104 AC
Maidenpool
The sound of clashing swords rang out in the training yard of Maidenpool's castle, as Aemon and Laenor faced off against each other.
Laenor was older than him and heavier, and he used that weight to his advantage by immediately going on the offensive.
He attacked Aemon with a quick succesion of strikes.
His blade swept out in a savage cut that Aemon deftly side-stepped. Not deterred, he followed it up with a thrust to the ribs which Aemon skillfully parried. But in doing so, Aemon had left himself open and Laenor punished him for it. He swept low, catching him on his kneecap. With a real sword that strike would have severed his left leg at the knee. And even with a practice blade, Aemon knew that it would leave a nasty bruise.
Still, ignoring the pain, Aemon fought. Weaving in and out of attacks he parried, blocked and dodged Laenor continuously, over the next half hour. Laenor might have been older and stronger but he lacked endurance and Aemon exploited it.
Finally, after they had both fought themselves to the brink of exhaustion, Aemon found the opportunity he had been waiting for.
Laenor had swung hard in an overhead slash, overextending himself. Aemon immediately ducked under the blow and countered by slamming the hilt of his practice sword into Laenor's abdomen, driving the air out of him. And before he could recover, Aemon kicked his left leg out from under him sending Laenor toppling to the ground with a crash.
"That is enough." Ser Steffon barked.
And as he walked over to them, Aemon helped Laenor to his feet.
"Laenor, you fought well, using your superior strength and reach to keep up the pressure on your opponent. A good tactic, that suited your offensive fighting style and helped you keep your opponent on the backfoot." Ser Steffon commented.
"As for you Snow, good work out there. You exploited your opponents' aggressiveness, tiring him out. And then you struck at the most opportune moment, when he was vulnerable, thereby defeating him. Excellent. That is how, you are supposed to defeat a physically stronger opponent. Well done." The knight praised him.
"Both of you fought well. But now for your flaws." Ser Steffon said.
"Laenor, you have a bad habit of swinging wide when you are exhausted. This causes you to overextend, and leaves you open to a counter-attack. This was exploited by Aemon in the fight just now. Fix that bad habit of yours. Go do some practice swings, I want them to be fast but precise." He declared.
As Laenor hastened to follow, he turned to address Aemon.
"As for you. Your greatest flaw is that you are being too passive. In combat, you sometimes need to take the fight to the enemy instead of waiting for them to attack. You fought well, but if your opponent was a tad bit faster or stronger, you would have lost. So, although I understand the logic behind your thinking, I would advice you to be more offensive when you fight. Other than that, I have no complaints." Ser Steffon said.
Aemon beamed, when he heard the Kingsguard's words.
Ser Steffon smirked, "Don't get cocky, boy. You still have a long way ahead. And by that I remember, make sure to polish my armour for today's melee, after you are done breaking your fast. It's your duty as my squire."
Aemon nodded, as Ser Steffon walked off to look at Laenor's forms.
As Aemon put away his sword and started stripping off his chainmail hauberk, his mind began to wander.
Today, was the first day of the Tourney of Maidenpool, held in honour of King Viserys' coronation.
The archery tournament was to take place in the morning, followed by the melee after lunch. As for the jousting, it would take place tomorrow.
Aemon's father had declared his intent to fight in the melee today. And if his memory served him, Aemon knew that he would lose.
For today was the day Ser Criston Cole, would emerge.
Aemon knew there was nothing he could do to change that.
So he did what any sane man in his position would do.
He wagered a hundred gold dragons on Ser Criston winning the melee.
Lord Tymond generously gave him good odds too - Twenty to one.
If things played out as written in his 'Book', he would make a fortune.
If not. If things had changed greatly, then he would lose money.
But in that case his worries would be far more than a mere hundred gold dragons.
For bereft of the guidance of the 'Book' he would truly be blind for the first time.
Whatever happens, only time could say.
--------------------
Outside Maidenpool's pink stone walls, a hundred pavillions had been raised for the Tourney.
And the smallfolk had come out in the thousands to watch the games.
The stands had been segregated into sections, where each section had been reserved for one of the Great Houses of the Realm.
The banners of the Paramount Houses of the Realm, Lannister, Stark, Arryn, Baratheon and so on, were spread throughout the stands. Each one of these banners corresponding to the respective family seated underneath it.
As for the Royal House Targaryen, they were seated in the Royal Box located in the centre of the stands.
Over this Royal Box proudly fluttered the black and red three headed dragon banner of House Targaryen.
The Royal Box was exclusive. A seat here represented closeness to the Targaryens.
And as such, only the Targaryens, the Velaryons, and the families of the members of the Small Council were allowed a seat here.
