Chapter Text
Morning returned to Ashford Meadow with the slow patience of summer.
Pale sunlight crept across the wide field, touching first the tops of the wooden stands and the banners above them before sliding down into the grass below. Dew clung stubbornly to the earth of the lists, gathering in the deep grooves left by charging hooves two days earlier. The scars of that first day’s jousting had not yet faded. Splintered lance shafts still lay stacked near the barrier where servants had piled them, their jagged ends pale against the dark soil.
For a little while, the field belonged only to the workers.
Stable boys led restless horses through the misty morning air, murmuring softly as they brushed sweat-stiffened coats and checked the buckles of saddles. Smiths had already begun their work beneath open awnings along the edge of the encampment. The steady ring of hammer against dented armor drifted across the meadow in slow, patient rhythms.
Yesterday had belonged to feasting, music, and drunken boasts in the shadow of Ashford Castle. But the quiet morning made it clear that the pause had only sharpened anticipation.
Today the champions would ride again.
As the sun climbed higher, the stillness of the field slowly dissolved. Merchants returned to their colorful stalls along the edges of the meadow, hanging ribbons and pouring the first cups of sweetwine for eager customers. Smallfolk from the surrounding villages crowded toward the stands, claiming their places early in hopes of a better view of the princes and the champions.
Voices carried easily in the growing crowd. Stories of the first day’s tilts had spread far beyond the lists during the night of celebration and the day that followed. Men spoke of shattered shields and thunderous charges, of Lyonel Baratheon’s laughter echoing across the field and Prince Valarr’s flawless seat in the saddle.
Yet again and again, the talk returned to the same rider: the Green Knight of Ashford
Near the picket lines, a pair of stable boys argued over the tale with great seriousness.
“He never lifted his visor,” one insisted.
“Never said a word either,” the other replied proudly. “Just rode and knocked them all down.”
“They say he’s cursed,” a third boy added, lowering his voice. “My brother swears the horse never touched the ground at all.”
The stories grew with each telling. By the time the sun had risen clear above the towers of Ashford Castle, the stands were already filling with spectators. The murmur of the gathering crowd rolled across the meadow like distant surf, rising and falling in waves of excitement.
Across the field, the knights were assembling.
Steel flashed in the morning light as squires fastened buckles and tightened straps. Lances were carried forward in bundles, their ash shafts straight and newly painted for the day’s tilts. Horses stamped and tossed their heads beneath the weight of armor, their breath rising in soft clouds as grooms soothed them with practiced hands.
Five champions would defend their titles that day.
Five defenders of Lady Ashford’s crown as Queen of Love and Beauty.
Among them sat the rider clad in green.
Joanna Waynwood held herself perfectly still in the saddle. The armor around her shoulders creaked softly as she shifted her grip on the reins, the familiar weight of the lance resting against her thigh. The green surcoat hung loose over the breastplate, its stitched wheel stirring faintly in the breeze.
Beneath her, Phaethon, her horse, stamped once against the ground, dark hide shining beneath the rising sun. Around her, the other champions spoke easily with their squires, raising visors to drink or laugh with friends calling from the stands.
Joanna had a squire as well, though the boy could hardly be called one. He was a stable lad from Ironoaks, barely old enough to shave and far more accustomed to brushing horses than tending a knight’s armor. He stood beside Phaethon now with an expression of fierce concentration, clutching the ash lance in both hands as though it were some sacred object.
He had not helped her into the armor—he would not have known where to begin, even if she had allowed it—and he had learned quickly that the Green Knight did not speak. So he waited, wide-eyed and silent, until the moment came to hand her the lance, none the wiser to the truth hidden beneath the helm.
She watched the lists.
Two days had passed since the first night of tilting, but the memory of it still burned quietly in her mind. The roar of the crowd. The shock of the lances striking. The strange silence she had carried with her through every victory.
The silence had become part of the story.
Across the meadow, the herald’s trumpet sounded. The note rang clear and bright against the morning air.
The crowd answered with a roar, and high above them, the royal tribune had begun to fill.
Prince Maekar Targaryen arrived first, striding into the royal tribune with the impatient air of a man who would have preferred a battlefield to a tourney ground. His pale hair caught the sunlight like polished silver as he took his seat, already scanning the lists with the hard, measuring gaze of a seasoned commander.
The prince looked in no mood for celebration.
Rumors had been drifting through the encampment since the first night — whispers among squires and servants that two of Maekar’s sons never arrived at Ashford after departing from Summerhall. No one seemed certain how much truth lay in the story, but the prince’s expression suggested a man who would rather be searching the countryside than watching boys splinter lances for sport.
A moment later his elder brother joined him. Prince Baelor Targaryen paused before sitting, his dark eyes drifting across the field below. The champions had begun to line their horses along the far side of the lists.
Helms lowered, and lances raised. Sunlight flashed along polished steel.
Baelor’s gaze lingered a moment on the knight clad in green.
She sat utterly still, never lifted her visor, and did not salute the crowd now shouting her name. The Green Knight of Ashford simply waited for the herald’s command.
Beside Baelor, Maekar gave a low snort.
