A large, wide grandstand was built for those there just to watch the Tourney. High, with the king's seat prominent near the middle. The grandstand overlooked an open field, prepared for the seven-sided melee that day.
The tourney was to be spread over ten days. The first day was for melee, the second was for archery, the third was for ax throwing, the fourth was for horse racing, and the fifth was for the tourney of singers. The last five days were all reserved for jousting as the main event.
Wylis was the only man taking part in all but one event. Clear enough, he was going to be the busiest man over the next ten days.
After a beautiful, comforting evening with Lyanna, he slipped out of the bed, leaving her sleeping, and then returned to the room where Brandon and Benjen slept. He slept like a log that night, completely spent.
When the morning came, it was Brandon who woke him up.
"Melee starts soon. Get ready."
Wylis quickly got up and left the castle with the Stark brothers and began preparing in the large tent at the tourney grounds. The seven-member team on their side was being led by Robert Baratheon. Justifiably, the members included Eddard, Brandon, and him, along with a few other friends of Robert.
Brandon had pretty good armor, but it was nothing compared to Southern folks. In the North, most nobles and knights didn't wear full plate armor. So, Brandon wore a light, leather armor over his gambeson. On that, he added some shoulder pauldrons, rerebraces, and vambraces for the arms. There was also a protective metal plate around his neck. And finally, gloves that had chainmail on the inside. It was too simple and dangerous. But it was the norm in the North.
Understandably, Wylis was in a far worse state. Since he was so big, he couldn't even receive hand-me-downs from Brandon. Heck, the jousting armor barely fit him after the blacksmith hammered it to his size.
So, all that Wylis had was simple leather armor that covered him from his shoulders to his chest and all the way to his knees. That was it—no chainmail. Just a simple gambeson underneath, nothing covering his arms, and his hands hidden in simple gloves. But at least it was all black, blending together on his formidable size.
Let's commission a full-body plate armor later. There's far too many wars awaiting me in the future.
After grabbing a common-looking helmet with a lot of hammer marks on it, Wylis followed Brandon to the event grounds. The loud noise from the fighting grounds was echoing continuously. There was music mixed in the midst as minstrels performed their plays and dances.
Soon, he arrived where Robert was stationed, already armed in his secondary armor. This wasn't the famous antler armor but looked just as intimidating. There was a stag etched on the chest plate.
"Right on time. I was beginning to think you two had lost your nerve," Robert quipped, taking a hearty swig from his wineskin. "Since we're all accounted for, let's get moving. Wylis, pick any weapon you fancy—as long as it's blunt. We're not aiming to kill each other... yet."
Wylis saw Robert grab a warhammer and laughed. "Your main weapon is a blunt one."
"Hah! And it's the best sort, aye? Bashing heads and chests never gets old." Robert proudly supported the hammer on his shoulder. "What's your choice? I got a spare hammer."
Wylis shook his head, went to the weapons rack, and picked up a massive, two-handed greatsword. It wasn't as long as his real sword, but still, five feet was more than enough. "I'm more of a sword type."
"At least it's a big one." Robert quipped and walked away. "Come along, lads."
"What's the plan?" Brandon asked from behind.
"Plan? Aye, here's the plan: swing hard, swing fast, and let the gods sort the rest. Ned and I wagered—loser buys the ale."
"So we're going to fight individually in a team battle?" Wylis asked.
"Aye, fight like warriors should! But I won't stop you from teaming up."
"I won't." Brandon declared.
Then what's the fucking point of making a team?
"Likewise." Wylis agreed the same. "Never fought a crowd before. Should be a delightful mess—good experience."
Soon, they walked into the large fighting grounds. A few other teams had already entered and waited. But when he entered with Robert, the folks in the stands cheered loudly. Most certainly there was a bet going on among them, and considering him, Robert, and Brandon being so tall, money must be on them.
Slowly, the other teams also poured in and some trace of tension started to form. Seven teams of seven men, a total of forty-nine warriors were going to battle at the same time. It was going to be a mess, a dirty brawl, or perhaps, something more spectacular.
