The Autumn Wind
Part II
There was a frosted glaze upon the yellowed green of the plains that stretched as far as the Vale. In the shadow of the massive and grand city, whose silhouette ever haunted the horizon, the fields at its base were lit by a golden hue in the steely cloudless autumn sky. It's great canvas stretching endlessly into the great wide open. It hardly seemed imaginable to see such a sight as those who rode forth from Kings Landing to gaze upon an entire plain set ablaze with the brilliance of the afternoon sunlight reflected by the frost. There was a deep freeze in the air as hard and painful as a lance's blow. Its stiff charge swirled once it swept down from the hills upon where a capital was built. It was a cold that was not native to these lands of such a temperate climate. For months the weather had been frigid in the mornings, only to be driven away by the mid-afternoon sun, returning the day to a warmer disposition. The winters in the Crown Lands had always been mild at best, it's autumns nonexistent, but there was something different about this chill — something elemental and dark. It was like a poisoned fume breathed out by a great slumbering dragon. This frozen toxicity passing unseen over the great ice wall, through the North, and settling in the heart of Westeros. Some say that it was the precursor to a long and dark winter, and yet, others had their own theory.
There was a strange magic in the works here they would say, an old and evil entity attracted to sickness. A sickness fathered by greed and mothered by pride, whose seed was two hundred swords melted by dragon fire and fashioned into a throne. All who see it and stand by it can feel its pull. In the glimmer of the stained glass light that reflects off the melted metal they hear it whispering to them all their deepest and most coveted desires. For all those who come to possess it, it forever fattens like a pig marked to slaughter for a grand feast. It gives you everything you desire, and in return everything you were and ever had been becomes inflamed. Like an infected boil, you grow and grow till you're ready to pop. Then, the sickness feasts upon you, until all who you were was no more, replaced by a warped, prideful image.
Here, a mile from the capital, sat the greatest and most egregious monument to the great sickness that had now begun to feed upon its boar. In compensation for a spurn of the greatest of prides sat its greatest spectacle in response. Built into a shape of the seven pointed star of the Andal's Faith was a grand stadium. Its powerful oaken foundation, towers, and tissue chopped from the King's Wood and floated down the Black Water by barge to the cross roads where all paths lead to the capital. Like the Pyramids of Meereen, The Titan of Bravos, and the Walls of Qarth. Robbed of his heirs, this grand tourney stadium was the jewel of all Robert Baratheon's accomplishments as king of a new and failing dynasty. This temple of violence, chivalry, and masculinity was an amalgamation of all that King Robert ever loved. With the blow of no true born sons, and the recent death of his brother Stannis, the construction of it seemed to be all he cared for now. So it would be that this legendary structure would not waste its grand opening on anything less than the spectacle of seeing justice be done upon King Robert's greatest enemy … his own queen.
From inside the large structure of wood and iron were packed and huddled together the small folk. Traveling all morning to reach this bewildering wonder of the likes few had seen, they squeezed into every nook and corner of the tall levels of the towers to see the greatest tourney that the Seven Kingdoms had ever known. So close were the quarters between them, that from the outside their combined frothing breath in the frozen air made the stadium seem like a chimney billowing smoke. Closer to the field, for better vantage point, sat the nobility and their liege lords of the great houses. Each kingdom occupied one of seven corners of the star. A wooden ceiling covered the great lord's dais where his lady and heir may sit by his side. While below, were stands for the smaller lords and knights in his retainer.
All of it was a travesty according to Eddard Stark as he walked up the ramp from the entrance of their section of the star. Northmen did not believe in tournaments; Eddard in particular had distaste for them. He held no tourneys in the North, allowed no tourneys, and while he would not bar any of his lords from entering elsewhere he would not have any of his own sons compete in them. To Ned they were expensive and unneeded events to bolster those in high stations so that they may parade around in fancy, useless armor and glorify play actions that should be any man's last choice in any situation. War was a terrible and awful necessity and never earned any man greatness as he took another's life at the point of the sword.
Arm interlocked in his was someone who found even more reasons to dislike this place than he. The Queen's face was passive, but her eyes were hardened and cold. From the first moment she saw this ugly stadium, The Hand knew Cersei Lannister wanted to rip it apart piece by piece in her cold fury. As they emerged from the tunnel out into the slanted stands where his lords and their ladies sat, all eyes fell upon them from every corner of the rambunctious and charged building. In that moment, he knew the Queen could murder every single person within it. They had all come to celebrate and enjoy her great humiliation. Her only defense, her only way to take back just a swallow of pride from this day, was what she relied on so heavily all her life, her beauty. There was no denying that on this day Cersei Lannister was radiant. Her pallid face, and red lips played beautifully against her golden tresses that shimmered in the cold glow of the afternoon like a goddess. A sleek sable cloak covered her regal gown of dark blue silk, trimmed in silver with white sleeves. A silver choker sat against her smooth throat and a matching tiara adorned with great shimmering sapphires sat upon her golden head. All who looked upon her fell for her in that first moment. In the golden light of the afternoon she outshined every lady within the confines of the stadium. She was as bright and beautiful as the North Star, never to be missed or forgotten on this day.
