A cool morning breeze blows through the open flap of Ser Jaime Lannister's tent as Edward Stark carefully arranges the table where his knight will soon break his fast. He had scarce slept the night before, forgetting all his cares for one great day of thrills at the tourney, cheering for Ser Jaime and tending to his horse and armor as he won joust after joust. Today, he firmly believed, Jaime would be named champion. If he could defeat Ser Barristan, surely he could defeat Ser Loras, Ser Runcel and the Clegane Brothers as well.
As he straightens a fine ceramic plate, a stray starling swoops in from outside, landing silently atop the table. Edward hisses at the bird, but it ignores him, blithely hopping across the crimson tablecloth to tear at the corner of a roll.
"Terrible little things, aren't they?" The starling takes flight as Lord Petyr Baelish enters the tent. It flaps disoriented around the tent, forcing Belish to duck as it makes its escape. "Little birds. Always sticking themselves where they don't belong."
"Good morning L…" Edward catches himself. "Petyr. Good morning. Has Ser Jaime invited you to break fast with him as well?"
"Not… precisely," Baelish takes the seat that Edward had prepared for Jaime. "But when I hear of matters that concern me, I make a point to invite myself. And as I am a friend to all, I am never refused. You should remember that Edward, if you mean to make a life here at court."
"Lord Baelish," Jaime's voice sounds as he enters with Jalabar Xo. His voice, ever sweet and welcoming, sounds now as disappointed as it could bear without breaking its natural hum. "I was not expecting you."
"But it is an honor, all the same," Jalabar bows deeply, a courtesy Jaime has notably declines to bestow. "We have not yet had chance to speak, Master of the Coins." He stops his approach, however, when he spots the rack holding the Kingsguard's lances, or what remains of them. Only Jaime's goldenwood lance and Ser Arys' sturdy oak remain unbroken after the jousts of the day prior. "Is that yours?" he asks.
"Indeed. It has served me well," Jaime boasts, and Jalabar quickly cuts across the room to examine it. Edward almost moves to intervene, but Jaime does not move to stop him.
"The trade of goldenwood outside of the Summer Isles has been forbidden for many years," Jalabar muses suspiciously, running his hand along the smooth, yellow wood. Edward had worked long into the knight sanding and smoothing it back to its natural sheen. "I wonder, how did you manage to come by it."
"Ah, well that would be a question for my dear little brother. It was a gift from Tyrion on my nameday, two years ago," Jaime takes his seat, recollecting. "Or was it three? It has been far too long since I've ridden at tourney."
"Do you think you will win, then?" Jalabar returns the lance to its rack and joins the others at the table. "I know of only one knight since the conquest to have ridden with a goldenwood lance – The Black Rose. And few could ever best him."
"And so we shall hope will be my fortunes as well," Jaime smiles. "Come, come, eat and drink. I did not bring you here to talk the history of wood."
"Of course not. But Lord Baelish, I, Jalabar Xo, have a matter of which to speak with you."
"Do you now?" Baelish's mustache twitches as he smirks oh, so slightly, holding one long finger to the side of his face as he leans back in the chair, taking a drink of piping tea. "I never could have imagined, your grace. What matter do you speak of?"
"I speak of the great bounty that would await the throne if his grace King Robert were to join me in retaking my homeland," Jalabar leans forward eagerly, ignoring his food. A nervous look flashes over Jaime's face. "You are master of all the coin, are you not? For certain you must see the great value in such a venture!"
"The proposition is intriguing, to be sure," Baelish nods, his voice almost like the purr of a cat. "Tell me more of this plan of yours." Edward notices him flash a glance at Jaime, who's eyes are plastered down at his plate, determinedly spooning food into his mouth as Jalabar begins, in grand, dramatic detail, to explain his vision of glorious war.
He's promised Jalabar to endorse his plan in exchange for teaching me, Edward realizes. But that will never happen. Even if Jaime and Petyr could sway the king, Father will never allow it. But what will happen when the prince discovers that?
