The first event of the tourney was the joust.
The competition took place on the tournament grounds just outside the Dragonpit, a long, flat field of churned earth enclosed by banners and bleachers. A sturdy wooden barrier ran down the center of the tilting lane, ensuring the mounted knights charged straight and true toward one another.
Each knight, fully clad in shining plate and heraldic cloaks, held a large concave shield in his left hand and a tourney lance in his right. The butt of the lance was wedged under the arm to anchor it firmly—a technique essential to delivering powerful strikes.
In truth, lances used on the battlefield were very different—shorter, thicker, and built to kill. They were solid and heavier, meant for crashing through ranks of infantry or smashing enemy riders from their saddles. Tourney lances, on the other hand, were long, hollow, and meant to splinter on impact to reduce serious injuries.
Of course, the lances wielded by the famed winged knights of the Vale were also hollow—designed for speed and reach against lighter targets like brigands and unarmored levies. But when facing armored infantry, even the Vale's knights would revert to shorter, sturdier weapons.
Each pass in the joust required a new lance, as they shattered easily by design. One lance, one strike—whether it hit or missed, it was discarded for the next.
Nearly a hundred knights and highborn lords from across Westeros had entered the lists. Tourneys were costly, and only men of noble blood—or those backed by patrons—could afford the arms, armor, horses, and squires needed for the joust. Commoners, hedge knights, and sellswords usually gravitated toward the archery contests or the melee, where the coin prize was still rich, and the entry bar lower.
By tradition, tournaments during the Targaryen dynasty had entry fees. But King Robert Baratheon—ever the generous and jovial monarch—waived all fees for this tourney and even increased the champion's prize purse to an astounding sum of tens of thousands of gold dragons.
He'd also ordered that the crown pay for competitors' travel, food, and lodging. Subordinates under Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, handled the logistics. This extravagance was typical of Robert's reign—lavish and symbolic, even as it drained the royal treasury.
Now, the first king of House Baratheon, who had burned through over six million gold dragons in fifteen years—squandering the Targaryens' hoarded fortune of three centuries—sat in the high dais flanked by the great and powerful of Westeros.
The royal box was crowded: Queen Cersei Lannister sat beneath a sunshade beside her brother Jaime, gleaming in gilded armor; Renly Baratheon, Master of Laws and darling of the court, sat laughing with Ser Loras Tyrell; Lord Varys, Grand Maester Pycelle, and Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard completed the group. Sansa Stark, daughter of the newly appointed Hand, Lord Eddard Stark, watched wide-eyed from beside the queen.
Below them, thousands of smallfolk crowded the opposite stands, jostling for space, cheering for their favored knights, and placing hopeful bets with coin they could ill afford to lose.
It had been over a year since the last major tournament—the tourney for Prince Joffrey's twelfth name day. The biggest surprise then had been Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, whose green cloak and gleaming silver armor were embroidered with a hundred real roses. He had unseated the Kingslayer himself with a single devastating tilt, making his name known from the Arbor to the Dreadfort.
This year, the crowds murmured different names, placing their hopes on skilled veterans and famous sons. But among the sea of steel and sigils, one rider captured every eye—a towering red warhorse, plated in golden barding, with a rider just as striking.
Arthur Bracken, dressed in black and gold, with a crimson cloak flowing down his back, sat astride a beast the likes of which King's Landing had never seen. The horse, Red Rabbit, was as large as a small destrier twice over, its hooves churning the dirt with every step. Even among nearly a hundred competitors, it stood out immediately.
And so did its rider.
"He looks like a knight out of legend," whispered a noblewoman in the stands. "Who is he?"
"A Riverlander lord, they say," her companion replied. "Bracken blood, but new to court."
Even Ser Loras Tyrell couldn't help but take notice. He guided his sleek grey courser alongside Arthur's monstrous steed and smiled with his usual charm.
"Isn't it exhausting, riding that beast?" the Knight of Flowers asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Other than the wide stance, it's not too bad," Arthur replied calmly, though his legs ached from having to straddle the animal's broad back.
The saddle beneath him had been custom-built by a carpenter Tobho Mott hired two days prior—a miracle of engineering, reinforced and wide enough to distribute Arthur's weight and keep him steady. He'd spent all of yesterday training in it, and now, on the first day of the competition, he was ready.
It wasn't the most comfortable ride, but it was sturdy—and it allowed him to sit a full head higher than even the largest knight in the field.
Arthur's attendants—Medan, Jules, and the ever-careful Piper—had helped him don his gold-trimmed lamellar vest this morning. Together with his black and gold surcoat and ornate shield, he looked every bit the champion.
The crowd didn't know his name yet. But that would change before the day was over.
This was done under Desmond's careful guidance.
After all, none of Arthur's attendants—Medan, Jules, or Piper—had ever worked with anything so advanced as a lamellar vest of golden steel scales. Even Arthur, clad in Tobho Mott's shimmering craftsmanship, felt a little self-conscious. The gleaming gold reflected sunlight in every direction, making him look even more flamboyant than Ser Loras Tyrell's famous rose-covered armor.
