Chapter 7: To Prance Among Roses and Over Mountains
A nervous Sansa Stark shifted in her green dress as a murmur arose over the crowd; the next match of the Hand's Tourney was set to begin any moment. Her brow furrowed with worry. This was Nat, her betrothed's round, and he was set to face one of the largest men Sansa had ever seen. She was hardly sure the man would be able to ride his horse without breaking the poor beast's back.
Scanning the pitch, Sansa spotted a brilliant set of antlers breaching the shadow of one of the stands. That must be Nat! Sansa thought to herself, perking up in her seat. The feeling of elation was quickly replaced with one of embarrassment and a deep shame as the memory of her last interaction with the prince crept to the forefront of her thoughts. He had scolded her like she was a child, even though she was only doing what she thought any good wife would have done! Though she hadn't done much to prove him wrong in treating her as such, running off with tears in her eyes like that.
Sansa set her jaw. Whether she had been acting childish or not wasn't what was bothering her. The prince had roared at her with hardly any prompting. That wasn't like him…or it wasn't what she thought he was like. In truth, she had only known Nat Baratheon for a few months, and she only knew the fake face he wore in public. She had realized it after their walk in Princess Myrcella's garden, when she had seen his expression upon noticing that rude common woman. The prince was constantly wearing a mask, a jovial, charming, noble disguise - but a disguise, nevertheless.
How could she really know someone that only wore a mask around her? Her mother had promised that a real marriage was built on a mutual respect, but Nat didn't even respect her enough to take the mask off when they were alone! Perhaps he really was his father's son with the temper he had displayed.
Sansa's eyes trailed the prince as he mounted his horse and rode down the jousting pitch. She pursed her lips. It doesn't matter whether he's nice to me or not she thought we are betrothed and so I will support him as is my duty…but I cannot feign loving a man that clearly does not love me she concluded with a silent dread. Theirs would not be a marriage of love after all.
"You know, you ought to be careful, clench your jaw any harder and you might shatter your teeth," a shrewd voice rattled nearby.
Sansa spun to find a strange man with greying sideburns smiling down at her. He seemed familiar, but she couldn't quite place his face. He sat beside her on the bench as Nat and the Mountain made their way toward one another on the jousting pitch.
"I'm sorry. Do I...?"
"Sansa, dear," Septa Mordane interjected, saving her. "This is Lord Baelish, he's known-"
"An old friend of the family. I've known your mother for a long long time," Lord Baelish explained.
Arya leaned forward and looked up at him curiously, "Why do they call you Littlefinger?"
Sansa and Septa Mordane shared a look of horror. Despite years of schooling on manners and ladylike behavior, Arya still insisted on being blunt in almost every conversation.
"Arya!"
"Don't be rude!"
Lord Baelish held up a hand and chuckled, "No it's quite alright," he hunched over slightly, leaning towards Arya. "When I was a child I was very small, and I come from a little spit of land called The Fingers, so you see, its an exceedingly clever nickname."
A bellow came from above them. King Robert was bloated, red in the face, and evidently in need of a refill of wine. "I've been sitting here for days, start the damn joust before I piss myself!"
Lord Baelish shook his head and traced the large figure moving past them with his eyes. The Mountain.
Sansa couldn't help but grimace at the sight of him, "Gods…who is he, really?"
"Ser Gregor Clegane. They call him the Mountain as you might know. He's the Hound's older brother," Lord Baelish explained.
Sansa knew the Hound much better than his brother, which did little to quell her fears. The Hound was a terrifying, beast of a man, and here was his older brother. She didn't think it possible for a man to be so tall.
Nat and the Mountain finally reached the center of the pitch. The Mountain bowed to Robert, acknowledging the King's authority. Nat, similarly, nodded to his father in reverence.
"Yes, yes, enough of the bloody pomp. Have at it!" the King scoffed with a wave.
