Chapter 38: Woe
"Haha...we're actually on time...and there's some good seats!" Sam escorted his lady to the bleachers. "Ooo it's going to be a good one today, the future of Winterfell vs Shitbag, Woman vs man...dull vs mysterious."
"Sit down, my lover, don't have a...a...?" She screwed her eyes up.
"-A baby?" Sam chimed as he shuffled down the line.
She shook her head with a grin. "No, a word for a fixed...a word for a single...one-sided...what is it?!"
"Discriminate...Bias?"
"What's that?"
"The words you're looking for?" He collapsed onto the bench and budged up, so he was fused to his future wife. "The words to keep me decent."
"You need no assistance." She beamed, and surveyed the area, about half an hour passed. "The suspense is killing me, do you think they blew the trumpet too soon?" People were either snoozing, or picking their nails in the stalls, crumbs and debris were starting to clutter the stands as people tried to occupy themselves. There were people drawing lots and vandalising boards, and an announcer napping against the fencing. The person in charge of the leader-board, seemed to be changing his mind about the line-up, and playing with the slates. A random fellow walked between the back of the bleachers towards the market, looking very worse for wear. "It seems there's going to be a delay?"
"Nah...they're just waiting for people to get dressed, and the bets are being placed." He patted her hand, and upon glancing up he caught a glimpse of a gent, waving erratically in his vicinity. He frowned, he wasn't familiar with this man, and all that he knew from his attire was that he was a squire. He looked about him, and other people had noticed, indicating to themselves, silently demanding to know if it was them 'he' wanted, but the waving and pointing continued, until finally Lord Tarly pointed at himself, and the squire nodded and gestured for him 'to come.' Oh. "Excuse me...sweetness."
"What is it?"
"Duty calls...I think." He scooted along in front of a bunch of disgruntled spectators, and dropped down from the bleachers with a squelch. "Yes?" He smiled brightly, despite having no clue as to what was going to be asked of him.
"Podrick Payne, ser, one of my...err...friends is in need of you." He gestured for him to follow.
He walked. "Me? You sure?" The fact he was being hurried was confirmation, and he was flattered that he was desperately needed. Hang on, he might want your blood or liver?! "Who is it?..." They wound around some marquees and found Lord Snow slumped near a small cask. "Jon?"
Jon blinked up bleary eyed. "Hey Sam." He looked both miserable and cheery...definitely ...tipsy? "I fudged up." He said with a sad smile.
The former watchman glanced at the grim looking squire, then back at his best friend. "So this is one of your... other friends?" That I've never been acquainted with. He looked down at the pitiful mess, and tapped the cask with his boot. "Since when have you been acquainted with an...outside squire, Jon?...And this thing's half empty...you hardly drink!"
"Ha, Pod had some, but just a couple o' thimbles...he can't hold his liquor, hehe." By the looks of it, neither can you.
"To save you, my lord, ser." Who addresses their friend like that? "Lord Tarly, you have a remedy for this?" Podrick pleaded with the patience and calmness of a saint.
He told him? Wow he really was desperate. "My secret remedy? Surely it's not that bad, just eat something and go for a walk, or sleep it off."
His friend tried to grab at his robe. "I need your sorcery, Sam...echkblur." It sounded like he had swallowed a burp. Yikes. "I thought half a... half a cask... would keep the thoughts away and the...and the." He sounded like he had given up hope, and on the sentence. "Fucks sake...echkblur...I just had one, then a second...very strong. Gods." His friend sniffed the rim, and lolled his head back, Sam followed suit, and the smell hit him. Gods, this is-
Sam was bewildered. This was not Jon, getting bladdered...and this was no ordinary drink. "This is a snakebite concoction Jon, someone's mixed beer with cider. Who would do this, did you?"
"My lord, the cask was left in some of the tents, we believe it were complimentary..." Podrick rolled the cask to one side. "Brienne took a sip from her cask and found it unpalatable, but her aches and pains have subsided, ser."
"Sure..." Was this a deliberate attempt to scupper the tourney? "Well you were foolish to try it, and before attending to your duties...surely a sniff, or 1 tankard would have told you it had been enhanced?" Sam lectured, and found his charming friend, smiling and nodding. "Why on earth are you back here, Jon?"
"Sorcery, Sam, give me' yer' sorcery."
