The Eminence in GOT-Chapter 49: The Tournament of the Hand

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***

The eleventh month of the year 298 A.D.

Ristalische, King's Landing, King's Landing.

«I've never understood why you'd spend so much money to watch armored men poke each other with sticks. - Said Aerys, taking a sip of emerald summer wine and glancing once more toward the sandy field that had last been checked before the fighting began.

«What are they supposed to do? They can't stab each other to death with their own sticks, so they use wooden ones. - Our laughter was echoed by the Northmen sitting nearby and the few Dornish who had come to the tournament. But no matter how hard we tried, we couldn't block out the gnashing of teeth of the other knights, from the Royal, Western, River and Stormlands, as well as Prostor and Vale. The knights were very reverent about their amusements, and hated to have their veneer of romanticism and heroics so unmercifully torn away.

Was I afraid that my reputation or my brother's reputation would deteriorate because of such a thing? No, not one bit. We had long since fallen into that category of people whose reputations were as solid as a rock. The only thing that can change it is serious deeds, like winning a war, successful diplomatic missions, or slaughtering a few villages for no reason.

The royal tournament, for everyone knew exactly what the Hand thought of such wastefulness, surpassed any organized before it. Twice the size of the ring, unprecedented public festivities were organized, the best knights and bards from all the Seven Kingdoms were invited, the food for the evening feasts was brought from all over the world, and the rewards... forty thousand for the winner of the equestrian fights, twenty thousand for the second place, twenty for the winner of the general fights and ten thousand for the first place in the archery competition. And not silver moons, as I had originally thought. Dragons. Golden, full-grown, dragons.

"The crown spent all the money they got from me on another tournament," I thought with a chuckle, taking a sip of fresh fruit juice. Unlike Aerys, I didn't feel like drinking early in the morning. - "Either Robert has lost his sense of proportion over the years, or Littlefinger is too responsible. I wonder who they're going to borrow from now?"

«Brother, stop thinking about money. - The older man sitting in the chair next to me snapped his fingers in my ear. Unlike most of the commoners, knights, and poor lords who had to either stand in dense crowds in the commoners' seats or huddle in narrow bleachers, my brother and I had our own little box where we could rest in peace and not smell horse shit and unwashed bodies. - Look, the steward is coming out.

The king's tournament steward looked ridiculously fat and shiny in his lacquers, decorated with some kind of iridescent finificia. With his red nose, ratty eyes, greasy hair, and "I'm d'Artagnan and you're ******s" expression, he was a perfect demonstration of what the royal lords and knights had become during Robert's reign.

«Honorable knights and noble lords of the Seven Kingdoms and servants of the Old and New Gods! Hear me! - His voice was as thin and squeaky as his appearance, making my brother and I and a few other guests of the capital, unaccustomed to such a sensation, laugh out loud. - It is my honor to herald the beginning of the tournament dedicated to the appointment of our wise king's new Hand. Long live Eddard Stark and his descendants! May the gods bless him with good deeds for the sake of the Seven Kingdoms and our great king, Robert Baratheon, first of his name!

For me, a former resident of the twenty-first century and one who had spent fifteen years listening to dithyrambs in the palaces of the Free Cities' magisters, the speech was weak, but the unsophisticated audience liked it. Though if they had heard Robert's speeches during the Targaryen Rebellion and Baelon's Rebellion, when he could raise the morale of his troops to unattainable heights with a single word, the effect would have been a hundred times better.

The tournament had begun. Knight by knight, the competitors began to ride out into the ring to the thunderous roar of the crowd and the lords sitting in the stands. The first, of course, were the royal guards, the color of the noble class of the Seven Kingdoms.

At least, that was how it used to be.

If Barristan Selmy, Jaime Lannister, Aris Ockhart, and Mendon Moore were rightfully considered worthy of their cloaks, then fat Boros Blount, whose belly was as big as the king's, petty and arrogant Preston Greenfield, and Merrin Trant, whose love for little girls in King's Landing was unheard of except by the deaf, showed perfectly well how low one of the most revered orders of the Seven Kingdoms had fallen.

Following the Kingsguard were the lords of the great hand - the Tyrells, the Tullys, the Redwins, the Crakehalls, the Mallisters, the Marbrands, the Pipers, the Roys, the Dondarrions, the Freys, and many others. Among them rode my son, dressed in his black armor, with the coat of arms of our house displayed on his shield and cloak.

