Game of Thrones: Storm of the Bucks
Inside the smithy, sparks flew as the blacksmith carefully worked at Jaime Lannister's battered helmet. The golden lion helm—once glorious and imposing—had been bent and warped during the melee, its elaborate decoration now more of a hindrance than protection. Jaime sat nearby, stripped of his armor, nursing his bruises.
Despite the violence of the tourney, he was not seriously injured. A short rest would be enough.
Tyrion Lannister stood to one side, cup in hand, watching with mild interest.
"Why didn't my dear elder sister attend the tourney?" Tyrion asked casually. "She usually loves nothing more than parading herself before the court."
Jaime snorted. "You don't know what happened last night. Cersei and the king quarreled again."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Over what this time?"
"Robert wanted to participate in the melee himself. The queen forbade it."
"Our good king truly lives by impulse," Tyrion said dryly.
"A melee isn't a game," Jaime replied. "It's closer to a battlefield than a celebration."
Tyrion took a sip of wine and lowered his voice. "And what of King's Landing? What fresh chaos awaits us there?"
Jaime sighed. "Not good, I'm afraid, little brother. Joffrey had an incident on the kingsroad, somewhere in the Riverlands."
"Oh?" Tyrion leaned forward, interest piqued.
"He clashed with the Stark children. Drew a sword and cut the bastard boy's face. Then the little Stark girl frightened him with her wolf."
Tyrion nearly choked on his drink.
"Cut someone's face and then cried over a wolf cub?" he said incredulously. "My good nephew never ceases to amaze."
He shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "If it had been a trueborn Stark, this could have sparked a blood feud. Robert brought Ned Stark south to stabilize Joffrey's rule… and this is how the boy repays him. Foolish child."
"It's not entirely Joffrey's fault," Jaime said mildly. "You know Ned Stark has never been friendly toward us. Still, Joffrey lacks chivalry. Look at the Knight of Flowers—he's barely older than Joffrey and already celebrated across the realm."
Tyrion sighed. "Speaking of knights… what possessed Sandor Clegane today? I've never seen such fury."
Jaime winced as the smith finally removed his helmet. "Perhaps he was imagining a different battle—one where he faces his brother directly."
Tyrion understood. With Jaime eliminated, he would miss the second half of the tourney—the clash between the Knight of Flowers and the Mountain.
A pity.
He considered mentioning Lady Stark's rudeness toward him, but decided to wait. News like that would spread soon enough. Perhaps Lord Tywin himself was already waiting for such an opportunity.
After a moment, Tyrion summoned his servant, Jak—a boy who had traveled with him to Winterfell and could recognize the Stark household.
"Take this to the young master of House Stark," Tyrion said, pressing several gold coins into his hand. A folded note lay hidden beneath them. "Tell him it's a gift from me. Life in King's Landing is expensive—best he be prepared."
Jak bowed. "Yes, my lord."
As the boy left, Tyrion exhaled softly.
"Perhaps this is my final kindness," he murmured. "The storm is gathering. Lannister and Stark… once blades are drawn, there will be no turning back."
He did not know whether this act would help or harm him. Once blood was shed, his father would march beneath the Lannister banner and set the Riverlands ablaze.
And yet—
Tyrion still needed a way to deal with Petyr Baelish, the man who had already placed him in danger once.
After the Kingslayer was escorted from the field, the crowd's attention shifted eagerly.
Now came the true spectacle.
The Mountain and the Knight of Flowers.
Jon Snow watched with rapt attention. The contrast between the two men was striking.
Gregor Clegane stood like a living siege tower. Taller than any knight Jon had ever seen, his reputation for cruelty was as immense as his size. Nearly eight feet tall, with shoulders as broad as castle doors, his arms looked like tree trunks wrapped in steel.
His warhorse seemed pitiful beneath him, like a child's toy. The longspear in his hand resembled a broomstick.
The Knight of Flowers, by contrast, was elegance incarnate.
Handsome, youthful, and adored by the ladies of the court, Ser Loras Tyrell was everything the Mountain was not. Slender and graceful, he wore ornate silver armor polished to a blinding shine. Black vines curled across its surface, inlaid with tiny blue forget-me-nots crafted from gemstones.
