The trumpets sang again, sharp and bright, as golden light spilled across the yard like molten coin. Below, the final tilt of the tourney was about to begin.
Jaime was taking his position at the end of the lists, golden and glorious, in full regalia. His armor caught the light in blinding bursts, lion-crested helm tucked beneath one arm, white cloak streaming behind him. Even his horse, a proud dappled grey destrier.
Jaime moved with the careless grace of a man born to the saddle, calm and sure, as if none of this meant anything. As if it were already won.
So like you,brother, Tyrion thought, Brave, beautiful, and just arrogant enough to believe the gods owe you the victory.
Across from him, Ser Arthur Manderly, too young to have earned the poise he wore. His silverwhite destrier, pranced beneath him like it knew this would be remembered.
Tyrion Lannister sipped his wine and turned his gaze towards the royal box.
His father's face was still, utterly still, but Tyrion had known that mask too long. But beneath it lay displeasure or calculation. Perhaps both.
Cersei sat beside him, resplendent in crimson silk. A sleek crown of rubies sat atop her golden hair that piled high and was held in place with a beautiful emerald pin. Cersei looked every inch the queen she is.
She clutched Myrcella's small hand too tightly, making the girl wince in pain, though she said nothing. Instead, the little princess had her eyes fixed on the yard below with the innocent hope only a child could wear.
Tyrion noticed Cersei's lips were pressed thin, a hard line of pride and dread, as if both emotions warred for space upon her lovely face. The prospect of watching Jaime fall, here, before half the court, and to a boy no less, must have been clawing at her insides.
You always did hate to lose, Tyrion thought, watching his sister and wondered, whether she knew how transparent she'd become to him over the years or if she even cared.
Tommen leaned forward, all boyish energy and wide-eyed admiration. "Uncle Jaime!" Tommen cried. "Uncle Jaime will win!"
"I hope he knocks this one into the dirt," Joffrey added, scowling. "Who does that northerner think he is?"
"A knight," Myrcella said softly with a hint of pride. Tyrion cocked a brow. There's more steel in that child than her brothers combined, he thought.
Robert Baratheon, bloated and beaming, seemed in splendid spirits. His face ruddy with drink and mirth. "Kingslayer's luck runs dry today, Imp," he barked over his shoulder. "I'll wager he eats dirt."
"Odds are with Ser Jaime," murmured old Jon Arryn. "But that boy's been full of surprises."
"You might be right, Your Grace," Tyrion replied with a grin. "But I'll wager a hundred dragons he doesn't."
Robert laughed. "Bah, that is piss. I'll give you a bet worth shouting for." He turned to Petyr Baelish, lounging beside Renly with his usual feline amusement. "Littlefinger, that dagger of yours," Robert said, "The pretty one. Valyrian steel, wasn't it?"
Baelish smiled. "A princely blade, Sire. And what might Your Grace place against it?"
"A lordship." Robert grinned and added, "One with a proper hall, not like that bloody tower you have now."
Tyrion nearly choked on his wine.
"Your Grace, such matters—" began Jon Arryn from behind Robert, voice mild but lined with steel. The Hand of the King looked troubled, more so than usual.
But Robert waved him off with a reckless cheer of a man who had never had to count the cost of anything, not even kingdoms.
"Come now, Petyr," he said, loud enough for half the court to hear. "Your dagger or my lands. Let the gods decide."
The dagger in question rested on Littlefinger's belt. A curved, slender blade made of Valyrian steel with a dragonbone hilt. Rare, sleek and sharp, much like the man who wore it.
Littlefinger smiled, like he always smiled and Tyrion knew that smile by now. It was too neat, too clean, like something cut from silk. That's the smile of greed. For all his smirking and simpering, Petyr Baelish did nothing without weighing his coins first. Littlefinger leaned forward, his gaze drifting to the tilt yard where Jaime adjusted his helm.
"Done," said Littlefinger, voice soft and smooth as a knife through silk.
Madness, Tyrion thought, watching the absurdity unfold before him.
"I'll place my faith and a bit of gold on Jaime," Tyrion said. He always bet on Jaime, mostly out of habit. Jaime's his brother and blood demanded a show.
"I'll take that wager, my lord. Ser Arthur, had the favor of the gods so far. Why not one more miracle?" said Renly, all easy charm and courtly grace, though Tyrion did not miss the gleam in his perfect blue eyes. Ambition, cloaked in velvet and smiles, Renly wore it better than most.
"Because the gods have a twisted sense of humor," Tyrion replied. "And I've seen Jaime ride."
Renly chuckled. "So have I. But I've seen Ser Arthur ride too. And if I were a betting man—" "You are," Tyrion said.
