The twelfth day of January in the 298th year after Aegon's Conquest dawned clear and bright over King's Landing.
On the tourney grounds outside the city walls, "Prince Joffrey's Twelfth Name Day Tourney" opened with all the grandeur befitting an heir to the Iron Throne. Banners snapped in the morning breeze, their colors vibrant against the pale blue sky.
As a cornerstone of Westerosi knightly culture, tourneys were deeply beloved throughout the Seven Kingdoms, from the frozen North to the sun-scorched sands of Dorne. Common folk flocked to them for entertainment and spectacle, knights competed for fame and fortune, highborn hosts displayed their wealth and power, while lords great and small seized the opportunity to forge alliances, arrange marriages, and conduct the subtle business of realm beneath the veneer of festivity.
Today's tourney outshone all recent gatherings in magnificence. More than a hundred pavilions had been erected around the tourney grounds, their silk panels emblazoned with the sigils of noble houses. Merchants and bards were scattered amongst them, hawking beer, roasted corn, honey cakes, and melodies both bawdy and sweet.
Thousands of King's Landing's residents had rushed to claim seats since before dawn, pushing and shoving for the best vantage points. Twice as many spectators could only stand at the edges with poor visibility, while still more latecomers trudged along the kingsroad, determined not to miss the spectacle despite the hour.
Beside the tourney grounds, participating knights lined up at the starting point of the lists, each astride a destrier bred and trained for war. Their armor gleamed in the morning light, their lances held upright like a forest of wooden spears, their fighting spirit high as summer.
Before them stretched the main tilting lanes, two to three hundred yards long and forty to fifty yards wide, sufficient to accommodate four jousting matches simultaneously. The earth had been raked smooth, then covered with a layer of sand to provide secure footing for the warhorses and to soften the inevitable falls.
Around the lists rose tiered wooden platforms, freshly constructed for the occasion. Courtiers, foreign dignitaries, minor princes, and nobles crowded these stands, come to watch the competition, feast on delicacies, and most importantly, to be seen. The smallfolk gathered in the shade beneath these platforms, grateful for respite from the sun while still afforded a view of the proceedings.
Dozens of banners hung before the high platform where the royal family would sit, each several men tall and nearly as wide, painted with exquisite heraldic devices that proclaimed the ancient lineages and proud histories of the competing houses.
"Clang!"
A crisp gong reverberated across the grounds.
At this signal, the knights immediately spurred their mounts forward, preparing to parade before the assembled crowds in a display of pageantry and martial pride.
The thunder of hoofbeats filled the air as the neat line of armored riders advanced at a measured pace. Each man sat tall in his saddle, his armor polished to a mirror shine, his horse's caparison matching the colors of his house.
Wherever they passed, the audience responded with unrestrained enthusiasm, cheers and shouts rising like a wave. Children pointed in awe at their favorites, while women tossed flowers before particularly handsome or renowned champions.
Yet the knights' eyes remained fixed upon the banners bearing their family arms.
The crowned stag of Baratheon, the golden lion of Lannister, the golden rose of Tyrell, the twin towers of Frey, the purple grapes of Redwyne, the silver seahorse of Velaryon, the hunter of Tarly, the sheaf of wheat of Selmy, the red apple of Fossoway...
Each knight, when passing beneath his own banner, would deliberately raise his head and thrust out his chest with unmistakable pride. Was this not the very purpose of the tourney—to win glory for one's house?
After the entrance ceremony concluded with all due pomp, the competition proper began with surprising swiftness.
"Jousting, first round, first match," the herald cried, his voice carrying to the farthest corners of the grounds. "Ser Dickon Tarly versus Ser Horas Redwyne!"
Cheers immediately resounded through the air, the atmosphere in the arena electric with anticipation.
"Tarly will triumph! 'First in Battle!' This is the motto of the hunter and the warrior!" shouted one man, his face flushed with excitement.
"None can compare to the warriors of the Arbor! Long live House Redwyne!" countered another.
"Remember the might of the Redwyne fleet!" called a third, his voice nearly lost in the general clamor.
All eyes focused on the arena as the two knights took their positions at opposite ends of the list. The crowd held its collective breath as the combatants lowered their visors and couched their lances.
Even Prince Joffrey, the nominal protagonist of this tourney, could not steal any of the limelight from the knights in this moment of tension. But this suited his purposes perfectly. Be low-key in doing things, he reminded himself. Draw no undue attention.
Joffrey cast his gaze around the royal viewing platform.
King Robert occupied the center of the high dais, his massive frame dwarfing the ornate chair upon which he sat. Around him were arrayed all the important personages of the realm.
Between tables laden with sumptuous feasts of honeyed capons, lamprey pies, and roasted meats, he saw Queen Cersei, golden and beautiful as ever; Lord Tywin Lannister, cold and imposing with his whiskers of gold and silver; the "Kingslayer" Ser Jaime, resplendent in his white cloak and golden armor; the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, though looking frailer than Joffrey remembered; Lord Renly Baratheon, handsome and merry; and even the dour Lord Stannis, who rarely attended such frivolities.
Only Tyrion was missing from the gathering of notables.
The servants had reported that the "Imp" had drunk himself into a stupor the previous night and might remain insensate for the entire day. Given his conversation with Jaime about Tysha, this was not unexpected.
That's fine, Joffrey thought to himself. If the plot doesn't change too drastically, though the effect is slow, it remains stable. Today's plans need no adjustment.
He rose from his seat and made his way toward the Master of Coin, threading between servants carrying trays of wine and sweetmeats.
"Lord Petyr," he called out as he approached, "how fare my dragon eggs? You must handle this matter with the utmost care!"
