The approaching night was deep and cold, and candlelight was quietly lit in the tents at the edge of the camp.
Jon stood outside the tent with Ghost.
The Direwolf watched the newcomers warily, checking for suspicious strangers around.
Eddard thought this location was good, a remote, unnoticed spot, far from the King's tent, as no one wanted a dead Knight near the King's tent.
Without Jon's guidance, Eddard would have had difficulty finding this tent.
The Knight of the Vale lay quietly, the Silent Sisters had prepared his body, and Ser Ando, as a fellow countryman from the Vale, had also come to see this unfortunate Knight he had never met.
"I've come at a bad time," Eddard said, looking at the body of the dead young man, Lord Arryn's Attendant.
He wasn't handsome, and death had smoothed his rough face.
Eddard looked at Hugh's face, wondering if this Boy had lost his life because of him, dying by the Mountain's spear.
Eddard hadn't even spoken to him in detail, and now there would be no such opportunity.
"Everyone out," Eddard told the others.
The Sisters of the Silent Sisters stopped their work; they were about to dress the Knight of the Vale in the finest velvet cloak.
"You stay, Ser Ando," Eddard instructed the heir of House Royce to remain.
"Yes, My Lord," Ando replied.
Ghost outside the tent was restless, perhaps sensing the arrival of death.
"I also mourn for this young man; he yearned for honor, but unfortunately, he met the Mountain," Ando said sadly.
"He's too young and too obsessed with honor.
But I think we can talk about other things," Eddard whispered.
"What things?" Ando asked cautiously.
"Lady Lysa's matters.
You need to promise me that every word is strictly confidential," Eddard said, looking into Ando's eyes.
"I respect Lord Royce's character, and I believe his son would not lie to me."
"My Lord, I will do so, because we remember.
If you truly wish to ask, I can only say that things are very bad right now.
The Lady seems completely unaffected by the shadow of her husband's death," Ando thought for a moment, then spread his hands.
"Lord Robert, an heir of his age, is still unable to leave his mother, still needs to be breastfed like a Child.
He is weak and frail, and we are all very worried.
Even more concerning is his mother, Lady Lysa, who has gained much more weight than before, but is surrounded daily by various sycophants, all of whom wish to sleep with her and then govern The Vale with her."
Eddard's face was expressionless, various emotions crossing his mind: anger, confusion.
What did Lady Lysa consider power, what did she consider the truth of Jon's death?
Was she truly saddened by her husband's death?
Eddard was in crisis in King's Landing, while she was in The Vale acting as if nothing had happened.
Eddard knew of Lord Jon and Lysa's marriage; their marriage was unhappy from the start.
Their ages were too far apart; Lord Jon was even older than Lysa's father, Lord Hoster.
But at the time, it was a political marriage; Lord Jon needed Hoster's troops, otherwise he would never have married a noblewoman who had already miscarried before marriage.
But Lysa, did Lysa have no feelings for Jon at all?
Eddard had to consider this final, cruel answer.
"So, young man, you must know who those suitors are, right?"
Ando naturally knew the names of those suitors, as Lord Yohn would often complain about those vain and spineless weaklings.
"Great and minor Lords, Knights, adventurers, everything, Lord Eddard, they are all gathered in The Eyrie.
Amidst sweet words, people do indeed easily forget sorrow, but Lady Lysa seems to have forgotten a bit too quickly.
The rumors say two people are most favored by the Lady: the older one is Lord Hunter, Earl Ian is older than Lord Jon Arryn, and the younger one is Lyn Corbray, who is a dangerous and vain swordsman," Ser Ando said.
"There's one more person you haven't mentioned, young man," Eddard said, looking at Ser Ando.
"Are you referring to Littlefinger?
The ill repute of all the aforementioned people doesn't compare to his.
Many also say he has an unclear relationship with Lady Lysa, and Lady Lysa favors him the most.
My Lord, please don't blame me, after all, back then... but Lady Lysa truly did value him, not hesitating to let him rise rapidly in King's Landing.
He is a man of humble origins who used the Lady's connections and deceived the Old Lord." When speaking of Littlefinger, Ando's face inevitably showed a look of disdain.
"So these scandals, these rumors.
I don't want to hear the specific details, I just want to know if they are true or fabricated," Eddard asked.
"That's hard to say, My Lord.
However, it is a fact that Lady Lysa favors Littlefinger, and as for their past affairs, perhaps everyone just collectively dislikes this competitor."
"You speak very well, Child." Eddard patted Ser Ando's shoulder, perhaps he needed to think about these things.
"I should leave here."
"Lysa does not love Arryn, one could even say she despises him.
