[King's Landing - Red Keep]
The tourney for Lord Stark had finally arrived.
Knights from various houses had journeyed to the capital, to prove their worth, and attempt to earn a fair bit of coin.
Though, noticeably absent was Lord Stark... the man of honour.
Nonetheless, the event was carrying on as if he had deigned to appear.
The air was filled with the sound of laughter and music, and the smell of roasting meats wafted from the vendors' stalls.
The stands were full and the Royal family sat on a dais in the centre of the festivities, Barristan Selmy and The Hound standing guard, as well as Robert Lannister.
Princess Morgana Baratheon, dressed in a gown of shimmering silk, watched the proceedings with a mixture of boredom and disdain. She had attended the tournament every year since she was a child, but it nevr seemed to hold any excitement for her. This time, however, something was different.
But amidst the excitement of the tourney, Morgana couldn't help but feel a sense of dread. Her father, the King, had been drinking heavily since dawn, his antics growing more boisterous by the hour. She knew that if he continued to indulge in his cups, it would only be a matter of time before he embarrassed them all.
Though, Morgana was growing increasingly frustrated with Joffrey, and was tempted to join the Stark sisters who were sat with their Septa, waiting for the joust to begin.
Sansa attempted to catch the Prince's attention, sending him a smile when their eyes met. Unfortunately it was not reciprocated. Instead the prince scowled before looking away.
"Lover's quarrel?" A man, unknown to Sansa, asked, walking up.
"I'm sorry. Do I...?"
"Sansa dear, this is Lord Baelish. He's known..." Septa Mordane moved to answer.
"An old friend of the family. I've known your mother a long, long time." Littlefinger interrupted before taking a seat beside Sansa.
"Why do they call you Littlefinger?" Arya asked.
"Arya!" Sansa shouted, embarrassed.
"Don't be rude!" Septa Mordane scolded.
"No, it's quite all right. When I was a child, I was very small. And I come from a little spit of land called the Fingers, so you see, it's an exceedingly clever nickname."
"Start the damn joust before I piss myself!" The king shouted, causing his wife to stalk off, clearly embarrassed.
Unfortunate as it was, his children were used to his behaviour. Also, they didn't have the same privilege as the mother, who could leave to avoid further embarrassment, exactly as she had done.
"I'm going to sit with the Stark's," Morgana told her father, who simply waved her away.
She stood and made her way to the two young girls, whom she noticed had been joined by Lord Baelish, better known as Littlefinger.
As the tournament began, Morgana found herself seated near Littlefinger, the cunning and ambitious Master of Coin. He was a man she did not trust, sensing the calculation behind his charming smile and smooth words.
Tired of her father's drunken antics, Morgana sought refuge among the Stark sisters, who were sitting nearby. Sansa and Arya both smiled at her, and Morgana returned their greeting. They chatted idly for a while, discussing the various competitors and their chances of winning. As they talked, Morgana couldn't help but steal glances at Littlefinger, who was sitting several rows down from them. She didn't trust him; there was something calculating in his eyes that made her skin crawl.
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."
"I won't tell anyone. I promise." Sansa swore.
"No, please don't. If the Hound so much as heard you mention it, I'm afraid all the knights in King's Landing would not be able to save you."
Sansa glanced at The Mountain nervously.
Morgana rolled her eyes at his presence, but kept quiet, knowing that her father would not approve of her speaking out against one of his most trusted advisors. However, when Littlefinger had turned his attention to Sansa and began telling her a frightening tale about the Mountain, Morgana could no longer hold her tongue.
"Really, Lord Baelish?" she interjected, her voice cold as ice. "Do you think it wise to scare a young girl with such stories? Especially one who has already been through so much. In a strange new city."
Littlefinger smirked at her, his voice dripping with mockery. "Oh, Princess Morgana. Alwys so quick to defend your family. But I assure you, I have nothing but the utmost respect for the noble Starks."
Morgana raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? Then perhaps you can explain why you keep trying to scare poor Sansa half to death?"
Littlefinger leaned forward, his voice low and menacing. "Ah, but that is the beauty of it, my dear. Fear keeps one sharp, don't you think?"
But Morgana was not convinced. She shot him a warning glance, hoping that he would take the hint and leave the girls alone. If only she could get rid of him sooner rather than later. If she were lucky, both he and the Mountain would meet their ends soon. She didn't trust either of them, especially not after what had happened to the children of her cousin, Rhaegar Targaryen, or the scheming she knew Littlefinger did.
