Chapter 13

  Arianne of Tarth

  It was more than an hour after they arrived at their stand overlooking the tiltlanes that the event truly began. That is to say, King Aerys Targaryen finally made his appearance, said some words Arianne couldn’t hear considering how far away their family’s seating box was to the royal stand, and the lots were drawn and announced by the tourney crier.

  Ser Arthur Dayne would ride against the mystery knight first, with Prince Rhaegar Targaryen facing Ser Barristan Selmy soon after to decide the two men that would go to the finals later in the day.

  Cheers burst out all around them, but a nervous hush had settled over their box. Lord Selwyn Tarth, the Evenstar, usually a composed and stern man, became even more anxious than he’d been earlier. If he was trying not to show a connection to the Sapphire Knight, then he was failing terribly at it.

  Arianne couldn’t quite understand why her father seemed so reluctant to see Gal ride against Ser Arthur. It wasn’t as if the other options in the draw would be any easier for him. Even she had heard of the Prince’s prowess with a lance, and there wasn’t much that need be said about Ser Barristan Selmy.

  She shouldn’t have worried about Lord Selwyn’s disquiet attracting attention. The crowd’s eyes were not on her father. When Ser Arthur Dayne rode out on the other side of the lane, white cloak flowing behind him like a banner, huge roars rose up from the commons. Their own stand seemed to shake with the noise. Beside her, Alysanne gripped the sleeve of her dress, and for once Arianne didn’t have it in her to scold her sister.

  It took another minute for Galladon to come out above his own destrier, his plain armor a stark difference to the kingsguard enameled plate. The only identifying item Galladon wore, the sapphire ribbon tied about his elbow, shone like jewelry under the sunlight.

  To her surprise, the smallfolk crowded on the small hill opposite the noble stands cried out even louder for her brother, waving madly and punching the air like the armored mystery knight was one of their own.

  The riding started before Arianne even had a chance to catch her breath. A quick announcement by the crier and the riders were off in full tilt. Despite figuring out her brother’s secret entrance into the tournament early on, Arianne had not been worried about its outcome. Her brother was her brother. She had seen him practice at the yard for countless hours since she was young enough to walk. She had never seen someone ride like him. Never seen someone so dedicated to fighting in all its forms.

  Why, then, when the first lance broke upon Galladon’s armor in a shower of wooden shards, did she suddenly feel like her heart was trying to burst its way out of her chest? Why did Ser Arthur—despite certainly not being her brother—look like he also rode as if he’d been born on the saddle?

  She found her own hand grasping at Alysanne’s fingers despite the sweat wetting her palm. Their mother gasped at the impact of the lance, her previous excitement turning to fear, followed by the clamor and applause from the crowd.

  Her brother wouldn’t lose, would he? His own lance had not made contact with Ser Arthur’s armor beyond a glancing blow to the shield. No, he couldn’t lose, she thought, but a knot had formed on her throat that made it hard to breathe.

  xxx

  The Sapphire Knight

  The impact of the lance exploding against my plate drove all the air from my lungs like a vacuum. I swayed above the saddle for a moment, chest pulsing with pain, head ringing. It was only the muscle memory of endless days in the tiltyard that kept me from falling off my perch. My legs knew to hold on even if my brain lagged behind.

  Pushing myself upright with a grunt, I blinked away the black spots in my vision, even as I bumped my knees against Smoker’s torso in a practiced manner. The horse slowed down on cue, neighing softly as if to ask me if I was alright.

  My shieldarm bent down to pat him on his side. I would be, but I needed all the time I could get to recover and think things through, even the precious few seconds between each bout.

  All around, the crowd’s roar felt like a thunderstorm, powerful but distant. They had cheered for me just a few minutes earlier, but what they were really here to see was a spectacle, no matter who won. In the end, it was all bread and games for the smallfolk and a show of martial prowess to us nobles.

  Jousting was also, in essence, a very solitary sport. I had nothing to liken it to from back home in my modern life beyond the ancient practice itself. At least with boxing and mixed martial arts you had a whole coaching team in your corner to whisper instructions in your ears throughout the fight, or slap you in the face with a motivating metaphor about willpower or some nonsense.

  Here, all I had was Smoker, and I should count myself lucky for it.

  Well, not quite, I thought, when the huffing, pimpled-face stableboy ran up to the end of the lane with a trio of wooden lances for me to pick from. I had Pate too.

  I shook my head at the ridiculous thought. He need not have bothered bringing them. The weight still couched against my right arm told a complete story.

  My lance had missed entirely, while Ser Arthur’s seemed like an unerring missile slipping past my shield.

  I ran the last tilt quickly through my head, playing out how Ser Arthur got the best of me despite my picture perfect jousting once again. Third bout already, and I had not left a scratch in his armor.

  One moment I was sure I had him pegged, lance aimed at the heart, shield in the best position to intercept his strike. Next thing I knew he moved in a way that had my lance flying off toward nowhere and half a ton of force was being kindly introduced onto my ribcage.

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  Hell, if I had not slightly tilted my body to the side, the force behind the blow might have caught me dead on and been enough to topple me off of Smoker.

  A sudden laugh escaped me, sounding louder than it should beneath my full-faced helm. Despite the deep ache in my chest I was sure would turn into the mother of all bruises, I did not feel dread at the prospect of losing. My blood ran hot instead, and the ringing in my head felt more like drums rising in tempo.

  Sure, all my short term plans would be ruined and the trip to the tourney would have been largely a waste, but I could deal with that if it meant I got to ride against opponents on the level of Ser Arthur Dayne.

  What a fucking thrill.

  I waved Pate away as I turned the bend at the end of the lane. Looking out across the grounds, I noticed Ser Arthur was already grabbing a brand new lance from his own squire. He looked resplendent in the whites of his office, with only his plate armor having splashes of purple to represent his house.