It was here that Aemon had been given a seat. He might be a bastard, but he was a Royal bastard, after all.
King Viserys sat in the position of honor in the centre of the Royal Box, on a high seat carved from oak.
To his right sat the Queen Consort Aemma, and to his left sat the Hand of the King Otto Hightower.
Around them sat the King's Councillors. The Master of Ships Lord Corlys Velaryon and his wife the Lady Rhaenys Velaryon, Grand Maester Runciter, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Ser Ryam Redwyne and so on.
As for Aemon, he was seated between Alicent and Laena, with Laenor seated on Laena's other side.
Laena looked beautiful. Her otherwise unkempt silver gold hair, had been tied into an elaborate bun and decorated with amethysts, which shone as brightly as her vibrant violet eyes. Her dress a long azure gown, had seahorses embroidered on it in silver and gold thread. And around her neck, she wore a string of pearls.
Gone was the wild, adventurous girl whose only pursuits where ships and dragons, instead Laena seemed to fit the part of a refined young lady, perfectly.
Everyone had already taken their seats, and the festivities were about to begin, when Rhaenyra escorted by Ser Harrold, rushed into the Royal Box. Quickly, seating herself beside Alicent.
Rhaenyra at seven, wasn't yet the stunning beauty that she would one day be.
But dressed in a gown of vermillion silk patterned with golden dragons, and a gold diadem studded with rubies, adorning her silver gold hair, she was the very picture of a pretty, young princess.
After everyone had seated themselves, and the stands had also been filled by the smallfolk, Viserys stood up to declare the commencement of the Tourney.
"You all loved my grandfather, the Old King." He said.
"His reign was long and prosperous. And although, he has passed, it is my firm belief that this golden age of peace and plenty is here to stay."
"And so, it is my wish as King, that this Tourney held to celebrate my coronation, will also, signify the dawn of a new golden age for Westeros and its people."
"I wish all the participants good fortune, may Lady Luck smile upon their endeavors."
"Let the festivities begin!" The King bellowed.
And as the Heralds spread the King's words to the rest of the audience, the Tourney of Maidenpool began.
--------------------
First was the Archery Competition.
This, unlike the joust and the melee was open to both the common folk and the noble born.
And as such, there were over three hundred participants.
There might have been more. But with an admission fee of ten silver stags, only the more serious competitors participated.
There were to be three rounds of archery.
In the first round, the targets had been set up at a distance of fifty paces.
The archers were then divided into groups of ten, and made to shoot at the targets.
Everyone would receive three shots. After which their scores would be tallied.
The closer the arrow was to the center of the target the higher the score. A zero was awarded if the arrow completely missed the target.The archer with the highest cumulative score in the group, would advance to the next round.
To ensure the safety of the people, arrows with blunted tips were used. The arrowheads had been dipped in tar so that when they struck the wooden targets they would leave an impression, which could then be measured.
The competition continued late into the morning as the wheat was separated from the chaff. Only the best archers in Westeros would continue in the next round.
Many among the commons showed their skill, while many a knight or man-ar-arms failed miserably.
There was one such common born man who displayed excellent skill with the bow and arrow. In fact, he was probably better than most archers in the Targaryen household guard, but here that just wasn't enough.
He finished second in his group and was thus unable to qualify for the second round. Upon learning of his loss he had broken down in the middle of the arena, bawling uncontrollably and ultimately had to be forcibly removed from the grounds by the guards.
Turns out, he had borrowed money for the admission fee, believing that he could place highly. Now he was in debt.
To a noble, ten stags was merely pocket change, but to a commonner it was their life's savings.
Ultimately, thirty five archers qualified for the second round.
The second round was much like the first round, but instead of fifty paces the targets were now placed at a distance of a hundred paces from the archers.
Moreover this time, the archers had been divided into groups of five so that, only seven archers would proceed to the third and final round.
Finally seven archers stood out of the three hundred, for the third round.
But even among them, there were those who were a cut above the rest.
They were, Robb Rivers, the Bastard of Raventree Hall, a bastard of the Blackwood family from the riverlands. Bill Burley a northman, from one of the northern mountain clans. One-Eye Tom, a burly middle-aged commoner from the westerlands, who in spite of having only one eye was able to reach the final round. And lastly, there was a handsome youth with fiery red hair, no older than fifteen. The base-born son of Lord Alyn Connington, Rowan Storm, the Bastard of Griffin's Roost.
These four were the favorites to win the Archery Competition.