The demonstration of the colors of Westerosse ended only after half an hour, when all the middle and small houses, like the Cleganes or Santagarians, landless knights and free riders had shown themselves. Five hundred. That's how many wished to participate in the tournament and compete for the incredible sum of forty thousand dragons, weighing almost twice as much as most of those present.

«I've been sitting here for over an hour! Begin! - Roared Robert Baratheon from his seat, officially kicking off the mounted battle.

"How he's aged," I thought, looking toward the huge pavilion where the current king of the Seven Kingdoms sat on an imposing chair that looked more like a small throne. He had changed a lot over the years: he had grown a huge belly to match his height, let go of the beard that covered his cheeks and could not hide his double chin, had black circles under his eyes, and a bright red nose, as if he were always drunk. In fact, he was. - "Pathetic."

Around him was his wife, Queen Cersei, and their children, Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tomainn, who didn't look a bit like their father. Clear proof that the centuries of cultivated blood of Lannes the Clever was stronger than the diluted legacy of Durran the Godfighter. And all the free space around was taken up by the most noble lords and illustrious knights, of those who for some reason did not take part in the tournament. My brother and I were the only ones who stood out, having taken a box farther away, among the middle-aged merchants and craftsmen, and we had no regrets - hearing the King's laughter every minute and cleaning his saliva and the remnants of food that flew out of his mouth from his clothes was a below-average pleasure.

The fighting was going fast.

The head of the Stark Guards, though wretched with a spear, managed to knock out one of the Redwyns and Freys before losing on points to one of the sword knights.

Ser Barristan showed well that despite his age, he should not be written off as a man who had been cut to pieces by two knights thirty and forty years younger than him, until he was knocked out by the Kingslayer in the third round.

Lannister again lived up to his reputation as a consummate tournament fighter. Roys, Carons, Freys, Crakeholes. The representatives of these houses were all out of the saddle before a single round.

Renly Baratheon's "close friend" Loras Tyrell was not far behind. He had three Kingsguard, two Pipers and one Royce on his account.

Of course, the bloodiest spectacles were shown by the loyal Lannister dogs - the Clegane brothers. The eldest of them managed to kill three of his opponents in such a way that it seemed to be an accident, and the youngest drove his horse with such force that after the blow his opponents flew back a few meters, screaming in the ring.

But in the last fight fate (or the manager) played a cruel trick on them - they were pitted against each other. Mass against mass, force against force, fury against fury. It was the most spectacular fight of the whole day, when it seemed that the stands must be hoarse from their own screaming. In the end, the winner was the one who had what his opponent did not.

Skill.

Sandor managed to hit his brother's helmet three times with his spear in the last three rounds. As much of a monster as Leaping Mountain was, there was nothing he could do against the concussion.

At the end of the day, at sunset, after nearly five hundred bouts, four winners were decided.

Kingslayer Jaime Lannister, Hound Sandor Clegane, Knight of Flowers Loras Tyrell, and, to my pleasant surprise, Knight of the Scarlet Lake Alaric Temper.

It was a nickname my son had earned long ago, when, while visiting the Cranes on my errand, he led a small band of mercenaries who had long terrorized the lands of the Tyrell vassals. There, on the shores of the Scarlet Lake, once again red with blood spilled on it, he was knighted by Ser Alester Oakheart, who later came to his neighbor's aid.

Getting into the top four was not easy for Alaric - Lothar Frey, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Aron Santagar, Lothor Brune, Damon Crakehole and finally Baelon Swann were not weak opponents and by the end of the day my son looked like a freshly wrung rag.

«When he returned to the factories he would be given a healing bath, ointments and a healing massage. - The steward who accompanied Aerys and me to the king's feast told me. - He'll be as good as new by tomorrow.

«Thank you, Largo. - I replied, heading toward the Great Hall of the Red Castle, where I could already hear the king's shouts of celebration and laughter. - You may be free. Have all the fun you want, but no excesses. Your wife will ask me later.

«Of course, my lord. - The man smiled, having long since gotten used to my simple manner. Many lords have taken Tywin Lannister's example and tried to speak to servants and vassals from a position of strength and fear. Not many have succeeded - in the last thirty years alone, there have been dozens of cases of servants poisoned or killed in their suzerains' sleep.

