AN: I had considered adjusting how the tourney went due to butterflies. Maybe more or less knights would attend or someone's habits changed and so they performed better or worse, but ultimately I didn't want to fool with it. Especially since I had already had this specific scene in mind for quite some time. Enjoy the longest chapter to date!
Also - don't forget to check out my most recent posts for Chapter 2 for Halo and Warcraft!
Chapter 10
Jon hacked at the pell with his tourney blade. The blows came quick and wild, iron ringing on wood. Accuracy did not matter. Only the strike. Again and again he swung, until the post shuddered beneath the assault. The old timber was meant for such punishment, yet even so it groaned and split as he found his rhythm.
“Jon, JON!”
He stopped swinging, and realized he had been shouted out for some time. He turned and saw a worried-looking Robb.
“You are going to make yourself ill. How long have you been out here?”
Jon suddenly felt his limbs grow heavy. His palms sent lances of pain up his arms. He realized he was panting and his body was shaking.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. A wave of queasiness rose in his belly.
“Is this about me not allowing you to go south?”
Jon breathed in deeply and then exhaled with a sigh.
“No… yes… I do not know. Bran suffers for it, more than he lets on. To see him here, after what was done to Sansa… and with Lady Stark gone… it sits ill with me.”
“Her journey south was made in secret, but it shan’t be long now ‘ere she returns. You going south would raise questions and it would also cause problems. In Father’s seat of power, it was one thing to have you sit with us, but King’s Landing may not be as forgiving. There’s not much you could do there.”
“I could protect Sansa and Arya!” Jon shouted. “What was done to her… I cannot sit here doing nothing!”
Robb winced and then looked down. It was obvious that Robb felt as helpless as he did.
“You aren’t doing nothing. You are training your sword arm. You are helping me piece together how to rule while Mother and Father are gone. I need you here. Winter is coming. Our longbeards feel it, Maester Luwin warns that long summers lead to longer winters, and I’ve dreamed…” he shook his head. “As Maester Luwin says, we must prepare for the winter. Father will most like remain Hand for years.”
Jon understood, but it didn’t change how he felt. Bran was nearly murdered by an assassin. His sister had been raped. The prince had been killed. The south was dangerous.
“Robb, is fifty guardsmen truly enough? I don’t mean to question Jory’s competency, but Maester Luwin tells me King’s Landing has hundreds of thousands of people.”
Robb frowned. “If more were necessary, I’m sure Father would have arranged for more. But I will write to him.” His brother looked discomforted for a moment, then pushed forward. “If Father does need more, I will send you to command the guard. You will be five-and-ten soon and for your name day I’ve had Mikken forge proper armor for you.”
Jon’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Robb… I… the cost, I can’t accept.”
Robb clapped him on the shoulder and Jon winced. He really had overtaxed himself in the yard.
“I manage the finances of Winterfell, remember? It won’t be all pretty like those southern knights, but it will be proper plate. Gorget, greaves, vambraces, and a proper helm.”
Jon embraced his brother. They may only be half-brothers, but Robb was a truer brother than any that existed, regardless of the circumstances of Jon’s birth.
“Thank you!”
Robb smiled. “The armor you will have, regardless. But I’m not keen to be rid of you yet, so don’t go packing your travel bags just yet.”
For now, Jon needed to soak in the warm heat of the Winterfell baths. He still felt out of sorts after his overexertion. The horrors of the last few moons were like a weight and at times he still wondered at his decision not to join the Night’s Watch.
I have a place here. I have my father, Sansa, and Robb to thank for that.
***
It was immensely pleasing to see the progress Arya had made. An animal that did not have the ‘bond’ with me was something she could enter into far more easily. It wasn’t as easy for Arya as it had been for me, but she was biologically younger, and in terms of life experience, it was even more stark. I was making a supposition that strength of will and personality were what mattered, but that was just guesswork, and was more a feeling than true empirical data.
How does one quantify willpower? Hmm, perhaps when I see my brothers in person again I can try to approximate it and then run some tests. The problem is there are confounding variables here. Age, willpower, innate gift for the ability to warg, and perhaps more. What if the personalities allowed for greater ease? There is far too much I don’t know. I’m hesitant to write my uncle Benjen about stories of skinchangers beyond the Wall, but perhaps I can one day visit in person.
