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PART TEN
Joust
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Metal gleamed, fresh paint upon colored shields shining lacquer-bright. Dirt flew in dry clods, kicked up by the hooves of the two horses barrelling down the narrow line of the list - driven toward imminent collision.
There was a very brief hush as the noise of the crowd subsided to baited breath. Waiting, riveted, as the riders drew nearer, lances poised, the distance between them swallowed up by the second.
With an awful groaning crack, lance struck shield and shattered in a burst of splinters, stirring a great jubilant roar from the audience. Tossing the broken lance aside, Ser Entan Fyste raised a hand in celebration of the point won as he and young Lord Jerrad Mallister rounded the ends of the list to take up position for the next pass - both as of yet whole and unharmed.
From her place in the stands, Visaera let go of the breath she had been holding. She sagged faintly in her seat, though whether this was more from the relief or weariness from sitting so tensely for well over an hour was impossible to determine.
"Why an accomplished swordswoman such as you gets squeamish at the lists I will never understand," Jon remarked dryly beside her, voice elevated to be heard over the din of chatter and cheers.
"It's just…it's different," she said defensively, hunching her shoulders to alleviate some of her discomfort as she watched Mallister accept a new lance from his squire. "It's dangerous. If you're injured in the joust it's crippling, or death."
"The melee has just as much chance of maiming or fatality," came Jon's argument. "More than, I'd say, considering the greater number of participants."
Visaera shot him a look of venomous annoyance.
"It's not the same," she snapped, and he rolled his brown eyes skyward.
"If you say so."
The flag dropped, signaling both riders to spur their mounts into a charge, and the muscles in Visaera's back coiled tight to brace herself, her hands curling into the edge of her cloak.
There were a number of reasons behind her visceral, bone-deep dislike of jousting, most of which could be summed up by the sheer number of variables that were impossible to control.
Lances, while somewhat antiquated as weapons went nowadays, were no less a weapon for that fact. One could fashion them of a slightly softer wood for a marginally easier break and blunt the ends with coronels, but they carried a great deal of force. That force was only compounded by the speed of being on horseback - the horses themselves being yet another potential hazard. A bad fall or a wrong step could cripple a rider as quickly as a missed blow. And misses happened. Often. It took both aim and luck to hit such a relatively small target moving at such high speeds with eyesight hindered by a helm and visor; and while the full suits of armor contestants wore served to protect them from most damage, there were weak points. It was not uncommon for armor to be damaged or shields split, and not every miss was accidental.
It was true that any fighting sport was potentially perilous, contained a certain danger of unfortunate and unforeseen outcomes. Strictly speaking, Jon was right in that a competitive melee held a higher overall probability of injury simply due to the amount of bodies and weapons involved. But she had never seen anyone die from a piece of a broken lance buried so deep in the eye socket that it pierced their brain anywhere but the joust.
Headshots were discouraged, but only ever halfheartedly so. Certainly not enough to dissuade a combatant seeking a swift and assured victory from attempting it. And audiences, however horrified, were never quick to turn down spectacle.
So far as she knew, the instance she had witnessed as a girl had been purely accidental, but intent had not prevented the will of chance. She could still vividly remember the image of the man sprawled, convulsing upon the dirt. The squire and surgeon and other knights gathered about him, attempting to get his helmet loose but unable to do so without jostling the great splinter thick as a grown man's finger bones buried in his eye. Blood and fluid and brain matter had slicked his once flawless armor and the hands of those who tried to free him, all while he had screamed - such grating, haunting screams. But by the time they managed to detach the visor from the body of the helm to get at the knight's face, the screams had ceased. As had his breath.
The sight had haunted her dreams for weeks after - did even now on occasion.
She would take a dull sword in a muddy pit of men drunk upon adrenaline over this farce of a sport any day. There was plenty of accidental maiming and death there, too, but…nothing like that.
For the second time Fyste broke his lance upon Mallister's shield in a show of perfect, practiced aim. Mallister, however, struck high. The tip of his own lance glanced off the rim of Fyste's bright green sigil to slam into the knight's armored chest with an ear-splitting screech of metal.
Visaera's flinch was a full-bodied thing.
Fyste swayed in the saddle, split lance slipping from an arm that dangled loose at his side. His horse danced uneasily beneath him as he lilted sideways, the cream and grass-green caparison fluttering about its hind legs, and a low, tense murmur rippled across the stands, the crowd suddenly agitated - anxious to see whether or not the knight would recover to take his third pass.
His back was to her, but it wouldn't have shocked her had his plate been dented by the blow. Depending on where exactly he'd been hit, it might merely have been enough to wind him. Too high and he might have suffered a cracked sternum or collarbone.
After another moment Ser Fyste straightened, armored shoulders jerking back as he gestured to his squire for a new lance.
For the third time the contestants drove forward. This time there was no splitting of painted pine. Fyste's aim went a fraction too wide, allowing Lord Mallister to strike him squarely at the center of his shield at just the right angle to toss him from his horse.
The noise of the spectators swelled into raucous exultation, cheers and applause and the odd whistle, as the knight tumbled to the dirt in a heavy, clattering heap - declaring the match for his opponent.
Nudging his mount into an easy canter, Mallister took a victorious pass down the packed earth. He lifted his arm to wave, stoking the fervor of the crowd and basking in the boisterous praise. Not that Visaera was paying him any mind. Only when the fallen Ser Fyste managed to stagger to his feet with the aid of his squire and another man, hale enough to walk, at least, was she able to relax.
Slowing, Mallister came to a stop in front of the platform where Rhaegar presided in his father's stead.
It was no secret that Aerys had not left the Red Keep in near to a decade, preferring to remain cloistered in the relative safety within, and as no one had truly expected him to be there, the lack of his presence caused no stir and drew no whispers. His mother at his left with his younger brother and his wife at his right, the prince sat at ease within the rough structure that served as the royal box, free from the unsettling, often spiteful scrutiny of his father.
"Well struck, My Lord," Rhaegar called, inclining his head to Mallister. The crown he wore upon his pale head caught the watery sunlight, the rubies set into the narrow band of blackened gold glinting.
Steel gauntlet rising to rest over his head, Mallister bowed from the saddle. "Thank you, Your Grace!"
"Luck to you in your next bout."
To the accompaniment of applause, the man steered his horse to the end of the list where his squire waited to help him disarm and refresh until the victors of the first round were called back to defend their win by scoring another. And on and on it would go until there was a final winner to claim both prize and renown. Which, with so many competing, getting to that end might very well carry over into a second day. Perhaps even a third, depending on how efficiently the event was run and barring any serious accidents.
Visaera swallowed the hint of bile in her throat and tried to focus on taking advantage of the calm between matches. Though calm was, perhaps, an inaccurate word.
