fight like gods. asoiaf

TWENTY TWO/ TWENTY THREE

XXI
LUCELLA
"the cleganes and tourneys"
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The pavilions stretched for a mile down the bank of the river. As Lucella made her way down from the Red Keep, jostled in the bag of an open-top carriage, she could see to the very end, where the jousting field was already filled to the brim with spectators, the games about to start.

She was late. Tourneys were not her usual playing ground, but with Sandor and Gregor both competing, she felt a need to be there. That need came from fear.

Lucella found her brother by the edge of the jousting field with his squire. His tourney horse was chuffing behind him, cloaked in black gear and ready to charge. This squire was even younger than she remembered him being, with him only coming up to her shoulders with a head of bright red hair. She wondered which desperate father had bid his son be the squire of the Hound. It only took one word from her to have the boy scurrying away, ducking under the tent flap and out of sight.

"Can't a man have peace?"

"Not when you're a Clegane," she said, leaning against the wooden tent post, arms folded over her chest. "Gregor is here."

Sandor only huffed out an odd sort of noise, low and animalistic. Gregor's presence at the tourney wouldn't have been a surprise, but she'd expected some sort of reaction, but Sandor only continued to struggle with his great heaps of armour. Lucella came to his side, helping him with it, replacing his squire.

The jousting was already in full swing by the time she made to stand at the base of the stands, leaning against the wooden pillars that kept them upright. There weren't many, who captured attention. But her brother was one of them.

Gregor was a beast on the field, all anger and force, rushing upon his opponents like a great tidal wave, dark and destructive. It was his third joust, in which calculated tragedy truck and a knight from the Vale was killed. The boy was no more than three years older than her, with a face that was soft and young, now mangled by the lance that broke through his skull like a skewer. That might've been me, she thought, though it was only mildly absurd. My head spiked on a stick and held above a fire.

The body fell at the foot of the royal box, spewing out fountains of blood, each litre darker than the last. The audience plunged into an eerie hush. The Ladies were crying- Sansa's companion, Jayne was weeping, head tucked into the Septa's arm. But Lady Sansa just stared at the floor, at the boy, as Lucella did, not a flinch in her stature.

Lucella met her brother by the base of the stands. His hound's helm was tucked beneath his arm, revealing his sweat-covered brow to the sun above. There was a great wallow of cheer as Lord Renly was first to present himself on the field, his horse cantering a smooth dance. Sandor fixed his helmet to his head.

"Good luck," she said as she gave his armour a once over, making sure all was in place.

Sandor only shrugged, his face covered by the metallic, dog-like mask he so often wore.

"Look will do me nothing," he said, rising to mount his horse. "The ponsy bastard would go down with a push of my finger."

"If luck isn't what you want before a joust then what am I supposed to say?"

With a grunt, Sandor nodded his head and Lucella mimicked it. Then he rode out onto the jousting field, long lance in hand, ready to face the King's brother.

Renly was unhorsed immediately, the fall to the floor far thanks to the height of his great, black charger. His head snapped backwards, clashing against the dirt, and for a moment, Lucella thought that Lord Renly might've been the second man to fall victim to the Clegane brothers that day. It was only the ornaments on his helmet to break, the golden antler snapping off cleanly and was presented to Sandor as proof of his victory. Yet as the commoners cheered behind him, Sandor turned away with the snort of his nose and threw the broken tine to his sister.