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Chapter 42: Ser Galahad vs Ser Arthur Dayne 

…

Richard POV

The sun was high, casting a golden glow across the melee grounds as the herald called each name loudly, stoking the cheers from the crowd. 

Nobles and commoners alike filled the stands, a roar of anticipation rippling through them. Moments ago, I arrived, just in time for the spectacle.

As my gaze swept across the larger arena, I counted twenty men including me, each of us taking our place in a big circle. 

It was a free-for-all, with alliances formed and broken on a whim. 

Yet I knew I could trust my allies for this round. Gerion, Tygett, and Oberyn stood with me. Together, we made a deal not to face each other.

Across the grounds, the gleam of white cloaks caught my eye—Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Arthur Dayne, the best of the Kingsguard, who I knew would also undoubtedly team up, and wouldn't face each other. 

Ser Arthur met my stare with a smoldering intensity. I could feel the weight of his disdain, the sting of my rejection of his prince's offer still lingering.

Testing myself against him, and Ser Barristan, would be a thrill, but that would have to wait for the final round.

Among the crowd, my gaze lingered on Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish. He stood strong and resolute, a reminder of my jousting victory on the fifth tilt—a hard-fought triumph that had earned his respect.

I had my plans for this round. My aim was clear: to ensure the final seven included Oberyn, Gerion, Tygett, Ser Barristan, Ser Arthur, Ser Brynden, and myself. 

The reason was that in the next round I would show everyone my capabilities against the best. 

By the end of the tourney, I will rise from this field as the champion of the melee, leaving no doubt in the minds of anyone watching. 

When this tourney ended, the name of Ser Galahad would be spoken with reverence.

Beside me, Gerion and Tygett nodded, determination in their eyes as they stood in Lannister red. 

I returned their nod, then turned to Oberyn on my left, his spear in hand and his smile wickedly confident. He met my gaze, giving a nod of his own.

We were ready.

"And now, with these twenty brave men, let the round commence!" the herald's voice rang across the grounds.

The trumpet sounded, sharp and clear, and the match began. I put on my helmet, confidence brimming from my action.

My twin swords were planted firmly in the ground as I took in the scene around me. The melee had begun cautiously, with every man sizing up the others, each wary of being the first to make a reckless move. 

I stood still, arms crossed over my chestplate, watching as the field gradually came alive.

To my left, Oberyn was already engaged with a Lannister knight, Ser Boros Blount, and it was clear from Oberyn's relaxed stance and playful movements that he was toying with him. 

Not far off, Gerion was locked in a match of strength and skill with Alester Florent, a Tyrell knight, their swords clashing in rapid succession. 

Meanwhile, Tygett, wielding his greatsword, pressed hard against Jason Mallister, who dodged and blocked, showing surprising skill with his sword and shield.

A sudden awareness prickled at the edge of my senses. I turned, instinctively pulling one of my swords from the ground just in time to block a blow aimed at me. 

I looked up to meet my attacker's gaze and was met with a towering figure clad in brown-painted armor, a boar sigil emblazoned on his shield—Ser Lyle Crakehall.

He seemed taken aback that I had blocked his strike so quickly. Though his face was hidden beneath his helmet, I could almost hear his heartbeat spike in surprise.

Without hesitation, I reached for my second sword and struck. Even holding back, my blow was swift and powerful. Lyle managed to raise his shield, but the force shattered its top portion. 

He stumbled back, breathing heavily, his stance no longer one of aggression but of caution. He was on edge, torn between fight and flight.

I raised my voice, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "That wasn't very knightly of you, Ser Lyle, attacking an unarmed man," 

I chided, keeping my tone calm yet pointed. "You think so little of me?" It was part of the game. Riling up the crowd, feeding their anticipation. Fame in the tourney was worth as much as any gold.

"This is a melee, boy! Stop talking and fight!" His voice was louder, confidence creeping back as he steadied himself.

"Good, that's more like it," I said with a smirk, stepping forward. "With those words, I hope you last more than five strikes." And with that, I charged.

He braced himself as I closed the distance, eyes sharp behind his helmet.

I feinted with my left sword, watching as he instinctively raised his shield to block it. In that split second, I drove my right blade into his side, feeling the satisfying impact as it connected with his ribs—a clean, decisive blow. 