The crowd around her had settled into an eager buzz of activity. Enthusiastic chatter and ribald laughter flowed in a shapeless, muted roar. Discourse was exchanged on the events of the bout. Bets were settled, money exchanged, new wagers were struck with the clasping of hands. Bodies wove amongst the others gathered, either for the sake of stretching tired legs or to seek out food or drink from the vendors scattered amongst the tents erected behind the stands, which housed the competitors, their equipment, and their horses.
As there was no room within the city to hold a tournament, a temporary grounds had been erected just outside the walls. Trees had cleared to further hollow out a sparse area along the banks of the Blackwater Rush, the timbers - still fresh and sweet-smelling - used to construct the long, narrow fence serving as the jousting list and the accompanying stands in addition to areas for the other events to follow. Per Rhaegar's orders, when the festivities were over, the wood was to be broken down again and distributed to those within the city that had need of it.
Most of the crowd was common folk - those who had privilege enough to attend - and observed on foot, packed tightly along the riverbank or around and in front of the stands where those higher rank watched in comparative comfort. Fortunately the weather was only cool rather than cold, and the fringe of trees left along the bank helped to soften any breeze from the river.
It was, Visaera noted, a very open space. Though a sizable number of the city watch had been dispersed among the crowd and along the edges of the field to act as security - distinctive in their armor and aventail of gold-washed bronze - the area was almost impossible to secure thoroughly, no matter how thick the guard detail. She didn't imagine the Kingsguard were all too happy with the situation.
She glanced down the stands to where the platform had been erected, sleek, serpentine dragons carved into the posts which flanked the rough plank steps leading up from the ground - snarling jaws parted to display sharp wooden fangs. Ser Jonothor stood at the base of the steps, eyes alert from behind the nose-guard of his helm. Ser Oswell was stationed upon the platform with the family. Though the burly knight appeared much less grim than did his fellow guard, she could tell that he was a measure more tense than usual.
Arthur certainly wouldn't be pleased, wherever he was. Though she doubted he would show it beyond that faint little crease between his brows to bely his frown.
Yet even at his most dour and disapproving, what she wouldn't give for but a hint of that steady composure.
"You didn't have to come along, you know," Jon noted from beside her. Though the words might have appeared to be founded in annoyance, she could tell from his amiable tone that he was more bemused than anything else. A thoroughly brotherly response to a sibling's discomfort.
"Believe me," she replied dryly, "I would have steered well clear if it wouldn't have simply landed me somewhere else with bloody Yarwyck instead."
Lowering her eyes, she leveled a caustic glance toward the lord in question where he sat several rows along. From her position, she was only able to make out the back of his head, the steel-gray hair which fell well past his shoulders. It was unusually full for his age, and was obviously a point of vanity. Something she had learned not from this vantage point, but from their very brief introduction.
Though his arrival had been several days past, she had managed to avoid him until just that morning while preparing to leave for the joust. It had plainly been a contrived meeting - Tywin's stench was all over it - though expected manners forced her to pretend to accept the lord's exclamation praising good fortune for the chance encounter rather than the machinations of his liege lord.
Visaera thought the Lord of Cragmere had probably been near to handsome once, though time and a fondness for drink had robbed him of much of it. Every year showed upon his face - in the deep creases which framed his mouth and brow, the skin gone loose at his cheeks and under his chin, in the rather dramatically receded hairline. Age had set his eyes slightly deeper than they likely once had been, but they were shrewd and calculating, and brimming with smug, intolerable arrogance.
She had detested him immediately.
While Royce and even Dustin, in his own way, were well-mannered enough to at least pretend at civility, Yarwyck made no pretense that he was doing anything other than sizing her up like a prize mare.
For all that she was not some shrinking, naive girl, it had still managed to reduce her to something small and helpless and used, and she loathed that this vile, overgrown fungus clinging to Lannister's self-important arsecould have such power over her even if only for the length of a moment.
As anticipated, he had extended an invitation to join him for the event. Thankfully Jon had been nearby to sweep in and claim brotherly privilege to her company, as promised, lending her a reprieve. If only a temporary one. She would still have to contend with the insolent old fucker at dinner, but she would be in a far better state of mind to handle him there than whilst trying (ineffectively) to tamp down her immense distaste for the joust and the heightened nerves that came with it.
Following the direction of her gaze, Jon made a derisive noise in the back of his throat. "Hn. True. Maybe you could sneak away?"
"And chance being caught and delivered right into his lap?" she bit back, the words scathing. "No, thank you."
Except she doubted she would be so fortunate as that. If she were to be delivered anywhere, it would be to some nice, private place where the Hand would ensure that she would be given to his favored prospect, by whatever brutal or defiling means were necessary to see it done.
Her left hand clenched into a compulsive fist, feeling the straps securing the sheath of the dagger beneath her sleeve press into the skin of her forearm as she swallowed down the bitter taste of bile.
Hints of a dark glower clouded Jon's face as his full lips pressed tightly together - a tiny motion which she recognized as an indication he was checking his anger. He didn't question her, didn't ask for clarification, whether she was sure the Council would truly treat her - insult her - in such a way. He already knew the truth for what it was. And doubtless plenty more besides.
She felt his hand settle over her fist, his fingers wedging insistently into the gap where her thumb and forefinger were tightly curled until she loosened her grip to allow him in.
He said nothing, but he didn't have to. The gentle squeeze to her hand was more than enough to convey any words he could have spoken. And while no, she didn't require him to protect her, she wasn't above allowing herself to feel comforted by the fact that so long as she was with him, she needn't worry about protecting herself, either.
Returning the squeeze, she turned her attention away from the abuses inherent in court politics and back out to the field.
Preparation had already begun for the next match. Runners swept broken bits of wood from the dirt so the next pair of riders would have a clean track, busily arranged fresh lances, and retrieved additional equipment, while others saw to the business of taking down the heraldry declaring the previous combatants to replace it with those next to take the field.
This was as much a gesture of ceremony as it was of function anymore. These days most knights could afford at least to have his shield marked with his colors in order to identify him, if not the additional dressing for his horse. Still, in the unusual event that a competitor found himself absent a means of declaring his identity clearly, every well-planned tournament ensured that some version of a jouster's coat of arms was made to display when he rode for the sake of both spectators and judges alike. As this tourney had been sponsored by the crown, with plenty of Lannister gold behind it, custom hand-stitched banners had been ordered - providing a hearty dash of extra pageantry.
The first banner was already affixed to the designated place to one side of the royal box: the red spider upon a black field which belonged to house Webber of Coldmoat. The two men in plain gray uniform had just lifted the second banner into place, where it unfurled to reveal the lilac of house Dayne.
The coat of arms for the high family of Starfall was a crossed sword and shooting star in white. This sword, however, stood upright, backed by the tail of the star which had been formed into the shape of a perfect ring to symbolize the rising dawn. The sigil belonging to the Sword of the Morning - so rarely used now that the man who held the title was superseded by his current post.
Visaera's heart dropped into the pit of her hollow stomach as she stared at the banner, cold dread spreading through her insides.
