292 AC
Dragonhold
Third Person POV
The second day dawned with the promise of the joust, the most anticipated event of any tourney. The main lists, freshly sanded and adorned with the banners of competing houses, gleamed under the morning sun. The air crackled with excitement, a palpable tension mixed with eager anticipation.
Knights, clad in polished armor that reflected the morning light, rode their magnificent destriers, their lances held high, ready to splinter on their opponents' shields. The ground vibrated with the pawing of hooves, the snorts of powerful warhorses.
The stands were packed even tighter than the day before, a sea of eager faces stretching as far as the eye could see. The common folk pressed against the ropes, their cheers a constant roar, a wave of sound that rose and fell with each charge. The nobility in the stands leaned forward, keen to witness displays of chivalry and skill, their whispers of bets and predictions adding to the din.
The preliminary rounds began with a flourish of trumpets, their brassy notes echoing across the lists. Knight after knight charged, their lances meeting with bone-jarring impacts that sent shivers through the crowd. Some lances splintered cleanly, sending shards of wood flying like deadly confetti. Others missed their mark entirely, drawing groans and sighs of disappointment from the spectators.
A young Dragonhold knight, Ser Gareth from the Riverlands, made an impressive showing. His armor, polished to a mirror sheen, reflected the sun as he rode with perfect posture, a paragon of Southern chivalry. He unhorsed two opponents with clean, decisive hits, drawing cheers from the Dragonhold students, who waved their banners with renewed fervor.
Lord Tywin Lannister's eldest son, Ser Jamie, rode with a cold, precise efficiency that was almost unnerving. His lance found its mark with chilling accuracy, unhorsing three knights in quick succession. He rode with a grim determination, his face unsmiling, focused only on victory, a true lion of the West.
From the North, Prince Eddard Stark entered the lists, his dark armor a stark contrast to the brighter Southern styles. He rode a powerful, shaggy warhorse, its hooves kicking up dust. His lance was held steady, his posture unwavering. He was not as flashy as some, but his hits were solid, his defense unyielding. He unhorsed one knight with a powerful blow, then gracefully broke his lance on another's shield, earning a quiet nod of approval from King Rickard.
The crowd roared with every splintered lance, every unhorsed knight, their excitement building with each pass. The ground trembled with the thunder of hooves, and the air filled with the cries of the heralds, announcing each victor.
King Maekar and Queen Rhaenys watched from the royal box, their expressions serious, assessing the skill of the realm's finest knights. King Rickard and Queen Lyarra observed with quiet pride, particularly when a Northern rider made a good showing, a subtle smile playing on their lips.
The day concluded with many knights advancing to the next rounds, the promise of even fiercer competition hanging in the air. The feast that night was filled with tales of broken lances and valiant charges, the excitement of the joust dominating all conversation, as lords and ladies debated who would emerge victorious.
Day three brought the much-anticipated melee, a chaotic, exhilarating free-for-all that tested a warrior's endurance, skill, and ability to fight in a swirling mass of combatants. It was divided into two parts: a foot melee in the morning and a mounted melee in the afternoon, each promising a different kind of spectacle.
The foot melee was a brutal, swirling dance of steel. Knights, squires, and even some commoners entered the lists, armed with blunted swords, axes, and maces. The goal was simple: disarm or force your opponent to yield, or simply outlast them.
The Dragonhold students, trained in coordinated maneuvers and precise footwork, moved in small, disciplined groups, their movements fluid and precise. Ser Loras, the nimble student from the Reach, darted through the fray, his light blade tapping opponents into submission with surprising speed and grace.
The Winterhold students, however, brought a raw, unyielding ferocity. They fought with a direct, powerful style, favoring powerful, decisive blows and relentless pressure, honed by the harsh realities of Northern sparring. Prince Benjen Stark, King Rickard's third son, entered the melee, a whirlwind of controlled aggression. He moved with a powerful, almost primal energy, his blunted axe swinging with devastating force, forcing several opponents to yield with sharp, decisive blows.
A commoner, the burly blacksmith Gendry, who had impressed in the sword fighting on day one, once again showed his raw strength. He wielded a heavy blunted hammer, his blows capable of sending even armored knights sprawling. He lasted for an impressive amount of time, a true fan favorite, drawing cheers from the common folk.
