Chapter Text
Stiles tugs on the arm braces of his armor, tightening the leather straps so that they were snug and in place. Scott was watching him with worried eyes as he finishes suiting up for the tournament. Every few minutes he would mumble under his breath about how Stiles’ father would kill him if he found out what they were doing. Stiles had told his dad that he was exploring the countryside to become more in tune with his future kingdom while he was actually attending the biannual jousting tournament.
It was easy enough to fake the papers needed for an unknown knight from a rarely heard of territory, especially when you had the resources that Stiles did. He would ride as his true identity, but none would ever ride against him. Knowing that he was royalty, every knight would quickly and surely send one of their men to cover their shield with a white flag in withdrawal. It was an annoying truth that Stiles could not deny. Thus, he rode under the name Sir Otebon. It wasn’t his first choice, but anything he wanted would have been too flashy and easily discernable.
Stiles dons his gauntlets and nods firmly to his best friend. “That should do it, Scotty. When are we up?” Scott worries at his lip as he leans out the opening in the tent to converse with one of the men standing guard inconspicuously. When he steps back from the entrance, he looks to his prince and crosses his arms, anxiety radiating from him.
“Two more rounds and it’ll be your turn.” He pauses, mouth open as if he wanted to say more before he decides to barrel on. “Are you sure this is the smartest thing to do? I know for a fact that if you get hurt and your father has to hear about this, you’re in big trouble and I’m as good as dead.”
Stiles laughs and claps the crooked-jawed young man on the shoulder. “Scotty, my dad loves you. He would definitely know that this monstrous idea was mine and that I just dragged you along for moral support, using the fact that you’re my best and only friend as blackmail.”
Scott sighs and brushes off Stiles’ hand. “Sure, tell that to my mother when and if she hears about my helping you not only lie to your father but to all the officials of the tournament. We can potentially be charged with fraud or some other terrible crime…”
“Scotty, calm yourself. We wouldn’t be charged with anything if I just told them who I really was if we did get questioned. I’m sure they wouldn’t want to go against their king’s son.”
Scott shrugs, not looking at all consoled by his friend’s words, while the tent flap opens a bit, a valet leaning in slightly. “Sir, you’ll want to be heading to the ring.”
Stiles grabs his helmet with a smile and nods to the man. “Thank you, I’ll be right out.” The valet bobs his head and releases the flap and Stiles looks back to Scott. “Seriously, stop worrying so much. My plans are basically foolproof.”
Scott can’t stop the smirk and roll of his eyes. “Oh really? Like when you decided it was perfectly sane to repeatedly hassle Harris when he already hates you and has a say in your studies back home? Like with that time you chose to research the history of the male circumcision with your own opinions on the future of it and how it can affect men medically. Finstock didn’t know how to handle that and Harris was not at all happy about having to take over. Or that other time when you tried to catch the eye of Princess Lydia at your father’s ball? What made you think telling her your ten-year plan to woo her would make her realize that you two were meant to be?”
Stiles shakes his head vehemently and shoves Scott away. “Enough, enough. You really know how to put a damper on things, don’t you Scotty?”
His friend shrugs. “I have to be the voice of reason every once in a while.”
Stiles chuckles softly and puts his helmet on so as no one can recognize his face. Sadly, all the moles and freckles made his countenance easy to place if anyone has ever heard of the king’s son. “Sure thing. Now come on, I have a tournament to win.”
------
Once out at the ring, Stiles mounts his horse, Scott nervously standing at his side, lance in hand. “Last chance, Sti- Sir Otebon. You can still withdraw and not risk possible injuries or reprimand of your father…”
Stiles laughs and reaches out for the lance as the flag is readied. “Looks like it’s past time to withdraw. It’s time to joust. Wish me luck, Scotty.”
Scott sighs heavily as he hefts up the lance for Stiles to grab hold of the hilt, voice low as he spoke. “Good luck, you idiot…”
The flag is waved and both riders spur on their horses to rush towards one another. Stiles expertly lowers his lance and aims perfectly for the man’s chest. At the last second, he can see his adversary turn his head up slightly to protect his eyes, a flaw that most jousters had so as not to lose their sight when the lances splintered and flew away from the point of impact. Stiles never let his gaze stray from his target. It allowed a sure hit as long as he held true to his lance.
His lance breaks against the other man’s chest and he simultaneously rolls his torso to allow his opponent's lance to slip past him as their horses continued forward. This interaction gives him two points for the broken lance and none for the other rider. They bring their horses around to their starting positions and Stiles sees Scott hurrying forward to grab the horse’s reins to straighten him out as Stiles throws the broken lance shaft off to the side.
“Great move. Keep it up.”
