The Tourney

January 12, 298 AC, Monday morning.

King's Landing Tourney Grounds.

The "Prince Joffrey's Twelfth Name Day Tourney" opened with great fanfare.

As a distinctive feature of Westerosi Knightly Culture, tourneys were beloved and eagerly followed by the people of the Seven Kingdoms.

Common folk came for entertainment, knights competed to make a name for themselves, hosts showed off their power, and the great lords used the occasion to make friends, form alliances, and arrange marriages.

Today's tourney was even grander and more spectacular. More than a hundred tents had been erected around the grounds early that morning, while numerous merchants and minstrels were scattered throughout the area, bringing beer, corn, honey, and music.

Thousands of King's Landing residents had arrived early to claim their spots. Twice as many spectators could only stand along the edges and in corners with poor visibility, while even more latecomers were still making their way over.

Beside the tourney grounds, the competing knights stood in a line at the starting point, each astride a tall horse, their armor gleaming and their spirits high.

Before them lay the main track, two or three hundred meters long and forty or fifty meters wide—large enough for four jousts to take place at once.

A ring of raised platforms had been built around the track.

The court officials, important figures, princes, and nobles watched the contests, feasted, and entertained themselves from there. The onlookers could also take shelter from the sun beneath the platforms and watch from nearby.

Dozens of banners hung in sequence before the platforms.

The banners were brightly colored, several men high and several men wide, each bearing a unique and exquisite coat of arms that proclaimed the ancient and illustrious house behind its knight.

"Clang~"

A crisp gong rang out.

The knights immediately urged their horses forward, preparing to ride through the entire tourney grounds and salute the countless spectators.

Hoof after hoof rose and fell as the orderly line of knights advanced slowly.

Everywhere they passed, the crowd's response was thunderous.

Yet the knights kept their eyes fixed on the banners embroidered with their family crests.

Stags, lions, roses, Twin Towers, Purple Grapes, seahorses, hunters, Wheat Stalks, Red Apples...

Whenever a knight passed his own banner, he would, intentionally or otherwise, lift his head high and puff out his chest, doing his utmost to display his pride.

Wasn't the whole point of entering a tourney to win glory for one's family?

Once the entry ceremony ended, the contests officially began.

"First round of the Jousting Tournament, first match: Ser Dickon Tarly versus Ser Hobber Redwyne!"

The cheers immediately shook the heavens, and the atmosphere in the grounds reached a fever pitch.

"Tarly must win! 'I am the vanguard!' That's the maxim of hunters and warriors!"

"No wine compares to that of the Arbor! Long live Redwyne!"

"Don't forget Redwyne's fleet!"

Everyone's eyes focused on the field.

Even Prince Joffrey, the nominal star of this tourney, couldn't steal a shred of the knights' limelight.

But that suited him perfectly. When doing things, one should keep a low profile.

Joffrey looked around.

King Robert sat at the very center of the high platform, with all the important figures nearby.

Among the lavish banquet tables, he spotted Queen Cersei, Lord Tywin, the Kingslayer, Hand of the King Arryn, Lord Renly, Lord Stannis...

Only Tyrion was missing.

A servant had said that "The Imp" had drunk heavily the previous night and might sleep off his drunkenness all day.

Good. Joffrey thought to himself. As long as the plot isn't disturbed too much, progress may be slow, but it will be steady. Today's plan doesn't need to change either.

He rose and walked toward the Master of Coin.

"Lord Petyr, how are my Dragon Eggs? You'd better put your heart into this!"

Joffrey plopped himself down across from "Littlefinger." The others at the long table immediately made themselves scarce.

"My honored Prince," Petyr said with a proper smile.

"How could I neglect the matter?"

"But the Narrow Sea won't vanish into thin air. The envoys and ships bound for Pentos won't be able to depart until the day after tomorrow at the earliest. I ask that you be patient a little longer."

Joffrey said nothing, staring straight at the Court Lord who concealed such deep ambitions.

