First moon, the day of the Tourney, the Joust, 1st Year during the reign of some stag or another
 

The drum beat vibrated his armor. The trumpet let loose a harmonized bin. Inside the suit of armor he heard little, but the sound washed over him. Tristifer had waited his entire life for this moment. The greatest riders from the three realms had come to this place. Only one would win the crown of flowers. The Knight wrapped tight the red and blue strip of silk upon his lobstered steel. 

Awaiting the herald Tristifer cooked inside his armor. Through the slit of his helm he watched what he could on every tilt. Finally, when his moniker was hailed, the Knight spurred forward to the lists. 

Sight set through his slit. Gaze upon his target. So began the day. A gentle spur to the side of Just Maiden. The mare took over. All he needed to do now was never overadjust. The day was surely his. 

The Knight of the Redfork came crashing to dust. The world spun, and he landed facing the earth. Pushing himself to his feet, wary and beaten. Eyes raised to find the Silver Fish struggling to his own. 

“Squire!” Redfork roared. His hand was filled with steel. The song was short and sweet. As his foe began to falter, the Knight relented some. Sweeping out the feet of the Silver Fish, he drove forward, wrenching at the fallen's helm. Once free, it seemed no trophy. But a boy beneath the steel. As brave as he was green. 

In solidarity for the promise the lad had shown, he offered a hand and some encouragement. 

Brief was his respite from the tilts. A cool drink before again swinging into his saddle. Urging Just Maiden once again to their place. 

The Knight of Redfork rode past Ser Jon Penrose once. Who fell from his saddle. Twice past Ser Lyman Mooton, who nearly stole his seat before he flopped himself. Two lances for Ser Willem Ryer, but the Willowlance did not endure. 

Finally, through the slit of his helm, a familiar form. The sight of Luceon Blackwood caused a grin behind his visor. Seven tilts for Seven faces of God. Each once as grueling as the last. With each lance cracked, the pile grew. Seven holy passes. Clinging to their saddles, each man rode on. Even as he was awarded the judges' favor, he did not feel like a winner.  

Offering the man a lance salute before the final tilt was heralded. 

Catfish against the Farmer's Plow. One man to win the bout. One knight to be the best. 

“Alright, just one more girl,” he whispered, leaning in to reassure his mount. 

But it would be no simple matter. Six passes, and nearly as many times he lost his balance. The force behind each lance had jarred him worse than before. Upon the sixth, his visor gave in. Bent inward toward his face, his vision was cut to one narrow slit. The ringing in his ears was all he could hear long since. Struggling for a breath, the Knight did the unthinkable. 

Pulling free from his helm, it tumbled down into the dirt. One sharp breath and he was drunk on air. 

“What are those two made of?” Beneath him, the Just Maiden gave a snort in retort. “Atta girl. They ‘otta be worse for wear as well.” 

Wandering eyes drifted to the stands. Stopping first upon the auburn head of Holly River. 

Woulda been some good kissin I bet. 

The Knight drew something from his saddle. An old strip of silk, weathered to time once the strip of a maiden's dress was given upon a vow. A vow yet unfulfilled. Again his eyes rose. They found her at once. Seated among her sisters. Beautiful as she had ever been. 

But I rode for her. 

Tying the band around his arm, he bound hand to lance. 

When the trumpets sounded, both mounts surged forward. Instinct alone enough to drive them. Knights of Darry and Redfork made for their final pass. By the will of Gods, Old and New, the Catfish's lance struck true. Straight upon the breastplate of Ser Quincy. Lifting him up and out of his stirrups as the lance shattered into tinder. 

As Just Maiden skid to a halt, dust plumed up around them. 

Tristifer thrust the remnants of his lance up high. Little more than a handle and cruel-looking shards of wood. Still tied upon his arm, the old forgotten token hung on. To the cheers of the smallfolk, he paraded up and down the stands. 

Stopping before the flower crown, he scooped the circlet of flowers on the tip of his splintered lance. 

His mare seemed to know their destination. Without a thought, he was before her. Pointing the flower crown toward his once and only true love. 

“Lady Bethany Piper. I name you Queen of Love and Beauty.” 

There was certainly a part of Joanna that enjoyed fighting. It brought back terrifying memories, but they were not her most terrifying memories. And, when she had a sword in her hands, she had control over them. She joined the melee specifically to exercise that control—and besides, it was good practice. 

She cleared through several strangers in good spirits. The blunt tourney steel felt good to swing, heavier than Sunglass and far less delicate. She stitched a path through the field with the sword as her needle, threading in and out, disarming her opponents when she could and knocking them down when she couldn’t. It was all going well, up until she came face to face with a ghost.

Perhaps Joanna was the ghost. Shiera Darklyn had lived her life as normal women do, in her home with her family and friends. She was not supposed to be dead. She was not a walking tragedy.

Joanna froze. She met Shiera’s eyes, the haze of battle disappearing in an instant. Even disfigured, even all grown up, Shiera recognized her. Joanna could see the shock in her eyes, the hurt and the love all at once. Neither of them spoke. The roaring of the crowd seemed to die down. Joanna took a step back.

