King Robert's Tourney

The stands were full with onlookers, as Robert’s tourney began.

You looked around at the ranks upon ranks of revellers and attendees in the adjoining stalls and those opposite, and the ranks of seats that he stood within were packed with zealous bootlickers and sycophants. A little raised above the others, the King himself sat with Jaime and Barristen Selmy flanking him on either side, slouched across his wooden chair, beer frothing his moustache and beard, and slurring every other word.

"Lannister," the King said, standoffishly and derisive, as he always sounded when addressing you, "who is next up? This is an awful excuse for a fucking tourney. All these ponces and pansies dancing about each other. How about you and I go a round in melee? I can show you what it was like for that whoreson Rhaegar facing me at the Trident all those years ago."

You notice a flicker of movement in the eyes, breaking Selmy's feigned disinterest for a few seconds.

"Perhaps not, my Lord," replied Selmy, stoic and steady as always, "it would not be right. If it pleased you, perhaps we can move the tourney along quicker. Next up would be Ser Gregor and..." Selmy leans over towards a nearby attendant and they converse in hushed whispers for a few seconds before Barristen nods and turns back to the King, "and Ser Loras Tyrell, sire."

The King boomed a roaring belch of cackle, "the preening rose of Tyrell against The Mountain! Now, this should be entertaining. Lannister, where is your sister? Where is my Queen?"

The Queen's chair, set up beside the King's, had remained vacant throughout the tourney, from it's start up until this moment.