Jena

The tourney began before the sun had even finished rising across the sky.

Jena had been woken up early by Gwenys, who'd helped her get washed and dressed. As a highborn lady who was related to one of the competing knights, Jena was due to have one of the best seats available.

The two young women were escorted by Royce the Runt and several Dondarrion guards down to an awaiting litter. Titus and his squire, Clifford Straw, had long ago departed so that Titus would be ready to joust. He would be one of the first to ride the lists, or so he'd announced the evening before.

As she was waiting for an available litter, a voice called out to Jena. It was a grey-bearded knight of the Kingsguard, followed by the striking figure that was Lady Elaena Targaryen, along with her long-faced husband, Lord Ronnel Penrose.

Before Lord Penrose or the Kingsguard knight could speak, Elaena stepped forward with what was meant as a kindly smile, "My lady, would you like to accompany us to the tourney?"

"Gladly, my Lady," Jena curtsied eagerly, amazed to have attracted this great lady's attention.

She had heard stories of Elaena Targaryen for almost her entire life. She had, of course, been the youngest of King Baelor's sisters, those whom he'd shut up in the great Maidenvault. It had been done to preserve their chastity, so the stories had gone, but it had not worked in the case of Daena the Defiant, mother of Daemon Blackfyre. Elaena, meanwhile, had famously shorn her hair of that silver hair with its golden streak and sent it to her brother in the hope that he might release her.

Jena was nervous as she sat opposite Elaena and her husband in the large and gaudy litter which was clearly meant for Targaryens. She dared not be intrusive, for once, and she did all that she could to hold her tongue. Kindness is withdrawn as easily as it is taken away. Father was always kind until the moment when he wasn't.

Luckily, Elaena was not interested in a silent ride. As the wheels bounced and clattered over the cobblestones, the aging princess leaned forward, "Tell me, Lady Dondarrion, is it true that we are beholden to you for our cousin's life?"

"Oh," Jena blushed, unsure of what to say. It was ironic that she'd been so adament about it with Titus, and yet she felt utterly averse to taking the credit when it was a member of the royal family in front of her. She found herself, much to her own shock, to be tongue-tied and uncertain of how to proceed. She felt her hand tremble, and hid it in the folds of her purple cape. Soon enough, Gwenys reached out and held it to steady her.

Lord Penrose, meanwhile, saw fit to interject," Now now, my dear," he said in a condescending tone, "these hunts are never without near misses. Nothing usually comes of them. I'm sure Prince Baelor was in no serious danger."

"That's not what I hear," Elaena responded coolly, utterly unafraid to contradict her husband in front of others, "Daenerys was there, she swears that if it was not for Lady Dondarrion, then Baelor would have been slain."

Jena felt herself flush darker, even as her admiration for Elaena Targaryen rose sharply. It took all her strength of will not to laugh at the sour expression on Lord Penrose as he grumbled to himself and turned to look out the window.

Elaena turned back to Jena, paying her husband no more heed, "Is this your first tourney?"

"No," Jena answered, "my father always held tourneys at Blackhaven. It was how he found the best men for his garrison." That was, indeed, how men such as Ser Maynard Kellington, the captain of their guards, had come into their service in the first place. He was one of five household knights sworn to Blackhaven that would ride in the lists alongside Titus.

"Well, I doubt any of those tourneys lasted as long as this one will," Elaena remarked, "The lists alone will take at least three days to resolve before a champion is declared. And that is before even mentioning the squires' tourney, the melee, the archery..."

The description left Jena feeling daunted. This was the sort of tourney which would inspire singers for a generation to come. She thought of the War for the White Cloaks, which had played out in the early days of King Jaehaerys the Wise, and also of the great tourney which marked the fiftieth year of Jaehaerys' reign. Clement Crabb and Ryam Redwyne had broken thirty lances against each other before they were declared co-champions.

The litter came to a sudden halt, and the passengers dismounted. Elaena's Kingsguard escort led her and Lord Penrose to the highest seats, where the royal family sat. They had the best view of the lists, towering above the common crowds which had to stand or observe the proceedings from the tops of trees and buildings alike.

