Chapter 28 – The Tourney for King Joffrey's Thirteenth Name Day
To celebrate the thirteenth name day of King Joffrey Baratheon,
the carpenters of King's Landing had raised wooden stands and a small tiltyard
in the outer courtyard of the Red Keep.
Small being the kindest word for it.
The entire spectacle was pitifully modest —
half the seats sat empty,
and most of those filled were occupied not by lords and ladies,
but by goldcloaks of the City Watch
and Lannister men-at-arms in their crimson cloaks.
Of the nobility, few remained in the capital to attend.
Those who had not fled the court after Eddard Stark's beheading
were seated here out of duty, not delight.
---
Lord Gyles Rosby was there,
pale as a corpse and hacking behind a pink silk kerchief,
his breath rattling like dry leaves.
Lady Tanda Stokeworth had brought her two daughters,
both painted and overdressed,
in hopes that one might catch a royal eye —
or at least the attention of a man who owned a castle.
There was Jalabhar Xho,
the exiled prince of the Summer Islands' Red Flower Vale,
his skin as black as polished onyx,
his cloak a riot of colored feathers.
Banished and homeless, he now lived on the Queen's charity in the Red Keep.
Elsewhere sat Lady Aemysand Haverhall,
barely more than an infant —
the last of her line, heir to a now-quiet house.
She lay cradled in her wet nurse's arms,
soon to be wed, the courtiers whispered,
to one of Queen Cersei's cousins,
so that House Lannister might take possession of her lands.
---
And presiding above them all,
beneath the shadow of a crimson canopy,
lounged King Joffrey Baratheon the First of His Name,
the hero of the hour.
He sat sprawled in a carved wooden chair,
one golden boot resting insolently upon the armrest,
his smug grin hidden half in shade.
Behind him sat Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen,
well-behaved, quiet, and almost invisible beside their brother's arrogance.
And looming behind them,
a white shadow in a brown roughspun tunic and studded leather,
stood Sandor Clegane, the Hound.
The white cloak of the Kingsguard hung heavy from his shoulders,
fastened at the collar by a pin of gold and garnet.
The contrast between the pure silk and the brutal man beneath it
was as jarring as ever.
"Lady Sansa Stark,"
the Hound rasped suddenly,
his voice deep and rough as a saw biting through timber.
His burned face twisted when he spoke,
the scars pulling his mouth into an uneven snarl.
At the sound of her name, heads turned.
The northern girl stepped forward —
the betrothed of the king —
and at her arrival, the tourney began.
---
The first matches were dull enough to make even the king yawn.
There was Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard,
the very knight who had escorted Lady Sansa here.
His sworn brother, Ser Meryn Trant, followed soon after.
Then came Ser Hobber Redwyne of the Arbor,
and his twin Ser Horas,
both pink-cheeked and eager, if not especially skilled.
Ser Morros Slynt,
heir to Janos Slynt, the newly made Lord of Harrenhal,
took the field next,
his gilded armor gleaming gaudily under the autumn sun.
And Ser Balon Swann of Stonehelm,
another of the Kingsguard,
fought with quiet, precise efficiency —
though not enough to lift the king's boredom.
---
The crowd grew restless.
Even Joffrey's smug smile began to curdle into irritation.
Then came a touch of unintended entertainment.
The herald announced:
"Ser Dantos Hollard, Knight of Hollow Hill!"
His opponent — a short, battered freerider named Lothor Brune,
sworn to Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin —
rode out first from the western end of the lists,
his dented armor patched and mismatched.
But when the time came for Ser Dantos to appear,
his horse galloped out alone.
A murmur rippled through the stands.
Then came the man himself —
red-faced, staggering, cursing loudly as he chased after his mount.
He wore only a chestplate and a feathered helm.
Everything else — every single thing — was bare.
The crowd roared with laughter and jeers
as the drunken knight stumbled through the mud,
his pale legs wobbling beneath him like reeds in the wind.
"Now this is more like it,"
Joffrey sneered, clapping his hands.
Ser Dantos tried and failed to mount his horse,
then collapsed into the dirt, gasping for breath.
"I yield!" he cried hoarsely. "Seven hells, just give me a drink!"
The king rose abruptly, eyes glittering.
"Bring wine! Bring a barrel from the cellars!"
he shouted gleefully.
"I want to see him drown in it!"
The command sent a ripple of uneasy laughter through the stands.
But before anyone could act,
a calm, trembling voice rose from the royal box.
"Your Grace," said Sansa Stark,
her voice sweet and careful,
"surely it would be bad luck to kill a man on your name day?"
Joffrey frowned, torn between anger and vanity.
Before he could speak, Sandor Clegane's gravelly voice cut through.
"The lady is right, Your Grace."
The Hound's tone held no deference — only weary warning.
And that was enough.
With a petulant gesture, Joffrey waved his hand.
"Very well! Then let him live — as a fool.
Strip off his armor, dress him in motley,
and let him keep the company of Moon Boy."
And so Ser Dantos Hollard was spared his drowning,
only to be reborn as a fool.
