Chương 36

Robert Baratheon The pavilion was large enough to house a dozen men comfortably, its canvas walls dyed deep crimson and gold. Lannister colors, of course, because everything at this thrice-damned tournament bore the lion. Robert stood in the center while two young squires worked at his armor, buckling straps and adjusting plates and tying off knots.

"Good work, lads," Robert said, testing the movement of his right pauldron. He had wanted to thank them by name, only to realize with a stab of shame that he had never bothered to learn what they were called. They had been his squires for more than a year now, one a Crownlands lad with dark hair, the other a Stormlander, he thought, though he was not entirely sure. Or was it the other way around? At least they were not more of the yellow-headed shits.

His court was already full enough of Lannisters without adding more of the fuckers as his squires, no matter how much Cersei or Jon Arryn insisted it would be politically wise. Gods, but thinking of Lannisters made him want a drink. His hand moved almost of its own accord toward the wineskin hanging from the pavilion's center post. Expensive Arbor gold, the kind that went down smooth as silk and left you wanting more. His fingers brushed the leather— No. Robert pulled his hand back, curling it into a fist.

He had a melee to fight in. And after that... war. War with whatever Targaryens remained skulking in the east. Those ships in the Blackwater had been a message, a declaration. The dragons thought they could come back, thought they could reclaim what Robert had taken with his warhammer. This time he would war with them until there were none left. He would make sure of it. Would hunt down every last silver-haired spawn and crush their skulls himself if he had to.

He would not touch another drop until the dragonspawn were gone from the earth.

"Your Grace, we've finished with the armor." Robert looked down. The Crownlands boy—or was he the Stormlander? —stood back, waiting for approval. The armor fit well, black plate enameled with the crowned stag of House Baratheon. Solid steel that would turn a blade, not the ornamental shit some lords wore to look pretty. Nodding, Robert grabbed the wineskin from its hook and tossed it to the darker-haired lad.

"Here, you two have some fun after this is done. Don't let the old men see you, eh?" Their faces lit up like he had just handed them gold.

"Thank you, Your Grace!" Robert smiled despite himself as the boys grinned conspiratorially at each other, already planning where they would drink it. It reminded him of himself and Ned back at the Eyrie, sneaking wine from Jon Arryn's stores and getting drunk in the godswood, talking about girls and glory and all the great deeds they would do when they were finally knights. At that thought, his mood darkened like clouds covering the sun. He had said things he regretted back when they took King's Landing.

Things about Rhaegar's missing children that Ned had taken badly, too badly, Robert thought, for bastards spawned by the man who had stolen Lyanna. And then Lyanna's death had only worsened everything. Robert had thought the shared grief might bring them together again, two friends mourning the woman they had both loved. Instead, Ned had never even stopped at King's Landing on his way back north. So grief-stricken, they said, that he could not bear to stay.

And since then he had hardly answered any ravens beyond what was expected of him as Warden of the North, sending polite excuses whenever Robert invited him south. Robert shook his head. Gods, but where had it all gone wrong with them? The pavilion flap opened and Ser Barristan Selmy entered, his white cloak bright even in the dimness of the tent. His weathered face was apprehensive, worried in a way that made Robert's jaw tighten.

"Your Grace, I must plead with you once more to reconsider this."

"No." The word came out flat and hard.

"Your Grace…"

"I said no, ser." Robert's voice rose. He was tired of this, had been hearing the same thing for the last two days from Barristan and Tywin Lannister and the Kingslayer with his annoying smirk.

"You want me out of the melee that badly? Fine. I'll give you the best chance at it yourself." Barristan frowned, not understanding. Robert did not care. Grabbing his great antlered helmet from where it sat on a wooden chest, he pushed past the Kingsguard and out of the pavilion. Let the old man worry. He was fighting, and that was the end of it. Outside, the tourney grounds had been transformed for the grand melee.

The tilt lanes had been removed, leaving a wide open area of churned sand and grass before the stands. Seven pavilions had been erected just outside the fighting ground, one for each kingdom's contingent. Huge banners flew above them, visible from anywhere in the grounds. Two of them bore the crowned stag, one for the Crownlands and another for the Stormalands.

