The morning of King Joffrey’s name day dawned bright and
windy, with the long tail of the great comet visible through the
high scuttling clouds. Sansa was watching it from her tower window
when Ser Arys Oakheart arrived to escort her down to the tourney
grounds. “What do you think it means?” she asked
him.
“Glory to your betrothed,” Ser Arys answered at
once. “See how it flames across the sky today on His
Grace’s name day, as if the gods themselves had raised a
banner in his honor. The smallfolk have named it King
Joffrey’s Comet.”
Doubtless that was what they told Joffrey; Sansa was not so
sure. “I’ve heard servants calling it the
Dragon’s Tail.”
“King Joffrey sits where Aegon the Dragon once sat, in the
castle built by his son,” Ser Arys said. “He is the
dragon’s heir—and crimson is the color of House Lannister,
another sign. This comet is sent to herald Joffrey’s ascent
to the throne, I have no doubt. It means that he will triumph over
his enemies.” Is it true? she wondered. Would the gods be so cruel? Her mother
was one of Joffrey’s enemies now, her brother Robb another.
Her father had died by the king’s command. Must Robb and her
lady mother die next? The comet was red, but Joffrey was Baratheon
as much as Lannister, and their sigil was a black stag on a golden
field. Shouldn’t the gods have sent Joff a golden comet?
Sansa closed the shutters and turned sharply away from the
window. “You look very lovely today, my lady,” Ser Arys
said.
“Thank you, ser.” Knowing that Joffrey would require
her to attend the tourney in his honor, Sansa had taken special
care with her face and clothes. She wore a gown of pale purple silk
and a moonstone hair net that had been a gift from Joffrey. The
gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Those were
Joffrey’s gifts as well. When they told him that Robb had
been proclaimed King in the North, his rage had been a fearsome
thing, and he had sent Ser Boros to beat her.
“Shall we go?” Ser Arys offered his arm and she let
him lead her from her chamber. If she must have one of the
Kingsguard dogging her steps, Sansa preferred that it be him. Ser
Boros was short-tempered, Ser Meryn cold, and Ser Mandon’s
strange dead eyes made her uneasy, while Ser Preston treated her
like a lackwit child. Arys Oakheart was courteous, and would talk
to her cordially. Once he even objected when Joffrey commanded him
to hit her. He did hit her in the end, but not hard as Ser Meryn or
Ser Boros might have, and at least he had argued. The others obeyed
without question . . . except for the Hound,
but Joff never asked the Hound to punish her. He used the other
five for that.
Ser Arys had light brown hair and a face that was not unpleasant
to look upon. Today he made quite the dashing figure, with his
white silk cloak fastened at the shoulder by a golden leaf, and a
spreading oak tree worked upon the breast of his tunic in shining
gold thread. “Who do you think will win the day’s
honors?” Sansa asked as they descended the steps arm in
arm.
“I will,” Ser Arys answered, smiling. “Yet I
fear the triumph will have no savor. This will be a small field,
and poor. No more than two score will enter the lists, including
squires and freeriders. There is small honor in unhorsing green
boys.”
The last tourney had been different, Sansa reflected. King
Robert had staged it in her father’s honor. High lords and
fabled champions had come from all over the realm to compete, and
the whole city had turned out to watch. She remembered the splendor
of it: the field of pavilions along the river with a knight’s
shield hung before each door, the long rows of silken pennants
waving in the wind, the gleam of sunlight on bright steel and
gilded spurs. The days had rung to the sounds of trumpets and
pounding hooves, and the nights had been full of feasts and song.
Those had been the most magical days of her life, but they seemed a
memory from another age now. Robert Baratheon was dead, and her
father as well, beheaded for a traitor on the steps of the Great
Sept of Baelor. Now there were three kings in the land, and war
raged beyond the Trident while the city filled with desperate men.
Small wonder that they had to hold Joff’s tournament behind
the thick stone walls of the Red Keep.
“Will the queen attend, do you think?” Sansa always
felt safer when Cersei was there to restrain her son.
“I fear not, my lady. The council is meeting, some urgent
business.” Ser Arys dropped his voice. “Lord Tywin has
gone to ground at Harrenhal instead of bringing his army to the
city as the queen commanded. Her Grace is furious.” He fell
silent as a column of Lannister guardsmen marched past, in crimson
cloaks and lion-crested helms. Ser Arys was fond of gossip, but
only when he was certain that no one was listening.
The carpenters had erected a gallery and lists in the outer
bailey. It was a poor thing indeed, and the meager throng that had
gathered to watch filled but half the seats. Most of the spectators
were guardsmen in the gold cloaks of the City Watch or the crimson
of House Lannister; of lords and ladies there were but a paltry
few, the handful that remained at court. Grey-faced Lord Gyles
Rosby was coughing into a square of pink silk. Lady Tanda was
bracketed by her daughters, placid dull Lollys and acid-tongued
Falyse. Ebon-skinned Jalabhar Xho was an exile who had no other
refuge, Lady Ermesande a babe seated on her wet nurse’s lap.
The talk was she would soon be wed to one of the queen’s
cousins, so the Lannisters might claim her lands.
The king was shaded beneath a crimson canopy, one leg thrown
negligently over the carved wooden arm of his chair. Princess
Myrcella and Prince Tommen sat behind him. In the back of the
royal box, Sandor Clegane stood at guard, his hands resting on his
swordbelt. The white cloak of the Kingsguard was draped over his
broad shoulders and fastened with a jeweled brooch, the snowy cloth
looking somehow unnatural against his brown roughspun tunic and
studded leather jerkin. “Lady Sansa,” the Hound
announced curtly when he saw her. His voice was as rough as the
sound of a saw on wood. The burn scars on his face and throat made
one side of his mouth twitch when he spoke.
Princess Myrcella nodded a shy greeting at the sound of
Sansa’s name, but plump little Prince Tommen jumped up
eagerly. “Sansa, did you hear? I’m to ride in the
tourney today. Mother said I could.” Tommen was all of
eight. He reminded her of her own little brother, Bran. They were
of an age. Bran was back at Winterfell, a cripple, yet safe.
