Chapter 12: The Tournament: Young Stag vs Mountain

Character Ages:

- Gregor Clegane: 40

- Hugh: 23

- Loras Tyrell: 21

- Lancel Lannister: 17

At the Tourney of the Hand…

Sansa and Arya rode to the tournament with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole in tow. Since the last several days, they noticed Sansa's behavior change. She seemed happier, and was smiling more often. Sansa had long since apologized to Septa Mordane and to her father for her rude attitude she displayed earlier; Eddard was rather pleased at his daughter, Mordane warmly accepted Sansa's apology. Arya, meanwhile, was confused at her older sister's shining new demeanor and was a bit sore from her earlier lessons with her mentor Syrio Forel the First Sword of Braavos.

Regardless, the view upon arriving was spectacular. Beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions had been raised and thousands came to watch the spectacle-nobles and commoners alike. It took Sansa's breath away; the knights in shining armor, the crows shouting, the banners of the noble Houses… and the royal family themselves were seated above them all.

'It's even better than the songs,' Sansa thought with glee. She dressed beautifully for this occasion, wearing a green gown that brought out the auburn color of her hair.

Over the last few days, Sansa spent most of her time with her betrothed; Daveth Baratheon had led her on a tour throughout the city of King's Landing-under supervision, of course. Such sights Sansa witnessed included the Great Sept of Baelor, Daveth's favorite bakery shop at the Street of Flour, the markets of Fishmonger's Square, the Dragonpit on the Hill of Rhaenys… and, of course, the slums of Flea Bottom. Unlike the streets in the city, Flea Bottom was a slum with a terrible stench, so the couple had to cover their noses to try to keep out the smell. Daveth told her of his plans to hire workers to construct a sewage system to improve hygiene, cleanliness as well as air and water quality in the district. Other than that, Sansa had a wonderful week with her betrothed.

Most of the knights assembled Sansa was able to recognize, others she did not. When she heard Daveth entered the list, Sansa scouted the area trying to find him.

"My sweet prince, where are you…?" Sansa said to herself quietly.

After a minute or two of searching, Sansa manages to identify Daveth in the field. Wearing his black armor with a golden stag on his breastplate, gold cloak and holding a black helmet studded with large antlers on each side under his left arm. He looked rather dashing this morning. Standing next to him helping strap on the last buckles and ensuring the armor stays on was King Robert Baratheon's squire Lancel Lannister, oldest son of Daveth's great-uncle Kevan Lannister; both were around the same age.

Daveth had already impressed many in the crowd by unseating his opponents in the joust, such as Lord Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Jaime Lannister, even the grizzled old veteran yet legendary Kingsguard knight Ser Lucius "the Bull" Blackmyre. None cheered so loudly for the Crown Prince than Myrcella and Tommen. Joffrey, on the other hand, merely sneered. The final four competitors now included Crown Prince Daveth "the Oathkeeper" Baratheon of King's Landing, Ser Hugh of the Vale, Ser Loras "the Knight of the Flowers" Tyrell of Highgarden, and Ser Gregor "the Mountain" Clegane of Clegane's Keep.

Sansa smiles at Daveth and waves at him. Daveth notices Sansa amongst the crowd and gave a brief nod in acknowledgment. The joust was about to begin shortly.

Sansa and Septa Mordane were given places of high honor, to the left of the raised dais where King Robert Baratheon himself sat beside Queen Cersei Lannister. When Prince Joffrey seated himself to her left, she felt her throat tighten. He had not spoken a word to her since the incident on the Kingsroad had happened, and she had not dared to speak to him at Daveth's behest.

"You're looking rather happy this morning, no?" someone says to Sansa. "You must be one of Catelyn's daughters. You have the Tully look."

Sansa turns to her right and sees Petyr Baelish standing above her and staring.

"I'm sorry. Do I…?" she questions, ill at ease. She did not know him.

Septa Mordane leans in. "Sansa dear, this is Lord Baelish. He's know…"

"An old friend of the family," Petyr finishes as he sits down next to Sansa. He looked almost as old as Eddard Stark, with a pointed beard and a silver streak in his hair, and he wore heavy cloak fastened with a silver mockingbird. "I've known your mother a long time."

Arya, who knew little of him and only his nickname, was rather blunt. "Why do they call you 'Littlefinger'?"