One had the golden lion and another the rose, while the pavilions for the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale had numerous smaller banners fluttering in the wind. The stands were packed to bursting, every seat filled with nobles in their finest clothes. But the real crowd was on the hillocks opposite, where thousands of smallfolk had gathered. They covered the slopes like ants on a carcass, standing and sitting and climbing into trees for a better view.

Their roar was a constant presence, a wall of sound that made Robert's blood sing. He strode toward the Stormlander pavilion, his armor clanking with each step. He had decided to fight with the stormlords, with his home, his people, the men he had grown up among before he went off to the Vale. Not with the Crownlands contingent that would have been expected. Inside the pavilion, he found familiar faces waiting. Lord Selwyn Tarth stood tall and broad-shouldered, his plain armor a contrast to the finery others wore.

Ser Gulian Swann, brawny and thick-necked, broke into his characteristic broad smile when Robert entered. Ser Bonifer Hasty and Ser Cedrik Storm, both known tourney knights with scars to prove it. Two younger men Robert did not recognize stood near the back, their faces bright with excitement.

"Your Grace!" They all bowed as one. Lord Selwyn straightened first.

"I take it Ser Barristan did not manage to dissuade you?" Robert frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"The Lord Commander came to us first." Selwyn's expression was apologetic.

"He told us to inform Your Grace that we had already filled all seven spots for the Stormlands. That there was no room." For a moment, Robert could only stare. Then rage, hot and sudden, flooded through him. His hands clenched into fists.

"Did he now?" The tent went quiet.

"So Barristan the Bold thinks he can keep his king from the field?" Robert's voice came out as a growl.

"Thinks he can tell me where I can and cannot fight?" He looked around the pavilion, meeting each man's eyes in turn.

"Any man here too afraid to fight a kingsguard?" Silence. Then Ser Cedrik Storm grinned.

"Not I, Your Grace."

"Nor I," Gulian Swann added, his smile turning wolfish.

"Good." Robert's grin matched theirs.

"We're going after the white cloaks first, then. I want Barristan's head ringing before anyone else's." Eager smiles spread across faces, especially among the younger men. Robert gestured to them.

"You two. What are your names?"

"Ser Richard Horpe, Your Grace." The taller one bowed. Serious face, good shoulders.

"Ser Rolland Storm, Your Grace." The other was stockier, with a bastard's hungry look.

"Good names. Try not to die, eh?" Robert clapped Rolland on the shoulder hard enough to make the young knight stagger.

"Save that for the real war that's coming." He walked to the side of the pavilion where weapons hung on racks, swords and axes and maces, all live steel for this melee. His eyes found what he was looking for immediately. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. The warhammer. It was bigger than anything else around it, with an iron spike that, were it not blunted, would carve through a breastplate like parchment.

Just like he had asked Selwyn to commission for him. Putting on his helmet first, Robert reached down and lifted the warhammer. A grin spread wide across his mouth. Gods, but it felt good. Heavy and real in his grasp, the weight familiar and comfortable like greeting an old friend. This was what he was made for, not sitting on thrones and listening to lords bicker about taxes and trade. This. Battle. Blood. Victory. Robert turned to face his team, the hammer resting on his shoulder.

Through the slits of his antlered helm, he could see their eager faces, their barely contained violence.

"Let's smash some fucking kingsguards, eh?" The Stormlander contingent roared their approval, and Robert felt more alive than he had in years. xxx The trumpet's blast cut through the roar of the crowd and Robert did not waste a second. He charged forward, warhammer in hand, making straight for the white cloaks among the Crownlands contingent. His boots pounded against the churned earth, the weight of his armor feeling right on his shoulders.

The Stormlanders followed in a tight wedge around him, their war cries joining the cacophony that had erupted across the melee ground. Young Horpe's words from earlier still burned in Robert's mind, making his blood hotter with each step. No horses, Your Grace. Ser Barristan had a talk with the master-of-games after you decided to join. Says it could avoid some accidents. Accidents. As if Robert were some doddering old fool who might fall off his horse and break his neck.

