The sunlight gradually dimmed, casting long shadows across the tourney grounds as afternoon gave way to evening. Inside his plain pavilion, "The Hound" Sandor Clegane sat silently wiping the greatsword that lay across his lap, his scarred face impassive.
The rhythmic motion calmed him. It was one of the few moments of peace he ever knew.
When not serving Prince Joffrey, he scarcely knew what to do with himself. Since leaving House Clegane to enter Lannister service more than a decade past, the Hound had been Joffrey's sworn shield, his shadow in all things.
Night and day, he had personally watched the prince grow from a mewling babe into what he was now—a cruel, capricious youth. And in that time, he had become Joffrey's most loyal dog, as faithful as his namesake.
No matter how foolish or willful the prince's orders might be, he simply obeyed without question. He allowed Prince Joffrey to command his body, even as he permitted "The Mountain" Gregor Clegane to torment his soul.
Gregor Clegane!
The hideous burn scar covering half his face served as a constant reminder of what "The Mountain" had done to him. Father, sister, family—Gregor had destroyed everything!
The Hound had feared fire ever since that day. Behind every dancing flame lurked unbearable memories of the past, of the Mountain pressing his face into the brazier over a wooden knight he'd borrowed without permission.
Sandor had sworn a thousand times to kill Gregor with his own hands.
Yet he also feared this inhuman monster who shared his blood.
Anger, sorrow, hatred, and fear tormented him without respite, an endless cycle from which he found no escape.
Only when following the prince's commands could he temporarily forget everything else and catch his breath, losing himself in simple obedience.
This day should have been no different.
The Hound couldn't help but recall the scene from the previous day.
In the hushed depths of the Kingswood, he had heard the prince address him by name: "Sandor Clegane."
What strange words those had been.
Usually, he was called only "The Hound" or simply "Dog." Only when compared to that bastard the Mountain did anyone bother with "Clegane."
Gregor Clegane.
Humph! A man like that can be a knight anointed with seven oils?! I'd rather be a dog than such a knight!
The dog had listened attentively to his master's command.
"In tomorrow's tourney, you must win the championship. I need those ten thousand gold dragons."
It was no small sum.
Even if the dog drank the finest Arbor gold every day until old age claimed him, he might not spend it all.
The Hound had been about to agree without hesitation.
But unexpectedly, this time a greater prize had been dangled before him.
The prince had smiled with uncharacteristic confidence, "I know about him. There's nothing to fear from the Mountain. You can defeat him, kill him."
The dog had found himself staring at the prince as though seeing him for the first time, as if he had somehow grown to manhood in an instant.
"Don't worry," Joffrey had continued. "Once I am king, the Mountain will no longer trouble you."
Joffrey would help him kill Gregor?
The Hound had felt as though he were dreaming, caught in some wine-soaked fantasy.
Yet he realized that if Joffrey truly willed it, even Lord Tywin would likely withdraw his protection from Gregor.
Strangely, the dog had not felt the joy he had always imagined would accompany such a promise.
Prince Joffrey and the Mountain—the two most significant figures in his life—had suddenly intersected in a manner he could never have anticipated.
Kill Gregor, and then what?
The Hound had no answer to that question.
But in this moment, as he sat wiping his blade, he chose to think of nothing at all. He would simply wait to enter the lists and defeat every knight who dared stand in his path.
The tent flap was suddenly lifted, allowing pale yellow light to spill across his blade, raising golden reflections against the dimness.
"Hound, it's your turn," called a faceless servant. "Your opponent is Dickon Tarly."
Sandor Clegane sheathed his sword with a single fluid motion.
"Who gives a damn who it is?! I'm going to win the championship!"
He shoved the messenger aside and strode out, his heavy footfalls marking his passage toward destiny...
After more than half a day of elimination rounds, only five contestants remained in the joust.
"The Knight of Flowers," Ser Loras Tyrell, resplendent in his enameled green armor.
"Barristan the Bold," Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy, whose white cloak rippled like a banner despite his advanced years.
"The Kingslayer" Ser Jaime Lannister, who had a bye in this round, his golden armor catching the light.
