Chapter 14: Chapter 14
POV Aeryon
The saddest part was that, in such a state, I couldn't even tell what that smile meant. Was he mocking me or offering friendship? Shaking my head a few times, I tried to rid myself of unnecessary thoughts, pushing away guesses and the pain in my body. The duel was all that mattered now—I had to give it everything I had and even more.
Spurring my horse forward with full concentration, I prepared for any outcome. But there was something different in Went's movements—an almost imperceptible shift in Oswell's lance gave me that precious bit of space. However, to make it look convincing in the eyes of the spectators, I had to overcome the pain in my body and pour all my will into one final thrust.
Thankfully, it worked out that way. With a deafening crack, my lance slammed into Went's armor. While the crowd saw it as a display of princely skill, the real strength lay elsewhere—in the unseen gesture of agreement reached between us just moments before the strike. Oswell "lost" with dignity, and to everyone, it looked like a victory earned at great effort.
Looking at the fallen Went, I immediately extended my hand, which he took at once. We exchanged nods and understanding glances before beginning to leave the arena.
POV Spectators
The time soon came for the next duel. The stands fell silent as two great knights entered the arena: Barristan the Bold and Prince Lewyn Martell, a worthy representative of Dorne. Every movement they made exuded confidence and dignity, as if these men themselves were the embodiment of knighthood.
Lords and ladies whispered, placing bets and discussing the chances of each combatant. Most admired Barristan's resilience, who had for years remained a symbol of honor and unwavering loyalty. A much smaller portion of the audience acknowledged Martell's skill. The Reach's deep-seated dislike for the Dornish ran through their hearts, so even the faint support for Prince Lewyn could be seen as a significant recognition of his prowess.
"Who would've thought I'd witness such a duel," thought a young squire hiding in the shadows of the stands, trying not to miss a single move from these famous warriors. "I wonder if I'll ever reach even a fraction of their skill…"
Old knights exchanged glances, recalling their own battles and stories tied to these two Kingsguard. In their eyes, there was respect for both fighters. "Ser Barristan is the favorite, of course. But the Dornish are unpredictable. Lewyn might surprise us." With each passing moment, the tension grew.
POV Ralf Buckler
Approaching Qwelton, who was standing slightly aside, watching the arena, I decided to discuss Aeryon's chances in the upcoming rounds.
"Fell's glad you're okay. I thought Rhaegar hit you a bit too hard," I started the conversation with a slight smile.
"He was indeed good, but as we've seen, even that wasn't enough," Qwelton replied, crossing his arms over his chest.
"What do you think awaits our prince in the next rounds? You're a good fighter; you must have some idea of his chances."
Qwelton frowned, slightly narrowing his eyes.
"It all depends on who makes it to the finals," he answered, nodding towards the arena, where Barristan and Lewyn were preparing to clash. "But honestly, Aeryon's only hope is if the winner of this duel suffers a serious injury."
Thoughts started swirling in my mind: "Just as I suspected, and that's not even considering Aeryon's own condition. Even though Went made the right choice, he still roughed up the prince a bit more than necessary, for reasons I can't understand. Idiot. Even if Aeryon says that a worthy final in such competition is highly valuable, we both know that people will only remember the winner. The tournament's outcome is crucial for him, and therefore for me, since the more powerful the prince becomes, the easier it will be for me to climb the ladder."
Exchanging a few more words with Fell, I went off to find one of my trusted men—it was time to put the backup plan into action.
POV Spectators
Barristan Selmy and Lewyn Martell stood facing each other, preparing for a duel that everyone present would remember. Their horses snorted impatiently, as if sensing the intensity of the upcoming battle. Amidst the crowd's cheers, they spurred their mounts and charged towards each other with a thunderous crash.
The first round began with an exchange of powerful blows. Martell, renowned for his unmatched technique, aimed his lance straight at his opponent's chest, but Barristan confidently parried the strike, maintaining his balance. However, Lewyn's blow was so strong that the spectators gasped, realizing the agility with which the Dornishman moved in the saddle.
