Chapter VII
King's Landing
The grass was long, the leaves were green, the sun was golden and never had the world seemed fairer or more full of life and wonder to Sansa Stark. It was the first day of Lord Isildur's tournament, and her heart was racing in her chest from excitement. She had been waiting, most patiently, for the Hand's tourney since she first heard of it when they had arrived in King's Landing. Sansa had been overjoyed. A tourney! A real tourney! With splendid knights and beautiful horses, just like out of the songs. She had been almost heartbroken when Lord Isildur had announced its postponing for a whole two weeks. Now it was here, and after nearly begging her father, she had been allowed to attend. Sansa had watching with growing excitement from the castle as hundreds of coloured pavilions had been thrown up at the tourney grounds outside the city walls. Now at last the day had come, and she was riding amongst that wondrous camp in a carriage with Septa Mordane and her best friend Jeyne Poole, breathless with amazement. She had felt a little bad with chaining Lady up back in the castle kennels, but she couldn't stay feeling down. Everything was simply too splendid for her words.
All the knights' pavilions were striped with vivid colours, reds, whites, blues, greens, golds, yellows, and each hung a shield bearing their arms outside the tent flaps. Everywhere she looked there was a pageant of heraldry, green apples and red apples, striding huntsmen, rearing unicorns, snarling leopards, three white feathers on black, three golden lilies on blue, a golden wyvern on red, eagles, griffons, stags and elk, heraldic birds and beasts of every description. Everywhere the knights and their loyal squires prepared for the day's contest, saddling snorting warhorses and polishing plate harness to a high gleam. It seemed in Sansa's eye that all the chivalry of Westeros had been assembled in this one place for this one magical showing of valour, skill and gallantry, and her heart skipped a beat when she realized that she would be part of it all, part of the whole wonderful event. She was dressed for the part, of course, in a gorgeous long green dress that accented the auburn in her hair.
They came to a tall viewing stand, newly erected by the lists. As her father was the Lord Marshal, Sansa had the honour of sitting on the high dais along with the King and the Queen and the whole court. She felt like she could barely contain herself, but Sansa was very proud of the grace with which she descended from the carriage and the composure with which she carried herself as she ascended the wooden stair to their seats. Septa Mordane gave a slight, approving nod.
Sansa was taken with the beauty of all the members of the court that day. Even old King Robert looked fine and dashing, in golden doublet adorned with leaping black stags, his high golden crown upon his head, his black beard and hair brushed and shining. The effect was somewhat lessened by the wine that ran down his chin after he took a long swig from his cup, and by the immense paunch of his belly, but still he looked almost kingly. The Queen was dressed to match, all in a golden dress to match her hair, but her gown was adorned with red lions instead, two of them facing each other, embroidered into the very fabric.
But to the left of the King sat Isildur and Sansa had never seen him like this before. On this day she saw revealed something which she had only glimpsed on all Lord Isildur's visits to Winterfell. He was dressed simply but richly, in tunic of white and surcoat of black and a cloak of black fastened by a silver broach shaped like an eagle with wings outstretched. Upon his chest were the white tree of Gondor, and the seven stars of the Dunedain, and the white crescent moon that was his own sigil. The heraldry glinted and glimmered, set in his surcoats with silver and precious gems. A slim circlet of mithril adorned his head over his short, dark hair, and a single white stone was set in it. He was dressed much simpler than all the courtly nobles who surrounded him, yet none seemed as lordly or as noble as Isildur. Ancient and yet ageless he seemed, as stern as a high lord, as wise as a maester and as kingly as a king out of the Age of Heroes. His grey eyes reflected untold years as he watched the heralds march out upon the lists.
"It's better than the songs" Sansa breathed. There was a blast of horns and the spectacle began.
Sansa and Jeyne watched as the knights rode out in procession, the heralds calling out names both famous and unknown.
First rode the Kingsguard, the Six Brotherhoods. The Kingsguard themselves, the First Brotherhood, rode out first, led by the Lord-Commander Ser Barristan the Bold. They were seven of the noblest knights Sansa had ever seen, all but one in plate armour of the purest white and bearing white cloaks and riding white chargers. The sole flash of colour amongst them was Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, resplendent in gold from head to toe, his helm shaped like a roaring lion's head. The other brotherhoods, each of seven more fighting men, came after, their white armour bearing blazons of colour to mark out their brotherhood. There was the Heirguard, who safeguarded the lives of the royal family, in harness of white and yellow, and the Redguard, guardians of the Red Keep, in white and red. Behind them, in armour of black chased with thin white trim, came the Ironguard, led by their Brother-Captain Ser Ilyn Payne, protectors of the Iron Throne. Last of all, marching in on foot rather than riding on horses, came the Dragonguard and the Squireguard, fourteen strapping young squires whom served the other knights of the Kingsguard. Sansa knew from her lessons that once the Dragonguard had been tasked with the care of the Dragonpit while the Targaryen dragons still lived but now, with the dragons all dead, they cared for the horses and gear of the knights
"But where is the Bannerguard?" Jeyne asked.