"Arya!" Sansa shouted.

"Don't be rude!" the septa scolded.

Petyr smiled. "No, it's quite all right. When I was a child, I was very small and I come from a split of land called The Fingers," he explained. "So you see, it's an exceedingly clever nickname."

King Robert had grown louder with each course. From time to time Sansa could hear him laughing or roaring a command over the music and the clangor of plates and cutlery, but they were too far away for her to make out his words. Now everybody heard him.

"I've been sitting here for days!" Robert thundered, enough for all to hear. He stood to his feet, red of face, and had a goblet of wine in one hand. It was clear that Robert was drunk as a man could be, reeling as he stumbled to keep his balance. "Start the damn joust before I piss myself!"

Queen Cersei, sitting next to her husband, was irritated at his behavior and wanted to leave. But chose instead to remain to watch her eldest son compete and endure Robert's behavior a bit longer. Everyone watched the knights present themselves to the King. The first two soon stepped forward on their horses, bowing their heads to Robert. Sansa noticed that one of them in particular was a very tall man standing nearly eight feet tall with black armor and riding on a black steed with a golden saddle, thundering to the center like an avalanche.

"Gods, who's that?" Sansa reacted in surprised.

"Ser Gregor Clegane," said Petyr. "They call him the Mountain. The Hound's older brother."

"And his opponent?"

"Ser Hugh of the Vale. He was Jon Arryn's squire. Look how far he's come."

Robert continued to look bored and irritated. "Yes, yes. Enough with the bloody pomp. Have at it!"

The joust begins. The first pass takes its course with no contact. On the second pass, however, the Mountain's jousting lance strikes Ser Hugh in the neck, causing a massive splinter to be lodged inside and sever major arteries, and his blood begins gushing out. This occurs directly in front of where Sansa is sitting.

Sansa screams in terror as the audience gasps in horror, even King Robert himself stood up in shock. Prince Daveth, who stood on the opposite side of the arena, was taken aback by the Mountain's brute strength and violent nature. Ser Hugh shook violently; his life's blood flowed from his neck in slow pulses, each weaker than the ones before. Moments later, Ser Hugh's movements ceased.

"Somebody see to him at once!" Daveth shouted loudly. "Now!"

Attendants immediately rushed to the field, taking Ser Hugh's lifeless body away. Sansa trembled; terrified that something so exciting took a sharp turn for the worst.

"Not what you were expecting?" Petyr asked, leaning to whisper into Sansa's ear. "Has anyone ever told you the story of the Mountain and the Hound?"

Sansa fiercely shook her head no. She had never seen a man die before.

"Lovely little tale of brotherly love," Petyr whispered. "The Hound was just a pup, six years old maybe. Gregor a few years older, already a big lad, already getting a bit of a reputation. Some lucky boys just born with a talent for violence. One evening, Gregor found his little brother playing with a toy by the fire… Gregor's toy, a wooden knight. Gregor never said a word, he just grabbed his brother by the scruff of his neck and shoved his face into the burning coals. Held him there while the boy screamed, while his face melted. There aren't very many people who know that story."

Sansa looked behind her and noticed Sandor Clegane starting at his brother, noticing the burn marks covering the right side of his face. So that's how the Hound got his burns!

"I won't tell anyone," Sansa whimpered as she gulped in fear. "I promise."

"No, please don't," Petyr agreed. "If the Hound so much as heard you mention it, I'm afraid all the knights in King's Landing would not be able to save you, not even your beloved Prince."

At the Tower of the Hand…

Eddard Stark sat in his office, still looking at the Valyrian steel dagger used to try to kill his son Bran and the book The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms on his desk. The Stark patriarch and Hand of the King had been very busy lately, investigating Jon Arryn's death and following possibly leads. He had already encountered several of Robert's bastard children, the young blacksmith apprentice Gendry and the infant Barra.

His thoughts were soon broken when a knock came to his door.

"My lord, Prince Daveth is here to see you," Jory called out.

Eddard nodded and opened the door. Daveth stepped inside.

"Lord Stark," Daveth bowed his head slightly.

"Prince Daveth," Eddard greeted. "What brings you here?"

"My Father didn't see you at the tournament this morning," he said.

