Chương 33

Cersei Lannister By the eighth lance, unease began to creep into Cersei's chest like cold fingers. This was taking too long. Jaime should have ended this farce by now, sent the lowborn woodsman tumbling into the dirt where he belonged. Her brother was the finest jouster in the Seven Kingdoms, everyone knew it. He had unhorsed hundreds of knights in tournaments across the realm. Lords and champions fell before him like wheat before a scythe.

Yet here they were, eight passes complete, and both men still sat their horses. She watched as they lined up again at opposite ends of the tilt lane, the crowd's roar building to a fever pitch. The woodsman knight sat perfectly still atop his pale mare, lance ready, as if he had all the time in the world. As if unseating a Lannister, a kingsguard, meant nothing to him. The gall of the man. First rejecting her father's generous offer—one million gold dragons and a lordship! —and now this.

Daring to match her brother pass after pass, making a spectacle of it before the entire realm.

"Gods, but that's some fine riding right there," Robert muttered from his seat beside her. Cersei's lip curled into a sneer. Of course the oaf would be impressed. Robert had the discernment of a tavern drunk. The crowd was loving it too, she noted with distaste. Their cheers grew louder with each pass, commoners and nobles alike caught up in the drama of it. The masses were foolish for loving such spectacle, but that was to be expected.

The smallfolk were as easy to lead as cattle, their simple minds dazzled by bright armor and breaking lances. What she disdained most, however, were the highborn who should know better. The royal box stood higher than the rest of the stands, giving her a clear view into the other viewing areas. As her brother and the woodsman clashed again in the center of the lane—the ninth pass now, wood splintering with a tremendous crack—the wretched Tyrell children jumped and cheered like little gremlins. Pathetic.

That Mace Tyrell allowed his children to become so familiar with this lowborn knight, even having his secondborn son squire for him. Then again, she should have expected nothing less from those upjumped stewards. The Tyrells had always lacked proper dignity. Her own Joffrey would never scrape so low. Nor would he act so undignified in front of the realm. She had chosen to leave him in King's Landing so she could have more time with Jaime, but she had always prized teaching him proper bearing.

When he was older, he would carry himself with the pride befitting a prince of the blood.

"Gods, but the boy is good, isn't he, Selmy?" Robert had sat forward now, suddenly interested in something other than his wine cup for once. His appetites had more than returned since the war. All of the appetites. The pig had become taken with one of Casterly Rock's maids ever since passing through the castle on the way to the islands, and he'd not let go since returning.

Behind the king's chair, Ser Barristan Selmy stood in his white cloak, watching the joust with the keen eye of a man who had ridden in hundreds of tournaments himself.

"Aye, Your Grace. Not many can match Ser Jaime like this."

"He reminds me of Brandon Stark when he rode. Better even." Robert's voice held genuine admiration. Selmy nodded.

"Like him and the horse are one, aye." Cersei gritted her teeth. Enough with the praise for this nobody. Jaime would finish it on the next pass. He had to. Below, they came again, horses galloping full out, hooves throwing up sand. The sound of it reached even to the royal box, thunder made manifest, building and building until— The crash. Wood shattering. A shower of splinters flying through the air. Cersei gasped as Jaime swayed in his saddle, his weight shifting dangerously to one side.

For a terrible moment she thought he would fall, saw his balance fail, but then he caught himself and remained mounted. She let out a hitched breath, pressing one hand to her chest where her heart hammered. Glancing sideways, she saw her father gripping the arms of his chair hard enough that his knuckles had gone white, even as his face remained a perfect mask of noble composure. Robert barked out a laugh and jumped from his seat.

"Seven hells, what a battle! Gods, but I should have signed up myself."

"Not many men would dare ride against you, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said diplomatically. Robert turned on him, eyes flashing.

"What, too cowardly?" Cersei scoffed internally. How could such a fool end up on the Iron Throne? Were she born with a cock between her legs, she would be twice the ruler her husband was. Ten times. She would have the realm running like a finely tuned instrument instead of this shambling mess.

"They would fear the consequences of harming the king, Your Grace," Barristan clarified.

"Bah! Nonsense. No knight worth his spurs would be so gutless." Robert's face broke into a grin, the kind he got when he was about to do something monumentally stupid.

"You know what? I need to bloody hit something. That grand melee you were all speaking about? I'll be participating. Make the arrangements, Selmy." If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"Your Grace, I must advise against it," Ser Barristan began.

"The king should not put himself at risk in such a manner," her father cut in, his voice sharp and controlled despite the fury Cersei could see simmering beneath.

"It would disrupt the entire tournament, require special provisions, and for what? There is no glory to be gained from beating up your own knights." Cersei opened her mouth to join the protest, then stopped. Her mind worked quickly, turning over the possibilities. Robert dying on a tourney field would actually be the best thing possible. A tragic accident. The realm would mourn. And she would be free, a beautiful young widow, mother to the new king...

"I want to fight, damn it, and I am the king." Robert's voice rose to something near a roar.

"Make it happen, Selmy." Ser Barristan sighed, the sound heavy with resignation.