I heard the crack, saw him flinch, and knew the damage had been done.

His hand went instinctively to his injured side, leaving his sword hand vulnerable. Without missing a beat, I struck his wrist, hard enough to bruise, forcing his weapon from his grasp. 

He stumbled back, gasping, then dropped to his knees, clutching his side and hand.

"I yield!" he cried, voice strained with pain. 

I was disappointed that he couldn't last longer than two strikes.

The marshal quickly intervened, hauling Ser Lyle to his feet and leading him away, likely to the infirmary. 

I drove both swords into the ground, stretching my arms out in a show of triumph. The crowd roared, their cheers echoing across the field, a thunderous response to my display of skill and strength.

I could feel their eyes on me, their excitement exhilarating. 

…

Ser Arthur Dayne POV

The moment the melee began, I had planned to face off against Galahad. His refusal of my prince's offer had left a bitter taste. 

To think he would reject the honor of a white cloak, as if he were somehow above the Kingsguard's prestigious ranks—ungrateful.

I could see right through his flimsy excuse. Land and title? The gall to dangle those desires before Prince Rhaegar, only to refuse him. 

Galahad had exposed his ambition, and it disgusted me. In this round, I would make him understand the place he belonged.

But as I moved across the field toward him, a voice called my attention.

"Sword of the Morning, would you honor me with a duel?" It was Damon Marbrand of Ashmark, his tone respectful. 

I met his gaze, noting the greatsword he carried—an advantage in reach.

"As you wish, Lord Marbrand," I replied, offering a small bow. "I wish you good fortune."

I unsheathed my twin swords, accustomed to the feel of a Greatsword like Dawn but confident with these longswords as well. 

I had spent years training both hands to perfect balance and precision, mastering the unique demands of dual-wielding. 

Our blades met in the space between us, and I readied myself, focused and prepared to give Marbrand the duel he sought.

I had overwhelmed Lord Marbrand with a relentless flurry of attacks, forcing him onto the defensive. Each attempt he made to strike back was effortlessly deflected. 

I kept advancing, pushing him back step by step, until he was too preoccupied with blocking to notice I'd closed the distance between us.

With a quick, precise kick to his chest, I sent him sprawling to the ground. Without hesitation, I disarmed him with one blade and leveled the other at him.

"I yield," Damon conceded, a note of respect in his voice. "Thank you for the duel, Sword of the Morning. I have no regrets losing to such a great swordsman."

"Good fight," I replied with a nod as he rose, and the marshal led him off the field.

Lord Marbrand was escorted from the melee grounds by the marshal, his defeat sealing his elimination from this round. 

I watched him go, then immediately turned my gaze to the one I truly had in mind—Galahad.

There he stood, arms outstretched, basking in the crowd's cheers. 

A frown tugged at my brow, my jaw tightening as I watched him. His arrogance was apparent, his confidence spilling over into hubris. 

No wonder his words to Prince Rhaegar had felt so hollow, so insincere.

My fingers tightened around the hilt of my sword as I began to make my way toward him, cutting through the chaos of the melee with purpose. 

Galahad might be clever, quick, and blessed with skill—but I would teach him a lesson today.

As I drew closer, I could sense the crowd rallying behind Galahad, their shouts and gestures alerting him to my approach.

"Ser Arthur Dayne, you finally showed," he remarked with a mocking tone, nodding at me as if he had anticipated my arrival.

"I presume you wish for a duel," he continued, his cockiness evident.

The irritation simmered within me. I understood now why I had grown wary of my prince's interest in Galahad. 

His insincere bravado and arrogant demeanor were grating on my nerves. I took a breath, steeling myself as I closed the distance.

My twin swords were poised and ready in my hands, while he had his blades buried in the ground, showcasing his nonchalance. 

I tightened my grip, anger flaring as I faced his flippant attitude.

"Pick up your sword, Galahad. Prepare for a duel," I commanded firmly, pointing my right sword at him.

Instead of complying, he turned his back to me, addressing the crowd. "It seems you will be spoiled today! I, Ser Galahad the Gallant, will face off against the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne!" The crowd erupted in cheers, their adoration feeding his arrogance.

"Stop with this foolishness and face me as a knight," I urged, stepping closer. The urge to strike him from behind surged within me, but I suppressed it.