"The Hound" Sandor Clegane, his dog's-head helm casting a fearsome shadow.
And Dickon Tarly, the newly affirmed heir to Horn Hill, eager to prove himself worthy of his father's approval.
Four more matches would determine who claimed the prize of ten thousand gold dragons.
"Joust, Round Five, Match One," announced the herald. "Ser Dickon Tarly versus Sandor Clegane!"
Dickon Tarly rode a massive destrier, his entire body encased in plain but sturdy full plate armor. Though lacking ornament, it was of excellent quality, as befitted the son of so martial a lord.
As was his custom, the Hound wore smoke-grey armor, secured the visor of his snarling dog's-head helmet, and prepared to face his foe upon his mount—a vicious black stallion named Stranger.
The two faced each other from opposite ends of the list, more than a hundred paces apart. Each raised his shield upon his left arm and gripped his lance firmly in his right hand.
The Hound took position on the eastern side, where the setting sun became his adversary, its rays shining directly into his eyes. But such disadvantages meant nothing to him; he knew victory would be his regardless.
The red signal flag in the middle of the arena swept downward, and both men spurred their mounts forward simultaneously.
Stranger and his opponent shot forward like quarrels loosed from crossbows, accelerating rapidly, pushing ever faster, challenging the limits of horseflesh and human nerve.
The Hound silently counted in his head.
One, two, three, four.
Stranger had reached his full, steady gallop. The Hound began to adjust his position, raising his shield and bracing his lance against his body.
Five, six.
The opponents drew near enough to discern each other's postures clearly, and the Hound searched for weaknesses in his adversary's defense.
Seven, eight.
His shield is held too rigidly; he will be too slow to adjust when I change my angle of attack.
Nine.
The Hound suddenly dipped lower in his saddle. Dickon Tarly maintained his stance, unaware of the coming stratagem.
Ten.
Crack! Crack! Bang!
The two lances shattered almost simultaneously, splinters flying in all directions.
Dickon Tarly's lance struck the Hound's square shield true, but his own defenses failed against the Hound's unexpected maneuver.
Amidst gasps from the crowd, Dickon tumbled from his saddle, striking the ground with bone-jarring force before staggering to his feet, dazed but still conscious.
A pronounced dent in the upper left portion of his breastplate revealed the cause of his defeat. No wonder a single pass had been sufficient to unseat him.
The Hound had triumphed once more.
Those who had wagered on his victory cheered wildly, while those who had lost cursed and groaned even louder. The Hound paid them no heed; their opinions were less than dirt to him.
The competition continued its inexorable progress.
"Barristan the Bold" ultimately fell before the youthful "Knight of Flowers," like summer yielding to autumn in the endless cycle of seasons.
In the semi-finals, the Hound found himself with a bye, awaiting the victor of the match between Loras Tyrell and Jaime Lannister.
The spectators' anticipation for this contest reached a fever pitch.
"The Knight of Flowers" and "The Kingslayer" were as alike as the two faces of a gold dragon, yet as different as night and day.
In terms of lineage, both men represented great houses of the realm.
Among the Seven Kingdoms beneath the Iron Throne, the Westerlands of House Lannister were renowned for their gold and silver mines, while the Reach of House Tyrell boasted fertile plains and the largest population in Westeros.
Both families commanded power sufficient to challenge for supremacy, should they choose to do so.
In martial skill and physical beauty, Loras and Jaime were counted among the finest knights in the realm, the objects of desire for countless maidens from Dorne to the Wall.
The contrast in their reputations only enhanced the drama of their confrontation.
The "Knight of Flowers," beloved by all, seemed bathed in perpetual sunlight, while the "Kingslayer," forever tainted by his broken vows, dwelled in moral shadow. They were natural opponents, as different as the elements they embodied.
Even accounting for personal biases, none could confidently predict the outcome until the final moment.
Joffrey himself could not be entirely certain.
Though Jaime had fallen to Loras in the original timeline, and Tyrion had disturbed his composure the previous night, the outcome of any combat remained inherently unpredictable.
Bang! A armored figure tumbled from horseback, striking the ground with a resounding crash.