As they walked up the iron locked steps of oak toward their boxed dais, the lords and ladies of the North greeted them with bow and curtsy. They had all come against their better judgments, forced by King's decree. But in an act of lawful defiance every Northern lord from Bear Island to the Neck had forbidden their sons from entering the melee. If the King were to gain a champion this day, he would not be from the North. Though the lords and even their ladies had no love for the Queen, they did have a fierce one for Eddard Stark. Though uncomfortable It maybe for them to see their liege so taken and protective of a Lannister, especially so close to his wife's death, they trusted the man with their lives. Battle, fairness, and fear of winter all on the fringes of the known world had forged a bond between families of power that was seldom known by other lords there that day. So it was that they showed solidarity with Eddard Stark by standing with him in protest.
When they reached the summit of the stands, they found that Robb had already arrived. The handsome young war hero seemed deep in thought. He slouched in his seat on the right of his father's chair. The auburn haired man's crystal eyes were far afield with thoughts of some private melancholy. His father thought if there was ever an example of the foolishness of a melee then all they had to do is look to Robb Stark. To see the anxiety and sadness he dealt with day by day to know that war was not a child's game. But as quick as it was there it was gone when he noticed his father and the Queen arrive. He offered Cersei a chivalrous hand of help as she settled into the seat that by all rights Catelyn Stark should be occupying. But today was not a day for bitter feelings, or cracks in the solid ice that all the lords of the North had created around The Hand and his lady love.
Finally when Robb settled back in his place, Eddard placed his priority on finding Sansa. It was a short search for proudly there was no missing the girl. Across from House Stark's point in the stadium was a section marked with the draped tapestry of the leaping trout. Sitting on a matching dais was Brynden Tully. The old soldier wore his black scales and leathers, his face impeccably hard. But his eyes were warm and face lilted in a playful smirk. His calloused hand meant for fighting was gentle and paternal resting on the creamy skin of the girl sitting regally next to him. Taking her grandmother and mother's place, Sansa sat at her great-uncle's side as the lady of Riverrun for an afternoon. Three generations of women of the Trident had bestowed the gift of beauty upon Sansa. Curtains of her mother's beautiful, thick auburn hair curled down over her virginal breasts. She wore a pearly white silken gown over a fur lined cloak of red and blue that once belonged to Catelyn herself at her daughter's age. If Cersei Lannister was a regal goddess, then Sansa Stark was the picture of purity and innocent beauty in her pearl gown. Today she was the Maiden herself. It pained Ned to admit that even the inherent sorrow in his daughter's eyes made her even more beautiful than ever. It elicited a powerful primal love for her, and a protectiveness that only fathers know when they finally understand how beautiful their girl really was.
But he was relieved to see a cracked smirk on her rosy lips as Brynden whispered something in her ear. As he continued her smile grew wider as they glanced upon Lord Mace Tyrell in the corner next to them. It wasn't long till she began to laugh. Brynden Tully had come to love Eddard's eldest children as much as he had Catelyn in the short time he had known them. Having always liked Robb since the boy was small and now earning his respect on the battlefield, the Black Fish could always be found in Robb's company; where, coincidently, you could always find Sansa. Having taken Edmure and Catelyn's deaths harder only second to her children, and most likely never to marry himself, Brynden had become very fond of the only parts of Catelyn he had left. It warmed Eddard, after all they had been through, to hear the evening laughter echoing down the halls whenever the three supped together.
With both children secured for the moment, he returned his focus to the Queen. Her fierce emerald eyes were drawn away, despite many eyes both noble and common drawn to her. Eddard followed her gaze out to the field. Protruding onto the competition grounds was a large stilted patio closest to the action than anywhere, though still corded off by fence. There, flanked by Balon Swan and Ser Barristan sat Robert. Eddard felt a sinking feeling in his gut as he looked at the man he loved like a brother. His frazzled and unkept curls on his head and cheeks were more white than black. He looked a million miles away from sober, his blue eyes more purple being blood shot from drunken and sleeplessness. He looked like a blushed, feverish shell. He was a fat old man with a vaguely familiar face. His Hand wondered if the King even knew where he was right now. Renly had come to him in private. Robert was drifting away, becoming trapped in his own mind, locked in revelries of victories won long years ago. He had retreated into the past to spare the emptiness of the present and the abyss of any future. They say Cersei had broken him … but Eddard knew better. Robert had been broken a long time. It was only now that he had come to grips with it himself. Life had lost all meaning to him without a prince to kill, a war to win, or a damsel to rescue. He had only accomplished one of those goals and always left the last two for Eddard. Sadly, for his part … From Lyanna to Cersei, he was always too late for the last.
