Rhaenyra enjoyed tournaments.
Some of her memories of her fondest events were soured, thanks to that ingrate Ser Criston.
He had taken her maidenhead, she was glad to give it up, and yet that had not been enough for him.
The fool had wanted to take her to Essos, as if her destiny was not to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
In some sense it was starry-eyed, like in a song, but it wasn’t reality.
He had not taken her rejection well, even when she told him they could fuck whenever they liked!
Seeing Ser Criston and her uncle Daemon fight in the past had been an immense pleasure, and now the memory caused her bitterness.
Fortunately, she had found someone better than Ser Criston.
Ser Harwin Strong, and he was strong.
Yet, he could also be exceedingly gentle.
Her greatest fear when she learned she was forced to get married to Laenor was losing her Strong lover.
She was not pious by nature, but she did thank the Gods for Laenor.
Ser Laenor jousted well, but he would not be a finalist.
He made a respectable showing, however and in no way brought shame on their union.
He was overthrown by Ser Arryk, losing to a Kingsguard was expected.
Ser Harwin however, was a contender.
His massive size and skill at arms put down four knights, including Ser Willis Fell of the Kingsguard.
Unfortunately, he ended up matched against Ser Criston.
They broke four lances against each other before Ser Criston moved his lance, just so, to avoid her lover’s shield and sent him spinning into the dirt.
The fall and the placement of the lance left him groaning in the dirt.
Irritation turned to worry when he did not rise.
Squires came and lifted him on a stretcher, Rhaenyra hurried out of the stands to see how he was doing.
Along the way she saw her sister get up and follow her.
She arrived as the Maester was viewing the wound.
“The elbow and your collarbone are in poor shape, ser.
You will be fighting in no tourneys for many moons, but with as young and as hearty as you are, you will not suffer lifelong impairments.”
Rhaenyra breathed a sigh of relief.
Ser Harwin grunted and asked for milk of the poppy which was given to him as he was taken away to be properly cared for.
“It sounds like he will be well in time, sister,” Elaena comforted.
“I’m sure father can assign another sworn shield to you in the interim.”
Rhaenyra pulled her sister into a short embrace, and they returned to the stands together.
The jousts continued and the damnable Ser Criston ended up winning the entire tournament.
He then compounded his vileness by giving the victory laurel and title of “Queen of Love and Beauty” to Alicent.
“Who better than the woman who has won our King’s heart?” His voice had bellowed out and the crowd watching had lavished their praise on the white knight of the Kingsguard honoring his Queen in such a manner.
It was time for the grand melee and Rhaenyra enjoyed this event most of all.
Here was unrestrained violence, chaos, and fierce battle.
Rhaenyra knew from the stories that tournaments under her father’s reign were less bloody and deadly than those in the past.
Ever was Viserys seeking harmony among his subjects, which meant that he disliked needless death and crippling injury.
Still, melees were events of great chaos, anything could happen, and that was exciting to her.
Ser Criston did and he wielded his morningstar to great effect.
Two knights had already fallen and she watched as he avoided three others and called out a challenge to Ser Joffrey.
Joffrey turned and faced him and they battled back and forth for several moments.
Laenor’s hand gripped hers.
Her husband had cast off his armor and returned the stands after his lost bout.
Ser Criston proved to be the better and his morningstar lashed out and caught Ser Joffrey on the helm.
Laenor’s lover fell to ground, his blade dropping from his hand, knocked senseless from the blow.
Ser Criston did not stop, he raised his morningstar again and smashed it down on Joffrey’s helm, cracking his helmet with the force behind the blow.
“STOP!” Laenor shouted over the melee.
Ser Criston went to strike again, but thought better of it and returned to fight the remaining competitors.
As the fighting moved away from the still form of the noble from House Lonmouth, squires rushed in and pulled him from the field.
A chill passed through Rhaenyra as she saw Alicent stare down impassively at the fighting.
She won’t gloat openly, but this was her doing!
Rage filled her.
This was a tournament in honor of her royal marriage.
That despicable woman would do anything she could to hurt her and hers.
Rhaenyra would talk to her father about this.
The act of Ser Criston brought shame to the very notion of gallant knighthood.
She would see him stripped of his cloak over this!
…
Laenor paced outside the infirmary.
He had insisted the Grand Maester himself see to Ser Joffrey.
He was the groom and now the Prince Consort, and he would use that position to ensure his Joffrey got the very best care in the realm.
Mellos exited and look at him.
“Ser, I did what I could.
Head wounds are notoriously difficult to aid.
I give direct counsel to all.
If he wakes, he may survive, but I do not think he will.”
Laenor let out a sob and pushed past the Maester and knelt at Joffrey’s bedside.
He lifted his hand, kissed it, and held it tight.
It was inconceivable; Joffrey had survived the worst fighting on the Stepstones, only to fall in a tournament.
A tournament held in his honor!
The door opened and he did not care who saw him in this state.
He would honor Joffrey with his tears and his vigil, the realm be damned.
It was the princess.
Little Elaena looked at him and walked to the other side of the bed.
“I take it the Maester did not deliver welcome news.”
Laenor shook his head.
“I’ve read of the bond that forms when soldiers fight together.
A bard once wrote, ‘For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.'”
The words were apt, but the six-year-old child had missed her mark.
Laenor did not correct her and instead just held Joffrey’s hand.
“May I sit with you?
I did not know Ser Joffrey long, but he was kind to share his stories of battle with me.”
“Yes,” he croaked out.
Part of him wanted to be alone with Joffrey, but the thought of another person who was fond of him staying by his side also seemed right.
It must have been an hour before anyone else entered the room.
It was his mother, Rhaenys.
She looked at him with a frown, and then glanced at Elaena.
“Princess Elaena, I did not expect to find you here.”
“I worried over Ser Joffrey.
He had told me all sorts of fascinating stories of his time fighting in the recent wars to the south.
I also wished to keep my good-brother company.”
Laenor was half paying attention.
Was Joffrey’s breathing becoming better?
Did his eyelid flutter, or was that his imagination.
“How kind of you, princess.
Would you mind if I spoke with my son alone?”
Elaena swayed when she stood up.
“Careful,” Rhaenys said and took Elaena’s arm.
“Thank you, I think seeing the injuries up close may have upset my stomach.
Please excuse me.”
Laenor heard the door close.
“I am sorry my son, I know you were… close.
If there is aught I can do, please let me know.”
“No mother, not unless you can prevent his death.”
“If I could, you know I would.
I understand this is difficult, and I know you wish to stay in vigil over him.
But you must make an appearance at the post-tournament feast.
This is your wedding the realm celebrates.”
“No.”
“Laenor…”
“I will not leave him.”
His mother gave him a hard glance.
Before she could say anything else, a soft groan rose from Joffrey, and his eye lids fluttered.
He was stirring!
“Fetch the Maester mother, I think he is beginning to wake!”
…