"And I shall tell you again, you ought to be competing in the melee, not the joust!" Loras Tyrell pleads with Renly Baratheon, struggling to keep up with the taller man's long strides as the lord stalks swiftly back to his chambers. "Jousting is my game. What if I were to face you? I could not bear to do you harm, but my honor could never bear to feint! No! The melee is better! Show the realm that you are as great a knight as Robert ever was! Greater even!"
"What good would that do me?" Renly waves the thought away. "Robert is the king, nothing short of a crown would ever win me his glory, and I do not recall seeing that among the prizes of the tourney." Loras opens his mouth to protest further, but thinks better of it. Renly is at his door and slams it open only to freeze when he sees a man sitting at his table, picking through his fruit bowl.
Garrett Flowers has a queer face – not quite ugly, nor quite handsome. His short cut brown hair is neatly combed flat to his scalp, a smirk wrinkling his soft, round face. His eyes are muddied green and brown, at times dull, at others sparkling. Orange rind lies neatly stacked on the table before him. Tearing the freshly peeled fruit in half, he extends part to Renly as the young lord scowls at him, declining the gift.
"Why are you here, Flowers?" Loras demands.
"I had supposed you could have figured that out on your own, cousin," Garrett smiles, sliding an orange wedge into his mouth, juice squirting out as he bites down. "Perhaps you ought for a moment take your eyes off your prize stag."
"You dare!" Renly bellows, shoving Loras aside to storm towards the table and confront the intruder. But Loras catches his shoulder and holds him back.
"Renly, he serves my grandmother. He is her eyes and ears where she cannot go herself. Whatever barbs he spews are only her own," Loras looks over Renly's shoulder, glaring at Garrett even as he gently massages the back of the lord's neck. "Which means he is here because my family has concerns in this city they do not trust to me."
"Knights are good for many things, Ser Loras. Bastards are good for many more."
"And what good thing has caused Lady Olenna to send you away with Ser Urrigon?" Loras asks. "I would think my grandmother was happy to be rid of him."
"Since the conquest, many Hightowers have believed they should have claimed the Reach after the fall of the Gardeners. The wear and tear of time has not weathered that sentiment. Over the centuries many with such ambition have found their way into the Red Keep. Bloodshed has always followed." The orange gone, Garrett reaches back into the fruit bowl, pulling out an apple. "But House Tyrell held strong, for we had dragons as our friends. That has all changed. Are you familiar with cyvasse, Lord Renly?"
"Loras has tried to teach me, but I have not the time."
"We are all playing a game, my lord. A game of thrones. And the Hightowers have suddenly made a very large move. Highgarden is… concerned by the sudden mobilization."
"Your mother is a Hightower," Renly looks to Loras. "You have nothing to fear from them."
"Oh, I am sure that is true," Garrett leans back, tossing the apple from hand to hand. "Lady Alerie is honest and true, so is her lord father and all his children and brothers and cousins. House Tyrell only wants to ensure our relationship with the Iron Throne."
"Robert has brough peace to the realm unlike any Westeros has ever known."
"Ah, but your brother's famed peace is far more fragile than anyone truly realizes, isn't it? There are whispers on the streets of Oldtown, whispers in the hedges of Highgarden and on the docks of The Arbor. No one knows from who or from where. The exiled dragons across the sea, the ambitions of lions and wolves, even your own brother Stannis."
"You are beginning to sound like Varys," Renly rolls his eyes, snatching the apple away from Garrett. He stalks off to his wardrobe, rustling through his finest clothes.
"Don't disturb yourself," Loras shakes his head, leaning up against the post of the lord's bed. "I think what you're already wearing is fine enough."
Exasperated, Renly throws up his hands, black, gold and green fabric dropping to the floor at his feet. "Damn it!" Loras flinches, looking hurt, and Renly immediately turns apologetic. "Not you, Loras. You!" He spins on his heel, angry finger pointed at Garrett. "Enough riddles. What of the Hightowers, why are they here? Lord Leyton has not lifted a finger nor made a peep from atop his towers in ten years. I know damn well he isn't sending half his family to win his granddaughter the hand of Ned Stark's second son!"
Unflinching, Garrett blinks twice, then slowly rises to look Renly eye to eye. "I do not know. No one does. But the Hightowers smell blood in the water. They want to be on the winning side of a war. And they are more than willing to push the kingdoms right over the ledge to make it happen."
