Cersei Lannister POV
The herald raised his staff, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd as the sunlight hammered down on the dusty lists.
"Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard!" Cheers erupted from the Westerlands stands.
"Ser Loras Tyrell of Highgarden!"
The Reach answered in kind, a wave of noise rolling across the arena. Somewhere among it, I could hear Margaery cheering for her brother.
The two knights took their positions at opposite ends of the lists, separated by the long wooden tilt-rail that ran between them. Squires checked girths and handed up fresh lances. Jaime settled his shield, testing its weight on his forearm, and lowered his visor.
Across the field, Loras did the same, his rose-etched shield catching the light as he turned his horse to face down the rail.
For a breath, neither man moved.
Then the trumpets sounded, and both horses surged forward, hooves tearing at the packed earth, closing the gap between them with terrible speed.
"Fine, you don't want to gamble, but at least talk, Ned," Robert said, leaning forward so far Ned had to catch his sleeve before he tipped off the bench entirely.
"Say something, damn it. You're acting like some bloody virgin boy meeting a girl for the first time."
"It's just this entire arrangement of yours," Ned tried to change the topic. "I would never understand you southerners and your obsession with feasts and unnecessary celebrations. It's just—"
"Just what?" Robert asked, suddenly interested. But before Ned Stark could reply.
"Haaaa. This is life —men fighting each other, beer in one hand and a sword in the other, smashing heads like real warriors," Robert said cheerfully.
"Like real men," Robert added. "You know what I mean, Ned? I miss those days when we used to go around fighting, bashing heads and chasing girls."
The riders met at the centre of the lists in a crash that seemed to shake the very stands. Loras's lance caught Jaime's shield square and burst into splinters along its length, while Jaime's own point skated off the curve of Loras's shoulder guard, deflected just enough to rob it of its full force.
Neither man fell. Both horses thundered past each other and slowed, wheeling wide to return to their marks as the crowd's roar rolled over the field.
Go on, Jaime. Put this worthless rose in his place.
Fresh lances were carried out. Jaime flexed his shoulder once beneath his dented shield before taking up the new weapon, and I saw him adjust his seat slightly — shifting his weight forward, the way I remembered him doing as a boy in the yard at Casterly Rock whenever an opponent had proven quicker than he'd expected.
The second charge came fast. This time it was Loras who struck true, his lance driving into the centre of Jaime's shield with a crack loud enough to carry over the crowd, splitting the wood clean through.
Jaime rocked back hard in the saddle but held his seat, his horse carrying him through the impact without breaking stride.
"He's good, that Tyrell boy," Robert muttered, almost begrudgingly.
"He's facing the Kingslayer," Ned said, a faint edge entering his voice.
Kingslayer.
The word had always cut deeper into Jaime than he let anyone see. Even me. But I could tell it bothered him, even though he didn't tell me. I could feel it. I'd known him since our mother's womb, we'd shared beds, and now even children.
"Fair enough," Robert said with a laugh, waving his jar toward the field. "The Kingslayer's good with a sword. I'll give him that."
The third charge came faster still, the horses barely slowing before the collision.
Loras shifted his lance at the last instant, angling the point toward Jaime's chest rather than his shield, and the impact sent Jaime rocking violently, one hand flying out for balance.
My fingers tightened around the armrest.
For one terrible moment, I thought he might fall.
But Jaime recovered, straightening himself before the crowd had even finished its collective gasp, his shattered lance falling away into the dirt behind him.
Focus, Jaime. He's nobody. You're a lion.
The fourth pass came almost too fast for the crowd to follow — both lances catching true at nearly the same instant, splintering against shield and shoulder alike, both men rattled hard in their saddles but neither giving ground.
The stands were on their feet now, the noise a single unbroken roar.
"One more pass and someone's eating dirt," Robert said, practically vibrating with excitement. "Look at your face, Stark."
"You're worried like you're the one about to get unhorsed," he added darkly, glancing at Ned.
"I'm merely wondering how many more jars you intend to drink," Ned said dryly. "I don't think the men could carry your weight."
Robert barked out a laugh loud enough to turn heads three rows down. "The mighty Ned Stark would carry his king in his arms back to his chambers? Gods, listen to yourself."
The fifth lances were carried out, and something in the way both riders settled into their marks told me this pass would decide it.
"Go get him, Uncle Jaime!" my little lion roared suddenly.
Ahh. Lovely. A son cheering for his father.