Since I had created a sort of link between myself and the scarred gray kitchen cat, I figured I should give it a name. I opted for Anna. When I slipped into Anna or another cat, a rat, or a bird, the experience altered my mental state for a time even within my own body. I was present-minded enough to account for it and suppress it, but it was interesting to theorize what was going on. Was it that my mind was carrying back instinctual impulses and they were now floating in my neural network somehow?
Rather than getting secondhand information from the serving maids, I found it useful to overhear people’s conversations. Listening in as regular people worked in the kitchens, or as the guards patrolled, or even as they ate their communal meals, gave me a massive amount of insight as to what the smallfolk truly thought. It was rather shocking.
They thought my family was savage. That the Lord of Winterfell, my father, was made of ice and would sic his wolves on them if they failed to show proper deference. They spoke about Prince Joffrey in mixed terms, a few maids had even whispered happiness over it, but most thought it a great tragedy that such a beautiful and gallant young future king had been slain.
It was gratifying to hear that they thought I was ‘brave’ to face the whispers of the court with such poise. Some of the guards made some rather disgusting remarks about me, which I ignored. The smallfolk liked to gossip and it was my sister who received the most questions. She was rarely seen in the company of other ladies and was cloistered in the Tower of the Hand often, or so they believed. Well, it was actually true as she spent a good deal of time watching over my body as I was out riding within other creatures’ skins. It worked out well enough, as she would practice her balance and other exercises Syrio taught her, and she had told others she needed the utmost concentration and to never be disturbed while she was practicing her ‘dance’ moves.
Many thought the Hand was protecting her and keeping her safe lest his second daughter also become ruined. With my own virtue tarnished, they understood why the Hand let me prance around where I will.
I still can’t believe a few reckless souls really told tales of me with Robert and Tyrion in an utterly inappropriate fashion. I’m not even twelve yet!
The age of maturity in Westeros was sixteen. However, girls were generally considered ready for mating when they ‘flowered’ or to be specific, when they started their menstrual cycle. Not to say that marriages didn’t occur before the flowering. One example I recall from reading the histories was Aemma Arryn marrying Viserys when she was eleven. However, he waited to consummate the marriage until after she had begun her period and was capable of producing a child.
Given the number of miscarriages she suffered before producing Rhaenyra, they really should have waited longer than the age of thirteen!
This, as well as a large number of other issues, made me satisfied with my chosen course. I had no desire for marriage at all, though my father had repeatedly assured me that he would do all he could to find a decent match for me. I had demurred and suggested that I didn’t even want to think about marriage until many years had gone since my betrothed had lost his life so tragically. He meant well, but unlike other highborn ladies who pined and fretted over it, I knew I had security already. Robb would never turn me away and I might even be able to act as his consigliere when he inherited Winterfell.
Marriage was a key function in alliance building, but my family already had an embarrassment of riches in that regard. Our vassals were already deeply loyal, as far as I could tell at least. The North was a quarrelsome lot at times, but all respected my father. His wife, my mother, was Catelyn Tully. Eldest daughter to Hoster Tully, who ruled the Riverlands. Father was Hand to the King, and before that, good friends with him. He had been raised by the prior Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, and Jon’s widow was my Aunt Lysa. The Vale of Arryn, the Riverlands, and the north were highly unified by marriage and had strong friendships with the Stormlands.
I didn’t need to be wed in order to enhance our position, we were already quite strong. Ties to the Reach might be useful, but Father disliked the Lannisters and there would be little point with isolationist Dorne. Perhaps a Crownlands match would be useful, but it would just make a small difference on the margins, nothing that I felt any guilt over ruining with my actions.
And if Arya does marry Tommen our position is even more secure. Though I am beginning to suspect Arya will object strongly to being queen. But she’s young, and Tommen seems to have a much better temperament than Joffrey had.
