The Arena

Lounging in his chamber within the Red Keep, Lyonel Baratheon stared out of a window. Outside was a riot of colours, as more and more bright sailed ships glided across the bright blue sea to come to the city, but unfortunately, his mind was too preoccupied to appreciate the sight. The reason for his consternation was a small slip of paper crumbled tightly within his fist, that came to him just this morning... from Dragonstone. The neat letters were from the old Maester Cressen's polite hand, but the blunt words it contained were unmistakably from his uncle, Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and Master of Ships.

Lyonel has not met his uncle Stannis ever since he got this new body of his, as the man fled to his island citadel sometime before Lyonel had his... awakening.

He remembers why Stannis did this in the books, of course. Stannis and the former Hand Jon Arryn discovered that Cersei's children were incestuous bastards with no right to the throne. Shortly afterwards, Jon was murdered by his wife for different reasons. Stannis, however, believed that the Lannisters were responsible, and fled to Dragonstone, gathering his strength for a year until his brother's ****, at which point he revealed the truth to the world and proclaimed himself to be the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

Things here, were of course very different. Lyonel's mere existence is proof that King Robert has a legitimate heir. However, this does not remove the fact that Cersei has still committed treason and heresy by sleeping with her own brother and producing at least two children, whom she tried to pass off as legitimate. For a man of honour like Stannis, such crimes cannot go unpunished, and with Jon's **** he's probably thinking that the Lannisters were already trying to make a move on him and is probably making preparations of his own.

That is why Lyonel find it so crucial to talk to Stannis. He already sent a message to him once, prior to his journey to the North, politely asking his uncle to return and take care of the city in the king's absence. The second letter was written after his return, demanding the Master of the Ships do his duty by protecting the maritime trade as hundreds of ships came to the city for the tourney. Both attempts were to no avail. A formal but cold and curt reply came from Dragonstone, excusing Stannis' absence, as the result of his daughter Shireen's greyscale, which, while dormant, sometimes gives her pains. Lyonel may have been inclined to believe that at first, but he had spent some his childhood with his cousin Shireen and knows very well that her pains do not last for months on end.

The sea trade turned out to happen all too smoothly, as some fleet of Ironborn preyed upon the usual pirates (very clever of them, finding a way to do the Ironborn's favourite activity without pissing off the rest of the realm), but those issues were miniscule compared to the Stannis issue. Does his complete refusal to talk with Lyonel mean that he is knows that Lyonel would defend Cersei, Myrcella and Tommen no matter what? And for a man of rigid principles, who is a person that defends traitors but a traitor himself? Does the silence mean an inevitable conflict or is there still a chance to...

"Heyyy... it's like I'm sucking on a rock here," a voice came from down between his legs.

Lyonel looked down and smiled. "You never complained about me being hard before."

"You know what I'm talking about," his dear maid Bella pouted and raised her hand to swat... well to swat his balls, but she could not bring herself to hurt the prince's crown jewels that she loves so much. Instead, she swatted his thigh halfheartedly, causing the prince to smirk.

"I understand. I'm sorry Bell. It's just... pressing matters," Lyonel said with a sigh.

"More pressing than this?" Bella asked, before taking in one of his swollen balls in her mouth and pressing her tongue in a slightly crushing manner.

"Point taken," the prince said, smiling and mussing the girl's well-ordered hair.

With a huff of fake annoyance, the maid went back to her hobby, satisfied with regaining the full attention of the prince. And she was able to hold that attention, until finally, Lyonel was ready to cum, taking Bell's head and pressing it deep onto his cock. The gallons of cum that could compete with a horse's filled Bell's cheeks to the brim. Fortunately, she has trained herself to deal with the oversized quantities he delivers, and after a hard fight, managed to swallow it all.

Bella, after panting on all fours for a few seconds, unsteadily climbed to her feet, and tried to give a stern look to Lyonel despite her brain being euphoric with cum - pleasure. "I could have choked, you know!"

"I just didn't want to ruin your nice dress," replied the prince with his school-boy charm.

Bella snorted and tugged on her dress, which, indeed, was very elegant. She might be a maid, but even mere maids of royalty come from high, if not aristocratic, families, who send their daughters to the castle in hope of catching the eye of some minor noble. In Bella's case, she is the only daughter of the most prosperous mercantile family in the city. And while she would normally wear the clothes of the average maid for practical uses, in an important day as today, she has decided to adorn herself in an elaborate dress of black and red, the colours of her mercantile house.