Jena and Gwenys, meanwhile, were led by their Dondarrion guards to another elevated platform, not so high as the royal one, but still a place of privilege. The highborn noble families sat here, often to see their relatives or husbands take part.

The platform was already crowded when Jena and Gwenys took their seats. Well over half the people sitting with them were Dornish, while the rest were mainly drawn from the Crownlands, Stormlands, and the Reach, with a few outliers from the Riverlands and Vale.

Jena knew full well what was expected of her if she was going to be a spectator at this tourney. She must applaud courteously, but not too enthusiastically. She must be reserved, and favour nobody except her own kin, for she had no husband to cheer on.

That made her think of Prince Baelor again; she had certainly won praise from his family, but she doubted that would be enough for them to approve of her as a wife. Prince Baelor was the Heir to Dragonstone; such a man would certainly find his bride from the Great Houses. Arryn, Baratheon, Lannister, even Martell and Stark for all she knew. What was House Dondarrion compared to any of those houses? Many of the ladies who sat amongst her were from far richer families than she; any one of them would make a worthier wife to a prince. The thoughts soured her so much that she almost didn't notice her brother ride past her seat, waving his arm out to the cheering crowd.

He was dressed in a spare suit of armour, devoid of any elaborate design. Only his surcoat - black velvet with bright purple lightning stitched into it - gave any indication of his status. Jena quickly stood up to applaud her brother, even as her burgeoning sense of fear was threatening to push her stomach into her throat. Gwen stood up beside her, a knowing look in her eye as she put a hand on Jena's shoulder.

The herald announced Titus's name and rank to the spectators, as well as his opponent; Ser Harwood Egen from the Vale. He was fitted in silvered steel, with an elaborate crest on his helm in the shape of the sun, moon, and star of his sigil. That is a man who is confident in victory.

It was not to be. When he and Titus charged towards each other, it was Ser Harwood who was unhorsed. The ornate design of his helm was broken in his awkward fall. Many of the smallfolk cried out, but whether in alarm or excitement, Jena could not be sure. Luckily, Ser Harwood was able to stand, using the remains of his lance as a crutch. Still on horseback, Titus turned and gave his fallen opponent a respectful salute with his own lance. Though he limped badly, the Valeman acknowledged Titus' salute with a gracious, if clumsy, bow.

After Titus' first victory, the next several matches became a blur to her. She saw Ser Maynard Kellington defeated by Gwayne Corbray of the Kingsguard, while another Kingsguard named Donnel of Duskendale easily unhorsed Ser Hector Stokeworth. A hedge knight named Ser Arlan of Pennytree jousted valiantly against Ser Maegor Toyne, but he was forced to yield. Ser Garrison Dalt's son, Edgar, was almost knocked out cold by a fearsome knight called Ser Arson Tork. Jena had not heard of him before, but Ser Arson seemed to be well known to the crowds. His sigil was a crimson boar's head on a golden field, and the smallfolk cried out "Redtusk" when he triumphed. Jena could not be sure whether it was the knight they admired, or the fact that he had so thoroughly defeated a Dornish contender. She watched Ser Edgar half-carried off the field by his twin brother, heard Coryanne and Aliandra's cries of dismay at his injuries, and felt a deep rage against those who cheered so heartily against them. Gods, why did you make us such barbarians?

It was only then that Jena took notice of the woman who sat beside her. She was not much older than Jena herself, and she was heavy with child. Her clothing was well-made but garish, and her hair was dyed bright blue. She was putting on a very haughty air, yet she still seemed vulnerable to Jena. Nobody was speaking to her, for one thing, and she occasionally earned a hostile glance. That might have been because of two five-year-old twin boys who accompanied her. When the knights charged, they cheered wildly or stared with their mouths open. Elsewise, they were restless and noisy. A handmaiden was doing her best to keep them in check, but the pregnant woman often had to speak sharply to her sons. Her accent was foreign to Westeros, or at least to any part of Westeros which Jena had ever visited. Another reason why these people must dislike her.

"Is their father riding the lists today?" Jena asked politely, nodding to her twin boys.