And as they sat in the Royal Box conversing with each other. Aemon noticed gold change hands among the Lords, as bets were placed. The betting pool set up by Lord Tymond was only for the melee and the joust. As many of the nobles looked down upon the archery event, there was no official betting on it. But still, if there was one thing the Lords liked more than whores and wine, it was gambling. And so, unofficial bets were readily placed upon the outcome of the competition.
The final round was different from the others. A flock of doves would be released into the air, and whichever archer was the first to bring down a bird mid-flight, would be crowned champion. The second and third to do so, would be awarded the second and third positions, accordingly.
The Champion's purse for the Archery Competition was two thousand gold dragons, with the second place receiving a thousand gold dragons, and five hundred gold dragons for the third place.
All seven archers were lined up side by side, and as soon as the doves were released into the air their arrows flew. But none found a target. It was a difficult shot. Shooting an airborne dove from over a hundred paces away, in the blinding light of the noonday Sun.
As nobody had made a successful shot, more doves were released. And accompanying them a second volley of arrows, the archers let fly.
This time an arrow found its mark, as a dove plummeted from the sky an arrow having pierced it's side.
Rowan Storm had won.
Three more volleys were released at three more flocks of doves, before the second and third place was decided.
Robb Rivers took second place, while Bill Burley came in at third.
After the Archery Competition was concluded the winners were presented before the King.The crowd cheered loudly when the Herald announced their names, as the King congratulated them, awarding them with their winnings.
It was already mid-day, by the time the Archery Contest ended. So the King decided that the melee would be fought after lunch.
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This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
In his white scale armour riding his snow-white warhorse, Ser Steffon cut a gallant figure.
Seeing this, made Aemon feel proud. After all, it was all his handiwork. The hours he had spent polishing that armour, and watering that horse, now seemed that it was worth it.
Aemon had expected life as a squire to be adventurous, instead he had found himself spending more time doing chores than fighting.
But it was in times like this, when even ordinary chores like feeding a horse or oiling an armour felt like worthy pursuits.
The melee would soon begin.
Nearly a hundred men took part, fifty on each side.
Knights, free riders, hedge knights, men-at-arms, sellswords and even some older squires were participating in the melee.
Aemon saw his father Prince Daemon, among them.
He wore night-black plate armor, it's breastplate encrusted in rubies exhibited the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. He wore a horned helm, it's pitch black horns decorated with red, orange and gold silken streamers resembling flames. His mount was his trusty black charger, Arrax. And on his hip, he bore Dark Sister.
Having donned his armor, Daemon looked every bit the fearsome warrior, he truly was.
Aemon also saw a tall knight wearing a simple, unadorned, coal black armour. In fact, it's only decoration was the sigil engraved on it's breastplate - black pellets on a scarlet field.
He was wielding a morningstar.
Aemon realised that this must be Ser Criston Cole. The one, who would one day be known as the 'Kingmaker'.
Aemon's thoughts were interrupted, as on the King's command trumpets were blown, indicating the start of the melee.
As soon as the trumpets were blown the fifty men on each side, charged at each other on horseback.
As they crashed into each other the battle began in earnest.
The air was punctuated with the sounds of battle, metal clanging against metal, horses neighing, men screaming in agony.
Moreover, the mad charge of the horses had kicked up plumes of dust making visibility a challenging endeavor.
Still the heralds tried their best, shouting out the details to the best of their ability.
The favorites to win the melee were most closely watched, helped in no small fact by their brightly decorated armor.
While some men fought in isolated groups, others formed temporary alliances as the fight dragged on.
Over the next three hours, many were eliminated. Be they squires, hedge knights, sellswords or even anointed knights, in the melee all were equal. Everyone fought with the strength of their arms, and those that lacked it, left with shattered bones and fractured skulls.
Although it was a bloody affair, thankfully no one had died, as the melee progressed to its final stages.
Of the hundred men only seven still remained on their feet.
The horses had been long abandoned, as men took to their feet. And those unfortunate or slow enough to dismount from their horses, had it cut down from under them.
Among the final seven, Aemon saw were, Ser Harrold Westerling of the Kingsguard, Lord Boremund Baratheon of Storm's End, Ser Lymond Mallister of Seagard, Ser Steffon Darklyn and Ser Erryk Cargyll also of the Kingsguard. The Prince Daemon Targaryen and lastly there was the morningstar wielding knight in plain black armour.
When Aemon heard many of the Lords speculate on the man's origins, he felt as if he could hear the Bells of Fate tolling, as he witnessed Ser Criston Cole, take centre stage.
With only seven fighters left, the fighting became much more intense.
Prince Daemon immediately engaged Ser Harrold.