He noticed that it wasn't Robert that the Queen was staring at, but his companion. Sitting to Robert's right was a young woman with satiny tresses of brown hair worn up in an elegant fashion, twin falling ringlets framing her rosy cheeks. She had deeply piercing blue eyes. Eddard recognized the seductively beautiful catlike features of Margaery Tyrell. He noticed as he was sure Cersei had before him that the girl, despite the cold afternoon, was still dressed in a very tight and revealing gown. The smooth skin of her bare back and her supple cleavage were only covered by a shawl. Cersei glared in bitter disdain for the doe eyed girl. For some time since Ned had rescued Cersei and her children from the dungeons, Margaery Tyrell had been seen spending much time with Robert. Under the guidance of Olena Tyrell, her grandmother, and the maneuvering of Renly, the girl had slid into the inner circle of court unchecked. They say that the King liked her, that she had a resemblance to Lyanna. Ned didn't see it himself. But somehow watching Margaery's doe eyes and coached sweet demeanor, he realized that Robert didn't know Lyanna either. If this beauty was playing anything, it was a maiden that had been idealized in a drunk's head.
Sudden thoughts of Arya were interrupted by an uncomfortable shift of a figure watching him right back. Ever behind Margaery Tyrell and in the company of Robert was the Red Priestess. She had been introduced to the King by Stannis. Robert had asked him to bring her, hoping to ridicule his brother more for his new found religious fervor. By the end of the night the fool was offering her a place in the Red Keep. Apartments that only the most honored guest were given. Melisandre of Ashai had haunted Maegor's halls since. She was a strange woman with alluring appeal that made some attracted to her presence and others afraid. Margaery Tyrell had invited her to tea several weeks ago; the eldest of Mace's children and her pretty cousins were interested in the Red Priestess's story. Cersei told him in bed that the only thing Margaery was interested in was her intentions with Robert. After that they supped in private three more times. It was Sansa who made mention that Margaery had made the red woman her constant companion. She informed Eddard and Cersei that Olena was furious and was complaining bitterly of the red woman's thrall on all of her granddaughters. Even Robb spoke of the strange disconnected glassy look in all the Tyrell girls eyes, but Margaery's the most of all her kin. Eddard warned both of his children to stay away from the foreign woman. Fore even now with his eyes matched to her, he felt strange, like a long shadowy hand was groping through his sockets trying to touch his mind. He resisted angrily at the odd feeling of old memories, of towers, blood, and rose petals. He quickly shook off the hand and the feeling. To this the woman only smiled from a passive face. Cloaked in a heavy hooded robe of fiery red, she bent down toward Margaery's ear; her matching red gloves of supple leather caressed the base of the girl's neck as she whispered gently. With a glass eyed look, the younger woman nodded in compliance and stood to leave. The Red Woman turned her attention toward Robert who hadn't even noticed his companion had left.
"It's a Stark kinda of day, wouldn't you say?"
The moment the voice pierced over the roar of the crowd into their silent box, the look on Cersei's face was a sober moment of reality that she truly was in hell. Swaggering confidently past Stark guardsmen was a man, small in stature, with a mess of dark blond curls. He wore a crimson leather doublet with golden embroidery, and black leathers. Even as a dwarf, there was a privilege of arrogance to Tyrion Lannister's small stride that came with every member of his family that Eddard had ever met. As always the dwarf was accompanied by his roguish sell-sword bodyguard. He was dressed in finer clothing than his grandfather could ever dream of. Trailing behind them was a hunched lad younger than Robb. He was a quiet and demure boy in a Lannister squire's outfit.
The small man ignored the combined look of unwelcome from all three occupants of the box. While Ned and Robb glared at the small man, Cersei seemed content to ignore her little brother. Even when he climbed up to give the woman a loving peck on the cheek she tried to pay him no mind. "Don't you look radiant today, sweet sister?" He seemed to revel in the distaste of the Stark dais.
A cold glare formed in emerald eyes found the Martell tapestry. "I see father has sent you." Her voice grounded under pressure of frustration and anger over the realization of her abandonment. It was now all too clear that Tywin Lannister had sacrificed his only daughter to the violent mob in silks and leathers for political protection. If she could, the woman would've ripped her father's colors from her trunks and closets in rage. But all she did was open her sable a little more to show her new ones.
The small man motioned for his squire Podrick to fetch him a chair. "I'm grieved to confirm it …" He sighed. "He believed by sending me in his stead it would be making a statement for all of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock." Eddard could see that despite the devil-may-care attitude on Tyrion's face, he could hear the blanketed hurt in his voice. "Funny man, our father." He concluded.
"Yes, almost as fun as you." Cersei bit at him. This day was hard enough without the one person she hated most in the world being there to make his little snarks and jokes at her in this, her most trying hour.
