A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

shaded beneath a crimson canopy, one leg thrown negligently over
the carved wooden arm of his chair. Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen sat
behind him. In the back of the royal box, Sandor Clegane stood at guard, his
hands resting on his swordbelt. The white cloak of the Kingsguard was draped
over his broad shoulders and fastened with a jeweled brooch, the snowy cloth
looking somehow unnatural against his brown roughspun tunic and studded leather
jerkin. “Lady Sansa,” the Hound announced curtly when he saw her. His voice
was as rough as the sound of a saw on wood. The burn scars on his face and
throat made one side

of his mouth twitch when he spoke.
    Princess Myrcella nodded a shy greeting at the sound of Sansa’s name, but plump
little Prince Tommen jumped up eagerly. “Sansa, did you hear? I’m to ride in
the tourney today. Mother said I could.” Tommen was all of eight. He reminded
her of her own little brother, Bran. They were of an age. Bran was back at
Winterfell, a cripple, yet safe.
    Sansa would have given anything to be with him. “I fear for the life of your
foeman,” she told Tommen solemnly.
    â€œHis foeman will be stuffed with straw,” Joff said as he rose. The king was
clad in a gilded breastplate with a roaring lion engraved upon its chest, as if
he expected the war to engulf them at any moment. He was thirteen today, and
tall for his age, with the green eyes and golden hair of the
Lannisters.
    â€œYour Grace,” she said, dipping in a curtsy.
    Ser Arys bowed. “Pray pardon me, Your Grace. I must equip myself for the
lists.”
    Joffrey waved a curt dismissal while he studied Sansa from head to heels. “I’m
pleased you wore my stones.”
    So the king had decided to play the gallant today. Sansa was relieved. “I
thank you for them . . . and for your tender words. I pray you
a lucky name day, Your Grace.”
    â€œSit,” Joff commanded, gesturing her to the empty seat beside his own. “Have
you heard? The Beggar King is dead.”
    â€œWho?” For a moment Sansa was afraid he meant Robb.
    â€œViserys. The last son of Mad King Aerys. He’s been going

about the Free Cities since before I was born, calling himself a king. Well,
Mother says the Dothraki finally crowned him. With molten gold.” He laughed.
“That’s funny, don’t you think? The dragon was their sigil. It’s almost as
good as if some wolf killed your traitor brother. Maybe I’ll feed him to wolves
after I’ve caught him. Did I tell you, I intend to challenge him to single
combat?”
    â€œI should like to see that, Your Grace.”
More than you know.
Sansa
kept her tone cool and polite, yet even so Joffrey’s eyes narrowed as he tried
to decide whether she was mocking him. “Will you enter the lists today?” she
asked quickly.
    The king frowned. “My lady mother said it was not fitting, since the tourney
is in my honor. Otherwise I would have been champion. Isn’t that so,
dog?”
    The Hound’s mouth twitched. “Against this lot? Why not?”
    He
had been the champion in her father’s tourney, Sansa remembered.
“Will you joust today, my lord?” she asked him.
    Clegane’s voice was thick with contempt. “Wouldn’t be worth the bother of
arming myself. This is a tournament of gnats.”
    The king laughed. “My dog has a fierce bark. Perhaps I should command him to
fight the day’s champion. To the death.” Joffrey was fond of making men fight
to the death.
    â€œYou’d be one knight the poorer.” The Hound had never taken a knight’s vows.
His brother was a knight, and he hated his brother.
    A blare of trumpets sounded. The king settled back in his

seat and took Sansa’s hand. Once that would have set her heart to pounding, but
that was before he had answered her plea for mercy by presenting her with her
father’s head. His touch filled her with revulsion now, but she knew better
than to show it. She made herself sit very still.
    â€œSer Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard,”
a herald called.
    Ser Meryn entered from the west side of the yard, clad in gleaming white
plate chased with gold and mounted on a milk-white charger with a flowing grey
mane. His cloak streamed behind him like a field of snow. He carried a
twelve-foot lance.
    â€œSer Hobber of House Redwyne, of the