The first tilt of the day saw Ser Arthur Bracken facing Sandor Clegane, better known as the Hound.
Both combatants waited at opposite ends of the jousting lanes. Upon receiving the signal from King Robert, they dipped their lances and lowered their visors simultaneously. A hush fell over the crowd. Then came the thunder of hooves.
Arthur's horse, Red Hare, towered over the average destrier by a full hand, granting him a noticeable advantage in the lists. The elevated height altered the angle of approach: to strike Arthur, a challenger would have to raise their lance higher than usual—otherwise, they risked striking the horse. And under the rules of the tourney, maiming or killing a horse was grounds for immediate disqualification.
This conundrum had already cost several competitors dearly. Most found it nearly impossible to dislodge Arthur from his high saddle, and Sandor Clegane was no exception.
The first pass ended with both men holding steady in the saddle. Arthur's lance shattered against the Hound's shield, which was slightly concave—designed to absorb impact. Sandor's lance struck true but failed to throw his opponent. They wheeled their mounts and prepared for the second tilt.
Two more passes followed in rapid succession. Arthur's strikes were cleaner, his balance near perfect, while Sandor began to show signs of frustration. On the fourth pass, the Hound's mount drifted slightly off course. His aim wavered—and Arthur capitalized. His lance slammed into the center of Sandor's shield and sent the big man crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust.
Bang!
The sound echoed throughout the tourney grounds. Even the deaf would have noticed the reverberation underfoot. Sandor lay motionless for a beat before finally rolling onto his side. A murmur ran through the stands as the crowd noted that his helm—shaped like a snarling dog—was dented.
"Go and help him. Let the man remove his helm and rest awhile," Lord Eddard Stark called out with concern from the royal viewing gallery.
Two Red Keep servants rushed toward the fallen knight, but Sandor waved them off with a snarl and staggered to his feet. The crowd parted as he limped away without a word.
Arthur, still mounted, lifted his visor. As he rode past the nobles' box, he caught Sansa Stark's eye and winked.
The young lady from the North blushed furiously. Her cheeks turned the same crimson shade as her carefully braided auburn hair—a style she had adopted to blend in with the southern ladies of court, though she never wore it so in Winterfell.
Arthur trotted toward the staging area, dismounted, and walked over to reclaim his warhammer. He had good reason to arm himself: the next match would be between Ser Loras Tyrell and Ser Gregor Clegane—the Mountain. And history had shown that the latter did not take defeat well.
In the TV show, Ser Loras had unseated Gregor during the Hand's tourney by riding a mare in heat, distracting the Mountain's stallion. Gregor, furious, decapitated his own horse in the middle of the arena before charging Loras with a drawn sword. Only the Hound's unexpected intervention stopped him.
But today, with the Hound recovering from his own fall, there would be no brother to restrain the Mountain if things turned ugly.
Arthur had to be ready.
Medan, ever loyal, stood guard over the hammer, though the weapon's weight alone was enough to deter would-be thieves. Arthur hoisted the massive weapon over his shoulder and returned to the edge of the lists.
The duel unfolded just as expected. Loras's nimble riding and clever tactics unseated Gregor Clegane with ease. The Knight of Flowers didn't even break his lance.
The crowd erupted in cheers for the youthful, charming son of Mace Tyrell. But the mood shifted instantly when the Mountain rose in fury and, just as he had in the show, lopped the head from his horse with a single stroke.
Gasps and screams filled the air. Panic swept through the onlookers.
"Stop him!" shouted Lord Stark. But his voice lacked the command of Robert's booming baritone, and no guards moved to intervene.
Loras, still mounted, reached for his sword as Gregor advanced, but the Mountain's squire shoved him off balance. His breastplate crumpled under the Mountain's mailed gauntlet, and he fell hard.
Gregor raised his greatsword. "I must kill you," he muttered—words that Loras, through the ringing in his ears, barely caught.
He would have died then and there, were it not for a sudden clash of steel and a flash of gold.
Arthur stepped between them, warhammer raised. The flat head of his massive weapon intercepted the sword blow meant for Loras, sending sparks flying.
The Mountain dares raise steel against my uncle in broad daylight? Arthur seethed inwardly.
Their weapons clanged again. The Mountain's enormous greatsword met Arthur's equally massive hammer with thunderous force. But in such collisions, the hammer had the advantage—it did not bend.
The Mountain, blinded by rage, ignored King Robert's shouted command: "In the name of your king, I order you—stop this madness!"
Arthur wasn't bound by oaths of knighthood or the white cloak of the Kingsguard. He responded with full strength, parrying the next blow and smashing the hammer into the Mountain's sword.
The blade cracked. With one more swing, Arthur shattered it completely.
He followed up with a low strike, slamming the hammer into Gregor's iron-booted foot. The ground beneath them, already churned by hooves, gave way slightly. Gregor sank an inch into the earth.
Though his bones weren't broken, he stumbled with pain, then retreated quickly, shoving Ser Barristan Selmy aside in his haste.
"Brave Ser Arthur Bracken," Sansa whispered with admiration.
Having heard the name from Littlefinger the night before, she would not forget it.
Lord Eddard, standing beside her, nodded thoughtfully. "A man of strength and justice. The kind of friend one should make."
Sansa committed the words to memory.
As the crowd resumed cheering, Loras was lifted to his feet by his squires. The chaos faded, and the nobles returned to their seats. Loras vanished into his pavilion.
Arthur accepted the applause with calm composure.
Minutes later, Loras returned in a simple linen tunic, bruised but unharmed.
"I owe you my life, Ser Arthur," he said, loud enough for all to hear. "You shall have the friendship of House Tyrell and Highgarden."
Coming from the favored son of one of the most powerful houses in Westeros, that was no small gift.
King Robert, in his usual magnanimous fashion, declared Arthur the tourney's overall champion and awarded him 40,000 gold dragons. The crowd roared its approval.
Though Arthur had been scheduled to face Loras in the final tilt, the Mountain's outburst had rendered that unnecessary. Fate—or chaos—had saved Arthur from a difficult fight, and given him a greater prize instead: the loyalty of the Reach.
As the morning wore on, the archery contest began. Arthur participated but had little luck. The winner was a rangy mercenary with a longbow nearly as tall as himself, who walked away with 10,000 gold dragons.
Arthur didn't mind. He had already won something far more valuable.
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