31 Chapter 31: Of Tourneys and Tournaments - 112 AC
A/N: At first I thought it would be just one chapter, then I split it into two parts, but nope, it's three chapters now.
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In the midst of the day, the sky was adorned with swiftly moving light gray clouds, traveling from east to west, while a gentle breeze swept across the newly erected tourney grounds just outside of Brackyore, bringing a welcome coolness. Banners of noble houses, from the North's House Manderly to the Arbor's House Redwyne, adorned the area, with knights and squires bustling about, most clad in splendid armor, though some scantily dressed.
At the heart of the activity stood the jousting grounds, flanked by areas for melees and archery competitions, albeit less crowded. Towering above, upon the highest platform, sat the king and his soon-to-be kin - the Velaryons and the Celtigars - their banners proudly displayed, all equal in height. The king, accompanied by his Hand and Queen, with the princess seated nearby, had the Velaryons to his right and the Celtigars to his left. Yet, only Bartimos occupied his seat among the Celtigars; the others remained vacant.
Observing from her position, the princess appeared uneasy, glancing toward the king in silent communication, unnoticed by all, including her intended audience. Moments later, Laenor appeared beside her, exuding calmness but betraying a hint of concern in his eyes, a sentiment noted by Rhaenyra, though she chose not to acknowledge it.
The resonant call of the trumpet soon filled the air, heralding the commencement of the tournament, as the announcer, bearing the sigil of House Celtigar, hastened to the center of the tilting ground. With a respectful bow to the king and assembled nobles, he proceeded to place a house banner in a pot, signifying the origin of the forthcoming knight.
Curiously, it was the banner of House Celtigar that was placed in the pot, fluttering in the breeze.
Lifting his staff high, the announcer then proclaimed with a resounding voice that resonated even amidst the raucous cheers. "Ser Clement Celtigar, the Heir of Claw Isle, shall now select his first challenge!"
As the announcement drew to a close, a knight clad in distinctive armor spurred his steed across the jousting field, lance poised, shield secured. The throng erupted in fervent applause, particularly the assembly of commoners nestled in the corner. Behind him trailed a multitude of knights hailing from the diverse houses of the Seven Kingdoms, swiftly forming a queue before the towering dais. Upon halting before the line, Clement inclined toward the crowds of noble lords, who reciprocated with a round of applause, while his father whispered something to the Hand, the contents of which eluded Clement's awareness from this distance.
Turning on his heel, Clement scrutinized the knights who had issued challenges with meticulous attention. Among them, he discerned a knight adorned in the tabard bearing House Manderly's sigil, another representing House Brune and House Crabb, and at the far end of the line, two challengers whom he recognized—one bearing his own House's sigil and the other, that of House Targaryen. If Clement were to turn around to the king now, he could see that Viserys was glaring at the Targaryen knight deeply, a piercing stare that would have made anyone else scared to their deaths if it were directed to them, but the knight was definitely not 'anyone else', the knight is Prince Daemon Targaryen.
Clement chuckled lightly at the spectacle, lifting his visor to meet the gaze of the prince at the line's terminus. "Forgive me, my prince," he remarked, lowering his lance before the Celtigar knight, "but you shan't be my initial opponent today." The prince merely smirked, his amusement evident beneath the ebony helm he wore. "The most splendid displays are often reserved for the final act, ser."
With that, the knights dispersed, leaving only the two men bearing the Celtigar banners. The announcer swiftly resumed, redirecting attention to him as the two knights readied themselves. "For his first adversary, Ser Clement Celtigar selects Ser Gormond Celtigar of Claw Isle, younger brother to Lord Bartimos Celtigar, and his own uncle!"
Once more, the crowd erupted in cheers at the proclamation. Atop the dais, Rhaenyra cast her gaze towards her father, attempting to capture his attention once more, though her efforts were in vain. Yet, as she made her attempt, she noticed Lord Bartimos, wearing an amused smirk, indicating his anticipation for the forthcoming tilt. Turning her attention away from the king, Rhaenyra straightened her posture, seemingly resigning herself from further attempts to engage him. However, her eyes swiftly darted to the side, where she observed the worn visage of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Harold Westerling, whom she deemed to be nearing the end of his days due to his paling expression.
With a subtle signal, the girl beckoned the knight forth, who promptly approached and knelt before her, attentive to her whispered words.
"Have you seen Lady Laena, Ser Harrold?" the princess inquired softly. "I haven't seen her since the start of the tourney."
"It is my understanding that she is presently engaged elsewhere, princess," the knight responded. "Attending to the king's decree."
Rhaenyra's brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't quite get what you mean, ser."
Sweeping his gaze discreetly around the surrounding lords, the knight leaned closer. "I regret that I am unable to elaborate further at this juncture, princess. Please understand."