She wasn't startled, precisely. After all, it wasn't unheard of for members of the Kingsguard to compete in such contests in their personal time, even occasionally on orders to do so. She had heard that both he and Ser Barristan were to participate…still she supposed she had hoped it was just a rumor.
Rather desperately hoped.
There was a tug at her hand and she turned from the heraldry to where Jon pointed down the field to the left. Lord Reynard Webber had appeared there, gleaming in armor black as a beetle's shell, accompanied by a squire bearing both his shield and helm and a groom leading a handsome roan stallion.
"Lord Reynard looks as though he's already devoured the heart of an enemy this morning," Jon noted eagerly, evidently impressed.
Unlike herself, Jon enjoyed jousting with a zealous enthusiasm that was close to boyish. He didn't participate himself, though Visaera had no doubt that he would have in a heartbeat had his father allowed it, but he was quite knowledgeable in the particulars from a spectator's perspective. If he found Webber impressive enough to comment upon that way, it was not promising for the man's opponent.
While no giant, the Lord of Coldmoat was built with the solid, compounded mass of a boar. Taking in the thick neck and heavy shoulders, the grim, formidable set of his mouth below a nose that had been broken and badly set at least twice, she felt her dread sliding into the beginnings of very real fear.
Motion at the other end of the field caught her eye, and she glanced toward the trees just as Ser Arthur emerged from beneath the canvas overhang, helm tucked neatly under one arm.
The breath locked in her throat, her hand tightening reflexively within Jon's loose grip.
She was accustomed to seeing him in armor, yes, but the Kingsgurd did not wear a complete neck-to-toe suit of plate, as doing so would have robbed them of crucial range in speed and mobility in active hindrance to their duties. To wear otherwise while jousting was to ask for death rather than simply flirt with it.
Unlike the ceremonial pieces, the steel of his own armor was not pristine and shining, nor was the mail shirt beneath. It was clean and obviously and cared for; the intricately detailed etching at the seams, rich at the pauldrons and the gorget, all signs of the small fortune that had been spent to have it made. But it had also been well used, as evidenced by the tiny dents at the thigh and rib pieces. Dents which he had clearly elected not to have mended.
Armor he had fought in, with the marks to prove it, made him look the experienced warrior he was. A fighter, not a sportsman. The kind of man that understood the power of the mind, and knew how to use that power to his advantage, who knew that while showy armor certainly looked impressive, it did not strike the same tone as did the evidence of past bouts. Whether his opponent saw the illusion of weakness or the warnings to be wary, either way he had already begun his onslaught. Quietly, and from a distance.
And the way he moved…while true, most noblemen did not spend as much time in armor within their entire lives as the Kingsguard did in half a year, one had to be strong in order to move as smoothly as he did in full-body steel. Strong in very specific ways.
She knew full well how heavy steel plate was - could wear no more than a breastplate and shoulder armor at any given time, herself, and even then only for so long, with significantly less grace than usual. Anything extending too far from her center of mass and she could no longer function. Certainly he felt the weight, he walked a hint slower than he might have normally to conserve energy, but that he did so with only a hint of the lumbering gait typical of suited knights was…impressive.
She plucked idly at the fur draped across her shoulders, hoping it appeared as though she were simply adjusting it rather than pulling it away from the abruptly too-warm skin of her neck.
In absence of a squire, one of the crewmen was serving as valet for him, bearing both his shield and the reins of his mount.
While not the most expert of horsewomen, even she could identify a war horse simply by the animal's size, the muscles bunched beneath the rich brown-black of its coat – a creature specially trained to bear a rider weighed down by layers of metal. Whether his or borrowed, she wasn't sure. She had seen him on a different horse before, but he was certainly wealthy enough to keep two and, before his appointment, a knight of his standing might have had need of a destrier such as this one were there a call to battle.
"And there's Ser Dayne," Jon stated, leaning eagerly forward to get a clearer view of the knight. "He's not known for the lance…do you suppose he's as good with one as he is with a sword? I've never seen him fight—"
She wasn't listening, her attention was fixed firmly to the great dark horse as Arthur extended a gauntleted hand to take the reins.
The beast was visibly restless, agitated, tossing its head and ears flicking irritably. Horses like this one were bred for power and aggression. For combat. Body language like that in such an animal would have had her backing slowly away and preferably behind a very high stone wall. Arthur, however, merely laid his empty hand against its neck and leaned close to murmur something to it – or so she assumed. There he stayed, stroking gently until the horse calmed.
Good with children, good with horses. Good with his hands.
Gods preserve her.
"I see…"
She blinked, angling her face away and up to her left just as Jon's eyes flick to a point over her shoulder, then back to her, a sly, knowing smile curving at his mouth. She didn't need to be told that he'd caught her staring, or that he had surmised the direction and subject of that stare.
Mortified heat flooded her face and neck.
"There's nothing to see," she said tartly, snatching her hand pointedly out of his grip, hoping he would take the hint and drop the subject.
"Mhm."
There was a hint of smugness in the agreeable hum, completely ruining the feigned innocence he wore, and even as she knew he was baiting her she felt herself bristling, defensive, hissing like a barn cat.
"Stop that!"
His copper brows rose in a coy arch, completely unperturbed by her flash of temper. "Stop what?"
Whatever scathing retort she had been reaching for was swallowed up by the sudden swell of many voices raised in a great jubilant cry. Tearing her gaze away from Jon, she watched as both combatants rode up the length of the tilting field to meet in front of the platform where they would receive the prince's blessing.
They certainly made a majestic picture, all gleaming metal, the decorative cloth draped across the backs of the horses streaming out behind them in spiderwebbed scarlet and star-strewn lilac.
Webber had already donned his helm, the visor which would protect his face raised so that he could more easily see, but Arthur had not. The expression he wore was reserved, almost to the point of aloof. There was a definite air of resignation about him - which caused Visaera to wonder if he was competing of his own will, or if he had been commanded. He certainly didn't look as though he wanted to be here.
From his seat Rhaegar lifted a hand, giving the signal to proceed. Webber's right hand rose, resting a fist over his heart in the traditional response. Rather than copy it, Arthur merely inclined his head before steering his horse back to his end of the list where the valet waited to hand up his helm, then his shield.
Like his armor, Arthur's shield bore the marks of prior use, which in this instance meant little more than that he hadn't felt the need to have it repainted beforehand - evidently not bothered by the scratches marring the white of the star's tail or the shallow denting along the outer rim. It was either a sign of confidence, or one that he didn't give a damn about presenting a flashy appearance. From what she knew of him, Visaera leaned heavily toward the latter.
It was as he was reaching down to accept the lance, resting the butt of it against the top of his foot as he steered his horse into position, that the fear crept back, hooking deep beneath her skin like sharp barbs of ice.
She couldn't watch this.