"What's the problem now?" Ned Stark grimaces, kneading his thumbs into his brow as Jory Cassel swings open the flap to his tent. The sound of trumpets at the opening of the tourney is deafening, but more grinding to his ears was the bleating laughter of Ser Urrigon from the king's tent, beside his. Thoros of Myr, the half-mad priest, would be there as well, for certain. Drunken boasters the lot of them, Robert's favorite sort of friend, but harmless all the same. Ned is dressed in his finest armor, reluctantly donned for the ceremony, where Robert would formally present him to the realm. He half expects to die of embarrassment.
"It's the Mountain." Of course it is. "It seems Ser Gregor's place in the lists was changed to make room for Ser Runcel Cupps."
"Of all the foolishness," Ned runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. So close, so close to being able to launch this tourney without further conflict. "What man decided that it would be Gregor's slot to change."
"They drew straws, m'lord," Jory shrugs.
"Well, it will not be straws that Ser Gregor will be looking to rend in two. I will deal with this, you go on, Jory. You're riding today. Send my best wishes to Harwyn and the others."
"Of course," Jory bows curtly. "We will show these southern knights how cold-hardened men ride. And I pray you good fortune with The Mountain."
"Thank you, Jory," Ned lifts the flap of the tent, but stops for a moment. "Jory, who will Ser Runcel be tilting against in the first round?"
"Ser Hugh, ser. Hugh of the Vale, Jon Arryn's old squire."
Edward Stark follows Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Preston Greenfield through the crowds, the throng parting like water at the sight of the white cloaks. The royal dais rises high above the rest of the stands and crowds as the archery contest is about to begin.
When the king had opened the tournament, Father had been at his side, in his full armor. Edward had never seen him like that before, Father rarely wore armor. But he looked very much a great knight. He wasn't though, of course, knighthood was a way of the south and the Faith of the Seven. Mother's faith. Edward wondered, if the time came, would he take vows before the Seven and become a knight? He had never thought of that before. But if he was a warg, did that mean he belonged to the First Men and their Old Gods that father prayed to beneath the heart tree?
It was too loud to think on such things, Edward decides as he follows Jaime up into the stands in the seats directly beneath the royal dais, reserved for the highest lords and members of the royal household. Edward looks about for Lyman but the older squire is nowhere to be seen. He must be with Ser Barristan. The Lord Commander stands on guard on the steps to where the king and queen sit with the princes and princesses and Sansa. And Ser Urrigon, Edward notes. The loud knight had scarce left the king's side the past two days. He hopes to see his friend soon, they haven't spoken since their fight the day before. But instead, he only sees Peremore Hightower and the Lannisters awaiting them.
"A lovely day for a tournament, isn't it?" Tyrek beams. Edward offers no response.
"The weather is fair," Peremore muses, head resting on the tip of his fingers as ha stares down into the arena. "No wind, clear air. Good for archers."
"The archers of The Rock can aim straight even in the fiercest wind!" Tyrek insists, his voice cracking. "Ser Lucion, Ser Daven, Ser Addam Marbrand! They'll make short work of all the others, I'll wager."
"Wager what?" Arthur Ambrose's eyes light up.
Before Tyrek can respond, Peremore waves him away. "Don't take his bet. Your western men will never win this contest. It is well known the Dornish Marches raise the greatest archers in Westeros and my cousin would only make a mess of whatever finery you lose to him."
Tyrek opens his mouth to protest, but Lancel cuffs the back of his head. "Don't be stupid, Tyrek! Besides it is the melee where our knights will conquer. Lions do not hurl arrows at their foes from afar, they look them in the eye and bring death face to face."
"And what happened to the lions, again?" Peremore tilts his head, all the while staring aimlessly into the distance. Lancel does not reply.
"The Northern archers are very good, too," Edward adds, half under his breath, and no one seems to hear. No matter, I suppose. Father left the best at Winterfell. If Theon were here, though, he would put them all to shame. But then again, Theon wasn't truly Northern, was he?
At the sound of the trumpets, the contestants begin to file in. Flashy colors and banners declaring their family and allegiance, one by one. Jalabar Xo is among the last to enter, and Edward jumps up out of his seat to cheer as the prince presents himself in his flashy bright cloak of red-and-green feathers. But if he notes Edward's applause, he does not show it.
"Let's see if your sooty bird-man is as good as he says he is," Lancel quips.
"Lannister!" Both blonde squires pivot their heads to see Lyman Darry upon the steps, glowering. "The king needs more wine."