I feel their eyes on me. Wylis surveyed the field. Almost half of the seven teams were constantly looking his way, or his team to be precise. There seemed to be a consensus between them to get together and eliminate his team first.
Moreover, he felt some angry gaze through the gaps of many helmets. No doubt, they weren't happy about Ashara dancing with him.
Will have to bash them just as Robert said.
Bam!
Wylis smacked himself on the head to fit the helmet better. It was somewhat deformed since the blacksmith had hammered it to stretch.
"Here we see!" The crier shouted to announce the event. "Seven teams of seven men each! A legendary seven-sided melee! Behold the championship where many shall swing but only one shall come on top in the end—"
The crier looked towards King Aerys. The old, filthy king waved his hand dismissively.
"Let the melee… begin!"
####
Such a waste of time and money. The guild could have made barrels of Wildfire with it.
King Aerys had no interest in the tourney. The only reason he'd come there was to spoil the secret plot his son was brewing with other lords backing. Most certainly, he was sure Tywin was backing Rhaegar.
By joining the tourney, he'd taken control and quashed Rhaegar's attempt to rally the nobles against him. And by taking Jaime from Tywin, he'd put a leash on the lion's neck. He was quite satisfied with the results already.
The rest of the tourney was a waste of time. But he remained behind since he didn't want to give Rhaegar any opportunity.
Fighting with blunt blades. What's amusing without blood?
Some wine, some lords babbling near him that he didn't consider significant. The sound of steel clashing steel was interesting at best, but not amusing. Of course, seeing the famed knights brawl like children was humorous. While the crowds awed and roared, he chuckled.
Bam!
"Gaaah!"
Then he heard it.
Clank!
He then saw it. His hazy, purple eyes grew clear in an instant. His smile vanished into a serious smirk as he watched. What a style of fighting. So unpredictable yet clearly well-planned and executed.
Now he was entertained. The seven-foot-tall giant of a man fought with honor and style combined. The men who dwarfed him crowded him from all sides, turning the massive greatsword a struggle to swing.
But then, Aerys almost jumped from his seat as the giant of a man threw the greatsword towards his enemy as if passing a sack. The other knight, confused, caught the blade, but at the same time, received an elbow straight to his helmet-adorned face.
Bam!
The knight fell to the ground instantly, the helmet slightly deformed. No doubt, unconscious.
"DOWN!"
Aerys heard Ser Arthur Dayne raise a flag from the side, acting as the Knight Marshal of the melee, regulating the fight.
"Who is that man?" Aerys asked his Hand, Lord Owen Merryweather.
"Lord Robert Baratheon, Your Grace."
Aerys frowned, annoyed instantly. "Not him! The larger one."
"That is…" Lord Merryweather stammered, truly unaware of who the large man was. He wasn't known to be decisive and more of an ass-kisser of the King, laughing at all of the Mad King's jokes, and praising him. "That man is…"
Seeing the King's mood getting worse, Ser Gerold Hightower, the current Lord Commander of the Kingsguards, responded from the side. "He is Wylis of Winterfell, Your Grace—a stable boy raised by the Starks to wield a sword. This marks his first battle beyond Winterfell's yard."
Aerys watched Wylis the stableboy defeat seasoned knights with ease. Mindful of his size and his body, avoiding all blades coming at him. The physical strength alone was top tier as his elbows, kicks, and punches fell men. The greatsword whenever struck, made the other knights jump back.
Of course, the other knights weren't bad either. But for a man as young as Wylis and of his size, matching those seasoned knights was beyond surprising.
"Is Rickard not pleased with the boy?" Aerys asked with amusement, rubbing his beard.
Ser Gerold hesitated to question the intent. "I'm afraid I don't understa—"
"Why is this boy not knighted yet? The Lannister whelp is younger, is he not? Rickard Stark is a knight; he has the authority to bestow knighthood. Ser Gerold, find out more about this boy. His ambitions, his desires, his dreams. He's a stableboy by fate, but perhaps the Warrior has blessed him."
Ser Garold simply nodded, agreeing with the command, without correcting the King that Wylis most likely followed the Old Gods.
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