[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 49: JOFFREY XII (Public) (Patreon)

Harrold led Brimstone in steady circles around the paddock ring, his boots kicking up small puffs of dry grey sand with every turn. The black stallion’s chest was flecked with dried white lather, but his breathing had already begun to slow, his nostrils flaring wide as he cooled under the shade of the canvas awning.

I stepped onto the mounting boards, unbuckling the leather chin-strap of my armet.

"The bevor, Bran," I said.

Bran Stark stepped up onto the lower plank, his small fingers working the brass pins at the hinge of my gorget. He drew them out with a practiced, steady pull. The fluted plate fell away into his hands, and the cool river breeze washed over the damp linen of my arming doublet. Tommen was already there with the silver flagon, offering the cup with both hands.

"Drink, Joffrey," Tommen said, keeping his eyes on mine until I took the vessel. "Only half, as you told me. Enough to wash the grit from your teeth."

I drank the sour summerwine, feeling the cold liquid cut through the dust in my throat, then handed the cup back to my brother.

A few paces down the rail, Ser Barristan Selmy stood leaning against an oak post, his white cloak draped over his forearm. The old knight had already ridden his second-round bout, unseating a hedge knight from the Dornish Marches on his first pass with a clean, effortless strike. His white-scaled armor was unmarred, and his breath was as calm as if he had just broken his fast in the Great Hall.

Barristan gave a single, curt nod of his white head. " The strike was well-placed, Your Grace."

The brazen horns of the heralds blared from the center of the field.

"Second heat of the second bracket!" the Master of Revels bellowed. "Ser Roland of House Melcolm, Captain of the Royal Fleet! Challenging Ser Morton of House Grafton!"

A sudden, sharp tension rippled through the eastern tiers of the grandstands.

Ser Roland Melcolm rode out from the northern staging gate atop a powerful dapple-grey courser barded in deep ocean-blue wool. Bolted over the center of his steel cuirass gleamed the polished silver anchor I had granted him with his naval commission. Across the barrier, from the southern pen, Ser Morton Grafton entered upon a heavy roan stallion draped in black trappings, the yellow burning tower of Gulltown stitched boldly across the horse’s chest and painted upon his curved wooden shield.

Up in the gallery reserved for the Vale lords, Lord Gerold Grafton was already gripping the front rail. Ten yards away, Lord Gwayne Melcolm sat tall, his sons gathered close about him, watching the lists with cold, narrow pride. The grudge was older than any man alive, but by giving Old Anchor the Crown’s timber contracts and royal keels, I had brought their private war out into the open.

The crimson cloth fell.

The two Valemen charged the barrier with savage fury. There was no courtly patience in their gallop; both men drove their spurs into horseflesh from the very first stride, their ash lances shaking with the violent rhythm of their mounts.

They met at the center rail in a deafening crash.

Both lances shattered into white kindling. Morton Grafton took the iron coronal square upon his burning tower, his horse’s hind legs skittering in the sand, but he drove his boots deep into his stirrups and held his seat. Roland absorbed the return blow on the lower rim of his shield, the painted pine splintering down to the raw leather backing. They wheeled at the far marks, their squires running out with fresh twelve-foot ash shafts before the dust had cleared from the air.

"Look at the reins, Bran," I said, pointing through the paddock rail as the two knights brought their horses around for the second pass.

The Stark boy leaned against the timber, his grey eyes tracking the yellow-and-black surcoat of the Grafton rider. "He is hauling hard on the bit, Your Grace."

"He is angry," I told him, keeping my voice level. "When a rider loses his temper, he tenses his wrists. Look at the horse's head—the roan is fighting the curb iron, tossing its nose, and that makes the tip of the lance wander three inches with every stride. Roland has a looser hand on the leather. His point stays true."

The horns blew for the second charge.