"You may have saved my dress, but you ruined my hair," Bella said, tugging at her complicated hairdo. "Guess I'll have **** but to go like this."

"You aren't going to clean up a bit?" Lyonel asked while walking to his own wash-cabinet.

"Not really," Bella said cheekily. "I'm sure my father has found a whole line of suitors for me. And I want to greet each and every one of them with the taste of your royal seed in my mouth."

"Gods damn you, woman! I'm late enough as it is. Don't get me hard again!" the prince roared, while the maid cackled wildly.

Suddenly, however, the smile stopped, and a curtain of tension fell over them. Bella came to him in a much more serious demeanour. "My prince, I... have something to give you," she said with trepidation.

"What is it?" Lyonel asked gently, perceiving his friend's quick shift in mood.

"I know that the Lady Sansa is your betrothed and I know you must bear her favour in the tourney. But, well... I would be honoured if you were to accept mine own favour as well." Bella finished with a bowed face, her long black hair covering her face, ready to accept whatever reply he would deliver.

Instead of replying, Lyonel wordlessly lifted a sleeve of his tunic and presented Bella with his bare wrist. With silent delight, she took a handkerchief of red and black and tied it around his wrist, before placing his hand on her cheek and looking at him with loving blue eyes.

"I am honoured to carry your favour today, Bella," Lyonel said humbly.

"Seven blessings on you, my prince. I know that today, the field will be yours."

Lyonel walked briskly, taking two steps per turn. He wasn't late, yet, and of course no one would dare to start the tourney without him, but he didn't want to harm his carefully crafted image by appearing tardy. Soon enough, he had climbed to the top of the Tower of the Hand, grateful for this new body that allowed himself to exert himself so much without losing a breath.

Usually, it has been his habit to go to the arena with his family, but as this tourney was held partially in honour of the new hand, and partially in honour of his betrothal to the said hand's daughter, Lyonel's father had insisted that he escort the Starks to the arena this time. Of course, Cersei and Myrcella made their usual fuss about him not spending enough time with his family these days but seeing the wisdom in Robert's demands Lyonel acquiesced to them, making the women of his family strive to get his attention even more.

So here he was, to escort his future family.

"My lady is awaiting you inside, your grace," the captain of the Stark guards said, before opening the door to the central chamber of the Hand's Tower.

Lyonel bid his thanks to the Stark guards and stepped inside, only to see the Lady Stark. Lady Arya Stark, it turned out to be.

And she was... very different.

The first thing he noticed was her expression, and her posture. These past few days have cleared up a lot of doubts to Arya. By the actions of the prince these past few days, the least of not being the commissioning of a sword of Valyrian Steel for her, Arya knew that Lyonel truly cared for her. Her experiences in the Street of Silk had burned away much of her Northern reservedness, while also finally convincing her of her own beauty. And, finally, a single drop of royal cum made her sure of what she wanted. What Arya was... was confident. Not the arrogant pretense she displayed in the North, but an absolute sense of belief in her own self.

After her expression, Lyonel then noticed her clothes.
 
"Greetings my prince. I see that you are interested in my new clothes. What do you think?" the wolf girl asked, twirling around.

Lyonel was speechless.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" a pouting Arya asked, while sauntering towards the prince. "After all, it was you who told me how utterly impractical my clothes were here in the South and ask some advice from Lady Margaery."

Indeed, Lyonel was left to wonder if even the daring Lady Margaery ever wore anything so risky in public. Arya's dress was of bright, light blue that contrasted with her pale skin and dark hair. The dress was a family heirloom; the same one her aunt Lyanna had worn for that fatefully tourney at Harrenhal twenty-nine years ago. However, with the help of some of the friends she had made in the Street of Silk, Arya was able to make some last minute... improvements for the cherished family heirloom.

It had been made tight, in every section of the dress, clinging to her skin in every place possible. It outlined her delicious tits and her toned stomach, but the lower it went, the more scandalous the dress got. The dress had decent proportions, but Arya's ass did not, and the cloth stretched tightly over her ass, so that each buttock could not only be seen distinctly, but their individual movements were visible even to a person far off. And with every possible inch of material expended to cover Arya's meaty globes, the cloth at the front of the dress was stretched dangerously thin (so much so that in certain places the material appears more white than blue), so that one can see the outline of every nook and cranny of Arya's legs and crotch through her dress. And to top it all off, that wasn't even the most scandalous part of the dress. It was also rearranged to be ridiculously low cut, the dress only going high enough to cover her nipples. This meant that all of Arya's cleavage was exposed to the world (which jiggled delightfully with each step she took at him), and Lyonel was convinced that he could see her areolas at the borders of her dress.