Dark Sister shone in the dwindling rays of the setting Sun as the two great warriors dueled. Daemon moved fluidly, his fighting style mostly predicated on savage, rapid attacks. Ser Harrold on the other hand, stood strong, weathering his blows with calm, practiced ease. With neither able to gain an advantage over the other, the fight quickly became a stalemate, with both of them trading blows to see who would fall first.
Meanwhile, Boremund Baratheon who had defeated Ser Erryk, was now facing off against Ser Steffon, while Ser Criston, was busy fighting Lymond Mallister.
Boremund Baratheon was a giant of a man, and in his battle fury he fought like a raging beast, wielding a giant spiked iron warhammer he struck blow after blow at Ser Steffon.
Ser Steffon although lacking in raw strength was frighteningly fast. He deftly managed to dodge or parry most of Lord Boremund's blows. Only two of them got through, the first blow splintering Ser Steffon's wooden shield on impact and the other striking his side, denting the white scale armor. Ultimately, it became a test of endurance, and in spite of his great strength Lord Boremund was a man past fifty namedays while Ser Steffon was only half his age. So when, the exhausted Lord lost his footing, Ser Steffon immediately sent a blow aimed at his head with his entire strength behind it. The force of the blow sent the tired Lord Boremund, toppling to the ground. In fact, the strength behind the blow was such, that it had dented the helm and snapped off one of the great bronze antlers attached to it.
While Ser Steffon was busy fighting Lord Boremund, Ser Criston had made short work of Lymond Mallister. Ser Lymond was a good fighter, but he was no match for Ser Criston, whose morningstar had beaten him bloody till he had no choice but to yield.
At the same time, Prince Daemon finally managed to triumph over Ser Harrold. They were both pretty evenly matched, but Daemon with Dark Sister in hand was a true nightmare. He had battered down Ser Harrold's defenses with his relentless attacks. But even then their fight might not have ended, had Ser Harrold's sword not shattered. Now weaponless, Ser Harrold chose to yield to the Prince.
Now there were three. Prince Daemon, Ser Criston Cole and Ser Steffon Darklyn.
And as everyone looked on attentively, at the final fight if the melee, Daemon suddenly sheathed Dark Sister. He then proceded to take off his helm and sit down on the sand of the arena, as everyone looked on dumbfounded. Even the other two fighters were astonished and looked askance at each other. But before anyone could intervene in this peculiar situation, Daemon motioned impatiently to the other two to get on with the fight.
It seemed that the Prince in his usual arrogance, had chosen that he would fight the victor of their match.
The other two warriors stood frozen for sometime confused by this unexpected turn of events. But in the end these were seasoned warriors, they got over their shock.
And once they realized that the Prince posed them no danger for the time being, they turned their swords on each other.
Ser Steffon immediately went on the offensive. His sword sliced through the air in a savage cut, aimed at Ser Criston's ribs. But Ser Criston was no tired old Lord, his morningstar immediately batted away Ser Steffon's blade, and he followed it up with an upward swing aimed at Ser Steffon's breastplate. And although, Ser Steffon managed to evade that strike, it rendered him off-balance. This enabled Ser Criston to sieze the momentum of the fight and he immediately went on the offensive, swinging the morningstar in a savage arc aimed at Ser Steffon's legs. From then on the fight was pretty one-sided, Ser Steffon was stuck on the defensive, blocking and dodging blows aimed at him, while Ser Criston pressed the attack.
Ultimately, the blow that Lord Boremund had struck on Ser Steffon proved to be the deciding factor. It slowed his movements, and although he tried his best to compensate for it, he just wasn't fast enough. And eventually, Ser Criston's morningstar found it's mark upon his breastplate, sending him reeling to the ground in defeat.
Finally, after the melee had gone on for four hours straight, the deciding battle was upon us, as Ser Criston and Prince Daemon faced off.
Just as the 'Book' said they would, Aemon thought, as the two of them engaged each other.
Ser Criston had picked up one of the discarded wooden shields from the arena, and he used it now to turn the blade aimed at his neck. And although he managed to fend off the attack, Dark Sister still managed to tear off a chunk from the wooden shield, rendering it useless.
Discarding the now useless shield, Ser Criston took to the attack, matching Daemon's savage cuts with his own powerful blows in a dangerous dance of steel and death, they fought.
When one of Prince Daemon's strikes finally struck Ser Criston, it sheared through his plate armor, drawing blood. But before Prince Daemon could capitalise on it, Ser Criston Cole's answering strike caught him in the ribs, sending him stumbling away.
And so back and forth they went, trading blow for blow, injury for injury, till they were both beaten bloody.
