SANSA VI
"The day was green and the sky light blue, as hundreds of different banners were flapping in all the colours of the rainbow, just like butterflies or pretty birds. It was the day of the Great Tourney of The Hand. It had rained two days before, and so the weather was for once pleasant and green.
Sansa rode to the Hand's tourney with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole and all her other ladies, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine that it gleamed, turning the whole world gold. Beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions had been raised beside the river and the commonfolk came out in the thousands to watch the games.
The splendour of it was certainly amazing, even larger than her own tournament on her last nameday. The shining armour, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold and red, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind, and the knights... The knights most of all. The knights who all flocked around her litter to profess their love at her, shouting and pleading for her favours, as she smiled and waved at them all, almost taken aback by it all.
"It's almost bigger than the tourney of my Nameday", she told Jeyne as they found their places. "There are so many... It's almost as good as in the songs. Almost bigger than my Nameday..."
"Only almost", Jeyne lied to not hurt her feelings. She was grateful to her friend for it.
Sansa was dressed beautifully, in her emerald green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew that all of the young knights and lordlings of the realm were looking at her and smiling.
They watched as the heroes of a hundred songs rode forth, each more fabulous than the last. Ser Jory, Ser Arys, Ser Balon, Ser Marlon and Ser Barristan all shone in their white armour and cloaks, looking more handsome than ever. Everyone had white armour, except Jory, who had his special silver grey armor with the newly fashioned wolf helm, for both House Stark and House Cassel.
The singer Timeon Stone, known to all and everyone as Timeon 'Til-me-won (after having won the contest of best singer last year and promising to win it this year as well ) was heralding the games with his wonderful singing voice.
Sansa was positively taken away by the song, which was supposedly about a night's watchman who looked for his brother who had gone to war down south, or the other way around, she did not entirely remember, but Jeyne had told her only some days before, as the song was a particularly new one, even to her, and she was the Princess. Sansa draped the red curtains adie as the litter veered and swung to the side to reveal the source of the magnificent beauty of the song, heralding a new age for all those present there, for the kingdoms, for herself and Ser Loras, for all the world...
Hey brother, there's an ancient road to rediscover,
Hey sister, I know the water is sweet but blood is thicker,
Oh, if the Wall comes falling down, for you, there's nothing in the world I wouldn't do,
Hey brother, do you still believe in one another?
Hey sister, do you still believe in love, I wonder?
Oh, when the Wall comes falling down, for you, there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do
The pipers streamed on, the drummers drummed, and the high sweet voice of Tim the Winner sang on, as Sansa felt her heart fly up towards the sapphire blue heavens above.
What if I'm far from home? Oh brother I will hear your call
What if I lose it all? Oh sister I will help you and
Oh, if the Wall comes tumbling down...
For you, there's nothing in the world I wouldn't do...
...
The pipers streamed on, the drummers drummed, and the high sweet voice of Tim the Winner sang on, as Sansa felt her heart fly up towards the sapphire blue heavens above.
She watched as all of the lords and knights from across the realm glimmered in their banners. There were the Mallisters, the old but handsome Lord Jason Mallister and his sons, clad in indigo chased with silver and a silver eagle on his helm, as well as the Blackwoods, with Lord Tytos in his gleaming raven-black feather cloak, the Brackens, the hundreds of Freys in the same blue, the Pipers with their maiden banners, although noticeably lacking her uncle Edmure's friend Ser Marq... There was his cousins instead, the Vances, the Fossoways, both the red and the green, and many more besides.
The girls giggled slightly, only slightly, at the sight of Thoros of Myr, Lord Robert's red priest with his flapping robes, until the Septa chastised them to stop. There were hedge knights from the Riverlands, the Stormlands and Highgarden, and the mountains of Dorne, as well as the Dornish lords Fowler, Dalt, Yronwood and Uller of the Hellholt...
the Tyrells, with Lord Mace, Lady Alerie, Lady Olenna Redwyne, known as the Queen of Thorns, the beautiful Margaery Tyrell and her two younger brothers, the handsome Ser Garlan and finally, surely one of the handsomest and most skillful knights in all of the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers.
Sansa's heart almost sighed at the sight of him, as she once again thought how she simply had to invite him to walk with her among the gardens after the tourney was over. Joffrey might become jealous but they were not betrothed yet, surely, and a princess had to look over all of her offers thoroughly before making a choice.
Besides, Father had not yet truly consented to her marrying Joffrey, she knew, and so she could always blame it on her royal father the King.
