Chapter 44: Galahad vs Prince Rhaegar
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Third POV
After the melee, Galahad had become something of a legend. The moment he made his way out of the melee grounds, he was swarmed by a crowd, a mix of nobles and smallfolk alike, all eager to catch a glimpse of him.
The press of people was overwhelming, but what stood out most were the young ladies, each vying for his attention.
They reached out, their hands brushing against his armor, all hoping to make some small connection.
Many of them wore shy smiles, cheeks flushed as they whispered to each other, while others gathered their courage to speak, offering him congratulations or fluttering, admiring words.
Some simply wanted to touch him, as though confirming he was real; others asked him question after question, eager to hear his voice.
Galahad managed a polite smile, acknowledging each one as best he could, though the weight of their attention was more intense than the melee he'd just emerged from.
Surrounded on all sides, he felt the pressure mounting, realizing he could be late for the joust if he didn't find a way to escape.
Thinking quickly, he glanced up at the sky, then pointed with urgency. "Dragon!" he shouted, his voice carrying over the crowd.
Heads turned in every direction as a ripple of gasps and murmurs spread. And in that brief moment of distraction, Galahad made his escape, slipping through the parted crowd and breaking into a run.
After that, he readied himself for the joust, which would be in half an hour. Today would bring three rounds, three opponents to face.
When he was armored and prepared, he made his way to the stables, mounting Lancelot. Together, they rode to the jousting field, where the thrill of competition awaited.
When Galahad entered the field for the first round of the day, lords, ladies, and smallfolk alike buzzed with anticipation, their attention fixated on him.
In the first round of the day, Galahad faced his friend Gerion Lannister.
He drew out the match, giving the crowd a show as he jousted with careful precision, going easy on his friend while still displaying enough skill to keep the spectators on the edge of their seats.
On the final tilt, he delivered a decisive blow, unhorsing Gerion with practiced ease, earning cheers and admiration from the crowd.
His second round brought him face to face with Tygett Lannister. Another friend, and another match that he let stretch to its full length, each tilt building the crowd's excitement.
Tygett fought fiercely, their lances splintering with every pass, but in the end, Galahad unhorsed him as well, bringing him down on the last lance in what appeared to be a hard-won victory.
For his third round, however, he was set to face none other than Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
Currently in the stables, Galahad was brushing his stallion, Lancelot, as he waited out the hour's break before his final joust.
Around him were Gerion, Tygett, and Oberyn—all of whom had been eliminated from the Joust.
Oberyn shook his head ruefully, still stinging from his defeat by Ser Barristan Selmy, who had unseated him on the third tilt.
Gerion was quick to tease him for his loss, laughing at his quick elimination.
"At least I made it farther in the rounds" Oberyn retorted with annoyance, which only sent Gerion into another fit of laughter.
Meanwhile, Tygett approached Galahad, who'd been quietly tending to Lancelot's mane.
"Did you go easy on me and Gerion?" Tygett asked, a mixture of gratitude and frustration in his voice.
Galahad, knowingly, smiled. "What do you think?" he asked, as though it were of little importance.
Tygett, seeing the smile from Galahad, knew the answer. Relieved not to have been humiliated, he clapped Galahad on the shoulder in thanks.
Then, with a parting nod, he and Gerion headed off to a meeting with their brother, Tywin and Kevan, leaving Galahad and Oberyn alone in the stables.
Oberyn took the chance to step closer, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious.
"I've been wanting to ask you something," he began, studying Galahad with an intensity that caught him off guard.
Galahad listened, curious.
"Is there anything between you and my sister?" Oberyn asked, his tone hinting at both worry and warning.
"What do you mean?" Galahad asked, confusion flickering across his face.
"Alright, I'll be more direct, do you have feelings of affection toward Elia?" Oberyn asked seriously, his gaze piercing as he sought the truth in Galahad's eyes.
Galahad paused, considering his words carefully, before shaking his head. "If you meant as in love, No, I only see Elia as a dear friend," he replied honestly.
Oberyn studied him closely, his sharp gaze seeming to weigh the sincerity of Galahad's words. "Then why the handkerchief?" he pressed.