But when Arthur realized that all eyes would be fixed on him—the lords, ladies, knights, and even King Robert himself—he accepted it calmly. If anything, this was a chance to make sure Sansa Stark, the beautiful Northern girl who adored tales of handsome knights, would surely notice him.
Glancing at the real Knight of Flowers nearby, Arthur had a sudden inspiration. The red and white roses woven onto Loras's silver breastplate gleamed in the afternoon sun.
"You don't mind if I borrow one of your roses, do you?" Arthur asked casually.
"Take as many as you like," Loras replied, too busy having his squire fasten the throat guard of his green and silver armor to pay much attention.
Arthur plucked the largest, freshest rose and pinned it to his own golden vest. The contrast between the blood-red rose and the shimmering gold armor was striking. Then, settling in with the other competitors, Arthur lined up to await his turn on the field.
The early matches had been tame, featuring mediocre riders and uneventful tilts. No one was thrown spectacularly; no one shattered more than a lance or two. The crowd grew restless.
But when Arthur finally rode out atop Red Rabbit—his towering red warhorse gleaming in golden barding—the entire crowd stirred at once, from the lowliest baker's boy in the stands to the highest lord in the royal box.
The handsome rider on the giant golden-armored horse was unforgettable. Even among the many knights on the field, Arthur stood out like a star against a dark sky.
Some sharp-eyed spectators recognized him immediately—the same man who had defeated Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard in a tavern brawl just a week prior. Whispers buzzed through the stands.
Arthur's opponent was an unremarkable hedge knight astride a lean, nervous-looking courser. Compared to Red Rabbit's thunderous gait and gleaming armor, it seemed almost a farce.
After lowering their visors, the two riders took their places. At the signal, they charged.
"This is bloody dull," King Robert grumbled, draining a cup of strongwine. "Where's your Mountain? I want to see him against the lad on the red horse."
Cersei Lannister, seated coldly beside him beneath a golden canopy, did not even glance his way. "I do not keep track of guards," she replied icily.
Yet Cersei's green eyes had been following Arthur closely. In truth, she saw in him a reflection of Jaime's golden youth—before it had been tarnished by bitterness and bloodshed.
Robert gave his queen a long, flat look but said nothing more.
Nearby, Sansa Stark sat among the ladies of the court, with Petyr Baelish close at hand whispering sly commentary. Sansa's cheeks glowed pink, and though she maintained the proper decorum taught by Septa Mordane, she could barely contain her excitement.
He's so much more handsome than Ser Waymar Royce, Sansa thought to herself, recalling the unfortunate young knight she'd once admired.
The crowd roared.
Bang!
Arthur's lance splintered cleanly against his opponent's shield, hurling the hedge knight from his saddle like a rag doll. The hapless man was quickly carted away by King Robert's squires, while Arthur guided Red Rabbit in a steady, proud canter down the length of the tilt.
Reaching the royal box, Arthur reined in before the lords and ladies. He raised his visor with a smooth motion, revealing his smiling face, and plucked the red rose from his golden vest.
With the court watching in breathless anticipation, Arthur presented the rose directly to Sansa Stark.
For a heartbeat, Sansa forgot everything—the court etiquette, her mother's stern lessons, even the presence of Queen Cersei herself. She wanted to leap up and shout, but instead, she accepted the rose with trembling fingers and an awestruck smile.
This must be what it's like in the songs, she thought wildly. This must be the happiest moment since coming to King's Landing!
Around them, the court erupted into delighted murmurs, titters, and knowing laughter. Even the commoners on the far side of the tilt roared with approval.
From the royal box, Prince Joffrey Baratheon glared daggers at Arthur, his pretty face twisted in confusion and anger. Only moments ago, Joffrey had been laughing with Sandor Clegane, the Hound, but now he sat frozen, furious at the slight—another man daring to offer his betrothed a flower.
Loras Tyrell, still waiting for his own match, looked astonished. Wasn't I supposed to do that? he thought.
The playful boos and shouts grew louder as Arthur bowed and made his swift exit, careful not to linger near Sansa or provoke Joffrey further. The last thing Arthur wanted was to face the Hound's blade in some back alley duel sparked by a boy's jealousy.
The rest of the jousts continued into late afternoon, with the thunder of hooves, the splintering of lances, and the gasps of the crowd filling the air until sunset.
By the time the dust settled, the final four had emerged:
• Ser Loras Tyrell, the dazzling Knight of Flowers;
• Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides;
• Sandor Clegane, the grim and brutal Hound;
• and Arthur Bracken, the rising star of the tourney.
As darkness fell and the torches were lit, King Robert rose heavily from his seat and declared that the semifinals would be postponed to the morrow, alongside the grand melee and the archery competition.
The announcement drew some groans and jeers from the crowd, but none dared disobey the King's will. Slowly, the stands emptied, and the tournament grounds were left to the moonlight and the lingering scent of dust and roses.
JOIN MY PATREON TO READ ADVANCE 50+ CHAPTERS
Patreon.com/Kora_1