The Winter Child

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Blood rained on the dark brown earth of the tourney grounds. And this time, it came from the neck of a knight who sported the Tarly banners. The powerful muscles of the chestnut stallion he rode strained under the dead weight of the gasping knight, his throat choking on his own blood while he was bent over on his back, the splinters of the broken lance wedged deep into his windpipe. His blood sprayed everywhere, the subtle metallic smell attacking the senses of a numb and shocked crowd. It had all happened too fast.

"Seven hells," the King had whispered, sitting almost to the edge of his seat, with the Good Queen Alysanne beside him, the black and red Targaryen colors swaying above their heads. At sixty and four, King Jaehaerys, the First of his Name, has been Lord of the Seven Kingdoms for fifty years now. And this great tourney was to celebrate his long and peaceful reign. In contrast, the battles in it have been anything but. They become swifter and progressively more brutal as the days wore on.

Among the royal family sat the princes and princesses, children and grandchildren of Jaehaerys and Alysanne, together with the numerous lords and ladies from all across Westeros. Right next to the queen was the young Princess Gael, her fair silver hair and bright lilac eyes transfixed elsewhere but the source of the blood. She wished to weep, and yet she had no energy for it. She wished to be anywhere but there, she wished to ride her dragon far away. If it hadn't been for her mother, who loved her so dearly and always kept her close, she might have done it. Just like her sister Saera did, when she fled beyond the narrow sea.

Gael had been born in the winter years, the last of the thirteen children of the king and queen. Everyone thought her simple, and she is aware of it. But to her there was not much to do as the thirteenth child. She only ever wished to be wed to a man she loved, and give birth to sons and daughters, and live quietly. She never cared for the throne, for power. Yes, maybe she is simple.

In the sea of fair hairs and bright lilac eyes that populated the tourney ground stands, Gael could see her entire family, gathered together. And that made her happy. But these deaths did none of the sort. She braved a look down at the struggling knight, until he was finally recovered from his horse, his limp body moving no more. She closed her eyes and flinched, looking away.

"Mother, this is too much," she whispered to Queen Alysanne, who now sat stoic as the body was carried away, and the noise grew louder as the winner is proclaimed. Soon enough the people started letting out the breaths they were holding in, and were quickly forgetting about the gruesome death they had just seen, moving on with cheers and chatter. Gael despised it. She wished to leave.

"I am ill, Mother. Please allow me to leave," she pleaded this half-truth, her eyes brimmed with tears, feeling miserable. The Queen was hesitant, for she had always wanted to keep her youngest close by. But at the sight of the tear that finally rolled down Gael's cheek, she obliged. "Return to the Red Keep, my dearest. I should like for you to find some rest," the queen told her wearily, her voice brimming with concern.

Gael did not say any more, and in the chaos and confusion of the crowd's cheering, she slipped away, donning a simple cloak in the shade of ugly brown that made all the other ladies flinch. She blended into the crowd, hoping to pass off as the daughter of a lesser lord. She edged her way out of the tourney grounds, far far away. But too far. The sky began to turn a shade of pink when she started to hear roaring water currents. Blackwater rush, she thought.

Her feet ached because of the distance she had walked, but it was better than having to stay at the tourney. Even as she walked away, past hundreds of tents, she could hear the screams and cheers as one after another a man fell off his horse, broke their bones, or sprayed blood everywhere. Gael shuddered; both at the thought, and at the increasingly colder air that surrounded her.