"They say they all died on the Trident, protecting Rhaegar" answered Sansa. She had always remembered that part of the story; it seemed so grand and courageous of those knights to die so bravely on the field rather than accept surrender. Her father had once told her that half the Bannerguard had fled when they saw Rhaegar struck down, but she didn't believe him. True knights would never flee in such a way.
The great procession of knights and freeriders continued. So many of the names were so famous, it was like Sansa had stepped into a song. There came Bronze Yohn Royce and his sons, all in armour of bronze covered in ancient runes. There came the tall Lord Jason Mallister, an eagle's outstretched wings rising from his helmet, his arms all indigo and silver, and his son with him. Hither came thundering Ser Gregor Clegane, whom some called The Mountain that Rides and others named The Troll That Walks In Daylight, and he rode upon a massive snorting black stallion, his heraldry bearing the Clegane sigil of three dogs on a yellow field. When the young Lord Beric Dondarrion's name was announced, his hair all reddish gold and his black shield crossed by a bolt of lightning, Jeyne Poole declared that she was ready to marry him right then and there.
Sandor Clegane, the Hound, entered the lists as well, in grey plate without adornment and wearing his dog's head helm. And there was Renly Baratheon, the King's handsome younger brother, in plate harness enameled a deep green, his tall helm bearing a vast rack of golden antlers. And there were many other names Sansa did not recognize, unsung freeriders and younger sons of noble families and unproven knights from the Westerlands, the Riverlands, the Reach, the Vale of Arryn and the rest of the Eight Kingdoms, and Sansa and Jeyne gossiped back and forth about which they thought handsome and which they hoped would prove their valour soon. However then there came a name that Sansa did not expect.
"Aratan Isildurion, son of Isildur Elendilion, of the House of Elendil!"
Aratan trotted into the lists upon a dappled grey charger, as fine a horseman as only a Numenorean could be. His arms were unlike any of the other knights upon the field that Sansa could see. Most of the knights wore plate harness, and their shields were small, decoration to bear their sigils in the joust. Aratan instead wore a long hauberk of mail, down to his knees, forged all of black steel, and on his chest some kind of cuirass that Sansa had not seen before. Over it all he wore a long black surcoat, bearing the sigils of Gondor and his father on his chest. He carried a broad kite shield, long enough to cover his body from chin down to the flank of his horse. Aratan carried his full helm, adorned with the wing of seabirds, under his arm. His bare face was as a younger image of his father, dark-haired, stern of glance and noble in bearing, his head high and fair, less ageless perhaps than his father, but also less remote, closer in a way. As he rode past, Aratan caught Sansa's eye. He raised a gauntleted hand in salute; Sansa was sure it was to her and felt a slight heat warm her cheeks.
Again the horns were blown and the day's jousting began. Two southron knights whose colours Sansa did not know same galloping together in a rumble of hooves and a crunch of clashing steel as blunted lance met shield or armour. All morning and into the afternoon the jousts continued. Jeyne squealed and covered her eyes whenever a knight took a fall from his saddle, but Sansa knew her composure was perfect from Septa Mordane's small smile of approval. A high lady knows how to properly hold herself at a tournament. The commoners shouted and roared and gasped with amazement as their favourites met in terrific contests. They screamed when Renly Baratheon, beloved by the crowds, fell to the ground with a fearful snap. He rose after a moment though, having broken off one of the tines on his golden antlers. With a laugh, he held it aloft and then threw it into the grateful crowd. Some brave souls booed and hissed when the Kingslayer took the lists, but they cheered all the same when he inevitably unhorsed his opponent. One unlucky young knight from the Vale of Arryn was paired off with the Mountain for his first tilt. Sansa gasped with horror when Ser Gregor's lance hit the unfortunate knight with such violence that it drove up underneath his gorget and stabbed him through the throat, lifting him up from the saddle and tossing him bodily backwards upon the ground. The dying knight lay very still upon the ground, blood gurgling in his throat as he choked out a last breath. Jeyne paled and began to breathe quickly and hysterically, and she quickly excused herself, rushing away from the lists with Septa Mordane following after her to help her regain her composure, but Sansa stayed. She could not tear her eyes away from the dying man. She felt bad that the poor boy's name would never win renown now.