Morton Grafton came down the fence with his teeth bared behind his visor, leaning his torso forward to put his whole weight into the thrust. But his jerking reins threw his lance tip wide; the point struck the top rail of the center barrier, gouging a long furrow of white wood and snapping harmlessly in his hand. In the very same heartbeat, Roland Melcolm’s blunted coronal struck the crest of the Grafton helm.

The strike took Morton right on the iron visor with a ringing metallic snap.

The concussive blow tore his head backward. His boots were ripped from the stirrup irons, and Morton was thrown violently over the roan’s rump, crashing into the hard dirt with a heavy clatter of yellow-painted plate.

The smallfolk roared in approval, and Lord Gwayne Melcolm leaped from his bench in the gallery, shouting his house words into the wind, while Lord Gerold Grafton sank back into his seat, his hands trembling with suppressed rage.

I looked down at Bran. "A man who cannot master his own temper in the saddle will soon find his enemies taking his seat."

Bran nodded once, his young face solemn. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Third heat!" the trumpets proclaimed. "Ser Garlan of House Tyrell! Challenging Ser Lyle of House Crakehall!"

From the southern pens rode Ser Lyle Crakehall, the Strongboar. He was a mountain of a man, nearly as wide across the chest as Gregor Clegane, encased in thick, fluted plate with the brindled boar painted across his wide shield. He sat a massive piebald destrier that snorted and tore at the earth, his twelve-foot ash lance resting in his right fist.

Across the field, Ser Garlan Tyrell rode out from the north.

Garlan wore none of the theatrical plumage or woven flower cloaks that his younger brother had displayed. His armor was fine, polished castle steel that gleamed cleanly in the midday sun, covered by a surcoat of dark green velvet embroidered with two golden roses upon the breast to mark his place as the second son of Highgarden. He sat his chestnut stallion with an easy, relaxed posture, holding his lance steady across his horse’s withers without the slightest sign of strain.

The silk fell.

Crakehall charged like a falling boulder, his piebald mount thundering down the dirt, the Strongboar couching his heavy lance low and aiming straight for the center of Garlan’s chest.

Garlan came on at an easy, measured gallop.

On the first pass, Crakehall’s iron coronal struck Garlan’s shield with the concussive force of a sledgehammer, splintering the painted green wood. But Garlan did not yield. He absorbed the shock directly through the curve of his board, planting his own coronal cleanly on Crakehall’s breastplate before both lances exploded into pale kindling. Both men rode past unbroken.

"Watch the recovery, Tommen," I murmured, leaning over the rail.

Tommen watched as Garlan took a fresh lance from his squire at the north mark, turning his chestnut mount with a single touch of his left heel. "He looks calm, Joffrey."

"Because he does not fight his horse," I said. "Garlan lets the stallion’s mass do the work. A knight who fights his own mount is half-spent before long."

The silk dropped for the second tilt.

Crakehall came down the lists harder, his piebald stallion lathered in grey foam, the Strongboar leaning heavily to his right to deliver a crushing, final hit.

Garlan waited until the horses were ten yards apart. Just as Crakehall dropped his shoulder to brace for the impact, Garlan shifted his lance tip two inches higher.

He did not aim for the shield. He placed the blunted iron coronal squarely on the upper curve of Crakehall’s breastplate, catching the massive Westerman at the exact moment his torso leaned forward into the charge.

The leverage was devastating. Garlan’s ash shaft bowed under the strain and snapped with a sharp crack, but the upward thrust lifted the Strongboar clean out of his saddle.

Lyle Crakehall was torn from his stirrups, flying backward through the air before hitting the dirt. He rolled twice through the sand and lay still, the wind driven completely from his lungs.

The grandstands erupted in cheers for the Reachman.

Garlan did not circle the track to wave his splintered stump to the stands. He pulled his chestnut mount to a halt, dismounted with fluid grace, and walked straight back through the dust to where Crakehall lay. He extended a gauntleted hand, hauling the heavy Westerman to his feet, and clapped the dazed knight on the shoulder with genuine, quiet respect.

