Chapter 123 - 122: Eyes On Me .

Chapter 123: Chapter 122: Eyes On Me .

Usually Rogard Spidra hates wearing plate armour, but today he’s grateful for it. It’s heavy, hot, and if anyone manages to unseat him he’s going to get scrambled in it, but at least while he’s wearing it no one can see his hands shaking.

​He’s not entirely sure why he’s nervous. He shouldn’t be. This is his competition to win, after all. He’s been riding since he was big enough to sit on a horse, and he’s been jousting (on and off) since he was teenager. He’s also good .

It’s some testimony to his skill that after years without a serious bout he’d still managed to pick up where he left off like no time had passed at all. From what he’s seen so far, he’s more confident than ever that he’s one of the strongest competitors on display today.

​"...My lord?" one of the grooms queries quietly, peering in through the curtains of his tent; probably to make sure he’s ready. He looks relieved to find him fully dressed; Rogard’s gathered that Ynoro has unintentionally traumatized more than one servant today. "Your horse is ready."

​"That was quick,"

Rogard frowns, even though the visor completely obscures his expression. He wasn’t expecting his first bout so soon. He hopes his horse has calmed down some; she’s usually not so twitchy.

​"Forgive me, my lord," the groom replies, bowing in a way that Rogard is recently finding more and more patronising. It must be a side effect of hanging out with Khobi Frost so much; he hates that sort of thing, and apparently , most of them do it sarcastically.

His source could be garbage, but it’s still made Rogard uncomfortable about how much bowing and scraping people do around him.

"The last five bouts ended...quickly."

​That can only be a good thing. Jousting isn’t just about sending an opponent flying; half the skill is staying in the saddle after taking a hit.

If someone gets completely unseated in a serious bout they can’t be all that good, even more so if he gets knocked right off on the first pass.

Rogard hopes his opponents at least put up a bit of a fight.

The crowd might love the spectacle of an armoured soldier getting thrown from his horse, but Rogard’s Father isn’t just any spectator, and he will not accept a hollow victory.

​Because that’s what he’s demanded. What he always demands. Victory. A clean one, at that, and indisputable. High stakes, but no higher than they usually are; Rogard’s Father has made it perfectly clear that he is not to embarrass him or their family today, and that anything less than perfection is failure.

But they’re expectations Rogard is used to; ones he’s been raised on, and even if he hasn’t been meeting them in days of late, this is one stage where he has no intention of letting Rogard’s Father down.

​"I’m ready," Rogard tells the groom, as if he hasn’t already been ready for an hour, and he’s already halfway out the tent before the guy can bow his way out.

As promised, his horse is ready and waiting for him, decked out in Rogard’s Father’s royal blue, and looking deceptively docile for how antsy she’s been today.

​"This way, my lord," the groom urges, gesturing for Rogard to follow him even though he knows the way perfectly well.

The escort is more to make sure all the competitors travel by paths frequented by guards.

There’s definitely been some less than polite chatter going on where Crade Soldiers can’t hear.

​Rogard should have known that the way would lead right past the kingdom’s indomitable Second Captain, yet he’s still surprised when he catches sight of him nearby, watching over the proceedings with an expression grim enough to make any potential troublemakers rethink their decisions.

He’s not quite close enough to call out to, but when Rogard raises his chin in silent greeting, Drogger nods back.

​His hands suddenly feel exceptionally sweaty.

Next to him, his horse starts to dance anxiously, and Rogard gives the beast a disbelieving look before turning to the confused groom.

​"I thought I asked you to get her settled," Rogard complains irritably, tugging on the reins to get his horse to behave.

She’s usually so good; she’s used to big crowds and being watched --for a horse she’s a real show off. It’s why Rogard’s so fond of her.

​"I don’t understand, my lord," the groom stammers, somewhat at a loss. "She was perfectly behaved a few minutes ago." He leaves it at that, but the second glance he sends Rogard’s way says what he’d never voice aloud.

Horses are perceptive creatures. Very in tune with their masters.

​"Thanks," Rogard mutters, and lifts himself up into his saddle before he can think on it too much more.

Any subconscious, outward signs of nervousness are masked by the visor, but if his horse keeps playing up, it’s going to give him away. "It’s okay," he soothes, giving his horse a quick pat to get her to settle, "We’ve done this before; what are you getting all nervous for?"

​The question sounds less for his horse, and more for himself.

​It’s a big crowd.

Bigger than he’s ever ridden in front of, even. He supposes that’s what happens when a prince as notorious a bachelor as Prince Loac gets engaged.

He’s a little disappointed that Prince Loac hasn’t surprised everyone and decided to compete, but only a little; the guy’s a scary natural talent at all things love and war, and all these years and Rogard’s never managed to beat him.

In anything, probably, if he thinks hard enough about it.

Him turning up now would be a nice challenge, but would put his victory in serious jeopardy.

​He doesn’t let the crowd bother him. Or the soldiers amassing at the other end of the lane.

One of them is his opponent, but if he’s been told who it was he’s completely forgotten, or wasn’t listening to begin with.

He’s not due for a few bouts, so he gets comfy in his saddle and tries his best to get into the spirit of the day and observe the pairs preceding him.

