Chapter Text
“Who's that knight with the green apple shield?” Rowan asked to her left at Ser Manfred Dondarrion. “He seems high in spirit.”
“A cousin to Ser Steffon Fossoway, Red,” he answered. “Seems even he wished for the glory knighthood could offer.”
“Do you recall his name?” She had never known of his bed let alone name. Must be a shy lad. None of the girls ever mentioned him. But gods be damned, he would be lovely to have.
“Of course not,” he shrugged. “Who am I to bother remembering a lesser branch of House Fossoway?”
Rowan brushed a loose strand of his red hair. “Of course, ser. I just assumed your head stored all there is to know of the realm,” she praised, “A big mind to match the…rest of you,” she added, looking down at his manhood. “But who am I to know anything other.”
That lifted his ego back up. He tugged her over by the waist and seek hold of her chin. “You have no need of worrying other knights name. You have me, Red,” he said possesively and seized her lips. “As long as you do your part in keeping me happy. I'll do mine in keeping you from the streets, understand?”
“Yes, ser,” Rowan agreed and even batted her eyelash for him. All men are fools and all men are knights.
Ser Manfred turned his head lazily to the knights fighting each other in the mud. “My vote is on him beating Steffon. Knock the seeds right off him,” he jested.
“Aye, a promising lad,” she agreed.
The trial of seven went on as a pendulum. Both the sides clashed against one another, metal on metal. The fog swallowed both the Humfreys with it, dragging their armoured bodies to the scatter along the outer ring. Following them the three kingsguard seems on the verge of collapsing. And then there's Prince Daeron the Drunken who crawled himself further away from the main fight. With all the minor players aside the major players went on as hard as they can in the center.
Rowan eyes ricochet from one strike of Prince Maekar mace the next to Prince Aerion morning star blow towards Ser Duncan and then to Ser Lyonel long sword. All of the pent up action ignited something within her. Warm and hungrier than a soaring flame.
Gods be good is this what highborn ladies feel each time a tourney was put up for their name day? Rowan thought. She was not born into this life of luxury. She was never given the choice to taste just how good it feels to never look down on filthy sheets and few silver stags at her lap. To instead look down at knights who remembered their vows and fight with honour to defend the innocent.
“Come on!!” she cheered when Ser Duncan took the lead in his fight with Prince Aerion. She didn't remember standing from her seat or clapping as loud as she did. It was only after Ser Manfred pulled her down beside him with his face half turned away did she recognise his shame.
He was shameful of her. And how she draws attention to herself without his consent. She saw the shake of his head. His eyes now found the gold rings on his hands to be more interesting. He shift slightly away from her, towards the other lord to his side. And he remained deep in chatter with him for the rest of the trial of seven. Her allure on him was nearing the end.
Rowan didn't need his further explanation to know what it means. She already experience it enough times to know that begging would only lead to further humiliation, which would leave her with a scar or worst a fatal trip to meet the Stranger when he feels enraged by her. Men are beasts when provoked. She best not test her fate. She has to move on now with the little dignity she has left.
Fuck you, Manfred. I won't miss you. Your stupid death kink and tiny cock.
Just as she was gathering her things from his tent did she spot him again. The squire turned knight with the green apple shield. She had expected his return be carried by his squire or at least a handful of eager ladies, but just like before he defy her expectations.
From her view she could see how injured he actually was. Even as he put on a tough walk back to the Fossoway pavilion. Without any further wait she trailed behind him. Keeping a steady and natural pace as she watch him enter his pavilion.
Not even a step later she stopped herself when she saw the cracked ribbed Ser Steffon Fossoway shout angrily at him, pointing him away as his maester hold him back by his side as to not loose his balance.
“You are no longer welcome here, Raymun!” he yelled.
So that's his name. Raymun. Fits him well, Rowan thought.
Steffon continues attempting a kick that only tilted him
haphazardly to the side, worrying his maester. “Ser, please. You're in no place to fight—”
“Shut your yaps, old man!” Steffon shouted. “You—you are no true Fossoway,” he added, pointing at Raymun. “You've betrayed our family name—”
“Oh I betrayed our family name?” Raymun finally spoke. His voice rang with sarcasm even as he was out of breath. “Me?”
“Yes, you—you've tainted our glory by joining that hedge knight side—”
“You've tainted your own glory!” Raymun shouted back. “For a Lordship of all reason you wormy cunt!”
Rowan covered her mouth to drowned away her gasp. So his backbone stays even after the fight was won. And a Lordship? Oh it seems the fruit of my labour has finally meet it's rippen match. Green and growing.
Hurt flashed across Ser Steffon face. He looked as though he's been slapped down the mud again. And in all her years serving men she had known the lengths a man would go when his already wilting ego is threatened.
“You ungrateful ass,” Steffon snarled and shoved Raymun back with his remaining strength, which frankly: was not alot. “Get out of my sight!”
“Please, ser,” his poor maester held him back for dear life. “You'll tear your wound further if you—”
“I wouldn't want to share a space with a loser knight, anyway,” Raymun added bitingly.
The jabbed made Rowan chuckle from her spot. She liked his way of standing true to himself. It reminded her of her own spirit and the strength she had to muster each time to get to where she is now.
“Go, dammit!” Steffon went on. Not paying him or anyone near the slightest bit of his attention. “Take all your possessions with you! You're unwelcome in my pavilion! In this family!”
Rowan peeked inside the pavilion and watched as Steffon kept on shouting even as Raymun moved pass him to collect his belongings. Shoving them all into one trunk even with a limp. He only stopped when one sharp turn of his side had bloomed red, colouring his doublet.
The next series of movements were rushed as an ant hill. She saw people clad in shades of velvet red and apple motifs swarmed Steffon with a flurry of panic. It wasn't uncanny. She had seen people fight over far less things, but as everyone sights was turned to the wounded Steffon hers was straying to the lonesome knight who dragged his trunk and green apple shield with him out of the back of the pavilion. She's decided then.
You would be mine, Raymun.