The Jousting went well, time to get his lance polished

"Ahhhhhh", the prince let out in relief, his eyes still closed and his pants already open.
She had pulled down his foreskin and pressed a big wet smooch on his exposed cockhead, lovingly and attentively. Her lips pressed to the opening of his dickhead, the servant girl took a deep breath in, slurping out the beats of precum that were almost too shy to leave his pipe yet. The drops she inhaled were an appetizer that only got her mouth watering more and so on the breath-out, her spittle left it in copious amounts, leaving Lyonel's pole shiny and coated in wet warmth.

"This is what you call service?" Ygritte injected and pressed her face between Bell's head and Lyonel's cockhead. "Watch and learn how a free woman serves", she let the cheeky implication hand in the air before going down on the man that broke her in.

Lyonel leaned back against the headboard of the king-sized bed, its silk sheets cool against his bare skin, heart hammering like a drum in his chest. The room was brightly lit by the morning sun rising, its golden hue being cast on the scene before him. Between his legs were the two maids, whose only similarity seemed to be their appreciation for his dick, to put it mildly. On his left side kneeled Bell, the formerly mousy brunette, who had seemingly opened the rooms curtains, placed a plate of fruit and morning juice on his bedside table and then kneeled on the bed with him, cuddled his left leg and carefully kissed him awake through his love bone. On his right kneeled Ygritte, who just entered the room and beelined for access to his junk.

"What do you know about serving a man?" Bell rolled her eyes, as her cheeks turned red in indignation, clearly jealous Lyonel was currently filling out the wildlings mouth instead of her own. "You only ever serve yourself..."

Ygritte smirked around the shaft her mouth hogged, her hand sliding up Lyonels thigh to gently cup his overly full balls, rolling them like appraising apples on the market. With an audible plop she released his manmeat, only for his full length now to fall heavy onto her face.

"Please, sometimes bringing the master pleasure is what serves the **** the most," she dipped her head lower, her long red mane brushing the prince's thighs, before her face was pressed firmly against his nutsack and the royal cock crowned her head. Lyonel could feel her drooling and huffing into his balls, coating them in her warm spit and heated breath. She was lapping at my nuts like a trained dog might nuzzle their owners hand, a bitch well trained. His third leg, agreeing with him on the matter, let out a particularly big burst of precum. The Seven be damned, Lyonel felt her smirking into his balls as he let out that liquid coronation on her.

Not to be outdone, neither in debauchery nor in pleasuring her prince, Belle got back into the game and pressed her mouth over his cockhead, basically kissing Ygritte's head with the musky intruder caught in the crossfire. And as the wildling made out with his balls, coaxing forth more and more nutslob to be released on the eventual climax, the southerner started to suck in so strong pulls, that she robbed her competitor of her hair lotion. Lyonel had to grit his teeth, as not only was she drinking his precum, she was also creating a blowjob nestled in Ygritte's surprisingly silky hair. Good thing the wildling girl had considerably softened and cleaned up under his sister's strict regime.

"Wow, you two might be the **** of me," Lyonel mumbled half-heartedly as his hands dug into the discarded blankets around him.

The redheads hand shot out from nowhere to grip his base atop her head and starting to steadily jerk his shaft into the other girls mouth. As if in silent understanding, Bell moved to the middle between the prince's legs and pulled down her blouse without ever letting the cockhead leave her warm embrace. With this frontal access and without the garment in the way, she laid her full breast onto Ygritte's shoulders und her to present them for her man's viewing pleasure before starting to rhythmically bob her head up and down his shaft in earnest.

One of them blew spit bubbles at his junks base, getting down and messy, while using her scalp and proud red mane to jerk him into the mouth of the other, who sucked his first few inches and started to present and play with her tits around the other one's head. The difference between Lyonels dreams and his life was so minimal these days, it was hard to tell if he had actually already woken up today. But as much as he hated himself for it, he really did have to get up and start his day eventually. He had a lot of things to do, people to talk to and-

"Ooooooooooo," Lyonels thoughts ended the second Bell went about halfway down his shaft, clamped down her lips vice-tight around his girth and pulled back along his length slowly, sucking and wringing out all the common sense he possessed. And when she had withdrawn far enough to release his now throbbing hardon, she looked up into his now half-lidded eyes and sweetly threw him a kiss.