Oh, gods, if he were killed…
Every deep-buried primal instinct urged her to stand up, to run for the fringe of trees at the edge of the line of tents and keep going until she could no longer hear the noise of the crowd. She could feel the tension coil into the fiber of the muscles in her back, her legs, hear the high-pitched whine in the back of her mind pleading with her to go. Yet in spite of the very visceral terror, the idea of leaving was equally intolerable.
And so she stayed, frozen in place precisely where she was; a fretful tangle of stress rooted in place, praying as she had never prayed for anything in her life that somehow doing so might serve as a talisman against the unthinkable.
She could stomach it. She would, if it meant seeing him safely through.
The very instant the flag fell the strength of her resolve was put to the test. Hands fisting in the cloth of her cloak, she grit her teeth together as horses charged forward with a dull thunder of hooves, long legs swallowing up the distance between them. As both men lowered their lances into position.
It would never cease to be anything short of alien to her as to how a combatant of any kind could simply sit there and wait to be struck without doing anything to counteract the blow. Of course they braced against impact. It was just…it wasn't like proper fighting, where one could deflect, or else move out of the way. Dodging a lance meant losing points. After all, getting hit was the entire point.
Fucking insane - every single one of them. Cracked in their bloody stupid heads…
Lances struck and broke with a sickening metallic crack and a spray of splinters, and Visaera didn't bother to curb either her flinch or the reflexive, protective hunch of her shoulders.
It took her a moment to process that neither man was injured - that it had been a perfect pass for each of them. She was too preoccupied, her eyes locked on the figure in pale steel, closely studying the adjustment of his posture while he guided his horse to slow with the grip of his knees and staying pressure on the reins. No hitch to his movement, no sign of something wrong. He was unfazed, and unhurt.
"Fascinating," Jon muttered, just audible below the hollers and applause of those around them.
She looked at him sharply, unsure whether or not this comment should be a cause for alarm.
"What's fascinating?"
Leaning slightly nearer to be better heard, Jon tipped his chin toward where Arthur was handing the broken lance down to one of the ground crew. "Dayne," he clarified, "he's using an open-handed grip."
To demonstrate, he lifted his right hand, palm up.
"Most jousters grip with their whole hand, like this—" Jon closed his hand, fingers curling inward as if gripping around one of the heavy pine spears, "—which gives more power to the strike. But his thumb isn't engaged. It's set alongside the lance instead of over the top of it. Clearly he still has the force to break the lance, but he's not trying to unseat Webber. In fact…I'd say he's actively avoiding it."
Swiftly her eyes darted from a thoughtful Jon back up to the knight currently directing his mount around to the right side of the list, at once furious and faintly nauseated.
Of all the…
Not aiming to knock his opponent from their horse was all well and good until it got him speared through the underside of the shoulder. The honorable fucking idiot.
The second pass began much like the first: two horses bearing armored men with ridiculous sticks charging headlong at one another, an awful crunching, shattering collision, and two broken lengths of pine.
Then Arthur lurched, his body pitching sharply to the right, and terror slammed into her gut like a fist.
He had managed to hold on, but he was too far from the center of mass, the weight of his gear working to pull him down - drag him from the back of the horse.
Mother help her, he was going to fall. And if he fell badly from an animal that large and that fast…it would not be as it was with Ser Fyste.
She stared, riveted in her horror, unable to breathe past the sick, awful dread lodged like an arrow shaft between her ribs. Yet he did not fall. Instead, he wavered only once and - with a visible wrench of effort - hauled himself back into the saddle.
With a slight hitch of his right arm to serve as counterbalance, he rightened, urging the horse to slow from its charge with a steady, one-handed pressure on the reins.
There was a rousing cheer for the recovery - she thought there was, at least. She couldn't quite hear it due to the pounding echo of her own heartbeat trapped inside her skull, the sheer force of the relief as it flooded into the spaces between her bones, filled her lungs, the sensation so uncannily similar to drowning.
He was all right.
His shoulder - to say nothing of his back - probably ached something awful, but he was sitting straight and firmly centered, appearing as collected as though nothing at all had just happened. As if he hadn't just performed one of the more impressive feats of control and of horsemanship Visaera had ever witnessed in her life.
"Fucking hell," she heard Jon mutter, a low thread of reverence in his voice. "The man can hold his seat on a horse…"
She had no inclination to argue.
While she had never tilted and never would, what she had done - and plenty of times - was fall off a horse in various stages of motion. Experience had taught her that the higher the speed, the heavier the weight, the more difficult it was to recover; and that was with the use of both hands. Most fighting men weren't capable of doing what he had just done; right himself after taking a hit like that all while wearing fifty pounds of steel, with the remnants of a lance in one hand and the bulk of a shield impeding the other, all while atop a warhorse at full gallop.
Yet it wasn't simply a matter of sheer brute strength. He had trained for this exact thing, rigorously, for years, in the expectation that he might find himself in a place where to be thrown from a horse meant death. Doubtless he had expected to use it on a battlefield rather than in sport, but the result of that dedication was the same.
Though the knight seemed relatively calm and collected in the wake of nearly falling. His horse was not so. The animal was pawing savagely at the ground, tearing up large clumps of dirt and sod, wanting to run - wanting to fight. But Arthur kept it under firm control as he exchanged the remnants of the broken spear for a fresh one.
One more pass, she reassured herself when he moved into position, grip sliding down the back half of the lance to brace the end up against his armored hip. Just one more…
She felt sick and lightheaded. Cold sweat trailed down her spine, her vision just the faintest bit hazy at the edges, and she couldn't quite seem to catch her breath…and she was not going to faint like some fragile, insipid waif. She had never fainted in her life and she would be damned if she did so now.
Groping at her side for something to cling to, she fisted her hand into the cloth she found, pressing the other hand to her stomach in effort to counter the violent roiling knot of dread as, for the third and final time, the flag lowered and two horses surged forward.
Almost more quickly than she could trace it was over with a broken lance for Arthur and a clean strike but no break for Webber.
It had been an incredibly close contest, the victor of which would require further judging to determine. Vaguely Visaera was aware of the two figures riding back to the center of the field to seek Rhaegar's decision on the matter, but she could not have cared any less about that had she tried. By some small note of mercy neither of them had been hurt. That was enough.
She could breathe again, she found, as though something sharp had been removed from where it had lodged up under her sternum, and she was suddenly much less concerned about the possibility of fainting than of vomiting all over the distinguished older gentleman seated in front of her.
A gentle pressure at her forearm drew her attention down to where Jon's hand held her just under the elbow. It was the hem of his cloak fisted in her hand, and she was gripping so tightly that the blood had left her skin, turning it to the white of bleached bone. Even when she forced herself to let go, fingers slowly uncurling, she couldn't entirely feel her fingers.
"Come on," he coaxed, the hint of a frown pulling his brows inward. "Let's get some air."
She felt his other hand at her waist, urging her to stand, and all she could think as she obeyed was that she must look truly ill for him to willingly forego hearing the verdict of the match.
