"The tournament doesn't start for a few hours," Robb said after he had put his name on the roster, "so I say we explore for a bit."
They wandered around aimlessly, Sansa and the other Stark children taking in the sights with the eagerness of a parched man lapping up water in the desert. After all, this was the one day—the only day—of the year where they were allowed to be normal children and have fun–-a commodity that truly was as rare as water in the desert when you were a Stark heir.
Eventually, they were drawn to a particularly large crowd that had gathered near the boat docks. The cheerful strains of a well-known folk song drifted to the children's ears as they grew closer.
"Oh, look! They're dancing!" young Rickon cried in delight.
Indeed, nearly two dozen peasants were moving in time with the music—clapping, stepping, and whirling in mesmerizing, kaleidoscopic patterns.
Dany grasped Robb's hand, her eyes sparkling. "Let's go!"
Sansa was also snatched up by a peasant boy with ruddy cheeks, but he was a fumbling partner and she quickly excused herself. The refined style of dancing she had learned simply didn't mesh with the lively, almost brazen movements of the peasants.
But not so with Dany. She matched Robb seamlessly, moving with a grace and fluidity that stood out like a gemstone among rubble. The pair soon caught the attention of the crowd and when the music finally stopped and they took a bow, several of the men in the audience threw flowers to Dany, who caught them with a shy smile.
She and Robb walked over to where Sansa and the others had been watching, both of them laughing merrily.
"That was wonderful, wasn't it?" Dany said breathlessly, her cheeks rosy from the exertion.
"You were wonderful," Robb said, looking at his partner admiringly.
Sansa was sorely tempted to tease her brother, but she was a lady, and she had to act the part. Oh well, there would plenty of time on the wagon ride back to torment him.
"Sansa!" Rickon tugged on her sleeve. "Over there! I think it's a puppet show!"
The children pushed their way through the crowd, but there were so many people that they couldn't make much headway. Robb finally hoisted Ricky onto his shoulders so that he could see.
The curtains on the stage parted, and silence fell upon the crowd as the rich voice of the
narrator began to speak.
"Hark, hark to a story from long ago, when dragons reigned the skies and the Northern lands were yet shrouded in mystery and snow. Some myth, some true, some yet to be known. Behold, behold the tale of the Iron Throne!"
"I know this one!" Rickon whispered excitedly.
Bran rolled his eyes. "Everyoneknows this story, dummy."
"Stop calling names, Brann, and watch the show," Sansa scolded in a low voice.
"Our tale begins at the dawn of the Stark dynasty, over a thousand years ago. The first ruler, King Torrhen the Nobleheart, was a great warrior who founded the capital of King's Landing and ruled over the land of The North with his Council of the Wise."
The crowd broke into applause as a bearded puppet wearing a thick fur robe appeared on stage.
"One day King Torrhen decided that he ought to have a proper throne to rule from. He
requested the aid of a trusted member of the Council—Lady Valyrian, who was also called the
White Witch for her fairness and mystical powers."
The applause was replaced with resounding boos and jeers as a white-clad puppet with snow-colored hair came to stand beside King Torrhen's puppet.
"I hate the White Witch!" Rickon said in disgust.
Sansa opened her mouth to agree, but the words died on her lips when she saw Dany. The girl had grown even paler than usual as she stared at the stage, her eyes shining with an emotion that she couldn't quite place.
"Are you alright?" she asked her in concern.
Dany merely nodded, her eyes never leaving the stage.
"The White Witch had the ability to communicate with dragons"—a gruesome red dragon hovered over the stage—"so King Torrhen requested her help in forging a throne from the hottest flames known to man—the fire breath of a dragon."
Childish cries of mingled fear and delight filled the air as the dragon spit out streamers of red and gold "fire."
"The White Witch complied and at the king's behest created a throne from iron"—a miniature replica of the throne now appeared on the stage—"but when it was finished and she saw how magnificent it was, the White Witch committed a grave treachery. Coveting the throne in her heart, she fled to the south with the Iron Throne in her possession."
"Upon learning of her betrayal, King Torrhen was outraged. He gathered an army from the four corners of his kingdom"—a multitude of puppets wearing armor and carrying shields and swords streamed onto the stage—"and marched south, where the White Witch had already overtaken many of the ruling lords with her fleet of dragons and set up a kingdom of her own.
"The war between the House of the White Witch—known thereafter as the Targaryens of Dragonstone—and the Starks of The North stretched on for nearly fifty years. There was destruction, and pillaging, and bloodshed like had never been seen before.
"Eventually, King Torrhen emerged victorious, stabbing the White Witch through the heart and returning to The North with the Throne."
There was a raucous cheer as the puppet of the White Witch was struck by the king's sword and toppled to the ground.
"There was peace for a time, but alas"—the narrator's voice darkened—"it did not last. Years later the White Witch's grandson, King Jaehaerys the Ruthless, rose up and attacked The North, seeking revenge and acquisition of the Throne. Another war ensued and this time the
Iron Throne was taken back to Dragonstone."
An anguished groan rose up from the crowd as a white-haired male puppet ran off carrying the throne.
"The House of Stark then went to reclaim it, starting another war, and so forth. This continued for generations, and just when people had begun to despair that there would ever be an end to the wars, a wise seer foretold a prophecy of hope."
Every eye in the audience followed the puppet of a very old woman as she crept onto the stage.
