A Golden Path: Foundation 2.9 (ch. 18)

The only thing more dangerous than a competent enemy was an incompetent ally. Brandon knew it in his gut even before the Melee began that Paul would be singled out. His father's vassals, for all they disparage the South, had their own petty pride and Paul's inclusion to the Melee had been a sore spot for many of them. Brandon and Ned had both been warming the others up to the idea, but the Crowned Prince tipping the balance? It made it feel like a command rather than a choice. 

Paul was aware of that fact and reassured him that it was nothing to concern himself over. Brandon had been inclined to take him at his word -- Brandon couldn't claim je knew Paul particularly well, but Ned thought highly of him, his father feared him, and he was man enough to handle himself. Brandon had accounted for the fact that the hundred men under his command wouldn't help Paul if needed. But, what he hadn't accounted for was his sister. 

He didn't know what possessed her to grant Paul her favor. He hadn't thought them particularly close either. While that had alarm bells ringing in his skull about Paul having seduced his sister, the reaction from the lords of the North was… intense. The very moment that Lyanna adorned Paul's wrist with a slip of blue silk, Paul became the enemy. Not the seven hundred warriors on the field. 

Paul. 

His meteoric rise was simply too much -- it was one thing to be a new vassal. It was another to be a rich one through trade, something that the other lords already looked down on him for. But to be perceived as courting their liege lords only daughter? 

As soon as the Melee began, Brandon muttered a prayer to the Old Gods under his breath, hoping that Paul had a brother. Because there was a very real possibility that he could die on the field. If not from the rival knights and warriors, then possibly from his fellow vassals. All it would take is a slip, a fall, an excuse of ‘I didn't see him there.’ The melee was always bloody, deaths weren't uncommon, so no one would bat an eye even if they suspected what Paul's death really was -- a murder. An assassination. 

As much as Brandon would like to think better of his people, he knew enough to not. Which is why it had been his intention to stick close to Paul. Close enough that no one would dare try to strike at him with a sly hand. He couldn't be his shield in earnest, but he would do what he could for the centerpiece to all of his father's plans. Because, while the plotting of his father weighed him down like an anchor tied around his ankles, Brandon knew that his father wanted what was best for the North. 

It was just a damn shame that what was best for the North wasn't what was best for his children. 

The moment that the horn rang, signaling that the Grand Melee had begun, Brandon urged his horse forward. One flank was secured by the Riverlanders. The other was open to attack by the Dornish. Before him were the Iron Islanders, which were a very tempting target, and the Crownlanders, which were led by the Crowned Prince. The plan was to grind kingdoms up between the three of them -- the North, the Eyrie, and the Riverlands. 

That plan promptly fell apart the moment that Paul darted forward, moving away from the main group, to jump over the frontline of Crownlanders, flipping like a mummer in a trope, and landing in the gap of their formation. In a burst of speed, the small dirk like knives in his hands had disabled a handful of fully trained knights, jabbing into the gaps of their armor with such accuracy that it was as if they were attached by a string. 

Paul had always been unnerving. His father feared him, and during their brief interactions down the King's Road, Brandon found that every word penned by Ned had been true about their newest vassal. How Paul always seemed to be smiling at a joke that only he could hear, and how sometimes it felt as if you were the punchline. 

But seeing him fell a half dozen trained knights, the very best that the crownlands had to offer, was… disturbing. Terrifying might be a more appropriate word, Brandon amended as he urged his horse forward, belting out commands to seize the opportunity. Robert was already leading the Stormlanders to cut deep into the Reach lords, and Brandon could already sense the fragile balance of power cracking underneath so many well-laid plans. 

Brandon considered himself a good swordsman. A great one, even. He had trained since he could hold a sword by some of the greatest warriors the North had, and he took to it like a fish to water or a bird to flight. To that end, it felt like his position as Heir was almost like a curse, as he couldn't ever be certain that if every victory he won was through his own skill or because the defeated feared winning against the Heir. 

