A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

slender circlet around his brows seemed to suit him well. It was
soft gold, a ring of roses exquisitely wrought; at the front lifted a stag’s
head of dark green jade, adorned with golden eyes and golden antlers.
    The crowned stag decorated the king’s green velvet tunic as well, worked in
gold thread upon his chest; the Baratheon sigil in the colors of Highgarden.
The girl who shared the high seat with him was also of Highgarden: his young
queen, Margaery, daughter to Lord Mace Tyrell. Their marriage was the mortar
that held the great southron alliance together, Catelyn knew. Renly was
one-and-twenty, the girl no older than Robb, very pretty, with a doe’s soft
eyes and a mane of curling brown hair that fell about her shoulders in lazy
ringlets. Her smile was shy and sweet.
    Out in the field, another man lost his seat to the knight in the
rainbow-striped cloak, and the king shouted approval with the rest.
“Loras!”
she heard him call.
“Loras! Highgarden!”
The
queen clapped her hands together in excitement.
    Catelyn turned to see the end of it. Only four men were left in the fight now,
and there was small doubt whom king and commons favored. She had never met Ser
Loras Tyrell, but even in the distant north one heard tales of the prowess of
the young Knight of Flowers. Ser Loras rode a tall white stallion in silver
mail, and fought with a long-handled axe. A crest of golden roses ran down the
center of his helm.
    Two of the other survivors had made common cause. They spurred their
mounts toward the knight in the cobalt armor. As they closed to either side,
the blue knight reined hard, smashing one man full in the face with his
splintered shield while his black destrier lashed out with a steel-shod hoof at
the other. In a blink, one combatant was unhorsed, the other reeling. The blue
knight let his broken shield drop to the ground to free his left arm, and then
the Knight of Flowers was on him. The weight of his steel seemed to
hardly diminish the grace and quickness with which Ser Loras moved, his rainbow cloak
swirling about him.
    The white horse and the black one wheeled like lovers at a harvest dance, the
riders throwing steel in place of kisses. Longaxe flashed and morningstar
whirled. Both weapons were blunted, yet still they raised an awful clangor.
Shieldless, the blue knight was getting much the worse of it. Ser Loras rained
down blows on his head and shoulders, to shouts of
“Highgarden!”
from the throng. The other gave answer with his morningstar, but whenever the
ball came crashing in, Ser Loras interposed his battered green shield,
emblazoned with three golden roses. When the longaxe caught the blue knight’s
hand on the backswing and sent the morningstar flying from his grasp, the crowd
screamed like a rutting beast. The Knight of Flowers raised his axe for the
final blow.
    The blue knight charged into it. The stallions slammed together, the blunted
axehead smashed against the scarred blue breastplate . . . but
somehow the blue knight had the haft locked

between steel-gauntleted fingers. He wrenched it from Ser Loras’s hand, and
suddenly the two were grappling mount-to-mount, and an instant later they were
falling. As their horses pulled apart, they crashed to the ground with
bone-jarring force. Loras Tyrell, on the bottom, took the brunt of the impact.
The blue knight pulled a long dirk free and flicked open Tyrell’s visor. The
roar of the crowd was too loud for Catelyn to hear what Ser Loras said, but she
saw the word form on his split, bloody lips.
Yield.
    The blue knight climbed unsteady to his feet, and raised his dirk in the
direction of Renly Baratheon, the salute of a champion to his king. Squires
dashed onto the field to help the vanquished knight to his feet. When they got
his helm off, Catelyn was startled to see how young he was. He could not have
had more than two years on Robb. The boy might have been as comely as his sister,
but the broken lip, unfocused eyes, and blood trickling through his matted hair
made it hard to be certain.
    â€œApproach,” King Renly called to the champion.
    He limped toward the gallery. At close hand, the brilliant blue armor looked
rather less splendid; everywhere it showed scars, the dents of mace and
warhammer, the long gouges left by swords, chips in the enameled breastplate
and helm. His cloak hung in rags. From the way he moved, the man within