The crowd's roar swelled as two warhorses thundered past each other at full tilt.
CLANG! CLANG!
Their lances shattered against polished shields, wood splinters flying like hail. Before the fragments even drifted down, both riders had urged their mounts to the far end of the lists, wheeled around, and bore down for another pass.
William Harroway yanked a fresh lance from the hand of his attendant, peered through his helm's narrow slit, and spotted the towering knight across the field—Sir Garlan Tyrell of Highgarden, known far and wide as Garlan the Valiant. A flicker of panic struck William's chest. This guy really lives up to the name… and I've got magic on my side. He winced at how even their odds felt. Does he have a cheat, too?
Silently, he ran a quick incantation. A surge of spirit energy coursed through his veins, stamping out the burn in his limbs. Without that little boost, he'd have collapsed long before now.
A deep blast of the horn split the air. The crowd's frenzy reignited. William's world contracted: no noise, no sweat dripping inside his helm—just him and Garlan.
Charge… tilt… thrust!
They met center-field. William hesitated mid‑reach—maybe I should try a different angle…—and it was too late.
CLANG!
He felt the recoil in his lance arm, then an invisible hammer slam into his chest. William was launched clear off his saddle. His protective ward (a simple guard spell) glowed once, then shattered like glass. He hit ground hard, skidded across the dirt, and finally came to rest in a deep rut.
For a moment, his mind went blank. Who am I… where is this… what's for dinner…?
The crowd's simultaneous gasp echoed in his ears. He lay on his back, the sun stabbing through the open sky. A metallic tang filled his mouth—blood. So this is what it feels like to be thrown off a horse. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat of peace.
Then the pain flooded in, a tidal wave wrenching through every bone and muscle. Instinctively, William whispered the words of a healing spell. A cool wash swept over him, pain retreating like a dying tide. He gasped, heart pounding. That… that was the real fall. Brutal.
A piercing triple‑blast of the horn signaled the end of the joust. The arena exploded with cheers for the victor, while a handful of servants—shooed on by the master‑at‑arms—scrambled to William's side.
From the main dais, Lord Randal Tarly, Earl of Horn Hill, clapped enthusiastically. "Eleventh round, I believe? I haven't witnessed such a spectacular lance‑off in years!"
Baron Jon Fossoway of New Barrel City leaned over. "It's rare indeed. This finale alone will ensure the tourney's fame."
A ripple of agreement spread among the assembled lords and knights. Everyone was on their feet, proud to have seen history in motion.
On one side of the dais sat the ladies of the court. Margaery Tyrell—only daughter of the Duke of Highgarden and famed for her beauty—turned to her friend, Leonie Fossoway, who still had her eyes closed in worry.
"M'lady Leonie, have faith in my brother. He's Garlan the Valiant, after all."
Leonie fluttered her lashes open just in time to see Sir Garlan lift his helm in salute to the crowd. His handsome features and warm smile banished her last shred of fear. Relief bloomed on her face.
Meanwhile, Sir Garlan rode his mount over to where William lay. He leaned down, concern etched across his broad features. "How is he, Maester Dedalo?"
Maester Dedalo—a lean, middle‑aged scholar—had sprinted across the lists nearly as fast as the servants. He shook his head. "Not well, sir. That blow nearly sent him sky‑high."
"Sent him flying, you mean," William quipped from the ground, testing his limbs. "Like a bird."
Dedalo's eyes widened. "Please, don't move, my lord—if you've any fractures, the slightest shift could be disastrous."
William sat up with a wry grin. "Well, Maester… I could use a moment's rest. After all, where one falls is where one ought to lie, right?" He glanced up at Garlan. "Thanks for the concern, Sir Garlan."
Garlan chuckled, visibly relieved. "Your humor is most reassuring. I'll return later to check on you." With that, he spurred his horse back to the dais under a fresh wave of "Garlan! Garlan!" cheers.
---
Back on the podium, nobles crowded around Sir Garlan to offer their congratulations. In the Riverlands, valor was everything—and Garlan, second son of Highgarden's duke, was now the undisputed champion. Polite laughter and banter flitted through the air until Countess Melisandre (the tournament's patron) presented him with a wreath of roses—the Crown of Love and Beauty.
The crowd fell silent as Garlan strode to the ladies' gallery. First he shared a conspiratorial smile with his sister Margaery. Then he turned to Leonie, eyes soft with affection.
Leonie's heart fluttered. By custom, the joust champion crowns his wife or betrothed. If unwed, he offers the wreath to the host's daughter. Garlan's choice of Leonie—his friend, not his fiancée—shattered every expectation. Her hands gripped so tightly her knuckles whitened.
Then, loud and clear:
"Leonie Fossoway, your beauty outshines the stars, and your smile conquers my heart. Will you be my Queen of Love and Beauty?"
Margaery leapt to her feet, applauding, and the gallery erupted in a tide of ovation. Leonie's legs trembled; she felt as though she might swoon. When the wreath was placed atop her curls, cheers thundered anew—this time for love itself.
---
In a quieter corner, William's armor was finally pried free by clanking servants. Maester Dedalo inspected him and declared, "Only superficial bruises, my lord. Quite remarkable!"
William slid off the last strap and stood, dusting himself off. He glanced at his ruined breastplate. Worthless now. More urgently, his warhorse—valued at four gold dragons—still needed reclaiming.
Just then, a pudgy, dark‑haired boy approached, round cheeks and wide gray eyes making him look harmless. He bowed so deeply he nearly toppled. "Sir Garlan, Ser William… I—I am Samwell Tarly, son of Lord Randal Tarly. Pardon the intrusion, sirs."
William smiled warmly. "Samwell, of course. A pleasure."
Samwell stuttered, clearly flustered.
Garlan stepped in, offering relief. "You must be here on account of those two Qartheen warlocks—Word has it Ser William aided them. Samwell, what can we do for you?"
"My father requests the honor of your company at tonight's feast—and that you escort Lady Leonie and me. Anything you require, simply command."
William's grin widened. I may have lost the joust—and ten thousand silver stags in prize money—but befriending Garlan Tyrell? Worth every deer.
"I'd be delighted," he said.
Authors Note: This is my first book, and there are many immature parts. There are deficiencies in writing, lack of interaction, conflicts in time for part-time writing... In short, there are many problems.