westerling's best years were clearly behind him. But would he retire now that it was obvious to all with eyes? Most likely not. None in this place were capable of putting honor and their duty above their personal ambitions. It was the thing he hated the most about this den of snakes and scorpions.
They were fond of insulting the Dornish for a perceived lack of honor, and part of Cole had even believed it in the beginning. But after spending so much time here in their presence, he knew for sure that nothing they said was more than a cloak for their own depravity. That was just the reality of it. They only used honor to cover their own sins. And he was just like them. For he had lain with his Princess, he thought. Even admitting it in his mind felt like a great sin. But she had needed it. Was it not his duty as her Knight to guard her from all dangers? Was the danger of the heart not equally dangerous to that of the body? She had needed him to keep her heart together, and he had done his duty.
"Would you care for a dance, my Princess?"
He turned his gaze to the fool Bracken as Rhaenyra accepted his request. She accepted his outstretched hand with a curtsey, ever the epitome of perfect courtly manner, as he led her to the dance floor. Cole moved to follow her before a voice cut him off.
"I am sure the Princess will not be in any danger of knives in the dark on a dance floor in the middle of the Red Keep, surrounded by Knights who would die in her name."
The Queen Who Never Was spoke. He ignored her words. He did not answer to her, of course.
"Rhaenys is right, Ser Cole. I think you should remain here. Let my daughter have a good time without a Knight hanging over her shoulder and making her stick out like a sore thumb." The King's voice rang out next.
At that, Cole had no choice but to stop. While he was not beholden to the Queen Who Never Was, he was bound to obey the King. Every Knight in the realm was.
Stewing all the while, he returned to his position behind the Princess' seat and watched as she finished a dance with the Bracken. None of the foolish boys had been brave enough to ask for her hand until Bracken got enough wine in him to dare. And in doing so, he had opened the floodgates. Next was Blackwood. That foolish rivalry would never end, of course.
And after he had had his turn, Fossoway was there asking to have a go. Cole stood still as a statue for the most of the night while he watched his charge, his love—though that was a fact he dared not admit anywhere other than within the confines of his own mind—be passed around like a common whore from lecherous pair of arms to lecherous pair.
All the while, Rhaenyra herself was a perfect model of courtly charm and manner. Even as the drunk and lecherous fools stumbled through their steps, she cut through the dance floor with ethereal grace. Her snow-white skin reflected the light of the candles, and she looked a vision there. Cole thanked the armor he wore for hiding any stirring in his loins from the sight. She was careful to accept a single dance with each man and never any more. To dance more than once with a single man at a feast was to invite rumors of an affection.
The only ones unmarried who danced with each other more than once were the Velaryon siblings, who were so arrogant that they did not even bother to dance with any others. Most likely, Laenor Velaryon was too cowardly to ask any of the ladies and risk a rejection, so he kept it safe and danced with his sister. By virtue of that, his sister never took dances with any others, even if Cole was certain that many a Lord or Knight would have given up hefty fares for the pleasure. He cast his gaze to her empty seat—emptied not long after her brother had left—before returning it to his love as she allowed the brute Harwin Strong to lead her for a dance.
The night seemed to drag on forever, but he was eternally grateful when the dancing wound down and the Princess was his to lead to her chambers again. He returned to his own chambers and struggled to sleep, tossing and turning with the visions of so many men, their unworthy hands, on his love. He wanted to cut each pair of hands off at the wrist, but they were not the true threats, he knew. Because none of them did the Princess regard as equals.
In no time at all, he was standing behind her again as another event took place in the tourney ground: the final round for the archery and axe-throwing contest. And here in the royal box, there was no way for him to escape the true threat to his love: Laenor Targaryen. The smug smile on the boy's face as he regaled Rhaenyra with a tale of some sort. The blood rushing to his head made it difficult for Criston to make out much of what they were saying, but he could see enough to know that Rhaenyra was being enthralled by the words he spoke.
She once had the same look in her eyes when he told her of his time in Dorne, when he had fought in the mountains and the Marches against the Dornish raiders. Of course, those stories had long lost their luster, and he had run out of content with which to stave off her boredom. A problem that Laenor Velaryon did not seem to be having.
