"I've been thinking-" Ren said as he and Ryssa made their way to the jousting field on the second day of the tourney.
Ryssa smirked at the opportunity to tease her older brother. "That's never a good thing."
Ren glared at her. "Harhar, very funny little sister." Ryssa shrugged her shoulders, her black and white velvet hooded dress trailing slightly behind her black slipper clad feet. "What I wanted to say was that I'm fairly surprised that you and Nia aren't taking part in the melee part of the tourney. You in particular." He folded his hands behind his back, beneath his scarlet cloak.
"I thought about it for a while, but decided against it," she admitted with a small smile. "I decided not to be too heartless with the people of this city by giving them another fright after participating in the archery contest. I was lucky to be accepted, you know. The king, himself, vouched for me so that I may be allowed to wield a bow." Ryssa scoffed. "Imagine that!"
Ren gave her a good-natured smile and shook his head, his raven curls falling into his eyes slightly. "You are a force to be reckoned with, Ro."
"Damn straight I am!" Ryssa exclaimed as they got to their seats. Nia had arrived earlier that day and decided to save them seats on the bench next to her. The scarlet velvet and the golden decorations of Nia's dress and belt shimmered in the sun, giving them the illusion of being on fire as her dark brown hair cast a slight golden shine in its tight elegant braid.
The younger Manalis girl sat in her seat with perfect poise, her back straight, her hands delicately folded in her lap and her head held high. Her dark eyes were accentuated with a small amount of kohl lining them. Next to her sat Ryssa, with her legs crossed underneath the skirts of her gown and her hands positioned on her raised knee, her rosy pink curls falling unbound down her back with a few strands pinned away from her face and her eyes lined with almost non-existent amount of kohl. Neither of the girls wore any favours around their wrists simply because they refused to take part in such a frivolous tradition.
Ryssa looked around the benches and saw Lord Stark just making to sit next to Sansa, not far from where she was seated. Catching his eye, she offered a smile and slight nod of her head in sign pf respect and greeting, receiving the same from her caretaker while Sansa didn't even bat an eyelash in her direction. Nevermind that. She did not need approval from some spoiled brat who lived in a fantasy world, even if that brat was the sister of the two of her best friends.
Sandor Clegane was the first rider to appear. He wore an olive- green cloak over his soot-grey armour. That, and his hound's-head helm, were his only concession to ornament.
"A hundred golden dragons on the Kingslayer," Littlefinger announced loudly as Jaime Lannister entered the lists, riding an elegant blood bay destrier. The horse wore a blanket of gilded ringmail, and Jaime glittered from head to heel. Even his lance was fashioned from the golden wood of the Summer Isles.
"Done," Lord Renly shouted back. "The Hound has a hungry look about him this morning."
"Even hungry dogs know better than to bite the hand that feeds them," Littlefinger called dryly.
Sandor Clegane dropped his visor with an audible clang and took up his position. Ser Jaime tossed a kiss to some woman in the commons, gently lowered his visor, and rode to the end of the lists. Both men couched their lances.
Ryssa was well acquainted with the voice and face of Lord Petyr Baelish of the Fingers. Before her departure for Winterfell, her father had taken her aside and gave her detailed descriptions of the members of the Small Council in case she ever found her way to King's Landing. Right now, she was immensely grateful for her father doing so for she was better assured who to trust in this place of lies and treachery.
The Hound leaned forward as he rode, his lance rock steady, but Jaime shifted his seat deftly in the instant before impact. Clegane's point was turned harmlessly against the golden shield with the lion blazon, while his own hit square. Wood shattered, and the Hound reeled, fighting to keep his seat. A loud cheer went up from the commons.
"I wonder how I ought spend your money," Littlefinger called down to Lord Renly.
The Hound just managed to stay in his saddle. He jerked his mount around hard and rode back to the lists for the second pass. Jaime Lannister tossed down his broken lance and snatched up a fresh one, jesting with his squire. The Hound spurred forward at a hard gallop. Lannister rode to meet him. This time, when Jaime shifted his seat, Sandor Clegane shifted with him. Both lances exploded, and by the time the splinters had settled, a riderless blood bay was trotting off in search of grass while Ser Jaime Lannister rolled in the dirt, golden and dented.