The woman regarded Jena with surprise, then a measure of suspicion, "Is this your first time to King's Landing?"

"It is," Jena answered, biting back her offence at the lady's scornful tone, "I am Jena of House Dondarrion."

The woman hesitated, then gave a nod, "Rohanne. My uncle is Quaarion Adarys, the Archon of Tyrosh."

Jena knew little about Tyrosh, except that it was one of the Free Cities in Essos. She was at a loss of what an Archon was, but she presumed that it must be some high position as like to a prince or even a king. She did not wish to ask and open herself up to derision, so she simply nodded, "What brought you to Westeros, if I may ask?"

"Marriage," was Rohanne's curt response.

"I see," Jena answered, then indicated Rohanne's swollen belly, "My congratulations. Your third?"

"No," Rohanne shook her head, "my fourth. Calla is at the Red Keep. A tourney is no place for a little girl."

Jena flinched, "That's true enough." She could not help speaking with a hint of loathing and regret. Would that I'd had Rohanne as a mother, she might have put her foot down with Father.

Rohanne paused, and her expression grew less harsh, "When was your first tourney?"

Before either women could speak again, there was a great cheer. The next two knights - Titus' companion Willem Wylde and Qoren Yronwood - were charging towards each other at full speed, lances at the ready. Jena braced herself, gripping her dress to stop herself from putting her hands to her face. A lady must watch on, for this is what men do. And may the gods strike them all down for this madness.

It was a foregone conclusion; Willem was a seasoned knight, in his prime, while the Yronwood heir was too green to prove a match. Wylde must have sensed it, for at the last minute, he pulled his lance back so that it did not crash headlong against Qoren and knock him off the horse. It had been a good hit, though; the tip of Wylde's lance broke against Qoren's shield, and all could see that Qoren only remained on his horse because of Wylde's mercy. As the crowd roared their approval of this chivalry, Wylde gave a courteous bow to Qoren, as Titus had done. Qoren, however, did not return the gesture, instead dismounting and storming off. He is too arrogant to feel anything but shame, Jena thought. She heard several hundred voices jeering as Qoren stomped off.

Jena turned back to Rohanne "I was the age of your sons when I witnessed my first tourney. My father held them in our castle to train our knights and recruit new ones into our service. Mother tried to keep me away, but he was adamant."

"Why?" Rohanne asked. Her question was not out of politeness; she was regarding Jena with curiosity.

"House Dondarrion is on the Dornish Marches," Jena explained, "We have always lived with war, and so it is deemed that even the women must grow accustomed to it."

Rohanne nodded, "So what happened that day?"

Jena felt a storm of emotions brewing inside of her. She did not want to go on, but she could think of no way to reject Rohanne's question without being rude. So, she took a breath and proceeded to answer.

"My brother Orwyle was taking part in a joust, and some mishap occurred. He fell from his horse, but he fell badly, and..." Jena shuddered, trying to banish the memory from her mind, "His neck was broken."

Rohanne gave her a look of sympathy and took Jena's hand in her own. She said something, but Jena was no longer listening. She could not stop thinking of how Orwyle had looked, flying backwards off his horse when his father's lance had struck him. Armond Dondarrion had insisted on riding against his son, declaring that he must be man enough to joust with any who challenged him. Orwyle had been afraid to hurt his father; perhaps it was this caution which made Armond angrier. Or perhaps that had been the wine which he'd been drinking.

In her nightmares, she still saw Orwyle flying through the air, and she always swore that he'd screamed in pain - or terror - as he'd flown. The cry had been cut short when his body had crumpled on the ground with a sickening crunch of metal. His helmeted head had landed first, his neck taking the brunt of his entire body weight. She had needed sweetsleep for almost two months after bearing witness to such a ghastly sight.

She was older now, but she still loathed jousting. She had spent years finding ways to avoid having to attend her father's tourneys, though she had sometimes gone in the hope that she could see him meet a grisly end of his own. It had not happened, of course; Armond Dondarrion was too skilled a warrior and knight to die like that.