On and on the day's festivities continued. Sansa cheered for Jory, who represented Winterfell in the lists and acquitted himself well, unhorsing three opponents before losing to a fourth. The Hound seemed as unstoppable as his brother, and though his armour was grey and drab and his form was unsophisticated, Sansa had to admit he was a bold and courageous rider in the lists. Sansa's favourite however quickly came to be Ser Loras Tyrell, Knight of the Flowers. He was young and slim and heartbreakingly beautiful, and Sansa felt her heart race whenever he rode past and favoured her with a smile with his pouty lips and piercing eyes. He rode with the finest style and always overthrew his opponent, often without taking a single hit himself. He was the very image of the knight Sansa had always dreamed of, handsome brave and strong.
"The next tilt is soon to commence!" the herald roared out in a loud, clear voice. He held in his hand a long scroll. "Ser Jaime Lannister, the Lion of Lannister, shall ride against… Aratan Isildurion!"
Sansa sat forward a little in her seat. It was the first hour of the afternoon and she had yet to see Aratan ride. It was his first tilt of the day.
The Kingslayer, shining in his gilt armour, sat at one end of the lists on a warhorse caparisoned in scarlet and gold. His visor was back and he was staring down at his foeman. Usually Lannister would be tossing kisses to ladies in the audience, smirking and showboating, but now he looked at Aratan with deathly intensity. As a cat eyeing its prey before the pounce, so he appeared to Sansa. At the other end of the lists Aratan sat with his high winged helm already upon his head. Sansa watched a squire with a heavily scarred face place a lance in Aratan's fist. With lance in one hand and his broad shield on his other arm; Sansa realized with a jolt that Aratan was controlling his horse with his legs alone. She saw the mouth of the scarred squire moving, mumbling advice to Aratan.
The heralds set their horns to their lips. Jaime lowered his visor gently and picked up his lance. Both men stood silent, their horses pawing the ground eagerly.
There was a blast of horns.
Then there was the thunder of hooves.
Great was the clash of their meeting. So loud and so sudden was the crash of their arms, of lance hitting shield and armour, that the commons were shocked to silence and Sansa jumped a little in her seat. Their lances had both struck home, but both men had stayed in the saddle, and a ragged cheer went up as they went galloping past each other with shattered lances in hand. Squires scrambled to place fresh lances in the knight's outstretched hands, and then quickly they went hurtling back together again.
Lannister shifted himself to the right in his saddle at the last second, and Aratan's lance point glanced off the side of Jaime's shield, whilst the Kingslayer's lance hit solidly upon Aratan's. Still though, the son of Isildur kept his seat and rode past again. This was a different kind of joust than Sansa had seen before. Here there was no pageantry, this contest was deadly earnest. These two men-at-arms were seeking not to amaze the King, the court or the crowd, nor were they seeking glory or renown, these men sought only to defeat each other utterly.
Three more times they came rushing together with terrible violence and a tremendous noise of galloping hooves and the smash of lance on shield. Three more times they went galloping past, both still in the saddle. Three more times the crowd cheered, its excitement growing to a fever pitch by the courage and skill of the combatants.
On the fourth tilt however, there was a great crack of rending wood. Aratan drove his lance forward with such force that it cleaved straight through the Kingslayer's shield, splitting the lion blazon asunder. The lance bore Jaime Lannister back and he went flying out of his saddle, falling onto the ground heavily. Before Sansa knew what she was doing, she was on her feet clapping. The roar of the crowds was deafening. The King let out a great bellowing cheer of approval, laughing boisterously whilst Jaime slowly struggled to his feet.
Aratan trotted over to the fallen Kingslayer. He cast down his broken lance. Out swept his sword, bright steel shining in the sun. He pulled his warhorse up a short distance from Ser Jaime.
"Ser Jaime Lannister! Do you yield?" Aratan shouted. The commons had fallen quiet again.
Ser Jaime Lannister drew his sword. The golden blade caught the light as it was unsheathed, blazing like a fiery brand.