The Master of Coin, "Littlefinger" Petyr Baelish.

One of the Seven Kingdoms' foremost schemers, he stood at the top of Joffrey's kill list, tied for first place with Varys the Eunuch.

Littlefinger craved power and was not absolutely loyal, while Varys, plotting a restoration, was absolutely disloyal.

Both were men to exploit, never men to rely upon.

A servant brought over a steaming plate of steak, its rich, fatty aroma spreading with the rising steam.

Joffrey unceremoniously speared a piece first.

"This is my Name Day gift! I don't care about any of that. It must be done by the end of the month, or you'll regret it!"

This would not be easy.

Given the conditions for crossing the Narrow Sea, as well as the distance and sailing speed between King's Landing and Pentos, the outbound journey would take roughly eight days and the return seven.

They would also have to avoid the storms that occasionally erupted across the Narrow Sea.

Under normal circumstances, they would have to purchase the Dragon Eggs and begin the return journey no later than the day after arriving in Pentos for the ship to make it back to King's Landing before the end of the month.

Lord Petyr merely bowed.

"I shall do my utmost. I will not disappoint Your Highness."

Joffrey nodded in satisfaction.

Another wave of noisy cheers and whistles came from the field.

After six fierce rounds and twelve broken wooden lances, the first match finally ended.

Ser Dickon Tarly of Horn Hill had won!

Seeing this, Joffrey seemed to have a sudden thought and casually asked Petyr,

"What is this fellow's relationship to Lord Tarly?"

"Your Highness, he is Lord Randyll's second son. He is indeed remarkably brave and martial. Lord Randyll must be very pleased."

Joffrey bit into a crisp piece of bacon. "So-so. Once I'm old enough to compete, I'll beat all these people flat!"

"Indeed, Your Highness."

"Oh, and what about Lord Tarly's eldest son? I don't think I've ever seen him." Sansa's favorite lemon cake tasted quite good.

Petyr never offended people without good reason.

"I hear Lord Randyll's eldest son is exceptionally intelligent and well-read, with no fondness for fighting. He has probably remained at Horn Hill."

"Ha—cough, cough~" Joffrey burst out laughing, forgetting that he still had food in his mouth.

He hurriedly gulped down a large mouthful of milk and kept pounding his chest.

Ah~~ I'm alive again.

He put on a very convincing performance. The guests seated nearby all turned to look.

Joffrey immediately mocked him loudly. "The son of House Hunter actually likes reading? He's hardly a man at all! He ought to become a maester!"

Petyr offered a perfunctory laugh.

He still hadn't realized how serious the problem was.

From the moment he had taken up the subject, he had been destined to be dragged into the mire.

"That's right!" Joffrey suddenly slapped the table.

"Make him a maester—yes, excellent idea. Find Grand Maester Pycelle an apprentice from House Hunter. Just thinking about it is fun!"

Petyr sensed that something was wrong.

Once someone became a maester, he could no longer inherit lands or titles—in other words, he was stripped of his right of succession.

"Your Highness, this matter should still be considered carefully. House Tarly might..."

Joffrey had already vanished.

There was no need to say it: the willful Crown Prince had certainly gone to Lord Tarly.

Calling someone's heir to become a maester could practically be seen as a public humiliation.

Even if House Tarly did not submit, it certainly would not pretend nothing had happened. Who would bear the brunt of its fury?

Who had incited the Crown Prince?

Without even looking at the reactions of the surrounding guests, Petyr understood—he was about to earn House Tarly's hatred.

But he did not particularly care.

The Crown Prince? Littlefinger smiled secretly. The joint accusations from the Hand of the King and the Duke of Dragonstone will be enough to attract attention.

Once the king hears his foster father's dying words, learns that all three princes and princesses are bastards born of the Lannister siblings, and then personally watches his foster father die in agony...

Petyr stroked the pointed beard on his chin.

Lysa, for your love of me, become the final link in the plan.