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American Horror: Grind Edition
The Hound realized he was screwed a split second too late.
He yanked his shield up on pure instinct, but the impact still hit like a freight train. For one frozen heartbeat everything stopped—him, the world, the roar of the crowd.
His black destrier screamed and reared, front hooves clawing the air as the momentum nearly flipped it over.
Then the Hound was flying.
He slammed into the dirt hard enough to rattle his teeth. White-hot pain exploded through his chest and back. It felt like every bone in his body had come loose.
A tidal wave of cheers crashed over the field.
Lying there, the Hound forced his eyes open and twisted his head. The last thing he saw was a shining white-and-gold figure on a white stallion, riding a victory lap while the stands lost their minds.
His head dropped. Darkness swallowed him whole.
"YES! Ser Neo just unhorsed the Hound!"
"NEO! NEO! NEO!"
The entire crowd shot to their feet, screaming his name, showering the lists with flower petals that rained down like colorful snow.
Even King Robert jumped up, pumping his fist. "Neo! That was fucking brilliant!" He threw his head back and laughed, then drained his cup in one pull, wine spilling into his beard and down his chest.
Around the king everyone was grinning and clapping—except Joffrey. The prince's face flushed dark red. He was breathing like a bull, teeth grinding so hard they clicked. He wanted to scream that the Hound was useless, but the roaring crowd drowned him out.
Finally he spun on his heel and stormed off the dais.
Cersei saw her son's rage and hurried after him. Jaime followed with a sigh—he was Kingsguard now, and that meant babysitting the royal brats whether he liked it or not.
No one else noticed the three of them leave. Every eye in the stands was still glued to Leo.
Leo rode a slow victory lap, Varyn and the rest of his men cheering at his side. He glanced back once and watched the guards load the unconscious Hound onto a stretcher. He shook his head.
Losers really do get forgotten fast.
He looked toward the royal box. Joffrey was already gone. Typical.
Leo leaned down and spoke quietly to Varyn. "Take some coin and go check on the Hound. Whatever he needs for healing—pay it. No skimping."
Varyn blinked, confused, but nodded and jogged off without a word.
Leo didn't hate the man. If anything, he wanted to pull him closer—maybe even save him. The Hound in the books eventually became something more than just Cersei's attack dog. Leo figured a little kindness now might pay off huge later.
The next joust started almost immediately.
The moment the two riders entered the lists, the crowd exploded again—this time even louder.
One of them was the Knight of Flowers himself: Loras Tyrell.
Sixteen years old, riding a pure white stallion, wearing that ridiculously flashy silver armor from the show—every inch covered in delicate flower engravings and bright enamel. His cloak was embroidered with blooming roses. He looked like he'd stepped out of a song.
Loras had already unhorsed several famous knights in earlier rounds. After every win he'd pull off his helmet, pluck a rose from his belt, and toss it to the prettiest girl in the stands.
Handsome, skilled, and theatrical as hell—he was the fantasy of half the noble ladies in the Seven Kingdoms.
The female screaming when he appeared was deafening. Louder than it had been for Leo.
Loras and his opponent trotted to the royal box and saluted the king.
Leo, back in his seat now, smiled politely. Inside he was smirking.
He'd caught the way Loras's eyes lingered a little too long on Renly Baratheon. The look was subtle, but unmistakable—warm, intimate, full of hidden heat. Renly stared right back with the same secret smile and even stepped forward to wish him luck.
Still banging each other in secret, Leo thought. Classic.
Everyone at court knew. No one dared say it out loud.
Loras had once been Renly's squire. Now he was his secret lover. All the public rose-tossing to pretty girls was just smoke to hide what they really were.
In Westeros, same-sex relationships were officially a sin in the eyes of the Faith. But among the highborn it happened all the time—especially down in Dorne, where things were a lot more open. Men with men, women with women, everyone with everyone. No one batted an eye.
Back on the field, Loras and his opponent took their positions.
Loras's foe was Ser Preston Greenfield, one of King Robert's Kingsguard. A landed knight from the Westerlands, loyal to Casterly Rock, picked for the white cloak because of his sword arm.
They charged.
First pass: lances shattered, both riders stayed mounted. The crowd still screamed louder for Loras.
Second pass. Third. More broken lances. Still even.
But anyone paying attention—including Leo—could see Loras was clearly better. The kid was showing off, twirling his lance between strikes and blowing a kiss toward the royal box.
He was deliberately pissing off his opponent.
It worked. Ser Preston's face grew redder with every cheer that wasn't for him.
On the next pass Loras spotted the opening. He struck clean and hard.
Preston flew from the saddle.
Loras was already raising his arm to celebrate the win when disaster hit.
As Preston fell, his lance somehow tangled in Loras's reins. The horses crossed paths at full speed. The violent yank dragged Loras straight off his own mount.
He hit the ground hard, tumbling end over end in a clatter of silver armor.
The entire field gasped in shock.