Chương 13: Chapter 13: The Tournament: Baratheon vs Tyrell
Morning…
"Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?" complained Lancel Lannister.
He bolted and scrambled looking from tent to tent, building to building. Daveth was still in full armor and took a moment to get himself ready for the final round against Ser Loras Tyrell, son of Lord Mace Tyrell and heir to Highgarden; Ser Loras was known his good looks and reputation for winning many tournament victories, held in high regard as one of the most skilled knights in Westeros. In Daveth's eyes, this makes the Knight of the Flowers a formidable opponent. The joust will either come down to who lands a decisive blow or who can outlast the other.
The Crown Prince was examining the prize to the champion: apparently in addition to 40,000 gold dragons, but the champion would be given a victor's crown made of blue winter roses to bestow upon any woman present and name her the Queen of Love and Beauty. Traditionally the victor often chooses a woman he loves or intends to court, yet it can also be a source of scandal if the victor crowns a woman already bound to another man or if a married man crowns someone other than his wife.
'I don't remember including that in the list of prizes…' Daveth thought. He stopped to turn to look at his panicking second cousin, who was still making quite a ruckus. "Cousin Lancel, what are you looking for?" he groaned.
"I have to find the breastplate stretcher for the King, Prince Daveth," he answered. "Your father's armor won't fit him!"
"A what?" he asked confused, raising an eyebrow.
"Breastplate stretcher!"
Daveth tried not to grin at what he just heard, biting his lip to keep himself from laughing. "Lancel," he called out. "There's no such thing as a 'breastplate stretcher.' It doesn't exist."
Lancel stopped in his tracks and stood still. He looked at Daveth, confused before realization finally dawned on him. "Seven hells…" he groaned. "Why does he keep doing this to me?"
"Pay him no mind," Daveth brushed him off. "Father tends to overstep his bounds and be a bit mean to his squires."
"I thought it was the greatest honor when your grandfather, Lord Tywin, named me the King's squire. But this…" he sighed, almost as if in tears. "This is humiliating."
"Try to endure it as long as you can. It won't be long before you yourself receive your knighthood."
"I really hope so, my Prince. What was it like? When you were knighted?"
Daveth reminisced, thinking about the event last year.
"It's not as easy as you think, Lancel. Squires are required to undergo years of extensive training to become a full-fledged knight. A bit expensive, perhaps, but the results in the end speak for themselves," he explained. "Others are simply rewarded with it depending on their achievement in service to the Crown."
"Did the King simply grant you one?" Lancel asked.
"Mother suggested it," Daveth shook his head. "Father seemed inclined, but I chose to work for it like the other squires; took me eight long years of combat training. Once that's done, you are summoned to attend your own knighting ceremony."
He spoke in a deep tone, reciting the vows he took last year. "'In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women…'" Daveth finished, returning to his normal tone of voice. "These are the vows all knights swear, but it varies immensely depending on the individual; even more so while trying to obey the law and uphold your vows at the same time."
Lancel looked fascinated. "Who did you squire for?"
"Ser Barristan Selmy."
"You mean Barristan the Old?"
"You know I much I hate it when people brazenly call him that; especially in front of me," Daveth furrowed his brow. "Barristan may be an old man, but the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is a good man and one of the most formidable knights Westeros has ever seen. A man I was proud to squire for. So mind your manners next time, cousin."
"I… I'm sorry, my Prince," Lancel quickly apologized. "I… I didn't mean to offend you."
Daveth calmed down upon acknowledging the apology as sincere. "You didn't know," he sighed. "Just be more careful next time, alright?"
On que, a royal steward comes in.
"Excuse me, my Prince. But the round is about to begin."
"Understood," Daveth nodded. "I'll be there momentarily."
The steward bowed and exited the tent. Daveth stood from his seat, getting ready to take to the track. Lancel followed close behind him.
"And now it begins," Lancel remarked.
"No," Daveth shook his head. "Now it ends."
At the Tourney of the Hand…
Now back at the jousting track, both Ser Loras Tyrell and Prince Daveth Baratheon arrive. The two young men rode on their horses, bowing before King Robert and exchanging glances at each other.
"Good luck to you, Prince Daveth," Loras said. His hair was a mass of lazy brown curls, eyes glowing like liquid blue gold.
"And to you, Ser Loras," Daveth replied.