They were evenly matched. At least until, fate seemed to shine upon Ser Criston, and Prince Daemon slipped on a muddy patch of ground. The Prince didn't fall but it disrupted his balance, sending his attack swinging wildly away from its target. Ser Criston didn't miss the opportunity. He brought down his morning star in a savage arc on Daemon's right hand, sending Dark Sister flying, leaving him weaponless.
But Daemon was a stubborn man, even disarmed he would not give up the fight.
He pulled out his dirk and lunged at Ser Criston. But before he could reach him, Ser Criston kicked Daemon in the chest laying him out on his back.
And before Daemon could get up, Ser Criston sat down on top of him, straddling his chest.
Ser Criston then wrenched off Daemon's helm. And then holding the morningstar below his chin, he demanded,
"Do you yield?"
For a moment everyone went still, as Daemon didn't answer, instead glaring hatefully up at Ser Criston.
But as his bloodlust waned and his head cooled, Daemon growled out,
"I yield."
Ser Criston Cole had won. As Aemon had known he would.
So after over four hours of bloody battle the melee had come to an end, with Ser Criston Cole as the Champion.
Prince Daemon had secured the second place and Ser Steffon Darklyn was ranked third.
The Herald announced the winners, as the King presented them with their prizes one by one.
The Champion was to recieve a purse of five thousand gold dragons. The second place would receive twenty five hundred gold dragons and the third place, fifteen hundred gold dragons.
And last of all, the Champion Ser Criston Cole was presented with the Victor's laurel.
It was beautiful, a crown of roses as white as the fresh fallen snow.
Ser Criston picked it up. And as he approached the Royal Box all conversation died down, as everyone waited with bated breath to see, which woman he would crown.
Even though, Aemon knew who he would crown. He still felt a tingling nervousness at the bottom of his stomach, as he waited.
As for Ser Criston, he had shed his bloodied armour and was now dressed in a simple white tunic and black leather breeches. Riding upon his snow white horse, with his handsome features, coal black hair and emerald green eyes, he cut the perfect picture of the gallant knight from the stories.
"I, Ser Criston Cole, Champion of the melee, crown Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Queen of Love and Beauty. May her beauty blossom like these roses, and may her sweet presence bring joy and happiness to all."
It was then, that Aemon witnessed Rhaenyra's first crush.
Of course, she didn't know of it herself. She was only seven after all.
But Aemon knew, what Rhaenyra truly wanted, was care and attention.
Growing up, Rhaenyra had often been neglected. Not deliberately, of course. But considering that Viserys was obsessed with having a son, and with Aemma being often bedridden in that endeavor, she had been sidelined.
And at that time with there being so many Targaryens, she hadn't received the attention of the court either. Also, it hadn't been long since Viserys became King. So, this was the first time she was receiving such attention.
And that too, from a brave and handsome knight who was declaring her, the most beautiful woman.
She was obviously flattered, and maybe even a little bit smitten, as she accepted the crown of white roses from Ser Criston Cole.
--------------------
The 'Silver Hart' was the sixth inn Aemon had visited that evening. It proved to be as much of a dead end as the other five.
After the melee had concluded, Aemon had first collected his winnings from Lord Tymond.
He wasn't happy of course, but he knew better than to cheat Daemon Targaryen's son.
So now, two thousand gold dragons richer, Aemon had decided to go out and explore Maidenpool, or so his father thought.
In fact, Daemon had even been nice enough to send two of his household guards with him for his safety.
However in truth, Aemon had come out for a particular reason, and it had nothing to do with exploring the town.
He was looking for the bastard, Rowan Storm.
The fifteen year old was promising, and so he wished to employ his services.
But alas, he was proving quite elusive to find. He had searched six inns and a dozen taverns, and had still come up empty.
Still his trip hadn't been completely fruitless.
He had found Bill Burley at the 'Lost Shepherd' tavern.
Aemon was interested in him as well, after all although he hadn't won he had still come in at third in the Archery Contest.
So we haggled over prices. Bill had already received quite a few employment offers from the various noble Houses, though he hadn't accepted any as of yet.
And since we had bonded over our shared northern heritage, he agreed to work for me.
He initially demanded a salary of fifty gold dragons annually, which Aemon managed to negotiate down to forty gold dragons a year, instead.
Aemon had nearly given up and was thinking of returning to the castle, when he overheard some of the travelling minstrels mention a place called 'The Pink Lotus'.
Aemon knew that he had already visited all the inns and taverns in Maidenpool, so feeling curious, he walked up to the minstrels and enquired about the place.
On learning that it was only a few streets over, he decided to visit it once, before calling it a day.
But as he started walking in that direction one of the guards his father had assigned to him, stopped him.
It was the tall one with the jagged scar running down the side of his face. His name was Gareth, he believed.
"Milord, we shouldn't be going to that establishment." Gareth said.
