The Road Not Taken - The Tourney of Oaths and Steel
These are a few snippets covering some major plot points that may or may not have been coming in the future, had the Silver Falcon absconded with Alicent after the Great Northern Tourney.
While it hardly was appropriate by the standards of courtly etiquette, you took a few quick steps and embraced your father. Back when you were younger, you had done the same whenever he returned from longer travels, and just because you were the one leaning down these days you had no intent of letting that tradition lapse. "I've missed you," you told him quietly, glad to see him in good health and spirits once more.
"And so did I," he answered while returning the hug. "After all that happened on your Progress, I was half expecting to not recognize you anymore." As you broke apart, he studied your face and while there was the slightest hint of worry still in his face, the king mostly just looked relieved. "For all that I had to chide you now and then, I'm proud of you."
Next to you, a somewhat more somber reunion took place. While Otto Hightower took his queue from the two of you, embracing Alicent in a brief hug, there were no words spoken and neither of them looked all that comfortable. Instead, the Hand addressed you first. "Princess," he spoke in an unreadable tone. "There is much to be discussed, though I first must ask one question that kept me up at night for our entire journey. Have you found the scoundrel that disgraced my daughter?"
You had it not in you to hide the wince at that statement, though luckily, Otto just took it as a sign that you had not.
"I have been thinking," you started without preamble while still pacing like a caged lion. "Just because everyone expects the Silver Falcon to appear here, he doesn't have to. There's so many out for him. He would be mad to make an appearance!"
Ser Tarly was not even looking up from the blade and whetstone. "And you think this will resolve matters?"
"No! Yes!" You cried out, then stopped yourself as you became aware of how loud you had been. The last thing you needed was to attract the attention of nosy servants. "I mean, they will forget about him sooner or later. All those silly grudges will disappear."
The whetstone scraped over the blade in a steady rhythm while you spoke and you were almost ready to say something unkind to your sworn shield, biting your lip instead. If it was just a tourney. You knew how to deal with the nerves before a fight. But this was different. Worse. And the only person you could truly talk with about it all seemed almost indifferent.
"You made a hasty choice in Whiteharbor," he finally said, making you wince at the reminder how all of this started. "I think you should try to calm down before making another one." With that he handed you the whetstone and his sword, getting up from the chair.
Your hands clenched around stone and steel and you took a deep breath. He was not wrong. The comment would have stung less if he had been. "But isn't this the responsible choice?" you probed while taking a seat. "It would hardly improve things if I kept playing Mystery Knight and nobody would believe me if I revealed myself now."
"But if the Silver Falcon just disappears, what will become of the rumors about your handmaiden?"
Once more, you flinched, nearly cutting yourself on the sword. If anything, the rumors had become nastier as of late. Alicent bore it with stoic grace and she repeatedly told you that she regretted nothing. But still. You wished nothing more than to resume pacing, yet somehow, the steady motion of the whetstone did indeed manage to calm you down somewhat.
When you thought about it more carefully, you could see the real problem. Saying untrue, slanderous and vile things about Alicent was easy because no one really stood up for her. Her brother certainly tried, but there was only so much weight that his word carried and Gwayne could not afford to make enemies in the households of Lords Paramount. And who else cared enough about Alicent's honor to risk such peoples ire?
If you could only... The thought trailed off to nowhere, as you slowly blinked. You've been very,
very silly.
"I need to defend my lady's honor."
"Now, that is certainly unexpected," your father commented idly as the balcony was slowly filling with curious onlookers.
You could recognize the banner of House Nymeros Martell easily enough and flying a truce flag of equal size made a lot of sense, given the well-founded enmity between them and the Reachers. Dayne. Blackmont. Yronwood. The other names slowly came to the surface, though about half the banners were still unknown to you. Perhaps lesser known knightly houses.
Beside you, Otto Hightower was making that face again that you had begun to recognize as him furiously working out what someone was plotting. "I had heard that Qoran Martell was bold, even by the reckoning of the Dornish, though never would I have imagined someone to be this daring."
Your father on the other hand was looking quit pleased by the whole event. "Send message to Lord Tyrell that his king would be curious to hear out the Dornishmen. I'm sure he can arrange for a few more seats and no one will mind another few knights in the joust."
"I wonder if there is something to the rumors," the Roxton knight said into the group, looking between the others. "About the king looking for a match for his daughter I mean."
"Looking for a man capable of putting her into her place you mean," Unwyn answered with an ugly laugh. "Good thing he can promise a throne for it, or no one would want the mannish shrew."