"True, though not as much fun as I hear you've been having." Mismatched green eyes looked toward Eddard Stark who he hadn't seen since the King had gone to Winterfell. At the implications in which the dwarf had insinuated there was a flash in the Hand's temper. Though true, they were not things the he wanted to be spoken of from the likes of Tyrion Lannister. But before he could reply a long and loud scraping noise echoed over the loud chatter of the packed stadium.
Like nails on a chalkboard, everyone turned to watch Podrick Payne drag a large chair up the ramp. The boy looked strained beyond all hope as he pushed the heavy seat toward Cersei's chair. The Queen rolled her eyes to the sky, Eddard placed his forehead on his hand, and Robb squinched his eyes shut. Tyrion scratched his head with a flush of embarrassment as the boy finally was able to push the tall backed chair against Cersei's. Without thinking Podrick sat down next to the queen, catching his heavily misted breath with a bead of sweat on his brow.
"Well done, Pod." Tyrion complimented sarcastically. He could feel half the eyes of the tourney on them suddenly.
"Thank you my lord …" The boy didn't wise up to his master's inflection.
He sat for an awkward moment longer till he turned to meet the dangerous emerald eyes of the Queen. She looked at the squire as if he was a bug that had scurried into her chambers and was about to be squashed with thoughtless ease. Startled, he turned back to Tyrion who waited patiently for the squashing.
"S –sorry my lord! S-s-sorry your, your grace." He nearly fell out of the chair when he saw the gaff in protocol, quickly stumbling away from the beautiful predator. This primal look in Cersei's eyes was all but ineffective to Tyrion who slid into the chair. Immediately it was replaced by deep seated annoyance that fell over the woman's face as she scooted closer to Eddard, away from her brother.
"Doesn't our family have its own box, Tyrion?" She shifted her jaw with a cutting contempt in her polished voice.
"True …" He began unscrewing a lion headed cap off a golden flask. "But since I'm so much fun and the Starks are …" he trailed off when Eddard and Robb slowly turned dangerous eyes toward the dwarf. He took a hard swallow of his cider. "More the merrier …" He shifted gears quickly under both father and son's hardened gaze.
"Too much fun is a bad thing …" Cersei sniped. "Especially too much you." She snarled under breath.
A grudging smirk touched Tyrion's lips. "Blasphemy" He announced, turning in his seat to face Cersei. "Where's your sense of excitement?!" he gestured all around her with mock amazement. "We're in the biggest structure to ever be built in six months in the history of the kingdoms. Can't you feel the surge and anticipation in the crowd?! The exhilaration of knowing that someone must have took a short cut in construction to get this place ready for today. Just think, all of this could fall down on top of us and all the nobility of Westros at any moment?" He placed a hand over his heart. "Just imagine a whole continent, seven kingdoms, all run by three year old second sons who can't even wipe their own asses." He shook his head with an amused smile.
"Yes, fascinating." Robb said in annoyance.
Lounging back in his chair the dwarf turned to his sell-sword. "Tell 'em, Bronn." He urged the rogue.
The man stood straighter and quirked an eyebrow as he looked around. "Ay …" he bounced on his boot heels. "My balls grew three times since I walked in here." He provided with a shrug.
"See!" He gestured Cersei to the man as if it gave him validation.
"Excuse me, Lord Stark … Your Grace?"
There was humor to be found by Ned, even as dark an hour as they seemed to have entered. If the arrival of Tyrion to their dais was enough to ruin Cersei's evening, than the arrival of Margaery Tyrell was only pilling on. He wanted to kiss the Queen when she looked pleadingly to the Hand, begging for him to take her head now. She'd confess to any crime as long as the two of them, Tyrell girl and the Imp were not together in the same breathing space as her.
"Lady Margaery …" Tyrion greeted before anyone.
"Hello Lord Tyrion" She curtseyed elegantly. The perfect execution brought a private eye roll and a disinterested pull away from the Queen.
The small man gave her attire a leering gaze. "That's quite a gown, my lady." Tyrion spoke respectfully. If Cersei thought it would do anything she might have voiced the opinion that only her brother would point that out, he being the expert on whores.
To the comment, the seductive maiden gave a spin in the tight silken dress with golden thorn embroidery. "I know, it's not suited for the cold." She admitted to what she perceived everyone was thinking. "But this chill is quite rare. I wasn't anticipating this kind of weather … especially coming from High Garden." She began to explain to Robb who watched her with unreadable eyes. But ever the chivalrous young man Catelyn raised, he cracked his demeanor to give her the slightest of nods of acknowledgement. She gave him a smile back suddenly becoming lost in his gaze for a moment.
"Yes, this being autumn and winter coming … who would think it being so cold?" Cersei's voice was a frigid honey, her smile cutting as her disdainful eyes while she looked the young woman up and down. She knew why Margaery Tyrell wore those dresses, and it wasn't because she didn't know the weather.
But no matter what the Queen threw at the Tyrell girl it seemed to slide off her perfect bare back. "What can I say … roses bloom the most beautiful in the long summers." What cut Cersei was the admiration or the mocking of it that Margaery always spoke to the golden queen with.