And yet, even Jena could not help but feel a stirring inside of her when Prince Baelor took the field. His helm was decorated with an ornate dragon's head, his surcoat bore the Targaryen sigil proudly, and his gestures were courteous without being extravagant. Jena stood up, applauding louder than ever when he rode past her. If he noticed her, he gave no sign of it.

His first opponent was a man named Ser Bors, whose cloak was decorated with the red salmon of House Mooton. He rode well, but not so well as the prince; after three rounds of shattered lances, it was deemed that Baelor had triumphed against the older man. Jena stood up once again when Baelor departed the field, hoping that he might at least see her. This time, her hopes were rewarded. The prince's helm turned up to face her, and he raised a hand in greeting before passing onwards. Jena felt her stomach twisting wildly.

"Not a word," she said without looking at her friend, blushing as she sat back down. Gwen simply giggled.

She turned back to Lady Rohanne, who had made no move to stand for Prince Baelor. The friendliness which she'd shown before had faded somewhat.

"Is something amiss?" Jena asked, confused.

"No," Rohanne replied, "forgive me. The baby is restless."

Jena gave a nod, though she had a niggling sense that Rohanne was lying.

The sun made its way across the sky as more knights took the field and rode the length of the lists. Many of them were well-known, and drew cheers from the spectators whether they won or lost. Rohanne knew several of them very well, and applauded vigorously when each was called to the list. She cheered for Gormon of House Peake, Robb Reyne, and even for two bastard-born knights called Byren Flowers and Aegor Rivers. The master-at-arms of King's Landing (as Rohanne identified him to Jena) was named Quentyn Ball, though the rabble hailed him with the name "Fireball". He was one of the fiercest knights of all, even when he was pitted against Lord Merryweather, one of the richest men in the tourney. His armour shone like Myrish glass, dazzling Jena so much that she almost had to cover her eyes. Yet it was Lord Merryweather who was left sprawled in the dirt when she looked up again. The Fireball cantered up and down the list, basking in the revelry of his admirers, but then when he saw Merryweather's squire struggling to pull his lord upright, he dismounted and offered his own assistance. That caused the biggest cheer of all, including from Jena.

The Dornish knights, by contrast, were not nearly as well-received. Some, like Lucifer Yronwood, were visibly affronted, while others, like Qyle Santagar, feigned ignorance of any negative attention. The only one who gained a grudging amount of respect was Ulrick Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Even the most common rabble of Flea Bottom had heard stories of Dawn, the legendary sword of House Dayne. Jena wondered whether he'd use Dawn in the melee. No, there would be no sport in that, surely.

In the meantime, pairs of knights continued to thunder towards each other. Their armour was elaborate, or plain, or gaudy. They bore all sorts of colours on their persons and their horses alike. Many cried out when they fell, or groaned or whimpered. The worst was when they fell without a sound, and Jena could not help but fear for their lives until they moved again.

One knight in particular caught the attention of the crowd. His ornate armour was a mix of reds and blacks, while his helm was equipped with two strange-looking fixtures. At first, Jena took them to be bat wings, assuming him to be a knight of House Lothston. But then a chant went up as he mounted his horse.

"The Black Dragon! The Black Dragon!"

Daemon Blackfyre. Jena felt herself shudder. She'd heard stories about him from Titus while he'd written her letters from King's Landing and Dorne. What she'd heard most often, however, was that Daemon was one of the greatest warriors who drew breath in all the Seven Kingdoms. Only Prince Baelor had proved a match for him, earning the name "Breakspear" in the process.

As men and women cheered for the Black Dragon, another noise caught Jena's ear. Rohanne's twin boys were ecstatically jumping up and down, waving their arms and shouting at Ser Daemon. That was itself not surprising to Jena, until she caught what word they were shouting.

"Father! Father!"

Jena turned to Rohanne in surprise, who was too busy to notice her epiphany. The Tyroshi had risen to her feet and clapped her hands together for her husband.

Jena stared as he prepared to joust with his foe; Lord Leo Tyrell. Like Daemon, he had a moniker and a reputation of which Jena had heard. Leo "Longthorn" Tyrell was a renowned knight, one of the greatest that the Reach had yet produced, or so it was said. From the reactions of the crowd, it seemed that everyone knew full well that this was going to be the first of many great matches.

