It was time for the Hand of the King's tourney. Everyone in King's Landing was in noticeably high spirits, even Dyana, who typically didn't very much enjoy tourneys. But this one was an exception. Her older brother, Loras, was going to be competing.

It was only Dyana and Loras who resided currently in King's Landing. Their sister, Margaery, was still in Highgarden with their father, Mace, and their grandmother, Olenna. Loras had wishes to be a famous knight, and how better to become one, than to go to King's Landing and make friends with King Robert. Dyana, on the other hand, was there for a very different matter.

Mace wanted his daughter married.

Dyana wouldn't have typically minded the idea of a marriage. But her father, gods bless the poor oaf, had absolutely no idea what he was doing. Margaery, who was eighteen, was unwed. Twenty-three-year-old Loras was unwed. Sixteen-year-old Dyana was unwed. It seemed to be a pattern with Lord Tyrell; he could never seem to find eligible suitors for his children, who, if it had not been for their terribly stupid father, should have been highly sought after spouses.

To keep in theme of Mace's inability to find his children suitors, he'd sent Dyana and Loras to make sure they would attend the tourney. He hoped that at least one of them would be able to charm a noble and give them the prospect of a marriage.

As the stands filled in with nobles, and handmaidens, and servants, Dyana found herself in a seat just above the Stark daughters. Lord Eddard was the new Hand of the King, and, as such, he now resided in the Red Keep. With him were two daughter. The thirteen-year-old Sansa, who was betrothed to Prince Joffrey, and eleven-year-old Arya. Their Septa, a stern looking woman who kept her hair covered in a scarf, was sat beside Arya, most likely keeping the young girl in line.

Sansa was turned in her seat, blue eyes staring sadly at Prince Joffrey. Dyana couldn't help but smile at the girl. She'd heard rumors about the fourteen-year-old prince, and she felt a surge of pity for the lovely red-haired girl that sat in front of her. Sansa offered Joffrey a smile when he caught her gaze. But the prince simply adjusted in his chair, looking away.

"Lover's quarrel?" a voice spoke up.

Both Sansa and Dyana's heads snapped up, their eyes landing on the form of Lord Petyr Baelish. A house that was once small and ran by hedge knights, now fell nearly extinct into the hands of King's Landing's Master of Coin, it's only remaining lord. The sigil of House Baelish was once a titan's head, but now took on the form of a simple mockingbird. Petyr wore a pin of his sigil with pride.

"I'm sorry," Sansa said to him. "Do I..."

"Sansa dear, this is Lord Baelish, he's known- -" the septa began.

"An old friend of the family," Petyr interrupted, waving a hand apologetically toward the old woman.

He sat beside Sansa, smiling brightly. "I've known your mother a long, long time," he noted.

"Why do they call you Littlefinger?" Arya spoke up.

"Arya!" Sansa scolded.

"Don't be rude," the septa joined.

But Petyr continued smiling, his dark eyes only raising to meet Arya's once. "No, it's quite all right," he said with a chuckle. "When I was a child, I was very small, and I come from a little spit of land called the Fingers, so you see, it's an exceedingly clever nickname."

The king suddenly rose from his seat. "I've been sitting here for days!" he shouted. "Start the damn joust before I piss myself!"

Queen Cersei stood as well, her proud face filled with annoyance. Her green eyes scanned the crowd before she brushed past Sandor Clegane, prince Joffrey's personal guard that much of the castle referred to as 'the Hound', leaving the tourney field.

Ser Gregor Clegane rode out onto the field on a black warhorse. His armor was all black, covering him completely and making his imposing figure seem like some sort of a malevolent beast. Cheers rose up from the crowd; if the Mountain was competing, it was sure to be a good show. His competitor rode in next; Ser Hugh of Vale. He'd once been a squire to Lord Jon Arryn, before the old Hand of the King died of fever.

"Gods, who is that?" Sansa asked.

Dyana wanted to answer, but Lord Baelish beat her to it. "Ser Gregor Clegane," he said. "They call him the Mountain. The Hound's older brother."

"And his opponent?" Sansa said.

"Ser Hugh of the Vale. He was Jon Arryn's squire. Look how far he's come."

Gregor opened the hatch in his helm, nodding bluntly at King Robert, his dark eyes intimidating anyone who dared to meet them. Hugh nodded next.

"Yes, yes, enough of the bloody pomp," Robert stated. "Have at it!"

The men rode to other sides of the field. Each was handed a lance and a shield next. It was sure to be Gregor, she knew, but even still she wanted to pay her utmost attention.

Suddenly, the two men were riding at each other. Their lances barely missed each other, and they continued riding. They stopped and waited, and then rode again.

This was it. Dyana focused on Gregor's lance, chewing her lip anxiously. It was aimed toward Hugh's own lance, angled upward. She decided that the Mountain wished to break his opponent's weapon. But what good would that do him?

Her question was answered quickly, however. Hugh's lance shattered, and there was a sudden flash of red as a large splinter found it's way into his throat. He was thrown from his horse in moments. There was screaming, Sansa's high shriek rising above the rest. Dyana went stiff, her blue eyes unblinking, and her hands shaking at her sides.

Sansa and Arya's septa held her hands to her mouth, eyes wide. Arya held an expression of grotesque wonder and shock. Even Petyr was rigid in his seat, his face slack. Robert rose from his chair.

Ser Hugh lie in the dirt, flat on his back. The shard of wood was imbedded deep in his gullet. With each breath he tried to take, blood drained from the wound. There was nothing anyone could do except wait for him to die. He coughed, blood spurting up from his mouth and spattering across his cheek. This happened several times. Blood bubbled in his mouth, draining down his neck and onto his armor.

Flies already buzzed around him.

By the time he died, all conversation in the stands had stopped. Two squires hurried out onto the field, picking up the body and carrying it away.

Quiet murmurs returned to the people.

Petyr looked at Sansa. "Not what you were expecting?" he asked, and she shook her head slowly. "Has anyone ever told you the story of the Mountain and the Hound?"

Petyr's voice lowered to a whisper, but Dyana could still hear him. "Lovely little tale of brotherly love," he said. "The Hound was just a pup, six years old maybe. Gregor a few years older, already a big lad, already getting a bit of a reputation. Some lucky boys just born with a talent for violence. One evening, Gregor found his little brother playing with a toy by the fire, Gregor's toy, a wooden knight. Gregor never said a word. He just grabbed his brother by the scruff of his neck and shoved his face into the burning coals. Held him there while the boy screamed, while his face melted. There aren't very many people who know that story."

"I won't tell anyone," Sansa said softly. "I promise."

"No, please don't. If the Hound so much as heard you mention it, I'm afraid all the knights in King's Landing would not be able to save you."

Both Sansa and Dyana were silent. Dyana turned in her seat, looking at Sandor Clegane. At the twisted scars that covered the side of his face. When he turned and looked at her, she turned quickly.

Petyr looked up, and for a moment, she could have sworn he smiled. Like she was meant to have heard the story. Like it was intended for her to know this secret.

Little did Dyana know, but secrets were something she was going to have to get used to in King's Landing.