The second day of the royal tournament began for Sansa Stark with news that the Lord of the Reach, Mace Tyrell, and his daughter Margaery had arrived in the capital, whose brother, Loras, was also participating in the royal tournament. The Knight of Flowers, as he was nicknamed by the people, had made an indelible impression on the girl after a brilliant victory over an opponent, presenting her with a red rose. The young knight was very handsome; every girl in the Seven Kingdoms, with the sole exception of Arya, dreamed of becoming his wife, but none of them had yet managed to capture his heart.
"And yet he is no match for Prince Joffrey," Sansa sighed, looking at herself in the mirror. The golden dress, a gift from the Queen, emphasized her figure, and her hair was styled in an intricate southern fashion. "Did I mention already that he escorted me after the tournament?"
"Four times," Jeyne nodded, knowing she would now have to listen to this story for the fifth time. However, she didn't mind.
"It was wonderful," Stark closed her eyes, remembering every moment of yesterday's events in detail. "Prince Joffrey took my arm and led me to the castle; he asked if I liked the tournament and how I was feeling."
"Great..." Poole looked at her friend with slight envy.
"Exactly," Sansa nodded, smiling blissfully. "He escorted me all the way to my chambers, kissed my hand in farewell, and wished me good dreams. The Prince loves me, just as I love him."
"Are you going to the tournament together again today?" Jeyne inquired. She herself had no desire to go to the royal box at all; Cersei Lannister's gaze was far too cold, but she couldn't very well say that to her best friend, who would be Queen in the future, could she? Neither girl had any doubt that the wedding would take place very soon. What was the point of waiting if the young people loved each other?
Sansa finally stopped daydreaming and looked at herself in the mirror again to ensure there wasn't even the slightest flaw. The servants were already gossiping that Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden, one of the most beautiful, wealthy, and eligible brides in all of Westeros, would be present at the tournament, and so Sansa did not intend to make a fool of herself.
"No," Sansa finally replied, satisfied with her flawless appearance. "The Prince said he has urgent business, but he will try to come by the end of the tournament."
"And what kind of business does he have?" Jeyne asked.
"I didn't ask," Stark replied primly. "I think Prince Joffrey will tell me everything himself if the need arises."
"An absolutely correct move," came the stern voice of Septa Mordane, who had stopped in the doorway. "It is not the place of a noble lady to pry into the affairs of her betrothed, who is destined to sit on the throne in the future. You did the right thing, Sansa."
"Thank you," the girl nodded.
"And now I would like to know, where is Arya?"
"I don't know, probably out walking in the company of butchers or bakers again," Sansa shrugged, not wanting to hear about her sister more than necessary.
Arya didn't like the capital; she wasn't interested in the tournament or the knights participating in it. Unwilling to socialize with representatives of noble houses as her status demanded, the girl preferred to spend time in the company of palace servants and their children, as well as running through the castle corridors in short breeches, the mere sight of which had horrified Sansa. Lately, she had even begun flaunting fresh bruises and abrasions, while refusing to say exactly where she got them. To Sansa's deep surprise, her father didn't object at all to the younger daughter's blatant behavior, and seemed to take the bruises and abrasions as a given.
Sometimes Sansa dreamed that Prince Joffrey broke off their engagement, motivating his decision by saying he didn't want to be related to a little savage whose place was not in the royal palace but in the city slums, at the very bottom. As a rule, Sansa would wake up the next morning with a tear-stained face and a terrible urge to find Arya and either urgently instill manners in her or throw her off the fortress wall.
"That's not a girl, but a walking disaster," the Septa shook her head and, before leaving, added: "If you see her, tell her to come to me immediately, otherwise I will be forced to report her behavior to Lord Stark."
"Yesterday I saw Arya chasing cats," Jeyne admitted as soon as the door closed behind Mordane.
"Why?" Sansa wondered.
"I don't know; as soon as she saw me, she made a face and ran away."
