The Tourney (Patreon)

Haridon eyed the collected knights, hedge knights, and warriors with slight interest. They filled the lists, a swirling mix of color and polished steel beneath the hot sun of King's Landing.

There were a few famous names, immediately recognizable by their banners and their reputations: Thoros of Myr, the jovial red priest who fought with a burning sword; Ser Loras Tyrell, the beautiful Knight of Flowers; and the monstrous figure of Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain.

There were also numerous knights flying the banners of the Lannisters, the Stormlands, and the Reach. Notably, there were a few knights carrying House Blackwood banners from the Riverlands.

He considered that the only realm conspicuously unrepresented was the Vale. That, he knew, was because Lysa Arryn had firmly scheduled herself within the impregnable walls of the Eyrie, sending furious ravens across the kingdoms claiming that the Lannisters had killed her husband, the previous hand.

Her paranoia, or perhaps her calculation, kept every knight loyal to the Vale far away from the King's peace and the Hand's Tourney. The rest of the Seven Kingdoms, however, had come to play.

Jon's new sword had been completed, as had his reinforced armor. The Northerner had asked Haridon if he could participate in the melee, and he had readily accepted, provided Ser Barristan allowed it.

The idea of Jon wading into the chaos of the melee, dressed in steel he himself had commissioned, brought a genuine sense of satisfaction. Haridon himself had a plan for the tournament, but the competition would start with archery, then lance throwing, after that would come the melee, and at last, the jousting.

Jousting was an art he was simply not good at; he had never trained for it. It required a different kind of focus, a commitment to horsemanship and lances he had never prioritized.

His focus had been on the greatsword, the war hammer, or even archery—weapons that demanded strength, precision and endurance—but never the lance and the joust. It was a shame, as the joust was always where the greatest fame and gold were won, but he was practical enough to know his limitations.

Around him, the great lords and their ladies sat and conversed, politics flowing like a sluggish, poisoned river. Haridon could feel the tension humming beneath the surface of the chatter.

Every handshake, every slight smile, was a loaded exchange of words and coins, the air thick with rampant betting on every participant, every clash of steel. The very atmosphere was suffocating, a stark contrast to the clean, frigid air of the North he already missed.

His father was in full revelry. His eyes were bright, his goblet was always full, and his booming laughter dominated the royal box. He was a creature of battle and blood, more warrior than king, and he loved his tourneys and feasts more than governance.

Haridon watched him with a detached affection; this was the truest form of Robert.

He was seated on his father's far right. He wore plain, unadorned silks, a deliberate counterpoint to the peacock display of the court. Joffrey sat beside the King, stiff and preening, constantly adjusting his golden finery.

Lord Stark was on the King's left, looking profoundly uncomfortable. The Hand of the King was encased in his stiff dignity, his eyes constantly searching the stands, a stranger in a strange land. Sansa sat beside him, her face alight with every romantic cliché the spectacle offered, already projecting her ideal fantasies onto the knights below.

Arya, beside her sister, was the picture of fidgeting misery, clearly bored to the point of pain. He suppressed a smile, knowing she would rather be down in the dirt with the contenders.

His mother, Cersei, sat beside his elder brother, her face a mask of gilded perfection, her hand occasionally resting protectively on his arm. Tommen and Myrcella sat quietly beside her, the only true innocents in the box.

Tyrion was seated beside Haridon, already deep in his cups, yet his sharp eyes missed nothing. "Look at the Hand," The Dwarf murmured, leaning close enough for the scent of wine to reach Haridon. "He looks as if he's waiting for the High Septon to announce a famine."

"He's a fish out of water," He replied, not taking his eyes off the lists. "And the water is full of sharks."

Ideally, and strangely, Littlefinger was seated directly behind Joffrey, exchanging words with a slimy, perpetual smile. The Master of Coin was weaving his subtle nets even here.

Haridon knew the man was up to no good—whispering advice, placing enormous, calculated bets, and collecting information with every flicker of the eye. But he couldn't very well pull a Hermione and light his cloak on fire—funny as that would be, it would only delay the inevitable plot.

He inhaled slowly, centering his focus. The political games would wait. The violence, the excitement, and the true contest were about to begin.

He focused as the herald started the competition, his voice booming over the crowd, announcing that the archery competition was about to start.

The contenders assembled, bowstrings checked, and targets were set at various distance. Referees—reputed nobles, trying to look suitably official—gathered for better observation, standing ready for the competition to commence.

The herald's voice, hoarse from repeated announcements, finally faded. "The Archery Competition is officially commenced!" he bellowed one last time.

A quiet tension descended upon the lists. Unlike the raw spectacle of the joust or the melee, the archery contest required a different kind of focus—one that emphasized silence and individual precision.

The King, already bored, drained his goblet and slammed it onto the railing. "Get on with it, damn you!" he roared, earning a cold, warning look from Cersei.

The first archers stepped forward, mostly small lords and professional guardsmen, but a handful of renowned names soon followed. Haridon knew the Reach often produced excellent bowmen, though few could rival the skill of the Dornish outlaws who haunted the Red Mountains.