They dragged him off to be washed, painted, and dressed in bells.
By evening, he would have his new title:
"The King's Fool."
A more fitting one, perhaps, than "Ser."
---
Next, it was Prince Tommen's turn to enter the lists.
His opponent waited for him —
a straw dummy dressed in rusty mail.
But even that match, as it turned out,
did not end well.
Prince Tommen Baratheon, sweet and soft-hearted as he was,
was no match for his opponent.
The moment his pony reached the straw-stuffed dummy,
the wooden mace attahed to its arm swung in a lazy circle —
and caught him square on the back of the head.
The blow knocked the boy clean out of his saddle.
He tumbled backward, armor clanging and rattling like a falling smithy,
and hit the dirt with a resounding thud.
His little pony pranced away, tail flicking, utterly unconcerned.
Laughter rolled through the courtyard.
The loudest — and cruelest — came, of course, from the king himself.
Joffrey laughed until he wheezed,
pointing at his brother as the poor boy struggled to sit up.
Even some of the knights smiled uneasily,
though their eyes flickered toward the crimson canopy,
waiting to see what mood would follow the laughter.
---
Sansa Stark sat stiffly in her seat.
Something reckless and strange stirred in her chest —
a flicker of courage, or perhaps defiance.
When Joffrey's mocking grew crueler still,
she spoke up again,
her soft northern voice carrying through the hot air of the courtyard,
gently correcting the young king's "humor" before it went too far.
Her words drew a few uneasy glances —
and it was in that tense moment,
amid the laughter and murmurs,
that a new sound rose above it all:
The clatter of hooves.
The clang of metal.
The echo of chains and the creak of an opening gate.
---
The iron portcullis at the Red Keep's main gate lifted.
Through the archway rode a small company of men —
dust-covered, weary, yet unmistakably bearing the crimson lion of Lannister.
"Who gave them leave to enter?!"
Joffrey barked, his voice sharp and high.
The Hound stepped forward instantly,
his hand resting on his sword hilt as his burned face twisted into a snarl.
His eyes swept toward the newcomers.
They were few in number.
A handful of Lannister guards in red cloaks led the way,
but behind them came rougher company —
freeriders and hedge knights,
each clad in mismatched armor,
their faces weathered by wind and battle.
And among them stalked wild men —
fierce, scarred figures draped in tattered furs and hardened leathers,
with matted hair, tangled beards,
and bloodied bandages wrapped around missing ears, lost eyes, or half-healed wounds.
They looked like something out of a wet nurse's nightmare,
half-man, half-beast,
and wholly terrifying.
Yet at their head rode a figure more striking still.
He was small — misshapen —
with a shock of pale blond hair and a beard streaked gold and black,
twisting like wiry rope across a narrow, uneven face.
His mismatched eyes gleamed beneath a heavy brow,
and his cloak of shadowcat fur flapped behind him as he rode a great red courser.
His left hand held the reins.
His right rested loosely in a white silk sling.
Sansa Stark knew him at once.
She had seen that face before —
in Winterfell, years ago,
when the Imp of House Lannister had ridden north with the royal party.
He looked just as she remembered —
grotesque, mismatched,
and somehow… still alive.
Prince Tommen, however, did not flinch or hesitate.
The boy gave a delighted cry,
kicked his pony's flanks,
and galloped toward the arriving riders,
his small voice ringing bright across the yard.
Princess Myrcella, skirts gathered in both hands,
ran after him, laughing.
A huge, broad-shouldered man dismounted from among the newcomers —
one of the mountain clansmen, by the look of him —
his beard so thick it nearly swallowed his face.
With surprising gentleness,
he lifted the armored boy clean off his horse
and set him down at his uncle's feet.
"Tommen, my sweet nephew!"
Tyrion Lannister laughed,
patting the boy's shining breastplate as Tommen giggled breathlessly.
The laughter echoed between the walls, warm and full of life —
a rare sound in that grim place.
Then Tyrion turned,
swept Myrcella into his arms,
and spun her once through the air.
She squealed with delight,
and he kissed her lightly on the brow before setting her down again.
Only then did he turn —
limping, smiling —
toward the king.
Behind him, Podrick Payne dismounted,
handing off the Lannister banner to one of the household guards.
His eyes lingered for a moment on the two bright-haired children,
so alike,
so pure,
before shifting to their elder brother —
the king.
Walking just behind the dwarf was Bronn,
dark-haired, sharp-eyed,
moving with the easy poise of a predator
who'd rather fight than bow.
Together, they approached the royal canopy.
Tyrion stopped a few paces away,
then dropped gracefully — or as gracefully as his twisted legs would allow —
to one knee.
"Your Grace," he said, his tone smooth, unhurried.
Joffrey's expression darkened.
"You?" he spat.
"Me," said the Imp with a crooked smile, lifting his mismatched gaze.
"Though, if memory serves,
a king ought to greet his uncle with at least a touch more courtesy."
There was a beat of silence.
Then came the rasp —
like a saw biting through wet wood.
It was the Hound's voice, low and guttural.
"I heard you were dead."