Stiles smiles and opens the front of his helmet to look down at Scott, winking. “Thanks, that’s the plan, Scotty boy.” Scott rolls his eyes and hands up the next lance. Once he has a good grip, the flag waves for the next round. Again, Stiles urges his horse forward to meet the opponent halfway down the lane. His lance lands a blow solidly on the man’s breastplate, causing the lance to shatter. This time around, the other lance does hit Stiles, catching him on the shoulder and glancing off. The score becomes six to one and Stiles smiles behind his helmet, knowing that his first round was going to end in a win.
After two more rounds, Stiles wins with ten points compared to his challenger’s four. Scott helps him pull off his armor once they get back to the tent. “That was awesome, Scotty. You can’t disagree that I did amazing!”
Scott scoffs with a fond smile playing on his lips. “Yes, oh humble one, you did well.”
Stiles laughs and runs his fingers through his soaked hair, making it even more disheveled than it is on a daily basis. Once the preliminaries were over, he would get to joust again. He flops down into the chair and sprawls his legs out. “This is the best. I don’t know why I didn’t do this sooner.”
Scott shakes his head. “Because you didn’t have Danny who’s an expert in faking papers for these type of events. If you had tried, you would have been caught easily.”
Stiles pouts and crosses his arms. “You’re a real downer today, Scotty.” He reaches out to pick an apple off the small table, biting into it and ignoring the juice that runs down his wrist. Loud cheers can be heard from the ring. “Someone must be popular…”
Scotty tilts his head and walks out of the tent, probably going to get a better look at the cause of the commotion while leaving Stiles all alone. Damning the fact that he can’t leave his tent without bothering to tug on the armor and helmet, he resigns himself to nibbling at his apple as the crowd continues to cheer from the stands. It wouldn’t have been weird if they had been able to hear cheering this loud before, but this was a first of the day, so something big must be happening.
Stiles sits in relative silence, excluding the swish of the material of his pant leg as it bounces restlessly. The cheers grow louder, if that is even possible, and then die down as apparently the entertainment ends. Scott appears at the tent’s entrance a few minutes later, shaking his head with a low whistle.
“You have your work cut out for you, Stiles. This guy is good.”
Stiles frowns and pops up out of his chair. “What do you mean?”
Scott shrugs, giving him an apologetic look. “The dude everyone is cheering for? Apparently, he recently entering the jousting scene and has quickly become everyone’s favorite. He’s exceptional. There was no contest between him and his opponent.”
The prince runs his fingers through his hair once again, sighing heavily. After a few moments of deliberation, he smiles brightly. “Well, this is great. I’ll finally have some competition. This will be a good experience for me.”
His best friend chuckles softly. “That’s the spirit…”
They wait until the preliminaries are over before suiting up once again for the ride. Once at the ring, he knows he isn’t against the crowd favorite when upon introduction the man only gets a few loud cheers. Stiles receives more than him quite easily, but nothing to the lengths of the mystery jouster he heard about.
The joust is over quickly, Stiles earning ten points before his opponent got to five. This time, after his ride, he sends Scott to take care of his horse and lances while he sticks around to watch the next round. When the crowd gets noisy, Stiles knows he’s in for firsthand experience of this amazing new jouster.
The man atop the strongly muscled pure black horse appears stately and concentrates only on the ring before him, not bothering for theatrics of any sort for the crowd. His aid is a tall dark-haired woman who holds the lance as if it weighs nothing. When she raises it for the man to grab, he bends down low so that she can talk with him pretty intimately. Stiles vaguely wonders if they are related or lovers, but he quickly dislodges that thought as the flag is waved and the riders spur on their horses.
Scott had been right. The man is a masterpiece. His riding style is perfection, the ease at which he lowers and aims the lance and his accuracy leave nothing to be desired. Stiles is mesmerized as he watches the match continue. The poor man put up against this jousting god doesn’t land a single hit on the black armored knight and it causes Stiles’ mind to cease working.
The knight rides his small victory lap without much celebration, seeming neither surprised at the outcome nor particularly interested in the event outside the jousting. Stiles would admit that celebrating was his favorite part. It gives him a jolt of joy to know that he did something well and was receiving praise based more so on his own abilities than who his father was. No one dares argue with him but probably think him spoiled when he voices his opinions about being the son of the most loved King and how difficult it truly was.
Stiles shakes himself out of his thoughts and turns on his heel, refusing to dwell on the fact that this new opponent is perfection personified in the sport. He runs into Scott, who had chosen to watch from afar, and he must be able to read something from his body language as Scott gives him a shrug and small grimace.
“Told you he was good.”
Stiles shoves him away, but laughs softly, pulling him to the side and risking to lift the eye shield enough so that he can clearly see his friend. “He’s more than good, Scotty. He’s flawless. I saw literally nothing to correct him on. He even kept his gaze on the target all the way through the impact. I’ve never seen anyone else do that like me. I could watch him all day and never get tired of analyzing his every move, graceful and calculated…” He pauses, not running out of things to say but at a loss of how to say them.