His cock now stood up ramrod straight, lifting most of his weight off of the wildlings head and making her pull out from his now churning balls.

"I might have underestimated you girl", the redhead told her coconspirator from in-between her tits, licking upwards along one of them as she angled her head upwards to look at her proper. "How about we see if we can see eye-to-eye on this thing?"

Her hand had never left Lyonels impressive manhood and she waggled the waking giant in front of Bell's eyes when she spoke of that thing. Bell nodded, either in thirstiness at her view or in approval and Ygritte moved out from her valley of cleavage to be on the same height as her. She started to increase the speed of jerking the spit-slicked meatstick up and down, moving her face to its tip and beckoning Bell to join her there. The other woman's hand now joined Ygritte's on Lyonel's cock, luckily now at full size there was more than enough space for both to rub and caress this pussytamer. Only that now the wildcat and the housecat seemed to pacify Lyonel to the degree, that he almost fluttered back into delirium when the two of them started to make out fully around his cock.

From fierce opponents, to begrudging allies, they now competed less for his attention and more for impending climax. Their ministrations increased in pace and when the prince heard the two of them starting to loudly moan into each others mouths, sending vibrations through his trapped glans, he couldn't hold it any longer. The load the wildling had been summoning from the depths of his nuts with the incantations bubbled into his ball sack shot upwards now all the way through his manmeat.

And right before the volcanoe's eruption could leave the peak, Ygritte pushed Bell backwards. The first burst still shot through the air landing on both of their faces, only for the additional spurts to be released exclusively into the sneaky wildling's greedy gullet, clamping down tight and filling her belly with copious amounts of the rewarding jizz.

They stayed there on their knees, faces glistening and streaked with cum, breathing hard, eyes locked in that same competitive stare even as they licked stray drops from each other’s lips. Bell was seemingly at a loss for words on this last second betrayal. Ygritte broke the hostile silence first, taunting her frenemy, “Are you really surprised I won?”

Bell just laughed brightly, wiping a thumb across her cheek and sucking it clean, “You think one serving is all my prince got for us?”

The prince collapsed back, spent and grinning. He wanted to spend the whole day exploring the festivities at large, but with how things were going, getting to see the archery as todays main event was the least of his worries. When these two ganged up on him, he’d be lucky to survive till lunch to begin with.

The good mood the girls put him on that morning had completely evaporated from Lyonel as the Westerosi equivalent of a family brunch rolled about a few hours later. Sure, the celebrations were still going on, the mood all around the Red Keep was light and festive and he was feasting with his beautiful betrothed and his beloved family, but Lyonel's focus was solely outside the royal dining quarters windows onto one thing; the dark red comet travelling across the bright blue sky, like a freshly torn wound on the horizon and Lyonel's sense of security alike.

Lyonel allowed the sounds at the table to drone on as he gazed at the comet. Dragons... could it really be true? He knew what the comet signified, of course. But in this timeline all the reports from Essos assured the court that Daenerys Targaryen has settled quite well in her role as the khaleesi, with no western ambitions. Have things started to change now, ten years later, in line with what's happening in Westeros? Lyonel didn't know how to feel about the rebirth of the dragons into the world, if that is actually what has happened. Of course, they could be a mighty tool against what would eventually come from the true North, but if a Dragon Queen came across the sea earlier than that, to claim a throne she believes to be hers, well... Lyonel was acutely aware of whom she would burn first.

"My prince?" Sansa inquired softly. "My prince?"

Lyonel reluctantly **** his eyes away from the sky and onto his betrothed, sitting on the opposite side of the table. "Apologies, my lady. I was... distracted."

"It's the comet, isn't it? It's so pretty," Sansa guessed glowingly.

Lyonel smiled obligingly. The table for the late breakfast was set for the royal family and the Starks they hosted for this momentous occasion. It was the midway point of the tournament, after the big joust, but still before the melee as the grand ending. Today's main event would be the archery competition, but many an attendee considered this the down phase of the festivities. Goes to show who's only in it for the ****, Lyonel thought to himself. And today of all days the event itself competed with the arrival of this forsaken comet too.

