JOFFREY IV
"The sun was shining bright, almost too bright for Joffrey Lannister's taste, hitting him in the eye as the tune of the gaudy bard sung to high heavens for all his worth.
Hey brother, there's an endless road to rediscover... Hey sister, 'know the water's sweet but blood is thicker... Ooooh, if the Wall comes tumbling down... For you... there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do...
The singer plucked his three cords, clinking like magic. Dun, dun, duuun...
What if I'm far from home? Oh brother, I will hear you call... What if I lose it all? Oh sister, I will help you, and... Oooooh, if the sky comes falling down... For you... there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do...
Joffrey had liked the song at first, even adored it, though it made him slightly nauseous to think about. He hated it, he hated the strong piercing allure and queasy tune it had, but all the same it had a certain absurd admirable quality of ravishing greatness to it which he could not help but feeling something to. Now, however, after what seemed like the fourth unasked-for round, as the singer carried on and carried on, to the sighing and fluttering gaze of Princess Sansa, he was beginning to sour inside his stomach of the bragging Tim the Winner and his gaudy painted lute.
Bloody bastard... I will get him, he thought. I'll talk to the King himself and get the girls from the Gold Road to sing on the next tourney. My uncle can help see to that.
At least they would surely not rouse the Princess's interest. The way she was looking at each and every lowborn knight and singer apart from him made him physically sick. Evil. Mad. Aye.
I will show them. I will show them all. I will take up this blasted sword from my scabbard, slash it right across my loathsome lord father's neck and then onto Tim the Winner and all the rest of them. And the Flower Knight, him most of all. Ser Loras Tyrell. … Ser Lock-hair Tushy-smell...
His uncle had told him of his biggest adversary already long before, but he had not had the slightest notion of the curly-haired froll being so good with a sword as he apparently was. He looked far too pretty to be fighting anything or anyone. A rose in human clothing. Not like bloody Buckwell, the ugly brute of a Crownlands oaf. He at least had the resemblance of a decent fighter, Joffrey thought.
Next to them and the King, a bit further to the right in the pavilion, was Lord Robert Baratheon, whom he and Tyrion had discussed back at the castle in their chambers several days before.
His uncle Tyrion seemed to think that the Lord of Storm's End would win the jousting on account of his legendary strength, speed and stamina. Joffrey did not speak against it.
...
There were other knights as well. Knights from the Crownlands, most of all, of course, but also many from his lord father's lands. Ser Flement Brax, Ser Lyle Crakehall, the great and burly one they called Strongboar, Ser Preston Geenfield, surprisingly short yet deadly, and many others to win glory for the Westerlands.
...
"
A knight who Joffrey vaguely recognized as Ser Caron or Ser Cuy 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 came behind him, his green apple sparkling bright and his hair worn long and dark. Reachmen.
Joffrey tried his best at reading the various fluttering and excited expressions of all the other lords and ladies gathered as he gransked the various knights one after the other. He slid his green gaze left toward Sansa, who seemed to fly up from her seat when she recognized a large and burly knight from the Vale, the one calle Bronze Yohn Royce, the one who looked so pompous and noble, with his nose and eyebrows tuned together in a haughty visage, almost closing his eyes under his high wrinkled forehead, as if he was criticizing the very taste of the air. He seemed strong enough to make up for his confidence, however, large, tall and broad, with powerful arms and hands hidden under greaves and gloves, and gleaming in a strange type of bronze armour ristened with ancient First Men runes. An old friend to the king, from his days fostered at the Vale, Tyrion commented from Joffrey's right. He was one of the few who had come from the Vale to fight in the tourney since Lord Jon Arryn's death.
"Bronze Yohn! Do you think his magic runes will help him against the others?" Princess Sansa asked her friend, the Northern, plain one, with the dark hair and grey eyes, Jeyne Poole.
"I don't know", Jeyne Poole replied, in her usual simple-minded northern tongue.
"I am most certain that they will. They are thousands of years old", Sansa said smitteningly.
"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 smiled from where he sat, beaming with his best charming looks.
She finally glanced to her right to look at him. He smiled back at her, bowing down like a lordly lion at rest. Surely she would give him some sense of attention now. But she said nothing, only staring at him, as if she barely understood what he was doing there. He felt humiliated. Annoyed.
"Princess.", he said, to make the daft but pretty royal princess make some sort of reply to him.
"My lord", Sansa said coldly back, only giving him the slightest amount of attention. She acted most unladylike, most unlike a princess, in truth, as far as he had supposed that a princess would be like. He did not like it. Why am I even trying at this? He cursed her inside his mind, the pompous red wolf bitch. Then he felt the ugly gargoyle stare of Tyrion from his right, as if he had heard his thoughts.
"Temper yourself, dear nephew. There will be plenty of more time to speak with the princess", his uncle said in a voice which was as low as his stature, planted on his scarelt red cushion on the high-chair beside him to his right.
