GOT : All Left Behind

Duskendale was a lovely city, given its circumstances. While my frame of reference was limited to King's Landing, my few trips beyond its walls had been to castles rather than cities.

Other than tainted by the lingering ghosts of memories of a past life, it still felt positively delightful to walk its streets. Perhaps because it had grown into its current size over centuries instead of a span of a few decades?

Sadly, I had had precious little time to sample its charms before signing up for the melee. And even less time before the melee began. I had cut it close with my arrival, if only because Lord Darklyn had wanted to save the joust for last, opting to open first with the squires' melee and then the proper melee.

No prizes for guessing which one I joined.

"Ser Denys Darklyn, Commander of the City Guard of Duskendale!" The herald announced, no doubt situated just above the pavilion, bellowing to be heard over the constantly shifting murmur of the crowd as a man in a blue surcoat entered the tourney grounds from the shaded pavilion. 

His sigil was inordinately complex, checkered black and yellow, except for a red ribbon to the side. A pair of white shields were prominently displayed on said ribbon. An attempt to appeal to my father, no doubt. Perhaps he sought to become the next of those shields?

And boy oh boy, was I starting to regret things.

These were grown men, experienced knights performing to earn the favor of Lord Darklyn and his young son. I was but a fourteen-year-old boy. No matter how well-built, well trained, and in shape I was, there was still a vast gulf of experience between myself and them.

Did I forget to mention that these men were knights, and I was a mere squire?

"Ser Ryam Redwyne of the Kingsguard!" The white knight marched out into the tourney grounds to raucous cheers, louder even than for the knight who ensured their continued safety. The perks of well-earned glory, I suppose.

I did not relish having to face any of my father's Kingsguard. They were kind enough men and were eager to help in the training yard, but that only meant I knew exactly how deadly they were with their weapons. 

Ser Gyles was the one I would have preferred to fight, if only because he was the Lord Commander, and thus had marginally less time to train than his sworn brothers. Of course, the Kingsguard with the least time to train was much like the smallest dragon: still entirely capable of killing a grown man without much effort.

And I, as I was reminded all too frequently, was not a grown man.

"Ser Pate the Woodcock of the Kingsguard!" The other white knight, this one clutching a long spear, rose to his feet a bit more slowly than his compatriot, thus leaving me alone in the pavilion as more cheers trickled in. He was getting on in years if memory served, older than even my father, but that only meant his experience was all the greater.

After all, an old man going strong in a profession where most die young should terrify the living daylights out of you, as Ser Barristan proved in the books.

I really was in over my head.

Still, I had made it this far. All I had to do was not get beaten to death within the first five minutes. Double-checking the knotting on the favor wound about my right arm, I tried to calm my racing heart as I waited for the herald to call the name I had elected to use as my pseudonym for this competition.

In summation, more than a score of knights had come to the tourney. Of that number, two were knights of the Kingsguard. The next youngest competitor had six years on me, most easily more than ten. They had years of experience and were intimately familiar with the weapons they were wielding. I only had a hammer I had bought off a smith as I strolled into the city.

...Fuck.

"It is my honor to present the mystery knight, the Knight of Cups!" The cheers of the crowd dimmed slightly as I entered the tourney grounds. I filled the sole gap in the square of knights assembled in the center of the tourney grounds before turning to my hosts.

Lord Darklyn was seated in the center of his box, as was his right as the organizer of the event. To his left was his wife, sitting with a young boy seated in her lap, but I hardly spared them a glance in favor of the man seated on the lord's right.

King Jaehaerys Targaryen, the First of His Name, looked on with great interest despite the lack of action. His multicolored crown glittered upon his brow, where it seemed to melt into the silver-gold hair.

And to his right was my sister Maegelle, clad in the Targaryen colors. Her gaze locked onto me and a smile blossomed on her face. Oh yes, she knew. And judging by the pleased smile on my father's face, so too did he.

I raised my hammer in a mute salute to the king and to the lord who hosted us, and the crowd dutifully cheered. As much as the people might enjoy their spectacles, there were limits to their patience. And since more than twenty knights had trotted out to bask in their attention, I could hardly blame them.

"My lords and knights!" Lord Darklyn rose from his seat, approaching the railing to address the competitors. A plain-looking man, he nonetheless had the aristocratic bearing -and the noticeable paunch- that marked his status.

"I thank you for competing in this melee to celebrate my son's sixth name day. Take up a position along the stands and await the horn that will signal the beginning of the melee. Best of luck and may the Seven favor the bravest among you."

Offering another salute to the young heir to Duskendale, I obeyed. On my right, I found the knight of house Rykker, armed with a great sword in direct contrast to the crossed hammers of his heraldry. On my left was a knight whose heraldry was a white lamb on green, that of house Stokeworth, armed with the more traditional combination of sword and shield.

Rykker was the priority target. If I could get close, my hammer would bring him down in but a handful of blows. Then again, so would my shield. The knight only had a sword, and I was not shy about hitting a man with a heavy slab of iron-rimmed oak.

I took a moment to note where the greatest threats were. Sers Pate and Ryam had split up, thankfully, unlikely to form a murderous pair that would plow through the competition. Instead, they had gone to opposite ends of the arena. Most likely, this meant they would aim for each other, taking out whoever was foolish enough to interrupt.

Hopefully.

The resounding blare of the horn cut off what little planning I could manage as the melee began. The Stokeworth knight turned off towards the right, opting for some other target, as I jogged towards Rykker. He did not fail to notice me, raising his sword towards me in mute acceptance of the challenge. I gave a respectful nod of acknowledgment by letting his blade tap against my hammer, and thus the first fight of my first melee began.

Immediately, I closed in on him. I needed to get within range to properly use my hammer, after all. I was hoping to bait either a thrust or an overhead swing. I could counter those for a quick win.

Alas, a low slash aimed at my legs forced me to stop or risk being tripped as the knight read my intentions immediately, redirecting the momentum from his swing to hammer a blow into my left arm.

Luckily, my shield was there to protect me.

His attack was too weak to bite too deeply into the wood even with the momentum he had transferred into the blow. Instead, the blade skidded across the shield's surface as the blow was redirected upwards.

An opening.

I closed the distance, getting in range as my hammer descended on the knight's leg. My shield remained up, though. Even if I could not see exactly where an attack might come from, it would protect me from a direct blow on my left side. Circumvention would require attacking my right side, the side I was already watching.

My swing never connected as my opponent retreated, and I was forced to bring my hammer back to its guard position. Instead, something heavy slammed into my shield, driving it away and revealing the sword leveled to strike at my chest.

I took a small step to the side, leaning back as I brought the spike on the back of my hammer around the sword's guard as it scraped across my chest. Twisting at the waist, I yanked my arm back, trying to rip the sword from the knight's grip.

The knight stumbled forwards but refused to release his grip on the weapon. No surprise there; Two arms were stronger than a single arm with momentum.

My chances weren't looking so good.

So I improved my chances.

...

Hey guys I really need you support to elevate the ranking Since this is a new story, Shower me with power stones :)

...

If you want to read ahead of the public release, or just want to support me.

you can join my p atreon :

[email protected]/Nolima