Tournaments in Westeros were never merely entertainment. They were political theatre, carefully staged displays of power, prestige, and wealth. Whenever the royal family hosted one, the prize purses were enormous — ten thousand gold dragons for the joust alone was enough to make even great lords raise their brows.
Yet the crown rarely worried about losing that gold.
Because most often, the victors were their own men.
Kingsguard knights, royal relatives, or noble houses tightly bound to the throne usually carried the prizes away — only for the money to circle quietly back into royal influence, if not directly the treasury itself. Patronage, gifts, political debts — gold had a way of returning home.
This time, however, things were different.
The archery purse had gone to a Narnian.
The melee purse had gone to Harry Gryffindor.
Not catastrophic losses for House Targaryen — their coffers were still deep — but the symbolism irritated King Rhaegar more than the gold itself.
Foreigners taking Westerosi glory in the heart of King's Landing was not something he appreciated.
Still, he found some comfort.
The Narnians had refused the joust.
And that meant the biggest prize — ten thousand gold dragons — could still remain within the realm.
Preferably in the hands of a Kingsguard.
The lists had been reset by noon. Fresh sand covered churned mud, banners were straightened, and the crowd had grown even larger. Word of the earlier victories had spread through the city like wildfire, drawing smallfolk and nobles alike.
Harry sat in the royal viewing stand, outwardly calm. Beside him, Sirius practically vibrated with excitement, leaning forward so far he nearly toppled over the railing.
"This is incredible," Sirius whispered. "They're actually trying to knock each other off horses with giant sticks."
Harry chuckled softly. "That's a very accurate description of jousting."
"You never did this in Narnia."
"We don't have knights," Harry reminded him. "And honestly, I prefer fighting where both feet are on the ground."
Across from Sirius sat Princess Daenerys Targaryen. Unlike him, she reacted very differently to the spectacle.
Whenever two armored knights thundered together and a lance splintered, Sirius leaned closer.
Daenerys flinched.
When a rider toppled hard into the dirt, she covered her eyes instinctively.
"Are they… badly hurt?" she asked nervously after one particularly violent fall.
"Usually just bruised," Sirius said reassuringly. "Most armor absorbs the impact."
Harry added gently, "But sometimes it goes wrong."
Daenerys nodded quietly, though she didn't uncover her eyes until the fallen knight rose again.
The jousting itself was magnificent.
Arthur Dayne rode like a legend — precise, composed, almost elegant in the saddle. Barristan Selmy was the embodiment of discipline, his movements efficient and deadly. Jaime Lannister displayed youthful confidence bordering on arrogance, but his skill justified it. Even Oberyn Martell, who preferred spear combat, showed surprising competence with the lance.
And then there was young Willas Tyrell.
Sixteen years old. Newly knighted. Tall, earnest, eager to prove himself. The Reach delegation cheered him loudly, pride evident in every shout.
"He's good," Sirius murmured after watching him unhorse a seasoned knight.
"Yes," Harry agreed. "Talented. And brave."
The rounds continued. Splintered lances littered the field. Horses snorted, armored men rose shakily or were helped away.
Excitement built steadily.
This was what the crowd loved — controlled danger, chivalric glory, noble competition.
Then came the tilt that changed everything.
Oberyn Martell versus Willas Tyrell.
The Prince of Dorne flashed his usual reckless grin as he lowered his visor. Willas looked focused but respectful — the kind of young knight who still believed tournaments were about honor.
The herald's flag dropped.
Hooves thundered.
The two knights charged.
The impact was brutal.
Oberyn's lance struck perfectly — too perfectly. It caught Willas high on the shield, twisting his torso violently sideways. The lance shattered, but the force unbalanced Willas completely.
His horse panicked.
It stumbled.
And then it went down.
Hard.
The sound of impact was sickening — armor slamming against earth, horse screaming, wood cracking.
For a heartbeat, the crowd still cheered.
Then Willas screamed.
And the sound cut through everything.
Silence spread across the tourney grounds like a cold wind.
Knights rushed forward first, then squires, then maesters. Oberyn himself was already dismounted, helmet off, face suddenly stripped of all humor.
