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The Titan of Tarth (ASOAIF/GOT) - SI/OC

Tác giả: PathLiar

Chương 1: Chapter 1 - The Titan of Tarth

"The art in creating your own legend is to craft the right narrative before someone else does it for you. You need the kind of story that gets people on the edge of their seats around a campfire; a tale full of drama and emotion that sweeps grand marble halls and straw-roofed huts alike into oohs and aahs and great sighs of relief.

"In Westeros, the best narratives start with tourneys, and when they tell my story in some distant future, the bards would start with today."

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Stepping onto the stirrup of my horse, I blew out a steaming breath from beneath my full-face helm and swung my foot over the saddle. My hips settled nicely above Smoker, the white courser so familiar with my armored weight that he barely even twitched. Still, I leaned down closer to his head, drawing my gauntlet through his pale mane.

"Ready now, boy?" I said. "Just you and I again. You and I against these medieval bastards."

The horse whinnied softly, twisting his neck back to shoot me the equine equivalent of a 'do you really have to ask?' glance. I was no warg, as far as I knew, but the connection I'd formed with Smoker, the way we could read each other's intentions from the most minute of movements, could never be considered natural. Certainly not with my old notion of natural possibilities. A quirk of this world, certainly.

Rushing footsteps on sand drew my attention and I looked up. A red-haired squire was running over from the weapons' tent with four jousting lances held over his shoulder, the weight of the lances seemingly no problem for the tall, stocky boy. He came to a stop a few feet before the lances would poke into Smoker's side.

"Some of the lances, ser," he said, not even having the decency to appear out of breath. "For your choosing."

I looked down at the boy, my interested expression hidden beneath the helm. Beyond his size, the squire seemed completely unremarkable. No glimmer in the eye that hinted at hidden potential, no embroidery on his clothes marking him out as the son of a noble house. In fact, the only characteristic that sparked any reaction was the constellation of red pimples breaking over his nose and cheeks like firecrackers, the acne all the more noticeable given his large and pale moon-like face.

Earlier in the day, I had paid a few coppers to the closest unattended squire I could find to carry my lances and help me with my armor after every joust. But ever since my last tilt before the noon break earlier in the day, moon-face here had eagerly latched onto me without asking for a penny.

I usually made a concerted effort to learn the name of all those around me without regard for station or family name, but given my current situation, I had not given that social job any thought. Now, I found myself regretting that.

"Your name, squire?" I asked. My voice came warbled from inside all the metal. It helped to make it sound deeper than it really was.

The boy snapped to attention at my question. "I, uh, I mean, it's Pate, ser. Pate."

"Just Pate?"

The squire cringed. He looked down to his feet, scratched at his red hair with his free hand. "Yes, ser."

Smallfolk, then, I concluded. How did he get to squiring at such a prestigious tournament?

I shrugged. "Very well, Pate." I said, deciding to give him something to look forward to. I could use a squire once they knighted me. "After today, I will be counting on you two days hence to squire for me as well. Understood?"

"Two days, ser?" He seemed to puzzle that for a moment, fiery eyebrows scrunching together in thought. Then he caught my meaning. "You mean… you mean for the finals, ser?"

I gave a subtle nudge with my knee and Smoker neighed and pranced beneath me, turning in a circle so that we stood facing the tilt lane. On the other side, my next adversary emerged from a corner, some Westerlander knight wearing silver-enameled armor and a brown horse.

I felt my blood rising in anticipation, the roiling heat of pre-battle stoking my resolve to see this through, the start of my very own legend. I found myself smiling in my armored darkness.

"I didn't tell you before, did I?" I said, only loud enough for the squire to hear me. "I'm winning this whole damned thing, Pate. Count on it."

xxx

The afternoon sun hid behind a great chain of iron-gray clouds, and the air beneath the walls of Lannisterport was crisp and only slightly tinged with the collective stench of humanity as crowds of smallfolk and nobles packed the stands around the tiltyard. Good weather for knocking men off their horses with long sticks.

Opening up my visor, I wiped away the sweat that had built up on my brow over the last few tilts. The sun wasn't out, but the enclosure of the armor and the heat of the horse beneath me still felt stifling. Even then, I did not feel any fatigue. My breathing was calm and paced, my muscles sore and well-used but not anywhere near their limit.

From the corner of my eyes, I caught Pate jogging over with a waterskin. Unclasping my helm for a moment, I took a deep pull from the skin, exposing my jaw to some fresh air. The smallfolk crowd piled up on the low-rising slope to my right cheered as they got a glimpse of the mystery knight beneath the armor, though they were much more subdued in their adoration as they had been in previous matches.

