Joffrey found himself standing at another fork in the road.
One path led to his blood uncle. The other led to the only man in this shit-stained realm he could actually call a friend.
Neither choice felt right.
Jaime rode out first, dressed like a walking advertisement for Casterly Rock's endless gold. His lance was carved from goldenheart wood out of the Summer Isles, and even his horse's barding had been plated in real gold that flashed under the morning sun.
The Hound, by comparison, looked almost plain. Smoke-gray plate, a plain olive-green cloak, and that unmistakable snarling dog helm. Nothing extra.
"Dog," Jaime called, flicking his golden hair back with a lazy grin, "looks like you're going to be disappointed again today."
"Guess you'll have to wait a little longer to kill your brother."
Sandor didn't answer. He simply slammed his visor shut with a metallic clang.
The two riders took their places at opposite ends of the tilt. The air between them went tight enough to snap.
"One hundred gold dragons on the Kingslayer," Littlefinger announced, voice carrying clearly to the back rows of the stands.
"I'll take that," Renly shot back at once. "The Hound looked hungry this morning."
"Even a hungry dog knows better than to bite the hand that feeds it," Littlefinger replied, the corner of his mouth curling into a cold little smile.
Whether the dog would bite Joffrey was still up for debate, but Littlefinger knew one thing for certain: right now Robert would love nothing more than to watch a Lannister eat dirt.
The king proved him right by roaring with laughter. "I'm in too!"
"Let's see if gold bends harder than a dog's teeth."
The horns sounded. Warhorses screamed.
Two blurs of motion exploded toward each other through the dust.
Wood shattered with a crack that made everyone's teeth ache.
At the moment of impact Jaime twisted his shield just enough to glance the Hound's heavy blow aside. His own goldenheart lance slammed square into Sandor's chest.
The Hound lurched violently in the saddle, nearly torn from his horse, but his thighs clamped down like iron and he somehow stayed mounted.
A raw cheer erupted from the stands. The crowd didn't give a damn about danger—they just wanted blood.
Littlefinger turned with a satisfied smile. "Your Grace, my lords, looks like I'll be collecting."
No rest. No breathing room.
Both riders accepted fresh lances from their squires and wheeled back into position.
The second charge came almost instantly.
Jaime tried the same slick deflection again.
This time the Hound read it perfectly. He shifted at the exact same moment, lance whipping past the shield and hammering home.
The impact sounded like a hammer on an anvil.
Jaime flew backward out of the saddle and crashed into the dirt like a sack of grain.
The crowd sucked in a collective breath. When the golden figure in the mud finally twitched, boos and scattered laughter rolled across the stands.
"Well done, dog!" Renly shouted, then clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. "Too bad the Imp isn't here—he always bets on his brother."
Robert was laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
"Littlefinger, keep your money," the king wheezed. "I don't want it. But that Valyrian steel dagger you owe me from last time—any more of those lying around? I seem to have misplaced the last one."
Littlefinger's smile froze for the smallest fraction of a second before he shrugged it off. "Your Grace has an excellent memory. After I lost that one to you I did manage to pry another from a Lysene trader. Unfortunately the Imp won it off me before I could even warm it in my hands."
"Seven hells!" Robert grumbled. "That little shit never needs money. I can't even buy the damn thing back."
"Just put it on my tab. Next time you see one, snag it for me."
The king waved the minor annoyance away and turned his attention back to the field.
Beside Sansa, Eddard Stark's face had gone thundercloud dark. His eyes were locked on the Master of Coin like he was memorizing every feature.
Joffrey saw it all. He leaned back in his seat, expression carefully neutral.
The next pair stepped up and the mood swung to the opposite extreme.
The Mountain rode out on a massive black destrier, wrapped head to toe in thick black plate. The lance in his fist was thick as a man's forearm. Just looking at him made people worry for his opponent's life.
Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, was everything the Mountain was not—slim, elegant, wearing shining silver armor studded with sapphires cut into forget-me-not shapes.
Everyone expected a clash of brute force against perfect skill.
The fight ended faster than anyone could blink.
Maybe the Mountain's sheer weight was too much. Or maybe the pretty knight had played a clever trick.
In a single heartbeat the Mountain and his horse toppled sideways into the dirt.
A stunned gasp rippled through the stands, quickly followed by scattered groans of disappointment.
The Hound let out a short, ugly bark of laughter.
Loras reined in gracefully, flipped up his visor, and revealed a handsome, slightly arrogant young face.
The crowd recovered in the space of a heartbeat and exploded into wild cheering for the shocking upset.
"Bring me a sword!" the Mountain bellowed as he surged to his feet.
His greatsword whistled through the air in a vicious arc.
One swing and the head of his struggling horse flew off.
Cheers turned to horrified screams.
Loras went white. He vaulted from the saddle, snatched a sword from his stunned squire, and faced the giant.
Foot combat was never the boy's game. Size made every difference.
The Mountain came at him like a berserk avalanche, hammering blow after blow.
Loras lasted only a handful of exchanges before his sword was knocked flying. A gauntleted fist slammed into the side of his helm and the young knight dropped like a broken flower stem.
But the Mountain wasn't finished. He raised the greatsword for the killing stroke.
"Stay away from him!"
A smoke-gray blur crashed into the fray.
The Hound's two-handed sword caught the descending blade with a ringing clang.
"Get out of my way!" the Mountain roared, voice thick with bloodlust.
The Hound answered with steel.
Ten passes. Thirty.
The entire crowd watched in stunned silence as the Clegane brothers tried to murder each other.
Just as the fratricide seemed inevitable, Robert's bellow cut through the chaos.
"Stop this at once!"
Twenty spearmen rushed the field, bright spearpoints forcing the two giants apart.
The Hound reacted first. He stepped back into the protection of the spears, dropped to one knee, and bowed his head toward the king.
The Mountain's chest heaved like a bellows. His eyes flicked from Robert to the figure behind him. Then he flung his sword down, shouldered his way through the spears, and stormed off alone.
"Let the bastard go," Robert growled after a quick glance at Tywin.
A few minutes later a bandaged Loras was helped back onto the field, pale but steady. He walked straight to the Hound, bowed deeply, and spoke loud enough for the stands to hear.
"Ser Sandor, I owe you my life."
He stepped forward, seized the Hound's mud-caked steel gauntlet, and raised it high for the entire arena to see.
"The championship is yours."
After a stunned heartbeat the stands erupted in thunderous applause and cheers.
For perhaps the first time in his life, Sandor Clegane found himself loved by thousands of smallfolk.
A rare flicker of confusion crossed the burned half of his face.
"Don't call me ser," he muttered gruffly at last.
He didn't refuse the victory or the prize money.
Up in the stands Joffrey let out a long breath and slowly unclenched his fists.
The relief he felt was nothing compared to the storm raging inside Littlefinger's skull right now.
Joffrey clicked his tongue softly.
Go on, run.
Run straight back to the Vale where you think you'll be safe.
All those carefully planted pieces of evidence are waiting for you the moment you flee.
Joffrey leaned back, letting the roar of the crowd wash over him, and allowed himself the smallest, coldest smile.