For the likes of Jeyne Poole, marriage to a fourth son of a minor noble or perhaps a knight, few that they were in the north, was her best prospect. She was with me in the swaying litter along with Septa Mordane as we traversed King’s Landing to the tourney grounds outside of the walls of King’s Landing. Perhaps someone like Jon would be a good pairing. He was a bastard, but Robb would treat him well. Jeyne had the unfortunate opinion of bastards as did most of Westeros, but it would provide her security and Jon would treat her well.
Alternatives might include Harwin, who was ten years her senior, or perhaps in a few years she might charm some lordling or knight. As she was my only female companion, aside from my sister, I felt somewhat obligated to think of her future.
“So many people have come out! Look Sansa, look at all the banners!”
My polite smile was apparently not enthusiastic enough for her because she sighed overdramatically.
“Don’t you find it positively enchanting? It is like out of a song!”
Where did she think songs drew their inspiration from? Some were exaggerated, surely, but by and large bards and mummers alike observed grand events like tournaments and battles and then sang about them. I was jaded by the military parades of my second life and the entertainment of my first life. The pageantry of color upon banners and flags just didn’t stir my heart like it did Jeyne and even Septa Mordane.
“Look there, Jason Mallister. He’s the one in indigo, with wings like that of an eagle on his helm!” Septa Mordane called out and pointed.
Mordane spoke about how he had slain three of Rhaegar’s bannermen on the Trident back during that pivotal battle of Robert’s Rebellion. I wondered briefly as to why that would stand out for Mordane, but I didn’t truly care and Jeyne was already pointing out others such as Thoros of Myr. He was a warrior priest of the R’hllor religion. The man liked to light his blade with wildfire, which was rather unsporting in my view as the purpose of tourney blades was to make it so injury was less likely.
I took the time to quiz Jeyne on the heraldry. She wasn’t overly smart, but she was no dullard either, and had a good eye and recollection. She correctly identified the likes of Ser Balon Swann, Lord Bryce Caron, and Ser Andar Royce.
I wonder if the tales of the runes on their armor having protective power are true or not. Most believe it just ancient superstitions; old folk tales like those of grumkins and the Others. But if skinchangers are real, perhaps other tales have a grain of truth to them. It would be a mistake to believe that every absurd tale now is true, but in time I should try to at least do a cursory examination if I obtain the chance.
“Oh, and that grape cluster sigil must be the Redwynes.”
With a smile I praised her, “Well done, those would be Ser Horas and Ser Hobber. Can you identify those six over there?”
“The Freys of the crossing. I heard Lollys saying that he has a hundred children.”
“I believe she might have meant a hundred descendants, though perhaps he has many unaccounted natural born children as well.”
Jeyne very nearly swooned at the sight of Lord Beric Dondarrion and his red-gold hair. Unfortunately for Jeyne, her birth was far too poor to ever make her a suitable match for the Stormlander. I caught sight of Sandor Clegane and frowned.
I had heard of what he had done and his zeal to punish those responsible for the murder of his charge. He tortured those poor people at the holdfast I had dined at and given silver to. My generosity had led to their dismemberment and then execution. The Hound had then gone on and hunted down the ‘culprits’ and slew them. My understanding, or at least what the rumors stated, was that they had previously been wanted men. Perhaps the scales balanced somewhat by the Hound tracking down actual criminals guilty of some other crime.
It was ironic that Sandor’s actions had further provided for an ironclad cover for me murdering Joffrey. It did not make me grateful to him. He was a liar, a torturer, and a murderer and I hoped he managed to get himself hurt out there. The queen had dismissed him from service, my father rightly wanted nothing to do with him, and between the two, there were very few who he might find employ with. This may well be his last chance to earn coin with the absurdly generous prize purses. Even at half the initial proposed value, the sums were astronomically absurd.
Winterfell’s riders took the field. Jory, Alyn, and Harwin were the only ones representing the Starks or any houses north of the Neck.
“Jory looks a beggar among these others,” Septa Mordane sniffed.
“Let us see if form or function serve better. His blue-grey plate has no ornament but looks as solid as any other,” I replied, feeling a bit like a sports fan. I had never been passionate about it in my first life, but that was what I likened events like this to. I could even feel a pleasant tension and even gave a cheer as Jory unhorsed Horas Redwyne. That was the only victory for the riders of Winterfell in the first round, as both Alyn and Harwin had the bad luck to face members of the Kingsguard for their first tilt.