"It's bloody annoying, that's what it is," the haughty Princess Myrcella replied to Sansa in place of her brother from the seat next to him. "All the servants have started slacking off, distracted ever since it came. Hmpf," a little exhale from her cute button nose ridiculed these people more than a maester could achieve with a compendium of letters. "Trying to guess what it means and where it comes from and acting like there's any worth in their eyes being turned upward."

Lyonel was seated in an awkward place, as this was how dialogues usually spiraled between his bethrothed and his sister nowadays. With the king at the head of the table and his best friend Ned besides him, that end was almost harmonious, if it weren't for Cersei on his other side. His mother was rolling her eyes at every second tale from past tournaments that the two childhood friends shared from their glory days. She turned away from them often to dote on her youngest, maternally slapping Tommen's hand whenever he reached for any of the sweeter delicacies. On the opposite side of Tommen and next to Ned sat Bran and the two young men were firmly engrossed in their own debate. And while next to Tommen Myrcella and Lyonel closed the table on the Baratheon side, after Bran came an empty seat and Sansa was stranded to talk with the royal siblings. The younger Stark daughter was apparently under the weather today, which created an isolated bubble of teen-drama at Lyonel's end of the large table.

Sansa ignored the arrogant comment of her future sister-by-law and looked back at her Lyonel undisturbed. "Septa Mordane says this is a sign from the gods; that this comet dawned on this tourney that celebrates our betrothal means that we will have a long marriage and many little princes and princesses."

Myrcella, with a faint hint of nausea rushing over her grimace, interceded as her eyes zeroed in on Sansa and appraised her up and down. "Well, then, it's all the more pity that you missed the start of it and weren't able to be crowned Lyonel's queen of love and beauty to begin with," her beautiful face took on an innocent condolence, as if this realization was about to overcome her compasionate self, "Maybe the gods are angry at you." She said in a tone that was dripping with syrupy sadness, while simultaniously fingering the crown she now wore and subtly presented at every opportunity. Myrcella had even foregone her usual Lannister themed clothes and donned on a blue gown to fit her tournament regalia, which underlined her look of deceiving innocent.

Sansa, meanwhile, had her face go red as her hair in anger at Myrcella rubbing it in her face. She was a naive girl and nothing was further from her mind than courtly intrigue, but even Sansa was appauled at how thick Myrcella was laying it on her.

Tommen was used to his sister getting exactly what she wanted, whenever she wanted, irrespective of who she had to step on to get it. And having been on the recieving end of those verbal stomps many a time, he tried to intervene when he overheard his sisters not-so-subtle jab.

"I r-read somewhere that a red comet is actually historically linked to dragons, not-" a little rumple under the table told Lyonel that Tommen's sentence would have probably had a few more words if Myrcella hadn't put her food down. Quite literally.

"As I said, probably a sign from above," the princess condescendingly managed to look down on a girl that was exactly at eye height. "If you ask me, the sky bleeding red does not foretell many children, quite the opposite, if you know what I mean."

As she said that Myrcella plopped a grape into her mouth and crushed it like a little lioness would do with its prey. Lyonel had a tough time just standing by. The northern damsel was still not fully recovered and felt icky physically, the last thing she needed was to be mauled at by his catty sister.

"I think we shouldn't delve too deep into the-", out of the corner of his eye Lyonel saw Myrcella lift her little leg, but when it came down, she just stomped on the empty ground. So she did an angry little stomp, like the perpetual brat she is, that wasn't softened by landing on a foot and instead bounced right back through her leg and rippled all the way to her upper body letting her boobs give a little jiggle under their thin blue confines.

"-matters of celestial bodies", Lyonel continued and only the corner of his mouth at his sisters side gave the indication of a smirk.

Sansa let out a sigh of genuine relief at her beloved's support. Jumping to her rescue was so in line with the Lyonel she knew, her face turned proud at what a great sense for people she has.

"Yes, that's for maesters and septons to decipher," she tried to finish this topic on a reconciling note.