"You did well, Jory," Lord Eddard Stark assures the captain of his guards as they share their own morning meal. "You bested two knights."
"I should have bested more," Jory grumbles, aggressively spreading marmalade on a biscuit as it crumbles in his hand. "The Hand's captain should not fall so quickly. Perhaps you should replace me with that freerider from Crackclaw Point."
"Lothor Brune?" Ned shakes his head, remembering the gruff man who had ultimately bested Jory after three tilts. One of the most exciting rides of the day, everyone had said, though it was little comfort to Jory and his aching shoulder. "I do not think he is the making of a captain. Though I have considered hiring him to the guard. I would like to meet with him."
Jory nods. He is a humble man, he ought have no problem serving along the man who out-tilted him. "That archer as well, Anguy they called him."
"What should I offer?"
"Anything within reason. I am spending no great amount of the coin his highness has thrown at my feet for only doing my duty."
"I will find them, my lord," Jory vows, rising to leave. "Any others?"
Would only that I could pry Ser Runcel free from the Hightowers, Ned muses. I would take him for Anguy and Lothor both. But he will never leave Urrigon's service to the day he dies. And the other… but it would not do to have Jory seen with him. "No," he answers. "That is all."
Jory nearly crashes into Varys as he exits the tent, his nose wrinkling shut at the smell of the eunuch's heavy perfume. Ned rises to greet the Master of Whisperers, who bows curtly at his waist, hands folded inside the flowing sleeves of a flowery orange tunic.
"Have you been to see Ser Hugh?" Ned cuts straight to business, dispensing with Varys' usual sweet scented platitudes. He had no time for them today.
"I am afraid the young knight will be unavailable for your service, my lord," Varys shakes his head with a slight tremble. "Nor your questions. He left a tavern late last night with the Mountain and his men. No one has seen him since, not even the little birds."
"Damn," Ned mutters under his breath, remembering Ser Gregor's anger when Hugh's place in the lists had been changed. Perhaps he had only hired the young knight into his service. Or perhaps the Lannisters had paid him to silence Jon Arryn's squire. Just, perhaps, as they had silenced the old Hand himself.
"There is another matter. A soiled rose lurking about, blown up by a southern wind with our friend Urrigon. He already asks more than his share of questions. About the king, the queen… and most of all, you."
"Garrett Flowers." Ned had met the Tyrell bastard on the road the day Urrigon arrived. "What does he want? What interests do the Tyrells have in me?"
"There were whispers that Mace Tyrell wanted very badly that little pin you wear now on your chest. Even that he had bargained his daughter's hand with it to Renly. But one hears other whispers as well. Words are wind, it is hard to know, and the flowers of Highgarden oft confuse the scent."
"Then I shall watch him closely. And I trust you will as well."
"Of course. And one more thing, my lord? The king is very much determined to fight in the melee. I think we both know that to be ill-advised. I would suggest you find him and council him before he makes any… rash judgements."
Sansa squirms in her seat in the stands. She could swear this was the same exact spot she had sat yesterday, and yet there was a horrid knot right beneath her. Perhaps it is I that have hardened, she thinks, remembering her vow of the night before. A silly thought, but she stills and stays put all the same.
As the knights enter the yard for the melee, applause begins to rise. She can hear Tommen whimper from his seat with the queen, the poor boy hates the roar of the crowds. She was once again seated between Joffrey and Myrcella, with the Hightower youths hovering nearby. She notes that they do not cheer at all, not even when their father, Ser Urrigon, is among the first to enter on a huge, long-haired black horse.
More knights follow - Joffrey cheers loudest for Daven Lannister, but Sansa recognizes few of the contestants. None of Father's guard entered, nor the Cleganes, but there is Bronze Yohn Royce and his sons. They had visited Winterfell once, and Lord Yohn had bested Father sparring in the yard. Several stand out from the joust the day before – Balon Swann, Davon Lannister and Thoros of Myr sticking out like a sore thumb in his bright red robes. Among the last to be declared are a cluster of more Freys than Sansa cares to count and, to Jeyne's squealing delight, Lord Beric Dondarrion and his brother Cleoden.