The Mountain lowered his face plate, as did Nat with what Sansa thought was a roll of his eyes, though she could hardly tell from the distance. As they rounded the pitch, Sansa felt her heart beating loudly in her ears. She had never been to a joust before, much less one involving a man she was in courtship with and a man she was certain could lift a horse over his head.
There was a tense moment in the air as they faced one another at the ends of the pitch. Sansa could hear Lord Baelish breathing at her side. She could feel Arya fidgeting on her other side. It seemed the second would last forever, but then, the two horses shot towards one another.
With a pounding of hooves and the flash of jousting lances, the two men clashed.
~0~0~0~
Lord Eddard Stark, Hand to the King, stood on the balcony of his chambers, gazing solemnly over the city of King's Landing. A warm spring breeze tickled his skin and whispered in his ear. It carried news of the tournament being held in his honor. The tournament Robert had refused to cancel, despite his pleading. He thought he could hear the beating of hooves, the cry of women and children, and the sound of armor being pierced in the distance.
No, all that he could hear was the breeze.
What have I come here for if you won't listen to me, Robert? Ned thought to himself.
A good question. What good was he to the King, really? Clearly the Queen wasn't happy with his appointment. All Robert had done was ignore his advice. For what reason had he come to King's Landing if not to serve?
A knock sounded behind him and the door to his chambers opened, revealing the captain of his household guard, Jory Cassel.
"My Lord, Her Grace the Queen," he introduced.
Queen Cersei Lannister stepped into his chambers, light reflecting magnificently off of her golden hair. Her eyes were narrowed as she walked to the center of the room to face him.
"Your Grace."
Cersei smiled pleasantly, "You're missing your tournament."
Ned smiled back without humor, "Putting my name on it doesn't make it mine."
Cersei frowned and shifted on her feet, "I thought we might put what happened on the King's Road behind us- that ugliness with the wolves- I've heard you did your duty, rather savagely, might I say."
Ned thought back to the King's Road and the crown prince's saving of his daughter's direwolf. She'd successfully been hidden away and led to the Red Keep's kennels without the Queen's knowledge, having been substituted for a decapitated wolf killed by mistake.
Ned grunted his acknowledgement. Cersei sighed and continued, "Well, needless to say forcing you to kill the beast was extreme, though sometimes we go to extremes where our children are concerned," she paused. "How is Sansa?"
Ned gripped the back of his chair and leaned forwards, "She likes it here."
Cersei smiled again, "The only Stark who does; favors her mother, not much of the North in her."
"What are you doing here?" Ned asked bluntly.
Cersei's faux smile faded, "I might ask you the same thing, what is it you hope to accomplish?"
"The King called me to serve him and the realm and that's what I'll do until he tells me otherwise."
Something changed in the Queen's gaze. Ned thought he saw a strange light in her eyes as she turned away from him, a bitter tone in her voice, "You can't change him. You can't help him. He'll do what he wants, which is all he's ever done…" she trailed off. Cersei fixed her emerald eyes on Ned's gray eyes, "You'll try your best to pick up the pieces."
"If that's my job, then so be it."
She gave him a vindictive look, "You're just a soldier, aren't you?" The Queen shook her head and her smile widened, "You take your orders and carry on, though I suppose that makes sense- your brother was taught to lead and you were taught to follow."
This time Ned narrowed his eyes, catching the slight, "I was also trained to kill my enemies, Your Grace."
Cersei stared at him coldly before turning to leave, "As was I."
The Queen made her way to the door, pausing and glancing over her shoulder at the Hand of the King, "You should know that that gambit you've made with my son seems to be working, for your sake and his, let's hope it keeps working."
With a whip of golden hair, she strode into the hall and out of sight.
~0~0~0~
Nat stroked Nightstrider's mane as he rounded the end of the jousting pitch, lining up alongside the dividing median. He could feel the horse's anxiety beneath him. He all but trembled in anticipation. Or…was that the prince? Could he really be allowing his nerves to get the better of him?
A cheer went up from the crowd as his opponent rounded the opposite end, lining up on the other side of the median. Well, certainly nerves could be expected facing a man like that. The crown prince peered down the pitch from within his face plate.
