Casterly Rock: Tourney Grounds
Within a tent in the area designated for the Tyrell retinue, Olenna Tyrell had arrived in the Westerlands a few days after her granddaughter and grandson. The rest of the Tyrells had come to a cold welcome from the old lion. While his son and good-daughter were surprised by the reception, Olenna knew very well the reason behind it. This smelt of his rose knight. Yes, his rose knight.
"Boy, I thought I taught you better," the old woman said to a kneeling, well-dressed young man clad in shining armor with golden accents and a large golden rose on his breastplate.
"And what do I pay you for, if you continue to waste money on flowers and this ostentatious armor?" she added.
Her grandchildren watched the familiar scene unfold—one they had witnessed hundreds of times—and they already knew his response. The melodic voice of the handsome knight began:
"Grandmother, the gods know only weak men feel threatened by the truth. Besides, I merely wanted to fight the most feared man in the Seven Kingdoms. Imagine if I beat the brute—perhaps I could secure you a friend in Dorne."
His words quieted the giggling. For a moment, Olenna was caught off guard before speaking.
"And why would we want to make friends with Dorne by making enemies with the lions? I raised you, boy, and I've let you do as you please, but alliances are not yours to decide," she said coldly.
"Enemies? No, not at all, my lady. I'm guessing you haven't seen the jousting lists," the knight said.
Olenna looked surprised. "Go on, then. Let me hear your thoughts."
"Aye. The golden lion will be jousting, as will the Mountain and his brother, the Hound—among other white cloaks. I will challenge them all, in order of prestige. The Mountain—I will be killing, that is a given. But Jaime Lannister and his brothers of the Kingsguard, I will beat them all."
"Well, the golden boy I will embarrass. As you have said, Grandmother—men and their egos. The Dornish may be patient, but what they are not is afraid. The Reach has numbers, but not the skill. The Dornish have skill, but not the numbers. They also have hate for the Westerlands."
"Grandmother, you possess wealth on par with the Lannisters, but half the lords in the Reach still see themselves as your equals. But with the Dornish as your allies—"
He tried to continue, but Olenna cut in.
"Enough, boy. You seem to be overlooking the crown. Even if we make allies with Dorne, the queen is a Lannister, and that makes it simple to see the Lannisters have the aid of the king."
A chuckle broke through.
"No. The queen is an angry woman—a woman clearly not fucking her husband, Grandmother. The crown owes the Lannisters a lot of coin. If it came down to a fight, the crown would delay any help until the very last moment. That means we could end up taking mines and castles that would make for great gifts to a drowning king."
"You are a skilled player, my lady—but you have never started a war."
He turned to Margaery and Loras, continuing:
"A Tyrell queen is what you want, is it not? All these southern houses want the same thing. They are all politicians, including the old lion. But politicians all fear one thing above all else."
"And what is that?" Olenna and Margaery asked in unison.
"A sword they cannot buy. A vial of poison they did not acquire. A dagger from the shadows they did not send. All schemers fear what does not follow the rules of the game. Tywin, Jon Arryn, Doran Martell, the Tullys of Riverrun—my lady, you have watched these men go to war over women, lands, and crowns."
"Let me train my own knights. Let me train men who would rather backstab than siege walls for years. Let me train men who will slip poison to one man rather than send thousands to war. You feed the kingdom, yet they do not fear you. Let me make them fear you."
"Tywin Lannister extinguished the Rains to earn his reputation. Who better to write the story of the future queen of roses—her roots spread so far they cover the whole kingdom?"
The knight smiled—a smile that chilled Loras, but oddly excited young Margaery.
Olenna looked at her adopted grandson. He was not showing ambition—that was odd. No, he showed something else. Hate. For the Lannisters? No. For politics? No—he loved scheming. She raised the boy, that much she knew. No—it was war he hated.
Killing a general may end a war, but what would happen if generals never gave orders before falling ill? What if the heirs of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister fall ill or get abducted? The queen herself, dying of a broken heart?
Olenna could see it all: a woman's war—subtle, vindictive, and deadly.
She looked at him and finally spoke.
"Espada, my boy, come here."
The boy rose and walked within the embrace of the shorter old woman, who had her hand wide open. She whispered in his ear:
"Go. Go start my war, my sharpest thorn. Make them know the wrath of a woman is a quiet one—a subtle one, a deadly one."
She kissed his cheek and tucked her own favor beneath his breastplate.
"This goes without saying. Loras—learn well from Ser Espada. And Margaery, my sweet girl… keep him close. He will be your sword and closest companion."
Those last words were said in a tone that suggested something to her granddaughter—something only they understood.
Atop a white Dothraki stallion, with a silver and gold helm reminiscent of a Spartan general's, with Tyrell colors in its mane and peacock feathers, murmurs rang across the gathered nobility. But the question was asked first by the King, Robert Baratheon:
"Who is that knight with the feathers?"
The answer came from the Tyrell booth by Lord Pufferfish himself, Mace Tyrell.
"Ah, Your Grace, that is the greatest swordsman the Reach has ever produced—The Rose Knight, Ser Espada Flowers," he said with pride and boast in his tone.
A mocking, sweet voice rang out.
"A bastard is all the Reach can produce?" the Queen, Cersei Lannister, scoffed.