"The Seven, if only Prince Joffrey doesn't see her!" Stark exclaimed. "It will be such a disgrace!"
"Well, the Prince's servant saw her," Poole admitted; at these words, Sansa's face twisted in horror. "Well, when she was escorting me from the tournament. Her and that terrifying warrior with the burnt face."
"Nightmare!" Sansa clutched her head. "If they told the Prince everything, I'll die of shame on the spot! I wish the hells would take Arya and her antics! Why can't she just behave properly?!"
After somehow calming her friend, Jeyne led her to the tournament field, where spectators from the nobility, wealthy townspeople, and common folk had already gathered. Banners fluttered proudly in the wind, dominated by the crowned stag of the Baratheons. The King and Queen sat in their box, and servants and minor lords constantly swirled around them, hungry for the attention and patronage of such high personages. Robert Barateon, in view of his absolute sobriety, ignored them completely, only occasionally driving away particularly persistent petitioners with a sharp remark. Queen Cersei, meanwhile, thoughtfully decided who was worthy of her attention and who could be sent packing.
"Not a single cupbearer in the royal box," Poole suddenly noticed as she sat down next to Sansa. A moment later, Bran joined them, but the boy's entire attention was immediately captured by the Arena, and the rest of the world ceased to exist for him.
"So what?" Sansa Stark cared little about King Robert; her disappointment had been far too great when she first saw him in Winterfell. Bloated, constantly drunk, he was nothing like the warrior Eddard Stark had described to his children. It seemed impossible that he was Prince Joffrey's parent; father and son were far too different, but those in the know insisted that despite the physical differences, Prince Joffrey took after the King in character and martial skill. When the Crown Prince took a hammer in his hands, almost no one could stand against him.
Sansa's gaze shifted of its own accord to the Queen, surrounded on all sides by ladies-in-waiting and courtiers. Long golden curls fell in a loose wave over Cersei's shoulders, and a golden tiara with a scattering of precious stones sparkled in the sunlight. A dazzling beauty, she drew gazes full of admiration, desire, and envy. The emerald necklace on her neck elicited delighted sighs and envious whispers, which intensified as the news spread through the crowd: the necklace had been a gift to the Queen from Prince Joffrey.
"One day you will take her place," Poole sighed. "And they will all be looking at you."
"I think that day is not far off, young lady," a polite voice spoke. Turning around, the girls saw Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, before them. Though they hadn't been officially introduced, everyone was expected to know a member of the Small Council.
"Lord Baelish," Sansa stood up and was about to greet the man as she had been taught since childhood when Baelish interrupted her with a wave of his hand.
"Come now, my dear, don't trouble yourself," Littlefinger said with a smile, looking the girl over. His gaze also slid over Bran and Jeyne, but the boy ignored him completely, lost in the clouds, and poor Poole was simply uninteresting to him. "I am glad that I have finally been able to personally introduce myself to the daughter of Lord Stark and Lady Catelyn. I must say, you look very much like her."
"You know my mother?" Sansa asked, sitting back down.
"We were friends from early childhood," Baelish replied, sitting down beside her, "as I grew up at Lord Tully's court. Unfortunately, for a number of reasons, our paths diverged many years ago, and I have not had the pleasure of seeing your mother since."
"I am pleased by our acquaintance," Sansa said, feeling a bit uncomfortable. After all, she was the Crown Prince's betrothed, and now she was being kept company by a man old enough to be her father. How the ruling couple would react to such a sight was anyone's guess. "I must confess, Mother never mentioned you in conversation."
"I would be much more surprised if Catelyn had told you about me," Baelish was still smiling, but a flash of sadness crossed his gray-green eyes. "We parted under not the most pleasant circumstances, but those are matters of years long past."
"Quiet, you, the tournament is starting!" Bran said crossly, finally looking at Littlefinger.
"Forgive me, young lord," Baelish smiled, pressing a hand to his heart.