"And die the quickest in winter." Cersei's teeth looked like pearly fangs when she barred them in her fake good natured smile.
As cold as it was in the elements no one could deny that it was much colder in the Warden of the North's box. It was a chill that everyone felt all the way down to Podrick Payne who looked to his boots and away from the awkward atmosphere being brewed between the two women. The only one who wasn't seemingly affected was Tyrion.
Snorting through a mouthful of hard cider, the youngest Lannister spoke up. "Dying in the winter? The Lord Hand might make you a Stark yet, sweet sister." Cersei glared at the amusement and the stench of alcohol her brother spoke with.
Margaery turned to Robb. "His grace has been telling me that the north has a special rose that grows only in the winter?" She asked with an interest in what the young hero of the Whispering Woods had to say. "I hear they're blue." She glanced at Cersei lifting an eye brow.
To this query Robb cautiously eyed his father. While Cersei smirked, moving her own side eyed gaze to Eddard with vengeful anticipation. Before the question, the Hand was content with allowing the ladies to have their sparring match. But at the mention of the winter roses, melancholy gray eyes became a shade darker in a flash.
"Lady Margaery … I believe you came here for a word of some importance?" Eddard never lost his courtesy. But there was something dangerous underneath his even voice. Sensing that the tide was turning against her, the young woman smiled understandingly before the honorable man.
"Yes my lord." She nodded. She turned to Cersei. "I came only to wish her grace the very best of luck today." There was no hesitation in the sincerity in which she delivered her words … she was a natural. "I prayed to The Mother last night for your safety, and The Father for guidance to be bestowed upon you in this dark time." She reached and took one of the Queen's hands in both of hers. Cersei looked down at the action and with all her might tried not to rip it away.
After a moment she drew away from the contact and back toward Margaery. She met the young woman with a sickly sweet smile in fax humility of her own. "Thank you, Lady Margaery." The Queen placed a hand over the top of the younger woman's. "I pray every night for you as well." She patted her hand.
A surprised and emotionally touched look came over the girl's face. "I'm beyond flattered that you think of me, your grace." She tightened her grip on Cersei's hand. "After all the long years I've looked up to you, to know I'm in your prayers is most humbling." She smiled with deep eyes.
"Yes …" She continued to pat the girl's hand. "You keeping such close council to the King these days, it's all I can do but pray to the Maiden that your virtue may stay in whatever state it was when you arrived." The Queen's face didn't flinch or falter as she spoke with the sweetest of expressions.
Eddard leaned his forehead into an open palm. Robb Stark blinked hard and shook his head as if he had been physically stricken by the statement's aftershock. The sell-sword Bronn raised his eyebrows though avoiding the two women. And all of it capped by the immediate spray of liquid shooting from Tyrion Lannister's nose. "Oh'shit" Tyrion sniffed out as cider and strings of mucus dripped onto his lap. Podrick quickly charged forward with a handkerchief.
A perfect eyebrow nearly touched Margaery's hairline, and a lovely structured jaw clenched tightly. Even her blue eyes looked stricken with intensity. Anyone could tell at that moment it was taking all the conditioning and reason in Margaery Tyrell not to let her face change at the verbal strike. She quickly slipped her hands from the queen's and swallowed harshly. She turned to Eddard who had the decency to look apologetic.
She cleared her throat. "Good day, my lords." She curtsied to Robb and Eddard. There was a darker look for Cersei who seemed very smug. "Your Grace." She bit out with all the mock reverence she could muster. With a sweep of skirts she turned to leave.
Suddenly, Robb stood. "A moment, Lady." He reached out and took the beautiful young woman's bare arm covered in goose bumps from the cold. Though fiercely offended of the treatment she had received, there was something in the young lord's eyes that gave her pause. They gazed at one another for a beat longer before the auburn haired youth unclasped his well-used heavy fur lined cloak. The usually unflappable Margaery seemed almost teary eyed as Robb gently draped his warm cloak around exposed shoulders. The heavy northern winter wear seemed almost like a godsend to the seductive beauty.
"Won't you be cold, my lord?" She asked cautiously.
Being forward as it was, Robb reached out and scrubbed her covered arms, generating warmth for her. "I grew up in the north, my lady … we'd call this swimming weather." When finished his smirk grew to a smile as he elicited a laugh from the southern girl.
For the first time Margaery Tyrell seemed out of words as the two looked into one another's eyes. "Thank you." There had never been a more genuine word spoken from her trained mouth in all of the young woman's life. It seemed that Margaery had found someone of her own, that she was not taught to like.
But as soon as the growing affection was there it was gone. There was a sudden blank, glassy eyed look in the girl's eyes. "I'm sorry, my lord … the King waits." There was a strange disconnect to her very official voice as she turned and left without another word. Robb frowned, watching her go, before gazing angrily to the King's box to find the Red Woman turning away quickly.