Again and again did the Longthorn and Black Dragon charge each other, breaking lance after lance against shield and body alike. Neither knight refused to yield, nor did they seem to tire. In fact, both men had to take fresh mounts to continue the struggle. On the tenth charge, Daemon aimed his lance for Lord Tyrell's head. The crowd roared as Lord Tyrell leaned to the side to avoid the lance, readjusting his own in the mere seconds before collision. Both lances struck home in a splintering of wood. Rohanne cried out in alarm, as did her sons. Both knights fell from their mounts and crashed to earth.

Both were able to rise, and called for their squires. Jena half expected Daemon to draw Blackfyre, but instead he took up a morningstar against the Longthorn's longsword.

The crowd cheered again as the knights swung their weapons at each other, metal clanging and swishing through the warm air. It was an even match until Leo Tyrell swung his blade in a mighty downward swing, only for Daemon to lift up his shield's edge. The sword clove downwards into the wood, barely missing Daemon's arm, but the blade was trapped. Quick as a flash, Daemon swung his morningstar and struck Lord Tyrell in the chest, knocking him backwards to fall into the dust. Sprawled on his back, Lord Tyrell held up both hands to indicate his surrender.

Jena plugged her ears as the crowd went wild. Daemon cast aside his ruined shield and pulled Leo to his feet again. Then, he removed his helm, mounted his horse, and rode the length of the list in triumph. His handsome face glistened with sweat, his silver-gold hair streamed behind him, and when his squire handed him Blackfyre, he raised the Valyrian steel sword upwards to catch the sunlight. Even Jena could see why he was so beloved.

After Daemon Blackfyre's triumph, the following jousts seemed lesser, almost boring by comparison. But the final joust of the day proved interesting to Jena, for the two contenders were Ser Garrison Dalt, the Knight of Lemonwood, and Lord Commander Red Robert Flowers. Both men were older, experienced, each with their own supporters. The Dornish applauded as one for Ser Garrison, and Jena even saw that her brother had emerged again to watch.

The Dornish enthusiasm, however, was outdone by the support for Robert Flowers. He was dressed in his white cloak, white enameled scale armour, pale breastplate, and a pure white shield. Even though the sun was beginning to set, the lauded knight gleamed like a star fallen to the earth.

Both men rode to opposite ends of the field, and when the signal was given, they charged for each other. Their lance points shimmered whenever they caught the sunlight in the air.

There was a brief moment, so brief that it passed by before Jena could have ever pointed it out as it happened. But it seemed to her that something was wrong about the way that the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was riding. Before she could even begin to process this, the disaster had already struck.

The Lord Commander's lance, which had been already shaking up and down in the air, suddenly rose up to hit Ser Garrison just beneath his helm. The Dornishman flew backward off of his horse, and although Ser Robert's lance broke, it was clear to all that Ser Garrison had been impaled. He fell backwards, landed badly on his back, and lay motionless with a foot of lance protruding from his neck.

Jena stood up and cried out in shock, even as the shrieks of Coryanne and Aliandra rang in her ears. Rohanne's twins were shouting in alarm as well.

Red Robert, meanwhile, fared little better than Ser Garrison. When his lance had struck his opponent, the impact had caused the Kinsguard knight to lose balance and fall from his mount, which still ran at full speed. Ser Robert landed awkwardly upon the ground and his body tumbled forward in a manner that might have almost been called comical. His momentum was swiftly halted when he thudded into the wood which formed a barrier between the spectators and the lists. He too, did not get up from where he lay.

Men rushed forward, either to Ser Garrison or Ser Robert, all of them shouting. Armed guards struggled to keep order. Even the King and his family were on their feet, leaving their elevated seats in great haste.

For her part, Jena stayed where she was, rooted to the spot with shock. She gripped the wooden railing in front of her, shaking as she beheld her brother bending over Ser Garrison's form, and then collapse with his head in his hands.

"Order! Order!"

