Alesander V

298 AC

Ser was a great favorite in the lists this time, if the betting was any judge, so why was he being so hard-pressed by a green boy?

He had broken five lances with the commons' new favorite, the one they called the knight of flowers, to no result. They said Ser Loras Tyrell was just sixteen and had only recently won his spurs. How was he riding so well in this company of seasoned men? What was more, the lad was a showman. Every time he won a tilt, he presented one of the golden roses woven into his cloak to a maiden. Why, he even tried to give Elia one, which made Alesander Frey angrier than he cared to admit. She almost spat in his face; thank the gods. His fellow squire assured him that Loras Tyrell was not the sort of boy she fancied, not at all, which was a comfort. If Al were any judge, Loras Tyrell was the sort to take a girl's maidenhead then ride off over the horizon. Elia deserved better.

Elia, too, was doing uncommonly well, and had many a fan among the women in the stands, highborn and low. The field had narrowed to only four. Ser Domeric was jousting for a place in the finals against the knight of flowers, and Elia would be next. Her opponent was Ser Gregor Clegane, an eight-foot-tall monster men called the Mountain that Rides. To tell it true, Al was afraid for her. Though she hopefully wasn't done growing, Elia was only a few inches over five feet and quite slender. Even so, he knew from experience her body was corded with lean muscle. Hugging her in and out of armor only felt slightly different.

On the sixth tilt, Ser Loras struck true, and Ser Domeric reeled in the saddle, only just barely keeping his seat. Alesander had seen Ser lose before, but never like this. If the seventh tilt came and went with both men still ahorse, like as not the king would give the victory to the knight of flowers.

"Seven tilts! The gods will it!" came a cheer from the stands.

"Aye, strike a blow for the gods, Ser Loras!"

"Overthrow the red knight!"

"Beat that demon!"

Even with his visor down, Al could tell those words made Ser Domeric scowl. He hated the seven. It was just the wrong thing to say if you wanted the knight of flowers to win.

Jack-o-nose, who pulled double duty as Ser's squire when Al was taking care of Elia, handed his master a fresh lance, and Ser Domeric almost jerked it out of the ugly soldier's grip.

Aye, he's got the black anger on him, Alesander thought. Woe to the knight of flowers.

Ser Loras had been riding well, more than well, to give him proper credit, but none rode faster or struck harder than Ser Domeric Bolton upon the swift red courser named Skinchanger.

Sure enough, there was a great crack, and both men's lances split clean, but only one was dashed into the dirt. A wail of dismay went up in the commons as Ser Loras lost his seat. When he rose to his feet shakily, the wail became a cheer. They loved him even in defeat. None cheered louder than Lord Renly, the king's brother, whom Ser Loras had squired for.

While they waited for the Mountain, Ser rode over. "I mean to yield if you should triumph, Elia. How does winning your first tourney sound?"

Lady Lance lifted her visor, revealing the pretty girl underneath. "Really?"

"Really. Ser Gregor is a tough opponent, but I've beaten him before. Ride defensively. Focus on not giving any openings. A good neutral seat will serve you best. Don't try to unhorse him. Winning on points is a mark of great skill."

"Can I ride in the melee next?" Al asked hopefully. Generally, for the big tourneys in King's Landing, like this one for Prince Joffrey's nameday, Ser didn't allow it; too many dangerous knights.

"If all goes well," Ser answered. He lifted his visor and grew serious. "Win, Elia. I'll avenge you if not, but I want you to win, and don't get hurt. This one will take liberties if you let him."

Alesander heeded the warning well and went over Elia's saddle and armor for the hundredth time, inspecting every strap for wear and tightening anything that looked loose.

"I'll have a present for you when I win," she declared boldly. No if, when. Al liked the sound of that. She vaulted onto her horse and Alesander handed her her first lance.

Prince Joffrey was in the royal box, looking like a prince should: tall and blonde and handsome. He glittered in silks of red and gold, with a fine golden chain studded with rubies around his throat. "If Ser Gregor loses to a bastard girl from Dorne, I'll have his head!" he declared. All the highborn lords and ladies laughed.