“Let us see,” Maekar muttered, watching the green knight across the field, “whether the poet rides as well in daylight as he did under torchlight.”
Baelor’s gaze remained on the silent rider below. “Poets rarely sit a horse like that,” he said quietly.
The trumpet sounded again, and the jousting began.
Today the field belonged not to the champions alone, but to those who dared challenge them. The five defenders of Lady Ashford’s crown waited along the far end of the lists, their horses stamping impatiently beneath the brightening sun. Opposite them the challengers gathered in a loose line, shields bright with the colors of houses great and small. Some rode with the easy confidence of seasoned knights. Others held their lances a little too tightly, eyes fixed upon the barrier as though already imagining the fall.
The herald moved slowly along the line, his voice carrying across the field as he called each name.
“Whom will you challenge?” he asked loudly.
A young knight in the silver and green of the Reach urged his horse forward, lowering his lance toward one of the champions—Androw Ashford, son of Lord Ashford, who had held his place since the first night’s tilts. The crowd stirred as the two riders took their places.
The trumpet sounded. Hooves thundered.
The first lance shattered cleanly against a shield, scattering splinters across the dirt of the lists. The second pass sent the challenger tumbling hard into the churned earth, his horse galloping riderless down the barrier before squires hurried to seize its reins.
Androw Ashford remained champion for now.
Another challenger came forward. Then another.
The rhythm of the tilts settled quickly into its familiar cadence—charge, crack, splinter, roar. Lances broke like dry branches beneath the impact, while the crowd shouted wagers and encouragement from the stands.
High above them, the royal tribune watched.
Prince Maekar followed each tilt with the hard eye of a seasoned warrior, judging balance, posture, and the angle of every strike. Beside him, Baelor’s gaze moved more slowly across the lists, lingering not on the fallen knights but on the riders who remained.
The champions held their ground at first.
Until the Laughing Storm rode forward. Lyonel Baratheon did not bother with ceremony. He urged his great black stallion into the lists with a grin wide enough to be seen even from the stands. His opponent that morning was Leo Tyrell, one of the five champions who had defended Lady Ashford’s crown since the opening night.
The crowd leaned forward as the two men took their places.
Stormlands against Reach.
The trumpet sounded. Their horses charged like thunder.
The first tilt broke both lances to splinters, neither rider yielding an inch. The second ended differently. Lyonel’s strike landed square and brutal against Tyrell’s shield. The force of it tore the younger man clean from the saddle and sent him crashing into the dust of the lists.
The stands erupted in cheers.
Leo Tyrell lay groaning while squires rushed forward, and Lyonel Baratheon wheeled his horse in a wide circle, laughing loudly enough for half the meadow to hear.
“We have a new champion!” someone shouted from the crowd.
The herald’s voice rang out soon after, naming the new champion of Lady Ashford.
The Laughing Storm.
One by one the challengers rode. Some left the field bruised but upright. Others were carried away with broken pride and dented armor. Through the morning, few found the skill—or the luck—to unseat the champions. Aside from Lyonel Baratheon’s thunderous victory over Leo Tyrell, the champions held their places stubbornly.
And then it was the Green Knight’s turn.
Joanna had been aware of the challenger long before he lowered his lance toward her.
The man wore the blue falcon of some minor Vale house upon his shield, though his armor bore the scars of many previous tilts. He rode with the confidence of a knight who had broken more than a few lances in his life.
Joanna allowed herself a moment to try to empty her mind and took her place at the far end of the barrier. Her hands moved automatically through the motions—settling the reins, lowering the lance, adjusting the weight of her shield against her shoulder.
But her mind was elsewhere. She could still hear her father’s voice from the night before.
My daughter must have been frightened if a knight was troubling her so.
And Baelor’s calm reply.
The blow was well earned.
Joanna shifted slightly in the saddle. Across the lists the challenger dipped his lance. Beyond him, in the royal tribune, she could feel the prince’s gaze again. It was an absurd thought. From this distance he could hardly distinguish one armored rider from another, and yet the memory of those dark eyes studying her in the courtyard refused to fade.
Tonight, she thought grimly. Tonight she would sit across a table from him again. The thought unsettled her far more than the lance now aimed at her chest.
The trumpet sounded.
Phaethon surged forward beneath her.
The first tilt came fast.
The challenger’s lance struck her shield hard enough to jolt her arm back, splintering into fragments against the painted wood. Joanna’s own strike glanced across the man’s breastplate with a crack of ash wood, neither rider losing their seat.
They circled.
Another lance.
Another charge.
This time Joanna focused.
The distraction slipped away as the familiar rhythm of the lists returned—the thunder of hooves, the narrowing line of the barrier, the moment where the world reduced itself to lance, shield, and timing.
Their lances met with a sharp crack.
The challenger wavered. Then he fell. The man struck the earth with a heavy thud while his horse galloped onward without him. Joanna reined Phaethon in smoothly, guiding the stallion into a tight circle as the crowd burst into cheers.
“Green Knight!” someone shouted from the stands.
Others took it up. “The Green Knight!”