"A true lance," Barristan murmured from the post beside me, his eyes following Garlan as the Reachman led Crakehall toward the pavilions. "No show, no vanity. Only the work."

"He is the dangerous one," I said quietly, watching Garlan hand his reins to his squire.

Loras was the gilded rose meant to catch the court's eye, but Garlan was the quiet strength of Highgarden—a seasoned, measuring mind sent to weigh the King's strength.

The heralds' silver trumpets sounded three sharp, ringing blasts.

"Final match of the third bracket!" the Master of Revels proclaimed, his voice echoing from the stone walls of the city. "Lord Beric of House Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven! Challenging the Crown Prince, Ser Joffrey!"

"Hardyng, the horse," I said, stepping back to the oak mounting block.

Harrold led Brimstone forward with brisk, attentive steps. The black stallion’s flanks were dry now, his dark hide shining in the afternoon light, his ears pricked forward as the noise of the crowd washed over the rail.

"The armet, Bran," I commanded.

Bran lifted the heavy fluted helm, and Tommen stepped up to guide the iron plates into place around my neck. The steel pins slid home into the gorget with a crisp, final click, and the visor dropped shut, cutting away the glare of the sky and leaving only the narrow slit of turf, rail, and rider.

I swung my leg over Brimstone's back, driving my hips deep into the bowl of the war saddle until my thighs locked tight against the boiled leather swells. Harrold handed up my tournament lance—a twelve-foot shaft of straight ash, painted in black and gold spirals, its iron coronal dull and heavy at the tip.

I took the reins in my left hand and rode out through the paddock hurdle.

Lord Beric Dondarrion was already in his mark at the southern end of the barrier.

The young Lord of Blackhaven sat a lean, swift courser draped in dark purple silk, his shield displaying the bifurcated purple lightning bolt of his house upon a black field strewn with four-pointed silver stars. Beric wore polished steel plate chased with gold wire, his visor raised to show bright eyes and a trim red-gold beard. He was a Marcher lord of proud blood, a celebrated champion who had won the lists at King's Landing on his eighteenth nameday.

As I drew near the barrier, Beric lowered his visor and raised his twelve-foot lance to the vertical, offering a crisp, courtly salute.

I dipped my blunted coronal in return, bringing Brimstone to a halt in the northern box.

The Master of Revels stepped to the center of the lists, held the crimson cloth high above his head, and dropped his arm.

The horns blared.

I let Brimstone have the reins. The great stallion lunged forward, his hooves tearing great clods of dark earth as he built momentum down the timber fence.

Across the rail, Beric’s courser came on with blinding speed. The purple-draped mount ran low and straight, closing the distance between us in a heartbeat. Beric held his ash shaft perfectly level, couching the weapon at fifteen yards, his iron point tracking the crowned stag upon my chest with lethal, steady focus.

We collided at the center mark in an explosion of white wood.

Both lances struck simultaneous center-shield blows.

Beric’s coronal took my painted boss with the force of an iron ram. The concussive shock traveled down the wood and through my forearm, jarring the iron lance-rest bolted to my breastplate. I drove my pelvis hard into the oak cantle of the war saddle, anchoring my weight directly to Brimstone's spine. The black stallion lowered his heavy neck, grunted beneath his barding, and plowed straight through the collision without losing a fraction of his stride.

My lance took the center of Beric’s purple shield at the exact same instant. Both ash shafts blew apart into a cloud of jagged splinters that rained down over the front benches of the gallery. Beric was rocked backward in his irons, his horse’s hind legs sliding two feet through the sand, but the Marcher lord twisted his hips, fought the momentum, and kept his seat as he carried past the mark.

The fifty thousand smallfolk in the stands erupted in a deafening, unified roar.

I brought Brimstone around at the south gate, tossing the shattered stump of ash to Harrold as the boy ran out with a fresh twelve-foot shaft.

"He rides light," I thought to myself beneath the steel of my helm. "He will try for the crest."

