Chapter 18

  Rhaegar fell on the seventh pass.

  My left arm ached; the constant loud cheering of the crowd echoing in my helmet was giving me a headache, and something in my thigh had started to chafe after I got back on Smoker—I must’ve put something back on wrong.

  But there was no true struggle in this jousting. Not truly.

  He struck me a few times, yes, and I clipped him on the shoulder on our third pass. With one of his feet slipping out of its stirrup at the same time, the Prince had hung onto his courser with one leg and one gauntlet around a hastily grabbed rein, pulling himself back onto his saddle just before his dangling foot touched the ground.

  Loud gasps erupted from the stands at that, yet I couldn’t tell if he had been selling it up for drama or if I had truly gotten him that well. Were we jousters or mummers entertaining a crowd of circus-goers?

  It seemed to me as if Rhaegar was doing just enough to keep himself from losing right at the beginning, and thus being humiliated, without giving it a serious go at taking me down. All while also putting on a decent show to our audience.

  And what had I done with that? Follow along with the wishes of our royal highness? Trade inoffensive lances while giving the nobles and commons a ride for the history books?

  No. Hell no.

  With thousands of gold dragons on the line, I had tried to pull the man down from his horse with every trick and technique I had. Tried brute forcing it against his shield. Tried an Arthur Dayne-esque last second diverted thrust. Tried aiming for his lance-arm.

  Nothing. I couldn’t get to him no matter what I tried. Through it all, Rhaegar Targaryen just sat there like a statue at the base of a rushing waterfall, completely unfazed. Armored in black, with his helmet crested with gold, orange, and red silken streamers stirring as flames in the wind, he looked like the kind of figure you heard about only in song and history.

  For a moment before the last bout, as I stared at him across the lane, I had the feeling that if Rhaegar was really playing the mummer for the crowd, then I was the puppet at the end of the strings, dancing this and that way according to his whims. Could he cut them at his pleasure?

  I shivered at the thought. The way he simply skated around my every attempt at besting him with the grace of a water dancer, as if it was the simplest thing in the world for him, had my head in a whirl.

  I was overthinking things, I knew. Meeting people you had read about gave you a great advantage in dealing with them, but it also presented you with a skewed perspective of who they were. Ink on paper could not convey the complexity of a real, flesh and bone person.

  Ned. Tywin. Cersei. Barristan.

  I had to stop thinking like they were characters instead of people. I couldn’t villainize them for something they had yet to do, nor could I outright trust a ‘good guy’ character because I had seen their good deeds.

  And Rhaegar? He was even more of a mystery to me. A man shrouded in half-told stories and post-war revisionism. Did he dream of the coming of a second long night? Was Lyanna captured or a woman in love? Hero or villain?

  It was foolish of me to ever think like that. Rhaegar was only a man in the end. But as I was learning throughout the last few bouts, with a lance in his hand and a horse beneath him, he was a man I could not underestimate.

  I had readied myself to keep trying my best while the prince played his games when it happened.

  In the next pass, my lance slipped above his shield, struck him flush against the chestplate, and swung him out of his seat. Just like that.

  When the deed was done, I glanced over my shoulder at Prince Rhaegar’s downed form and shook my head. How did the man manage to make toppling off his horse look elegant?

  The crowd broke into thunderous roars. I couldn’t tell if it was for me or for the waving prince as he stepped off the field, nodding in my direction once I turned to him.

  As befitting his rank, I bowed low on my saddle, confused thoughts churning in my head.

  I had won. The tourney and all its prizes were mine. I should be jubilant, should be jumping with joy that all my plans had finally come together. Yesterday, I had even envisioned vaulting the railing and doing my best impression of a rockstar crowdsurfing atop the delirious smallfolks.

  Why, then, did it feel like I had not come up on top on this exchange?

  Before I could spiral, I pushed it out of mind. I still had a part to play here. Once the prince had disappeared around the corner, I allowed myself the usual rewards of victory.