Beside her, Joffrey examines each contestant with rapt attention. "Ser Daven is going to win, Lancel swears. And then he shall teach me to fight. I'm partial to the Strongboar myself. He is the strongest man in the West, Uncle Jaime says."
"I've heard the Kingsguard say the Dondarrion brothers made short work of their challengers in a tourney at Starfall just last year," Myrcella adds. Sansa reminds herself she ought to listen to the guards' talk more closely, to discuss such matters with Joff. All she can truly say she knows about the Dondarrions is that she is fond of their sigil, a purple lightning bolt striking across a black sky of silver stars.
All speculation halts as a deafening trumpet sounds. Atop the dais, King Robert has signaled his approval and the melee has begun. The men on their horses come crashing down upon each other with a grand eruption of hooves and clanking metal, merging into a single mass of beasts and riders and steel. Sansa has never seen such a spectacle before, the sight is overwhelming and even frightening. But she knows she cannot let Joffrey see and hesitation. And so she watches the brawl as intensely as her prince.
Jeyne gasps as Thoros of Myr's sword erupts with green fire, terrifying the horses around the priest as he swinging wildly with the burning blade. Rosamund and Jeyne gasp at the sight.
"It is only a mummer's trick," Maris is unfazed. "The priest dips his sword in wildfire. But our father says that in the east there are men like him who know true magic."
It is hard to say who is the first to fall, but Joffrey's uncle by marriage, Emmon Frey, is the first to limp his way back to the stands. Urrigon cuts a swift path through the crowd, knocking knights out of his way with a singular focus. Tracing his line of sight, Sansa realizes his target – the Dondarrions.
"He's trying to take out the best competition first in the confusion," she realizes.
"Smart," Joff nods approvingly. "That's what I would do. I will have my first melee soon."
The brothers Dondarrion are fighting in tandem, fending off two Freys when Urrigon comes down upon them, blunted axe swinging wildly. He sends one Frey careening to the ground to fight his way through to Lord Beric. The Marcher lord tugs his reigns, caught off guard by the sudden attack, and takes a harsh blow to his shoulder. His horse turns sharply, nearly throwing him, but he holds tight and blocks Urrigon's next blow with his sword. The two are locked in close combat now, sword and axe jutting back and forth like a mute mummer's show, their sound lost amongst the sea of noise around them.
Finally, they freeze as their blades lock. Beric's sword is caught in the curve of Urrigon's axe. The huge knight pulls down, sparks flying as metal grinds on metal until it lands hard on the hilt, knocking the sword from his rival's hand. Beric pulls back, attempting to steady himself but, unarmed, has no defense as Urrigon stabs out with the top of the axe, hitting him square in the chest. As the elder brother lands heavily on the ground, frantically rolling out of the path of the dozens of pounding hooves around him, Urrigon turns his sights to Cleoden, who has just bested his Frey opponent. The smaller knight takes one look at the towering force bearing down on him and flicks his reigns, fleeing into the chaos.
"Ser Cleoden hurt his leg," Peremore observes, watching the Dondarrion knight carefully. "A shame, he had boasted so proudly, only to fall down the stairs of a whorehouse last night."
Sansa blushes at the word. "How do you know such a thing?"
"You could say I heard it from a passing raven," Peremore answers plainly, without a hint of inflection in his voice. Maris nods in unison.
"Well, then he is not very honorable. I hope he loses quickly. His brother is much better."
"He has two brothers, actually," Maris corrects her. "But I assume you mean Lord Beric?"
"I believe I am in love with Lord Beric," Jeyne declares, her voice twittering with naïve sincerity. "He is the most beautiful man in all the world!"
"Lord Beric is betrothed to Lady Allyria Dayne," Maris shakes her head. "Though perhaps you would fancy his dashing little squire. A lucky lad, he practically looks Targaryen and is already a lord himself."