Daemon Blackfyre rode out again, remounted on his horse, though he was no longer in his armour. The young warrior held up Blackfyre in his right hand and bellowed to the smallfolk and guards alike. Many heeded his call, but others continued to be frantic. Daemon was soon joined by other knights such as Quentyn Ball and Arson Tork.

Jena watched as Uthor and Edgar joined Titus by their father, overcome with horror. They were quickly joined by their sister and mother, both of whom were sobbing. Jena's eyes filled with tears at the sight, especially when she saw that Titus was weeping too.

Other Kingsguard knights hurried forward, shouting "Make way" as they headed for their fallen commander.

Red Robert was still alive, however. His arms and legs were twitching, moving as if he was a drunken man that had fallen over. The Kingsguard surrounded him and carefully began removing his armour.

"Murderer!"

Jena cried out again, eyes wide.

Uthor Dalt had picked up his father's sword and pointed it at the huddled form of Ser Robert, "You killed my father! We all saw it!"

His rage was such that the Kinsguard immediately drew their own blades and formed a barrier between Uthor and Ser Robert. Other guards with the Targaryen livery ran forward to join them. Uthor was joined by Edgar and Titus on either side, all three armed.

"No!" Jena shrieked to her brother, but he gave no sign that he heard her.

"Enough!"

It was Prince Baelor Breakspear. Like Daemon, he was unencumbered by plate and male, but he was still horsed and carried a Valyrian steel blade. It was Dark Sister, the longsword of House Targaryen. He rode his horse in front of the Kingsguard and dismounted.

"Noble sers!" He called out in a voice loud enough that Jena heard him, "I have no quarrel with any of you."

"Then stand aside," Uthor yelled, "For I have quarrel enough with the murderer behind you!"

"Please, Ser Uthor," Baelor implored, "Stay your hand. We must answer this with justice, not vengeance!"

"You talk of justice?" Uthor countered, "When has a Targaryen ever given justice to a man of Dorne?"

Jena was aghast, convinced that Uthor would charge forward and slash his sword at Baelor's head. All around her, the empty seats where nobles had sat were quickly filled by archers. They nocked arrows onto their bows, aiming for Uthor, his brother, and Titus.

"Titus!" Jena shrieked as loud as she could. I will not watch another brother die!

This time, Titus heard her. He turned his head until he saw her, and his gaze went to the archers that had joined her on the raised platform. The wild look on his face slowly melted away, and he lowered his sword.

She murmured a prayer of thanks under her breath as he grabbed Uthor and whispered something in his ear. The moment seemed to stretch for hours, everyone standing still, with Jena half expecting more bloodshed.

Instead, Uthor dropped the sword and spat at Prince Baelor's feet before storming away. Some guards shouted in response to Uthor's disrespect, but before they could grab him, Baelor shouted at them to let him leave.

"We must go, Jena," Gwenys whispered frantically, tugging at the hem of her cape.

Jena turned away and retreated from the platform, but rather than fleeing the scene, she ran out to the list where the madness was still unfolding.

Edgar and Titus had turned back to where the Knight of Lemonwood lay. A maester was bent over the body, having removed the shard of lance, but there was clearly nothing else to be done. Aliandra and Coryanne each held onto one of Garrison's hands and huddled over his body. Titus and Edgar stood over them, oblivious to everything else. Titus was weeping again, and he did not listen to Jena when she called out his name.

Three maesters had emerged and were examining Red Robert Flowers. Prince Baelor was standing over them, and Jena could hear his weary voice as he asked, "Is he alive?"

"Yes, Majesty," answered one of them, "He has not recovered his senses, but he will live."

"So be it," Baelor said heavily, "When he recovers, he must stand trial."

Nobody dared speak out against the Prince of Dragonstone, but Jena could see that most who heard his words disapproved of them. It was clear that they saw no fault in Ser Robert. An accident, they will say, and he will make that his defence too, no doubt. Will that answer for what he has done?

Jena turned away from Baelor, and walked back to her brother. He did not look up, nor did he react when she threw her arms around him, except to lower his head upon her shoulder and weep harder.