Loras exchanges looks with Lord Renly Baratheon, whom he returned gazes. The Knight of the Flowers was Renly's former squire and, according to rumors, Renly's lover. Daveth heard about the scandalous rumors himself at court, being slightly bothered by it but chose not to say anything out of respect to his uncle. His horse began behaving rather strangely, with Daveth having to steady his mount. Loras smirked and took off down one lane with his white horse.
'Using a mare in heat to distract my stallion in order to throw us both off-balance…' Daveth deduced. 'Very sneaky, Loras.'
Daveth took to the opposite track, getting his shield and lance ready; and prepping to stabilize his stallion during the charge should it get distracted again.
Sansa was with her father in the crowd watching the final two competitors. She had never seen anyone so beautiful. Ser Loras's armor was intricately fashioned and enameled as a bouquet of a thousand different flowers, and his snow-white stallion was draped in a blanket of red and white roses. After each victory, Loras would remove his helm and ride slowly round the fence, and finally pluck a single white rose from the blanket and toss it to some fair maiden in the crowd.
"Please let them both be alright," Sansa whispered quietly to himself.
Both competitors lowered their lances, ready to charge. And when the trumpet sounded both Loras and Daveth charged fiercely. As he expected, Daveth's stallion behaved strangely again as the two men approached; the Crown Prince maintaining stability of both his lance and his balance. In near unison, both riders crashed, lances colliding against the other's shield.
CRASH!
The impact nearly caused Daveth to almost fall off of his mount yet fought to keep himself up as he gripped the saddle with both his legs, but just barely.
"Steady now," he told his horse.
Loras turned around with confidence, getting his horse ready for another charge. Once regaining his balance, Daveth clicked his tongue and whistled sharply - signaling his stallion to charge again.
As both Tyrell and Baratheon competitors charged again and again, Petyr Baelish stood in the crowd.
"100 gold dragons on the Oathkeeper."
Renly took notice. "I'll take that bet."
"You'd really bet against your own nephew, Lord Renly?" Petyr asked. "Anyway, what will I buy with 100 gold dragons? A dozen barrels of Dornish wine? Or a girl from the pleasure houses of Lys?"
"Or you could buy a friend."
CRASH!
Loras and Daveth's lances collided again, each smacking head-on against their respective shields. After an estimated nine charges, both their lances and shields had begun to crack. Any more and they'll shatter. The Knight of the Flowers was indeed a worthy opponent, and Loras himself was becoming aware that his strategy was starting to distract Daveth's stallion was beginning to fail.
Sheer confidence giving way to outright seriousness, Loras and Daveth charged faster and hit each other a lot harder. Both of their armors and shields were beginning to dent after each impact.
CRASH!
Again, both tried hard to dismount the other - but still neither of them would fall off. They both went around, getting ready for another charge.
"Okay, now this is really starting to hurt…" Daveth groaned.
His left arm had become sore and he'd started to favor it a bit, feeling it beginning to swell inside of his armor from having to absorb the impact of Loras's lance against his shield repeatedly. His arm was gradually starting to lower, but the Oathkeeper grunted as he forcibly raised it higher again.
"Look at them go!" One of the spectators exclaimed.
Another chimed in. "They just won't go down!"
"What stamina!"
"The ferocity!"
"Such determination and brilliance amongst these two young men!"
"For Highgarden!"
"For the Oathkeeper!"
"Go, Ser Loras!"
"Fight on, Prince Daveth!"
"Knight of the Flowers!"
"Oathkeeper!"
The longer the joust continued the more rowdy and excited the crowd had become. It had been a hard-fought match between Loras Tyrell and Daveth Baratheon; neither of them was willing to back down. A dozen times Jeyne and Sansa cried out in unison as riders crashed together, lances colliding against shields while the smallfolk screamed for their favorites. Jeyne Poole covered her eyes whenever a man fell, like a frightened little girl, but Sansa was made of sterner stuff. A great lady knew how to behave at tournaments. Even Septa Mordane noted her composure and nodded in approval.
"Quite the stubborn one, aren't you, Oathkeeper?" Loras spoke quietly. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You are a Baratheon, after all."
Both Loras and Daveth were visibly exhausted and sore; they both knew that this charge could be the last one. The final round of the jousting competition had been going on all day and the sun was beginning to set. King Robert had been watching the two rather closely, growing more loud and rambunctious.