"He is not lucky," Sansa chides. "He is just a boy, whose father has died. How would you feel if your father died?" She glances out to the field where Ser Urrigon has just thrown another knight down from their horse. "I don't think you would feel very lucky."
"Of course not," Maris sighs, her voice as gravelly as ever. "If father died, Perry would not be a lord, nor I a lady. All we have to inherit is a knight's holdfast. So long as father does not run from Highgarden as he did from Honeyholt. No, it would not be lucky at all."
A shiver runs down Sansa's spine. How can they be so cold? If her father died, she couldn't imagine what she would do. And she didn't want to. Instead she focuses on the melee, as more knights far and rush off the field, squires and stablehands rushing to corral the riderless horses as they gallop uncontrolled. How much time she passes, she cannot stay, until she notices a man she has not seen before, wearing green and brown, standing near where Ser Loras and Lord Renly sit. He seems more interested in watching those sitting in the royal dais than the spectacle before them.
"Who is that?" she asks. Myrcella shrugs, unknowing.
"That's Garrett Flowers," Maris answers. "The bastard of Highgarden. He came to the city with father. He spies for the Lady Olenna."
"Well, then what he watching us for?" Sansa asks, nervously. She does not like the look of the man. There is something off about his face – not unattractive, but just… wrong. She remembered a sickly flower she had once found in the glass garden at Winterfell. It had grown two blooms from the same head. It seemed beautiful at first sight, but there was something wrong, warped that frightened her the longer she looked at it. She had not looked long.
Maris leans forward until her pointed chin brushes softly against the side of Sansa's neck, sending every tiny hair standing on end. "Lady Olenna had always hoped to marry her granddaughter to the prince. When news came that he had been betrothed to you, she and Lord Mace argued for hours. Margaery means to wed Lord Renly now, but the Tyrells say one thing and quite often mean another. Tread carefully, Sansa Stark. They will look for anything to undo you."
Sansa shivers as Maris pulls back. She glances nervously to Joffrey but, leaning forward in his seat, head resting intently atop his hands as he watches the fighting, he has clearly heard nothing. She brushes idly at her hair, looking about the stands. It now seems as if every eye is on hers. Every eye save the prince's, the only ones that mattered. The knot in the bench beneath them jabs harder than ever, and she prays for a swift exit. The melee, however, is not so quick to free her. Two hours later, it drags on still.
"This grows tedious," Peremore sighs. "Let us find refreshment." He rises, Maris and Arthur following suit. Slowly, Myrcella and Rosamund rise as well. "Will you join our company, your grace? I can smell the chicken from here."
"Nonsense," Joffrey insists without turning his head. "I will see my champion!
"Will you come, Sansa?" Myrcella asks. Sansa looks between the others and back to Joffrey. And then a glance to where Garrett Flowers had stood. He is gone now, but she feels eyes upon her all the same.
"No, I will stay with the prince," she answers. "I, too, wish to see who his champion will be."
Maris scoffs at that, and Myrcella offers a sympathic, almost pitying look, but they press the matter no further and swiftly depart. Sansa turns back to the fight. Not a single word passes between her and Joffery as more time slips by, more knights fall until there are only a final seven still mounted – Thoros, Ser Urrigon, Ser Daven Lannister, Bronze Yohn Royce, Ser Balon Swann, Ser Hosteen Frey, Ser Lyle Crakehall – the 'Strongboar,' as Joff called him, and Ser Cleoden Dondarrion, who had been fleeing blows and lurking on the edge of the melee all day.
They stop for a moment, watering their horses and themselves as the yard is cleared of horses, discarded weapons and an unconscious Frey. From above, a drunken King Robert cheers for Urrigon. Sansa wonders who will win. They were all frightful fighters. But Lord Royce was the oldest of them, and was panting in his bronze armor. Thoros was on his second sword, warped and twisted from burning so long. Balon and Daven had both taken heavy blows. Cleoden, of course was untouched. But he would not remain so for long.