Aratan slid down from his saddle smoothly, kite shield on one arm, sword in hand. The two men squared off, but Aratan drove his sword into the dirt and left it standing, raising a hand as if to say "Wait." Then he took the strap of his kite shield off his shoulder and tossed his shield aside. Aratan took his sword in both hands and held it above his head in a stance that Sansa had never seen before.
There was a moment of stillness between the two foes, like swimmers taking a deep breath before the plunge. Even through their armour, Sansa could see, almost sense, the tension and power of coiled muscle. There was a lunge so fast that she could have missed it if she blinked
Blades flashed as they turned in the air. Blades cut and thrust and slashed with speed like Sansa had never seen. Each man's sword seemed to be in six places at once as they exchanged blows and counter-blows with furious intensity. Swords slipped and slid off each other from binds that lasted mere moments. Then, as if moved by one mind, they separated again, backing off and beginning to circle. Again they lunged together and their swords met with a mighty clash, Jaime parrying Aratan's blow. They rained blows on each other as a smith hammers on steel. It was as if they were tireless, inhuman. Jaime attacked with a thrust; Aratan turned it aside and rang a heavy strike off Lannister's lion helm, and the Kingslayer replied with a counter-stroke of his own that crunched onto Aratan's shoulder. They used the whole of their swords as weapons, not merely the blades. Jaime swung his sword like a hammer, blade in gauntleted hands, wielding the pommel like a mace. Aratan stepped back and replied with his own hammer blow, catching Ser Jaime by the ankle with his crossguard and tripping him to the ground. Quickly Jaime scrambled back to his feet as Aratan pounced and once again they were exchanging blows with dizzying intensity.
It was not the graceful dance with swords in hand that the bards sung of and Sansa had always imagined. There was a grace to it perhaps, but it was too savage, too rough, there was too much unbridled ferocity in it. They used their whole bodies as weapons just as much as their swords, grabbing and grappling, as they came to grips with each other in close quarters. Back and forth they went along the lists. Aratan would push the Kingslayer back with a flurry of hard strikes, surcoat billowing round his mailed legs. Ser Jaime was faster on his feet, but Aratan had the longer arm, greater reach and Sansa could see the power behind each of his swings. Ser Jaime could do little more than dodge or deflect the razor-blade that swung in Aratan's hands. Then something would change, their footwork would shift, and Jaime would be on the attack, harrying Aratan back with a flurry of his own. Lannister's sword was faster, he seemed to strike two blows for every one of Aratan's, yet the tall Dúnadan deflected and parried with the practiced ease of a master. Neither man could gain the advantage, too great was their courage, and too skilled was their swordsmanship.
"ENOUGH" roared the King, in a voice that echoed across the tourney grounds. The combatants stopped immediately at the voice of King Robert, both dropping to bended knee. Robert was on his feet, the commons had fallen into dead quiet.
"Right, that's enough from the both of you. You've both shown your courage, proved how hard you are; now let that be the end of it. This match shall be a draw. If you still feel the need to test your mettle, save it for the melee" said the King. Applause began to rise for the two knights on the field. Ser Jaime raised his visor once again, and Aratan pulled off his helm and pushed back his mail coif. His hair was matted to his head by sweat. He turned to Lannister and extended a hand. Jaime took it, but Sansa could see him mouthing words that she could not hear beneath the roars of the crowds. Then they released each other and stalked away towards opposite ends of the lists.
"Enjoying the joust my lady?" said a voice. Sansa looked up. Standing over her was a slim man. His hair was dark with threads of grey at the temples, and his beard was short and pointed. He was dressed finely, with a silver mockingbird securing his clothes at his throat. He was smiling, yet his grey-green eyes did not.
"I am sorry ser, I do not believe we have been introduced"
"Sansa, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, the King's Master of Coin" said Septa Mordane.
"Yes, an old friend of the family" said Lord Baelish. He sat down next to Sansa, too close. He was looking at her.
"You are the eldest daughter of Lord and Lady Stark? You know, I knew your mother before she was Lady Stark, when we were both young. You have her hair" he said. Something about him made Sansa's skin crawl.
She was saved from having to reply to that by the trumpets of the heralds. More names were called out. She sucked in her breath and stiffened slightly as Ser Gregor Clegane galloped past, heading to the far end of the lists.
"Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides" said Lord Baelish. He turned his head to her. "Or The Troll That Walks in the Day, as some others know him"
"I am sure he is a very brave knight" Sansa said. She could think of nothing else to say about Ser Gregor. He seemed like the evil black knight that the minstrels always sung of, to be defeated by some gallant young hero. How she wished that Ser Loras would ride against the Troll.