"Easy, lad… easy," he said, kneeling beside Willas.
But the young knight's leg lay at a wrong angle.
No armor could hide it.
The horse had rolled partly onto him before scrambling away, and the damage was obvious.
"Gods…" someone whispered in the stands.
Daenerys turned pale and pressed her face into her hands.
Sirius stopped smiling entirely.
Harry rose slowly, eyes narrowed.
Maesters began issuing orders.
"Hold him still!"
"Don't move the leg!"
"Get a stretcher!"
Willas's breathing came in ragged gasps.
"My leg… I can't feel my leg…"
"You will," one maester said quickly, though his expression betrayed doubt.
Oberyn looked genuinely shaken.
"I didn't mean—" he began, voice rough.
"It was a clean strike," Arthur Dayne said quietly beside him. "No fault of yours."
But fault didn't matter to a sixteen-year-old writhing in agony.
The festive atmosphere had vanished completely. Nobles whispered anxiously. The Reach contingent looked stricken.
And King Rhaegar sat very still, jaw tight.
This was the danger of spectacle.
This was why tournaments were never harmless games.
Sirius spoke softly.
"Can you help him?"
Harry didn't answer immediately.
He watched the maesters working. Watched the fear spreading among the nobles. Watched the realization dawning on Willas that his knightly future might be ending before it began.
Finally, Harry said quietly,
"Yes. I probably can."
Sirius turned, hopeful.
"Then why aren't you—"
"Because," Harry said gently, "this isn't just medicine. It's politics."
He glanced toward Rhaegar, toward the Tyrell delegation, toward the gathered lords.
"If I intervene openly… it changes things."
Sirius frowned.
"But he's just a boy."
Harry's expression softened.
"Yes," he said. "He is."
And for a moment, the king of Narnia looked less like a ruler weighing consequences… and more like a father deciding what kind of world he wanted his son to inherit.
The Tyrell pavilion stood apart from the other noble tents, vast and richly embroidered in green and gold, yet that evening it felt less like a noble residence and more like a sickroom weighed down by dread. Servants moved quietly, voices hushed, as though even sound itself might worsen the suffering within.
Inside, Willas Tyrell lay propped against thick cushions, sweat beading on his brow despite the cool evening air. His armor had long since been removed, replaced by bandages and splints that ran the length of his shattered leg. The injury was gruesome even beneath the wrappings — twisted unnaturally, swollen, and already showing angry discoloration.
The maesters had done what they could.
Which, as it turned out, was very little.
"He will live," the senior maester had said earlier, voice cautious.
That had been the only certainty.
"The leg… broken in three places. Even if the bones knit, he may never walk without aid. Infection remains a grave concern."
And then they had left.
Because there was nothing more to do.
Now the Tyrell family gathered close — Mace Tyrell pacing restlessly, Lady Olenna seated rigid beside the bed, Willas's mother hovering anxiously, and his siblings and cousins and retainers watching helplessly.
Willas's voice broke the silence.
"I was doing well," he said hoarsely. "I unhorsed two knights already. I thought… I thought this might be my year."
Olenna reached out, surprisingly gentle, and brushed damp hair from his forehead.
"You did splendidly," she said. "Half the Reach will be boasting about your skill by morning."
"That doesn't matter," Willas whispered. "If I can't ride… if I can't fight…"
He swallowed hard.
"What use is a crippled heir to the Reach?"
The question hung heavy in the tent.
In Westeros, strength commanded respect. Weakness invited doubt.
And heirs were expected to embody power.
Willas's mother spoke hesitantly.
"There… there may still be hope."
Mace stopped pacing.
"What hope?" he snapped. "The maesters said—"
"The Narnian king," she interrupted softly. "Harry Gryffindor. He healed Queen Elia when no one else could. Everyone knows that."
At once, all eyes turned toward her.
"He practices magic," she continued. "And his gods… they are said to have healing power. Perhaps—"
Willas's eyes lit for the first time since the accident.
"Do you think he would?" he asked quietly. "Help me, I mean?"
The hope in his voice was fragile, almost painful to hear.
Mace Tyrell's reaction was immediate and explosive.
"Absolutely not."