The trumpet sounds again and the men don their helms once more. What once was a deafening roar of battle is now eerily quiet. A hush falls over the crowd, so that one can hear every individual hoofstep. And then a great whoosh as Thoros' sword lights green once more and Urrigon shouts, spurring his black horse forward in a mad dash towards Cleoden. The Western knights, however, have been fighting in tandem and Daven and the Strongboar rush to block Urrigon's path.
Meanwhile, Cleoden starts to flee once more, only to be confronted by Bronze Yohn. Thoros has charged Ser Balon, whose stallion frights at the sparks of wildfire. This time its rider cannot hold on. Thoros next crosses swords with Ser Hosteen, but no one seems to notice. Are all watching Urrigon as he fends off two attackers at once. Strongboar wields an axe and Daven a sword, they strike in tandem, stabbing while the other parries, but Urrigon deftly dodges and leads his horse in a circle, spinning with the two knights on each side, their blades a ringing cacophony.
Suddenly, Daven slips his horse too close. Urrigon kicks out with his steel boot at the side of his foes horse. It lurches, and Daven slides sideways in the saddle, reaching out to grasp at Urrigon's sword arm. But a swift mailed fist comes down on his head, knocking him down to the dirt. Urrigon spins about in the saddle as Strongboar presses a new attack, blocking a hit so fierce Sansa is convinced it will knock him down. But Urrigon pulls the momentum to his own favor, locking axe with axe and retreating. Strongboar does not release his own weapon fast enough, and is dragged headfirst from his mount.
Tossing the stolen axe aside, Urrigon spins his own defiantly in the air, basking in applause before turning back to his original target – Cleoden, who has managed to dismount Lord Royce. He charges again, and this time the Marcher knight sees there is no fleeing. His enemy barrels down like an unstoppable wind and, seemingly content to have lasted so long, Cleoden half-heartedly raises his sword and braces for impact. Sansa watches as Urrigon aligns with his favored side, remembering what Peremore had said about the knight's left leg. Urrigon hits hard on the opposing side and the injured leg does not hold sending Cleoden toppling to the ground.
And now, at last, there are two, for Thoros has bested Hosteen Frey. Thick beads of sweat drip down Joffrey's forehead, eyes squinted in focus. For once, Urrigon moves slowly, advancing on the priest in an almost friendly trot. As he picks up speed, Thoros begins to wave his sword back and forth, creating a charade of flame. But the great black beast moves undeterred, unlike its frightened fellow horses, and Urrigon's axe meets the sword in a burst of green sparks.
Unfazed, Thoros reels back and swings down. The two circle each other, lashing an parrying in turn. He's getting tired, Sansa thinks, watching the big knight. His moves are slowing. And Thoros sees it too. He feints, and when Urrigon lurches to block a strike that does not come, he cuts down at his opponent's head, severing with an echoing clang one of the pronged spires adorning his helm. As the shorn metal hits the earth, Urrigon freezes. Then, with unparalleled fury, one huge hand reaches off and tears off his helm, revealing the wrathful head beneath. With a roar, he hurls the helmet into Thoros' face, nearly knocking him down.
The priest retreats a moment, shaking his head clear, a bright red line running across his nose and cheek, where the broken helm has cut him. But he extends his sword once more, twisting and blunted by the heat as it may be, and charges once more. Urrigon, however does not move. Instead, as Thoros nears, he reaches out his left hand and, with a gasp from the crowd, grips the burning blade as it cuts towards him.
Urrigon lets out an inhuman screech as the green flames catch his sleeve ablaze, but whether his cry is of pain or pure bloodlust is unclear. What happens next, however, leaves no doubt. The huge knight brings the blunt handle of his broken axe down upon Thoros' scalp, the red priest still in shock as his burning sword drops to the ground and he falls onto his back, unconscious.
The crowd seems to erupt as one as Urrigon waves his axe triumphantly in the air, wildfire still smoldering on his arm. Joffrey leaps out of his seat, pointing down to the victorious knight.
"That's him! That's my champion!"