Lord Tywin Lannister sat to the right of them, as was the place for the Hand of the King, at the king's right hand side, and next to him was her Joffrey and Lord Tyrion, Tywin's brother Kevan and all of his family, along with Ser Clydeon, Joffrey's guardsman Jyck, Ser Harys Swyft, his wife Lady Dorna, Ser Flement Brax among with all his sons, Lord and Lady Lefford, the Presters, and dozens of other westerland knights, lords and ladies of varying status.
Ser/Lord Bryce Caron thundered past them, a magnificence of yellow, black and orange standing out brightly upon the green grass of the field behind. The thinner Ser Jon Fossoway, almost as good and certainly fast, but not quite as great as Ser Bryce with the sword, came behind him, his green apple sparkling bright and his hair worn long and dark. Sansa recognized Bronze Yohn Royce, who had guested them at her nameday tournament, and at that of Bran, gleaming in his bronze armour ristened with ancient First Men runes.
"Do you think his magic runes will help him against the others?" Sansa asked Jeyne.
"I don't know", Jeyne said, for once not having a reply.
"I am most certain that they will. They are thousands of years old", Sansa said.
"So is a stone in the forest, or an old oak tree, but it does not mean it would fare better than freshly forged iron in a fight", Joffrey called out to her from her side.
She glanced to her right to look at him. He smiled at her, bowing down.
"Princess.", he said then, as propriety bid him, or at least as an excuse for having interrupted their conversation, surely.
"My lord", she said, only giving him the slightest amount of attention, as she was not used to being interrupted like this. It did not do well to talk out of turn, especially not for a bastard to a princess.
He was beginning with his baseborn manners again. She did not like it.
She hoped that Lord Tyrion or Lord Tywin would teach him to come on track again. Else she might take and go for an extra long walk with Ser Loras, she thought as she angled her gaze back to look at Bronze Yohn.
"My lords and ladies!" the herald called from just in front of the stands, as she sensed her father tightening up somewhere up behind her, sitting in his carved wooden throne next to Robb, [ ] and Lord Robert and Lady Cressina. "By the decree of His Grace King Eddard of House Stark, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord Protector of the Realm..."
Sansa turned to Jeyne as the herald continued.
"Do you think Ser Loras will win the jousting?"
"Of course", Jeyne said, already sensing what she wanted to hear. "He is surely the best."
"Indeed he is", Sansa squealed with delight, clapping her hands together, as she thought about what moment would be the best to present him with her favour. He had already been vying for it before and she would finally let him have it now.
She had brought five favours, all of them small ribbons of her best red and grey silk, and one especial, that had a tiny slinger of her beautiful auburn hair in it. That one she was saving for Ser Loras, unless someone else came along and proved to be even more handsome or knightly than he was. It was possible, after all, as not even she, who was the Princess, had yet seen all the knights of the land, but she doubted it. Most of them were well-known to her ever since her nameday. There was Ser Bryce Caron of Nightsong, with his reddish brown hair and yellow and black nightingale shield, Ser [ ] of [ ], Ser [ ] of [ ], the homely Ser Meryn Trant of Greygallows, the dashing Ser Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven, with his amazing purple lightning shield,
…
Other riders Sansa had no idea who they were; lowly hedge knights from the Fingers and Highgarden and the Rainwood of the Stormlands. Younger men, most of whom had not made any great deeds as of yet, but Sansa and Jeyne both agreed that some had at least a decent manner of skills, as they tried remembering which ones had possibly been there at her nameday.
Ser Emmon Cuy. Lord Bryce Caron of the Marches. Bronze Yohn's second son and younger brother to Ser Andar, Ser Robar, with his silvered steel plate filigreed in bronze with the same ancient runes that warded his father.
Ser Flement Brax of Hornvale, resplendant in his silver and purple armour fashioned into the f[ ] unicorn of his sigil.
The twins Ser Horas and Ser Hobber, whose shields displayed the grape cluster sigil of House Redwyne, burgundy red on blue. Ser Preston Greenfield of the Westerlands, handsome but short, with light blond hair and perhaps the slightest hint of freckles. Patrek Mallister, Lord Jason's son. Eight Freys of the Crossing: Ser Jared, Ser Hosteen, Ser Danwell, Ser Emmon, Ser Theo, Ser Aenys, Ser Waldon, sons and grandsons of old Lord Walder Frey, and his bastard son Martyn Rivers as well.