"One must be moderate in everything - both in fear and in love" - I thought when I saw the usual picture of a medieval feast: lords drinking and drinking at the tables, ladies chirping in small groups, servants scurrying back and forth, barely having time to change dishes on the tables and young "maids" swaying their hips provocatively and bringing ale and wine to the tables. - "It's a pity people rarely ever realize this and don't strike a balance between the two."

«There's Adam! - Grabbing my elbow, Aerys said, dragging me toward the tables where the western lords were seated. - Let's go! He and Lyle were the only ones here with an ego that didn't scratch the sky.

He didn't ask for my consent. As usual.

«Aerys, you bitch, Cold! - The second son of Crakehall, Lyle the Mighty Lance, greeted us, barely overhearing the king as he squeezed another servant girl in the middle of the hall. A big, strong man, with a sparse streak of gray in his blue-black hair, he was a true representative of his house, which before Aegon's conquest had given the armies of Gardener and Ockhart a run for their money. - I thought it was too quiet in here. Come here, have a drink. I haven't gotten revenge for my last loss yet.

«And you won't as long as my feet are on this ground! - Aerys laughed, clapping his drinking companion on the shoulder, who was not inferior in height but one and a half times as tall as him. - Let me introduce you to my little brother Felix Temper! The luckiest and richest asshole in all of Westeros.

"What a clever way to phrase that!" - I praised my brother in my mind as I competed with Crakehall for the strength of my handshake. So far it was a draw. - "If anyone wanted to argue and say Tywin Lannister was richer, they'd call the Old Lion an asshole. Well done Aerys!"

«Pleased. - The second man greeted me. Slender, with dark copper hair down to his shoulders, of medium height, and wearing polished bronze armor engraved with the burning wood of Marbrand on his breastplate, and wearing a cloak the color of gray smoke, Adam Marbarand was a model knight, bearing little resemblance to the boy I remembered hiding behind his mother's skirt. - It's an honor to meet you, Lord Temper.

«This is not our first meeting, Lord Marbrand. - I replied, shaking his outstretched hand. It's a funny thing - while on Earth the tradition of the handshake originated in Rome and through the centuries has spread throughout the modern world, here in Planethos the tradition is honored only in Westeros, descended from the founder of the Gardener dynasty, Garth the Green-handed. According to one version, he acquired his nickname for his excellent diplomatic skills and his green hands of peace reconciled many kings on the continent. - We met a few times at tournaments in Ashmark when you were five and seven. You were a very young henchman then and hid more behind your mother's skirt than watched the performances.

«Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha," his brother and Crakehall burst into homeric laughter as the Marbarn heir slowly turned the color of boiled beets.

«Y-Y-You're confused, Lord Temper? - He stammered, trying to hide his embarrassment.

«No, no. I still remember the memorable moment when you gave me the prize for first place in the archery competition. - I said, seeing my brother's smile grow bigger by the second. He knew the story well enough to realize that I was trying to fit in with my longtime drinking buddies, so he didn't bother me. - It was like a dream. Me, barely eleven years old, standing surrounded by great warriors and knights who have come to your birthday party. All shouting congratulations to the victors. And then you walk up with my reward, a purse of gold and a birch bow. All panicked and trembling, sent by Lord Damon, who didn't want to see my face after I sold your mother's expensive furs for thirty gold pieces.

The burst of laughter that followed caught everyone's attention. Laughing were I, Aerys, Crakehall, and Marbrand himself, who remembered this episode from his childhood. As he told me later, his mother, Lady Delma, still had a cloak made of those martens, and his father would gnash his teeth at the sight of it.

And so we sat there, three lords of the West and one lord of the South, talking on truly "manly" subjects. War, guns, women and politics. Especially politics.

«Did you hear something happened in Lannisport to the fleet the Lannisters were rebuilding after the Greyjoy rebellion? - I asked the others a very delicate question as the four of us settled in an inconspicuous alley and sipped our Borscht slowly, unlike the king, who was already drunk and openly groping one of Littlefinger's whores.

Judging by Marbrand's grin and Crakehall's grin, the news was mixed.

«Nothing new, Felix. - Still grinning, Lyle said. - It's just that once again it's been proven that the only people with brains in the Lannister family are Lord Tywin, his brothers, and maybe the Imp.

«Wow. Why such unequivocal conclusions? - I was surprised to hear from one of the most loyal vassals of the lion house almost an insult to the suzerain.

