Casterly Rock: Tourney Grounds
After speaking to the nobles and offering his challenge to Jaime Lannister, the young knight adorned his helm and leapt atop his white steed. With a gesture to a nearby squire, the young man was handed a fresh lance. Pointing toward the old man in white armor among the Kingsguard, the Lord Commander smiled and left the King's booth, arriving at the tourney grounds astride a brown destrier. He saluted the Lord of the Westerlands, then the King, prompting cheers from the crowd. The herald began the joust.
Like before, the young knight's horse launched forward. He was halfway across the field before his opponent could pick up full speed. But unlike the giant he faced before, Ser Barristan Selmy was a normal man. The young knight aimed to unseat the older knight, but Ser Barristan subtly shifted his body. The lance merely glanced off his plate armor. A second later, the young knight took a direct hit to the chest and was flung from his saddle.
'Well, damn, that hurt,' he thought, rolling a few times before landing on his feet. Then, as the crowd anticipated, he spoke: "Spear and dagger." Shock rippled through the knights and lords. Why the change of weapons? they wondered.
A young Loras Tyrell approached, carrying a spear with an ironwood shaft, adorned with rose engravings and a blooming rose-shaped spearhead. The spearhead was long, with elegant twirls in its design. The young knight sheathed his dagger across his back and took the spear, pointing it at the older knight who now held sword and shield. The old man remained unmoved.
With three large steps, the young knight thrust at his opponent. The spear struck the shield with a dull thud. Ser Barristan calmly moved his shield, deflecting the spear, and tried to close the distance. But the spear moved far too easily—he hadn't counted on the young knight's control. The spear whipped over Espada's head, sweeping around in a horizontal arc. Ser Barristan raised his sword to intercept.
The weapons clashed, and both knights reacted. Ser Barristan stepped forward while Espada stepped back, keeping the spear pointed at his foe.
"I don't want to drag this fight out, Lord Commander—lest I be called a fraud. I hope you're ready," he said confidently.
Then came a flurry of thrusts—at the chest, the head, the feet. Ser Barristan blocked and dodged, but a low sweep followed a low thrust, and this one connected. The pole swept his legs. The old knight rolled away, leaving his shield behind, then rose to one knee with his sword raised.
Espada held the spear high in one hand and the dagger in the other. He swung and thrust in rhythm, forcing Barristan's sword down before landing a kick to his chest that knocked the old man flat.
The spear was at his throat.
"Yield, Lord Commander," said the young knight—not even winded, a testament to his conditioning.
"The winner is the Rose Knight, Ser Espada Flowers!" the herald declared.
Espada looked into the pale blue eyes of the old knight, then offered him a hand and pulled him to his feet.
"Time truly is the enemy of all men," the young knight said.
Ser Barristan met his brown eyes and replied, "You have skill, boy. Do not think you beat me because I am old. No—you are truly skilled."
As they walked off the tourney field, the young knight spoke again. "I don't understand, my lord."
Ser Barristan looked at him, puzzled.
"There's a question I once heard in an inn—about a rich man, a nobleman, and a sellsword," Espada said, his tone silky. "It made me wonder—why do we serve lords weaker and more depraved than the lowest of bandits or rapists?"
The old knight stumbled slightly, memories stirring—scars, bruises, the smell of burning flesh, screams that never left him.
But Espada continued.
"You see, my lord, a knight is only as great as his master. But the moment the knight surpasses the master—in intelligence, wealth, or martial might—the master is no longer needed."
He smiled again, provoking.
"I owe my life to Lady Olenna Tyrell, a woman of great intelligence, though she bore an idiot. Yet she still holds the garden together. I serve her—not her son."
Ser Barristan's voice was steady. "You do not hold your lord in high regard, boy?"
Espada laughed. "Heavens, no. I owe everything to Lady Olenna, and to repay her, I will see her granddaughter seated as Queen."