Aemon looked at him questioningly as he asked,
"And, why shouldn't I ?"
"It is an unsavory place, milord. Not suitable for the likes of you." Gareth replied.
"That is for me to decide, isn't it Gareth. My father assigned you to assist me, not to impede me."
"It is a brothel, Milord. Forgive my crude words, but someone of your age shouldn't go there." The other guard interjected.
Although, Aemon was a little taken aback, he didn't let it show on his face.
"It is of no matter. There's nothing there, that I haven't already seen. Take me there." Aemon commanded.
Aemon had commanded them, and even though they were reluctant, the guards still escorted him there.
'The Pink Lotus' in spite of it's name didn't seem like a high end establishment for prostitution.
It was instead a brothel and inn rolled into one.
If you wanted to eat, or drink, or stay the night, it would function just like any other inn.
But instead, if you wanted to fuck, that service was available too. Just take one of the serving girls to bed and they would satiate your every carnal appetite.
In a way, it was much more civil than Aemon had expected.
The burly middle-aged man sitting at the counter looked at him warily as Aemon walked up to him.
"This is no place for little kids, boy. Do not waste my time. Begone." He grunted.
Aemon's guards bristled, so before they escalated the situation further, he hurriedly answered.
"Two mugs of your strongest ale for my men, and one cup of watered-down wine for me."
The man looked at Aemon inquisitively, as he demanded, "Silver, first."
So Aemon paid, as the man poured out their drinks.
"Has a fifteen-sixteen year old boy with fiery red hair, visited your establishment ? He might also have been carrying some bows and arrows." Aemon asked the man.
"So you too are looking for him? No wonder. Anyways, if it is that Archer from today's tournament you want. He is sitting back there, nursing a beer with a dour look. Didn't even bed a single girl, that fool. A few of them even offered to do him for free." The man spat in disgust.
And so there he was. Rowan Storm. The Bastard of Griffin's Roost was sitting, sulking in a corner of the common room.
Aemon walked up to him, pulling out a chair and seating himself across from him.
"So you must be Rowan Storm?" He asked.
The man looked up at me with impatience.
"What do you want kid?"
"I guess I should introduce myself." Aemon replied, "I am Aemon Snow, Prince Daemon Targaryen's bastard son."
"Can't say, it is a pleasure." Rowan answered.
"I would like to be plain with you. I come to you with a proposition. I would like to recruit you." Aemon said.
Rowan chuckled loudly, as he answered,
"You do know, I just denied your father's offer for employment, and he offered me seventy gold dragons a year. I don't think his seven year old bastard whelp, can offer any better." He said smugly.
Aemon slid over a purse to him.
"There's a hundred gold dragons in there", he said, "Count it, if you want. It will be your first year's pay."
Rowan looked at him with surprise,
"This is surely a generous offer, but I am not so easily bought."
Aemon sighed, "Everyone has a price, Rowan. And looking at you, I know it is not gold, that you thirst for."
"You want what all bastards want. You want to be a Lord, don't you?"
"Don't you dare presume, that you know me, Snow. You might be a bastard, but you're a favored bastard. Your father actually cares for you. My father considers me, worth less than the mud on his shoes."
"And yes I do want a title, but not for the power or the wealth. I want to be a Lord, so that people won't ever look at me funny, again." Rowan fumed.
"Look, I didn't mean to anger you." Aemon tried to calm him.
"And it is true that I am favored by my father. But in the end, I still am a bastard. I know what it is like." He assured Rowan.
As he recovered from his outburst he asked Aemon,
"I don't think you came here to lament about our shared bastardy. Say, your piece, and be done with it."
"I can give you what you want. Gold, land, even a title, if you serve me loyally. These hundred gold dragons are just the taste, of things to come." Aemon said.
"Don't make me laugh", Rowan snorted.
"It is true that Prince Daemon values you. But even he can't give you land and Lordship. And when you can't get a title of your own, how will you give me one. Snow, I am not in the mood for such silly japes."
"It is true, I have no title, yet. But I'll have one soon. A few years from now Prince Daemon will conquer the Steptstones and when he does I'll recieve a Lordship. As for you, I promise you a knighthood, if you choose to follow me." Aemon said as he slowly sipped, from his cup.
"That seems like a pretty dream. But there's no assurance of it ever coming true." He said.
"Well, since you seem so difficult to convince. Let me make you a bet."
"I will predict some of the results of tomorrow's jousts. If I get all of them right, you will believe in my ability, give me your trust and come work for me. In exchange, I'll pay you hundred gold dragons a year, and make you a landed knight of the Stepstones in a few years. And if I get even one of them wrong, you can keep these hundred gold dragons. Whatever happens, either way you win." Aemon said.
