Hers Is The Fury

Hand's Tourney

She had always found him to be manipulative and power-hungry, and his constant scheming made her skin crawl.

Littlefinger, who had been watching the exchange with interest, cleared his throat. "And what brings you to our little gathering, my dear Princess?" he asked, his voice dripping with insincerity.

Morgana leaned forward, her eyes flashing with amusement. "Oh, just looking for some entertainment," she replied. "I find these tournaments to be so...predictable."

Sansa and Arya exchanged a glance, then burst out laughing. "Predictable?" Sansa repeated. "You mean because of all the knights trying to impress us with their prowess?"

Morgana smiled wickedly. "Exactly. It's so tedious, don't you think? All that posturing and preening. I much prefer a good game of cards or a spirited debate."

Littlefinger raised an eyebrow. "Really? And what makes you such an expert on games and debates, my dear Princess?"

Morgana leaned back in her seat, her fingers steepled together. "Oh, merely a passing interest," she said airily. "But tell me, Lord Baelish, how do you stand to be around all these people? Don't they drive you mad with their petty squabbles and endless scheming?"

Littlefinger's smile turned cold. "My dear Princess, I thrive on such things. They provide me with the inspiration for my own ventures."

Morgana snorted. "How tiresome. I much prefer the quiet life myself. But perhaps we can change that, hmm?" She reached out and took a glass of wine from one of the servers, taking a sip before continuing. "After all, there's nothing quite like a good challenge to keep one entertained."

The first competitor rode up, a huge knight in dark grey armor.

"Gods, who is that?" Sansa asked.

"Ser Gregor Clegane. They call him the Mountain. The Hound's older brother." Littlefinger answered.

If anyone could rival the hatred Sandor had for his older brother, it was the Princess Morgana.

It disgusted her how men like him and Amory Lorch could keep their knighthood and lives after the brutal, senseless slaying of Rhaegar Targaryen's young children.

His opponent rode up next.

"And his opponent?" Sansa asked.

"Ser Hugh of the Vale. He was Jon Arryn's squire. Look how far he's come."

Ser Hugh and The Mountain bowed before the king, as was tradition.

"Yes, yes. Enough of the bloody pomp. Have at it!" Robert commanded.

A servant blews a horn to signify the beginning of the joust.

Morgana leaned forward, eager to see which knight would emerge victorious.

While she typically found these events to be tedious and overly formal, it was providing her a much needed distraction.

The first pass takes its course with no contact. However, on the second pass, when The Mountain approached Ser Hugh, he drove his lance through his neck, knocking him off his horse.

Sansa shrieked in horror, and the rest of the crowd looked on, shocked. Most notably Robert, Arya and Septa Mordane.

Ser Hugh laid on the ground with a large splinter of wood stuck in his throat, coughing up blood for a few moments before finally dying.

The Hound stared at his elder brother with a forlorn look on his face as a pair of retainers grabbed Ser Hugh's body and took it off the track.

"Not what you were expecting?" Littlefinger whispered to Sansa. "Has anyone ever told you the story of the Mountain and the Hound? Lovely little tale of brotherly love. The Hound was just a pup, six years old maybe. Gregor a few years older, already a big lad, already getting a bit of a reputation. Some lucky boys just born with a talent for violence. One evening, Gregor found his little brother playing with a toy by the fire - Gregor 's toy, a wooden knight. Gregor nevr said a word, he just grabbed his brother by the scruff of his neck and shoved his face into the burning coals. Held him there while the boy screamed, while his face melted. There aren't very many people who know that story."