"Swapping tokens—it's something lovers do, or those who want to be," Oberyn revealed, his tone carrying a hint of accusation as he scrutinized Galahad.
"That was all for show," Galahad explained, brushing off the implication with a casual wave of his hand.
"To entertain the crowd, you know… give them a taste of some handsome, cocky knight with an eye for favor." Galahad answered.
Oberyn still seemed skeptical of Galahad's answer, his brow furrowing in contemplation. After a moment, he let out a long sigh, as if bracing himself for the weight of what he was about to say.
"My sister Elia has fallen for you," he stated bluntly, the words hanging in the air like a thunderclap, clearly catching Galahad by surprise.
Shock flashed across Galahad's face, followed by an expression of uncertainty as he seemed to search for what to say next.
After a moment of silence, he spoke up with a hint of distress.
"I…wh..what should I do?" Galahad asked, his voice stuttering.
Oberyn rubbed his forehead, looking exasperated at the thought of managing this misunderstanding.
He would have to navigate his sister's disappointment, but he hoped that the feelings would pass quickly and fade with time.
The last thing he wanted was for Elia to cling to an infatuation that could only lead to heartache.
"To start with, don't ask for her handkerchief next round. Put some distance between you two, give her a chance to forget," he advised.
Galahad hesitated for a moment and nodded, though he still seemed doubtful. "Will that really work?" he asked.
Oberyn cleared his throat, his gaze drifting off as though recalling some distant memory.
"It's worked for me," he muttered, as if speaking from experience.
Then, catching Galahad's questioning look, he quickly added, "Think of it this way—feelings are like candles. As long as you don't light them, they won't burn."
Galahad was silent for a moment contemplating the words.
"Oh, I see," Galahad replied moments later, finally understanding. "Alright, I'll do as you say."
And with that, the matter seemed resolved for now. Yet as Oberyn turned away, a shadow of concern lingered in his expression.
He'd need to find a way to distract his sister, to keep her heart from reaching out to someone who, despite his charm and valor, didn't have feelings for her.
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Rhaegar Targaryen POV
I stood in my tent, the familiar scent of leather and oil mingling in the air as servants fitted my dark armor. Crafted in the Targaryen style, it bore the sigil of the three-headed red dragon emblazoned on the chest plate.
As the servants tightened the straps and adjusted the fit, I cast a glance at Ser Arthur Dayne. He had been bested by Galahad, and that defeat had taught me one thing.
Galahad would undoubtedly become a great knight, if not the best in history. The thought of his future filled me with a sour taste, a reminder of his rejection of my offer this morning to join my cause.
It was regrettable that he had turned me down, yet witnessing him defeat Ser Arthur Dayne had only intensified my desire to recruit him.
I recognized the potential within him, and the way he had outmaneuvered such a formidable opponent spoke volumes of his prowess.
With that realization, my ambition regarding him became clear. I would not be deterred by a mere refusal; I would find a way to bring him into my service.
It didn't matter how long it took—I was determined that one day, he would serve me.
Once my armor was fitted to my satisfaction, I left the tent and climbed upon my steed and guided him toward the jousting field.
The moment I arrived at the field, the crowd erupted into cheers as the herald announced my title. I relished the roar of their approval, the thunderous affirmation of their prince.
As I rode atop my horse, I circled the field, waving my hands to the crowd, soaking in their adulation. The cheers were a balm to my spirit.
Not long after, Galahad entered the arena. I felt a pang of jealousy as the sound of the crowd grew even louder for him.
It was understandable; he was a Westerman, and the smallfolk and nobles gathered here were mostly westermen.
Galahad slowly circled the field, basking in the warmth of their support. I couldn't help but admire the way he carried himself.
After a while, I approached him with a smile, ready to engage him once more before our joust.
"Your skills have impressed many today, Galahad," I said, seeking to compliment him genuinely. "You've done well to gain favor from the crowd."
He nodded, a hint of pride in his demeanor. "Thank you, Your Highness. I aim to uphold the honor of the Westerlands."
"That's noble of you..." I said with a pause. I then seized the moment to propose my offer again.