" Do you agree to these terms, Storm?" He asked.
"Very well, if you can accurately predict the results of tomorrow's joust. I'll work for you." He said.
"Ser Criston will unhorse Prince Daemon, Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk. But will himself be unhorsed by Lymond Mallister." Aemon declared.
"Very well, we'll see tomorrow what your words are worth." Rowan said.
"What about the gold though?"
"I trust you to hold on to it." Aemon said.
Rowan looked at him suspiciously,
"You seem awful trusting of a stranger. Why is that? And also why are you going to such lengths to recruit me. I know I am a good archer, but even I won't think myself worth so much trouble." He said.
Aemon had been getting up to leave, but his words gave him pause.
"It is not that I am trusting your honor or righteousness, though the fact that I am willing to deal with you must mean that you're not honourless. Instead, I trust that you to know what is in your own self interest. After all you will have to be a massive fool, to cheat a future dragon rider. As for why I am so interested in hiring you, it's not just because of your excellent archery."
"Then, what is it?" He asked.
"You ask too many questions, Storm. Well, no matter I'll tell you. You see there are certain things that I am unable to do, either because of my young age or because of my station. I need someone to do them for me. That's where you come in."
"I will not be a killer for you, Snow." He growled.
"Gold is good, but what use is it if I can't live to enjoy it. If it is a catspaw you want to use and discard, then leave me out of it." He said.
"No, nothing so sinister, I assure you. Although, it is true you may need to kill one day. But you will kill in war like any other honorable man. I don't need an asassin. I need you to be right hand man, Storm."
"Consider my words carefully, and if you trust me, then come meet me outside the castle, on the morn the Royal Party is slated to leave."
"However, do know this, Storm. If you do choose to come, I will claim you as one of mine."
"And, Dragons are known to guard their possessions jealously."
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Ser Steffon's favorite warhorse, a magnificent courser with a snow white coat, had been injured so badly in the melee, that it had to be put down.
Lacking a suitable horse Ser Steffon had chosen to withdraw his participation from the lists.
It was because of that, Aemon was sitting in the Royal Box watching the joust.
If he were participating he would be down in the sands, serving him as his squire, for the tilts.
So Aemon watched, as the knights in their shining armour riding their great chargers, rode forth like the heroes of a thousand songs, brutalizing each other for the sake of gold and glory.
Lord Boremund rode with Lady Rhaenys' favor, battering down many a hedge knight and free-rider till Daemon sent him flying from his saddle.
Ser Harrold rode like the wind. His white Kingsguard armour the color of milk, and his cloak the color of freshfallen snow, he thundered through the ranks toppling numerous knights.
Others of the Kingsguard weren't so lucky as both the twins Ser Erryk and Arryk fell prey to Ser Criston's lance.
In fact, with Ser Ryam not participating the honour of the Kingsguard rested in ser Harrold's hands.
Another surprise, was Ser Lymond Mallister.
He was by no means a bad warrior, in fact he was one of the final seven of the melee.
But that day, it was as if he was a man possessed.
He was unstoppable. In his first few matches, none of his opponents were able to last longer than the third tilt.
As for Prince Daemon, unhorsing Lord Boremund was just the beginning.
He followed it up, by unhorsing Ser Hosteen Frey and Ser Willis Fell of the Kingsguard.
Then in a closely fought competition, he defeated Ser Gunthor Royce, a nephew of Lady Rhea of Runestone.
Ser Gunthor was a fearsome warrior, known as the Bronze Giant, he wore the ancestral runic bronze armour of House Royce.
But in the end, those runes weren't enough to protect him, when he was thrown to the ground and trampled by his panicking horse.
He ended up with six shattered ribs and a broken leg.
Ser Criston Cole also displayed his prowess.
Wearing Princess Rhaenyra's favour he proceded to obliterate Ser Vaemond Velaryon, Lord Corlys' brother.
He had to be carried off the tourney field, on account of his injuries.
Ser Lymond on the other hand, made short work of the Hand's son, Ser Gwayne Hightower.
In the end, it came down to six knights- Ser Harrold Westerling of the Kingsguard, Ser Lymond Mallister of Seagard, the new court sensation, Ser Criston Cole, Lord Tymond's brother Ser Gerion Lannister, Ser EdmynTully of Riverrun and the Prince of the City, Prince Daemon Targaryen.
By then, it was already late in the afternoon. So the King decided, to break for lunch.
The final matches would be held after lunch.
After lunch, the final matches began.
The first match was between Ser Criston and Prince Daemon.
As soon as the trumpets was blown, their horses broke into a gallop, as they thundered down the jousting lane.