Sansa would have given anything to be with him. “I fear
for the life of your foeman,” she told Tommen solemnly.
“His foeman will be stuffed with straw,” Joff said
as he rose. The king was clad in a gilded breastplate with a
roaring lion engraved upon its chest, as if he expected the war to
engulf them at any moment. He was thirteen today, and tall for his
age, with the green eyes and golden hair of the Lannisters.
“Your Grace,” she said, dipping in a curtsy.
Ser Arys bowed. “Pray pardon me, Your Grace. I must equip
myself for the lists.”
Joffrey waved a curt dismissal while he studied Sansa from head
to heels. “I’m pleased you wore my stones.”
So the king had decided to play the gallant today. Sansa was
relieved. “I thank you for them . . . and
for your tender words. I pray you a lucky name day, Your
Grace.”
“Sit,” Joff commanded, gesturing her to the empty
seat beside his own. “Have you heard? The Beggar King is
dead.”
“Who?” For a moment Sansa was afraid he meant
Robb.
“Viserys. The last son of Mad King Aerys. He’s been
going about the Free Cities since before I was born, calling
himself a king. Well, Mother says the Dothraki finally crowned him.
With molten gold.” He laughed. “That’s funny,
don’t you think? The dragon was their sigil. It’s
almost as good as if some wolf killed your traitor brother. Maybe
I’ll feed him to wolves after I’ve caught him. Did I
tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?”
“I should like to see that, Your Grace.” More than
you know. Sansa kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so
Joffrey’s eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether she was
mocking him. “Will you enter the lists today?” she
asked quickly.
The king frowned. “My lady mother said it was not fitting,
since the tourney is in my honor. Otherwise I would have been
champion. Isn’t that so, dog?”
The Hound’s mouth twitched. “Against this lot? Why
not?” He had been the champion in her father’s tourney, Sansa
remembered. “Will you joust today, my lord?” she asked
him.
Clegane’s voice was thick with contempt.
“Wouldn’t be worth the bother of arming myself. This is
a tournament of gnats.”
The king laughed. “My dog has a fierce bark. Perhaps I
should command him to fight the day’s champion. To the
death.” Joffrey was fond of making men fight to the
death.
“You’d be one knight the poorer.” The Hound
had never taken a knight’s vows. His brother was a knight,
and he hated his brother.
A blare of trumpets sounded. The king settled back in his seat
and took Sansa’s hand. Once that would have set her heart to
pounding, but that was before he had answered her plea for mercy by
presenting her with her father’s head. His touch filled her
with revulsion now, but she knew better than to show it. She made
herself sit very still.
“Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard,” a herald
called.
Ser Meryn entered from the west side of the yard, clad in
gleaming white plate chased with gold and mounted on a milk-white
charger with a flowing grey mane. His cloak streamed behind him
like a field of snow. He carried a twelve-foot lance.
“Ser Hobber of House Redwyne, of the Arbor,” the
herald sang. Ser Hobber trotted in from the east, riding a black
stallion caparisoned in burgundy and blue. His lance was striped in
the same colors, and his shield bore the grape cluster sigil of his
House. The Redwyne twins were the queen’s unwilling guests,
even as Sansa was. She wondered whose notion it had been for them
to ride in Joffrey’s tourney. Not their own, she thought.
At a signal from the master of revels, the combatants couched
their lances and put their spurs to their mounts. There were shouts
from the watching guardsmen and the lords and ladies in the
gallery. The knights came together in the center of the yard with a
great shock of wood and steel. The white lance and the striped one
exploded in splinters within a second of each other. Hobber Redwyne
reeled at the impact, yet somehow managed to keep his seat.
Wheeling their horses about at the far end of the lists, the
knights tossed down their broken lances and accepted replacements
from the squires. Ser Horas Redwyne, Ser Hobber’s twin,
shouted encouragement to his brother.
But on their second pass Ser Meryn swung the point of his lance
to strike Ser Hobber in the chest, driving him from the saddle to
crash resoundingly to the earth. Ser Horas cursed and ran out to
help his battered brother from the field.
“Poorly ridden,” declared King Joffrey.
“Ser Balon Swann, of Stonehelm in the Red Watch,”
came the herald’s cry. Wide white wings ornamented Ser
Balon’s greathelm, and black and white swans fought on his
shield. “Morros of House Slynt, heir to Lord Janos of
Harrenhal.”
“Look at that upjumped oaf,” Joff hooted, loud
enough for half the yard to hear. Morros, a mere squire and a
new-made squire at that, was having difficulty managing lance and
shield. The lance was a knight’s weapon, Sansa knew, the
Slynts lowborn. Lord Janos had been no more than commander of the
City Watch before Joffrey had raised him to Harrenhal and the
council. I hope he falls and shames himself, she thought bitterly. I hope
Ser Balon kills him. When Joffrey proclaimed her father’s
death, it had been Janos Slynt who seized Lord Eddard’s
severed head by the hair and raised it on high for king and crowd
to behold, while Sansa wept and screamed.
Morros wore a checkered black-and-gold cloak over black armor
inlaid with golden scrollwork. On his shield was the bloody spear
his father had chosen as the sigil of their new-made house. But he
did not seem to know what to do with the shield as he urged his
horse forward, and Ser Balon’s point struck the blazon square. Morros dropped his
lance, fought for balance, and lost. One foot caught in a stirrup
as he fell, and the runaway charger dragged the youth to the end of
the lists, head bouncing against the ground. Joff hooted derision.
Sansa was appalled, wondering if the gods had heard her vengeful
prayer. But when they disentangled Morros Slynt from his horse,
they found him bloodied but alive. “Tommen, we picked the
wrong foe for you,” the king told his brother. “The
straw knight jousts better than that one.”
Next came Ser Horas Redwyne’s turn. He fared better than
his twin, vanquishing an elderly knight whose mount was bedecked
with silver griffins against a striped blue-and-white field.
Splendid as he looked, the old man made a poor contest of it.
Joffrey curled his lip. “This is a feeble show.”
“I warned you,” said the Hound.
“Gnats.”
The king was growing bored. It made Sansa anxious. She lowered
her eyes and resolved to keep quiet, no matter what. When Joffrey
Baratheon’s mood darkened, any chance word might set off one
of his rages.