Ser Gregor Clegane…the Mountain he thought, watching the man's horse kick up dirt as he pulled it in line. All the men in this tourney and I'm to compete against him first? Ha! Well, the Gods certainly have a sense of humor don't they?
Suddenly, silence. It was time.
The prince watched as the Mountain set his elbow, leveling his lance and raising his shield. Oh yes, it would certainly look funny if he was stuck with the pointy end of that lance with the force of that behemoth behind it.
Nat exhaled and leveled his own lance, acknowledging the Mountain's challenge. He knew the optics this first match would have. The crown prince of a dynasty barely twenty years established dueling perhaps the strongest man in the realm after the appointment of a famous rebel lord to the Hand of the King? No, this was no mere tourney nor a simple match for coin. It was an indicator. Of the Baratheon's order. Of his father's will. Of the future of the Seven Kingdoms.
He must win.
The Mountain roared and spurred his mount. His horse trotted slowly at first, building speed as it lugged his weight down the pitch towards the prince. Nat shouted and spurred, Nightstrider exploding with energy as he burst towards the Mountain.
Nat was no fool. He knew he could not take the force of the Mountain's thrust. He would be lucky if his shield survived one blow, much less a second. If it were a battle of strength, the Mountain would win, no matter what he tried. If it were a battle of strategy, well, that Nat could manage.
Nat lowered his head as they drew closer. The Mountain's size offered him a tremendous advantage in every physical contest. However, it also came with a drawback: weight. Nat grinned to himself as he watched the Mountain approach; he was correct after all.
The Mountain held his lance level, shield stiffly in front of him. His form was rigid, not because he was inexperienced, the Mountain had been in many tournaments before, but because he couldn't afford a loose form. If a man of his stature and weight attempted an agile maneuver on horseback he would bring himself to the ground, and his mount along with him. Nat, on the other hand, had his elbow out to the side, shield lifted but loose.
He could be agile where the Mountain could not. If Nat were to win, this would be a battle of both strategy and speed.
He saw the laborious blow coming, almost in slow motion. The Mountain's lance was aimed at the prince's side. Unfortunately for the prince, the Mountain's range was great and he needed only to lean slightly toward the meridian to strike. Then again, so did Nat.
The crown prince, with his superior speed, batted the Mountain's lance away and struck swiftly, piercing the man in the pit of his arm. The Mountain groaned and twisted, much too hard, away from the lance. Nightstrider slowed to a trot as Nat could hear the crowd gasp and the loud screeching of a horse falling.
Rounding the end of the pitch, Nat watched as the Mountain struggled to pull himself from the tangle of limbs he was trapped under. Satisfied, the prince lifted his face plate and waved to the crowd victoriously, screams following his hand.
"NO!" thundered the Mountain, clutching his bloodied arm and rising to his feet. The man's helm had been thrown off in the fall and Nat could see the red blood flushing to his cheeks as his anger rose.
He snatched his discarded lance from the ground and charged the prince.
Nat frowned. Well this isn't going to end well he thought as he hastily dismounted Nightstrider. Within seconds, the Mountain was on him. From all sides Nat heard screams and gasps as the Mountain lurched, stabbing downwards with his lance. The prince dove to the side, crashing to the ground as the lance shattered against the ground.
The prince sputtered at the Mountain's feet, grasping for anything he could reach. His fingers found a shard of the Mountain's lance half buried in the dirt near his head. Acting swiftly, the prince threw the shard at the Mountain, striking the man square in the jaw as he loomed over him.
The Mountain grunted and stumbled backwards into half a dozen Lannister and Baratheon guards that had come to apprehend him, including his own squire. With a huff, the Mountain threw the men off of him and stormed away, carving a clear path through the crowd of spectators as he left.
Nat pulled his helm off as his family guards hoisted him to his feet, cool spring air prickling his skin. With a terse laugh, the crown prince bowed to his father to a stunned audience.
