Chapter 16: Tourney
The wedding tourney was turning out a far grander occasion than the wedding itself.
In the stands were sat myself, my bride in the seat of honour beside me, and another seat, occasionally occupied by anyone I cared to speak to. Oberyn sat a good few seats away, along with his niece and daughters. Lord Mace and Lord Mathis were sat beside each other, talking with Lord Kevan on some matter. Maester Pycelle was never too far away, and Maester Ballabar sat ready in waiting in case anyone was injured.
My mother had neglected to attend the tourney thus far - out of pettiness, no doubt.
Behind a line of rope the masses of Kings Landing had gathered to watch. On this day, the third of the tourney thus far, the jousts were well underway. Knights mounted their horses and raised their lances and charged at one another, and every so often a decisive blow would be struck, resulting in some truly spectacular falls. Armour clattered, bones snapped, steeds neighed and reared back in panic as shards of shattered lances were sent flying.
In an age before entertainment, this was the closest to action I could get without actually putting myself in danger. And with the state of the crown's finances, this would likely be the last such display for some time. So, I forwent my usual fare of water for some Arbor Gold, swirling and sipping the liquid from my cup as the day progressed.
One advantage to being so young? You don't need to drink so much to get a buzz.
"Ser Boros," Tyrion leaned over to me and whispered conspiratorially, "or that Hedge Knight?"
"Which one is he again?"
Tyrion squinted at him, "No sigil, far as I can see. A lack of coin or a lack of name, I wonder?"
"And yet," I wryly observed, "he can afford full-plate. A practical man, this hedge knight must be."
Margaery, sat on my other side, offered her thoughts, "I don't know much about war, Your Grace, but it seems Ser Boros is far less steady on his horse than his opponent. I doubt that bodes well for him."
Tyrion scrutinised Boros for a moment and then nodded, "Yes, it does seem so." He gulped some wine and jangled the coin in his purse, "So, would you like to lose some gold, Your Grace?"
I smiled, "It wouldn't be seemly of me. A King shouldn't gamble, much less with the crown's finances."
Tyrion shrugged, "Very well, then. In any case, I know where I'm placing my bets."
"Careful with that," I smirked as he stood from his seat. "Stick to gold. We don't want anymore daggers changing hands, do we?"
Tyrion grumbled slightly as he left, not bothering to offer any parting shot.
"How are you finding the tourney, my lady?" I asked Margaery as we waited for the next joust to start. "Is it to your liking?"
She smiled sweetly, unable to help the slight blush in her cheeks as I looked at her, interlacing her fingers with mine, "It's wonderful, Your Grace."
I smiled a devilish smile, "That's good."
The two of us weren't quite as randy as rabbits, but it was a close run thing. No doubt, I had surprised her on our wedding night. She had been expecting fumbling hands and awkwardness, and I liked to think I left her pleasantly surprised. There was awkwardness aplenty, to be sure, as I unlaced her gown and lay her on the bed and kissed both her upper and nether lips, but we quickly settled into a more comfortable back-and-forth.
What followed was for her, or so she says, the best hour-and-a-half of her life. Fingers, tongues, no effort was spared to leave her basking in the sweaty afterglow of sexual congress. I'm not quite sure I believed her claims, but so long as the blushes and moans were real, I didn't much mind.
My stamina and attention to detail certainly pleased her, if nothing else.
In truth, it didn't much matter, so long as everyone knew she had been despoiled. She was mine now, and her family's wealth and power was as well.
The knights had readied themselves for the tilt by this point, and I gave my assent for the joust to begin. Ser Boros's armour hid his nerves, no doubt - I had to basically force him into competing in the tourney - so much so that I had to make it into a requirement for all the Kingsguard, just to stop him squirrelling away. Only the Lord Commander received an exemption, to ensure the safety of the King.
If Bronn had done his job right - and he usually did - then this would be a tilt to pay close attention to.
At the first pass, the hedge knight struck Ser Boros square in his shield, unsettling him from his saddle and shattering the tip of his lance in the process. The two men gathered themselves, the hedge knight replaced his lance, and the second pass began.
And it was here that it finally happened.
The hedge-knight's lance struck Boros's shield at just the right angle, and with just enough force. The tip of the lance struck the shield, but did not break, the lance scraping against the wood and climbing higher and higher till it broke past Ser Boros's defences completely, bouncing off his breastplate and landing against his gorget with enough force to unhorse him completely.
Ser Boros tumbled off his horse like a sack of potatoes, falling messily to the ground in a heap, his form partially shrouded by his white cloak.
The joust was halted, and when Ser Boros's form remained still on the ground, Maester Ballabar rushed out into the field to see to the knight's wounds. His crumpled form did not move as his body was turned over and Maester Ballabar hurriedly removed parts of his armour to examine him.
It did not take a Maester, however, to determine that Ser Boros was not breathing.
