Chapter 116 - Winning and Winning
The match was finally about to begin. It was the long-awaited contest between Ser Jaime and Ser Loras.
"Now start this shit before I piss myself," the drunk king barked.
Artos smiled at that, and so did the others.
The joust was ready to begin, and so are the bets among lords and ladies.
A laugh came from farther down the stands.
Tyrion Lannister sat there with the easy confidence of a man who knew how to enjoy himself. He carried a cup in one hand and a smile that quite reached his eyes.
Robb had seen him before in Winterfell, but not often enough to know him greatly.
Tyrion leaned close enough to the seats around him to speak, then looked up toward the lists as Jaime Lannister rode in.
"Anyone crazy enough to bet against my brother, I will gladly take that wager," Tyrion said pleasantly. "The gods will be generous today."
Robb glanced at him, then at Jaime. "I will take it."
He knew the size of the bet would earn him and his good brother more attention, and perhaps more respect as well.
"Oh, that is interesting from the young Lord of Winterfell," Tyrion said. "How much are you thinking, Lord Robb?"
"How about a hundred gold coins?" Robb suggested.
Tyrion smiled. "I think we can do better. The winner of this tourney takes forty thousand gold coins. We can at least wager a thousand on this."
Artos noticed what that might mean, but stayed quiet and let Robb handle it.
Robb laughed and he already knew he can't back down . "Why not make it five thousand, then? My five thousand coins on Ser Loras to win this match."
Tyrion thought about this and laughed. "I like you, my lord. I accept." showing his confidence on his brother.
Jaime Lannister circled in the yard below, golden in the sun, arrogant as though the world had been built to watch him ride. The other knights around him looked like lesser reflections of a better thing.
But Loras was no slouch either. He had dominated again and again, and had already shown the city who had trained him.
The applause for him grew louder, especially from the Reach lords, though the North watched him with interest as well. He had been trained by Artos, and everyone in the North knew he was a ward of Lord Artos, with whom he shared a strong bond. That alone made his victories feel, in a way, like their own.
Artos watched him with a hard, measuring eye.
"He rides well. He will win," Robb said, sounding certain.
"He does," Artos replied. "He is a hard worker and has great instincts. That matters more than talent."
Robb glanced toward him, Amused "You sound proud."
"I am," Artos said simply.
The answer was so direct that Robb looked at him again, surprised despite himself.
Artos took another sip of wine. "I trained him. I would be ashamed if he made a poor showing. Come on, I have a reputation to maintain."
That won a soft laugh from Robb, and even a few others nearby looked amused.
Then the herald's voice rolled across the yard like thunder.
"Ser Loras Tyrell versus Ser Jaime Lannister!"
The lists shimmered beneath the warm afternoon sun. Thousands packed the stands, banners snapping in the breeze: the crimson lion of House Lannister, the golden rose of House Tyrell, and the black-and-grey sigil of the Demonwolf of House Stark of Sea Dragon Point. Knights in polished steel rode slowly into position, their destriers stamping the earth.
A herald's voice rang across the field.
"Ser Jaime Lannister! The Kingslayer!"
The western stands erupted into cheers. Jaime rode forward atop a magnificent stallion, his gilded armor gleaming so brightly that it seemed forged from sunlight itself. His white cloak flowed behind him, and his green eyes carried the confidence of a man who had unhorsed scores of knights.
Across the field came another roar.
"Ser Loras Tyrell! Knight of the Wolf!"
Loras entered upon a snow-white courser, draped in green and gold caparisons embroidered with a Sigil of the DemonWolf. Younger by nearly twenty years, handsome enough to make maidens sigh, he inclined his lance toward Jaime.
Jaime returned the gesture with the faintest smirk.
"So," he muttered beneath his helm, "better be ready for this, boy. I am coming either way."
The trumpets sounded.
The horses exploded forward.
Steel thundered against packed earth as both knights lowered their lances.
They met in the center.
Crack.
Wood burst into splinters against shining shields. Both men remained firmly seated as broken shafts flew high into the air.
The crowd roared.
Jaime wheeled his horse around with practiced ease.
"Strong seat," he admitted privately. "Better than most boys."
Fresh lances were handed up.
Again the signal came.
Again they charged.
This time Jaime aimed higher.
Loras shifted at the last heartbeat.
Jaime's lance glanced off the edge of the shield.
Loras struck squarely upon the lion emblazoned across Jaime's breast.
The impact rocked the Kingslayer.
His saddle creaked.
But Jaime's balance, perfected over decades, held.
Another pass
Still neither yielded.
The murmurs among the spectators grew louder.
Robb and Tyrion were both tense now, one having bet on his good brother and the other on his brother.
Loras smiled beneath his visor.
"That is a tough one. Very well, I need to put more strength into this."
The fourth lance felt heavier in his gauntlet.
The horses charged harder than before.
Both knights committed fully.
Loras leaned lower over his horse's neck.
Jaime sought the shoulder.
At the final instant, Loras changed the angle of his shield ever so slightly.
Jaime's lance glanced away.
Loras's struck perfectly beneath Jaime's shield rim.
The world lurched.
Jaime felt the force before he understood it.
His saddle twisted.
The girth slipped.
Horse and rider continued forward.
But Jaime did not.
The Kingslayer was thrown clear, crashing into the dirt amid shattered wood and a cloud of dust.
For one heartbeat, silence held the lists.
Then the field erupted.
The Tyrell and Demonwolf banners shook with deafening cheers.
"Ser Loras!"
"The Knight of the Wolf!"
The crowd rose as one while the herald lifted his voice high.
"The victor is… Ser Loras Tyrell!"
The cheers rolled across the tourney grounds like thunder, while Jaime Lannister watched with the faint smile of a knight who knew, despite the sting of defeat, that he had just crossed lances with greatness.
Loras himself looked thrilled by the win, and he turned toward the stands with a triumphant gesture toward his northern friends.
Robb smiled, the happiest of them all, and looked toward Lord Tyrion with an eager expression.
"My lord Tyrion, I hope you have the gold ready."
Lord Tyrion smiled, though it was not exactly a happy smile, more a thin and stinging one.
"Of course I will get your coins. After all, Lannisters always pay their debts."
Artos shook his head. "Aye, aye. We have heard that too many times already. Why not let me front it this time, and you may owe me a favor, Lord Tyrion?"
Tyrion smirked. "I do not know if I like owing a favor to the Demonwolf himself. I still rather value my little body and my life."
Artos laughed. "Do not worry, Lord Tyrion. I think you will like what I might ask of you. Why not meet me, and we will discuss it?"
Lord Tyrion looked confused, but pleased enough to agree.
"Of course, my lord."
Now Loras had reached the finals, with his last match.
THE FINALS
Against the infamous The Fucking Mountain himself.
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