Chapter Text
Trumpets blared and banners flew. The burning heat of the summer sun pounded down on the tourney grounds outside of Highgarden. It was brutal weather for a midday joust.
Thousands had gathered to witness the tournament, and their bodies were packed tight into carefully constructed viewing stands. Wine was flowing freely, courtesy of Tyrell generosity, leading to a certain bawdy atmosphere in the crowd. Spectators roared encouragement and cheers. Others shouted insults and mockery. A lone announcer struggled to call out the next competitors over the noise.
The fact that this was only a squires’ joust seemed to do absolutely nothing to deter the crowd’s enthusiasm. The main event with the great knights and lords from across the Reach had already taken place the day prior, yet the stands were still packed shoulder to shoulder. Four squires had been knocked from their horses today, and a deafening roar had erupted from the stands each time.
“Erren Florent!” the announcer once more called out, and this time his voice carried over the crowd. “Erren Florent, squire to Lord Martyn Mullendore, faces Roland Durwell, squire to Ser Simon Durwell!”
Roland blinked at the sound of his name being called. Another roar from the crowd quickly followed, but Roland barely noticed it over the wave of nervousness that swept through him. Sweat dripped from his brow. His heart pounded. He was really going to do this. This was his chance.
“You’re up, little brother,” Simon said gently. He held the reins to Roland’s warhorse in one hand while his other gripped a tournament lance.
Roland’s throat was too dry for a brave reply, so instead he just nodded. He put on his helmet, a fine armet which he’d spent the better part of a day polishing so that it would shine just right. The rest of his armor, a secondhand plate harness gifted to him by his father, was equally well polished.
“Remember, it’s your first tourney,” Simon said as he helped Roland mount his warhorse. He held out the lance. “No one does well in their first tourney. You’re five and ten. There’s nothing you need to prove.”
Roland fiddled with his helmet’s visor before taking the lance from Simon. He inhaled deeply. “I’m going to be a knight,” Roland breathed out.
Simon’s mouth curled into a grin. “That you will. But you’ve got plenty of years left to do it. For now, just remember what I taught you.”
Roland nodded before slapping shut his visor. His world was immediately reduced to a thin slit of light. It took a moment for him to adjust, but then he took the reins of his warhorse and trotted onto the lists.
“I’m going to be a knight,” Roland whispered to himself in the confines of his helmet. “I’m going to be a knight,” he repeated once more.
It had never felt more true than at that very moment.
Across the lists, Erren Florent was mounted on a massive stallion. His armor was blackened steel and gilded all across the breastplate and helmet, representing the very best in armor fashion. It must have cost a fortune, but House Florent could, of course, afford the very best.
A flare of jealousy flew through Roland, but he quashed it as quickly as it came. Jealousy was not befitting of a knight. So what if House Durwell couldn’t afford the latest armor? He’d just have to make up for it in his skill at arms.
“Begin!” the announcer suddenly shouted
Roland was forcibly snapped out of his thoughts. He’d missed all of the introductory formalities, caught up in his head, and now he watched Erren Florent come hurtling towards him atop the massive stallion. The ground trembled. Fear washed over him.
But Roland had trained too hard to be defeated by fear, and he put his spurs to his warhorse. The beast shot forward as it had been trained. Roland got his lance under his armpit.
Erren Florent’s lance came down at the same moment. Then, in the next heartbeat, both lances shattered at once.
Roland was struck on the breastplate, and he rocked back in his saddle, struggling to stay mounted. Erren Florent took the lance to his helmet but remained atop his massive stallion. The air was full of splinters. Roland forced himself back upright and continued riding down the lists.
The crowd was cheering once more, though it was unclear for who. Roland trotted his horse the rest of the way down the lists then turned to face Erren Florent once more. A page ran to hand Roland a fresh lance.
He took it and eyed his opponent through his visor. Roland saw Erren Florent pop his visor to spit blood before lowering it again and taking another lance.
“Another course!” the announcer cried. “Riders ready? On my command. Ride!”
Roland spurred his warhorse. This time he had time to think, and he decided to try one of Simon’s tricks from the tiltyard. His horse exploded forward, but Roland kept his lance erect, pointed towards the sky.
Fifty paces out, the massive stallion also exploded forward, and Erren Florent got his lance seated under his armpit.
Thirty paces out, and Roland’s lance was still pointed to the sky. He felt as if he was naked, charging forward as he was. The crowd was silent as the horses galloped towards each other.
At ten pace, Roland suddenly slammed his lance down. It came down onto Erren Florent’s lance and knocked it aside. Then it swept up, just in time to strike the breastplate.
The lance shattered. Splinters flew from the impact. The crowd jumped up to roar.
Erren Florent tottered in his saddle. For half a second it seemed as if he would fall. But then he recovered and settled back into place, still mounted.
Roland trotted down to his end of the lists, entirely unscathed. He was grinning ear to ear inside his helmet.
Simon came forward with a fresh lance and a cup of water. He handed the water first as Roland pushed his visor up.
