A Golden Path: Foundation 2.8 (ch. 17)

‘This,’ Robert thought as the echoing sounds of warcries and the thunderous steps of a near a thousand me raced to clash against one another echoed out on the grandest stage in the Seven Kingdoms. ‘This is what I'm made for.’ 

There wasn't a doubt about it in his mind as his horse galloped forward, his warhammer in hand. His blood itched in his veins and his stomach was so full of butterflies, the only thing he could compare it to was the first time he asked to kiss a servant girl in the gardens. The ground trembled under his horse, the air shaking from tens of thousands of people screaming for their chosen victor. 

He never cared much for the gods. The Seven, the Old Gods, the Drowned God, and that fire one across the Narrow Sea -- he couldn't care less about them. He'd live his life how he wished, and if he was lucky, he'd die the same way. Whatever came after came after he was done living, and that made it no concern of his. But, now, he began to wonder as the sounds of clashing steel began to join the chorus. What exactly would heaven look like? How did the gods reward a life well lived? 

Robert found that answer as he drove his contingent into the flank of the Reach knights. This. This was what he hoped the afterlife would look like. An endless battle that stretched beyond what the eye could see. And maybe a feast at the end of each day where he could drink and fuck to his hearts content, just so he could do it all again tomorrow. 

The sight of the Melee was a thing of beauty. Art was another thing he never understood -- slapping some colors on a canvas… sure, some were pretty to look at, but the novelty was always quick to wear off. But this… This he could understand the beauty of. Eight sides clashing into one utter cluster fuck of a fight where alliances were made and broken in the same breath. Oh, they all made plans beforehand. 

Robert even made a few of his own. Politics had its way of interjecting itself into every damned thing, including this. As he was marrying a princess of Dorne, it'd be rather rude to attack them first. So, Robert agreed to give them a chance at victory. They would fight eventually, but only when the competition had been whittled away. 

He saw the other backroom deals take shape on the battlefield -- how the Riverlanders, Eirie knights, and the Northerners all kept the fighting to a minimum. They secured each other's flames, with the Riverlands safely nestled between them. Then there was the Westerlands, who were as bold as lions. They challenged the Reach and the North both without fear. While the Reach found itself being caught between the fangs of the lion and the stag. 

It was a mess. A complete and utter mess that was beyond anything he could have imagined. He wanted to weep because he knew that he wasn't ever likely to see such a sight again. So, he would savor it. He would sear it all into his memories and he would make the most of every single swing of his warhammer. 

To punctuate the thought, he swung once more and crumbled the collarbone of a Reacher knight, who went down screaming. The shaft of his hammer caught a blade as the Reacher horsemen wheeled around to blunt his charge. And that was exactly what he wanted. Knights or not, twenty men charging you on horseback while you were on foot was enough to fill your britches. And the were few arguments more persuasive than a mounted knight trying to get by, so the foot men parted for them. 

Which made things fracture. 

All around him as he cut deep into the Reachers, he heard the sounds of the formations breaking. Hundred of warriors, the best each kingdom had to offer, were fighting it out. Their lines stretching or shrinking as they attacked only to find themselves on the defensive a second later. Everyone in the arena thought that this melee would be a grand display of eight factions whittling each other down. 

No. That's not how people fought. Two armies on a field would slam into each other until one gave out. Three armies on the field? Whoever moved first lost, so there wouldn't be a battle at all. Four, five, six-- it didn't matter. When things got too complicated, they broke. A battle between two armies was complicated enough, but eight? 

When Robert found that he had cut through the Reachers and into the Westerlanders, he knew that his plan was a success. The Stormlanders followed his path, forcing themselves to divide the Reacher knights into two groups. Under normal circumstances, it would mean that he was surrounded, but these weren't normal circumstances. So many lordlings who thought they were smarter than they really were, and they were backed by the best warriors in the Kingdoms. 