«Let me tell you. - Said Adam, taking a large sip from his glass. - As you know, Lord Temper, eight years ago in Lannisport harbor the pecking order of Victarion Greyjoy burned the entire Western fleet. All ten three hundred oarships and twenty-two hundred paddlers and more smaller ships. An irreparable loss. Immediately after the Rebellion was crushed, Lord Tywin commissioned his third cousin Ser Rieger Lannister, formerly head of the gold mines in the Pendrick Hills, to rebuild the fleet. As it later turned out, in vain.

«The only virtue of that boar... - Crakehall interrupted him, judging by his attitude, who had his own personal scores to settle with the said Lannister. - ...were his two deputies and, as it later turned out, his wife, who ran the mines instead of the glutton. But when Tywin Lannister himself condescended to him, he suddenly decided that all his successes were the fruits of his hard work, and the others were just unnecessary chaperones and did not help him in any way. As a result, he left his deputies in the hills, and his wife at home, and began to single-handedly lead the process.

«Let me guess - he didn't even lay the foundation for the courts? - I asked, knowing full well what would happen if an idiot was entrusted with a job like building a fleet.

«No. He built the ships. - Lyle grinned, pouring himself another goblet of ale - he didn't like or recognize wine as a drink for women and sissies. - Ten ships with three hundred oars, twenty with two hundred, and fifteen with a hundred. Majestic, decorated with lions and gilding, with burgundy sails, ravenous scorpions, and, as he boasted to everyone, a novelty in shipbuilding - a rotating trebuchet capable of firing in all directions. And what a feast they organized in honor of it. All the important lords were invited, except the Lannisters who were out of favor, like the Leffords and the Colds. "The West has a navy again! Now the bastards of the Iron Islands won't dare even look at our shores!" the boar was saying. All was well until the ships were launched and they instantly went to the bottom. - In a burst of emotion, Wild Veper roared, slamming his goblet down on the table and leaving a distinct dent. - This piece of lard had used expensive golden oak for the hulls, which was also stained. The vessels turned out as if cast from steel. So now fifty gilded coffins rest at the bottom of Lannisport harbor, still obstructing the passage of large ships.

«I whistled, wondering how Tywin Lannister felt at that moment. Why, though, if you can ask?

«And what happened next?

«Lord Tywin remained outwardly calm, as he always did, but if one could burn alive with his gaze, then the whole of Lannisport would go up in flames like a match. - Said Adam, smiling sadly. I've been told he was a page at Casterly Rock in his youth and has been friends with the Kingslayer ever since, so such a spectacular blunder at his friend's house was unpleasant to him. Later an investigation was conducted and it turned out that under his leadership, another thirty thousand gold pieces had been stolen from the treasury of Casterly Rock, on top of the forty thousand spent. There was a great uproar. But the trouble didn't end there. While Lord Tywin was recovering and shutting up the most talkative mouths, a few particularly "enterprising" men decided to punish the family of the guilty party.

At this point Adam wrinkled his nose, as if remembering something not too good.

«Rieger's parents, his children and servants had been murdered, raped and burned within the walls of their homes. Often in the exact order I described. - Yeah...what those fools were thinking at that moment is beyond my comprehension. That fool's family was part Lannister, pure-blooded Lannisters. What the Old Lion did to them for such an insult to their family, I can't even imagine. - Only Ser Rieger's wife survived, who made her way to Lord Tywin's audience in time to bring him the books of expenses.

«She was the one who told him who had taken how much from the lions' treasury. - Lyle continued, not even realizing he'd interrupted him. One of the Crakeholes' family traits was their incredible thick-skinnedness. - The list included all the "initiates"... "initiepi"... "initiuke"... ugh, the same ones who'd slaughtered that fool's entire family. Lord Tywin was furious and almost had a second Castamere. Things only quieted down recently when the Queen and her children visited Casterly Rock. As a result, the lions will now be missing thirty-two Lannisters of various branches, and who the fuck knows how many Lannys, Lannets, and Lennites. And any mention of ships would only cause the ruling branch of the lion house to go into a cold rage.

I already knew all that, but I didn't know it in detail. Still, only a complete idiot would discuss Tywin Lannister and the epic failures of his family while the lions are stronger than ever. Because of this, the news hardly ever made it outside the West, though any more or less wealthy lord could find out if he wanted to.