Sansa joins the applause.
Ser Aron Santagar spins one dangling golden earring between two fingers as he watches the squires compete in their games. Few had stayed to watch this little sideshow, off to eat and drink before the final round of jousting began. But the Lord Hand was here to see his son, so the Dornishman knows he must run a tight ship. Not that young Edward stood much a chance to win any awards, nor most of the other squires, so long as the little Lord Dayne were there.
A squire who outranked most knights was bound to carry more than their share of arrogance, but Aron has found the Dayne boy to be humble, though he certainly could be forgiven should he have pride with which to boast. He has won near every contest handily, collecting more danging rings from the back of his horse than any squire the Master-At-Arms has trained. And for that, Aron himself feels a share of pride, for he and the little lord are the only Dornishmen in the Red Keep, as far as he knows.
The time has come for the archery contest. Aron watches Edward Stark nervously take up his bow and quiver, glancing back at his father all the while. Ser Jaime had the boy training with Jalabar Xo, whose fame with the bow was well-known. Aron is excited to see what he has learned. Perhaps Edward may yet possess some useful skill to impress them all. As the squires begin to take their first aim, he catches a glimpse of bright white and glaring red cloaks approaching.
Jaime Lannister marches confidently across the grass, Jalabar close behind, coming to a stop beside Ned Stark.
"Aren't you to be guarding the king?" Ned squints disapprovingly.
"Ser Arys took my place. He said it was only right for me to watch my squire compete, and I agreed, though I shall be burning a midnight torch by the royal bed tonight to pay for it."
And so the three men stand in silence as the contest commences. Jalabar and Ned both clap proudly for Edward as he takes his shots. But while his form is impeccable, he does not last long. Shows promise, though, Aron thinks. But while his father and teachers send him good tidings, he leaves dejected. In the end, the final archers are Lancel Lannister, Edric Dayne, Peremore Hightower, Lyman Darry and a pock-faced squire from the Riverlands whose name Aron does not recall.
As they loose their final arrows, Aron strides down to the targets to examine the results. Noting the arrow with the lilac plume furthest from the center, he sees this is the one task where Edric does not outmatch his peers. But as he nears the center of the target, he grimaces. Lyman and Lancel's arrows are buried deep in the wood, equal distances apart from the bullseye.
"Who won?" Lancel's shrill voice calls out.
"We shall have to redraw," Aron declares, turning to discover Lancel and Lyman both standing just feet away, eager to see who will be declared the winner. A look of anger flashes across both of their faces. Lancel storms forward to inspect the target himself.
"I'm tired of these games," Lyman throws his bow aside. "If we're to see who's best, we should do it like men. Unless Lancel no longer thinks he's good enough to be a knight."
"I am too!" Lancel stands angrily. Aron moves between the two, fearing a second brawl. He looks to the observers, but they do not move to intervene. "We have lance, we have horses and we have armor. Let us have a joust, to remind the plow boy what he is!"
For a moment, Ser Aron hesitates. Were the Lannister boy to be hurt, there would be all seven hells to pay. And yet… He has had quite enough of the lads' petty feud. This could put an end to it. He glances across the field to where Ned Stark watches. The Hand nods. It could have meant a million things, Aron would later suppose. But for now, it was confirmation enough.
"Very well," he turns back to the squires. "Fetch armor for these two, and lances as well. Take your pick of the horses. Choose wisely. I am tired of this bickering. It ends today."
Within minutes, each lad has been fitted with spare training armor from Aron's supply. Lyman chooses a sturdy, muscular grey old horse, not unlike one that would pull a plow, Aron cannot help but note. Lancel climbs atop a lean tan courser, faster than any others on hand, but neither it nor its newfound rival are true jousting horses. But Aron says nothing. If the boys think themselves to be knights, let them choose their own mounts.