It actually had been a little difficult to get the master of games to admit Elia to the lists. Ser had to shame him. "My girl squire is a better lance than any of your foppish southron knights," he said at the time. "Not a one of you is my equal, or hers. If you think her so easy to beat, prove it on the field of honor!"

Still, the master of games did not relent. They had to appeal to Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, to intercede on their behalf. Since Ser Domeric had done him good service in winning the mountains and their mines filled with silver, Elia was admitted.

Even across the field, Ser Gregor Clegane looked huge. He sat a monstrous destrier, the biggest Alesander had ever seen, but it looked a pony beneath his bulk. Elia rode after the fashion of Ser Domeric, preferring a swift courser and speed and skill over strength.

Every tilt terrified Al, but his Elia rode with grace. On the first pass, her lance broke clean while his slid off her shield ineffectually. It was the same on the second, and the third.

Four more lances, he prayed. Al made sure to arm Elia as swift as he may.

On the fourth pass, the Mountain tried to strike her on the helm, but Lady Lance moved her hips slightly, directing her mare out of the path. Somehow, she managed to get her lance well-placed and struck Ser Gregor a good hit.

"TRY THAT AGAIN, AND I'LL KILL YOUR WHOLE FUCKING FAMILY!" Ser Domeric thundered from across the tourney field.

There was the black anger again. Ser in battle was a different sort of monster. The folk in the stands went silent at the threat, for it was well known what Ser did to his enemies. Thousands were scalped in the Mountains of the Moon. The Mountain's size daunted him not at all.

Yet the Mountain wasn't daunted neither. He laughed and tried to kill Elia's horse beneath her on the next pass. With an amazing feat of horsewomanship, Lady Lance was able to swiftly change directions and avoid the lance.

Prince Joffrey laughed, but the king grew wroth. "No more of that!" he ordered. "Joust clean, or I'll give the victory to the Dornish girl!"

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Suitably chastened, Ser Gregor limited himself to trying to knock Elia off her horse. He failed. Elia broke two more lances upon his shield, though the Mountain hardly seemed to feel the blows. Still, seven clean breaks gained her the victory. King Robert declared her the winner, and Al wondered what present she would give him. He'd love anything from Elia.

The girls in the stands cheered, but the men laughed. At first, Ser Gregor looked like he couldn't believe anyone would dare laugh at him, then he grew wroth. "My sword!" he cried, and one of his squires rushed onto the field toting a greatsword taller than Al was.

Elia hadn't seen any of this. She was taking a victory lap around the tourney field, savoring her moment of triumph. Alesander Frey had been in battles and knew bad intentions when he saw them. At his belt he carried a longsword of castle-forged steel, well-honed. He'd slain many a wild man with it. Al drew it now and shouted a warning to Elia.

The laughs and cheers swallowed all. Elia didn't hear a thing as the Mountain stalked her, naked steel in hand. Only when he seized the bridle of her horse did the people know something was amiss.

The Mountain wielded the greatsword in one hand. It fell like an executioner's blade on Elia's beloved chestnut mare. She managed to leap clear, but only just. Alesander was running, steel of his own in hand. He had no armor, but it wouldn't have mattered. That heavy piece of steel would bite deep into a breastplate. That greatsword rose, casting a shadow over Lady Lance and glinting deadly in the southern sun.

Just in time, Al was there. He caught the blade and turned it, giving Elia time to regain her feet.

Guards, guards, where are you? he thought desperately. That was all the thought he had before the greatsword came back. Al managed another deflection, but it rattled him from his toes to his teeth. How could anyone be that strong?

People must've been screaming, but Alesander heard nothing but steel on steel. Elia drew her own blade, but Al shouldered her out of the way. She was the better lance, but he the better sword. It was his turn to protect her! They exchanged a few more blows, but his arms were going numb and his sword accumulating deep notches.

Ser Gregor's next attack wrenched the longsword from his hands, and Al knew he was dead. His last thought was of Elia, whom he had lost track of. Hopefully she'd made it to safety.