He ran his hands through his dark hair and slowly sank back to his seat. His crystal eyes were drawn to where Lady Margaery had left. But when returned to his companions he was met with a host of looks. Cersei looked completely beside herself with distaste, Tyrion toasted the boy, and Eddard had a knowing smirk. Robb sank a little in his seat, a touch of blush covered by his auburn stubble.
"That was your first mistake, m'lord."
Everyone turned toward Bronn, even the Queen tilted her head to hear better. Robb sat straighter. "How's that Sell-Sword?" He made the designation sting. But it only rolled off the rogue's greasy hair.
"I did some work in Volantis in m'life, and I learned very quickly that it was very unwise to leave your personal things were one of R'hllor's priestess's can get their hands on it. And judging from the hunch that little girl doesn't go anywhere that Red Woman doesn't tell her … Some would say what you just did was quite careless." He maintained his carefree almost insolent tone as he spoke. When he was done, he made it all sound as if he was warning the Lord of Winterfell away from an errand wager on a joust.
The young hero shifted in his seat as all eyes fell back to the field. As if proving the rogue's point, Margaery, still with the disconnected and glassy look in her eye, met Melisandre next to a brooding Robert. Her leather gloved hands ran over the fox fur lining almost sensually as Margaery told her of what had happened. As the young beauty slid back into her chair, saying something to a disinterested Robert, the Priestess turned back to Robb. She gave a condescendingly ambiguous smile at the noble gesture. It was as if Robb was a young lad spilling his seed prematurely on a whore's hand after she barely touched his manhood.
Both Eddard and Cersei noticed the death grip that the young soldier had the pommel of his arm rest. Among all in the capital, Melisandre of Ashai seemed to bother Robb Stark the most. He disliked the arrogance she wore fluttering the halls of the Red Keep, and the influence she held over women like Margaery, who at times looked frightened and defeated as they did the Red Woman's will. It would be a dangerous battle the young lord would be picking if he chose to challenge her, but it wouldn't be the first he fought.
Eddard reached out and placed a calming hand on Robb's shoulder. Under the familiar paternal touch the darkness in Robb stark went away and he silently agreed to let the matter go for the time being. Meanwhile, cleaned up from his surprise snarf, Tyrion worked on emptying another flask.
"Well … We might be all hacking down our Weirwood trees, and burning our Septs soon enough." Tyrion announced with a long sigh, taking a nip of the Arbor Gold he was working on.
Cersei rolled her eyes. "What do you mean?" She asked.
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Not to me."
"I should not be surprised … I almost forgot who I was talking too."
With a set jaw, the Queen was about to pounce when Tyrion spoke. "Don't you find it odd, that the Red Woman has become so interested in Margaery Tyrell? This being the same Margaery Tyrell who Renly and the Queen of Thorns have put into Roberts lap?" He asked. "One might ponder if your beautiful head comes off your body, sweet sister, who might replace you …" At the mention of her execution Cersei rounded on Tyrion. But the dwarf seemed only amused at her wrath. "If I were a betting man, I'd say it would be Margaery Tyrell, who just happens to be the closest follower of Melisandre of Ashai … the most devote of her sisterhood." He seemed so smug with himself when he was finished.
No one who had been sitting in their little group ever pondered the idea that Melisandre, a red priestess from the far east was making such a bold and powerful move in the game by accepting a simple lunch invitation. It was a simple invitation that could lead to generations of bitter and bloody holy wars throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
Tyrion stretched in boredom. "I can almost see the smoking ruins of Baelor's from here … can you imagine it aflame?" He asked rhetorically, gesturing to the imaginary picture of grand domes on fire, statues pulled down, and bursting stain glass.
A cold hatred seeped inside Cersei Lannister as she looked to Robert. "I can …" She answered. "Every night in my dreams." She sneered under her breath.
It was as if no one heard her but Eddard. He knew of what she spoke of. There were nights when he was awoken from her angry tears, calling for Jaime and for Ned to come save her as her father and Jon Arryn drag her fighting to the alter were a drunken Robert, fat and old waits for her. When Ned wakes her, there was betrayal in her eyes. She turns over and does not want him to touch her. Even after their night together so many years ago, the wounds of what came after were still fresh. Though Cersei's love never died her bitterness forever carried on in attachment. Remembering all the nights she waited up for Eddard as a lecherous, drunken fool, snored next to her. Hoping in a mad state of sleeplessness that he would come rescue her from this unhappy life her father and her ambition had made for her.
Quietly, he moved his hand to place on top of the Queen's. But the moment she felt it hovering, she slowly moved it away. He was stricken by the bitterness in the action, but he didn't say a word. Cersei folded her hands in her lap as the clear ring of trumpets echoed through the stadium. The announcement was met by a deafening roar as the armor of parading Knights glinted in the light of the cold afternoon.
