Chapter Text
Hedge Knight III
It was raining when they finally allowed Duncan to walk out of the castle. The cold, relentless downpour soaked through his worn clothes as he stepped into the courtyard, his boots sinking slightly into the mud.
Prince Baelor was as good as his word. They had allowed his voice to be heard in the trial, despite the lies of Aerion and Daeron and Maekar's anger. More than that, Duncan was allowed to keep his head, along with his arms and legs, even after the trial. Unfortunately, the hedge knight wasn't sure how long he would have them. He had braced himself for a trial of combat, as the prince had advised, but he hadn't prepared for a trial of seven. He didn't even know such a thing existed.
It was unfair. The princes would have no trouble gathering seven knights loyal to their cause. But Duncan? He had no such allies. A hedge knight with no banner, no friends, no title to call his own, and no coins. How could he find six others to fight for him against royalty? They might as well ask him to gather six thousand men. The odds were impossible.
What a mess it turned out to be. He was on Ashford to joust, and instead he beat a prince and spent the days of the tourney locked in a tower. By the dawn tomorrow, they'd either cut his limbs or take his life.
Did they expect him to flee? To flee would be an admission of guilt. He'd spent the rest of his days living as an outlaw until some lord caught him and severed off his head.
No, if he was to die, better as a knight than an outlaw.
He walked past the tents that dotted the outskirts of the castle grounds, the low murmur of conversation and the clatter of arms muffled by the rain. Then, from the corner of his ear, he heard it—a familiar neigh. Duncan's head snapped toward the sound, his heart racing.
Thunder?
Duncan ran until he found them. There they were, Thunder and Chestnut, tied outside the pavilion, lit from within by a vague golden glow. On its center pole, a banner bearing the Fossoway apple hung sodden.
For the first time today, Duncan felt hope.
"A trial by combat?" Raymun exclaimed, aghast. "Gods be good, Duncan. That means war lances, morningstars, battle axes. The swords won't be blunted. Do you understand that?"
Across from him, his cousin Steffon sat, an image of calm. He looked up from his idle contemplation, a wry smile playing at the corner of his lips.
"Raymun the reluctant." He scoffed. "You have no need to fear, cousin. This is a knightly combat."
He turned his gaze back to Duncan. "Ser Duncan, worry not. You have at least one Fossoway sword at your side—the ripe one. I've seen what Aerion did to those puppeteers. I'm with you. If it comes to steel, you won't be alone." He paused for a moment, considering. "Who else fights for us, Ser Duncan?"
Duncan hesitated. "I know only two other knights here, Ser Emery and Ser Manfred Dondarrion." He said slowly. "Ser Manfred wouldn't even vouch for my knighthood; I doubt he'd risk his life for me, and I can't find Ser Emery."
Though, there was a deeper, unspoken doubt gnawing at him. Would Ser Emery even fight for him? They barely knew each other. Duncan's gaze fell to the floor.
Ser Steffon remained unfazed by Duncan's concerns. With a casual wave of his hand, he dismissed the problem. "Then we need four more good men. Five, if you can't find Ser Emery by tomorrow morning." His expression was one of quiet confidence. "Fortunately for us, I have more than five friends. Leo Longthorn, the Laughing Storm, Lord Caron, the Lannisters—yes, even them. Ser Otho Bracken, and, of course, the Blackwoods. Though," he added with a wry smile, "you won't see Bracken and Blackwood fighting on the same side anytime soon. But that's a problem I'll deal with." His gaze shifted back to Duncan, and he nodded firmly. "I'll go and speak with some of them myself."
Raymun raised an eyebrow. "They won't be happy at being woken so late."
"Perhaps that anger will make them fight all the more fiercely." His cousin answered easily. He turned to Duncan then. "You may rely on me, Ser Duncan."
Then with a final glance at Raymun, he said, "Cousin, if I'm not back by dawn, make sure my horse and armor are ready. Have him barded and saddled for me. I'll meet you both in the challenger's paddock. We'll be there, come sunrise."
With that, Steffon flapped open the tent and stepped out into the night, leaving Duncan and Raymun in the dim light of the canvas.
"This will be a day long remembered, I think." Raymun said. "Still, five knights? Ser Duncan, I'm loath to dash your hopes, but..."
"If your cousin can bring the men he speaks of..." Duncan trailed off.
Raymun shook his head slowly. "Leo Longthorn? The Laughing Storm? The Brute of Bracken?" His tone was laced with disbelief. "He knows of them; that much is true, but I'm less certain if any of them knows him." He met Duncan's eyes, his expression firm. "I know my cousin well. Steffon saw this as merely a chance at glory, even if it means your life. Better if you find your own knights. I'll help you."