"As you say, Your Grace." Her father turned away from the king, his jaw locked tight and his hands still gripping his chair arms. Cersei had seen that expression before—Tywin Lannister barely containing his rage. It gave her a small thrill of satisfaction. At least someone else was suffering through this farce. The spectacle continued below. Pass after pass. Eleventh lance. Twelfth. Thirteenth. The crowd's enthusiasm never waned, growing louder with each clash of wood on steel.

"Should you call the victor, Your Grace?" Ser Barristan asked after the fifteenth lance shattered.

"Both men have proven their skill. It would not be unseemly to let them fall for exhaustion instead of a lance." Robert, who looked to be having more fun than he had in months, thought for a moment before nodding.

"Aye, best to do it now. The boy deserves the win."

"What?" Cersei whirled on him, her carefully maintained composure cracking.

"You would rob my brother of his victory? Jaime has never yielded in a joust. He will prevail if you give him the chance."

"Woman, they've broken fifteen lances—""My brother's honor demands he be allowed to finish what he started," Cersei hissed, leaning toward Robert.

"Or are you so eager to see a Lannister humbled that you would interfere?" Robert's face darkened. For a moment she thought he might strike her. Let him try. Then everyone would see what a brute he truly was.

"Fine," he growled.

"Seven hells. Let them batter each other a few more times if it matters so much to you. The people are certainly loving it." Cersei settled back in her seat, teeth gritted together so hard her jaw ached. She was right. Of course she was right. Jaime would end this on the next pass. The crowd roared its approval as the knights lined up once more. Cersei gripped her skirts tightly, silk bunching in her fists. If she could have ridden in her brother's place, she would have.

Would have taken up that lance herself and put this lowborn upstart in the mud where he belonged. The trumpet sounded. The horses charged. The crowd's noise became a single sustained scream of excitement. They met in the center with a burst of sound that seemed to shake the very air. A shower of splinters. A flash of gold and white. And then a thud as something heavy hit the ground.

Horror seized Cersei's throat as she saw her brother lying in the sand, his pristine white cloak dragging in the dirt, his golden armor dulled by dust.

"YES!" Robert jumped from his seat, both fists in the air.

"Now that's a joust! Seven hells!" Near the Tyrell box, she could see the children bouncing with joy, the older boy pumping his fist, the little girl clapping her hands together. Their father beamed like a fool. Cersei watched as her own father stood stiffly and walked from the royal box without a word, his back rigid and his face thunderous. He did not look at her. Did not look at anyone. Simply left.

The horror in her chest began to transform into cold, sharp anger as she watched Jaime get to his knees, dirt clinging to his beautiful armor. The woodsman knight had the gall to ride up to him, still mounted, to offer some gesture that might have been concern. Her lips curled in disdain as she saw Jaime say something to the knight, probably some gracious nonsense about a well-fought match. Her brother could be so pathetic sometimes.

So eager to play the gallant knight that he forgot what was truly important—winning. Defeating their enemies. Crushing those who dared challenge the Lannister name.

"Bring him forward!" Robert was shouting, waving at the knight.

"I want to meet this famous Ser Galad of Dunstonbury face to face!" Of course he did. Robert always loved to humiliate her and her family, to elevate their lessers just to watch the lions brought low. The knight approached on his pale mare, moving at an easy trot toward the royal box. Cersei narrowed her eyes at him, her anger a hot coal in her chest. She wished she could burn him where he sat for tarnishing her brother's name, for making a spectacle of Jaime before the entire realm.

"Well met, ser!" Robert called down.

"Seven hells, what riding! I don't think the realm has seen its like since Ser Duncan the Tall, and you might have him beat. Take off that helm, let me see the man who can match the best the Kingsguard has to offer!" The knight reached up and pulled off his helmet, and Cersei's breath caught in her throat. Robert was saying something, some congratulations about skill and courage and the glory of the joust, but she could barely hear him over the sudden pounding of her own heart. She only had eyes for the man below.

He was beautiful. Young. Younger than she expected at no more than twenty. Dark hair plastered with sweat across his brow, falling in damp strands that framed a face that might have been carved by a master sculptor. A strong jaw, high cheekbones, full lips. And his eyes—even from this distance she could see them. Violet. The eyes of Old Valyria. It was like the first time she had set eyes on Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon.

That same sudden shock of recognition, that visceral pull toward beauty made manifest. Only this lowborn woodsman was somehow even more handsome than the prince had been. More handsome than even Jaime, a treacherous part of her mind whispered. She stared as the knight spoke with Robert, his voice carrying up to the box though she did not process the words.

Only watched his lips move, watched the way sunlight caught in his dark hair, watched the strong column of his throat as he inclined his head in deference to his king. Violet eyes met hers for just a moment, a flicker of acknowledgment, before returning to Robert. Heat flooded through her, sudden and unexpected. Her hands tightened on her skirts for an entirely different reason now. By the time he rode away, disappearing back toward the competitors' tents, Cersei had made her decision. She needed to meet with him.

Privately. For the good of the family, of course. Her father and brother had both failed to secure the Valyrian steel sword through their methods. Perhaps a different approach was required. A woman's approach. Cersei Lannister smiled, and it was not a pleasant expression.