Stroll Through the Tournament Grounds

The late afternoon sun bathed the tournament grounds in a golden haze, casting long shadows over the trampled grass and vibrant banners that snapped in the breeze. Lyonel, heir to the throne and contender for many of the rapidly approaching tournament's glories, strode through the festive sprawl with quiet confidence, his leather boots sinking slightly into the earth. His dark tunic clung to his broad shoulders, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a glimpse of skin, drawing lingering glances from maidens and squires alike. The air was thick with the scents of roasting meat, spilled ale, and the faint musk of sweat and anticipation.

Lyonel’s gaze swept over the chaotic tapestry of the grounds. To his left, a juggler in twintails and a multicoloured motley tossed flaming torches skyward, her nimble fingers a blur, while a crowd clapped and gasped. The prince’s lips quirked—impressive, but nothing compared to the dance of her assessts beneath the checkered get-up. He thanked the Seven that this was a world in which the bra had not reached a spread into the masses yet. And talking about masses, next to the torches it seemed like the jester was juggling two melons at chest height, rotating them in circles with every throw. No wonder an impressive crowd had formed around her, consisting mainly of Kings Landings manfolk, who were about to receive a lashing from their wives for throwing their few coins at the feet of mummers, and squires, who were about to receive a lashing from their knights for wasting their time.

Further ahead, a strolling minstrel strummed a lute, his voice curling through the air like a lover’s whisper, singing of bold knights and forbidden trysts. Lyonel’s pulse quickened at the lyrics, his mind drifting to the juggler he’d glimpsed earlier, her light blonde hair and revealing gown promising both entertainment and delight. The ministrel walked past a couple of impromptu fire pits with various meats being slow-cooked and multiple brewers taping some casks of their beer for the city's population. As he got through the benches and the chattering citizens, he leaned down here and there aiming his ballads directly at the people. His face emoted the twists and turns of his songs to the ****, the corners of his mouth dripping to the bottom of his face at every dramatic turn and his eyes cheering for the knightly triumphs.

Lyonel wove through the throng, his height and bearing parting the crowd like a blade through silk. A stall to his right brimmed with glistening apples and honey-drizzled pastries, tended by a buxom vendor whose eyes roamed over him with unabashed interest. “A sweet for a strong knight?” she purred, holding out a glistening fruit. Lyonel flashed a roguish smile, declining with a dip of his head. He was walking the tourney grounds without guards or his usual sigils, trying to put his ear on the ground and get a feeling for the city's anticipation for the events to come. Her laugh followed him as he moved on, low and knowing.

What stood out most was the energy pulsing through the grounds—a raw, almost primal kind of anticipation. The tourney of the Hand had the whole of Kings Landing in a state of endulging euphoria. A decorated city, with garlands connecting the houses and colourful tents popping up all throughout the already packed streets. The smells of festive food and drinks, with domestic meals only served on holidays and foreign meals usually only served in the great halls of decadent nobility, all flowing into an enticing symphony for the nostrils. And most of all the travellers from near and far, that filled the taverns and street corners with stories and laughter. The city was a well filled powder keg about to burst into a miriad of fireworks to awe the masses. And nowhere was that more tangible than on the vast tournament grounds, where the finishing touches were set by helping hands, while the curious onlookers were already testing the attractions.

But the laughter mingled with heated murmurs; shoulders brushed in passing, too deliberate to be accidental. The tournament was a stage not just for comradery but for rivalry as well, where glances sparked like flint and steel. Hedgeknights and lordlings, sellswords and mercenaries, they all hungered for recognition and fame, for glory and prizes. A bit down the trampled paths, one such case was a flock of about ten men. They had formed a flickering bubble around two men-at-arms in differing colours. One of them sported a red stallion upon a golden escutcheon on brown grounds, the other wore black dots, most likely ravens, on scarlet grounds surrounding a leafless weirwood. Their voices grew louder, apparently they already tried their way through the ales and were now loosing bits and pieces of etiquette.

Lyonel felt it in the air when an eastern dancer in a flowing skirt spun past him, her eyes locking with his for a heartbeat, her lips parted in a silent invitation. He memorized the sway of her hips as she vanished into the crowd.

Navigating the grounds was a game of instinct. Lyonel sidestepped a drunken squire stumbling from an ale tent, his senses sharp despite the sensory overload. Instead he steered to the clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer near the tourney field. The familiar smith, bare-chested and gleaming with sweat, pounded a blade into shape, each strike a rhythmic pulse that echoed in Lyonel’s chest. Their eyes met briefly—a shared understanding of strength and rank—before Lyonel turned away. As he put more and more distance between himself and the populated fields, he passed a fortune-teller’s tent, where a veiled woman, crooked over her table, beckoned with a wrinkly hand. Her voice an ominous promise of secrets unveiled. “See your fate, your grace?”, she called. He paused, disturbed by her words, but saw a few passers-by still in earshot and didn't want to give them time to realize what they just heard, so he shook his head, a pretended bewilderment for a demented old woman, and pressed forward in an instant.

