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“And now, to crown your Queen!”
On cue, a spotty page sped to Ser Loras’ side to hand off the crown, a wreath of blush pink roses and summer jonquils, peppered sporadically with baby’s breath, all wove ‘round a copper wire to keep its shape. A trio of silk ribbons were tied in a bow at the rear, the ends left long to trail behind the lady as she passed. It didn’t escape Loras’ notice that the colors chosen were Lannister crimson and Baratheon gold, with black for the King’s stag. A bit presumptuous, he thought, but he supposed having the crown Princess for one’s Queen of Love and Beauty was more often a sure bet than not.
He turned to the tourney’s champion as the page scurried off, bearing the roses in his hand and a carefully chosen grin, one that befit a gracious runner-up, on his lips. He extended the gaudy blossoms to his rescuer, looking, he was sure, the very picture of goodwill and humility.
“This gift is yours to give as you please, Ser.” Seven Hells. If that sounded even half as saccharine to his ears as it did mine...
If the Hound had caught him on his disingenuousness, he didn’t make it known to the crowd. In fact, Sandor Clegane may as well have fallen over dead, for how little he offered Loras and the expectant stands in the way of showmanship, brusqueness, or anything else, choosing to stand stock still even as the spectators’ gazes jumped back to him. The bravado from his previous tilts had seemingly vanished into thin air. Clegane regarded the outstretched offering with a furrowed brow and a curl of his twisted lip, before looking up to glare Loras’ way.
“The man is.... difficult.” was what Renly relaid to him over the banquet the night prior, when Loras had approached him with hopes to build a profile of his potential combatants. He’d rode plenty well that first day, but the shadow of Willas’ ill-fated tourney had followed him all along his northeasterly trek up the Rose Road, and loomed large over any feelings of triumph. The chance to ease his disquiet had been more than welcome, as well as the hand venturing north of his knee. “I’m not certain what else to call him, if I’m speaking truly, and you know I am, don’t you?” He’d kneaded Loras’ thigh and grinned cheekily, then. “He’s overcautious, maybe? Taciturn, certainly. But more than anything he’s simply difficult!” Renly threw his free hand up in exasperation. “We’ve not spoken often, to be fair, but it seems as though no man, woman, or child could ever say or do a thing with any hope to please him. Even the most placid niceties make him cross. I’d venture to say that they’re, in fact, what draw his ire most! I’m sure they’re well protected, but I cannot say I envy my goodsister, nor my little nephew.”
As it happened, Renly’s assessment of character was proving itself more than apt. Even as the crown and its promised honors were pushed toward hands that had yet to release his pommel from their grasp, the Hound’s eyes seemed to regard the blooms as some unknowable threat, though Loras knew for a fact he’d rode in many a tourney prior, and that he knew what was meant to be done for the day to carry on. He’d had victory, glory, and gold handed to him readily, and now he was determined to embarrass himself and his competitor over something as trivial as the Queen of Love and Beauty. Difficult.
An insistent tap on his wrist was what finally separated the Hound’s grip from his steel, the scabbard clattering against his tassets as it crashed back to where it hung at the man’s left hip. Still, Loras was made to press the crown of roses into the open hands of a man intent on dragging him into his foolery. The silence grew ever longer, and Loras was suddenly over-aware of the heat beneath his plate, the uncaring Crownlands sun beating against his brow. The smile he wore felt tight. I’d sooner name you “The Mule,” you stubborn ass.
It was then he caught a crack in Clegane’s gaze, a brief flash of... something. If Loras didn’t know any better, he might call it “fear.” Grey eyes darted like flies in their sockets, darted towards the sand surrounding them both, towards where a steel dog’s head sat aside a stallion’s still pooling blood, the visor dented on one side, the clasp at its chin broken. It laid in the same place it had come to rest after a jab from Ser Gregor’s elbow sent it flying from its owner’s head.
When Loras’ eyes met Clegane’s anew, it came with a reassessment of the nervous crowd, where the goodwill from his daring rescue was visibly evaporating, where whispers that the Hound’s bizarre behavior could only partly account for teemed. Where lips formed the word “face” again and again.
Pity came up to choke him.
But suddenly, mercifully, the crown had been snatched from him, divorcing a handful of petals from their blooms in Clegane’s hurry, and the tourney champion finally deigned to honor tradition and, hopefully, get the damned thing done with. Even with the recent snap of sadness on his behalf, Ser Loras still found that the Hound was proving to be a most grievous strain on his patience. If Clegane was tired of the tourney, Loras was exhausted, drained from how close things had come, from the Vale knight, to the false alarm with Renly, to his own scheme with the mare. The stallion. The Mountain. Prince Oberyn. Willas. Willas’ leg. Willas’ cane.
The Hound had yet to approach the Princess’ seat at the Royal Box, and for a brief moment Loras wished he had just fought and lost to the bastard. He’d be cooling off in his tent by now if he’d let himself get knocked in the dirt. Damn my pride.
As a last ditch effort, he stepped toward the man, whether to gently direct him in Myrcella Baratheon’s direction or to whisper how he needed to just fucking pick a girl, any girl, gods damn you, he wasn’t certain.
And then, Clegane’s huge hand was on his shoulder, and Loras stopped, confused.
And then, something light smacked against the top of his head, where it remained.
“There,” said Clegane, who promptly stalked off and out of the stands, bending to scoop up his damaged helm without breaking his stride.
The crowd rose in applause, some accompanying their King’s shameless guffaws with their own nervous laughter. Loras reached a hand toward his hair, and his fingertips found rosebuds.
Blood rose to both cheeks and simmered. Riding into the lists bedecked in hydrangeas was one thing, this was quite another. Once word reached home, and he just knew it would, Garlan would never let him live it down.
He heard a whistle in his left ear, and turned to see three things; the new Hand sitting wide-eyed and confused, but applauding regardless, little Sansa Stark looking thoroughly entertained, even as errant giggles escaped her, and Renly standing shameless, clapping his hands above his head, grinning, cheering.
Traitor, he thought, though he found himself grinning back.
He bowed, doffed his crown, and turned to direct himself towards the exit.