Across the lists, Beric took a fresh lance from his squire, settling himself back into his saddle with grim, determined focus.

The silk fell for the second pass.

The horses charged again, the roar of the crowd shaking the very timbers of the galleries. Beric came on faster this time, his courser running hard against the center fence. At ten paces out, the Lord of Blackhaven shifted his line, lifting the point of his lance in a high, aggressive strike aimed directly at the vision slit of my armet.

It was a bold, tournament-winning gamble—an attaint on the helm that would claim the bout if his point struck true.

I did not flinch, nor did I try to parry with the wood.

At the final three yards, as his iron coronal lunged for my eyes, I tucked my chin hard against my chest, dropping my head by a single inch.

Beric’s lance struck the angled, fluted slope of my heavy steel bevor. The blunted iron screeched violently across the metal, stripping the black paint and jarring my neck, but the angled plate deflected the point upward, sending the ash shaft skittering harmlessly over the crown of my helm.

In the same breath, my lance took Beric squarely upon the center of his breastplate. My ash shaft snapped with a deafening report, the force of the strike hammering the Marcher lord backward against his cantle. Yet, with a desperate display of horsemanship, Beric hooked his left elbow around his saddle rim, kept his heels down, and stayed mounted as his courser carried him past the line.

The crowd went wild, screaming for a third pass.

I wheeled Brimstone at the north gate. Harrold ran forward, his hands steady as he thrust a third lance into my right gauntlet.

Across the sand, Beric brought his horse to the mark. The courser’s flanks were lathered white with sweat, but the Lord of Blackhaven sat tall, his lance couched and ready.

The crimson silk dropped for the third time.

The horses surged forward in a final, all-out gallop.

Beric came on with everything his courser had left, his lance level, aiming once more for the center of my shield to force a broken-lance draw.

I watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his courser’s shoulders through the narrow slit of my helm.

Ten yards. Five yards.

Just as Beric’s courser reached the peak extension of its forward stride—when the horse’s front hooves were airborne and its mass was fully committed to the rise—I set my lance hard into the iron breastplate rest.

I aimed directly for the apex of Beric’s shield boss, channeling the full, unyielding weight of Brimstone’s nineteen hands straight down the ash shaft.

The collision was true.

Beric’s lance struck my shield, but the momentum of his lighter courser could not shake my seat. His wood shattered into pale kindling against my painted board.

My lance took him with the unyielding mass of a charging bull.

The blunted iron coronal bit into the center boss, and the concussive shock took the Marcher lord mid-stride. The overwhelming kinetic force ripped his knees clean out of the saddle swells. The rear cantle of his war saddle groaned and gave way, and Lord Beric Dondarrion was torn bodily from his horse, hurled backward through the dust in a wide, clattering arc.

He hit the earth six yards behind his galloping mount, rolling through the sand before coming to a dead halt against the list barrier.

My ash lance snapped cleanly at the eight-foot mark, the concussive force venting safely through my shoulder harness.

I carried past the barrier, brought Brimstone to a smooth, controlled halt, and wheeled the stallion around.

The tournament grounds erupted into a deafening, thunderous roar that shook the very earth beneath the horses' hooves.

"THE GOLDEN STAG! THE STAG! THE STAG!"

I swung my leg over the high saddle and dropped to the dirt, the iron of my boots ringing upon the packed earth. I walked past the tournament heralds, stepped to the barrier, and extended my right gauntlet down to the fallen lord.

Beric Dondarrion lay in the sand, his purple-and-gold plate dusted with brown earth. He pushed his visor up with a gloved hand, blinking against the sun, and looked up at my outstretched arm. A breathless, dry laugh broke from his chest.

He gripped my gauntlet with his own, and I hauled him to his feet in a single, unbroken pull.

"Seven hells, Your Grace," Beric rasped, coughing away the dirt as he clasped my forearm in open, honest respect. "You hit like an iron ram."