A knight in shining armor appeared, and for one mad moment, Al thought it was Ser Domeric, but the color was wrong. This knight was all in flowers of gold and green. He met Ser Gregor's monstrous greatsword with silvered steel, and even scratched his beastplate. The knight of flowers was as fast as Ser Domeric, but the Mountain bulled through the blows, and with one great horizontal cut almost bisected the poor boy.

Alesander called him boy, but he was no less a boy. He needed to get Elia and get help. So he fled while the Mountain gave a few disrespectful hacks to Ser Loras' body. The Mountain had long legs and strided after them. Surely, guards would be there soon. It seemed they'd been in battle for an hour. His heart was beating like it. He reminded himself to breathe. The experienced soldier in him remembered half a moment's battle might seem a lifetime. When he lifted his head, he saw many a man running towards them, and a red ball of fire.

Al had to shield his eyes as splinters rained down like summer snow. Ser Domeric was here! He shattered his tourney lance against the Mountain, knocking the beast senseless, then Al saw the black steel.

Ser Domeric's axe of heavy black steel, the sharp one, not the blunted one they used for melees, was in his hand, and moving faster than Al would believe. "DIE! DIE! DIE!" his master screamed.

There was no other battle cry, no "Dreadfort!" or "For the North!" Just "DIE! DIE DIE!"

The red knight struck sparks, leaving gashes and rents in the Mountain's thick armor. Some of those rents bled. "DIE! DIE! DIE!"

It was the black anger, the madness. There was a side to Ser that Alesander Frey would never care to wake, yet the Mountain, the fool, had managed it. "DIE! DIE! DIE!"

Ser Domeric and Skinchanger looked a centaur out of myth, fighting as one. The man above struck, and the horse below wheeled and kicked. None of the other men about dared approach the chaos. It was death to get too close.

That black axe bit deep into the joint at Ser Gregor's elbow, and he dropped the greatsword. Like a shadowcat sensing prey, Domeric was on him. At some point, Gregor left his feet, and Domeric left his horse. "DIE! DIE! DIE!" Hammer blows sheared through the Mountain's gorget, and Domeric wrenched off Ser Gregor's helm, which was bolted on, exposing a bloody and bruised face.

Suddenly, Alesander became conscious of the blood. The tourney ground was red mud. Who knew a man, even a man such as the Mountain, had so much blood in him? Even after bleeding so much, Ser Gregor was alive, yet Domeric paid no mind. There was a flaying knife in his hand, and his Ser scalped the monster while he screamed. The Mountain writhed helplessly on the ground, his elbows and knees red ruins where Ser Domeric's axe had done its work. Even if Ser Gregor didn't bleed out, he'd be a cripple for life.

He bled out.

When Ser Domeric raised the bloody scalp and roared in triumph, Ser Gregor stopped moving. It was over.

"Ser Domeric! Ser Domeric! You must not do injury to the corpse! Ser Gregor was an anointed knight!" It was a knight of the Kingsguard speaking, yet for all the gold in Casterly Rock, Alesander could not tell you which.

That made the black anger fade, and Ser Domeric noticed the men about him, even the king.

"Seven hells, what a fight! You've got my blood up, ser!" King Robert declared, but Ser Domeric hardly heard him. Instead, he turned to check on Al and Elia.

"Are you two all right?" he asked gently.

Alesander had a notched sword in his right hand and noticed Elia was trembling against him. When had that happened? She got out from under him and rushed into Ser Domeric's arms, weeping bitter tears.

"Ser Domeric!" she wailed. "I want to marry Alesander Frey!"

What?

"What?" King Robert asked.

"What?" Al asked at the same time.

The girl took her helmet off. Her brown eyes were moist and her smile watery. "I love you, you dummy!"

Huh. He had no idea. That was why it took him by surprise when she kissed him for the first time.

Ser Domeric had a few more words with the king, and Elia Sand, Lady Lance, was declared champion. She crowned Alesander Frey her King of Love and Beauty.