Indeed, Robert Baratheon rose from his seat, winced as if from a sharp pain, and then waved his hand. Trumpets blared, echoed by the roar of the crowd hungry for a spectacle. Yesterday's death had galvanized the spectators; they wanted to know if anyone would lose their life today. Meanwhile, King Robert stepped back, and it became noticeable that the monarch was limping heavily, though no one knew the reason for his limp.
To the roar of dozens of brass trumpets, the tournament participants who were to meet in individual bouts rode onto the field. On a bay horse with a blue caparison sat a tall knight in a closed tournament helm, topped by a leaping lion. A lion's head was also embroidered in a fine gold pattern on his blue cloak; seeing it, the spectators reasonably assumed it was one of the Queen's many relatives. The warrior raised a richly decorated lance, saluting the crowd. Beside him, on a beautiful gray mare, sat Loras Tyrell, greeting the spectators with a smile.
"Go on, Loras, I believe in you!" a ringing voice rang out, and the crowd's attention turned to a young girl in a blue dress of expensive fabric, with gold roses embroidered on it. Soft chestnut hair was braided into an intricate coil decorated with a gold ribbon. The girl was very beautiful, a fact noted by everyone without exception; the light dress flatteringly emphasized her figure, but no one bold enough to shout a lewd joke in her direction was found, which was unsurprising. There were no suicides among the spectators.
"Lady Margaery Tyrell," Baelish said softly, leaning toward Sansa. "The only daughter of Lord Tyrell and sister to the Knight of Flowers. Note the resemblance between brother and sister."
Stark cast a brief glance at the daughter of the Lord of the Reach, whose entire appearance breathed the southern style that Sansa herself dreamed of possessing. Her beautiful golden dress now seemed dull, even tasteless, compared to the beauty from Highgarden.
"Mace Tyrell is currently actively seeking a groom for his daughter," Baelish reminded her again. "Rumor has it it's to be Lord Renly, but the fact that the ruler of the Reach brought his daughter to the capital right now raises questions among the nobility. Don't you think?"
Sansa and Jeyne exchanged looks but said nothing, turning their attention back to the tournament participants. Jaime Lannister was clad in gilded armor, his helm forged in the shape of a lion's head. Seeing his sister, he saluted her with his sword, immediately receiving a dazzling smile and a wish for luck in return. Beside him, on a massive horse, sat Gregor Clegane, known as the Mountain; his visor was raised, revealing to the crowd a dispassionate, indifferent face and cold, emotionless eyes. The sight was repulsive, even frightening, especially considering the stories told about Tywin Lannister's mad dog.
The first to meet in combat were, as the public judged, Lannisters—specifically the Kingslayer and the knight with the lion embroidered on his cloak. In the very first clash, both warriors hit their mark; their lances shattered, but the riders managed to stay in their saddles, gripping their mounts' flanks tightly with their legs. Taking new lances, the opponents returned to their positions. At the signal, they spurred their horses and, breaking from their spots, charged toward each other. Again came the crack of breaking lances; each knight hit his mark again, but this time luck turned away from the Kingslayer. One of the stirrups tore away; Lannister lost his balance and flew from the saddle, hitting his head hard on the ground. The helm was badly dented by the impact, and when Jaime tried to remove it, he couldn't. Seeing almost nothing before him, Lannister tried to leave the field to the laughter of the crowd, but tripped and fell again. King Robert roared with laughter, slapping his thighs in ecstasy, while Cersei tried to burn him with a look full of hatred. But then the winner approached Jaime, helped him up, and led him away, handing Lannister over to the care of loyal servants.
"A noble act," Baelish commented on the proceedings. "Especially considering that this good knight would hardly have expected anything of the sort from Ser Jaime."
"I am sure you are mistaken," Sansa replied boldly. "Ser Jaime is brave and noble, as befits a true knight."