  My good arm rose into the air, followed by a spike of noise from the stands. Not only the commons. The noble stands had broken into cautious cheers as well. Lords and ladies from throughout the realm stood at their feet applauding and waving kerchiefs, some even shouting my moniker. The Sapphire Knight would live long in their memories.

  I tried to relish in it, the cheering, the glory, the thought of the new ships and the gold, my blood pumping with excitement and joy at my due rewards after all my hard work.

  Couldn’t do it. I felt more relief than triumph. The weight of responsibility I had been pushing back all throughout the week slipped away from my shoulders, and all I wanted was to take a hot bath and sleep until the long night came again.

  I made my round around the lane, Smoker trotting across the tiltyard like a show pony, soaking in the attention as if he’d been the one to knock a prince down a peg. When I came to Pate, holding up a fresh new lance toward me with a crown of roses at its end, I lifted up my visor so he could hear me over the noise.

  “Don’t throw this one away,” I said, handing him my broken lance. “I’ll come get it later.”

  Despite how shitty I felt, I knew it would make a good show-piece. Father would love to have it in his solar so he could tell every visiting knight and lordling how his son had toppled a Targaryen prince to win the famous Lannisport tournament.

  With that thought in mind, I glanced over my shoulder at a small section of the stands, and easily spotted my family celebrating in our box near the end of the tiltlane.

  Arianne—whom I had discretely escorted back up there during the break—and Alysanne had dropped all pretenses of not recognizing the mystery knight. They were jumping up and down like I’d just won a championship, crying out and waving madly at me, while Mother and Father shared a tender, more reserved hug between them.

  Warmth washed through me at the scene, spreading out of my chest like a flower in bloom, and I felt light above Smoker. Light and giddy and with an annoying itch prickling at my eyes. Suddenly, all my aches and pains were no worse than a small bruise.

  Screw the ships and the gold, I thought to myself. That right there… that is victory.

  xxx

  With the crown of roses at the tip of my lance, I made my way down the side of the lane, waving back at the cheering ladies calling out to me.

  Some openly asked for the roses, some fanned themselves theatrically, while others demurred, polite and dainty in their seats, all while smoldering up at me from behind batting eyelashes. A curvy older lady even undid the laces of her bodice to give me some concrete incentive.

  I didn’t have Smoker stop until I had nearly planted the crown of roses on Cersei Lannister’s lap, coming to a halt right before her spot on the highest box.

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  A hush spread through the closest section of the highborn stands. I wasn’t entirely sure why, though I imagined that, since most of the people around the royal stand were Westerlanders sworn to Tywin, they were waiting for their lord's reaction before they expressed their own.

  That was until King Aerys Targaryen broke into laughter. Rising from his seat, he began loudly applauding me as he walked up to stand by the wooden railing. He had a wide smile on his face, violet eyes glinting in the sunlight.

  Taking the king’s initiative as permission, the nobles here followed suit with eager applause, and the sudden rise in volume seemed to have woken Cersei up from whatever daydream she was having.

  Wide-eyed, she looked between my dented armor and the crown of roses before her like a puppy being offered a treat it didn’t think it should take.

  “Well done, well done,” Aerys said in between cackles. “I bet a thousand dragons you’d take the day from my son, Ser Sapphire. Glorious riding. Glorious! Come, let us cease with the mystery, show us now the face of our victor.”

  I shrugged. No better time for it.

  Dropping my shield on the ground, I reached a hand up to my helmet, unclasped it, then pulled myself free in a single go. The fresh air felt amazing on my face, and when I looked up, a wave of gasps spread around the arena.

  I heard my name from a dozen different tongues, from the scattered stormlords that knew my father, the ladies I’d danced with at the feast, the knights and squires I met and befriended on the practice yard.