The squires and the scattering of watchers in the audience quickly split into opposing sides, with Tyrek Lannister raising up a cheer for his cousin. Edward and Edric noticeably do not join in. Lancel waves to the crowd as Tyrek eagerly brings him his lance. Lyman, however, does not look away from his opponent, only grunting in thanks as Peremore lifts up his own lance. Aron strides forward, shifting his black-fringed leopard skin cloak to his left shoulder. He raises one golden-gloved hand, demanding without a word the attention of the competing squires.
"Lower your visors!" he commands. "Pace off." The horses turn, walking to the end of the makeshift jousting line. Aron waits, watching as they take their places, then slowly backing out of the path of the impending charge. "Tilt!"
Lancel moves quickest, immediately dropping his lance level and kicking his horse into a gallop. Lyman moves more slowly, and his horse slower still, but holds his lance steady. In just moments, Lancel has made up half the distance, bearing down on Lyman. As he flashes by, Aron sees to his horror that the lad has tightly wrapped the reigns around his left hand. He lunges forward, crying out, but it is too late to stop.
Lancel's aim with the lance is far off as the two riders collide, dealing Lyman a glancing blow. Lyman, however, holds firm and Lancel rides directly into the end of his lance, shattering on impact with a sickening crack. The Lannister squire spins sideways, stunned, off his horse but his hand, tangled in the reigns, tugs sharply on his horses neck. Unable to adjust to the sudden stop and pull, the beast's legs buckle and Lancel hits the ground with his mount crashing down atop his legs.
Tyrek sprints from the sidelines with a deafening shriek, but Aron rushes to intercept the younger boy, grabbing both shoulders and spinning him around.
"Let me go!" Tyrek screams, punching and kicking with little fists and feet, all pretense of Lannister superiority vanquished by sheer panic. "Let me go!" But Aron does not relent.
Ned and Jaime are first to Lancel's side as the dazed horse picks itself up, leaving its rider prostrate on the ground. Jaime wrenches off his cousin's helm, revealing the young man's face in a twisted grimace of shock and pain, blood again leaking from his crooked nose.
"Edward!" Ned spots his son in the crowd. "Go to the maesters, tell them we're coming!" The boy runs off and the Hand returns to tending to the injured squire. Aron watches no more. He is forced to lift Tyrek, still kicking and screaming, carrying him away into the armory tent.
"Let me go! Let me see him!" he shouts, shaking uncontrollably as Aron sets him down on a cot. "Is he dead? Is he dead? The plow boy killed him!"
"Your cousin isn't dead!" Aron snaps, slapping the boy across the face. Tyrek freezes, jaw dropping, eyes wide and finally brimming over with tears.
"You hit me!" he squeaks, more a whimper than a shout. "You hit me! I'm a Lannister and you hit me!"
"I know damn well what I did boy. And I'll do it again if you don't stay put. You're doing no help to Lancel like this, you hear me?" This time there is no reply. Aron rises and sees Edric Dayne standing silently nearby, a look of concern on his face. "Watch him. See he does not leave the tent until I or another come to get him."
"Yes, ser," the little lord bows and takes a seat beside Tyrek, placing a comforting arm over the younger boy's shoulders. Aron leaves them, stalking out of the tent to find the yard vacant, the crowd either scattered or parading to the maester's tent with the Lannister boy.
He's not dead, but I may be when the queen hears of this, Aron thinks as the gravity of the situation begins to sink in. But no, the Hand allowed it, and the Kingslayer, too. Let them take Cersei's wrath, not me. I need a drink. Turning away to find his way to a flow of wine, he sees one lone figure remaining – Peremore Hightower, standing tall, all in black, taking aim once more at the archery target. The lad looses an arrow as Aron approaches. Rounding the corner, he sees it has landed a perfect bulls-eye, square between Lancel and Lyman's earlier shots. Looking down the line, he sees the same black-and-orange plume at the heart of each target.
"You could have made that shot before, boy," Aron eyes Peremore suspiciously. "Why didn't you?" But Peremore only shrugs, swinging his quiver onto his back and shuffling idely away. Aron stands for a long time, watching him go. He wanted to see them fight, he realizes. Make that two drinks. Or three.
