“I stood last vigil for him myself,” Ser Barristan Selmy said as they looked down at the body inthe back of the cart. “He had no one else. A mother in the Vale, I am told.”

In the pale dawn light, the young knight looked as though he were sleeping. He had not beenhandsome, but death had smoothed his rough-hewn features and the silent sisters had dressed him inhis best velvet tunic, with a high collar to cover the ruin the lance had made of his throat. EddardStark looked at his face, and wondered if it had been for his sake that the boy had died. Slain by aLannister bannerman before Ned could speak to him; could that be mere happenstance? He supposedhe would never know.

“Hugh was Jon Arryn’s squire for four years,” Selmy went on. “The king knighted him before herode north, in Jon’s memory. The lad wanted it desperately, yet I fear he was not ready.”

Ned had slept badly last night and he felt tired beyond his years. “None of us is ever ready,” hesaid.

“For knighthood?”

“For death.” Gently Ned covered the boy with his cloak, a bloodstained bit of blue bordered increscent moons. When his mother asked why her son was dead, he reflected bitterly, they would tellher he had fought to honor the King’s Hand, Eddard Stark. “This was needless. War should not be agame.” Ned turned to the woman beside the cart, shrouded in grey, face hidden but for her eyes. Thesilent sisters prepared men for the grave, and it was ill fortune to look on the face of death. “Send hisarmor home to the Vale. The mother will want to have it.”

“It is worth a fair piece of silver,” Ser Barristan said. “The boy had it forged special for thetourney. Plain work, but good. I do not know if he had finished paying the smith.”

“He paid yesterday, my lord, and he paid dearly,” Ned replied. And to the silent sister he said,“Send the mother the armor. I will deal with this smith.” She bowed her head.

Afterward Ser Barristan walked with Ned to the king’s pavilion. The camp was beginning to stir.

Fat sausages sizzled and spit over firepits, spicing the air with the scents of garlic and pepper. Youngsquires hurried about on errands as their masters woke, yawning and stretching, to meet the day. Aserving man with a goose under his arm bent his knee when he caught sight of them. “M’lords,” hemuttered as the goose honked and pecked at his fingers. The shields displayed outside each tentheralded its occupant: the silver eagle of Seagard, Bryce Caron’s field of nightingales, a cluster ofgrapes for the Redwynes, brindled boar, red ox, burning tree, white ram, triple spiral, purple unicorn,dancing maiden, blackadder, twin towers, horned owl, and last the pure white blazons of theKingsguard, shining like the dawn.

“The king means to fight in the melee today,” Ser Barristan said as they were passing Ser Meryn’sshield, its paint sullied by a deep gash where Loras Tyrell’s lance had scarred the wood as he drovehim from his saddle.

“Yes,” Ned said grimly. Jory had woken him last night to bring him that news. Small wonder hehad slept so badly.

Ser Barristan’s look was troubled. “They say night’s beauties fade at dawn, and the children ofwine are oft disowned in the morning light.”

“They say so,” Ned agreed, “but not of Robert.” Other men might reconsider words spoken indrunken bravado, but Robert Baratheon would remember and, remembering, would never back down.

The king’s pavilion was close by the water, and the morning mists off the river had wreathed it inwisps of grey. It was all of golden silk, the largest and grandest structure in the camp. Outside theentrance, Robert’s warhammer was displayed beside an immense iron shield blazoned with thecrowned stag of House Baratheon.

Ned had hoped to discover the king still abed in a wine-soaked sleep, but luck was not with him.

They found Robert drinking beer from a polished horn and roaring his displeasure at two youngsquires who were trying to buckle him into his armor. “Your Grace,” one was saying, almost in tears,“it’s made too small, it won’t go.” He fumbled, and the gorget he was trying to fit around Robert’sthick neck tumbled to the ground.

“Seven hells!” Robert swore. “Do I have to do it myself? Piss on the both of you. Pick it up. Don’tjust stand there gaping, Lancel, pick it up!” The lad jumped, and the king noticed his company. “Lookat these oafs, Ned. My wife insisted I take these two to squire for me, and they’re worse than useless.

Can’t even put a man’s armor on him properly. Squires, they say. I say they’re swineherds dressed upin silk.”

Ned only needed a glance to understand the difficulty. “The boys are not at fault,” he told the king.

“You’re too fat for your armor, Robert.”

Robert Baratheon took a long swallow of beer, tossed the empty horn onto his sleeping furs, wipedhis mouth with the back of his hand, and said darkly, “Fat? Fat, is it? Is that how you speak to yourking?” He let go his laughter, sudden as a storm. “Ah, damn you, Ned, why are you always right?”

