After interminable delays caused by a host of factors, not least the extravagant preparations called upon by the king to appropriately celebrate the conquest of Dorne, it seems that at last the tourney draws near. The tourney fields are now readied for the inevitable sea of tents and pavillions that will serve as home to hundreds of visitors, and the lists and barriers are all whitewashed perfection. Wagons come in daily, laden with victuals, cloth, and other goods to help feed and keep the noblemen who will come to feast day in and day out. Ships have come the last month from the Arbor, and longshoremen have rolled out great casks of golden wine along the quays and unto carts that carry them away to the Red Keep. It truly seems set to be the grandest tourney in a century.
Ser William Waxley, it is said, has aged five years with all the labor he has done upon the king’s behalf. More than two dozen men, and a handful of women, are known to carry out commands on his behalf to see that all the preparations are done. It’s rumored that the pyromancers have been paid to provide nightly displays of their alchemy, and that fools and jesters from throughout the Seven Kingdoms have come to perform in the streets and the squares of the city in hopes of finding fame, wealth, or at least regular employment. So, too, have hedge knights and freeriders made their way to the city, in hopes of making a mark and finding some lord—perhaps even the king—who’ll take them as a sworn sword. It is a grand time, the city charged with energy as it awaits the approaching festivities.