The former watchman stared at him both surprised and annoyed. "It's... science, Jon, and in its experimental stages...what possible thoughts are you running from?"
"A woman, Sam, the fairest of them all." That old chestnut, ey, couldn't he just drink her in? Why booze? Lord Tarly waited for a more adequate explanation, and did a speculative stare with a coaxing nod. "Too good for me...and she will loathe me if she knew of my indis-indiss... s-soiling...d-dealings." Oh dear. Sam watched Podrick try to pull him up. "I'll b-blow chunks in the ssssuit, ser...keep me at bay...have...have they even started?" That was random...unless he was talking about the joust?
"No, ser...But please, ser, you can't be at fault. Help me sit him up." Sam stepped up to tug him higher, while he did, he listened. "Come, ser, you just ran into a bad egg... that gave you cramps...that's shell cut you to pieces, doesn't make you any less of a-."
"-Oh great, Brrrienne told you every-every-everything in a nut shell!" He waved his unsteady hand, and the portly gent had to lurch back. "How I'm a complete w-w-wilting f-flower. Bam-bamboozled, harassed by a young slight woman!...Me, a trained soldier!" Oh don't cry Jon. Sam patted him awkwardly, hearing his friend's voice crack. "She could have beeeen a sh-shadow man in- in disguise...I bet...I bet she thought I'd be a right goer." Who's he talking about? Sansa wasn't slight...nor would she bamboozle. "I tried to please her...she wanted it all...without the romance...no choice...constant belittling...but there was a s-s-surge of goodness, it felt good for a second...the worst sin...kept asking her if I did it right?...And did it hurt?...She g-got annoyed when I talked...She hated my..q-q- questions...but I... reached completion-"
"-No no no." Sam gaped. His shy friend had never been so nonchalant, but now he wondered if Jon was finally opening up about...That woman. "-Err Jon, we're out in a public place." He glanced to the sides. "Then again, there's no sod here, but still...decency."
"-Damn, completion...who'd have known?" His friend's eyes were wide and blood shot, he'd never seen his friend look so out of sorts. It was just booze, right? "One positive with the...p- price of my sssoul! It's the...s-sin. You know...the... the ending, right? I thought I was going to die at the end...like...like...those black widow things...that's w-where I thought it was g-going...after those tribul-tribul-lations." Tribulations? Definitely...that woman.
Sam eye-balled him. Riiiight."Yeah yeah...I heard it's good...I suppose too much can...kill you." He put his arm around his friend, jolting him closer. "You've..." He wearily eyed the squire, and dropped into a whisper. "You've jerked off before, right? It's the same thing...and you know it's supposed to be intense...normally...but gentle...with...passion."
Jon started rumbling shaking his head down cast. "Take yer woman...take yer woman...don't you know where to stick it? Green boy, Man up, suck it up, man up, suck it up, be a man, green little crow...be quicker...last longer. STICK IT!"
Oh dear gods it was happening, the actual break down on the outside, at last. Lord Tarly knew his friend's brooding calm hid a wild and scared little boy. The benevolent Podrick shook his head, easing up from his squat. "It's because you're too damn polite, ser...and a man that did not wish to strike a lady."
She wasn't a lady. She could have took it, from what he had heard, she could break your arm. Sam shared a smile with the young squire. "So you know him then?" And the situation he describes without a thought, clearly he was a friend...and knew he was a friend too.
"Aye, awful business." What a good man Pod was, not instructing a man to just deal with it, any other comrade would have said 'it's free and on the table, a wanton woman, man up and do it.' But Pod, like him, did not shame. If only he himself had a father that was as encouraging as this. "Me thinks, a strong woman may have exerted herself for his affections...and took it to a stage in which it was... harmful to refuse." Exerted, he knew better, harmful to refuse, regrettably so...he recalled Jon had to be ready and seem game during the ritual so she wouldn't take his eye.
Jon wavered between frowning and flexing, his hands colliding with both his companions. "I hate... my girly face, if my face were..." Dear lords, what's he going to say now? "-H-h-hideous, no one, no one would go near me...much safer, if I had the p-p-pox no one would have laid...laid a hand on me, not even to striketh me down...or think to beat-eth me...or cla-clamber on me...or be... eva- eva-luable." Errr?
"Be still and hushed my lord, ser."