Joanna did not raise her visor. Did not acknowledge the roar rising from the crowd. She simply rode back to her place among the champions and waited again.
But even through the iron bars of her helm, she could feel the weight of Baelor Targaryen’s gaze resting somewhere upon her.
Above the field, the royal tribune remained intent. Maekar watched with growing impatience, fingers drumming once against the arm of his chair. Beside him, Baelor leaned slightly forward, his attention fixed on the green rider returning calmly to her place among the champions.
Maekar noticed where his brother’s attention lingered.
Baelor stood with one hand resting against the wooden railing of the royal tribune, his gaze fixed upon the lists below. The sunlight flashed across the armor of the riders moving in the field, but his eyes remained on a single figure among them.
Maekar leaned back in his chair, following his brother’s gaze before the corner of his mouth curled. “You’re staring again,” he said.
Baelor did not immediately answer. The breeze shifted across the meadow, stirring banners above the stands as the chant of the smallfolk rolled faintly through the air.
Maekar’s smile sharpened. “You know,” he said lazily, “I’d wager you’d rather be staring at the sister.”
Baelor finally glanced sideways. “The sister?”
“The Waynwood girl,” Maekar replied. “Joanna.” He studied his brother with open amusement. “You must have found her at least a little interesting yesterday.”
Baelor’s expression remained composed, though his fingers paused briefly against the arm of the chair.
For the briefest moment, an image returned unbidden to his mind — copper curls lit by torchlight in the courtyard, sharp green-brown eyes glaring up at a drunken knight, the sudden crack of her fist against bone.
He had replayed the moment more than once since. What, exactly, had caught his attention about her? The defiance, lack of fear, or simply the fact that she had not looked at him the way the other ladies did.
Baelor exhaled quietly. “She defended herself from a drunk knight,” he said at last. “That hardly makes her remarkable.”
Maekar snorted. “You’re lying,” he said bluntly, “and you’re terrible at it.” He gestured lazily toward the stands where dozens of noble ladies sat arranged in careful clusters, their silks bright beneath the summer sun. “Most of them would have screamed,” Maekar continued. “Or fainted. Or waited for someone else to do the hitting.” His grin widened. “Instead she broke his nose.” He shrugged. “I’d call that interesting.”
Baelor allowed the faintest trace of a smile. “You seemed amused enough yourself.”
“Of course I was amused,” Maekar said. “A knight getting beat up by a lady is the most entertaining thing that’s happened at this tourney.” He leaned forward slightly now, lowering his voice. “And don’t pretend that dinner invitation was only about courtesy.”
Baelor’s gaze drifted back toward the field.
Maekar’s grin widened further. “I know you well enough, brother. You don’t invite minor Vale lords and their daughters to dine with the heir to the Iron Throne for nothing.”
Baelor rested his forearms lightly against the railing. “It seemed a fitting way to smooth the matter with Lord Ashford,” he said.
“Yes, yes,” Maekar replied dismissively. “Very noble.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the stands where ambitious mothers hovered near their daughters like hawks circling prey. “But I’d wager there was more than one reason.” His eyes gleamed. “Perhaps her red hair caught your attention.”
Baelor did not take the bait. “The sister is not even here,” he said simply.
“No,” Maekar agreed. His gaze followed Baelor’s downward again toward the lists. “Instead we have the poet.”
Below them the Green Knight waited beside the barrier, unmoving even as the chant of the crowd rolled once more through the stands.
“Green Knight! Green Knight!”
The rider did not respond.
Maekar snorted softly. “Gods help us,” he muttered. “They’ve fallen in love with him.”
Baelor watched the figure below.
“He is intriguing.” Baelor’s voice remained calm. “Most young knights would be bowing to the ladies by now. Waving their lance. Trying to win applause.”
The Green Knight did none of those things.
Maekar studied the figure more carefully now, his eyes narrowing slightly as if seeing something he had missed before.
“Hm.”
“For a man who could hardly stop talking at supper,” Baelor continued quietly, “he grows remarkably silent once the armor is on.”
Maekar grunted.
“Perhaps the helmet frightens the poetry out of him.”
Before either of them could say more, another movement at the far edge of the field drew the attention of the crowd.
The murmuring began first. A ripple of unease passed through the stands as a new rider approached the lists, his armor catching the sunlight like a blade.
Prince Aerion Targaryen rode forward. The mood of the tourney shifted almost immediately. Where Lyonel Baratheon had drawn laughter and cheers, Aerion’s arrival produced something quieter. The cheers faltered, replaced by uncertain murmurs as people leaned forward in their seats.
Aerion’s armor gleamed black beneath the morning sun, chased with narrow lines of red enamel that twisted like flames along the edges of his breastplate. His helm bore the dragon crest of House Targaryen, its scales sweeping backward in sharp curves that gave the prince a predatory silhouette even from a distance. It gave him the look of a grinning skull from a distance.
His horse was as striking as its rider. A tall, pale stallion with a mane the color of fresh-spilled blood, stamping impatiently as Aerion guided it toward the challengers’ line.
