A Warrior Among Warriors

Gregor Clegane was already furious after the pretty little knight's trick. Now another handsome face had stepped in his path.

The sight only fed his anger. This man, like the Knight of Flowers, had the kind of face that made crowds sigh. Gregor attacked without hesitation.

To his surprise, the stranger did not retreat. He moved into the strike. That was unexpected, but death remained death. Gregor had little mercy to spare.

Every swing carried brutal weight. If the man kept meeting him directly, Gregor would break him within a few exchanges.

Imagining the stranger split in half, Gregor pressed harder. Ronan had rarely met such a troublesome opponent. Gregor's skill was not subtle, but his strength could not be ignored.

Worse, he wore heavy plate across his whole body. Even his head sat inside a steel bucket of a helm. There were very few places Ronan could attack effectively.

Thrusting alone would not solve the problem. He circled, gave ground, and searched for a weakness. Gregor clearly understood that his strength and bulk were his greatest advantages, and his armor had been made to protect those advantages.

Against most skilled fighters, that would be enough. Until they broke his defense, they could not truly defeat him. It was a good calculation. Unfortunately, he had met Ronan.

When Gregor swung across again, Ronan caught the moment and changed from thrust to cut. Steel screamed. Gregor's heavy blade snapped in two. The crowd stared in shock.

No one expected a weapon almost heavy enough to be a blunt instrument to be cut apart by another blade.

Even stranger, the weapon that had done it looked, at first glance, close enough to an ordinary long sword.

Ronan would never allow his blade to be compared with cheap tourney steel.

It was a single-edged weapon, closer in spirit to a war knife stretched into a sword than to the knightly blades of Westeros. Its shape did not belong cleanly to this world, and the dark ripples in the metal were no decoration.

Whatever else it resembled, Valyrian steel lay at its heart. Against that, Gregor's greatsword was inferior. Ronan did not stop.

The edge climbed toward Gregor's upper body. A tense breath sounded from inside the helm. On the platform, the king rose to his feet.

The spectators craned forward to see the result. Timid ladies covered their eyes with spread fingers, wanting to look and not look at once.

For the first time, Gregor Clegane, called the Mountain, felt death touch him. The blade cut through his protection and sank into flesh. A little more force, and it would open his neck.

Even then, Gregor did not beg. Madness was carved into his bones. Whenever some polished knight thought he had beaten Gregor, Gregor liked to teach him one last lesson.

The unguarded knight almost never reacted in time. Gregor let the broken sword fall. Then his hands shot together, clamping around Ronan's blade.

A pleased laugh came from behind the helm. It turned into a scream.

Even with all his strength, Gregor could not stop the edge. His palms tore open, and even the iron guards at his wrists could not save him.

"Would you like to try again?" Ronan asked coldly.

The Mountain's temper vanished. He could feel the danger of the man before him. Ronan could truly kill him.

This was not a vain lordling playing at honor. This was a hard-handed executioner. Before Gregor could force out a surrender, applause and cheers broke from the stands.

Farther away, Loras Tyrell approached with lingering fear in his eyes. Because Ronan stood between them, Gregor only growled and withdrew.

The Knight of Flowers bowed with flawless courtesy. "Thank you for saving me. I am Loras of House Tyrell."

"A sellsword knight from across the narrow sea," Ronan said. "Ronan."

They exchanged names. Loras was surprised by Ronan's origin, but he showed goodwill without hesitation. Then he openly withdrew from the remaining contest.

Only Loras and Ronan had still been eligible. Loras's surrender meant Ronan became the final champion of the Hand's tourney.

No one questioned the honor of that victory. Ronan had defeated the Mountain. That was proof enough.

King Robert personally descended from the platform to reward him.

"You're a fine one," Robert said, looking Ronan over. "A real warrior. Would you serve as one of my sworn swords?"

"Your Grace..." the Hand began.

Robert waved him silent and kept his eyes on Ronan, waiting for the answer he wanted. Unfortunately, Ronan remained Ronan.

"King Robert, I once swore that I would serve only the man who defeated me. Would Your Grace like to try?"

The words made even the Hand frown. Ronan's courage was absurd. Robert was no longer merely a friendly lord with a warhammer. He was king of the Seven Kingdoms.

With a little worse luck, Ronan's sentence might have been a rope. Yet Robert was not angered.

Instead, he saw a shadow of his younger self in Ronan. It helped that Ronan had black hair. In that, at least, he looked almost Baratheon.

Robert's liking only grew. "What is your name?"

"Ronan."

"Ronan," Robert said, grinning. "A warrior among warriors. May you one day meet a king worthy of your sword."

It sounded like a joke. In time, some would say that joke had helped write Robert's tragedy.

Rumors began almost immediately. Some wondered if Ronan might be one of Robert's bastards. Why else would the king tolerate such disrespect and still give the man a public honor?

The black hair became powerful evidence in idle mouths. Still, rumor was only rumor. Without the king's acknowledgment, no one dared say too much.

At first, Eddard Stark also wondered. After studying Ronan more carefully, he abandoned the thought.

The Baratheon look did not truly match him. The resemblance was only enough to feed gossip.

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