Chapter 5: Tourney in Denerim
The scent of lavender and slept-in sheets was still on Kerr’s skin when he rode out of Highever two days later. The memory of Iona—her warmth, her quiet gasps, the way she’d looked at him in the dawn light—clung to him like a second layer under his armor. It was a sweet distraction, but also a prod. The castle felt too quiet, his father and brother’s absence a palpable weight on the stone. He needed movement, noise, something to hammer this restless energy into.
The Denerim tourney grounds provided all three.
Sun baked the polished stone of the courtyard. Banners snapped in a warm breeze that carried the smells of roasting pork, spilled ale, and horse sweat. The clatter of practice swords and the genial insults of knights in training filled the air. Kerr signed up for everything: the mounted joust, the single combat. He hefted his warhammer from the rack. It was a brutal, ugly thing next to the elegant longswords and fluted shields—a thick haft of reinforced ash ending in a massive, flat-faced head of dull grey steel.
They laughed at it. Right up until he stepped into the list.
The joust was first. On horseback, the hammer was a disadvantage in reach. His first opponent, a seasoned chevalier from the Free Marches, sneered at the choice as they took their positions. The charge was a thunder of hooves. Kerr didn’t try for a lance strike. At the last possible second, he shifted in his saddle, twisted his whole torso, and swung the hammer in a low, whistling arc. It connected with the chevalier’s shield not with a clean punch, but with a crushing, sideways slap. The sound was like a tree splitting. The shield didn’t just crack; it exploded into a shower of painted splinters. The impact ripped the man from his saddle as if hooked by a giant. He hit the dirt and didn’t move.
There was no more laughter.
In the single combat arena, stripped to his brigandine and mail, Kerr was a study in terrifying economy. He didn’t dance. He didn’t parry with flair. He deflected blows with minimal shifts of the hammer’s haft, letting ornate sword strikes slide off with a spray of sparks. Then he’d strike. His speed was the shock—the way that colossal weight seemed to teleport from a resting position to a devastating arc. A Rivaini knight in scaled armor raised a magnificent tower shield. Kerr’s hammer descended in a short, overhead chop. The concussion rang through the ground. The shield’s center punched inward, the shaped metal crumpling like parchment. The knight dropped to one knee, his arm numbed, yield gasped through his visor.
He went through the brackets like a force of nature. Shields splintered. Helmets were knocked into the crowd. A fine suit of Orlesian plate was left with a fist-sized dent over the breastplate, the knight inside wheezing as he was carried off. Kerr’s breathing remained steady, his movements calm. Each victory was a hammer blow against the silence waiting for him at home.
When the last opponent yielded, the master of the games declared him champion. The applause was mixed—respect tempered by a layer of unease. He was too strong, too efficient. He lacked the theatrical grace they expected.
That night, the tourney knights descended on the Pearl. Kerr went with them, the promised celebration a blur of noise and light after the focused violence of the day. The air was thick with perfume and smoke. He accepted a tankard of dark, bitter ale and found a corner seat, a wall at his back. He drank steadily, watching the room. Comely women in silks and less moved through the crowd, but his thoughts kept drifting to a simpler room, a linen shift, a sincere gaze. The offers came, some shy, some bold. He declined each with the same polite, charming smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Not to your taste tonight, ser?”
The voice was smooth as aged brandy. Sanga stood before his table, a vision in deep crimson velvet. Her dark hair was coiled in an intricate braid, her eyes knowing. She ran the Pearl like a queen her court, a blend of maternal warmth and unshakeable poise.
“They’re all beautiful,” Kerr said, raising his tankard to her. “Just not what I’m looking for.”
“And what is it you look for?” she asked, a playful smile on her lips. “Something… specific?”
He met her gaze and gave her the sly, quiet smile of a man who absolutely knew. She read it perfectly, her eyebrows lifting just a fraction in acknowledgment before she returned the smile and glided away.