What in the world? Was this a poetry fest? He used such big words for a drunk. Sam clicked his fingers between the gents. "Enough with these riddles. I take it you are helping with the tourney, that's why you've been skulking off?" A squire possibly?
"Sssshhh...sssshhhh...ssshhh." Jon wavered between lucid, tired, and crazy. "It's a secret." He fingered his lip comically. Squiring in secret? Unnecessary and unbelievable...Unless...Don't jump to conclusions!
"I suspected as much, hence the skulking, and your desperation for this quick fix." You can squire as a drunk? But you can't be drunk if you are- "Listen here." Sam sat on a slightly bigger cask, and pointed between Jon's roving eyes. I know what'll make him confess. "Now look at me, Jon. This is not like you, drinking on duty, and you're a chaperone to Lady Stark?"
"Fair one." Jon looked across between a man about to weep, and a man about to burp.
A different confession. "Yes, we know." He popped a button on the askew doublet to give his friend some air, his handsome face was red. "Your first wet dream...and you've decided to go back and fester in self-loathing, dwelling on your wet nightmare." He picked up his friend's face and smacked at the cheek, close to the scar. "She doesn't control you anymore, mate, she can't hurt you now...What's jogged your memory? And put you in this stupor?"
Podrick grabbed his wrist, he probably thought he was going to slap his friend again, but Pod was merely trying to draw his attention. "Is this the one that?-" He drew a finger across his own throat.
Dear lords, he hadn't seen that gesture since Crastor. "She wasn't beheaded." Sam began. "She got an arrow to the heart, by a young lad." He arose from his stoop, his thighs were aching. "Sad story, she had orphaned this lad from a village, he tracked her down...and puff! What goes around, comes around." Anyways, back to poor old Jon.
He saw the loon grimace. "Woaw that's a strange way of putting it...How'd..how'd yer' know about that?"
Sam felt guilty he knew, he would not let on he read it in an abandoned parchment Jon had received from another disgruntled former watchman, it was clear this woman had some notoriety and prejudice. "A wildling bloke told me... when he moved clans, he was connected to a woman who had a certain...penchant for scarring and maiming her conquests." Jon was staring at him like he was nauseous. "The woman that put an arrow in yer' calf, and gave you that scar." He poked at it as a tool, to still Jon's focus, and the man blinked ludicrously at him.
His friend hiccupped. "You knew?"
"She must have concussed you before you got back to me...You became very forgetful and reclusive...you said it was a woman...and I'm assuming that woman, were one in the same."
Jon gave the most miserable little chuckle. "This bloke...told... told you an awful lot, told you...she... she used to thump-thump her men, instead of calling them over by...by.. name?" He rocked his head as if he was dodging a persistent fly. "Her name did...n- not suit her." He remembered Jon had penchant for pretty names, though he was sure he was just being polite.
"I may not have got information from you directly, but from what I scrapped together, those trysts...were violent, the only good you got from them was a lesson...and...completion, which you clearly feel guilty over...so I shan't speak of that again." Sam said on a sombre note. "Now, why has this cropped up again? And why do you think Sansa will deem you unfit?"
Jon glanced blearily at his companions, as if searching their souls, he seemed to reach lucidity. He sighed and lolled his head to the side. "I don't know...Robb wants to... marry... what I thought was his guilty secret, and I was in a similar b-b-boat as him, except I'm not...I'm a loose f-f-fray end...with... with a...c- coward's secret, knowing I couldn't fix her...or defend myself...what kind of m-man can't...p- protect himself against a woman...and I can't amend...or redeem...because she's dead."
"Seriously, you'd marry that? She was awful to you!"
"Gods no! I wouldn't have married her!" He growled. "She was dangerous...I think...I think... I would want her atone- atone-ment, that or death. C-C-Closure."
Sam gasped. "I think you getting away, was the best thing for you to do, and her death was fitting to how she lived." He patted his friend's knee, and he shook it with affection to gain his sad friend's eye. "You think Sansa will think of you as 'less of a man' because you cavorted with a disagreeable woman? And...err...finished?" When his buddy did a very uncoordinated nod, Sam sighed and shook his head. "She may have prudence, but you've hardly put it about and sowed, you've had one. One. One aggressive woman in 2 weeks of hell and rutting of appeasement, and the rest in total celibacy." Why does he still look sad? "It's not exactly a bender full of vice." He added with a chuckle.