This was of course, nothing compared to what she wore in the Street of Silk, but there was a crucial difference now... Arya's face would not be covered. This is the way she would now present herself to the world, and only one group of women would wear such clothes. Highborn women who have chosen to be the mistresses of the richest and most powerful men... or the mistress of a royal.

Lyonel was rendered speechless with these ponderings until Arya was standing right in front of him and took his hand. "Are you all right... my prince?"

"Of course," Lyonel replied with a hoarse voice. "To be honest, I was distracted by... well, you."

Arya smirked knowingly, before hurrying on to hug Lyonel, with her breasts pressed against him in a way that was not obvious. A handy little trick taught by Alayaya, while she dressed Arya up. The memory Arya's small, perky white breasts clashing with the older ladies big, ebony jugs as they practiced the move over and over again still made her moisten.

"I missed you," Arya said while still hugging, her words much more sincere than her actions.

"I missed you too," Lyonel said hugging back, his hands falling on the small of Arya's back (and perhaps a little lower), where he was getting increasingly familiar with. "But popping up in the castle after the entire castle has been searched and with no good excuse as to how, I decided it would be best to not draw attention for a couple of days."

"I suppose you are right, as always," the wolf girl sighed onto his chest. "But we can start our sword lessons soon rig-"

"ARYA!" A familiar voice screeched, and Lyonel quickly disentangled herself from the younger Stark sibling, who was much more **** to break away.

Sansa entered into the room briskly, glaring at her sister. Her red hair was tied in a thick braid in the Northern style, and she was wearing a long, white fur dress. Beautiful, but one that would also boil you under the Southern sky.

"What are you doing?" Sansa demanded from Arya, her attention focused solely on her younger sibling.

"I was just greeting Lyonel. I missed him these past couple of days," Arya replied with a sense of self-assuredness.

"Address his grace the prince with proper respect!" Sansa hissed. "And what are you wearing? You look like... like a harlot!"

"Well then you'd be delighted to know that these harlot's clothes were designed by your dear friend, Lady Margaery!" Arya snapped back, not being entirely forthcoming about the extent of Margaery's influence on the clothes.

Sansa held her tongue back, cringing at the thought of insulting the prince by indirectly calling his aunt a harlot.

Lyonel meanwhile, saw this as the perfect opportunity to break the fight. He took Sansa's hand and gently turned her to face him, before wrapping his arms around her. A surprised Sansa melted into him, though behind her, Lyonel could see her younger sister glaring at the scene.

"I missed you Sansa," Lyonel said, breathing in his betrothed's vaguely lemony aroma.

"M- my prince...!"

"Did you miss me?"

"Of course, my prince!"

"I suppose that'll make my crowning of you today as the queen of love and beauty all the sweeter."

Hearing this, Sansa blushed, this time in absolute bliss. Once the hug has ended and Lyonel let her go, Sansa cast a triumphant look at her younger sister, earning her further scowls.

Before the two girls could restart their squabble, their father appeared, putting an end to it. Lyonel was surprised with how gaunt Eddard Stark looked. Of course, it is not an easy transition to make when one goes from a quiet family man in the corner of the world to the second highest job in the realm. On top of that, Ned had to start his tenure by organizing the largest tourney to take place in decades on top of the regular duties, with almost no help from the rest of the Small Council. Despite Lyonel's influence, Robert still skips more meetings than he attends. Stannis is in self-imposed exile, while Renly does not take his job as seriously, and has been preoccupied with the tourney these past few weeks. Pycelle is useless, while Baelish and Varys were worse than useless, each driving the realm to their own ends.

This meant that actual governance was largely in the hands of Lyonel and Ned, and while Lyonel has many means to... relieve his stress, Ned has none, and it showed. The man's eyes were bleary and bloodshot, while it was visible that he was using all his strength just to stay up on his feet.

When Ned entered the chamber, in his utilitarianly plain Northern garb, his eyes did rest on Arya's dress, frowning at the changes made to the once chaste Northern styles by what he assumed to be the influence of the Southern court, completely unaware that the influence actually came from foreign whores. But much to Lyonel's surprise, after blinking at it for a couple of times, Ned overlooked it and came to Lyonel instead. "Good morrow my prince."