"My offer still stands, if you are willing to serve me as a kingsguard or as a knight I'm willing to accept. I promise to reward you handfully." I tried to entice him.
To my surprise, he shook his head, refusing once more. "I appreciate the offer, but I must decline like last time."
A smile tugged at my lips despite the disappointment. "Then let us make a wager. If I win, you will join my service. If you win, I shall gift something of your choosing."
Galahad considered my proposal, weighing the stakes before finally nodding, determination evident in his eyes. "Very well, Your Highness. I accept."
"I want your armor as the gift. Would that be fine?" he asked, pointing to my gleaming armor.
I agreed, a sense of eagerness bubbling within me.
I had watched him joust before, and while he was undoubtedly skilled, I believed I had an advantage in this contest.
With this thought, I rode to my side and picked up a lance, confidence surging through my veins.
I felt the weight of the moment settle upon my shoulders; this was more than just a contest of strength—it was a chance to bring Galahad into my fold.
We took our positions. The crowd fell silent, anticipation hanging like a fragile thread, until the sharp blast of the trumpet pierced the stillness. The joust had begun.
I spurred my horse forward, the ground thundering beneath us as I focused on the target ahead. Galahad was poised, and as we closed the distance, I steeled myself for the impact that would determine our fates.
Moments later, I felt the jarring impact of Galahad's lance against my shield, splintering it into pieces while my own aim faltered, missing him entirely. The crowd erupted into cheers, their excitement ringing in my ears.
As I returned to my position, I forced myself to remain calm. I was down three points, but I had time to turn this around. I steadied my breath and prepared for the second tilt.
The trumpet's call signaled the start, and I urged my horse forward again. With each gallop, my focus sharpened, and I raised my lance, aiming directly for his shield.
Just a foot more, I thought, and this time I would strike true. But as I closed in, his lance expertly deflected mine, and I felt the sharp crack as the tip of his lance shattered against my shield instead.
Groaning in frustration, I realized I was now down five points as I rode back to my position. Determined not to give up, I gripped my lance tightly, positioning myself for the next tilt.
The trumpet sounded again, and I charged toward him once more. This time, I aimed for his shoulder, anticipating that he wouldn't be able to evade a third time.
But Galahad seemed to anticipate my move, leaning slightly to evade my thrust, and his lance found its mark against my shoulder, shattering upon impact.
Dejectedly, I turned my horse back, bewildered by how he had evaded me yet again. How did he dodge that last strike? My mind raced with frustration as I took my lance, readying myself for another attempt.
With every tilt, I could feel my strength waning. Little did I know, Galahad was toying with me, playing the game as if it were a casual practice.
By the end of the eighth tilt, I was utterly exhausted, my body aching from the relentless competition.
He stood at twenty-two points, while I remained stuck at zero. The reality of my situation began to sink in—there were only two tilts left, and I was on the verge of loss.
The trumpet sounded once more, and I spurred my horse forward, fatigue coursing through my veins. This time, I aimed for his body, hoping to catch him off guard.
As my lance connected, I braced myself for the impact, expecting to see him unseated. Instead, to my shock, he remained resolute, my lance splintering against his shield while he hardly budged.
Returning to my position, I clenched my fists, the weight of my frustration growing heavier. This final tilt would determine my fate.
With determination, I gripped my lance for the last time. The trumpet blared, and I surged forward, focusing all my remaining strength into this charge.
But as I neared him, I noticed something strange—Galahad had dropped his lance and shield, his arms outstretched as if inviting me in.
Seeing this as my chance, I charged forward, the target wide open before me. My lance struck him flush against the body, and I felt a rush of triumph; this should have been enough to unhorse him.
Yet, miraculously, he didn't move an inch. It was as if my blow had no effect whatsoever.
Disbelief flooded through me as I watched him ride in a circle, unphased by the impact, while the crowd erupted in cheers. I was left demoralized, clenching my fists in defeat. With that, I had lost twenty-two to six.
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Note: Hope y'all enjoy the chapter. Next up is the sixth day, the tourney will be coming to an end soon.