Scott raises his eyebrow and a slow smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. “You…like him then?”
Stiles freezes and then scoffs. “Scotty, I don’t even know the man. But, yes, in a way I do.” He turns to look over his shoulder, back towards the ring where another contest was taking place. “I am very much in love with the way that he jousts.”
His best friend laughs hard, almost doubling over. When he glances up to Stiles, he sobers up only slightly at his bewildered expression. “Come on, I can’t be the only one who can take that the wrong way, Stil- Sir Otebon.”
Stiles thinks it over and then rolls his eyes. “Haha, Scotty. I really must say that if you weren’t my only and best friend, the way that you almost blow my cover every ten minutes would result in some type of job dismissal.”
Scott nods, eyes narrowing. “Oh, I’m sure it would. But since I am and you need me, I have nothing to worry about.”
------
Stiles easily makes it to the final round, having lucked out in not being paired up against the Jousting God. That’s what Stiles has decided to call the black-armored man since the name that was called when he was to joust just did not seem to fit the elegance and grace he showed while amount his steed.
Scott stands beside him with an expression of apprehension, the lance hugged tightly to his chest as the announcer goes on and on poetically about the Jousting God. Stiles has to admit, the man chose a great speaker to rile up the crowd before his championship joust. From where he sits, the man, about Stiles and Scott’s age, is rather feminine in appearance, a cap clinging haphazardly to his head, seemingly long hair tucked up under it. Stiles narrows his eyes as he continues to watch the speaker’s mannerisms and body language, listens closely to the pitch of the strong voice as it causes the crowd to roar appreciatively. Slowly, a smile forms over his lips, knowing the dirt on the young orator’s face isn’t just there from the road dust and sweat, but strategically placed to avert one’s attention from the obvious features that will give the person’s identity away.
He looks down to his best friend as the speaker finally finishes. “Alright, Scotty. This is it. We’ll see how well I can hold up against the crowd favorite.”
The tan boy smiles brightly albeit a bit uneasily as he holds up the lance for Stiles to grab ahold of. “Good luck. You’ll need it. Just don’t get too upset, okay?”
Stiles scoffs. “I shan’t be a poor loser, Scotty. If I lose, it only means I must train more and become better. But we shouldn’t speak of loss unless it actually happens, eh?” Scott nods eagerly and steps away as Stiles spurs on his horse when the flag is waved to begin the round.
His eyes train easily on his opponent, watch intently as the other man lowers his lance in a perfect arc to aim towards him. Stiles does the same, targeting the man’s chest and keeping his focus on the impact until the last few moments when his eyes flicker up to the Jousting God’s helmet, training in on the small space through which his opponent sees. The man doesn’t lift his head, just like Stiles expected, but he doesn’t expect the jolt that goes through him as he feels more than sees the other man’s eyes meeting his. Admittedly, the jolt may have come from his opponent’s lance breaking against his breastplate as his own hits but doesn’t break against the man’s armor-clad shoulder.
Stiles continues the ride around to his starting position, breath coming in heaving gasps as he tries to recuperate from the blunt force that had almost unseated him. Scotty runs to meet him, worry causing his expression to be tense as he grabs the reins to lead the horse. “Are you okay, Stiles? That didn’t look good…”
The prince grits his teeth and releases a heavy sigh. “No, Scotty. That man has the power of ten men behind his hit… No wonder he’s known for unseating most opponents…” Stiles had asked around in between his previous rounds after having watched Jousting God ride for the first time. He always did his research when he was interested in something, and this man had undeniably piqued his interest.
Scott winces and looks up at his friend. “Sure you want to continue?”
Stiles opens his helmet to glare down at his friend. “There are a lot of things that I am, Scotty, but a quitter is not one of them. Pass me my lance.” Scott sighs but does as he is told, knowing that arguing would get him nowhere at this point; Stiles was devoted to finishing this.
He closes the grate of his helmet and readies for the next ride, waiting for the flag to be waved. This time, he will not let himself be distracted. The bright yellow fabric is swayed and the two jousters again spur on their horses. Stiles focuses only on his technique and manages another glancing hit on the black-armored knight, his aim having been thrown off when his opponent’s lance blasted against his left shoulder and shattered.
Grimacing, he leans forward on his saddle, settling the lance across his lap for the ride back to the starting position. He didn’t quite know how he was taking these blows and not flying off his horse with how much power that is behind each hit. It hurt and he's having trouble breathing after each impact. The round goes much the same with Stiles losing in the end, a score of six to twelve, only having such a high score from lucking in a broken lance on the second to last ride.