"Good morrow, Lord Stark," Lyonel replied, shaking the hand that was offered to him. "Apologies for my tardiness."

Ned gave him a weary smile. "No problem, my prince. Honestly, compared to your father, you are a vision of punctuality."

The two laughed, the only two men in the realm who could openly laugh at the king, before the whole group set off. They did not have to wait for Bran, who as a squire to Sir Barristan, would have gone with him early to the arena.

Lyonel walked hand in hand with his betrothed, as tradition demands. "Are you excited for the tourney, Lady Sansa?" Lyonel asked as they climbed down the Tower of the Hand.

"Oh yes, my prince!" Sansa sighed. "Ever since I was young, I wanted to attend such an event. All the gallantry, all the ladies in their pretty dresses-"

"Oh who cares about the stupid dresses?" Arya intervened. "All the realm's greatest warriors will be there, and we'll get to see Lyonel unhorse all of them!"

The conversation rambled on as such, Sansa and Arya trading dozens of barbs at one another, while Ned and him tried to diffuse the situation. By the time they came to the carriage, Lyonel, who previously had taken some guilty pleasure at the two Stark women's squabbling, felt like having a headache, and wondering if it was the duties of a father that drained Ned Stark so much, rather than the duties of a Hand.

When they got near the carriage, the direwolves of the two Stark girls, Lady and Nymeria got up and howled excitedly, greeting their mistresses and even giving Lyonel some polite licks. With the girls now having to deal with the civilities of the court, the freedoms of the wolves have been curtailed a bit, and they were glad for this excursion outside.

Proving that point, when the door for the carriage was opened, the wolves were the first ones to clamber inside excitedly. Much to Lyonel's amusement, he saw each wolf displaying the characteristics of their owners even with the way they sit. Arya's Nymeria immediately occupied the entire floor of the carriage, lying horizontally, while Sansa's Lady gently sat down on one of the seats like a, well a lady.

Chuckling at the antiques of his daughters' pets Ned climbed on and sat beside Lady, while Lyonel sat at his opposite and Sansa by his side. Immediately, the problem became clear. With the wolves on board as well, there was no space for Arya to sit.

"I will order a bigger carriage-" Lyonel started, before being interrupted.

"No need!" Arya chirped. She then quickly jumped onto the carriage and sat on Lyonel's lap. Before anyone could say anything, she rapped on the door, signaling to the driver. Soon enough, the carriage was rolling out of the Red Keep's grounds.

Lyonel, meanwhile, had to do his best not to moan, as Arya's ass meat enveloped the front of his legs and crotch. The prince is by all means a big man, but Arya is so wide at the hip that her buttocks overflowed from each side of his legs. Almost instinctively, Lyonel put a hand on the Stark girl's thick thigh... to help her find her balance of course.

Lyonel was brought back to the realities of the situation by Sansa's screech. "Arya! What are you doing? This is entirely inappropriate!"

"Oh, it's fine! And we didn't have time to get a new carriage. We are late enough as it is!"

The girls resumed their bickering, but Lyonel, coming back to his senses, was chilled by what Ned would say. Staring past the black curtain of hair on the girl sitting on his lap, Lyonel stared at her father, but Eddard Stark was focused only on calming his children down.

A confused (and a quickly getting hard) Lyonel wondered what the fuck was going on and his only conclusion was... honour. Ned Stark was a famously honourable man, but he also expected even the worst of society to act with the same sense of honour, which is what got him killed in another world. And if that is the case, of course Ned Stark would expect his best friend's beloved son and his own daughter to act dishonourably. That's why he didn't reprimand Arya for her dress or conduct. In Ned's mind, and maybe even Sansa's, Arya wasn't doing anything sexual with Lyonel, but rather she was acting out to annoy Sansa, as she always does.

Lyonel wondered if in some sense Arya's intentions were in part to infuriate Sansa as much as to be seductive towards him. After all, Sansa has been dreaming of this day for years and having her have a temper tantrum and making Sansa lose her cherished identity of a poised lady in front of all the realm is truly a cruel ****.