Eddard shook his head. "Putting my name on it doesn't make it mine. Besides, I seem to remember you giving me a choice as to whether I could attend or not."

"It would appear so," Daveth smiled, yet soon frowned. "Suppose it's fortunate you weren't. One of the knights competing in the joust, Ser Hugh of the Vale, was killed. Lance shattered on impact and left a rather large splinter in his neck. I fear both your daughters saw it up close."

"Are they alright?" Eddard spoke in a stern, yet concerned tone.

Daveth raised his hand. "Calm yourself, my lord. They're both fine. A little shaken, perhaps, but Sansa and Arya are just fine."

"And who was Ser Hugh's opponent?" Eddard asked.

"The Mountain," the Crown Prince answered.

Eddard frowned and cupped his chin, as if entering deep thought. "Hugh was Jon Arryn's squire."

"That's correct. Father knighted him after Lord Arryn died."

"I shall send for him," Eddard said. "And the others."

Daveth shook his head. "I already have some people tending to that matter, my lord. They are working diligently, though they could only do so much. But I didn't come here to talk about that."

Daveth walked past Eddard to look out the window.

"Look over here, my Lord Hand," he beseeched.

Eddard joined Daveth, where he soon made a casual gesture. "Across the courtyard, by that door near the armory? The boy squatting by the steps polishing his master's sword?"

"What about him?"

"He's one of Varys's 'little birds'," Daveth answers. "Your activities since you arrived have not gone unnoticed." He shifted against the window's edge. "Now, further west near the stables. The guardsman leaning on the ramparts?"

Eddard saw the man. "Another of the eunuch's whisperers?"

Daveth shook his head. "No, he reports directly to Mother. From where he stands he enjoys a fine view to this tower, the better to note who calls on you." He shifts again. "To the east. That red-headed whore propositioning one of the highborn lords?"

Eddard was starting to get annoyed with these guessing games. "And she answers to Lord Baelish?" he guesses.

"Correct," Daveth acknowledges. "Everyone you see here answers to someone. Each of us who plays the game of thrones, me included, tends to have eyes and ears everywhere, even in the Red Keep. It's often how we keep tabs on everyone in the city. My advice to you is to not trust the wrong people in King's Landing. And I mean no one… If you cannot adapt to court intrigues, then you become an easy target."

"By the Gods," he exasperated. "Is everyone someone's informer in this cursed city?" Eddard uncomfortably moved away from the window, having no taste for these intrigues.

"It's difficult to say, Lord Stark. Be that as it may, I'd be more careful about whom you put much trust and faith in. There are so few nowadays." He started for the door.

Eddard called after him. "Why are you telling me this?"

Daveth turned to look at Eddard.

"I have my reasons. Jon Arryn was a good man, but your words earlier made me believe there was indeed more than meets the eye. Perhaps Lord Arryn trusted the wrong people, who's to know? But if your suspicions do indeed have merit, then it'll be my job to keep you from meeting your predecessor's fate."

"And who can I trust?"

"That depends on who offers. Varys is a eunuch, a foreigner. As the Master of Whisperers, he commands a very vast network of spies stationed from all over Westeros to across the Narrow Sea itself. He may be… odd, at times. Even I have a hard time figuring him out. But I do believe he has the realm's best interests at heart."

"What about Lord Baelish? He's already agreed to help determine who tried to kill my son Bran twice . My wife gave me her word."

Daveth scoffs. "And you believe every word that comes out of Littlefinger's mouth? He's good at what he does, yes, but I'm afraid he puts only his interests ahead of everyone else. He would rather see the Seven Kingdoms burn to the ground in the chaos if he could be king of the ashes. Even if Lady Catelyn does trust Littlefinger simply on the basis of being childhood friends, don't. You'll only invite trouble."

"Then…" Eddard said. "I should keep my guard up."

"Yes, you should. Remember: this is not the North. King's Landing can be a very dangerous pit of vipers to the uninitiated." Daveth said. "And besides… I'd rather ensure the well-being of my soon-to-be Father-in-Law, no?"

Eddard allowed himself a chuckle. "Seems what my wife said about is true, after all. You're a good lad."

Daveth frowned slightly. "No, I'm not," he said quietly. "But perhaps you wouldn't mind showing up at the tournament? I fear Father would tear King's Landing to the ground if he doesn't see you there again."