Rhaenyra offered a faint hum of acknowledgment. "Thank you, ser."
With a solemn nod, Ser Harrold rose to his feet and returned to his post, while Rhaenyra redirected her attention to the ongoing joust, only to witness a violent collision in the center of the tilting ground, resulting in the splintering of lances and shields, reminiscent of a storm of wood. The sheer force of the impact caused even the princess to flinch.
It was not long before one of the combatants was dismounted, the elder of the two, Gormond, now groaning as he attempted to rise. A man swiftly approached him, posing a query, to which Gormond assented without hesitation. He hastened towards his nearby squire, his son Arthor, retrieving his sword and unsheathing it, its steel gleaming resplendently in the waning sunlight.
"Ser Gormond of Claw Isle declares his intent to continue the contest!" the announcer declared, eliciting another surge of cheers that reverberated throughout the venue.
Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the tilting ground, Clement had also dismounted and was advancing towards a squire, who awaited with his weapon in hand. Yet, upon the presentation of The Pincer, Clement disregarded it, opting instead to seize the sword secured at the squire's hip, causing the youth to stumble in surprise.
Clement strode confidently towards his uncle, who had already raised his shield, his sword poised at head height, pointed toward Clement and angled slightly downward for a thrust. Clement chuckled softly, regulating his breath to avoid tiring himself, before raising his own shield and positioning his sword above his shoulder, poised for a swift slashing attack.
"Where's your axe?" Gormond quipped with a smirk visible beneath his armored visage. "Taking pity on me, nephew?"
"Valyrian steel cuts cleanly," Clement replied calmly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I'd rather not 'accidentally' sever your hand, uncle."
Without warning, Gormond swiftly thrust his sword toward Clement's head, but Clement reacted quick, using his raised shield to deflect the blow and then transitioning his sword from its resting position to a slashing motion aimed at Gormond's neck, only to have it intercepted by Gormond's shield.
The ensuing exchange was swift and fierce, their blows raining down as if the weight of their armor were inconsequential. Swords whirled through the air, as if attempting to create whirlwinds, while stabs pierced the space between them, all either blocked or deflected by their shields. Equally skilled in defense and evasion, the two combatants fought like seasoned knights who had seen the horrors of war. Yet, in moments like these, they both understood that victory belonged to the one who gambles.
As Clement launched another slash toward Gormond, his opponent seized the opportunity to try something new, forcefully pushing away the attack in an attempt to disarm him. However, Clement, having learned from his experiences in the battles of the Stepstones for falling at the exact same method due to his inherent habit of wielding his Valyrian Steel axe that is extremely lightweight loosely, ensured he maintained a firm grip on his weapon, despite its lightness. Although the impact left his hand numb, Clement swiftly used his shield to charge at Gormond, slamming into him with the full force of his weight. The imbalance caused by their mismatched armors sent Gormond crashing to the ground with an audible groan. With his numb arm, Clement positioned himself atop Gormond, pressing his shield against Gormond's sword arm and pointing his own sword at Gormond's neck.
Gormond chuckled at his predicament, raising his arm in surrender and dropping his weapons. "Not falling for the same trick this time? Well done."
Regaining his composure, Clement stood and laughed, driving his sword into the ground as the announcer approached to declare his victory.
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In a more quiet and secluded place, Lady Laena, accompanied by her sons, is presently being guided through a dim, cavernous passageway devoid of natural light. They rely solely on the torchlight carried by their escorts. The twins, understandably, tremble in fear of the darkness, preferring the comforting presence of their mother over the daunting figures of their guards.
Their escorts are none other than Dragonkeepers, donned in polished black armor with swords at their sides. Their formidable appearance inspires trust in their ability to protect the dragons. Amidst the profound silence, their footsteps reverberate along the corridor, occasionally interrupted by the distant roars of dragons within the cave network.
Eventually, they reach the entrance to the hatchery, guarded by more Dragonkeepers. Presenting the king's decree, the lead escort passes it to the guard at the door. After a thorough perusal, the guard steps aside, allowing them entry. As the door opens, a wave of intense heat washes over Laena and her sons, akin to stepping into a forge.
The individual opening the door utters, "Māzigon, issa riñnykeā," inviting them to enter. Laena nods in acknowledgment, urging her sons to precede her into the warmth of the room. As they enter, sweat already beads on their brows from the extreme temperature. With the door closed behind them, they are left to contemplate the decision in solitude.
Beholding the hatchery, Lady Laena surveys an assortment of eggs nestled amidst burning coals and charcoal. The eggs present a spectrum of colors and patterns, ranging from jet black to pristine white, albeit tinged by the charcoal below. Some eggs bear the marks of age, hinting at a lengthy wait for hatching, while others gleam with the freshness of recent laying.
Feeling a gentle tug on her dress, Laena gracefully bends down to meet the gaze of her sons, kneeling before them.
