THE LAUGHING STORM.

❛❛ ㅤㅤMy son is betrothed to the Lady Baela of House Velaryon, and my sons lay in the Vale, though they are all under the age of eight if that so pleases your daughters, sarcasm dripping out of her mouth. ㅤㅤ❜❜

ㅤㅤEyes drift between the floor between them and the face that she flaccidly makes out meters ahead. If the solution is war, she must prepare for it. ㅤ ❛❛ ㅤㅤViserys taught me much of the histories; how invaluable they are ——— ㅤㅤwhat they teach. Perhaps you do not know, or maybe you choose to ignore the simple truth, but a true ruler does not kill it's most precious ranks. War looms over the realm and though it is my job to prevent it, when the time comes, it is not the Stormlands I wish to subdue. ㅤㅤ❜❜

HAPPY PRIDE! 🌈

lyonel celebrates his participation at least, with a sun - bright grin and his usual brand of encouragement. vann looks in the indicated direction, not for the first time laying eyes on his opponent. and so the lion comes to take its dues, for it had been the storm lord's 'insulting insistence' that had swept the skagossi knight clean off the lannister's golden claws. a memorable offense, apparently; one that warranted the settling of old business by crack of lance and armour. dark eyes, crinkled at the corners by the smile vann wears, return upwards to lyonel on the stands. " i shan't disappoint, sir, " claims the northerner, then spurs his horse onward to take his position.

the knights' name ring through the arena like thunder, grandly introduced by the tourney master. vann and his opponent simultaneously yell for a lance; the command isn't the only thing to knock the wind from his lungs. 'you've done this before.' as he dons his helmet, vann's world darkens. he thanks the old gods and the new for their continued protection, calls to them that they may bless him again.

silence settles like heavy snowfall, broken only by the snorting of the knights' horses. and then noise erupts: first the ring of the buisine then armor, the thunder of hooves as both knights charge. the lannister lance at last strikes his shield, as does vann's crash and shatter against the golden lion, and amid a shower of splinters the crowd cheers when both men stagger and when both remain atop their mounts. ( no less than four lances. vann will endure that and more. )

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and as surely as victory found lyonel, so too shall it find the hound and so as the crowd cries and as the hooves begin beating the earth, to a squire or a servant stood to his left, dark of hair and eye alike, lyonel has turned and begun bestowing his counsel. " .. the first ever joust was held in the reach, aye, the sacred navel of all things knightly, but 'tis not reachmen who thought up jousting. " he makes a face, gives a thoughtful shake of the head as lances burst apart amid the lists, splintered wood flying like a flock of startled songbirds and the commoners howling as a storm ravaging the sea. " too fine a thing for these cunts to think of, isn't it? " he speaks above the tumult, above the cries of men and above the steeds tearing at the soil. " what madman would think to spill blood of another godly man with a wooden shaft? i'm tellin' you, lad, 'twas no man. " then who was it, my lord? the servant-boy inquires, eyes alight with wonder, doubtless hungering for a mount and a lance of his own and lyonel's lips curl in a vulpine cunning as the gathered host erupts, a vast and terrible thunder that the very earth beneath them strains to break asunder, and the crowned stag emblazoned upon a knight's golden breastplate seems to rear and toss its antlers in triumph.

“If his challengers wore any sort of crest on their helm, Lyonel would strike it off and fling it into the crowd”

#be my concubine