The squires smiled nervously until the king turned on them. “You. Yes, both of you. You heard theHand. The king is too fat for his armor. Go find Ser Aron Santagar. Tell him I need the breastplatestretcher. Now! What are you waiting for?”

The boys tripped over each other in their haste to be quit of the tent. Robert managed to keep astern face until they were gone. Then he dropped back into a chair, shaking with laughter.

Ser Barristan Selmy chuckled with him. Even Eddard Stark managed a smile. Always, though, thegraver thoughts crept in. He could not help taking note of the two squires: handsome boys, fair andwell made. One was Sansa’s age, with long golden curls; the other perhaps fifteen, sandy-haired, witha wisp of a mustache and the emerald-green eyes of the queen.

“Ah, I wish I could be there to see Santagar’s face,” Robert said. “I hope he’ll have the wit to sendthem to someone else. We ought to keep them running all day!”

“Those boys,” Ned asked him. “Lannisters?”

Robert nodded, wiping tears from his eyes. “Cousins. Sons of Lord Tywin’s brother. One of thedead ones. Or perhaps the live one, now that I come to think on it. I don’t recall. My wife comes froma very large family, Ned.”

A very ambitious family, Ned thought. He had nothing against the squires, but it troubled him to seeRobert surrounded by the queen’s kin, waking and sleeping. The Lannister appetite for offices andhonors seemed to know no bounds. “The talk is you and the queen had angry words last night.”

The mirth curdled on Robert’s face. “The woman tried to forbid me to fight in the melee. She’ssulking in the castle now, damn her. Your sister would never have shamed me like that.”

“You never knew Lyanna as I did, Robert,” Ned told him. “You saw her beauty, but not the ironunderneath. She would have told you that you have no business in the melee.”

“You too?” The king frowned. “You are a sour man, Stark. Too long in the north, all the juiceshave frozen inside you. Well, mine are still running.” He slapped his chest to prove it.

“You are the king,” Ned reminded him.

“I sit on the damn iron seat when I must. Does that mean I don’t have the same hungers as othermen? A bit of wine now and again, a girl squealing in bed, the feel of a horse between my legs? Sevenhells, Ned, I want to hit someone.”

Ser Barristan Selmy spoke up. “Your Grace,” he said, “it is not seemly that the king should rideinto the melee. It would not be a fair contest. Who would dare strike you?”

Robert seemed honestly taken aback. “Why, all of them, damn it. If they can. And the last man leftstanding …”

“…will be you,” Ned finished. He saw at once that Selmy had hit the mark. The dangers of themelee were only a savor to Robert, but this touched on his pride. “Ser Barristan is right. There’s not aman in the Seven Kingdoms who would dare risk your displeasure by hurting you.”

The king rose to his feet, his face flushed. “Are you telling me those prancing cravens will let mewin?”

“For a certainty,” Ned said, and Ser Barristan Selmy bowed his head in silent accord.

For a moment Robert was so angry he could not speak. He strode across the tent, whirled, strodeback, his face dark and angry. He snatched up his breastplate from the ground and threw it atBarristan Selmy in a wordless fury. Selmy dodged. “Get out,” the king said then, coldly. “Get outbefore I kill you.”

Ser Barristan left quickly. Ned was about to follow when the king called out again. “Not you, Ned.”

Ned turned back. Robert took up his horn again, filled it with beer from a barrel in the corner, andthrust it at Ned. “Drink,” he said brusquely.

“I’ve no thirst—”

“Drink. Your king commands it.”

Ned took the horn and drank. The beer was black and thick, so strong it stung the eyes.

Robert sat down again. “Damn you, Ned Stark. You and Jon Arryn, I loved you both. What haveyou done to me? You were the one should have been king, you or Jon.”

“You had the better claim, Your Grace.”

“I told you to drink, not to argue. You made me king, you could at least have the courtesy to listenwhen I talk, damn you. Look at me, Ned. Look at what kinging has done to me. Gods, too fat for myarmor, how did it ever come to this?”

“Robert …”

“Drink and stay quiet, the king is talking. I swear to you, I was never so alive as when I waswinning this throne, or so dead as now that I’ve won it. And Cersei … I have Jon Arryn to thank forher. I had no wish to marry after Lyanna was taken from me, but Jon said the realm needed an heir.