"But I did it. I had her. If she knew that..."
"Why, are you going to tell her?...Let's just assume she knows you're not a virgin...are you going to go to the trouble of telling her the details of this frightful episode?"
Jon's face was painful to look at. "If she found out how... she'd either not b-believe such a woman existed, and call me a s-s-scallywag...and if...if...she did believe...she'd realize I'm no warrior...no idealis- idealistic hero." His fingers crept over to the cask.
"Nope..." Lord Tarly flicked his hand away from the offending item. "That's the drink talking, it heightens your insecurities...and dulls the senses. I'm dismayed you would think she, Lady Stark would think little of you, for that. And you think she wouldn't want someone passive?" Like me, I'm freaking passive, I've got passive coming out of my ass!
"The b-books I've read have... many kinds of men, but most of them are s-s-strong."
"You think it weak not to hit a woman? Some men can be strong and passive? Remember the story of the Sheppard? The whole plot was about him being ideal because he was soft. The Bard in another book, he was crafty...and he wrote poetry and songs...and shit...and he got a woman, mind you, he stole her."
"I'm able!" Jon announced with a ludicrous flourish, and Sam knocked his extended arms down.
"Yeah, alright, calm down...I figured you could 'steal', but Sansa can't fend for herself in the wild-"
"-That would 'ave been a last-last r-r-resort!"
"-She...I'm sorry to say, would have died." He didn't know what point he was trying to build to. "Anyhow, if that was your dastardly plan...try the good old fashioned...winning over the in-laws and the woman. You're not beneath getting married, you know." He was trying to soul gaze into the inebriated man, and he saw very little clarity.
"You've said this all before...I know this stuff...I live by it."
"You're strangely romantic for a bastard...I saw the exact books you have been referring to, in your bag. And Sansa is a stickler for tradition...so how about it?"
"How did you know..." Jon's voice had some clarity with its solid solemness.
"About Sansa? Because it's obvious. I've said it many times. And your denial and ability to lie is very bad." Sam prodded his friend. "And your inhibitions have been lowered right now, and you're not fighting it...I've dropped her name about 3 times and you didn't get snippy." He bopped Jon on the nose, and the squire laughed behind him, the severity of the situation became less dire. The portly gent suddenly stared at something in the corner of his friend's mouth, and prodded and swiped it onto his finger. "What have you eaten?" He scrutinized the bits.
"Nothin'" Jon shrugged.
Need to confer. "Has he?" Sam inclined to the gent behind them.
"No, my lord...what is it?"
What is it, indeed? He rolled the bits between his thumb and his index finger. "Pods..." He sniffed. "Not vanilla." He started to crush it in his nails. "Poppy seeds...opium?" He reached for the cask, and Jon excited, grabbed it too. "No, mate." He yanked it away, and popped off the cork, and started emptying it, but cupped his hand to catch his suspicions. Black bits speckled and floated in the puddle forming in his hand. "Yeah, it's in here." When the final glug came out of the cask, it was a handful of sludge. "Looks like someone used a pestle on the seeds to tried to mix it in." Sam studied Jon, whom was unimpressed with his findings, since he had emptied his gift into the dirt. "Someone was making them a very easy target for something."
"Poppy seeds, you say? Is that an ingredient in milk of the poppy?"
Well duh. "Hence why Brienne's aches and pains left her after a sip." He flicked the sludge out of his hand, and wiped the residue onto his robes. "But a tankard or two...this." He gestured to Jon. "A full cask...I don't want to think about that scenario." Sam looked to all the athletes marquees. Dear Gods. "I can only imagine why the tourney is late..."
"Is there a chance, my lord, that the culprit was merely healing people with this...concoction?"
"No. Poppy isn't for healing...it's for dulling pain and to help you sleep, and recreationally; pick you up. If they were helping, why put it in a snakebite?...If not to turn a person into an invalid?" He said astutely. But he wanted to say imbecile. "If they wanted to do some good, they could have just dropped it in juice, or at least labelled the cask to warn people you only need a thimble...not a welcoming and enticing tankards' filler." He smelt foul play. He arose to his full height. Average height. "Now go around and check on people, and warn them...in fact confiscate the cask, if they have one."
"That's easier said than done, my lord, they might believe I'm just stealing it."