She, however, did not seem to hear any of his intrusive thoughts, or if she did, she surely did her best to ignore them, as was wont from a royal princess, and he saw her as she angled her nauseatingly blue gaze back to look at the old Bronze Yohn again.
"My lords and ladies!" the royal herald called from just in front of the stands, as Joffrey saw the king sitting straight behind her, sitting in his carved wooden throne next to Robb, Gerion, Quentyn Martell and his lord father. "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..."
He saw how princess Sansa turned to Jeyne Poole once again as the herald continued.
"Do you think Ser Loras will win the jousting?" The snippety glim-glam Tully princess said.
"Of course", her friend said, always eager to please her and give praise. "He is surely the best."
"Indeed he is", Sansa squealed with delight, clapping her lithe pale hands together.
...
Princess Sansa sighed with her loathsome girly emotions as she saw the Knight of Flowers ride up to her. Joffrey felt nauseated by his feelings for her. His stomach wanted to turn itself inside out when she saw her high cheekbones, her auburn hair and pale white skin fluttering into a delicate smile, as perfect and unnatural as any the green earth had ever seen. That her mother's family was at one time warriors was unbelievable to see, and from what he had heard her uncle Edmure could not even shoot an arrow to save his life. The Tullys... My father wants me to marry into a line of weaklings, he thought, as he had many times before.
The King, though, King Eddard Stark, was still a Northern terror through and through. He sat high up on his wooden pavilion throne, the silent Wolf King, overseeing the entire tourney to Joffrey's left, on the other side of Lord Tywin himself. His face was as frozen as the lands of the North.
And to Joffrey's immediate right, by the side of Jyck and Morrec on either side of them both, sat his uncle Tyrion, his mismatched eyes carefully analysing the playing field and making up his bets inside his mind.
"I belive Greenfield has a fair chance..." he said. "But so does Ser Flement, if I recall correctly from the latest tourney at Lannisport... He still has that ungodly schabrack of armour to steady him down. If he should go up against a thinner opponent, and his aim holds true..."
"What do you even care about betting, uncle? We are richer than any of these peasants.", Joffrey said with a sneer. "You don't have anything to win unless you are betting against the King or Lord Tyrell. And I don't see you going up towards them any time soon."
His uncle regarded him with one green and one black eye, his great massively jutting forehead a disgusting mass of all wrinkled brows, his slight fall of lanky fell hair a tuft of wheat to cover it all.
"You know what, dear nephew? Perhaps you are right. I shall go and ask Lord Tyrell if he's up for a merry little wager."
Joffrey immediately became annoyed as he saw his dward uncle shifting his stand from the high chair with the scarlet and golden cushion that he sat propped up on, and as he hindered a helpful hand from Morrec to help him down. He always wanted to do everything himself, these days, it seemed, even though he looked more a fool for that. His little putty black boots thumped down on the wooden floor of the pavilion, as Joffrey turned his head away with a loathsome sigh and did his best to not let his gaze meet that of the King to his left.
He turned his gaze to Lady Wynafryda and Jeyne Poole instead, wondering what poisonous conspiracies they whispered into the ear of his princess for a thousandth time.
At least the Princess had not brought her wolf to the Tourney. Lady, he had to remind himself. Yes. The beast was mellow enough, but it was still a fell animal, the same as her vile sister's had been. For the moment the two remaining direwolves, those of Prince Robb and Princess Sansa, were chained up in the small hage by the godswood, Joffrey had heard, and he was thankful for it. There were enough enemies for him gathered here at the tourney without having to keep track of a blood-thirsty wolf in the midst of it all as well.
If he had only been allowed to compete, he might have stood a chance of tramping down some of them, Joffrey thought. But alas that had not become the case, now it seemed.
His lord father had caught on to the ruse of buying his armour at the Street of Steel. Only a fool would have sent [Jyck? ] out to Tobho Mott's shop, as Tyrion had later commented, but Joffrey saw no use in going for armour which was less than the best for a Lannister of the Rock. It was only bad luck that his lord father's soldiers had gone there less than an hour later and found out about the entire affair, swiftly stopping any transfer of gold from the coffers of Casterly Rock to Master Mott.
You will not be allowed to shame yourself and our house before I know that you can win, he had said again. Joffrey peetered and seethed from the words still now. I will show you... I will show all the bloody lot of you the next tourney... I will cleave Buckwell's head from his shoulders and send it flying across the tourney grounds. I'll have it land on the bloody spikes of Maegor's Holdfast, you'll see. You will all see next time... I will show you... I'll beat him. Just like uncle Jaime would have done...
The herald called out for the skill performance introductions of the freeriders, just as his uncle made his way back to their part of the stands with a smile emanating on his squatted brow and mouth.
"That should help us further our coffers a little more", Tyrion said. "Mace Tyrell will apparently believe anything."
"What do you mean? What did you bet on, uncle?"
"I bet two hundred golden dragons... " He said, as he took a sturdy grip on the highchair and climbed all his way up with an unnerving amount of struggling, "that Bryce Caron would win against Ser Loras in the first joust."