A particularly sharp-eyed archer bearing the green and gold checks of House Vyrwel from the Reach stepped up. He was a wiry man, his movements economical and precise.

Tyrion nudged Haridon with his elbow. "Placing any bets, dear nephew? I've got five gold dragons on the Dornish fellow over there. Name of Dalt, from the Red Mountains—a hedge knight, surprisingly."

Haridon shrugged, his gaze distant. "Dornish skill with a bow is undeniable, but I suspect the Reach's discipline will carry the day in this structured setting. I place ten dragons on the Vyrwel man."

"A Lannister always pays his debts, even to his favorite nephew's chosen warrior," Tyrion quipped, sipping his wine.

The early rounds saw a predictable display of moderate talent. As the targets were moved further back, however, the field narrowed. The Vyrwel archer performed consistently, but it was Tyrion's dark horse, the hedge knight Dalt, who truly shone.

His form was unconventional, relying on instinct rather than training, yet his arrows found the bullseye with unnerving regularity, slicing through the stiff breeze that gusted across the lists.

Lord Stark watched the proceedings with a stern, professional eye. He leaned over, speaking quietly to Sansa, likely explaining the mechanics or the history of the sport.

Sansa, still preoccupied with Joffrey's nearby presence, nodded vaguely. Arya, however, was rapt, leaning forward to track the trajectory of every arrow.

Suddenly, the noise level spiked. Dalt had just struck the center target from the longest distance—a truly remarkable shot.

King Robert erupted in a roar of appreciation. "That's how it's done! Send the man a cask of Arbor gold!"

Joffrey, sitting beside his father, frowned with displeasure, clearly unhappy that a common hedge knight was receiving such praise. He leaned toward his mother, whispering something petulant. Cersei merely patted his arm without looking away from the lists.

Littlefinger, seated behind Joffrey, seemed to be actively working the room. He leaned over the prince, offering a word, then straightened to exchange a quick, knowing look with one of the Lannister guardsmen.

The man's actions, silent and pervasive, made Haridon's skin crawl. The Master of Coin didn't just play the game; he was the game.

The final round came down to Dalt and the Vyrwel knight. The Reachman fired first, his arrow landing cleanly in the outer ring of the bullseye.

The tension was palpable as Dalt stepped up. He took his time, his eyes narrowed against the sun. The string whined, and the arrow flew true, splitting the first arrow down the middle and sending a splintered shaft flying—a perfect bullseye.

The crowd exploded. Dalt, the hedge knight, had won the archery competition.

Tyrion threw his head back and laughed, pulling a pouch of coins from his sleeve. "A thousand congratulations, dear nephew," he said, handing over the ten dragons. "And do remind me not to bet against a man who relies on instinct and desperation."

Haridon smiled faintly, watching Dalt collect his prize. The first contest was over. The archers dispersed, and the herald moved to the center of the lists, lifting his arms once more.

"Now, let the Lance Throwing Competition commence! Contenders, prepare your weapons!"

Jon eyed the lance throwing with detached attention. Ser Barristan still had time before he was needed for the joust, the final event in the order. The Melee on the other hand, was next.

So, here he was, getting ready in the armor that had been commissioned for him, armor that the Prince had then worked over himself.

The Prince had drawn strange symbols on the armor at the neck and waist—runes, the Prince had told him, explaining their power. They made his armor stronger than anything possible; no typical sword would pierce it.

Crucially, they made it incredibly light—not as light as a feather, but still like a slightly heavy tunic, far less cumbersome than standard steel.

His sword had also been worked on, the longsword more than the bastard one. The longsword, which bore a wolf pommel, had various runes inscribed along the length of the blade.

There was even a surprise, as the Prince called it: if Jon was ever desperate, he had to fully focus his will and need on the sword, and the runes would activate, ensuring his safety.

Jon didn't fully understand the magic, but he trusted Haridon.

Jon's helmet was placed to the side as the lance competition reached its tail end. A knight from the Stormlands was competing for the final prize with a Westerland knight, and as the last throw was executed, the warrior from the Stormlands won.

Ser Barristan looked at Jon, his expression stern. "Be at full focus, Jon. And do not rush. You are a good warrior. Your instincts are sharp, and your reflexes are good, so focus on them rather than brute strength."

Jon nodded in affirmation. "I will make you proud, Ser."

The bold knight hummed, then delivered a solemn warning. "Keep your path away from Gregor Clegane. The Mountain is dishonorable and cruel. The trouble is not worth it. Let him tire himself, and let others handle him."

Jon nodded in affirmation.

As the herald outside announced the competitors of the joust to assemble, Jon stood up fully armored. His armor was polished silver steel, covered by a black cape that bore a white direwolf sigil. The eyes of the wolf were red, and its maw was open in a silent snarl—a sigil he was allowed to wear because he was the bastard of the Lord of the North, a sigil he wore with fierce pride.

As he exited the tent, Ser Barristan followed. Jon noticed the large group of warriors already assembled in a fenced area near the lists, ready for the chaos of the melee, and he joined them.

