In the opening tilt, Gawen easily unhorsed a knight of the Twins.
In the second, his opponent was Lord Renly Baratheon.
When Renly rode into the lists, the roar of the crowd was deafening.
Gawen took up a lance from a Goldcloak and asked casually,
"You admire Lord Renly as well?"
The Goldcloaks were "capable of everything"; some had even been assigned to assist the tourney knights, handing them their lances and such.
The young guardsman before him had once served briefly under Gawen during the royal hunt. His eyes kept straying toward Renly's pavilion, his voice reverent.
"Yes, Lord Crabb! Lord Renly is always gracious with us. He is a good man."
Gawen inclined his head. Renly Baratheon could charm highborn lords or humble maids with equal ease.
Gawen smiled faintly.
"Pity. I don't fight to spare anyone."
The Goldcloak hesitated, then ventured timidly,
"Perhaps… strike a little lighter?"
"Go."
Clang! Gawen lowered his visor and urged his horse to the starting line.
Renly's armor was of green steel, topped by a helm crowned with golden antlers that gleamed in the sun.
The horns blew—long and deep.
Both men spurred forward, the ground quaking beneath pounding hooves.
Gawen leaned forward, his blue cloak embroidered with golden marsh-flowers streaming behind.
Through the slit of his helm, Renly fixed on his opponent, poised to thrust at the last instant—an experienced jouster, ready.
Hooves thundered closer, closer—then suddenly, with brutal force, Gawen's lance slammed into Renly's chest. The young stag lord flew backwards almost flat from his saddle and crashed heavily to the ground.
The crowd gasped as one.
Gawen doffed his helm, shook out his dark hair, and prepared to make the traditional circuit of honor.
But the cheers rose not for him.
Renly, already scrambling to his feet, was greeted with wild acclaim. The king's handsome younger brother was beloved by all. He removed his helm and bowed gracefully to the stands, and the ovation redoubled.
Gawen, the victor, was all but ignored.
He gauged the wind, then steered his horse deliberately past Renly's bow with a flick of his reins—on the upwind side.
Dust billowed thick.
Renly coughed violently, blinking through the cloud, his elegance undone to the laughter of many—Robert's booming guffaw loudest of all.
Upon the royal dais, King Robert laughed till tears wet his beard. Few things pleased him more than seeing a kinsman humbled.
He drank deep, set down his cup with a thump.
"Ned, that boy's not half bad, eh?"
He chuckled again.
"And Renly, the fool—strutting like a victor when he's flat on his arse! Then—hah!—he runs into a young man who doesn't give a fig for courtesy!"
Eddard glanced across at Queen Cersei, her lips curled in a self-satisfied smile.
"Yes," Robert roared, "that's what youth should be. Gods, how wild we were at his age! I recall Jon fretting himself sick over us."
Memories—sweet ones. Even Ned allowed himself a smile.
Cersei sipped her summerwine and thought coldly: If they love their memories so dearly, best to send them soon to join them.
That afternoon, Gawen toppled a hedge knight in checkered livery, then unhorsed Sandor Clegane, the Hound.
Jaime Lannister's progress was no less impressive—dispatching Ser Andar Royce and Lord Brys Caron of Dorne with showy ease, then dueling Ser Barristan Selmy for several passes before claiming victory.
Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, near eight feet tall, broad as a smith's forge, thundered through his foes. His destrier seemed a child's pony beneath him; his lance, a broomstick. Opponent after opponent fell smashed and broken, most badly hurt.
The Knight of Flowers, meanwhile, claimed three of the Kingsguard, then Ser Robar Royce. Not even the Royce family's runes availed him; Robar was borne away on a litter, dazed and senseless.
Hooves churned the ground into ruin. The jousts lasted the day long.
At last, only four remained: Lord Gawen Crabb, Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Loras Tyrell, and Ser Gregor Clegane.
The moon was already rising, the crowd weary, when King Robert declared the final tilts would be held on the morrow—followed by the mêlée and the archery.
That night, thousands flocked to the riverbank for the tourney feast.
Six enormous aurochs turned slowly upon great iron spits, basted with butter and herbs till the flesh crackled. Long tables groaned beneath beetroot, strawberries, and warm bread.
Bards strummed before the king's pavilion, filling the dusk with music. A juggler tossed flaming batons; Moon Boy, the fool, capered on stilts in motley, cutting down lords and ladies alike with his sharp tongue, drawing gales of laughter.
Sansa and Septa Mordane were seated to the king and queen's left. When Prince Joffrey slipped into the seat beside her, Sansa's heart pounded like a trapped fawn's.