Duncan wasn't so sure of that. It was true his first impression of Ser Steffon was less than flattering, but that wouldn't be the first time his initial judgment had been wrong. There was still a chance Steffon might come through. Besides, if it were easy to find knights willing to fight in his name, Duncan wouldn't have had to beg for Ser Steffon's help in the first place.
Raymun's words hung in the air as he continued. "Better if you have too many champions than too few."
A noise interrupted them from outside before Duncan could answer.
"What was that?" Raymun said with a touch of alarm. "Who goes there?"
There were two figures standing just outside the tent, one taller than the other, both cloaked in dark shadows. Despite their hoods, the black doublets with the red dragon sewn over the breast were unmistakable. The sigil of House Targaryen. Even beneath the cloaks, it was clear.
Duncan's eyes narrowed as he recognized the smaller of the two. Egg. Aegon. The bald boy he had met at the inn, so eager to see the tourney and so willing to squire for a hedge knight. It was hard to believe the boy he brought to watch puppet shows not so long ago was the same as the one standing there now, a member of the royal family.
"What are you doing here?" Duncan asked, his voice low and cautious. He already got into a problem by beating a prince and accused of kidnapping another. Another problem with a prince was the last thing he needed.
"I'm your squire." Aegon said. "You'll need someone to arm you, ser."
"Does your lord father know you're here?"
"Gods, I hope not," came the response. The voice was familiar—Duncan had heard it at the trial and earlier, in the very same inn where he had found Egg. As the figure lowered his hood, Duncan's heart skipped a beat. There, standing before him, was the same man with the sand-blonde hair—the man who had accused him of kidnapping.
"You!" Duncan nearly shouted, his hand on the hilt of his dagger. "You must be mad to come here. I ought to shove this through your belly!"
The damnable man shrugged. "Perhaps." He sauntered to the seat and sat down, ignoring Duncan's anger. "Though it'll be better if you pour me a cup of wine. My hands trembling at this cold. See?"
"I don't care about your hands." Duncan said coldly. He remembered Prince Baelor's words. This man was the reason why he was accused of kidnapping Egg. "You lied about me."
"Well, I had to say something when my father demanded to know where Aegon had gone," the man said with a wry smile. "Truth be told, I hadn't even noticed he was missing—he wasn't at the bottom of my wine cup." He shrugged. "So I just blurted out the first thing that came to mind—that he'd been kidnapped by some giant robber knight. Never in a thousand cups could I have imagined he was actually with someone who fit that lie so."
"Ser, my father will join the seven accusers." Aegon said. "I begged him not to, but he won't listen. He said it's the only way to redeem Aerion's and Daeron's honor."
"Not that I ever asked him to redeem my honor." Daeron said with a grin. "Anyone who has it can keep it if they find it worth the trouble. Still here we are, Ser Duncan. You have nothing to fear from me. Neither horses nor swords goes along with me, and I intend to keep it that way. I'll make my best to look gallant on the first charge, of course, but please be gentle afterward. Ring my helmet a bit, but not too loudly, if you understand. None could match me at lying insensible in the mud, that I promise you."
Did this princeling take him as a fool?
"If you're going to throw away the trial, you could at least admit you were lying!" Duncan said sharply.
"Not as long as Aerion wouldn't retract his charge." He replied with a shrug. "Which he wouldn't. He saw himself as a dragon, you know, which was the reason why he was so wroth at that puppet play. A depiction of a dragon being felled was a veiled attack on House Targaryen, t'was his words." He shook his head with a bemused look. "Makes you wonder what would've happened had he been born as a Fossoway, now, doesn't it? Perhaps he'd take offense at apple cakes?"
"Then why are you here?" Duncan asked.
"To warn you of whom you may face. My father has commanded the Kingsguard to fight with him, or at least those three with him. Wylde, Crakehall, and Ser Donnel. Thank the gods Uncle Baelor left the other four with our royal grandfather. You'd have no chance against all of them."
"That makes six. Who's the seventh?" Duncan queried.
"No one yet, though I doubt Aerion will have trouble finding one. He has enough gold to buy a champion or two." Daeron replied.
That's what I expected. Duncan thought.
"Who do you have, ser?" Aegon asked.
"Raymun's cousin, Ser Steffon." Duncan answered; now that he voiced it, his chance felt much worse.