The Hound was there too, surprisingly choosing the melee instead of the joust. And towering above everyone was the monstrous figure he instantly recognized: Gregor Clegane, the Mountain.

Jon nodded to Ser Barristan before turning toward the others, preparing himself.

But as the herald was about to start the joust, the crowd suddenly shifted, a ripple of excitement and surprise running through the spectators.

Walked in a towering presence, his black armor gleaming in the sun. He carried a heavy war hammer in his hand, and his helmet was crowned with fierce stag antlers. His long cape was a bold yellow emblazoned with a black sigil: a yellow stag with a hammer above it, and a strange sign Jon recognized too easily—a circle with a line running horizontally inside a triangle. His charge's personal sigil.

Prince Haridon had entered the melee.

People shifted nervously and some even outright walked away as the imposing, intimidating figure of the Prince entered the fenced area. The air seemed to grow heavier, thicker with the scent of dust, sweat, and unwashed men.

Jon knew he was one of the few individuals who was privy to his true identity, as the black helmet was a full-faced, featureless void, with just two narrow, unforgiving openings for eyes.

The anonymity granted by the polished steel was absolute and deeply unsettling.

As Jon focused more intently on the suit of armor, he noticed the subtle, almost imperceptible faint glimmer of the same strange runes inscribed meticulously upon its surface, symbols akin to those marked onto his own new steel.

Jon instinctively straightened his spine as the Prince advanced and walked to stand directly beside him. He placed his massive, wrought-iron war hammer deliberately upon the dusty ground, the heavy thud a clear promise of violence and power, and rested a gloved hand on the handle, a silent, unmoving, and utterly menacing presence.

The herald, looking palpably flustered and completely overwhelmed by the sudden, unexpected appearance of such a formidable contender, finally managed to regain the crowd's attention.

He announced loudly that a formidable mystery knight had joined the melee, and judging purely by the striking yellow stag and the deep black armor, he looked to be an undeniably powerful and experienced Stormlander.

The Prince grunted deeply beside him, a low sound of dry amusement and utter confidence, and Jon couldn't help but grin fiercely beneath his helmet.

Oh, he was certainly going to go straight for the Prince as soon as the melee officially started—it was, after all, the finest, most dangerous training he could possibly ask for, a test of all the Prince's lessons.

The herald raised his polished horn to his lips, and with a resounding, chaotic blast, he shouted for the melee to start, and the violence immediately erupted, surging outwards like a breaking wave.

Jon turned quickly, intent upon immediately engaging with his charge, the Prince, but he was nowhere to be found.

Fast as a flash of lightning, Haridon had already vanished from the spot, moved across the crowded enclosure, and the heavy, dull sound of his war hammer raining down mercilessly on a hapless Reach knight's shield echoed brutally across the lists.

The sound was sickening, promising shattered bone and swift defeat.

As Jon tried desperately to maneuver through the immediate crush of desperate bodies toward the commotion surrounding the Prince, he found his intended path instantly blocked by a cruel-looking, heavily armored Westerland knight whose helm was viciously adorned with a grotesque, snarling boar's head.

The man roared a loud, primitive challenge, determined to make a name for himself against the well-equipped bastard. Jon immediately raised his new longsword, bracing himself, and with a sudden surge of adrenaline and controlled movement, prepared to engage the formidable knight.

The Westerland man, bulky and relying on heavy, crushing swings, expected Jon to meet his force with equal strength. But Jon's new armor felt unnaturally light, allowing him to pivot swiftly on his heel. He ducked under the man's initial clumsy blow, feeling the air rush past his helmet.

"Focus on instinct, not strength," Ser Barristan's voice echoed in his mind, sharp and clear even through the surrounding din.

The silver steel of his sword, enchanted with the Prince's runes, felt like an extension of his arm. It moved with minimal effort, allowing for faster parries than his old blade.

He used his speed, dancing around the knight's lumbering shield. The Westerlander roared in frustration at the nimble movement, and brought his steel boot down, aiming for Jon's leg.

Jon jumped back, then immediately lunged forward, using the sword's point to graze the knight's unprotected thigh. The Westerlander howled, momentarily distracted by the sharp pain.

Jon pressed his advantage, focusing on the movement. The runes on his own armor shimmered faintly as a clumsy return swing glanced harmlessly off his chest plate—light and strong, just as Haridon had promised.

A tremendous, dull CRACK sound drew Jon's attention momentarily. He glanced past his opponent and saw Haridon step back as the Reach knight he'd been fighting collapsed, lifeless.

The war hammer had found its mark, crushing the man's steel helm inward. It was a brutal, efficient kill—the Prince wasted no time with flourish.

The sight of the Prince's savagery refocused Jon. He had to keep moving, keep fighting. He was surrounded by fighters trying to make a name for themselves, and the sight of a bastard in pristine, expensive armor was a magnet for aggression.

Jon took a deep breath, feigned a retreat, and then slashed low, finally finding the gap in the Westerlander's defense and crippling him with a strike to the knee.