Jeyne Poole confessed to be slightly frightened by the sight of Jalabhar Xho, an exile prince from the Summer Isles who had skin as dark as ebony and wore enormous feather plumes for a cloak, but Sansa derided her jokingly for being a Northern commoner. Had she never seen a Summer Islander before? They were all around the ports of the city most every day, unloading crates and goods from their elegant swan ships at least thrice or four times a moon. Jeyne kept quiet with her notions then, and said nothing more of the tall, dark Jalabhar Xho or his exotic raiment.
Lord Renly, the young handsome brother of Lord Robert, looked gallant and green in his forest-coloured green gleaming armour and gold cape, his gilded antlers sparkling in the sunlight as he pranced around the courtyard, looking every inch like a far younger version of Lord Robert, and far thinner and handsomer as well, clean shaven, without the elder Lord Baratheon's dark black beard. He had once sat on the Small Council for only a year or two, serving as the newly created post Master of Revelry, before he became bored of the position and her royal Father as well, but he still came and went to court often, and was an old favourite in the jousts across the capital and beyond. There was barely a knight among the lists that he had not shook hands with, or taken drink with, and they all cheered for him as he rode past, whether they would compete with him later or no.
Sansa knew that he was good friends with Ser Loras as well, and she had even heard some unsavory rumours as to that particular liaison about him from Wynafryda, but she did not want to believe in such filth herself. Lord Renly was just like a younger, more active version of his brother, surely, and so how could he possibly have a taste for men? Lord Robert was famous for his appetites even when Father and he had been young, when he was betrothed to her aunt Lyanna, even though Father never spoke of it.
And Loras... No, not her lovely Ser Loras, surely no. For who in their right mind would choose a minor lord of the Stormlands over her, Sansa Stark, the royal princess? She was a beauty, and Renly only handsome enough for women to swoon over. Not handsome enough to rouse Loras, she was sure.
...
Sansa's thoughts returned to the present once again. Timeon the Winner had apparently made his way all up to the pavilion while they watched the knights prancing about and preparing themselves, to her royal father King Eddard's ever watchful yet accepting approval.
His song still streamed out, yet again, as he played and accompanied his song on his famous painted lute, Hey brother, there's an endless road to rediscover, hey sister, know the water is sweet but blood is thicker... Oh, if the Wall comes falling down, for you, there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do...
Sansa soon heard a different song, however, as Lord Dalt of Lemonwood and his singers made their way forward to stand by theside of the pavilion to the left. It was a pipe-heavy song with flustering notes which swirled and thrilled their way, practically whittling at the air like tendrils of fiery passion, as Sansa felt her heart grow fluttering and almost mad, her heart beating ever so quickly in her tight corset as the singer, one called Slender Stantough of [Lemonwood/Sandstone/[ ]], [ ]
The high reddish orange vaults of the tourney grounds stood up like frames of a hundred years, having stood in the same place at the edge of the tent place ever since King Jaehaerys had them built almost threehundred years ago. Sansa felt the echo of hundredsof years of history in the music.
The horses dundered forth across the yellowish green of the grass, steagering themselves with the Dornish rider heralding his pink and purple lance high up in the air, his helm flowing with the yellow and purple of Dalt as he took out to the field of the tourney grounds.
The pipers only played the music, as beautiful and temptatious with southron sultry notes and flair as it was, but Jeyne nunnered the lyrics beside her, and Sansa knew them all by heart.
Thrend out the lines..., dugga-dugga, thrend out the lines.., dugga-dugga thrend out the, thrend out the lines...
'Maester's consternation brought me just like here, I wish to talk to your heart si'n fear,
Come' to my heart, dear, come' my hart, deer, then go there, then go there,
Oh darling when you speak like that, you make a lady go mad. So be wise, and keep on, reading the signs of my harp, thee'.
You're mine tonight, you know my lips don't lie and I'm starting to feel it now, all the attraction, redemption, can't you see darling, this is perfection?
Dear ser, I can see your bard 'y moving and it's driving me crazy, and I did not have the slightest idea until I saw you jousting, when you prance there, dance there, standing with your stance just there, the way you move your lance tonight, and I would bet a golden dragon, dragon, you'll be crowned tonight, be crowned the bestest knight in town
My lady, when you speak like that... You make a lord wish to speak Rhoyne tongue. Crymo seij c'jama? Si! Bonita! Si! Qué casa? Princéssa, Prýmceria!
