Arianne of Tarth
It took another minute for Galladon to come out above his own destrier, his plain armor a stark difference to the kingsguard enameled plate.
The only identifying item Galladon wore, the sapphire ribbon tied about his elbow, shone like jewelry under the sunlight.
To her surprise, the smallfolk crowded on the small hill opposite the noble stands cried out even louder for her brother, waving madly and punching the air like the armored mystery knight was one of their own.
The riding started before Arianne even had a chance to catch her breath. A quick announcement by the crier and the riders were off in full tilt.
Despite figuring out her brother's secret entrance into the tournament early on, Arianne had not been worried about its outcome.
Her brother was her brother. She had seen him practice at the yard for countless hours since she was young enough to walk. She had never seen someone ride like him. Never seen someone so dedicated to fighting in all its forms.
Why, then, when the first lance broke upon Galladon's armor in a shower of wooden shards, did she suddenly feel like her heart was trying to burst its way out of her chest? Why did Ser Arthur—despite certainly not being her brother—look like he also rode as if he'd been born on the saddle?
She found her own hand grasping at Alysanne's fingers despite the sweat wetting her palm. Their mother gasped at the impact of the lance, her previous excitement turning to fear, followed by the clamor and applause from the crowd.
Her brother wouldn't lose, would he? His own lance had not made contact with Ser Arthur's armor beyond a glancing blow to the shield. No, he couldn't lose, she thought, but a knot had formed on her throat that made it hard to breathe.
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Galladon
The impact of the lance exploding against my plate drove all the air from my lungs like a vacuum. I swayed above the saddle for a moment, chest pulsing with pain, head ringing.
It was only the muscle memory of endless days in the tiltyard that kept me from falling off my perch. My legs knew to hold on even if my brain lagged behind.
Pushing myself upright with a grunt, I blinked away the black spots in my vision even as I bumped my knees against Smoker's torso in a practiced manner. The horse slowed down on cue, neighing softly as if to ask me if I was alright.
My shieldarm bent down to pat him on his side. I would be, but I needed all the time I could get to recover and think things through, even the precious few seconds between each bout.
All around, the crowd's roar felt like a thunderstorm, powerful but distant. They had cheered for me just a few minutes earlier, but what they were really here to see was a spectacle, no matter who won.
In the end, it was all bread and games for the smallfolk and a show of martial prowess to us nobles.
Jousting was also, in essence, a very solitary sport. I had nothing to liken it to from back home in my modern life beyond the ancient practice itself.
At least with boxing and mixed martial arts you had a whole coaching team in your corner to whisper instructions in your ears throughout the fight, or slap you in the face with a motivating metaphor about willpower or some nonsense.
Here, all I had was Smoker, and I should count myself lucky for it.
Well, not quite, I thought, when the huffing, pimpled-face stableboy ran up to the end of the lane with a trio of wooden lances for me to pick from.
I had Pate too.
I shook my head at the ridiculous thought. He need not have bothered bringing them. The weight still couched against my right arm told a complete story.
My lance had missed entirely, while Ser Arthur's seemed like an unerring missile slipping past my shield.
I ran the last tilt quickly through my head, playing out how Ser Arthur got the best of me despite my picture perfect jousting once again. Third bout already, and I had not left a scratch in his armor.
One moment I was sure I had him pegged, lance aimed at the heart, shield in the best position to intercept his strike. Next thing I know he moved in a way that had my lance flying off toward nowhere and half a ton of force was being kindly introduced onto my ribcage.
Hell, if I had not slightly tilted my body to the side, the force behind the blow might have caught me dead on and been enough to topple me off of Smoker.
A sudden laugh escaped me, sounding louder than it should beneath my full-faced helm. Despite the deep ache in my chest I was sure would turn into the mother of all bruises, I did not feel dread at the prospect of losing. Instead, my blood ran hot and the ringing in my head felt more like drums rising in tempo.
Sure, all my short term plans would be ruined and the trip to the tourney would have been largely a waste, but I could deal with that if it meant I got to ride against opponents on the level of Ser Arthur Dayne.
What a fucking thrill.
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