"Only one?" Aegon asked again. "What of Ser Emery? He's a capable knight."
"Ser Steffon has gone to some of his friends." Or so he hoped. Raymun's earlier words lingered in his mind. He glanced at him. The younger man had been sitting in silence to the side for a while. "And I haven't seen Ser Emery yet. He may be away for all I know."
"I can bring people." Aegon said, and Duncan looked at him in askance. "Knights. I can."
"Egg, I will be fighting your brothers," Duncan said. As much as he disliked Daeron and Aerion, he couldn't bring himself to make a young boy fight against his own family.
"You wouldn't hurt Daeron," Aegon replied, his tone sharpening. "He told you he'd fall." His voice grew angrier as he spoke of his other brother. "And Aerion... I don't care about him. What he did to the puppeteers was vile, but it wasn't the first time. He used to come into my chamber and point a dagger at me. And he threw my cat into the well once. He denied it, but he's lying. He always lies."
"Egg has the truth of it." Daeron chimed. "Aerion is quite the monster. I doubt anyone cares about him other than Father."
Was he truly that hated, even among his own kin? Duncan recalled how he killed Ser Humfrey's horse and tortured a woman over a puppet play. Aye, Duncan could see that.
Daeron stood from his seat. "I must steal back to the castle before my father wonders why I'm taking so long to sharpen my sword, but before I go I'd like to share a word with Ser Duncan. Will you walk with me?"
"As you wish, your grace." All these talks made him tired, and some walk might help. "And I need to find my shield."
"Egg and I will look for knights." Raymun said, and Duncan nodded in gratitude, before leaving the tent. The young lad had been a great help for him, another favor that he couldn't be sure he could repay.
It was still drizzling lightly outside as Duncan walked with Daeron, and soon he began feeling the cold. Tanselle crossed his thoughts, and he gazed in the direction of the puppeteers camp and wondered at what they were doing.
"Do you know a red-haired knight with honey colored eyes?"
Daeron's question shook Duncan from his reverie. "That would be Ser Emery. You met him at the inn, your grace."
"Did I? Well, I dreamed of you two."
"You said that at the inn." What was this about again?
"Truly? Well, it's how it is. My dreams are not like yours, Ser Duncan. Mine come true. They're frightening me, my dreams. Both of you frighten me. I saw the two of you were surrounded by three dragons. Two of those dragons fell, but neither of you were. Standing tall, amongst broken dragons." His gaze wavered downward. "And that man with you. He was surrounded by swords. At times the swords were merely planted around him, but I also saw swords sprouted out from his arms and body. A grisly sight."
"What does any of it mean? Do you think we'll kill two of you? Were the dragons you saw dead?"
"I don't know," came the reply, a faint tremor in his voice despite his light tone. "The dreams rarely have the courtesy of being easily understandable. Sometimes I don't understand them until they come true."
The downpour lightened, the rain becoming less of a constant drizzle, as they neared the castle. Duncan thought over it. He was no prophet, and the prince's dreams sounded vague, like all dreams were. Did it mean two Targaryens were fated to die? That Ser Emery would die by swords?
"We were masters of dragons once." Daeron spoke. "Us Targaryens. The dragons are no more, but we remain." He paused, then added, "If two of us were fated to die, please do your best to make sure it was Aerion. I don't know who else should fall, but I do not care to die, nor do I wish for my father's death."
"I don't care to die either." Duncan replied.
"Well, I shan't kill you ser. I'll withdraw my accusation if I could, but it would not serve unless Aerion withdraw his. If my lie leads to your death, I'm sorry. I fear I'll be damned for it—likely in some hell with no wine."
As Duncan approached the puppeteers' tent, he found none remained. While the surrounding tents remained, the puppeteers had clearly chosen to depart.
"Gone," Duncan muttered to himself. He'd suspected as much. Who could blame them? No sense in staying and risking another prince's wrath. Perhaps if he wasn't as thick as a castle wall, he too would have fled.
Duncan's thoughts turned to his missing shield. He had silver enough to buy a new one—if only someone was willing to sell. As he pondered his predicament, a voice called out to him.
"Ser Duncan."
It was Steely Pate, with a lantern in hand. "If you're looking for your shield," he said, "she left it with me." He gave Duncan a look from head to toe. "Two hands and feet, eh? I suppose that means it's a trial by combat then?"
"A trial of seven." Duncan replied. "How did you know?"
"Well, I doubt they'll be giving you a kiss and a lordship, and you're not missing any limbs, so that doesn't leave many options, does it?" Steely Pate turned on his heel. "Now, follow me. There's someone who wants to speak with you."