She had neither the will nor the presence of mind to argue. Leaning into Jon's sturdy frame, she let him help her down the stands, focusing her energy on swallowing down the churning remnants of nausea.
...
Given a choice, Arthur would have elected to leave participation in the joust to other men, and not simply because he had no interest in doing so.
Truth be told, he was rather annoyed about the matter. He was a soldier, not a sportsman, and he did not take kindly to being made into a spectacle for the entertainment of anyone. This alone would have been enough to shape his decision to throw the match on principle even if he hadn't had plenty of other reasons for doing so - the foremost of which being that he simply could not afford to be injured, or for that injury to remove him from his duties. Not now. He needed to be hale and fully functional, and he had neither the time nor the patience to spend on a contest for which he had little enjoyment and only passable skill.
Still, he was Kingsguard, and must obey. Even if he suspected the order did not precisely come from the lips of the king.
Once he had learned who he would be facing in the list, he realized that he would not be able to get by with a lackluster performance. Reynard Webber was quite good. As he had no desire to take a fall - however mild - he would need to be alert and participate actively, not simply go through the motions.
Understanding this did not bring him much comfort.
While it was primarily done for sport nowadays, tilting had been a means of combat once - could be still when occasion called for it. He had studied the form, as all knights must, but while decent enough to pass his examinations, it had never been an area of strength. It had also been quite a while since he had used a lance. He would be relying almost entirely on old muscle memory, sheer fortitude, and the battle-training of his horse.
The day had dawned brisk and stayed that way, but Arthur would have preferred it to be a shade cooler.
The only occasion in which he was remotely welcoming of lower temperatures was when he was required to don a complete suit of plate. Most of the danger in tilting lay not in the potential injuries but from the risk of a combatant overheating in his armor, which was why Arthur did not don his helm until the absolute last possible moment and took great pains to consume water at a constant rate while he could.
The sunlight was weak, but he still had no idea how Webber could stand to wear all black. Simply walking onto the field after not ten minutes into being suited up and he was already sweating.
Bastion, while already far from a docile, gentle-mannered creature like Soot, had been restless even before being saddled. The noise and chaos of the spectators only made him more so. Yet of all the variables Arthur was concerned about, the horse was among the least of them. Bastion was well trained and, just as important, large and sturdy enough to tolerate his weight with an ease he would need in the list. All the same, Arthur took the extra time to refocus the horse's attention for a few moments before leading him to the block and mounting up.
Once seated, helm in place, shield affixed to his arm, he felt the adrenaline begin to build. His concentration narrowed, honing in on the point where Webber stood across the field as all the rest but the steady in- and exhale of his own breath bled away.
For a swordsman, maintaining the proper posture and momentum for jousting was a challenge. He had to fight against every instinct he possessed to block and evade and redirect - had to allow the blow to come at him without resistance.
At first, he was not all that confident he wouldn't be disqualified due to an inability to follow the rules of engagement, which - while an effective way to remove himself from unwanted participation - would not have been ideal. He had no pride attached to this competition, but he did have his pride as a knight and a duty to do right by his teachers.
Thankfully, the instant the signal was given to begin the first pass, all those grueling hours spent with the quintain and being battered into form did not fail him.
Slowly, smoothly, he lowered the lance slowly, aimed for the center point of his opponent's shield, and struck it dead on, his technique no different from how it had been all but etched into his mind and muscle.
Webber was not as strong a rider as Arthur, as evidenced by the hint of stiffness to his seat upon his horse. But he hit with a force not unlike riding headlong into a wall of granite. Even with the coronel to bunt it, the blow slammed Arthur into the high back of the saddle, the kick of impact to his shield radiating up through his arm, eliciting a wave of dull pain to spread through his shoulder to be absorbed by chest and back.
It bloody hurt.
Both lances had broken clean, which was not a small feat. While constructed of a lighter wood than those of battles long past for easier handling, the spears of shaped and precisely weighted pine still required the proper handling and not an insignificant amount of strength to break. He had not expected to do so, but that he had managed to was a victory he rested firmly on the shoulders of the men that had taught him.
The second pass did not go so prettily.
Webber had clearly used the first round to get a read on his weak points, which he understood all too clearly when the other man struck just a fraction of an inch further inward.
The instant the lance struck and his shield arm jolted to the right, he felt his balance go.
Within the space of a second, he knew that he had to do whatever it took to stay in the saddle. It was no longer a matter of the contest but about survival. Conditions were the worst they could be to attempt an emergency dismount - he wouldn't be able to shed his shield quick enough and could not roll from range of Bastion's hooves with it attached. There was no other choice, and he would have to work fast. Too much drag to one side and even a horse such as this could topple.
Even as his torso tipped precariously sideways he gripped hard with his knees, angling his foot in the left stirrup to keep it hooked in, knowing as he did that this single action could mean a crushed leg were the worst to happen.
With a sharp burst of energy and a heaving grunt of effort, he bore down and pulled, back and stomach muscles screaming as he forced himself back into place. Only when he felt the saddle centered firmly between his thighs once again did he relax his grip, his breath coming hard and his pulse hammering in his temples.
He was going to feel that hit tomorrow for certain, along with everything he'd had to do to recover from it. If he hadn't pulled a muscle, it would be a miracle straight from the Warrior's own hand.
Bastian was properly riled now, withers bunched and sides heaving, tail flicking in agitation - raring to charge straight through the narrow sapling fence halving the field and tear into the other rider. It took Arthur a great deal of focus to keep the horse in line, electing to keep him at a constant walk so that he wouldn't rear up and savage the poor attendants trying to offer up a new lance. Yet it was worth the extra expense of effort. But for the animal's power and training, he would likely be nursing a dislocated shoulder at the absolute minimum.
Sweat was rolling down his back and sides now, soaking into the cloth layers beneath his armor. He was tiring, but not as quickly as he might have. Wearing as much steel as he did on a daily basis had unquestionably built up his endurance in this particular area - certainly more since last he had been in the list. All the same, he was eager to see this done with.
In spite of the brute force of his previous blow, it seemed that Webber had spent the most of his energy in the failed attempt to unseat his opponent. Right before impact, he hunched his body inward, bracing himself more firmly against the high back of the tilting saddle in an obviously compensatory fashion. It was a sign that he was fading, and fast. Arthur doubted he could have knocked the other man out of place even had he wanted to - Webber was heavily built and planted like a tree - but it was reassurance enough that he was likewise safe from being tossed.
The third strike contained significantly less power than those that had come before, yet it wasn't until after he had coaxed Bastion to slow and turn that he realized Webber hadn't managed to score a break on the final pass.
As soon as he was rid of the remnants of his own splintered weapon, Arthur gripped the lower edge of his helm and lifted it free. He dragged the cool air into his lungs, relishing the soothing, bracing cold where it met his sweat-streaked skin, the hair plastered to his brow.