"And afterwards for the bards to tell us about, right?" the prince winked at his bride-to-be and they both shared a reliefed laugh.

With Lyonel only having eyes for Sansa right now, he didn't see his sister grumbling next to him. And while the two lovebird shared a moment, the kitten prepared her claws. Myrcellas hand inched slowly over to her big brother, hovering just under the thick table plate, obscured until she was sure it was hovering right above his leg. She planned to bring it down and scratch away before he had any chance to retaliate.

She really is a little sliver of brightness in a world that's otherwise so gritty, Lyonel thought as he admired Sansa during their chit-chat, when suddenly four little pins jabbed into his junk and he felt a weird mix of pain and pleasure. The four little digits continued to press into his cocks top, seemingly frozen in place, before they abruptly moved along his shaft losing contact as soon as they danced over his cloth-covered cockheads end. The feeling was accompanied by faint ripping sounds. No one, thankfully, saw Lyonel flinch at the little paws attack. And he did not want to give his sister the satisfaction of recognizing that she just hurt him. And if he was really honest, painful would be pretty far down on the list of how he'd describe the sensation.

What Lyonel was missing when he kept his eyes on the babbling Sansa was that his sister had startled herself far more than him. She was aiming for his right leg, not his third leg. So since her finger made impact on something far more pliable than her brothers trained legs, her eyes had turned down towards his groin and when after a moment of shock she had tried to scratch them away, her manicured claws had indeed left tiny rips in her brothers pants. And through the tiny gaps in the soft linen, the wildcat spotted her real prey after all. She licked her lips subconsciously and vied for her brothers attention again.

"Yes!" Myrcella injected into whatever Sansa was currently saying. "You're absolutely right! Maybe we should be doing something together today," Myrcella batted her lashes at Sansa as her peace offer started, "We could go visiting the tailors", under the table her hand found the leg of Sansa's fiance and this time her fingertips ghosted over his length in slow circles.

"For the cities celebrations we got all kinds of new cloths," a firm stroke, "new cuts", another stroke, "whole new styles present on the Street of Looms."

Lyonel had no idea why his sister started to caress his manhood under the table all of the sudden, what was she- Oh no, Lyonel realized it at once. Her gentle touches, her soft voice, she was making him hard. And Lyonel felt exactly why was doing that when he felt his growing cock start to push at the seems of his pants.

"Oh, that's so nice of you to offer dear Myrcella!" Sansa answered giddily, lightly bouncing in her seat and pushing her hands together in thankfulness, ironically under her bust. Oh no.

"Oh pleeeease, you'd be doing me a favour dear Sansa," Myrcella started to also bob in her seat, mimicking and upping the naive girls excitement to send her own juggs shaking even more than hers. Lyonel tried to keep his eyes upward, but wherever he looked, there was a set of perky young tits shaking up and down. Oh nooo.

A new pulse through his cock let it grow another inch in circumference and the tears on the cloth of his pants, strained to their absolute peak, rippled and expanded. Oh noooooo.

"All those soft and silky fabrics gliding over my skin", Myrcella spoke with Sansa but somehow hushed into Lyonels ear at the same time, "you and me trying on the same combinations", her hand never ceased to make go up and down his shaft, "comparing how they fit us", she was painting a tantalizing picture for her brother. Oh noooooooo.

Ziiiiiiiip

And in one long moment, the growing tears along his pants groin got pushed open by that traitorous snake between his legs and the very second Myrcellas fingers came into contact with the bare skin of his shaft and he felt that spark, they disappeared fully.

"Oh I am so excited, I can not wait to into the city with you!", the princess squealed, "Let's go!"

Sansa only gave a rapid nod before both girls turned towards the head of the table and asked their fathers to be allowed to leave. The others had finished their meal as well and the King and his Hand gave the go-ahead to dissemble officially. The old men went out first to handle statefare, or bask in their former glory more likely, Tommen and Bran had left the room together the second their fathers even mentioned that they could take their leave and when the girls went to the door to expand their collection of dresses, Cersei trotted after them to give them the parental oversight they had not asked for. But as she walked past her eldest, she was suprised to find him still sitting firmly planted on his seat, his chair scooted all the way close to the table.