A mountain night, you know, my lips don't lie, and I'm starting to feel the toll.
From the River's blood, a maid of mud, from red river she's rising to sizing,
you know the mountain night, you know my lips don't lie, from this land to the Yronwood, and from the marches, all the archers, stood bending their bows for your barches,
yay in a mountain night, and in the desert lies two lovers on duney glide, like a rosebud, on a sand stud, the steed is the meed for a maiden,
yay in a mountain night, you know my lips don't lie and I'm feeling your singing now, like the night wind, on my cold kind, the glimmer of gold on a hyde hind,
yay on a mountain night, I believe I'll stay, in the storm of the sands 'til' day,
from the River's blood, your red hair like blood, no colour is more like perfection."
...
The Dornish Dalt rider made a heroic prance about the courtyard, raising his shield to pluck up a melon ripe as summer itself and make it splat as he threw it a hundred feet up in the air to the roar of the people.
Next he did it again with an apple, and then a lemon, and finally he tried a plum and a large grape. Sansa had seen the trick half a hundred times before, but it was still nonetheless exciting every time. The rider bowed deep down towards her as he finished, and his dornish steed trampsed in a parade before her, its purple bard fluttering in the wind and its gleaming black mane shining in the sunlight. Sansa held out her pale hand and let the knight approach to bow down before her and kiss her on the hand and she gave one of her small favours to him. She probably should not have been so hasty with it, she supposed, but she did like the trick. The rider tied her favour to his lance, bowing again.
She promised herself to be more careful with the next one. She had mostly just been expulsed into exhilaration by the song. Dornish flutes would certainly do that to a girl, even to a royal Princess.
She looked to her left but Septa Mordane was not upset about it, it seemed. She was far too happy to be criticizing Sansa at any rate, it seemed. After all, they had not had a proper tourney to rouse them since before they left for Winterfell, and even then it had been so hot and dreadful weather on the last one. The entire city's spirits seemed raised more than ever before, as Princess Sansa's favour paraded the lance of the Dalt knight who took a final ride of pride around the courtyard showcasing the princess' favour to the admiration and cheers of the enormous crowd and then made his way back to his stands.
The herald stood still on his raised wooden pall, as he announced the favour to more applause. Then he shifted his focus, however, as the game master came in from the tent pavilion and made a sign.
The herald looked up to Father, who sat up slightly behind her, as King Eddard nodded slightly. The herald bowed back to the King, and then read from a piece of parchment handed to him.
The first runners up were announced. It was Ser Loras Tyrell and Ser Bryce Caron.
"The Stormlands against the Reach!" Jeyne proclaimed with a laughterous voice, as she clapped her hands together excitedly. "This should be interesting!"
"Yes", Sansa said, smiling, "but I am already sure who will win it." Her gaze went to Ser Loras, who returned it intensely, then bowed before her from afar and served down his helmet to clank together with a glint of the golden roses covering it.
"Do you recall how he fared last time?" Jeyne said. "On your nameday?"
"Of course", said Sansa. "How could I forget?"
Ser Loras had beaten three of his opponents that day, including Ser Arys, Lord [ ] and Lord Renly Baratheon, and afterwards Sansa had given him her favour, and he had given her a red rose. She saw that he was wearing one today as well, though it was strapped to his belt.
"On your marks!" The herald shouted. Ser Loras and Ser Bryce took to their places.
"Get ready! Set! Charge!"
Ser Loras's beautiful white filly jumped to and strode forward graciously, yet quickly, swift and strong like the wind coming from the left on a spring or summer's day, or as Sansa imagined a strong wind was like, at least, since they seldom had had it in the capital ever since she was just a little girl. Ser Bryce began from his side, pouncing into action and becoming thunderously on his great dark brown destrier, his house sigil's cloak fladdering like a flock of true nightingales behind him to the right.
Ser Loras swept down the tracks/[ ]] from his position at the northwestern part of the stadium/[ grounds] to meet Ser Bryce coming up from the southeast, by the castle's side. Sansa imagined Ser Loras guarding her father's home castle and Moat Cailin from an intrusion of Stormlanders coming up all the way from the Dornish Marches to the [southeast/southwest] where House Caron was from.
...
Although she still did not think that she would like to live in the North, not truly, only to visit perhaps. Especially not in winter time, the Seven forbid it. Her father's house words were a warning, and she heeded them well and knew that she was right to fear the winter, as her father had said many times before. She would suppose that the climate in her mother's lands, the Riverlands, would agree with her more, but just now she was most of all thinking of going with Ser Loras to live at Highgarden. That would be most wonderful of all.