Feeling slightly more human again, he passed the helm into the custody of his temporary valet. Then, taking the reins in his right hand, nudged Bastion into an easy - if grudging - canter, heading back toward the platform where the royal family who were present were seated. Webber, just urging his stallion to a stop, had also elected to free his head. The other man's face was ruddy, his cowl nearly soaked through.
Rising from his plush, ornate chair upon their approach, Rhagar considered them both, allowing the noise of the crowd to die down before speaking.
"It appears we have a draw," the prince stated, voice elevated in order to be heard across the field. "Or else as near to one as I've seen."
Rhaegar's eyes flicked to Arthur, the message in them discreet, but clear. He was going to suggest another pass, to break the tie.
Absolutely not.
Not for all the gold in the seven bloody kingdoms.
There was a pause after the statement, however. Purposeful, if slight. Rhaegar was offering an opening as a means for his friend to refuse, which Arthur immediately seized.
"If I may, Your Grace," he interjected as prompted, "as he came nearest to unseating his opponent, and as I possess neither the time nor the will to proceed, I concede to Lord Webber."
Turning in the saddle, he inclined his head to Webber. The Lord in question looked mildly surprised, but returned the nod - the gesture at once acceptance and respect.
"Very well then, Ser Dayne," Rhaegar answered, holding a hand out to him. "You are hereby withdrawn, with our thanks."
Bowing as well as he could from horseback and while encased in plate, Arthur acknowledged the dismissal and urged Bastion back to the sidelines.
In spite of his concession, the spectators saw him off with a hearty cheer and respectable applause. He smiled, as he undid the straps securing his shield, touched by the support. Raising a hand, he offered a tired wave in show of gratitude and moved to dismount, ignoring the pang of displeasure in his left shoulder.
Bastion tossed his head irritably as he was led from the field, pulling at his master's hold on the reins, making known his displeasure that the activity had ceased.
"There's a good lad," Arthur murmured fondly, patting the horse's powerful neck. "Good boy."
Though the praise calmed him some, it didn't alter the fact that even after the rapid stint of exertion, Bastion was a large animal with a great deal of pent of energy in need of an outlet. He needed a good, hard run as soon as possible.
Relaying this to the grooms, Arthur relinquished the war horse into their care and stepped into one of the many tents erected to serve as private areas for the contestants to house their equipment, to suit up, and, if needed, to sleep in. As he had no need for the latter, the interior of the plain white canvas shelter assigned to him was primarily empty.
Though the Kingsguard were all technically active knights, they kept no squires. Their armor was designed to be donned quickly and without assistance, quite unlike the full-body suits required for tilting. While he had served as a squire, Arthur was not accustomed to being attended to. The young man assigned as his valet, however, was both unbothered and incredibly efficient, which more than made up for his own awkwardness where it came to surrendering himself to the assistance.
Before anything else, the lad presented him with a waterskin, waiting at a comfortable distance for a few moments to allow him to gulp down at least three quarters of the contents before circling around and setting to the business of removing his armor.
With every piece removed and every slug of water he consumed between - cool and clean upon his tongue - the lighter and less confined he felt. Though he was still tired, and his abdominal muscles were decidedly less than pleased with him, it was that much easier to bear when not so weighted down.
He didn't really require assistance in removing the long mail shirt, but he allowed the valet to help him ease it up over his head before dismissing the lad.
"I'll see to the rest myself," he said with a weary smile, "thank you."
The young man nodded, handing over a second waterskin before slipping out through the narrow gap in the canvas, leaving Arthur to his own company.
Ignoring the armor still enclosing his legs for the moment, Arthur lowered himself to sit on one of the bales of straw not currently strewn with pieces of steel. In one hand he held the fresh waterskin - which he would sip slowly after downing the lot of the first in record time. In the other he held the square of cloth he had carried tucked beneath his vambrace. Ashara's favor, passed to him last night before he'd retired.
Lifting the cloth to his face, he wiped away the worst of the sweat cooling upon his skin.
Whether his sister truly believed that bestowing him with such a thing before a match would bring him luck, Ashara never plainly said. Regardless, she always seemed to have one ready for him. And while he didn't much buy in to the superstition, whatever she gave him, he dutifully wore.
The stitchwork along the edges, as ever, was neat and painstakingly even. The embroidery along one corner, on the other hand…well, embroidery had never been a skill of hers. It took him long moments of examination in order to decipher that the purple and yellow blotches were intended to be pansies. Still, that she had made the effort was sweet.
Taking another slow sip, he set the water aside and began to undo the laces securing the front of his arming jacket, ending with the waxed ties at the fortified hem which held the thigh pieces of his armor in place. He reached for them next, noting the bite of displeasure in his left shoulder as his fingers slid the end of the first strap free. His back wasn't terribly pleased with him either, not appreciating the maneuver he had pulled in order to stay on his horse.
It was by no means the worst he'd had - nothing that a warm compress and a bit of balm wouldn't mend. But that shoulder especially was going to ache something nasty for a few days.
Fresh sweat was trailing down the back of his neck by the time he got the rest of his legs free and stripped away his sodden shirt. He reached for Ashara's favor...then paused, abruptly remembering the cloth he had offered to Lady Visaera. To clean the blood from her silver claws.
Did she still have it? Most likely not. But the idea pleased him. That some part of him, however small, might remain with her.
Reason stopped him short before his mind could invent some scenario which featured her presenting him with any sort of token - whether before a fight or simply as a sign of affection. A short noise of amusement left him, more the huff of an exhale than a true laugh. He couldn't see her as having much patience with needlework. Though…there was no rule which decreed such a thing must be a creation of her own hand. A bit of ribbon would have sufficed, or lace cut from an old dress. Had she been his lady, she might even have given him a lock of her hair.
He had not seen much of her these last few days. Not even during formal dinners. According to Ashara, she had been delaying introduction to Lord Yarwyck by taking her meals in her rooms, and likely risking chastisement from the Small Council by doing so. Though he could hardly blame her. The last time he had seen her face to face had been the morning before this, in one of the lower corridors of the Holdfast.
It had been a passing moment, no more, but she had offered a quiet greeting and a soft, sleepy smile that - gods save him - had gone straight to his cock.
It had been a smile to conjure dreams of cool sheets and warm skin, the musky-sweet perfume of winter roses; and in that brief, burning moment all he had wanted was to seize her by the wrist and pull her to him, bury his face in that glorious spill of silver hair and breathe. He had wanted to mold her to his body, take that narrow, delicate chin between his fingers and tilt her head up to meet his mouth. And fuck, what he would have given for just one more kiss…
With a sharp inhale, he shoved the thought away, tucking it into a dark, distant corner of his mind and taking another long pull of water - focusing intently upon the working of his throat as he drank rather than that the fit of his leggings was just a bit tighter than a moment past.