As it turned out, it wasn't the lance that had killed him, but the fall. The angle of the strike combined with the force of the impact with the ground had snapped his neck cleanly. There were no punctures on his skin, no outward physical signs besides some bruising, but he was dead all the same.
Truly, Bronn was really quite good at his job. An onlooker would have no idea that such an accident had been planned.
Discreet, efficient, it was everything a King could ask for.
I would have to remember to keep him loyal.
That day, the tourney came to an early end, and with a glum mood. Well, glum for everyone else, though I played along.
The day after, once the last of the jousts had been finished and a victor emerged, in this case Ser Loras - narrowly beating out Ser Balon to name his sister his Queen of Love and Beauty - the archery competition could begin. Arrows struck the ground as much as they struck their targets, and I found myself enjoying the slower pace of proceedings. The lack of overt violence held it's own charm, in a way. Though I wouldn't call it exciting, to watch experts of their craft hone their practice was certainly fascinating in it's own right.
And useful, too. I would need men to man the scorpions I planned to build.
Ser Balon won that one. And by quite an impressive margin as well.
The day after, the big event finally arrived. A massive melee, with more than a hundred participants spread across a far larger field.
And among the horde of sigils and swords was one particular warrior...
On one side of me was Margaery, on the other was Arianne, eyes affixed on the field before us. For once, her efforts to seduce me had been - if not abandoned, at least toned down - in favour of watching the melee. She still wore sheer clothes and lace adornments and little chains, but it seemed an afterthought for once. We were all watching different people, I noted. Margaery's eyes remained focused on the corner of the field where her brother was, running to engage his enemies. Arianne's gaze flitted about the field, jumping from hedge knight to hedge knight, no doubt scouting targets for potential seduction and/or assassination.
Or mayhap that was just my paranoia shining through.
Looking behind me, Jaime's eyes seemed locked on the same person as me. A lone figure, wielding a morningstar with some degree of ruthless efficacy, much as she had done at Bitterbridge. Her first target came to be a hedge knight, who succumbed quickly enough. Then followed one of the Kettleblacks, though which one it was could not be determined at such a distance. Osney, Osfryd? It was hard to tell.
Off in another corner of the field, another hedge knight was taking Ser Meryn Trant to task with a warhammer. I could only hope it would be another tragic loss.
Brienne gave a whirling dervish of blows to one opponent, wielding her morningstar with a not insignificant degree of brutal power. Armour crumpled and dented under the weight of her blows, and one by one, her opponents yielded. The hours passed, and the participants of the melee were gradually whittled down. Soon, only a handful of knights remained in the field.
Soon after, the handful had been whittled down to just three. Ser Loras, Ser Osmund and Brienne. They circled each other, wary of striking the first blow and leaving themselves exposed to the other.
Ser Loras struck first, taking aim with his longaxe at Brienne. No doubt, he recognised her armour and was eager to avenge his humiliation at Bitterbridge. That eagerness, however, soon cost him. Ser Osmund, ever the opportunistic fellow, closed in from the rear as the two traded blows. Loras took aim with his axe, swinging deftly in a colourful pattern that would both keep Brienne at bay and knock her off balance.
She took one step back, blade sweeping past the visor of her helm, then two, then three. Finally came time for her weapon to do it's work, morningstar swinging in from the side, a blow aimed at denting Loras's breastplate and knocking him cleanly out of the fight. He leapt backwards in the nick of time, the spikes on the weapon just grazing his plate.
Behind, Ser Osmund had halted at all pretentions at advancement. Realising just how equally matched this mystery knight seemed to be with Ser Loras, he seemed content to sit and wait, and pounce on whoever emerged the victor, weakened and exhausted as they would be. When it looked as though Ser Loras might emerge the victor, the mystery knight now firmly on the backfoot and forced into a retreat, Ser Osmund seized the opportunity.
With a single swing of his mace, Loras crumpled and fell, unconscious. Brienne looked up at her new opponent hesitantly, aware of his deception and the fact that he stood almost as tall and heavy as she did.
Beside me, Margaery gave a sharp intake of breath at her brother's defeat, and a frown marred her pretty features.
"Something the matter, my lady?"
She turned to glance at me, "Just my brother, Your Grace. I know this is a melee, yet I cannot help but wince at every blow struck."
I interlaced my fingers with her and kissed them, comforting her, "Do not be concerned, wife. Their weapons are blunted, and Ser Loras has some of the finest armour in the realm. Not to mention that his own sworn brother would not try and kill him. He will survive."
"It was a dirty trick," Arianne cut in. "That Ser..."
"Kettleblack," I supplied.
"Yes," Arianne continued, "Kettleblack. It was a dirty trick he used. Dishonourable. Your brother, the gallant Ser Loras, should have won that contest."
Margaery smiled prettily, "My thanks, Princess. I am certain my brother will be most pleased to hear it."
"I am certain he will," I said. "But that will not change his defeat. You are right, Princess, to say that Ser Osmund used a dirty trick. But wars are not won by raising your banner and fighting with honour. And better Ser Loras learn that lesson in the tourney field than the battlefield."