Jeyne was acting rather childish, attempting to cling to me when the jousters clashed.
“Jeyne, remember, you are representing Winterfell. You may still be a child, but you mustn’t act like one.”
“I’m sorry, Sansa. The crash is just so loud and violent.”
I watched with interest as some people placed bets around us. They seemed to be straight bets, not true odds making, and not seemingly governed by any sort of official bookie. These were wealthy nobles and notables placing bets. Tyrion wagered heavily on his brother besting Ser Barristan Selmy, and laughed raucously when his brother proved the victor.
I caught sight of Ser Gregor Clegane for the first time and was a bit dumbstruck by the sheer size of the man. I had seen Greatjon Umber once in Winterfell’s feast hall. Umber was taller than even Sandor Clegane, but the Mountain That Rides dwarfed them all. He seemed almost a full foot taller than Lord Umber. I had to wonder if tales of giants and the potential of intermingling of giant and man lurked somewhere in the background of the gene pool. Because from a human biology perspective, this verged on the impossible.
In my first life, I knew that some humans grew taller than eight feet. But none were athletic and all had horrific ailments. None of them would have been able to wear thick plate and participate in competitive athletic events. Pituitary disorders were no joke, but they did not seem to cause Gregor Clegane any issue. He rode well, and the sheer mass and power proved him the victor over and over again.
I narrowed my eyes while Jeyne shrieked as Gregor’s lance rode up and struck a knight of the Vale in the neck. The gorget had not been fastened correctly and the dull wooden tip drove underneath it and killed the knight instantly. Had the gorget been there properly, the tourney lance could not have penetrated, though the potential whiplash might still have caused injury to the neck.
I was unable to calm Jeyne and had Septa Mordane take her back to the Tower of the Hand. I continued watching and cheered for Jory as he won his second tilt. He ended up being unhorsed in his third, but it had been a decent showing, considering that tournaments were a rare thing for Winterfell.
Lord Renly was an able jouster, but the Hound sent him flying. A sharp crack made me worry about Robert’s younger brother, but it was only the ridiculous golden antler on his helm. I understand that jousting was about showing pride in your house and kingdom, but it seemed particularly silly to me. Renly made a show of handing it to Sandor as a prize with a gracious bow, but he just threw it in the crowd who began to fight over it. Renly took ownership of the situation and walked into the commons and got them settled and the joust continued.
Ser Loras, the youngest rider on the field was a little older than Robb. At sixteen he was already somewhat a veteran of jousting and had unhorsed three knights of the Kingsguard in his jousts. His white stallion was draped in a blanket of red and white roses and he seemed to enjoy hamming it up for the crowd. After besting Ser Robar Royce, he rode around the fence marking the jousting area and stopped in front of me.
“Sweet lady,” he said, “no victory is half so beautiful as you.”
“My thanks, Ser Loras. You rode well, good fortune in your tilts to come.”
His eyes widened momentarily, as if he was startled that I had spoken directly to him. He smiled lazily and gave me a courtly nod before riding away. The brief attention had drawn eyes and shortly afterwards a small man made his way toward me. He was short, with a pointed beard and a silver streak in his hair.
“You must be one of her daughters,” he said to me. “You have the Tully look.”
I saw the silver mockingbird that fastened the heavy cloak about his neck.
“An honor to meet you, Lord Baelish. I believe I owe you some thanks.”
He had been stepping forward, and then stilled.
“Oh?”
“Yes. My father says you are able to find coin where none should exist. My betrothed will live on for your ability to do so through Joffrey’s Tower. I am pleased to have been able to express my gratitude in person.”
His fingers brushed against my cheek as he stroked my hair. I kept my face neutral at the intrusion. Some people were more handsy than others, and rank shielded people. Baelish was a minor house with little land, but as a member of the small council, he had power. A commoner doing the same gesture would be whipped. If I wished to press the issue, he might be forced to apologize, but I saw no reason to cause strife and bad blood between my father and the master of coin.