At least, that is the only rational explanation Lyonel could come up with, but even he had to admit his faculties were very much confused, what with the hot girl bouncing on his lap. The carriage drove on a rocky road, and Arya had to constantly 'readjust' herself, which only meant more snuggling into him, as her thick buttocks enveloped his fully hard dick. Lyonel could not believe how corrupted Arya has gotten since the small time he has worked on her. The younger Stark girl was basically milking his cock with her ass, right in front of her own father!

Eventually, Lyonel was able to get a moment of respite, as Ned, being rocked on by the carriage, began to doze off, and an embittered Sansa stared out of the window. This prompted Arya to change her position, now sitting sideways across his legs so that she can see his face more clearly, to which she gave a mischievous grin, amused by the uncomfortable position she has put her usually comported sword master in.

And that position was getting more uncomfortable by the minute. With every bump on the hardy road, Arya had to readjust herself, which made her dress hike up more and more, until it bunched up over her waist. Her large buttocks now hung free off Lyonel's lap, swaying with every motion of the carriage, looking as if they had a life of their own. And Lyonel, seeking to punish this cheeky student of his, took his hand off her thigh and moved it to her buttock, large, free and sweaty, and pinched a bit of her ass flesh as hard as possible. Arya, however, only seemed even more encouraged, her naughty smile now turning into a wide grin.

The fondling couple stayed that way for most of the journey, as the carriage now left the city to go to the arena built outside, with the road getting much rockier outside the city premises. Soon, the carriage hit a pothole, causing the entire carriage to bounce before continuing on the road... and causing the hemline of Arya's dress, dangerously low as it is, to fall even further, resulting in one of Arya's tits jumping out of her dress. Lyonel quickly yanked down Arya's dress to hide her lower body in a discreet enough fashion, but he was too late to deal with the situation going above.

Sansa, looking back inside and seeing her sister's half-dressed state, looked as if she was ready to explode, but before she could do so, Arya struck a hand that was as fast as a viper, covering her sister's mouth. The wolves perked their heads, but seeing that it was just their mistresses squabbling, they went back to their sleep, while a tired Ned continued to doze off.

"I am going to take my hand away now," Arya said in a remarkably calm voice for a woman in her position. "Don't yell. You don't want to wake up father, do you?"

Arya slowly removed her hand, and an explosive Sansa hissed at her. "What. Are. You. Doing?"

"Oh, it's nothing," the younger Stark replied nonchalantly. "Lyonel has seen far more of me before."

"WHAT?"

"I'll explain later," Arya waved a hand carelessly. "Lyonel, can you help me in... adjusting my dress? My own hands are preoccupied holding on to the carriage door."

Lyonel looked at everyone in the carriage. A seemingly calm (but secretly elated) Arya, sitting on his lap while one of her breasts flew free, jiggling with every step the carriage takes. A pale Sansa looking at him like a betrayed puppy. And a sleeping Ned Stark, utterly oblivious to his daughters vying for a prince's affections right in front of him.

Lyonel felt bad for Sansa. Truly. While he did get an ego boost to see the two Stark sisters fight over him, he never expected it to go to these lengths. However, he worried even more about Ned. The man might be naive, but he was no fool, and if he ever woke up to see his half naked daughter on another man's lap, then that would be a world of problems for him.

And so, ignoring Sansa's pleading looks, he gently cupped Arya's breasts, his fingers unconsciously trailing over her nipple. With his other hand he grabbed the front of Arya's dress, tugging on it (to the point that he could see her other breast jiggling within its confines) and placing the tit in his hand gently within the dress, before pulling it back up.

"Thank you Lyonel," Arya said, mockingly imitating a courtly lady's decorum. "But I don't think you put it exactly in the correct spot. You may have to put your hand in again."

That was the final straw for Sansa, who opened her mouth to spit out words of venom. Before she could, however, the carriage stopped and Ned Stark woke up with a start, and the girls had to agree to a silent truce.

The doors to the carriage were opened, and the group climbed out to a vast spectacle. The circular arena, built during the days of King Daeron the good, was truly massive, but even it failed to hold in all the people that were gathered. It seemed as if the entire half a million population of King's Landing and thousands of people from other parts were gathered, not to mention knights across the realm, and merchants from even beyond. Beside the arena was a field filled with rows and rows of brightly coloured tents with large heraldry displaying to which knights they belonged. Knights in shining armour strode through those tents, while the air was filled with the neighing of a thousand horses. The sight was truly spectacular. Even Ned Stark, who was a witness of the great tourney at Harrenhal was left impressed, while Arya gaped at everything with shining eyes. Sansa, however, was preoccupied by her own troubles, the day that was supposed to be the best in her life as of yet already ruined by the actions of her monstrous sister.

