The crowds are alive with energy, and Sansa can't help but feel a pulse of excitement herself as the joust enters its final rounds. The spectacle of it all—the bright banners, the thunderous charges, the clashing of lances—fills the air with an undeniable tension. She's perched at the edge of the stands, her heart racing, eyes fixed on Ser Loras Tyrell, her golden-haired champion.
Today is supposed to be his day, she tells herself. He's so handsome, so gallant. This is the moment he will shine, and she'll be there to witness it.
But even as she watches Loras prepare for his match against Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, she can't help but feel a gnawing sense of dread. Gregor Clegane is a force of nature, a man whose name alone sends chills through the hearts of the common folk. The Mountain is a monster.
The first charge is brutal. Loras's horse thunders forward, his lance aimed true at the Mountain's chest. But Gregor Clegane barely flinches, and with one monstrous swing, he slams his lance into Loras's shield, forcing him off balance.
Sansa gasps as she watches Loras struggle to stay in his saddle. He's not the biggest, not the strongest, but he's fast, and he's skilled. The sound of hooves and metal clashing fills the air as the two knights circle each other, preparing for another charge.
But then—Loras strikes.
With a deft twist, he maneuvers his horse just right and drives his lance straight into Gregor's shoulder, sending the Mountain stumbling back. The crowd roars in surprise. Loras has done it!
But Gregor Clegane is not one to take defeat lightly.
The Mountain glares, his face twisted in fury, and as Loras dismounts, still trembling from the exertion, Gregor charges forward, grabbing a heavy sword from the ground.
Sansa holds her breath as the Mountain swings the sword with all his might, trying to land a fatal blow on Loras. The knight staggers back, barely avoiding the strike. The Mountain is not done yet.
Before Gregor can swing again, a large, familiar figure steps into the fray—the Hound, Sandor Clegane. His heavy boots stomp the dirt, and his cruel, scarred face bears an expression of disdain.
"You want to kill him, brother?" Sandor sneers, his voice thick with contempt. "Then you'll have to get through me first."
The Mountain snarls in response, his massive hands tightening around the hilt of his sword. The tension crackles in the air as the two brothers, each a beast in their own right, face off.
The Hound charges first. His sword meets the Mountain's with a deafening crash, their weapons locking as they struggle for dominance. Sandor's strikes are fast, but Gregor's strength is overwhelming, each blow shaking the earth beneath them. The Hound is forced to take a step back, but his defiance never wavers.
Sandor swings again, aiming for the Mountain's side, but Gregor parries with brutal force. The two brothers lock eyes—there's history in those glares, a rivalry that goes back to their childhood. Blood is spilled as they exchange blow after blow, each trying to overpower the other.
It seems like a battle for the ages—a fight to the death. But just as Sandor begins to gain ground, four knights rush onto the field, their swords drawn. They pull the Mountain away, dragging him backward as Gregor struggles, growling like a wild animal, desperate to finish the fight.
"The fight is over!" one of the knights calls, but Gregor's eyes never leave Sandor. He still glares with rage, as if he could kill him with a look.
Sandor spits on the ground, breathing heavily. "You're lucky," he mutters to Gregor, wiping the blood from his brow. "One day, you and I will finish this."
With a final, scornful glance, Sandor steps back, letting the knights pull his brother away.
With the Mountain gone, the next joust is set between the Hound and a mysterious knight in crimson armor.
Sansa's gaze shifts toward the Crimson Knight, his shield gleaming with a dark symbol—a reaper's scythe, sharp and foreboding. The sight sends a cold chill down her spine. Who is he? What is he doing here?
The two knights charge, and Sansa feels her breath catch in her throat. The Hound is a beast, a savage fighter with all the brutality of his reputation. But this stranger is different. The Crimson Knight is smooth, calculated, his movements precise, his timing impeccable.
When their lances meet, the sound of splintering wood fills the air. The Hound stumbles, unseated for just a moment—but that moment is all it takes. The Crimson Knight swiftly shifts his weight, using the momentum to knock the Hound off balance and send him crashing into the dirt. The crowd gasps in astonishment. The Hound has been defeated.
WIth Loras being too injured to fight. His body is battered, and he can barely sit upright in his saddle.
The Crimson Knight wins.
The crowd erupts in deafening applause. Sansa's heart skips a beat as she watches the knight in crimson dismount and remove his helm, revealing a man with sharp, cold eyes—eyes that burn with the intensity of someone who has seen too much. His gaze sweeps across the arena, and for a brief moment, he meets her eyes.
Sansa looks away quickly, feeling a shiver run down her spine. Who is this man?
As the crowd quiets, the Crimson Knight steps forward, his voice booming across the field.
"I do not seek glory," he announces, his voice rich with authority. "I seek a cause."
There's a strange weight to his words, and Sansa feels a chill settle in her chest.
Then, with an unexpected flourish, the Crimson Knight turns to the stands and crowns a commoner girl—a simple, unremarkable girl with mousy red hair and plain features—as his Queen of Love and Beauty. The girl is stunned, her eyes wide with disbelief as the knight places a modest crown upon her head.
The crowd is stunned. A commoner? The noble houses whisper amongst themselves, the murmurs growing louder.
The Crimson Knight looks back at them, unflinching.
Darian's POV
The cheers ring in my ears as I stand victorious. This isn't about a crown, a tournament, or some fleeting recognition. This is a message.
I glance at the commoner girl before me, her hands trembling as she holds the crown. She is not royalty. She's not nobility. She's like all the others—unimportant in the eyes of the lords and ladies. But she is my queen. I chose her because she is one of the countless who have suffered under the weight of a corrupt system.
Yet as I look at the tears pouring from her eyes as a smile adorns her face. A pure smile. The most beautiful smile he's seen in this world.
For a second, a figure overlaps hers—one he sees every time he closes his eyes and dreams at night. Maybe there was another reason he chose this girl. But that thought quickly fades, and all that's left is the stunned faces of the crowd.
I don't care for the applause. I don't care for their accolades. I care for what I've started here.
This isn't the end. This is just the beginning.
I'm here for the ones who have been crushed beneath the heel of power. I'm here to take back what was stolen. To tear down the throne that has enslaved us all.
I look over the field. I see the fear in their eyes.
And I smile. Let them fear me. Let them fear what's coming.
I've made my move. And the game—my game—has only just begun