While all of this was happening, Ned stood on his balcony when Jory entered, followed by Cersei.
"My lord, Her Grace the Queen." Jory announced.
"Your Grace..."
"You're missing your tournament." Cersei commented.
"Putting my name on it doesn't make it mine."
"I thought we might put what happened on the Kingsroad behind us – the ugliness with the wolves."
With a brief pause, Ned regarded Cersei shrewdly.
"And nearly forcing you to kill the beast was extreme. Though sometimes we go to extremes where our children are concerned. How is Sansa?"
"She likes it here."
"The only Stark who does. Favors her mother, not much of the North in her." Cersei muttered, condescendingly.
"What are you doing here?"
"I might ask the same of you. What is it you hope to accomplish?"
"The King called on me to serve him and the Realm, and that's what I'll do until he tells me otherwise."
"You can't change him. You can't help him. He'll do what he wants, which is all he's ever done. You'll try your best to pick up the pieces."
"If that's my job, then so be it."
"You're just a soldier, aren't you? You take your orders and you carry on. I suppose it makes sense - your older brother was trained to lead and you were trained to follow."
"I was also trained to kill my enemies, Your Grace."
"As was I."
As she left, Ned watched her with a wary look on his face.
[Red Keep]
There was a small feast held to celebrate the first day of the Hand's tourney. Her father nevr needed an excuse to hold feasts or tourney, but this one had given him the perfect excuse.
The air was alive with the sound of laughter and music, and the smell of roasted meats and freshly baked bread filled the air, and exotic fruits from the far-off lands beyond the Narrow Sea.
As Princess Morgana Baratheon entered the grand hall of King's Landing, she couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. It wasn't just the opulence of the surroundings or the weight of her family's expectations that made her nervous.
Her dark curls cascaded down her back like nightfall, shimmering with silver streaks that seemed to glimmer in the flickering torchlight. Emerald eyes sparkled with mischief as she scanned the room, taking in the awestruck gazes of the courtiers and knights who couldn't help but stare at her regal presence.
She wore a gown of shimmering silk the color of midnight sky, its bodice embroidered with delicate silver thread that caught the light as she moved.
Her beauty was undeniable, but it was tempered by her kindness and intelligence. Many of the lords and ladies present couldn't help but steal glances at her, their gazes lingering on her flawless features.
Morgana knew she cut a striking figure, a true reflection of her mixed lineage - Baratheon, Targaryen, and Lannister blood all blended together in her veins like the finest spices in a king's court.
Despite being the center of attention, Morgana carried herself with grace and humility, her smile warm and welcoming as she made her way through the crowds to take her place at the high table, stopping to speak with this lord or that lady, always with a kind word and a gentle smile. Her presence seemed to light up the entire hall, casting a warm glow over even the most hardened of hearts. It was clear that Morgana was no ordinary princess - she was a true gem among the rubies and diamonds of the court.
Though, her direction changed when she caught sight of her new friends, Sansa and Arya Stark.
Littlefinger, the Master of Coin and one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, was also at the table.
Morgana had nevr been fond of Littlefinger; his calculating gaze and constant scheming left her feeling uncomfortable and wary. And yet, here he was, smiling charmingly at her as if they were old friends.
"My dear Princess," he said, rising to his feet as she approached. "What a pleasure to see you looking so lovely tonight."
Morgana forced a smile and took a seat next to Sansa, trying to ignore the way Littlefinger's eyes lingered on her face. Across from them, Arya seemed lost in thought, staring into her cup of ale as if trying to divine its secrets.
Morgana could feel his gaze on her throughout the evening. There was something about his calculating nature and constant scheming that put her on edge. But she tried her best to ignore him and focus on enjoying the festivities.
"Lord Littlefinger," she said, "I must say, I find your company quite... stimulating."
Littlefinger bowed his head, his smile spreading wide across his face. "Princess Morgana, it is an honor to have you join us. I was just telling these young ladies about the intricacies of court politics. Such a fascinating subject, don't you think?"
Morgana raised an eyebrow, sensing a trap. She knew that Littlefinger would stop at nothing to gain power and influence, and she suspected that he was trying to manipulate her into doing his bidding. But she also knew that she needed allies in this treacherous game of thrones, and so she forced a polite smile onto her lips.
"Indeed, Lord Littlefinger," she replied, leaning forward eagerly. "I am all ears."
She knew that Littlefinger would stop at nothing to gain power and influence, and she wondered what scheme he might be hatching next. But for now, she was content to sit with her new friends and enjoy the quiet moments of respite from the chaos of court life.