"Be quiet, you idiot!" a drunk, angry voice suddenly spoke, loud and sharp.
What is wrong with him now? He's going to embarrass us.
"You little shit, cheering for other people," Robert continued.
Other people. He's his uncle and, if the boy only knew it, more than that even. It's natural for a son to cheer for his own father.
"Look at Mace Tyrell's son — he's around your age, boy, and he's going toe to toe with the bloody Kingslayer. And what are you doing? Cheering like some little whelp?" Robert said, anger rising as he pushed himself up from his seat.
"Get down there. You're joining the tourney and fighting," he finally said, before gulping down another round of beer.
He can't mean it. Joffrey's still just a little boy. A lion doesn't fight with sheep — it eats them, and rules over them.
"But Father—" Joffrey pleaded.
"Stop whining and get your arse ready, or I'll throw you into the ground myself," Robert said.
"Have you gone mad? He is just a little boy," I finally said. I couldn't take it anymore.
"Quiet, woman. You've made my son a weakling. Just look at him. The fucking whores have more muscle than he does. A true Baratheon fights, end of story," Robert said, waving me off.
"He's too young," I argued back, anger flooding through my veins at this idiot fat man's madness.
"Shut up, or my hand will silence you," Robert finally said, raising his hand. "When I was his age, I used to fight full-grown knights."
How dare he. How dare he insult me in front of so many people. I glanced around, and the lords of the Crownlands nearby were staring at us. Even if the other side of the arena couldn't hear us clearly, plenty of eyes were still fixed on the royal stand.
I am going to kill him. You will pay for this.
"I'm afraid it's too late, Your Grace. The tourney's roster closed two days ago, and we are in the final part of it, with only four knights left. I'm afraid he can't be entered now," an old voice suddenly spoke from the side.
There he was.
Finally, Father had come — the Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, the most powerful and feared man in the Seven Kingdoms.
My muscles finally relaxed. Now Robert would see what a lion does to a stag.
"I am the king, and what I want will be done. Put the boy against Mace Tyrell's son," Robert said.
"True. But a king should not be so wilful," Father said, his voice perfectly calm.
"But if Your Grace truly insists on sending Prince Joffrey to fight, to show the entire realm his skill in the art of combat, I'd suggest the melee would be the better option," Father added.
What? Wait — what's happening here, Father? You shouldn't be encouraging this. Why are you agreeing with the fat stag?
"I agree with Lord Tywin, Your Grace. Sending Prince Joffrey into the lists now, with so few rounds left, would be improper. But the melee hasn't happened yet it's starting tomorrow. A good suggestion by Lord Tywin," Ned Stark spoke up in support.
Now this barbarian wants to put my son's life in danger too. Everyone is our enemy, and Father, can't you see it?
Robert paused, thinking for a moment.
How could he even think anything through? He's drunk. Who can think clearly while drunk, save for me, of course.
"Fine. Tomorrow the boy fights in the melee. And remember, if you disappoint me, I'll send you to the bloody Wall and make Tommen Crown Prince instead," Robert said.
I no longer even have words for this barbarity sending my son to the Wall. You'll be dead long before it ever happens. I'll have the realm burned to the ground first.
He finally went back to his seat.
The trumpets sounded. Both horses charged at full gallop, closing the gap between them faster than either of the previous passes, the crowd's roar rising to meet them.
Loras shifted his weight at the very last possible moment, angling his lance past the edge of Jaime's shield rather than into its face — but in that same breath, Jaime did the same, dropping the tip of his own lance low and adjusting his line just enough to catch Loras high on the chest rather than the shield he'd been aiming to protect.
Both lances struck true in the same heartbeat.
The sound of the double impact cracked across the field like a thunderclap, wood splintering on both sides at once. Loras's lance caught Jaime high on the shoulder plate and twisted him hard out of his saddle. In the same instant, Jaime's lance drove into Loras's chest and threw the younger man backward off his horse entirely.
Come on, Jaime, hold yourself together —
But there was nothing left to hold. Both men lost their seats within the same breath, twin shapes of steel and dust tumbling from their saddles as their horses thundered on past the tilt-rail without them.
The crowd's roar swallowed everything. Cheers erupted from every stand at once, the Reach and the Westerlands screaming over each other, neither side certain who had won.
My heart stopped.
Both my brother and the Tyrell boy lay in the dirt of the lists, and for one long, terrible moment, neither of them moved at all.
POV ends