292 AC
Dragonhold
Third Person POV
First day afternoon culminated in the Sword Fighting contest, held in the main arena. This was a test of skill, discipline, and controlled aggression, fought with blunted steel blades to minimize serious injury, though bruises and broken bones were not uncommon.
The contest was open to students, knights, and even some commoners who could prove their proficiency. The Dragonhold students, trained in the refined styles of Southern knighthood, moved with elegance and precision.
Jory, a Dragonhold student and a distant cousin of the Tyrells, was a master of the flowing, defensive style, his blade a silver blur, deflecting every attack with effortless grace. He moved like a dancer, his footwork impeccable.
The Winterhold students, however, fought with a more direct, aggressive style, favoring powerful, decisive blows and relentless pressure. Their movements were less about flourish and more about effectiveness, honed by the brutal realities of Northern sparring.
Prince Brandon Stark, King Rickard's son, stepped into the arena, his presence commanding attention. He wielded his blunted longsword with a chilling precision, his movements economical, every strike aimed at finding an opening, every parry a setup for a counter. He moved like a seasoned veteran, his eyes cold and focused.
He faced a seasoned knight from the Stormlands, Ser Duncan. Ser Duncan was strong, experienced, but Brandon's movements were on another level entirely. He moved with a speed that seemed almost supernatural, a blur of focused intent.
Brandon disarmed Ser Duncan with a swift, unexpected move, then tapped his blunted blade against the knight's throat. Ser Duncan yielded, breathing heavily, a look of stunned respect on his face.
The crowd roared its approval, amazed by the Asgardian Prince's skill. King Maekar nodded, his eyes narrowed in a thoughtful expression. King Rickard, however, merely watched, a quiet pride in his son's prowess.
The common folk, too, showed surprising skill. A blacksmith from a nearby village, a burly man named Gendry, fought with a raw, powerful style, his movements unrefined but incredibly effective. He defeated two minor knights before finally being bested by a Dragonhold student.
The final match was between Prince Rhaegar, the Crown Prince of the Iron Throne, and Prince Brandon Stark, the Crown Prince of Asgard. The crowd held its breath. This was a clash of titans, a duel between the finest swordsmen of their respective kingdoms.
They moved with a grace that was almost mesmerizing. Rhaegar, elegant and precise, his blade a silver dance. Brandon was moving as if he knew Rhaegar's next move.
The clash of blunted steel echoed through the arena, a symphony of skill and power. Rhaegar attacked blow after blow for several minutes, not gaining any advantage, their movements a blur of controlled aggression.
Finally, in a sudden, explosive burst of speed, Brandon made an opening. His blade snapped forward, disarming Rhaegar with a sharp clang. Before Rhaegar could react, Brandon's blunted blade was at his throat.
Rhaegar, though panting, offered a respectful nod. "Well fought, Prince Brandon. Your skill is... unmatched."
Brandon lowered his blade, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. "And yours, Prince Rhaegar, is a testament to the finest training in the South."
The crowd erupted in a thunderous roar, a mixture of awe and excitement. The North had won the sword fighting.
The day concluded with the Mounted Games, a display of horsemanship and weapon mastery, but without the full contact of a joust. This included ring tilting, where riders had to spear small rings hanging from posts, and quintain, where they struck a rotating target.
The Dornish riders, with their nimble horses and light lances, excelled at the ring tilting, their movements fluid and precise. Prince Aemon, Rhaegar's son, showed surprising skill for his age, spearing several rings with effortless grace.
The Stormlanders, with their powerful destriers, dominated the quintain, their heavy lances striking the rotating target with bone-jarring force. Lord Robert Baratheon himself, though older, still showed a formidable strength, shattering the quintain with a single, powerful blow.
The Northmen, accustomed to riding through difficult terrain, showed excellent control over their mounts. Prince Eddard Stark, riding his powerful warhorse, demonstrated a quiet mastery, his movements economical and effective.
The Dragonhold students, trained in the refined art of chivalry, performed admirably, their lances straight, their posture perfect. The Winterhold students, though less flashy, were equally effective, their movements efficient and direct.
The day ended with a grand display of horsemanship, a final testament to the martial prowess of the realm.
As dusk settled, the Great Hall of Dragonhold, now fully prepared for the evening feast, came alive. Thousands of candles cast a warm, golden glow, illuminating the vibrant banners and the smiling faces of the assembled lords and ladies.
The feast was a lavish affair, a continuous procession of roasted meats, savory pies, fresh fruits, and sweet pastries. Wine and ale flowed freely, filling goblets carved from crystal and horn.
The atmosphere was one of joyous revelry. The tensions of the day's competitions melted away, replaced by camaraderie and celebration. Bards sang ballads of ancient heroes and recent victories, their voices filling the hall.
Lords from the North mingled with their Southern counterparts, sharing stories, exchanging boasts, and forging new connections. The common folk, who had participated in the games, were allowed into the outer sections of the hall, their cheers and laughter adding to the festive din.
King Maekar and King Rickard sat at the high table, their conversation easy, discussing the day's events, the performances of their sons, and the future of the realm. Queen Rhaenys and Queen Lyarra conversed with grace, their shared experiences as queens bridging the cultural divide.
Prince Rhaegar and Prince Brandon Stark, having faced each other in the lists, now shared a goblet of wine, discussing the intricacies of sword fighting, their mutual respect evident.
"Your technique is... unique, Prince Brandon," Rhaegar commented, a thoughtful look on his face. "Less about the traditional forms, more about raw efficiency."
Brandon nodded. "The North teaches us to fight for survival, Prince Rhaegar. Not for glory in the lists. Though I admit, your grace with a blade is truly something to behold."
Elia Martell and Ashara Dayne conversed warmly, their shared Dornish heritage and their connection to the Starks forming a natural bond. Cersei Lannister, ever the observer, watched the mingling, assessing the new power dynamics.
The students of Dragonhold and Winterhold, having competed fiercely throughout the day, now shared tables, their rivalries softened by shared food and drink. They spoke of their training, their hopes for the future, and the marvels of the world.
The feast was more than just a meal; it was a living embodiment of the peace and unity that had been forged over the past century and a half. The Dragon and the Wolf, the North and the South, the commoner and the noble – all gathered under one roof, celebrating a golden age that seemed destined to last forever. The first day of the tourney had been a resounding success, a vibrant tapestry of skill, camaraderie, and the enduring promise of a unified Westeros.