The knight fell, screaming. Jon stepped over him, scanning the field for his next opponent and, more importantly, for his charge. He had a debt to repay, and he intended to repay it with the point of his sword, even if the Prince was masked.

Sansa's focus was divided two ways: on one hand was her half-brother, Jon, and on the other was the imposing mystery knight. Her attention was increasingly caught by the knight. He moved impossibly fast for such a tall, heavily armored figure; his black armor gleamed in the sun as he rained heavy hammer strikes onto the bewildered Reach knight.

The sheer, terrifying power he wielded seemed utterly effortless, a display of strength that both captivated her and simultaneously filled her with dread. The air around him seemed to crackle with ruthless efficiency.

Jon, on the other hand, quickly disposed of the Westerland knight, the one with the grotesque boar helmet. She realized, with a shock of surprise, that she had truly never paid close attention to the spars of her brothers.

Robb always praised Jon, as did Bran, but she had always thought of him as rough and relatively inexperienced.

Yet here he was, working through the crowd like a focused, methodical madman, his new silver armor flashing, his movements sharp and economical, eliminating opponents with swift, uncharacteristic brutality.

She looked to her side and found Arya at the very edge of her seat, a feral grin splitting her lips as she avidly tracked Jon's movements. Her grip on the chair armrests was white-knuckled and strong, her enthusiasm for the violence almost frightening.

Sansa looked to the other side and found her father, Lord Stark, sat forward a bit, watching with an intense, proprietary attentiveness as his eyes followed Jon. Her father's usual solemnity was broken by a hint of raw pride that only Jon seemed capable of eliciting.

She looked back into the melee, and found the mystery knight—the supposed Stormlander—battling out with another tall knight. Ser Aemon Estermont, if Sansa rightly recognized him, was the mystery knight's new target. The green turtle sigil on his chest was clear to see.

The mystery knight ducked effortlessly under Aemon's various sword strikes, moving with a grace that belied his massive bulk. He finally found a critical gap near his opponent's exposed knee and swung his war hammer true.

Sansa winced, sure she had seen that precise, brutal tactic used before, perhaps in a training yard, but she couldn't place where.

"Atta, boy! Get Estermont, buckle his knees, damn you!" the King yelled from the stands, his voice raw with bloodlust and excitement.

Sansa looked toward him, her father fully caught up in the melee, but her eyes strayed to her betrothal, Joffrey, who looked visibly strained, his lips pressed into a thin, ugly line, his gaze locked on the mystery knight with pure, venomous resentment.

It was a look of intense hatred that chilled her to the bone.

She glanced quickly toward the younger prince, and found his seat empty. Tyrion, the dwarf seated beside the empty chair, looked positively gleeful, taking a long, amused drink from his goblet.

He caught Sansa's eye and offered a subtle, conspiratorial wink, as if inviting her into the secret, confirming her suspicions without a word.

Sansa's gaze snapped back to the mystery knight—tall, broad-shouldered, and ostensibly from the Stormlands. The stark realization hit her like a physical blow: the height, the hammer, the empty seat beside Tyrion.

She gasped, the small noise making her father look down at her in concern. But she quickly shook her head in the negative, not wanting to draw further attention to her sudden, frightening knowledge.

This was no common knight; this was the Prince Haridon, engaged in a raw spectacle of violence, hidden only by a few inches of black steel. The thought both terrified and strangely thrilled her, for he had always been the most courteous, but seeing him now, he seemed like a primal force of nature.

She looked at Jon, who had just swiftly defeated a hedge knight, stepping over him. His movement and direction were clear: he seemed to be going straight for the mystery knight, no, for Prince Haridon, she decided with absolute certainty.

It was an inevitability, a clash driven by a sworn shield's need to train and an unspoken challenge between two loyal brothers.

Ser Aemon was on the ground groaning in pain, clearly not sharing the bad luck of the Reach knight whose helm had been ruthlessly hammered in. The Prince turned around, his attention drawn by Jon's quick work, and they seemed to make a visual connection across the chaos of the melee.

But before they could engage, a knight from the Riverlands, wielding a bloody spear, blocked Haridon's path. His armor bore a complex sigil: gold on black, with a border of checkered gold and black—the sigil of the House Slynt, though the specific meaning was unclear to her.

The Slynt knight attacked with a quiet, desperate ferocity, focusing entirely on the mystery knight. His movements spoke of a personal vendetta rather than simple prize money.

Haridon met the attack with cold patience, allowing the spear to glance harmlessly off his heavy armor. Queen Cersei, sitting quietly beside Joffrey, suddenly shifted, her gaze tightening on the Slynt knight with an almost imperceptible flick of worry, an action only Haridon's mother would make.

It was yet another tell for Sansa.

Jon himself was now engaged with a knight from the Crownlands, struggling for the first time against a heavier, more experienced fighter. But the struggle was short-lived. Jon, showing clear Northern bravado combined with unexpected speed, suddenly toppled the knight with a decisive movement, matching the ferocious fighting speed and ruthless efficiency of the Prince.