“Lothor Brune, freerider in the service of Lord Baelish,” cried the herald. “Ser Dontos the Red, of House
Hollard. “
The freerider, a small man in dented plate without device, duly
appeared at the west end of the yard, but of his opponent there was
no sign. Finally a chestnut stallion trotted into view in a swirl
of crimson and scarlet silks, but Ser Dontos was not on it. The
knight appeared a moment later, cursing and staggering, clad in
breastplate and plumed helm and nothing else. His legs were pale
and skinny, and his manhood flopped about obscenely as he chased
after his horse. The watchers roared and shouted insults. Catching
his horse by the bridle, Ser Dontos tried to mount, but the animal
would not stand still and the knight was so drunk that his bare
foot kept missing the stirrup.
By then the crowd was howling with
laughter . . . all but the king. Joffrey had a
look in his eyes that Sansa remembered well, the same look
he’d had at the Great Sept of Baelor the day he pronounced
death on Lord Eddard Stark. Finally Ser Dontos the Red gave it up
for a bad job, sat down in the dirt, and removed his plumed helm.
“I lose,” he shouted. “Fetch me some
wine.”
The king stood. “A cask from the cellars! I’ll see
him drowned in it.”
Sansa heard herself gasp. “No, you can’t.”
Joffrey turned his head. “What did you say?”
Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him
no in front of half the court? She hadn’t meant to say
anything, only . . . Ser Dontos was drunk and
silly and useless, but he meant no harm.
“Did you say I can’t? Did you?”
“Please,” Sansa said, “I only
meant . . . it would be ill luck, Your
Grace . . . to, to kill a man on your name
day.”
“You’re lying,” Joffrey said. “I ought
to drown you with him, if you care for him so much.”
“I don’t care for him, Your Grace.” The words
tumbled out desperately. “Drown him or have his head off,
only . . . kill him on the morrow, if you like,
but please . . . not today, not on your name
day. I couldn’t bear for you to have ill
luck . . . terrible luck, even for kings, the
singers all say so . . . ”
Joffrey scowled. He knew she was lying, she could see it. He
would make her bleed for this.
“The girl speaks truly,” the Hound rasped.
“What a man sows on his name day, he reaps throughout the
year.” His voice was flat, as if he did not care a whit
whether the king believed him or no. Could it be true? Sansa had
not known. It was just something she’d said, desperate to
avoid punishment.
Unhappy, Joffrey shifted in his seat and flicked his fingers at
Ser Dontos. “Take him away. I’ll have him killed on the
morrow, the fool.”
“He is,” Sansa said. “A fool. You’re so
clever, to see it. He’s better fitted to be a fool than a
knight, isn’t he? You ought to dress him in motley and make
him clown for you. He doesn’t deserve the mercy of a quick
death.”
The king studied her a moment. “Perhaps you’re not
so stupid as Mother says.” He raised his voice. “Did
you hear my lady, Dontos? From this day on, you’re my new
fool. You can sleep with Moon Boy and dress in motley.”
Ser Dontos, sobered by his near brush with death, crawled to his
knees. “Thank you, Your Grace. And you, my lady. Thank
you.”
As a brace of Lannister guardsmen led him off, the master of
revels approached the box. “Your Grace,” he said,
“shall I summon a new challenger for Brune, or proceed with
the next tilt?”
“Neither. These are gnats, not knights. I’d have
them all put to death, only it’s my name day. The tourney is
done. Get them all out of my sight.”
The master of revels bowed, but Prince Tommen was not so
obedient. “I’m supposed to ride against the straw
man.”
“Not today.”
“But I want to ride!”
“I don’t care what you want.”
“Mother said I could ride.”
“She said,” Princess Myrcella agreed.
“Mother said,” mocked the king. “Don’t
be childish.”
“We’re children,” Myrcella declared haughtily.
“We’re supposed to be childish.”
The Hound laughed. “She has you there.”
Joffrey was beaten. “Very well. Even my brother
couldn’t tilt any worse than these others. Master, bring out
the quintain, Tommen wants to be a gnat.”
Tommen gave a shout of joy and ran off to be readied, his
chubby little legs pumping hard. “Luck,” Sansa called
to him.
They set up the quintain at the far end of the lists while the
prince’s pony was being saddled. Tommen’s opponent was
a child-sized leather warrior stuffed with straw and mounted on a
pivot, with a shield in one hand and a padded mace in the other.
Someone had fastened a pair of antlers to the knight’s head.
Joffrey’s father King Robert had worn antlers on his helm,
Sansa remembered . . . but so did his uncle
Lord Renly, Robert’s brother, who had turned traitor and
crowned himself king.
A pair of squires buckled the prince into his ornate
silver-and-crimson armor. A tall plume of red feathers sprouted
from the crest of his helm, and the lion of Lannister and crowned
stag of Baratheon frolicked together on his shield. The squires
helped him mount, and Ser Aron Santagar, the Red Keep’s
master-at-arms, stepped forward and handed Tommen a blunted silver
longsword with a leaf-shaped blade, crafted to fit an
eight-year-old hand.
Tommen raised the blade high. “Casterly Rock!” he
shouted in a high boyish voice as he put his heels into his pony
and started across the hard-packed dirt at the quintain. Lady Tanda
and Lord Gyles started a ragged cheer, and Sansa added her voice to
theirs. The king brooded in silence.
Tommen got his pony up to a brisk trot, waved his sword
vigorously, and struck the knight’s shield a solid blow as he
went by. The quintain spun, the padded mace flying around to give
the prince a mighty whack in the back of his head. Tommen spilled
from the saddle, his new armor rattling like a bag of old pots as
he hit the ground. His sword went flying, his pony cantered away
across the bailey, and a great gale of derision went up. King
Joffrey laughed longest and loudest of all.
“Oh,” Princess Myrcella cried. She scrambled out of
the box and ran to her little brother.
Sansa found herself possessed of a queer giddy courage.
“You should go with her,” she told the king.
“Your brother might be hurt.”
Joffrey shrugged. “What if he is?”
“You should help him up and tell him how well he
rode.” Sansa could not seem to stop herself.