"I wouldn't want to be caught in a dark alley with that man," Ren joked while pointing at the Hound. "To tell the truth, it was fairly obvious he would win. The man's got a look of pure bestiality written all over his face."
Ryssa decided to tune out the mindless rambling that kept coming out of Ren's mouth. She loved the man but he could be such a bother most of the time, she wondered how she had ever managed to live in the same castle as him. Rolling her black-green eyes, she concentrated her mind on what was happening on the field.
Jaime Lannister was back on his feet, but his ornate lion helmet had been twisted around and dented in his fall, and now he could not get it off. The commons were hooting and pointing, the lords and ladies were trying to stifle their chuckles, and failing, and over it all the laughter of King Robert, louder than anyone. Finally they had to lead the Lion of Lannister off to a blacksmith, blind and stumbling.
By then Ser Gregor Clegane was in position at the head of the lists. He was huge, the biggest man that Eddard Stark had ever seen. Robert Baratheon and his brothers were all big men, as was the Hound, and back at Winterfell there was a simpleminded stableboy named Hodor who dwarfed them all, but the knight they called the Mountain That Rides would have towered over Hodor. He was well over seven feet tall, closer to eight, with massive shoulders and arms thick as the trunks of small trees. His destrier seemed a pony in between his armoured legs, and the lance he carried looked as small as a broom handle.
Unlike his brother, Ser Gregor did not live at court. He was a solitary man who seldom left his own lands, but for wars and tourneys. He had been with Lord Tywin when King's Landing fell, a new-made knight of seventeen years, even then distinguished by his size and his implacable ferocity. Some said it had been Gregor who'd dashed the skull of the infant prince Aegon Targaryen against a wall, and whispered that afterward he had raped the mother, the Dornish princess Elia, before putting her to the sword. These things were not said in Gregor's hearing.
He was soon to be married for the third time, and one heard dark whisperings about the deaths of his first two wives. It was said that his keep was a grim place where servants disappeared unaccountably and even the dogs were afraid to enter the hall. And there had been a sister who had died young under queer circumstances, and the fire that had disfigured his brother, and the hunting accident that had killed their father. Gregor had inherited the keep, the gold, and the family estates. His younger brother Sandor had left the same day to take service with the Lannisters as a sworn sword, and it was said that he had never returned, not even to visit.
When the Knight of Flowers made his entrance, a murmur ran through the crowd. Ser Loras Tyrell was slender as a reed, dressed in a suit of fabulous silver armour polished to a blinding sheen and filigreed with twining black vines and tiny blue forget-me-nots. The commons realized that the blue of the flowers came from sapphires; a gasp went up from a thousand throats. Across the boy's shoulders his cloak hung heavy. It was woven of forget-me-nots, real ones, hundreds of fresh blooms sewn to a heavy woolen cape.
Still, all Ryssa could think while looking at the man was: "He does realize he's in a jousting tournament and not a walking bouquet?"
His courser was as slim as her rider, a beautiful grey mare, built for speed. Ser Gregor's huge stallion trumpeted as he caught her scent. The boy from Highgarden did something with his legs, and his horse pranced sideways, nimble as a dancer. Ryssa shook her head and crossed her arms at her chest. She found the way the Highgarden knight was showing off on his horse both annoying and offensive. Movements his horse just demonstrated were commonly trained to Ashland war horses as a way to help them avoid obstacles and arrows on their path, not for the entertainment of the wide public.
Ser Gregor was having trouble controlling his horse. The stallion was screaming and pawing the ground, shaking his head. The Mountain kicked at the animal savagely with an armoured boot. The horse reared and almost threw him.
The Knight of Flowers saluted the king, rode to the far end of the list, and couched his lance, ready. Ser Gregor brought his animal to the line, fighting with the reins. And suddenly it began. The Mountain's stallion broke in a hard gallop, plunging forward wildly, while the mare charged as smooth as a flow of silk. Ser Gregor wrenched his shield into position, juggled with his lance, and all the while fought to hold his unruly mount on a straight line, and suddenly Loras Tyrell was on him, placing the point of his lance just there, and in an eye blink the Mountain was failing. He was so huge that he took his horse down with him in a tangle of steel and flesh.