Joffrey made a face.
"So? Is this Ser Bryce any good? Have you seen him jousting before?"
"From what I've seen here at the practice some days past, he can certainly hold his own", Tyrion said with a shrug. "That, however, is not the main issue here."
Joffrey became annoyed again. Tyrion was always trying to draw him into his riddle-like talk.
"Then what is?"
"Family loyalty." He took a sip of his wine goblet, looking awfully satisfied and smug. "I should thank the gods that my lord father didn't allow you to compete. I am most certain that I would have lost either a large amount of gold, or the reputation of our house loyalty towards eachother if you did."
Joffrey became seething with anger now.
"You could barely climb up to your chair on your own, dwarf. And you claim to mock me? I will show all of them in the next tourney. I could do it right now if I had only been...-"
"Take easy, nephew. It was not your own abilities I was speaking of. Lacking as they may be. I was referring to the pride that Lord Mace has over his son Ser Loras."
Joffrey did not understand.
"What do you mean?" he said, his tone suspicious.
Tyrion answered with his usual back-tilted ease, as he surveyed the green tourney field in front of them, while the freeriders from the Westerlands, the Stormlands and the Crownlands all pranced up and down the lists in front of them, strutting their horses' hooves, giving instructions to their pimply-faced squires and making sure their armour was fastened properly, and one Dornish one made to prepare himself somewhere far to the left of the stands.
"I mean, dear nephew... That its is a father's duty to always bet upon the sons of his own house. And regardless of how great with the lance Ser Loras is, I do not believe he has a chance of winning against all of his opponents in this particular tourney." Tyrion made a face, wrinkling his brows.
"He is good, I grant you. Perhaps even better with the lance than Jaime was at his age, even. I am sure that he could knock out most of the competition in the Reach, and perhaps even in the Westerlands, if Ser Flement makes a mistake. But... Talent is not everything. Strength is as just as much, even with the lance. Our dear friend Lord Robert will break the boy, I am sure. And yet Mace Tyrell will have no choice but to bet on his son either way, for all the good it does him. And so... the thunder of the great storm will ravage down upon the flowery rose. A pity, in truth. He does have great potential, the knight of flowers."
Tyrion shrugged again.
Joffrey turned completely to face his uncle, as he heard the Dornish pipers begin their strangled hawdling half a world away to the left of their lord father, the King, Prince Robb, Buckwell, Princess Sansa, her ladies-in-waiting, her fat septa and all the rest. Behind them sat Uncle Kevan, aunt Dorna, his cousin Lancel and all of the others. They had come for the tourney all the way from the Rock, and would soon return, he supposed without knowing.
"You are certain that he will win?" Joffrey whispered as loud as he could, turning towards his uncle's locks of hair that only almost covered his ugly pink ear in a fell of light blonde.
"One can never be completely certain. But yes, in a proper joust, or indeed even more so in a proper fight, the man is unbeatable. It is a small miracle that he has not competed in more tourneys of late, but I suppose that he holds himself close around his keep and the capital, with his friend the king. Though he was at Cider Hall some years back, if I recall correctly... "
...
Ser Bryce dusted himself off, gave a slight dissatisfied look, but then arose to nod and bow in courteous acknowledgement at Ser Loras. The two seemed to be friends from before, after all. Pasker had said as much before, and made a crude jape about it as well.
"Well then, uncle", he said. "Lord Tyrell won an easy match by betting on his son, it would seem."
"More fool he", Tyrion replied. "Now he has gained the groundwork. He will believe me to be a bad betting man. I will continue to place bets against Ser Loras, in every match he is in, and every time he is like to win, making me lose my money, and giving Lord Mace a bigger and bigger belief in his greatness and my fallability in the wagers. Then, finally, when he is to go up against the enormous Robert Baratheon, and when I suddenly higher the stakes by raising the gold of the wager ten-fold, he will have no choice but to accept the wager – and to believe that the boy can win as well. And then our dear friend Lord Robert will surely do the rest."
Joffrey looked upon his uncle, a sudden sense of reluctant admiration growing deep within his mind.
"...If he does indeed go up against him", he only managed.
"Oh, he will", Tyrion assured. "They will dominate the lists, the both of them. Be so sure of it."
And right his uncle was. Both Ser Loras and Lord Robert tore down foe after foe, Ser Loras relying on his lightning quick and well-aimed horsemanship and lancemanship, and Robert relying on both his enormous strength, bravery and a surprisingly quick and skilled lancemanship as well.
"They did not call him the Demon of the Trident for nothing", Tyrion commented, goblet in hand.
"He is devilishly quick and strong", Jyck admitted with admiration clear in his voice.
"Aye", Ser Clydeon said reluctantly from the ground on the other side of the wooden fence of the pavilion, his helmet in hand, and face dripping with sweat. "And he's got a stomach to match."
