From Gulltown back to Gates of the Moon, knights gathered here.
Contestants came from all corners of the Vale—from The Gorge to the coast, Gulltown to Bloody Gate Fortress, even the Three Sisters.
A few were betrothed, three were married, and the seven victors would serve as the Great Lord Robert's personal men-at-arms for the next three years. Thus, the older knights with wives and children, and the young upstarts, were not invited.
As Tyrion had said, they were young, full of passion, and hungry for adventure and glory. Since Lady Lysa refused to send them to war, this tournament was their finest opportunity—a chance to prove their worth and loyalty to their lord.
And then there was young Lord Robert. Lady Lysa had taught him only fear, but she had also read him tales of the founder of House Arryn, the Falcon Knight, from which he drew courage. Why couldn't he have his own Falcon Knight? Now, he had his own Kingsguard to protect him and teach him bravery.
"If only the Mountain were still alive," Tyrion told her one night. "Let him come and spear Hardyng with his jousting lance. That sort of thing comes naturally to him."
"Ser Gregor? Is he... dead?"
"Ah, I meant, it would be good if he were here," her husband said.
Lately, he'd been acting strange, as if hiding something from her.
Did Tyrion truly want to harm Ser Hardyng? He didn't seem the type to resort to such underhanded tactics—at least the Freys had died honorably on the battlefield.
But what about Lord Baelish? If Lord Robert truly betrothed himself to Arya, Lord Baelish would be excluded from the Vale's power circle.
At dawn, she descended from the tower into the cloister behind the hall, where servants prepared supper at the chopping blocks while their wives and daughters busied themselves replacing old rush wicks with fresh ones.
Nestor Royce was showing off his prized tapestry depicting a hunt to Lady Waxley. These tapestries had hung in the Red Keep of King's Landing when Robert Baratheon still sat upon the Iron Throne. Later, Joffrey had them cast into the cellars, until Petyr Baelish brought them to the Vale as a gift for Nestor Royce. The Vale's High Steward told anyone who would listen that these tapestries were no mere decorations, but property that had once belonged to the king.
He's Littlefinger's man, Sansa thought to herself, and House Corbray too—both the brother with his new bride and that swordsman of a younger sibling.
Maester Colemon had been writing letters lately, to places like the Citadel. He claimed he needed medicine to treat the young lord's epilepsy, though it was probably just a supply of sweet-sleep flowers.
Mya had been unhappy lately, her brow perpetually furrowed.
"Mya loves Mychel Redfort, who was once an attendant to Lynne Corbray," Alayne had shared during their gossip session. "A real attendant, mind you, not like the uncouth lads Ser Lyn takes on now. This one paid his way into the role." Mychel is the youngest and finest swordsman in the Vale, a true hero and knight-errant... at least that's what poor Mya believes now. Once he marries Bronze Yohn's daughter, she'll likely change her mind. I'm certain Lord Horton left him no choice, but it's still a cruel turn of events for Mya."
Mya Stone and young Mychel Redfort were close. Sansa remembered this, recalling vaguely that Bronze Yohn had mentioned his own daughter, Ysilla Royce.
"Father proposed several suitors for Mya, but she refused them all. She's a stubborn mule," Alayne said.
That evening, when she told Tyrion about it, her husband seemed excited.
"Love is a good thing," Tyrion paced the bedroom. "Perhaps you should speak with Mya."
"Speak about what?" Sansa didn't understand.
"Running away," her husband said. "The grasslands and yellow sands, swordsmen and knights-errant, wandering the world—how romantic."
"You're terrifying," Sansa frowned. "Then why did you marry my sister to Lord Robert?"
"Lord Robert is a lord. You can't have both love and a prince," Tyrion chuckled. "After all, not everyone is as fortunate as you."
Sansa flushed again. The Lust Demon might be deceiving her, but she couldn't tell if his words were truth or lies.
"But I can't... How could I encourage others to elope?" Sansa shook her head. Perhaps pursuing love wasn't wrong, but doing so... Was it defying the gods' will?
"What's the big deal?" Tyrion said. "Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark eloped. She was your aunt..."
"Lady Lyanna was abducted by Prince Rhaegar!"
"True, my slip of the tongue," Tyrion conceded. "I meant Prince Rhaegar. If a prince could abduct someone, why shouldn't Mychel Redfort and Mya elope? Mya is a bastard daughter—this won't affect her standing."
"But... aren't Lord Horton Redfort and Bronze Yohn our friends?" Sansa asked. "Why would you tear them apart?"
"They couldn't handle Littlefinger, so they brought me in as a friend," her husband chuckled. "There are no permanent friends. Once Littlefinger's gone, I'll be next. Of course, I'll leave on my own accord, handing the Vale over to them without prompting."
"My lady, if your vassals unite, their strength becomes unmatched," her husband continued. "The Riverlands have the Freys, and the Bracken and Blackwood houses are bound by blood feuds; the Tyrells of the Reach have never fully won the allegiance of all their vassals; Dorne fares better, yet House Yronwood stands as their equal; as for the North, need we speak? The Red King, Bolton—it's said his house still keeps Stark men's skins."
Sansa shuddered, listening in silence.
"The Westerlands rose to become the mightiest force in the Seven Kingdoms because my father crushed the seeds of unrest—Reyne and Tarbeck. The same holds true for the Vale. Bronze Yohn is a man of his word, honoring his oaths. His presence at the Great Lord of The Eyrie's side is sufficient. If he were to unite with others, wouldn't the Great Lord become Bronze Yohn's puppet? Where would that leave us?"
"You're right..." Sansa pondered carefully, forced to concede his point. "At least... we can't let Arya's sacrifice go to waste. The price we paid for her sister was too heavy... When do you plan to tell her about this?"
"There's no rush. Everything is under control." Tyrion kissed his wife's forehead. "Take care of Mya's affairs for me. You're my clever wife."