She could barely believe that her father had not let her go there to visit yet, even though Lord Mace and Lady Olenna had extended an invitation to them only a half-year back. When you are older, he had said. Sansa still wondered how much older he had meant. The only thing keeping her from thinking even more fondly of Highgarden was the knowledge that it would likely be even warmer there than in King's Landing. But Lady Margaery had insisted to her before when they spoke that one time that that was certainly not the case. The trees and great hedges shielded it from the worst of the sun's heat, making it pleasant and enjoyable, and since it was up on a hill and also so far away from the coastline, and being swept by the breezy modest green winds of the Reach, it was also somewhat cooler than the very warm King's Landing, which was warmed up by a current of warm water coming all the way from Essos and ending just on the southern shores of the Kingswood. Grand Maester Pycelle had told her that just last year.
More than that, perhaps if her father was true in his judgement, which he almost always in otherfaring matters was, the climate for her and Ser Loras would be perfect once they finally came together and she could go with him in another six moons or a year. It would be the start of autumn then, perhaps, Grand Maester Pycelle had said. Yes. If she could control herself and her longing for that time...
...
Ser Loras swept forward with his white filly on the tracks, the girl's hooves dundering almost invisibly fast and gracefully across the brown dirt of the runway, as Ser Bryce dundered much heavier to the right, also magnificently, but only almost as well as Ser Loras. Ser Bryce was better with the sword and shield than he was on horseback, Sansa thought to herself as he had done before.
The match was over soon enough, as Ser Loras managed an elegant maneouver and knocked Ser Bryce off his horse. Everyone clapped, and Sansa smiled inside herself as she saw Ser Loras graciously extending his arm to help Ser Bryce up from the ground. There was still chivalry in this world, despite what some people said.
...
The herald called out for the day's second match, between Ser Flement Brax and Jon Fossoway.
Ser Flement Brax was still as decorated as ever in his purple and silver armour, a silver unicorn horn standing straight up in defiance from his helm and a flamboyant purple feather plume streaming from the back of the crest like a unicorn's mane. He looked strong and old, but tired.
Ser Jon Fossoway was looking far less decorated, yet swift and handsomely alert. His shield displayed the green apple of Fossoway, and his slender yet silver adorned armour was ribbed and plated in all the right places, Sansa could see. She hoped for him to outshine the gaudy Ser Brax. His eyes looked alert, keen on winning. His feather streamed from his helm, light green and fair.
The two knights each rode to one side, Jon Fossoway to the left and Ser Flement to the right, as the herald prepared to give the instructions for them to start the tilt.
"On your marks! … Get set! Ready... Charge!"
Ser Jon Fossoway tramped off from the ground, his fuxen bright hungsteed galloping fast and hard, with the determination of unfangled youth, as he drove forth with a power swifter than any. Ser Flement Brax took a longer time to warm up into action, as his great brown destrier steed did it best to come into faster movement with all of its [bard/[ ]] hanging down on it like a [ ].
Ser Flement's massively elaborate and decorative unicorn armour kept him steadfastly anchored to the saddle of his destrier, as the far lighter armoured Jon Fossoway flew like an apple twig off his horse and landed squarely in the brown dirt some six or seven feet away.
"Now there is an apple in the dirt! Now there is a nice green apple gone into the dirt!" Moon Boy screamed out from somewhere to Father's right, down by the bottom row of the pavilion, and Sansa heard Arya laughing her horse-like laugh straight out of her mouth and nose at the same time, as even Lady Haelda giggled slightly for once.
Jeyne found it amusing as well, and Wynafryda. Even Sansa had to smile somewhat then, though she had been rooting for Ser Jon in truth.
…
After that, however, Jon Fossoway won haphazardly over Ser [Gordon?] of the Red Keep – her royal father's elderly ward and long-term guest – Ser Bryce went up against Renly, managing a narrow win, Bronze Yohn knocked down Aenys Frey, Ser Barristan gave a well-deserved crashing blow to the Lannisters' haughty Ser Clydeon, and Ser Loras went up against Ser Haygorne of Felwood, a lowborn hedge knight from the Stormlands who had managed to greatly overshine his status. But he could not win against the Knight of Flowers, it soon turned out, and so his winning streak ended then and there, as his skinny greyish white palfrey neighed and shied itself away from the commotion and Ser [ ] himself made a final standoff but was beaten with sword in hand as well.