The prince did not acknowledge the crowd, he rode as though the field belonged to him. In the stands, people shifted uneasily. Some remembered the stories. Prince Aerion Brightflame had a reputation that followed him wherever he rode, and it was not a reputation that inspired comfort.
Even the herald’s voice seemed to hesitate slightly as the prince approached. “Prince Aerion Targaryen,” the man called, forcing the words loudly across the lists. “Who do you name as your challenge?”
For a moment Aerion said nothing. He guided his horse slowly along the barrier, letting his gaze pass lazily over the line of champions waiting at the far end.
One by one he studied them. The Laughing Storm sat easily in the saddle, still grinning from his earlier victory. Another champion adjusted the grip on his lance, watching the prince warily through the bars of his helm.
And then Aerion’s gaze stopped.
On the knight clad in green.
Joanna felt it immediately.
Across the distance separating them, the prince’s pale eyes fixed on her like the point of a spear. For a heartbeat, the entire field seemed to hold its breath.
Somewhere behind her, a murmur rippled through the stands. “The Green Knight,” someone whispered.
Near the center of the crowd, Lord Edric Waynwood had risen halfway from his seat, his face flushed with excitement as he leaned forward to see the exchange more clearly. “My son,” he murmured proudly to the man beside him. “Look there—he’s chosen Wallace.”
Aerion finally raised his lance.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The tip of it lowered toward the green rider across the field. A stir swept through the crowd like wind through tall grass.
Even from the tribune, Maekar barked a short laugh. “Well,” he said, folding his arms. “Your poet is about to earn his verse.”
Beside him, Baelor did not laugh. His gaze remained fixed on the Green Knight of Ashford as the herald’s voice rang across the field once more. “Prince Aerion Targaryen challenges Ser Wallace Waynwood of Ironoaks!”
The roar that followed rolled across Ashford Meadow like thunder.
For a moment the field dissolved into noise. Voices rose from every corner of the stands as the crowd leaned forward to see the match more clearly. Word of the challenge spread quickly along the benches, passed from mouth to mouth until even those seated far from the lists understood what had happened.
“The prince chose the Green Knight!”
“Brightflame against the Vale boy!”
A dozen opinions followed at once.
Some laughed outright. “Aerion picked the greenest of them,” one man declared loudly. “Easy glory for a prince.”
Others shook their heads. “Not so easy,” someone else replied. “You saw what that knight did two nights ago.”
But the louder voices spoke with the certainty of men who trusted bloodlines more than rumor.
“He’s a Targaryen.”
“That boy’s finished.”
“Prince Aerion’s ridden since he could walk.”
Below the stands, the squires were already moving.
Fresh lances were carried forward. Shields were tightened into place. Horses snorted and stamped as they led them into position.
Joanna did not hear most of it.
She watched Aerion.
The prince had taken his place at the far end of the lists now, his armor gleaming like a coal in the bright morning sun. Even from this distance she could see the way he sat his horse—straight-backed, utterly confident, as though the outcome of the tilt had already been decided.
She adjusted her grip on the reins.
This one mattered. Not simply because Aerion was a prince — though defeating a Targaryen before half the realm would give House Waynwood a tale that would be told for generations.
But because of who watched. High above the lists, in the royal tribune, Baelor Targaryen had not taken his eyes from the field. Even through the narrow slit of her visor she could feel that attention resting somewhere upon her.
Her stomach tightened slightly.
Focus.
The lance felt heavier now as the stableboy placed it in her gauntleted hand. The ash shaft was smooth beneath her fingers, the weight familiar and grounding.
Across the barrier, Aerion lowered his own lance with slow deliberation. Phaethon shifted beneath her, sensing the tension running through her body. Joanna leaned forward slightly in the saddle, murmuring softly to the horse as she settled the shield against her shoulder.
The lists stretched before her in a narrow corridor of packed earth and sunlit dust.
At the far end, Aerion waited.
The herald raised his arm. “Champions ready!”
The crowd quieted, anticipation spreading through the stands like a held breath.
Joanna lowered her lance. Across the barrier, Aerion did the same.
For a heartbeat the field was perfectly still.
Then the trumpet sounded.
Both horses surged forward.
The ground thundered beneath Phaethon’s hooves as Joanna drove him down the lists. The world narrowed instantly—the cheering crowd, the banners, the bright summer sky all collapsing into a single line between her lance and the dragon-crested helm charging toward her.
Aerion came fast. Faster than any challenger she had faced that morning. His horse devoured the distance with long, powerful strides, dark and red armor flashing with every movement.
Joanna held her line.
The barrier rushed past at her right.
The point of Aerion’s lance grew larger in her vision.
Closer.
Closer—
The impact came like a hammer.
Aerion’s lance struck her shield with brutal force, the blow shuddering through her arm and shoulder as the wood splintered apart. For an instant the world lurched sideways beneath her, Phaethon stumbling half a step as the shock traveled through both horse and rider.
Joanna’s own lance shattered against Aerion’s breastplate a heartbeat later, the fragments exploding into splinters that scattered across the lists.
Neither rider fell.
The crowd roared again. At the far end of the barrier both horses slowed, circling back as squires rushed forward with fresh lances.
