At dawn, the open ground between the Blackwater River and the city walls had transformed into an entirely different scene.
More than a hundred colorful tents had sprung up across the field like mushrooms after rain.
Thousands of common folk crowded along the outer earthen slopes, stretching their necks and standing on tiptoe to glimpse the tournament grounds filled with fluttering banners.
After all, the arrival of Tywin had only stirred some excitement among the nobility.
The real wave sweeping across the city was the long-awaited event everyone had been discussing for over a month.
The tournament of the Hand and the Prince.
Joffrey had deliberately arranged for the Hand of the King to take the leading role in its title. That way, when people shortened the name, they would simply call it the Hand's Tournament.
Across the arena, the packed sand was lined with countless banners bearing the sigils of noble houses.
A golden lion on crimson ground.
A grey direwolf against a snowy field.
A golden rose blooming in a sea of green.
And above them all flew the highest banner. On a golden field stood a crowned black stag, proud and unyielding.
The noble stands on both sides of the arena were already filled to capacity.
Robert liked to boast that he shared joy with his people. Rather than hiding in a royal box, he sat openly with his family among the gathered lords and ladies.
Of course, the seating was still arranged carefully by rank and closeness to the throne.
Horns blared.
Drums thundered.
The king, wearing his crown of gold, stepped forward to the front of the viewing stand.
He waved casually to the crowd.
The response came instantly.
"Long live the king!"
The roar rolled across the arena like thunder.
"I know you're all eager!" Robert shouted, raising his hand for silence.
"Because I'm eager too."
His booming voice carried easily across the field without any need for heralds. "So I won't waste time. All that useless ceremony can go to hell."
"I declare..."
"The tournament begins now!"
The cheers exploded again.
From the noble stands to the distant slopes packed with commoners, the crowd roared with excitement.
Most of the people in the far distance could not even hear what the king had said.
Still, wave after wave of cries echoed through the air.
"Long live the king!"
Even Eddard, who usually looked tense and grim, visibly relaxed a little under the infectious excitement.
Only the two Lannister lions in the stands wore expressions that looked rather unpleasant.
The opening speech had been brief, but the ceremonial procession could not be skipped.
The first riders to enter the arena were the seven white-cloaked knights of the Kingsguard.
Their armor and cloaks shone pale as milk.
Only Jaime stood out.
His armor gleamed bright gold, and he wore a helmet shaped like a lion's head. The difference made him impossible to miss.
Whispers spread through the stands.
Joffrey quickly caught the familiar debate that always followed.
"Is that armor actually solid gold? It is a Lannister, after all…"
"Impossible. It must be gilded. Otherwise it would weigh a ton."
The argument quickly shifted from whether the armor was pure gold to how much gold remained in Casterly Rock.
And how much of it lord Tywin himself had pulled from the ground.
Of course, no one dared say that last part out loud.
Soon the next competitors rode in, drawing the crowd's attention away. As tradition dictated, the first day featured the most exciting event.
The joust.
Two knights charged at each other along a dividing barrier with wooden lances in hand.
The tips of the lances were specially prepared to shatter easily, reducing the risk of fatal injury.
Each match usually lasted three passes. Points were awarded depending on where the lance struck.
If one knight knocked the other from his horse, the match ended immediately.
Sometimes a defeated knight demanded a fight on foot afterward.
But unless the two men carried deep grudges, few competitors were willing to risk their lives like that.
Among the fifty guards Eddard had brought from the North, three had entered the competition.
Their armor was plain and worn.
Among the glittering southern knights, they barely stood out.
Worse still, these men had boasted before the tournament that one northerner could defeat ten southern showmen.
They were defeated quickly.
Joffrey vaguely remembered one of them.
Back at Winterfell, the man's father had once held his horse.
Unfortunately for him, the young knight had drawn a terrible opponent in the first round.
A member of the Kingsguard.
Even if that opponent was Ser Meryn Trant, whom the Hound had once described as "the kind of man any random singer with a sword could beat three times over."
The northern knight still failed to last even a single pass.
After that, more than a hundred competitors entered the arena in turn. Their names flowed past like water.
Ser this, Ser that, hedge knights, free riders, and wandering sellswords.
Many names Joffrey could barely remember.
There were also nearly two dozen Freys from the Twins.
Walder Frey himself had arrived despite being over ninety years old.
His cloudy eyes searched the field, hoping one of his many sons, grandsons, or great-grandsons might bring honor to the family.
None of them did.
Every Frey knight was eliminated in the first round.
In the end, the final competitors were the familiar figures everyone expected.
The Hound.
Renly Baratheon.
Thoros of Myr, the red priest.
And Gregor Clegane, the Mountain.
In other words, the same knights whose images appeared on Joffrey's wooden tokens.
Joffrey's attention shifted to the vendors moving through the stands.
They carried baskets of food while loudly explaining the rules of the token game.
Most spectators had never seen anything like it. Curiosity alone convinced many to buy something.
The pastries themselves were also well made and reasonably priced.
Whenever a lucky customer discovered a wooden token bearing the image of a knight hidden inside their biscuit, a small crowd quickly gathered to examine it.
But the most common token produced the biggest laughs.
It showed the face of Commander Janos of the Gold Cloaks.
His appearance was known to nearly everyone in King's Landing.
As for whether the true champions might feel insulted being placed beside Janos as one of the "Five Great Warriors," Joffrey could not have cared less.
He had already used their likenesses without permission. Why worry about something trivial like that?
The jousting continued until dusk.
The snacks sold even better than Joffrey had expected.
By midday, everything was gone.
The quality of the food certainly helped. But the real excitement came from the three ultimate prizes.
These were unique tokens painted by professional artists.
Barristan Selmy.
Jaime Lannister.
And Loras Tyrell.
Each of them had once won the championship of a great tournament.
Anyone who drew one of these tokens could exchange it directly for a gold dragon.
The nobles might not care about such a small reward. But among the common folk, the frenzy was unbelievable.
A single gold dragon could support an ordinary family for over a year.
As for Joffrey's own earnings from the food monopoly, the results were... modest.
About thirty thousand copper coins.
Less than four gold dragons. Barely enough to cover a fraction of the cost of the sword he had once given Robb Stark.
After subtracting ingredient costs, wages, and the prize money he would eventually have to pay...
"Well."
Joffrey watched the sky darken slowly and smiled faintly. "So this really is losing money just to gain attention."
The moon had already risen.
The shouting spectators were beginning to grow tired.
At the perfect moment, Robert announced that the final semifinal and championship matches would take place the following morning.
The court officials and the competing knights were invited to dine together by the river.
The first group had been summoned by the king.
The second group had been added at Joffrey's suggestion.
Only those who had performed particularly well had been invited.
Truthfully, however, very few of them impressed Joffrey. Even someone like the so-called "Drooling Knight" counted as decent by comparison.
Many people had not been invited at all but still slipped in anyway.
For example, one knight who had somehow survived a match against the Mountain.
Ser Hugh.
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