And Lady Lysa has an unusually close relationship with Littlefinger." Eddard carefully memorized these words.
Lysa should, by rights, be his ally, but now it seems that might only be his wishful thinking.
Since Lysa does not cherish Jon, should she still drag him to King's Landing?
As Eddard left the tent, he met the Old Knight, Ser Barristan.
"Lord Eddard?"
"Ser Barristan?" Eddard was also surprised; had the Old Knight come here too?
"I wish to keep vigil for this Child; I came to see him first.
He has no one, not even a single friend or relative, only a mother in The Vale of Arryn," Ser Barristan said.
"Hugh served as an Attendant by Lord Jon's side for four years," the Old Knight continued.
"His Majesty the King knighted him before heading north to honor Lord Jon.
This Boy desperately wanted to be a Knight, but unfortunately, he probably wasn't ready."
Eddard looked at the Knight of the Vale's blue cloak embroidered with a crescent moon, stained with blood.
Eddard dared not look at the Knight's face.
If his old mother asked him why her Child died, could he say it was for the honor of the Hand?
"He shouldn't have died at all.
Is war a game?"
"But we cannot refuse the coming of war.
This armor is worth a lot of money.
It's not flashy, but it's practical, and Ser Hugh specifically prepared it for the Tourney."
"Perhaps the armor should be sent to his mother," Eddard said.
"Let's go, Lord Eddard.
The King's feast has not yet begun; will you join me?" Barristan asked.
"Thank you for your kindness, I won't go, Lord Barristan." Eddard declined Barristan's offer, at this moment he only wanted to leave the camp and disappear into the night.
"Let's go," Eddard said, leading Jon away, his heart heavy with mixed emotions.
"Lysa, Littlefinger." Eddard pondered, neither of these two were trustworthy, at least there was a possibility they harbored ill intentions...
On the other side of the camp, Sansa felt that today was the most dazzling day she had ever seen.
She saw the Tourney and watched the Knights from stories riding their horses.
Sansa was most curious about two people: one was the Knight of Flowers who gave her a red Rose.
"Even the greatest victory is not as beautiful as you."
The Knight of Flowers was indeed handsome, his hair was lazily curled brown, and his eyes were like molten gold.
Tomorrow, the Knight of Flowers would have another match; he would compete against Jaime, the Kingslayer, and the Mountain brothers of Lannister for the championship.
Sansa hoped he would win, because the Knight of Flowers was indeed handsome.
But the other person was very strange; the middle-aged man was short, with a pointed beard, a few silver strands at his hairline, and was about the same age as Eddard.
This person seemed to know Sansa's mother, and later someone said this was Lord Petyr, the Master of Coin on the Small Council.
Petyr's departure was also strange.
Petyr said to Sansa, "Your mother is the queen of love and beauty in my heart.
You inherited her red hair."
Petyr reached out and stroked a lock of her reddish-brown hair, his fingertips brushing her cheek, and then Littlefinger turned and left.
"What a strange person," Sansa thought, but Littlefinger's behavior seemed very frivolous.
Sansa was considering whether to tell her father about this.
This person's identity was very prominent, and he knew her mother, but his behavior was indeed rude.
But Sansa didn't have much time to think, because the King's feast was about to begin, and the crowd had already dispersed.
The King's courtiers and dignitaries dined by the river; six astonishingly large wild oxen slowly turned on roasting spits, having been roasting for several hours.
Kitchen Boys nearby busily basted them with butter and herbs until the meat was fragrant.
Eddard was not among this group; Eddard also disliked attending the Tourney held in his name.
Sansa and Septa Mordane were seated in the VIP section on a temporary raised platform, just to the left of the King and Queen.
Sansa felt this was the courtly etiquette she loved, a glory she had never experienced in Winterfell.
Her mother had taught her to be a radiant Lady and then marry a great noble, but Sansa had never imagined she could become Queen; this was an honor.
Sansa felt lonely, as she was the only representative from Winterfell present; even Arya hadn't come.
"Forget it, that wild girl Arya would only embarrass me if she came.
As for Jon, a bastard certainly can't come to such an occasion." Sansa decided not to think about Arya anymore, but simply to enjoy this moment of glory.
When Joffrey sat down to Sansa's right, Sansa felt her throat tighten.
Since the last incident, Joffrey hadn't spoken a word to Sansa, and Sansa didn't dare to speak either.
Sansa felt she didn't hate Joffrey; the real fault wasn't with others, but with the Queen, Arya, and Jon.
If it weren't for Jon and Arya, nothing would have happened that night.
