[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 15: JON ARRYN (Public) (Patreon)

Date: Early 298 AC

Location: The Tourney Grounds, King's Landing


The roar of the smallfolk was a physical thing, a beast of a thousand tongues that shook the timber stands until the very wood seemed to groan in protest. It was a sound Jon Arryn knew well—the baying of a mob that had scented blood. The air was thick with the smells of the tourney: roasted meat, summer wine, horse manure, and the copper tang of violence.

The Hand of the King sat heavily in his high-backed chair, pulling his fur-lined cloak closer against a chill that only he seemed to feel. A sharp, twisting pain gnawed at his gut, a familiar companion these past few weeks, turning the watered wine in his stomach to acid. He felt old today. Older than his years, and brittle as dry parchment.

To his left, King Robert stood, red-faced and roaring, spilling Arbor gold down his velvet tunic as he bellowed encouragement to the chaos below. He was fat now, the warrior muscle of the Trident buried beneath years of feasting and sloth, but his love for the song of swords remained undimmed.

To Jon's right sat Queen Cersei. She watched the carnage with the bored cruelty of a cat playing with a mouse, her emerald eyes tracking the blood in the mud while her face remained a mask of perfect, porcelain indifference.

Gold, Jon thought, the ache in his belly flaring. Always gold. In every union of the Lion and the Stag, the black coal of Baratheon has choked out the Lannister gold. Yet the Prince is golden. A golden giant.

His mind drifted to the heavy leather book locked away in his chambers in the Tower of the Hand. The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses. The seed was strong. It was a monstrous truth to hold, a treason of the blood that could tear the realm apart. He looked at Robert, oblivious and loud, and felt a profound sadness.

A sudden trumpet blast cut through the din, signaling the start of the Grand Melee.

The gates at the far end of the lists swung open, and the earth trembled. Fifty knights thundered onto the field, a chaotic tide of steel and silk. The mud flew in clods as destriers, coursers, and rounseys collided in a confused mass of heaving horseflesh.

But one rider drew the eye, a calm center in the swirling storm of violence.

They called him the Titan's Bastard. The whispers from Littlefinger claimed he was a duelist from the Disputed Lands, a sellsword who had earned his spurs in the blood-pits of Tyrosh. He was massive, standing near seven feet tall—a tower of a man who rivaled even the Hound in stature.

He rode a beast that matched him: a massive black destrier of the Westerlands, a stallion as dark as midnight with a temper to match. The horse, which the smallfolk had whispered was named Brimstone, foamed at the bit, its eyes rolling white, yet it moved with a terrifying discipline under its rider's hand.

The rider's armor was plain, unpolished grey steel, devoid of crest or ornamentation save for the shield strapped to his back, which bore a single, jagged red comet—the Bleeding Star.

Another giant, Jon thought, watching the stranger move. The Gods mock us. They give us a Prince who looks like a Lannister but grows like a weed, and now they send this... this shadow. A stranger with the King's own strength.

The melee was not a duel; it was a brawl. A knight of House Frey, distinguished by the twin towers on his surcoat, charged the grey giant from the flank. He held a tourney lance of ash wood, its tip blunted with a leather cap, but at full gallop, it could still shatter ribs.

The Titan's Bastard did not panic. He did not haul on the reins. He simply shifted his weight in the stirrups. Brimstone pivoted on powerful haunches, a subtle maneuver of the high saddle that allowed the horse to sidestep the charge by inches. The Frey's lance glanced harmlessly off the giant's pauldron.

Before the Frey could recover or wheel his mount, the grey knight rose in his stirrups. He wielded a tourney longsword—dull-edged and rounded at the tip, but heavy as a crowbar. With a backhanded swing that harnessed the full rotation of his massive shoulders, he struck the Frey knight across the helm.

There was a sickening clang like a church bell struck by a hammer. The Frey was lifted clean out of his high saddle and flung into the mud, where he lay still, twitching.

"Gods," Stannis Baratheon murmured from behind Jon's chair. The Master of Ships was grinding his teeth, his blue eyes hard as flint. "He fights like a butcher."

"He fights like a winner!" Robert laughed, slamming a meaty hand on the railing. "Look at him, Jon! That's how I fought on the Trident! No fancy footwork, just iron and will!"

The grey giant pressed on. He did not seek the edges of the fray where the prudent knights lingered. He rode into the thickest press.

Ser Lyle Crakehall, the Strongboar, saw him coming. Crakehall was a massive man, renowned for a brute strength that was said to be second only to the Mountain's. He sat a barded destrier of piebald grey and swung a heavy tourney mace—a flanged ball of lead and iron that, even blunted, could dent plate armor like tin.

"Hah!" Crakehall roared, spurring his mount. "To me, Bastard! To me!"

The crowd screamed. A collision of such mass would surely shatter bones.

The Titan's Bastard spurred Brimstone to meet the charge. But at the last second, he checked his mount. The black stallion reared, its iron-shod hooves lashing out. It was a risky gambit, one that exposed the belly, but it forced Crakehall's horse to shy away.

In that moment of hesitation, the grey knight dropped his reins and guided the horse with his knees alone—a feat of horsemanship Jon had not seen since the days of Ser Barristan in his youth. Freed, his hands gripped his sword hilt. He drove the pommel down like a hammer onto Crakehall's wrist.

