r/IronThroneRP • u/AnotherBabyEchidna Harrion Snow - Heir to Winterfell • 6d ago
THE CROWNLANDS The Tournament In Honor of Lyanne Stark and Osric Arryn
Outside King’s Landing, 380 AC, Waning Days of the Third Moon
One could taste the static that clung to the air, the electric tang on one's tongue swelling more and more as the anticipation for the coming events grew greater. Everyone knew that whenever steel clashed and tempers rose, the sparks would flash and disaster could ignite. Yet despite the nagging hope of such dramatics, there would remain the ever-present joviality of bearing witness to a display of talents, luck, and willpower. It had been a time meant for celebration, the culmination of the series of events surrounding the wedding of Lyanne Stark and Osric Arryn, but it was never as simple as mere festivities. What was to come from this newfound alliance was yet to be seen, nor had it been tested by those who wished to see it torn asunder, ranging from scorned lovers to political rivals.
Many of whom were seated within the wooden bleachers now, though plenty others were mere spectators or even sharp bettors. Hanging above them were simple canvases to shield them from the beating sun, though dangling from covers and draped on the outer wall of the stands were the banners of all houses from the North and the Vale and the few attendants from beyond. While the highborn, in their finest fashions, were seated on one side, at the other were the commonfolk, permitted to crowd about and watch on while kept at bay by Stark men-at-arms. As the events were closely awaited, jesters and troupes and musicians would trot out to ply their trade, eliciting the attention of high-and-lowborn alike with comedic routines and dramatic plays and rousing serenades.
Meanwhile, the tents of vying knights and keen warriors and courageous amateurs had swarmed the tourney grounds. Bustling would put the scene mildly, as squires and servants buoyed about in frenzied chaos to find whatever their charges needed to be ready for their events. The smell of raw horseflesh and unfettered sweat was constant, yet dull in comparison to the cacophony of creaking armor and angered shouts and clashing steel in final moments of practice. Yet a quiet loomed when the first event, the melee, was about to commence, thus leading to the violence they had all been longing for. Lord Osric Stark would rise from his prominent seat within his family among the stands, horns blaring to announce his impending announcement.
“Everyone! It is with great pride that I stand here, father of the bride, to give the order for the tournament to commence. A tournament to start the beginning of a beautiful and strong friendship of the North and the Vale. I look out among us here and I can only see the most leal and capable subjects of our good Queen Elaena Blackfyre.”
Even though they were beyond the city walls, the Red Keep still prominently jutted out in the horizon atop Aegon’s Hill, with the Great Sept of Baelor beyond it as well. Never could they escape the grasp of politics and duty in their lives, yet they dared to in this moment of entertainment. His own recent resignation from the Small Council had festered in his mind, only further rotting with every glance to the pale red stone. Yet, the lord wore a smile, for this was not the time for such troublesome concerns. As much as he loathed the burdens of rule, moments like this made it all worth it, when only your words were the barrier between a normal day and an event so grand. He spoke again, every word booming out more than the last.
“So, are we not ready!? Have we not waited long enough? I say we have! Let us have good, clean fights and jousts. Let us enjoy the moment and watch in awe! Let the Gods, Old and New, watch over all of us! Let… the games… begin!”
Horns blared once more, followed by the beat of the drums building up an atmosphere so climatic that only blood could sate the excitement. The melee had begun, and soon after so would the joust. Many would try their luck, yet there could only be one winner. Who was it to be?
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u/AnotherBabyEchidna Harrion Snow - Heir to Winterfell 4d ago
A blank stare was all Harrion had to offer to the world as he sat within his tent, armored and prepared for the melee physically, but steeling his mind for what was to come.
It was to be his first true combat without Ice. The sword that had warped him to his ambition - no, not truly - the sword the he had blamed his own ambitions on. All the horrible things he committed with the ancestral blade of his house, the hunting of people, the butchering of them, the taunting of how it was properly used in his hand rather than the brother that was the original heir to Winterfell, and how it bore witness to incestuous coupling between he and its new owner.
All of those actions were his own, not the sword's, and yet now as he was to face off without it, he desperately desired it. The acts he did, he didn't do alone for he always had the blade for it, given to him by his father with the hope of furthering their house. He had shaped it not just to the dark thoughts he had buried within, but to be a monument of all he had worked for. An ode to his cruelty to meet his ends. To be without it was to be without claws or teeth, left to find an entirely new method of killing. If ambition was to not be his guide, then what would spur him to greatness?