But, as he charged his horse forward directly into the gap that Paul single-handedly created, there was a pit in his stomach. As, in the second that it took for Brandon and his horsemen to arrive, the gap widened further. Another three men were on the ground, grasping at their wounds in shock and pain. The sight of it chilled his blood, freezing it in his veins. Because, as he watched Paul fight… 

Brandon couldn't see himself winning in a fight. If Brandon was great, then Paul was exceptional in the truest meaning of the word. Even if Brandon faced Paul with a dozen of himself, he couldn't see even the slightest possibility of victory because he was watching Paul turn great knights into children who had never held a sword before with the sheer ease of which he dispatched them. 

He moved with such ease, such grace, that the fights almost felt scripted. Worse, even as Brandon led the charge that pounced on the unprepared Crownlanders, he knew that Paul was taking it easy on the knights. Every time his narrow blades struck out, piercing chainmail or finding gaps in their armor, he perfectly controlled the thrust so no lives were taken. They all lived. He was going out of his way to avoid killing anyone… and it truly made Brandon wonder what Paul could do if he discarded such restraint. 

There was an echo in his ears as he watched Paul fight a deadly dance. Words that echoed from Qhorin Half-Hand back when he was on the frigid Wall, investigating rumors about a ‘Maud’Dib.’ 

How Maud’Dib trained the children of his tribe himself. 

If the thought of facing one of Paul filled him with dread, then the thought of fighting a dozen? Dozens?

“He’s on our side. For now,” Brandon forced himself to take a breath and refocus on the task at hand. Paul was fighting on the side of the North, and they were in a pitched battle that would bring great glory to their House and Kingdom. He couldn’t afford to get distracted like this. He needed to focus and win. He needed to show all the Southern ponces who hadn’t even considered them to be the winners of the Melee what the North was made of. 

He turned his attention to the battle around him, finding that his Northmen were carving through the Crownlanders like a knife through butter thanks to Paul's single man charge. The prince was reacting, countering his charge with his own horsemen as the Crownlands was being flanked heavily by the Dornish. Meanwhile, the Reach had been cut in two, with the Stormlands clashing against the Westerlands. The carefully constructed plans were falling apart as the Riverlands surged forth to attack the Ironborn, dragging the knights of the Eyrie forward along with them to clash against one half of the Reach, the Stormlanders, and the Westerlands. 

Robert really had made a right mess of it, Brandon thought to himself, finding that he didn't exactly mind as he dove into the fight himself. He fought conservatively, partitioning his strength and stamina as he knew the day would be long. His crafted blade struck out like a viper's tongue, smacking and thrusting at the Crownlanders who tried to slow his charge. His horsemen followed him faithfully, presenting a wall that pushed through their formation, paving the way for the foot in their wake, while they slowly ground down the Crownlander’s numbers.

It hadn't been his expectation to take down Prince Rhaegar first of the day, but Brandon found himself hungry for victory against the Prince. Let him be disgraced by being the first to be eliminated at the Grand Melee. That was a stain on his reputation that would never wash off. 

Though even as Brandon shouted orders and took to the task, he could admit that Prince Rhaegar was hardly idle and making it easy for him. Five of the Kingsguard rode with the Prince, and the Prince led the countercharge himself. His black plate with red rubies cut an impressive figure, Brandon noted. It was almost unthinkable that Rhaegar could come from a pathetic waste of a man like King Aerys. But, that was hardly important. 

Brandon urged his horse to put himself on a collision course with Prince Rhaegar's horsemen, and unlike the collision between Jaime Lannister and Robert Baratheon -- this charge was no fast-paced collision. It was slow and deliberate, as both sides were forced to wade through men to reach one another. Which is why it felt like he was forced to wait for days before he found himself clashing blades with Jonothor Darry, a member of the Kingsguard. 

Fighting from horseback was a tedious affair. Brandon liked to move on his feet in a fight, and he felt entirely too stationary as steel clashed. They circled one another, shining their blades that were either caught by the opposing sword, or upon their shields. Staying still on horseback in a field of men was a death sentence. If it wasn't for his own footmen, Brandon imagined he'd have been unhorsed by now. The same for Ser Jonothor, with the Crownlanders clashing with Northmen around them. 

Others, however, weren't faring so well. From the corners of his eye, he could see men being pulled from their horses before vanishing underneath the feet of clashing armies. The neatly defined lines that marked the frontlines had been lost, turning everything into a mad frenzy of violence. 