  I kept my composure as best as I could. I had expected the surprise. Even to those that did not know me, seeing a boy win the biggest tourney of their lifetime would still be a shock. Despite my size and skill in the joust, my face was still youthful enough I could not yet pass as a grown man.

  Instead of paying attention to the crowd, I dipped my head until my chin struck my chest then bowed low at the waist. A little boot-licking couldn’t hurt my odds.

  “Your Grace, it has been an honor to ride under your gaze,” I said, then sat up again above Smoker. “I am Galladon Tarth of the Stormlands, son and heir to Lord Selwyn Tarth.”

  As I hoped, he picked up on the thread I laid out to him.

  “Ah, one of Steffon’s men, then?” Aerys smiled.

  Knowing he favored my Baratheon lord, I wanted him to think of me through that lens for as long as possible.

  “I should’ve known you were a stormlander after you beat the dornishman earlier. He’s a proper knight, Ser Arthur Dayne, but mayhaps being around Rhaegar for so long has made him soft.”

  I pointedly did not touch that topic. “If you permit me, your Grace.” A nod to the garland of roses.

  Aerys waved his hand. “Yes, yes, go on then. You are the winner and this is your due.”

  Nodding, I turned to face the little girl who may or may not one day grow up to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Cersei was sitting all proper and ladylike, hands folded in front of her and everything, but her expression was that of a dear in the headlights.

  In my periphery, I spied Lord Tywin staring straight at me, sitting just a couple of seats away from his daughter. Jaime was there too, near bouncing in his seat.

  “Lady Cersei,” I started, projecting my voice so all the nearby nobles could hear me. Then I lowered the crown of roses until they were close enough she could probably smell them. “Should you accept, I would name you Queen of Love and Beauty of this great tournament.”

  At hearing her name, she froze like I just asked her to commit treason. Her eyes darted quickly to her father, who by his lack of reaction seemed to give his consent.

  To her credit, Cersei was quick to rally.

  “I would be honored to accept it, Ser Galladon,” she said, and this time I actually saw a dusting of red bloom on her cheeks.

  Little psycho or not, she was still a ten year old girl brought up on stories of knights and maidens and princesses.

  I chuckled. “As I told you before, my lady, I’m not yet a knight.”

  Her brows furrowed as she silently mouthed the word ‘before’, and it took her a moment to realize what I meant. When she did, her mouth popped open, and she stared at my face as if seeing me for the first ime.

  King Aerys, who had moved away to accept a refill of his wine cup, turned sharply at that. For a moment, I thought my worst fears had come true and the king would take umbrage at my honoring of Cersei.

  Instead, the king let out a chuckle. “Well this is perfect, is it not?” He turned to Tywin, his smile broadening into a wicked grin. “You should consider the boy for a betrothal, my Lord Hand. A more proper union for House Lannister, given his station.”

  His voice was not loud, but the nobles directly around us drew in stunned breaths. Yet beyond a tightening of his lips, Tywin showed no outward reaction.

  “Perhaps, Your Grace,” the Lord of Lannister said.

  His gold-flecked green eyes met mine for the briefest moment, and I could see the rage brewing inside them like a growing storm. Hopefully, he would turn that blizzard onto the king and not my way.

  I had done my part.

  Aerys Targaryen waited a second longer to see if his jab had landed before he clicked his tongue. Then, as if remembering my presence, he turned my way, eyes alight once again. The man’s mood was dangerously flighty.

  “Now what is this about not being a knight?” he asked, and kept going before I could mount an answer. “Oh, no, young Galladon. No, no, no. In my reign, such injustice shall not be countenanced.” Aerys snapped his fingers. “Ser Gerold, go down there and right this wrong for your king. Induct Galladon Tarth to the halls of knighthood in the sight of gods and men.”

  Beside him, the towering form of Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, nodded sharply at his king’s command and made for the nearby stairway.