“You have her hair. And your mother’s confidence. Tell me, child, have you ever had occasion to visit the Vale?”
“I have not had that honor, though my father has told me stories of his time there. He accounted the folk there as honorable, the highest compliment he can make.”
Baelish looked at me very oddly for a moment or two and then dipped his head and departed. The king then announced that due to the late hour, the final three jousts would be held in the morning prior to the melee. The commoners would walk back to their homes in King’s Landing while the court would move to the riverside to begin the post-joust feast.
Desmond, one of my father’s men, was waiting for me as I exited the stands.
“I do not see Septa Mordane, did you wish to return to the Tower of the Hand, Lady Sansa?”
“I’ll attend the feast and then you may escort me. Come, join me, none will look askance at a guard being by my side and feasting.”
I then made my way over and looked for Tyrion. After spotting him, I made my way to him.
“Lord Tyrion, I had some questions for you, if you have a few moments.”
“Ask away, Lady Sansa.”
“I saw you betting with others on who would win the joust. Can anyone bet? Are there any bylaws I should be aware of? I also know that Ser Gregor Clegane, Ser Loras Tyrell, Sandor Clegane, and your brother Ser Jaime will be jousting on the morrow. Is it decided who they will face?”
Tyrion gave a bark of laughter. “Gods be good, do you mean to shorten me even further? I cannot let the Hand’s own daughter turn gambler.”
I just stared at him, and after a pause he told me the rest. “There are no laws against it, despite what Stannis might wish. My brother will face the Hound and Gregor will face Loras. The winner of each match will face each other in the finals. I typically bet against Renly and Baelish, but a few others dare to wager on occasion. Janos Slynt will put forward a bet or two, but the man, despite his many bribes, is not all that wealthy compared to the nobility.”
How unprofessional. The City Watch commander taking bribes? It was expected, but not that it would be spoken about so openly. Corruption should at least have the decency to be done under the table away from sight.
“Hmm, well I’d like to wager heavily on Jaime beating the Hound. Can you facilitate such a bet for me? Should he win I’ll grant you a small percentage.”
Torture people over some silver, will you? Well, there will be no prize for you, Sandor Clegane. And at the same time, I can improve my personal wealth.
Tyrion’s jaw had dropped and he looked at me incredulously.
“Sansa… ah, my lady, does your father know you intend to do this?”
“No, of course not. It will be our secret. I’d prefer to work with you, as I trust you, but if not I suppose I can ask Lord Renly, Lord Baelish, or Janos Slynt directly.”
He looked pained and I was being a mite difficult here. Emotions I couldn’t identify filtered across his face for the next few moments and then with a groan Tyrion nodded.
“How much are you prepared to wager?”
“I heard a hundred gold dragons being wagered, can that be arranged?”
“Do you have a hundred gold dragons?” Tyrion asked bluntly.
“No. But I happen to be on good terms with the Hand of the King…” I said with a slight smile.
“Your father will be most wroth if he finds out. I never bet against my brother, but he doesn’t always win.”
“Yes, I am certain. Your brother bested Ser Barristan Selmy, a man my father respects as the greatest living knight in Westeros. Surely he can beat Clegane.”
“As you say, I am sure I will find someone who will take the bet. And think nothing of my efforts, I’ll not take your coin. Just promise to allow me to facilitate any future betting instead of going somewhere else.”
“We have ourselves an agreement, Lord Tyrion. You have my gratitude.”
***
Ned walked with Barristan Selmy after seeing Ser Hugh’s body. This couldn’t be mere happenstance. A Lannister bannerman killing one of the last people who might be of use to Ned’s investigation. He had slept badly, as had others in his house, for Sansa begged off attending the second day of the tourney. A momentary pang of regret pierced his heart. He had not given any thought to how Sansa may have endured seeing someone slain in front of her. Not after her own close brush with those brigands.
Just because she shows no outward sign of distress does not mean she does not feel it.