Joffrey sat down casually opposite "Littlefinger," and the others sharing the long table immediately dispersed, recognizing the prince's desire for privacy.
"Your Highness," Petyr responded, maintaining his customary smile that never quite reached his grey-green eyes.
"How could I possibly neglect a task of such importance?"
"But the Narrow Sea will not shrink for our convenience. The envoys and ships bound for Pentos cannot depart until the day after tomorrow at the earliest. I must beg Your Highness's patience for a few more days."
Joffrey remained noncommittal, staring directly at the ambitious lord who concealed his true aspirations behind a mask of servility.
Master of Coin "Littlefinger" Petyr Baelish.
The foremost schemer in all the Seven Kingdoms, ranked at the very top of Joffrey's mental list of those who must be eliminated, tied with the eunuch Varys for the dubious honor of first place.
Littlefinger, who craved power above all else, could never be trusted with true loyalty, while Varys, who plotted restoration of the dragons, was absolutely treacherous to the core.
Both were tools that might be used but never relied upon—valuable, but ultimately disposable.
A servant brought forth a platter of hot venison steak, the rich aroma of seasoned meat diffusing with the rising steam. Joffrey helped himself without ceremony, taking the choicest piece.
"This is my name day gift!" he declared petulantly. "I care not for excuses. The eggs must be secured before the month's end, or you shall answer for the failure!"
This demand posed no small challenge.
Given the capricious conditions of the Narrow Sea and the distance between King's Landing and Pentos, the outbound journey would consume roughly eight days, with the return voyage requiring seven if the winds proved favorable.
One must also account for the sudden squalls that frequently plagued the Narrow Sea, capable of delaying even the most determined captains.
Under optimal circumstances, the ship might return to King's Landing just before the month concluded, assuming they purchased the dragon eggs on the very day of their arrival in Pentos and departed immediately thereafter.
Lord Petyr merely bowed his head slightly.
"Your servant shall endeavor with all his resources. I shall not disappoint Your Highness."
Joffrey nodded with apparent satisfaction.
Another burst of raucous cheers and whistles erupted from the crowd.
After six rounds of fierce combat and the shattering of twelve wooden lances, the first match had finally reached its conclusion.
"Ser Dickon Tarly of Horn Hill emerges victorious!" the herald proclaimed above the din.
Observing the scene, Joffrey seemed struck by a sudden thought and casually inquired of Petyr:
"What relation does this one bear to Lord Tarly?"
"Your Highness, this is Lord Randyll's second son," Littlefinger replied smoothly. "He shows remarkable courage and skill. Lord Randyll must surely be most gratified."
Joffrey took a bite of crispy bacon, his mouth full as he spoke. "Is that so? When I am of age to compete, I shall vanquish all these pretenders!"
"Without doubt, Your Highness."
"Tell me," Joffrey continued, reaching for a lemon cake that reminded him of another time, another conversation yet to happen, "what of Lord Tarly's eldest son? I don't recall seeing him among the competitors." The sweet-tart flavor burst on his tongue, momentarily distracting him from the scheme he was setting in motion.
Petyr, ever careful, avoided giving offense.
"I have heard that Lord Randyll's firstborn is a scholarly youth, well-versed in books and learning, with little taste for combat. I believe he remains at Horn Hill, pursuing his studies."
"Ha!" Joffrey laughed, but in his haste forgot he was still chewing. He choked momentarily, quickly washing down the obstruction with a large gulp of milk, patting his chest dramatically.
Ah, he thought as he recovered, I'm still alive.
His performance drew the attention of nearby guests, precisely as he had intended.
Joffrey then proclaimed loudly for all to hear, "The son of a warrior house prefers books to blades? He can scarcely call himself a man—he ought to become a maester and be done with it!"
Petyr smiled mechanically, not yet grasping the trap closing around him.
From the moment Joffrey had steered their conversation to this topic, Littlefinger's fate had been sealed—he would be pulled into the prince's scheme without realizing it.
"That's it!" Joffrey suddenly exclaimed, slapping the table forcefully enough to make the goblets jump.
"A maester! What an excellent notion! We should find an apprentice from House Tarly for old Grand Maester Pycelle. Wouldn't that be amusing to contemplate?"
Petyr felt a sudden foreboding.
To become a maester meant forswearing all claims to lands and titles—which effectively meant stripping someone of their birthright.
"Your Highness," he began cautiously, "such a matter requires careful consideration. House Tarly might—"
But Joffrey had already risen and departed, leaving Littlefinger mid-sentence.
The wayward Crown Prince was doubtless bound for Lord Randyll Tarly, a man known throughout the Seven Kingdoms for his martial prowess and unyielding nature.
To suggest that a lord's heir should become a maester was tantamount to public insult. Even if House Tarly did not openly resist such a notion, they would certainly harbor deep resentment. And who would bear the brunt of their anger?
Who planted this seed in the Crown Prince's mind?
Without needing to observe the reactions of those nearby, Petyr understood—he had been maneuvered into earning the enmity of House Tarly.
Yet he remained unconcerned by this minor setback.
His Royal Highness the Crown Prince? Littlefinger smiled secretly. The joint accusation soon to be leveled by the Hand of the King and the Lord of Dragonstone would eclipse any such petty matters.
When King Robert heard his foster father's dying declaration and learned that his three royal children were in fact the illegitimate offspring of the Lannister twins, and then watched Jon Arryn perish in agony before his very eyes...
Petyr twirled the pointed beard adorning his chin, his thoughts far away.
Lysa, for your love of me, be the final piece in my grand design.
Meanwhile, across the tourney grounds, two more knights prepared to joust, unaware they were but pieces on a board far larger than the lists upon which they rode.