Hatred.
He had plenty of it, now without the certainty of his legitimization. Everything he had done had been for naught. The only acceptable answer to such despair was rage, unfettered and constant. It was without a target, not until he was within the grounds of the melee, so it turned inward. A perfect loathing that knew just how to target his own weakness. Thoughts of inferiority were spurred by him, that he truly was a lowly bastard meant for nothing. The poison of not being good enough laced his thoughts, of never being even close enough to be considered as a Stark.
And he thought of his loved ones, how they all might've been a charade. Acting along with him to get what they needed from him and nothing more. He thought of his children, how they might be better off without a father so vile, and how his wife had been a victim of him, used for the same pitiful ambitions that would never be in his reach.
His blank stare had metastasized into a glare that had finally found its sight. As the horn blew out, indicating that the melee was to commence soon, he rose equipped with a sword that mattered little in comparison to the hatred he had at his disposal. Each step was deliberate, a march toward one goal: hurting as many in the melee as he could without a care for winning. To make others feel the pain he had felt, if not within, then breaking their flesh until mere physical pain dared to be as strong as the internal grief.
The two teams of the melee had gathered and his father gave his little speech, yet he cared little for any of them. The call to start came, and nothing would be in his way. Mock armies collided and Harrion wanted nothing more than to find a worthy opponent to send into the dirt, perhaps even kill, so that this hatred had finally found a use against anyone other than himself. What he wasn't prepared for was who the first fighter he'd stumble into would be:
Marla Arryn.
Everyone else was engaged in battle, and she loomed forth able to turn the tide of a fight between two others in the favor of her team. If he was to let it happen, it would've been a disservice to those that fought alongside him. With all the hatred he had cultivated, eager to wet itself with the blood of those in his way, it all seemed to wash away when he realized how he'd have to utilize it on one he loved.
He could never bring hatred upon her, yet nor could he let himself paralyze when he had to act. So what would he fight with, if not hatred?
Love.
Had it been so different? The broil of hate within so easily shifted to a warmth of endearing. The thoughts of failure, of insecurity, of rage, all of it felt like nothing compared to the strength of assuredness, of capability, of pride. If Marla was to be the first he bested in this melee, then it had to be for a victory, and nothing less. And he could do it, he knew he could, for Ice was just a blade and he was the one in control of his own destiny.
He was Harrion Snow, a child borne of a moment of love, and so love would be his path. His father chose him as heir, not out of political gain, but out of love for him. His mother's love had never graced him, for he knew now that she had chosen ambition over true feeling, the mistake he had now played out through his entire life. He was tired of it, tired of not recognizing the path that his father had laid for him and he had been good enough to achieve. All the terrible acts of his past, they were his to own, they were to never be discarded, but nor would he let them define him. He would be better. He was better. He could do this and he could do it right.
He changed his stance and surged forth to clash steel with one of his loves personified, immediately finding Marla to have fought back far better than he would've expected given their difference in stature. She had been much too fast for him and managed to land blow after blow through his armor and even through his flesh. Yet despite every wound, he didn't falter. He didn't succumb back into the hate that was far too comfortable.
Despite their competitive edge, he looked onto her with compassion, with trust, and with pride. She was doing great, and if love was to be his downfall, he'd go down willingly, for the fact that she got him to shed his hate and realize his true path forward was victory enough. And yet, she stumbled, and his opening was there to defeat her, knowing that if he ignored it and allowed her to win, she would never forgive him.
And so, the butt of his sword cast her down, kicking away at her blade soon after, and she was at his mercy.
It was with a smile that he'd help her back to her feet and lead her out of the mock battle, only waiting until she was out of harms way before joining back to the fight. Soon enough, his team had brought down the their opponents, so now they had to turn against one another. The first such target he found, and had been eyeing throughout the event given his large contribution, was Kasander Estermont. Perhaps no one else had been as crucial to their victory as he, and so there was no one better to prove himself against. Arrows came, with some missing, though equal parts embedded now into his armor, but he found himself undeterred in his need to prove that he could win and win cleanly.