"You rode admirably, Lord Beric," I replied, pitching my voice so the lords in the front row of the gallery could hear. "You nearly took me down on the second pass. It was a well-fought tilt."

The Marcher lords in the grandstands roared their approval, cheering both their lord and their Prince.

I turned and walked back toward the competitor’s awning, tossing the shattered stump of my third lance to Harrold as the boy ran forward to catch Brimstone's reins.

"Three," I noted quietly to myself, stepping onto the boards.

I unlatched my armet, handing the heavy steel to Bran, and leaned against the paddock rail to cool down as Ser Barristan Selmy mounted his dapple-grey destrier for the final bout of Day One.

Castle armorers in leather aprons stepped in to relieve my squires, their calloused hands unbuckling the fluted rerebraces and steel greaves from my limbs and setting the heavy plate into the velvet-lined oak chest. Grooms took Brimstone’s lead, leading the great black stallion away toward the royal stables to be rubbed down and fed.

I stood in my sweat-stained linen arming doublet upon the boardwalk of the paddock, resting my left hand on the iron stag pommel of Stormbringer. Harrold Hardyng stood at the rail beside me, his breath coming easy now, his broad face washed of grease. Tommen and Bran Stark leaned over the timber barrier on either side of me, their young eyes fixed upon the lists as the shadows of the Red Keep lengthened across the churned dirt.

The sun had begun its slow descent behind Visenya’s Hill, casting a long, blood-orange glare across the sky and washing the white towers of the city in pale amber. Fifty thousand smallfolk and high lords remained packed tight along the tiered grandstands, their collective voices rising in a restless, eager drone that drifted over the Blackwater.

They had stayed for the final quarterfinal bout—the match that would decide the fourth and final place in the morrow's championship lists.

From the center of the field, four royal heralds raised their long silver horns, sounding a fanfare that silenced the whispering galleries.

"Final match of the first day!" the Master of Revels cried, his voice carrying clearly to every corner of the grounds. "The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan of House Selmy! Challenging Ser Jaime of House Lannister, the Golden Lion of Casterly Rock!"

A sharp, collective intake of breath swept through the grandstands, followed by a thunderous roar.

From the southern staging pen rode my uncle.

Ser Jaime Lannister looked every inch the golden warrior of the songs. He wore a suit of burnished scale plate chased in pure gold, glowing warm in the dying sunlight, beneath the long, pristine white wool cloak of the Kingsguard that draped over his horse’s croup. He sat a tall, golden-bay destrier draped in crimson silk bordered with cloth-of-gold thread. As he trotted out onto the sand, Jaime pushed up the visor of his gilded lion-crested helm, shaking his thick golden hair free with an arrogant, easy grin that set the highborn maidens in the Reach gallery whispering and blushing.

He brought his courser to a halt beneath the royal box, raising his twelve-foot painted lance in a dazzling salute to Queen Cersei.

My mother leaned forward against the velvet rail, her emerald silk shimmering in the light. Her chin was held high, her lips parted in a fierce, confident smile, her green eyes shining with absolute certainty. She had watched me sweep three heats without yielding an inch of turf; now she expected her twin to complete the Lannister triumph before the court.

Beside her, King Robert slammed his heavy silver flagon against the carved timber rail with a deafening thud, spilling dark summerwine over his knuckles. The King threw his head back and roared down at the field, his deep, booming voice carrying over the crowd.

"Put the Kingslayer in the sand, Barristan!" Robert shouted, laughing with drunken relish. "Show the pretty lion what sixty namedays of iron looks like! Knock him clean out of his gilded saddle!"

Jaime only laughed, giving the King a mocking incline of his head before wheeling his mount in a tight, fluid circle toward the southern mark.

From the northern gate, Ser Barristan Selmy rode out to meet him.

