Chapter 135: The Tourney

Lord Eddard Stark turned to his wife and said, "You should leave as soon as possible. Once you're back in Winterfell, send word in my name to Herman Tallhart and Galbart Glover, ordering each of them to lead a hundred archers to fortify Moat Cailin. With those two hundred archers, no army will pass through the Neck."

"Also, instruct Lord Wyman Manderly to strengthen the defenses at White Harbor and ensure there are enough soldiers stationed there."

"And one more thing—keep a close watch on Theon Greyjoy. If war breaks out, I may need his father's Iron Fleet."

"War?" Fear clouded Catelyn's face. "Eddard, will things truly come to that?"

"Perhaps not, but we must be prepared."

"Very well." Catelyn took a deep breath to steady herself, then said again, "Promise me you'll be careful here in King's Landing!"

"Don't worry," Eddard replied. "I'll act as though nothing is amiss."

"That's good." Catelyn hesitated, then said, "I had originally planned to visit the Eyrie on my way back. I hear that Lysa still refuses to come to King's Landing?"

"Yes," Eddard replied, a hint of frustration in his voice. "Even with Lord Renly himself going to bring her, she refused."

"Should I go and see her, then? Perhaps I could persuade her."

"No." Eddard immediately shook his head. "Your visit to King's Landing must remain a secret, and I need you to return to Winterfell as soon as possible. I'll go to the Eyrie myself if necessary. The king has already lost his patience; this delay cannot go on."

"You'll go? I suppose that may be best. But as the Hand of the King, won't leaving the capital interfere with your duties?"

"A short absence should be manageable," Eddard admitted, rubbing his temples. "Unfortunately, there's no one I can truly trust in King's Landing who could take on some of my responsibilities."

A familiar image of gray-green eyes came to Catelyn's mind. "You can trust Petyr."

"Petyr Baelish?" Eddard's brows knitted at the name.

"Eddard, I know you don't like him, because of… his feelings for me. But that's all in the past. He was my father's ward, and Lord Jon Arryn trusted him deeply. Perhaps he could help you."

Eddard was silent for a moment, then finally nodded. "Very well."

The two then left the room, Catelyn refusing Eddard's offer to see her off, so as not to attract attention.

As he watched his wife leave, Eddard turned to Petyr. "Lord Baelish, thank you for accommodating Catelyn—and for the information you provided."

"No thanks are necessary."

Eddard hesitated, then said, "I intend to travel to the Eyrie myself to persuade Lady Lysa to come to King's Landing. In my absence, I'll need you to look after the Small Council. And the tourney…"

"I'll see to it that the tournament is splendidly arranged, exceeding all your expectations," Petyr promised confidently, before adding, "However, if it proceeds as planned, you might miss it. Shall we postpone it?"

"There's no need. Let it go ahead on schedule."

"But it's meant to be held in your honor…"

"It's a tourney for the king," Eddard said firmly. "I never asked for it in the first place."

"As you say," Petyr replied with a shrug.

Eddard sighed and added, "And about tonight…"

"Discretion is my profession," Petyr assured him.

---

Under the bright morning sunlight, the world was painted in gold. The sky was clear and blue, like polished porcelain.

Nathalie Dayne sat in House Tyrell's carriage alongside Lady Margaery, on their way to the tourney.

Pulling back the embroidered golden-rose curtain, Nathalie gazed out at the hundreds of tents already pitched along the riverbank, with thousands of commoners crowding in to watch the event. Knights in shining armor rode on tall warhorses, carrying banners fluttering in the breeze.

"It's just like the songs!" Nathalie's cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Yes," Margaery agreed, linking her arm with Nathalie's. "And soon, some of these knights will become the heroes of new songs."

Upon reaching the stands, the two young women were escorted to the section reserved for House Tyrell. Around them sat other Reach nobles, many of whom looked at Nathalie's star-and-sword embroidered dress with knowing smiles.

Unaware of the deeper meanings behind their looks, Nathalie allowed Margaery to lead her to her seat. She didn't even notice the angry, hostile stares from the Dornish nobles nearby.

Margaery leaned in, whispering in Nathalie's ear as she pointed out each banner and the houses they represented. Nathalie tried her best to remember, but her head was soon spinning.

"That knight looks incredibly strong!" Nathalie exclaimed, pointing to a massive figure clad in armor.

"That's Ser Gregor Clegane, known as the 'Mountain.' He's a bannerman of House Lannister of the West."