Tonight, Sansa couldn't hate Joffrey even more, because Joffrey was truly too handsome.
He wore a dark blue doublet embroidered with two rows of golden lion heads, and on his forehead, a delicate crown made of gold and sapphires.
His hair shone like true gold.
Sansa looked at him, trembling all over, afraid he would ignore her, or even speak harshly to Sansa again, making her run away crying.
However, Joffrey not only smiled but also kissed her hand, as dashing as a prince from a song.
Joffrey said to Sansa, "My dear Lady, Ser Loras has good taste; he knows who the true beauty is."
Sansa felt like the happiest person; Joffrey was too good to her.
Sansa felt she needed to pretend to be a Lady, but her heart was blooming with joy, like a startled deer.
"Ser Loras is a true Knight, My Lord.
Do you think he might win tomorrow?"
"No," Joffrey said, then a very confident answer.
"My dog will take care of him, otherwise there's my uncle Jaime.
In a few years, when I can enter the arena, I'll take care of all of them."
Joffrey was impeccable in his manners.
Joffrey ordered a bottle of chilled Dornish Summer Red, and not only poured a glass for Sansa himself, but also for Septa Mordane.
Sansa drank cup after cup of Dornish Red, yet felt she never got drunk.
Sansa felt her eyes were dazzled and her mind captivated, immersed in all sorts of charming things.
Tonight, the Blackwater Rush seemed like a flowing feast, and Sansa saw a beauty she had never dared to dream of witnessing before.
It was a beauty that the desolate and ancient Winterfell could not replace; she had never seen such a feast in Winterfell.
The music of the bards was so beautiful, adorning the twilight exquisitely.
There were also jugglers throwing burning sticks, and the simple-minded King's personal jester, the flat-faced "Shavepate," danced on stilts in colorful clothes, mocking everyone present.
His skill and sharp tongue were truly unmatched.
The jester's jokes grew more numerous, even extending to the High Septon.
Joffrey constantly amused Sansa, chatting with her, showering her with compliments.
And with those court stories, Sansa felt she had forgotten everything, all the etiquette, all the decorum.
Dish after dish arrived, many of which Sansa had never tasted, such as snails cooked with honey and garlic, and roasted trout caught from the river.
The Prince even served Sansa, cutting a piece from the portion designated for the Queen.
The King's voice grew louder with each dish served.
At first, there was hearty laughter, but by the end, Sansa heard roars.
This sound drowned out everything, the clatter of plates, the music.
"Shut up!" the King roared, then looked at the Queen.
The King held a goblet, drunk beyond measure.
"You stinking woman, don't you dare try to control me; I am the King here, do you understand?
If I say we fight tomorrow, then we fight tomorrow!"
The King's words seemed to carry a magic that froze everyone's expressions.
Sansa saw everyone dumbfounded: the Old Knight Barristan, Lord Renly, the short Lord Petyr.
"You are truly impressive, Your Majesty.
And Your Majesty is about to become a grandfather soon." Cersei's face was bloodless, but she suddenly retorted, "This is something I should congratulate you on."
"Shut up, shut up!" the King pointed his finger at Cersei.
"Isn't this a good thing?" Cersei persisted, "Varys's message surely isn't false, is it?
The girl is pregnant, which is indeed a good thing.
You wouldn't be afraid, would you?
You wouldn't be unable to wield a Longspear anymore, would you?"
Joffrey's face also darkened in an instant, and he kept muttering "traitors."
Sansa probably knew who they were talking about: Joffrey's bastard brother, the traitor in the King's mouth.
Lust and ambition flowed in the bastard's blood; the people of king's landing all knew that the Mercenary King had killed thousands of people and intended to seize the iron throne with his true dragon bride.
"Shut up! As long as I have my warhammer, no one can stop me!" The King thumped his chest, glaring at Cersei.
"Warships, I want warships now!"
"Then I truly look forward to it, Your Majesty, not just losing your temper at home with your wife, but actually winning another war."
"I will win tomorrow's match first, then personally deal with that traitor, kill the remnant of the evil dragon.
I am a warrior!" The King slammed his goblet onto the table with a "bang," splashing wine all over his satin doublet.
"Your Majesty, this..." The Old Knight frowned deeply.
Kinslaying and killing a pregnant woman were equally unforgivable; this absolutely must not be so.
Jaime reached out and pressed the King's shoulder, but the King violently shook him off, and Jaime stumbled and fell to the ground.
The King laughed wildly, "A fine great Knight, but I can still make you eat dirt.
Remember that, Kingslayer."
The Kingslayer's face was very grim.
He picked himself up from the ground and then said, "Yes, Your Majesty the King."
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