“He got knocked off his horse and fell in the dirt,”
the king pointed out. “That’s not riding
well.”
“Look,” the Hound interrupted. “The boy has
courage. He’s going to try again.”
They were helping Prince Tommen mount his pony. If only Tommen
were the elder instead of Joffrey, Sansa thought. I wouldn’t
mind marrying Tommen.
The sounds from the gatehouse took them by surprise. Chains
rattled as the portcullis was drawn upward, and the great gates
opened to the creak of iron hinges. “Who told them to open
the gate?” Joff demanded. With the troubles in the city, the
gates of the Red Keep had been closed for days.
A column of riders emerged from beneath the portcullis with a
clink of steel and a clatter of hooves. Clegane stepped close to
the king, one hand on the hilt of his longsword. The visitors were
dinted and haggard and dusty, yet the standard they carried was the
lion of Lannister, golden on its crimson field. A few wore the red
cloaks and mail of Lannister men-at-arms, but more were freeriders
and sellswords, armored in oddments and bristling with sharp
steel . . . and there were others, monstrous
savages out of one of Old Nan’s tales, the scary ones Bran
used to love. They were clad in shabby skins and boiled leather,
with long hair and fierce beards. Some wore bloodstained bandages
over their brows or wrapped around their hands, and others were
missing eyes, ears, and fingers.
In their midst, riding on a tall red horse in a strange high
saddle that cradled him back and front, was the queen’s dwarf
brother Tyrion Lannister, the one they called the Imp. He had let
his beard grow to cover his pushed-in face, until it was a bristly
tangle of yellow and black hair, coarse as wire. Down his back
flowed a shadowskin cloak, black fur striped with white. He held
the reins in his left hand and carried his right arm in a white
silk sling, but otherwise looked as grotesque as Sansa remembered
from when he had visited Winterfell. With his bulging brow and
mismatched eyes, he was still the ugliest man she had ever chanced
to look upon.
Yet Tommen put his spurs into his pony and galloped headlong
across the yard, shouting with glee. One of the savages, a huge
shambling man so hairy that his face was all but lost beneath his
whiskers, scooped the boy out of his saddle, armor and all, and
deposited him on the ground beside his uncle. Tommen’s
breathless laughter echoed off the walls as Tyrion clapped him on
the backplate, and Sansa was startled to see that the two were of a
height. Myrcella came running after her brother, and the dwarf
picked her up by the waist and spun her in a circle, squealing.
When he lowered her back to the ground, the little man kissed
her lightly on the brow and came waddling across the yard toward
Joffrey. Two of his men followed close behind him; a black-haired
black-eyed sellsword who moved like a stalking cat, and a gaunt
youth with an empty socket where one eye should have been. Tommen
and Myrcella trailed after them.
The dwarf went to one knee before the king. “Your
Grace.”
“You,” Joffrey said.
“Me,” the Imp agreed, “although a more
courteous greeting might be in order, for an uncle and an
elder.”
“They said you were dead,” the Hound said.
The little man gave the big one a look. One of his eyes was
green, one was black, and both were cool. “I was speaking to
the king, not to his cur.”
“I’m glad you’re not dead,” said
Princess Myrcella.
“We share that view, sweet child.” Tyrion turned to
Sansa. “My lady, I am sorry for your losses. Truly, the gods
are cruel.”
Sansa could not think of a word to say to him. How could he be
sorry for her losses? Was he mocking her? It wasn’t the gods
who’d been cruel, it was Joffrey.
“I am sorry for your loss as well, Joffrey,” the
dwarf said.
“What loss?”
“Your royal father? A large fierce man with a black beard;
you’ll recall him if you try. He was king before
you.”
“Oh, him. Yes, it was very sad, a boar killed
him.”
“Is that what ‘they’ say, Your
Grace?”
Joffrey frowned. Sansa felt that she ought to say something.
What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady’s
armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said,
“I’m sorry my lady mother took you captive, my
lord.”
“A great many people are sorry for that,” Tyrion
replied, “and before I am done, some may be a deal
sorrier . . . yet I thank you for the
sentiment. Joffrey, where might I find your mother?”
“She’s with my council,” the king answered.
“Your brother Jaime keeps losing battles.” He gave
Sansa an angry look, as if it were her fault. “He’s
been taken by the Starks and we’ve lost Riverrun and now her
stupid brother is calling himself a king.”
The dwarf smiled crookedly. “All sorts of people are
calling themselves kings these days.”
Joff did not know what to make of that, though he looked
suspicious and out of sorts. “Yes. Well. I am pleased
you’re not dead, Uncle. Did you bring me a gift for my name
day?”
“I did. My wits.”
“I’d sooner have Robb Stark’s head,”
Joff said with a sly glance at Sansa. “Tommen, Myrcella,
come.”
Sandor Clegane lingered behind a moment. “I’d guard
that tongue of yours, little man,” he warned, before he
strode off after his liege.
Sansa was left with the dwarf and his monsters. She tried to
think of what else she might say. “You hurt your arm,”
she managed at last.
“One of your northmen hit me with a morningstar during the
battle on the Green Fork. I escaped him by falling off my
horse.” His grin turned into something softer as he studied
her face. “Is it grief for your lord father that makes you so
sad?”
“My father was a traitor,” Sansa said at once.
“And my brother and lady mother are traitors as well.”
That reflex she had learned quickly. “I am loyal to my
beloved Joffrey.”
“No doubt. As loyal as a deer surrounded by
wolves.”
“Lions,” she whispered, without thinking. She
glanced about nervously, but there was no one close enough to
hear.
Lannister reached out and took her hand, and gave it a squeeze.
“I am only a little lion, child, and I vow, I shall not
savage you.” Bowing, he said “But now you must excuse
me. I have urgent business with queen and council.”
Sansa watched him walk off, his body swaying heavily from side
to side with every step, like something from a grotesquerie. He
speaks more gently than Joffrey, she thought, but the queen spoke
to me gently too. He’s still a Lannister, her brother and
Joff’s uncle, and no friend. Once she had loved Prince
Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the
queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father’s
head. Sansa would never make that mistake again.