“Excellent trick, but it won’t work a second time,” Simon warned. “You’re up on score. If you can stay seated and break your lance on his breastplate, you’ll win. Nothing fancy, understand?”
Roland coughed, choking up some water. He handed the cup back and grabbed the lance. “I’m going to unhorse him,” he declared, after clearing his throat.
Simon tried to say something in protest, but Roland had already flicked his visor back down and was trotting back to his starting point on the lists. He had this. He could feel it in his very bones.
The whole crowd was watching aptly. Even the highborn, who’d seen plenty of jousting by much more accomplished jousters, now turned to see these mere squires run their courses. And out of the corner of Roland’s visor, he could just catch a glimpse of Lord Mace Tyrell sitting in all his splendor. Even the Lord of Highgarden himself was watching.
“I’m going to be a knight,” Roland whispered again inside his helmet.
And all that stood in his way was Erren Florent on his massive stallion.
“Riders ready?” the announcer called again.
Roland decided he had time to show off, and he flicked his lance to salute Lord Tyrell. He pulled on his reins so that his horse half reared just as the announcer was gesturing with his baton.
“On my command. Ride!”
His horse’s hooves touched the ground exactly as the announcer gave his cry. Roland’s warhorse dashed forward. On the opposite end of the lists, Erren Florent’s massive stallion charged.
Simon had advised caution, but Roland wanted glory. He wanted to show his prowess in front of all the lords and ladies in attendance. He wanted Lord Tyrell to see his skill. He wanted to be made a knight.
To that end, Roland seated the butt of his lance under his armpit early. He allowed the point of his lance to slip down, almost beneath the level of his waist, as if he was a boy who knew nothing about jousting. Any blow against an opponent’s horse was an instant disqualification. Only fools and novices allowed their lances to drop so far.
Erren Florent came head on, once more, lance seated well under his armpit. His tip was aimed at Roland’s chest.
The world seemed to slow as the two squires came together.
Their lance tips passed each other in the air, and, in that half a heartbeat long moment, Roland used his whole body to lever his lance. It rose upward, moments away from hitting the massive stallion’s head, point finally aligning with the stallion’s rider. The rising lance crossed Erren Florent’s lance and struck it like a sword parrying a thrust.
But Roland’s lance parry was just a moment too slow, and Erren Florent’s lance smashed into his right shoulder, flexing against the pauldron, before exploding into a shower of splinters. A heartbeat later, Roland’s own lance point impacted Erren Florent’s breastplate. The tip dug into the gilded engravings decorating the armor. The lance was straight on and didn’t flex.
Something happened, and the crowd erupted into a deafening roar.
Roland didn’t see his lance break like his previous lances had. But then, he couldn’t see much at all as he struggled to remain seated against the force that had smashed against him. In the span of a second, he was suddenly past Erren Florent and was hurtling down to the other side of the lists without the slightest clue of what exactly had happened.
He managed to regain his posture, then he slowed his horse as it reached the end of the lists, pivoting to turn when he was finally in control again. As Roland turned, he expected to see Erren Florent facing him on the other end of the field.
Instead, however, there was only the massive stallion, saddle empty of its rider.
Erren Florent was stretched out flat on the ground. Unhorsed.
Sudden excitement flooded Roland. He flicked up his visor and looked to see if Lord Tyrell had seen it, but everyone was standing all at once, and he couldn’t make out the high lord in the crowd.
With no idea what else to do, Roland trotted his horse back over to his end of the lists, where Simon waited with a cup of wine in his hand.
“Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!” Simon laughed when Roland dismounted. Then he leaned close and whispered, “But you were showing off, and that could’ve ended very poorly. You should’ve just taken the easy win.”
His older brother’s words had little effect on Roland. He was still looking to see if Lord Tyrell had witnessed his feat. “I’m going to be a knight!” he exclaimed.
Simon sighed. “Maybe,” he admitted, and he shoved the cup of wine into Roland’s hand. “Drink this before you pass out.”
Roland obeyed.
A green-clad herald came running as just Roland was finishing off the cup.
“Lord Tyrell bids that you come immediately to the judges’ table,” the herald said.
Roland’s heart nearly leapt from his chest. He really was going to be made a knight. Lord Tyrell had seen his skill.
He put on a brave face and followed the herald to the judges’ table.
Roland’s pure, unmatched, exuberant joy lasted right until the moment he saw Erren Florent and his lord Martyn Mullendore already waiting at the table. Mace Tyrell was seated with the two judges, Lord Paxter Redwyne and Ser Vortimer Crane.
“Roland Durwell?” Lord Tyrell questioned as Roland approached.
“Yes, my lord,” Roland said, now slightly less sure of the situation. He bowed.
Lord Tyrell nodded. “Right, ah, by unanimous decision, you have been disqualified from the joust.”
The words struck Roland harder than any lance blow could have.
“D-Disqualified?” he stammered.