The crowd cheered, impressed by the unknown fighter in the silver armor. Now, nothing stood between Jon and his masked target. The inevitable collision was moments away, and Sansa held her breath, waiting for the impact.

The clash between the two armored figures was instantaneous, beginning with a shower of sparks and the deafening clang of steel.

Surprisingly, Jon's sword held firm against the massive war hammer of the Prince. The Prince ducked smoothly under Jon's downward sword swing, then backed up a step with a powerful, swift swing aimed for Jon's head, which her brother blocked just in time.

It was immediately clear to anyone watching that Jon was intimately familiar with the Mystery knight's aggressive, powerful battle style, and the he was equally familiar with Jon's defensive speed and Northern technique. They were evenly matched.

The Prince, however, was testing his steel. He pushed Jon back with a final, heavy hammer strike delivered straight to Jon's chest. The blow did not even cause the runed armor to budge, merely pushing Jon a few feet backward.

As Jon recovered, the Prince yelled something that was lost in the din, a short command that only the silver-armored figure could hear.

Jon stopped dead still, hesitated for a second, before nodding sharply and backing away. He turned on his heel and walked off toward another knight, one from House Blackwood who was viciously clearing a circle around himself, his bloody sword raised high.

"Why did he walk away? They were evenly matched!" the King yelled, clearly agitated by the abrupt end to the best fight. He emptied another cup of wine and slammed it onto the table.

Sansa thought the same thing. The Prince must have said something—a command, a request, or perhaps a secret message—for Jon to walk off in the middle of such a glorious fight.

The sight of her brother walking away from the masked prince only solidified her certainty about the mystery knight's identity.

Tyrion eyed the spectacle as the Melee dwindled down, the competitors being disqualified in quick but orderly fashion.

The fighting had been brutal, the dust thick, and the sheer volume of metal-on-metal noise was headache-inducing, even through the wine.

There were only six knights left in the enclosure: his father's savage attack dog, Gregor Clegane; his tormented brother, Sandor, the Hound; the towering mystery knight who was undoubtedly his nephew, Haridon; Jon Snow, the quick bastard from the North; Beric Dondarrion, the Lord of Blackhaven; and Thoros of Myr, the man whose sword was perpetually on fire.

Tyrion smiled, a genuine flicker of amusement, as he saw his nephew and Jon Snow turn, almost simultaneously, toward The Mountain.

Gregor Clegane, frustrated by the Prince's tactical hammer-blows and Jon's persistent speed, cursed up a storm as they coordinated their attack on him.

"Come let me have a piece of you, you little freaky bastards!" Gregor roared, charging up, swinging his massive two-handed sword with enough force to cleave a horse in half.

Jon blocked the crushing strike with his lighter sword, the silver steel holding firm against the colossal weight.

Tyrion eyed the spectacle as the Melee dwindled down, the competitors being disqualified in quick but orderly fashion. The fighting had been brutal, the dust thick, and the sheer volume of metal-on-metal noise was headache-inducing, even through the wine.

There were only six knights left in the enclosure: his father's savage attack dog, Gregor Clegane; his tormented brother, Sandor, the Hound; the towering mystery knight who was undoubtedly his nephew, Haridon; Jon Snow, the quick bastard from the North; Beric Dondarrion, the Lord of Blackhaven; and Thoros of Myr, the man whose sword was perpetually on fire.

Tyrion smiled, a genuine flicker of amusement, as he saw his nephew and Jon Snow turn, almost simultaneously, toward The Mountain. Gregor Clegane, frustrated by the Prince's tactical hammer-blows and Jon's persistent speed, cursed up a storm as they coordinated their attack on him.

"Come let me have a piece of you, you little freaky bastards!" Gregor roared, charging up, swinging his massive two-handed sword with enough force to cleave a horse in half. Jon blocked the crushing strike with his lighter sword, the silver steel holding firm against the colossal weight.

Jon must have immediately felt the sickening weight of Gregor's sword impact his longsword, a crushing force that shuddered through his arms despite the strengthen armor.

Tyrion eyed as he grit his teeth, the smell of dust and rage burning in his nostrils. This wasn't a duel; it was the brutal work of fighting a collapsing tower.

Before Gregor could bring the massive sword back for another stroke, Haridon moved. The black-armored Prince was a lightning flash, using the distraction his sword shield provided to drive the heavy spike of his war hammer into Gregor's lower back plate, just above the hip.

The steel shrieked in protest, and even the Mountain let out a brief, animalistic bellow of pain and surprise.

"Fight me! You black-armored coward!" Gregor roared, his voice thick with fury, twisting his massive body away from the hammer and driving Jon backward with a savage kick.

Tyrion winced, and saw Lord Stark do the same, it must have hurt. The mountain was monstrously tall, and that kicked didn't lack power.

The prince, however, didn't retreat. He kept the pressure relentless, his hammer a terrifying weapon of brute force and precision. He didn't aim for the chest or shield—he aimed for the joints, the knees, and the back of the neck, forcing Gregor to constantly shift his defensive bulk.