The morning of King Joffrey’s name day dawned bright and
windy, with the long tail of the great comet visible through the
high scuttling clouds. Sansa was watching it from her tower window
when Ser Arys Oakheart arrived to escort her down to the tourney
grounds. “What do you think it means?” she asked
him.
“Glory to your betrothed,” Ser Arys answered at
once. “See how it flames across the sky today on His
Grace’s name day, as if the gods themselves had raised a
banner in his honor. The smallfolk have named it King
Joffrey’s Comet.”
Doubtless that was what they told Joffrey; Sansa was not so
sure. “I’ve heard servants calling it the
Dragon’s Tail.”
“King Joffrey sits where Aegon the Dragon once sat, in the
castle built by his son,” Ser Arys said. “He is the
dragon’s heir—and crimson is the color of House Lannister,
another sign. This comet is sent to herald Joffrey’s ascent
to the throne, I have no doubt. It means that he will triumph over
his enemies.” Is it true? she wondered. Would the gods be so cruel? Her mother
was one of Joffrey’s enemies now, her brother Robb another.
Her father had died by the king’s command. Must Robb and her
lady mother die next? The comet was red, but Joffrey was Baratheon
as much as Lannister, and their sigil was a black stag on a golden
field. Shouldn’t the gods have sent Joff a golden comet?
Sansa closed the shutters and turned sharply away from the
window. “You look very lovely today, my lady,” Ser Arys
said.
“Thank you, ser.” Knowing that Joffrey would require
her to attend the tourney in his honor, Sansa had taken special
care with her face and clothes. She wore a gown of pale purple silk
and a moonstone hair net that had been a gift from Joffrey. The
gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Those were
Joffrey’s gifts as well. When they told him that Robb had
been proclaimed King in the North, his rage had been a fearsome
thing, and he had sent Ser Boros to beat her.
“Shall we go?” Ser Arys offered his arm and she let
him lead her from her chamber. If she must have one of the
Kingsguard dogging her steps, Sansa preferred that it be him. Ser
Boros was short-tempered, Ser Meryn cold, and Ser Mandon’s
strange dead eyes made her uneasy, while Ser Preston treated her
like a lackwit child. Arys Oakheart was courteous, and would talk
to her cordially. Once he even objected when Joffrey commanded him
to hit her. He did hit her in the end, but not hard as Ser Meryn or
Ser Boros might have, and at least he had argued. The others obeyed
without question . . . except for the Hound,
but Joff never asked the Hound to punish her. He used the other
five for that.
Ser Arys had light brown hair and a face that was not unpleasant
to look upon. Today he made quite the dashing figure, with his
white silk cloak fastened at the shoulder by a golden leaf, and a
spreading oak tree worked upon the breast of his tunic in shining
gold thread. “Who do you think will win the day’s
honors?” Sansa asked as they descended the steps arm in
arm.
“I will,” Ser Arys answered, smiling. “Yet I
fear the triumph will have no savor. This will be a small field,
and poor. No more than two score will enter the lists, including
squires and freeriders. There is small honor in unhorsing green
boys.”
The last tourney had been different, Sansa reflected. King
Robert had staged it in her father’s honor. High lords and
fabled champions had come from all over the realm to compete, and
the whole city had turned out to watch. She remembered the splendor
of it: the field of pavilions along the river with a knight’s
shield hung before each door, the long rows of silken pennants
waving in the wind, the gleam of sunlight on bright steel and
gilded spurs. The days had rung to the sounds of trumpets and
pounding hooves, and the nights had been full of feasts and song.
Those had been the most magical days of her life, but they seemed a
memory from another age now. Robert Baratheon was dead, and her
father as well, beheaded for a traitor on the steps of the Great
Sept of Baelor. Now there were three kings in the land, and war
raged beyond the Trident while the city filled with desperate men.
Small wonder that they had to hold Joff’s tournament behind
the thick stone walls of the Red Keep.
“Will the queen attend, do you think?” Sansa always
felt safer when Cersei was there to restrain her son.
“I fear not, my lady. The council is meeting, some urgent
business.” Ser Arys dropped his voice. “Lord Tywin has
gone to ground at Harrenhal instead of bringing his army to the
city as the queen commanded. Her Grace is furious.” He fell
silent as a column of Lannister guardsmen marched past, in crimson
cloaks and lion-crested helms. Ser Arys was fond of gossip, but
only when he was certain that no one was listening.
The carpenters had erected a gallery and lists in the outer
bailey. It was a poor thing indeed, and the meager throng that had
gathered to watch filled but half the seats. Most of the spectators
were guardsmen in the gold cloaks of the City Watch or the crimson
of House Lannister; of lords and ladies there were but a paltry
few, the handful that remained at court. Grey-faced Lord Gyles
Rosby was coughing into a square of pink silk. Lady Tanda was
bracketed by her daughters, placid dull Lollys and acid-tongued
Falyse. Ebon-skinned Jalabhar Xho was an exile who had no other
refuge, Lady Ermesande a babe seated on her wet nurse’s lap.
The talk was she would soon be wed to one of the queen’s
cousins, so the Lannisters might claim her lands.
The king was shaded beneath a crimson canopy, one leg thrown
negligently over the carved wooden arm of his chair. Princess
Myrcella and Prince Tommen sat behind him. In the back of the
royal box, Sandor Clegane stood at guard, his hands resting on his
swordbelt. The white cloak of the Kingsguard was draped over his
broad shoulders and fastened with a jeweled brooch, the snowy cloth
looking somehow unnatural against his brown roughspun tunic and
studded leather jerkin. “Lady Sansa,” the Hound
announced curtly when he saw her. His voice was as rough as the
sound of a saw on wood. The burn scars on his face and throat made
one side of his mouth twitch when he spoke.
Princess Myrcella nodded a shy greeting at the sound of
Sansa’s name, but plump little Prince Tommen jumped up
eagerly. “Sansa, did you hear? I’m to ride in the
tourney today. Mother said I could.” Tommen was all of
eight. He reminded her of her own little brother, Bran. They were
of an age. Bran was back at Winterfell, a cripple, yet safe.
Sansa would have given anything to be with him. “I fear
for the life of your foeman,” she told Tommen solemnly.
