Chapter 30: The Vipers meets the Roses
…
Princess Nymeria POV
Six days before the tourney
I stood at the tourney grounds, watching as the final touches were being made. Banners in red and gold fluttered in the morning breeze, the sigils of House Lannister displayed proudly as the hosts of the event.
The sprawling grounds, nestled between Lannisport and Casterly Rock, were already alive with activity.
Knights in shining armor paraded their destriers, while squires and servants hurried to tend to their lords and ladies.
The clang of hammers and the hum of conversation filled the air, creating a lively atmosphere as tents were pitched and the lists prepared.
I was here with my son and daughter, Oberyn and Elia. Oberyn, bold and daring as always, was eager to witness the tourney, while Elia, more composed, observed the scene with sharp, discerning eyes.
Several Martell knights followed behind us, their presence a reminder of Dorne's strength.
Standing beside my children was someone who had clearly piqued both their interests—Galahad, the young squire whose charm and skill had captured their attention.
I had personally invited him to accompany us, after securing the Lannisters' permission. They had been gracious enough to allow it, and I was glad for the opportunity to observe him more closely.
There was something about the boy, an intensity in those piercing green eyes, that intrigued me as well.
I found myself glancing at him, biting my lip without even realizing it. His confidence was unmistakable—bold and self-assured in a way that made him stand out.
He was exactly the type that could turn heads, even mine.
I had seen him in the mornings, training without his tunic, his movements deliberate and powerful. His body, already muscular and perfectly sculpted for his age, hinted at the strength and potential he held within.
The sight of him, so young yet so striking, stirred something warm and undeniable within me.
I bit my lip harder, reminding myself not to let that warmth turn into something more. He was just a squire, barely fifteen name days.
But a part of me couldn't help but think that, if we were in Dorne, things might be different. I allowed myself a small, knowing smirk at the thought.
Still, I pushed those feelings aside, forcing my desire to stay in check—not because of his youth, but because he was a companion to my children, Oberyn and Elia.
They were laughing and smiling, their easy camaraderie clear as they chatted with Galahad.
My son, Oberyn, seemed particularly animated, while Elia, more reserved, still offered a warm smile in response to Galahad's jests.
"So, Galahad," I interjected with a teasing smile, stepping into the conversation,
"I heard you'd be participating in the tourney. Would it be for the squires' melee? It's quite a shame because, from what I've seen, you're the equal of any knight." I had witnessed the sparring sessions between the Lannister knights, my son, and Galahad.
The boy had bested them all, and it only deepened my interest in him.
Galahad smiled, his confidence showing as he nodded. "Yes, Princess, though I wish that wasn't the case. I don't mind it." His words were sincere, showing a quiet acceptance of his position.
I admired his loyalty, how he spoke with such respect for his place in the Lannister household, even if he had yet to be knighted.
"But it's unfair," Oberyn chimed in, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips.
"If you were to join the knights' melee, I'd be betting on you to win. It'd be quite the sight to see the knights of the Seven Kingdoms get their asses handed to them by a squire." His jest brought laughter from all of us.
As the laughter faded, an idea bloomed in my mind. I glanced over my shoulder at the Martell knights standing behind me. One of them, Santagar, was my lover, a knight of fine repute and skill.
"What if there was a way to change that?" I said, a playful smile curving my lips. Galahad's brow furrowed slightly in confusion, his green eyes watching me intently.
"By law, a knight can make a knight," I continued, my gaze flicking between him and the knights behind me.
"If you wished it, I could have one of my Martell knights make you a knight right here, right now." I let the words linger, watching for his reaction, a smirk dancing on my lips.
Galahad didn't answer immediately. His expression grew thoughtful, and I could see the weight of the decision settle on his shoulders.
After a moment of contemplation, he looked up at me, his voice steady and respectful.
"I'm sorry, Princess, but it would be dishonorable to House Lannister for me to be knighted by anyone other than Ser Kevan or Lord Tywin." His refusal was firm, but it came with a depth of loyalty that was admirable, even if it could be seen as overly cautious or foolish.
His tone of honor, his respect for his liege lords, stirred something in me. It wasn't the answer I had expected, but it made him all the more intriguing.
Oberyn, however, seemed less impressed, immediately contesting Galahad's decision with a raised brow and a barrage of questions.
Elia, on the other hand, looked puzzled, unsure why anyone would refuse the chance to be knighted, especially when I had offered it so readily.
I, though, respected his decision. Galahad's loyalty, as misplaced as it may have been in the eyes of my son, was a rare and precious trait.
Even if it made him resist temptation, it made him all the more compelling in my eyes.