Staring across the tiltyard for what felt like the thousandth time today, I knew I couldn't blame them. Another Westerlander, the eighth of the day and third of the afternoon, though not a minor knight like all those before. Ser Tygett Lannister rode well above his dappled stallion, red and gold armor still pristine despite the three lances I had broken upon his shield. Tygget was a large man, blessed to have been born with a soldier's physique in this violent world. Yet I watched as he tested his left arm with careful movements before accepting a new shield from his squire.

Had I put my full strength behind the blow, I bet I could have taken the arm off at the shoulder. I chuckled lowly. No, I wasn't that strong. Not yet, at least. I was still a growing teenager.

The crowd went wild when Tygett took up his lance again, lifted it up straight in the air, and bowed his head slightly toward me. He was good to keep going, then. Handing Pate back the waterskin, I picked up the lance from where I had it resting across the saddle and offered the same salute back at the Lannister knight.

People seemed to have enjoyed our exchanges so far, but three tilts had been plenty. It was past time I took the man down.

I could've gotten him before but, given what I planned, I didn't want to humiliate the host's brother. Or accidentally kill him. No amount of brute strength would save me from Tywin's wrath then, even if he would play nice in front of the King and the rest of the nobles. I didn't fancy having my throat slit in my sleep in a few months from now, so Tygett would live. His ego might be bruised for a bit though, especially once he found out it was a fifteen year old boy who got him on his ass.

Although, by then, I'd wager he wouldn't mind it that much. Not when I planned to sweep the entire field along with him.

Tygett trotted up to his lane and I matched him on my side. A gust of wind blew from the ocean, carrying with it the familiar scent of brine and fish. I had grown to enjoy the smell of the sea in this life. Red and gold streamers which decorated the tourney grounds and the streets of Lannisport flapped in their posts as if cheering for their homegrown knight. Above the royal stand to my left, which towered over even the other noble-packed bleachers, a giant flag bearing the symbol of House Targaryen came alive in the air—and for a moment, dragons danced in the sky once more.

I soaked it all in, allowing myself to feel the atmosphere, to be steeped in it.

But only for a heartbeat, then I shut it down. All of it. I let my breathing settle, let my focus narrow to the point of my lance and the distant lion-shaped chestplate of my opponent; I let the shouts of the crowd wash by me like waves crashing against a boulder.

A trumpet sounded—a distant thing in my state of mind, but I was aware enough to tighten my hold on Smoker with my knees, and that was his cue. The horse bolted forward, churning sand beneath its hooves. Adrenaline shot through my veins like lightning. I moved on instinct—shield raised, lance couched tightly beneath my armpit.

My eyes locked onto Tygett. The Lannister knight thundered toward me above his stallion, the fancy barding covering the animal streaming in the wind. He was well-trained and more experienced than I was. His form might as well have been plucked out of a textbook, lance pointed straight at my chest.

It wouldn't do him any good.

Though a crucial practice for knights, jousting wasn't a reflection of a real battle. For an individual soldier, even a noble, war was about enduring. Keeping yourself in the fight, oftentimes by simply outlasting the enemy. Father beat this into my head when I started to train in the yard, and I gladly took it to heart.

No, jousting wasn't a battle, a place where battle-hardened veterans usually carried the day over the inexperienced youths. Jousting was the single moment. The inch over the mile. In this account, none could match me. Whatever force put me on this world had made me… better. More. Special. I didn't particularly care about why or how, all I cared about was leaving my mark on this earth. And Tygett was in my way.

We met at the center of the tiltyard, and for the crowds in the viewing stands, it must have been a blur of men and metal. But I saw it all. I saw it as our lances nearly scraped against each other as they zipped above the barrier separating the lanes. I saw it as Tygett leaned forward on his saddle, his body language letting me read his intention in that split second and lift my arm to match his thrust, so that his lance would slide harmlessly against my shield instead of hitting it in full.

More importantly, I saw it as his injured left shoulder dipped as he moved above the horse. An unconscious thing, and also the whole reason why I had targeted that shoulder three runs in a row.

The point of my lance slipped above his shield and slammed against his chestpiece. The impact sent a jolt through my whole body and I tightened my hold on my horse. Splinters flew as the lance broke, showering me in wood, but by then I was riding past him and Tygett Lannister was a human-shaped speed bump on the sand.

Smoker came to a stop at the end of the lane and I let myself relax with a deep exhale. Suddenly, I was back in the moment. My frantic heartbeat rattling in my ears was drowned by the cheers of the crowd. Turning my horse around, I noticed why they'd let themselves show so much support for me. On the royal stand, beneath the canopy that had been erected to protect our rulers from sun and rain, a white-haired man had stood from his seat, and he applauded me quite enthusiastically.

King Aerys Targaryen seemed to approve of Lannister bashing.