The tourney was staged to celebrate the thirteenth name day of Lord Ashford’s daughter, who sat high in the gallery, crowned with orange blossoms. Five champions had been selected to defend her honor. Any knight who wished to challenge them would ride against one of the five; if the challenger won, he would take the champion's place on the field and defend the title against the next challenger.

  The jousting area had five lanes situated north-south, so none of the jousters would have the sun in their eyes. Alyx sat in the viewing stand raised on the eastern side, beneath a canopy of burnt-orange silk meant to shield the nobility from the sun. Across the field to the west, the smallfolk packed the railings like sardines, it was a dense crowd.

  She watched as the five champions took their places at the ends of the lanes. They were a formidable line. The two sons of Lord Ashford, Androw and Robert, sat on their horses with nervous pride. Beside them was Lord Leo Tyrell, the "Longthorn." He was a legendary jouster as far Alyx knew. Then came Ser Humfrey Hardyng, a young tourney favorite.

  And finally, Prince Valarr Targaryen.

  He sat atop a black charger, his helmet tucked under his arm. Even from this distance, Alyx could see the streak of silver in his hair. He looked less like a warrior eager for glory and more like a man waiting for a storm.

  "He looks… rather calm." Verona whispered, leaning close to Alyx. She fanned herself with a palm leaf, the heat of the afternoon already stifling. "He is such a fine prince.”

  “Shush.” Alyx shouldered her, annoyed.

  "Knights!" the voice boomed. "Prepare to tilt!”

  The first wave of challengers rode out.

  Ser Humfrey Hardyng and Prince Valarr rode against their challengers, Medgar Tully and Abelar Hightower. There was a sickening crack of wood against steel. Both challengers were swept from their horses after two courses.

  Leo Tyrell aimed his lance so expertly he ripped the Lannister challenger’s helm off his head. Damon Lannister, known as the Grey Lion, raised his hand in salute and jumped from his horse, clearly startled against the Longthorn’s prowess.

  Tybolt Lannister and Androw Ashford rode against each other thrice more before Ser Androw was dismounted with a powerful strike of Tybolt’s lance.

  Then came the roar.

  "BARATHEON! BARATHEON!”

  Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm, thundered down his lane against Robert Ashford. He was the younger champion of the Ashford brothers, and he was lasting even longer than his older brother. Lyonel Baratheon was a force to be reckoned with, however. His unending laughter echoed even over the crash of lances. Androw fought with valor, clashing again and again.

  They both lost their saddles on their tenth course, only to rise to fight on with sword against mace. Strikes landed violently, it took some time for battered Ser Robert Ashford to admit defeat. His father looked anything but saddened, however. His sons had fallen, but they had fallen fighting relentlessly against lions and stags.

  "Violence," Daleria murmured, her voice barely audible over the cheering. "It is the only language this continent speaks fluently."

  ”It is a sad language.” Alyx agreed with a nod.

  But Elissa was enjoying herself, laughing and shouting throughout the jousts. Robin was enjoying himself, as well.

  Prince Valarr and Gawen Swann, an old knight, rode against each other. Their lances crashed at the same time, Valarr lost his balance but did not fell. The second time, Valarr’s lance struck the old knight’s shoulder and threw him off his horse. Valarr was ready to fight on the ground, but Lord Gawen surrendered.

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  “I yield, Your Grace.”

  “Well fought!” The lords across the viewing stand applauded him, many more joining, including Elissa with laughter. “Well fought! Well fought!”

  Closer to the stands was Ser Joseth Mallister being carried unconscious, defeated utterly by Humfrey Hardyng. Then there was another intense fight taking place: the harp against rose.

  Leo Tyrell was being driven back, relentless strikes of longaxe battering his shield again and again. The crowd couldn’t believe their eyes as more and more cheers boomed for the harper lord. Longthorn’s supporters were just as many: the crowd seemed almost equally divided as all kinds of shouts were heard, excitement hitting its peak.

  Lord Leo’s shield shattered violently and split, but the strike caused the axehead to lose its precision; the weapon hung for a second as Leo’s own axe crashed down on the haft of his foe’s weapon, breaking it off from his hand. He threw his broken shield away and now he was on the attack. The harper lord was defeated, being forced to his knee.

