Edric rose from the ground, standing amidst the cries of praise and disdain, his chest heaving, the sweat from the battle still clinging to him. Around him, the remnants of the fight littered the ground: the unconscious bodies of the other two squires, and the lifeless form of the last—the one he'd killed. No one could see his face through the helmet, though everyone saw him strike thrice to take his life.
He spoke to the hulking figure on the ground, who had sat up whilst he dealt with the trio. He had roughed him up pretty good, which explained why he didn't attack him, preferring to nurse his bruised neck.
"You want to continue?" Edric called out, chuckling. "I rather enjoyed our little fight." He said, chuckling, as if he hadn't killed a boy—a boy his age, sure, but a boy nonetheless—mere moments earlier.
"No, Mountainsbane," his deep voice came. "I yield. I know when I am defeated." He removed his helmet. Bulging veins marked his face—whether from rage or a splitting headache was hard to tell.
"What is your name?"
"Gregor Clegane," he continued. "Though some have taken to calling me the Mountain. It seems I'm not the only mountain here, however."
Edric chuckled before giving his hand. The teenager, bigger than even noble men, wouldn't dare try anything, not with such a crowd watching them—especially since he had been beaten fair and square and had yielded as a result.
Gregor ignored him, slapping it away before leaving.
The clang of armor and approaching boots shattered his thoughts. He turned to see Barristan Selmy, the old knight's piercing gaze locked onto him. Barristan's expression was hard to read, but there was no mistaking the disappointment in his eyes.
"You killed him in cold blood." Barristan's voice was low.
Edric's heart skipped. Right, he thought. I did technically kill him in cold blood since he couldn't fight back.
"He tried to kill me," Edric said, his voice sharp, as if it was obvious. He continued, "What else was I supposed to do?"
Barristan didn't answer immediately, his gaze lingering on the boy's body. He didn't speak for a long moment, his lips tight, his expression unreadable. Finally, he broke the silence.
"You could've stopped, Edric," Barristan said, his voice heavy with a kind of regret. "You could've spared him. You could've left him alive."
"In the heat of battle, it seems I lost my cool. Anger, or simple instinct, clouded my judgment, it seems. He did talk along the lines of 'Tommen Lefford sends his regards' however. You may do what you wish with this information."
Barristan's eyes narrowed, considering what he had heard.
"That is a serious accusation." He looked at the former commoner.
"Y—"
But then, before he could utter a single word, he heard the unmistakable sound of Robert Baratheon's booming voice.
"Enough, Ser Barristan!" Robert said, stepping forward, his massive frame pushing through the crowd of curious but ignorant bystanders. His voice was full of authority, but there was something in it—a quickness, a firmness—that made it clear this was not a discussion to be had.
He had a look in his eye, one that showed respect to the great warrior before him, but wasn't about to let his admiration cloud his judgment.
Barristan shot him a quick glance, but Robert wasn't having it.
"Edric did what had to be done! No more no less!" Robert continued, his gaze hardening as he looked up at Edric. Edric, understanding he had Robert's backing in the matter, continued.
"You have fought countless times yourself, Ser. I'm sure you understand what I mean."
Faced with both pressuring him and the rather convincing arguments that had been laid out before him, the knight of House Selmy finally relented, his inner self screaming to either leave them be and walk away or dub the man and be done with it, finally settled.
"Very well."
He seemed to be weighing something, some final thought. He wanted to say more, but the weight of Robert's words held him back. As honorable as he was, Barristan the bold would still conform himself, and the one being dubbed being a decent man, with a good reputation, only encouraged his next actions.
Barristan remained silent. There was a flicker of conflict in his gaze, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He looked at Edric one last time, his face unreadable, and then sighed deeply.
"Your actions are your own, Edric," Barristan said, his voice softer now. "But I cannot deny the truth of Robert's words. You fought hard, and you earned your victory."
"Now kneel."
Edric nodded, pride rising in him. He had achieved rising to the first steps of the medieval social ladder: knighthood.
Drawing his sword with practiced grace, Barristan approached Edric. The blade gleamed, reflecting the fading sunlight.
"Kneel, Edric of Stonehaven," Barristan commanded, his voice firm yet solemn.
Edric complied, lowering himself onto one knee, his gaze steady.
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave," Barristan intoned, touching the flat of his blade to Edric's right shoulder.
"In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just," he continued, moving the sword to Edric's left shoulder.
"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent," he said, returning the blade to the right shoulder.
"In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women," he concluded, the sword once more resting on the left shoulder.
With a final, deliberate motion, Barristan sheathed his sword.
"Rise, Ser Edric of Stonehaven," he declared.
Robert turned to Edric, placing a massive hand on his shoulder with a grin.
"Get up, Ser Edric," Robert said with a thundering voice that carried across the yard. "You're a knight now. How do you feel! Haha." He bellowed in laughter.
The weight of it hit Edric then. His chest tightened again, his throat aching. It was surreal. The missing piece to the knightly puzzle he had created—armor and weapons having already been perfectly crafted and resting on his body as his childhood fantasies came true.
Edric released a laugh. "I feel great!"
He rose as a new person, emboldened by this new accomplishment, a fire having been lighted within him.
This feeling of pride and power would be chased by him for the rest of his life.
One might think he cared little for the lives he had taken, which were certainly not limited to one that day. He certainly felt guilt. A twinge of it, like feeling bad for eating the chocolate that had been left over for your siblings—only for that last dying inch of empathy to be squeezed dry of its last embers as you realized that they had been warned by your parents that leaving it out was a terrible idea.
Funnily enough, Gregor Clegane had also been knighted despite having lost—his valiant but resultless efforts rewarded by none other than the prince himself.
But Edric was no fool. The king, who he had yet to see, saw his popularity decrease faster than a boulder rolling down a mountain. His son, however, seemed to be a beacon of hope—a source of light in an increasingly dreadful and dark era of Targaryen rule for nobles. This action had been done to reward a lord who had pledged their support to him, no doubt.
In the following fortnight, all the true noble games would be played. The Melee and the Joust, the main attractions of the event would bring in the a great amount of spectators who hadn't arrived yet. And most importantly, change everything.
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A/N: Oook, this raps this part up. Our Mc will have some minor involvement in the rest of the Harrenhal chapters now. Thank your for reading