If you have never had a horse killed beneath you, I would not recommend the experience. My horse had reared as the Cannibal had flown overhead, and I had only barely kept my seat. Ser Rosby, whether by accident or by design, had been unable to shift his lance in time, and its point had punched through my mount's neck in a fountain of gore.
A combination of foul liquid of wet chunks washed over me; the screams of the horse blending with the screams of the gallery. No small amount of the horse's blood flowed into my view slit, blinding me as the horse toppled over.
Mindful of how common it was for people to die from a simple fall from a horse, I did my damndest to fling myself from my dying horse. Despite knowing what was coming, I was still blinded by the horse blood in my eyes and was taken by surprise when the ground slammed into my side, no matter how much I had braced for it.
The impact drove the air from my lungs, and I spent an eternally long moment just trying to suck air into my aching lungs. They fought every inhalation, forcing me into the smallest possible breaths to get some air into my lungs. Any more than a mouthful of air, and I could feel my chest begin to lock up, sending a spasm of pain deep into my breast.
A horse crashing to the ground beside me rapidly pushed the suffocating sensation of being winded into a dark corner of my mind as I fought my way to my feet. The cries of the gallery seemed to subside ever so slightly at seeing me rise to my feet mostly unharmed. Unfortunately, the spasming and screaming horse beside me drowned out any sounds of relief.
I had heard about horses sounding like men when they screamed, but I had always assumed it to be mere hyperbole, poetic license.
A slight mistake, that.
Tearing off my helmet, I managed to smear the horse's blood away from my eyes and took in the view before me. The horse was dead, no matter how much it was still able to writhe and scream on the ground. Ser Rosby had dismounted, rushing over to me, concern clear in his body language.
Even my royal father was showing a genuine emotional reaction. He was storming from the main viewing box, worry and concern writ clear on his face, Maegelle behind him only because she had to bunch up her dress to move with anything resembling speed. A man wearing a chain of many metals was trundling behind them, his face wearing a very different kind of worry.
Oh, this was going to be a delightful conversation.
Fortunately, I was spared from that fate.
It was a miracle I managed to stay on my feet as Cannibal made his entrance, slamming into the ground with enough force to make the earth shake and my buckle ever so slightly. A deafening roar filled the tourney grounds as the concerned parties ground to a halt. Some more reluctantly than others; Father's hand on Maegelle's shoulder seemed to be more restraining than reassuring.
Meanwhile, I was left dealing with this… situation.
"Cannibal," I said, reaching out with a single gauntleted hand. Don't start anything. For the love of all the gods new and old, do not start anything, you overgrown lizard. "No."
Sweet Seven above, I was trying to instruct the murder-lizard as though it were a dog.
The dragon in question just fixed his eyes with the tiny, shriveled irises on some point just behind me. The sound of creaking armor betrayed Ser Rosby's presence, no doubt he was the current object of the dragon's attention, if only for a moment.
An instant later, the Cannibal flicked his gaze to the dying horse as though he were awaiting my permission to eat it.
"No," I repeated, slowly drawing closer to the dragon. Slow and steady. Best to avoid startling him. Just because I had managed to ride the beast before did not mean it was always going to be friendly. Mayhaps it did, but this was a famously aggressive dragon. I was not going to take any chances.
Those venomous green eyes zeroed back in on me, and I could feel every hair on my body stand on end.
The look in his eyes… it was not the same look of barely restrained rage I had first encountered when I neared his lair. It was not the cowering I had witnessed on the beach where he had deposited me. This was different; less primal, the eyes slightly lidded, half-heartedly staring at me.
If he were a person, I might have judged that look to be boredom, but this was a dragon.
And I did not want to encounter a bored cannibalistic dragon.
I really did not want to consider the possibility that a habitually cannibalistic dragon interrupted my joust because he was bored.
His reptilian lips curled back in a snarl as a deep rumbling growl filled the arena. Yeah, he was not my friend. My mount, yes, but not my friend. I heard another horse, Ser Rosby's, no doubt, whinny and rear somewhere behind me, but I was not going to risk taking my eyes off the dragon.
"There is nothing for you here," I warned the beast, its venomous green eyes spoiled in their uniformity only by a pair of tiny black pinpricks as he considered it. For a heartbeat, it almost seemed like he might leave then and there, even if his growl did not subside.
And then his gaze whipped to the side, to the steps to the royal box.
To where father stood with Maegelle.
The dragon had stopped growling the instant he saw my family. You could have heard a pin drop, the entire gallery was paralyzed with fear.
As was the dragon.
The Cannibal froze in his place. It was not because he saw another dragon, oh no. His gaze fell upon my father and my sister. Riders of dragons slightly smaller than he. Did he conflate them with their mounts? Was there a distinction in his mind between and dragon and rider?
I did not know. All I knew was that the craven that nearly rivaled Vhagar in size froze at the mere sight of the rider of two dragons that were his inferior in age and size.
Not that the audience knew that.
And I could exploit that.
Reaching out, I grabbed hold of the horn that jutted upwards from the Cannibal's snout and wrenched it towards me. I was under no illusion that doing so normally would only see my shoulder dislocated and my arm eaten. But distracted and paralyzed by fear, the giant beast was all too pliable.
His eyes showed it, too. Wider than I had ever seen on the Cannibal before, wider than I had seen on any dragon before, it was clear what went through the beast's mind at that moment.
The dragon was afraid.
His eyes flickered about as I dragged his massive head closer by the horn, bringing him to level with my eyes. He kept wanting to flick his eyes back to what he perceived as the greater threats but simultaneously did not want to ignore the person right in front of him.
"Leave," I ordered, staring at those pools of frightened madness. He would not stay if he had the choice. I was giving him an out. He would take it. "Now."
He had to.
Giving one last growl, the Cannibal tore free of my grasp and took to the skies with a beat of his massive wings, and I let out a breath I did not know I had been holding in. That was one problem down. Only a handful left in Duskendale. And a few dozen in King's Landing.
One step at a time, Vaegon, one step at a time.
Turning around, I expected to see Ser Rosby demanding I yield. Instead, I saw the knight on his knees, with his head bowed.
What?
"Your Grace, I yield to you," Ser Rosby announced solemnly, to my complete confusion. He had nearly unhorsed me in the first tilt. He had unhorsed me in the second with the help of the Cannibal's intervention. Why the hell was he yielding? Was he hoping to avoid having to give up his horse for killing mine?
Chivalry was weird.
Westerosi chivalry was even weirder.
"Your Grace." In the knight's paddock, the aged Ser Rykker fell to his knees as well. "I yield to you."
I… hadn't even gone up against him. Why was he yielding? Oh, right, I may have just chased off a massive wild dragon. From his point of view, anyways.
Looking around the paddock, there was no shortage of knights flinging off their helmets and sinking to their knees. Some of them looked sufficiently awed to warrant such an action, all wide eyes, and slack jaws, but others looked to be merely following the momentum of the action.
Before long, not a single knight remained on their feet.
And at the edge of the stands stood my father, with that unreadable smile of his.
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