The knight on the jousting grounds pranced around on his horse, holding a Tyrell banner.
"Quite the showman," sneered Jaime Lannister from beside his sister.
But a reply came from a sweet young voice in the Tyrell booth.
"Oh, Ser Jaime, my knight loves showing off. And he heard you are quite the swordsman and jouster. He said you should prepare to be challenged to a friendly joust. In his words, though, he said mediocrity should stop being praised as talent. Isn't that right, Grandmother?"
The old woman chuckled and replied:
"No, no, no. He said cats should stop facing mice and claiming strength, because once a true lion faces them, their world may come crashing."
For the first time, Jaime Lannister was speechless.
His twin was enraged.
And the king—he laughed heartily as Tywin waved to the announcer to get on with the jousts.
A loud voice boomed:
"Lords and ladies, and smallfolk alike, the first joust will be Ser Espada Flowers versus Ser Gregor Clegane!"
The Mountain, Ser Gregor, appeared on a black warhorse—a destrier that barely held his terrifying bulk. A monstrous man, nearly eight feet tall, wearing a blocky helm and surcoat bearing three dogs on a field of yellow.
Espada was already waiting, entertaining the crowd. He looked to the nobles' booths and called for a lance. A nearby squire handed it to him. He held it aloft, pointing to the sky, then pulled on his horse's reins, causing it to rear on its hind legs before focusing on his foe.
His helm had no visor—dangerous in a joust—but he didn't want his breathing hampered. Facing the beast of a man like the Mountain, he wanted to see everything.
A horn rang. His leaner steed broke into a gallop, much quicker than the Mountain's. Within seconds, Espada was already at the center.
No one was there.
Good, he thought. That meant he had the speed.
The Mountain aimed straight for Espada's exposed face. Many of the ladies in the stands looked away. The men leaned in.
They all saw the young knight dying. Getting decapitated.
But a loud bang rang out. The Mountain had been hit square in the chest, spun around, and was thrown off his horse.
Behind the young knight, his helm was bent and deformed—yet he was unscathed. He had ducked low. His wide green mane had been taken off by the Mountain's lance, which was still intact.
The giant struggled to rise, trying to catch his breath.
A loud, scathing laughter came:
"One tilt, one lance, and the Mountain falls! Ha-ha-ha! More of a straw pile than a mountain!"
Then they heard it.
"Sword," the beast bellowed.
Espada leapt off his mount. Loras Tyrell waited with two blades—one a sabre with an ornate handguard, the other an anlace—a blade too long to be a dagger, too short to be a sword. A simpler helm was placed on his head by his squire.
The young man turned, slowly approaching the rampaging Mountain, who shoved his squire aside.
Espada began to sing:
"And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?"
He stepped into Clegane's range. The Mountain swung down with terrifying speed.
Espada parried with the anlace in his off-hand, spinning to his left and striking with the sabre to the right arm—clanging off armor.
"Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know."
It was The Rains of Castamere.
The king burst out laughing. The Mountain roared, swinging his sword horizontally. Espada leapt back. The Mountain charged, trying to shoulder-check him—Espada sidestepped, slashing the back of the giant's knee, dropping him.
"In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws,"
A scoff. A quick stab in the armpit.
The Mountain lashed out with one hand, swinging his greatsword clumsily. Espada continued:
"And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours."
He circled. The Mountain stood, bleeding heavily. The taunting voice didn't stop.
"And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that lord of Castamere..."
Espada struck again—one knee, then under the opposite armpit. Then he ducked, spun his dagger into an icepick grip, and stabbed between the breastplate. He rose on one knee, spun, and slammed his sabre into the side of the helm—twice. Metal rang out.
The Mountain stood, sword stabbing into the dirt.
A statue.
Espada calmly walked over. Took the dagger from his side. A pool of blood spread.
"Get a maester, now!" Tywin shouted.
But another voice from the field replied:
"I think the Silent Sisters would be better. Damn ox cart. The beast is dead. Never had a man die on his feet before."
Espada removed his helm.
"You lie!" Cersei hissed.
The maester approached. The Mountain keeled over, helm falling off. Blood from the eyes. From the ears.
A gruesome sight.
Lannister men dragged the corpse away.
Espada jumped on his horse, tossing flowers. Cheers erupted from the smallfolk.
The king laughed, clapping his hands.
Espada stopped near the royal stand. Dismounted. A young girl approached with two bouquets. The knight knelt, presenting them.
"I dare not presume myself worthy of speaking to the king and queen, but I merely wished to show my gratitude for allowing me to perform for Your Graces."
Robert laughed and took the flowers. Cersei had a handmaiden take hers.
Espada then took his sabre and spoke again:
"I also wish to offer the young prince this sabre—the Mountain Slayer—as a gift. And I would like, one day, to have the honor of teaching the young prince to swing a sword."
The prince dashed forward, drawing the bloody blade, grinning eerily.
While all eyes were on the moment, Espada turned again and said:
"I know I am nothing but a bastard, but as an iron-blooded man, rumors reach my ear. I hear of the legendary Golden Lion—the youngest Kingsguard, the greatest swordsman of our time."
"All I wish... is to exchange swords with such a great swordsman."
He smiled—the same smirk Jaime Lannister had used on lesser men all his life.
And Jaime recognized it.