The wedding tourney was turning out a far grander occasion than the wedding itself.
In the stands were sat myself, my bride in the seat of honour beside me, and another seat, occasionally occupied by anyone I cared to speak to. Oberyn sat a good few seats away, along with his niece and daughters. Lord Mace and Lord Mathis were sat beside each other, talking with Lord Kevan on some matter. Maester Pycelle was never too far away, and Maester Ballabar sat ready in waiting in case anyone was injured.
My mother had neglected to attend the tourney thus far - out of pettiness, no doubt.
Behind a line of rope the masses of Kings Landing had gathered to watch. On this day, the third of the tourney thus far, the jousts were well underway. Knights mounted their horses and raised their lances and charged at one another, and every so often a decisive blow would be struck, resulting in some truly spectacular falls. Armour clattered, bones snapped, steeds neighed and reared back in panic as shards of shattered lances were sent flying.
In an age before entertainment, this was the closest to action I could get without actually putting myself in danger. And with the state of the crown's finances, this would likely be the last such display for some time. So, I forwent my usual fare of water for some Arbor Gold, swirling and sipping the liquid from my cup as the day progressed.
One advantage to being so young? You don't need to drink so much to get a buzz.
"Ser Boros," Tyrion leaned over to me and whispered conspiratorially, "or that Hedge Knight?"
"Which one is he again?"
Tyrion squinted at him, "No sigil, far as I can see. A lack of coin or a lack of name, I wonder?"
"And yet," I wryly observed, "he can afford full-plate. A practical man, this hedge knight must be."
Margaery, sat on my other side, offered her thoughts, "I don't know much about war, Your Grace, but it seems Ser Boros is far less steady on his horse than his opponent. I doubt that bodes well for him."
Tyrion scrutinised Boros for a moment and then nodded, "Yes, it does seem so." He gulped some wine and jangled the coin in his purse, "So, would you like to lose some gold, Your Grace?"
I smiled, "It wouldn't be seemly of me. A King shouldn't gamble, much less with the crown's finances."
Tyrion shrugged, "Very well, then. In any case, I know where I'm placing my bets."
"Careful with that," I smirked as he stood from his seat. "Stick to gold. We don't want anymore daggers changing hands, do we?"
Tyrion grumbled slightly as he left, not bothering to offer any parting shot.
"How are you finding the tourney, my lady?" I asked Margaery as we waited for the next joust to start. "Is it to your liking?"
She smiled sweetly, unable to help the slight blush in her cheeks as I looked at her, interlacing her fingers with mine, "It's wonderful, Your Grace."
I smiled a devilish smile, "That's good."
The two of us weren't quite as randy as rabbits, but it was a close run thing. No doubt, I had surprised her on our wedding night. She had been expecting fumbling hands and awkwardness, and I liked to think I left her pleasantly surprised. There was awkwardness aplenty, to be sure, as I unlaced her gown and lay her on the bed and kissed both her upper and nether lips, but we quickly settled into a more comfortable back-and-forth.
What followed was for her, or so she says, the best hour-and-a-half of her life. Fingers, tongues, no effort was spared to leave her basking in the sweaty afterglow of sexual congress. I'm not quite sure I believed her claims, but so long as the blushes and moans were real, I didn't much mind.
My stamina and attention to detail certainly pleased her, if nothing else.
In truth, it didn't much matter, so long as everyone knew she had been despoiled. She was mine now, and her family's wealth and power was as well.
The knights had readied themselves for the tilt by this point, and I gave my assent for the joust to begin. Ser Boros's armour hid his nerves, no doubt - I had to basically force him into competing in the tourney - so much so that I had to make it into a requirement for all the Kingsguard, just to stop him squirrelling away. Only the Lord Commander received an exemption, to ensure the safety of the King.
If Bronn had done his job right - and he usually did - then this would be a tilt to pay close attention to.
At the first pass, the hedge knight struck Ser Boros square in his shield, unsettling him from his saddle and shattering the tip of his lance in the process. The two men gathered themselves, the hedge knight replaced his lance, and the second pass began.
And it was here that it finally happened.
The hedge-knight's lance struck Boros's shield at just the right angle, and with just enough force. The tip of the lance struck the shield, but did not break, the lance scraping against the wood and climbing higher and higher till it broke past Ser Boros's defences completely, bouncing off his breastplate and landing against his gorget with enough force to unhorse him completely.
Ser Boros tumbled off his horse like a sack of potatoes, falling messily to the ground in a heap, his form partially shrouded by his white cloak.
The joust was halted, and when Ser Boros's form remained still on the ground, Maester Ballabar rushed out into the field to see to the knight's wounds. His crumpled form did not move as his body was turned over and Maester Ballabar hurriedly removed parts of his armour to examine him.
It did not take a Maester, however, to determine that Ser Boros was not breathing.
As it turned out, it wasn't the lance that had killed him, but the fall. The angle of the strike combined with the force of the impact with the ground had snapped his neck cleanly. There were no punctures on his skin, no outward physical signs besides some bruising, but he was dead all the same.
Truly, Bronn was really quite good at his job. An onlooker would have no idea that such an accident had been planned.
Discreet, efficient, it was everything a King could ask for.
I would have to remember to keep him loyal.
That day, the tourney came to an early end, and with a glum mood. Well, glum for everyone else, though I played along.
The day after, once the last of the jousts had been finished and a victor emerged, in this case Ser Loras - narrowly beating out Ser Balon to name his sister his Queen of Love and Beauty - the archery competition could begin. Arrows struck the ground as much as they struck their targets, and I found myself enjoying the slower pace of proceedings. The lack of overt violence held it's own charm, in a way. Though I wouldn't call it exciting, to watch experts of their craft hone their practice was certainly fascinating in it's own right.
And useful, too. I would need men to man the scorpions I planned to build.
Ser Balon won that one. And by quite an impressive margin as well.
The day after, the big event finally arrived. A massive melee, with more than a hundred participants spread across a far larger field.
And among the horde of sigils and swords was one particular warrior...
On one side of me was Margaery, on the other was Arianne, eyes affixed on the field before us. For once, her efforts to seduce me had been - if not abandoned, at least toned down - in favour of watching the melee. She still wore sheer clothes and lace adornments and little chains, but it seemed an afterthought for once. We were all watching different people, I noted. Margaery's eyes remained focused on the corner of the field where her brother was, running to engage his enemies. Arianne's gaze flitted about the field, jumping from hedge knight to hedge knight, no doubt scouting targets for potential seduction and/or assassination.
Or mayhap that was just my paranoia shining through.
Looking behind me, Jaime's eyes seemed locked on the same person as me. A lone figure, wielding a morningstar with some degree of ruthless efficacy, much as she had done at Bitterbridge.
Her first target came to be a hedge knight, who succumbed quickly enough. Then followed one of the Kettleblacks, though which one it was could not be determined at such a distance. Osney, Osfryd? It was hard to tell.
...
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