Cersei Lannister would be a good match, he told me, she would bind Lord Tywin to me shouldViserys Targaryen ever try to win back his father’s throne,” The king shook his head. “I loved that oldman, I swear it, but now I think he was a bigger fool than Moon Boy. Oh, Cersei is lovely to look at,truly, but cold … the way she guards her cunt, you’d think she had all the gold of Casterly Rockbetween her legs. Here, give me that beer if you won’t drink it.” He took the horn, upended it,belched, wiped his mouth. “I am sorry for your girl, Ned. Truly. About the wolf, I mean. My son waslying, I’d stake my soul on it. My son … you love your children, don’t you?”

“With all my heart,” Ned said.

“Let me tell you a secret, Ned. More than once, I have dreamed of giving up the crown. Take shipfor the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer, spend my time warring and whoring, that’s what Iwas made for. The sellsword king, how the singers would love me. You know what stops me? Thethought of Joffrey on the throne, with Cersei standing behind him whispering in his ear. My son. Howcould I have made a son like that, Ned?”

“He’s only a boy,” Ned said awkwardly. He had small liking for Prince Joffrey, but he could hearthe pain in Robert’s voice. “Have you forgotten how wild you were at his age?”

“It would not trouble me if the boy was wild, Ned. You don’t know him as I do.” He sighed andshook his head. “Ah, perhaps you are right. Jon despaired of me often enough, yet I grew into a goodking.” Robert looked at Ned and scowled at his silence. “You might speak up and agree now, youknow.”

“Your Grace …” Ned began, carefully.

Robert slapped Ned on the back. “Ah, say that I’m a better king than Aerys and be done with it.

You never could lie for love nor honor, Ned Stark. I’m still young, and now that you’re here with me,things will be different. We’ll make this a reign to sing of, and damn the Lannisters to seven hells. Ismell bacon. Who do you think our champion will be today? Have you seen Mace Tyrell’s boy? TheKnight of Flowers, they call him. Now there’s a son any man would be proud to own to. Last tourney,he dumped the Kingslayer on his golden rump, you ought to have seen the look on Cersei’s face. Ilaughed till my sides hurt. Renly says he has this sister, a maid of fourteen, lovely as a dawn …”

They broke their fast on black bread and boiled goose eggs and fish fried up with onions and bacon,at a trestle table by the river’s edge. The king’s melancholy melted away with the morning mist, andbefore long Robert was eating an orange and waxing fond about a morning at the Eyrie when they hadbeen boys. “… had given Jon a barrel of oranges, remember? Only the things had gone rotten, so Iflung mine across the table and hit Dacks right in the nose. You remember, Redfort’s pock-facedsquire? He tossed one back at me, and before Jon could so much as fart, there were oranges flyingacross the High Hall in every direction.” He laughed uproariously, and even Ned smiled,remembering.

This was the boy he had grown up with, he thought; this was the Robert Baratheon he’d known andloved. If he could prove that the Lannisters were behind the attack on Bran, prove that they hadmurdered Jon Arryn, this man would listen. Then Cersei would fall, and the Kingslayer with her, andif Lord Tywin dared to rouse the west, Robert would smash him as he had smashed RhaegarTargaryen on the Trident. He could see it all so clearly.

That breakfast tasted better than anything Eddard Stark had eaten in a long time, and afterward hissmiles came easier and more often, until it was time for the tournament to resume.

Ned walked with the king to the jousting field. He had promised to watch the final tilts with Sansa;Septa Mordane was ill today, and his daughter was determined not to miss the end of the jousting. Ashe saw Robert to his place, he noted that Cersei Lannister had chosen not to appear; the place besidethe king was empty. That too gave Ned cause to hope.

He shouldered his way to where his daughter was seated and found her as the horns blew for theday’s first joust. Sansa was so engrossed she scarcely seemed to notice his arrival.

Sandor Clegane was the first rider to appear. He wore an olive-green cloak over his soot-greyarmor. That, and his hound’s-head helm, were his only concession to ornament.

“A hundred golden dragons on the Kingslayer,” Littlefinger announced loudly as Jaime Lannisterentered the lists, riding an elegant blood bay destrier. The horse wore a blanket of gilded ringmail,and Jaime glittered from head to heel. Even his lance was fashioned from the golden wood of theSummer Isles.

“Done,” Lord Renly shouted back. “The Hound has a hungry look about him this morning.”

“Even hungry dogs know better than to bite the hand that feeds them,” Littlefinger called dryly.

Sandor Clegane dropped his visor with an audible clang and took up his position. Ser Jaime tosseda kiss to some woman in the commons, gently lowered his visor, and rode to the end of the lists. Bothmen couched their lances.