Irritated, Lancel rises in a huff. "I don't answer to you, plowboy," he growls as he stalks past, up the steps to the dais. Lyman looks back for a moment, sharing a fleeting glance with Edward, but then the tournament has begun again and he is headed back to Ser Barristan's side.
Jalabar performs with uncanny skill in the early rounds, but is no fan to the crowds, however. He was a foreigner, and no amount of talent or flair could sway the screaming voices in the stands to cheer for the Summer Islander besting their greatest knights. Ser Balon was the crowd's favorite. At least at the beginning. But slowly, as the rounds progressed, the challenges grew harder and the competitors began to fade, it became clear that there was one man who did not belong.
"Who the hell is that?" Ser Meryn squints. A thin young man with freckles and red hair, dressed in pauper's clothes little better than rags, stands like a sore thumb amidst the lineup of lavishly dressed lords and knights left with bows in hand.
"Have they let a beggar in from the streets?" Tyrek giggles.
"Mind the king with your cousin, Tyrek," Jaime glares, and the squire scurries away. He turns back to the mystery archer. "I think I've seen him these past few days. He's from the marches, a camp follower in the company of Lord Dondarrion, Lord Caron and the Swanns. I can't say I know his name, but he's about as lowborn as they come, by the looks of it."
"Whatever he is, he's damned good," Ser Preston notes as the mystery archer scores another perfect shot, to Jalabar's visible consternation. Ser Balon, however seems nonplussed, even as Aron Santagar and Addam Marbrand are eliminated, leaving only Jalabar, Balon and the nameless commoner."
Some in the stands have become indignant, insulted by the notion that a lowborn urchin could best their famed knights. Boos and curses bellow out from lords as the man goes to take the first draw of the final round. But they are drowned out by the roar from the masses as their new champion lands a nearly perfect shot.
"They boo him now," Jaime smiles, leaning back in his seat "But by nightfall they'll be dumping out their gold in his lap to hire him to their guards."
Ser Balon goes next, stern and stiff as a board as he arches his arm, pulling back on the string and loosing. Silence falls over the arena. His arrow hits with a strong thwack.
"It's not good enough," Peremore shakes his head.
Finally, Jalabar steps up to the chalky line in the dirt, his great goldenwood bow gleaming as its polished curves catch the light of the sun. He pauses for a moment, looking up to the stands, to the eyes of the nobles who had so recently regarded him with scorn. He catches sight of his pupil and offers a curt nod before turning back to the target. Plucking a green-plumed arrow from his quiver, he quickly aims, draws and lets it fly through the air. The arrow cuts its path into the wood with swift grace – a better hit than Ser Balon. But Peremore shakes his head once more.
The officials rush to the target, and their waving soon confirms the Hightower squire's judgement. The crowd beneath them erupts in a roar as the anonymous commoner is named the archery champion. Edward finds himself leaping up out of his seat to join them, hands clapping fiercely together. Father must add him to our guard, he thinks
"Did you catch his name?" he looks up to Jaime, who pauses to listen to the chanting crowd.
"Anguy," he decides. "I believe they're saying Anguy. Whatever lord is able to buy up that man will be lucky indeed."
The kingsguard has their own tent, adjacent to the tents of the Hand and the king. It is white, white like their armor, like their cloaks, like their tower and like the book where all their deeds would one day be recorded when they died. Not, Ser Jaime notes, like the dung littering the ground where their horses were tied.
He takes care not to step in one particularly fresh pile as he walks towards his steed, a magnificent auburn-haired stallion. Lion, he thinks they had called it when the horse master had brought it to the Keep, a gift from his father for the tourney. From Aunt Genna, more like, he thinks. Father is not the sort to give gifts. And such an unoriginal one at that. Lion? Half the horses in the Rock's stables were named lion.
Whatever the horse's name, Edward stands dutifully by it, Jaime's gleaming, polished, unused goldenwood lance held awkwardly in his hands, at least two heads longer than the boy himself. He chuckles at the sight, but quickly hides his mirth.
"Thank you Edward, she looks splendid." And thank the gods I have a squire who gives a damn about his job, and not one of my useless cousins. "Who is my first match, again?"
"Ser Andar Royce, ser." Edward answers.
"A Valeman. My lucky day," Jaime quips as he climbs atop his mount. "There is not much space to ride a horse in those mountains, I cannot imagine he can be very steady."