  My hand tightened around the leather straps of my shield. This damned dornishman might really be a better rider than me.

  I knew he would be good, of course—better than good, yet I still thought my own unnatural power would be enough to carry the day. In reality, I had been a small fish in an even smaller pond, with no one to challenge me and push me to my limits after I grew old enough to compete on an even standing.

  The rational part of me had known that already, and my bout with Ser Gawen Gaunt should’ve set me straight—but it seemed I needed to get my chest caved in a bit to let the lesson really sink in. As monstrous as I was proving to be in all matters of combat, I had not reached the top of this mountain. The summit was yet unconquered.

  A fire rising from deep in my gut spread through me. This… this is what I was brought into this world for. Ser Arthur Dayne would be the first crucible in my path. An anvil where I would shatter myself again and again until something better emerged. Iron ripening into steel.

  For I knew that while he had more experience than me, had ridden in more tourneys and against a larger variety of knights, he was not invincible above his horse, not without his flaws.

  No man was guaranteed victory. Not when facing me.

  xxx

  Arianne of Tarth

  “By the Seven,” her father cursed beneath his breath. He was gripping the railing so hard Arianne thought it might break under him.

  “What?” Lady Addison asked. She could barely look at the jousting lane now.

  After the first tilts where her brother seemed intent on having his chestplate fused into his torso, any attempt at discretion over the mystery knight’s identity had been replaced by naked concern.

  “Ser Arthur has the measure of him,” he said, shaking his head. “His seat. His strike. His timing. Everything.”

  His voice must’ve been louder than he intended, because from the next viewing box over, some whispy-faced riverland knight jeered at them.

  “What? Don’t tell me you bet on this mystery man, then.” He barked out an ugly laugh. “Should’ve known you don’t bet against the Sword of the Morning, stormlander, even if he’s dornish an’ all that.”

  Arianne bristled, but since her father did not rise up in response, she stayed quiet. She had noticed the previously enthusiastic crowd turn against Galladon, and she hated it. The highborn, especially, seemed to take the commons’ excitement over the mystery knight as an affront and were firmly behind Ser Arthur now.

  Taking a moment to calm herself down, she pulled at something deep within her and brought about her special vision. When she looked down again, the two riders were already turning about to start another round. She kept her eyes firmly on the tiltlane lest she look around and lose herself in the sea of auras she could now sense, and fixated on the man riding against Galladon.

  Ser Arthur Dayne’s aura was bright, perhaps even more so than her brother. He shone like the star on his house’s banner, only a titillating gray the color of a river stone polished to perfection instead of purple.

  He wore it tight around him even as he rode, like a cloak that didn’t flow in the wind even as his physical white one did. She squinted at him, trying to spot anything different as she had with Lady Lenora.

  Then her father suddenly spoke up again. “What’s he doing?”

  Arianne’s focus broke. She blinked, and she would’ve missed the entire clash if it wasn’t for the sound of wood bursting against armor. Her mother winced beside her, still refusing to look down at the lane.

  It was only when she knew her brother still sat his horse that Addison Tarth said,“What?” Her voice was trembling. “What is it, Selwyn?”

  The man sighed and put his head down. “He’s… he’s given up.” When he looked back up, Lord Salwyn Tarth looked resigned. “His form’s broken down. He’s not even aiming his lance right.”

  “Oh, Gal,” her mother murmured, followed by quiet sobs escaping her. Her father left the railing to put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  Arianne’s stomach felt like a pit. It couldn’t be true, could it? Had he truly stopped trying?

  Her mind seemed to rebel at the mere thought of her brother giving up anything, and she fiercely shook her head. No, Galladon would never just resign himself to losing.

  But if Gal was having trouble and she could help him in any way, then she had to do it. She knew he wouldn’t be riding in the tourney as a mystery knight if it wasn’t important to him, and anything that mattered to her brother mattered to her house, and there was nothing Arianne wanted more than to be useful to her family.

  Activating her vision, she leaned forward and focused on Ser Arthur’s form again as he grabbed a new lance. With the riders ready for another tilt, they quickly shot off, galloping at speed to meet in the middle in a shower of violence. Her eyes stuck firmly on the kingsguard knight despite the pang of worry she felt for Galladon.

  Like the previous tilt, the knight’s lance broke against her brother’s chestplate, this time almost knocking him off his horse. The sound was sickening to her ears, but now that she actually saw them clash, Arianne had noticed something, a sudden shift in Ser Arthur’s aura in the moment before contact.

  At first, she thought it was the simple fact that he was about to strike and so his aura reflected that sudden burst of violence, but there was something else. The color was not quite right. Her eyes stung from using the vision too much in one day, but she needed to see it again to confirm it.

  Below, Galladon and Ser Arthur kept riding, and she tried to block off anything else from breaking her concentration. Her father’s sighs, her mother’s silent sobs, Alysanne’s reassuring words to her even as the young girl remained stone-faced. Arianne just kept looking.

  Then… there!

  She didn’t understand much about jousting, nothing about its strategies and techniques, but when she watched Ser Arthur’s aura spike, followed quickly by a change in direction of his lance, she knew she had figured something out.

  Whenever her brother aimed his own lance high to try to bypass Ser Arthur’s shield, the knight’s aura would shift at the last second, and the point of his own lance would dip into the gap left by Galladon’s striking arm.

  A tell! That’s what that was. The knight had a tell on his form, but it was a tell only she could see. His aura gave him away.

  At that realization, Arianne’s thoughts started to run wild. Her pulse quickened. She might not know what to do with that information, but Galladon would, and she had to tell him before it was too late.

  So with a crazy plan quickly forming in her mind, she pulled Alysanne closer to her and whispered in her ear. She was going to need a distraction.