"Stomach or no, he moves in the armor like he was born for it", Tyrion said. "I have never seen a man of his size be so agile. Although perhaps I should have well expected it. I do a decent job of that myself...", he doted off.
"What about Strongboar?" Joffrey suggested. He was the biggest knight of the Westerlands that he could think of at the moment, apart from the Hound, Sandor Clegane, who served up at Winterfell.
"Ser Lyle? That one has as much grace as a... Well... a boar, to be truthful to his name", Jyck said.
His uncle seemed to agree as he sipped on the wine from his goblet. Joffrey took a swallow from his as well, savouring the taste of bittersweet red and sour something.
...
After Ser Loras's match with Ser Bryce came Ser Flement Brax of Hornvale against Jon Fossoway of the Green Apple Fossoways in The Reach.
Ser Flement had his usual decorated unicorn armor, the beastly ungainly [shauberk] of a thing, but his uncle seemed to think that it would work in his favour, as it often had before. Joffrey had met Ser Flement once or twice before while he was visiting at The Rock, once in a tourney and then including on his legitimisation ceremony only the past two or three moons before, but he had not seen enough to be certain of the famed unicorn knight's abilities.
As it turned out, however, Tyrion was right once more. Ser Flement took a great aroumway about the track to put himself in place as far back as possibly allowed, just by the end of the sand and dirt of the trackway square, giving him a long and ample way forward to have time to speed up on, and speed up he certainly did.
Ser Jon Fossoway started early, the cheater. Joffrey could see it from far to the left of his eye's edge. But Ser Flement Brax, their fellow westerman, was still powerful enough to catch up.
Just as the herald called, Ser Brax's large destrier horse tramped off against the dirt, its heavy hooves taking pace to force its way forward with all the momentum the great abaukery of an equipage could muster, and Joffrey watched as the silver and purple knight's purple feathery plumage swayed and fladdered in the green breeze of the bright windy summer day, armour rocking and clanking, horse mank heaving, lance and shield slowly ascending in the sprawling anticipation for the blow.
The two knights came together. Ser Flement Brax struck Ser Jon Fossoway on the edge of his shield and then immediately afterwards on his elbow and arm, crashing into him so powerfully that Fossoway flew to the side, his own lance barely having time to scrape at the air in front of Brax's.
Jon Fossoway flew back, his green and silvery white apple armour seemingly light as parchments, as he went some four or five feet away and landed almost behind the cover of his horse.
"Now there is an apple in the dirt! Now there is a nice green apple gone into the dirt!" the royal court jester Moon Boy screamed out from the bottom row in front of them to the left, below his lord father and King Eddard's left, down by the bottom row of the pavilion, where the wild princess Arya and all of their ladies-in-waiting sat trodded up. They all laughed at the idiotic jape, of course, and the young wolf bitch, Arya, snorting loudly with her nose. Girls and she-wolves and fools...
...
His uncle Tyrion soon explained the rules to him once again. The herald had already done so during the beginning of the match, but Tyrion's enriching explanation came unbidden nonetheless, while the squires and various stableboys and servants were doing their best to cratse the [ ] clean for the next round. Joffrey did his best to listen while pretending to be sufficiently uninterested.
King Eddard, ever honourable just as his old foster father Lord Arryn, had imposed the infamously strict jousting rules of the Eyrie upon the tournament, meaning higher negative points for foul play or [ ]. Having one's lance too far lowered, striking at the lower stomach or groin area, was three points minus instead of the simple one point minus that the rules held at the Rock. The same held true for striking too far up, at the helmet, as well as for deliberately slowing down the horse during the strike to give oneself more time to aim. There were some who thought that the wolf king's rules were taking all of the fun out of the games, but those were mostly dissatisfied mumbles from foolish petty lords. A lion did not concern himself with such trivial matters, Lord Tywin had declared when he heard of it several days before. The important thing was who won the match, not the score itself.
Whatever the importance of the rule system, the judge over it, in charge of overseeing the matches and handing out points, was the knight marshal, and his two line marshals, one on either side of the [ ]. The knight marshal in the royal capital was usually a member of the Kingsguard, and indeed so this time Ser Marlon Manderly held the title and the score. The two line marshals were Ser Aron Santagar, the master-at-arms of the Red Keep, to the right, and Ser [ ] of [ ], to the left. The king could overturn decisions, however, and decide on ties, but generally did so sparingly.
...
As for the system of the alignment of jousters, Tyrion continued, there were [twenty-four?] knights participating, all parted into four groups with [four? eight? six?] each and [6? 24? 28?] matches.
There were [sixteen? Twenty-four? Thirty-two?] knights participating/competing, all parted into four starting group with [six?] knights each and [36? thirty-six?] matches total in each group.
The knights in each group drew straws about who would be facing who. Each knight had three matches to prove his valor. That way, noone could tell before who would be going up against one of the stronger or more experienced knights, like Ser Flement, Ser Barristan or Robert Baratheon. It was as fair a system as men could device at the present moment, Tyrion said shrugging his arms.