"You are frightened by him?" Baelish asked. Sansa could only nod slightly.
"You are wise my lady. Have you ever heard the story of the Mountain and the Hound?" he asked again. This time she shook her head.
The crowds cheered as Ser Gregor's lance caught his opponent in the chest and sent him toppling from his saddle to the ground. Unlike the poor knight of the Vale, this one survived the encounter.
"Lovely little story of brotherly love" Baelish said, barely a whisper.
"But not one that you need to trouble yourself with my lady" boomed a voice above them. Sansa looked up. Isildur towered above them, looking down. He did not look amused. Baelish's lips twisted into a smirk.
"My Lord Hand, how are you enjoying your fine tournament? I assure you that I was truly frugal in its funding" Baelish asked. Isildur did not heed him.
"Save your gossip for ears that wish to hear it Baelish. There is only one thing you need to know about the Troll and the Hound, young Sansa: They are both of them damned, both of them are wicked men. And wicked men shall never go unpunished" he looked at Lord Baelish pointedly. Isildur turned and strode away, followed by a pair of armed men in the livery of Gondor.
The jousts continued for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening. Aratan was undefeated for the rest of the afternoon after his match with the Kingslayer, unhorsing many southron knights and lords. Ser Jaime Lannister reentered the lists with a renewed fury and practically trampled several of his opponents before being brought to another draw with Ser Barristan Selmy, who had ridden his first tilts of the day against men decades younger than him. Ser Balon Swann rode brilliantly but was eventually overthrown by the Hound. Out of all the dozens of knights who had come to tournament that day, a select few were chosen by the heralds for the final jousts that would come the next day, amongst them both of the Clegane brothers, Aratan and, to Sansa's delight, Ser Loras. She hoped so desperately that the Knight of the Flowers would win the tournament. After the final day of jousting, there would be a day of archery which she had no interest in, and then as the grand finale of the whole tourney: A day-long melee between all the knights, and that too she wished to attend.
The moon was beginning to rise in the inky night sky when the commoners began their walk home, chattering excitedly about the day's jousting. The court moved to the riverbank, where servants from the castles had erected a high dais and many long trestle-tables, a feasting hall beneath the stars. Sansa's heart was all aflutter. She and Septa Mordane were seated at the high table, Jeyne Poole sitting at one of the lower tables not far from them. Sansa got to sit to the right of Prince Joffrey. He looked so beautiful that night in her eyes, in his deep blue doublet. The air was full of the smell of cooking, for the servants of the castle had been preparing the feast all day whilst the joust had gone on. Sansa looked all around, her eyes wide, drinking in all the sights. All the knights looked so dashing in their doublets, the ladies all so lovely in long, ornate, flowing dresses. She watched as the High Septon, a large, rotund man, stood, moonlight twinkling in his crystal crown. He spread his arms wide and the murmurs and conversations of the gathered nobles fell silent.
"My lords, my ladies, let us pray" the High Septon said in a smooth, melodious voice. Sansa bowed her head with everyone else, but the moment before she lowered her eyes she noticed that Isildur made no move.
"O Gods on high, hear thy people pray. O Seven Gods, bless this, Thy bounty that Ye have given to us this day. Bless us, O Gods, and our good King, Robert, the first of His name, who reigns by Your grace. By the grace of the Father, may our King reign for all his days with justice and prosperity. By the grace of the Warrior, grant his heirs and successors strength and courage to reign after him from this time till the end of time. By the grace of the Seven, so let it be. "
"With the grace of the Gods, we give thanks" the crowd intoned, hundreds of voices speaking as one. When Sansa looked back up, she noticed that Lord Isildur was making a face like someone had just done something distasteful in his presence. She idly wondered what it was; she thought the High Septon's grace was lovely.
It was a night for magic, with the stars twinkling overhead and the air not quite cool enough to make her shiver. It was a night that Sansa would never forget. Never before had life seemed so close to all her dreams and all her desires and wishes.
An army of cooks had been working the entire day in open-air kitchens set up on the tourney grounds to prepare the feast. Sansa had never seen such a dazzling variety of foods, nor such expense and spectacle involved in their preparation and presentation. Not even her father's feasts at Winterfell could compare to this.