«And how do you feel about it? - I asked, realizing that despite Lyle's swagger and irreverence, these were representatives of the most loyal Lannister houses. And the fact that they were at ease with me, a former peddler, and Aerys, the lord of a house not too fond of lions, showed them to be open-minded and intelligent people who knew when to show their teeth. - Pardon my curiosity, but I've always wondered - what will the vassals of Casterly Rock do when the gods come for the Old Lion? Ser Jaime is a Kingsguard, Cersei is a queen and a woman, and Tyrion... even I've heard rumors about how Lord Tywin feels about his youngest son. Plus he's a dwarf and a known drunkard. No matter how smart he is, people won't follow him. And knowing Lords Kivan and Tighett, they won't go to the trouble of killing their nephew for the sake of the Utes.

The silence that reigned did not last long. There was no reflection or doubt. Adam and Lyle gave their answer almost immediately.

«We'll go after the Imp. - Crakehall smiled, halfway through a full mug of ale. - No matter how Lord Tywin feels about him, he is one of the finest Lannisters alive.

«That's true. - Adam agreed with him, smiling, taking a sip of wine as well. - Tyrion is a dwarf, but he has inherited his father's wit and calculation. We, his loyal vassals, need no more than that.

I was briefly stunned by their words. In my many years in Dorne, I'd gotten used to most lords being willing to stab you in the back, even for the most ridiculous reasons, but here... Such loyalty can only be found in the North, where most vassals don't even think about betraying the Starks. Though if we remember that House Lannister is as old as the Kings of the North, the loyalty of the Marbrands and Crakehalls is understandable-they've been ruled by lions for millennia, and loyalty to their suzerains is ingrained in those houses at the level of upbringing.

No interesting topics were brought up for the rest of the evening. Hunting, armor, and wine were much more fun to talk about than the crisis in the Seven Kingdoms. The only unpleasant topic Adam brought up was the state of my son. Unlike the Hound, who never left the Crown Prince's side, Loras Tyrell, who accompanied the Master of the Law, and the Kingslayer, who guarded the king's body with ill-concealed disgust, Alaric was absent from the feast, resting in the factories. No, he could have come to the feast like the other semi-finalists and demonstrated that he was fine. But it was obvious to any experienced warrior that Clegane was a bit wobbly and constantly leaning on the tables next to him - the effects of a few dozen lance blows to his helmet don't just go away. The Knight of Flowers was not getting away with it either - although he was right-handed, he used only his left hand for the entire dinner. Mendon Moore drained his right arm, hitting him in the shoulder. The Kingslayer got off the easiest - Ser Barristan had left him a parting gift by breaking or cracking several of his ribs. This was evident by his posture and the occasional touch to his chest where the blow had been struck.

"The finals and semi-finals will be a handicapping contest." - I thought, throwing my cloak over my shoulders and leaving the Great Dungeon. The feast had already reached the stage where the guests had gotten drunk and were beginning to faint from the amount they had drunk. Even the king, despite his size and long-alcoholized body, had fallen asleep with his face pressed against the large chest of a servant girl.

Tomorrow will be the last day I spend in King's Harbor.

***

P.O.V. Robert Baratheon.

Eleventh month of the year 298 A.D.E.

The Rivalry, King's Landing

"Boring... How boring it all is...". - I thought tiredly, sitting in that big and uncomfortable throne-like chair. - "I can't wait to get drunk... so I don't have to listen to them all..."

«Lancel, wine! - I shouted, setting down my horn, which soon turned out to be a fruity Dornish wine. The only joy in my empty life.

Ned's grumbling. My wife's quiet contempt. The hatred of the Kingslayer. Joffrey's tiresome attempts to find my approval. And the flattery, the flattery, the flattery, the flattery, the flattery, the flattery... I'm so sick of everyone trying to kiss my ass.

And how it used to be... I did what I wanted, fought with who I wanted, fucked with who I wanted, drank with who I wanted... A dream, not a life. I mean, what could be better than swinging a hammer and smashing some cocky youngster in the chest. When the blood boils and demands more, when the hands clutch the hammer harder and harder, and the eyes do not even need to strain to find a new opponent. And in the evening, having washed off the dust and other people's intestines, to taste a juicy boar caught in the nearest forest, to drink it all with strong ale and to get the nearest beautiful girl by the balls so that she would remember this night for a long time.

Eh.

It's all in the past now. Even a king has to live by other people's laws and do things with an eye on his subjects. I did so much to make the lords rebel more and let me have my fun--told Jon to fuck off Dorne, insulted the Tyrells, spat in the face of the Free Cities' ambassadors. They all did. Only Balon Greyjoy had balls and took the opportunity for a good fight. It was a glorious campaign. But it too, for crying out loud, ended, plunging me back into that gray gloom of boredom and inactivity.