The melee was a continuous roar of clashing steel, grunts of effort, and the shouts of the crowd, a symphony of controlled violence. Warriors were pushed back, disarmed, or simply too exhausted to continue, collapsing in heaps of armor.
The mounted melee in the afternoon was even more chaotic and thunderous. Knights on horseback, their blunted weapons ready, charged into the fray, the ground trembling under the thunder of hooves. Dust rose in choking clouds, obscuring the view.
Prince Baelor Targaryen, a bull of a man, was a force of nature in the mounted melee. He rode his great destrier with powerful control, his blunted greatsword swinging in wide, devastating arcs. He cleared paths through the melee, unhorsing several knights with sheer force, his strength undeniable, a true Targaryen war-prince.
Lord Robert Baratheon, ever eager for a good fight, rode with a wild, joyful abandon. His warhammer, though blunted, still packed a terrifying punch, sending opponents reeling. He roared with laughter as he charged, a true warrior in his element, seemingly enjoying every moment of the chaos.
The melee continued until only a handful of warriors remained, exhausted but triumphant. Prince Baelor Targaryen was declared the victor of the mounted melee, his powerful display leaving no doubt of his martial prowess. The day ended with exhausted but exhilarated warriors, and a crowd sated by the spectacle of raw combat, eagerly discussing the day's heroes.
Day four brought a welcome change of pace, moving away from the brutal clashes of steel to more refined, traditional noble pursuits: the Falconry and Hunting Competition. The events were held in the vast, wooded lands surrounding Dragonhold, showcasing the beauty of trained birds and the skill of trackers.
The morning began with the Falconry display. Lords and ladies brought their finest birds, magnificent falcons, majestic hawks, and even a few rarer eagles, trained to hunt small game. The air filled with the sharp cries of the birds and the excited murmurs of the spectators.
The Targaryen family, with their deep connection to the skies and their dragons, showed a particular affinity for the birds. Prince Rhaegar's falcon, a sleek peregrine named Whisper, soared gracefully, a dark speck against the blue sky, diving with breathtaking speed to snatch a lure from the air, drawing gasps of admiration from the crowd. Princess Rhaelle's hawk, a powerful gyrfalcon, hunted with fierce precision, bringing down a rabbit with effortless skill, a true hunter's instinct.
The Northern lords, accustomed to hunting in their own harsh lands, also displayed impressive skill. Prince Eddard Stark's own hawk, a magnificent grey bird, flew with a quiet efficiency, its movements precise and deadly. It was a hunter's bird, honed by necessity.
The afternoon transitioned into the Hunting Competition, a test of tracking, stealth, and marksmanship with bows and spears. Small game had been released into a designated, vast section of the woods, ensuring a fair challenge for all participants.
The Dornish contingent, with their light, agile horses and keen eyes, excelled at tracking. Prince Aemon, Rhaegar's son, showed a surprising aptitude for the hunt, his quiet demeanor belying a sharp eye and steady hand with a bow. He returned with a fine buck, drawing praise from his father, Prince Rhaegar, who clapped him on the shoulder.
The Northmen, natural hunters forged by a lifetime in the wilderness, moved through the woods with a quiet efficiency. Prince Eddard Stark, with his calm demeanor, proved to be an excellent tracker, his knowledge of the forest profound. He returned with a brace of pheasants and a wild boar, his skills honed by a lifetime in the wilderness, a true son of the North.
The competition was less about brute force and more about patience, observation, and respect for the natural world. It was a quieter, more contemplative event, allowing for mingling and conversation among the lords and ladies as they rode through the picturesque woods, enjoying the fresh air and the thrill of the chase.
King Maekar and King Rickard rode together for a portion of the hunt, discussing the various hunting techniques, the state of the forests, and the importance of preserving the realm's natural resources. Their conversation was easy, a shared appreciation for the land and its bounty.
The day concluded with a more intimate feast, featuring the day's catches, celebrated with stories of the hunt and the prowess of the birds and their masters. The atmosphere was one of camaraderie and shared enjoyment.