Finally, it came down to Bronze Yohn, Ser Loras, Lord Robert and, as always, Ser Barristan.
When the fighting was over, and Lord Robert had crowned his wife Lady Cerynna the Queen of Love and Beauty, to her Father the King's curiously watchful yet approving eyes, Sansa carefully adjusted her dress so that it would angle better to the left of her, and bid Jeyne discreetly to move aside only slightly, with her being quick to take the hint, as she and Ser Loras began speaking in most cordial terms. As the second-in-place for winner of the tourney, he was invited up onto the dais, and there they sat speaking and enjoying the dinner together for the rest of the evening and early night.
Father would most like want to retreat early, Sansa thought, but in order to not give offense to Lord Tywin, nor indeed to his old friend Lord Robert, who always wanted to feast and celebrate throughout the entire afternoon and late into the night, he dreyed himself on, for once the King had left, or possibly the Hand, the tourney was over.
Lord Robert, ever the great and brutishly strong Lord of Storm's End, had beaten Ser Loras' lance, and possibly some other parts of him as well, Sansa worried, as the great beast of a man shouted out in triumph and stretched his lance into the air, roaring with laughter. Many clapped, but the lords and ladies of the Reach looked on Loras worriedly for a while, and even Father stretched an anticipatory look to the Knight of Flowers' way, before he finally arose from the dust, brushing himself off with a look of only slight discontentment, and raised up his hand to indicate that he was not hurt. Robert came up to him then, giving him a hearty clap on the back and laughing, declaring him a true fighter, despite his young age.
The crowd roared then, both in favour of the great Lord Robert Baratheon, and to the young Knight of Flowers, for his fortitude in dealing with Lord Robert's blows.
He got up to the pavilion, after being taken care of slightly by his maester and his father and mother, Lord Mace and Lady Alerie. His sister Margaery gave him a kiss and hugged him as well, before he came up to the pavilion to sit slightly exhausted yet happy and relieved by Sansa's side.
"You rode brilliantly, Ser Loras. I see that your practice with your brothers has worked out.", Sansa said.
"I thank you most humbly, my Princess", Ser Loras smiled handsomely as his brown locks fluttered effortlessly over the cravatte of his collar. "It's the luck of your royal favour."
...
Ser Loras smiled handsomely as his brown locks fluttered effortlessly over the cravatte of his collar. "Garlan does help me a great deal. Although I dare say that it's the luck brought about by your grace's royal favour as well."
Sansa smiled gracefully at the compliment.
She could see Joffrey seething with silent envy from across the pavilion, by Lord Tywin's side, but she did her best to ignore him. Bastards ought not be sullen, nor to believe themselves above their station, be they legitimised or not, Septa Mordane had told her many times before. Joffrey could easily learn his lesson about being more polite and becoming if he was to prove himself a lord of Casterly Rock, Sansa thought, or indeed her suitor.
Ser Loras went on, speaking to her in the most gallant terms, as she allowed herself to became entangled by the sight of his golden brown locks, lazily curling up on his green and gold-clad elbows. His noble gold brown eyes spoke tender feelings of adoration to her heart, and his skin was gleaming in the sunlight, his complexion southron yet fair, with tiny brown freckles here and there. He was only moderately sweaty after the fight, Sansa thought to herself, whereas Bronze Yohn was looking red and flustered from exhaustion after the many tilts of the day.
A hundred lords and ladies looked surely on as they conversed on even footing with eachother, Princess Sansa Stark, the Red Rose of the Red Keep, as she had been briefly called by Symeon Silver-Tongue at least, and Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers. [
Loras continued speaking to her, on the most gallant of terms.
"I have so looked forward to being able to see you again, my Princess. And so has my sister, and father, and my grandmother as well." He let out a slight embarrassed chuckle. Sansa thought it sweet.
She already knew about Lady Olenna Redwyne, of course, though she had only met her once. Septa Mordane had told her most of what there was to know, and Wynafryda and Marla had filled in the rest. The Queen of Thorns, she was called, for her sardonic thorny tongue and wit, but Sansa had no doubt in her mind that she would be nice enough to her at least. They all seemed to want a marriage. And surely, who could blame them? And what better match could she hope to find than Ser Loras Tyrell? If not Joffrey, then... But Joffrey was baseborn, and stupid at times..., and annoying as well.