"Are you alright honey? Shall I call for the servants to put away the leftovers?" she asked him sweetly, her hand on his shoulder not helping his overgrowth-situation at all.

"Oh no mother, I think I'll eat some more dates before I head out," Lyonel reassured his departing mother and grits his teeth into a smile. You little brat, I will so get you for that....

"Hey wench, three more mugs for the boys!" a soldier yelled at the tending maid bustling through the rows and around the outstretched arms of the grabby guests.

One more round it is, thought the man sitting in a corner booth, more in the shadow than in the table candle's soft glow. The place smelled of old wood, spilled ale, and the faint metallic bite of wet iron that never quite dried out in a port town. Smoke from a dozen pipes and the low hearth fire hung in lazy brown layers near the blackened beams, softening the edges of everything and making the lamplight flicker like it was breathing.

The hood of the grey eminence was protruding enough to shadow his eyes, the dull gray wool of his cloak blending into the soot-stained plaster behind him. The tankard in front of him held more foam than beer now; he had barely touched it in the last hour. Observation was thirsty work, but drinking made the edges too soft. I have to keep my wits sharp and my eyes too, his thoughts reaffirmed every now and then. But nothing is more suspicious in a tavern than a patron who doesn't drink, so whenever he subtly felt a passing glance cast on him, he casually took a sip.

Across the room todays customers had settled into the usual ragged rhythm by now, the evening was progressing as it was supposed to and the squad of soldiers spending their shift here instead of on the streets were not the only point of interest. A dice game at a long center table had turned loud twenty minutes ago. A local merchant just couldn't accept the Braavosi rules for snake-eyes, three dockhands in salt-crusted jerkins argued over whose throw had clipped the edge of the iron cup and an unassuming young man, smaller, quieter, kept collecting his coppers with a faux demure smile. A little calm in a chaos of half-drunk shouting. A serving maid—no more than nineteen, skinny as a heron—threaded between tables with a tray of bread heels and dripping tankards. Every time she passed the dice table the small quiet man slipped her a copper without looking.

Littlefinger marked him instantly: left sleeve rolled once more than the right, a faint bulge at the wrist that could be a loaded band or just a habit of concealment. Either way, the man never looked surprised when he won. The kid has potential.

By the hearth an old man had claimed a stool and not moved an inch the whole evening. He told a fisherman's tale about a ghost ship that still drifted through blackwater bay on moonless nights. Half the listeners were already drunk enough to nod solemnly; the other half rolled their eyes but stayed anyway because the fire was warm and the story was free. Littlefinger noticed the storyteller’s boots: fine leather, well taken care of or even new, heels barely scuffed. A man who pranced more than he sailed, then. I'd bet one of my best girls that he didn’t need earn a single coin on the docks, let alone on a dogger, Littlefinger smirked, at least not by hard labour.

Closer, at the table two away from Littlefinger's shadowed nook, an old woman in widow’s black sat alone. She nursed a small clay cup of something that smelled sharply of anise and never lifted her gaze from the door. Her knuckles were swollen, the skin across them mapped with wrinkles. She tapped one finger against the cup in perfect time with the hearth logs popping—deliberate, patient, counting something only she could hear. Littlefinger had watched her for forty minutes now and still couldn’t decide whether she was waiting to meet someone that would come soon or waiting for someone that would never enter a house again.

The front door was pushed open slowly, the only notable part of it the whip of cold salt air that rushed in. A newcomer stepped through, a figure cloaked in brown and grey, each step as elegant as it was unassuming. The last glimpse through the closing door showed two buff silhouettes stopping in front of it. While the figure seemingly took her time to walk through the place in indirect circles passing each other table instead of heading straight for him, Littlefinger simply waited like a hawk observing a snake slithering through a field of corn. He knew he would come for him eventually and it was for the better that he made that less obvious.

"Littlefinger", a calculated voice greeted him as the figure sat down in his booth, not next to him but at the furthest point away that could still be considered seated at the same table.

"I thought we'd be beyond the monikers," he gave the stranger a slim grin, "Sphinx."

