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When Joffrey first got [Stargaze] he thought it was pretty damn useful.
Now he was just annoyed.
Why only real-time? Why no fast-forward or rewind? Why the hell couldn't he hear anything?
He stared hard at Pycelle and asked the question that actually mattered.
"What exactly was in the letter?" His voice stayed low, but the edge in it said he wasn't in the mood for games. "Why don't you want to tell me, Grand Maester?"
Pycelle's bony fingers twisted in his wispy white beard. His eyes darted behind sagging lids.
"Your Grace… how could I possibly know the contents of someone else's letter…"
Joffrey wasn't buying it.
That letter had gone out, and Cersei had been in a suspiciously good mood ever since. Whatever it said, it was good for the Lannisters.
"State business? Military? Or something personal about Lord Eddard?" Joffrey pressed.
Sweat beaded on Pycelle's temple. He finally cracked.
"It was just a family letter, Your Grace." His voice dropped to a whisper. "The sender mentioned seeing a friend's hawk recently and it reminded him of the one he used to own."
"Raised it for years, thought it was loyal. The moment he let it fly free, the damn thing pecked his finger and took off."
"So now he doesn't trust any of those feathered bastards anymore."
Joffrey's gaze sharpened like a needle.
"That's exactly what it said?"
Pycelle nodded quickly, then shook his head in panic.
"N-no, that's what he told me in passing."
"The letter itself was already sealed when it reached me. I simply sent it on. I have no idea what was inside."
Which meant he knew exactly what was inside.
…
A salty river wind swept across the field, carrying the cold iron smell of a hundred blunted weapons.
Robert's roar exploded from the stands.
"The lances are blunted, hammers can't have spikes, axes and armor-piercing swords are banned too!"
"Seven gods, what kind of tourney is this?"
The fighters weren't here to die—they were here to win fame and a fat purse. So the smiths of King's Landing had hammered out a whole arsenal of safe weapons.
The rules were simple: hit the ground and stay there for ten seconds, you're out.
Listening to the king curse, Eddard reminded him in a flat voice, "You signed the rules yourself, Your Grace."
"Ned, you little shit, you've gone soft on me too!" Robert jabbed a thick finger at his nose. "You knew I wouldn't read the damn thing. You just shoved the papers under my nose and kept your mouth shut."
"I'm only finding out the rules now!"
Joffrey ignored the bickering and turned his attention to the east side of the field.
The Kingsguard were making their final checks.
Barristan stood in the middle of his squires while they layered him in armor. Enamel-coated scale plates covered his torso and were cinched tight with leather straps. A solid breastplate sat over overlapping fish-scale mail. Curved vambraces, rondels at the joints, articulated elbow and knee cops—all locked into place with precise clicks. The old knight took a deep breath, fastened his gorget, lowered his helm. His white cloak hung perfectly still behind him.
The other five white-cloaks were dressed the same.
Except Jaime.
He still wore the full gilded armor and lion helm—whether it was the old one repaired or a brand-new replacement, Joffrey couldn't tell.
On the west side the opposing knights looked like a mismatched flea-market army.
Thoros had been forced into full plate by the marshals, but he'd already snuck the greaves off and kept only the skirt plates from waist to thigh.
The Hound wore his usual smoke-gray plate but had added an extra chest piece. Right now he was glaring at the red priest, making sure the man didn't slather anything extra on his sword.
High noon. The fourteen riders took their positions.
Three horn blasts.
On the first, they accepted their lances from the squires.
On the second, warhorses stamped and snorted, white breath mixing into a thin mist.
On the third—
BOOM.
Hooves thundered like rolling war-drums along the riverbank.
Fourteen destriers exploded forward, kicking up long yellow tails of dirt.
The stands fell dead silent. Every spectator leaned forward, mouths half-open, not a sound.
The gap between the two lines closed in a heartbeat.
Left wing: Mandon Moore's white stallion shot forward like a silver arrow, lance rock-steady.
Right wing: Balon Swann's brown horse barely touched the ground, black-and-white cloak snapping behind him.
Thirty yards. Boros Blount's breath came fast behind his visor.
Twenty yards. Patrek Mallister raised his shield to his chin.
Ten yards.
CRACK!
Fourteen lance tips exploded at once, wood splinters blooming like yellow fireworks.
Beric Dondarrion's point slammed dead-center into Arys Oakheart's shield. The round shield caved inward like a bowl. The Kingsguard screamed and toppled backward, but his foot stayed trapped in the stirrup. His horse dragged him across the field, carving a crooked furrow in the mud.
Almost at the same instant, Jaime's lance punched through Jalabhar Xho's shoulder plate. The Summer Islander prince was lifted clean out of the saddle and slammed to the ground.
The first charge was over in seconds.
Two of the fallen were dragged clear. Only "Bronze" Yohn Royce managed to stagger up and wait for the foot-fighting phase.
After the second charge the numbers stood at five Kingsguard against four knights.
Everyone dismounted and drew steel. The real slaughter began.
The Kingsguard tightened into a tight formation—Barristan and Jaime at the front, the other three white-cloaks guarding their flanks.
The opposing knights spread out, trying to surround them despite being outnumbered.
The Hound's two-handed greatsword carved a wide, whistling arc.
CLANG!
Boros Blount's shield crumpled inward.
Meryn Trant's sword stabbed at the Hound's ribs but scraped harmlessly off the plate. In the tearing of leather the Hound grunted, spun, and ripped his blade upward.
Meryn flew backward like a broken puppet and lay still.
Boros hesitated half a second.
The Hound lunged, thrust straight at his chest, then used a downward feint to draw the block before smashing the pommel into the side of his helm. A final heavy blow to the face dropped Boros like a sack of bricks.
In the dust and mud the rest of the field settled fast.
Thoros's flaming sword finally met Barristan's. A few crisp cuts and the blade snapped. The red priest dropped to his knees and yielded.
Beric had just finished Mandon Moore when Jaime arrived and put him on the ground.
The Hound lasted longer in the next press, but even he started to falter.
Steel rang, men gasped. The clamor slowly died.
"The match is over!" Robert's bellow cut through the noise.
Three Kingsguard were still on their feet.
Robert dropped back into his chair, wine breath washing over Joffrey. "See that? My eye's still good."
"A bunch of patched-together hedge knights, no matter how hard they swing, can't beat the men I picked myself."
Joffrey nodded along.
Even though two of those three were leftovers from the Mad King's reign.
And the third had done nothing but coast from the opening charge to the final bell.
To this day Joffrey still didn't know the man's full name—something like Greenfield, he thought.
Sunlight broke through the clouds and lit the field like a map of fresh scars.
The men still standing helped each other off. The ones on the ground were carried away by frantic squires.
Renly chuckled from the side. "Good thing I sat this one out. I'd have been one of the bodies on the ground."
Robert slapped his thigh and stood.
"I declare the tourney officially closed!"
Joffrey wiped the sweat from his palms.
Another game was about to begin.
Time to invite Lord Eddard for a drink.