As the night wore on, talk turned to the recent events of the tournament. The death of Ser Hugh, a skilled knight from the Vale, at the hands of Gregor Clegane, known as The Mountain, weighed heavily on everyone's minds. Morgana felt a pang of sadness at the loss of life, even though she had only met Ser Hugh briefly during the preliminary rounds.
"It's a tragic turn of events," Morgana said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Ser Hugh was a true champion and a noble knight."
"Indeed," Littlefinger replied, his voice dripping with (false?) sincerity. "But such is the price of glory. One must always be prepared to make sacrifices for the greater good."
Morgana shot him a sideways glance, sensing his hidden motives. She knew that Littlefinger was always looking for ways to increase his own power and influence, and she suspected that he might have played a role in Ser Hugh's untimely demise. But she kept her thoughts to herself, knowing better than to accuse someone without proof.
For now, she focused on enjoying the rest of the feast and the company of her friends. She knew that tomorrow would bring new challenges and dangers, and she needed to be ready to face whatever lay ahead.
Morgana would nevr trust Littlefinger; his eyes seemed to gleam with a sinister intent that made her skin crawl. She knew that he was alwys scheming something, and she preferred to keep her distance from him. But tonight, she found herself drawn to their table nonetheless, seeking refuge from her father's boorish behavior.
The wine flowed freely, Morgana found herself growing increasingly agitated. She had nevr been one for idle chitchat and polite smiles, except when necessary; she much preferred action and adventure. Every time she caught Littlefinger's eye, she felt a shiver run down her spine. She knew he was up to something - she could always sense when he was plotting something.
Morgana proved to anyone who spoke to her that she was not only beautiful but also intelligent and witty, engaging in lively discussions with the other guests and showing a keen interest in their stories and experiences. It was clear that she was more than just a pretty face, and that she possessed a sharp mind and a strong spirit that would serve her well in her future endeavors.
The other nobles present couldn't help but feel a sense of envy towards the king, who had the privilege of calling such a lovely and regal woman his daughter.
Even her mother, the queen, could not help but beam with pride whenevrr she looked upon her beloved daughter.
Most of the conversations were simple enough.
Though, as the night wore on, Morgana found herself tiring of the constant stream of courtiers vying for her attention. She had already been subjected to countless boring conversations about the latest gossip and politics, and she longed for something more substantial.
She rose from her seat, feeling more than a little overwhelmed by the festivities. The past few dais had been a whirlwind of activity, what with the arrival of the Hand's tourney and all the pomp and circumstance that accompanied it. She had attended countless balls and banquets, met scores of nobles and their families, and even participated in a few mock battles herself. But now, as she made her way through the crowded great hall, she couldn't help but feel grateful for the respite that the ending of the feast would bring.
"Your Highness!" one of the serving girls called out, rushing forward to offer a bow. "Shall I fetch you some more wine?"
Morgana smiled graciously, declining with a wave of her hand. "No thank you, dear. I think I have had my fill of drink and merriment for tonight."
In truth, she was simply eager to escape the crush of people and find some peace and quiet. The constant barrage of conversation and laughter had left her feeling drained and overstimulated.
Upon entering her apartment, she collapsed onto her bed, ready to rest and forget about the events of the day.
Too tired to bother with her usual bedtime routine, she simply fell into bed and let sleep claim her.
But her rest was not to last. As she drifted off, Morgana began to experience a terrifying nightmare.
In her dream, she saw Robb standing before her, his eyes filled with love and adoration. But then, suddenly, the scene switched and he was stabbed in the heart, blood pouring out of his chest. Morgana woke up with a start, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. It was only a nightmare, she told herself, but the memory of Robb's lifeless body lingered in her mind.
She sat up, gasping for air, but as she did, a loud crash echoed through her chamber. Glass shattered, and the sound of breaking objects filled the room. Morgana froze, her heart pounding in fear. She knew she hadn't fallen asleep again, but someone - or something - was in her room.
Guards rushed into the chamber, their weapons drawn. "My Lady!" one of them shouted, concern etched on his face. "Are you okay?"
Morgana shook her head, still trying to process what was happening. "I-I don't know," she stammered. "I heard noises, and then... glass broke."
Her mother, Queen Cersei, appeared in the doorway, her expression severe. "What's going on here?" she demanded.
"My Lady was crying out in her sleep," one of the guards explained. "We came in to find her sitting upright in bed, surrounded by broken glass."