"Must we choose, mother?" Gaemon asks softly, his tone tinged with nerves.
Laena counters his question with one of her own, her touch tender as she caresses Gaemon's cheek. "Why the hesitation, my dear? This is for your sister. Shouldn't you be happy for her?"
Aemon interjects, "Why aren't we given one, then?"
Laena sighs softly, her hand now upon her eldest son's cheek. "Did you know? I acquired my dragon without the need for an egg. I forged that bond with my own hands."
"How did you do that?" Aemon's curiosity is piqued.
Laena chuckles softly. "I tamed one. And from that, I gained Vhagar, the largest dragon in the world. If you were to receive an egg, you couldn't ride it immediately. You must train it, bond with it, and wait for it to mature. But with taming, particularly older dragons, bonding is all that's required. The rest comes naturally."
"Can I do that?" Aemon's eyes now shine with eagerness. "I want the largest dragon too."
Laena affectionately ruffles her son's hair. "The largest dragon is mine, my dear. You'd have to wait for my passing to attempt taming it. You might aim for one slightly smaller, perhaps the second largest, if you dare."
"And what might that be, mother? The second largest?" Aemon's curiosity deepens.
"Well, that's a matter of debate," Laena smiles. "If you wish, during our journey home, I could recount the tales of dragons still roaming, riderless yet fierce."
"Please do that, mother," Aemon says with excitement, his smile infectious.
"Then it's settled. But first, you must select an egg for your sister," she continues, turning to her other son. "And what about you, Gaemon? Would you also like to hear the tales of dragons?"
"Yes, mother," he replies modestly, though excitement still gleams in his eyes. "Though I don't want large ones."
"It matters not, Gaemon. Sometimes it's not size but ferocity, sometimes agility," Laena reassures him. Rising gracefully, she brushes off her dress and guides her sons to the eggs. "Come," she says, "choose what you believe is most suitable for your sister."
Both boys nod, quickly wandering among the eggs incubating in the warmth. They explore, unperturbed by the heat yet perspiring. After a time, they seem to settle upon a particular egg, plain in appearance save for its violet hue, gleaming amidst the crackling flames below.
The boys exchange glances and then turn to their mother, pointing to the chosen egg. "This one, mother."
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As twilight descended and the day's initial challenges concluded, King Viserys found himself standing in the grandeur of Crab's Return's great hall, accompanied by Lord Bartimos, engaged in light conversation. The night bore a quiet demeanor, weariness evident in all, as they conserved energy for the morrow's festivities. Yet, the king harbored unresolved matters that demanded the sanctity of the great hall for a brief interlude.
Amidst their discourse, the hall's doors parted, ushering in Daemon, clad in his more relaxed attire, exuding confidence with each stride. Observing Daemon's arrival, Bartimos promptly bowed to the king, excusing himself to grant the two brothers privacy.
Initially, an uncomfortable silence pervaded the space. However, as the door sealed behind Daemon, Viserys fixed him with a piercing gaze reminiscent of Valyrian steel.
"You defy your king's edict," Viserys proclaimed, his voice resonating within the hall. "I distinctly instructed you to come to my chambers last evening."
Daemon averted his gaze. "Forgive me, brother. The preparations for the tourney consumed my attention."
Descending the steps before the Crab's Return's seat, Viserys confronted Daemon directly. "What have I done but extend my kinship within my own court to you? Yet, you fail to reciprocate."
"I fail to grasp your meaning, brother," Daemon retorted, inclining his head slightly.
"You don't know what I mean?" Viserys chuckled in frustration. "You are a political headache to me, Daemon. Do you know what you did last evening? You divulged a royal arrangement before its official announcement! Had it not been Ser Clement, you would have exposed another!"
"I fail to see the difference between the realm knowing and the realm not knowing." Said Daemon.
"No, you know the difference. Currently those vultures are circling me like I am but a prey." Viserys almost spat at his own brother. "You are just bitter because I refused your unreasonable demand last year. You should thank the gods that I didn't banish you right then and there, Daemon! And now you want to spite me even further?!"
"Brother, I am deeply insulted that you considered Laenor, who can't even finish unless a boy is pleasuring him, over me." Daemon simply spoke out. "Your brother, your own blood."
"You are married!" Viserys shouted, further delving into his frustration.
"We are of Valyria, and our tradition allows multiple—"
"I will not start another conflict with the Faith of the Seven just for you, Daemon." Viserys frowns deeply. "One week. Behave yourself, or you will not ever see King's Landing again as long as I lived."
"Brothe—"
"Address me as 'Your Grace' or 'My King'," Viserys interjected sharply.
Daemon merely chuckled, shaking his head before bowing. "Yes, Your Grace."
With that, he departed, leaving the king in solitude within the cold, empty hall.