"Then take Walder with you, he's the big lad with the grey pallor, and he's a trusted man of Winterfell." Podrick was about to go off and do his bidding. "Oh, and..." The slim squire swivelled to acknowledge him. "-If they don't have one, make note." He said with an attempt at a wink.
"Ah I see...Would they be that stupid? To incriminate themselves by not having one, my lord?"
"Well... I know of someone who will drink from an unlabelled cask from an unknown person, stupidity is rife." He was rather proud of the chuckle he had elicited from the squire, and was even more proud he had someone obedient to him. He did not garner enough respect to have servants. He suddenly felt something bump against his leg, and found his friend was dozing against it. "Oi, Lord Snow." He shook the gent awake with a jiggle. "Don't slip into a coma yet, you must drink one more thing...And if the gods are willing...it'll bring your edge back."
Lord Stark hopped upon the stair that took him back to his level of seating. Sansa quietened from her talk with Roslin, whom had been reinstated to her throne seat. Well, Jeyne hadn't stepped up, yet, as far as she was aware, Robb still hadn't convinced her to be his wife.
Her father sat next to her mother, and she listened, while rubbing her sore neck. The laborious wait was making her itch and ache, boredom could also do that.
"I don't know what they're playing at, it appears no one is ready...everybody was in a state of undress. I don't know if the blame is with the contestants, the squires, or the people who summoned us here... too early."
Sansa twisted in her seat. "What was Robb's state, father?" And was he in the company of any women?
"Well, I smelt drink on him..."
So he has chosen death? She, and her mother gasped. "No."
"I told him off, he wasn't the only one...I told them off as well... he wasn't completely inebriated, but he shouldn't have had a taste." Her father had a pitched tone, which reassured her he knew how disappointed they all were and he had told the culprits. Who else?..Who else was drunk? "I can't believe someone in his service would serve him a drink...before a joust!"
"He is under a lot of stress, father, after all that has happened." And if you knew the rest, yikes.
"I know." He said with a sigh of resignation. Oh, maybe he did. "His name may have been cleared, that's if I choose to believe it, but for him to resort to liquor..."
Her mother clasped his hand. "-Should you call off the joust?"
"After all this... waiting...we can't stop it over a drink, if we postponed this, the semi final will be on top of the final, and the dance will be held in the early hours of the morning." Lord Stark rumbled, and before anyone could get a word in. "-And I can't move it to tomorrow, we can't drag this out for an extra day, or else the kitchens will be churning out two banquets...we've got to save some pomp for the wedding..." Err what?..Whose...Had Robb done it? Her mother tugged sharply on his hand.
"Circumspect, my lord, we can't plan that, before the pre-nuptials. You might have jinxed us by mentioning it."She warned, fumbling over his fingers. "We have no idea what's going to happen, and with whom."
Sansa shared a worried look with her friend, who had also turned to confer with them. They weren't still set on Roslin and Robb? That ship has sailed. Someone scuffled to the fence of their stand, and she jarred with surprise as they bumped it and spoke.
"Ready, my lord." It wasn't a question.
Lord Stark gruffly arose. "Finally." He rumbled, tugging on his doublet. "I'm pleased to announce we are about to start, onwards with our quest for the strongest, bravest of men!" He nodded at the gent in the hat, and he scurried off to his position near the leader board.
"Back again, to fight for a position in the final...we have... House Stark!"
There was an eruption of elation and relief that they were finally going to be entertained. All this waiting, just for 5 minutes of action. Her brother wobbly rode on with his visor up, his horse seemed confused with its instructions, and was going between a gallop and a canter, doing a couple of laps to allow the audience to take him in. It was a tiny bit obvious he was searching the crowd for Jeyne, but she wasn't in any of the benches. Damn, he couldn't even do a romantic gesture... Robb pulled a rose from somewhere discrete, and very nearly dropped it, when he was safely holding it again, he chucked it with a bit more control into a part of the crowd that was predominantly women. And they cooed and shrieked in excitement and anguish, trying to obtain the precious flower. The symbol of femininity.
Sansa clapped harder than she had ever clapped in her life, but she must conserve her energy for the other competitor.
Well she didn't need to conserve her energy. "Against Lord Robb Stark is... House Harding!"