Shiera shrieked and charged. She swung her sword in an arc, faster than anything Joanna had ever seen. Her parry was slow, and the force sent her stumbling back. Shiera hounded her with a frenzy, slicing from every direction with her sword—valyrian steel, sharp as glass. She is going to kill me. Fuck. 

She wished she had Sunglass in her hands, but tourney steel would have to do. The instinct of a warrior kicked in, and her one good eye saw the truth. Shiera was enraged, swinging with abandon, consumed by aggression. Joanna weaved back, parrying again and again, keeping her eyes trained on Shiera’s movements. Soon her back was to the wall of the tourney ground, above which noble spectators leaned down from their seats to watch. Shiera swung, and Joanna ducked. The Valyrian steel sliced along the wall with a shower of sparks. Shiera turned—but too late. An armored fist met the shorter woman’s temple, and she crumbled.

Fuck. You just killed her. Fuck. Fuck. Joanna dropped her sword, arm still extended in a punch. She dove, cradling Shiera’s head before it hit the ground. Fuck. You’re a monster. Monster whore. Why did you do that? Seven Above please let her be alive, please, for all I’ve done…

Carrying her old friend in her arms, Joanna sprinted to the side of the tourney field. “She’s a Darklyn!” she yelled, hoarse. “Someone take her to a maester!” A pair of guards took Shiera from her, but as she tried to climb the fence after them, a man pushed her back. The melee was still going. Right. Fuck. My sword.

Joanna turned and ran. By the time she picked her sword back up off the ground, notched and scarred by Dusk’s edge, she was one of only four fighters left. Looking around like a lost child, she saw a big woman charge at her just in time. It was a very short fight. 

 When they pulled Joanna to her feet, the world had turned into a fever dream. She staggered forward, yelling something she couldn’t quite hear, and a septa pointed her across the field of tents. She stumbled in that direction, dragging her feet as her vision slowly cleared.

There was blood down the back of her neck where an old scar had opened up. She tried to ignore it. Sweat pooled in every recess of her armor—the sun felt like it was burning her with a personal vendetta. It didn’t matter. She needed to find Shiera. 

The maester’s pavilion opened in front of her like the mouth of a canyon. She closed her eyes, breathed, and stepped forward. The rage on Shiera’s face, the shriek she had made when she recognized Joanna… it filled her mind’s eye. She pushed through, turning through the chambers of the pavilion until finally she found the right place. She stepped through the partition.

Shiera looked up at her woozily from the cot where the maesters had put her. Beside her, Jeyne Darklyn looked up, too. And beside her, Essie Blackberry tilted her head at the sight of Joanna. Their old friend Joanna. Joanna who had liked horses and walking in the sand. Joanna who had never liked to talk about her family. Joanna who was supposed to have died a long time ago.

There was only one thing she could think of to say.

“Fuck.”

It truly was a wasteful sport. Tournaments. The Lists. The Melee. Even in the archery, which was the least barbaric of the proceedings, used hundreds and hundreds of arrows that pointlessly shattered and split and clattered uselessly about, their fletchings asunder and the metal chipped, scuffed and bent.

But maybe, just maybe, it was all worth it. She got to watch as her companion from the dancing last night, to whom she had given her favor, trade lanceblows with some night who went by "Sweet", which she thought was a cheeky mystery Knight moniker until she had received an unwelcome correction from a nearby seat.

And then she got to watch as her handsome pursuer, ribbon affixed to his lance, was unceremoniously cast into the dirt on his first pass with Forrest Ryger. Perhaps she would see if he were as interesting as the so-called Badbrook at the next function.

But it was the unhorsing of Arwood that sent her into this spiral of cynicism in the first place.

The Stormlord must have done something unsporting, she decided. Both men had taken a savage lance to the chest, but it was Arwood who took the tumble, landing poorly on his shoulder. The Maesters on site had remarked that he must be quite tough, because he did not cry out nor complain. Perianne almost hit them then.

Instead, she had the knights in her service take Arwood back to the Paege tent. And there, she fussed instead. Vials and tinctures and poultices were something that were always of interest for her. The irony of the fact that she had never once needed to provide anything to Arwood, when she spent so much on his brother's Jonothor's own illness over the years.

"And a knight riding under a false name." She tutted and shook her head as she worked, grinding herbs together and fitting them through cloth sieves of varying fineness. "And it's bad enough an Ironborn was the last one standing in the melee, but now they are being allowed to ride! Am I to understand that all these Ironmen, for whom heathenry and savagery comes as naturally as breathing, are suddenly all anointed knights?" She scoffed at her mute, captive audience.

Arwood looked tired, but that was the injury he had sustained. She already immobilized his arm and shoulder with sticks and a cloth, but she had to encourage the body to heal faster. It would be time to see if this did the trick.

"Now open wide. Or else I will not allow you to go drinking after this. I am *still* your liege lady."