Ser Gwayne was vaguely aware of a battle taking place around him. The grass was red with blood but his attention was focused only on the man in-front of him, who was fighting like the warrior himself. Wyl Waynwood had already fallen before Daemon as if he were just a squire and just then the knight of Ninestars had fared little better and now Daemon had Gwayne in his sights. He narrowed his eyes at the Black Dragon. After a pause both men raised their Valyrian steel swords in salute. And it began.
Naught but history now, a footnote in some Maester's book, yet it had replayed in Gwayne's mind ever since. The knight looked down at his helmet mournfully, instead of the usual gleaming white of the Kings-Guard this one was black inlaid with red, atop it was a dragon-shaped crest, a red dragon. Outside he could hear the crowd give a hearty applause, though he'd been to enough tournaments to recognise a polite cheer when he heard one, Prince Daeron was loved by few.
"Well, that's my part done." Gwayne looked up at the voice to see the pavilion open revealing Daeron, eldest son of Maekar the Kinslayer, drunkard and perhaps the biggest craven Gwayne had ever set eyes upon. The Targaryen groaned slumping wearily back into his seat. He was dressed in armour identical to the one Gwayne was wearing and was uncharacteristically sober, it wouldn't be seemly for the only representative of house Targaryen to be drunk in front of so many of his leal bannermen; the Prince did at least have a lick of sense, if not honour. "Be a good man and knock this bastard of his horse." He muttered dejectedly.
Gwayne rose stiffly off his stool, he gritted his teeth and strapped on his helmet. Oak and iron guard me well, else I'm dead and doomed to hell. The rhyme that always came to him before a fight, though today it felt hollow. Who was he to judge the affairs or princes? Though deep down he knew what was happening was wrong. You swore an oath. Part of him echoed, Gwayne cursed that part of him. The knight walked to the edge of the pavilion and nodded to Daeron.
"Your grace."
Blackfyre came at him like a storm, the man and the sword were one. Gwayne was past awe though, he saw a blow, he countered it, he saw an opening he took it. Sweat was pouring down him as he gradually tried to move back to the offensive, truthfully it felt more like a game of cyvasse than a fight. The two Valyrian blades sung as they met, bringing up sparks the like Gwayne had never seen before. None seemed to want to interfere with their fight, it might of been respect, awe or dread, either way, it was just the two of them.
The 'bastard' in question turned out to be the Sword of the Morning. Ser Drayton was a man Gwayne had longed to cross swords with for a while now, though somehow the fun seemed to be sucked from this particular joust. He felt awkward it was like he was wearing someone else's skin not just their armour, the squire actually bowed to him before helping him up onto his horse, the life of a prince Gwayne thought bitterly.
Gwayne reined up his horse into position at the far end of the stands, it was odd, he'd never been the brightest of men but in martial matters he was always at home, the knight couldn't remember a time when he was nervous before a fight, another sure sign that this was all wrong. Daeron's squire handed him him a lance before slinking away, then everything went quiet.
Gwayne tested the weight of the lance, it was an ornate thing the tip done in the shape of a flame, too much style over practicality really but it would suffice. At the other end of the lists he could see Ser Drayton readying his war-horse, Gwayne tightened his grip on the reins, he was slick with sweat and sick to the stomach besides. The calm before the storm seemed to stretch on forever. At last the horn sounded.
Gwayne dug his heels in and the horse lumbered into a gallop, he was breathing heavily as they got closer, doubts kept fleeting through his mind. It was not honourable, it was not knightly, he was not Daeron Targaryen. Closer now, he could just about hear shouts of the crowd over the sounds of his armour jostling and his own blood pumping. Drayton's lance loomed at him. It was all wrong.
Every inch of him screamed out in pain, the fight seemed to be lasting forever. An hour? Two? Was that even possible? He could of sworn the sun was high in the sky when they started. Block. Strike. Counter. He wouldn't give in, he couldn't, the war rested upon this, if the Black Dragon fell then so did the rebellion. Besides, he was enjoying this far too much to stop.
As the they wore on Gwayne found he had growing respect for his opponent. Why did you have to rebel? The thought crossed his mind, bastard or no with a sword arm like this he would of been the pride of the Targaryen dynasty, perhaps even a friend. Instead he had to be an usurper and Gwayne had to bring the bastard down for the good of the realm. It didn't feel right to think of the man as a bastard, he was lordly, princely even, Gwayne would afford him that right before he killed Daeron.
It was coming to a head now, by the breath misting out of Daeron's helmet grill Gwayne could tell he was just as tired as he was, they caught each others eyes for a moment during this brief respite from blows, Gwayne tipped his head slightly and the black dragon returned the guesture, usurper or no this had been his most worthy opponent. Now. As one they charged each other, blades a blur of steel, each reading the other's feints and strikes, faster, faster, Gwayne was using energy he didn't know he'd had. Then something cold touched his side.
He fell.
He fell.
Horse, grass, mud, blood. A torrent of colour flashed before him as he came tumbling form his horse. Gwayne rolled for a few moments before coming to a rest lying on his back, he felt like shit. All to the sound of rapturous applause. Nothing seemed to be broken as far as he could tell but he didn't feel like moving all the same. Why had he fallen? He was Gwayne Corbray, he should of at least lasted one tilt. The Kings-guard sighed, his mind was in other places, that or something about the prince was just cursed with bad luck. He closed his eyes listening to the sounds of footsteps running over to him and then hands dragging him away, then darkness.
"Red-Tusk!" Gwayne heard a voice booming above the din of the battle, a commanding voice, Daemon's he realised. Gwayne felt weak, over an hour of constant exertion was catching up to him and something was a hole in his side, he turned to see red staining his white-cloak, it matched the grass now. A heavy set knight in red armour ran up, Gwayne was too far gone to hear the conversation but their were protests that nearly ran to an argument. After a moment a stretcher appeared and he was being hauled onto it by the command of the king.