  As the event unfolded for the rest of the morning, Alyx found herself focused. There was… something exciting to all this. A cheap cheer as cheap as the glory they were selling, but even though she hated to admit it, she was not so different from the simple folk to revel in seeing fighters clash.

  She watched as Ser Humfrey Hardyng and Ser Humfrey Beesbury went against each other, breaking no less than a dozen spears. It was intense, unending, unnerving; an epic fight through and through, the Battle of Humfrey.

  She watched as Robyn Rhysling, a one-eyed old knight go against Longthorn, showing courage and stubbornly refusing to yield despite being struck again and again, even after losing his helm. Finally, Leo Tyrell sent him spiralling to the ground with a precise strike on his breastplate.

  Ser Lyonel Baratheon also fought several matches. His booming laughter would burst into the air often as he mounted, charged, and knocked his foes off. Soon after, only crestless challengers took the field as he was targeting crests and striking them off. He was a favorite of the commoners for this habit of humbling nobles, but the viewing stand Alyx was on hated him.

  All the champions were on a winning strike when the entrance of a new challenger was announced.

  “Ser Braxter Glasser of Beachcastle!” The herald shouted.

  The man in blue entered the field with a dark mare as dark as his eyes. His crest glinted: a yellow stripe of axe in a pale sapphire surface dotted with red dots.

  "Oh, this is exciting," Verona said, clutching her hands to her chest. "Who is he going to challenge?”

  “Surely, Valarr,” Elissa said.

  Alyx nodded, her throat dry. Valarr was formidable, but compared to the Laughing Storm or the Longthorn, he was the safer choice.

  Daleria jabbed her elbow on Elissa’s hip. “Prince Valarr,” she whispered furiously. “Be aware of where we are sitting, woman.”

  Alyx just shook her head with a sigh. Indeed, they had no place here. Alyx would probably not even be watching if it were not for that man, Glasser, who seemed to gaze in her direction. Alyx smiled for him, raising a hand slightly to wave. He returned the grace with a slight bow of his head.

  Braxter trotted his mare down the line of champions. He passed the Longthorn, who did not even deign to look at him. He passed the Laughing Storm.

  He stopped before the black shield with the red three-headed dragon.

  Braxter lowered his lance and struck the shield. Clang.

  Prince Valarr, resting on a bench, stood up. He adjusted his gauntlets, looking at Braxter not with anger, but with a calm acceptance. He mounted his black charger.

  They took their positions at opposite ends of the lane.

  "He’s going to get hurt," Alyx whispered.

  "He’s a knight," Robin said from behind them, where he stood holding a pitcher of watered wine. His voice was unusually serious. "Getting hurt is the job.”

  The trumpet sounded.

  The horses surged forward, kicking up clods of earth. Braxter leaned low, his lance steady. Valarr rode with an almost effortless grace. They closed the distance in a heartbeat.

  Splinters exploded into the air.

  The crowd gasped with shock.

  "He hit him!" Elissa shouted.

  Braxter had not pulled his lance. He had struck the Prince squarely on the breastplate, rocking Valarr back in his saddle. Valarr’s own lance had glanced off Braxter’s shield.

  They wheeled their horses around. Valarr seemed to shake himself, his eyes narrowing. He was not used to being struck so hard; most men feared the Hand’s wrath too much to bruise the Prince.

  They charged. The thunder of hooves vibrated through the soles of Alyx’s boots.

  This time, Valarr did not ride passively. He leaned into the charge, his lance tip dipping at the last second.

  The collision was violent.

  Braxter’s lance shattered against Valarr’s shield, but Valarr’s point caught Braxter high on the chest, just below the neck. The force instantly swept him off his saddle.

  He flew backward, landing hard in the dirt.

  Then immediately a pained scream pierced the ears. Alyx’s eyes went wide with devastating horror. His arm was so visibly broken.

  “Dally!” Alyx couldn’t take the sight, burying her face in her friend’s chest. Her heart bled for the man.

  Daleria held her, smoothing her hair as tears welled up in Alyx’s eyes.

  All men were fools, and it was women who cried for fools.