The courses came and went, born by the servants in succession before the high table prior to serving, and each seeming more delicious than the last. First came a hearty barley soup, rich with meat, and after that a salad of sweetgrass garnished with crushed nuts. There were fresh, warm, round loaves of white bread and wheels of sharp cheese. There were fruits, fresh picked and candied alike, and meat enough to sate any man's hunger. There were beefsteaks rich with spices and racks of ribs crusted with herbs. There were chickens, pheasants, partridges, all roasted over open fires and succulently glazed. There was venison, fresh from the Kingswood, and trout caught fresh in the river and baked in clay. There was eels, goose, duck and snails and so many foods Sansa had never tried before. Joffrey was the very image of courtesy and chivalry that night, and Sansa blushed profusely and thanked him demurely as he carved off a queen's portion of meat from every passing dish and course for her.
At her seat at the high table, Sansa even got to see the most unusual and spectacular creations of the cooks. It seemed as if the head chefs were all trying to outdo each other in the King's eyes. One presented King Robert with a whole roasted sow that had been ingeniously decorated so that it looked as if it were still alive, garnished with small loaves of bread that had been baked in the shape of piglets. Another had sewn together the front half of a pheasant with the rear half of a pig, cooked it all together and called it a "cockatrice" as he laid it before the King to carve. One chef brought forth a large pastry baked into the shape of a stag, not life-size but remarkably life-like , and when King Robert cut into it with his knife it even bled red wine and was stuffed with "entrails" of sausages, to the King's delight and amusement. A pie was brought forth, from which sprang a whole flock of doves. Finally three serving men, straining to carry a huge platter before them, presented the King with the centerpiece of the feast: A goose, plucked and roasted, sitting on top of whole wild boar. The goose was decorated with its own surcoat in Baratheon colours, the boar had been caparisoned like a warhorse, and the goose was wearing a helmet and carrying a lance, both made of pastry. The chef that had produced this spectacle bowed to the feasters, as rounds of applause filled the air. Sansa clapped along with them, never before had she seen such invention and theatrics go into the serving of food.
Not that the feast had been lacking in theatrics before. Players with harp and flute, tabor and pipe, filled the evening air with music. Acrobats flipped and tumbled to and fro, and fire-breathers spat out great gouts of flame to the amazement of their audience. The court fool, Moon Boy, danced about ridiculously on stilts, singing insulting songs and making japes at the expense of anyone who happened to be near him. King Robert laughed boisterously when Moon Boy mocked Lord Isildur, and even Septa Mordane laughed so hard she spilled her wine when Moon Boy sang his song about the High Septon. The feasting and merry-making continued long into the night.
"Will my lady be attending the joust tomorrow as well?" Prince Joffrey asked. Sansa blushed slightly.
"I do so hope I shall, it was all so wonderful today" Sansa replied.
"Whom do you think will win it tomorrow?" said Joffrey.
Ser Loras she thought, but kept her tongue.
"I do not know my prince, they all seemed so skilled today" she said.
"My dog and my Uncle Jaime shall do for them tomorrow I think" said Joffrey. "And one day, when I am old enough, I shall enter the lists and do for them all"
"I know you will ride most valorously my prince" said Sansa smiling.
"Of course I will, I'm a prince" replied Joffrey.
Sansa imagined Joffrey riding in his first tournament. He would look splendid in white, shining armour, or perhaps in gold like his uncle Jaime Lannister, with Baratheon stags antlers upon his helm. She pictured herself there too, wishing him luck with a kiss on the cheek before his tilt. She wondered if he would let her tie her favour onto his arm before the joust. How she would like that. She imagined Ser Loras and Prince Joffrey riding against each other, how brave, how chivalrous, how splendid that would be. She imagined her Joffrey defeating that foul troll Ser Gregor, being declared champion by his father the King.
"I will cheer for you when that day comes my prince" said Sansa. Joffrey smiled at her and she felt as if her heart was melting.
"And I shall defeat them all for you, you are my lady" Joffrey said. She blushed again.
It's all perfect. This day, this night, it's perfect. Oh why couldn't our day by the river have been like this? Why does Arya have to ruin everything? Sansa thought. She had wanted to spend another day like that with him again, but he had been so cold to her for the rest of the ride to the city. Arya had said such awful things about the Prince, but in her heart Sansa knew that he was just brooding because of his injury. Now he was being the perfect image of a chivalrous prince, he was looking at her and her heart was all aflutter.
Oh please spend another day with me, please ask me, I would so love too Sansa thought, wishing it would happen, willing it to happen. She wished she could ask herself but knew it was not the lady-like thing to do.
Joffrey opened his mouth to say something, Sansa's heart skipped a beat.
