"Is it not unbecoming of a man of the city watch to enter a lady's chambers uninvited?"
"Is it not unbecoming of a lady to hold a blade to the commander of the city watch's throat, my princess?"
[or]
Amongst the ceaseless battle of succession to Vi...
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| Content warning: character death, mentions of infantile death. |
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111 A.C
WITH HIS LANCE HEAVY IN HAND, RYLAN STRONG SAT ATOP HIS STALLION CLAD IN TARGARYEN-COLOURED ARMOUR AKIN TO THE PERFECT VISAGE OF A WARRIOR. The stony expression of sheer determination hidden behind his helm never faltered as he stared down the man who stood between him and victory in the name of Princess Baela Targaryen. Flanking both his sides stood squires each wearing a look of unwavering resolve as they held the Targaryen banners aloft with pride.
Across the tourney field climbing into the saddle of his horse was some lord's son whom Rylan held no intentions of trying to recall the name of. The Lannister banners held up by the boys- Rylan refused to call him a man, not when his bastard sister Alys was more man than all the Lannisters he'd had the displeasure of meeting combined- side told him more than he would ever need to know in regards to his opponent. Any concerns he held of letting the princess, his closest companion, down were quickly washed away.
After all, what was a mere lion cub against the Dragon's Warrior?
"Ser Rylan Strong, fighting in the name of Princess Baela Targaryen," The Master of Revels announced as his stallion cantered toward the starting mark. Beneath his helm, Rylan's eyes narrowed as the Lannister knight followed suit. "For his first challenge, Ser Rylan Strong has chosen Ser Torren Lannister of Casterly Rock, youngest son of Lord Tymond Lannister."
Rylan swallowed down his scoff at the herald's words. Going up against the Lannister cunt had been no more a choice than breathing was. The unsavoury comment he'd heard the boy spout about Queen Aemma's yet-to-be-born babe had ensured the Lannister boy would see no victories that day.
His gauntlet-clad hold tightened around his horse's reins, the grip on his lance readjusting as he levelled the tip toward his opponent. Urging his mount forward the Strong's stallion took off, without hesitation the animal's hooves found purchase amongst the dirt, spurring them on at an intimidating speed.
Crossing the field in a matter of seconds, Ser Rylan's aim remained true as the tip of his lance collided with the Lannister knight's shoulder. Had it not besmirched the Princess' good name, Rylan would've taken the knight's head and so instead he revelled in the satisfaction that came with watching the Lannister fall from his mount with all the grace of a dying horse. The boy's humiliation would have to suffice as punishment enough for his comment.
With a sharp tug at the reins, Rylan's mount turned, cantering back toward the Royal Balcony, its head bobbing with the same pride his rider exuded. Dismounting, Rylan was quick to remove his helm and dropped to one knee as the king stood upon the herald announcing the Strong's victory.