She had been in love with him for almost their entire trip to Winterfell and back, if not for anything else, then surely for there not being anyone else present to fall in love with, and for that it had certainly been an awfully long and eventful journey, a smaller life journey almost, so large and significant for her omvelverly young and expanding life that it was hardly possible to call it by the meagery word of 'trip' – it began to feel almost like a quarter of her life at times, for all of the things that had happened there,
for it had been almost as if her life had suddenly opened unto reality and the realm and all of its wonders for the very first or possibly second time that she had ever truly felt free...,
and then the long and swaying journey up North where her and Arya had become better friends, and how they had spoken, and told eachother stories and giggled together during those strange eerie dark full moon nights at the Neck...,
and then meeting Uncle Benjen and Lady Cersei, and learning the Northern dances and meeting all the people at Winterfell, and Bran, still poor poor Brandon and Mother and Rickon who still remained there as well... yes, all of those wonderful and sad things that had happened throughout their long long journey, and for all of that time, almost at least, she had been ablushing for the recently made and until recently to her unbeknownst handsome golden Lord Joffrey, her golden lordling prince – but for every further day she spent back in the capital again, back home here at the Red Keep, she began to realize how many other options she had, and how much the young legitimized lord of Casterly Rock as of yet lacked. Yes... That was surely what she had realized now.
Ser Loras, however... Well... She did still like Joffrey, somewhat, she supposed,but Loras was chivalry himself. And his golden brown eyes... Joffrey had beautiful eyes as well, gleaming green, but Loras... Surely Loras's eyes were just something marvellous, such a comforting sight to behold that she thought that she might drown in the warm lazy summer puddle of them...
No, but Joffrey, again, on the other hand... Sansa thought, remembering once again with reintensified sudden recollection of a memory, how she had first fallen in love with the sight of him for true when he stood there at the breakfast table with the light shining in through the door as he asked her if she wanted to go for a promenade with her around the woods of the Trident. Yes...
Oh, but then there had been the terrible grievous fight with Arya and her stupid wolf, Nymeria, and Joffrey had screamed at her, something which a lord husband ought surely never ever do to his lady wife, and most certainly not while courting her, and most certainly not ever a bastard lord to his princess...
After that he had become nice again... But still... She was not sure how she felt. His eyes would always glint beautifully at her, handsomely even.
Oh but then again Ser Loras and his golden eyes... Sansa felt close to melting at the thought of it once again...
...
"All things in good time", her royal Father had said, the one single time she had asked him. She was only eleven still, not even twelve as of another couple moons. "I will not broker any type of betrothal of your hand, nor even speak on the matter until you are come a goodly fourteen years of age. Your Mother would agree."
So he had said, and Sansa had been forced to agree and understand.
"Fourteen?" She had said, only once, as a first and last attempt to her father's long, stern, icy and kingly face. "But that's an eternity away! I cannot possibly wait that long! How am I to wait that long? How is anyone to wait for that long?"
"You will have to manage. Else speak to your Mother when she returns."
"And when is that?" Sansa had said. "She promised that she would be back soon. She did..."
And then she had begun sobbing, longing for her lady Mother. And Septa Mordane had held her, and did her best to comfort her, while her father softened slightly in his tone and did his best to hold her and stroke her hair as well. Only with those tears had she managed to convince him to let her give out favours for the tourney of the Hand at all. Only through that did she find a way to give one to Loras.
...
"You have two older brothers, do you not, Ser Loras?" Sansa got out of her at last. Her thinking was almost getting to the better of her, but she must certainly make sure to entertain Ser Loras, be he her suitor or merely her subject.
"I do, my Princess.", Ser Loras replied in his warm tone of voice. His voice was ever so warm and soft.
"Ser Willas and Ser Garlan", Sansa said decidedly. It was not a question. She remembered well from Pycelle's lessons. "Are they not here with you today?"
"I'm afraid not", Ser Loras admitted. "Garlan did not wish to enter the lists, in order not to best me, in truth", he said, almost abashedly, "he is the best sword in the family, even if I'm the better lance."
He continued. "...and Willas rarely leaves Highgarden for any purpose, least of all jousting."
He became sad then, all of a sudden.
Sansa angled herself to speak more fondly to him once again,
"I understand that he entered a competition when he was very young?"
"Yes", Loras inclined, nodding thankfully for that she had explained it for the both of them, thus bringing some of the tension of it away. "He got a slash by his opponent and [ ]."
Oberyn Martell, the younger brother of Prince Doran Martell, and uncle to Quentyn... Sansa had heard the ravishing and tragic story by Wynafryda, and she still remembered it all too well.
