Blood of Dragons

Four-score knights gathered, defying the fog that descended upon the city and its stubborn, treacherous chill, to honor the new Lord Plumm. Or, more precisely, heed the king’s call, for the child, less than a moon old, spent the day in a crib fussing in his swaddling cloth, while King Aegon merrily presided over the sport, flanked by Princess Elaena on one side and his sweetheart the Lady Bethany on the other. The Hand and his lady wife HALANNA were there, surely basking in His Grace’s love for the damsel, as were the princess’s household, headed by Lady JANNIA Buckwell. The queen, the princes and the Dragonknight, one could find back at the Keep.

It was high noon—a sickly noon, with a wan sun blocked by the fog’s tendrils and a landscape of muted color—when the king imposed a brief halt, to provide the newest morsel for the court’s wags. The Master of Horse, Ser Morgil Hastwyck, stood the new head and captain of the Band of the Dragon, one of two creations of the late Ossifer to last well after his passing. A splendid enameled armor, all coiling and slithering dragons with ruby eyes, said more of the royal favour than the man himself ever could. And there was more: with a wreath of gold wire and enameled, bejeweled flowers, the king crowned Lady Bethany Queen of Love and Beauty in advance, daring with tongue glib the field to disagree. None ventured to such folly, so attentions were instead lavished on the last sixteen knights standing, as they took to the field.

And to be sure, there was applause enough for Ser OTHO Royce downing his uncle Ser Othan, the Blackmane, but most eyes could not but fix on another. Twin axes, crossed, over the Targaryen dragon on red. “FOR MY BROTHER”, the mystery man bellowed—the first of several times, in the first of several jousts—and with equal vim vanquished Ser Oswyn Plumm. Sweeter still would be the victory of BALIAN Blackwood. He met no Bracken afield, and ‘twas just as good, for the Princess Elaena doesn’t suffer such tomfoolery as feuds, nor do some of hers. The distinction of felling Ser Terrence Toyne of the Kingsguard, after both men unhorsed each other to raucous cheer, would have to suffice.

The white knight bore Lady Bethany’s favour, a favour dirtied by Blackwood mace; but her kinsmen saw, at least, to Stone Hedge’s honor. Twelve lances broken twixt Sers Clyve Bracken and rson Baratheon, a single of Bloody Brus’s against Ser Omrys Baratheon. Few tilts won for Bracken seemed to bring the Hand such evident satisfaction. Somehow, the best lances were yet to come. With every clash of Ser Joffrey Caswell against Lord Aimery “the Fell” came a new rattle to test the stands, a new din to nigh drown the ceaseless cheering of their wives, the ladies Elyse and Mylessa, and children barely held back for love of sport. The hopes of some almost bloomed ere Ser Jon Roxton fell to Ser Quentyn Ball in the fourth, fierce pass.

Thereafter? Ser LUTHOR Rivers before the “Knight of the Torn Veil”. Hastwyck himself, a picture closer to veiled mummery than disguise, but most fit for purpose: for the Master of Horse well made a point of trotting ‘round the field, denouncing those hiding sin and treachery ‘neath prayer or downcast lances…to the puzzlement of most, but not His Grace. Rivers’s aim was a swift, brutal riposte, and only the first one, as on the day went. Ball, Royce, Fell collected victories; the latter the honor, or discomfort, of ending Hastwyck’s strange run, too. Once more did Toyne fall to a man with twice his years, Bloody Brus being, surely, unwilling to suffer defeat by one bested by his Blackwood foe. A swirl of chivalry well-worth delighting over, even as another stand-off unfolded in the high box.

Whatever words he offered to the king, Ser Jonn Lannister lingered little before Ser Jaesin of the Kingsguard, his brother, escorted him away. His Grace looked irked, the princess, despite the gift of a steel-and-ruby circlet, little mollified following their audience. The eyes that prodded the man and kin such as his aunt, the lady Arwen Westerling, gleaned nothing, though rumor has since had it he crowned Elaena for the day, without summoning much deference. In the midst of knightly sport, either way, he too was briefly forgotten as Ser Brus felled the Last Brother and spared him, after quick words, the unmasking.

At last, with Royce, much hailed as a bull, downed, Ser Quentyn and the Fell stood courting victory. It was as brutal as it was, on balance, quick. For the second tourney in a row, the field rang with known cheer: “FIREBALL! FIREBALL! FIREBALL!” Still it was some quip of the Reachman’s or the other, not the chants, that seemed to wipe all joy and goodwill from Fell’s form. No concern of the high box’s; the time had come for prizes, and for a reveal. The Last Brother gave in to Lady Bethany’s gentle entreaties. One pull of the helm and before the field stood Lord Farin Prester, free, after giving his Brothers of the Battle the ceremony due them, to join the Band of the Dragon, plucking the chain from the mistress’s hand, to go with the king’s blessing.

His Grace saw fit, perhaps, to remind of Princess Elaena’s place as the hostess, deferring to her for the show of munificence. After the expensive drinks for Royce and the gold plate for Fell, however, she fell into inscrutable, immovable silence. It was King Aegon who awarded a marvelous ruby-gold collar of the late, fearless Prince Daemon to his favorite. The stands scattered sated, and with some stifled surprise, to return to the city, the king’s word hanging heavier than the wretched fog. They’d soon have even more to discuss.

That very night, the court found where the black-clad lion had mayhap rankled, the white one had been honored. Ser Jaesin was named Princess Elaena’s sworn shield, that his knightly talents be at the call and service of the Plumm regent and her lord son, proper, and now celebrated, peer of the Westerlands.