"I do not doubt his bravery, Lady Sansa," Littlefinger noted. "As for his nobility... You do know why Ser Jaime was nicknamed the Kingslayer, don't you?"
The girl did not answer, as the answer was obvious. She knew. Everyone in Westeros knew.
Meanwhile, new opponents rode onto the lists—Loras Tyrell atop a gray mare seemingly built for speed, and Gregor Clegane on his horse, which looked a match for its massive master. Scenting the mare, the stallion grew agitated, neighing, pawing the ground, and tossing its head. Clegane had to exert effort to hold it in place.
"Who do you think will win?" a minute ago Lord Renly hadn't been in the stand, but now he was here, watching the proceedings with interest. "My respects, Lady Sansa, you look wonderful!"
"I expect Tyrell will win," Littlefinger replied. Sansa agreed with him. She didn't know how Baelish had reached such conclusions; Stark simply believed that the Knight of Flowers could not lose. "Perhaps we should place bets?"
"What's the point of arguing if we all agree?" Baratheon replied, then looked at Bran. "And what does young Stark tell us? Who, in your opinion, will win?"
The boy only shrugged, absorbed in the spectacle. The bout began. Clegane's horse broke into a heavy gallop; meeting it like a bolt of lightning was Tyrell's gray mare. Ser Gregor leveled his shield and lance, simultaneously trying to hold his unruly horse, but as if by magic, Ser Loras was beside him and struck with his lance exactly on target; in the blink of an eye, the Mountain tumbled to the ground, pulling his horse down with him. The spectators cheered enthusiastically; Margaery Tyrell applauded, rejoicing in her brother's brilliant victory. Sansa and Jeyne also clapped their hands; beside them, Bran shouted joyfully, jumping in place. The Knight of Flowers himself rode to the other end of the Arena, his lance not even splintered, and smiling, he raised his visor.
Scrambling out from under the horse, Clegane stood up, ripped the helm from his head, threw it to the ground, and looked around. His gaze blazed with fury, his face darkened with rage; not a trace of his former dispassion remained.
"Sword!" he barked, reaching out a hand into which one of the squires placed a weapon. By this time, Clegane's horse had also stood up, and the Mountain, with one blow of his terrible greatsword, half-severed its neck. The mount's death was instantaneous.
The spectators shrieked; cries of delight were instantly replaced by howls of horror, which only intensified as Ser Gregor strode toward Tyrell, clutching a blood-stained sword. The rest of the events merged into a single torrent and rushed by so quickly that almost no one could keep track of them. Loras Tyrell demanded a sword, but Clegane shoved the approaching squire aside and grabbed the reins. Scenting fresh blood, the mare reared; the Knight of Flowers held on, but a blow from the two-handed sword, catching the youth in the chest, knocked him out of the saddle, and Ser Loras tumbled into the mud.
"Stop this madness!" Renly shouted, drawing his sword and vaulting over the barrier. The other knights followed his lead. Jeyne began to pray aloud to the gods, Old and New, hoping only that this nightmare would end soon. Margaery Tyrell screamed in terror, looking at her fallen brother, over whom the massive warrior loomed, raising his sword over the prone man for a Mortal Blow.
"CLEGANE!!! BACK!!!"
A furious cry preceded everyone: the king, who had stepped forward surrounded by his Guard; the knights of The Reach, racing to the rescue of their liege's son; a city Guard Unit, rushing onto The Arena in urgent order; Sandor Clegane, clutching a bared sword, his face twisted with malice. The gazes of those present shifted to the other end of the lists.
Ser Gregor spun around sharply, and while he was distracted, servants helped Loras Tyrell scramble away to safety. Clutching a battle hammer, Crown Prince Joffrey was walking toward The Mountain, and following on his heels with a bared sword was the Kingslayer, whose dented helmet had finally been removed. The Crown Prince glared at Clegane from under his brow, waves of fury pouring from him in all directions, his green eyes darkening. No one had ever seen Joffrey Baratheon in such a state; the king's son was ready to kill if he was not obeyed.