Grand Maester Pycelle stands amidst the bustling injury tent, surrounded by septas and lowers maesters rushing to and fro, carrying bandages, water and surgical instruments to the overwhelming number of men wounded in the day's melee. He looks as if the queen of the hive amidst a swarm of bees. And the wizened, wrinkled face half-hidden behind his massive white beard turns despondent when a new crowd rushes into the tent, led by Ned Stark and Jaime Lannister, carrying the body of a boy he instantly recognizes.
"May the mother show mercy," Pycelle gasps, chasing a dazed hedge knight away to clear a table for Lancel Lannister to be laid upon. "What happened?"
"My cousin tried his hand and jousting," Jaime answers flippantly. "It did not go well for him."
"His horse fell upon his legs," Ned answers, irritated by Jaime's glibness.
"The lad is in shock," Pycelle examines Lancel's clammy skin. "Get the rest of his armor off."
Ned steps back as the septas and maesters go to work, running through his head how he will explain the injuries to the king and, more importantly, the queen. She will no doubt demand punishment for an injury to her kin. Even if Jaime had encouraged it. And I too, I'm afraid. That was foolish. I favored Lyman and now look where it has got him. At the very least, Ser Barristan was sure to dismiss the lad.
"Tell me why the gods would ever waste a girl like you in a septa's robes?" he hears a familiar voice bellow. Turning, he sees Urrigon, armor and shirt removed to expose his broad chest, rippling with muscle and covered in black hair. He really is of Robert's kind, Ned thinks. In more ways than one, as the blushing septa scurries away. Drawing nearer, he sees the knight's burned arm wrapped heavily in bandages.
"Congratulations on your victory, ser," he nods. "How is your arm?"
" In better shape than that Thoros' scalp! He is not the first man I have fought with a burning sword," Urrigon coughs up bloody spittle, wiping it away on the back of his palm. "Essos is crawling with the wry bastards, proclaiming death and doom and awaiting the return of their savior. A terribly grim lot, I must say, though their priestesses certainly know how to keep a man warm." Ned grimaces as the knight chuckles loudly at his own joke. "What happened to the Lannister over there?"
"A jousting accident." Ned answers.
"Good. It will build his character."
"I have seen injuries like that before. He may never walk again," Ned thinks grimly, remembering Bran, and feeling guilty once more that he is here, a world away from his crippled son, from his wife, from home.
"Willas Tyrell had his horse fall upon him jousting the Red Viper. He will never be a knight, but he will make a fitting lord nonetheless. He can serve whichever lion next sits upon the Rock the same as his father waits upon Lord Tywin."
"We shall all pray for his recovery," Ned nods, attempting to leave.
"Can you pray here, Stark?" Urrigon pulls him back with his good arm. "Ain't none of your haunted trees in this city, I can't imagine."
"Lancel prays to the new gods. They ought to be well able to watch him here."
A lone trumpet blurts in the distance, signaling the beginning of the final round of jousting. Hearing the sound, Jaime quickly abandons his cousin to the maesters, rushing out of the tent. Urrigon lurches to his feet to follow.
"Septa! Fetch my a cloak!" he bellows.
"Ser, are you sure you should be moving?" Ned asks, looking again at his bandaged arm.
"I don't need two arms to walk and sit, do I?" Urrigon laughs. "My sworn shield is about to make short work of all your shiny city knights, and I will not miss that." He ambles past Ned as the same septa from before rushes to drape a plain tunic over his broad shoulders. "Put enough wine in me and I can do anything."
Yes, Ned thinks, watching the man leave. That's exactly what I'm afraid of.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Yes, something very fishy is going on with the Hightowers. Meanwhile, Joff has found his champion, Jaime is making promises he can't keep, Edward is left dejected and Lyman is in deep trouble. Meanwhile, for those keeping track of the timeline, things are about to blow up for House Stark in King's Landing, so hold on tight! As always, all comments, critiques and suggestions are greatly appreciated.