"SEVEN HELLS TAKE BOTH OF YOU! I'M A KING, I WANT TO FIGHT" roared the booming voice of the King suddenly. Sansa felt like she almost jumped out of her seat, and she looked down from the high table to see that King Robert was standing in the centre aisle between the lower tables, a goblet loosely in hand. His face was ruddy from too much drink and his hair and beard had become disheveled. Sansa hadn't noticed him leaving the high table. She had never seen the King's eyes in such a rage, it frightened her. She glanced to the side and saw that Lord Isildur was on his feet.
"Your Grace, what if something happens? The melee is no place for a king!" Isildur said sternly. The feast had fallen silent.
"Isildur, you're the King's Hand, not the King's bloody nursemaid! I'll do as I like" Robert spat back, slurring his words.
"My love" said the Queen "Lord Isildur and I only want what is best for you, a man of your age really-"
"A man of my age? A man of my age!?" the King bellowed wrathfully "I'll show you what a man of my age can do!", and he thumped his chest with a closed fist.
He turned to the crowd, all of them shocked into silence. His face was livid, his expression wild.
"If any of you think you can unhorse me, meet me in the melee. I'll be waiting" Robert said through clenched teeth.
"Robert, my love, I will not-" Queen Cersei began.
"You hold your tongue woman!" Robert spat spitefully at her.
"My King" said Isildur.
"Shut your bloody mouth" Robert snarled. The two men stared at each other hard, fuming with anger. Then, almost in unison, they both turned away and stormed off.
A cold wind chilled Sansa's skin, raising goosebumps. She looked around. People were quiet in the aftermath of the King's outburst, drunkards were already asleep on tables, and dull-faced servants began to clear away what remained of the food and drink.
The spell was broken, the magic was gone, and the feast was over.
"It's late my lady, do you need an escort back to the castle?" Joffrey said. Despite all that had just happened, Sansa's heart thrilled at the prospect of her Prince gallantly walking her back to the castle. She glanced to her side to see that Septa Mordane was asleep in her chair, snoring loudly.
"Yes my Prince" she said demurely.
"Right. Dog! Take my lady back to the castle" Joffrey called over his shoulders. Sandor Clegane loomed in the shadows behind the high table, Sansa had not seen him there. She looked at him and tried not to stare at the burnt wreck that made up an entire half of his face. Something about him scared her.
"Aye my Prince" Clegane said, his voice slurred.
Before Sansa could say a thing, Joffrey had stood up and left her alone with the Hound. A shot of fear traveled down her spine, and she felt as if all the hairs on her body were standing on end as he stood over her, his breath stinking of too much wine.
"What? Did you expect Joff to take you back himself?" said the Hound.
"Um" Sansa stammered.
"Learn this now so you don't need to learn it later: Joff only cares about Joff in the end, don't expect anything from him and you will never be disappointed" Clegane slurred, staring in the direction of Joffrey's departure.
"You're his sworn sword…" Sansa said, unsure of what he was trying to tell her.
"You think that means a damn thing?" Clegane snapped.
"Clegane!" called another voice. Sansa looked for her rescuer and saw Aratan approaching the high table. He was dressed much as his father was, still looking like a younger image of Isildur himself.
"What do you want Dunadan?" Sandor said coldly.
"I am going to the castle now, I can escort Lady Sansa" replied Aratan. Sansa felt a wave of relief wash over her.
"Hmph, as you wish" said Clegane, stalking off after Prince Joffrey. Sansa looked around, everything seemed so quiet now. Most of the knights and ladies had already left in the aftermath of the King's outburst. A cool breeze rustled the leaves in the trees.
"Shall we be off my lady?" Aratan said warmly, extending a hand and smiling towards her. Sansa smiled back, standing up from her chair and gathering up her skirts as she descended from the high table to take his arm.
"Thank you Aratan" Sansa said politely.
They walked in silence underneath the silent boughs of the trees along the riverbank. The stars twinkled above and a cool breeze chilled her skin. Sansa studied Aratan out of the corner of her eyes as they walked. She wished her Prince or Ser Loras could have walked with her instead, but Aratan was better than the Hound by far. He did not have the aching beauty of Ser Loras, but he was far taller, much wider in the shoulders and more strongly built. There was something solid and reassuring about him that Sansa liked, she could sense the strength in his arms and his broad, deep chest. And, she admitted to herself, he was not unpleasant to look upon either, with his short dark hair, piercing blue-grey eyes and strong jaw.