His blood was up, that was all. The adrenaline was still running hot in his veins and, much like Bastion, he needed to work it off. Perhaps he would call the groom back and see to the horse himself, or else he would find some other way to work through it. So long as it properly exhausted him enough to keep his mind from descending into places it should not, it didn't much matter what form the outlet took.
Reaching for the fresh shirt the valet had set out for him, he yanked it over his head and left the shelter of the tent, making for the nearest groomsman he spotted.
...
It didn't take all that long for Visaera to recover enough to walk without the steady pressure of Jon's hand at her back - not once the sounds from the tilting field were well behind her. While he removed it, he did keep her arm wound through his. Although this, she thought, was more out of a desire to give comfort than to provide a solid surface to cling to. She was in no way inclined to turn it down.
"You all right?" he said once they reached the furthest row of tents along the edge of the tourney grounds.
He spoke softly, as though to a child jolted from a bad dream. He seemed to realize that she was no longer half a second away either from lost consciousness or violently purging the contents of her stomach, yet traces of concern remained, woven amidst the hushed pitch of his voice.
Love for him, for his actions in removing her from the source of stress in spite of his own interest, spread warm and sweet within the confines of her ribcage.
Laying her empty hand on his arm, above where their elbows entwined, she nodded. "Better now, thank you."
For a long while they walked in easy silence along the line of trees; oaks, most of them, towering and old, their bark gnarled and pitted from age and weather. The air was cool and clean, with only the barest touch of ice. Though the boundaries of the city were just a quarter mile north, there was not even a hint of the reek of shit and misery which lay thick and cloying within. Out there, on the other side of those great golden stone walls, it might have been another world entirely. A world that was kinder, gentler. Not so brutal or so bleak.
There was a point along the Blackwater Rush where the river narrowed and slowed, the water turned a clear green-gold by the rocks over which it flowed. An old bridge reached from one bank to the other, as it had for hundreds of years - moss clumped between the stones of the sturdy arched walls.
It was here where they made the unspoken agreement to stop for a while, and Visaera rested her palms against the smooth mortared stones to listen to the muted rush of the water, the sigh of the breeze between winter-bare branches. Waiting for Jon to say whatever it was he intended to say to her.
Blood or no, she knew her brother. He was not about to let the matter lie. And in truth, she expected no different. Had she witnessed him in such an extreme state of duress, she wouldn't have let it go either.
If it had been only that he had seen, she wouldn't have been concerned. But it wasn't. And while he had been teasing before, she wasn't sure if he had truly seen, or if he had simply been acting the prat. Jon was not always as perceptive as she would assume, and sometimes more so than she would have liked.
Finally, after a long moment of silence, she felt the brush of his cloak against the folds of her skirt when he leaned back against the low wall beside her.
"You were worried. About Dayne," he said quietly, and something in her relaxed ever so slightly.
"Of course I was worried," she answered honestly. "He's Rhaegar's strongest ally. Losing him would have been disastrous."
Both things were true. Though marriage to Elia bought him a great deal, it was Arthur who guarded his body, understood his mind, who kept his counsel and his secrets, whose influence would serve just as crucial to ensuring the support of the Dornish high families - and their armies. From a purely tactical standpoint, his absence, whatever the reason, would have been a devastating blow, and one she wasn't sure there was a way to recover from.
Next to her, Jon angled his body toward her, resting his hip against the lip of the stone. She could feel the look he was almost certainly giving her - the one which said he was having none of her horseshite.
"That's not what I mean and you know it," he said, crisp and flat with reproach.
Bloody fucking hell on a fishmonger's hook.
He had seen it. The one blasted time she lost hold of her mask - of course he had looked at exactly the wrong time. And it wasn't as though Jon was the most keen-eyed of people. If he had seen…
No, there was no reason to think of that just now. It was not her most pressing concern.
She took a measured, steadying inhale, forcing the hitch in her pulse to ease and dredging up every calm, unaffected scrap of indifference she could find. The feigned nonchalance - cool in her tone and shaping her words - was not her strongest, but it was enough.
"Ser Dayne is a Kingsguard."
"So you're not in love with him?"
It was designed as a sideswipe, to throw her off her guard…and it worked perfectly. Shocked, she stiffened, and the instant she did he had her.
Yet it wasn't his words which had caused her hackles to rise, nor the insufferable, self-righteous knowing in his tone, nor even the way he had used it like a weapon to cut her down at the knees. It was that she had been in no way prepared for it. Or for the very real possibility that he might be right when…
Her immediate reflex was to reject it, either out of simple obstinance or sheer self-preservation. Perhaps both. Even as something tight and anxious gnawed at the base of her sternum, at once panic and dismay and something else - something incredibly, unbearably fragile for which she had no name - she refused to acknowledge it.
Slowly she straightened, turned to face him. Her lips parted, but before she could take even the breath to form the foundation of speech, Jon was cutting her off.
"If you're going to deny it," he said sternly, "don't. I know that look."
She blinked, genuinely surprised by this. "What look?"
Ducking his bearded chin in the face of her owl-eyed puzzlement, he gave a wry chuckle. "The look you had when he walked onto the field. It's the same look you had with Morrigen's youngest—whatever his name was. Before the cocky little shite broke your heart."
The flicker of half-forgotten memory unfurled within her mind, slow and dawning.
Guyard Morrigen…now there was someone she hadn't thought of in a handful of years.
He had been one of her earlier, and much more serious attachments. A third-born son of one of the lesser Stormlander lords, he had been a squire at the time, ridiculously handsome in the way boys could be - all rakish dark hair and striking green eyes. And charm incarnate.
"I was fifteen," she argued, somewhat affronted by the implication. "He did not break my heart, just bruised it a bit."
"Yeah? Tell that to the tunic you ruined by crying into it for so many hours that the fiber warped." The smile he flashed was reminiscent, and utterly devoid of humor. "I vividly remember fantasizing about bashing the fucker's face in before I cut his balls off."
An unexpected burst of laughter spilled from her mouth. "Seven hells, Griff! I barely even kissed him…"
"Oh, I know. I'd have done it otherwise," he said airily, seawater eyes uncharacteristically serious as he crossed his arms casually over his chest.
"I'd never have suspected you of being so protective," she remarked with a lopsided smile. "It's not as if you stopped me from tumbling any other boys."
Jon's shoulder lifted in an easygoing half-shrug. "It was different. Morrigen was a bloody snake."
Well, that was certainly true.
There had been some sort of dispute over land ownership or farming rights, if she remembered correctly; Guyard had accompanied his much older brother to the Roost to pursue a diplomatic discussion on the issue. While they had only been in residence the better part of a fortnight, she had fallen hard and fast for his looks and his flawless manners, his honey words, and he had more than certainly been using her in one way or another.
To this day she wasn't certain whether it had been just the matter of a boy seeking to make a conquest or if he had been manipulating her in the hopes of extracting information to pass on to his lord brother, though it hardly mattered now. She had still been very much a child and relatively naive in some ways in spite of her rather unusual (and grim) upbringing. Still only a girl not fully willing to accept the harsher realities concerning men. And with only the faintest sense of what she truly wanted. Quite unlike the woman she was now.