Behind them, the overburdened royal carriage finally tumbled in, out of which Robert, Cersei, Myrcella and Tommen climbed out after what was undoubtedly an awkward ride. The two lionesses immediately locked eyes on Lyonel and he immediately noticed their dresses. They were both cut in same shape, standard royal elegance that was freer than Sansa's impractically chaste dress, but nowhere near as scandalous as Arya's dress. It was the colours, however, that were striking. While Cersei was in her customary Lannister red and gold, Myrcella has made the rare decision to don the Baratheon black and yellow. It made her look more like the Baratheon princess she was meant to be, and her brother could not help but wonder if she had worn this specially to please him.

Now, technically, Lyonel was supposed to escort his betrothed all the way to her seat, but the royal women came and demanded that he escort them the rest of the way, convinced that he has already done more than enough, and Lyonel, not wanting to deal with a pissed off Sansa right now, agreed. And so, they climbed the stairs of the arena to their seats, Cersei and Myrcella holding on to each arm with their breasts pressed against his arms (the former doing it subconsciously, the latter quite intentionally), gossiping all the way through, mostly about Arya's lewd dress. Myrcella asserted that all Northerners were vulgar barbarians, while Cersei took time to point out that this was all the influence of the whore of Highgarden, whom the Stark girls have befriended, much to their own 'ruin.'

Following behind them was Robert and Ned, the king reminiscing loudly about his own victories as a youth in tourneys, while his childhood friend smiled tiredly at his friend's enthusiasm. Behind them was the two Stark girls, arguing with each other in hushed tones. At the end was Tommen and the direwolves, whom the young lovable prince befriended months ago. He was feeling a bit left out but knew that Myrcella craved her ever dwindling free time with her older brother and so he did not begrudge her. Either way, any disappointment he had was abated once Tommen realized that climbing a staircase behind Arya Stark afforded one a spectacular view, and his isolation left him free to gawk. He wished that some hand would come and land on that fat ass, though Tommen was far too timid to do any such thing himself, even if the girl in question was a normal one, and not the fearsome she-wolf of the North.

The subject of the young prince's awe was currently engaged with her older sister.

"What do you mean the prince has seen much worse?" Sansa asked in hushed but urgent tones. "What can be worse than seeing you in your nakedness?"

Arya shrugged and replied in the calm voice that she knew would infuriate Sansa even more. "It's like what you always used to say when we were in Winterfell. I am, after all, just a little girl who can't keep up with men in weaponry, and when I practice there are... slip ups."

"But you still keep practicing?!"

"It's what my sword master expects of me."

"So, you just keep doing these things, without any regard for propriety?"

"Of course."

"You... you are a wh- a harlot!"

Even a week ago, such accusations would have angered Arya. But she has now spent some time as a whore, and those few hours felt more freeing than the years she tried to be a lady. And so, she did not take the bait. "Anyway, what do you care about what happens? You think that Lyonel loves you right?"

"Of course he does! He told me so himself!"

Arya stifled a snort. "Well then, it really doesn't matter what I do in front of him, as long as he still loves you right?"

"That does not excuse your actions!" Sansa snapped, before growing more contemplative. She shook her head with regret. "I always knew you were jealous of me, Arya. But I thought you'd overgrow it, that you are still a good sister despite everything. I see now that this is not the case. But I never could have imagined that you'd go after the man that I was to marry."

That last comment did manage to break through Arya's composure, but before she could retaliate, the climb was done and they had reached the best seats of the arena, reserved for the royalty and the highest of the nobility. Lyonel had already relieved his charges and was deep in conversation with his friends and kin at the Tyrell section, but the girls had to go and sit on the seats reserved for them.

At the center, in a makeshift throne, sat King Robert. To his left was Queen Consort Cersei, followed by Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella. To the king's right sat his Hand, Lord Eddard Stark. Sansa and Arya had to sit by his side. There was, of course, no seat for Lyonel, who would be competing, and no seat for Bran, who would be expected to serve his master throughout the course of the tourney.

Sansa sat uneasily beside her sister, waiting for the tourney to start and for the seating positions to be relaxed, so she can seek the company of her friend, Lady Margaery. But even that idea was soured by a new thought; it was Margaery's idea for Arya to wear a dress like that.