The Lord Commander wore the pure white enamel scales of his sworn order, unadorned by gold or gems, his heavy dapple-grey destrier barded in spotless white wool. Upon his left arm rested a clean white shield without device or badge. He sat deep and motionless in his high-cantle war saddle, his ash lance balanced upright across his stirrup, his pale blue eyes looking down the barrier with the calm, unhurried focus of a man who had ridden in three score tournaments across forty years of peace and war.

"Look at the way they hold their ash, Bran," I said, resting a hand on the Stark boy's shoulder.

Bran leaned his chin over the timber rail, his grey eyes darting between the two white cloaks. "Ser Jaime holds his lance higher, Your Grace."

"Jaime relies on natural quickness," I told him, keeping my voice quiet so only the boys could hear. "His reflexes are sharper than any man in the Seven Kingdoms. He waits until the last five yards before he drops the point into his rest, trusting his eye to find the weak seam on the fly. But Ser Barristan locks his weapon into his breastplate three strides earlier. He does not try to out-speed his opponent; he sets his geometry before the charge and lets the horse carry the line."

"Who is the better lance, Joffrey?" Tommen asked, his small fingers tightening on the rail.

"There is no better lance in the realm than the Lord Commander," I said. "Against any other knight, Jaime’s speed would take the bout on the first pass. But Ser Barristan does not give away tilts. It will take four passes to settle this."

The Master of Revels stepped to the center of the list barrier, raised the square of crimson silk high into the air, and dropped his arm.

The horns sounded.

Jaime surged from the mark. The golden-bay stallion closed the distance in a blur of crimson and gold, its hooves throwing dark clods of earth against the center fence. Jaime kept his lance tip high, his body balanced, bringing the point down at ten paces with blinding speed, tracking the center of Barristan's white board.

Barristan came down the rail at a steady, unvarying gallop, the heavy dapple-grey destrier holding a dead-straight line along the timber.

They collided at the center mark with an explosive crack that echoed like thunder against the stone battlements.

Both lances shattered into pale white shards.

Jaime’s coronal struck dead-center upon the white shield, the concussive blow rocking Barristan backward against his cantle, but the old knight locked his hips into the saddle and absorbed the shock without swaying. At the same instant, Barristan’s ash shaft snapped cleanly against the gilded lion upon Jaime’s chest. The impact threw Jaime back in his irons, his bay stallion sliding three feet in the dirt, but the Kingslayer twisted his torso with extraordinary fluidity, recovered his balance in a heartbeat, and rode through the pass unbroken.

The fifty thousand voices in the stands erupted in a deafening cheer.

Both riders wheeled at the far gates, their squires running out with fresh ash shafts.

"First pass," Harrold murmured from the rail, shaking his head in admiration. "Neither man gave an inch."

"Watch the second," I said. "My uncle will try to aim at the outer rim."

The crimson silk fell for the second tilt.

Jaime came down the barrier harder, leaning slightly to his left, his twelve-foot lance leveled to strike the outer edge of Barristan’s shield to create rotational leverage.

Barristan saw the line developing fifty yards out. At the final three paces, the Lord Commander shifted his left forearm, angling the face of his white shield across his breastplate like the sloped stone of a fortress gate.

When Jaime's coronal struck, it did not bite into the wood. The iron point skittered violently across the angled enamel, showering the center rail in white sparks as the blow was deflected harmlessly past Barristan's shoulder. In the very same breath, Barristan drove his own lance square into the center boss of Jaime’s golden shield.

The shock snapped Jaime’s head back with a ringing metallic report. His stirrup leathers groaned under the violent strain, but Jaime clamped his thighs against the saddle swells with feline agility, fought the momentum, and carried past the line with his seat intact.

The smallfolk were on their feet now, roaring with delight at the masterclass of horsemanship.

"He turned the point," Bran breathed, his eyes wide.

"Centerline deflection," I said, pointing toward the north mark as Barristan took a third lance from his squire. "If you try to stop an incoming blow with brute strength alone, the ash may break your board. If you angle the wood, the point slides away on the rider's own speed. That is what forty years in the saddle teaches a man."