Everyone saw their chance and they pounced. All of them had already been looking for a moment of weakness, a gap in their opponents armor that they could sink a blade through. The divided Reachers were a sacrifice as those the flanked them started cutting a path through. His Stormlanders were facing a similar fate as some lagged behind the main group. The damage was done, and the equilibrium was lost. 

The result?

The Melee became a mad house. 

Robert could hear himself laughing as he swung his hammer side to side, careful to not kill someone, but not so careful that he might have by accident. No matter. The center of the field was a fever dream, a complete free for all where anyone not wearing matching colors fought everyone else. He could see Brandon keeping his horsemen together, driving them into the side of the Crownlands while the Prince was distracted with Dorne. 

He searched for one man in particular. The one man that Robert knew he had to take down if he had any hope of winning the Melee. And, out of the corner of his eye, Robert found him. 

Paul Atredies broke into a full sprint at a formation before jumping into the air and flipping over their bloody heads to land in the thick of them. The Crownlanders didn't have a clue what hit them, and it showed. They scrambled to respond to the threat in their midst, only to discover that Paul's blades were as fast as lightning and about as deadly. They flashed forward, drawn to every little gap in someone's armor as if they had strings attached. 

It was beautiful. Robert wanted to weep -- he really did. Finesse was never his wheelhouse, but he couldn't deny the artistry of it. Smashing in a chest plate was fine and good, but Paul could kill a man a hundred ways in the span of a breath before the poor bastard even realized he was dead. It was only by the rules of the Melee that six of the Crownlands finest weren't dead on the field, though Paul's exposed position didn't lend well to taking ransoms. 

Gods. He couldn't wait for the war in the stepstones. With Ned and Paul at his sides, it felt like they could conquer the whole damned world. They wouldn't even need dragons. 

As things broke down, it got both easier and more difficult to maneuver. He kept his core of Stormlanders close, but the horses made them a target without foot to protect them. And, even with it, Robert saw some of his men trying and failing to remain in the saddle as Reachers, Westerlanders, and even Northerners or Riverlanders. The lack of cohesiveness meant that he didn't have to fight through what amounted to a stone wall, but the shattered bricks made for uneasy footing. There were so many individual fights or small teams that it was next to impossible to take a step without getting involved in three separate battles. 

“Lord Robert! What is our heading?” A lord asked of him, his face red and sweaty with exertion. Robert wanted to turn up his nose at the man -- politics. Men unworthy of fighting on this field were on it anyway, denying a spot for someone more deserving, all because of their last name. But, the question was a good one. 

He achieved what he set out to achieve -- he smashed the equilibrium. Now his eyes scanned for those that reacted better than others. His own force was largely intact, which made the Stormlanders the natural enemy on the field. The others would pounce like shadow cats because they'd rather drag him down with them rather than rise up to face him. So, he needed to engage with the second largest foe as a whole before his men were picked off in a dozen small battles. 

However, that choice was made for him when a surge of horsemen raced towards his position, uncaring of the bodies they had to plow through to reach him. Robert looked over and grinned madly as his gaze landed on the man leading the charge of the Westerlanders. 

Jaime Lannister. 

“Ha!” Robert half laughed and half urged his one horsemen to meet the Westerlanders. His horsemen followed his lead and he could hear the thundering of hooves even over the crowds roaring anticipation. Jaime was aiming right at him, unwilling to swerve one way or the other, every bit as bold as the lion helmet he wore while he readied a longsword to thrust into his heart. 

Robert wasn't one to back down from a fight so he charged right ahead. His heart pounded at his ribs like a warhammer, trying to jump out his chest and breastplate as he saw the distance shrink between them. Them it was simply too late to back down even if he wanted to. 

The next second was a blur of activity that his brain struggled to keep up with. Their horses charged right into each other and the next thing Robert knew, he was hitting the ground face first. Thankfully, his head was thick enough that he was fine, as he seemed to have lost his helmet. The air was filled with the horrid sound of dying horses, and that was a sound he could never get used to.