At the Tourney of the Hand…

Eddard Stark finally arrived at the grounds where the Tourney of the Hand. The joust was hereby resuming, and the round was between Prince Daveth Baratheon and the Mountain. Ser Gregor bows before King Robert before he and his horse take off down one lane of the track.

After the disastrous incident involving the death of Ser Hugh of the Vale at Ser Gregor's hands, Sansa had been rather quiet. Arya wasn't there, but Eddard was. He noticed his youngest daughters missing presence.

"Where's Arya?" He asks Sansa.

"At her dancing lessons," she answered. She turned and saw Daveth in full armor approach, making her smile warmly. "My Prince."

"Lady Sansa," he nods.

Before Daveth departs, Sansa unveils a blue scarf with the sigil of House Stark she embroidered onto it and wraps it around Daveth's neck. Carefully folded, the crowd took notice that Sansa had given the Crown Prince her favor. Daveth nods in understanding before riding to bow before his Father, also taking off down the opposite track.

"Don't let Ser Gregor hurt him," Sansa pleaded to her father, holding his arm tightly. "I can't watch."

"Hey," Eddard reassures his daughter. "The Oathkeeper rides well. He'll be alright."

By then Ser Gregor Clegane was in position. He was huge, the biggest man that Eddard Stark had ever seen. Robert Baratheon, his brothers and eldest son Daveth were all big men, as was the Hound, and back at Winterfell there was a simpleminded (yet rumored half-giant) Hodor who dwarfed them all, but the knight they called the Mountain would have towered over Hodor. He was well over seven feet tall, closer to eight, with massive shoulders and arms thick as the trunks of small trees. His horse seemed a pony in between his armored legs, and the lance he carried looked as small as a broom handle.

Unlike his brother, Ser Gregor did not live at court. He was a solitary man who seldom left his own lands, but for wars and tourneys. He had been with Lord Tywin when King's Landing fell, a new-made knight of twenty-three years, even then distinguished by his size and his implacable ferocity. Some said it had been Gregor who'd repeatedly stabbed princess Rhaeyns Targaryen to death, dashed the skull of the infant prince Aegon Targaryen against a wall, and whispered that afterward he had raped the mother, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, before putting her to the sword. These things were not said in Gregor's hearing.

Daveth knew how dangerous his opponent was. But lucky enough for him, Ser Gregor was a kind of man who lacked a strategic thought in his head; allowing Daveth to quickly strategize scenarios and plans to outsmart the fearsome Mountain. After putting on his helmet, Daveth raised his left arm holding his shield whilst bringing the lance in his right hand down. Straightening the lance as an arrow, he looked ready to charge.

"100 gold dragons on the Mountain!" a spectator bets.

Another spoke up. "Seven hells! I'll see that bet and raise you 200 on the Oathkeeper."

"400 on the Mountain!"

"900 on the Oathkeeper!"

A trumpet is heard and both competitors race down their lances. Ser Gregor brought his stallion broke in a hard gallop, plunging forward wildly, while Daveth's horse charged as smooth as a flow of silk. Ser Gregor wrenched his shield into position, juggled with his lance, and all the while fought to hold his unruly mount on a straight line, and suddenly Daveth Baratheon was on him, thrusting the point of his lance with quick precision and power, and in an eye blink the Mountain was failing. He was so huge that he took his horse down with him in a tangle of steel and flesh.

Eddard Stark heard thunderous applause, cheers, whistles, shocked gasps, and excited muttering. Prince Daveth reined up at the end of the lists and advanced to the final round against the Knight of the Flowers, Ser Loras Tyrell. Loras was impressed by the Crown Prince's feat, and had his attendants prepare him. Daveth's lance was not even broken. His armor was not even scratched as he rode to the center with confidence as he raised his visor.

In the middle of the field, Ser Gregor Clegane disentangled himself and came boiling to his feet. He wrenched off his helm and slammed it down onto the ground. His face was dark with fury and angrily stormed off.

"The final round of the jousting competition of the Hand's Tourney will take place tomorrow morning!" the royal steward announced. "Prince Daveth of House Baratheon will face off against Ser Loras of House Tyrell!"

An epic match was underway. Both the Oathkeeper and the Knight of Flowers exchanged glances, each of them prepping themselves for what seemed to be the toughest match the two young men ever had.