  And thus, with my victory secured and my promise to Tywin kept, I knelt as a boy on the sandy grounds of Lannisport’s tiltyard. A minute and some vows later I rose to my feet to a cheering crowd. Now, as a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.

  xxx

  Cersei Lannister

  That night, after the victory feast was over and the castle slumbered, when the ancient halls of old Casterly emptied and naught but the soft hooting of owls and the droning singing of cicadas could be heard, a daughter of the Rock slipped away from her father’s seat to visit a witch.

  Melara Heatherspoon had told them of the supposed sorceress on the first day of the tournament, when whispers came from the servant women of the castle that an old crone staying near the tourney grounds could tell fortunes, curse a man, or even make him fall in love.

  Cersei had not wanted to go, then, and she would have had to force herself to accompany Melara and Jeyne so as not to appear frightful in front of them. Thankfully, stupid, cowardly Jeyne had begged off before she could, and Melara’s lady mother had called upon her daughter that night after months of being separated.

  And so it was that Cersei, wrapped in a roughspun cloak, with the hood pulled up to hide her face, had no one to blame but herself as she stood outside a tall, peaked-roof tent. The tourney grounds were dark that night, the moon hiding behind rumbling clouds, yet not as dark and eerie as the inside of Maggy the Frog’s canvas.

  She did not know why she had come all the way here.

  She did not know why she stepped inside despite the chill grasping at her bones.

  She did not know why she kicked the sleeping sorceress awake, nor did she know why she agreed to freely give her blood away to the woman.

  But blood she gave, and the crone lit up an iron brazier shaped like a basilisk’s head, and the walls of the tent looked cold and rotten under the dim, green light of the brazier.

  At that moment, Cersei wanted to run away. The sharp tang of onion and cloves and spices made her want to claw out her nose. Bile rose up her throat like acid. She forced herself to swallow it down. She would not flee.

  “Three questions you may ask, yet you will not like my answers,” Maggy the Frog warned. She had a deep, croaking voice like the opening of a long-unsued door.

  A breath. “Will I ever wed the prince?”

  “Prince? No. Never a prince. Kings, aye, kings will suit you better.”

  Cersei felt a flush run through her. Could it be… would she marry Prince Rhaegar after his father dies and he then becomes the king? The thought made her giddy and warm. She could almost forget the old sorceress, her face bloated and warty, watching her from across the table with crusty yellow eyes gleaming with malice.

  “Will the king and I have children?” she asked.

  “As many as you wish.” Maggy paused for a moment, as if deep in reflection, then she gave her a toothless smile.

  Cersei thought she could still see flecks of her blood in the sorceress’ mouth. In the green light of the basilisk brazier, they looked like black stains against her gums.

  “Dragons,” the crone said. “Aye, you shall birth true dragons for your king.”

  The image of purple-eyed, silver-haired babes popped into Cersei’s mind. Her lips curved up despite herself.

  At the thought of creating her own family, an older memory surfaced, something from many years ago, before her twisted brother was born and her mother still graced the halls of the Rock.

  It was just the four of them supping at one of the castle’s smaller dining rooms. A bard from far away Lys had been brought to entertain them while Lord Tywin was visiting from King’s Landing. Jaime, sitting at her side, laughed at the strange words and sounds coming from the bard’s lips. Across the table, Joana Lannister reached a hand out and softly touched Lord Tywin’s face. And her father, always a stern, reserved man, cupped her hand into his own, then kissed the back of it like it was the most precious thing in the world.

  “And… will I love him?” she murmured. “Will we love each other?”

  Maggy the Frog seemed to relish in the question. “Two men shall you love and two men shall you betray.” Grinning with her gums, she hawked and spat dark phlegm to the side. “There, I answered your questions, child, now out! Begone with you.”

  When Cersei was back in her bed under the covers, and the soft light of dawn already reached across her room like golden fingers, she dreamt of silver-haired kings and lion queens, of dashing mystery knights and crowned maidens, and of yellow-eyed crones smiling toothless smiles.