- Announcer's POV -
Another year, another tourney. My voice would be hoarse by the end of the day, but the crowd loved the spectacle.
"My lords and ladies!" I bellowed, my voice carrying across the lists. "We are gathered once more to witness the crowning of a new Queen of Love and Beauty and her champion! Let us delay no further!"
I glanced at the list. "Alright! On my left, the renowned knight of House Osgrey, Ser Addam Osgrey! On my right, Ser Rudolph Ashford!"
A look to the main stage earned a nod from Lord Tyrell. "Begin!"
- Julius's POV -
It was, to my surprise, genuinely fun. The thunder of the charge, the shuddering impact of the lance, the roar of the crowd as an opponent tumbled from the saddle—it was a primal, exhilarating rush.
I had made it to the semi-finals. My opponent was none other than Ser Jon Fossoway. He was a skilled lance, I had to grant him that, though his persistent glowering made his resentment plain. The crowd called him the 'Bloody Apple,' a name I found more amusing than intimidating. The look on his face when Janna had presented me with her favor, however, had been priceless—a mixture of fury and pure, unadulterated jealousy.
I glanced at Janna one last time before the tilt. She sat beside her mother, a serene smile on her face. Lady Olenna, in contrast, looked as if she had bitten into a rotten lemon. I looked down at the favor tied to my arm: a beautifully embroidered white eagle carrying a green rose in its beak, looking as if it were flying away. It was clever, a subtle nod to my supposed sigil and my transient nature.
I had no doubt she was using this to defy her mother, but I was the one who would pay the price if I stayed. I had overstayed my welcome at Highgarden. It was time to leave.
The announcer's voice boomed once more. "My lords and ladies, we have come to the final! The champions before you have defeated all rivals to stand here! On my right, Ser Jon Fossoway, heir to Cider Hall, the 'Bloody Apple,' one of the deadliest lances in the Reach!"
He turned to me. "And on my left, the new face who has taken this tourney by storm! Hailing from the Free Cities, he has unseated mighty opponents like Ser Gormon Oakheart, Mathis Rowan, and Ser Baelor Hightower! I give you... the 'White Eagle'... Ser Julius Harlane!"
My squire, Alban, handed me a fresh tourney lance. Gripping it, I felt a cold focus settle over me. I would end this now.
The charge began. On the fourth tilt, my lance struck true, shattering against Ser Jon's chest and sending him flying from his saddle into the dirt. As his squires rushed to his aid, he shoved them away, his face a mask of fury and humiliation. He ripped his helmet off, his eyes burning with a hatred that promised this was not over. He didn't look at the crowd or the lords; his gaze was fixed solely on me, a silent vow of future retribution. Had it been a war lance, he would have been dead four times over, and from the look he gave me, he seemed to wish it had been.
My final opponent was the fox-faced Lord Alestar Florent. I still wasn't sure how he'd made it to the finals, but it mattered little. A single, decisive pass was all it took to send the older lord tumbling into the mud.
The victory was met with Lord Mace Tyrell's booming laughter from the high stage. I was presented with the winner's crown, a wreath of intertwined green and red roses. Taking it upon the tip of my lance, I guided Stormwind toward the main stage.
Janna watched me approach, that familiar, knowing smirk on her lips. But my eyes flickered to her mother. Lady Olenna was not looking at her daughter, nor at the crown. She was watching me, her expression utterly unreadable, a carved stone mask of assessment. There was no anger, no approval—only a cold, calculating stillness that was more intimidating than any scowl. She was weighing my every move, the value of my victory, and the trouble I represented.
I pushed the thought aside and guided my horse as close as I could, offering Janna the crown on the tip of my lance.
"My lady," I called out, my voice carrying in the sudden hush. "Though I do not have the standing to ask for your hand, I can, and do, proclaim you my Queen of Love and Beauty for yours."
She took the crown and placed it upon her head with practiced grace. Then, to the crowd's roaring delight, she descended to the lower stage, bringing us to the same level. She stood by my horse, reached up, and kissed my cheek. The crowd erupted in a frenzy.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Jon Fossoway turn and stalk away, unable to watch. On the dais, Olenna Tyrell finally moved, leaning over to say something quietly to her son, Mace. His laughter faltered for a moment as he listened, his gaze turning thoughtful as he looked back at me. The Queen of Thorns had just made her move, whatever it was.
I leaned down to Janna, my voice for her alone. "We may see each other at Harrenhal," I said, a final farewell.
I made to leave, but her voice called out behind me. "Ser Julius! At least take your prize with you!"
I had forgotten the purse. I turned in the saddle. "Please, distribute it amongst the poor of Highgarden." I was no poor hedge knight; my coffers were fuller than those of many minor lords. I had a different purpose now—to ride for the Stormlands and inspect the ruins of Summerhall.
I met her gaze one last time. "Take care, my lady. If the gods will it, we will meet again."
I saw the glimmer of a tear in her eye before she turned away. The sight was a sharper pain than any lance could inflict. But there was nothing to be done. I had nothing to offer her but more heartache. A public embrace was impossible with so many watching.
An opponent's strike was a bruise that would heal. A woman's tear, however, felt like a crack in the heart itself.