The guards quickly secured the area and reported back to Queen Cersei, who immediately rushed to her daughter's side.
"Morgana, what did you see?" she asked, concern etched on her face.
But Morgana could only shake her head, still trembling with fear. "I saw... I saw Robb," she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. "He was dead, Mother. He was stabbed."
Cersei's expression turned cold, her voice icy. "It was just a dream, child. A bad dream. You're safe here, in the Red Keep."
But Morgana knew better. She knew that her nightmares were more than just figments of her imagination. She knew that someone was trying to tell her something, to warn her of danger. And she feared that if she didn't listen, the next time she dreamed, it might not just be Robb who would be killed...
Morgana hesitated before speaking, unsure of how much to reveal. "I had a nightmare," she admitted finally. "Robb... he was dead. I saw him lying on the floor, bleeding..."
Cersei's face hardened. "Another vision?" she asked sharply. "Or was this simply a dream?"
Morgana shook her head, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. "I don't know," she whispered. "It felt so real... and now this." She gestured to the shattered glass around her. "Why would things break if it was just a dream?"
Cersei frowned, her gaze piercing. "We will investigate this further," she said firmly. "In the meantime, you will rest and try to get some more sleep. Tomorrow we will speak with the maesters and see if they can offer any explanation for these strange occurrences."
Without waiting for a reply, Cersei turned and left the room, her guards following closely behind. Morgana watched her go, feeling lost and confused. What was happening to her? And why did these terrifying visions keep plaguing her mind?
~ Next Day ~
The first day had concluded shortly after the death of Ser Hugh. Today was the finals between Ser Loras, The Knight of Flowers, and The Mountain.
Ned Stark crossed the stone bridge to the Tourney of the Hand's grounds. He passed workers as they prepare for the day's games and made his way to the fallen Ser Hugh's tent where he joined Barristan Selmy in watching over the dead knight's burial preparations.
"Does Ser Hugh have any family in the capital?" Ned asked.
"No. I stood vigil for him myself last night. He had no one else."
"He'd nevr worn this armour before." Ned told the Knight, inspecting the armour.
"Bad luck for him ... going against the Mountain."
"Who determines the draw?"
"All the knights draw straws, Lord Stark."
"Aye ... but who holds the straws?" He turned to the Silent Sisters who had been preparing the body. "You've done good work, sisters."
Both Ned and Barristan exited the tent and walk along the other tents, continuing to talk.
"Life is strange. Not so many years ago we fought as enemies at the Trident."
"I'm glad we nevr met on the field, Ser Barristan ... as is my wife. I don't think the widow's life would suit her.
Ser Barristan chuckled. "You're too modest. I've seen you cut down a dozen great knights."
"My father once told me you were the best he'd ever seen. I nevr knew the man to be wrong about matters of combat."
"He was a fine man, your father. What the Mad King did to him was a terrible crime."
Ned pointed back to Ser Hugh's tent. "And that lad ... he was a squire until a few months ago. How could he afford a new suit of armour?"
"Perhaps Lord Arryn left him some money?" He said, before changing the subject. "I hear the King wants to joust today."
"Yes. That will nevr happen."
Ser Barristan chuckled. "Robert tends to do what he wants."
"If the King got what he wanted al the time, we'd still be fighting a damned rebellion."
Ned left Ser Barristan's side as they neared King Robert Baratheon's tent. stepping inside. Inside, Lancel Lannister was attempting to dress King Robert in his armour.
"It's made too small, Your Grace. It won't go." Lancel told him, meekly.
"Your mother was a dumb whοre with a fat ass. Did you know that?" He then turned to Ned. "Look at this idiot! One ball and no brains. He can't even put a man's armour on him properly."
"You're too fat for your armour."
"Fat? Fat, is it? Is that how you speak to your King?"
Robert and Ned laughed before Robert turned to Lancel who was grinning. "That was funny, is it?"
"No, Your Grace."
"No? You don't like the Hand's joke?"
Lancel looked between the men, stuttering.
"You're torturing the poor boy." Ned stepped in.
"You heard the Hand. The King's too fat for his armor! Go find the breastplate stretcher -- now!"
Lancel ran from the tent, eyes wide.
"The breastplate stretcher?" Ned asked, once he was gone.
"How long before he figures it out?"
"Maybe you should have one invented." Ned quipped.
"All right, all right. But you watch me out there. I still know how to point a lance."
"You have no business jousting. Leave that for the young men." Ned told him.