​The soldiers around him are completely engrossed with the competition --some of the unmounted guards are even betting amongst themselves over who’s going to get thrown next --and usually, Rogard would be one of them.

​Unfortunately, inexplicably , his bad habit --the one he’s been vehemently trying to stamp down --chooses now, of all times, to come roaring back with a vengeance.

​When his gaze slides away from the bout, Drogger’s not looking his way.

And why would he be? Drogger appreciates a good jousting display as much as any soldier.

Of course that’s what be watching. Closely, probably; giving the men who have worked hard to be here the respect of his undivided attention. There’s no reason he should be looking his way.

Rogard hates how much that disappoints him.

​And then, even more inexplicably, and so quickly that for a second he thinks he’s imagained it, Drogger’s eyes meet his.

​For not the first time today, Rogard thanks the heavens for his visor and that it obscures his face; nothing in Drogger’s expression indicates that he’s registered being watched, and after a fleeting moment his gaze slides away again like it had never wandered from the proceedings in the first place.

​Curse the beast, his horse huffs and shifts agitatedly beneath him, and even though he can’t quite see their expressions, Rogard knows a couple of the soldiers closest to him are judging him for not being able to keep his horse under control.

They can judge all they like; he’s an excellent rider, and the moment he gets a lance in his hands he’ll prove it to them.

​He doesn’t have to wait long.

Some of the soldiers competing before him are actually pretty good, and despite himself, he’s genuinely impressed by several of them.

Even finds himself looking forward to facing a couple of them in the following rounds. If they make it that far, that is.

​(He wonders, dimly, why Drogger had glanced his way, and if he will again.)

​I’ll make him , is what Rogard hears himself vow, as he hefts a lance up into the air in a swift, powerful motion, and basks in the cheers that erupt as he raises his gleaming blue shield for the crowd to admire.

Underneath him, his horse adjusts to the change, and then settles; quieter than she’s been all day despite the applause hammering them from all sides like hail in a winter storm.

It’s a beautiful sound, and it’s hilarious that his opponent seems to think it’s for him.

​He’s preening at the other end of the lane; horse as crisp a white as Rogard’s ever seen, and when he finds Rogard’s attention on him, raises his lance in greeting. Or perhaps it’s a challenge.

​It really doesn’t matter.

​Not because he particularly wants to, but because it’s the sportsmanlike thing to do, Rogard sends the gesture back, and with the required pleasantries exchanged, the pair of them nudge their horses into the lane.

And that’s when the crowds cease to matter.

Here, for this brief moment in time, they’re a distraction, and Rogard tunes them out with practiced ease as he settles into position behind his shield.

​The world holds its breath, and against a blurred background, the lane rises ahead of him, crisp and clear, and the riders snap into motion as one.

​Like twin arrows loosed from taut bowstrings, they fly down the lane, hooves beating upon the ground like war drums, and kicking up clouds of dust.

To the eyes watching it’s over in seconds, but for Rogard each moment passes by like time has slowed around him, and each one that passes is precious.

Out of necessity his shield obscures much of his vision, but he looks as best he can, for any sign of weakness --any chink in that defense that his lance can penetrate.

​And he sees it. Beyond the oncoming tip of his lance, the idiot’s left an opening on his off-shoulder.

Not obvious, and not big, but big enough for a lance, and unfortunately for his opponent, Rogard’s a good shot.

​No matter how many times he does this, or how firmly he steels himself for impact, it always sucks.

​More for the other guy --from the crunch and the agonised yell he hears as his lance hits home, he’s dislocated his collarbone --but the force that comes crashing down on Rogard’s shield an instant later is no joke.

His shield arm rattles in its bracers something awful --credit to the man, he had the strength of a bull behind him --but Rogard holds steady and breathes, and makes sure that the way he trots out of his charge is effortless.

It’s a show, after all.

The sound comes rushing back all at once, and Rogard Spidra wheels his horse back around to observe the damage he’s done.

Somehow the guy’s managed to stay in his saddle, but his shield’s lying useless on the ground behind his horse and he’s clutching at a ruined patch of armour up near the shoulder Rogard had targeted.

Hes preserved some dignity at least, but there’s no way he’s in any state for a second pass.

​Satisfied, Rogard grins behind his visor, and dumps his shattered lance upon a pair of waiting servants to give the crowd the show they crave.

And when he waves and preens like he’s already won the day they roar their approval like he’s their prince. It’s everything Rogard’s Father’s ever wanted of him.

​And yet, it’s not Rogard’s Father that he looks for; it’s not his king, or his princess, or even Khobi Frost (who he catches clapping before he remembers to pretend not to.)

​Drogger is standing exactly where he left him, and exactly how he left him; expression grave and arms folded firmly across his chest.

But he catches Rogard’s eye like he’s been waiting for him to look his way, and when he nods in approval, that’s all the applause Rogard needs.

​It’s a funny feeling, having thousands of people gazing upon him in sheer adoration, and thinking that none of that matters unless a certain person is one of them.

​Rogard doesn’t want to linger on what exactly that might mean.

​He’s perfectly happy pretending that he doesn’t already know.