The king intended to fight in the melee today. The queen at last night’s feasting had attempted to forbid him from doing so, and he had grown most wroth. Ned knew that Robert was stubborn and would not back down, but he had halfway hoped that the king was still abed in a wine-soaked sleep. Alas, when he and Ser Barristan came upon the king’s pavilion the man was roaring his displeasures at his squires.
Handsome boys, fair and well made. Golden curls and the same emerald-green eyes as the queen.
“Look at these oafs, Ned. My wife insisted I take these two to squire for me, and they’re worse than useless. In a year or two I ought to replace them with my own son, but with my luck he’d most like already be in tears!”
Ned frowned. He had understood Robert to be somewhat of an absent father, but now that he had attempted to try to take a hand in Tommen’s upbringing, things had not worked out well. The young prince was weepy when Robert yelled at him and the queen had grown more and more upset in turn with Robert. It was troubling.
“Squires, they say. I say they’re swineherds dressed up in silk,” Robert groused.
“The boys are not at fault. You are too fat for the armor, Robert.”
Robert took a long swallow of beer and then tossed the empty horn aside.
“Fat? Fat, is it? Is that how you speak to your king?” Robert’s voice was dangerously low, but Ned knew his longtime friend well enough to see the twinkle in the man’s eyes.
He had seen Robert’s wrath unsoftened by jest, the day he had demanded justice for Elia and her children. The girl stabbed again and again, the babe’s skull dashed against the wall. If Robert ever learned…
Not now.
He forced the wretched memory away as the king let go his laughter, sudden as a storm.
“Ah, damn you, Ned, why are you always right?”
The king amused himself by sending his squires to fetch him as ‘breastplate stretcher.’ The fool boys left, though whether that was just to get away from the king or with honest intent to find an item that did not exist, Ned could not say.
“Those boys,” Ned asked him. “Lannisters?”
“Cousins. Sons of Lord Tywin’s brother. One of the dead ones. Or perhaps the live one. I don’t recall. My wife comes from a very large family, Ned.”
It troubled Ned how Robert was surrounded by the queen’s kin, waking and sleeping. The Lannister appetite for offices and honors seemed to know no bounds.
“Your son is seven. And grieving his brother, no doubt. You should go easier, and not disparage him in front of others, for his sake.”
“Gods be good, have you been talking to my wife behind my back?” Robert said in faux dismay. He slapped Ned’s shoulder. “The boy needs toughening up. Maybe if I had been harder on Joffrey he would not have been slain without taking one of the bastards with him.”
Ned knew this was not the time. Other matters need to be set to right first.
“You and she grow more heated in your words with every passing today, such as last night.”
“The woman tried to forbid me to fight in the melee. She’s sulking in the castle now, damn her. Your sister would never have shamed like that.”
“You never knew Lyanna as I did, Robert,” Ned told him. “You saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath. She would have told you that you have no business in the melee.”
“You too?” Robert frowned. “Seven hells, Ned, the damnable Hound didn’t bring my son’s murderers to me alive to kill myself. I need to hit someone!”
“You would vent your rage upon your own leal lords and knights?”
Robert threw up his hands and Barristan gave a sharp shake of his head only Ned could see.
What is he… oh!
As Barristan spoke and said that it was not seemly for the king to ride because it would not be a fair contest, Ned understood what he was doing. Ser Barristan may be an honorable man, but he did have cunning as well.
“Who would dare strike you?” Barristan finished.
“Why, all of them, damn it. If they can. And the last man left standing…”
“Will be you,” Ned finished. “There’s not a man in the Seven Kingdoms who would dare risk your displeasure by hurting you.”
“Are you telling me those prancing cravens will let me win?”
Barristan nodded along with Ned.
With a roar he threw his breastplate at Barristan who nimbly dodged away from the heavy piece of hurled metal.
“Get out,” the king said then, coldly. “Get out before I kill you.”
Ser Barristan left quickly, and as Ned moved to follow, Robert commanded him to stay.
Robert unburdened himself. He complained of being fat, of not being fit for the Iron Throne, of how it should have been him that was king or Jon. How things had gone awry and now that he was trying to mend things, more things kept going wrong.