The mood in the room was boisterous, thick with victory and ale. Then it soured. A knight from Redcliffe, his face flushed with drink, had a girl pinned against a pillar by the staircase. She was one of the younger ones, wide-eyed, trying to smile as his hand squeezed her waist too hard.
“Come on, love,” the knight slurred, his breath fogging her face. “Don’t be shy. I paid good coin for your company, didn’t I?”
“Ser, please, you’re—” she started, trying to squirm free.
“I’m what? Your betters?” His grip tightened, twisting the fabric of her dress. “You’ll show a little gratitude.”
Kerr was already moving. He didn’t shout. He didn’t make a scene. He simply crossed the room in a few long strides, placed a hand on the knight’s armored shoulder, and shoved. It wasn’t a wild push; it was a controlled, powerful shift of weight that sent the man stumbling two steps back, releasing the girl. She darted away.
The knight turned, confusion and rage twisting his features. He saw Kerr, recognized the tourney champion, and his drunken brain processed it as a joke. A slow, ugly grin spread across his face. “What’s this? The pup wants to play? I paid for that, you entitled bas—”
Kerr’s left hand shot out. Not a fist. A fast, open-palmed jab, heel of the hand driving upward under the man’s chin. His teeth clacked together, a sickening sound of enamel on enamel. The knight’s head snapped back, a spray of blood and spittle misting the air. The obscenity died in a gurgle.
The man roared, a sound of pure, pain-fueled fury. He swung a wild, looping right hand. Kerr didn’t block it. He slipped it, his head moving a mere inch to the left. As the knight’s momentum carried him forward, over-extended, Kerr uncoiled a right hook from his hip. It was perfect: tight, accurate, all his power focused into a single point. It connected with the hinge of the man’s jaw with a crack that cut through the tavern’s din.
The knight’s eyes rolled back in his head. Every muscle went slack. He dropped straight down, a sack of meat and armor, and didn’t twitch.
The room had gone dead silent.
Kerr looked down at the unconscious man for a moment, his own breathing still even. Then he bent, hooked his fingers under the man’s ornate belt, and straightened up. He lifted him off the floor as easily as a child carrying a rag doll. He turned and walked calmly toward the main entrance, the knight’s head lolling, his boots dragging a twin trail through the rushes.
Sanga watched from her place by the bar, her expression unreadable.
Kerr reached the door, shifted his grip, and with a single heave, threw the knight out into the muddy street. The body landed with a wet thud and did not move.
He turned back inside, wiping his hands on his breeches. The silence persisted for a three-count, then, tentatively, the murmur of conversation started again, louder now, edged with a new, wary energy.
Kerr walked back to his corner table, ignoring the stares. He picked up his tankard, took a long drink, and found Sanga’s eyes across the room. He gave her the same small, knowing smile. She inclined her head slightly, a queen acknowledging a move well played, and turned to signal for a fresh round for the house.
She inclined her head slightly, a queen acknowledging a move well played, and turned to signal for a fresh round for the house. The noise swelled again, a wave of forced cheer meant to drown the unease. Kerr sat back down and worked on drowning his own, methodically emptying tankard after tankard. The ale was good, dark and strong, and it softened the hard edges of the day’s impacts, both given and received. He watched the room empty, knight by stumbling knight, girl by tired girl, until it was just him and the dying fire and the quiet clink of Sanga wiping down glasses.
“You’re a strange lad,” her voice came from the dimness near the bar. She approached, her movements silent on the clean-swept floor. “Sitting there all night, breaking jaws, buying no companionship. Waiting for something special?” She leaned a hip against his table, studying him. “Or just waiting for me?”
Kerr looked up, his gaze clear despite the volume he’d consumed. “I know what I like.”
“Do you now?” A smile played on her lips, genuine curiosity breaking through her professional polish. “And what’s that?”
He set his empty tankard down with a soft thud. “Right now, I’m more interested in what you like.”