Now only rare tournaments, hunting and endless cups of wine save me from this nightmare. An endless nightmare.

«Start the fucking tournament! - I shouted, standing up from my chair and waving my hand at the worm who held the title of Master of the Rivalry. - Otherwise we'll never get to a general fight at all!

The trumpets rang, the drums beat, the black people sitting not far away shouted, and two horsemen clad in dull armor rode out onto the sand of the arena.

A green one, like a woman, covered with ivy and roses.

And a black one, with stylized dogs on his shield and armor.

«I bet a hundred gold pieces on the Hound! - Shouted nearby my son, causing a small attack of pain. Last night's hangover still lingered.

«Glad to support the bet, nephew. - Renly smiled, making me cringe inwardly. Why the fuck did he even bother with the Tyrells? They're weak, dull-witted, and subservient, every last one of them! He should have been raised by Ned. He'd have made a man of him.

While the others were betting on pathetic shiny things, the two riders came together and the winner was almost immediately decided.

"Crafty son of a bitch!" - I thought with disdain as I looked at that smarmy asshole. Any experienced tournament fighter would have realized that his mare was in heat, and that's why Clegane's horse had gone berserk and thrown him off.

«You son of a bitch! - The Dog voiced my thoughts, spitting at the feet of the white mare and turned around and walked away, under the shocked and disgruntled looks of most of the cowering cunts who didn't understand how their beloved Knight of Flowers had won.

The florist was about to say something, but the trumpets blared again and two new riders rode into the ring.

Shining gold, with lions on his shield and armor, my "favorite" brother-in-law, who stole the opportunity to break Aerys Targaryen's neck himself.

Second, in black armor, with elegant flame designs, on a naked horse, rode Alaric Temper, son of that warrior peddler who left me with a nice bruise at the Harrenhal tournament.

«Three hundred gold on Ser Jaime! - Littlefinger shouted, betting on the favorite as always.

«I'll call! Fifteen barrels of fire wine from the Aquavid family, Lord Baelish. - Renly replied, causing most of those present to stare in surprise. Does he know something? Yes and aquavit... even I don't have it on my tables very often. Where did he get that much from?

«It's a good bet, Lord Renly. - Littlefinger, who knows the value of this firewater well enough to know its worth.

«Then I'll take part. - Suddenly his wife intervened, tapping her finger on her favorite emerald necklace resting on the hollow between her breasts. - I'm betting this gold pendant, with the largest emerald in all the Seven Kingdoms, mined in the mines of Casterly Rock, on my brother. Anyone want to bet more?

«Woman. Is this the second time you want to lose it? - I looked at her irritated. I vividly remembered how she had pestered her father and me with requests to return her 'unique ancestral pendant inherited from her deceased mother'. Had to give that little lord some royal honors and a big bag of gold.

«Jaime will beat that little boy. It can't be otherwise. - She answered me with a high-pitched grin that made me chuckle inwardly. Maybe I should teach her a lesson.

«All right. I'll bet 500 gold dragons on Temper. - Without letting Cersei speak against me, I raised my hand, telling her to shut up. - I hear that peddler's wife is quite a looker. If the Kingslayer loses, I'll send the necklace to her.

Ignoring the woman's rage and the other court sycophants' stares, I signaled for the duel to begin.

«Begin! - Shouted the Master over the Rectory, to the sound of blaring trumpets.

Bang...

Lannister made a deceptive feint and kicked him in the chest with all his might. But to the Dornish's credit, he held his ground and almost didn't stagger.

The next three meetings were almost identical, with riders clashing with each other and breaking each other's lances, until the Kingslayer flew out of the saddle for the fifth time.

«What a rascal! - I laughed merrily and shouted, seeing the Lannister's twisted face and Baelish's wincing face. He aimed five times in a row and hit the same spot-the sternum, finally breaking the Lannister's ribs. Because you shouldn't have shown your sorry face at the feast! - More wine! We should drink to that!

All the while they were cleaning up the ring and preparing for the final battle, new wagers and agreements were being made. Most thought the flowery bastard would win, and I agreed-- too much damage Temper took in his last fight, while Tyrell got away with it.

«Begin! - The signal for the final bout was given and the two riders charged at each other at full speed.