"Loras knew his mare was in heat," Petyr said, the notion seemed to amuse him. "Quite crafty, really."
It did not, however, amuse Sansa. "Ser Loras would never do that!" she protested. "There's no honor in tricks."
"No honor but quite a bit of gold. But Prince Daveth's a smart lad and cunning strategist. It didn't take long from him to figure it out: He knew right away of Loras's plot and planned several steps ahead."
King Robert then stood up. Jon Arryn told him that a commander needs a good battlefield, and Robert proved the truth of that during the Battle of the Trident. He used that voice now.
"IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING," he boomed, "WILL THE BOTH OF YOU JUST CHARGE ALREADY!"
On que, Daveth and Loras immediately charged with their lances at the ready - both wavering slightly. Using every ounce of strength, Daveth and Loras thrust forward with all their might.
CRASH!
Both lances finally exploded into splinters and both shields cracked in half. The crowd gasped. By the time the splinters had settled, they saw something unexpected. Ser Loras Tyrell was rolling in the dirt, his clean armor dented as he fell to the ground from his saddle with a loud thud. Prince Daveth, now without a shield and his lance shattered, was leaning forward on his stallion exhausted.
"Such a shame, Lord Renly," Petyr gloated.
Renly frowned as he looked at Ser Loras, glad to see the Knight of the Flowers getting to his feet. Daveth rode to Loras and dismounted, stumbling a bit as he grunted in discomfort. He extended his hand forward, offering to help Ser Loras up. Loras graciously accepted and groaned as he stood upwards.
"What a spectacle that was, Prince Daveth," Loras complimented. "Good show!"
Daveth nodded, allowing a small chuckle. "Indeed it was, Ser Loras. You were by far one of the toughest knights I had ever faced."
King Robert roared in laughter and clapped loudly, pleased with the joust competition. The royal steward soon stepped forward.
"With the unseating of Ser Loras of House Tyrell, it is my honor to declare Prince Daveth of House Baratheon the winner of the joust competition!"
The crowd stood in unison and cheered. Daveth, in a show of sportsmanship, lifted Loras's arm in the air as well, acknowledging the Knight of the Flowers out of respect for his skills. This moved caused the crowd to cheer much louder. Both Daveth and Loras bowed their heads to all in attendance, before getting down to one knee to catch their breath.
"As the champion of the joust," the steward called out, getting Daveth's attention, "it is the honor of His Grace that you be awarded 40,000 gold dragons and the victor's crown! You now are free to choose this year's Queen of Love and Beauty."
Daveth took the champion's purse and saw the victor's crown of blue winter roses approach. He took the crown and looked at the audience, and the crowd looked on in anticipation. Daveth then made his way towards Sansa, despite being quite sore.
"My lords and ladies of Westeros," he spoke. "This tournament not only allowed us a chance to hone the skills of our distinguished knights and their squires currently present, but the tournament itself also moment of reprieve; the opportunity… for us to put all differences aside and come together as one."
The crowd listened closely.
"Each of you assembled here today are the pillars that hold up this world; the very foundation that holds the Seven Kingdoms together. So long as these lungs carry breath, the Crown will ensure that each pillar throughout the realm not only remains standing but also thrives. This victory is not mine alone. But rather this moment belongs to all of you."
The crowd and smallfolk stood in applause.
"With that being said," Daveth said as he held up the victor's crown, "it is my distinct pleasure to bestow the victor's crown upon the woman of my choosing."
The crowd grew silent, waiting in anticipation. After several coughs and whispers, Daveth spoke up.
"My lords and ladies… I hereby name my betrothed, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of the King's Hand Lord Eddard Stark, as the Queen of Love and Beauty."
Sansa smiled as she felt tears well up, her lip beginning to tremble. The audience cheered loudly, a few dozen of fair maidens no doubt wept at the selection.
"Lady Sansa," Daveth said as he held the victor's crown, "will you do me the honor of accepting the offer?"
Sansa quickly nodded yes, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. "Yes, my sweet Prince," her voice cracked. "I accept."
With that Daveth Baratheon stood over Sansa to bestow the victor's crown above her. She leaned forward and felt the blue winter roses being placed on her head. Sansa smiled as she felt the victor's crown.
'I love you,' Sansa thought. 'My sweet Prince…'
With the completion of the jousting competition, the rest of the Hand's Tournament continued to proceed as planned.