The air between them shifted, the polite facade dissolving into something more direct. She held his look for a long moment, then gave a slow, final nod. She finished her closing duties, doused the last lights, and banked the fire. The Pearl fell into shadow. She walked back to his table, extended a hand. He took it, her fingers cool and sure in his, and let her lead him through a private door, up a narrow, carpeted stair, and into her personal chambers.
The room was spacious, lush but not garish, smelling of sandalwood and clean linen. She locked the door with a definitive click. The sound had not finished echoing before his hands were on her, coming from behind, palms molding over the velvet covering her breasts, his mouth finding the sensitive skin where her neck met her shoulder. She moaned, a deep, unfiltered sound of pleasure, her head falling back against his chest.
His fingers worked at the lacings of her dress with a surprising deftness, pushing the expensive fabric from her shoulders until it pooled at her feet. He turned her, pressed her front against the solid oak of the door. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask. He bent, his hands on her hips, and buried his tongue in her asshole.
She gasped, a sharp intake of breath that hitched into an audible grunt. Her legs gave a violent, vibrating shake, her nails scratching at the wood. He held her there, his tongue working with a relentless, circular pressure, while his other hand slid around her thigh and found her pussy, already slick. He fingered her in time with the thrusts of his tongue, a dual assault that short-circuited her practiced composure. Whimpers fell from her lips, broken and pleading.
He stood, the loss of contact drawing a sob from her. The sound was cut off by the rustle of his breeches dropping. He guided himself into her from behind, the broad, dense head of him stretching her open in a way that banished all thought. She was in disbelief, a stunned silence gripped her as he filled her, a deep, impossible fullness that made her feel both split apart and profoundly occupied.
A grunt of sheer exertion punched from her mouth as he seated himself fully. Then he began to move.
It was the same ruthless, efficient rhythm he’d used in the tourney—a horseman’s driving cadence, perfectly sustained, devastatingly deep. Each thrust was a targeted strike against a nerve ending she’d forgotten she owned. Pleasure, sharp and coiling, built with terrifying speed. She came the first time with a choked scream, her internal muscles clamping down around him. The sensation only fueled his pace. A second crest rose and broke almost immediately, a wave of shuddering heat. A third, a blurred white-out of sensation, and the world tilted into black as she passed out, her body going limp against the door.
He caught her as she fell, his arms hooking under her knees and shoulders. He carried her to the large bed, laying her down on the cool coverlet. He stripped off the rest of his clothes, his body a landscape of hard muscle in the low light. She stirred, her eyelids fluttering, as he parted her legs and entered her again. A weak, overwhelmed cry escaped her as he filled the emptiness his absence had left.
He established a new rhythm, not the driving pace of before but something just as potent: a deep, consistent, piston-like motion that allowed for no recovery, no quarter. Each stroke hit the same profound spot with machine-like precision. She shattered again, her body convulsing beneath him, her screams dissolving into incoherent, wordless gibberish. He didn’t slow. He fucked her through it, through another, her whole body shaking as if electrified, until he spilled inside her with a low, controlled groan.
He rested for perhaps thirty seconds, his weight on his elbows, his forehead against her damp temple. Then he began again. The cycle repeated. He was an engine of relentless need, and she was the proving ground. He woke her with his body, spent himself, waited a handful of heartbeats, and took her again. Each time her climaxes were ripped from her, full-body convulsions that left her trembling and raw.
They were up all night fucking. The grey dawn found them entangled, the sheets a wreck, the room smelling of sex and sweat. She was awake, watching the light creep across the ceiling, feeling a deep, throbbing ache in every muscle and a startling, unfamiliar hollow in her chest. His breathing was even, his face relaxed in sleep, one heavy arm thrown across her waist.
She lay very still, the sophisticated madame of the Pearl utterly gone. In her place was just a woman, profoundly used and unsettlingly seen, staring at the sleeping son of a Teryn and wondering what silent war inside him she had just helped him fight, and what peace, if any, either of them had found.