At two meters away, he finally turned to face me. "As you wish. I will grant you a duel," he replied, a smirk audible in his tone despite his helmet.

I halted, raising my swords as he took his time to lift his own from the ground.

In moments, we stood facing each other, the slits of our helmets locked in a silent stare. Both of us wielded two swords, circling each other like wary wolves, waiting for the other to make the first move.

He was the first to attack, his moves telegraphed as he aimed for my right side. I blocked with my right sword, feeling a powerful vibration travel from the tip of my blade to the hilt and into my hands. He was strong, I would give him that.

Seizing an opening to his body, I lunged at his chestplate. I knew the sword would do little more than rattle him, but I wanted to see how he would react. 

He parried my thrust with his other sword, barely deflecting my strike. A smirk tugged at my lips beneath my helmet. I followed through by kicking his sword into him.

I had expected this move to throw him off balance, but he surprised me by pushing against my kicking foot with his blade, sending me sprawling to the ground. 

I quickly scrambled to my feet, ready for his next attack.

Instead of pressing his advantage, he hesitated, allowing me to regain my footing before finally launching his assault. I blocked his strike and retaliated, our swords clashing in a symphony of metal.

Time blurred as we danced through the melee, my movements becoming instinctual as I dodged, blocked, and struck in turn. 

I thought I had him when he lowered his sword to parry my strike aimed at his legs, but I quickly switched tactics, aiming a stab toward his head. He managed to evade just in time.

He launched a fierce five-hit combination, targeting my legs and ribs while feinting to my head, only to strike back to my legs. Thankfully, he began to slow, and I took a step back, evading his final blow.

Seeing him tired, I seized the moment and pushed forward. My attacks flowed seamlessly; every time he attempted to block or retreat, I deflected his defenses and pressed my assault. 

I could see the finish line ahead as he backed against the fence.

I readied a three-strike combination: a downward strike to force him to block, then a slash aimed at his wrist to disarm him. 

I anticipated his block, but to my surprise, my blade struck his wrist armor instead of finding its target.

Instead of dropping his sword in pain, I heard a chuckle, unexpected and disarming. My eagerness had left me open. 

He took advantage, delivering a powerful kick that sent me flying two meters backward. I landed hard on my back, gasping for breath.

Moments later, I felt the cold metallic touch of steel against my neck, just beneath my helmet. I looked up to find Galahad looming over me, one sword pointed at my throat while the other readied for a follow-up strike if I managed to escape the first sword.

"I yield. It's your win," I conceded, accepting my fate.

There was no regret in my loss; I had intended to teach him a lesson, but I realized through our duel that he wasn't simply cocky or hubristic—he was merely confident in his abilities.

My blood began to cool, and I finally registered the exhaustion weighing on my body, drenched in sweat, probably the most I had perspired in some time.

"You're lucky, Sword of the Morning," Galahad said with a wry tone, "it seems someone has yielded before you."

Confused, I glanced around. What did he mean?

"The round has been completed, and the final seven of the melee have been decided," the herald announced, his voice ringing clear. 

"They are Ser Barristan the Bold, Oberyn the Red Viper, Lord Gerion the Young Lion, Lord Tygett the Brave, Ser Brynden Blackfish, Ser Galahad the Gallant, and Ser Arthur Dayne Sword of the Morning," the herald declared, his voice ringing through the air. 

Galahad pulled back his sword and sheathed both of them, his movements smooth and unhurried. He removed his helmet, and my eyes widened as I noticed he didn't appear tired or even sweating at all.

Without a word, he turned and walked away, leaving me on the ground to grapple with the weight of my defeat. 

I felt like a failure, realizing I had been played and had fallen right into Galahad's trap. I should have felt proud to have made it to the final seven, yet the sting of my loss overshadowed that.

With a determined push, I got myself back up. My gaze shifted to Galahad, who was now engaged in conversation and laughter with his group. 

A sigh escaped my lips, followed by an involuntary chuckle as I reflected on the exhilarating rush of our fight. 

The thrill of the duel lingered within me, and despite my initial frustration, I found no resentment toward him. He had proven himself to be more than just an overconfident young man; he had earned my respect.

…

Note: Pure action chapter, hope y'all enjoy this type of chapter.

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