Asoiaf: I Have a Wolverine Template

Chapter 45

Chapter 45: Broken Heart
...
Elia Martell POV

The next day

It was now the sixth day of the tourney, I snuck out in the early morning from my tent. With a mix of apprehension and determination, I was set on figuring out why Galahad had ignored me yesterday.

With a cloak and hood, I made my way to the tourney grounds where Galahad was training. I wished to talk to him alone. But when I got there, a small crowd was already forming.

They were mostly smallfolk and ladies who had been smitten by Galahad.

Since defeating a Kingsguard in melee and besting the prince in the joust, Galahad's reputation had grown immensely. He was now never alone like before.

I clenched my fists in annoyance. Before, I could have spoken to Galahad without worrying about rumors, but now, with him always surrounded, it had grown quite hard to sneak around and talk to him.

I caught a glimpse of him, his golden hair and green eyes making him look every bit the part of a knight from the songs.

He was handsome, youthful, and strong. No doubt as he grew older, he'd only become more popular with the ladies.

I bit my lip, fighting the urge to get close to him, and pull him aside to ask why yesterday he had ridden by without even acknowledging me. But for the sake of my mother—and the rumors—I controlled myself.

After watching him train for a while, I decided to make my way to his tent instead. He'd surely go there after training.

I'd wait for him there. And besides, since he was occupied here, I was curious to see what his personal space looked like.

With this thought, I slipped away and made my way to his tent, my heart fluttering with a mix of anticipation and curiosity.

Keeping my steps light I made it there and I hesitated outside, glancing around to make sure no one was watching, then lifted the tent flap and slipped inside.

The first thing that struck me was the simplicity of it all. There was no extravagance here, only a functional order.

Every item was arranged with care—his belongings placed precisely, as if each thing had its rightful place.

Two sets of armor stood by the far side of the tent: one for melee, the other for jousting, both polished to a gleam that caught the faint morning light slipping through the canvas.

I approached them, my fingers trailing close to the armor without touching. There were small scratches and dents in the metal from both the melee and jousting armor.

Then my gaze fell upon his bed—a small, simple thing in the corner, barely big enough for his frame. It was lined with thick fur sheets, worn but warm.

I reached out and touched the fur, its softness surprising beneath my fingertips. There was something intimate in this simplicity, something humbling.

For all his power and reputation, he found rest here, in a modest bed within this plain tent.

Without thinking, I sat down, letting the warmth of the furs envelop me. A part of me imagined him beside me, his green eyes watching me with that intense gaze that made me feel as if I were the only person in the world.

And in that quiet space, my frustration with him softened, replaced by a different feeling—one I could barely name.

I sighed as I touched my beating chest and felt sleepiness in my eyes. I hadn't slept much after yesterday's event; the whole night, I'd been thinking of reasons why he'd ignored me and ridden past without even a glance.