Game of Thrones: I Created the Magic Web

Sorry, I thought it was just a common cold, but it's gotten worse these past two days, and I can't write much. Please bear with me. I'll make up for it as soon as possible in the next few days. Thank you.

On the morning of King Joffrey's name day, the sun was shining and there was a light breeze. Sansa stood by the tower window, watching the long tail of the great comet, clearly visible through the swiftly moving clouds. Just then, Ser Arys Oakheart arrived to escort her to the tourney grounds.

"What do you think the comet represents?" she asked.

"It is sent by the heavens to honor your betrothed," Ser Arys replied immediately. "See how it shines, streaking across the sky on His Grace's name day, as if the gods themselves raise a banner in his honor. The smallfolk are already calling it 'King Joffrey's Comet.'"

That was likely what they told Joffrey, but Sansa wasn't so sure. "I heard the servants calling it 'Dragon's Tail."

"Aye, King Joffrey's throne is the seat of the old Dragon King Aegon, and his castle was built by Aegon's son," Ser Arys said. "He is the heir of the true dragon—and crimson is the color of House Lannister, which is another sign. In my opinion, the comet was sent by the heavens to announce King Joffrey's ascension to the throne. It foretells that he will defeat his enemies and win final victory."

Really? she wondered. Would the gods be so cruel? Joffrey's enemies now included her own mother and her brother Robb. Her father was already dead by the king's order. Would Robb and her mother be next? The comet was red, true, but Joffrey was not only a Lannister, he was also a Baratheon. Their sigil was a black stag on a gold field. Why hadn't the gods given Joffrey a golden comet?

Sansa abruptly closed the window and turned away from it. "My lady, you look very beautiful today," Ser Arys said.

"Thank you, Ser Arys." Sansa knew that Joffrey wanted her to attend the tourney as a sign of celebration, so she had taken special care in her appearance. She wore a lilac gown and Joffrey's moonstone hair net. The long sleeves of the gown hid the bruises on her arms, another of Joffrey's 'gifts'—he had flown into a rage when he heard that Robb had declared himself King in the North, and had sent Ser Boros to beat her.

"Shall we go?" Ser Arys offered his arm, and she took it, letting him lead her from the room. If Sansa had to choose one of the Kingsguard to be her escort, she would prefer him. Ser Boros was bad-tempered, Ser Meryn was cold and ruthless, Ser Mandon's strange, dead eyes made her uncomfortable, and Ser Preston treated her like a simpleton. Only Ser Arys Oakheart was courteous and spoke to her with sincerity. Once, when Joffrey had ordered him to hit her, he had even protested. And when he did strike her, it was much lighter than Ser Meryn or Ser Boros would have done. At least he had pleaded for her. The others would have obeyed without question…except for the Hound, of course. But Joffrey always had the other five beat her, never the Hound.

Ser Arys had light brown hair and was not an ugly man. Today, his white silk cloak was fastened at the shoulder with a golden leaf, and his tunic bore an embroidered oak tree with lush foliage in shining gold thread. He looked quite dashing. "Who do you think will win today, Ser?" Sansa asked as they walked hand-in-hand down the stairs.

"Why, I will, of course," Ser Arys replied with a smile. "But such a victory would be little to boast of. This is only a small affair, a minor joust. There will be no more than forty participants, including squires and freeriders. There is no glory in unhorsing mere boys."

The last tourney was different, Sansa thought. That one had been held by King Robert in honor of her father. Lords and heroes from all over the realm had flocked to compete, and the entire population of King's Landing had come to watch. She still remembered the spectacle: the riverbank covered in tents, each knight's shield hanging outside his pavilion, a long line of silken pennons fluttering in the wind, and the dazzling sunlight glinting off polished steel swords and gilded spurs. For days, horns blared and hooves thundered, and at night there were feasts and music. It had been the most glorious time of her life, but now it seemed like a lifetime ago. Robert Baratheon was dead, and her father had been branded a traitor and beheaded on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor. Now three kings claimed the realm, war raged across the Trident, and King's Landing was filled with desperate people from all over, so it was no wonder they could only hold Joffrey's tourney in the Red Keep, protected by its thick walls.

"Do you think the Queen Regent will attend?" Sansa always felt safer when Cersei was there to restrain her son.

"I doubt it, my lady. The council is meeting. They say it is a matter of great importance." Ser Arys lowered his voice. "Lord Tywin has marched on Harrenhal, and refuses to come here at the Queen Regent's command. She is furious." Just then, a company of Lannister guards in red cloaks and lion-crested helms passed by, and he fell silent. Ser Arys might be fond of gossip, but he knew to be wary of eavesdroppers.

Carpenters had erected stands and a tilting ground in the outer ward of the castle, but the scale was indeed pitiful, and the crowd that had come to watch only half-filled the stands. Most of the spectators were Gold Cloaks of the City Watch or Lannister guards in crimson cloaks. There were few noble men and women in attendance, only those who still remained at court: the ashen-faced Lord Gyles Rosby coughed incessantly into a pink silk kerchief; Lady Tanda Stokeworth sat sandwiched between her two daughters—the quiet but dull Lollys and the sharp-tongued Falyse; the dark-skinned Jalabhar Xho was exiled and had nowhere else to go; and little Emmis Arryn was still a babe, sitting on her nurse's knee. It was said that she would soon be betrothed to one of the Queen Regent's cousins, so that House Lannister could claim her lands.

The king sat in the shade beneath a crimson awning, one leg casually propped on the carved wooden armrest of his chair. Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen sat behind him, while Sandor Clegane stood guard behind the royal box, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword. He wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard, fastened at his broad shoulders with a jeweled brooch. The white cloak was somewhat incongruous with his brown homespun tunic and studded leather jerkin. "Lady Sansa," the Hound announced curtly as soon as he saw her. His voice was as rough as sawing wood, his mouth twisted by the burns that covered half his face and throat.

Princess Myrcella inclined her head shyly to Sansa when she heard her name. The plump little Prince Tommen, however, jumped up eagerly. "Sansa, did you hear? I'm going to joust today!" Tommen was only eight years old, and seeing him reminded her of her little brother Bran. They were the same age, but Bran was now at Winterfell, a cripple, though thankfully alive.

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