In the first pass, neither was able to gain an advantage. Both of them, breaking their lances on the other's shield.
So they jerked their mounts around, and rode back to the lists for a second pass.
For the next five passes, they stayed locked in a stalemate.
With neither being able to unhorse the other, they broke a dozen lances, each.
Finally, it was the seventh pass that decided the winner.
Prince Daemon spurred forward in a hard gallop, leaning forward on his mount he held his Lance stock steady.
But Ser Criston shifted his seat deftly, in the instant before impact. Daemon's point was turned harmlessly against his shield, while his own hit square.
The black wooden shield with the red dragon emblazoned on it shattered, throwing the Prince from his saddle.
Ser Criston had once again foiled Prince Daemon.
In the following match, Ser Lymond unhorsed Ser Edmyn Tully on the first tilt itself, thus winning an easy victory.
Ser Harrold rode against Gerion Lannister, in the next match.
Both of them being experienced fighters, the match lasted four tilts, when Ser Harrold finally managed to unseat him.
The final three had been decided - Ser Criston Cole, Ser Harrold Westerling and Ser Lymond Mallister.
Ser Criston and Ser Lymond fought a closely fought match.
They rode against each other for ten tilts before a victor was decided, when Ser Lymond unhorsed him.
Ultimately, in the finals Ser Harrold was given the victory by default, when Ser Lymond's wayward strike in the fifth tilt, accidentally killed Ser Harrold's horse.
Ser Harrold had won in the jousts, in spite of fighting against men several decades younger than him.
By the time the jousts had concluded, the Sun had alteady set and the Moon hung low in the sky, so the winners were quickly brought forward to be rewarded by the King.
Ser Harrold who had won the joust was awarded a purse of ten thousand gold dragons, and the Victor's laurel with which he crowned the Queen Aemma.
Ser Lymond Mallister took second place, and was given a purse of five thousand gold dragons.
As for Ser Criston Cole who had finished third in the joust, his prize was twenty five hundred gold dragons.
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The King had thrown a lavish feast, for the end of the Tourney.
Six whole aurochs had been roasted, for the occasion.
There were cakes and pastries, and fresh fruits from every corner of the Realm and beyond.
And, then there were rich wines and alcoholic beverages of every flavor, flowing endlessly.
Amidst all the food and drink, there was song and dancing.
And as the minstrels strummed their instruments and played their songs, the nobles in their expensive garments took to dancing.
Aemon saw Rhaenyra dancing with Ser Criston Cole, who looked impeccable, in his emerald green doublet, which brought out the green in his eyes.
Aemon himself wasn't much for dancing, so it had been a little surprising when he had readily agreed to a dance, when Laena had asked him.
Laena was a very graceful dancer, which considering her usual tomboyish attitude he hadn't expected.
As for himself, all Aemon could say was that he hadn't embarrassed himself too much. Even though, it had taken every bit of his concentration to avoid stepping on Laena's feet, while dancing.
As the night wore on, and everyone had eaten their fill, and the songs changed from bawdy ballads to soft, melodious music.
Aemon saw Rhaenyra lead Ser Criston to the seat of the King, at the high table.
"Father, I have a request to make of you." She said.
Viserys motioned for those sitting near him to quiet down.
"What is it, you want child? Just ask, and it shall be yours." He declared.
"Father, you have seen Ser Criston's performance in the Tourney. Wouldn't you say he is the perfect, gallant knight."
"I can't speak about Ser Criston's gallantry, for I don't know him well. But I know of at least one Dragon, whose arse would be quite sore for a couple of days, because of him."Viserys japed at Daemon's expense.
As the laughter died down, Rhaenyra continued.
"Ser Criston won the melee, and finished third, in the lists. He even defeated Uncle Daemon, who everyone considers a fearsome warrior. Father, he is a great knight, and so, I want you to name him my Sworn Protector." She demanded.
Viserys looked at Ser Criston inquisitively.
"Ser Criston, what say you? Do you want to be my daughter's Sworn Protector?"
Ser Criston bowed to the King.
"My King, the Princess honours me with her kind words. And, to be her Sworn Shield, and defend her from the evils of this world. There could be no greater honour for me." He said, eloquently.
Viserys turned to his daughter once more.
"Are you sure about this, daughter?" He asked.
"Yes, father. I have no doubt that Ser Criston would defend me faithfully and honorably." She replied.
"Very well then, I shall cater to your whims, this once."
"Ser Criston of House Cole. I, King Viserys Targaryen, First of his Name, King of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, hereby appoint you, the Sworn Shield of my daughter, the Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. May you protect her with honour, until your dying breath."
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