Even from the stands, the extravagance was obvious.
His cloak was woven with real forget-me-nots—hundreds of fresh flowers sewn directly into the fabric.
"He's so handsome!" voices cried out across the stands, especially from noblewomen.
Eddard Stark could not help but remark, "A fine young knight."
Sansa clutched her father's arm. "Father… please don't let Ser Gregor hurt him."
Jon said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the Mountain.
Even wielding a tourney spear, Gregor Clegane radiated danger. His strength alone was enough to kill.
Then something unexpected happened.
As Ser Loras's beautiful grey mare entered the arena, the Mountain's massive stallion grew restless, stamping and snorting.
The Knight of Flowers bowed to the king, lowered his spear, and charged.
The result was instantaneous.
"Thud!"
Gregor Clegane crashed to the ground like a collapsing tower, dragging his horse down with him.
The arena erupted.
Cheers. Gasps. Whispers. Laughter.
The Hound's laughter was loudest of all.
Ser Loras removed his helmet, his smile dazzling, and the crowd roared in approval.
But Jon saw something else.
The Mountain was rising.
His face twisted with fury, Gregor tore off his helmet and bellowed, "Bring me a sword!"
In one savage stroke, he slew his own horse, nearly severing its head. Blood sprayed across the sand.
The joy vanished instantly.
Sword dripping red, the Mountain advanced on the Knight of Flowers.
"Stop him!" Eddard shouted.
"A spear!" Jon yelled. "Use the spear!"
Ser Loras hesitated, stunned by the sudden violence. The Mountain struck, shattering the tourney spear, then swung again. The mare panicked at the smell of blood and reared, throwing Loras to the ground.
Death was moments away—
Until Sandor Clegane stepped in.
The Hound intercepted his brother, blade against blade. The two fought savagely, locked together in a brutal dance. Men rushed in, dragging Ser Loras to safety.
Jon watched in horror as Gregor struck Sandor's helm again and again—yet Sandor never once aimed for his brother's unprotected head.
"Stop this madness!" King Robert roared, rising to his feet.
Though he cared little for House Tyrell, the death of Lord Mace's son in King's Landing would bring catastrophe.
Barristan Selmy entered the field alongside the king. "More men!" Robert shouted. "Put down this mad dog!"
Knights surrounded them.
At the king's command, Sandor broke away and dropped to one knee. Gregor's final swing missed.
The Mountain froze.
Slowly, he lowered his sword and glared at Robert Baratheon.
Surrounded by the Kingsguard and dozens of knights, he said nothing—then turned and strode away.
"Let him go," the king ordered.
And so it ended.
Thousands stared in stunned silence, shocked that such brutality went unpunished.
Jon felt sick. Northerners loved their horses. They did not butcher them in rage.
Later, the victory fell to the Hound. Ser Loras thanked his savior and yielded without protest.
The crowd drifted onward, toward the archery range.
As they walked, Littlefinger smiled faintly. "It seems the young Tyrell planned well. He knew what sort of horse the Mountain prefers."
"There is no honor in such tricks," Ser Barristan scoffed.
"No honor," Renly replied lightly, "but twenty thousand gold dragons all the same."
Lost in thought, Jon noticed a man approaching.
"Life in King's Landing is expensive," the man said quietly, handing him gold. "Your dwarf friend sent this."
Jon stiffened. Beneath the coins lay a folded note.
Never trust Littlefinger. He is a liar and an opportunist.
—Your loyal dwarf friend.
Jon's heart pounded.
The game was deeper than he had imagined.
Far across the Narrow Sea, beneath the towering bronze horses of Vaes Dothrak, Khal Drogo led his khalasar into the grasslands.
The bronze steeds loomed above, their hooves forming a vast arch.
"Farewell, Holy City," Drogo thought.
Though he cared little for Khal Jhezkahn, an insult to Dothraki honor demanded blood.
He surveyed his riders—thousands strong.
Only one thing was missing.
A woman worthy of him.
"Is the Dragon Princess truly there?" a merchant asked.
"Yes, Khal," the man replied eagerly. "On the white shores of Myr. Silver-haired. Peerless."
Drogo remembered the prophecy.
His son would ride the world.
But first—
He must claim the dragon's mother.
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