Well the prince thought, taking Nightstrider's reins and leading him out of the pitch I suppose if nobody had tried to kill me today it wouldn't have been much of a show.
~0~0~0~
"I hit him. I hit the dragon."
Daenerys Targaryen paced back and forth anxiously, recalling her interaction with her elder brother Viserys only hours earlier. Tensions between the two had been high for…well, as long as she could remember, but recently Viserys had grown…unhinged. Erratic. Culminating in his dragging a servant girl she had sent to invite him to dinner into her tent by her hair.
"Your brother Rhaegar was the last dragon, Viserys is less than the shadow of a snake," Lord Jorah Mormont said from beside her. The Khaleesi's anxieties over the day's events had bubbled over to the point where she simply couldn't keep it to herself anymore, hence the exiled knight's presence.
She shook her head, "He is still the true king."
"The truth now," Jorah said, stalling her, "Do you want to see your brother on the Iron Throne?"
"No," she said quickly, "But…the common people are waiting for him, Illyrio says they weave dragon banners and pray for his return."
Jorah smiled softly, "The common people pray for rain, health, and a summer that never ends- they don't care what games the high lords play."
She looked up at him, violet eyes seeming to sparkle in the soft light of the evening. Jorah could feel his heart beating in his chest. This girl was special, he had decided, but he hadn't anticipated how she would make him feel.
"And what do you pray for, Ser Jorah?"
Jorah's face hardened and his eyes seemed to dull. "Home," he whispered, eyes seeing distant grey skies, rocky shores, and forested hills that weren't there.
Daenerys's face hardened in turn, "I pray for home too," she began. "My brother will never win back the Seven Kingdoms. He couldn't lead an army even if my husband gave him one."
The Khaleesi's face gained a far-off expression, cold and bitter. "He'll never take us home."
~0~0~0~
Nat sighed and leaned forward, dumping a small bucket of water over his head in a feeble attempt to cool himself down. He'd been riding around in his armor for hours and the afternoon sun had been particularly harsh today.
He listened to the cheers as his opponent entered his side of the jousting pitch. It was time for the final round of the joust. The second round had gone much smoother than the first, in Nat's opinion. His opponent had been some minor lord from the Riverlands who had clearly never been in a joust before. Needless to say that match had ended rather quickly.
The next joust would likely not go the same way.
Nat turned and took his helm from the manservant acting as his squire as the crowd's cheers began to die down. He eyed the man he was set to face in the championship round of the joust as he mounted Nightstrider; Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers.
Nat grimaced as Nightstrider stepped out onto the pitch. He hadn't paid much attention to the other matches in the joust but he distinctly recalled the sight of Ser Loras's opponent bloodied and battered as he was taken to Grand Maester Pycelle. Nat was competent in his abilities as a rider and with the lance, but still, the memory left him uneasy. After all, he had never met the mysterious heir to one of the realm's most powerful houses before- the man likely had a number of secrets that would work to his advantage.
My least favorite kind of secret the prince thought, approaching the center of the pitch for their gentlemen's acknowledgement.
Nat eyed the elevated seat where his father sat with disgust. The king had several wine stains running down the front of his robes and an array of crumbs and grease spattering his beard. How? Nat wondered How did the great Robert Baratheon, the Demon of the Trident, turn into that?
The prince turned away as his father's watery eyes focused back on the pitch.
However my life may go, Gods help me if I end up like him.
Nightstrider halted as they reached the center of the pitch. Nat lifted his face plate, nodding his acknowledgement to Ser Loras before turning to the king and doing the same. Ser Loras lifted his own face plate, acknowledging the prince with a dazzling smile and bowing low before the king.
Nat scoffed as he turned and led Nightstrider down his side of the pitch. It appeared that Ser Loras was largely an aesthetic ornament of House Tyrell with his lavish curls and warm brown eyes. With decorated armor and a cape of flowing roses he was much less intimidating than his tournament record would imply.