It didn't take long for them to reach Steely Pate's tent, a simple affair. Inside, crates and bits of steel lay scattered about, but it was the man in the blue doublet who caught Duncan's attention.
"Ser Duncan," the man greeted him. "Glad to see you're alive."
It was Ser Emery, sitting in a blacksmith tent as if it was the most natural thing to do. He had a sword in his hand, and he seemed like he was inspecting it as Duncan walked in.
"Ser Emery," Duncan said, surprised. He hadn't expected to find the man here, of all places. He'd imagined him either in his pavilion, the castle, or perhaps on the road. "How have you been?"
"Well enough," Emery replied with a smile. "I've had some excitement these past few days, though nothing like yours." His eyes scanned Duncan from head to toe, much like Steely Pate had done earlier. "So, is it a trial of combat?"
"A trial of seven," Duncan repeated. "Have you heard of it?"
"Like the one they held for Maegor?" Emery said with a casual nod. "Aye, I've heard of it. Seven champions against seven. Do you already have your seven champions?
"I have myself and Ser Steffon Fossoway," Duncan replied, swallowing hard. "But no one else. Ser Steffon offered to ask his friends, but... I don't know others."
He hesitated. Should he ask Ser Emery to fight for him? Raymun's advice echoed in his mind, but still, it was a difficult thing to do, asking a man to risk his life for him. Daeron's dream came to Duncan's mind.
"Then I hope you'll accept me as one of your champions."
Duncan stared at him, caught off guard.
"Why? My fight will be against princes and Kingsguard knights. Why risk your life for a hedge knight?"
Duncan almost smacked himself as he said that. Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall. Every sword would help. What was he thinking? Did he want to lose?
"Why shouldn't I?" Was Ser Emery's answer, his gaze steady and sure. Duncan looked at him, disbelief on his face. "You were in the right. No one should have their fingers broken over an old tale. Had I been there, I would've done the same."
He approached Duncan and put his hand on Duncan's shoulders. "You did as any true knight would. As any righteous man would. I'd be honored to fight alongside you."
Duncan couldn't explain why, but Ser Emery's words lifted his spirit.
"Thank you," was all Duncan could manage to say.
"If you want to fight," Steely Pate's rough voice interrupted, and Duncan turned to see him carrying a shield, "then best not to forget this."
The coloring was done, and Duncan admitted it was beautiful. The elm tree looked strong, and the sunset was vibrant. The falling star reminded him of that day. Thinking back, he had nothing but misfortune since then, but if that falling star was the reason why he met them—Ser Emery, Egg, Tanselle, Steely Pate—then he didn't have any regret.
"I'll take it." Duncan said. "Though it looked different than I remembered."
"I made some changes," Steely Pate replied. "The old rim was cheap steel—brittle and worn. I swapped it for a thicker, stronger one. Added a band across the back too. It'll be heavier, but much sturdier. The girl did the painting."
"Where's she, by the way?" Duncan asked. "I still need to thank for the shield and coin to pay it."
"Left for Dorne the first chance they got. Now that's a wise man, that girl's uncle." Steely Pate answered. "Well gone is well forgot. Stay and be seen, and the dragon remembers."
Duncan took his new shield, and while it was heavier, it also felt right in his hands.
"How much do you want?"
Steely Pate rubbed his beard. "From you? A copper."
The rain had stopped by the time the first rays of sunlight pierced the overcast sky, but its work was done. The tournament ground had been transformed into a vast morass of grey-brown mud and trampled grass. Lord Ashford's men had already dismantled the barriers, and the viewing stands were beginning to fill, with lords and ladies clutching their cloaks and mantles against the morning chill.
Duncan made his way toward the field, flanked by Steely Pate and Ser Emery, the latter guiding his charger with him. Along the way, smallfolk offered prayers and encouragement, gestures that came as a surprise to Duncan. At first, he had thought they were merely there to watch him die.
"Do I deserve this?" Duncan muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Who am I to them?"
"A knight who remembered his vows," was Steely Pate's curt reply.
They found Raymun waiting outside the challenger's paddock, standing beside his cousin's horse and Thunder, both saddled and barded. Thunder shifted uneasily under the weight of the mail blanket, crinet, and chamfron, though Duncan was grateful for the extra protection. He had no idea where it had come from.
As they waited, more knights began to arrive. Ser Robyn Rhysling and Ser Humfrey Beesbury were a surprise, but none more so than Humfrey Hardyng, whose leg was still clearly broken. Despite his injury, he insisted he could still fight—so long as he remained ahorse.