That afternoon a boy named Anguy, an unheralded commoner from the Dornish Marches, won the archery competition, outshooting Ser Balon Swann and Jalabhar Xho at a hundred paces after all the other bowmen had been eliminated at the shorter distances. Eddard Stark sent Alyn to seek him out and offer him a position with the Hand's guard, but the boy was flush with wine and victory and riches undreamed of, and he refused.
The melee went on for three hours. About 40 men took part, hedge knights and squires in search of a reputation. They fought with blunted weapons in a chaos of mud and blood, small troops fighting together and then turning on each other as alliances formed and fractured, until only one man was left standing. The victor was the red priest, Thoros of Myr, a madman who shaved his head and fought with a flaming sword. He had won melees before; the fire sword frightened the mounts of the other riders, and nothing frightened Thoros. The final tally was three broken limbs, a shattered collarbone, a dozen smashed fingers, two horses that had to be put down, and more cuts, sprains, and bruises than anyone cared to count.
Eddard was desperately pleased that Robert had not taken part.
At the Tower of the Hand…
That night at the feast, Eddard Stark was more hopeful than he had been in a great while. Robert was in high good humor, the Lannisters were nowhere to be seen, and even his daughters were behaving. Jory brought Arya down to join them, and Sansa spoke to her sister pleasantly.
"The tournament was magnificent," she sighed. Sansa still wore the victor's crown on her head all day. "You should have come. Prince Daveth named me the Queen of Love and Beauty. How was your dancing?"
"I'm sore all over," Arya reported happily, proudly displaying a huge purple bruise on her leg.
"You must be a terrible dancer," Sansa said doubtfully.
Later, while Sansa was off listening to a troupe of singers perform the complex round of interwoven ballads called the "Dance of the Dragons," Eddard inspected the bruise himself.
"I hope Forel is not being too hard on you," he said.
Arya stood on one leg. She was getting much better at that of late. "Syrio says that every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better."
Eddard frowned. The man Syrio Forel had come with an excellent reputation, and his flamboyant Braavosi style dubbed the "Water Dance" was well suited to Arya's slender blade, yet still… a few days ago, she had been wandering around with a swatch of black silk tied over her eyes. Syrio was teaching her to see with her ears and her nose and her skin, she told him. Before that, he had her doing spins and back flips.
"Arya, are you certain you want to persist in this?"
She nodded. "Tomorrow I'm going to be chasing cats."
"Cats?" Eddard sighed. "Syrio says…"
"He says every swordsman should study cats," Arya interrupted. "They're quiet as shadows and as light as feathers. You have to be quick to catch them."
"He's right about that."
Arya set her leg down. "Now that Bran's awake will he come live with us?"
Eddard shook his head. "He needs to get his strength back first."
"He wants to be a knight of the Kingsguard," Arya frowned. "He can't be one now, can he?"
"No," her father admitted. "But someday he could be lord of a holdfast or sit on the King's Council. Or he might raise castles like Brandon the Builder?"
"Can I be lord of a holdfast?" Arya asked.
Eddard smiled. "You will marry a high lord and rule his castle. And your sons shall be knights, princes and lords."
Arya didn't like that statement. "No! That's not me."
Much later, after he had taken the girls back through the city and seen them both safe in bed, Sansa with her dreams and Arya with her bruises, Eddard ascended to his own chambers. The day had been warm and the room was close and stuffy. Eddard went to the window and unfastened the heavy shutters to let in the cool night air. Across the Great Yard, he noticed the flickering glow of candlelight from Littlefinger's windows. The hour was well past midnight. Down by the river, the revels were only now beginning to dwindle and die.
He took out the dagger and studied it. Littlefinger's blade, won by Tyrion Lannister in a tourney wager, sent to slay Bran in his sleep. Why? Why would the dwarf want Bran dead? Why would anyone want Bran dead?
In Daveth's chambers…
Daveth sat in a steaming hot bath, groaning as he felt his stiff muscles loosen. The jousting wore him out and he needed a moment to relax.
'Thank the gods that's over,' he thought.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!
His thoughts were rudely interrupted when he heard loud knocking on his door.
"What is it?" Daveth called out irritated.
"An urgent message for you, my Prince," a voice called out.
"Tell me."
"It's from Lord Varys, my Prince. He says he's received whispers from the east."
Daveth narrowed his eyes. He knew that meant one thing.
"Daenerys Targaryen…"
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