Day five was dedicated to a variety of physical and horsemanship challenges, designed to showcase different types of strength, agility, and mastery over beasts. These events often saw more common folk participating, their raw power and natural talent shining through, often surprising the nobility.
The morning began with Feats of Strength. The Stone Put, where competitors hurled heavy, smooth stones for distance, and the Tug-of-War, a grueling test of collective might, were popular events, drawing large, boisterous crowds.
The Northmen, with their robust frames and hardy upbringing, dominated the Stone Put. Prince Benjen Stark, King Rickard's third son, hurled a stone further than any other competitor, his powerful muscles rippling with effort. He won the event with a resounding throw, his strength undeniable, drawing cheers from the Northern contingent and nods of respect from the Southerners.
The Tug-of-War saw teams of commoners, laborers, and even some knights pitted against each other. The contest was a grueling display of raw power and teamwork, with men grunting and straining, their faces red with effort, their muscles bulging. A team of burly blacksmiths from a nearby town eventually won, their collective strength proving insurmountable, much to the delight of the common folk.
The afternoon shifted to Horsemanship Challenges, testing skill and agility on horseback. This included Horse Archery, where riders shot arrows at targets while galloping at full speed, and an Obstacle Riding Course, a challenging maze of jumps, turns, and tight passages designed to test a rider's control and a horse's agility.
The Dornish, with their light, agile horses and riders, excelled at Horse Archery. Prince Aemon, Rhaegar's son, demonstrated a remarkable natural talent, hitting targets with impressive accuracy while maintaining a swift pace, his movements fluid and precise.
The Stormlanders, with their powerful destriers, showed their prowess in the Obstacle Riding Course. Lord Robert Baratheon, despite his bulk, rode with surprising agility, guiding his massive horse through the course with a booming laugh and a fierce determination, his skill undeniable.
The Winterhold students, accustomed to riding through difficult, uneven terrain in the North, showed a unique blend of control and adaptability.
The day was a vibrant display of athleticism and mastery, showcasing the diverse talents present across the realm. The common folk, participating alongside nobility, added to the lively atmosphere, their cheers and shouts echoing across the grounds, celebrating every triumph.
Day six was the grand climax of the martial contests, the most anticipated day of the tourney. The air was thick with tension and excitement, the stands packed to overflowing, a sea of faces eager for the final, decisive clashes.
The morning was dedicated to the Jousting Finals. Only the most skilled and fortunate knights remained, having survived the brutal preliminaries. The crowd roared with every charge, every splintered lance, every unhorsed opponent, their excitement reaching a fever pitch.
Jamie Lannister rode with cold, ruthless efficiency, his lance striking with devastating accuracy. He unhorsed several formidable opponents, his face a mask of grim determination, his focus absolute. He was a machine of precision.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, however, rode with a grace and skill that seemed almost effortless. His lance found its mark with poetic precision, unhorsing his opponents with fluid, almost beautiful movements. He was a true champion of the lists, his chivalry as striking as his skill, a paragon of Targaryen prowess.
The final joust came down to Prince Rhaegar versus Jamie Lannister. The crowd was on the edge of its seat, barely breathing. The clash of lances was deafening, the splintering wood a sharp crack in the air, a sound of raw power.
In the end, after three exhilarating passes, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen unhorsed Ser Jamie with a perfectly aimed lance, sending the Lannister heir sprawling in the dust. A roar of triumph erupted from the crowd, acknowledging the Crown Prince's victory. Rhaegar was crowned the champion of the joust, a fitting display of the Targaryen dynasty's martial prowess.
The afternoon brought the Grand Melee, a chaotic, exhilarating free-for-all involving dozens of knights and warriors, fighting on foot with blunted weapons. It was a test of endurance, skill, and strategic thinking in a swirling mass of combatants, a true test of a warrior's mettle.
Prince Baelor Targaryen was a formidable presence, a bull in the melee, his greatsword clearing paths through the fray with powerful, sweeping blows. Lord Robert Baratheon fought with his usual boisterous ferocity, his warhammer a blur of destructive power.
From the North, Prince Brandon Stark entered the melee, his movements precise and deadly. He moved through the chaos with an almost unsettling calm, his blunted longsword finding openings, disarming opponents with swift, economical movements. He fought with a focus that set him apart, a quiet storm of skill, a true master of the blade.