The lapse in attention nearly cost him as Brandon felt a blade rap against the side of his helmet, attempting to lift his visor for a clear shot at his face. The maneuver might have worked if a Northman hadn't jumped up to grab the offending arm. He tried to pull Ser Jonothor down, eating a shield bash to the face that'd likely have the man spitting out teeth, but he did his duty well as Brandon spied an opening. 

His sword darted forward, biting into the mail coif under the Kingsguard's helm, and jabbed him in the throat. The narrow tip of his arming sword found purchase, breaking through the few chain links that prevented his sword from sinking past it and into flesh. Yet, the very moment that Brandon felt the chainmail give, he stilled the thrust. “Do you yield, Ser?” Brandon asked sharply, keenly aware that he had nearly killed a Kingsguard. 

While killing in the Melee was common, it wasn’t something that was exactly condoned. The field of battle wasn’t a true one, and even on a killing field, honor and mercy were expected of the victor. In particular, to those of noble birth, at least. 

Ser Jonothor breathed in sharply, stilling for a moment as if he was considering how to escape his blade before Brandon could push it through. Then he sighed, “I yield to you, Lord Brandon. What ransom would you have of me?” He asked, holding up a hand and making a show of sheathing his sword. 

“I would have your horse, Ser. For the duration of the Melee. He shall be returned to you afterwards, hopefully hale and healthy as you gave him to me,” Brandon said, withdrawing the blade. 

“You are generous, lord Brandon. Though I hope you will forgive me if I don’t wish you well in the battle to come,” Ser Jonothor remarked, inclining his head to something over his shoulder. It was then that Brandon saw that Ser Arthur Dayne was forcing his way through the crowd of people, his blade Dawn flashing with speeds that simply didn’t belong to a greatsword. 

All of a sudden, Brandon found his mouth rather dry. “Expect? No. I would appreciate some luck, though,” he griped, earning a ghost of a smile from Ser Jonothor. However, he discounted his horse all the same, holding up his hands as he dutifully walked to the fringe of the battle where the wounded and defeated gathered. 

Dealing with the Sword of Morning was a bit beyond Brandon's expectations. He had spared a hope that someone else would simply drag him down or deal with him before Brandon found himself in the sights of one of the greatest swordsmen in the Seven kingdoms. They said that Dawn was equal to any valyrian steel sword. Something that Brandon had no eagerness to test, but he was no coward. After taking a bracing breath, Brandon urged his horse forward to meet Ser Arthur. 

Only for a dagger to fly by Brandon, spinning beneath his arm so close that when Brandon initially saw it, he thought the dagger had been meant for him. Right up until it was implanted into the horse Ser Arthur rode on, giving it the appearance of a unicorn for a brief moment before the horse buckled under the Sword of Morning. 

Brandon didn't even need to look over his shoulder to tell who did that favor for him, but he did just in time to see Paul launch himself off the horse Ser Jonothor had ransomed, flipping through the air and landing but mere feet from the fallen Ser Arthur. 

It wasn't just him who held their breath as Ser Arthur began to lift himself up, proving that he was unharmed from his horse giving out. Everyone who caught sight of the two suddenly found their weapons stilling as, even on the battlefield, their curiosity got the better of them. A question that no one had thought to ask before today, but now they were being served it on a silver platter. 

Ser Arthur's prowess was already legendary. He had carved his name into history for their generation. Brandon had few doubts that Ser Arthur would be remembered in the same breath as the Aemon Targaryen, the Dragonknight. However, with just this one battle, Paul Atreides proved without a shadow of a doubt that he was cut from the same cloth. 

“Hold! Hold! Let them duel!” Brandon found himself shouting, raising up an arm and waving it madly to get people's attention. His voice was nearly lost in the chaos of the larger battle, but when his voice was joined by Prince Rhaegar. 

“Form a square! Let no one interfere!” Prince Rhaegar shouted, and that stilled his side of things. There was confusion rippling out, amongst the stands and the broader fight, but the two were granted room. It was entirely informal. It was downright foolishness. But everyone on the field was on it for glory and the love for battle -- and there was no promise of a finer fight than this. 