"Aye. And today, I think the 'Knight of Winter' makes a better tale." He flicked a glance toward Robert. "And the realm does love a hero's tale."
"And then the heroes die," Tyrion said. He smiled, sharp and crooked.
"Here's to tales, then, Lord Renly. May yours end better than most."
Myrcella, pale with excitement and pink at the cheeks, turned to her mother. "Mother," she asked, her voice soft as lace, "would it be wrong if I cheered for Ser Arthur? He looks so gallant. Like in the songs."
Cersei's smile was all teeth, polished and stiff, as though chiseled into place. "He's not our knight, sweetling," she said sweetly, too sweetly, and her fingers curled around Myrcella's small hand, just a shade tighter.
Robert guffawed, his laugh echoing off the royal box. "Ha! That's my girl!" he said, thumping his cup on the balustrade, wine sloshing onto the floor. "Half the court's dreaming of riding off with the boy already. Let her cheer, woman. Better him than these silk-swaddled pisspots with their perfumed arses and crooked lances."
Jon Arryn inclined his head, slow and grave. "A cheer for a brave knight harms no one," he said. "Even if he faces kin, a child may wish him well."
Tyrion caught the flicker in Cersei's face. A shadow of hatred, sharp and sudden, directed at both Robert and the Hand. Her eyes darkened, lips tightening as if to snarl.
But then Lord Tywin spoke, his voice low and precise, carrying the weight of his command. "To deny her such small freedom would be folly. Let the girl cheer as she will."
Cersei's jaw clenched, the fight draining from her eyes, as she dared not oppose their father and begrudgingly, she released Myrcella's hand. Tyrion allowed himself a faint, knowing smile. He always felt unimaginable pleasure in seeing Cersei compelled into silence, if only for a moment.
Myrcella's eyes flickered uncertainly toward Tyrion, shadowed by her mother's disapproval. Tyrion met her gaze with a nod of warmth and thought a few cheers for the Merman will not bring the Lion to its knees.
"Go on, Myrcella," Tyrion said quietly, voice soft but sure. "It wouldn't hurt to wish Ser Arthur well."
A hush fell over the crowd. The final tilt of the tourney had come and all eyes turned to the two knights assembling before the royal box. The herald's voice rang out across the yard, crisp and regal, carrying over the heads of lords and ladies, knights and smallfolk alike, "Ser Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock, Knight of the Kingsguard."
The cheers from the Westerlands' men rose like a storm, booming with pride and fervor. Jaime raised his lance in salute, his smile easy, effortless. Tyrion noted the green silk embroidered with golden lions, tied tight to his gauntlet. Cersei's favor. It had always been hers. She had given it to Jaime at tourneys since they were children.
Tyrion saw the pride in her eyes now, the smug tilt of her lips, and the possessive desire she kept well-hidden beneath her lashes. Her hand rested lightly on Myrcella's shoulder, fingers tapping a silent rhythm, of anxiety, of anticipation, or maybe both.
The herald turned, voice lifting once more, "Ser Arthur Manderly, son of Ser William Manderly, heir of White Harbor, victor of the melee." The cheer that followed was louder than expected. The crowd's roar came crashing down like a wave. Fists hammering shields, boots stomping the earth. The Northmen were the loudest, of course. Bloody Northerners always were loud yet today they weren't alone. They were joined by the voices of the Rivermen and the Valemen. Even the Crownlanders were shouting the boy's name.
Much to Tyrion's surprise, young Arthur did not seem to bask in the acclaim. He merely inclined his helm in a measured nod, lance lowered in deference, calm and still atop his pale destrier. Arthur's helm gleamed like moonlight, and his cloak streamed behind him in the colours of his House, but it was the yellow ribbon tied to his gauntlet that caught Tyrion's eye.
A lady's favor, but whose? No great show had been made of its bestowal, no coy maid handing it over with blushing cheeks and fluttering lashes. Curious, that.Most curious. Who gave him that, I wonder?
King Robert was already half out of his seat, one meaty hand clenched around his goblet, the other gripping the balustrade. Jon Arryn sat beside him, face grave, eyes on the boy below, unblinking. And Cersei, his sister's mouth was drawn tight, her smile frozen into place, brittle as glass.
She saw it too, Tyrion wagered, the ribbon and the crowd. The love in their voices. The cheers for Jaime had been loud, to be sure. But this? This was something else. It was the sound of men remembering.
Tyrion looked at the faces of lords and ladies in the high boxes. He watched their mouths move, some shouting, some smiling, some silent, but all of them watching, all of them remembering him, Ser William the Brave.
