The day of the tourney finally arrived.
The grounds were on an open plain outside King's Landing. The temporary stands were packed with nobles, while the commoners crowded outside the rails, craning their necks to see.
Robert and Cersei sat on the central dais, with Eddard at the king's right hand and the children behind them. Eddard watched the contests below with a grim expression. The cost of this tourney truly pained him.
The first day's jousting was thrilling. Knights charged at one another along the lists on their warhorses, wooden lances in hand. Splinters flew and armor clashed, with riders sent tumbling from their saddles every so often.
Loras performed particularly well. He defeated three opponents in succession, each victory marked by such grace that it drew shrieks from the ladies in the stands.
Sansa clutched her skirts, worried for every knight who fell, especially Loras. When the Knight of Flowers faced an experienced knight from the Stormlands in the fourth round, she could barely bring herself to watch.
The horses passed each other, and the lances struck. After several passes, Loras's lance hit his opponent square in the chest and knocked him from his saddle, while the other knight's lance tip grazed his shoulder plate.
"He won." Sansa breathed a sigh of relief.
In the next round, however, Loras faced the Mountain of the Westerlands, Gregor Clegane.
The match looked terribly one-sided.
The Mountain stood nearly eight feet tall, wore specially made heavy armor, and rode an equally enormous warhorse. Beside him, Loras looked slender and fragile.
"This isn't fair," Sansa could not help saying.
"The Mountain will kill him," Arya replied beside her.
But Sansa merely frowned and ignored her sister.
The horn sounded, and the two men charged. The hoofbeats of the Mountain's horse were deafening.