Margaery frowned, and Arianne quirked a curious eyebrow seductively, "What does win wars, Your Grace?"
I smiled as I turned my attention back to the field of the melee, "Dirty tricks do, Princess. And luck."
At this point, the duel between the two had degenerated. Brienne was nearing exhaustion, and though Ser Osmund had suffered through far fewer fights, he was slightly smaller - and no doubt slightly less determined - than his opponent was. Their swings were wild and poorly-controlled, a back and forth of battered shields and near-misses till one would either slip up or fall from exhaustion.
Or till one would use a dirty trick.
Ser Osmund and Brienne continued to trade blows for some time. The turf beneath them stirred and became loose under the trampling of their boots, swiftly becoming a muddy mire. With their weapons, they were both evenly matched for war, with similar reach, similar weight and power behind every swing. Ser Osmund's armour, previously quite well-kempt, was gaining dents and scratches aplenty. It was clear that they both wanted to win.
But only one was desperate.
Brienne, fast approaching the limit of her strength, swung her morningstar in one sweeping, savage arc - a blow aimed squarely at Ser Osmund's helm. He backed off, sacrificing his footing to stumble back and evade the incoming blow. Brienne leapt forwards. With Ser Osmund unbalanced, she managed to bring him crashing to the ground with her body, using her gauntlets to deliver strike after strike to the joints in his armour as she wrestled with him in the mud.
Ser Osmund gave almost as good as he got, however. He writhed about, trying to escape the grip of his opponent. He lashed out with his elbows, his knees, his fists, and even once attempted to headbutt Brienne. Yet she had the clear initiative, now. She had him pinned with her heft, and held him in place in a vice-like grip. And though she lacked the strength to continue this much longer - her grip loosening - she used her weight to press Ser Osmund into the ground.
If he did not find a way to escape, and soon, he would drown in mud. A worse fate I struggled to imagine.
Truly, it was the dirtiest of tricks.
Slowly sinking under the weight of his own armour and the heft of his opponent, his attempts to wrestle only sinking him faster, Ser Osmund was forced to yield. There was a moment of uncertainty, to see if it was a feint or some kind of trick of his own, yet Brienne lifted herself off him and even offered him a hand when he struggled to escape the mire.
The winner decided, Brienne approached the stands on tired legs.
"Congratulations, brave warrior. You are the victor in this bout," I said. "Now I would ask you to remove your helm, ser."
She did so, tucking her helm under her arm only to receive gasps of shock from the audience in the stands as they saw her face. Beside me, I saw Margaery frown and Arianne's curiosity grow tenfold.
"I know I am a woman, Your Grace," Brienne said, sighting my feigned look of concern and offering a deep bow. "But I am a warrior all the same."
I nodded, the very picture of grace and equanimity, "Very well. As champion, you may ask of me any boon you desire. If it is in my power to grant, then it is yours."
"Your Grace," Brienne answered. "I desire nothing more than to be dubbed a Knight in your service."
"Yet you cannot be a Knight, for only men can be Knights," I declared. "But you will serve me all the same. Kneel, my lady."
She did so, as the stands held their collective breath, aware they were about to witness history in the making. I stood from my seat, snatching up my scabbard from beside me, descending the steps from the stand to meet her in the field, Jaime just behind me. Arianne looked spellbound.
I approached Brienne, and drew my blade, and placed the flat of it on her left shoulder, "In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave." I switched shoulders, laying the flat on her right, "In the name of the Father I charge you to be just." Left, "In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and the innocent." Right, "In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women." Left, "In the name of the Smith I charge you to remain humble and hardworking in a time of labour." Right, "In the name of the Crone I charge you to be wise with your blade." Left, "In the name of the Stranger I charge you to be fearless of death in your oaths and duty." Right, "Brienne, do you swear?"
The world held it's breath.
"I do, Your Grace."
I smiled as I withdrew my blade and sheathed it, "Then arise, Dame Brienne of the Sapphire Isle. Arise and serve your King."
When she stood, she stood proud and tall, and a smile lit up her face. She was towering, gallant, a vision in spite of the squirrel's nest of hair on her head, the crooked teeth, the nose that had been broken more than once, or the sheen of sweat on her red face. Her eyes seemed to glow, basking in the glory of her victory, no matter the circumstances that made it possible.
When I looked back, I saw a mix of eyes, some gazing at Brienne, others at me. Tyrion looked amused, the High Septon and Pycelle perturbed. Tywin's gaze was as cold and impassive as ever, neither offended nor impressed. Mace did not seem best pleased at the elevation of a woman in such a manner whilst his daughter, my new wife, seemed intrigued at the prospect. Nymeria seemed both stunned and excited by the brazenness of the display.
Yet, most worrying of all for me was Arianne's reaction.
She was smiling, her eyes locked onto mine, a curious little smirk tugging at her lips.
No, still not back yet.
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P.S. May be subject to a rewrite in the future