The two shared a knowing look before the Sphinx called over the maid to bring him a wine, Dornish if possible. Well, it was not possible and so the curly haired boy made do with ale, the same light brown colour as his skin.

"To what do I owe this...." the androgynous figure with the soft features left a dramatic pause, "pleasure then? Does Lord Baelish invite to localities like these often? It does seem a better fit for Littlefinger if you ask me."

"You think so? If we talk about pleasure and Littlefinger, I have very different establishments in mind to invite you to, to be honest", it effortlessly flowed from the lords smirking lips. "Be that as it may, I think we have a lot to talk about Alleras, don't you agree?"

An ominous smirk played around Alleras puffy lips, followed by an acknowledging nod. "Very well, then Lord Baelish, what do we have to talk about? I am here on official business, so your invitation at the city gates and your escort ensuring that the invitation was without alternative, they did come as a surprise. It is not only unorthodox, but dare I say unbecoming to abduct a maester of the citadel. So, whatever we have to talk about, I do hope that it primarily answers the pressing question of how you justify such a blatant insult to the seneschal's court."

The newcomer slightly opened the top part of the outermost robe, revealing a glimpse at an assortment of different coloured chain links, each representative of a different field of study that its wearer had mastered. And as soon as they had appeared, they disappeared when the barmaid brought over a mug of ale.

"Your words scream of a pride that your deeds do not mirror, do they?", the master of coin retorted and smoothly transitioned into a speech he had practiced since word reached him of delegation from the citadel on the Roseroad. "And to be quite frank with you, your affiliation to the maesters is merely the most surface level secret you hide, isn't that true my lady?" Petyr hushed the last word like a half-heard promise and the confident mask of the sphinx slipped noticeably from her face.

Now the master of coin raised his foamy cup at the woman in front of him like one would toast with a delicate glass of fine wine.

"Now, shall we speak about the reasons for your visit to my city?"

"Hear, hear, fair people of King's Landing!" the man bellowed along the archery grounds on the side of the tournament proper. "Soon to begin, the archery competition will prove once and for all, who has the steadiest hand, the clearest mind and the eye of a true marksman!"

A crowd of onlookers had gathered around the five long lanes that formed the bowmen's' shooting range. As opposed to the joust as the tournaments opening event, the archery competition was open to the uninitiated. And without requiring a knighthood for entry, it was open to the fighters of the North that had traveled with the Stark retinue, the sellswords and foreigners from the free cities and southern isles alike. So, while it usually comprised of some additional stragglers, squires off-duty and local heroes, here Lyonel found himself watching quite an elite assortment.

The lack of royal stands meant that now Lyonel was seated between Kings Landing's rich and noble, slightly elevated but still close enough to the targets, that he heard the whoosh of each arrow, followed by the thud of the ones hitting their targets center. Sir Barristan Selmy, who accompanied him for protection, dropped at more than one of the archer's tribute applauses, how of course none of these contemporary archers could hold a candle to Fletcher Dick. The stories were about the Kingswood Brotherhood were overall very intense and grim, but still Lyonel had to hold his breath each time that name came up. Who could take an archer serious, whose name is quite literally arrow maker-cock?

Throughout the event, the stakes got steadily upped. The archers started at a distance of only a few yards, increasing it whenever a fixed number of them had missed their mark. Said failing archers were disqualified one by one and what they left behind was the cream of the crop.

Jalabhar Xho, prince of the summer isles, had almost certainly frightened one or two competitors with his get-up. He was dressed in his ceremonial garb of imposing and colourful feathers, his goldenheart great bow the size of a small man and capable of piercing plate armor. The most noble of the bunch and so far, the most precise. Right next to him stood a knight of note, Sir Balon Swann, whose shots made Sir Selmy nod proudly, no matter how hard he tried to remain unbiased and stoic. Next to them stood two foreign mercenaries, bows for hire if you want, that couldn't have been further apart visually. One of them pale and golden haired, the other obviously a man from the summer isles. One clad modestly and non-descript, the other covered himself in opulent golden rings all over his arms. The announcer had called them out as Lewis Lanster and Balaq the Black, or something along those lines. Lyonel had had a tough time hearing that over Selmy's gritting teeth. If the rumbling in the upper stands was to be true, they were from mercenary companies of the free cities. Which ones differs according to whose whispers you subscribe yourself to. And finally, Anguy or Anguy the Archer, as he calls himself archaically. As a commoner from the Dornish Marches he has the sympathies of the masses and the eyerolls of the noblemen in equal measure.