Jon, surprisingly recovering in an instant, became an agile distraction, darting in and out, his longsword flashing silver. He focused on chipping at the Mountain's exposed shield arm, knowing that while his sword couldn't pierce the thick plate, repetitive blows would soon fatigue the giant's grip and sap his endurance.

From the stands, Tyrion Lannister leaned further over the railing, his face alight with manic excitement. "Ah, there it is! They learned how to fight a brick wall. They're not fighting to kill; they're fighting to annoy him to submit!"

The coordinated attack was brutally effective. Gregor, accustomed to easily overwhelming single opponents, was forced to cover two wildly unpredictable attackers moving in precise tandem.

Jon's lightness allowed him to duck under the wide, sweeping arcs of Gregor's sword, while his nephew used his hammer as a terrifying counterweight, always forcing the giant off balance. Gregor began to slow, his labored, ragged breathing echoing inside his helm, his movements growing predictably desperate.

Movements stopped in arena as every eye looked their way, waiting for the Mountain to crumble under the onslaught.

This was Jon's opportunity. Remembering Haridon's specific instruction from a past training session—hit the anchor—Jon executed a risky maneuver. He feigned a high strike, drawing Gregor's guard upward. In the same motion, he dropped low, risking everything to slide past the giant's leg.

With his longsword, he aimed not at the thick steel, but at the thin, vulnerable sliver of knee joint visible at the rear of the Mountain's greave. It was a shallow cut, but perfectly placed to impact the tendon and destabilize the colossal weight above it.

A sound like a collapsing cliff face erupted in the arena. Gregor Clegane, his injured knee protesting savagely, roared in pure agony and surprise. His massive frame, unable to support itself, buckled.

The Mountain crashed down, forced onto one knee, his head now horrifyingly exposed for the first time since the fight began.

Haridon did not hesitate for a fraction of a second. The black-armored Prince moved in with a speed that utterly defied his bulk, raising the war hammer high above his antlered helmet. With a final, sickening, echoing CLANG that silenced the entire arena, the hammer descended.

It found the exposed skull of Gregor's helmet, delivering a knockout blow of pure, irresistible kinetic force.

The Mountain went absolutely still, his massive sword clattering harmlessly onto the dust beside him.

A moment of stunned silence enveloped the melee enclosure. Haridon stepped back, his chest heaving under the black steel, his antlered helm still facing the motionless giant.

Jon stood over the felled monster, breathing hard, his silver armor completely untarnished. The five remaining fighters—including the Hound, who had stopped fighting entirely to watch his brother fall—stood frozen, their weapons lowered.

Tyrion watched as the Mountain's massive chest heaved, his breath returning but ragged and agonizingly slow. He was not dead, Tyrion observed with a detached clinical eye, but he was profoundly, publicly defeated.

The sight was intoxicating. Tyrion smirked, knowing well that this humiliating defeat would not please his father, Lord Tywin, when he learned of this. Nor would it please his sister, who saw Gregor as her personal champion.

Two birds with one stone, he thought, raising his cup in a silent salute to the motionless giant.

The silence that had settled after the hammer blow fractured as the remaining contenders realized the tournament was not yet over. There were five men still standing, and only one victor could emerge.

The action instantly rekindled, dividing into two fiercely contrasting clashes. Thoros of Myr—a man fueled more by fermented spirits and dramatic flair than true faith—roared a challenge, his spectacular flaming sword held high, and immediately engaged Tyrion's nephew, the black-armored Prince.

Fire against ice, or at least against enchanted steel, Tyrion mused. Thoros's blade was spectacular, but the fire provided light, not heat, and certainly not penetrating force.

Haridon, the shrewd Prince, kept his distance, using his massive hammer to methodically parry the flamboyant swings while systematically backing the man into a corner. He was playing a long game, waiting for the novelty of the fire to distract the unstable priest.

The other fight was a messy, brutal free-for-all, a dangerous convergence of styles.

Beric Dondarrion, the lightning lord, all flashing shield and honorable intentions, found himself caught between the savage speed of Jon Snow and the sheer, spiteful power of Sandor Clegane.

The Hound seemed doubly enraged by his brother's recent defeat, fighting with a renewed, desperate savagery that bordered on madness.

"Oh, Sandor is going to need a very large kennel after this," Tyrion whispered, leaning further over the railing.

Jon, agile as ever, had to constantly leap and twist to avoid Sandor's massive claymore, while simultaneously deflecting Beric's lighter, more precise attacks. Dondarrion was fighting cleanly, seeking only to disarm and adhere to the rules, but the Hound was fighting to maim and destroy.

Jon was using his agility and speed to its fullest, dodging and redirecting Sandor's heavy, predictable blows, his own longsword a streak of silver lightning.

Beric, realizing the immediate, murderous danger the Hound presented, shifted his focus, using his shield to push Jon momentarily clear so he could engage Sandor in a more direct, distracting manner.

The Thoros versus Haridon fight ended with a predictable flash of stupidity. The Red priest, growing impatient with the Prince's infuriating refusal to engage his flame-sword directly, made a sweeping, over-dramatic strike—a move designed for the spectators, not the victory.