…
…
"After that, however, it was time for the third match of the day. Bronze Yohn against Ser Aenys Frey.
Ser Aenys Frey stood to the left, away with all the rest of his kin in the Freys, a mustachioed leek in a hogwash of dark blue and grey of their flags flapping. Bronze Yohn stood preparing with his horse calmly looking the way of the crowd, while his squire prepared his gorget and fastened his saddle straps and else.
Ser Aenys Frey and Bronze Yohn Royce rode hard at each other, and the sharp-sighted Aenys got in a near perfect balanced hit with his lance, but Bronze Yohn weathered the blow and gave back his own, clanking into his thinner opponent and cracking his shield. For that, he was awarded the win of the match.
...
The fourth match, in the fourth and final starting group of knights, was between the great Barristan the Bold himself and Ser Clydeon.
Ser Clydeon trotted up to the pavilion again on his pale white flaxen destrier and bowed deep before Lord Tywin.
"My lord", he said. "I pray that I will bring further glory to your house on this day with my lance."
Lord Tywin only bowed slightly in acknowledgement, saying little. His green eyes shone, flecked with gold in the sunlight of the early day.
Ser Clydeon continued back a few paces again, his fair filly horse walking elegantly backwards and giving a slight domesticated grumph. He turned to Tyrion.
"Good luck, Clyd. I pray that you will show Barristan the Bold the true might of the west. And if you should not, well... I have certainly enjoyed your company."
"Any particular advice, my lord? "
"Don't get too close... Don't fall off your horse... Don't lose...?".
"Don't worry, Barristan the Old will fall before me like a wheat selmy before the scythe.", Ser Clydeon proclaimed with a haughty tone.
His dwarf uncle looked appropriately sceptical of the empty bravadery.
"And yet another bag of Lannister gold to the Fat Flower of Highgarden... " he mused. "At least you have a fine horse, fine enough to lead you to the sicktent afterwards.
"Aye, she is fine, all right. As fine a horse as ever was bred."
It was at the very least close to being the truth. Ser Clydeon held enormous pride and esteem for his horse, and very well should he. She was a fine flaxen white-haired filly of the highest breed, tall, elegant and powerful, with beautiful pliring eyes, a milk-pale mule that seemed as soft as its color, and an impeccable gait. She was almost finer than Joffrey's own horse, and he envied it now.
"How is the old girl?" Tyrion wondered.
"Younger than you, and finer than ever", Ser Clydeon said, as he tensed up a bit. Then he spat on the ground to his side. Tyrion smiled.
"When did she last eat?"
"Properly yesterday afternoon. Just smallfeed this morning."
"Very good."
The best knights made sure to have their horses well and full properly watered, but only slightly underfed for the jousting day. It made them lighter, faster and more concentrated, as their blood ran thin and concentrated with ire and a sense of purpose. Joffrey knew all of this. The stablemaster at the Rock, Hannibal, had told him of it long ago, when he was only eight years old.
"Is she all kratsed and done?"
"As well as my bone-headed squire could manage", Ser Clydeon snarled.
Tyrion smiled once more. "Good. Then I wish you good fortune with the lance. Break a lance of the Bold and show him fortitude."
"My lord", Ser Clydeon mumbled, as he shut his helm together and rode away to the [ ].
"Why did you mock him so?" Joffrey said.
"To rile him up", he said simply. "He's going to need all the anger in him if he's to have any chance going against Barristan the Bold. Wouldn't you agree?"
Joffrey said nothing, as the herald stood up on his wooden stump again and the king made a sign to the joust orchestrator, who in turn waved to the four men playing the trumpet.
"Ser Clydeon Westerling against Ser Barristan the Bold of House Selmy, Kingsguard to His Grace King Eddard of House Stark", the herald cried out.
Joffrey knew that he should [route/root/[ ]] for their own Ser Clydeon, especially as he thought that Ser Barristan Selmy looked altogether too old and tired to be of any consequence in the joust, but when the legendary white-haired old knight rode on his destrier, he conjured up an enormous power and struck Ser Clydeon as deftly as a man half his age, or in any possible prime, could. Joffrey applauded the legendary knight, as he saw his lord father do, clapping with his hands together, albeit sparingly.
...
After that it was time for the first group again, and the second round of matches. Ser Bryce Caron went up against Renly Baratheon, managing a narrow win, and
Then the second group again. Jon Fossoway won haphazardly this time, over Ser Gylbert of the Red Keep – the king's old scrutty ward and long-term guest,. Joffrey almost pitied the old poor Crownlands knight, who was surely at least ten years older than his lord father and with no keep of his own to retreat to before the coming winter, having gotten it destroyed in a fire some years back.