Silence followed.
"I will not have House Tyrell crawling to some foreign sorcerer king," Mace continued, voice rising. "We are Lords Paramount of the Reach, we follow the seven! If my son must limp, he will limp with dignity. But we will not abase ourselves."
Willas flinched.
Olenna did not.
She slapped Mace so hard the sound echoed through the tent.
Everyone froze.
Even Mace looked more startled than angry.
"You insufferable fool," Olenna said coldly. "Your son may never walk again, and you are worried about gods?"
"It's about honor—"
"It's about your pride," she cut in sharply. "And pride won't help Willas stand."
Mace opened his mouth again.
Olenna leaned closer, eyes dangerous.
"You will go to that foreign king," she said slowly, "and you will ask him — politely — to heal your son."
"And if I refuse?"
Her smile was terrifying.
"Then perhaps you will suffer a small accident of your own. And afterward, I can beg for you while you lie in bed wondering why your legs don't work."
No one doubted she meant it.
Not even Mace.
He had grown up with Lady Olenna Tyrell as his mother. Surviving her temper was practically a rite of passage.
The tension broke slightly as a few nervous servants pretended to busy themselves with candles and linens.
Mace rubbed his cheek where she'd struck him.
"…Fine," he muttered. "No need for dramatics."
"Everything with you requires dramatics," Olenna replied briskly. "Otherwise nothing gets done."
Willas managed a weak smile despite the pain.
His mother squeezed his hand.
"We will ask him," she promised. "All of us. Together. Properly."
Willas nodded, hope flickering again.
"I don't care about pride," he admitted softly. "I just… I want to ride again. Even if not in tourneys. Just… ride."
Olenna's voice softened — a rare thing.
"And you shall," she said. "If that king can do what people say he can."
Then her expression hardened once more.
"And if he refuses… well, we will cross that bridge later."
The tourney did not end with Willas Tyrell's scream.
King's Landing had seen too many broken men to let one wounded heir drown the day's hunger for spectacle. The commons still shouted, the highborn still wagered, and the lists still thundered beneath hooves. The heralds called names. The trumpets blared. And the sun, stubborn and golden, continued to hang above the city like it did not care at all who limped and who bled.
By late afternoon the field had narrowed, until only the finest remained.
Arthur Dayne rode out with the pale calm of a man who was never truly nervous. Dawn—his sword—was not with him, of course; steel did not enter the lists. But the legend of him rode just the same. His white cloak streamed behind his shoulders, his helm gleamed, and his lance sat as steady as a spear in a practiced hand.
Across from him came Oberyn Martell, laughing inside his helm, loose-limbed even in armor, as if the whole world were a game he had already decided to win. The crowd roared louder for the Dornish prince than for any other knight, because Oberyn made war look like a dance and danger look like a flirtation.
They met once.
A crack like a tree splitting in winter.
Both lances shattered, and both riders held.
They met again.
Again the thunder. Again the splinters.
Once, twice, three times—each pass drew gasps, cheers, curses. Seven lances broke between them, and still neither fell. It became less a joust and more a duel fought at a gallop, two men too proud to yield and too skilled to make a simple mistake.
On the eighth pass, Arthur Dayne lowered his lance a fraction, not higher, not lower—truer. Oberyn struck first and still lost, because Dayne's point hit with an exactness that felt unfair. Oberyn's saddle twisted. His horse staggered. And then the Red Viper of Dorne hit the dirt with a heavy, armor-sapping thud that knocked the breath out of him.
A hush—then a roar.
Arthur Dayne reined in, turned, and raised his lance in salute.
Oberyn rolled to his back, looked up at the sky as if accusing it, and then laughed even as squires ran to him.
"Well," he called, voice muffled through his helm, "that was rude."
Arthur's reply carried across the sand.
"You broke seven on me," he said evenly. "I felt it only fair to answer."
Oberyn's grin was audible.
"I'll remember that the next time someone tells me being a Kingsguard makes you rusted."
The day ended in acclaim and coin, in bruises and broken pride, and in a new champion crowned beneath banners that snapped in the wind.
But Harry Gryffindor did not linger.
Author's Note:
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