“Gods be good, Ned. How do you do it? You have five children with Cat and all are ones any man would be proud to have sired. Your oldest, Robb? He’ll be like you, all lordly and a bore, I can tell, but he’s a fine heir. A pity about your middle son, but gods, Sansa tells me he is a bright lad, maybe he’ll be a maester? He can advise your eldest once he’s got a chain from the Citadel. The littlest one, he’s got a set of lungs unless my memory has misled me. He’ll have a good voice for the battlefield.”
Ned forced himself to smile at the compliments, even as he struggled with unease at the thought of how close Bran had brushed with death. Both in the initial fall and his attempted assassination.
“And your eldest daughter… gods, how I wish I could have made those sons of whores suffer for what they did. The Hound was too quick, aye, I know battle is battle, but still. They deserved to burn…”
Robert paled a brief moment and looked sickly. “See? See? All I do is foul things up. I have not the words.”
“The intent is clear, Your Grace. It was long ago. I worry over the future, not the past.”
“Sansa, despite everything, she faces each day as bold as brass. She can’t be deaf to the whispers, but pays them no heed. She would have been a fine queen, better than any we’ve ever had.” Robert drank more beer from a second horn. “And Arya, what a fierce little thing. She reminds me of Brandon, rough around the edges, but a wild wolf of the north indeed. You are a fortunate man, Ned.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. You will not find me disagreeing.”
“Myrcella, she’ll make some lord happy. She’s fair to look upon, and agreeable. But… ah, we’ve nothing in common. I can’t find singing, stitching, or whatever else women get on with fascinating. Sansa keeps things interesting, tells me tales of your land and manages to paint even my eldest in a positive light.”
It bothered Ned how Robert spoke of his deceased son. Was there more about Joffrey that Ned had not been informed of? It was queer, but he did not wish to press on the issue that might revive Robert’s fading ire.
“I just want Tommen to be a knight, a worthy heir. Have you seen Mace Tyrell’s boy? The Knight of Flowers, they call him. Now there’s a son any man would be proud to own to. Last tourney he dumped the Kingslayer on his golden rump, you ought to have seen the look on Cersei’s face. Renly says he has a sister, a maid of fourteen, lovely as a dawn, she’ll be arriving in a fortnight. A companion for Myrcella and Sansa, ‘twill be good for them to have another lady of proper station so they can do,” he waved his hand vaguely, “womanly things.”
Renly wants to put Margaery in your bed. It is the last thing the realm needs. But your disappointment with Tommen, combined with Margaery’s beauty, may convince you.
Ned knew it was a dangerously foolish idea. Not just for the current situation but for future generations. Even if Myrcella was wed to Robb, somewhere down the line, people would attempt to give a crown to their descendants for one cause or another. Or someone will fear that lineage and act even though no treason be considered. That is if the ruthless Tywin Lannister did not find some brutal way to make his displeasure known.
And yet… if the Lannisters did murder Jon, is it more foolish to allow them to remain in power? After they attempted to murder Bran? Perhaps I should speak with Sansa about this, she has a head for these intrigues despite her tender years.
The king’s melancholy melted away with the morning mist as servants brought breakfast. Robert was deep in his memories now, speaking of events when they were both boys being fostered in the Eyrie.
“Eh, you know, come to think of it, maybe that is the solution. I could have Tommen fostered somewhere. I bet the North would toughen him up! You’d have to remain here as my Hand, but I trust your lady wife and your son to see to his education. Mayhaps I can wrangle Robert Arryn from his mother’s skirts too. Mad woman left here in a hurry without so much as a by-your-leave, I’d wager anything she’s coddling him just like Cersei does with Tommen.”
“Would the queen allow it? She had just lost one son. I am not opposed to opening my hall to your family, Robert, but this discord would only worsen should you suggest it.”
“I’m king, not her. But, perhaps ‘tis too soon. I… I try not to be a beast to her, but she just brings the worst out of me. Despite it all, I’d no wish to cause her even more grief. Come, it’s time to see how the jousting and the damned melee goes.”
Ned sat next to the king as the Hound arrived on the field. Betting was already taking place with Littlefinger, Tyrion, and Renly all making bets. Lord Baelish bet on Jaime Lannister to win as did Tyrion. Renly took both their offers, saying that the Hound was hungry and a hungry dog without food was most dangerous.