Oh sh-ugar. She hadn't seen him since his transgression, and the last she heard from him was through her bedroom door. He hadn't apologized, nor had he...proposed to anyone, that she knew of. Unless Jeyne had changed him? Which is very romantic. But who gives a damn, there can be only one winner. Seeing him ride out, visor up, and his face looking as smug as ever, made her realise this was an act of the gods, Robb had to beat him for it to make sense. For the sake of her and all the books she had read where the hero conquers, and gets the lady he loves. There was a favour around Lord Harding's arm, but she couldn't tell whose it was. White handkerchiefs were common. He too did a couple of laps, and she sweated as he peered around the crowd. She did not want his attention, nor his flattery, not if it could soil her reputation by association. She played with her fingers, and Roslin's hand suddenly came into the mix.
"He is looking for Jeyne as well."
"You knew?"
"Yes, she told me herself..." Which was her way of telling her to not worry, she supposed. But why admit that to her? What in the seven hells was Jeyne playing at? But her friend's hand retracted when the hooves drew near to the box, and she heard her mother tutting. Oh seven hells.
"Lady Catelyn Stark, you're glowing this morning." She heard him sing, and when she looked up to confirm this address, she found a rose being passed over Roslin's head to her own mother. Cheeky, but smart. She at first wasn't going to react, but Sansa didn't want to convey a slight, so she smiled at her mother...and to no one else. Her mother however remained neutral to the situation, and took the rose with the gentleness of a dog accepting jerky. Her father's dignified reaction, crumbled behind his hand. And what did Robb think of this? She adjusted her position in her seat and found her brother watching him with apparent scepticism. Who wouldn't? It was crowd manipulation...and blatant ass kissing.
"Thank you, my lord." Which could have easily been; No thanks I'm married, not that it will stop you though.
He rode away victorious, minus the actual victory, and reached his starting point with an air of a prince.
"Lord Harry Harding, the young falcon, let's see your fate!"
She hoped princes weren't actually like that. There was a slight stare down between the competitors before the visors came down, and Sansa had no doubt each of them were thinking of her friend. Robb was handed his lance by a squire, but the man hesitated to let go of it as her brother took hold. But it became clear why, Robb started to slide slightly on his saddle, verging on coming off at the other side. It was clear he was trying to counter balance the weight of the lance. Sansa shiftily looked around at the audience seeing if anyone was reacting unfavourably to the awkwardness. Unfortunately they were. "Father...I don't think he can ride and hold that."
"I can't pull him out, he'll just have to take a dive, I'd rather him fall off then get hit."
"But if he does fall off before he gets hit, people will laugh." Sansa pleaded, turning around fully. Not to mention his inability to take a hit in that state. "Just tell the people he's drunk and stop this."
"-You're missing it!" Her father urged her to turn back, and she whipped around, and caught sight of her brother charging with an odd lean, it scared the ghost out of her, with Harry's gallop being balanced, strong and true. Oh no! Lord Harding's lance impacted Robb's chest plate, and pushed him perfectly off the horse, he crashed loudly into the dirt, his helmet tumbling and rolling off the course. Her family stood with a shriek, and she could only imagine her family had covered their mouths. The squires and the medics were on hand to assist, and when Robb didn't attempt to get up, her lord father and mother clambered down from their step and squeezed between her and Roslin's seats to get to the fence. Her previous embarrassment prior had been replaced with terror. Her mother watched helpless as Robb was shifted to a workable surface, his arm hung off the stretcher canvas, and it made her weep, her mother scooped it up to return it to his side as he was whisked away. Lord Stark returned hesitantly to his seat, as the crowd rumbled with talk. How could they continue?..Sure all rounds had this expectation, but when the host's heir is pushed towards death, what's the point?
"Don't worry folks, I'm sure he's... just... bruised. House Harding goes onto the final round!" The announcer was loud but careful, and she finally acknowledged the victor, whom wasn't doing a lap of honour, but a courtly wave from his horse towards the common folk's stands. Which was understandable, he couldn't exactly wave at the host stand, unless he wanted a face full of manure? She turned to her father, schooling her features.
"I don't think I can watch anymore, my lord."
Lord Stark sighed and fingered his temple. "I'm afraid you'll have to out of respect, and courtesy. It would be pretentious and cruel to close the festival because we lost, Sansa."
