A Glorious Royal Tournament of Highly Questionable Horsemanship
by CreepyUnclePete - by Limnophile
Copyright© 2026 by CreepyUnclePete - by Limnophile
Humor Story: No sex, but plenty of laughs. Medieval action, glory, and silliness abound! - - - Written with some AI assistance.
Tags: Fiction High Fantasy Humor AI Generated
There are many things history remembers incorrectly. For example, history generally describes knights as noble warriors whose lives consisted mainly of courage, honor, and heroic acts. This is partly true.
The other part, less frequently mentioned by court historians, is that a surprising number of knights spent their afternoons getting stuck in mud puddles, arguing with livestock, or accidentally riding off cliffs. The Kingdom of Upper Blatherwick produced more than its fair share of such knights.
It also produced thirteen-year-old Dame Molly Widdershins. Molly was an unusual knight because she was thirteen years old, remarkably competent, and still short and immature enough that people occasionally mistook her for a choir boy, or an unusually large and active turnip.
This annoyed Molly. Not enough to complain. Just enough to win things. Which is how she ended up entering the Grand Tournament of Seven Banners, one of the most prestigious jousting events in the kingdom.
The prize was legendary.
Nobody was entirely sure what it was. Rumors included a dragon egg, a heap of gold, a magical crown, and a cheese blessed by seven wizards. As it turned out, all of these rumors were incorrect. Which, if you think about it, is exactly what rumors are for.
The tournament grounds stood outside Castle Flapjack, an enormous fortress whose architects had been given complete freedom and very little supervision. Its towers leaned in different directions. Its walls contained windows that looked into other walls. One staircase led directly into a broom closet. The king insisted these were “advanced military features.”
Nobody argued because he helped with the design and seemed very proud of it.
Hundreds of spectators crowded the arena. Banners snapped in the wind. Trumpets sounded. Vendors sold meat pies of uncertain species and age. And knights prepared for battle.
The announcer strode into the center of the field. He was Lord Septimus Boomvoice, whose main qualification for announcing things was possessing a voice that sounded like two angry thunderstorms arguing inside a cave.
“PEOPLE OF BLATHERWICK!”
The audience cheered.
“ARE YOU READY FOR GLORY?”
The audience cheered louder.
“ARE YOU READY FOR HONOR?”
Even louder.
“ARE YOU READY FOR SEVERAL HOURS OF HIGHLY REGULATED RECREATIONAL HORSE COLLISIONS?”
The loudest cheer yet.
Molly looked around at her competition. There was Sir Reginald the Magnificent. Sir Reginald had spent so much money decorating his armor with gemstones that economists debated whether he should technically be classified as a national bank.
Nearby stood Sir Cedric the Fearless. He wasn’t actually fearless. He just thought “Sir Cedric the Occasionally Nervous” sounded less impressive.
Then there was Sir Gavin the Dramatic. Sir Gavin liked speeches. He once delivered a twenty-minute speech before opening a door. An ordinary door. No monster behind it. No hidden danger. Just a door.
Finally there was Sir Percival the Invincible. Nobody knew who had started calling him invincible. Possibly Percival. Repeatedly. Very loudly.
The first round began. Sir Gavin faced Sir Cedric. The two lowered their lances. Their horses charged. Dust flew. Flags waved. The crowd held its breath.
Halfway across the field, Sir Gavin suddenly stood in his stirrups. “My noble opponent!” he shouted. “This battle represents the eternal struggle between-”
A bee flew into his helmet. The speech ended abruptly. So did Sir Gavin’s dignity. Moments later he fell sideways into a haystack. The bee emerged unharmed. The judges awarded the vicious insect three points.
Next came Sir Reginald versus Sir Percival. The clash looked impressive. Lances shattered. The crowd gasped.
Percival remained seated.
Reginald remained seated.
Their horses continued forward.
Then everyone realized Sir Reginald’s cape had become tangled around his saddle. He attempted a dramatic flourish. Instead, he accidentally wrapped himself completely inside the cape. For several seconds he resembled an expensive rose-colored burrito.
His horse stopped. Reginald tipped over. The burrito rolled twenty yards.
The judges awarded the match to Percival. Mostly because the rules contained no provisions regarding armored burritos.
Molly won her first match against Sir Barnaby. Barnaby was eight feet tall. Or possibly seven feet tall with excessively optimistic posture.
He charged heroically. Molly calmly sidestepped. Barnaby missed. He continued riding. And riding. And riding. Apparently nobody had informed his horse the joust had ended. The horse eventually wandered into the parking field and joined a wagon caravan headed toward another town.
Barnaby spent three hours trudging back on foot.
Soon Molly advanced to the second round. People began noticing.
“That’s the little knight.”
“The thirteen-year-old.”
“The one who keeps winning.”
“Do you think she’s magical?”
“No.”
“Demon-possessed?”
“Probably not.”
“Competent?”
“Yes. That’s quite rare here, and even more terrifying!”
Meanwhile, Sir Percival grew increasingly confident. “The tournament is practically mine already,” he announced. He announced this to spectators. He announced it to fellow knights. He announced it to a goat. The goat appeared unconvinced. Percival interpreted this as jealousy.
His next match was against Sir Hubert the Mighty. Both knights lowered their lances. They thundered forward. At the exact midpoint of the field, Hubert sneezed. This alone would not have been a problem. Unfortunately, his horse was named Catapult. Catapult startled easily. Very easily. Historically easily.
Catapult reacted to the sneeze by performing a leap of such extraordinary enthusiasm that future scholars would describe it as “suggesting a temporary disagreement with gravity.”
Sir Hubert’s boots remained in the stirrups. His shield sat atop his saddle. Hubert did not. The crowd applauded. Catapult looked smugly pleased with himself, while his master followed a ballistic trajectory.
Molly’s second-round opponent was Sir Gavin, who had recovered from the bee incident but not from the embarrassment. This made him dangerous. Not physically. Emotionally. He charged furiously.
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