The flag dropped for the third time.

Jaime was riding with fierce, cold calculation now. He brought his golden-bay down the rail at full stretch, the stallion lathered in foam, the low sun blazing off his gilded scale. At ten yards out, my uncle lifted his lance in a high-line attaint, aiming directly for the visor of Barristan's white helm.

It was a bold, aggressive stroke—the high-scoring strike meant to shatter wood against steel and claim the bout on points.

Barristan did not flinch. The Lord Commander dropped his own point an inch lower, aiming straight for the base of Jaime’s breastplate just as Jaime’s lance took him on the crown of his helm.

The double collision was terrifying in its violence.

Both lances exploded to the grips. Jaime’s point tore the white enamel from Barristan’s crest, snapping the old knight’s neck backward, while Barristan’s coronal lifted Jaime four inches out of his saddle seat. For half a heartbeat, both men teetered on the brink of the dirt. But Barristan’s heavy grey held its footing, and Jaime came down hard into his irons, gripping the pommel with his left gauntlet to stay mounted as his mount cleared the southern barrier.

The crowd went completely wild. High lords and smallfolk alike hammered their tankards against the wooden railings, screaming for a fourth pass.

Up in the royal box, King Robert was leaning so far over the rail his heavy belly pressed the velvet flat, his face flushed red as he bellowed with laughter. Queen Cersei had risen to her feet beside him, her hands clenched into tight, pale fists against the front of her gown, her eyes dark with fierce tension.

"They will not settle it on points," I said, watching Jaime take a fourth ash shaft from his squire at the south gate. "One of them must take the sand."

"Jaime is leaning into the gallop," Harrold observed, leaning over the rail beside me.

"He is forcing the pace," I told the boy. "He wants to end it on speed. Ser Barristan is waiting for the stride."

The marshal stepped to the center barrier. The red silk hung suspended against the deep purple sky for the space of a heartbeat, then dropped.

The horns blared their final charge of the day.

Jaime drove his gilded spurs into his stallion's flanks. The bay bolted forward with explosive, blinding speed, Jaime leaning low over the beast's withers, putting every ounce of his weight and momentum into a final, crushing thrust aimed straight for the center of Barristan's chest.

Barristan came on at the same steady, unhurried canter, his white lance couched firm in the breastplate rest.

Ten yards. Five yards.

Just as Jaime’s stallion reached the absolute peak of its gallop—when the horse was fully extended and Jaime’s torso was pitched forward over the neck—Barristan made his move.

The Lord Commander dropped his ash point beneath Jaime’s guard and drove his blunted iron coronal upward on a rising angle, planting it dead-center into the lower curve of Jaime's shield boss at the exact moment the horses crossed the mark.

The leverage struck truly.

Jaime’s lance struck Barristan’s breastplate, but the upward thrust of Barristan’s strike destroyed my uncle’s seat before his ash could bite. The rising coronal caught Jaime at the precise instant his balance was committed forward, using his own blinding momentum to lever him upward and backward out of the saddle.

Jaime was torn clean from his stirrup irons.

The Golden Lion was lifted bodily into the evening air, his gilded plate flashing in the twilight as he flew backward over his horse’s rump, crashing into the churned sand in a loud, clattering ruin of steel and silk.

He rolled twice through the dirt, his lion's-head helm coming loose and tumbling against the list barrier, before coming to a halt in the dust.

Barristan’s lance snapped cleanly at the eight-foot mark. The Lord Commander rode past the mark, reined his dapple-grey destrier to a smooth halt at the southern gate, and wheeled the beast in a calm, dignified circle.

A single breath of silence held the tournament grounds.

Then the roar broke over the field like a bursting dam.

"BARRISTAN! BARRISTAN THE BOLD!"

Up in the gallery, King Robert threw his head back and laughed with roaring, earth-shaking delight, hammering his flagon against the rail until the silver warped.