Ser Hobber Redwyne met Ser Preston Greenfield of the Westerlands. Joffrey, Pasker, Jyck and the others all cheered for their countryman, while Tyrion and his lord father both looked intently on either side of him. Neither knight hit the other in the first pass, however, with both of them aiming too far to the sides, making the audience of smallfolk on the far side turn into a confused booing and nervous laughter for a minute or two, while Ser Hobber removed his helm and looked to be sweating redly, and Ser Preston on their side did the same, spitting with contempt at the ground and preparing himself for another attempt. They rode up again, with Ser Preston doing a much better job with his lance this time, and thankfully winning a hit for their homeland. Jyck roared out at the top of his lungs in victory, and Lord Tywin put together his hands and clapped in a moderately satisfied way for the first time since the joust had started. Tyrion raised his wine chalice at Ser Preston, congratulating him. The knight removed his helm and nodded, first at Lord Tywin, and then merely cursorially glancing and bowing the slightest at Joffrey and Tyrion.
"He is ambitious enough, I will say that much", Tyrion commented. "If only Strongboar does not put him out of his ardency with a deftly placed morning star."
After that, Loras Tyrell went up against Ser Haygorne of Felwood, some 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 Haygorne himself made a final standoff but was beaten with sword in hand as well.
Ser Gylbert of the Red Keep had just gotten his composure back, being tended to by his squires before climbing slowly back into the saddle, and then Ser Flement knocked him off his horse easily as well. Joffrey almost pitied the old poor Crownlands knight, who was surely at least ten years older than his lord father and with no keep of his own to retreat to before the coming winter, having gotten it destroyed in a fire some years back.
–
Ser Barristan gave a crashing blow to Ser Clydeon, and Ser Loras went up against Ser Haygorne of Felwood, some 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 Haygorne himself made a final standoff but was beaten with sword in hand as well.
Tyrion made sure to bet on Ser Haygorne against Loras, as he once again went over to Lord Mace Tyrell, walking the wobbly way on his stunted legs, his gold purse clinking merrily with each step. Joffrey looked on and laughed, but hoped somehow that his uncle was right in upholding his strategy with the bets. Lord Mace accepted the wager, he saw from afar, and his fryntly bearded face smiled serenely as he raised a goblet of Arbor red wine to cement the wager upon the honour of his youngest and most proficient son.
Tyrion let the Tyrell servants fill his cup, and toasted along with Lord Mace, bowing and chattering away idly all the while. When the strike did come, and Ser Haygorne fell down like hay onto the track, Tyrion pretended to become upset and cast his wine down on the floor in front of him.
Joffrey could not help but feel a strong chuckle coming on. If the Lord of Highgarden was truly foolish enough to fall for the ruse, it was a wonder the Fat Flower had not squandered all of his fortunes long ago. Nonetheless, Tyrion tossed him the clinking coins - five hundred golden dragons - and went back to their place mum-souring.
After that, Ser Loras won against Ser Robar Royce as well, besting him with a pure strike to his shield, even as it clanged hard and valiantly resisted the pressure to crack. And once again, his uncle went over to Mace Tyrell and swore and kicked at the ground with his putty boots, heaving his fist as he gave away a bag of a thousand gold dragons. His lord father began to look more and more annoyed as well, yet said nothing as his dwarf son played fast and fool with the family gold.
...
Ser Jory of the Kingsguard looked almost spectacular in his wolf's armour, as he won against foe after foe. He unhorsed Horas Redwyne in his first joust
and one of the Freys in the second, and in his third match he rode three passes at a lowly freerider named Ser Lothor Brune, whose armour was drab as the deep dark woods around Crackclaw Point that he apparently came from. Neither man lost his seat, but Jory's lance was steadier and his blows more well placed as Ser Lothor's was. King Eddard decided it to be a tie, and he then went his fourth match, against Robar Royce, winning with ease.
The king's guard and manservant Alyn, yet another northman, also rode for the King. He was unhorsed by Ser Balon Swann, and later by Ser Clydeon, but later he managed a very close tie with the freerider Ser Lothor Brune.
The jousting went on all day and unto the beginning of the afternoon, the hooves of the great warhorses pounding down the lists until the field was a ragged brown wasteland of torn dirt. A couple times Jyck and the others cheered, or elsewise looked on in excited heart-stopping stares, as riders crashed together, lances exploding into splinters while all of the smaller lords, ladies and commoners from all across the Seven Kingdoms screamed for their favourites.
Joffrey did his very best to remain calm like his lord father, only cheering when there was a truly great strike from Ser Flement, Ser Preston, Clydeon or Strongboar.
"Turn up your sights, nephew", Tyrion declared after what felt like a small eternity had gone and passed. Out of the six knights in his starting group, the turn had finally come to his uncle's favourite, Robert Baratheon. The lord of Storm's End roared out in laughter when his competitor drew the straw making the matchup.
The man was a beast of war in human shape if ever Joffrey had seen one in human form, though his smile beamed broad and white beneath his great black beard. He was taller than six feet to be sure, black of hair and beard and with intensely gregarious yet raging blue eyes. He was broad shouldered like an ox, big and broad of belly, just like a moderate barrel of ale, but his suit of armor was well-made enough to contain it within reason, just as the rest of his figure greatly made up for it. His arms were the size of tree trunks, his enormous chest covered in the black stag sigil of House Baratheon, and by his side his squire handed him his giant antler-helm.
