Mya drove the carriage while Sansa and Arya rode in a sedan chair to the tournament of Great Lord Robert.
The sedan chair's curtains were made from yellow silk, exquisitely woven. Sansa could see directly through them to the distance, with the world outside bathed in a golden hue. Beyond the city walls, along the riverbank, over a hundred tents had already been set up, and thousands of common folk had gathered to watch.
The grandeur of the tournament took Sansa's breath away: the shining armor, the towering warhorses draped in gold and silver, the loud cheers of the crowd, the bright banners fluttering in the wind... and the knights, especially the knights.
"This is even better than in the songs," she murmured softly as they found their seats among the lords and ladies in attendance. Sansa wore a golden gown that complemented her auburn hair perfectly, looking as beautiful as the lion banner itself. She was keenly aware of the envious and amused looks directed at her.
Sansa also spotted Lord Yohn Royce, dressed in ancient armor.
"His armor is made of Bronze, thousands of years old, inscribed with magical sigils to protect him from harm," she whispered to Arya.
Tyrion was riding around the field. He too had entered the tournament, but as an unknighted squire, his opponents were young men of similar rank.
Lord Symond Templeton of Ninestars, from the Lords Declarant, wore virtuous armor, a black cloak with golden trim. Yohn Royce, representing the war party, had pressured Lady Lysa to send the Vale's forces to aid Robb Stark. House Templeton was among the warmongers. However, his presence at the wedding in Gulltown signaled that Littlefinger had secured his allegiance.
Benedar Belmore, Lord of Strongsong, was a stout man with a pear-shaped belly, rounded shoulders, and a fleshy chin covered in a mass of pale yellow and gray stubble. Rumors of his debauched lifestyle had long circulated, suggesting he could easily be bought. It was no surprise such a man had aligned himself with Littlefinger.
Lord Gilwood Hunter of Longbow Hall wore a sable cloak fastened with a brooch bearing his house sigil. His face and nose were as red as apples, no doubt due to excessive drinking. Bronze Yohn had informed him that after the death of the previous Lord of Longbow Hall, Eon Hunter, Gilwood had inherited the family castle and title. However, his two younger brothers, Eustace and Harlan, were suspicious of their father's death, questioning whether their elder brother had murdered him.
The scandals surrounding Longbow Hall would prevent them from participating in the Vale's power struggle.
It seemed the sides were evenly matched, three against three: himself and Bronze Yohn of Runestone, Horton Redfort of Redfort, against Littlefinger, Benedar Belmore of Strongsong, and Symond Templeton of Ninestars. But most minor lords and neutrals remained loyal only to the Lord of the Eyrie, the bloodline of House Arryn.
Beyond these were many unfamiliar faces: hedge knights from the Fingers, the Three Sisters, and Crackclaw Point; freeriders and newly appointed attendants not mentioned in the ballads; young nobles from great houses but of lesser rank; and heirs to regional lords.
Most of these young men had yet to earn great renown, but one day their names would echo throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
The jousting continued throughout the day, until dusk. The thunder of hooves pounded the ground, turning the arena into a desolate wasteland. Several times, Tyrion saw knights collide, lances shatter, and Great Lord Robert Jr. scream in pain, while the crowd cheered for their favorites.
Tyrion himself entered the fray, easily unhorsing a squire from House Crabb, and then driving off a man from the Three Sisters Islands who seemed utterly unskilled at riding, let alone jousting.
Sansa cheered for him from the stands, and then whispered with Mya Stone. Robert's bastard daughter wore a grim expression, her eyes slightly reddened. When Mychel Redfort entered the field, she covered her eyes, and the attendant seemed distracted.
By the end, only four victors remained in the arena: Ser Lyn Lannister, Bronze Yohn Royce, Harrold Hardyng, and Tyrion Lannister—the only one to have fought his way through the attendants.
Ser Lyn proved the most decisive victor, unscathed and untouched by his opponents.
By then, the moon had risen high, and the crowd was growing tired. Reluctantly, the Young Lord announced that the final three matches would be postponed until the following morning, to take place before the team jousts.
The crowd gradually dispersed, discussing the day's spectacle and the next day's main event, while the nobles of the Vale made their way to dinner beneath the walls of Gates of the Moon Castle. Six enormous yaks slowly rotated on spits, having roasted for hours. Kitchen boys hurried to brush them with butter and herbs until the meat was crisp and fragrant, the fat sizzling. Outside the tent, long tables and benches were set up, laden with beets, strawberries, and freshly baked bread.
Meanwhile, courses were brought in: thick barley venison stew, cold beet salad sprinkled with crushed nuts, spinach and plum salad, and honey-garlic snails. Next came river trout, freshly caught and baked in clay.
"How did your talk with Mya go?" Tyrion pried open the hardened clay surrounding the fish, revealing the tender white fillets inside. He speared a slice and placed it on his wife's plate. "You certainly have a way with words."
"I don't know," Sansa said. "I think I succeeded."
Just then, the kitchen door swung open. Lord Baelish appeared, carrying a silver platter.
"A gift for the great Lord Robert Arryn of the Eyrie!"
It must be some sort of pastry, Tyrion thought, watching Littlefinger shuffle over, carrying the tray with both hands, toward the young lord.
"I want the biggest piece!" young Lord Robert cried.
"They're all the same size, my Sweetrobin," Lady Lysa said, affectionately stroking her son's head.
Lord Petyr Baelish approached Tyrion and Sansa, offering the tray. "Your Grace, Lady Sansa, please help yourselves."
The tree-ring cake resembled a cross-section of a tree trunk, hollow at its center, like two concentric circles. It was sliced into equal wedges and arranged on the silver platter.
Tyrion waved his hand dismissively, and Sansa picked a piece for herself.
Then came sweet breads, pigeon pies, cinnamon-scented baked apples, and lemon cakes dusted with powdered sugar, but Sansa was already full. She barely managed two small lemon cakes before she couldn't eat any more.
Tyrion stood up. Little Lord Robert had curled up in his high chair and fallen asleep, while Lady Lysa tried to rouse her precious son. The feast was drawing to a close, and the nobles began leaving their seats, returning to their tents.
He stretched, helped his wife to her feet, and glanced around the banquet hall, now strewn with debris. "We should be going, my lady..."
Before he could finish, there was a gasp from Lady Lysa.
"My Sweetrobin!"
...
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