"I thought Hardyng might be eager for a second chance at Aerion," Raymun said, eyeing the arriving knights. "The other Humfrey is his goodbrother. Egg persuaded Ser Robyn to join, so that makes five." He glanced behind Duncan. "Six with Ser Emery now."
None was as surprising as the seventh man.
"Ser Lyonel." Duncan said as he clasped the man's hand. The Laughing Storm was a towering figure, perhaps a handspan or so shorter than Duncan, with a frequent smile that matched his epithet. "I cannot thank you enough for coming, nor Ser Steffon for bringing you."
"Ser Steffon?" Lyonel's eyebrows rose. "It was your squire who came to me. He emptied a flagon on my head and questioned my valor." Duncan was sweating as he heard Lyonel's words. Thankfully, Ser Lyonel didn't take offense at Egg's antics. "It's been over a century since the last trial of seven, and if I get the chance to fight the Kingsguard—and yank Prince Maekar's nose in the process—I'd consider it a bargain."
We have seven now. Duncan thought, counting the still absent Ser Steffon. What seemed like an impossibility yesterday has happened.
The crowd erupted in a deafening roar, and Duncan turned to see six figures approaching—three clad in white armor, the other three in black. The princes and Kingsguard had arrived.
"Six?" Raymun exclaimed, his voice filled with disbelief. "There are only six of them!"
He was right: three black knights and three whites. Duncan's thoughts flashed back to Prince Maekar's words during his trial: If someone couldn't find seven men to represent their cause, then that cause must be unjust.
Duncan felt a flicker of hope. He hoped they were truly short a man. That way no one needed to die or be injured in his name.
"Ser," Egg called out to him, "it's time you donned your armor."
Duncan gave a terse nod, and Egg immediately set to work, assisted by Steely Pate, helping him into his armor piece by piece. As the familiar weight of steel settled onto his body, Duncan's mind felt strangely calm.
"Raymun, good to see you brought Wrath here. Now, my mail and plate, if you please."
It was Ser Steffon's voice. A surge of relief coursed through him at the sight of Ser Steffon. The trial of seven could now proceed with their full complement of warriors.
"Ser Steffon. With you here we are finally seven." Duncan said. "The opponent was still six; perhaps he's late."
"Not quite; I fear you're still short a man." He said as he donned his mail shirt.
Duncan froze, taken aback. He quickly ran through all their men in his mind. "No, with you here as our seventh, we'll have enough men."
Ser Steffon shook his head. "I am the seventh man, but to the prince's side."
Raymun's face drained of color. "How? You promised Ser Duncan that you'd be here, that he could rely on you!"
Ser Steffon hummed. "I did say that, and I was genuine at the time. However, remember that I also have a duty to the crown, you must see. Now, enough talking," Ser Steffon said with a clap to Raymun's shoulder. "Get the horse here."
Raymun recoiled. "Get him yourself! I'm done serving a knight as vile as you!"
"Tsk. Such sharp words," Ser Steffon said with a smirk. "Have you forgotten that you're my squire, and we're of the same house?" His tone was cool, almost dismissive. "But no matter. Once we win, I'll be more than a knight. Lord Steffon has a nice ring to it, don't you agree?"
Duncan watched him leave with coiled fists, but he couldn't muster any mind to speak. Instead, he glared at Steffon's retreating back in cold rage until he heard Raymun's voice.
"Knight me."
He was kneeling in the mud, begging Duncan for knighthood as if he were a great knight and him a poor peasant lad. Duncan's hand hovered over his hilt, but he couldn't pull it.
"I can't, Raymun."
"You must." Raymun insisted. "Without me, you're only six. Did you doubt my prowess?"
No, that's not it. Duncan thought.
"The lad is right. Do it, Ser Duncan. Any knight can make a knight." Lyonel said.
Duncan stood frozen. His mind spun as he was weighing the choice before it was thankfully taken from him. A fanfare of trumpets cut through the misty air, and Egg came running toward him.
"Ser, Lord Ashford summons you." Egg called out.
Ser Lyonel shook his head with exasperation. "Go see him, Ser Duncan; I'll knight squire Raymun in your place."
Duncan left them, feeling as relieved as he was guilty.
Emery chuckled softly as he watched Duncan's retreating figure, shaking his head in quiet amusement.
"Hey, Egg?" he called out.
"Yes, ser?" Egg responded, looking up from his duties with curiosity.