He was twenty-seven, in his prime, not some ancient relic ready for the grave. He would show Selmy something worse than an accident. Around them, the melee had already exploded into chaos. Across the field, Northmen clashed with Westerlanders in a churning mass of steel and fury. To his right, Reachmen in their golden roses traded blows with Riverlanders. Some fought in tight groups, shield walls pressing against each other. Others had broken off into individual duels, two knights circling, testing, striking.

Live steel glinted in the afternoon sun. Blood would be spilled today. Bones would be broken. It was not war, but it was close enough to make Robert's heart sing. The Valemen, who had been closest to the Stormlanders at the start, veered sharply away when they noticed Robert showing them his back as he moved toward the Crownlanders. Smart. Let them find easier prey. Robert only had eyes for the white cloaks. He reached Ser Boros Blount first.

The kingsguard stood with a knot of Crownland knights, more white cloaks among them than regular men. Inside his helmet, the man's piggy eyes widened when he saw the antlered king bearing down on him. In that moment, that single heartbeat of hesitation, Robert found himself disgusted. How had he let such rabble don a white cloak? Boros Blount was a name without glory, a knight without distinction. What had possessed him to make such a mediocre man one of his seven?

The Stormlanders engaged with the Crownlanders around them in a clash of steel and shouting. Robert caught glimpses of the matchups as they formed, Ser Barristan crossing swords with Bonifer Hasty, both men moving with the grace of veterans. Lord Selwyn Tarth pressing hard against Ser Ilyn Payne, the mute king's justice defending with mechanical precision. The eager young knights, Horpe and Rolland Storm, facing off against Ser Mandon Moore's simple but deadly swordsmanship and Ser Meryn Trant's brutality.

"Your Grace," Boros said, his voice uncertain. His sword wavered, half-raised, as if unsure whether to lift it in attack or defense. Robert growled, a sound that came from deep in his chest, animal and furious, and attacked. The warhammer came down in a devastating arc. Boros barely got his shield up in time. The impact sent a crack through the painted wood, his own crowned stag splitting down the middle.

"Fight back!" Robert roared, pressing forward. Another strike. The shield splintered further.

"Fight back, damn you!" Boros tried a weak thrust with his sword, a hesitant probe that had no power behind it. Robert batted it aside contemptuously with the haft of his hammer, then brought the weapon around in a brutal sideways swing that caught Boros on the leg. Even through the armor, the impact was tremendous. The knight cried out and fell to one knee, sword arm dropping. Robert did not hesitate.

He brought the haft of his warhammer down on Boros's helmet in a ringing blow that sent the man sprawling face-first into the mud. Yield did not even make it past the knight's lips before unconsciousness took him. Robert stood over the fallen kingsguard, breathing hard, disgust curling his lip. The man was not good enough to polish the blades at the Red Keep, much less wield one and call himself a knight of the Kingsguard. Another of his mistakes.

Another reminder of how far things had fallen since he took the throne. He turned from Boros's motionless form to survey the melee. Most of the men were still locked in their individual duels, honor-bound not to interfere. Lord Gulian Swann and Ser Cedrik Storm fought in a pair against Ser Roger Hogg and a knight whose surcoat bore the Byrch sigil, trading blows in a brutal four-way dance. Swords rang against shields. Men grunted with effort.

Closer by, Ser Barristan had finally turned up the intensity against Bonifer Hasty. Robert watched as the Lord Commander executed a brilliant counter-riposte—blade sliding along blade, a twist of the wrist, and suddenly Hasty's sword was spinning through the air. A heartbeat later, Barristan's blade rested against the knight's throat. He couldn't help the grunt of acknowledgement that escaped him. Say what you would about Selmy, the man was damned good with a sword.

Even if he was a meddlesome, Targaryen-loving headache.

"Selmy!" Robert bellowed at him. Ser Barristan turned, his white cloak swirling.

"Your Grace." Robert grinned behind his antlered helm.