“His foeman will be stuffed with straw,” Joff said
as he rose. The king was clad in a gilded breastplate with a
roaring lion engraved upon its chest, as if he expected the war to
engulf them at any moment. He was thirteen today, and tall for his
age, with the green eyes and golden hair of the Lannisters.
“Your Grace,” she said, dipping in a curtsy.
Ser Arys bowed. “Pray pardon me, Your Grace. I must equip
myself for the lists.”
Joffrey waved a curt dismissal while he studied Sansa from head
to heels. “I’m pleased you wore my stones.”
So the king had decided to play the gallant today. Sansa was
relieved. “I thank you for them . . . and
for your tender words. I pray you a lucky name day, Your
Grace.”
“Sit,” Joff commanded, gesturing her to the empty
seat beside his own. “Have you heard? The Beggar King is
dead.”
“Who?” For a moment Sansa was afraid he meant
Robb.
“Viserys. The last son of Mad King Aerys. He’s been
going about the Free Cities since before I was born, calling
himself a king. Well, Mother says the Dothraki finally crowned him.
With molten gold.” He laughed. “That’s funny,
don’t you think? The dragon was their sigil. It’s
almost as good as if some wolf killed your traitor brother. Maybe
I’ll feed him to wolves after I’ve caught him. Did I
tell you, I intend to challenge him to single combat?”
“I should like to see that, Your Grace.” More than
you know. Sansa kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so
Joffrey’s eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether she was
mocking him. “Will you enter the lists today?” she
asked quickly.
The king frowned. “My lady mother said it was not fitting,
since the tourney is in my honor. Otherwise I would have been
champion. Isn’t that so, dog?”
The Hound’s mouth twitched. “Against this lot? Why
not?” He had been the champion in her father’s tourney, Sansa
remembered. “Will you joust today, my lord?” she asked
him.
Clegane’s voice was thick with contempt.
“Wouldn’t be worth the bother of arming myself. This is
a tournament of gnats.”
The king laughed. “My dog has a fierce bark. Perhaps I
should command him to fight the day’s champion. To the
death.” Joffrey was fond of making men fight to the
death.
“You’d be one knight the poorer.” The Hound
had never taken a knight’s vows. His brother was a knight,
and he hated his brother.
A blare of trumpets sounded. The king settled back in his seat
and took Sansa’s hand. Once that would have set her heart to
pounding, but that was before he had answered her plea for mercy by
presenting her with her father’s head. His touch filled her
with revulsion now, but she knew better than to show it. She made
herself sit very still.
“Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard,” a herald
called.
Ser Meryn entered from the west side of the yard, clad in
gleaming white plate chased with gold and mounted on a milk-white
charger with a flowing grey mane. His cloak streamed behind him
like a field of snow. He carried a twelve-foot lance.
“Ser Hobber of House Redwyne, of the Arbor,” the
herald sang. Ser Hobber trotted in from the east, riding a black
stallion caparisoned in burgundy and blue. His lance was striped in
the same colors, and his shield bore the grape cluster sigil of his
House. The Redwyne twins were the queen’s unwilling guests,
even as Sansa was. She wondered whose notion it had been for them
to ride in Joffrey’s tourney. Not their own, she thought.
At a signal from the master of revels, the combatants couched
their lances and put their spurs to their mounts. There were shouts
from the watching guardsmen and the lords and ladies in the
gallery. The knights came together in the center of the yard with a
great shock of wood and steel. The white lance and the striped one
exploded in splinters within a second of each other. Hobber Redwyne
reeled at the impact, yet somehow managed to keep his seat.
Wheeling their horses about at the far end of the lists, the
knights tossed down their broken lances and accepted replacements
from the squires. Ser Horas Redwyne, Ser Hobber’s twin,
shouted encouragement to his brother.
But on their second pass Ser Meryn swung the point of his lance
to strike Ser Hobber in the chest, driving him from the saddle to
crash resoundingly to the earth. Ser Horas cursed and ran out to
help his battered brother from the field.
“Poorly ridden,” declared King Joffrey.
“Ser Balon Swann, of Stonehelm in the Red Watch,”
came the herald’s cry. Wide white wings ornamented Ser
Balon’s greathelm, and black and white swans fought on his
shield. “Morros of House Slynt, heir to Lord Janos of
Harrenhal.”
“Look at that upjumped oaf,” Joff hooted, loud
enough for half the yard to hear. Morros, a mere squire and a
new-made squire at that, was having difficulty managing lance and
shield. The lance was a knight’s weapon, Sansa knew, the
Slynts lowborn. Lord Janos had been no more than commander of the
City Watch before Joffrey had raised him to Harrenhal and the
council. I hope he falls and shames himself, she thought bitterly. I hope
Ser Balon kills him. When Joffrey proclaimed her father’s
death, it had been Janos Slynt who seized Lord Eddard’s
severed head by the hair and raised it on high for king and crowd
to behold, while Sansa wept and screamed.
Morros wore a checkered black-and-gold cloak over black armor
inlaid with golden scrollwork. On his shield was the bloody spear
his father had chosen as the sigil of their new-made house. But he
did not seem to know what to do with the shield as he urged his
horse forward, and Ser Balon’s point struck the blazon square. Morros dropped his
lance, fought for balance, and lost. One foot caught in a stirrup
as he fell, and the runaway charger dragged the youth to the end of
the lists, head bouncing against the ground. Joff hooted derision.
Sansa was appalled, wondering if the gods had heard her vengeful
prayer. But when they disentangled Morros Slynt from his horse,
they found him bloodied but alive. “Tommen, we picked the
wrong foe for you,” the king told his brother. “The
straw knight jousts better than that one.”
Next came Ser Horas Redwyne’s turn. He fared better than
his twin, vanquishing an elderly knight whose mount was bedecked
with silver griffins against a striped blue-and-white field.
Splendid as he looked, the old man made a poor contest of it.
Joffrey curled his lip. “This is a feeble show.”
“I warned you,” said the Hound.
“Gnats.”
The king was growing bored. It made Sansa anxious. She lowered
her eyes and resolved to keep quiet, no matter what. When Joffrey
Baratheon’s mood darkened, any chance word might set off one
of his rages.