Joanna flexed her fingers once inside the gauntlet. Her arm already throbbed where the prince’s strike had landed. Across the field Aerion turned his horse with effortless confidence, as though the first pass had been nothing more than a warm-up.
Joanna took a deep breath and reached for the next lance.
This one counts, she reminded herself. More than any other.
Joanna settled the lance beneath her arm as the squire hurried away. The ash shaft felt solid and familiar in her grip, though the shock of the first strike still hummed faintly through her shoulder.
Across the barrier, Aerion Brightflame turned his horse with slow, easy confidence.
He did not look winded. Did not seem surprised. If anything, the prince appeared almost amused. He lowered his fresh lance with a careless grace that drew another murmur from the crowd.
Joanna watched him carefully now. The first tilt had told her enough. Aerion rode hard—harder than most men would dare in a tournament tilt. His strength lay not in patience but in force, driving the point of the lance like a spear meant for war.
If she met him head-on again, the second pass might unseat her. She shifted slightly in the saddle, guiding Phaethon a fraction closer to the barrier.
Just enough. Across the field, Aerion dipped his helm.
The trumpet sounded again.
Both horses leapt forward.
The ground rushed beneath them in a blur of pounding hooves and rising dust. Joanna held the line of the barrier tightly to her right, keeping the horse angled just enough to narrow the space between them.
Aerion came like a storm.
His lance struck first. The impact slammed into her shield with brutal force, harder than the first tilt, driving the breath from her chest as wood exploded against painted oak.
But the angle was wrong.
The prince’s strike slid across the curve of the shield instead of biting deep.
Joanna’s lance found its mark an instant later. The ash shaft struck square against Aerion’s chestplate with a crack that echoed across the lists. The prince rocked backward in the saddle, his horse stumbling half a step as the blow landed.
But he did not fall.
The two riders thundered past one another, splintered wood scattering across the dirt as the crowd roared its approval. At the end of the lists Joanna pulled Phaethon around sharply, her arm already aching from the prince’s strength. The second lance had broken cleanly in her grip.
Across the field, Aerion wheeled his own horse with visible irritation. The crowd sensed it. Cheers and laughter rolled through the stands as squires rushed forward with fresh lances.
“Again!” someone shouted.
“Green Knight!”
Joanna flexed her fingers once inside the gauntlet as the next lance was placed into her hand. Two passes. Neither rider down. Her arm throbbed now where the shield had taken the brunt of Aerion’s strikes.
Across the barrier the prince waited. This time he did not seem amused. Joanna could feel it even from a distance—the sharp focus in the way he leaned forward slightly in the saddle.
He wanted the next tilt badly.
She exhaled slowly. This would be the one.
The herald raised his arm once more. “Third tilt!”
The trumpet rang out across Ashford Meadow.
Phaethon surged forward. Joanna kept the horse tight to the barrier again, forcing the narrow line she had chosen in the second pass. The wind tore at the edge of her surcoat as the distance between them vanished in a heartbeat.
Aerion drove his horse straight down the center of the lists, his lance lowering with brutal intent.
Closer.
Closer—
The prince’s strike slammed into her shield like a hammer blow. For a terrifying instant Joanna felt the saddle slip beneath her as the impact jolted through her entire body. Phaethon staggered a step, hooves scraping hard against the packed earth.
Her vision lurched.
But she held the seat.
Her own lance struck a heartbeat later. The ash shaft caught Aerion just beneath the edge of his shield, where the armor met the curve of his breastplate.
The point landed perfectly.
The prince’s balance broke. Aerion’s body twisted violently in the saddle before the momentum of the charge tore him loose entirely. He crashed to the ground in a spray of dust and splintered wood.
Phaethon stumbled again beneath her before regaining his footing, the Stallion snorting sharply as she hauled the reins back and steadied him.
For a moment she thought she might fall after all. Then the horse recovered, and Aerion Brightflame lay in the dirt behind her.
For a heartbeat the entire meadow seemed to forget how to breathe.
Then the sound came. It began as a single shout somewhere among the lower benches, then another, and another, until the noise swelled suddenly into a thunderous roar that rolled across Ashford Meadow. Thousands of voices rose together, cheering, laughing, stamping their feet against the wooden stands as the truth of the moment spread through the crowd.
“The Green Knight!”
“Waynwood!”
“Did you see it?”
Joanna steadied Phaethon with a firm pull on the reins, guiding the stallion into a tight circle as dust still hung in the air behind them. The horse’s flanks trembled beneath the saddle, breath steaming faintly as it snorted and tossed its armored head.
At the center of the field the herald stepped forward quickly, raising his staff high above his head as the crowd’s excitement threatened to drown him out. “The champion holds!” he shouted, voice ringing across the lists. “Ser Wallace Waynwood of Ironoaks!”
The cheer that followed seemed to shake the stands themselves.
Above the field, in the royal tribune, Prince Maekar Targaryen leaned slightly forward in his seat.
Beside him Baelor had not moved. His gaze followed the Green Knight carefully as she guided her horse away from the barrier, the rider’s posture steady despite the violence of the tilt.