"Oh, and who's that bald man in red?" Nathalie asked, giggling.

"That's Thoros of Myr, the Red Priest. During the last Ironborn Rebellion, he led the charge into Pyke wielding a sword aflame."

"A flaming sword? Lord Caesar has one like that too." Nathalie craned her neck, looking through the crowd. "But I don't see him anywhere."

"He's over there," Margaery said, pointing to a banner with a double-headed eagle in the northwest corner of the tourney grounds.

Following her gaze, Nathalie spotted Samwell, who was suiting up with the help of his squire.

He wore a brilliant white suit of armor, somewhat similar in style to the Kingsguard's white knights, but with an eagle-winged helmet and a sky-blue cloak trimmed with silver.

Nathalie wanted to call out to him, but the distance was too great for him to hear her.

Unaware of her presence, Samwell was focused on the long-lance joust ahead, his thoughts on the tournament's grand prize.

After all, the champion would win forty thousand gold dragons!

The joust was also perfectly suited to Samwell's strengths, allowing him to compensate for his lack of agility.

Lost in thought, Samwell looked up to see that the tournament had begun.

The crowd erupted in cheers as knights thundered forward on horseback, lances clashing, drawing waves of applause.

Soon, it was Samwell's turn.

He was surprised to find his opponent was none other than Lord Renly Baratheon.

The king's youngest brother was immensely popular, and his entrance drew thunderous applause.

In contrast, Samwell's own support was meager, limited mostly to nobles from the Reach.

Scanning the crowd, Samwell spotted Nathalie cheering for him, her enthusiasm brightened by Margaery's radiant smile. Spurred on, he guided his horse over to them.

"Ladies, may I have the honor of your blessings?" he said, presenting his lance.

Nathalie blushed, reaching for her ribbon to tie around the lance—then paused, recalling the poor luck her blessings had brought to the last two knights she had favored.

Margaery, however, was unhesitant. She tied her handkerchief to the lance, saying with a smile, "Good luck, my knight!"

Only then did Nathalie add her ribbon, murmuring her blessing.

Samwell bowed from his saddle and returned to the field.

"Will Lord Caesar win?" Nathalie asked, pressing her hands to her chest anxiously.

Margaery smirked with confidence. "Samwell led seven hundred knights to break through the Dornish army, while Lord Renly… well, he's never set foot on a battlefield."

Nathalie nodded, reassured, though she still whispered a prayer to the gods.

As the two knights took their positions, Nathalie's heart raced, and this time, she kept her eyes wide open.

With a thunderous clash, the lances struck, splintering on impact. Lord Renly flew backward from his saddle, his head striking the ground with a resounding clang that made the crowd gasp.

Fortunately, Renly's helm was strong enough to withstand the blow, and he managed to rise, though one of his stag antlers had snapped off.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Renly bowed gracefully, as if all the applause were meant for him.

Then, with a winning smile, he picked up the broken antler and offered it to Samwell. "Lord Caesar, consider this your trophy."

The gesture drew another round of cheers.

Samwell couldn't help but roll his eyes, unimpressed by Renly's theatrics. But when he realized the antler was made of solid gold, he smiled and said, "Thank you, Lord Renly. You were a most honorable opponent."

The tournament continued.

Samwell jousted five more times, defeating two knights from the Vale, one from the Stormlands, one from the Westerlands, and even unseating Horas Redwyne, whom he knew from the Reach.

The Redwyne heir, still recovering from his wounds, had insisted on competing despite his condition. Samwell wondered what had possessed him to make such a choice.

Though they used wooden lances, the joust was not without danger.

Ser Gregor Clegane, "the Mountain," created a particularly gruesome scene.

During his match against a knight from the Vale, Clegane angled his lance upward with such force that it struck his opponent's gorget, piercing his throat. The impact was so powerful that the lance tore straight through, killing the knight instantly.

The sight of blood flooding from the dead knight's neck, soaking his cloak and staining the crescent moon on his banner a dark crimson, provoked a mixture of gasps and screams from the crowd.

Nathalie clung to Margaery, hiding her face in Margaery's shoulder to avoid the sight.

Servants hurried onto the field to carry away the fallen knight's body, then used shovels to turn the earth, covering the bloodstains.

Within moments, the scene was cleaned up, as if nothing had happened.

The tournament resumed.

(End of Chapter)