His smile sharpened. "You saved the Mad King, then served him through his madness, then served a lecherous king. I don't respect your deeds—they lack substance. But Ser Jaime? Now there's a man I respect. They call him Kingslayer as an insult. I see a man who did what no one else dared. You? I respect your skill—but not you as a knight."
Ser Barristan remained silent.
"The Seven Kingdoms don't know what a true knight is," Espada said. "A true knight would forsake vows to save a bastard born of a bard and a whore. A true knight doesn't care for rank or blood."
With a sudden motion, he threw his spear to an approaching Loras Tyrell, who carried a two-handed axe.
"No, get the Thorn—my sword. I will show Lord Selmy my true skill," Espada said.
Loras bowed and departed. Espada turned to Ser Barristan and said, "I am Espada Flowers, the Rose Knight. The First Thorn of the Queen of Thorns. My era has come. You, who failed, will soon be a memory."
He walked back toward the center of the tourney grounds, where a white steed awaited. Loras stood beside it, holding an ornate scabbard engraved with roses and vines. The sword—long and slender—was a hybrid of rapier and longsword. Its ivory handle was decorated with pearls, and a pale blue gem rested in its pommel. The blade was a piercer, not a slasher—an unpopular style.
Loras looked concerned. "Ser, the Thorn is ready. But do you plan to keep jousting?"
"No," Espada said. "Falling is no fun. I'm going to challenge the Kingslayer to a duel—and make it beautiful."
He drew the sword and pointed it skyward.
"My lords and ladies, your Grace and your Grace," he announced to the noble booths. "I am but a humble knight on this grand stage. I am sure you grow tired of watching me beat your champions. So I withdraw from the tourney—but I ask for one last honor. I challenge Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, to single combat. I, too, wish to bear a title: not the Mountain Slayer, but the Kingslayer's better."
Gasps rose among the crowd.
"I am but a sword, a lowly knight of no consequence," he continued. "Yet I wish to entertain."
He knelt and stabbed the Thorn into the soft earth. Jaime Lannister, visibly irritated, removed his white cloak and stepped away from his sister.
The King laughed from his booth. "Well, Lannister, go. I want to watch the rose piss on a lion."
The crowd erupted. Jaime said nothing but marched toward Espada.
"You bastards and lowborn know nothing of your limits. Let's end this little jest," Jaime said, dismissively.
With a salute, Espada replied with a chuckle, "My lord, it is an honor to claim the title of Kingslayer. Worry not—I'll make you look splendid."
The horn sounded.
They charged.
Jaime raised his sword to strike down, but the Thorn's tip came low, then upward—toward his eyes. Shocked, Jaime parried just in time, but the slender blade snapped back, and a golden helm crashed into his.
Staggering, Jaime tried to recover, but Espada's strikes were relentless—quick, sharp, held back yet overwhelming. A sideways slash. A thrust. Jaime stepped aside but still felt the blade scrape his shoulder.
"What is this?" he thought.
"Fangs, claws, a golden mane—that is a lion," Espada whispered.
Jaime tried to regain rhythm. The dance continued.
"Proud, strong, brash, and loud—that is the stag."
Thrusts now, diagonal slashes too fast to catch.
"Quiet, loyal, fierce—the mighty wolf."
The tempo shifted again.
"Lion. Stag. Wolf—noble beasts," Espada continued. "The falcon? The trout? Please. The sun? Well, we of the garden don't care for them. Me—I'm half Dornish, so I guess I can't hate them fully."
A kick swept Jaime's feet from under him. He hit the ground hard, Thorn's point at his throat.
"Talent will only take you so far. Do you yield?" Espada asked, his mocking smile now worn like a crown.
Jaime hesitated.
"Make my day, kitten," Espada whispered. "Make my day."
Jaime saw it in his eyes—hate. No... envy? What was it?
"I yield," Jaime said.
The crowd roared. Espada spun around dramatically and called out:
"You honor me all. I now withdraw from this tourney, having faced the finest warriors of the Seven Kingdoms. You have seen me—now, never forget the name and face of Espada Flowers, the Rose Knight."