...
After a while, as the sun was slowly parading over the sky's horizon, above the green lush verdure of the trees in the distance, it came time for the feast and the various speeches in the Hand's honour.
Servants from all the way back at the Red Keep came the long way, some hundreds of feet's marching, carrying great tables of carrot cakes, cornucopias of leaks, gourds, honeyed turnips, parsnips and onions, fried duck with honey and red peppers, salmon, pigeon pie and much more. Great tables were assembled and sat up before them, as Ser Loras angled his head back to his lord father, who sat still to the left but inclined that he might as well stay on at the King's table if he so wanted. Father looked to allow it as well, and Sansa and Loras both smiled in confidement.
A trumpet sounded, a herald declared the occasion and King Eddard Stark waited for silence before speaking. The entire crowd became hushed.
"My lords, my ladies... My people, from King's Landing and from all across the Seven Kingdoms... I, King Eddard of House Stark, First of my name, Lord Protector of the Realm and Shield of my People, do solemnly proclaim my new Hand to be chosen on this day, the 223rd in the year of 298 after the Conquest of King Aegon.
It is with a deep alware, and yet with gratitude, that we salute the passing of the former Hand, Lord Jon Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale and the Warden of the East, who served and guided me and the realm for fourteen long years, and hereby welcome Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, the Warden of the West, to serve as my Hand in the coming years forward. I trust that he will serve faithfully, and may the realm prosper from our efforts.
In the light of the old gods and the new, may a new Hand be chosen for my reign. May he serve me through the coming end of summer, and all through winter, until we see the light of spring again. May he serve me justly, may he help me rule wisely, may he bring fortune to my folk. I thank you."
There was a moment of silence, as Lord Tywin bowed sincerely before the King's words, his eyes closed and his globed bald head glistening in the late afternoon sun, and the massive gathered crowd in all of their motley colors gave time to reflect on the king's snowy white words. And then, just as magic, King Eddard lifted his hand and the sound of the trumpet exploded into a roarous cheerful wave of applause for the new Hand.
"To the new Hand of the King is named: Lord Tywin of House Lannister!" The herald cried out.
The crowd roared in cheerful celebration, the trumpets blared, and twenty white pigeons of peace and twenty fat yellow tawny partridges of prosperity were released out onto the tourney grounds for the common people to take hold of if they could. The stands erupted into jubilee, as any number of smallfolk ran up to try and get at the ripest partridges before they fluttered away from their grubby hands. The servants from the courtyard did their best to empty out the cages before they flew away.
Sansa felt sorry for the birds, who would soon be snatched up and made into food, but she knew the importance of the tradition held weight. It was the equal to feeding his subjects with bread for her royal father's reign. And did the commoners ever cheer more loudly than this...
"Lord Tywin!", "The Hand!" and "Good King Ned!" they shouted with broad smiles, as Sansa did her best to graciously cover her ears from the screams, and Septa Mordane almost had a heart attack as a spurting partridge made a fluttering leap above her to plant a swift shit on Lord Rosby's head.
"A crown of white! A crown of white for Lord Rosby! This joy, t'is surely a good sign of prosperity for the wise Master of Coin!" Moon Boy shot out, and the pavilion erupted in red laudor yet once again, as Lord Robert, Renly, Ser Bryce, Robb, Gerion Buckwell and dozens more howled with laughter.
Lord Rosby coughed wildly, spurting out spit and phlegm and the usual blood, and trying to rid himself of the other birds who soon came flocking to him as well, all of them trying to get a grip of his sugared wheatlength held cramp-achingly in his wrinkly, sleeved hand.
"Shoo! Cough!* Shoo, ye' beastly flackards!" He shoted as loud as he could between his coughs.
Robb, Gerion and Matthys Cassel all howled even louder, reeling to their guts in laughter to it all.
Lord Tywin, however, was less than enthused, as he drank slowly from his goblet of red wine, watching the red spectacle from afar.
Father looked equally cool as well, his frosty, kingly face ever still, if not worried and filled with alware unto his heart's depths.
Sansa reminded herself to pray to the gods tomorrow for the welfare of her royal father's reign. She would go and pray to both the old gods and the new, to the godswood and to the Sept of Baelor. But just now, however, Ser Loras Tyrell was seated next to her, and so she allowed herself a glass of red sweet wine from the Reach, and then allowed herself to drown just ever so slightly in Loras's eyes."