Stiles painfully slides down from his horse and Scott catches him under his arm when his legs want to give out on him. Now, he is in no way a weak person, but Stiles will be the first to admit that he is made up of fragile bones and pale skin. Truly, his best and only defense is his sarcasm and word weaving.
After just a bit of time for gathering together all the scores, three top riders have their names called to come forward to retrieve their awards. Stiles straightens, gritting against the pain to walk to the front of the stands were the royals sit to watch the affair. He slows when he sees Jousting God stride toward the same destination but then picks up his speed to arrive there first. Childish, yes. Worth it so that the man would have to take a stand next to him instead of the other way around, absolutely.
He keeps his gaze forward until he sees motion through the side slit in his helmet. Stiles turns to see Jousting God removing his own and is glad to have kept his on when a deep blush and light gasp escapes him.
Jousting God is… amazingly handsome. His black hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, sweat that was dripping down his temple to a strong stubble covered jaw. Stubble that frames soft looking lips that Stiles will later be embarrassed over by his obscene thoughts. The man must feel his gaze as his eyes flicker over to him, a thick eyebrow rising slowly. Stiles’ attention is held by that expressive eyebrow before a harrumph brings his eyes down to meet blue… green, no brown?—whatever color they were—eyes. He bites his lip and gets lost for a moment before shaking himself free when the man in front of him smirks slightly.
“I’m sorry…what?”
The man shakes his head and faces forward again. “I was just commenting on how you’re noticeably scrawny even under that armor. I would say I’m impressed that I didn’t unseat you, but that might be giving you too much credit for what seems to have been luck.”
Stiles freezes for a second, first completely in shock at the soft voice that left the gruff man’s mouth and then in muted rage at the rudeness of his remark. “Excuse you—”
The announcer clears his throat, cutting off Stiles’ oncoming rant. “Congratulations, Sir Federyc, Sir Otebon, and Sir Hemming.” He raises his voice somewhat for the onlookers to hear. “In third place, Sir Federyc, winning two pounds.” He hands the man a bag of currency. “Sir Otebon places second, an award of a gilded helmet.” He goes to hand Stiles his prize, eyes clearly showing his contempt for him. Stiles knows it’s because he's showing mild disrespect for not having removed his helmet, but he couldn’t risk one of the nobles recognizing his face from afar. He accepts the gift and the announcer happily moves on to broadcast the first place winner. “And for the champion of this year’s tournament, Sir Hemming, actions deserving of this bejeweled golden clasp as well as five pounds.” The rude, but still ungodly handsome, man nods solemnly, face set in what must be a permanent glare, and accepts his award. With a few final words, the knights, and the crowd, are dismissed, the nobles and participants invited for the festivities later that night.
Stiles turns to continue his lecture on how rude it was to underestimate what must have been his most worthy opponent, but Jousting God is already walking away, heading back to his horse. The woman Stiles had seen earlier is smiling brightly and she rushes the few steps forward to throw her arms around Sir Hemming.
The prince grimaces slightly when he turns abruptly away from the sickeningly sweet scene. His chest and ribs are protesting against every jarring step he takes back to Scott and his horse. When he gets there, Scott relieves him of the awarded helmet and clasps his upper arm.
“Are you okay, Sir Otebon?” Stiles can’t help the chuckle that rises and causes his ribs to ache.
“Really, Scotty, now you get the name right?”
Scott huffs and glowers, tightening his hold as they walk through the crowd that presses in on them. “Stop deflecting. Are you okay or not?”
Stiles refrains from answering, clenching his teeth until they reach their tent. Once safely inside and away from prying eyes, he lifts his arms to remove his helmet and groans. His best friend quickly steps forward to aid him, lifting the helmet the rest of the way off and setting it aside. He then starts to unfasten his armor, tugging off the bracers and shoulder pads before lightly pulling the breastplate away from Stiles’ sore torso.
The prince lifts up his shirt and grimaces at the forming bruises. Scott lets out a low whistle. “Those are going to get bad…” He gently rests his fingertips against the largest and darkest bruise forming over his left pectoral. Stiles scowls down at his chest.
“Hopefully they’ll heal up a bit on the journey home. Father would definitely notice if I was favoring an injury.”
Scott ushers him back to the cot they had set up, easing him down before going to look for some bandages to wrap up his chest. “Maybe we should skip the celebration tonight and start the ride home then? It’s not like you can enjoy the festivities anyway.”
Stiles nods sullenly. “It’s not as if I can attend. Wearing a helmet to hide my identity is acceptable in the ring, but not in the ballroom.”
His best friend pushes his arms up so that he can begin to wrap his torso with the bandages. “I wouldn’t have put it past you to find a way."
The prince chuckles softly and immediately regrets it, moaning softly. “Just get me wrapped up so that we can pack up the tent. Travelling will be slow going with this and Father expects me home within the fortnight.”