Men dying? Hard but doable. A man could pick up a weapon by his own will, for whatever reason he might have. And the moment he picked up that weapon, he made the declaration of ‘I am willing to kill.’ Thus, he had better be prepared to die. 

A horse, though? Trained since birth to ride into battle, the natural instincts to avoid collision trained and bred out of them. They obeyed their riders commands and sometimes it killed them for doing everything right. It's why horses sounded confused and frightened as they cried out in agony. It broke his heart. It really did. 

Stumbling to his feet, he shook the stray thoughts out of his head to see that the rest of the horsemen were about in the same state he was. The horses destroyed each other, some managing to survive the encounter, but fewer managed to keep their riders. Some were picking themselves up from the dirt, and Robert's eyes found one in particular. 

Jaime grabbed his helmet and tore it off, gasping for air as if it had been choking the life from him. Shaking his golden hair, Jaime looked at the field much like Robert did and their gazes met. Robert grinned and, despite himself, Jaime smiled back. On some unspoken cue, they began to stride towards one another. Robert hefted his warhammer while Jaime leveled his blade. With but a handful of steps, they met in the middle and they both swung. 

Jaime went low, his blade flickering like the tongue of a snake, while Robert went high, feinting with a blow to the head before making a jabbing motion with the spike of his warhammer at Jaime’s elbow. His sword bounced off Robert’s plate as Jaime dodged his attack before flicking his sword up at Robert’s exposed face. 

With a hand, Robert batted the sword away, using his gauntlet to catch the edge before he took a step forward and tried to strike Jaime in the head with the butt of his warhammer. When Jaime weaved his head out of the way once more, he followed the little lion and tried to punch him in the face. Jaime smirked, telling Robert he just made a mistake a split second before he felt a pinch at his elbow. He glanced down to see the point of Jaime’s arming sword finding purchase through his chainmail. 

“Huh,” Robert grunted, unbothered and instead reacted by delivering a kick as Jaime tried to seize the initiative. His foot caught Jaime in the chest, knocking him back a good couple of feet, but Jaime rolled back and stood up. “You're a fast little bugger. Makes me wish I hadn't taken off my helmet,” Robert admitted, stretching and clenching his injured arm. He could feel a trickle of hot blood and a small pinch -- it wasn't a deadly wound, nor was it a bad one. It was just in a really irritating place. 

“If you need the handicap, I won't begrudge you for it, Baratheon,” Jaime replied, taking a stance with his sword. His expression was unbothered, his smirk cocky because he had taken first blood. “I'd even encourage it. That neck of yours is a tempting target.” 

Robert snorted, “This some politics thing?” He asked, making Jaime's eyes narrow a fraction before he offered a small shrug as Robert approached. 

“Partly,” Jaime admitted as they met in the middle once more. The Lannister was fast. He knew that. He made sure to watch some of Jaime's duels so he wouldn't be caught off guard by his speed, but it was one thing to witness that speed as a spectator and another to have a three foot razor sharp piece of steel darting at you. The shaft of his hammer blocked one thrust, only for it to become a slash at his cheek. And just as Robert was perking his head out of the path of the blade, Jaime shifted his grip to attack with the backswing. 

It might have drawn blood if Robert hadn't thrusted with his warhammer, striking Jaime in the chest. The spike didn't get through his breastplate, but even a hasty thrust from him was enough to dent it and send Jaime stumbling back. 

“Partly?” Robert echoed, taking a step forward and feinting an overhand seing on the left, only to reverse his grip and attack from below, forcing Jaime to take a step back. His awareness was sharp because he sidestepped the thrashing body of a horse, but it brought him near another fight. A northerner? Ah, he missed his view from atop a horse. Even being a head and shoulders taller than most, he couldn't see a damned thing about the broader battlefield. 