“Well, if you are so confident, then let us double that pledge. Two hundred gold dragons on my brother defeating the dog,” Tyrion proposed.
“Done,” Renly shouted back.
“I’ll take that wager as well, dwarf,” Robert called out to Tyrion. “Clegane owes no more loyalty to the Lannisters so we’ll see that pretty gold marred by the dirt today!”
Ned always looked upon the Kingslayer with disgust. Jaime glittered from head to heel. Even his lance was fashioned from the golden wood of the Summer Isles. The man had perched atop the Iron Throne as if it was his by treacherous deed.
I cannot believe it, but I find myself hoping the Hound unseats him.
There was something, however. The Hound’s horse was jittery. He sawed on the reins and the beast settled down. The Hound leaned forward as he rode, his lance rock steady, up until maybe two horse lengths apart from the Kingslayer, there his horse veered and galloped almost into the tilt barrier. Clegane’s lance did not even connect, but the Kingslayer’s did. The Hound struck the ground hard. He rolled as he landed and was groaning and cursing as he got to his feet.
“Seven hells, the Imp is going to be insufferable now.”
Ned did not like the idea of betting on the outcome, not after Ser Hugh died for this sport.
The next battle was between Ser Loras and Ser Gregor Clegane. The man had killed Ser Hugh and was rumored to have raped Princess Elia and killed her son, Prince Aegon. Ned still had a hard time grasping just how massive the man was. His destrier seemed a pony between his armored legs. Like his brother, Ser Gregor was having difficulty controlling his horse.
I wonder if those two misuse their animals. It is said that his keep is a grim place where servants disappeared and even dogs were afraid to enter the hall. This is the sort of man the Lannisters employ.
Ser Loras had no such trouble and managed to center his lance on the perfect spot to send the Mountain, and his horse, to the dirt in a tangle of steel and flesh. The man raged as he wrenched off his helm and slammed it down onto the ground. He shouted for his sword and upon gaining it, butchered his own mount. Not even Sandor had gone that far in his displeasure.
But Gregor was not done. He was striding down the lists toward Ser Loras Tyrell, his bloody sword clutched in his fist.
“Stop him!” Ned shouted, but the crowd was roaring and he doubted any heard him.
The Knight of Flowers was shouting for his own sword as Ser Gregor knocked his squire aside and made a grab for the reins of the horse. The mare scented blood and reared. Loras Tyrell kept his seat, but barely. Ser Gregor swung his sword, a savage two-handed blow that took the boy in the chest and knocked him from the saddle. The plate armor held, of course, you could not cut through a breastplate with the slash of a sword, but now Loras was on the ground and a blow from a man like Gregor to the helm could easily deal a deadly blow.
Only, the blow never came, instead the Tyrell boy’s mare came to his defense, twisting its body and striking out with her back hooves. The force of a horse’s kick was deadly, and it struck Gregor in the shoulder pauldron. Gregor had evidently not expected such a thing at all. Warhorses had been known to kick in battle, but it was not something that was common. Most horses were trained to follow the rider’s commands completely, not act independently.
The powerful back kick smashed into the heavy plate and made Gregor totter and then fall. If he had braced for it, he might have held up, being such an absurd physical specimen, but even from his distance, Ned could see the hooves had dented part of the armor.
A second squire ran in and handed Loras a sword while Gregor got to his feet in a roar.
“STOP THIS MADNESS,” Robert boomed, “IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!”
Loras backed away and Gregor took mammoth steps forward. Ned joined the guardsmen and Kingsguard in front of the king, but the Mountain halted, breathing heavily. He dropped his sword and glared at Robert and then wordlessly strode off.
After that, the final joust was a meager and disappointing spectacle for the crowds. The first clash saw both keep to their seats, but Ned could tell Ser Loras was not as keenly focused as he was once. In the second tilt, Jaime Lannister knocked the Knight of Flowers from his saddle and was crowned the champion.
And more honor and glory go to the Lannisters. None should care who wins a damned tourney, and yet it matters.