“Lothor Brune, freerider in the service of Lord Baelish,” cried the herald. “Ser Dontos the Red, of House
Hollard. “
The freerider, a small man in dented plate without device, duly
appeared at the west end of the yard, but of his opponent there was
no sign. Finally a chestnut stallion trotted into view in a swirl
of crimson and scarlet silks, but Ser Dontos was not on it. The
knight appeared a moment later, cursing and staggering, clad in
breastplate and plumed helm and nothing else. His legs were pale
and skinny, and his manhood flopped about obscenely as he chased
after his horse. The watchers roared and shouted insults. Catching
his horse by the bridle, Ser Dontos tried to mount, but the animal
would not stand still and the knight was so drunk that his bare
foot kept missing the stirrup.
By then the crowd was howling with
laughter . . . all but the king. Joffrey had a
look in his eyes that Sansa remembered well, the same look
he’d had at the Great Sept of Baelor the day he pronounced
death on Lord Eddard Stark. Finally Ser Dontos the Red gave it up
for a bad job, sat down in the dirt, and removed his plumed helm.
“I lose,” he shouted. “Fetch me some
wine.”
The king stood. “A cask from the cellars! I’ll see
him drowned in it.”
Sansa heard herself gasp. “No, you can’t.”
Joffrey turned his head. “What did you say?”
Sansa could not believe she had spoken. Was she mad? To tell him
no in front of half the court? She hadn’t meant to say
anything, only . . . Ser Dontos was drunk and
silly and useless, but he meant no harm.
“Did you say I can’t? Did you?”
“Please,” Sansa said, “I only
meant . . . it would be ill luck, Your
Grace . . . to, to kill a man on your name
day.”
“You’re lying,” Joffrey said. “I ought
to drown you with him, if you care for him so much.”
“I don’t care for him, Your Grace.” The words
tumbled out desperately. “Drown him or have his head off,
only . . . kill him on the morrow, if you like,
but please . . . not today, not on your name
day. I couldn’t bear for you to have ill
luck . . . terrible luck, even for kings, the
singers all say so . . . ”
Joffrey scowled. He knew she was lying, she could see it. He
would make her bleed for this.
“The girl speaks truly,” the Hound rasped.
“What a man sows on his name day, he reaps throughout the
year.” His voice was flat, as if he did not care a whit
whether the king believed him or no. Could it be true? Sansa had
not known. It was just something she’d said, desperate to
avoid punishment.
Unhappy, Joffrey shifted in his seat and flicked his fingers at
Ser Dontos. “Take him away. I’ll have him killed on the
morrow, the fool.”
“He is,” Sansa said. “A fool. You’re so
clever, to see it. He’s better fitted to be a fool than a
knight, isn’t he? You ought to dress him in motley and make
him clown for you. He doesn’t deserve the mercy of a quick
death.”
The king studied her a moment. “Perhaps you’re not
so stupid as Mother says.” He raised his voice. “Did
you hear my lady, Dontos? From this day on, you’re my new
fool. You can sleep with Moon Boy and dress in motley.”
Ser Dontos, sobered by his near brush with death, crawled to his
knees. “Thank you, Your Grace. And you, my lady. Thank
you.”
As a brace of Lannister guardsmen led him off, the master of
revels approached the box. “Your Grace,” he said,
“shall I summon a new challenger for Brune, or proceed with
the next tilt?”
“Neither. These are gnats, not knights. I’d have
them all put to death, only it’s my name day. The tourney is
done. Get them all out of my sight.”
The master of revels bowed, but Prince Tommen was not so
obedient. “I’m supposed to ride against the straw
man.”
“Not today.”
“But I want to ride!”
“I don’t care what you want.”
“Mother said I could ride.”
“She said,” Princess Myrcella agreed.
“Mother said,” mocked the king. “Don’t
be childish.”
“We’re children,” Myrcella declared haughtily.
“We’re supposed to be childish.”
The Hound laughed. “She has you there.”
Joffrey was beaten. “Very well. Even my brother
couldn’t tilt any worse than these others. Master, bring out
the quintain, Tommen wants to be a gnat.”
Tommen gave a shout of joy and ran off to be readied, his
chubby little legs pumping hard. “Luck,” Sansa called
to him.
They set up the quintain at the far end of the lists while the
prince’s pony was being saddled. Tommen’s opponent was
a child-sized leather warrior stuffed with straw and mounted on a
pivot, with a shield in one hand and a padded mace in the other.
Someone had fastened a pair of antlers to the knight’s head.
Joffrey’s father King Robert had worn antlers on his helm,
Sansa remembered . . . but so did his uncle
Lord Renly, Robert’s brother, who had turned traitor and
crowned himself king.
A pair of squires buckled the prince into his ornate
silver-and-crimson armor. A tall plume of red feathers sprouted
from the crest of his helm, and the lion of Lannister and crowned
stag of Baratheon frolicked together on his shield. The squires
helped him mount, and Ser Aron Santagar, the Red Keep’s
master-at-arms, stepped forward and handed Tommen a blunted silver
longsword with a leaf-shaped blade, crafted to fit an
eight-year-old hand.
Tommen raised the blade high. “Casterly Rock!” he
shouted in a high boyish voice as he put his heels into his pony
and started across the hard-packed dirt at the quintain. Lady Tanda
and Lord Gyles started a ragged cheer, and Sansa added her voice to
theirs. The king brooded in silence.
Tommen got his pony up to a brisk trot, waved his sword
vigorously, and struck the knight’s shield a solid blow as he
went by. The quintain spun, the padded mace flying around to give
the prince a mighty whack in the back of his head. Tommen spilled
from the saddle, his new armor rattling like a bag of old pots as
he hit the ground. His sword went flying, his pony cantered away
across the bailey, and a great gale of derision went up. King
Joffrey laughed longest and loudest of all.
“Oh,” Princess Myrcella cried. She scrambled out of
the box and ran to her little brother.
Sansa found herself possessed of a queer giddy courage.
“You should go with her,” she told the king.
“Your brother might be hurt.”
Joffrey shrugged. “What if he is?”