As they enter the final competition all of them take stance at the 250-yard line, a warlike distance between them and their targets.

"Let's have the peasant begin, then we can bring some class back into this," the summer lander prince said to the white robed knight, who gave him a polite yet slightly embarrassed smile. The boastfulness of the peacock prince did not bode well with the modest Sir Swann. Jalabhar's countryman with the golden ringed arms did not have such qualms about presentation and egged the commoner on.

"Go on Anguy the Archer, shoot your shot and lose your name", Balaq laughed at his competitor.

Lyonel looked at Anguy and in his eyes it was clear what he was destined for. The young man had come further than any of his family members ever did. The eyes of the capital were on him, and he was a few shots aways from a sum of gold that would put his forefather's lifetime earnings to shame. And then some. Anguy would not be discouraged by a couple of nobles raising their noses, some foreigners throwing insults his way, or in the case of Jalabhar Xho at once.

And he did not disappoint. Wordlessly Anguy did step forth, pulled an arrow from his queue, held the bow steady and slightly aimed up to bridge the distance. The announcer was just in time to throw in a rushed "Begin!" before he loosened the arrow and let it fly forward. It whooshed for an agonizing moment before it -thud- landed inside the third most inner ring of the target. The crowd kept the silence for a brief second of disbelief, before erupting in hollering applause.

They clapped and clapped and clapped, but among the cheering and hands creating a ruckus, Lyonel heard something more. Something primal.

CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP

And before Lyonel could make out the source, it stopped as abruptly as it started. And a new whooosh slid through the applause, its following thud silencing the crowd completely. A second arrow had hit Anguy's target only inches away from his own arrow. Next to the crown prince Sir Selmy drew his sword and with a speed unfit for a man his age jumped in front of Lyonel, "The crowd is armed my prince, get down." Lyonel was in no way scared, but the Knight Commanders voice carried an authority that was not to be disobeyed. From his now ducked state, the prince did not see who started talking now.

"People of Kings Landing, hold still at once", a proud voice barked into the field of people from somewhere within it. "This competition is a farce if you only include these meddling amateurs."

Lyonel raised his head out slightly from behind his guardians back and saw a cloaked figure with an iron helmet standing in a clearing between the bystanders. The figure held a bow at head-height like a trophy already.

After the moment of shock, the crowd's applause returned, now even more euphoric, cheering themselves almost into a state of ecstasy. A commoner in the grand finale of such a tournament was moving, yes, but nothing beats a mystery knight. This was a spectacle they did not see coming.

"By right of skill and aptitude I demand a place in this competition," pride and entitlement swung with in full ****, "and if these are your most capable archers, the I might as well demand the trophy already."

With the exception of the eye slits the mystery knight's helmet was closed fully and yet that speech made a sharp-teethed smirk appear in front of Lyonel's eyes. He stood up fully and motioned Lord Commander Selmy to be at ease. If this was an **** attempt, it would be the least subtle one by a landslide.

"Highly unorthodox, the admission phase... and the credentials and....", the announcers voice did a summersault as he tried to utter his almost physical pain at the blatant disregard for the tournament's rules and formalities. But the crowd's reaction was ear-numbingly clear on the matter. They wanted the mystery knight to attend, and it sounded like there might be a riot if he did not get to compete.

"I'll allow it", Lyonel extended his arms to pacify the masses and spare the poor clerk the heart attack. "At least I will if none of the other finalists are averse to our new entry."

With their audience's clear stance, none of the contenders dared voice disagreement. None wanting to draw the ire of the masses, none wanting to announce fear of losing to this showoff. And so, the servants brought forth an additional target and cleared a sixth archery lane, pushing back the bystanders for their own good. During this commotion Lyonel got his first chance to get a good look at the newcomer. Even though to be honest there was hardly anything to see as the figure was of little height and almost fully concealed by said massive and bulbous cloak, fully obscuring the mystery knight save the shield strapped over the leather get-up instead of a harnish around the front. And on that shield, something that could have been a tree, it was tough to tell from the distance.