One thing was absolutely certain - Guyard Morrigen had been no Arthur Dayne.
"So…" Jon prompted, expectant, and she glanced at him, not sure what it was that he wanted from her. "Tell me about Dayne."
Gods' blessed balls. Was he in her damn head?
Within the space of a second the lingering traces of humor had left her. Angling her head away, she rested her palms against the wall and cast her eyes out to the river.
"There's nothing to tell."
He regarded her steadily for a moment before tossing a droll: "...as far as shameless lies go, that one was painfully pathetic."
When she gave no response, he heaved a steadying sigh. She felt him turn, felt the motion of his arm as he lifted it, laying his hands flat against the smooth stones next to hers and leaning his weight into the old bridge.
"Saera," he began softly, "if there is anyone on this earth experienced in the art of long-suffering unrequited love, and therefore able to empathize, it would be me."
He said it so delicately, with such impossible tenderness, that it stirred all the long-buried sentiment of a little girl that just wanted someone to hold her close and tell her that everything would be all right. Emotion rose thick and fast like bile in her throat, choking her, bringing tears to sting at the corners of her eyes and a faint tremble to her chin. Not simply in regards to the notes of pain which echoed her own, but the dull, sinking certainty weighing heavy in the pit of her stomach.
There was something of the inevitable about it, she thought, as practicality and good sense (and succumbing to lecherous impulse) had all proven insufficient to lessen the sting of infatuation.
The storm in her - or perhaps it was the dragon - wanted to break it, bend it to the force of her will. In contrast, the sensible, pragmatic part of her knew that while she could bite and claw and rage all she liked, fighting did not change what was.
She was a singularly and infuriatingly stubborn person, or so she had always been told. Yet there was no amount of stubbornness sufficient enough to alter the fact that while yes, today she had feared the loss of a powerful ally, she had also feared the loss of a man whom she both respected and admired. A good and honorable man unyielding in his loyalties; that knew exactly who she was and accepted her for it without judgment or expectation, that had only to be within eyesight for her to feel safe in ways she had never felt anywhere else - not even with the man beside her now. When she had never been less safe in her life.
As unlikely, as unprecedented, as it might be, that was not something she could ignore into nonexistence.
And yet, in the end…none of it fucking mattered.
What good did it do her to admit to loving any man when the only purpose it would serve was to buy herself pain and loss?
Breathing slowly and deeply through her nose, Visaera willed the oppressive flood of emotion to pass.
"What do you want me to say?" she asked, and if there was a faint hint of a tremor in her voice, she paid it no mind.
Silently, Jon leaned into her until his arm met her shoulder, where he stayed, as if through this single small point of contact he might help her balance just some of the burden she carried - unspoken, but very much there.
Lowering his face, he pressed his lips to the crown of her head.
"You don't have to say anything," he told her, soft against her hair. "Nothing at all."
Swallowing thickly past the knot in her throat, she stared out at the water - watching the pale sunlight reflect off the surface in glittering flashes of gold.
NOTES:
So. Wow this chapter was a challenge. I'm still not happy with it, it feels like a weird deviation and out of place in my head, but it also has to happen, but...maybe I could have done it better, but I'm not sure how? Anyway. I'm posting it now and I'm going to move on and forward now.
Beware - here there be notes!
The. Fucking. JOUSTING. Though. I'm sure there are a lot of inaccuracies for which I ask forgiveness. I did quite a lot of research - huge thanks to the "Modern History TV" YouTube channel - but it's difficult to know which point in history to model from, so I did some picking and choosing and filtered through a fantastical lens. The part about different grips is total conjecture on my part and probably unrealistic as hell. I probably didn't need to go as hard into the details, but, again...I handled this as best I was capable of at the time and MOVING ON.
I have no idea how it would work if a Kingsguard were to compete in a tourney like this. We know they did, as there's canonical mention of several of them doing so while actively serving. However (again, not having read the books), I found no mention of whether they did so wearing the Kingsguard colors or the colors of their own respective houses while doing so. There's reference made to the special privilege that they're allowed to carry a shield with no sigil, but I'm assuming this is in reference to serious matters like, you know, actual battle. The ceremonial Kingsguard armor is also not a complete head-to-toe suit of plate, which is what is worn for jousting, and I doubt their duties would necessitate a second set since they would be keeping the king away from dangerous sports. Warfare might be a bit different, and perhaps they have more pieces to add if need be, but...I still can't quite figure out how these two things fit together unless they compete on their own time as it were. On orders sometimes, perhaps, but kings order other lords around too, so...I don't know. And I have no idea if my logic makes sense or not, so please humor me.
Visaera's dislike of jousting was initially added as a layer of complexity to her - by which I mean, she's not automatically into all the boy things just because she's "not like other girls." I deeply loathe this trope for a number of reasons, but the one I'll focus on is that it's simply not realistic or healthy. I deliberately had her enjoying dancing as a woman and enjoying other women's company while doing very traditionally "girly" things because she is, in fact, a woman in a time where this is what noblewomen did. But also because there is nothing inherently wrong, bad, or negative in traditionally feminine past-times, and that being clear is very important to me.
That said, there is a different aspect of personality complexity that I wanted to emphasize: who can say why we're bothered by things others think should be fine. Some people can be up to their elbows in other people's guts and be just fine, but cannot handle it if they see something off with an eyeball. People are weird, and are never depicted as weird enough in fiction. So put it down to childhood trauma and hooray.
Branching off that: on the one hand, it feels somewhat cliche to make Arthur so lacking in what we would call "traditional male ego," medieval or otherwise. It feels like a very typical "paragon" trait when added to all the rest. On the other hand, cliches are cliches for reasons. Though we know little, he doesn't strike me as the kind of person to get caught up in his own pride or buying into the stories told about him. I feel like this is one of the reasons Jaime at one point compares himself to Arthur in the GoT timeliness with shame, because we all know Jaime's got a heck of an ego. But I digress.
While house Yarwyck is canonical, their seat is not given a name. I pulled "Cragmere" right out of my ass.
I am trying really hard to avoid the more egregious "gay best friend" clichés with Jon. He's definitely not effeminate (I feel like canon backs me up on this), and we get a bit of hetero-typical enjoyment of brutal sports and protective/affectionate brother energy which came very naturally as I wrote this (I had only half of this dialogue planned out and nothing more than that). I really want him to come across as any other dude you might come across in this world who just happens to like other dudes. Hopefully I'm succeeding.
On that note, I'll leave it here. On to the next chapter!
To all of you reading this humble fic in this tiny corner of the GoT/ASoIaF fanverse...I see you, and I appreciate the hell out of you. Toss a comment if you're able, and thank you for being here.
Be well, and until next time!