Ryssa heard applause, gasps and cheers all around her but her eyes stayed glued to the sight before her. he Knight of Flowers reined up at the end of the lists. His lance was not even broken. His sapphires winked in the sun as he raised his visor, smiling. The commons went mad for him.
In the middle of the field, Ser Gregor Clegane disentangled himself and came boiling to his feet. He wrenched off his helm and slammed it down onto the ground. His face was dark with fury and his hair fell down into his eyes. "My sword," he shouted to his squire, and the boy ran it out to him. By then his stallion was back on its feet as well.
Gregor Clegane killed the horse with a single blow of such ferocity that it half severed the animal's neck. Cheers turned to shrieks in a heartbeat. The stallion went to its knees, screaming as it died. By then Gregor was striding down the lists toward Ser Loras Tyrell, his bloody sword clutched in his fist.
It all happened so fast. The Knight of Flowers was shouting for his own sword as Ser Gregor knocked his squire aside and made a grab for the reins of his horse. The mare scented blood and reared. Loras Tyrell kept his seat, but barely. Ser Gregor swung his sword, a savage two-handed blow that took the boy in the chest and knocked him from the saddle. The courser dashed away in panic as Ser Loras lay stunned in the dirt. But as Gregor lifted his sword for the killing blow, a rasping voice warned, "Leave him be," and a steel-clad hand wrenched him away from the boy.
The Mountain pivoted in wordless fury, swinging his longsword in a killing arc with all his massive strength behind it, but the Hound caught the blow and turned it, and for what seemed an eternity the two brothers stood hammering at each other as a dazed Loras Tyrell was helped to safety.
It was the king's voice that put an end to it . . . the king's voice and twenty swords. "STOP THIS MADNESS," he boomed, "IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!"
The Hound went to one knee. Ser Gregor's blow cut air, and at last he came to his senses. He dropped his sword and glared at Robert, surrounded by his Kingsguard and a dozen other knights and guardsmen. Wordlessly, he turned and strode off, shoving past Barristan Selmy. "Let him go," Robert said, and as quickly as that, it was over.
Ryssa found herself releasing a breath she wasn't even aware she was holding in. Glancing at her sides, she finally noticed she was completely alone. Therenger had, 'sadly', left just before the last ride to get his armour on and ready for the melee while Niantine had left with him to his tent to retrieve her and Ryssa's bow and to meditate a little since the amount of people, the heat and the stress were getting to her nerves.
Ryssa rose from her seat and wedged her way through the crowd to Lord Stark's side when she saw him beckoning her to come over. He and Sansa were going to the archery field to see the contest Ryssa and Niantine were to compete in.
"Good day, Lord Stark," she greeted once she fell in step with him. "Good day to you too, Sansa," Ryssa added looking at the auburn-haired girl. She noticed Sansa was still wearing the rose she had gotten from Ser Loras the previous day. Sansa merely nodded in Ryssa's direction before pointing her eyes straight before herself.
"Godd day, Ryssa," Lord Stark greeted the Manalis girl back. She detected a heavy tiredness in his voice and on his face despite the smile he offered her. The work with the council must've been getting to him. "How are you today? Enjoying yourself?"
"Not in particular but I will be once I get my hands on my bow." A devilish smile crossed her full lips. "I plan on coming in second to my sister, at the very least, in the archery competition, thank you very much." She noticed Nia taking place in front of one of the targets and carrying two large objects wrapped in white cloth; their bows. Ryssa turned to Lord Stark and Sansa, bidding them a quick farewell before picking up her pace and hurrying to Nia's side.
Wordlessly, Nia handed Ryssa her masterfully crafted reddish brown snake wood bow, while keeping a firm and assured grasp on her own, weirwood one. The quivers of arrows were already distributed to the contestants. The Manalis sisters slung their own over their shoulders and strapped them to their backs.
On the mark, they notched their arrows and let them fly. For the better part of the afternoon, arrows were sent into the air, some of them hitting their targets while others failed miserably. About three hours later, only three contestants were left: Niantine, Ryssa and some boy named Anguy. They had all passed the distance of a hundred paces and were getting ready to take their shots.
