To Ride for Glory
Twenty-Fifth Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC
Ultimately there is no land for you to give Valaena at the moment, for she has proven herself worthy of grander things than being handed a swath of the Disputed Lands or a strip of haunted coastline near the borderlands of Valyria. None of them are worthy of Dawnfyre and more importantly his rider. Time and again she has stepped up to face perils and challenges and each time she has shown herself up to the task. For now she is content to wait for lands in Westeros or in the east beyond Mantarys, though the latter contingent upon visiting first. 'A fool I would be to choose my lands by pointing at a map,' she had said, and with good reason.
Her words had left you staring at a map and pondering the fate of Golden Fields and who might take up its stewardship, knowing the land and the people, perhaps even finding some kinship with the fickle spirits of stream and stone. So it is that the title of count of the Golden Fields passes to 'Aliandros Myrar', skillful spearman and seducer, second in the melee. As the Red Viper makes his pledge to serve there upon the sands, the smile upon his glamoured face is all too real. Not many after all can claim to have sworn their oaths honestly but under a false name with the full knowledge of the one receiving the oath. A tale he will no doubt relish retelling for many years to come.
***
Twenty-Sixth Day of the Eighth Month 293 AC
So it is that the next day you head out to the tourney grounds, however, with Clegane falling instinctively behind Dany, eyes widening as she slowly begins revealing the inner workings of your innermost circle, nothing a determined diviner could not find of course, but the revelation that your mother, Elia, and even Rhaenys are all alive and will be joining you to watch the joust is still an shock, more of one than you would have expected considering the rumors floating around the Deep.
He must have found them too hopeful for his taste...
You take care not to linger overlong on Clegane, though. He is mostly Dany's concern now and would benefit from less of your attention rather than more. Instead you concentrate on giving Oberyn the same advice you did Saan about his inheritance, given that his habits are not too different, though the Dornishman is admittedly much better about finding and caring for his bastards rather than leaving them scattered in every port.
"Well it would be a lot easier to manage if they weren't bastards," he hints broadly.
"Of course, I see no reason not to legitimize all of them in full if that is what you wish," you answer at once, causing Oberyn's smile to flash from sly to joyful in a moment. Legitimizing that many bastards all at once would be a minor scandal for any other king, but somehow you feel it will be something of a footnote of your reign.
"I do need you to settle a succession," you remind him.
"I'm a Dornishman whatever my name, aren't I?" Oberyn snorts. "The first child succeeds, boy or girl. None of this nonsense with going up your third cousin's family tree looking for a male heir. Unless of course the stars align the moon turns red and a headless chicken dances through the village green. Then we can all have a
war over the idea that a woman might hold a title."
That draws a giggle even from Rhaenys sitting in her mother's arms, though more from the ridiculous imagery over the substance of the subject matter. "I will admit my ancestors were not the most inspired when it came to their succession, either. That is
why I am so careful with the matter," you counter, though smiling also.
Oberyn's chance to entertain comes to an end soon after with the first of the day's tilts.
Ser Bonifer Hasty in his somewhat battered half-plate against young Ser Forley Waters, wearing the soot-black of a Legion lancer. The first blow goes to him, slipping under the older knight's shield. Alas for him that his luck does not hold. In the second tilt Ser Hasty shows the skill that had served him so well in his his youth, sending Ser Waters flying from the saddle.
The older knight withdraws amid the accolades of the crowd, though not before ensuring his opponent had not been harmed by the blow or the fall.
The second tilt is no less spectacular though far briefer with Ser Benjicot Brown adding to his respectable performance in the melee by sweeping Ser Archibald Yronwood from the saddle on the first tilt in spite of the Dornishman scoring a decent strike of his own, much to Oberyn's amusement, while Tyene scolds him none too effectively: "He is Dornish you know, father..."
"Unfortunately for the rest of us, yes, though I maintain he plods and sulks enough to be a Reacher spy," comes the unrepentant reply.
As you watch the defeated knight quit the field you must agree the Red Viper has a point however unkindly spoken. The big Yronwood knight clearly does not take being so lightly bested by a hedge knight well, but well or poorly there comes a time for the next duel. The horns blow again, the heralds call.
Ser Criston Storm armored in his prize from the melee faces on against the hapless Ser Halys Belmore, of whose skill one can at most say 'he hit his opponent's shield'... before flying off so violently Vee actually had to make sure his horse did not hurt itself. From the smile on the Stormlander's face he will take the easy victory gladly.
The next on the lists is Horas Redwyne, a knight without his house banner facing off against a golden-haired knight claiming to be a Reyne of Castamere. Whatever else Ser Roger Hill may or may not be, he is quite skilled ahorse, almost warding off a blow from the Redwyne heir who had the benefit of the finest instructors in the knightly arts.
"You could do worse than just giving him back his 'ancestral lands,' Your Grace," Ser Richard notes unexpectedly. "Sure most of his neighbors would hate his guts, but that would just make him more dependent on the crown."
"Since when have you become so crafty, Ser?" you ask, amused.
"It's the company I keep," he answers dryly, setting Dany giggling.
As you had been talking the next tilt had come and gone, Ser Hyle Buckwell having unhorsed Vardis Sunderland with an uninspired blow that was still more than enough for the task.
The next duel should have been equally straightforward if for different reasons. Ser Gerold Dayne, the Knight of High Hermitage, faced off against Ser Philip Foote, a one-eyed Hedge knight from the Westerlands, wearing little more than patched chain one could easily guess he had made it so far more on luck than skill.
"He's crafty," Sandor grunts, glancing at Foote.
The first exchange is more even than you might have guessed, a lance broken against a shield on one hand with Darkstar managing a glancing blow to the shield, the second is a crash like thunder. How Foote manages to cling to his mount in the face of the blow that catches him just below the collarbones you may never know. Everything hangs upon the third tilt...
Lances cross... strike.
The hedge knight clings to his saddle... and instead falls the knight of House Dayne. He who had perhaps hoped to match his famed cousin and win his own enchanted blade lies instead in the dirt. The crowd cheers fit to shake the stands.
"You might want to use some of that magic to keep him from doing anything rash," Oberyn says, his voice utterly serious for once. Indeed as Darkstar dismounts his horse he seems a man with battle in his eye.
Thus upon a spell-wrought wind you send your voice to his ear:
"That would be most unwise."
The knight starts, stops in his tracks and looks up to the royal box before sweeping off the field like a dark cloud before the face of the sun. He might bear a grudge against more than merely Foote now, you suspect. Still, perhaps you could keep the resentment from festering. If what Oberyn said about his skill is true, then you might have use for such a man.
Do you speak to any of the knights in the pause that follows?
[] Yes
-[] Write in which and what about
[] No, continue with the jousts
OOC: Darkstar is one of the best jousters out there. He had a hell of a run of bad luck to be eliminated now.