"Did you see that, Ned?" Robert bellowed, slapping Eddard Stark on the shoulder with enough force to rattle a lesser man's teeth. "The old man lifted him clean out of his boots! By the Seven, there's iron in the old dog yet!"

Beside him, Queen Cersei stood rigid as an ice carving. Her face was pale as bleached bone, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line of humiliated fury as she looked down at her twin in the dirt, her pride stung raw by the sight of Lannister gold laid low before the court.

Down on the track, Jaime pushed himself up onto one elbow, spitting out a mouthful of brown sand. He ran a gauntleted hand through his tangled golden hair, looked down at his dented breastplate, and let out a dry, rueful laugh. He waved away the frantic castle squires, pushed himself to his feet, and offered a crisp, courtly bow to Ser Barristan as the Lord Commander trotted past.

I watched from the awning rail, nodding slowly to myself.

"That," I said to Bran and Tommen, "is why you never lean into the couch when the horses are at full stretch. Ser Barristan took his balance right off the top of his horse's stride."

Bran looked at the sand with wide, reverent eyes, while Tommen nodded solemnly at my side.

The silver trumpets sounded six long, formal fanfares from the center of the lists, calling the entire assembly to order as the dusk deepened into night.

The Master of Revels stepped onto the central judging platform beneath the flare of burning pitch torches, flanked by four heralds bearing the crowned stag banners of House Baratheon.

"Lords and ladies of the realm!" the herald proclaimed, his voice carrying clearly across the quieted stands. "By decree of the King's Grace and the Lord Hand, the first day of the Hand's Tourney is concluded! Thirty-two knights rode to the lists, and four remain to cross ash on the morrow!"

The herald unrolled a thick parchment scroll, reading the names beneath the flickering torchlight.

"Advancing to the Semifinals!"

"The Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Joffrey of House Baratheon!"

The smallfolk in the eastern stands erupted into thunderous chants of "The Golden Stag! The Stag!", their voices roaring into the night air.

"The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan of House Selmy!"

The audience cheered again, their roar deafening for Barristan the Bold.

"The Mountain That Rides, Ser Gregor of House Clegane!"

A low, heavy murmur ran through the benches—a chilling recognition of raw, brutal mass.

"And the Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras of House Tyrell!"

The Reach lords and highborn maidens waved their silk favors, their cheers ringing bright across the field.

"The four champions shall tilt on the morrow to claim the championship of the lists!" the herald cried. "May the Warrior grant strength to their lances!"

The crowd began to pour from the grandstands, thousands of smallfolk spilling out toward the cookshops and ale tents along the riverbank, the scent of roasting mutton and woodsmoke drifting across the yard.

I stood at the paddock rail, looking out across the darkening lists.

Four remained.

To the west, Gregor Clegane was walking toward his pavilion, his massive iron bulk silhouetted against the torchlight like a siege engine. He was pure brute force, but his left hip was stiff, and his ribs were sore from the previous day's brawl. His recovery turns were half a beat slow; he could be out-leveraged and broken.

Farther down the line of tents, Loras Tyrell stood surrounded by his smiling Reach cousins, laughing as he tossed a yellow rose to a passing maiden. The Knight of Flowers was blindingly swift, but he lived for the applause of the gallery. A man who fought for songs could always be baited into an overreach.

And then there was Barristan Selmy.

The old knight stood quietly beside his grey destrier, loosening his own girths without a word of boast, his pale blue eyes calm and steady as he looked across the field. Fifty years of mastery in every bone. He made no mistakes; he chased no glory; he waited for his opponent to hand him the match.

I looked up at the Red Keep rising above us, its stone towers black against the starry night.

The tourney was not a game. It was the anvil upon which I was forging the authority of this realm. The Northmen had seen discipline in my pages; the Valemen had seen their young lord laboring at my boots; the Marchers had felt the strength of my seat; and the court had watched the Golden Stag unhorse three champions without a single drop of wasteful cruelty.

On the morrow, I would break the rest.

~~~