You felt your jaw and fist tighten. It appeared that Peake had not lost any of his charm. "It is unbecoming for a knight to talk like this about a princess," you ground out in a gravely tone, still wondering if you should not just challenge him on the spot to put him back into the mud he crawled from.
"Better worry about your own affairs, Falcon," he leered back with a smirk. "You will get your comeuppance for cheating me out of my victory in Whiteharbor long before I'll get a chance to ask for her hand."
Few things had ever caused you such visceral revulsion as the image of Unwin Peake joining the ranks of your suitors. "I'm looking forward to that tilt, Peake," you answered him before turning away. The fewer words you had to exchange with the man the better.
You were breathing hard, but your blade was steady as its tip lightly pressed against Gwaynes throat. Even though he had clearly lost, you still half expected him to try and jump up yet again. All you could do was hope that he was too angry to notice how familiar the Silver Falcon's fighting style was.
It took a long moment for him to accept that defeat though. As his blade clatted to the flagstone, you took yours away and held out your hand. "On my honor, Ser Hightower. Nothing untoward has happened between your sister and myself. You of all people should know she would never do any of the things the rumors are accusing her of."
He stared at your hand with a hateful gaze, yet with every heartbeat it softened the slightest bit. Finally, he took your hand and you hauled him back to his feet. "That much is true. But it would be easier to believe you if I at least knew your face. A man hiding beneath a helmet at all times? Makes one worry for ones sister."
"I promise that by the end of this tourney, you will know my face and once you do, you will no longer be concerned for Alicent," you tried to sound earnest, although you were not quite certain if it was true.
"I will hold you to it," he answered to your relief. A truce then. For now, that had to be enough.
"Ser Hightower?" one of the armsmen surrounding the two of you asked uncertainly. "We have orders from your father to bring the Silver Falcon to him."
"That you have, but my honor demands I stand to the terms of our duel. You may go, Falcon. I will explain things to my father." Gwayne waved the armsmen over to him and while still looking nervous, they complied. "Until the last tilt of the tourney is done, you may keep your secret. That I swear on behalf of House Hightower."
You bowed to him in return, far deeper than a princess should bow to anyone. "You have my gratitude for that. Tell your father I will present myself to him when the time has come."
When the people all around the tourney grounds began to crane their necks and point somewhere behind you, you already knew that you would not like what you were about to see. This tourney had been nothing but surprises so far and very few of them were to your liking.
Then Caraxes roared in the sky and you were quietly pondering what sin you had committed for the Seven to curse you so.
You awkwardly sat done on the pillow, the dress Alicent had picked for you being just a tad too stiff for the movement. Though even if you felt rather undignified in doing so, Prince Martell kept politely smiling.
"Tea, princess?" he waved over to the small table where a kettle was boiling on a small flame. "A good warm drink to chase the autumn chill from your bones."
"That would be lovely," you replied while taking the moment to look around the room. It was definitely not one of best rooms in Highgarden, but the Dornishmen had made quite something out of it. Between the braziers and heavy cloth tapestries they had brought, it was outright hot in the room despite the meager hearth it had. Quite beautiful too, even though the throwing pillows in lieu of other seating were a bit peculiar.
You politely nodded back as Qoren handed you a steaming cup of Myrish glass. "I must admit I am surprised at the room being so..." You paused, struggling for a word.
"Dornish?" he answered with a smile. "I decided to bring a bit more furniture than strictly necessary for this journey, just in case that the Tyrell's decreed that we were not fit to sleep outside the stables."
The tea was not quite what you had expected. Instead of the herbal brews you were used to, it was heavy on spices, tasting of anis, kardamom and cinnamon. You could get used to the taste. "I must wonder though," you replied between sips. "Why brought you here in the first place if you thought that you would be received so coldly?"
"Ah, I would have hoped we could have exchanged pleasantries for a while longer before talking about these matters." He looked genuinely sad while saying it, but he carried on anyway. "There is just a great many things that I have to talk about with your father that are more easily dealt with in person than by letter."
"And," he paused, putting his cup away. You were not sure if he was being dramatic or if he was stalling for time. "I also felt it was a good moment to ge to know you."
"Ah," you ground out with a strained smile. "I see." You put your own cup away. "The rumors," you finished lamely.
However, the Dornish Prince just quickly waved you off. "Oh, no. Nothing of the sort. I have only heard
these stories when I arrived here and, having exchanged letters with your father for a while, I must question what fool would believe he would put up his own daughter as a tourney prize."
While you dearly wished to feel reassured, you instead felt even more tense.
"He did however note in his letters that you are not betrothed yet, and I must admit that the tales of the northern warrior princess have spiked my interest."