Tyrion had heard the stories, of course. Everyone had, in one form or another. Tales traded in smoky taverns and cold castles, in the low murmurs of squires or the boasting of inebriated knights. Ser William Manderly, the late heir of White Harbor, who laughed and bled beside Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon in their youth.
Fostered together in the lofty heights of the Eyrie under Lord Jon Arryn's austere tutelage, the three had played at swords in snowbound courtyards, boys chasing songs of glory. And when their song came, in steel and blood; Those boys became the men who ended the three-headed dragons reign.
Stories of the Trident lingered like mist upon the water, clinging and cold. They said Ser William Manderly had faced Ser Barristan Selmy in the heart of the battle, when Robert's hammer shattered Rhaegar's breastplate and the river ran red with Targaryen blood and rubies. While lesser men fled or drowned, William stood his ground, the brave against the bold.
Other stories, darker still, came from the south, whispered across the halls. They said William had dueled Ser Arthur Dayne, The Sword of the Morning, somewhere around the Red Mountains, beneath the shadow of a broken tower. No singer had ever made a song of it. No one ever dared.
There were no verses of the pale Dawn clashing against northern steel, under a bleeding sky. No harp sang of Dayne's last breath or for William's final stand. There were no sweet ballads to mark their fall, for the men who had bled for their king and kin.
Yet the people remembered. Oh yes, they remembered.
Tyrion had heard it from Robert's own mouth once, half-drunk, eyes far away, his voice thick with grief and wine. "Will was the best of us," he'd muttered, "better than me, better than Ned and twice as stubborn. He saved me, saved Ned. He should have been here, should have lived.… gods, I miss him."
And in that voice, Tyrion had heard the lament for a ghost's memory.
Cersei called it foolishness, of course. She had no patience for ghosts, especially not the ones Robert mourned. To her, the dead were dead, and grief was weakness best buried. But Tyrion knew better.
Ghosts had power in Westeros. What was dead never truly died.
They lived on in stories, in names spoken with reverence or dread. They clung to memory like frost to stone, whispered from mother to child, from lowborn to highborn, growing with each telling.
And ofttimes, these stories hid a dangerous truth, Tyrion thought
Ser William the Brave, they called him in the songs. But in the shadowed halls Tyrion had heard another name for him.
William the Kingmaker. A man of schemes, alliances, quiet influence. The sort of man his father respected and the sort of man Cersei fancied herself to be.
He'd heard scraps, hints, fragments of truth buried beneath layers of old grievances and older secrets, spoken in low voices, about the man who had bound the Vale, the North, and the Riverlands into one cause.
The man who opened his coffers and armed a rebellion with gold. The man who urged Robert to claim not just vengeance, but the Iron Throne itself.
Some said it was William who had whispered into Jon Arryn's ear, who had laid the ground for rebellion long before Brandon Stark rode south to his death. Tyrion had never known what to make of it.
His father had spoken little of that war, save to curse missed chances and the squandering of blood and coin. But even Lord Tywin had once named Ser William "The only northerner with sense" some high praise, by his standards.
And then there were the more… curious claims. That William had turned the Tyrells, not with gold or swords, but with trickery, playing on Mace Tyrell's vanity. A siege at Storm's End, they said. A fool's errand, and one that tied down half the Reach while Robert crushed the Targaryen host elsewhere.
Tyrion had heard the tale from a Braavosi merchant once, half-drunk in a whorehouse, of all places. Mace Tyrell, convinced by whispers that he'd be hailed as the man who took Storm's End, the great conqueror of the South.
Tyrion snorted into his cup. It sounded like a mummer's farce. And yet… could he truly put it past Mace Tyrell to be so easily led by his own vanity?
He doubted the truth of it. But truth was a slippery thing, especially in war. Even if half of it were true, it made William more legend than a man.
And this boy, this Ser Arthur Manderly, is the living memory of that legend, riding proud and tall before half the realm. Not just any knight, no. A tale reborn, a ghost wrapped in silver-blue steel with the crowd's love at his back and a lance in his hand. These tales had powers of their own.
The kind that sways lords. The kind that stirs hearts. The kind Men kill for.
A dangerous tale, Tyrion thought. One that breeds a dangerous man.
Tyrion watched as the two knights took their places across the field, ready to begin the final tilt. He looked to his brother who had lost to this boy once already. That had stung, Tyrion knew, though Jaime wore the loss with his usual lazy grace. But grace was not the same as forgetting. He would not lose again, not if pride had anything to say. A Lannister's pride was a delicate thing, beautiful, flexible, and prone to bruising at the wrong time.
Wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow with a silk sleeve Tyrion tossed back the dregs of his wine, which had long gone warm. The crowd was mad with cheers and prayers. Tyrion was beginning to suspect that the gods, whoever they were, enjoyed nothing so much as watching men spill blood.
It was almost afternoon now and the bout was still going on.
All the lords and ladies were practically leaning out of their seats, eyes fixed on the lists. Even King Robert looked enthralled as his wine cup sat full in his hand. Cersei, beside him, was all ice, her gaze locked on young Arthur with something too sharp to be called mere disdain.
The knights sat astride their mounts, both heaving with breath, shields dented, surcoats stained with sweat and dust. Jaime flexed his fingers around the haft of a broken lance, the eighth one of this bout. The boy, Arthur, gave no sign of weariness beyond the rise and fall of his chest.
Eight tilts. Eight broken lances. And still no man had fallen.
Tyrion glanced sideways at his father and saw the tightness around his jaw and his fingers curled into the head of his armrest. Was it concern? No, Tywin Lannister did not stoop to concern. Pride, on the other hand, was a different matter. And Lord Tywin's Pride was at stake here, not personal glory, but the Lannister Pride. A northern boy besting the Lion of Casterly Rock before half the realm? That would not sit well.
It had happened once before, Tyrion recalled. The Tourney at Lannisport after Balon Greyjoy's failed rebellion. Jaime had fought nine tilts against that oaf Jorah Mormont. Neither had unhorsed the other, but Robert had declared Mormont the victor. Out of spite, some whispered, spite for Cersei, for Tywin, for Jaime. Tyrion had believed it then, and believed it still.
And now they came to the ninth tilt again. Tyrion sipped the wine again and tasted nothing but tension. Jaime must unhorse him now, he thought. Else, Robert will crown the boy victor, just to needle us again. History does love to repeat itself, especially when it knows you'll hate the ending.
The horn blew, and the ninth pass began. Tyrion's breath caught despite himself.
The knights charged, silver and gold streaking across the field, their lances level, their horses thunder beneath them. A crack, like trees splitting in a storm, and again both lances shattered, fragments flying through the air like shards of fate. Neither man fell.
The silence after was worse than any roar. All eyes turned to the royal box. Tyrion looked at Robert, half-hungover and flushed. The king was rising, one meaty hand lifting as if to speak.
Seven hells, here it comes, Tyrion thought.
But before Robert could utter a word, the boy was there reining in his pale destrier before the royal box.
"My king," Arthur said, lifting his visor, "I ask that you stay your hand."
The hush was near total.
"I ask you not to name a victor," Arthur said.
His voice was strong, and too clear for one who had just spent himself over nine brutal passes. "Not yet. If Ser Jaime consents, let us continue."
Jaime cocked his head. "You want another pass?" he said, voice edged with disbelief.
Arthur nodded. "I would not have this end in doubt. Let us finish what we began. Let the gods choose the victor."
Oh, well done, boy. You'd have this moment at least, if not the victory, thought Tyrion.
Robert roared with laughter and said, "Seven hells, that's William's boy! Let the gods decide, aye!" He turned to Jaime. "What say you, Kingslayer?"
Jaime's smile was cool, tight. "I say the boy has courage. I'll not deny him."
The crowd erupted. Tyrion shook his head in wonder. The lad's a fool, he thought. A brave fool, but a fool all the same. He had the win. Now he risks it all for honor—or the tale.
And yet, Tyrion couldn't help but admire him a little. Everyone loved a brave fool. They make the best songs, and the shortest lives.
He watched as Jaime and the boy from White Harbor positioned their mounts into place for the tenth tilt. The crowd had lost none of its enthusiasm. They roared with every pass as if the world turned on each splintered lance. The two knights, golden and silver-blue, charged once more and again their lances shattered in a storm of splinters, shields jolting, horses bucking, the crowd gasping. Still no victor.
"Ten," Tyrion said aloud, counting with his stubby fingers. "Seven hells."
The eleventh tilt was no better. Both knights staggered in the saddle this time, their lances glancing off armor with a dull clang.
No splinters. No cheers. Only the disappointed groans of men, the panting horses and the creak of leather.
"They're weary," Tyrion muttered, watching Jaime shift in his saddle, rolling one shoulder stiffly. Across the lists, the boy did the same, his arm trembling ever so slightly as he hoisted the new lance.
"You see that?!" Joffrey exclaimed, his voice shrill with boyish bravado. "The Merman's falling to bits. Uncle Jaime has it now. The northerner stands no chance."
Tyrion glanced sideways at the boy, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. You'd think he'd unhorsed the lad himself.