“You should help him up and tell him how well he
rode.” Sansa could not seem to stop herself.
“He got knocked off his horse and fell in the dirt,”
the king pointed out. “That’s not riding
well.”
“Look,” the Hound interrupted. “The boy has
courage. He’s going to try again.”
They were helping Prince Tommen mount his pony. If only Tommen
were the elder instead of Joffrey, Sansa thought. I wouldn’t
mind marrying Tommen.
The sounds from the gatehouse took them by surprise. Chains
rattled as the portcullis was drawn upward, and the great gates
opened to the creak of iron hinges. “Who told them to open
the gate?” Joff demanded. With the troubles in the city, the
gates of the Red Keep had been closed for days.
A column of riders emerged from beneath the portcullis with a
clink of steel and a clatter of hooves. Clegane stepped close to
the king, one hand on the hilt of his longsword. The visitors were
dinted and haggard and dusty, yet the standard they carried was the
lion of Lannister, golden on its crimson field. A few wore the red
cloaks and mail of Lannister men-at-arms, but more were freeriders
and sellswords, armored in oddments and bristling with sharp
steel . . . and there were others, monstrous
savages out of one of Old Nan’s tales, the scary ones Bran
used to love. They were clad in shabby skins and boiled leather,
with long hair and fierce beards. Some wore bloodstained bandages
over their brows or wrapped around their hands, and others were
missing eyes, ears, and fingers.
In their midst, riding on a tall red horse in a strange high
saddle that cradled him back and front, was the queen’s dwarf
brother Tyrion Lannister, the one they called the Imp. He had let
his beard grow to cover his pushed-in face, until it was a bristly
tangle of yellow and black hair, coarse as wire. Down his back
flowed a shadowskin cloak, black fur striped with white. He held
the reins in his left hand and carried his right arm in a white
silk sling, but otherwise looked as grotesque as Sansa remembered
from when he had visited Winterfell. With his bulging brow and
mismatched eyes, he was still the ugliest man she had ever chanced
to look upon.
Yet Tommen put his spurs into his pony and galloped headlong
across the yard, shouting with glee. One of the savages, a huge
shambling man so hairy that his face was all but lost beneath his
whiskers, scooped the boy out of his saddle, armor and all, and
deposited him on the ground beside his uncle. Tommen’s
breathless laughter echoed off the walls as Tyrion clapped him on
the backplate, and Sansa was startled to see that the two were of a
height. Myrcella came running after her brother, and the dwarf
picked her up by the waist and spun her in a circle, squealing.
When he lowered her back to the ground, the little man kissed
her lightly on the brow and came waddling across the yard toward
Joffrey. Two of his men followed close behind him; a black-haired
black-eyed sellsword who moved like a stalking cat, and a gaunt
youth with an empty socket where one eye should have been. Tommen
and Myrcella trailed after them.
The dwarf went to one knee before the king. “Your
Grace.”
“You,” Joffrey said.
“Me,” the Imp agreed, “although a more
courteous greeting might be in order, for an uncle and an
elder.”
“They said you were dead,” the Hound said.
The little man gave the big one a look. One of his eyes was
green, one was black, and both were cool. “I was speaking to
the king, not to his cur.”
“I’m glad you’re not dead,” said
Princess Myrcella.
“We share that view, sweet child.” Tyrion turned to
Sansa. “My lady, I am sorry for your losses. Truly, the gods
are cruel.”
Sansa could not think of a word to say to him. How could he be
sorry for her losses? Was he mocking her? It wasn’t the gods
who’d been cruel, it was Joffrey.
“I am sorry for your loss as well, Joffrey,” the
dwarf said.
“What loss?”
“Your royal father? A large fierce man with a black beard;
you’ll recall him if you try. He was king before
you.”
“Oh, him. Yes, it was very sad, a boar killed
him.”
“Is that what ‘they’ say, Your
Grace?”
Joffrey frowned. Sansa felt that she ought to say something.
What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady’s
armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said,
“I’m sorry my lady mother took you captive, my
lord.”
“A great many people are sorry for that,” Tyrion
replied, “and before I am done, some may be a deal
sorrier . . . yet I thank you for the
sentiment. Joffrey, where might I find your mother?”
“She’s with my council,” the king answered.
“Your brother Jaime keeps losing battles.” He gave
Sansa an angry look, as if it were her fault. “He’s
been taken by the Starks and we’ve lost Riverrun and now her
stupid brother is calling himself a king.”
The dwarf smiled crookedly. “All sorts of people are
calling themselves kings these days.”
Joff did not know what to make of that, though he looked
suspicious and out of sorts. “Yes. Well. I am pleased
you’re not dead, Uncle. Did you bring me a gift for my name
day?”
“I did. My wits.”
“I’d sooner have Robb Stark’s head,”
Joff said with a sly glance at Sansa. “Tommen, Myrcella,
come.”
Sandor Clegane lingered behind a moment. “I’d guard
that tongue of yours, little man,” he warned, before he
strode off after his liege.
Sansa was left with the dwarf and his monsters. She tried to
think of what else she might say. “You hurt your arm,”
she managed at last.
“One of your northmen hit me with a morningstar during the
battle on the Green Fork. I escaped him by falling off my
horse.” His grin turned into something softer as he studied
her face. “Is it grief for your lord father that makes you so
sad?”
“My father was a traitor,” Sansa said at once.
“And my brother and lady mother are traitors as well.”
That reflex she had learned quickly. “I am loyal to my
beloved Joffrey.”
“No doubt. As loyal as a deer surrounded by
wolves.”
“Lions,” she whispered, without thinking. She
glanced about nervously, but there was no one close enough to
hear.
Lannister reached out and took her hand, and gave it a squeeze.
“I am only a little lion, child, and I vow, I shall not
savage you.” Bowing, he said “But now you must excuse
me. I have urgent business with queen and council.”
Sansa watched him walk off, his body swaying heavily from side
to side with every step, like something from a grotesquerie. He
speaks more gently than Joffrey, she thought, but the queen spoke
to me gently too. He’s still a Lannister, her brother and
Joff’s uncle, and no friend. Once she had loved Prince
Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the
queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father’s
head. Sansa would never make that mistake again.