WARS TO COME, game of thrones

𝐕𝐈𝐈. tourney

"Lord Commander Selmy."

"Lord Riverfall. You've grown up."

"You remember my name."

"Well, that's what you asked for, isn't it?" Selmy grinned and looked at him with amusement out of blue eyes, Anrir unconsciously touched his throat for a moment, where the old scar was still raised and clearly noticeable. He quickly put his hand back on Beast's grip.

"I have to get dressed, Robert wants to see me in the tournament," Anrir murmured and gave Ned a quick glance before leaving him alone with the knight.

After he had accompanied Ned to the forge the day before, where they had met Robert's bastard Gendry, they now parted ways again. It had actually been nice to spend time with Ned, as if they were young again. But that had been deceptive. Ned's was more about the alleged conspiracy than anything else. And now his father's former squire had passed away, and Ned's mind seemed to be filled with even more worry.

Anrir himself still didn't believe that anyone had done anything bad to his father. There was still no apparent reason for it. One more bastard, what did that mean? Robert probably had a dozen more and they weren't exactly a secret either. It wasn't something you killed a man for. But he had to admit by now that his father's behavior before his death had been unusual, at least from what they'd been told. After all, he himself had not been there in time. He sighed painfully and tried to shake off these emotions.

Lark was waiting for him in a tent with two squires from Robert's entourage, where they helped him put on his armor. It was a pitch-black monster that he had discovered in Riverfall. Perhaps it had belonged to his biological father, but it had probably not been used for many years. The armor fit him like a glove and the silvery decorations reminded him pleasantly of his homeland.

"Are you practiced with the lance?" Lark asked him doubtfully and Anrir laughed softly.

"Not particularly. But if it gives our king pleasure to see me fall..." he shuddered at the memory of the death of his father's former squire. Fortunately, he didn't have to face Gregor Clegane and he didn't expect to make it far enough to meet Clegane later, none of the brothers.

His horse was saddled and decked out in the colors of his house, the winged tower emblazoned on the black stallion's side. Despite the extra weight of his armor, he swung himself elegantly onto the animal's back, placing a hand on its warm neck. "Well, we'll get it done," he said, half to himself, half to the horse, which was pleasantly calm.

"Wish me luck, Ser Lark," he grinned down at his knight, who looked at him with a furrowed brow.

"Take care, my lord," the knight replied calmly when Anrir's name was announced.

He pressed his heels lightly into his horses flank, then they rode into tournament square. The ground was cheering from the previous battles as Anrir's passed the stands. Ned had taken a seat near Sansa, Robert sat higher up in the stands. Cheers enveloped Anrir and he smiled to himself, taking his place. He carefully weighed the lance in his hand, familiarizing himself with the unusual weapon. He would be fighting Balon Swann, the second son of Lord Gulian Swann.

The man was broad and muscular, considerably stronger than Anrir, but also smaller. His armor helmet was adorned with the white wings of the swans emblazoned on the crest of his house. Admittedly, he liked the man's armor. Unfortunately, this armor was also used for battle and not just as a nice decoration.

Anrir straightened his shoulders and when the signal to attack sounded, their horses charged.

The shock that coursed through his body as his lance struck Swann's chest almost threw him from the horse's back, but it only sent Swann to the ground. The crowd howled with cheers and Anrir expelled the air he had been holding, gasping.