At the last moment, his lance suddenly rose. Higher.
Far too high. You threw yourself to the side, not caring where you own lance went, but Unwin's strike still hit you on the gorget. The deformed metal of the gorget painfully dug into your flesh, while around it, the piercing pain and warmth of spilled blood bloomed. A few splinters had made it through your hauberk.
"Ser Peake," your father called from the stands. "If you can no longer aim your lance properly, perhaps you should drop out, lest this tourney be marred by tragedy." There was an edge to his voice that told you he had arrived at the same conclusion as yourself. That had been no accident. Unwin Peake had just tried to strike your head.
The bastard seemed not all that concerned about receiving a reprimand from the king, instead lifting his face plate to grin at you. "My apologies, Ser Falcon. Perhaps you should see the Maester before we continue?"
The blood had ran all the way down to your chest already. For once, Peake was right. This wound needed tending, but you could hardly take off your helmet here and now to have it seen to. You needed to end this bout and you needed to end it fast.
"We can continue right now," you called over to him, motioning the servant to hand you a new lance.
Seeing the wounds in the bronze mirror made your heart sink. It was not all that bad, all things considered. A few minor punctures were hardly the most gruesome of injuries in this tourney. But you had learned enough anatomy to know how close you had come to death. A single finger width to the side and you would have bled out before you could have even gotten off your armor.
You winced slightly as Ser Raylon poured another cup of his foul concoction onto the wounds. Wine, vinegar and oil made not for a pleasant smell and your small clothes were already drenched with it. He still had not said a single word. Not even a grunt. A nod. Anything. You were still not sure if he was furious that you had kept fighting or plotting Unwin Peakes untimely demise. Perhaps both.
To your other side, Alicent was no more talkative than him. She was still clutching the blood soaked rags she cleaned you with. But then she noticed your gaze and put on a strained smile. "It's fine," she said unconvincingly. "It gets easier."
Almost your turned away, the look on your face hurting worse than your wounds, but you had no right to feel uncomfortable. "I'm sorry," you all but whispered to her. "I shouldn't make you worry so much all the time."
"It is fine," she said again, with slightly more conviction this time, still staring at your blood on the cloth. "Worrying about your gallant knights fate as she is away on some grand quest is just the way of things. It's just..." She trailed off, finally putting the bloody rags away. "I guess it is easier when you don't have to see it happen and can do nothing but watch."
"Have you been avoiding me, dear niece?" Daemon's voice called out before you saw him step from the other corridor.
Of course. Right when you could least afford the delay, you were meeting one of the few people you could not just ignore. "By no means, uncle." You tried to sound polite. "Though you know how it is. So many things demanding ones attention and only so few hours in the day."
While the sigh was meant to be played, you really, truly, felt it. While Princess Rhaenyra's duties were not that bad on their own, adding the Silver Falcons to it made you wonder how you even managed to find the time to eat and sleep in between.
"You have been rather absent from the jousts stands yourself, uncle," you prompted in return, eager to draw the topic away from yourself.
"Ah, but you know how it is," he returned in the same tone while leaning against the wall before you. Instead of looking at you though, he instead peered through the window out to the courtyard where the melee was being held. "Matters of war rarely wait for our convenience."
"And yet, here you are," you said, trying not to make it sound like an accusation. In truth, his private war upon the Stepstones was of little concern to you, though this was the first time you spoke since Dragonstone. There was already so much happening that you felt ill equipped to deal with your uncle on top of your own problems.
His eyes turned to you and put on a cryptic smile, clearly gauging your reaction. "You are mistaken, princess, if you believe that I am not furthering the thrones interests even here. It just happens that some important matters could be best resolved by attending this tourney, given who decided to attend it all of the sudden."
And just like that, a few things made much more sense. Qoren Martell had not been trying to be cryptic. He just had assumed you already knew why Daemon was in Highgarden. Fool that you were, you had just chalked it up to Daemon being Daemon and doing as he pleased.
"I thought I had made it clear that I would not tolerate such slander of the Lady Alicent's honor in my presence," you all but growled at the knight in the livery of House Smallwood. Maybe it was lingering anger at your uncle. Maybe it was that after all these days, they still kept whispering about her. Either way, you all but hoped he would not back down.
Before he could answer though, another voice called to you from the other side of the hall. "Falcon. It is enough of that." Ser Christon Cole's voice silenced everyone else in the room and the crowd of waiting and drinking knights parted as he walked over to you.
The anger flowed from you body like water, replaced with wariness. "What is it to you, Ser Cole?" you asked him guardedly, the Smallwood knight taking the moment of distraction to slip away.
