I am back. I had things to take care of and am no longer unemployed, so hooray! From now on, I'll try to be more consistent. I hope you enjoy the increased quality. I styled it after Geoge himself. Let me know what you think. Also, a vampire diaries fic thoughts?
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289 AC
The Melee
"Begin!" roared the announcer, his voice cutting through the humid air like the crack of a whip. The crowd surged with life, the wooden stands shaking beneath their collective weight, voices rising in a cacophony of cheers and jeers. The ground beneath the knights' feet was churned mud from the morning rain—a treacherous battlefield where a single misstep could end a man's chance at glory.
Damien did not wait. As the crowd's attention lingered on him he moved with purpose. His eyes, the color of a storm-wracked sea, swept over the field. There was no time to bask in their awe. The first opponent was close, a hulking knight clad in dented mail, his grip uncertain on the hilt of his longsword. Damien struck with the flat of his blade, a precise blow to the man's gauntleted hand.
Crack!
The weapon fell to the mud, swallowed almost immediately. The knight barely had time to cry out before Damien shield collided with his helm. The sound was a dull, resonant boom, like a hammer striking an anvil. The man crumpled, his pride sinking into the mire alongside his blade.
The terrain had already claimed its first victim.
Damien kicked the fallen sword far out of reach and moved on. He was methodical, precise, each movement a calculated effort to conserve strength. Around him, the melee unfolded like a chaotic storm. The mud slowed some knights, while others stumbled entirely. Splashes of rainwater mixed with sweat and blood painted the ground, turning it into a tapestry of violence.
The Nature of Tourneys
There were a dozen forms a tourney might take, each shaped by the whim of the lord who hosted it. Some were mock battles between teams of knights, others wild melees where victory belonged to the last fighter standing. Here, the melee was a free-for-all—a savage contest where alliances were fleeting and treachery lurked behind every strike.
"I had seen them all".
He recalled the words off a passage of text in a previous existence, of an old knight bound by his honor, spoken long ago: "The others take the winner's purse, the losers mock their pains and go home with nothing, and the smallfolk cheer the loudest for the most colorful knights. Tournaments are a game, my prince, a game for the great lords to play at war, but it is not war."
Those words had lingered in Damien's mind ever since, a reminder that beneath the pageantry of shining armor and flowing banners lay a brutal truth. Tourneys were no more than theater, a bloodless imitation of war meant to entertain lords and their ladies. Yet for the knights who fought, the stakes were real: coin, renown, and the rare chance to catch the eye of a patron.
Damien knew well how chance could shape a man's fate. In a melee such as this, skill alone was not enough. A misplaced step, a loose buckle, or a sudden gust of wind could tip the balance. The mud, slick and treacherous, had already felled one knight. It would claim more before the day was through.
Reflections on the Arena
A new challenger emerged, his armor scuffed but his stance resolute. Damien braced himself, his shield at the ready. He took stock of the field as the man approached. The rain had begun again, light at first, then heavier, drumming against helms and pooling in the low places of the arena.
Damien's gaze lingered on the puddles forming near the center of the field. He had seen how such things could decide a fight. Once, in a tourney at Blackhaven, a knight had slipped in the mud, his opponent's blade finding his unguarded neck before he could rise. Another time, at a tourney in Riverrun, a man had stumbled over a prone body, only to rise and deliver the winning blow.
"It is not always the most valiant who prevail," his mentor had said, "but those with the sharpest eyes… or the quickest reflexes."
The lesson was etched into Damien's bones, as much a part of him as his sword arm. Victory was never guaranteed, no matter how skilled or strong a knight might be.
His challenger closed the distance. Damien sidestepped the first strike, his boots sinking into the sodden earth. The man's blade hissed through the air, missing its mark, and Arthur countered with a quick thrust. The tip of his sword scraped against the man's breastplate, leaving a shallow dent but no real damage.
They circled each other, their movements measured. The rain fell harder now, plastering Damien's hair to his forehead and streaming down his face. He could taste the salt of his own sweat, mingled with the iron tang of blood from a split lip he hadn't noticed before.
The Weight of the Past
Damien's thoughts drifted as they often did in the heat of battle. He recalled his father's voice, low and steady, as he spoke of honor and duty. "A knight fights not for himself, but for the weak who cannot lift a sword." How often had he clung to those words when the world seemed cruel and unfair?
But in the arena, honor was a fragile thing. He had seen knights of impeccable reputation lose to men they scorned, their pride trampled in the mud alongside their bodies. He had seen the smallest misstep unravel the grandest ambitions.
Once, during a melee at Lannisport, a knight in golden armor had been favored to win. He had the strength of an ox and the skill of a master-at-arms, yet he had been undone by a trick of the terrain. His foot had slipped on loose gravel, and a lesser knight—a scrawny lad with little more than luck to his name—had claimed the victory.
Arthur knew better than to underestimate his surroundings. The ground beneath his feet could be as dangerous as the blade in his opponent's hand.
A Test of Skill and Fortune
The fight dragged on, neither man gaining the upper hand. The crowd roared their approval as the combatants traded blows, their enthusiasm undimmed by the rain. Damien's muscles burned, his shield arm heavy from the repeated impacts.
Then it happened. His opponent's boot caught on a hidden root, half-buried in the mud. He stumbled, his balance wavering for a split second. It was all the opening Damien needed.
He surged forward, his sword striking true. The man crumpled to his knees, his blade slipping from his grasp. Damien raised his shield, prepared for another attack, but the man held up a gauntleted hand in surrender.
The crowd erupted, their cheers drowning out the drumbeat of the rain.
Damien stepped back, his chest heaving, his gaze sweeping the field for his next challenge. He knew the melee was far from over. The rain would continue to fall, the mud would claim more victims, and chance would play its hand again and again.
But for now, he was still standing. And in the chaos of the tourney, that was all that mattered.