Criston turned his gaze to the field and watched as the archery contest wound down to two contestants: the man from the Stepstones, and Alan Tarly, a man whose father Criston had once fought side by side with in the Marches. Gavin Tarly had been many things—a great warrior, an able commander, a skilled tactician—but the most obvious thing he had been was a cunt. Criston could remember the insults he had tossed his way for his birth even as they had fought as allies, shoulder to shoulder like they had been levied just yesterday.
And despite that, Criston found himself hoping for the man's son to secure victory. Anything would be better than giving Velaryon another thing to brag to Rhaenyra about. Criston had hoped losing the melee would see Rhaenyra lose what interest she had in him, but perhaps another defeat was necessary.
The contestants shot at a hundred meters, and then ten and a hundred, and so on, with both of them managing perfect shots until they reached eighty and a hundred meters. The first to fail was Tarly, and Criston felt his hope be dashed until the Stepstones man stepped forward and also failed to make a perfect shot. Tarly went again, still missing, and the man from the Stepstones missed his second try as well.
Tarly managed a bullseye on his third try, and when Velaryon's man stepped forward to shoot, Criston found himself praying to every one of the Seven who would listen. And it seemed they were indeed listening on this day, for the arrow landed right outside the red marking. The crowd applauded both the victor and the runner-up, while Criston celebrated his small victory in the privacy of his own mind.
— — —
He weaved into his opponent's guard like he had done a dozen times before in the Marches, and unlike the Dornish raiders, this man was ready for his sudden explosion of speed. He blocked Criston's thrust while ignoring the shield bash he feinted executing. Cole found himself impressed by his opponent's skill, even if he should have been anything but surprised. While he had fought side by side with Tarly, Swann had gone before all of them. A man grown to the boys that they were, he had seemed untouchable.
Much to Criston's chagrin, old age seemed to have done little to take that away from him. His fighting style had changed, but there was still little weakness to be found in this one. The previous style had seen him as a storm in human form. Where he moved, men died as he painted in red. He had been an artist. Now, he was no less an artist, but now he was an artist of a different sort. Where before he had been an explosion of movements leashed in a human form, now he was a perfect picture of economy of motion.
Every step, every blade movement, all of it was perfectly efficient. His goal was to accomplish the most with the least movement possible. It was the fighting style of a man who realized he was long past his physical prime, but perhaps just stepping into his mental one. His prophylaxis was beyond that of anyone Criston had faced before. If Criston aimed to go left, he was already preparing his left side for attack before Criston even did more than a single move. And when Criston feinted, he ignored them entirely. No matter how far Criston leaned in to sell the feint, he was able to notice it and did not fall.
It was an annoying fight to wage. When he had first beaten Westerling all those years ago, and then never lost to him again, he had felt he had reached the epitome of skill a Knight could reach. He had been the best in the world as far as he knew. But that was the key phrase: as far as he knew. Now he was realizing he had merely been the best in King's Landing. It was a lesson he felt he had learned conclusively in the Marches—there was always a bigger fish—but it turned out it was one he had forgotten.
He sighed as he accepted the means his victory would have to come through. He apologized to the man in his mind. A warrior of Swann's skill deserved to be met at his fullest. They deserved a match where they went at each other leaving nothing to the side and using all they had, but that would not be the case today. If they did that, Swann would win. And Criston valued victory more than he valued the respect due an older Knight, so he chose the pragmatic approach.
He shifted his stance and abandoned the subterfuge and flourish he normally added to his movements. He fought like a brute, putting it all into his attack—using every bit of his strength and speed with the aim of forcing his older and thus slower opponent either into making a mistake or, more likely, into tiring. Criston's approach was a double-edged sword. It was just as likely to tire him out as it was his opponent, but Criston had one thing his opponent did not: the fires of youth burning brightly within him.
Swann was perfect until he was not. He was the shore upon which the waves of Criston's attacks washed against. Over and over again. Criston would attack from as many angles as possible, executing movement after movement that he had spent hours rehearsing in his younger years until his hands had begun to bleed. Until his legs had cramped and ceased.