His nephew seized the opening instantly, allowing the flaming blade to glance harmlessly off the dense runes of his pauldron. The resulting flash of light momentarily blinded the priest, giving Haridon just enough time to drive the heavy hammer handle—not the head, but the knob of the haft—into the priest's stomach.

Thoros doubled over, gasping, his spectacular sword falling uselessly into the dirt. The flame sputtered out immediately as the dust smothered the protective oil. The mystery knight simply stood over the kneeling man, breathing calmly.

Tactical brilliance, Tyrion observed, nodding. Never let the spectacle overcome the objective. Never waste a killing blow on a lesser opponent.

Now it was four.

Beric, Jon, and Sandor remained locked in their brutal, three-way dance. Sandor, truly enraged by the sight of his own brother's defeat, let out a guttural scream, swinging his massive claymore with no thought for defense.

Tyrion considered that he must be more angry that someone else got the better of the mountain, and not him. Because the dwarf knew that Sandor had no love lost for his brother.

Beric, a man of surprising honor and skill, saw the immediate, jealous madness in Sandor's eyes. He managed to interpose himself between Jon and the Hound, the sigil of the broken fork on his shield slamming against Sandor's heavy armor.

"You're a disgrace, Clegane! To the King, and to the tourney!" Beric yelled, trying to impose the rules of a clean duel on a brute.

Sandor didn't answer with words; he answered with a brutal, overhead swing that snapped Beric's shield arm and sent the Lord of Blackhaven staggering backward. But that brief, agonizing distraction was all Jon Snow needed.

The bastard, having recovered from the initial shock of fighting two men, moved with the precision of a trained assassin. He darted in low, driving the point of his longsword into the joint of Sandor's elbow, the tightest, most vulnerable point of his heavy armor.

Sandor howled, not from the pain of the cut, but the sharp, humiliating shock of being wounded by a boy. He dropped his heavy claymore, gripping his injured arm.

Jon, showing none of the mercy Dondarrion had, immediately followed up by using his blunt edge to strike the back of Sandor's knee. The Hound crumpled, defeated by a combined effort of two opponents and his own blinding rage.

Sandor looked up at Jon with an expression of pure, raw, murderous hatred.

"That's how you deal with mad dogs, Snow," Tyrion murmured, watching the hound curse venomously in the dirt.

Sandor was out.

Three men remained: Beric Dondarrion, unarmed and winded; Jon Snow, pristine and dangerously skilled; and the black-armored Haridon, still breathing easily.

The Prince, seeing the final field narrowed, walked toward the center, pausing to pick up Thoros's defunct sword from the ground.

He walked over and simply handed the sword—hilt first—to Beric Dondarrion. Beric, confused, looked from the sword to the mystery knight.

Tyrion had expected Beric to instantly turn toward Jon. It was the logical conclusion: the Prince wanted the victor of the Jon vs. Beric fight to face him.

But the Lord of Blackhaven surprised him. Beric took the ceremonial sword offered by the mystery knight, tested its weight in his hand, and then, without a single word of explanation, turned toward Haridon and charged.

"Well, now that is an interesting development," Tyrion murmured, leaning back with keen curiosity.

Beric's choice was baffling—he had just been handed a massive handicap in the form of Thoros's unfamiliar, ceremonial sword, and he chose to expend his dwindling energy on the biggest, most heavily armored threat on the field.

Perhaps he recognizes the Prince's greater danger, or perhaps he simply values the honor of taking down the champion, Tyrion mused. Either way, a foolish choice, but a noble one.

Jon, meanwhile, displayed a refreshing amount of battlefield intelligence. Instead of protesting Beric's unexpected choice, he relaxed his shoulders, lowered his sword, and walked to the nearest section of the fence, leaning against it to regain his wind.

He didn't even look guilty—he simply looked exhausted and incredibly patient. That boy is learning to fight smart, Tyrion thought approvingly. A true warrior knows when to spend energy and, more importantly, when to conserve it.

The clash was brief, but intense. Beric was all motion and fury, using the unfamiliar sword with frantic determination, aiming to score a quick, decisive disarm. Haridon, however, was a mountain of black steel and patience.

The Prince let the lighter sword strikes bounce harmlessly off his rune-enhanced armor, his massive hammer used purely for defense, forcing Beric into a wide circle of retreat. He was toying with him, waiting for the inevitable mistake that comes from desperation and fatigue.

"Why is that damn knight not fighting? Get in there, Dondarrion!" King Robert roared from the royal box, impatiently demanding immediate carnage.

"He is buying his opponent's mistake, Your Grace," Tyrion supplied dryly, earning a sharp glare from Cersei for daring to instruct the King.

Haridon did not let the game last long. He finally dodged one of Beric's wide, predictable strikes and brought his heavy hammer down on the ground, sending a billowing plume of dust and dirt directly into Beric's face.

Beric stumbled, blinded and coughing. Haridon followed the tactic instantly, delivering a heavy, flat-handed blow from the hammer to Beric's unprotected side. The Lord of Blackhaven cried out, his ribs protesting violently, and he collapsed, the borrowed sword skittering away into the dirt.