"Then you would be a fool." Barristan Selmy scoffs from the corner of the tent, where he sits atop a crate, tightening his stirrups while Lyman brushes the Lord Commander's grey horse. "The mountain roads are precisely what makes the Knights of the Vale great jousters. A man must be steady in the saddle to ride the mountain roads, or else he will end dashed upon the rocks below."
"Thank you, of course, for your wisdom, ser," Jaime smirks as Edward hands him his lance. "It is lucky for Ser Andar he has only a little way to fall when I knock him from his horse. And who will be your first tilt?"
"Bronze Yohn Royce," Barristan declares, as if with pride to be paired against such an acclaimed lord the first round. Or perhaps only to boast that he knows his match where I did not.
"The father. Fitting, that they should match two of a kind by age," Jaime salutes Barristan before flicking his reigns. He will need to practice with this new horse before tilting. I hope you do beat Bronze Yohn, old man, he thinks as he rides out of the tent. I don't want anyone to topple you but me.
Out in the arena, the crowd begins to roar again as the trumpets signal the beginning of the joust. In the royal dais, Sansa sits at Joffrey's side, Jeyne and Myrcella close at hand.
"Who do you think will win the joust?" she asks.
"My uncle Jaime, of course," Joff blurts, as if there is no doubt. "Or perhaps my dog."
"I think Ser Loras will win," Myrcella interjects. "The Knight of Flowers."
"Ser Loras is a pretty little boy in man's armor," Joff sneers. "I don't understand why everyone keeps yapping on about him."
Above them, Tommen sits at his parents' feet, playing with a toy knight. Ser Urrigon Hightower sits again at King Robert's right hand, with his wife, Lady Patrice, to Cersei's left.
"Why aren't you in this damned joust?" Robert asks his new friend. He has only known the man for two days but, fueled by their shared love of food, drink, women and violence and carried by Urrigon's tales of rogue adventure in Essos, he has quickly found the knight to be a kindred spirit.
"The joust is Runcel's game," Urrigon shrugs. "It always has been. He has served me well all these years, I would be a poor liege to steal his glory."
"Do you hear that, Cersei? A humble man!" Robert booms, slamming his fist down on the arm of his seat in laughter. "You don't hear that often living in Castlery Rock!"
"Ah, yes, my husband's humility knows no bounds," Patrice rolls her eyes and drains another goblet of wine. Fce flushed red, she is already drunker than Robert or Urrigon. She leans in close to the king's ear. "Truth be told, he can't aim a lance to save his life. He is very good at beating men over the head, but he cannot fins a mark. 'Tis a miracle he twice got me with child."
"Thrice," Cersei interjects. "You have three children, have you not?"
Patrice pauses, eyes squinted as if concentrating very hard. "Yes, thrice, yes of course."
The sound of the crowd rises up again as the first two riders enter the arena. Robert and Urrigon join the roar, and Patrice drunkenly lurches to her feet, applauding. Her goblet clatters to the floor. Noticing, Cersei looks to Lancel.
"Go, boy, more wine!" The squire nods, barely hiding irritation, and heads off down the steps. But he stops when he finds Tyrek sitting with the other young nobles.
"Tyrek, his highness needs more wine!" Lancel pulls his cousin to his feet.
"Already?"
"Do not question the king! Go!" Lancel points and as Tyrek follows, he takes the younger boy's seat. "Who has first tilt?"
"Ser Runcel Cupps and Ser Hugh of the Vale," Mycrella answers.
"Ser Hugh? That up-jumped squire is liable to get himself killed."
"Oh, I hope not," Jeyne gasps. "Knights do not die at tourneys, do they?"
"Of course not, Jeyne, don't be silly," Sansa hushes her friend.
"Sometimes they do," Joffrey grins tauntingly. "Wouldn't that be something to see? A poor omen for your father, though, if someone were to die at his tourney."
Sansa ignores that thought and turns her attention to the riders. Ser Hugh's fine blue cloak, trimmed with white crescent moons flaps in the wind as he enters the arena to short, scattered applause. In comparison, Ser Runcel's heavy orange cloak clings tightly to his back. As the Oldtown knight is announced, a roaring bellow echoes down from the king's dais, where Urrigon rallies support for his sworn sword.
"He's very old, isn't he?" Jeyne asks.
"No older than Ser Barristan," Sansa points out as the knights discard their capes and lower their visors. "And Father says there is still no knight finer than him in all the land."