The lady's grim mood was broken by the most unexpected of people.

"Lady Sansa?" Princess Myrcella inquired sweetly.

"Yes, princess?" Sansa asked, putting the mask of civility immediately. Courtesy was, after all, a lady's weapon.

"I do remember you once saying in Winterfell how lemon cakes are a favourite of yours. And so, I have had prepared this for you." Myrcella gave a platter brought to her by a servant to Sansa.

Everyone looked shocked, least of all Sansa, for despite all her efforts Myrcella had always been cold and aloof with her. Maybe she's finally seeing me as her sister! Sansa thought immediately. She bit into a cake to show her appreciation, and let its sweetness fill her in. Perhaps this day will go as she intended after all.

However, had she still retained her attention with the princess, she might not have thought so.

"That is very sweet of you, Myrcella," Tommen was saying, glad to see his sister finally getting along with their sister to be. "You may not allow me or Lyonel to eat those cakes because they are fattening, but at least you share them with the other ladies, as always."

Myrcella smiled fondly at her little brother and ruffled his salty blonde hair. Tommen was one of the most well-read kids she knows, but his intelligence is very much tempered with an attitude that is too kind for this world, much like their mother always points out.

Lyonel missed the entire interaction, chatting with his Uncle Renly and Aunt Margaery in the Tyrell section, just a bit away from the royal section. Loras was there too, but he did not participate in the conversation, instead staring intently at the arena, studying it in minute details. Despite being lovers, the way Renly and Loras approach tourneys were very different from one another. For Renly, it was just another way to get the adoration from the city people that loved him so much. Loras, however, was a serious sportsman, playing to win for the thrill of the game.

"Well Lyonel," Renly said, bringing their conversation to an end. "It seems like my brother is finally here. We should probably leave now."

"So, it seems," Lyonel said, before patting Loras' shoulder. "That's enough worrying, my Knight of Flowers. I'm sure you shall earn your second place."

"Piss off," the cocky knight said amiably, standing up anyway.

Lady Margaery then gave her brother and her husband her favours. For Loras it was an emerald green handkerchief, tied to the base of his lance. For Renly it was a golden handkerchief, tied to the golden antlers of his great helmet (that he had asked a servant to fetch from his tent), from where it fluttered like a tiny banner.

"I will see you after the joust then, my lady," Lyonel stated.

"Seven blessings to you my prince," Lady Margaery replied.

As he bent down to kiss her hand, Margaery puffed up her chest, giving him a good look at his aunt's cleavage as she always does.

The three men then walked to the king, so Lyonel can get his blessings. Before that however, he was ambushed first by his siblings, and then by his mother, all three of whom hugged him tightly and bade him worried farewells.

Robert, instead, came and punched Lyonel lightly in the stomach. "Why are you making the women cry, boy! You are not nervous yourself, are you?"

"Of course I am," Lyonel replied calmly. "I am nervous what my uncle would think of me after I knock him into the ground in front of all these people. Again."

This caused everyone to laugh, including Renly himself. "I don't think it'll ever even come to that. Most of the women gathered here are your admirers, and I'm sure a lass worried about his oh so pretty prince will sneak into my tent and poison me!"

That caused another round of laugh as Lyonel flustered, except from Sansa, who realized her competition was much bigger than just Arya.

The mood soon grew solemn however, as Sansa was beckoned forwards. Under the watchful eyes of both families, she tied her favour to her betrothed's lance. The handkerchief was not the Baratheon black or gold, or Stark grey. It was virgin white, the colour of chastity, the greatest possession of a lady, the greatest gift a woman can give to a husband. Those were the core of her principles, and Sansa has never wavered in her faith... until today.

Lyonel kissed his betrothed's hand. "My sincerest thanks, Lady Sansa. With your favour, I know that I will win, and that you will be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty by the end of the day."

His kind words, and his honest eyes, soothed a lot of her worries, and Sansa could not help but tilt her head to smile triumphantly at Arya. Arya, however, grinned smugly right back at her. I have given him far more than a piece of cloth, her smile seemed to say.

When Sansa sat down again, she was already feeling sick.

Lyonel, however was preoccupied to notice much of this. Bowing once more to the king, he, Renly and Loras climbed back down and began to go to the lawn where the knights' tents were erected, to don their armour and get ready. Behind them, they could hear the Hight Septon begin his prayers to the Seven. The tourney is about to begin.