Criston's skills as a swordsman had been hard-earned over years of practice, and it was those years of practice that allowed him to last so long. He was used to practicing from sunrise to sunset day after day. It was not a privilege he got to enjoy often by virtue of his position in the Kingsguard, but some things just never left you.
In much the same way as some things could never be denied. One of them was old age. Swann did his best to hide it, but he tired slowly and surely. It showed in the increasing desperation with which he tried to turn the tides of the fight. To change the battle into something else. Against someone who only relied on their physical attributes, his attempts to force Criston into an awkward angle of attack with his twisting footwork, or to hook Criston's sword with his own, or the dozen other tricks he tried, would have worked. But Criston was no such man.
And so he noticed when his opponent was too slow in moving his feet backwards. He lashed out with a swift sweep, sending the man to the ground, and then his blade was before his opponent's neck.
"Yield, good Ser?" he asked.
"I yield," Swann said somewhat bitterly.
Criston offered a hand to help the old man up that he accepted.
"If only I were ten years younger," his opponent said.
"If only I were ten years older," he countered.
Swann accepted the point with a nod of his head and turned to leave the field.
Criston turned and was not surprised to see Borros Baratheon waiting for him. Marbrand was skilled in his own right—he was a brother of the Kingsguard, after all—but Borros Baratheon was a different breed of warrior entirely. And somewhat oddly, he had chosen to go without a sword for the final stage of this melee, holding a war hammer in one hand and a shield in the other.
"Good thing you won. The old man would have been a boring fight," he said.
"That is your vassal and countryman you so easily insult," he replied, already disliking this brute.
Borros scoffed. "You've been in this serpent's nest too long. A good Stormlander is honest. The old man knows it well. He's not my match. And to be honest, neither are you."
Criston scoffed at the idea. He had seen the Baratheon heir's skill, and he had his number. Changing his weapon was not going to do him as much good as he must have felt it would have. Criston erupted into motion first. He had not fought against a war hammer since the Marches, and even then, not one as large as the one Baratheon carried with ease.
Still, the angles were the same. He approached straight ahead, feinting a slash and executing a straight thrust. Baratheon tracked his true movements with shocking alacrity as a smile formed on his face. He stepped backward and blocked Criston's attack with his shield. He pushed out with the shield, forcing Criston into a back step of his own as he lashed out with the hammer.
Criston stepped back even further, not interested in trying to block that thing. He prepared to move in the second the hammer's head passed him, but as he did so, his opponent dropped the shield he held, grabbing the hammer by the head with his other hand and moving it so the spiked end near the handle came towards his head.
Criston shifted his head backward, avoiding the straight stab that would have skewered his head. And then the hammer's head was coming again. He forced himself backward, barely managing to avoid the hit. And then Baratheon's foot came out, trying to sweep his out from beneath him. He avoided it carefully, but then the hammer was about to ring his head like a bell. No chance of dodging without tripping and falling from his present position, he turned and braced with his shield to block the attack.
He did not feel the impact he expected. Instead, the curved part of the hammer hooked around the top of his shield. He held on with all his strength, but it mattered little. With a single heave, Criston's shield was torn from his grip. He lurched forward with it. He did not feel the punch that must have hit him. It knocked him unconscious almost instantly. He woke staring up at the sky with a feeling in his jaw that told him he'd lost at least three teeth, but there was nothing truly important broken.
He could hear a ringing from his right ear—the side from which the punch had come. He closed his eyes again when his view of the sky was blocked by one of the Maesters overseeing the event. They would take care of him, he knew. His only worry was whether he would be ready to participate in the Joust set to hold the next day.
"The winner of the Melee is Borros Baratheon of Storm's End!" he heard the announcer proclaim as he felt his body be hoisted onto the carrier that would take him to the Maester tent.
A/N: We're now on to the last two days of the tourney. Did shifting POVs do anything to make things just a bit fresher at least? Next five chapters up on patreon (https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga)(same username as here and link in bio), support me there and read them early.