Facing off against Ser Arthur once again, I saluted him back with raised lance, couched it, then set off at a gallop, Smoker's hooves churning the sandy ground beneath me.
Except this time, I had settled on how I'd beat him.
It was a dumb idea, reckless, and bound to see me carried off the field on a stretcher even if I won. But the grin did not leave my face even as another lance burst against my armor, this time catching me on the right shoulder.
I gasped, wobbled, blinked away tears and fought to catch my breath. Thunderous noise from the stands rolled over me like a crashing wave. Spears of pain stabbed at my shoulder. But I did not fall. And I did not let my lance fall.
When I found Pate once again at the end of the lane, I told him simply, "Don't bother."
I decided the lance in my hand would be the one I'd carry to the end, whether victory or defeat. Then I rode off, not giving myself time to think.
On the other end of the lane, Ser Arthur had the same idea, and his squire tossed him a lance as he thundered past him. Despite the rush, the Sword of the Morning's form was flawless. A titan above his steed, posture tall and unyielding.
I cracked up at the sight of him, chuckling to myself. My own riding had turned lousy. Still better than most of the riders who started on the tourney, but I wasn't trying to reach for that connection with Smoker like I had practice a few nights prior.
With too much in my head after the meeting with Tywin, I had already tried and failed to do so in the first few bouts. No need to put mental energy on that.
I didn't even focus on my own jousting form. Instead, my target was solely watching Ser Arthur gallop toward me.
Like the last two tilts, I tried to match every subtle shift in his armor to the muscles beneath it, to track the faintest movement of his fingers clutching his lance, the smallest tilt of his head.
If I held on against his onslaught for enough bouts, could I figure out where his eyes looked without even seeing them under his helm?
The idea was ludicrous, and I was laughing even as we clashed again in the middle of the tiltlane. Except now, his lance crashed against my shield, breaking apart into a thousand pieces, and I stood firm above Smoker.
I cackled as I rode past him, screaming out, "I see you! I see you!" like I'd gone mad, even if I knew the noise of the crowd would drown out my words.
Despite what I said, my respect for Ser Arthur did nothing but increase. He truly deserved to become the legend he was meant to be. There were no tricks to his jousting. No secret techniques, no cheating.
He had just practiced. Practiced to perfection. If Ser Tygett Lannister's form had been textbook, then Ser Arthur Dayne rode like he invented the sport himself.
His reflexes were honed to the point where he could react to my own last-second movements, and in that smallest of windows of time, explore any gap I left in my form.
That's why, in this last bout, I had not tried to counter his own strike by trying to defend myself with my shield at the last moment.
Instead, I had simply held the shield on the same spot the whole time. With no movement, there was nothing to react to.
I knew how to win now. I also knew it would hurt like hell.
Before I could enact the final part in my plan, I noticed Smoker favoring one side as we trotted down the lane. Looking down at him, I noticed a finger-sized splinter of wood from Ser Arthur's broken lance lodged on his upper left front leg, right beneath a gap on his barding.
Lifting up my shieldhand, I called for the attention of one of the tourney's attendants and pointed at the spot on Smoker's leg.
Realizing what I meant, the man ran off somewhere waving his hands in the air. He'd notify Ser Arthur first, then the announcer.
These things were quite common during tourneys, and though I'd have to either forfeit or change horses if Smoker couldn't continue, the wooden shard seemed more a discomfort than an actual injury.
We quickly made our way down the lane to where my squire would be. I couldn't reach the spot myself from where I sat, and it would be a huge pain in the ass to dismount in full jousting gear with a shield in one hand and my lucky lance in the other.
"Pate!" I called out, but could not see the boy anywhere.
My brows furrowed. Had he taken my earlier dismissal as an actual discharge of his duties?
I rode further down the lane to where the squires kept the spare lances and saw to their knight's equipment before and after the joust. It was a small area tucked around the corner of the tiltlane, fenced off by waist-height railing and a tiny wooden roof for the squires to hide from the sun.
There, I found my giant-sized tweenage squire body-blocking a little girl from running into the field.
She was screaming at him, tugging at his clothes, kicking at his shin, all while a red-faced Pate stuttered out apologies even as he held her back.
It would've been an amusing sight were I not in the middle of jousting the goddamn Sword of the Morning in front of half the realm.
It would've been even funnier had I not recognized the girl trying to slip past a boy twice her size.
"Ari?" I blurted out from above Smoker.
xxx
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