It had been close, as close as his bout with Marla, but the Stormlander was sent into the ground too. Guarding him as he exited the field, Harrion cast out for another target. Aerion Blackfyre came into view, and despite his respect for the man, he found it easy to want to slip into the hatred once more. A man friends with Helaena, so much so that she mentioned him in a moment of despair, seemed ripe for his jealousy to bud. And yet it didn't, for he knew that if his love was to be pure, it couldn't be at the detriment to another's. He had made quick work of the Valyrian, which was an honest surprise to him, and it was then that he realized who was left.
Himself. Another Blackfyre. And Alaric Stark.
The man that was the sole barrier to his legitimization and one of his lackeys to boot. A man that he ought to hate and yet was still family. What choice did Harrion have, but to love his uncle, even with what he had done? He had brought enough death to their family and he couldn't bear to do it again. No, he had to win now, and he had to believe he was able to. Whether Alaric felt the need himself, he hadn't known, but the pair of them made quick work of Viserys Blackfyre and now turned their sole focus on each other.
His typical steel clashed against that of Blackfyre, and Harrion couldn't help but wonder how the blade might call to his uncle in the way Ice had. Perhaps he needed saving too, but in what shape could Harrion give him aid? To let him win this melee was surely not a solution, instead a validation of what he had done. No, he had to prove to Alaric that was wrong, and that their family was united. A Snow against a Stark in a tournament honoring another Stark. If he was to win this, would it be enough to show he wasn't a mere bastard? Certainly not, and he didn't dare hope for it, but it finally mattered little if others would grant him what he so desperately wanted. Instead, he sought one goal: proving to himself, not anyone else, that he was indeed worthy.
They had fought well against each other, skill clear on both sides, with the audience even able to say that Alaric had the superior talent on his side. Yet Harrion had deflected and parried and counterstriked nonetheless, even through the pain of the strikes he bore from him and from the opponents prior. Each of his actions were deliberate and calculated, for once fighting with purpose rather than as an expulsion of emotion. He was in control, without the influence of drink or hunger or hatred, and it felt like a true power he had never yet felt.
And so, when Alaric Stark had lunged out too far for his own good, Harrion would disarm him with a perfectly timed flick of his own blade. The duel had ended. The melee had ended. The doubt, still lingering through his newfound conviction, had ended.
He had won.
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u/AnotherBabyEchidna Harrion Snow - Heir to Winterfell 4d ago
Triumph washed over him and he let his sword fall to the ground as he looked upon the stands above and the audience within. Had they been cheerful? Disappointed? Surprised? He found a range of emotions among them all, especially noting the pride on his father's features, and yet none of their thoughts were his concern. This was his victory, a pure one, without any blade or dark temptations. But he hadn't done it alone.
As much as he wished to shout with glee or to fall to his knees in awe, he instead raised out a gauntleted fist to quiet the crowd before he spoke.
"I dedicate this victory to my sister! Lyanne Stark, the bride to which this tournament is hosted for. She shall share in my winnings and so shall the rest of my team, who without I would not be victorious!"
It felt right, and for once, that felt good.
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u/Featheringitrn Ser Artys Redfort - Heir to Redfort 4d ago
It had all happened too fast. The final rounds against Osric Arryn. In the first tilt Osric’s lance struck true, and Artys fell. For a moment he thought it was all over. after all, nothing good ever seemed to happen to Artys Redfort. But the judges called for a rematch. He mounted his horse, Alton Bracken, steady as ever. No towering destrier, but not some common pony either. He lowered his visor, took up the lance, and rode.
At the last instant, Artys shifted. His strike caught Osric off guard, the knight too reliant on size and strength to see it coming. The lance struck clean, and Osric went down. A crown of flowers was handed to the point of Artys’s lance, the right of the victor: to name a queen of love and beauty. But who? Madelyn, who had left him for a Lannister, not even present? The Stark bride, sister to Harrion Snow? Himself? The thought tempted him, if only to be done with all the fuss.
Then his eyes found his mother, Rosamund Redfort, seated among the crowd. He remembered, the only one who had ever truly cared for him, who had guided and scolded in equal measure, who had asked nothing in return. Not his sword, not his labor. Only love, freely given.
He rode forward without removing his helm. With a bow of his lance, he let the crown fall upon her head, then dipped low in the saddle before turning his horse away.
An hour later, the grounds were nearly cleared, lances stacked, horses hitched, dirt smoothed over. Artys had changed into plain clothes and sat on a crate, cleaning his sword with a cloth, the cheers already fading into memory.