The two knights take their places. And in an instant, they are off and the joust has begun. Sansa is shocked by how quickly it is over. Before she scarce has time to blink, the horses are upon each other. Ser Hugh's aim is shaky and off-kilter, missing fully, while Runcel's lance strikes him square in the chest, knocking the young knight clean and hard back off his mount.
"Hah!" Lancel laughs as the toppled young knight picks himself up, his crisp blue surcoat sullied by dirt. "And he thought he was so grand. Lost to an old man! He a knight and I can ride better!"
"If you can ride so well, Lancel, why are you still a squire?" Myrcella shoots a piercing look at the youth, who coughs in indignation. "Do not worry," she smirks. "I'm sure my father will knight you soon enough."
The next round draws far greater cheers than the first, for the names of both contestants are known by all – Lord Renly Baratheon, in gleaming steel and dark green cloth, antlers protruding from his helm, and Sandor Clegane – The Hound himself – looking larger than ever atop his horse, his dog's head helm snarling through steel fangs.
"That's not fair, to make Lord Renly ride against the Hound!" Jeyne pouts.
"Of course it's fair," Joffrey rolls his eyes. "The Hound is better than most anyone. Uncle Renly will lose just the same as that Ser Hugh would. Just watch." He leans back in his seat, face bright with confident anticipation. Sure enough, The Hound makes quick work of knocking Renly back, breaking one of the lord's antlers in the process.
And so the rounds pass, day by day until dusk began to creep over the horizon. Jaime watches as his brothers fall, one by one. Most, it irks him to note, bested by Ser Loras Tyrell. First Ser Boros, who was no great rider, nor great at much else, by Jaime's judging, save for whoring, eating and drinking. Not even drinking, in fact, he chuckles to himself. The man cannot hold more than two glasses of wine before he begins to fall about the room singing quite horribly.
Ser Arys though was better, and Ser Meryn best of all, save himself and the Lord Commander, and they each fell in turn to the Knight of Flowers. Ser Mandon had not entered the list, for that specter of a man never jousted, and Ser Preston fell to Ser Runcel Cupps. And so now, at the end of the day, as Edward hands him his lance a final time, there are but two white cloaks left in the tourney. Having beaten first Andar Royce, then Lord Bryce Caron and lastly Thoros of Myr, his goldenwood lance remains unbroken, as proven as strong as Tyrion had vowed when he gifted it to him. Jaime's one final opponent waits at the end of the line - Ser Barristan himself, just as Jaime had hoped.
"Come, Lion," he whispers to the horse, knuckles tightening around the lance's grip, the end clutched tight beneath his arm. The Lord Commander's face is hidden behind his visor, but in his mind's eye he can see the old man's condescending stare like talons tearing at his chest, looking for a heart that Jaime had long ago closed off to all but two – Tyrion and Cersei. Applause rains down like thunder, but all Jaime hears is Kingslayer, Kingslayer. Every face is Ser Barristan and Ned Stark. Every cry a denouncement of his shame, their applause that of their own honor.
He shuts it all out and hears nothing more. With a salute to Cersei – my queen, my sister, my lover, this ride is for you – he lowers his lance. And it begins. Lion's rhythmic hooves echo on the dirt pounded hard by a long day of jousts. The familiar lurch between his legs carries him forward and for a moment there is nothing else left in the world. He is flying, and the white clad man before him is no man at all, but a monster – the Mad King, fire breathing from his mouth. And he will slay it again.
Tipping his head, he focuses through the slats of the visor and takes aim, bracing himself. Barristan's lance hits first, a heavy blow to the side, splinters flying as Jaime gasps in pain. But his goldenwood lands harder and truer, and the Lord Commander is knocked sideways off his great grey steed. Jaime does not wait to see him get up. He rides on, away from the cheers, out and into the night.
The sounds of the celebratory feasting and drinking still waft up through the window of Sansa's room as she lies awake, trying to sleep. The Hound had seen her safely back to the tower, a walk both fascinating and terrifying. She had felt so alone there in the night, so helpless. Perhaps Joffrey was right. She was a proper lady. But the prince, it was clear, had no interest in a proper lady. And in her heart she burned for him. For him and for the throne.
Lady Alysanne was right. She was not a little girl, she was a wolf. The day the tournament ends, she vows, I will go to Ser Aron in his shop. He will teach me. Joffrey will see what I can be for him, and he will never leave me again.