…
Olenna Tyrell POV
I sat on a high-backed chair, watching the activity in the tourney grounds with no small amount of irritation.
My fool of a son, Mace, in his infinite wisdom, had decided that we would stay in Lannisport instead of accepting quarters at Casterly Rock, as was appropriate for a family of our standing.
We had taken rooms at an inn called the Lionheart Hotel, a new establishment that, while certainly luxurious by common standards, was not suited for the Lord Paramount of the Reach and his family.
The rooms were well-furnished, the service impeccable, and the food unique, but it was still an inn—a far cry from the grandeur of Casterly Rock's proper quarters.
Mace, bless his simple heart, had taken a liking to the liveliness of Lannisport, charmed by the bustling streets, the food, and the common folk who fawned over him.
He could not see the insult in staying at an inn, however grand, when we should have been rubbing elbows with the Lannisters themselves.
I sighed, adjusting my skirts as I glanced toward the lists, where preparations for the tourney were well underway. My patience, much like the Reach's famed roses, had its thorns, and they were pricking at me now.
Mace had no sense of propriety or ambition, which was why it fell to me to ensure House Tyrell's continued rise in the game of thrones.
I looked to my right and saw my good daughter, Alerie Hightower, sitting with all the grace expected of a lady of her station.
She was a decent match for Mace, though not nearly sharp enough for my tastes. Still, she played her part well enough, bearing the Tyrell name with dignity.
Next to her, a servant cradled my grandson, the eight-month-old Willas Tyrell, his wide, innocent eyes staring at the colorful banners fluttering in the breeze. I only hoped the boy would not grow up to be an oaf like his father before him.
I sighed again, the weight of my family's future ever present in my mind.
My son returned, flanked by a contingent of Tyrell knights, his hands laden with slices of pizza—an indulgence he had grown quite fond of since our arrival in Lannisport.
One of the reasons we had decided to remain in this bustling port town was its unique culinary offerings, and Mace had embraced it wholeheartedly.
At six-foot-four, my son was at the prime of his youth—well-built, with curly brown hair and warm brown eyes that sparkled with a childlike joy. Yet, I couldn't help but notice the way he relished every bite, and I feared that his recent appetite might lead to unwanted softness.
Thankfully, he remained active enough to avoid becoming truly rotund, but I would have to keep an eye on him.
"Are you done now, making your mother and your wife wait?" I said, an edge of annoyance creeping into my voice.
Mace flashed that charming smile of his, filled with unabashed cheer. "Sorry, Mother. I was just enjoying the tasty pizza! I'm quite happy that they're setting up stalls near the tourney. Now I don't need to worry about going into Lannisport to enjoy it."
I sighed, exasperation simmering beneath my calm exterior. "Let's just go to Casterly Rock, shall we?"
He nodded, his enthusiasm undiminished.
…
Third POV
The two groups, Tyrell and Martell, walked toward each other without initially realizing it, but as they drew closer, the air between them grew thick with tension.
The animosity between the Reach and Dorne had always run deep, but here, it was personal—Olenna Tyrell and Princess Nymeria had a history that went beyond their houses.
Nymeria's sharp eyes caught Olenna's, and a slow, knowing smile spread across her face.
"Well, well, well," she purred, her voice carrying over the din of the tourney grounds. "If it isn't the old rose. Olenna, I haven't seen you in a decade. Have you been hiding in your garden all this time?"
The words were laden with false warmth, and Olenna's eyes narrowed. She, too, allowed a smile to curl her lips, though hers was as sharp as the thorns that represented her house.
"I wonder what the snakes are doing here among the lions," Olenna shot back, her tone calm but pointed. "I've heard you failed in your betrothal offer. Understandable, coming from the likes of you."
Nymeria's smile didn't falter, but her eyes darkened. Their rivalry, once centered around Daeron Targaryen, had left deep scars. Both women had lost that game long ago, but neither had forgotten the slights.
"My, my," Nymeria responded with feigned pity, "still sharp after all these years. It's a shame those thorns of yours couldn't catch anything better than that lumbering oaf you married. But I suppose we all must make sacrifices."
Olenna's expression remained composed, but a glint of anger flickered in her eyes. "At least my house thrives, dear Nymeria," she said coolly, her voice softening to a dangerous whisper. "Unlike some who squander their prospects in the deserts."
The exchange had not gone unnoticed. Both groups slowed as the tension built, the barbs exchanged with the precision of duelists sparring with swords.
Even Mace, normally oblivious, could feel the weight of the hostility between his mother and the Princess of Dorne.
With one last, icy glance at each other, the groups passed, going their separate ways, but the words lingered, like the echo of a duel that had yet to see its final blow.