As he neared the lists, the roar of the crowd swelled, knights clashing in a spectacle of muscle and steel. Lyonel leaned against a wooden post, his gaze drifting from the combatants to the stands, where a lady in crimson sat, her fan fluttering like a bird’s wing against her throat. A red woman or just a woman in red, tough to tell at the distace. But when her eyes found his across the distance, bold and unyielding, a slow smile curved her lips. Lyonels blood surged, this woman meant trouble either way it seemed.

The grounds, with their chaos and allure, were merely a prelude to an underlying contest—one he'd be entangled in before the day was through.

A few rows down, in a pompous golden tent, a lion got his claws sharpened.

"If it doesn't manage to cut a falling leaf in two, you can be sure I will use it as a club", the lion roared at his attendent. "On you, in case that was not clear already."

Jamie had not slept well, not just this night, but the last few combined. The Red Keep had not felt this foreign to him since the days he first moved here as a lad. There was just no comfort in his sister's arms anymore, she had cast him out of her embrace, leaving him high and dry. Good thing the Hand's Tourney was holding plenty distractions in store. More than once had the Lannister sought out each of the ground's pourages. Less for the bewerages and more for the people who consumed them. Somehow the idle hope for a drunken brawl, an outlet for his latent rage, motivated him. But alas, not even a drunkard who couldn't tell his left hand from his right would attack a member of the kingsguard.

So his anger boiled up impotently.

"Ser Jamie?", another of his attendents opened the tent's flap and interrupted him scolding the young man whetting his sword. With a half nod Jamie urged both of them to continue. "There is a lass here to see you, says she offers some last minute patching for garments before the tourney. Doesn't look like she knows much about fabric though...", that last part the servant boy mumbled into his patchy beard.

"Let her in", Jamie told the intruder with a knowing smirk and finished adressing all in the tent with a gesture, "then leave us."

As his underlings left the tent, one figure entered it. And what a figure it was. A young woman, slightly over five feet tall, slim in stature and with small firm breasts in her half-opened blouse walked into the tent and knew how to draw attention. Like a stalking mynx she took confident strides while her large dark eyes scanned her surroundings. Barely into her mid-twenties and yet witty beyond her years, her quick smile can turn shy, insolent or wicked, depending on what the situation called for. Like a seasoned actress, she could seamlessly shuffle through demure and innocent or disrespectful and crass.

A foot away from the kingsguard knight, she stood still. Her left hand slowly inched toward her blouse, gripping its inner rim and slowly uncovering her left breast further and further until a peak of something metallic came into vision. In place of her nipple, a small golden emblem in the shape of a lion's head came forth. Her fondness for expensive jewels quite apparent in the small ruby eyes that sparkled in the piercing's face. The little lion piercing that covered her nipple like a strategically placed pasty was caught in a roar, that upon closer inspection could have been a moan instead.

The Lannister's face mirrored the little lion's when he saw the lengths this woman had gone through. His cock started to harden, before he even got the chance to properly greet her.

"The cub whines when it's mistress comes to feed it", Shae mischieviously said to the formerly imposing knight in front of her and like in a practiced dance his body responded on auto pilot.

Jamie's knees started to get weak, when he heard the whore's hushed words of foreplay, that had been established in the days before. This woman's touch had awakened something in him, that he hadn't known before, not in the least. His own sister had been his only partner before and while the two of them had reached all their peaks together, the way up there had always felt like an ungrateful climb. But with Shae? She really valued his effort, his hard work paid off. So he sank to his knees proper, opened his mouth and waited for the chance to spoil his mistress with all he could.

Ser Hugh of the Vale. Ser Hugh of the Vale. SER Hugh of the Vale.

Oh, what a ring it had to it. A name, a rank, a title, to be sung by bards in halls and maidens in chambers.

The newly knighted Valeman pranced around the tourney grounds, so unlike the way he had done many times before. For years he had squired for the late Lord Arryn and after the enthusiasm that accompanied the very first one, Hugh had hated tournaments with a passion. You hurry from one point to the next, carrying equipment back and forth, only for your Lord to scold you for being slow. Then the tourney administrators berate you on procedure and the intricacies of heraldry and why the sigils painted on the banners around your tents, that have been fine on the last three tournaments, have to be repainted immediately or your Lordship will be disqualified. And in the evening times, while everyone of rank celebrates the day's activities and you sit outside the noble tents, some wandering septon will walk past you and judge your soul for the single tankard that you share with two other squires.

But no, those times have passed. No more rush, no more reprimands and no more being left out. Hugh was a knight now. Ser Hugh of the Vale was a part of this, he belonged here now. Tournament grounds were his domain now and he revelled in it.

