A late autumn wind, carrying the sharp scent of damp earth, swept across the fallow fields. The tournament grounds had been carved out of a plain where the wheat had recently been harvested. Stubble stood charred and brown under the sun, like scars upon the earth. A barrier of rough-hewn oak split the field into parallel lanes, the logs still bearing the fresh bite of the axe. This tilt-yard was designed to keep horse and rider separated, preventing the deadly collision of chargers in the heat of the fray.
Flanking the lists stood a towering wooden dais, every plank polished to a shine. Its crimson carpets and velvet-cushioned chairs were reserved for the highborn, while a simple picket fence kept the smallfolk at bay.
The journey from the Gates of the Moon was short. The ladies and children arrived in litters of fine yellow silk. Through the translucent curtains, the world appeared gilded: the distant mountains, the fluttering pavilions, and the teeming crowds were all swallowed in a soft, golden haze.
When Alayne lifted the curtain, the sight stole her breath.
Steel plate flashed with blinding intensity. Every gorget and pauldron had been buffed until it mirrored the grim faces of the knights. Great destriers were draped in gold and silver trappings, their manes braided with bright ribbons. The air was a cacophony of cheers, laughter, and the thunder of hooves, underscored by the snap of a hundred banners. Red, blue, and green sigils danced in the wind like a multi-colored sea.
"It's better than the songs," Myranda Royce whispered into Alayne's ear.
They found their seats among the lords and ladies. The velvet cushions were soft, but Sansa's mind was leagues away. The last time she had seen such splendor was two years ago on the banks of the Blackwater. Then, she was Sansa Stark, surrounded by family. Now, she was Alayne Stone, a ghost wrapped in silk and sorrow.
She looked to the sky, offering a silent prayer. But there were no Heart Trees in the Vale. The Old Gods could not hear her, and the New Gods seemed indifferent to her call.
The competitors had gathered from every corner of the Vale: from the Great Canyon to the coast, from Gulltown to the Bloody Gate, and even from the Three Sisters. Eight winners would be chosen to serve as Lord Robert Arryn's personal guard for the next three years.
Sweetrobin himself appeared for the opening, though his frailty meant he could not linger. Under Petyr's watchful eye, the boy watched two jousts before being whisked back to the castle. The way the young Lord obeyed revealed his quiet terror of his stepfather.
Alayne, however, remained. Petyr had work for her.
She wore a gown of forest green silk that clung to her frame, highlighting the auburn glow of her hair. A small pearl flower was pinned among her tresses, swaying with every movement. She could feel the weight of the men's gazes—appreciation and curiosity in equal measure.
The field was full of heroes. Ser Harrold Hardyng was the most striking, draped in the red-and-white of his house. His winged helm hid his golden hair, leaving only his deep, sea-blue eyes visible through the visor.
But there were others. The sons of Triston Sunderland—Bernarr, Carlson, and Nils—looked gallant, though their father reportedly lamented the cost of their destriers, given that a fisherman's income was slow to buy a knight's mount. There was Andrew Tollett, heir to Grey Glen, his silvered armor etched with the black-and-grey masonry of his house. And there was the bastard of Heart's Home, Carryl Stone, fighting to prove his blood was as red as any lord's.
"Compared to the others, Lennard Turner looks like a beggar," Myranda scoffed as Lennard appeared.
He wore grey-blue plate, devoid of crests or filigree. His thin grey cloak looked as though it might tatter in a strong breeze. Yet, the "tailor's son" proved a revelation. In his first tilt, he unhorsed Carryl Stone with terrifying speed. In the second, he brushed aside a knight of House Crane. In his third bout against Lothor Brune, the two were evenly matched, but Lennard's seat was firmer and his aim more precise. Lord Nestor declared him the victor.
The jousting continued until the sun began to dip, turning the field into a ruin of churned mud and splintered wood.
The horror of the day arrived when the tall Ser Lyn Corbray took the field for his second bout. His lance rode high, a reaper's scythe aimed beneath the gorget of a young knight from Gulltown. The impact was sickening. The lance shivered and pierced the youth's throat.
The knight fell less than ten feet from Alayne's seat. His armor was new and bright, but as the clouds obscured the sun, the fire in the steel died. His sky-blue cloak, embroidered with crescents, soaked up the blood until the moons turned a bruised, wet crimson.
An old monk, part of Archbishop Clare's retinue, rushed from the stands. He checked for a pulse and slowly shook his head.
Brienne Lyndly began to sob, and Myranda led her away. Alayne sat frozen, her hands clasped in her lap. She had seen death too often to weep. She felt only a hollow, nameless ache for a boy whose name the world would forget before the moon turned.
The body was carried off. A boy with a shovel covered the red mud with fresh earth, and the tourney resumed as if nothing had happened.
As night fell and the moon rose, only four men remained: Ser Lennard Turner, Ser Lyn Corbray, Ser Willis Waynwood, and Ser Carlson Sunderland.
Lennard Turner's armor was dented and dull, but he sat his horse with a reliability that felt like iron. Unlike Harrold, who tossed white roses to the crowd after every victory, Lennard simply dismounted and fed his horse a handful of beans.
During the final tilt of the evening, Lennard faced Willis Waynwood's younger brother. Lennard's lance punched through the center of the wooden shield, splintering it and throwing the rider into the mud.
As the crowd cheered, Alayne noticed an empty seat on the high platform. Petyr Baelish had vanished.
Suddenly, Lennard's grey horse stopped before her. He looked awkward, fumbling in his tunic before producing a single red rose. "My Lady," he stammered, "no victory is half as beautiful as you."
Alayne accepted the flower, breathing in its scent. She held it tight as the knight rode away.
Nestor Royce announced that the final three matches would be held the following morning before the grand melee. The court moved to the riverbank for the feast.
Six massive oxen turned on iron spits, their skins golden and crackling. Kitchen boys basted them with herbs and butter, filling the night air with a heavy, savory fog. Alayne and Myranda were seated at the high table, to the left of the Lord Protector's empty chair.
Ser Harrold sat to Alayne's right. He had traded his armor for a fitted blue doublet. He looked every bit the high lord, but his fingers were knotted together in a restless tangle.
"Is Lennard Turner the lucky man who holds your favor?" Harry asked, his voice tight.
"Ser Lennard is an honest and brave knight," Alayne replied, her eyes bright as the moon. "While some lords were busy sneering at a 'bastard,' he showed only kindness and respect. I do not intend to marry him, but as a friend, he is far more reliable than most."
Harry's face darkened. "He's lucky to have made the final four. I've signed up for the melee tomorrow. We shall see then if he is worthy of your 'friendship'."
He drained his cup. The red wine shimmered like blood in the silver moonlight.
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