GOT : All Left Behind

A tourney, a proper tourney, was a magical event in a way a melee simply could never be. The former played host to a riot of colors in the streaming banners and gallantly adorned steeds, a display of chivalric excellence, punctuated by the crash of lance against shield. The latter was a scramble in the mud meant to keep your skills sharp.

No, I much preferred the air of the joust to the actual event. While I might have been only a middling horseman at the best of times, there was much to be said for simply enjoying the experience. 

I had joined Baelon on his trips to tourneys in the past, acting as his squire, and those were pleasant memories. Feeling the raucous mood of the crowd as the knights collided in a crash of wood on metal on dirt, it was glorious to behold.

From a distance, anyways.

As I was leaning against the railing of the knights' viewing stands, positioned behind my shield, I could not help but decide that these were most certainly nowhere near as good times. Partly because I was using the railing to keep myself on my feet. As it turned out, taming a dragon, riding it without a saddle, marching for several miles, fighting a melee, and partaking in a dance took a toll on your body.

Especially if you were a fourteen-year-old boy.

Yes, this day was not going to be easy. I was a collection of bruises. My horse, recently acquired from the local master of horse, was young and untested. I was a mediocre rider. My opponents were all grown men. I was a green boy.

This was never going to be a fair fight.

I watched Ser Ryam charge his destrier towards his opponent. The Stokeworth knight, whose name I could not recall for the life of me, spurred his smaller courser forwards, his lance nowhere near as steady as his opponent's. They met in a crash of splintering wood on steel, the knight in green swaying dangerously in his seat.

The white knight, however, was on the ground.

He managed to rise to his feet without too much issue, thankfully, and went after his horse.

A horse whose saddle had a leather strap, having torn along some carefully made holes made only the previous night, where there once was a stirrup.

How very unfortunate and unpredictable. I made the proper noises of sympathy, joining many of the knights who did the same. One of the most fearsome competitors in the field, brought down by a total mischance. Not terribly glorious, but I doubted Ser Stokeworth would let that stop him from enjoying his win.

I, for one, was going to enjoy Ser Ryam Redwyne being eliminated after only a single tilt. How convenient that this would take out one of the greatest threats in the tourney before they could eliminate me. Yes, that's the word I was going to choose, convenient.

"Ser Pate the Woodcock of the Kingsguard!" The herald called out, summoning the next contender. The white knight entered the field as a groom brought forth his steed. After a moment's inspection of his stirrups, he mounted with the aid of the groom, and cast his helmeted gaze about the other assembled competitors.

Ser Pate's gaze rested upon me for a brief moment before moving on. Instead of my scarred image of a cup, his lance knocked against the crossed hammers of Darklyn, challenging the young captain of the city guard. The young knight seemed almost eager to test his lance against a knight of the Kingsguard as he entered the field.

Off in the distance, barely audible over the din of the tourney, a dragon's roar reached my ears. Not Vermithor's, not Dreamfyre's, but the Cannibal's. He was moving. Hopefully he would not try to interfere.

Returning my focus to the joust at hand, I watched the two knights approach their designated sides of the list. Once the signal was given, the court herald sounding his horn in this case, the two knights thundered towards each other.

Suddenly, in a gleam of sunlight off dull metal, something flew from Ser Pate's horse, and the poor beast stumbled. It slowed, limping, wobbling. A thrown shoe.

Ser Denys Darklyn did not hesitate to exploit the opportunity, and his lance broke cleanly on his opponent's shield. The white knight was thrown from the saddle, sent sprawling in the dirt.

How very unfortunate and unpredictable. Once again, I joined the knights in making the properly sympathetic noises while the audience gasped in fear of brave knight's safety. Now both knights of the Kingsguard were eliminated from the tournament.

Very convenient. For me.

Of course, I would still need to actually win a joust or five on my own merit, but I liked my chances against these knights far more than against some of the finest lances of the seven kingdoms.

While Ser Denys took a victory lap, pumping his empty fist and whooping in ecstatic glee to the joyous shouting of the crowd, I looked to my father. He, like a politician worthy of the title, was impossible to read, a warm smile perpetually on display. Was he angry that his knights had been vanquished so easily? Did he suspect foul play or mere misfortune?

More importantly, would he bring it up later?

He glanced my way and his smile shifted ever so slightly.

Did he suspect me?

"Ser Rickard Rosby, heir to Rosby!" The herald interrupted my musings as the dickish knight entered the field. Eager for the distraction, I returned my focus to the field and the knight with the chevrons. His helmet swept across the stands until it zeroed in on me. Or more precisely, on my shield.

His lance smacked into the scarred grey paint of my shield, challenging me to a joust.

It seems he still held a grudge.

Personally, I regretted not dosing his horse with laxatives. Or Ser Rosby himself. Or every knight on the field, for that matter. It would have greatly simplified the day's contests for me. Unfortunately, finding so great a supply of reliable laxatives and an opportune moment to dose them all would have been nigh impossible.

And suspicious.

Making my way to the field, a groom brought forth my own steed. It lacked the elaborate barding of my opponent, whose mount was draped in the ermine field of his house's coat of arms, instead clad in drab grey, lacking even the simple sigil I had emblazoned upon my chest. If memory served, the master of horse had called it a courser.

The beast snorted, rolling the bridle between the teeth as I mounted up, my legs screaming in protest all the while. Gritting my teeth and taking advantage of the mounting stool that was graciously provided, I managed to at least take the saddle without embarrassing myself.

A squire, or a groom perhaps, handed me a tourney lance striped black and red. While I had already been unmasked in the tourney, I would have preferred to at least continue the pretense of the masquerade.

Saluting both Lord and King, I spurred the horse to my starting position, opposite Ser Rosby.

I could do this.

This was manageable.

All I had to do was convince myself of that fact.

The rest would follow.

Again, a dragon roared in the distance, and my horse snorted in discomfort.

Lord Darklyn waved his hand and a horn sounded, signaling the start. I kicked my horse into motion, couching my lance beneath my arm and angling my shield to deflect any blow away from me. I bore down on Ser Rosby, his own heavier horse thundering towards me.

All that mattered was the next hit.

When we met in a deafening crash, it felt like I had been kicked by a horse. First in the ribs, where my foe used his lance to drive my shield into my side, and again in the shoulder as I felt my own lance break.

My weakened legs howled in protest, and I was once thankful for the invention of stirrups, the only things that had kept me on my steed.

Continuing on, I discarded the broken lance, picking up another, and lining up for another tilt. Once more, the lord gave the signal, and once more we rushed towards each other, only for the sky to darken suddenly as a deep bellowing roar filled the air.

The Cannibal had made an appearance.

And that was roughly when things went wrong.

Because I had forgotten one important thing: most horses were not used to dragons. In fact, the flying beasts terrified them. All too often, the mere scent of the great beasts was enough to send them into a panic.

And in a panic, a horse was wont to rear.

A fact I remembered right as my horse reared as Ser Rosby's lance drew near.

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