Amidst the thunderous roar of the crowd, Joffrey could distinctly hear King Robert's booming laughter.
The "Kingslayer" had been defeated in a single pass.
Joffrey felt nothing at the sight. It mattered little to him who prevailed between the two; his only concern was the gold.
The coming months would prove critical to his plans. He required a substantial sum of coin that could be acquired reasonably and discreetly.
The tourney prize represented the perfect opportunity: its source was legitimate and transparent, it would raise no suspicious eyebrows, and most crucially, the amount was sufficient for his immediate needs.
Simultaneously, it would not attract undue attention from the king.
Observing his supposedly generous and magnanimous "father," Joffrey experienced a complex mixture of emotions.
In all his schemes, Robert consistently emerged as the primary obstacle—solely because Joffrey was not, in truth, King Robert's son.
Joffrey Baratheon was born of the queen and her twin brother, the "Kingslayer," a secret that had not remained as closely guarded as the Lannisters might wish.
Those privy to this knowledge included, but were not limited to, various Lannister loyalists, the Hand of the King Jon Arryn, Lord Stannis Baratheon, the eunuch Varys, and the Master of Coin Petyr Baelish.
For this reason, Joffrey could not employ the same strategies he had used with Tyrion to persuade the king to support his endeavors.
Any information that might convince Robert to back him would inevitably alter the future significantly, potentially increasing his chances of survival.
This would clearly benefit his enemies.
Also because of this circumstance, he dared not reveal any abnormal behavior, particularly any sudden display of intelligence or rationality.
Should his transformation arouse the suspicion or discomfort of anyone cognizant of his true parentage, prompting them to expose the secret...
Joffrey could not predict the exact consequences, but they would assuredly prove disastrous for him.
He and Robert, this nominal father and son, were fated to remain at odds.
Yet the current peace of the Seven Kingdoms depended entirely upon the king's firm hand. Before Joffrey was properly positioned to manage the ensuing chaos, removing the king would cause more harm than good.
Under these circumstances, he had no choice but to bide his time and await a more favorable moment.
A sudden crescendo of exclamations jolted Joffrey from his contemplation.
The final match had concluded.
He focused his attention on the lists, rising abruptly to his feet, applauding and shouting: "Good dog! Well done!"
Ten thousand gold dragons were now his.
Beyond his satisfaction, Joffrey could not help but marvel at King Robert's extravagance.
Ten thousand gold dragons for the jousting champion, five thousand for the runner-up, another five thousand for the melee champion, plus the costs of feasts, entertainments, and other expenses.
More than twenty thousand gold dragons in total.
Measured against the price of staple foods, a single copper star was worth approximately sixteen yuan in his former world's currency. One gold dragon equaled 210 silver stags, or 1,470 copper stars—approximately $3230.
A smallfolk family in the Seven Kingdoms might labor for decades without amassing a single gold dragon in savings.
The royal treasury received no more than two to three million gold dragons in annual revenue.
Now a single tourney would consume one percent of the realm's fiscal income, and in his name, no less.
He could scarcely feel pleased by this realization.
My money! he thought bitterly. They spend twenty thousand, and I receive but ten. What a poor bargain!
Contemplating the crown's staggering debts while observing the lavish spectacle surrounding him, Joffrey experienced a sudden wave of disgust.
The sun sank lower toward the horizon.
As the red orb nearly disappeared behind distant mountains, the melee involving some thirty or forty combatants finally determined its victor—the Lord of Runestone in the Vale, "Bronze Yohn" Royce, whose ancient bronze armor was said to be inscribed with protective runes.
Joffrey sat behind the king, absentmindedly sipping from a goblet of golden wine.
Lord Yohn stepped forward to receive the king's congratulations and his prize.
In that instant, something extraordinary occurred.
Beyond his five ordinary senses, Joffrey suddenly perceived something indescribable yet soul-stirring.
He stared in bewilderment at Yohn Royce.
Within the crimson light of sunset, a faint blue radiance seemed to emanate from the ancient bronze armor, visible not to his eyes but to some deeper perception he had never known he possessed.