From a ground tunnel emerged the great knights in all of the Seven Kingdoms. They were the lords to minor houses, son's, brothers, nephews, and heirs to the great lords watching from their dais. They were dressed in ordinate and expensive armor that glinted and glimmered in the cold sunlight in their polish. Each of the finely, and some soldiers would say impractically dressed, lord and lordling entering the field hoped to win the title of King's Champion. They rode from the tunnel on a dirt covered track were their squires, armorers, and servants walked toward stations in front of their lieges star points. From open gates in the perimeter fencing the Knights rode onto the frosted field of grass trotting over the ground as their men set up.
The fancy armored competitors buzzed and flocked around the field like glinting and glimmering flies, exchanging words with one another as they scouted the field. It was the usual fair of a jest, a boast, or the occasional insult traded by the Knights of Summer who had yet to see a battlefield. For many of them this would be the closest that either of them would ever get to a martial clash of arms. Riding for self-glory and the boast of a plump father to his rivals of the purest seed of greatness squirted from his small manhood inside his unhappy wife he'd never met till their wedding day.
But nowhere on the frozen grass was it escapable to find the Knight of Flowers. For where ever he rode, the scream and squeal of women and girls could be heard. The boy's armor was bright and glimmering, made of a shiny metal with vine and thorn work inlaid upon the breast plate and helmet. It wasn't beyond notice that Margaery Tyrell's dress matched that of her younger brother's armor. All eyes seemed to be on the lad as he leisurely lapped the stadium perimeter trailed by his cousins the Redwyne twins. Each wore a matching suit of armor inlaid with vine work like Loras, though with grapes upon it. The handsome youth, two time champion of Roberts past tourneys was the favorite to win today. As the King's Champion, most all of those competing were convinced that it was a strictly ceremonial position for as of yet Queen Cersei had no champion of her own. With many confident that she would have none.
There were few competing knights that crossed the Stark point. The winged helm of Jason Mallister of Seagard stopped only to greet Robb who he had come to salute after his victories defending the Riverlands from Tywin and Jaime Lannister. Others such as a Hightower boy in white and one of Yohn Royce's brood had accidently wandered toward them, but upon noticing the Queen and Eddard, quickly turned their back on them and rode away.
Dressed in light leather armor of a dark yellow and burnt orange, Oberyn Martell trotted toward the Stark corner. Upon his head was a helm of red metal shaped in the fashion of a snake. None of the lords of the North or their ladies spoke a word as the Red Viper halted his desert charger on the packed dirt of track. He removed his helmet to flash an exotically handsome face of salt and pepper coloring to the Queen. His small dark eyes raked over her beautiful face and golden locks. His hatred felt in the silence he looked her over with.
"Do you know who I am?" He asked with a musical Dornish accent.
The Queen looked contemptuous. "Should I?" She asked with a predatory tilt of her head.
There was a wild venomous smile on the Dornishman's face as he turned his horse. "My name is Oberyn Martell. My sister was Elia Martell; she was the wife of Prince Rheagar Targaryen." He reminded the Queen.
"An unfortunate lot in life." Tyrion Lannister spoke up.
Seeing the dwarf and the Queen sitting together, there was a new fire in the man's eyes. "Yes, unfortunate that she was the wife of the last dragon." He agreed. "Unfortunate that she was attached to the last of a dynasty, before they fell from power." There was a buried threat directed squarely at Cersei Lannister.
For Eddard, he felt his wolf's blood stir inside him. His first reaction was to stand up and challenge the Viper. But then he remembered the massacred remains of the Princess and her children lying under crimson Lannister cloaks. The little girl's paled arms sticking out from her death shroud as Robert approved of such an act, placing a hand on Tywin's shoulder proud of the barbaric offering of loyalty to the new King. Now all he could do is look on darkly as the princess's brother threatened justice that Eddard could not argue with.
"Her children were killed in front of her, before Gregor Clegane raped and murdered her … on your father's orders." He pointed out. "I've waited twenty long years to avenge her and her children. And I swear before the end of today … Tywin Lannister will know my pain." He vowed with an uncontrollable hatred. The plumes of clouds exiting his mouth made it seem as if the Dornishmen was breathing fire.
Suddenly, hidden by the shade of the stadium, a shadowy figure slipped into the spotted light patches. He trotted aggressively toward the Red Viper. His towering black steed thumped Oberyn's smaller horse rudely head to head. The force was not enough to hurt, but the aggressive, barely broken, mustang's snorting and wild demeanor was enough to spook the whickering smaller animal as the figure suddenly began to circle the Viper.