Joffrey's hair shone like spun gold. He wore a deep blue doublet stitched with golden lions' heads, and a slim coronet of gold and sapphire on his brow.
To Sansa, he was every inch the prince of songs.
He smiled with courtly grace and kissed her hand.
"My lady Sansa, you are too enchanting."
Her heart sang at the gentle flattery. She tried to keep her composure, smiling demurely as if she were not aflame.
They spoke of the tourney.
"Who will be tomorrow's champion, my prince?" she asked.
"Why, my uncle Jaime, of course."
Joffrey's certainty was dazzling.
"In a few years, when I ride in the lists, I'll unhorse every man. And you, Lady Sansa—you shall wear the queen of love and beauty's crown, placed by my own hand."
Her heart near burst. She was lost to him utterly.
Joffrey grinned, summoned a servant for summerwine, and poured her a cup himself.
Sansa needed no wine; she was drunk on dreams already.
The feast rolled on—venison barley stew, cold beets with nuts, spinach and plum salads, snails stewed in honey and garlic. Joffrey taught her how to draw the flesh from the shells, even fed her the first bite.
Then came trout baked in clay. He cracked the hard crust, carved from the choicest portion reserved for the queen, and placed it gently on her plate.
All night he was the very model of courtesy—charming her with praise and laughter, whispering Red Keep gossip, explaining Moon Boy's jests, until she forgot every lesson of Septa Mordane. She remembered only to smile, to laugh…to dream.
The next morning.
Lord Eddard walked with King Robert into the tourney grounds, then made his way through the crowd to sit beside his daughter.
Septa Mordane was unwell, so he had promised Sansa he would watch the final tilts with her.
Looking about, he frowned.
"And where is Arya?"
Sansa answered primly,
"Father, she ran off to Jon…"
The horns blew before he could reply, and Sansa's gaze flew to the field.
The first match was Gawen Crabb against Jaime Lannister.
Gawen entered first, bowing from horseback toward the king. Jaime followed astride a blood-red charger in gilded scale, himself glittering from helm to spur. He scattered kisses to the ladies.
Gawen: "…"
The two rode to their marks. The horns sounded.
A thunder of hooves—then crash! The blood-red destrier galloped riderless to the grass, while Jaime Lannister rolled in the mud, golden armor smeared brown.
Gawen circled in triumph, saluted by cheers; Jaime slunk off, soiled and beaten.
Sansa clutched her father's arm.
"Father, Lord Crabb is so skilled!"
Eddard allowed himself a smile.
"He is quick, and strong as well."
He had seen clearly—Jaime had just lowered his lance when Gawen's struck true to his chest. Ned thought of Robb; his son, too, excelled at the joust. He and Gawen would have much to speak of.
"Father, who will win it all? Surely the Knight of Flowers can best him?"
The horns sounded again.
Loras Tyrell's mount was a sleek grey mare, swift and nimble. Gregor Clegane's great stallion screamed at her scent, rearing.
Loras guided his horse with dancer's grace, skimming aside and down the line.
Sansa breathed relief. She cast a worried glance at the Mountain.
"Father, don't let him hurt Ser Loras."
"Peace, Sansa," Ned reassured. "These are tourney lances. They shatter on impact. No harm will come."
Yet his frown deepened as he studied Gregor. Tales of the man were dark indeed—how as a boy he had dashed infant Prince Aegon against a wall, then raped and murdered Princess Elia of Dorne. His father dead in a "hunting accident," his sister dead young, his brother scarred, his own wives gone under grim rumors—his very castle a place of shadows.
Gregor's destrier reared, screaming as he kicked it savagely with steel-shod boots. At last he dragged the beast to the line.
The horns sounded.
Both riders spurred forward—Loras smooth as silk, Gregor fighting his horse for every stride. Then, in a blink, Loras's lance struck true.
The Mountain toppled, dragging his stallion down with him.
The stands erupted in cheers and cries, whistles and gasps. Loras reined up unscathed, sapphire-bright and smiling.
But Gregor rose in a fury. He tore off his helm, face black with rage.
"Sword!" he roared.
A squire rushed forth, trembling with the blade. Gregor seized it, and in one savage stroke hacked his own horse near headless. The beast collapsed shrieking.
Screams replaced cheers.
Gregor advanced on Loras, bloody sword in hand.
Too fast.
The Knight of Flowers called for his blade, but the Mountain shoved his squire aside and seized the grey mare's reins.
.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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