For a brief moment Baelor turned his head. Maekar met his brother’s eyes.
It was only a glance. But Maekar’s mouth twitched slightly at one corner before he looked back toward the field again.
Across the stands Lord Edric Waynwood had risen completely to his feet now, clutching the railing before him with both hands as pride flushed bright across his face. “My son!” he exclaimed breathlessly to the men seated beside him. “By the gods, did you see that?”
Several nearby spectators clapped him on the back in congratulations while others craned their necks to look down toward the lists.
“A prince unhorsed!”
“By a Vale boy!”
“Seven save us, the Green Knight did it again!”
But on the field itself the moment had already begun to sour.
Aerion Brightflame pushed himself upright from the churned earth, brushing dust from the polished plates of his armor with quick, angry movements. His horse had been caught by a squire near the end of the lists, stamping nervously as the noise of the crowd grew louder.
The prince stood still for a moment, chest rising sharply beneath the silver breastplate.
Then he turned, pale eyes fixing on the Green Knight.
For a moment the prince simply stood there, chest rising and falling beneath the silver breastplate.
Then he turned. His pale eyes fixed upon the Green Knight.
“This was not a fair tilt!” Aerion shouted.
The cheering faltered. Joanna had begun guiding Phaethon toward the edge of the field when the prince’s voice carried across the lists.
“A dragon does not fall to some lesser knight!” Aerion continued, his anger ringing across the meadow. “This field was crooked — the horse stumbled — something foul has been done here!”
The murmuring spread quickly through the stands. Some laughed outright.
Others answered with jeers. “You fell clean!”
“Ride better next time!”
But Aerion was no longer listening. His hand dropped to the sword at his hip. Steel flashed as the blade slid free of its scabbard. Gasps broke from the stands.
Above the field, the royal tribune had grown very still.
Baelor’s hands rested on the railing before him now, his fingers tightening slightly against the polished wood as he watched his nephew standing in the dust below.
Beside him, Maekar leaned back slowly in his chair. His eyes moved from Aerion… to the Green Knight guiding her horse calmly away from the center of the field.
For a moment the prince studied the rider in silence. Then Maekar’s jaw shifted faintly, as though conceding something to himself.
He said nothing. Baelor glanced sideways only once. Maekar met the look, his eyes filled with disappointment and anger.
Below them, Aerion pointed his sword toward the Green Knight. “You will face me again!” he declared. “Here and now!”
For a heartbeat the field seemed stunned into silence. For a moment no one moved.
Then the crowd answered. The cheers turned to angry shouting.
“Shame!”
“He lost!”
“Put the blade away!”
A small stone struck the dirt near Aerion’s boots, kicked loose from somewhere among the lower benches.
Another followed.
Then several more.
Soon gravel and loose clumps of earth were flying from the stands, thrown by angry hands as the mood of the crowd shifted from excitement to open fury. Some of the smallfolk pressed forward against the barriers, shouting down toward the prince in the lists. Their anger ran deeper than a single tilt. The people of the realm had long memories where dragons were concerned, and not all of them were fond ones.
Aerion’s face twisted with fury as the first stones struck his armor with hollow clinks.
Above the field the royal guards were already moving. White cloaks appeared along the steps of the tribune as members of the Kingsguard descended quickly toward the lists. Ashford’s own guards hurried from the edges of the field, forcing their way between the barriers as they shouted for the crowd to stand back.
“Back from the rails!”
“Stand back!”
The herald moved forward again, his movements skittish beneath the growing uproar as he raised his staff once more. “The tilts are done!” he shouted. “The lists are closed for the day!”
The words spread slowly through the chaos. One by one the squires began leading horses away from the barrier while guards pushed the swelling crowd back from the edges of the field.
Aerion stood in the center of the lists a moment longer, sword still clenched in his hand as the uproar raged around him.
And through it all, the Green Knight of Ashford turned her horse quietly away from the field while the roar of the crowd followed behind her like thunder.
The noise lingered behind her long after the lists had disappeared from sight.
Phaethon carried her steadily across the churned grass of Ashford Meadow, the great stallion’s breath coming heavy and warm beneath the steel of her greaves. Each stride sent a dull ache through Joanna’s body, the echo of Aerion’s lance still ringing in her shield arm.
Only now did she realize how hard her heart was beating.
The cheers of the crowd drifted faintly behind her, broken by the distant shouts of guards and heralds trying to bring order back to the field. Somewhere a trumpet sounded again, though its call was swallowed quickly by the restless noise of thousands of voices.
Joanna barely heard it.
Sweat ran down the side of her face beneath the helmet, tickling along her jaw where it gathered at her chin before dripping onto the gorget of her armor. The air inside the helm felt stifling now, thick with the smell of leather, steel, and the sharp copper tang of adrenaline.
She had done it. Seven hells… she had unhorsed a prince. The thought returned again and again, each time making her stomach tighten in disbelief. Aerion Brightflame. A Targaryen.
And then the sword.