She fully seated herself, for she had been hovering, tempted to leave to be with her brother. She saw some spotting on the ground and knew it was blood, which was the essence of defeat. She was just glad that her mother was at her brother's side, in case he did pass. Perhaps this was judgement on her for betting on the knight? Perhaps it was judgement on her for merely gambling? "What if Harry wins in the final, how can we pat him on the back? He spilled my brother's blood."
"We're not going to pat him on the back, or wish him congratulations, surely the crowd will decide his fate, whether they applaud or boo him. Besides, Sansa, Robb will not die today, so don't be bitter, until you have to be." Lord Stark turned his head to the crowd whom were watching him. "Play on!"
The hatted man stood upon his step after clearing his throat. "Back from her near miss with House Westerling, and fighting for a place in the final...IS...House Tarth!" People whooped and rattled the fencing. "Whom stands at 6ft 3inches; Brienne, of the Isle of Sapphires!" She rode on in her usual fashion with a small 'masculine' wave, and waited for the session to start, no laps, no showboating. One could mistake her for a traditional northman...and at a whopping 6ft.
Roslin spoke into her ear. "Edmure and I have placed a bet on her, my lady."
She had no response to that retort, other than her bet was the opposite...But it was a shame she was betting against her own sex...and had failed to bet on her own brother. Had she given him the kiss of death?
"Now standing at a decent...5ft 8 inches! That's not including the horse." There were a few titters at that. Nothing wrong or amusing about that, it was close to her own height. "And has for now...no name but a miscellaneous title, I give you ...The Knight of the laughing tree!"
And there he was, looking very distinguished in the same old armour and tunic, that held so much character despite its plainness...no...mystique. He rode on slow, with gravitas, and it gave the impression that he too, like Brienne was there for the joust, and the joust alone. He did not wave, not even to acknowledge her, but she figured his previous gesture wasn't a declaration, just a polite exchange. Of affection. She clasped her hands in her lap, and stared hard and hot enough to melt armour, then she wondered if he could sense it, he seemed to shiver slightly... and wobble upon the horse, but it was seemingly disguised as a slight adjustment in the saddle. Are you trying to distract him, my lady? Her pelvic floor stirred, and yet her flower wasn't in bloom. The lull in action wasn't enough to calm her, but it just gave her more time to take him in as he is now; unscathed...undefeated. He was probably some mature man. A shy man of stern morals, and strong from years of training, a widower, whom had lost his love in a grave accident, and was looking for... Beebae Inglethrop. She tittered to herself. Gods, that's nothing to do with it.
The helmet shifted to the side, and she realised immediately the knight was looking in her vicinity. Oh gods. She didn't know what to do with herself, her hand crept to her face, it felt hot. Sansa had no hair to tuck behind her ear, since it was clipped up on the top of her head, so her hand instead rubbed her neck, and sought an absent necklace, her fingers then passed over her breasts and then off her bodice. His head and accompanying helmet whipped back to his opponent. Are you trying to distract him, my lady? She thought again, she did not want to, she knew, she wanted him to win.
The call was made, and they began to charge. Both lances were held aloft and well, but the Knight's wavered slightly. He's tired. She covered her mouth as Brienne's lance hit his shoulder and jarred him so he was half lying back in his own saddle. Stay on, stay on. She imagined he was using his abdominal muscles to straighten himself, as he rode around the posts, to the opponent's starting position. They were going again? The Knight's Lance had barely touched Tarth, and she was starting to doubt he was going to make it the second time around. They both charged again, and the audience was begging for blood. Sansa covered her ears and watched with a grimace. Ssshhiiiit. The knight's hit was true, and she heard Brienne exclaim as she was knocked off her horse. Don't cheer, don't cheer, wait and see if she is alright. Lady Tarth waved and rolled to her side, as she was rushed to by Talisa, and Podrick? It was then she clapped, hard and high, but she would not whoop, she was a lady after all.
Her smile was small, and broadened when the knight waved to the crowd, when it was her stand's turn to be waved at, she felt a small trace of awe. He then rode off, but it looked like an excited sprint. It would be too bold to go to him and offer her congratulations...he hadn't won the entire competition, and he would be undressing.
"So the knight and House Harding will progress to the final! We will adjourn until the afternoon ladies and gentlemen!"
Now to see to her brother, and hunt for Lord Snow...and maybe see if you can get a glimpse of the knight?