Ryssa and Nia moved in complete synchronized movements as they took each and every shot, baffling the audience when they hit the bull's eye every time. Ryssa notched the arrow and kept her green eyes focused on her target. The true colour of her eyes had finally come to be seen in the strong southern sun, showing them to be a warm yet, sharp hunter's green. It seemed fitting with how good of a hunter she was. She took a deep breath; pulling the string and taking aim for a split second before letting the arrow pierce the air and imbed itself in the dead centre of the target. She smiled and turned her gaze to her right to see that Nia's arrow also pierced the bull's eye while Anguy's arrow had strayed a little to the left, just outside the rim. Enough to get him outshot by two girls. The sisters smiled warmly at each other and moved to take their next position.
In the end, after almost another hour of shooting arrows, Niantine had finally managed to outshoot her older sister. Ryssa was glad it was Nia she lost to and not some pompous prick of man who would probably try to rub it in her face and tell her that she had nothing to do with taking a bow in the first place. The last man who told her that ended up with a smashed nose, a fractured jaw, and four broken ribs and lost quite a few teeth. She was eleven when that happened. With Nia, Ryssa was absolutely certain that Nia was the better shooter. The girl had the eyes of a hawk and better aim than any Greyjoy, no matter how famous they are for their marksmanship.
After the competition, Nia had told Ryssa that she was not feeling very well and that she would go back to Ren's tent to take a short nap. The heat was getting to her. Ryssa agreed and gave her bow back to Nia so that the younger girl could store it back into Ren's trunk where it had been until today. She went back to her seat to watch the melee and Ren competing in it on Royal, his beige gelding.
The melee went on for three hours. Near forty men took part, freeriders and hedge knights and new-made squires in search of a reputation. They fought with blunted weapons in a chaos of mud and blood, small troops fighting together and then turning on each other as alliances formed and fractured, until only one man was left standing. The victor was the red priest, Thoros of Myr, a madman who shaved his head and fought with a flaming sword. He had won melees before; the fire sword frightened the mounts of the other riders, and nothing frightened Thoros. The final tally was three broken limbs, a shattered collarbone, a dozen smashed fingers, two horses that had to be put down, and more cuts, sprains, and bruises than anyone cared to count. Ryssa was proud of Ren seeing as he was the last man to be unhorsed and gave Thoros quite the run for his gold before he was knocked off his feet by a surprise blow by the red priest who moved extremely faster in his red robes that Ren could in his armour.
That night, once they had moved Nia back to her room in the Tower of the Hand and put an exausted Ren in his own, Ryssa sat at the feast table right across from Arya, who she had not seen in a few days. She kept seeing less and less from the half wild little girl ever since the latter had gotten Syrio for her 'dancing' tutor. Everybody was in a great mood and Ryssa was certain this was the first time she had seen a look that wasn't one of contempt on the Queen's face, which was a bit odd in the least.
She was surprised to see Sansa and Arya being civil to each other, Lord Stark was as well if she could make a conclusion from the look he was giving his daughteres.
"The tournament was magnificent," Sansa sighed. "You should have come. How was your dancing?"
"I'm sore all over," Arya reported happily, proudly displaying a huge purple bruise on her leg.
"You must be a terrible dancer," Sansa said doubtfully.
Later, while Sansa was off listening to a troupe of singers perform the complex round of interwoven ballads called the "Dance of the Dragons," Lord Stark inspected the bruise himself. "I hope Forel is not being too hard on you," he said.
"It is completely normal for her to be getting bruises, Lord Stark," Ryssa assured him. "His methods may seem a little unorthodox, but they are exactly what Arya needs to master her dance." With that she turned to the minstrels in search of a familiar face. When she couldn't find one, she turned to the wine. Only a few hours later, she retired back to her room with wobbly feet and a silly grin on her face. In the back of her head, Ryssa was certain she would regret it on the next morning.
AN: This chapter was finished on October 10th at about 6:30 pm. Hope you enjoyed it and please leave a review. Also, this story could really use a good cover pitcure and I suck at making them, so, if any of you feel up to making one, please contact me. I've also been thinking that this story could finally use a beta to help me with all the grammar and keeping the everyone in character. If interested, let me know. :) I guess that would be all. Is it too desperate of me to beg fore reviews because this story really lacks in that department and I really, really want to know your opinions on everything and could use some new ideas 'cause I'm suffering from writer's block right now and amd NOT sattisfied with the way this chapter came out.
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