"Why? Because I'm king? Piss on that. I want to hit somebody!"
"And who's going to hit you back?"
"Anybody who can. And the last man in his saddle ... will be you!"
"There's not a man in the Seven Kingdoms would risk hurting you."
"Are you telling me those cowards would let me win?"
"Aye."
Robert poured a drink, offering it to Ned. "Drink."
"I'm not thirsty." Ned declined.
"Drink. Your King commands it." Ned took the cup. "Gods! Too fat for my armor."
"Your squire ... a Lannister boy?"
"Hmm ... a bloody idiot ... but Cersei insisted. I have Jon Arryn to thank for her. "Cersei Lannister will make a good match", he told me. "You'll need her father on your side." And what do I have to show for it. A daughter who is a Targaryen in all but name. And three children Cersei is determined to raise into miniature versions of herself. I thought being King meant I could do whatever I wanted. Enough of this! Let's go watch 'em ride. At least I can smell someone else's blood." He began making his way out of the tent, only to be stopped by his friend.
"Robert?"
"What?" Looking down, he noticed his naked fat belly protruding from his jacket, before laughing. "Oh! An inspiring sight for the people, eh?"
Both men made their way to watch the conclusion of the tourney, Robert sitting on the elevated platform with his children, and Ned joining Sansa in the stands.
"Come! Bow before your King! Bow, you sh¡ts!"
Cheering crowds lined both sides of the jousting track as Ser Gregor Clegane rode down the lane, stopping in front of the King's stand, opening his helmet and bowing.
A tier down from the King's left, Ned was seated next to his daughter, Sansa Stark, Littlefinger directly behind them.
"Where's Arya?" Ned asked.
"At her dancing lessons." Sansa replied, absentmindedly, her focus on the approaching knight. "The Knight of the Flowers." Said knight approached the stands, stopping in front of Sansa and offering her a rose, which she accepted.
"Thank you, Ser Loras."
After nodding toward Sansa, Loras exchanged a secretive look with the King's brother, Renly Baratheon, who was seated higher up.
After a few seconds, Renly discreetly motioned for him to join his opponent, which he did, riding over and joining Gregor in front of the King's stand, bowing before the king.
Gregor's horse became noticeably skittish as both men rode off in opposite directions toward the ends of the jousting track.
"Don't let Ser Gregor hurt him." Sansa pleaded, clutching her father's arm.
"Hey." He tried comforting his daughter.
"I can't watch."
"100 gold dragons on the Mountain." Littlefinger turned, speaking to Renly.
"I'll take that bet."
"Now what will I buy with 100 gold dragons? A dozen barrels of Dornish wine? Or a girl from the pleasure houses of Lys?"
"Or you could even buy a friend." Renly jabbed.
"He's going to die." Sansa whispered to her father.
"Ser Loras rides well." Ned told her.
The trumpet sounded and both jousters rode toward one another. In the very first pass, Loras' lance broke upon Gregor's shield, knocking him to the ground.
Renly jumps up laughing and clapping.
"Such a shame, Littlefinger. It would have been so nice for you to have a friend." He turned, taunting the man.
"And tell me, Lord Renly, when will you be having your friend?" Littlefinger asked, gesturing towards Loras, causing the smile to quickly disappear. Littlefinger returned to his seat, leaning forward, speaking to Lord Stark, "Loras knew his mare was in heat. Quite crafty, really."
"Ser Loras would nevr do that! There's no honour in tricks." Sansa protested.
"No honor but quite a bit of gold."
The Mountain rose from the ground, shouting for his sword. Grabbing it from his squire, with one mighty stroke, he severed his horse's head. Shocked, the crowd grew quiet, watching as he stormed over to Loras, knocking him off of his horse and strikes with his sword. Loras' shield protects him from the blows.
"Somebody do something!" Aelinor shouted. "He's going to kill him!"
"Leave him be!" The Hound roared.
Drawing his own sword, The Hound jumped down from the King's stand and engaged his brother, Gregor in a sword fight.
After a few strikes, the king rose to his feet, shouting, "Stop this madness in the name of your King!"
The Hound immediately dropped to a knee and bowed his head, while Gregor's blade sliced the air where The Hound's head was just seconds ago. Gregor threw down his sword before stomping off through the crowd.
Loras approached The Hound. "I owe you my life, Ser."
"I'm no Ser."
Ignoring him, Loras grabbed Sandor's left hand with his right and raised both in the air to the cheers of a standing ovation.