Lord Mullendore glared at him. “You struck my squire’s horse during your last course,” he snapped. “An instant disqualification,” Lord Mullendore added with a sneer.
Roland tried to master himself. “I didn’t strike his horse,” he choked out in protest. “I-I didn’t…” he repeated, and this time it came out like a sob.
Erren Florent’s eyes were on his shoes. “He hit my horse. His lance clipped my horse when it came up,” the squire mumbled.
“I can attest to what he says,” Lord Mullendore grunted.
Lord Redwyne nodded. “As can I.”
Roland was fighting back tears. He looked to Lord Tyrell. “Please, my lord, you must have seen it. I didn’t strike his horse. I didn’t!”
The Lord of Highgarden merely shrugged. “Regretfully, I must say that I did not witness the exchange myself,” Lord Tyrell replied. “But if Lord Mullendore and Lord Redwyne here can attest as witnesses, then I am inclined to agree with their judgement. Better luck next time, I suppose.”
There was nothing more to be said. Roland fought back tears long enough to bow to Lord Tyrell and mumble an excuse about needing to see to his horse. But when he reached the stables and stepped into an empty stall to steady himself, a sob erupted from his throat and the tears began to flow.
He had been so close. That had been the finest course he’d ever ridden, at his first tournament nonetheless. That was the joust that he should have been knighted for.
Disqualified…
Roland sank to the ground and sniveled. He thought of all the times he’d be knocked off his horse at the tiltyard. All the times he’d been laughed at by his cousins. All the times his brother had picked him up from the mud.
But most of all, he replayed Lord Tyrell’s words over and over again.
Disqualified… Inclined to agree… Did not witness…
The finest course he’d ever ridden, and Lord Tyrell hadn’t even seen it.
Roland wept.
It was Simon who ultimately found him in the stable. By then, Roland’s eyes were red and puffy. His tears had mostly dried, but he continued to snivel on the floor of the stall.
Simon knelt beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Come on, little brother. Let’s get you home.”
Roland was quiet on the road to home. He rode a mule, having forfeited his horse, arms, and armor to Erren Florent as required by the rules of the tourney. Simon led the way, himself mounted on his warhorse and wearing his armor in what felt like a cruel mockery of Roland’s failure. It wasn’t one, but Roland had to remind himself of that constantly.
He trailed behind, riding his mule, angry and bitter. The shame of what had happened never left Roland’s mind. It seemed to engulf him like a great darkness.
He had failed, and that meant everything.
Simon was worried. It was evident every time he spoke, soft and gentle, as if coaxing a cat from a tree. Roland refused to respond, so Simon did all the talking for both of them. He commented on the weather, the trees, the streams, and every village they passed. He talked about the state of the realm and the stories he’d heard from men who’d fought at Pyke last year. He spoke of old wars and the great knights who’d emerged from them.
Roland rode silently on his mule.
Finally one night, as Roland was making a fire for them to cook over, Simon crouched down next to him and asked, “Do you still want to be a knight?”
A long moment passed. But eventually a quiet whisper came from Roland’s lips, “Yes…”
Simon nodded. “Knighthood is an ideal,” he said. “There is no man who can claim to be a perfect knight; any who do are liars or fools. To be a knight is to aspire to that ideal. But in that aspiration, there will be failure. True knights are those who fail and yet continue to aspire.”
Roland stared at the ground, on the verge of tears.
“If you still want to be a knight then you must act like one,” Simon continued. “One failure does not define you. A knight persists no matter what troubles impede him. You understand?”
“I… I do.”
“Good. Then act like a knight.”
Hours later, when their fire was nothing more than cinders and Simon was fast asleep in his cloak, Roland decided he needed to go.
He rose from his cloak, suddenly firm in his decision. In the light of the moon, he packed away enough food and money for a ten day trip. He felt guilty about stealing so much from his brother, but their father’s castle was only three days away by horse, and if he left anything more then Simon would come looking for him. This way, Simon would have no option but to return home to resupply first.
He wasn’t taking the horse, because that was Simon’s warhorse. He wasn’t taking the mule, because he wasn’t certain he could get it saddled without waking Simon. He did take Simon’s dagger, because otherwise he’d be unarmed.
Roland swore to himself that he would repay everything when he returned. He wanted to leave a note, but there was no parchment or ink, and it was too dark to write anyways.
Simon was right. Roland needed to act like a knight, and a knight was first and foremost a warrior. He wasn’t going to get anywhere fighting in tourneys. He needed a real fight. A fight where he could prove himself and gain glory. Where he could defend the innocent and deliver justice to those who deserved it. Roland needed a war.
He wouldn’t find that in Westeros. The Greyjoys had been defeated the year prior, and Robert Baratheon’s rule was now firmly entrenched.
No, he needed to go to Essos. Simon had told him stories of Westerosi free companies who’d gone to Essos seeking their fortunes in the endless wars of the merchant princes. That was where Roland would gain his glory. That was where he would become a knight.
So, with only moonlight to guide him, Roland began walking.