"Come. I'll show you how I killed that prissy prince of yours." For just an instant, Robert swore he saw a shadow flash across the old knight's eyes beneath his helmet. Good. Let him feel it. Let him remember. Barristan said nothing, but his grip on his sword tightened as he strode forward to meet the king, and they came together like thunder. Robert struck first, his warhammer descending in a blow that would have caved in a lesser man's skull.

Barristan's shield caught it, absorbing the impact, but the force drove him back a step. The Lord Commander recovered instantly, his sword darting forward in a thrust aimed at the gap beneath Robert's arm. Robert twisted, the blade scraping harmlessly across his breastplate, and countered with a horizontal swing. Back and forth they went, attack and defense, each testing the other. Robert pressed with his superior strength, each hammer blow carrying enough force to shatter bone.

But Barristan was faster, more experienced, his blade always there to deflect or his feet carrying him out of range at the last instant. Robert tried a feint, pretending to overextend, leaving his left side open, but Barristan did not take the bait. The old knight had seen too many battles to fall for such tricks. They circled, trading blows that rang out across the melee ground. Robert's breath came harder now, his chest heaving. He was strong, yes, but he was not as fast as he had been at the Trident.

Too many years sitting on his arse, drinking and eating and letting himself grow soft. The warrior who had killed Rhaegar was still there, but buried under years of apathy and wine. Barristan pressed his advantage, his sword a silver blur. Robert gave ground, his hammer coming up again and again to block. The old knight did not tire, did not slow. Robert's boot hit a patch of mud churned up by earlier fighting. His foot slipped. For a terrible instant he was off-balance, his guard open, his throat exposed.

Barristan's sword did not move. The moment passed. Robert recovered his footing. And rage, pure, incandescent rage, flooded through him.

"I'll fucking kill you if you don't take me seriously, Selmy!" Robert roared. He attacked with a fury that bordered on madness, hammer rising and falling like a smith at his forge. Each blow was meant to kill, to crush, to break. No more testing. No more sparring.

"Ours!" Strike.

"Is!" Strike.

"The!" Strike.

"Fury!" The final blow came down with all Robert's strength behind it, smashing into Barristan's shield with such force that it drove the Lord Commander to his knees. Robert followed through, hooking the spike of his hammer onto the edge of the shield and wrenching it aside. His boot lashed out, catching Barristan square in the chest and sending him sprawling onto his back. Robert stood over him, hammer raised for the killing blow.

"Yield, Your Grace," Barristan said. But his voice was not winded. Not tired. Not the ragged breathing of a man pushed to his limit. Robert realized with a sick twist in his gut that the old knight had not given his all. Had been holding back. Treating him like a child who needed to be humored, allowed his little victory so he would not throw a tantrum.

"Gods damn you, Selmy," Robert growled. He wanted to smash the hammer down anyway, consequences be damned. But he did not. Could not. Not when half the realm was watching. Not when he knew he would regret it as soon as he did it. Instead, he looked around the melee ground, searching for something to vent the fury burning in his chest. Ser Mandon Moore had defeated young Horpe, but Ser Rolland Storm had downed Meryn Trant and was now pressing the attack against Moore, his bastard's hunger driving him forward.

Selwyn Tarth had gained the upper hand against Ser Ilyn Payne, raining blows down on the mute knight's defense. The other pairs were still locked in their slow, grinding duels. Robert did not care about any of it. His eyes scanned the chaos, looking for worthy prey. He spotted the Mountain first—an impossibly tall figure in grey plate, fighting alongside so many men with roaring lions on their breastplates that they looked like a giant mummer and his troupe.

Gregor Clegane was laying about with a greatsword that would have taken three normal men to lift, sending knights flying with each swing. And there, among the Westerlanders, Robert found what he was looking for. A knight in glittering golden armor, white cloak billowing as he finished off a Northman with a precise thrust through the armpit gap. Even from this distance, Robert recognized that arrogant grace. Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer. Robert's grip tightened on his warhammer.

Only smashing the golden boy could settle the fury inside him now. He started forward, leaving Barristan in the mud behind him, his eyes fixed on the man who had robbed him of his chance to kill the Mad King himself. Time to remind the realm what Robert Baratheon's warhammer could do.