As he strolled through the area, he came across many curiosities, some he had never seen before and some he had merely never taken note of before. Burning torches thrown by a woman in checkers, wearing her squares over her curves, her audience a stunned mass, among them one or two young men whom Hugh had squired with other the years. Poor saps, he thought before rolling his eyes and continuing on. Sure, now he was the master of his own schedule and could waste time at his own leasure, but now his time was too precious to waste. A bard with raunchy songs, huts with food and drinks from beyond the sea, as well as more people than at the last three tourneys combined. While Lord Arryn had reduced the festivities splendor in the last years, his former wards held themselves to no such boundaries. He knew the king to be an avid enthusiast when it came to tournaments, that much was well known, but as for Lord Stark, no such thing could be said.

Well, the hosts were none of his concern right now. His actual concern were the other contestants. As he turned the corner on these extensive grounds, he couldn't help but think about all the other knights about to face him on the days to come. That and what glory awaited him beating them one by one. Contenders from all around the Seven Kingdoms, as well as from beyond the Narrow Sea had gathered here. And yet Hugh's mind spun around the few that would really earn him the recognition, that every good kinght craved. The Mountain, the Kingslayer, the Knight of Flowers and the Prince himself, if Hugh could beat anyone of these in a hastilude, then he'd be a man of renown. He might get his own moniker too. Ser Hugh the Handsome? Ser Hugh the Hardboiled? Ser Hugh the Humble?

He walked along that path, caught in the daydream of glories to come, when a sudden darkness overcame him and he fell to the ground head first. And as he lost consciousness, his last thought was about himself, like so many before it. Hugh the Hopeless.

"Oh finally!", a middle-aged man in a flashy gown, rushed towards the prince accompanied by two lesser nobles. "Now hurry, hurry, if you'd be so kind. His majesty your father has already held his opening speech, everyone is in their seats and we had the announcer stall for time until your arrival. But even the high lordships patience is running thin your grace, please hurry!", the administrators voice danced on the razor thin line between demure begging and disappointed tattling.

"Of course, yes", with the wave of a hand Lyonel dismissed the man's entourage, that begrudgingly left. "I thought my high father would speak for longer", he walked towards his tent, the hurried clerk with his itinerary in tow, "did he not take the opportunity to set this tournament in sequence with previous ones and his glory days past?"

"Your f-father", the adminstrator, obviously more inclined to holding office in a pavillion than to hastily walk between them, answered out of breath, "he resigned from his own participation in the hastilude, quite abruptly it seems." After checking his paperwork midstep, his fingers flipping between the pages with practiced ease, he nodded in confirmation of his own assessment. "Yes indeed, it was just this morning that I received the withdrawl note with the official royal sigil." The man drew a conspiratory, yet labored, breath and added, "that m-might be the reason, why his speech to open the festivities was a bit more functional than in used to be."

"Careful there", Lyonel said with double-meaning and half a smile on his lips as he opened his tent's flaps for the administrator and himself. He wanted to get some more quips in on the stuck-up bureaucrat that slowly warmed up, but he already met some more interesting company inside the tent.

"Bran!", the prince rushed towards the young man sitting on a chair next to the mannequin wearing Lyonels armor. "What brings you here?"

"What indeed, this is highly irregular and-"

"And very much in line, no need to overcomplicate this", Lyonel finished the sentence for the administrator. "You are not needed anymore, I will be ready for my first opponent shortly."

The clerk left the tent with a sigh and left the future brothers-in-law to their own devices, there was enough preperation for the immediate matches to do, it was useless to debate with the prince already. He'd be back after the first lances had been broken and it was the prince's turn.

"So, what brings you here? I thought you'd be sitting in the ranks and watching the joust up close", Lyonel walked towards his equipment and attempted to grab for the chainmail and underlying protective gear.

"I wanted to do that, I really did. But then the thought occured to me, that maybe I could watch it up close. Really up close", Bran handed him the items in question and gave a mock-bow, "I was told you do not have a squire at the moment and I thought, as a future subject of yours, surely it is my duty to remedy that."

Piece by piece the two of them clad Lyonel in his battle armor and bonded over their shared enthusiasm for knightly honor and chivalrous deeds of old. From outside the tent the audience's enjoyment of the current displays of knightly might were more than audible. Each "OOOOH" and "Awwww" raised the giddyness of Lyonel's self-proclaimed squire and made him hectic to actually get out there himself. When he was fully clad in his new armor and the finishing touches were all set and done, Lyonel opened the tent's flap and returned Bran's earlier bow to let him step out into the open first.

"Come on, we want to still see some of the action before it is our time to shine, don't we?"

The northern highborn did not give a verbal answer and jumped past him instead. As Lyonel chuckled and attempted to catch up to his squire, the noise from the jousting suddenly came to a hold, only to be broken up by a voice he recognized in an instant.

"SWOOOORD!"

The Mountain!