The melee raged for hours, a continuous roar of clashing steel, grunts of effort, and the shouts of the crowd. Warriors were pushed back, disarmed, or simply too exhausted to continue, collapsing in heaps of armor and exhaustion.
In the end, after a grueling, hours-long battle, only a handful of warriors remained standing. Prince Brandon Stark emerged as the victor of the Grand Melee, his face didnt break a sweat, his eyes clear and triumphant. He had outlasted and outfought every other combatant, a testament to his unparalleled skill and endurance.
The crowd, exhausted but thrilled, roared its approval for both the jousting champion, Prince Rhaegar, and the melee champion, Prince Brandon Stark. The day concluded with a sense of immense satisfaction, the martial prowess of the realm having been displayed in all its glory.
The seventh and final day of the Dragonhold Tourney was a more relaxed affair, a culmination of the week-long celebration. The morning was dedicated to lighter contests and exhibitions, allowing for more mingling and informal gatherings.
There were equestrian displays, showcasing the intricate training of horses, and a grand display of Asgardian blimps soaring gracefully over the castle, a silent marvel that drew gasps of awe from the Southern lords. Prince Brandon Stark himself explained the mechanics to King Maekar and the Dragon Council, who watched with keen interest, marveling at the Northern ingenuity.
Later, a grand feast was held in the Great Hall, even more lavish than the opening night. The hall overflowed with lords, ladies, knights, and common folk, all celebrating the success of the tourney and the enduring peace of the realm.
The champions of each event were honored, receiving their prizes from King Maekar and Queen Rhaenys. Prince Rhaegar accepted his prize for the joust with a humble smile, acknowledging the cheers. Prince Brandon Stark, receiving his prize for the melee, drew a particularly loud cheer from the Northern contingent, a roar of pride for their champion. Old Man Willow, the commoner who won the archery, received his prize with a toothless grin, a symbol of the tourney's openness and the recognition of talent regardless of birth.
As the night deepened and the feast reached its crescendo, a hush fell over the hall once more. King Maekar Targaryen rose from his seat at the high table, his presence commanding immediate silence.
His voice, though not loud, resonated with authority and a profound sense of purpose. "My lords, my ladies, good people of the Seven Kingdoms!" he began, his gaze sweeping over the vast assembly, from the highest noble to the humblest commoner.
"For seven days, we have gathered here at Dragonhold. We have witnessed feats of skill, courage, and strength. We have seen the finest warriors of our realm compete with honor and valor. We have celebrated together, eaten together, and shared in the spirit of friendly competition."
He paused, allowing his words to sink in, his eyes meeting those of King Rickard Stark, who stood with his family, a pillar of strength. He then looked directly at Prince Brandon and Prince Eddard, acknowledging their contributions.
"This tourney," Maekar continued, his voice gaining power, "is more than just games. It is a testament. A testament to the peace that has reigned over our realm for over a century. A peace hard-won, and diligently maintained."
"It is a testament to the unity of the Seven Kingdoms and Asgard."
"It is a testament to the strength of House Targaryen, and to the wisdom of the Dragon Council, which ensures stability and capable rule for generations to come."
"And it is a testament to our steadfast allies, the Kings of Asgard, whose ingenuity and strength have helped build the very foundations of this golden age, from the railways that bind us to the swift messages that connect us, and whose sons, Prince Brandon, Prince Eddard and Prince Benjen, have shown such valor in the lists."
He raised his goblet high. "To all who have come! To all who have competed! To all who have celebrated! May this peace endure! May our realm continue to prosper! And may the bonds forged here, between houses, between kingdoms, between commoner and noble, grow ever stronger!"
"For the Crown! For the Realm! For the future!"
A thunderous roar erupted from the hall, a unified, joyful sound that shook the very foundations of Dragonhold. Goblets clanged, cheers echoed, and the music swelled, a triumphant symphony.
The tourney had been a resounding success. It was a powerful display of unity, strength, and the enduring peace of a realm transformed. The Golden Age of Westeros, under the watchful eyes of dragons and the steady hand of its kings, seemed destined to last forever.