Two left. The Prince and Jon Snow.

Jon pushed off the fence, his breathing now even, his silver sword raised. He walked toward the center, a grim, determined grin on his lips. The duel everyone had secretly been waiting for was finally about to begin.

Jon wasted no time. He charged forward, striking first with a sweeping left swing that the Prince blocked easily. Tyrion rolled his eyes; the boy must have thought the mystery knight tired after two continuous fights, a gross tactical error of underestimation.

Haridon, however, blocked the strike cleanly with his hammer and then instantly shoved the Northern bastard back. No stamina lost there, Tyrion noted with a mixture of grim amusement and professional admiration.

Tyrion smirked as Haridon began his next move: spinning quickly to draw devastating momentum and then swinging his massive hammer in a wide, terrifying arc. Jon blocked it efficiently, silver steel meeting black iron with a high, ringing clang, but the sheer force was inescapable, pushing him back a few crucial feet into the dusty enclosure.

The Prince continued the aggression, following up with a crushing downward swing of the hammer, a blow the Northerner blocked with remarkable technique and control, drawing cheers from the common crowd and even a few of the usually reserved nobles who appreciated the young fighter's defensive skill.

Jon then responded in kind, successfully pushing the mystery knight back. Tyrion thought that must have required an enormous, staggering amount of strength, considering the punishing weight of the hammer and the tall, heavily muscled Prince hidden behind the imposing armor.

Jon thrust his sword forward in a quick, two-handed attack, but the Prince was faster, bringing his heavy gauntleted arm guard up sharply to block it, the contact drawing a bright shower of sparks.

The Prince used the contact brilliantly. He twisted his hand and, with a crushing, iron grip, grasped the longsword. Jon Snow immediately pulled back, trying with all his strength to reclaim his weapon, but failed utterly.

Tyrion smiled, settling back into his seat, knowing there was no way out of that hold. The fight was over; the Prince had won the weapon.

But the Northerner shocked Tyrion, and indeed everyone watching, by doing the unprecedented: he instantly released the grip on his longsword and charged forward. Tyrion gasped, his wine forgotten, his breath momentarily suspended.

Jon drove his armored knee directly into his opponent's helmet with a savage, desperate force that belonged in a back alley brawl, not a royal tourney.

The Prince staggered back, the sheer shock of the unexpected, brutal maneuver causing him to momentarily lose his iron grip on the longsword.

Jon used the Prince's disoriented state instantly, dropping to the ground, snatching up his fallen longsword, and rising in a fluid motion. He didn't hesitate, immediately rushing his staggering opponent, his breathing loud and harsh, the fight having flipped entirely on a single, shocking act of Northern desperation and cunning.

He pressed his advantage instantly. He launched a quick, furious attack on the Prince's knee, the same vulnerable joint he had struck moments earlier. He tried to unbalance him, aiming for a full upheaval, but his opponent, fast as a lightning bolt despite the dizzying knee-strike, delivered a heavy boot directly to Jon's helmet.

Jon staggered back, visibly disoriented by the unexpected blow. But as Haridon swung his war hammer at the confused boy—a final, mercifully flat swing—Jon ducked instinctively, the hammer whooshing harmlessly over his head.

With a grim, determined grin, Jon swung his longsword yet again at the Prince's knee. The continuous, focused strikes on the joint proved too much, even for runed steel.

Haridon's leg crumbled, and the massive black figure went down heavily on the dusty ground, the hammer skidding away.

Jon immediately stood over him, aiming his sword at the vulnerable joint of Haridon's throat. "Yield," Jon commanded, his voice raw but steady.

The Prince nodded curtly, the antlered helmet dipping in admission of defeat. The herald, seizing the moment, raised his horn and bellowed the final announcement: "The winner of the melee, by the rules of combat, is Jon Snow!"

The crowd went utterly mad, cheering and shouting for the unexpected champion in the silver armor. Tyrion noticed King Robert was on his feet, roaring his approval, oblivious to the deeper game afoot.

Jon sheathed his sword and thrust his hand out toward the knight in a rare, genuine show of camaraderie. The Prince gripped it firmly and, using Jon's strength, stood up.

Haridon then did the truly remarkable: he didn't release Jon's hand, but instead raised their joined hands high in the sign of victory.

The crowd's cheers only intensified, celebrating the beautiful moment of sportsmanship. Jon then leaned toward the Prince and said something only Haridon could hear, something Tyrion immediately understood:

"As per the rules, your armor is mine now."

The crowd fell into a tense, anticipatory silence, desperate to see the face of the knight who had fought so magnificently. The knight nodded slowly, confirming the traditional right of the victor.

But Jon, ever the honorable fool, shook his head. "I don't need your armor, Prince. I just need you to show your face."

The Prince stood still for a long, charged moment, then gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. He reached up, grasped the base of his helm, and unveiled himself.

The crowd's ensuing roar was deafening, a wave of shock and wild jubilation. Standing there, handsome and slightly winded, was Prince Haridon.