Bang...

Bang...

Bang...

Bang...

There was no miracle. They were equal in skill - elegance, precision, and years of training were evident in both of their movements, and the Dornier was even superior in physique to the pink upstart, but his injuries from the previous fight had not gone away. Temper held his ground, refusing to lose, but the third son of Lord Oulughus was stronger, knocking him out of the saddle in the fourth round.

«The winner of the Tournament of the Hand is Loras Tyrell, also known as the Knight of Flowers! - Shouted across the arena by the Master over the Ristalis, to the cheers of the lords and nobles. - Second place is awarded to Alaric Temper, Knight of the Scarlet Lake!

«Your Grace." Both finalists greeted me, riding close to the stands and bowing their heads.

«Remove your helmets. - Without further ado, I got straight to the point and said, "I want to see the faces of those who won. - I want to see the faces of those who won the tournament and defeated the Kingslayer.

«Yes, Your Majesty. - They answered and began to undo the numerous straps on their helmets. But when they took them off...

«Why--

«Why...

«What a handsome man.

«Why is there...

«Another fucking Lannister?! - I roared involuntarily as I saw the owner of the features I see every day when I sleep, eat, and even fuck!

Golden hair, bright green eyes, soft, slightly woman-like features... Except for the eyes, he looks nothing like his father. What baklava?!

***

Same place and time.

Tempers and Colds Lodge, Rivalry, King's Landing.

«And why did you do it? - Aerys asked me, giving me a slightly resentful look. - You could have revealed Alaric beforehand instead of making a spectacle of it.

«I agree. - I sighed tiredly, leaning back in my chair. - But you just don't know my son. If the king's words are still tolerated, then if it had been whispered earlier, by some petty knights or lords, he wouldn't have been able to resist and would have knocked their teeth out. Do I need a scandal in the middle of nowhere? - All I got in response was a negative shake of my head. - I'd hoped they wouldn't see his face before we left King's Landing, but who knew Robert would have a hard-on.

The rest of the day passed quickly and unnoticed as Loras Tyrell appointed Sansa Stark Queen of Love and Beauty, angering the queen and amusing the king even more. He and Alaric then received their awards and retired to their tents, nursing their wounds as the ring prepared for the general fight.

The fight was fast, bloody, and exciting as usual. A priest of R'Glor named Thoros of Myr stood out, swinging a sword of green flame that frightened the horses and felled nearly twenty riders before one of the competitors, a lean warrior from the North wielding a thin sword and shield, had enough of it and ripped the helmet off the nearest knight and charged a drunken Essonian with it, throwing him off his horse. The laughter over the stands was great - not every day you see one of the favorites of the fight being knocked out of the saddle in such an "original" way.

The winner was the same "shooter" who avoided strong opponents during the whole fight, and at the end of it he finished off the beaten and exhausted Andar Royce, the heir to the Moonstone, to the curses of his kin and the lords who had bet on him. It didn't win him any love, but the victory and twenty thousand dragons were surely worth it.

"Still, the Dornish inheritance along with the blood of the North produce very interesting results" - I thought then, mentally comparing the figure and height of one interesting girl with the winner.

"The mysterious knight" decided to remain unrecognized, and this time Robert decided not to hinder him, only ordering him to deliver the promised reward to the right tent.

My brother and I didn't watch the tournament any further. We had to leave King's Landing as soon as possible and head for the Western Lands. So, after handing Alaric, along with a few letters for Doran, Eilis, Fiora, Oberyn, and a few others, a very shaggy muzzle named Balerion, fifteen years ago Oberyn's gift to his newborn niece, stolen from Red Castle by one of his servants for a couple of silver stags, we set off toward the West along the Golden Road.

Standing on a high hill, on the banks of the Blackwater, and looking toward the ships sailing to Osgiliath, I couldn't help but think that Doran's "request" for a visit to King's Landing was very timely. From the reports of the rare spies who were capable enough not to be caught by Varys, it was impossible to understand the true state of affairs in the royal court.

"War will break out soon." - I thought sadly as I looked up at the hulk of the Red Castle. Monumental, but very fragile. - "Robert's time is coming to an end, and Stark won't have the strength or skill to control this snakepit. The main thing is to keep this powder keg from exploding in the coming months."

With another glance at the sunset-colored city, I spurred my horse and hurried toward Aerys and the Guards waiting nearby. We were on our way to Coldhall.

***

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