Mounted on the red eyed stallion was an imposing figure that elicited murmurs of fear and alarm as he came to light. He was a knight dressed in the blackest and most sinister armor ever seen. Its plating was thin and ancient looking, obviously reworked recently to fit the man who wore it. Steel fins on his forearms and razor sharp talons on his gauntleted fingers gave this Black Knight a demonic quality. His helm matched the armor's appearance, decorated with dragon or bat wings. The masked visor that hid the Black Knight's face was a terrifying piece of foreign craftsmanship to look upon. Over the years many would try to describe it, and yet every man had his own take that differed from the other. Hidden in the imposing "T" shaped visor were eyes that could not be seen by the shadowy design of the helm and black polish around them. Looking upon him in any light, the most grounded of opponent would swear that there was no man inhabiting the phantom armor at all.
Oberyn Martell did not scare easily, always confident. But he was startled by the sudden appearance as the shadowy knight circled him. He looked like a predator stalking his prey before the hunt, intimidating and bullying the Dornishmen's mount. With each pass a long billowing black cloak on the Black Knight's shoulders flapped in Oberyn's face, while his black steed pushed back the white desert horse the Prince rode, further, and further.
"You think you frighten me?" The prince laughed mockingly. The Black Knight jerked his horse out of orbit. "I've traveled the east, and know Ashai armor when I see it. You might frighten them, but you don't frighten me." He boasted until the Black Knight reigned up to come face to face with Oberyn quietly waiting. His action was a silent challenge, daring the Dornish prince to compare this sinister shadow to the rest of the knights in the tourney. When it didn't come, a long hard breath exhaled a thick frothing cloud in Oberyn's face.
There was a wild exhilaration that filled the Prince the longer he stared into the terrifying war mask into the faceless darkness within the eye slits. The Dornish blood simmering in Oberyn's veins pounded heavily in his ears, while his dark eyes lusted desperately for battle and blood. Breaking apart, the combatants slowly began to circle around each other. The frigid air on the field and in the Stark ranks watching was suddenly filled with deadly tension, as even unarmed, the circling figures poised for battle with one another. The attention was drawn from all over the stadium as even the great knights halted to watch what would happen. Finally, a large group of the City Watch led by Ser Barristan Selmy himself began to approach the scene. They were dispatched and determined to keep the peace between the other competitors till the flag dropped and trumpets sounded. As the Gold Cloaks began forming up with their tall pikes, it garnered the prince and the Black Knights attention. They paused their deadly pacing and stood across one another, separated by only several yards. After a long moment the prince shot a vengefully smoldering look of death toward his new opponent, a silent promise to look for him on the field. With a howled cry, wheeling his desert charger around, the Dornish prince vacated the Stark area of the field at an adrenaline fueled gallop.
When the confrontation was over, the Black Knight rounded his midnight steed till he faced the Stark bench. All in the Northern crowd and the crowded towers above them seemed uncomfortable and intimidated by such darkly frightening attire the knight wore. His black cape fluttered in the air like a banner as he looked to the Lord Hand's dais. Eddard waited for him to say something, but the Black Knight didn't.
For every knight on the field, dressed in the shining armor of heroes, they all chase the romantic notions of the stories they grew up with. Each wanting to prove their prowess in battle with a holy chivalry they aspire to and have sworn a vow to pursue onto death. But for this Black Knight, he was not dressed for a tourney, but true battle. A battle he was never under the delusions of morally justifying. He wore a sinister suit of dragon armor, black as midnight. His face was unseen, covered by an awful ruined image of some unknown evil from a foreign land. He felt that had earned every piece of the armor he wore, all of it reflecting the man he had seen himself become. A man he had become in the pursuit of one purpose.
His gaze fell upon that purpose for the longest time. It was unwavering and unhalted as he studied every inch of her. Cersei gazed back as much as she dared as the frightening war mask that served as knight's visor brought out a deep childlike anxiety the longer she looked into it. The Queen and the Black Knight were a study in contrast, and frightening demon of the shadow world and a shining angelic beauty of the heavens.
But before Cersei could languish any longer over the piercing sightless gaze of the shadowy figure the ringing of trumpets sounded recall for all the competitors. The dragon winged helm turned back over shoulder watching the other knights file back off the field. Before leaving he turned back to the dais.
Lifting two talons, he used them for a two fingered salute aimed at Tyrion Lannister. All eyes fell on the Imp as he slouched in his seat comfortably. The easy, lounging look of the dwarf suddenly melted before their eyes and was replaced by a rare face that was deadly serious. Tyrion gave him a quiet nod of confidence.
Rearing his steed in sight of the North, the Hand, and the Queen, the Black Knight stormed away into the frozen afternoon as the tournament for the King's Champion began.
The Autumn Wind
The Autumn Wind is a pirate
Blustering in from sea,
With a rollocking song, he sweeps along,
Swaggering boisterously.
His face is weather beaten.
He wears a hooded sash,
With a silver hat about his head,
And a bristling black mustache.
He growls as he storms the country,
A villain big and bold.
And the trees all shake and quiver and quake,
As he robs them of their gold.
The Autumn Wind is a raider,
Pillaging just for fun.
He'll knock you 'round and upside down,
And laugh when he's conquered and won.
-Ed Sabol
(Autumn Wind – Sam Spence)