The herald looked around himself to make sure he had everyone's attention, from the pavilions and the crowd on the other sides both, and then he stood up on the tree stump and called out, his black hair sweaty with the heat of the day already.
"My lords and ladies, my good people of King's Landing, and elsewhere in all the realm! Now comes before you: Ser Lyle of House Crakehall, Strongboar the powerful, of the Westerlands, and Lord Robert of House Baratheon, the Storming Stag, the Demon of the Trident, Lord of Storm's End and of the Stormlands!"
The pavilion became an uproarious mass of motley-coloured shouts and laughter, as everyone awakened from their cups to watch the match and give loud jeers, whistlings and applause. Ser Marlon Manderly gave the sign, and both knights began from each their starting positions, Strongboar from left and Lord Robert right.
Lord Robert thundered forth like a great storm of thunder, screaming all the while as if he was still at war along with King Eddard against Prince Rhaegar, and the almost as enormous Ser Lyle Crakehall, called Strongboar, tried his best to meet the tilt but got his shield half broken by the impact of Lord Robert's weight behind his well-placed lance. Ser Lyle looked angry, but also reluctantly impressed, as he hopped off his horse afterwards, and the lord of Storm's End went up to him to shake his hand, pat him on the back and give him a storm of laughter to break the enmity between them.
After that, Lord Robert won against Ser Balon, Ser Aenys Frey, Ser Horas, his brother Renly, Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Hobber, only ever losing against Ser Barristan, and to Ser Flement, when he got the sun in his eyes from the glinting of his splendid armour, at which point he swore furiously and cast off his gauntlets into the dirt before his lady wife came up to him and calmed him down by stroking his head and beard.
"And such gentle hand has Lady Cressina, to temper such a big storm", Moon Boy said, and Lollys Stokeworth smiled as broadly as her fat cheeks allowed her at the comment.
...
Later, a lowly hedge knight in a checkered cloak killed Ser Beric Dondarrion's horse like a fool, and was declared forfeit. Ser Beric shifted to a new mount, with some sadness, only to be knocked down from it by Lord Robert's drunken red priest, Thoros of Myr.
Ser Aron Santagar and Ser Lothor Brune tilted thrice without result. Ser Aron fell later to Jason Mallister, and Ser Lothor to Bronze Yohn's younger son Ser Robar Royce.
Meanwhile Tyrion smiled and whistled discreetly, as he saw that there were now only eight combatants left: Ser Loras, Ser Bryce Caron, Ser Flement, Balon Swann, Bronze Yohn, Horas Redwyne, Robert Baratheon and Ser Barristan the Bold.
...
When at last a match finally came between Ser Loras Tyrell and Lord Robert, still with the eight combatants left in the game, Tyrion waddled for the eighth or further time away to Lord Mace on stunted legs, presumably cramping from the looks of it. Yet he went with a smile, as he had taken a hidden bag of gold from the treasure chest guarded diligently by Morrec and Jyck.
Lord Mace gave a laugh at the sight of the drunken little lord trotting along so headfast, and being so eager to lose yet another betting, but accepted with glee, boasting about his son's great prowess all the same for anyone in the gallery/[ ] who would hear him. Most of them would.
...
"Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, against Lord Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, the Demon of the Trident!" the herald practically screamed out into the air as a thousand roaring cheers came from the audience, and a hundred different banners flapped from pole and squires' hand alike.
Ser Loras seemed to be intent on winning, despite the enormous size of his foe. The poncy flower twat had some courage within him, Joffrey had to admit reluctantly.
Lord Robert for his part gave a smack to the sides of his great blackish brown destrier, bellowing out for king and country, as he tramped off from the dirt with the power of a storm, his huge antlers gleaming of [bronze?] in the sunlight, making him look even more monstrously tall.
...
Lord Mace Tyrell hurried to the side of his son, as their maester ran down to help the boy. He suddenly looked younger again, so small and frail, yet still his brown lazy curls spread out from beneath his helmet, the curls that Princess Sansa seemed to laud herself over each time she laid eyes on him. Speaking of the Princess, she was up in a riot at the horrible sight, gasping and covering half of her face with her handkerchief as even the King himself lifted himself slightly up from his seat to make sure that his old friend had not killed the young flower lad.
After a small while of tension, as the crowd gasped for breath, however, Ser Loras coughed normally - without any blood - and slowly arose with the help of his father, sister and maester, all holding him around the shoulders. Joffrey almost felt sick from the amount of affection being on display, but he supposed that he had to congratulate the rivalling knight on surviving the terrifying blows of Lord Baratheon. That much was impressive, at least. He had earned his silver place.
...