That's what made him so dangerous. The prince watched with an impish grin as Ser Loras lined his horse up along the median on the opposite side of the pitch. Nat knew better than anyone that appearances could be deceiving, he specifically crafted his public mask to be as such, and it had been very long since he'd met someone who similarly hid knives behind roses.
Nat scanned the arena, noting the slight breeze as it squeezed its way through the joints of his armor and caressed his skin. The sun was lower in the sky now and the weather had cooled somewhat, making Nat's armor a bit more bearable to wear.
He looked over the crowd. He saw his father, watching intently now that the action was beginning, his mother stoic beside him. The faces of noble lords and ladies blended together in a sea of prim and proper decorum around them. Squinting slightly, Nat thought he spotted striking auburn hair just to his father's right.
Sansa Stark is here, Nat concluded I suppose that's good, it seems I haven't offended her too greatly, then.
The crowd began to murmur, queuing the prince in that the time was fast approaching for the match to start. Just as his gaze began to shift down the pitch, something shone in the shadow of arena. Sunlight shimmering off of ash-brown hair in waves. Green eyes alight with worry. Laina.
Nat's heart nearly stopped. She had come. He had broken her heart and then doubled down on it, and yet she had come.
The crowd grew louder as the Knight of Flowers leveled his lance at the prince, beginning his challenge. Nat threw down his face plate and leveled his own lance, acknowledging it. He didn't have time to think about Laina right now. The prince's heart beat with excitement. Then, with overwhelming power, he and Nightstrider bore down the pitch.
Nat watched carefully as Ser Loras approached. The Knight of Flowers was agile and despite the speed with which he rode, his hand was steady. No, this would not be another Mountain. The prince's mind raced. He knew very little about Ser Loras or his general jousting strategy. Nat cursed himself silently for taking time to relax rather than to study his opponents. His public persona melded with his true personality too much at times, he thought.
Ser Loras was fast approaching and Nat could come up with no advantage or trick that he could play. There were simply too many unknown variables about the Knight of Flowers. He couldn't play off of something obvious like the Mountain's size.
He had one option in this match, and that was to simply win on skill alone.
Nat grit his teeth and tucked his lancing arm's elbow into his side. He was far from an amateur in the jousting pitch, but he was the crown prince, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, he hardly had the time to engage in jousts as often as a knight, much less practice.
I'll have to out speed him Nat thought, barreling towards Ser Loras.
With a cry, Nat thrust his lance at the Knight of Flowers's shield, hoping the force would be enough to knock the man from his saddle. Instead, Nat struck the open air as the Knight of Flowers ducked out of his line of attack and struck a quick but powerful blow against Nat's own shield.
The prince slid to the right, very nearly toppling over and dragging Nightstrider down along with him. The crowd roared and gasped as Nat struggled, Nightstrider whinnying beneath him as they rounded the pitch.
Damn Nat swore He's quick! I'll have to-
There was a large snapping sound and Nat felt all the tension beneath him loosen. Nightstrider squealed as his saddle flew loose and Nat, still holding his reigns in one hand, tumbled to the dirt.
~0~0~0~
Nat opened his eyes.
He was…in his bedchambers? Then, was that joust a dream? Had the tournament even begun?
"Ah! Laina, Laryss he's awake!"
Nat turned to his left and felt a sharp pain shoot through his neck. No, that joust definitely wasn't a dream. The woman before him smiled down at him and stroked his hair. Miana Granes, one of his contacts on the Street of Silk and another of his frequent bedside company. Her round face was framed by the moon and her dark hair fell in a curtain around her cheeks. Nat was convinced she had Dornish blood with her tan skin and dark features but Miana liked to tell him she simply took well to the sun.
"Miana? Where- why are all of you here? What happened at the joust?"
"You failed rather miserably, I'm afraid," a soft voice said from his right.
This was Laryss Waller, the last of his contacts on the Street of Silk. She was newer to Nat's employ than either Miana or Laina but she had still been a close partner of his for much longer than most of his other contacts save Hood. She had a slender frame and a soft laugh that would melt any man's heart, which made her rather useful as both a spy and a partner.