Was that supposed to be a weirwood tree? And some of the other squibbles might be intended as a smiling face then. Okay, so we got an imitator of the Knight of the Laughing Tree going on, Lyonel though, how innovative. Come to think of it, it really was innovative considering the story was not nearly as much a fable as older tournament exploits were.

With everyone set up and the new order established, the competitor began anew. First to lose out was Black Balaq, much to Sir Selmy's delight. His sellsword competitor was fast to follow, as Lewis Lanster missed the target by quite a bit and left the field muttering curses. Two rounds later, Jalabhar Xho hit his targets foot after an admittedly harsh breezes angled it downward. He though took it with much more grace and when the beautiful woman Lyonel already noticed in the audience hall before escorted Jalabhar away from the crowd, he still managed to give him a polite bow.

The remaining three sank one arrow after the next into their respective targets, but none showed signs of fatigue. Sometimes far from the center, sometimes close to it, all their arrows hit true, until Sir Swann's arrow cut the side of his target and sailed past it into the field behind. With a dignified nod to the competitors that bested him, the whitecloak left the events center and moved up to join Lyonel and the Lord Commander Selmy.

For the final two contestants, flawless marksmen each and people's champions in their own right, the competitions peak was to be decided through a system of points based on proximity to the targets center. Each of them got six arrows and whoever sunk his closer to the bull's eye wins. None of them missed a shot and the furthest outward any of the shot was the second ring from the middle. When they were down to their final arrows, the mystery knight bowed mockingly and gave Anguy the go ahead for the first final shot. As before, Anguy did step forth, pulled an arrow from his queue, held the bow steady and slightly aimed up to bridge the distance. He took a final breath and let loose the deciding arrow.

But the moment his grip let go, the mystery knight shot an arrow almost too fast to humanly perceive. But that arrow was not aimed forward and so the double whooosh led to a CLANK when the mystery arrow shot Anguy's out of the air, breaking it in midflight and continued to then hit the target that formerly belonged to Sir Swann.

Hitting that target right in the center at that.

Without even realizing it, Lyonel had held his breath only to now release it in a roaring outcry. The people joined their prince in excitement and while Lyonel and some of the others threw their hands in the air, cheering and chanting in unheard of amazement, a lady two rows down literally fainted. And the same might have happened to the stuttering announcer when his helpers brought forth the prize, before he could even get to question himself if only the achieved points on your own target count and if it was good or bad sportsmanship to catch your adversaries' projectiles in the air.

"I-a-I gue- I.... Well, the winner of today's archery competition", he had collected himself and apparently decided to just get done with this as sanely as possible, "as part of the ongoing tournament to celebrate the new Hand of the Hand Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, as well as the engagement of his daughter Sansa Stark t-"

"Enough!", the mystery knight interrupted the announcer swiftly, took the prize money from the servant's hands and threw it at Anguy the Archer. "The Knight of the Laughing does not fight for riches, nor for arrogant, spoiled, snotty, holier-than-though, arrogant, prissy bitches!"

A gasp went through the crowd and the woman whose husband had just now fanned her back to consciousness fainted yet again.

"I fight for the overlooked and the downtrodden, the true and the earnest. I fight the abundance that nature blessed us with!"

Out of the corner of his eye Lyonel saw two guys, farmers by the looks of their cloth, hyping each other up and start a chant out loud.

"Lau-ghing Tree! Lau-ghing Tree! Lau-ghing Tree", it rapidly gained a following and soon the audience couldn't help themselves but storm towards their hero, to raise upon their shoulders and carry through the streets presumably. The mystery knight, bow now swung around the shoulder, got lost in the encroaching chaos of the masses. One might think the mystery knight ended up under the peoples' feet, trampled to **** in delirious hysteria. But Lyonel would put his money more on a duck-and-run maneuver, as he started to hear a telltale sign moving away from the archery grounds.

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