After that, there came a short pause before the crowd could congratulate the winner, and Lord Robert Baratheon raised his arms in triumph, laughing victoriously all the while, his gleaming white smile a contrast against his raven-black beard and hair, his face red and full of sweat but smiling more than any man Joff had seen.
"The victor of the Tourney of the Hand is hereby named: Lord Robert Baratheon! The Demon of the Trident!" The herald cried out to the roar of the crowd and the mottled half of the royal pavilion who had not hoped their hearts on Ser Loras.
Tyrion turned at last to Joffrey with an innuendic smile, hopped promptly down from his little red cushion and carried on all the way to Lord Mace to reap his reward. Joffrey looked on, a stunned half-smile waxing into being on his face, as the proud Lord of Highgarden had to give all of his gold back, and another ten fat bags at that. Ser Horas and Ser Hobber, along with two servants, arose from their places to hand out the bags, and Jyck and Morrec on their part followed after Tyrion to accept the total of near thirty bags of gold coin being passed on from the Tyrell tent some paces left of the pavilion.
"The champion will now crown his queen of love and beauty!" The herald went on, as Lord Robert baroomed on his horse and raised his lance to Ser Marlon Mandery, who bestowed him with the wreath of red roses, yellow sunflowers, [ ] and [white daisies?].
...
Then the [ ]
...
When the fighting was over, and Lord Robert had crowned his wife Lady Cressina the Queen of Love and Beauty, to King Eddard's curiously watchful yet approving eyes, Joffrey saw how Sansa carefully adjusted her dress as she and Ser Loras began speaking in most cordial terms. As the second place in line for the 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. Joffrey seethed.
The King showed not an emotion on his frosty face, in order to not give offense to Lord Tywin, nor indeed to rouse the temper of his best friend the stormy Lord Robert, he dreyed himself on, for once the King had left, or possibly the Hand, the tourney was over.
Lord Robert had beaten Ser Loras' lance, and possibly some other parts of him as well, Joffrey thought, 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 the King 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 by his Sansa's side. Joffrey felt the jealousy like fire within his chest, as he looked on in ire.
...
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 163rd 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.
There was the sound of a trumpet, and then suddenly came the unexpected release of a large flock of birds from two large fleated wood cages standing on the grass to the right. There were pigeons and partridges, [ ]. Joffrey wished for a crossbow so that he could have shot down one or two of the birds like he would do at the Rock.
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.
The commoners, as ever cheered ever more loudly than this...
"Lord Tywin!", "The Hand!" and "Good King Ned!" they shouted with broad smiles.
Joffrey could not see past his lord father and the king's great wooden thrones, but he thought that he spied one of the birds fluttering up over Lord Rosby and Lady Erenford. That riled up even more laughter from Buckwell and the other simpletons.
"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 Robb, Gerion Buckwell and dozens more howled with laughter.
I will kill them all... He thought. Buckwell, Ser Loras, my lord father and all the others. I'll have their heads. Then I will take Princess Sansa to marriage. And I will win the joust next time. Or at least come a glorious third or second, he promised himself.
...
As the hours waned, and the sun [ ] down on the sky, Joffrey did his best to not let his jealousy turn him black as soot. Princess Sansa still sat talking empty-headedly with her precious flower knight, while his uncle was deep in his cups and singing bawdy songs about Lannisport wenches and the mermaids of the Mander with Jyck and Pasker.
His lord father and the king were speaking in hushed tones, a goblet of red wine in each of their hands, yet hardly a sip on them.
Lord Tywin was mumbling something about a council meeting, and something about Dorne as well, or perhaps he said "at dawn", but Joffrey could not make out the words. The king replied something even less intelligible, seemingly nodding with grave alware.
Lord Tywin continued on, mumbling something about not wanting any foul play in the capital or elsewhere, and something was said about knights without coppers and the king replied something of knights with honour, and Lord Tywin of he who holds the judge's hammer is judge. He who draws the straws is the holder, but who draws the straws and who holds the straws? Who, if not the king? Noone could claim absolute power in his kingdom, but singers and minstrels might whisper... Lesser houses... House Manderly... Ambitious... Dorne... This time he was more certain. The king turned away his ears and drank. Lord Tywin did the same. Misaggrieved.
Joffrey felt as restless as he had ever been. His legs were shaking beneath him,but his lord father was stone and his drunk uncle an unhelpful pebble, laughing over his Tyrell gold and beyond the brink to be giving him any advice either. It would not be soon before their lord father would become more sour that he shamed them.
He contemplated turning around to speak with his uncle Kevan but decided against it. Some invisible sort of shame or paralyzation hindered him. Not here, not now, in the midst of all these people who did not know them, while they barely had known each other for the past three moons either. No, not now. He took another fretting sip of his wine goblet, as Morrec filled it up once again.
From his right, Tyrion, Jyck and Morrec, Pasker and all the others were still singing their blasted songs out of the brawling docks of Lannisport. The boys of the Lannisport city watch were singing Gullway Bay... And the bells were ringing out for Baelor's Day... "