“You fight like such a boar, how could I not want to skewer you like one?” Jaime replied, that smirk still firmly in place but it didn't reach his eyes. They looked at him with wariness -- it was a look that Robert was used to seeing. When people saw the warhammer, they always thought he would be slow and that they could get him with speed alone. A fact that he used frequently during his spars.

Because, much like a boar, he only needed to hit someone once. Even if he didn't kill someone, their ability to fight with ribs that were shattered like glass or an arm that just flopped around… well, it was severely diminished. 

“That so? Well, how about you come over here and give it a shot then?” Robert replied, goading him. However, even as Jaime took the bait, he knew that Jaime wasn't telling the whole truth. 

Politics. He found himself submerged up to his ears into the stuff. No doubt the Proud Lion himself was still fuming how he had been replaced. Robert wasn't deaf nor was he blind, and he wasn't even a fool. Most of the time. It was impossible to miss the friction between the Stormlands and the Westerlands. 

And in Tywin Lannister's mind, this was an opportunity to dim his father's star. 

Robert didn't really care about politics, but he wouldn't let an attack on his family stand, regardless of the justification. He didn't have any ill will towards Jaime himself, but he was the tool of which his father was wielding against House Baratheon. So… Jaime only really had his father to blame for what came next. 

Jamie’s blade flashed forward in a series of feints, trying to get Robert to react and overextend. He didn’t dare to. Robert knew that the moment he did, he’d find a sword in his throat. Both of them had tested the other, gotten a feel for how the other fought and reacted, and now it was time to end things as both of them had plenty more opponents to fight before the day had ended. 

The sword came at Robert fast and in short goading jabs, flickering in and out with finesse that Robert found that he envied. But beneath that speed was an anchor called caution. The Lannister fought fast and light because he knew that it’d only take one swing. One swing and the heir to House Lannister would be lucky if he escaped with his life. Or, perhaps they were cut from a similar cloth -- Robert would vastly prefer a quick death rather than living decades as a cripple. 

The others gave them their space to fight, recognizing them as heirs to kingdoms and that this wasn’t a fight they had any right to meddle in. Not the Stormlanders, who saw Robert on the defensive, constantly blocking with his hammer or his armor. Nor the Westerlanders, who saw Jaime running himself ragged with constant movement. 

Steadily, Jaime’s face became red with exertion while a sweat dripped from his brow. That caution was getting heavier and heavier for him, Robert could see. Nothing sapped your strength like a fight. A day of hard labor felt every bit as exhausting as ten minutes in a ring. It was only a matter of time. And they both knew it. 

Jaime would either have to cut the anchor or he would need to back off from the fight. The first was inadvisable, but the latter was cowardice. For better or worse, Jaime Lannister was no coward -- he could give him that much as Jaime took a step forward, going for another feint at his face before adopting a half-sword stance.

The blade raced up to his face, and Robert felt a stinging pain in his cheek. He accepted it as it was better than feeling that same pain in his neck as Jaime intended. He didn’t begrudge him the strike. All the politics aside, when the rest of Robert was armored, his face was a natural place to strike. 

Still, it was a strike that he punished.

Robert choked up on the shaft of his warhammer and drove it against Jaime’s ribs. The blow was a light one, but it was still enough to throw him off. Then, with a sharp pivot, as Jaime recovered, he slammed his warhammer against his upper arm. The metal plating dented inward and a scream ripped itself from Jaime’s throat as he went down, his sword falling from his hand. 

It was a bad break, Robert knew as he checked his cheek to find that he couldn’t find a hole with a tongue, so the cut was across his cheekbone. Jaime was likely to lose the arm. So, it was a good thing that Robert didn’t take his sword arm -- that would have been a real pity. 

“Right,” Robert muttered to himself as he stepped over Jaime Lannister, who clutched at his arm that flopped unnaturally just below the shoulder. “Now, where is Paul?” There was no telling with this fight going on, but he was sure that they’d cross paths eventually. 

Without another thought, Robert moved on, leaving Jaime in the dirt behind him, completely forgotten.