A Clash of Kings by George R.R. Martin Read Free Book Online Page B

true?
she wondered.
Would the gods be so cruel?
Her
mother was one of Joffrey’s enemies now, her brother Robb another. Her father
had died by the king’s command. Must Robb and her lady mother die next? The
comet
was
red, but Joffrey was Baratheon as much as Lannister, and
their sigil was a black stag on a golden field. Shouldn’t the gods have sent
Joff a golden comet?
    Sansa closed the shutters and turned sharply away from the window. “You
look very lovely today, my lady,” Ser Arys said.
    “Thank you, ser.” Knowing that Joffrey would require her to attend the
tourney in his honor, Sansa had taken special care with her face and clothes.
She wore a gown of pale purple silk and a moonstone hair net that had been a
gift from Joffrey. The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms.
Those were Joffrey’s gifts as well. When they told him that Robb had been
proclaimed King in the North, his rage had been a fearsome thing, and he had
sent Ser Boros to beat her.
    “Shall we go?” Ser Arys offered his arm and she let him lead her from her
chamber. If she must have one of the Kingsguard dogging her steps, Sansa
preferred that it be him. Ser Boros was short-tempered, Ser Meryn cold, and Ser
Mandon’s strange dead eyes made her uneasy, while Ser Preston treated her like
a lackwit child. Arys Oakheart was courteous, and would talk to her cordially.
Once he even objected when Joffrey commanded him to hit her. He
did
hit her in the end, but not hard as Ser Meryn or Ser Boros might have, and at
least he had argued. The others obeyed without
question . . . except for the Hound, but Joff never asked the
Hound to punish her. He used the other five for that.
    Ser Arys had light brown hair and a face that was not unpleasant to look upon.
Today he made quite the dashing figure, with his white silk cloak fastened at
the shoulder by a golden leaf, and a spreading oak tree worked upon the breast
of his tunic in shining gold thread. “Who do you think will win the day’s

honors?” Sansa asked as they descended the steps arm in arm.
    “I will,” Ser Arys answered, smiling. “Yet I fear the triumph will have no
savor. This will be a small field, and poor. No more than two score will enter
the lists, including squires and freeriders. There is small honor in unhorsing
green boys.”
    The last tourney had been different, Sansa reflected. King Robert had staged it
in her father’s honor. High lords and fabled champions had come from all over
the realm to compete, and the whole city had turned out to watch. She
remembered the splendor of it: the field of pavilions along the river with a
knight’s shield hung before each door, the long rows of silken pennants waving
in the wind, the gleam of sunlight on bright steel and gilded spurs. The days
had rung to the sounds of trumpets and pounding hooves, and the nights had been
full of feasts and song. Those had been the most magical days of her life, but
they seemed a memory from another age now. Robert Baratheon was dead, and her
father as well, beheaded for a traitor on the steps of the Great Sept of
Baelor. Now there were three kings in the land, and war raged beyond the
Trident while the city filled with desperate men. Small wonder that they had to
hold Joff’s tournament behind the thick stone walls of the Red Keep.
    “Will the queen attend, do you think?” Sansa always felt safer when Cersei
was there to restrain her son.
    “I fear not, my lady. The council is meeting, some urgent business.” Ser Arys
dropped his voice. “Lord Tywin has gone to ground at Harrenhal instead of
bringing his army to the city as

the queen commanded. Her Grace is furious.” He fell silent as a column of
Lannister guardsmen marched past, in crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms. Ser
Arys was fond of gossip, but only when he was certain that no one was
listening.
    The carpenters had erected a gallery and lists in the outer bailey. It was a
poor