Robert Baratheon grunted. "Hard lances! They want a quick end now."
They weren't trying to outscore each other now. This had become a matter of one man ending up in the dirt. The twelfth tilt began, horses snorting, foam on their snouts. Tyrion could hear the labored breath of the destriers, could see the wear on both knights. Jaime's grip was firm but slower, his golden armor duller under the afternoon sun. The Manderly boy, looked pale behind the visor, yet still determined to win glory.
The two knights charged like men possessed, hooves thundering, lances leveled with deadly intent. There was no finesse left, no pageantry, only raw will, battered steel, and the need to break the other. The horses hooves thundering like drums of war, banners snapping in the wind and then something strange. Arthur cast aside his shield mid-tilt and Jaime had no time to react.
Tyrion straightened in his seat. Wine sloshed down his tunic, but he barely noticed. "What is he doing?" he murmured aloud, more to himself than anyone.
The boy gripped his lance with both hands now, no shield to catch the blow, no protection but steel and will. He leaned forward in the saddle like a spear in flight, blue-green cloak flowing behind him. The crowd gasped as one. Tyrion's heart thudded in an odd and anxious beat, one he did not care for in the least.
"That boy's mad," someone muttered behind him. Tyrion couldn't disagree.
The crash of impact was louder than before, louder than any tilt that had come before it. Arthur's lance struck true, dead center, square against Jaime's gilded plate, putting all the force the boy had behind it. And Ser Jaime Lannister, the golden son of House Lannister, flew backward off his mount like a sack of grain tossed from a cart.
Silence. For a breath. For just long enough to grip, to feel, like the world just before a storm breaks.
Tyrion could hear the wind, the creak of saddle leather, the sharp huff of breath from half the royal box. Jaime hit the ground hard, golden armor scraping against the dirt of the lists. His helm rolled off, and his hair spilled out like yellow wheat across a field.
Then came the roar. A tide of sound rose up, swelling from the common folk and knights alike, shaking the banners above their heads, rattling the sky. Men and women screamed the boy's name, Arthur! Arthur!
The Northerners were beside themselves, pounding shields and hollering like wildlings, their joy as fierce as their hate. The knights of the Vale, the Riverlands, and even the Reach added their voices, happy and eager to see the lion fall. And Jaime had fallen.
Twice, twice to the same boy, Tyrion thought, A boy barely old enough to shave, knighted mere moments ago, and now the darling of the realm.
Tyrion's gaze shifted to the royal box. Cersei's face had gone white as milk, her lips pressed so tight they looked bloodless. Her green eyes never left Jaime, sprawled in the dust. She hadn't moved, but her fury was a living thing, coiled in every line of her body. If looks could kill, the boy would have been a pile of ashes by now.
His father's face had remained hauntingly still. Tyrion knew his lord father wasn't seething in silent rage like Cersie. Not rage, Lord Tywin's pride went deeper than mere anger. There were careful calculation hidden in those pale green eyes. He was already reckoning the cost of this humiliation, how it might be repaid, how it might be undone.
Robert Baratheon, meanwhile, was beside himself with glee, clapping and laughing like a boy at his name day feast. His booming voice echoed across the box, "Did you see that?" he shouted, "Like a damned catapult! Gods, I told you! Lannisters are all shine and no steel! Ha!" Robert turned to Littlefinger, grinning like a man who had just won a kingdom. "Pay up, Petyr."
Littlefinger only smiled, that thin, knowing smile of his. "Of course, Your Grace. I always pay my debts."
Tyrion arched a brow. Do you now?
Jaime rose slowly, golden plate creaking, his mouth twisted in grimace and fury. He moved like a man who had been beaten not just in body, but in pride, though he wore the defeat with the grace expected of a knight of the Kingsguard. His courtesy was a mask, as fine and fragile as the white on his cloak.
He walked to the edge of the lists, helm under one arm, and dipped his head, first to Robert, then to Arthur Manderly. A good show, Tyrion thought, but he knew his brother too well. Inside, Jaime was raging.
Tyrion let out a long, slow breath. "Well, brother," he murmured, "it seems the lion's share of glory goes elsewhere today."
Tyrion's eyes, found the man of the moment, Ser Arthur Manderly, tall and gleaming in silver-blue steel, visor lifted to reveal a flushed face flushed with triumph. His eyes were bright, mouth set in a boy's grin that hadn't yet learned the weight of glory. He raised his lance high in salute, first to Robert, who thumped his chest in return, then to Jaime, who gave the faintest of nods, and finally to the crowd.
And they loved him,for now, but how long will it last well that was the question?