Joanna swallowed, guiding Phaethon between rows of brightly colored pavilions as the noise of the meadow slowly faded into the quieter hum of the encampment. Knights were already talking excitedly outside their tents, the story spreading like wildfire through the field.
She lowered her head slightly as she rode past them, the visor of her helm hiding her face as well as it always had.
The small cluster of Waynwood tents stood near the outer edge of the encampment, where the banners were fewer and the pavilions smaller. The broken wheel of her house hung limply above the largest tent, stirring faintly in the warm afternoon wind.
Joanna dismounted stiffly, her legs trembling slightly when her boots struck the ground.
A stableboy hurried forward to take Phaethon’s reins, eyes wide with excitement.
“My lord—did you—”
Joanna raised a gauntleted hand before the boy could finish, already pushing past the tent flap. Inside, the air felt dim and blessedly quiet.
Wallace was on his feet before she had taken two steps. “Well?” he demanded. He had clearly been pacing the small space, his doublet half-buttoned and his copper hair in complete disarray. A cup of wine sat forgotten on the table beside him.
Joanna tore the helm from her head with a sharp gasp of air. Copper curls spilled free instantly, damp with sweat as she dragged the gorget loose from her neck.
“Gods,” she muttered, shaking her head once as the cooler air touched her skin.
The helm clattered onto the small table beside her, and Joanna sucked in a long breath as if she had been half-drowned inside the thing. Sweat had soaked the padding beneath it, strands of copper hair clinging damply to her temples and the back of her neck.
She lifted her right arm—and immediately winced.
“Seven hells,” she groaned, rolling her shoulder stiffly. The muscle throbbed where the lance had struck her shield, the impact still echoing through bone and sinew. “That insane dragon prince rides like he’s trying to kill someone.”
Wallace stared at her as though she had just grown a second head. “You jousted with Aerion Brightflame?” he said, his jaw dropping. “You mean the Aerion?”
Joanna blinked slowly, as if only now remembering that particular detail. “Yes,” she said at last.
Wallace stared. “You unhorsed him?”
“Yes, Wallace,” she replied dryly. “That tends to happen when someone falls off their horse.”
Wallace paced two steps across the tent before turning back again, running both hands through his hair. “Do you have any idea what it sounded like out there?” he demanded. “The entire meadow was shouting. I thought someone had been killed.”
Joanna tugged irritably at the leather strap beneath her shoulder plates. “Someone very nearly was,” she muttered. The buckle refused to move. She hissed under her breath and wrenched harder until the clasp finally snapped loose. The steel slid from her shoulder with a dull clang against the table.
Wallace’s eyes were still wide.
“I couldn’t see anything from here,” he said, pacing again. “Just dust and noise and people screaming Green Knight like they’d all lost their minds.”
Joanna flexed her aching arm carefully and grimaced. “Next time the prince wishes to joust, you can ride him yourself,” she muttered, annoyed.
Wallace stopped pacing immediately. “Next time?” he repeated faintly.
Joanna didn’t look at him, dragging off one gauntlet and then the other. Her fingers were stiff and tingling from the repeated shock of the lances.
“Joanna,” Wallace said slowly, “that was a prince.”
“Yes.”
“A prince who now believes I knocked him into the dirt,” he whispered, terrified.
She paused.
Wallace spread his hands helplessly. “If that lunatic decides he wants revenge,” he continued, “he will not come looking for you. He will come looking for me.”
Joanna finally glanced up at him. “Well,” she said flatly, “try not to ride into any lists with him.”
Wallace groaned. “You are enjoying this far too much.”
Joanna ignored him, working the stiff fingers of her injured arm as the dull ache continued to spread through her shoulder. “And then,” she added almost absently, “he drew a sword.”
The breastplate slipped from her shoulders a moment later, striking the wooden table with a heavy metallic thud.
Wallace froze mid-step. “He what?”
“Sword,” Joanna repeated, shaking out her sore hand before rubbing her knuckles with the heel of her palm. “Right there in the lists. Claimed it wasn’t fair.”
Wallace stared at her in disbelief. “You are joking.”
“I wish I were.”
The leather straps at the back of the armor had begun sticking to the sweat-soaked linen of her tunic, and Joanna fumbled with them impatiently, her injured arm protesting every movement.
“Help me with this,” she said sharply, turning her back toward him.
Wallace hurried forward at once, still looking faintly horrified as he worked his fingers beneath the straps of the backplate. “You fought a man who draws swords at tournaments,” he said slowly. “And you sound annoyed.”
“I am annoyed,” Joanna replied. The straps loosened one by one under Wallace’s fingers.
“He hit like a battering ram,” she continued, rotating her shoulder carefully again.
“And the crowd?” Wallace asked cautiously as he worked the final buckle free. He had to know how they perceived him now.
“Threw stones.”
Wallace stopped. “Stones?”
Joanna rolled her eyes. “Small ones.”
The last strap gave way and the backplate slid loose, Wallace catching the heavy steel before it could crash to the floor. He set it beside the rest of the armor with a dull clatter.
For a moment neither of them spoke. Joanna dragged a hand through her damp hair, pushing the curls back from her face as she tried to slow the pounding of her pulse.