"Lads tremble, mothers weep, all hearts grow faint at the trumpet of war!" the narrator proclaimed in a wizened voice. "When will it end, they cry! Yet with the inner eye, I have seen! Seed of Targaryen and Seed of Stark cross swords once more. Different from their ancestors, they bear understanding in their hearts. And the Iron Throne shall choose the successor it deems worthy, and never again shall it be moved!
A painted scene of the Stark Estate overlooking King's Landing appeared as the
backdrop of the stage.
"The Throne may be in Dragonstone now, but our day will come!" the narrator said in a booming voice. "The North will be victorious, and the Iron Throne will return to where it rightfully belongs, and never again shall it be moved!"
While the replica of the Iron Throne rose up triumphantly on the stage, Sansa couldn't help thinking that day would be arriving soon if her father got his way. The curtains closed as the crowd broke into thunderous applause.
"Bravo!" Robb cried, clapping furiously. "That was fantastic, didn't you think so, Dany?"
But Sansa didn't hear the girl's response amidst her rising panic. She looked around once more to be certain, but there was no mistake.
Arya was gone.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
"Robb! Where is Arya?" she asked frantically.
"What?" He looked around himself. "She was right here—"
They locked eyes as realization struck, both crying at the same time, "The tournament!"
They shoved their way to the square where—judging by the fervor of the crowd—the first match had already begun. Sansa's heart sunk as she caught a glimpse of a small dark-haired figure wearing pants and a loose-fitting tunic.
Arya…!
Her sister stood in the center of the square, facing a man who was nearly twice her size. She noted, with a shiver of trepidation, that he was surly-looking with a jagged scar running from his scalp to his chest.
"Robb!" she called to her brother. "Go! You have to stop her!"
After watching her brother disappear into the crowd, she directed her attention back to the events unfolding in the square.
"You can't run forever, little mouse!" the man jeered. "I'll crush you!"
He launched forward, but Arya skillfully used the man's own momentum against him, slicing his arm while he was in motion. He cursed furiously and took several steps back.
"Wha' do you know?" Sansa heard a spectator say. "The lad's alrigh'."
Arya's opponent raised his sword again, and Sansa braced herself for another heart-stopping attack—but it never came.
"Stop!" Robb shouted, running headlong into the middle of the square. "Stop the match! This child is my sister! She disguised herself and entered without my permission!"
The crowd began to murmur amongst themselves excitedly.
"A lass?" A man standing beside Sansa eyed Arya skeptically. "I woulda' ne'er known…"
The announcer stepped forward, motioning for quiet. "In light of recent events, the victor of this match is Igor Rothbart! He will be moving onto the next round!"
"Arya!" Sansa pushed through the final row of people and burst into the open square. "What were you thinking?" she cried, her worry from a moment before giving way to hot anger. "How could you enter the tournament after I specifically told you not to?!"
"Save me the lecture, Sansa! You got your way, didn't you? You ruined everything, just like usual!" And with a loud huff, she stormed away.
Sansa took a deep breath to calm herself, then turned to Sam. "Will you follow her,
please? You don't have to do anything, just stay with her."
"O' course, Lady Sansa." Sam gave a slight bow and disappeared into the crowd.
"Is it alright to let her go like that?" Dany asked softly.
"She'll be fine," she replied, stubbornly stamping out any sense of guilt in favor of stoking the fires of pride and anger in her heart. "She can have a temper tantrum like a child if she wants, but I, for one, am staying here and enjoying the tournament."
Those had been her words, yet she found that the resuming matches were strangely devoid of amusement. Even when it was Robb's turn, she was able to stir up little more than a mild interest.
Much like in dancing, the villagers' crude attacks were no match for Robb's well-trained swordsmanship. Even though he was only fifteen and was still smaller and slighter than most of his opponents, he made it through to the final round without difficulty.
"Alright, ladies and gentlemen!" the announcer cried. "We have our finalists—Robb Krats and Igor Rothbart! Remember, the match continues until someone loses their sword or surrenders. You are allowed to make contact, but no blows to the head, neck, or chest or you will be disqualified. Winner gets the Victor's Crown and a year's worth of free ale from the Boarshead Pub! Now, challengers, take your marks…and begin!"
The duelers circled slowly, sizing each other up. Then, without warning, they flew forward, their swords meeting with a loud clang. Every eye in the square was riveted as they parried and dodged in an intricate dance where one false move meant mutilation, or even death.
"Your sister was quite impressive, wasn't she?" Dany said. "To have been able to keep up with such a skillful opponent."
Sansa could only nod distractedly. She had a bad feeling about this. Igor was not at all like the villagers who had competed thus far. His style was crude, yes, but it was also vicious. She sensed that he had experience—not just with fighting, but with killing as well. The mere thought made her blood grow cold.
But at last, Robb made a quick parry and knocked the sword out of his opponent's hand. The crowd burst into frantic applause, chanting the name of their victor. Sansa let out a deep breath, feeling foolish for worrying.
It was at that moment that everything went wrong.
Igor suddenly unleashed a feral yell and charged at Robb, his sword poised and ready to
strike. Sansa cried out, but she knew that it was too late. Her brother was going to die before her
eyes, and she couldn't do anything to stop it.
Then, it happened.
A flash of red passed in front of her eyes, rushing towards Robb. A moment later there was a pained scream as Igor's sword met its mark, but it wasn't Robb's voice.
It was Dany's.
A/N: Yes, Robb's last name for the tournament "Krats" is an anagram of Stark. I love riddles so I couldn't help myself. The next chapter will be up tomorrow! Please leave a review to let me know what you think so far!