He did not seem hostile though. If anything, he was just as friendly as every other time you had spoken while wearing the Silver Falcon's livery. "I just wish to give some advice," he called while raising his hands. "Your brashness makes you enemies, and for what? We all know what happened after Whiteharbor after all."
"It is no shame on you for plucking a fruit that was not guarded properly," he continued with a smile, the comment drawing some chuckles from the crowd. "Mind, you should not brag, but the daughter of a second son is not worth the trouble you are making for yourself. You have drawn enough eyes for a much better match than her."
There it was again. The anger. Far more than before even. "So your
advice is to let half of Westeros besmirch her good name and pretend it is no concern of mine?"
"No one except her father really blames you. She took your offer after all," he went on, oblivious to the grinding of your teeth. "But yes. Just let her be a youthful indescretion. You'd not be the first man to sire a bastard before his wedding vows. The Seven are forgiving of such things."
"My, and here I was told by everyone in this tourney that us southern folk had a queer and twisted sense of honour." As if from nowhere, Qoren Martell stood by your side. As he saw your helmet tilt towards him, he winked once at you, then turned back to Cole. "Mayhaps I should take that as a compliment, given your display here, Ser Cole."
Christon's face turned derisive at the princess' words. "I hardly have to take such words from a Dornishman of all people."
"Then take them from me," you replied without a breath of hesitation. "If you think the virtue of a woman is something for you to take and discard, then you are not worthy of the title Ser."
The room went deadly quiet. Most around you took a step back, only a select few daring to join whatever this was shaping up to be. The first of them was one of the Lannister brothers, though his helmet made it hard to tell if it was Jason or Tyland. "You are overstepping, hedge knight. Ser Cole is a knight with few peers in all of the Seven Kingdoms."
Suddenly, Ser Raylon was beside you, though he did throw a dirty look towards Prince Martell for a brief moment. "Maybe Ser Cole should then act the part. You are talking about the daughter of the Lord Hand and the handmaiden of her Princess Rhaenyra. If a hedge knights words can't make you see the error of your words, then maybe mine can."
"It's well within Ser Cole's rights to call a slattern woman what she is," Merell Florent spoke as he stepped besides Cole, a hand on the hilt of his blade.
The circle around you grew wider, and your side swelled with Ormund and Gwayne Hightower, both glaring at Florent. Meanwhile, Lymond Mallister and Richard Dondarrion stepped besides Cole.
Part of you knew that this whole situation was spiraling out of control, but you could not,
would not step down after the things that had been said already.
After recounting the news, Otto was just shaking his head. "I thank the Seven that Lord Daemon and this Silver Falcon have apparently not met yet. I shudder to imagine what trouble they could cause together, given the mess each of them alone is already making."
In return, your father chuckled. "Ah, just be glad then that after this tourney, the Falcon will likely be Lord Tyrell's problem. Imagine if I had a son like him. He would be the death of both of us."
While Otto shuddered visibly at the idea, you shifted uncomfortably in your seat. And besides. It had been Cole's idea to resolve things this way.
As the crowd roared in response to your victory, your eyes were firmly on the sky and the ever thicker snowflakes drifting down upon you. The icy wind felt pleasantly cool through your armor, carrying the hot steam of your labored breaths away. It was done. An almost hysterical giggle came from your throat. It was done! After all the pain, the fights, the hardships, you were the last one standing.
It was a near thing towards the end. Keeping up the ruse. The duels. All those hits in the jousts. Every muscle and bone in your body seemed to ache. You would be having cramps for a fortnight in your arm from all the lances you had broken on someone.
Your horse trotted along the tourney grounds and you raised one arm in victory, not trusting yourself to look dignified while waving at them. This time, you were not going to do anything foolish again. The Silver Falcon had rode for the last time and now it would be on Rheanyra Targaryen to mend some fences. Hopefully, most of the grudges would fade in time and only the friendships would last.
As you turned around once more, you saw another rider entering the field. The crowd fell silent. In the finest armor a Westerosi could dream of, lacquered black with red trim, he rode with an utter confidence that few men could exude. In one hand, he carried a giant Targaryen banner, just in case the onlookers had missed the fine silken banners he had draped over his black stallion. He looked like a bad omen emerging from the shadows together with the first snow.
"The bards said we might see the finest knights of a generation emerge on this field," Daemon called over to you, loud enough for the whole tourney ground to hear. "I think it is time for me to see if they were right."
AN: Written this in parallel with the last update, but instead of being a plot outline for a future arc, it will now be posted as an omake.