Her entire body still hummed with the aftershock of the tilt—the thunder of hooves, the crack of the lance, the moment the prince had fallen from the saddle. And somewhere beneath it all, the realization that half the realm had just watched her do it.
Wallace was still staring at her.
“You unhorsed a Targaryen,” he said slowly, repeating the sentence, as if testing the words to see if they were real.
Joanna rolled her shoulder again and grimaced. The dull ache had spread now from her arm into the muscles along her back, every movement reminding her just how hard Aerion’s lance had struck.
“He sat poorly,” she muttered.
Wallace blinked. “He sat—” He stopped, clearly unsure whether she was joking. “Joanna!”
She ignored him, tugging the damp sleeve of her tunic away from the angry red mark forming beneath her shoulder where the shield had taken the blow.
“Joanna,” Wallace repeated, more carefully now. “Do you remember who we are dining with tonight?”
She reached for the water pitcher on the small table and poured herself a cup with steady hands, though the cup rattled faintly against the wood. “Yes.”
Wallace watched her drink, his expression tightening. “Do you?”
Joanna lowered the cup and set it aside. “Yes, Wallace.”
He began pacing again, boots thudding softly against the packed earth floor of the tent. “You knocked Prince Aerion Brightflame into the dirt,” he said, gesturing wildly toward the open tent flap as though the entire meadow might be standing just outside listening. “Aerion Brightflame, who happens to be Prince Maekar’s son.”
Joanna loosened another buckle and dropped the leather strap against the table with a dull slap. “I noticed.”
“And Prince Maekar,” Wallace continued, dragging both hands through his copper hair, “is the brother of the man who invited us to dinner.”
“Yes.”
“And that man,” Wallace said, stopping abruptly in front of her and pointing toward the tent entrance as if Baelor himself might step through it at any moment, “is the heir to the Iron Throne.”
Joanna rubbed slowly at the sore muscle beneath her collarbone. “You are repeating yourself.”
Wallace stared at her the way a man might stare at a wildfire approaching his house. “We are going to sit at a table tonight,” he said carefully, “with the uncle of the man you just humiliated in front of half the realm.”
Joanna picked up one of the discarded gauntlets and tossed it onto the growing pile of armor. The metal struck the breastplate with a hollow clang.
“I did not humiliate him,” she said mildly.
“You unhorsed him.”
“That happens at tournaments.”
“He drew a sword!”
“Yes.”
Wallace dragged a hand down his face, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of the entire situation had finally caught up with him. “And everyone believes it was me,” he said miserably.
Joanna paused.
Wallace pointed helplessly at his own chest. “Do you have any idea what this means for me?” he continued. “If that mad prince decides he wants revenge, he will not come looking for you. He will come looking for the man whose name the herald shouted.”
Joanna leaned her hip against the table, stretching her aching arm slowly as the stiffness settled deeper into the muscle. “Well,” she said, “try not to provoke him at supper.”
Wallace made a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and despair. “And my marriage prospects,” he muttered, beginning to pace again. “Gods above, what lord will give his daughter to the man who knocked a Targaryen prince into the dirt?”
Joanna allowed herself the faintest smirk. “I thought that would improve your reputation.”
Wallace looked at her in pure disbelief. “This is not amusing.”
Joanna did not answer at once.
Her attention had drifted instead to the small heap of armor scattered across the table. The green surcoat lay draped over the steel like a fallen banner, the broken wheel of House Waynwood stitched across the cloth in fading gold thread.
Outside, the distant noise of the tourney grounds still rolled faintly through the warm afternoon air. Shouts. Laughter. The restless movement of thousands of people carrying the story across the meadow.
The Green Knight had unhorsed a prince.
Joanna rubbed absently at the sore knuckles of her right hand. For reasons she could not quite name, her stomach felt strangely tight. Perhaps it was Wallace’s relentless worrying. Perhaps it was the thought of sitting across a table from two Targaryen princes before the evening was done. Or perhaps it was simply the memory of a pair of dark eyes watching the lists from the tribune above.
Joanna frowned faintly at the thought and pushed it aside.
Wallace, meanwhile, had resumed pacing, muttering under his breath about offended princes and ruined marriage prospects.
Joanna straightened and reached for the pitcher again, pouring water into the same cup he had used before. She held it out toward him.
“Drink,” she said.
Wallace stopped pacing long enough to stare at her. “You nearly started a war.”
“It was a tournament,” Joanna replied.
He accepted the cup reluctantly. “And if Prince Aerion decides he wants revenge?”
Joanna shrugged one shoulder. “Then he will have to wait in line behind everyone else who has lost a tilt.”
Wallace looked unconvinced.
She gave him a small, crooked smile. “Besides,” she added, nodding toward the armor on the table, “as far as the realm is concerned, you were magnificent.”
That earned the faintest, reluctant huff of laughter from him. Joanna turned back to the armor, gathering the green surcoat in her hands and folding it carefully over the steel. For a moment her fingers lingered on the embroidered wheel.
Then she set it aside and reached for the next buckle, already thinking of the far more complicated battle awaiting them that evening.
Dinner.