The mace fell from numb fingers.

The Titan's Bastard did not pause. He hooked his arm around Crakehall's neck, and with a roar that was lost in the crowd's din, he heaved.

It was a contest of pure, raw power. The Strongboar flailed, grabbing at the grey knight's pauldrons, but the leverage was against him. Slowly, inexorably, the massive Westerman was dragged from his saddle. The Titan's Bastard released him, and Crakehall hit the mud with a wet thud that shook the front rows.

"Who is he?" Pycelle's quavering voice whispered. The Grand Maester's chains clinked softly as he leaned forward, his milky eyes wide. "Such power... it is unnatural."

"He is a danger," Jon said quietly, more to himself than the others. "A man with that much power and no name... he is a weapon waiting for a hand to wield it."

Suddenly, a hush fell over the crowd, rippling outward from the center of the field.

Thoros of Myr had entered the fray. The Red Priest of Essos was drunk, as always, his red robes stained with wine and mud, but he was dangerous. In his hand, his sword burned with a sick, green light. Wildfire. It was a parlor trick, a thin coating of the substance that ruined the blunted steel, making it brittle, but the sight terrified horses and men alike.

Around Thoros, the melee disintegrated. Horses screamed and bolted, their eyes wide with primal terror. Even seasoned warhorses would not face the fire. Knights were thrown as their mounts bucked and fled.

All except one.

In the center of the clearing field, the black stallion Brimstone stood fast. It tossed its head, foam flying from its lips, snorting at the acrid smoke, but it did not run. The rider's hand was firm on the neck, a calming weight.

Thoros grinned, a mad glint in his eyes. He spurred his own horse, a lean sand-steed that seemed drugged or mad, toward the grey giant. He swung the burning sword in a lazy arc, the flames hissing through the air. "Yield, Ser Giant!" he shouted over the din. "Yield to the Lord of Light, or burn!"

The crowd gasped. To walk toward the fire was madness. Even brave men feared the substance that had consumed Summerhall.

The Titan's Bastard did not yield. He swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the mud.

"He dismounts?" Robert blinked, confused. "Why would he give up the advantage?"

The grey knight slapped Brimstone's flank, sending the horse trotting away to safety. He turned to face the Red Priest on foot. He stood amidst the churned earth, a solitary peak of grey steel against the green flames.

Thoros laughed and charged. He meant to ride the man down, to sweep the flaming sword across his helm and panic him into submission.

The Titan's Bastard waited. He stood perfectly still, his sword held low and loose.

As the horse thundered down, the grey knight stepped—not back, but in. He moved inside the arc of the swing, past the horse's head.

Thoros brought the flaming blade down.

The grey knight did not block. He did not dodge.

He reached out.

His left hand, clad in a gauntlet of plain grey steel, shot out with the blinding speed of a striking viper. He caught the burning blade mid-swing.

By the Seven, Jon thought, his breath catching in his throat. He caught it.

The green fire licked angrily at the grey gauntlet. Smoke curled from the leather palm beneath the steel plates. The heat should have been unbearable, enough to cook the flesh from the bone in seconds. The wildfire hissed and popped, eager to consume.

But the Titan's Bastard did not flinch. He held the blade fast, stopping the horse's momentum and the rider's swing in one impossible motion.

Thoros's grin vanished, replaced by slack-jawed disbelief. He tugged, but the sword was immovable, trapped in a grip of iron.

With a sudden, violent wrench of his shoulders, the grey knight twisted the blade. The steel, already brittle and ruined by the intense heat of the wildfire, gave way with a loud snap like a whip. The flaming tip fell into the mud, hissing as it died in a cloud of acrid steam.

The Titan's Bastard looked at the broken shards in his hand for a heartbeat—a second that stretched into a horrifying eternity—before tossing them aside.

He reached up, grabbed the stunned Red Priest by the terrified lapels of his robes, and ripped him from the saddle. He slammed Thoros into the mud, the wind driven out of him.

The grey knight placed a heavy steel boot on the priest's chest.

Silence. Absolute, stunned silence reigned over the tourney grounds. Even the King was struck dumb.

Then, Robert Baratheon roared. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated joy that echoed off the city walls. "DID YOU SEE THAT? JON! STANNIS! HE GRABBED THE FIRE! HE GRABBED THE DAMN FIRE!"

The crowd erupted. They chanted a name, a low rumble that grew into a thunderclap that shook the stands. "Titan! Titan! Titan!"

Jon Arryn sank back into his chair, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He felt a cold sweat break across his forehead despite the heat of the day.

He had seen men do brave things on the battlefield. He had seen men do stupid things for glory. But he had never seen a man treat wildfire like it was a summer breeze.

He looked down at the grey giant standing over the fallen priest, chest heaving, triumphant amidst the carnage he had wrought. The stranger was a terrifying enigma—he had the body of a young Robert, the lethal skill of a master-at-arms, and an unnatural resistance to fear and fire.

The Prince is a giant, yes, Jon thought, the pain in his gut flaring hot and sharp. But the Prince is a boy of the court. This... this stranger is something else. He touches fire and does not burn. He fights with the fury of the Storm God.

He closed his eyes, the image of the bleeding star on the grey shield burning behind his lids. He feared he was looking at the future, and it was a future forged in fire and blood.