Ser Arthur ripped the dagger out from his mare’s head before returning it to Paul, who caught it deftly. Paul offered a nod, then a strange salute to Ser Arthur -- his arm over his chest, then raising the blade to his forehead. He must have said something because Ser Arthur responded as he leveled his broadsword at Paul. 

“Dawn is made of sterner stuff than that.” 

What that meant, Brandon didn't know but he found himself looking to Prince Rhaegar, catching his gaze. The Prince's violet eyes met his own steel gray before the Prince inclined his head, and Brandon found himself returning the gesture. The truce wasn't spoken with words, but Brandon knew the terms all the same. 

None shall interfere. They shall not fight until the victim was decided. There were no consequences for breaking the truce, but Brandon couldn't imagine himself breaking it first. 

The two stood still for a moment, and it felt as if the arena itself was holding its breath. 

Then they both moved. 

Faster than Brandon thought possible, faster than he had any right to, Ser Arthur swung his greatsword three times in the span of a breath. The air whistled as it split, cutting where Paul had stood a split second before. Paul leaned out of the way of the first vertical downswing before he reversed his grip to create an X with his dirks for the second horizontal backswing. Then, as Paul stepped forward, Ser Arthur made to strike Paul with his pomel. 

Paul countered flawlessly, a dirk going up towards the armpit of Ser Arthur, before the blow had to be abandoned by Ser Arthur, halfswording Dawn with a swipe of the blade that nearly took Paul’s head off. While that blow had to be abandoned, Paul merely attacked with his other hand as he leaned down to avoid it, attacking Ser Arthur’s knee. He managed to find purchase, but only briefly before Ser Arthur jerked his leg back. 

Ser Arthur took a half step back, readjusting his stance, but retreated no further when Paul approached once more. His attacks were more restrained, realizing that Paul had no fear of Dawn’s deadly edge or his advantage of range. This time, Paul launched into a dizzying flurry of attacks -- it felt like no less than a dozen, yet half of them were feints. Ser Arthur’s reaction proved that he was worthy of the stories told of him, and he was larger than them all as he kept up with the flurry, blocking the true blows while ignoring every feint. 

Yet Paul was proving that he was his equal in every single way as he took another step forward, forcing Ser Arthur to retreat another half step, before hooking the edge of one dirk around the back of Dawn’s hilt, yanking the blade forward in an attempt to disarm Ser Arthur. Ser Arthur responded by going to shoulder check Paul, but was forced to abandon the attempt when Paul thrust up with his other dirk. Masterfully, Ser Arthur deflected the blow using the cheek of his helmet, but in doing so, he presented his face to Paul to strike him with an elbow with the same thrust. 

Sir Arthur stumbled back, but Paul wasn’t keen on letting him recover from the blow. With Ser Arthur’s helmet ever so slightly out of position, blocking his view, Paul spun one dirk in his palm and jabbed it into his armpit. Ser Arthur reacted by attempting to deliver an elbow of his own, but the balance of the fight was tipped irrevocably with a single mistake. 

Brandon watched on with awe as Paul withdrew the blade, dodging the elbow before he kicked out with a foot that knocked Ser Arthur’s leg out from underneath him. Even as he fell, he thrusted up with Dawn, attempting to skewer Paul, only for the blade to skirt off the edge of one of Paul’s dirks. Paul pounced on the fallen knight, using the dirk to push Dawn out of position to thrust the dagger towards Ser Arthur’s throat, stopping just shy of his chin. 

Ser Arthur stilled, but then Brandon watched as Paul’s lips moved. The crowd cheering deafened him utterly -- he wouldn’t have been able to hear a warhorn being blown, even if it was directly into his ear. 

It wasn’t a demand for Ser Arthur to yield. That wouldn’t have gotten the reaction that Ser Arthur gave to hearing whatever Paul said. Instead of relaxing, accepting his defeat, Ser Arthur flinched, almost as if he had been struck. His body went tense, as if he were expecting another blow as Paul’s lips continued to move… only to go limp like a puppet whose strings had been cut once Paul finished. 

Uncertainty pooled in Brandon’s gut. The victory, however temporary and short-lived that it might be, was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment. Instead, he found his thoughts consumed by a single thought. 

What did Paul tell Ser Arthur?