Darkened shapes loomed before them. Sansa had been so lost in thought that she had not noticed that they were suddenly amidst the camp. Aratan led her down a path she had not trod before. Before long a pavilion appeared before them, its striped colours indistinguishable in the darkness. A man, a Dunedan by his height, was cinching the straps on a saddle to a bay palfrey that stood quietly as he worked.
"It was a good feast Ohtar, you should have come" Aratan said jovially.
"I'm not one for feasts lad, too much to do for you tourney knights" the man said, finishing his task on the saddle and turning towards them, smiling. It was the squire Sansa had seen earlier. She tried not to stare, but his face was a morbidly fascinating array of scars. Scars crisscrossed his cheeks, his chin and jaw line, even across his eyes. He had a prodigious knuckle of a nose as well, which looked as if it had been broken many times.
"Apologies for my face my lady" Ohtar said with a good natured chuckle. He scratched at one of his scars "I've been in a few scrapes in my time, and my stunning good looks have not come out unscathed"
"You never had stunning good looks you old fool" Aratan teased.
"Old fool? I could still whip you, I taught you everything you know and don't you forget that" Ohtar shot back.
"Maybe we'll have to meet in the sparring ring to settle this. Another night though, I am escorting the Lady Sansa back to the castle" said Aratan, taking the reins from Ohtar's hand.
"Figured you would head to the castle for the night, didn't figure you would take a lady. My apologies my lady, I'm afraid we don't have a side saddle" Ohtar said. Aratan turned towards Sansa and, setting his strong hands upon her waist, suddenly lifted her up into the saddle as easily as if she had been a child. She felt a slight heat upon her cheeks.
"This will suffice I'm sure ser, you have my thanks" she said with her best courtesy. Ohtar laughed.
"Ser Ohtar? That's a new one. I'm afraid not my little lady, just a squire. Played shieldbearer for Lord Isildur in the old days, now I play shieldbearer for his little whelps like this one here" Ohtar said with a grin. Aratan gave him a good natured punch in the shoulder in reply.
"We'll settle that later Ohtar, I ought to get this little lady back to the castle now" Aratan said, gently tugging on the reins and leading the palfrey, with Sansa, away.
The horse had a very smooth, pleasant gait, and its shod hooves clattering on cobble stones were just about the only noise in the silent streets as they walked towards the Red Keep. King's Landing slept all around them, in utter darkness broken only by the isolated islands of light cast by torches and lanterns in windows and doorways. Yet despite the peaceful quiet all around them, Sansa couldn't stop thinking about the King's anger.
"Aratan, do you think-" She began, but stopped herself. A lady should not ask questions.
"Do I think what my lady?" Aratan asked, glancing over at her.
"Do… Do you think the King will actually ride in the melee?" she asked. His eyebrows briefly raised in surprise before he answered.
"He may, he is strong willed, and rarely does he accept any counsel but his own. He loves battle, that much is clear" he replied.
"But why? What honour or glory could he gain from it?" said Sansa. Aratan smiled, his face almost sad, at her.
"For some men it's not about the honour or the glory. Some men couldn't care less about those things. Some men only care about the fight itself"
Sansa tried to think of a man who would fight only for a love of fighting. She could only imagine a horrid brute like the Troll or the Hound, not a true knight. Although the King was fat and drunken, she could not imagine her own father befriending a man who loved violence purely for its own sake.
"And the King is one of those men? He couldn't be, my father…"
"Is a good, just and honourable man, but honourable men do not always befriend men like themselves. King Robert is not wicked my lady, do not think him so, but there is something inside him. It the same thing that is inside most men, but it speaks to him louder and clearer than most. Within every man there is a lust for violence, a burning desire for war, women and wealth. Some master that beast, others are mastered by it, and others still fall somewhere in between. For men like Robert who hear its whispers so clearly, fighting is not about honour or glory, it is about the rush of battle and the thrill of victory. That is why they fight" said Aratan.
Sansa thought about all the men who had ridden in the tournament today. She thought about Ser Loras, Jaime Lannister, the Troll and the Hound, and that young boy who had been died to Gregor Clegane's lance. Why had that boy come here and what did he die for? Was it truly for honour and renown like the songs said, or was it for something else? Greed for gold? Or did they fight purely for a love of violence?
Ser Loras would fight for honour, I just know it she thought. Sansa regarded Aratan. She wondered what had brought him to this tournament
"Why do you fight, Aratan?" Sansa asked quietly. He looked at her, and his blue eyes were full of a distant sadness.