Emery's smile deepened, but there was a tinge of melancholy behind it. "Your ser is kind," he said, his voice almost thoughtful. "Too kind for his own good."
If nothing else, his resolve only grew stronger. He would not let Ser Duncan die today.
Ser Duncan returned shortly after. Lord Ashford had asked him to confirm the number of his men and if he wished to proceed. With Raymun now on his side, the trial would go forward—seven men on each side.
"Where's Raymun?" Duncan asked as he observed the field.
"It's Ser Raymun now." A voice called from behind him. Duncan turned to see Raymun already fully armored and ahorse. Strapped to his arm, Duncan saw his shield bore a green apple in place of the Fossoway's red. "I have to make some small adjustment to my shield, lest I'm mistaken for my dishonorable cousin. He keeps saying I was green, but better green than rotten, aye?"
Despite everything, that remark earned a few chuckles from the assembled champions. Duncan couldn't help but smile as well. He'd always found that warriors, no matter how grim the situation, often found humor in the strangest places—before a fight, after, or sometimes in the heart of one.
The laughter did not last long. Lord Ashford's septon came to the front of the viewing stand. His voice rising above the crowd, and called the throng to pray for justice.
An expectant air fell over the meadow as the septon finished his praying. Duncan thought he could see his opponents, eighty yards away. Their horses neighing and pawing the ground.
Thunder was calm in comparison. An older horse that had experienced half a hundred battles. Egg was strapping his shield on his arm when Steely Pate spoke once more.
"Did anyone ever tell you of the old shield rhyme?" He asked suddenly. "Oak and Iron, guard me well..."
"...Or else I'm dead and doomed to hell." Duncan completed. He hadn't heard that rhyme for years. Ser Arlan had taught him that when he was a small child.
"Keep your mind in that, and you should live." Steely Pate said. "Gods be with you, Ser Duncan. And your shield."
As the men armed themselves, Duncan saw Ser Emery selecting a tourney lance, even as the other champions picked war lances.
"A tourney lance is four feet longer than a war lance," Emery explained at Duncan's confusion, running his fingers along his chosen weapon. "As long as I strike true, they won't be able to reach me. This is perfect for the occasion."
Duncan raised an eyebrow. "Aye, but they'll wield steel-tipped lances. If they hit you, no matter what armor you wear, it will punch through." With the weight of a horse on a gallop behind the lance, no armor could ever hope to stop them. He had seen it himself many times.
Ser Emery didn't look up from his lance. "No need to fear, Ser Duncan," he replied, his voice calm and assured. "It may not be a sword, but a war lance is still sharp enough for me to read. They won't touch me."
Duncan frowned, not understanding what he was saying nor his confidence. But he was far more seasoned than Duncan himself, whether in combat or tourney, so he chose to defer to him.
"If you insist," Duncan said slowly, "then line yourself up against Prince Daeron. He promised not to fight after the first charge. This will suit his purpose just fine." Duncan grinned slightly. "I believe I haven't told you, but Prince Daeron was the drunk we saw at that inn. Can you imagine?"
Ser Emery gave a small nod of understanding. Without further words, he took his place among the line of challengers, facing Prince Daeron, a tourney lance in his hands. Duncan watched him go, wondering if Emery's confidence was misplaced—or if, in this strange contest, the tourney lance might prove more of an advantage than he had anticipated.
Seven men facing against seven in the muddy field. Prince Baelor, Lord Leo, Lord Ashford, a hundred other highborns and thrice the number of smallfolk watching from every direction. None of that was visible from the narrow gap of Duncan's greathelm. Only his opponents, the field, and some thin, pale mist. He focused on the princeling on his charger with flames on his helm and a dragon on his shield. His yield was what Duncan's need.
The horn sounded, and all hells broke loose as fourteen knights charged against each other.
AN: Cliffhanger time!
The butterflies are more influential than I thought. I genuinely forgot that Baelor was the one who suggested they all use tourney lances. With no Baelor, there really was no other reason Duncan's side wouldn't use war lances. Daeron was really lucky here that Emiya is being considerate. Being hit with a war lance was just as bad as being thrown from atop 16 feet cell and landing on the announcer's table.
I like to write Daeron the most. Maybe because I'm also a lazy fuck, so I can sympathize with him somewhat.
Anyway, trivia time. If Emiya was the one who punched Aerion, Aerion would likely accept a regular trial by combat, as in canon it was implied he challenged Duncan to a trial of Seven because he was intimidated by the latter's height.
Anyway, the next chapter will be the finale of the arc.
Thanks for reading!