Sansa pressed her hands to her face, not believing her eyes. The girl's heart beat so strongly it felt as if it would burst from her chest.
Perhaps something had snapped in Clegane's head; it could be that the impact with the ground had clouded his mind, but with a gruesome howl, he lunged at the heir to the throne and the grandson of his master. A clamor arose; cries of anger, rage, and horror reached the heavens. Immediately, guards and knights rushed at Ser Gregor from all sides, with Loras Tyrell racing at the front, but for his size, The Mountain moved very quickly, appearing beside the Crown Prince in the blink of an eye, taking a swing. The massive two-handed sword descended rapidly toward Joffrey's head, but he was no longer there.
Stepping aside, he cleared a path for Jaime Lannister, whose sword, like a snake, dived into a joint of the armor, inflicting a deep wound on Clegane. Blood sprayed like a fountain, liberally drenching the sand, but a single wound could not stop the massive warrior; thus the prince, finding himself behind his opponent's back, delivered a spinning blow to his back with the hammer, only narrowly missing The Mountain's head. Staggering, Clegane took a couple of steps forward before collapsing to his knees. The final blow was delivered by The Hound, who appeared beside The Mountain. A gruesome snarl adorned his face as Sandor Clegane swung his sword and hacked off his brother's head.
A deafening silence hung over The Arena. The people in the stands slowly stood up, refusing to believe what was happening. King Robert ran onto the field like an enraged bear, limping on his left leg; he shoved aside the knights and guards, then firmly embraced his son. Following the monarch, the queen appeared on The Arena, and it was difficult to tell whose wrath would be more terrible.
"Joffrey!" the queen cried out, then literally snatched her son from Robert's arms.
"It's alright, Mother," the Crown Prince replied quietly, embracing his mother and stroking her shoulder. The queen was clearly on the verge of hysteria. Just now, her son, the heir to the throne, had been attacked by her father's vassal, and had Gregor Clegane been alive, Cersei Lannister would have ordered him tortured for a very, very long time, until The Mountain cursed the day he was ever born.
Meanwhile, Robert approached Ser Jaime, slapped him on the shoulder, and squeezed his fingers for a moment. The Kingslayer only nodded silently, not taking his eyes off his sister. Cersei was already starting to shake slightly; she needed to be taken to the palace immediately and allowed to calm down before she exploded from rage and fear. The king approached Sandor, said something quietly to him, and shook his hand, then stood still over the decapitated body. In his heart, he spat on the dead man, then commanded:
"Send Clegane's head to Tywin Lannister and tell him in detail what his cur has done!"
The Tyrells approached the gathering, led by Lord Mace Tyrell, with Ser Loras and Lady Margaery following on his heels. The Lord of The Reach and Warden of the South wanted to thank the Crown Prince for saving his son, but Joffrey did not let him open his mouth:
"I will be happy to speak with you at any time, Lord Tyrell," the prince said, "but right now I must lead my mother back to the palace. Father, with your permission."
"Yes, of course," Robert did not object, seeing his wife's condition. "Guard! Escort them!"
The Stormwind Royal Guard surrounded Prince Joffrey and Queen Cersei on all sides, after which they departed. The people in the stands gradually began to come to life, discussing what they had seen, and there was no doubt that very soon the entire capital would know of the event, after which the news would spread throughout Westeros. Tywin Lannister's vassal had attacked the Crown Prince and paid for it with his life! Such an event was bound to be overgrown with the most ridiculous details, which the common folk would blindly believe, passing rumors from mouth to mouth, adding something new of their own each time.
The tournament was suspended; the Small Council deliberated on what to do next. In the turmoil of what had happened, no one noticed that when Prince Joffrey stood against Gregor Clegane, he was clad in a blue cloak with a lion's head embroidered upon it.
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