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Cersei thought not of Lord Whent's supposed 'great tournament' after all.
Highborn and bannermen, from every corner of the Reach…
From Sunspear to Winterfell…
They all have come to seek a false glory.
She ignores the ravings of King Aerys II Targaryen within earshot, watching unpleasantly as a new knight unseats the one wearing House Frey's colours. A rather small knight. Their armour ill-fitting for them and unpolished. With interest, Cersei narrows her eyes.
A white weirwood tree with a laughing face… as their shield's sigil?
Are they a northman?
Lord Walter Whent's daughter, fair and bright, murmurs over to Cersei with their arms encircled. Her disposition becoming tremulous.
"Oh, 'tis the Laughing Knight…"
They ride, stopping beneath Cersei's pavilion.
"The tourney has not yet ended. If you should allow me your favour, my lady…"
A booming voice underneath the helm.
Cersei frees herself from a nervously shaking arm. She slowly approaches. If Jaime were here, he would sooner not allow this.
"No man could challenge me then…"
"I have not prepared a favour, ser," Cersei answers, masking her interest.
"You have…"
Lifting their helm, the Knight of the Laughing Tree reveals themselves.
A spill of brilliantly dark curls.
Winter-rose eyes.
Cersei recognises the wolf maid, Lyanna Stark. The one whom wept during Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's song. She made a spectacle of herself by angrily upending a cup of wine over Benjen Stark's head. Lyanna attacked Ser Donnel Haigh's squire.
She hoists herself up to grip the arena's railing, leaning hotly into Cersei's smiling mouth.
The iron gauntlet digs into Cersei's long, unbraided, and golden hair, and Cersei wonders how it may feel on her teats. Lyanna's sword-roughened hands. Her wild breath. The sweet, heady odour of Lyanna's cunt. How her bodice may rip on Lyanna's wolf-teeth grinning.
How glorious.
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