Ned Stark would have loved nothing so well as to see them both lose, but Sansa was watching it allmoist-eyed and eager. The hastily erected gallery trembled as the horses broke into a gallop. TheHound leaned forward as he rode, his lance rock steady, but Jaime shifted his seat deftly in the instantbefore impact. Clegane’s point was turned harmlessly against the golden shield with the lion blazon,while his own hit square. Wood shattered, and the Hound reeled, fighting to keep his seat. Sansagasped. A ragged cheer went up from the commons.

“I wonder how I ought spend your money,” Littlefinger called down to Lord Renly.

The Hound just managed to stay in his saddle. He jerked his mount around hard and rode back tothe lists for the second pass. Jaime Lannister tossed down his broken lance and snatched up a freshone, jesting with his squire. The Hound spurred forward at a hard gallop. Lannister rode to meet him.

This time, when Jaime shifted his seat, Sandor Clegane shifted with him. Both lances exploded, andby the time the splinters had settled, a riderless blood bay was trotting off in search of grass while SerJaime Lannister rolled in the dirt, golden and dented.

Sansa said, “I knew the Hound would win.”

Littlefinger overheard. “If you know who’s going to win the second match, speak up now beforeLord Renly plucks me clean,” he called to her. Ned smiled.

“A pity the Imp is not here with us,” Lord Renly said. “I should have won twice as much.”

Jaime Lannister was back on his feet, but his ornate lion helmet had been twisted around anddented in his fall, and now he could not get it off. The commons were hooting and pointing, the lordsand ladies were trying to stifle their chuckles, and failing, and over it all Ned could hear King Robertlaughing, louder than anyone. Finally they had to lead the Lion of Lannister off to a blacksmith, blindand stumbling.

By then Ser Gregor Clegane was in position at the head of the lists. He was huge, the biggest manthat Eddard Stark had ever seen. Robert Baratheon and his brothers were all big men, as was theHound, and back at Winterfell there was a simpleminded stableboy named Hodor who dwarfed themall, but the knight they called the Mountain That Rides would have towered over Hodor. He was wellover seven feet tall, closer to eight, with massive shoulders and arms thick as the trunks of small trees.

His destrier seemed a pony in between his armored legs, and the lance he carried looked as small as abroom handle.

Unlike his brother, Ser Gregor did not live at court. He was a solitary man who seldom left his ownlands, but for wars and tourneys. He had been with Lord Tywin when King’s Landing fell, a new-made knight of seventeen years, even then distinguished by his size and his implacable ferocity. Somesaid it had been Gregor who’d 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, before putting her tothe sword. These things were not said in Gregor’s hearing.

Ned Stark could not recall ever speaking to the man, though Gregor had ridden with them duringBalon Greyjoy’s rebellion, one knight among thousands. He watched him with disquiet. Ned seldomput much stock in gossip, but the things said of Ser Gregor were more than ominous. He was soon tobe married for the third time, and one heard dark whisperings about the deaths of his first two wives.

It was said that his keep was a grim place where servants disappeared unaccountably and even thedogs were afraid to enter the hall. And there had been a sister who had died young under queercircumstances, and the fire that had disfigured his brother, and the hunting accident that had killedtheir father. Gregor had inherited the keep, the gold, and the family estates. His younger brotherSandor had left the same day to take service with the Lannisters as a sworn sword, and it was said thathe had never returned, not even to visit.

When the Knight of Flowers made his entrance, a murmur ran through the crowd, and he heardSansa’s fervent whisper, “Oh, he’s so beautiful.” Ser Loras Tyrell was slender as a reed, dressed in asuit of fabulous silver armor polished to a blinding sheen and filigreed with twining black vines andtiny blue forget-me-nots. The commons realized in the same instant as Ned that the blue of theflowers came from sapphires; a gasp went up from a thousand throats. Across the boy’s shoulders hiscloak hung heavy. It was woven of forget-me-nots, real ones, hundreds of fresh blooms sewn to aheavy woolen cape.

His courser was as slim as her rider, a beautiful grey mare, built for speed. Ser Gregor’s hugestallion trumpeted as he caught her scent. The boy from Highgarden did something with his legs, andhis horse pranced sideways, nimble as a dancer. Sansa clutched at his arm. “Father, don’t let SerGregor hurt him,” she said. Ned saw she was wearing the rose that Ser Loras had given her yesterday.

Jory had told him about that as well.

“These are tourney lances,” he told his daughter. “They make them to splinter on impact, so noone is hurt.” Yet he remembered the dead boy in the cart with his c............