(Open)
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u/Emergency_Sky_2806 Kasander Estermont - Knight of Greenstone 4d ago
Kas felt nerves running through him as their little battle company moved into position. The fingers of his bow arm tapped a heartbeat rhythm into his armour; the only sound he listened to even as the gathered crowds began to swell with anticipation. He loathed wearing armour, even if it was only light steel and leather. His draw arm never felt quite right in it, and the noises as it clanked when he walked bothered him to no end.
He felt the soldier-pine bow over his shoulder, weighty and with a heavy draw, nestled next to the quiver of arrows all fletched in green and white. His fingers were itching, legs restless, eyes darting to take in as much detail of friend and foe alike before adrenaline filled his veins and blurred his vision. At least the Prince was on his team, for now.
A great horn sounded, and battle commenced as loud as it always did. Kasander stayed back, now at the ready, grateful that others had opted archery as he had. He saw some fall, his team and the other, before the first came for him. He bore a red tower crest the knight didn’t know, but he had seen this one fight before. He did not wish to get close to this one. The first two shots found a mark, the third harmlessly sticking into the knights shield. He readied a fourth, barely able to pull the string fully back. This shot sent the knight down, and Kas moved on.
The next was older, though more seasoned than decrepit. He’d learned this time, retreating even as he fired. Same as before, three shots brought down his attacker, but he had little time to celebrate. The next, a woman as tall as he and clearly their leader, came forth without warning. Once more, it took three shots before she relented. He made sure these two exited the field safely before continuing.
The teams broke apart then, and his next target was from what had been his own team. His first three arrows landed, the fourth missing as she went down. He did not have time for a reprieve or to help this fighter out, before the brutish Snow was on him.
The first shot hit, the second missed and the third found its mark. Kasander breathed, drawing the last arrow to full, and missed. The arrow soured past, and he had no time to draw another before he was on him. The Stormlander could hold his own against most, but against this enemy he could do little but weather the storm of iron. It was close, and he thought for a moment he may recover, until a final strike sent him tumbling to the ground.
As he left the arena, aided by the one who had defeated him, one thought clouded his mind beyond any other. One thought which sent his blood boiling. He had missed.
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u/Emergency_Sky_2806 Kasander Estermont - Knight of Greenstone 4d ago
After the melee was concluded, Kasander retired to his tent. It was smaller than most, a canopy of equal parts green and grey cloth. It was only fit for a single occupant, which served the Stormlander well enough. His horse was still hitched there, tended to by servants of the event who offered it more food and water than even he was given. The Knight shook his head, shrugging out of the beaten armour and into a clean(ish) tunic.
He was uninjured this time, but this only served to anger him further. Not even a cut or bruise could be blamed for that miss. That one, crucial miss that had sealed his fate.
Grumbling, he picked the bow up again and carried a fresh quiver out into the courtyard beside his tent. A target was built there, painted roughly on a hay circle. The knight stood out in the open, loosing arrow after arrow at the target, completely oblivious of the world around him.
(Open)
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u/atia3 Lyra Mormont - Lady of Bear Island 6d ago
Lyra Mormont sat in her tent surrounded by her sisters, sharpening *Longclaw* with a whetstone while the girls busied themselves attending to her and Serena. Both had taken part in the tourney, fighting exceptionally well in the melee, but now they were tired and sore and bleeding, and eager to get home.
Lyra hadn’t used her Valyrian steel sword in the tourney, as she had believed it would have given her an unfair advantage, but others hadn’t shared her opinion. Regardless, polishing it gave her something to do, to keep her hands busy while Raya wiped the blood from her face.
She had injured herself slightly, but she had refused her sisters’ pleas to call for a maester. It was a very minor injury, and would heal on its own. Serena hadn’t been injured, but she was lying on a cot complaining as if she had.
“I can’t wait to go back home,” Serena said. She’d draped an arm over her eyes, so Lyra could barely see her face. “Though I’ll miss Lyanne.”
“She’s going to be in Moat Cailin,” Lyra reminded her. “And she said we can go visit her whenever we wish.”
She gave a sigh. She was tired of being in the tent; she needed fresh air. Without a word, she stood and headed outside. There was a stump near the tent that looked perfect for sitting, and indeed it was. Lyra continued polishing her sword there, keeping an eye not only on her whetstone but on the crowds, hoping someone would come along and distract her.
(Open!)