In the second round, the Dornishman seemed to showcase even more of his skill and flexibility. He dodged Barristan's strike at the last moment and delivered a counterstrike, splintering a piece of his opponent's shield.
The third round became decisive in the spectators' eyes. Both knights moved simultaneously, and the lances collided with a deafening crack in the air. Neither yielded the advantage, but the determination on their faces reflected the respect they had for each other.
The duel clearly showcased Martell's superiority with the lance. With each charge, he increasingly pushed Barristan onto the defensive. The crowd, favoring Selmy, held its breath as the Dornish prince applied more and more pressure on the famed knight.
The climax came in the sixth round, where the guardsmen exchanged precise and powerful hits. Yet, while Martell managed to stay in his saddle with great effort, Barristan, who was thrown off balance, couldn't maintain his position.
POV Ralf Buckler
The warm day was filled with cheerful laughter and chatter all around. In the depths of a tavern corner, where the revelry was at its peak, I found the perfect target. Several Reachmen had already drowned themselves in wine, cursing loudly about losing their savings. All that remained for me was to sit quietly under a hood, giving final instructions to my man. Taking a seat at a table overflowing with cups and pitchers, he swayed exaggeratedly, pretending to be unsteady from drink.
"Well, gentlemen, I hear your purses got a lot lighter today," he started with a deliberately coarse laugh, drawing the attention of the drunken company. "You probably bet on Randyll Tarly, right? And then on Barristan, huh? And what happened in the end? Lost to that damned Dornishman!"
One of the men grumbled something about "dishonorable methods" and drained his tankard. The others began complaining about their bad luck in betting.
"Well, let me tell you, gentlemen," Bran continued in a mock conspiratorial tone, leaning closer, "I understand your pain. I'd have liked to see that bastard lose too. I remember watching in awe with my brother at Ser Barristan's victories and deeds. I was hoping to see him as the tournament's champion, but no, that wretch ruined everything!"
The Reachmen grew animated, raising their cups and agreeing with him.
"But you know what, gentlemen," he lowered his voice theatrically, leaning even closer, "I'm willing to compensate for your losses. Even triple them, if need be. But this situation is bothering me—I'd like someone to teach that Dornishman a lesson in proper manners."
A grim smile appeared on one man's face, while another looked alarmed.
"Wait, friend! You're joking, right? That scoundrel might be a Dornish savage, but he's still a skilled fighter," he said, already understanding where this conversation was headed.
"Why would I joke?" Bran dramatically pulled out a purse full of coins and tossed it onto the table, where it landed with a thud and a jingle. "All it takes is a bit of courage, and the matter can be resolved. Don't miss your chance, gentlemen."
All I could do was smile as I watched the greedy gleam in the drunkards' eyes.
POV Lewyn Martell
As I moved towards a tent set a bit apart from the others, avoiding provoking the Reachmen with my presence, I pondered the upcoming duel and my opponent, Prince Aeryon—or more specifically, his fight with Went. At first glance, it seemed like a hard-fought victory, but I noticed the slight, yet crucial shift in Oswell's lance. It seems my comrades have entirely forgotten that they're supposed to serve the king, not princes. First Dayne, who indulges all of Rhaegar's whims, and now Went, who deliberately lost to Aeryon. They should be reminded of the White Cloak vows.
My thoughts were interrupted by a group of men lingering near the tent, clearly waiting for my arrival, and judging by their unsteady steps, they weren't quite sober. I calmly approached and asked:
"Are you looking for someone, gentlemen?"
They exchanged glances and then sneered wickedly, laughing.
"We're looking for you, Dornish scum. You're getting a bit too comfortable on our land."
"I'm afraid you've had too much wine, gentlemen. My kind advice—go your way, and I'll forget your foul tongues. Otherwise, I'll have to cut them out."
After saying that, I began assessing the situation. Four louts stood before me, starting to circle from different sides. My lance and armor were in the tent, but a single sword and dagger would be more than enough for them.
"Well, have you made your decision?"
"Oh, yes! Get him!" their leader commanded.
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