"Ah, so nothing unusual," Nat grunted, attempting to sit up.
"For someone that thinks himself so smart you do excel at making poor decisions," Laryss continued.
Nat flashed a Lion's Grin at her and eased back down. She frowned in response, she had always hated his show smile as she thought it unnerving. Miana sat near his head and patted his tousled hair down.
"It was quite a fall, Grand Maester Pycelle thought you'd broken your neck from what Ammett told us," Miana explained.
Nat nodded as he felt up and down his body, testing for areas of pain. He winced as he reached his ribs, he must have bruised them. With an exasperated sigh, the prince eased into his soft bed, allowing Miana and Laryss to continue chiding him.
"It was very stupid of you to not allow a squire to examine your saddle before fastening it to your horse, you know," Laryss told him.
"Very stupid," Miana agreed.
"And to think, you didn't even notice that the strap had been sliced, and here I thought-"
Nat frowned, "What? Say that again."
Laryss gave him a quizzical look before realization spread across her face, "Oh that's right, you've been unconscious- the stablemaster examined your saddle and it seems that one of the straps holding it in place was cut, intentionally."
Nat smiled, "Ah, so I've finally pissed in the wrong man's wine, have I?"
"A bit crude, but yes it seems so," Miana said, nudging his side gently.
Another thing to worry about Nat noted tiredly.
"Really, you should count yourself lucky," a voice called from the end of the bed.
Nat looked to his feet and noticed a figure he hadn't previously seen in the candle-light. Her pale green eyes were distant but alert. She sat half covered in shadows at the end of his bed, reading in the dim light.
"Laina," he nearly whispered.
She closed the book she had been reading and set it down beside her, rising to her feet.
"Laina I- there's so much that I need to…" he trailed off as she raised a hand to silence him. Laina rounded his bed and sat gently next to Miana, taking his hand. "You are the most frustrating and exhausting man I have ever had the displeasure of loving, Nat Baratheon," she said quietly.
Nat's heart leapt.
"Then…Laina, I'm so sorry- for all I've put you through since returning to King's Landing."
She smiled down at him, "Well I suppose I can't exactly hit you now without exacerbating your wounds, so I'll have no choice but to accept your very late apology."
She leaned over, pressing her lips to his and shocking his body to life. Nat drank in her sweet scent and smiled as she pulled away from him.
"Well I certainly hope that your being in my bedchambers means you've all decided to keep this poor, battered prince company this evening?" Nat asked.
Laryss chuckled and placed a hand on his chest, "Oh? One kiss from Laina and suddenly all the pain and regret has disappeared? Really Nat, you shouldn't make it so obvious which of us is your favorite."
Miana laughed and pecked him on the cheek, "Don't worry Laryss dear, there's still plenty of time to change his mind, Laina's quite out of practice anyways."
Laina rolled her eyes and squeezed his hand.
Nat grinned widely, "Well luckily for you all the Crown has just come into a bit of money, much less than I would have liked but certainly enough to fund one night of rest, don't you think?"
~0~0~0~
And that, finally, is the chapter.
Hello again friends (and also sorry!). It's been quite awhile since our last update. No real excuses other than life, you know? Pandemic blues, depression, and all of the fun times that come with it have made writing a bit more of a pain than is usual for me. I've had major writer's block and just no time or energy to finish up this chapter.
Thankfully I was able to get this one finished up over the last few weeks. I sincerely hope you enjoyed the tournament! I was a little apprehensive writing this one since I'd never really tried a joust out before but I think I did alright.
So, new mysteries arise! An attempted assassination on the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms? Who could have done it? And Nat has made up with Laina! What does this mean for their relationship? What about him and Sansa? Are they doomed?
I suppose you'll have to keep reading to find out! No promises for when the next chapter will be released but we are quickly approaching the end of what will constitute as being "the same" as the show. Get excited for the diverging points!
And as always, have a good one.
-Munch