Balon I

The wind was blowing gently from the east, as if following the light of the morning sun. He pulled on the bowstring as he had thousands of times before, welcoming the strain in the muscles on his back and shoulders. The roar of the crowd faded into the background; his vision narrowed to the target a hundred paces away, his breathing evened, and all Ser Balon Swann felt was the beating of his heart, the shaft of the arrow between his two fingers, and the certainty of a bulls-eye shot.

He counted two heartbeats, exhaled, and let it go, feeling the arrow-feather burning his cheek like a woman’s kiss. He let air flood his chest again only when he heard the distinct thunk of the arrow sinking into the distant wooden target, dead center.

Then the outcry began, with the cheers and howls from the popular section drowning the polite applause and few drunken hoots coming from the noble stands that were turned to the range. His two final competitors, one Reachman and one Westerlander, came up to pat him on the back, muttering congratulations under their breaths.

Balon acknowledged them with a nod as he picked up his sword from where it lay on the ground and fastened it to the belt at the waist. On the way out, he handed the bow to the first squire he came across. The boy flushed and bowed repeatedly, promising to return it back at the Keep. Again Balon only nodded and left the squire to his own business.

For the archery, the king had told him only the first place had a winner’s purse, so the other two men left him when he came away from the range and turned into the field facing the largest stands that was already being prepared for the following melee competition.

He ignored all the calls as he walked. They all didn’t matter to him. His leave to participate in the first competition was done, so it was time to present himself back to his king. He stopped only when he spotted Lord Tywin in the stands, with an even grander empty chair next to him.

He didn’t have to wait long before he saw King Tommen striding up the bleachers from the direction of the range, with a black and gold half-cape streaming behind him and the Kingslayer and Ser Boros Blount following his footsteps. Ser Balon’s back stiffened, and his hand tightened around the pommel of his sword. Those were two men who had no business being named in the white book. Seeing them being the only protection for the king set his teeth grinding.

The king stopped to exchange a quick word and shake a few hands on his way up to the royal stands, paying closer attention to the greater lords of the realm. Balon scanned the crowd again, just to make sure the faces matched what he knew of the nobles that had been in and out of the Red Keep the past week. And when the king was finally standing next to his grandfather, Ser Balon knelt.

He saw King Tommen lift a hand up for silence, and the people fell into a hush. “My lords, my ladies; people of King’s Landing,” the kings started. “My fellow countrymen, one and all. I present to you, as the winner of this tourney’s archery competition, Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard.”

The people thundered behind him, and he saw the Stormlands contingent in the stands fall into cheers. It was always impressive the way his liege could work a crowd with nothing but simple words and gestures and expressions. Balon had heard stories of King Robert during the Rebellion, getting the lords and the people on his side with his battle prowess and charisma. He looked forward to following Tommen Baratheon into war.

The king raised his arm again. “Ask of me a boon, Ser Balon, and I shall do my utmost to grant it.”

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A frown came to his face unbidden. “Your Grace…”

“Go on, ser. You have honored me today. Let me repay that honor.”

Ser Balon let out a silent sigh and bowed his head. He thought back on a boyhood spent on the sparring yard, daydreaming of one day standing beside the likes of Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy, of fighting for king and country. When would the king understand it?

“I need no other honor, Your Grace.” He brushed a finger across the white-cloak that draped over his bent knee. “I wear mine on my shoulders.”

Up at the stands, Tommen Baratheon kept silent for a moment. “I see,” he finally said, then lower, “I see it now, ser.” The king cleared his throat. “Will you fight in the melee as well, Ser Balon?”

“If you permit it, Your Grace,” he said, and the crowd cheered behind him once more.

xxx

The hornblower gave the signal, and Ser Balon counted two heartbeats before he put his heels to his destrier. The ecstatic cheer of the public was soon drowned out by war cries and the thundering of hooves as the competitors charged down the field.

Men closed down on all sides, and Balon just barely hung on to his mount with both his knees when a Riverlander knight almost ran him over. His horse whinnied and reared up, almost throwing him off; but the beast was well-bred, trained for battle and war, and it swung back down with its rider still on.

He saw a sword flashing down on him from the side, once and twice and three times, but he held his shield firmly up; then the knight that was there was gone in the mess of bodies, and another had replaced him. This one held a long axe with both hands, and had the sigil of a smaller Reacher house engraved on his breastplate. The knight shouted incoherently and whirled the axe his way, trying to hook the axe over his shield and wrench it off.

Balon let him, then he smashed the knight’s outstretched arms with his heavy morningstar. The man screamed and dropped the axe, but Balon had already turned looking for another adversary. That one was out for good, he knew.

As swivelled around, a horse neighed close to him, and he suddenly had to reel back from a steel-shod hoof that almost caught him in the face. He swung around to retaliate, but the offending horse and its knight were already down for the count. Before he could catch his breath, two riders were already bearing down on him, both wearing the twin towers of Frey. The first one came straight at him, looking bulky and unwieldy ahorse, while the other wheeled around to hit him from the side.

He didn’t want to give them the chance to flank him; he kneed his destrier on one side and galloped to meet the second Frey. The knight stopped his maneuver abruptly when he saw him, and turned on one side to ride away. But by then Balon was already bashing shields against him.

The man wasn’t as big as his kinsmen and buckled under the strike. He tried to disengage, desperately thrusting with his sword. “Ya bastard!” he snarled, hacking and slashing. “Bastard, bastard!”

But Balon had full plate armor on, and at that range, it was like poking a castle wall with a stick. He waited until the next thrust and shoved his morningstar forward, hooked it behind the sword’s crossguard and yanked it away. The Frey man yelped at the loss of his weapon, and Balon used the distraction to strike him on the side of the head with the edge of his shield. The knight gurgled under his helm then dropped limply from the saddle, sliding down to the mud. The horse panicked without its rider and took off in a gallop, dragging the Frey knight along by his foot which was still strapped to the stirrup.

Ser Balon turned again, expecting to meet the other Frey, but the bulky man was already engaged with a Brax knight, barely holding on atop the horse. He took the opportunity to pace himself, breathing in and out evenly, just like in archery. Panic here was the enemy; rushing into a five-way battle like he saw many young knights doing around the field would only get him an early yield. He would stick to the sides, picking out his battles, defeating knight after knight, duel after duel.

His master-at-arms had once told him that battles were like dances, with their own set of steps and choreographies. Just as in a ballroom, everyone had a part to play in the battlefield, and it was up to you to make sure you were the one leading the flow of the dance.

And unless they had the crown of the Seven Kingdoms on their brow, Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard wasn’t going to be led by anyone.