Chapter 19

Robert Baratheon

The pavilion was large enough to house a dozen men comfortably, its canvas walls dyed deep crimson and gold. Lannister colors, of course, because everything at this thrice-damned tournament bore the lion. Robert stood in the center while two young squires worked at his armor, buckling straps and adjusting plates and tying off knots.

"Good work, lads," Robert said, testing the movement of his right pauldron. He had wanted to thank them by name, only to realize with a stab of shame that he had never bothered to learn what they were called. They had been his squires for more than a year now, one a Crownlands lad with dark hair, the other a Stormlander, he thought, though he was not entirely sure. Or was it the other way around?

At least they were not more of the yellow-headed shits. His court was already full enough of Lannisters without adding more of the fuckers as his squires, no matter how much Cersei or Jon Arryn insisted it would be politically wise.

Gods, but thinking of Lannisters made him want a drink.

His hand moved almost of its own accord toward the wineskin hanging from the pavilion's center post. Expensive Arbor gold, the kind that went down smooth as silk and left you wanting more. His fingers brushed the leather—

No.

Robert pulled his hand back, curling it into a fist. He had a melee to fight in. And after that... war. War with whatever Targaryens remained skulking in the east. Those ships in the Blackwater had been a message, a declaration. The dragons thought they could come back, thought they could reclaim what Robert had taken with his warhammer.

This time he would war with them until there were none left. He would make sure of it. Would hunt down every last silver-haired spawn and crush their skulls himself if he had to.

He would not touch another drop until the dragonspawn were gone from the earth.

"Your Grace, we've finished with the armor."

Robert looked down. The Crownlands boy—or was he the Stormlander?—stood back, waiting for approval. The armor fit well, black plate enameled with the crowned stag of House Baratheon. Solid steel that would turn a blade, not the ornamental shit some lords wore to look pretty.

Nodding, Robert grabbed the wineskin from its hook and tossed it to the darker-haired lad. "Here, you two have some fun after this is done. Don't let the old men see you, eh?"

Their faces lit up like he had just handed them gold. "Thank you, Your Grace!"

Robert smiled despite himself as the boys grinned conspiratorially at each other, already planning where they would drink it. It reminded him of himself and Ned back at the Eyrie, sneaking wine from Jon Arryn's stores and getting drunk in the godswood, talking about girls and glory and all the great deeds they would do when they were finally knights.

At that thought, his mood darkened like clouds covering the sun. He had said things he regretted back when they took King's Landing. Things about Rhaegar's missing children that Ned had taken badly, too badly, Robert thought, for bastards spawned by the man who had stolen Lyanna. And then Lyanna's death had only worsened everything. 

Robert had thought the shared grief might bring them together again, two friends mourning the woman they had both loved. Instead, Ned had never even stopped at King's Landing on his way back north. 

So grief-stricken, they said, that he could not bear to stay. And since then he had hardly answered any ravens beyond what was expected of him as Warden of the North, sending polite excuses whenever Robert invited him south.

Robert shook his head. Gods, but where had it all gone wrong with them?

The pavilion flap opened and Ser Barristan Selmy entered, his white cloak bright even in the dimness of the tent. His weathered face was apprehensive, worried in a way that made Robert's jaw tighten.

"Your Grace, I must plead with you once more to reconsider this."

"No." The word came out flat and hard.

"Your Grace…"

"I said no, ser." Robert's voice rose. He was tired of this, had been hearing the same thing for the last two days from Barristan and Tywin Lannister and the Kingslayer with his annoying smirk. "You want me out of the melee that badly? Fine. I'll give you the best chance at it yourself."

Barristan frowned, not understanding. Robert did not care. Grabbing his great antlered helmet from where it sat on a wooden chest, he pushed past the Kingsguard and out of the pavilion. Let the old man worry. He was fighting, and that was the end of it.

Outside, the tourney grounds had been transformed for the grand melee. The tilt lanes had been removed, leaving a wide open area of churned sand and grass before the stands. Seven pavilions had been erected just outside the fighting ground, one for each kingdom's contingent. Huge banners flew above them, visible from anywhere in the grounds. Two of them bore the crowned stag, one for the Crownlands and another for the Stormalands. One had the golden lion and another the rose, while the pavilions for the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale had numerous smaller banners fluttering in the wind.

The stands were packed to bursting, every seat filled with nobles in their finest clothes. But the real crowd was on the hillocks opposite, where thousands of smallfolk had gathered. They covered the slopes like ants on a carcass, standing and sitting and climbing into trees for a better view. Their roar was a constant presence, a wall of sound that made Robert's blood sing.

He strode toward the Stormlander pavilion, his armor clanking with each step. He had decided to fight with the stormlords, with his home, his people, the men he had grown up among before he went off to the Vale. Not with the Crownlands contingent that would have been expected.

Inside the pavilion, he found familiar faces waiting. Lord Selwyn Tarth stood tall and broad-shouldered, his plain armor a contrast to the finery others wore. Ser Gulian Swann, brawny and thick-necked, broke into his characteristic broad smile when Robert entered. Ser Bonifer Hasty and Ser Cedrik Storm, both known tourney knights with scars to prove it. Two younger men Robert did not recognize stood near the back, their faces bright with excitement.

"Your Grace!" They all bowed as one.

Lord Selwyn straightened first. "I take it Ser Barristan did not manage to dissuade you?"

Robert frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The Lord Commander came to us first." Selwyn's expression was apologetic. "He told us to inform Your Grace that we had already filled all seven spots for the Stormlands. That there was no room."

For a moment, Robert could only stare. Then rage, hot and sudden, flooded through him. His hands clenched into fists. "Did he now?"

The tent went quiet.

"So Barristan the Bold thinks he can keep his king from the field?" Robert's voice came out as a growl. "Thinks he can tell me where I can and cannot fight?" He looked around the pavilion, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "Any man here too afraid to fight a kingsguard?"

Silence. Then Ser Cedrik Storm grinned. "Not I, Your Grace."

"Nor I," Gulian Swann added, his smile turning wolfish.

"Good." Robert's grin matched theirs. "We're going after the white cloaks first, then. I want Barristan's head ringing before anyone else's."

Eager smiles spread across faces, especially among the younger men. Robert gestured to them. "You two. What are your names?"

"Ser Richard Horpe, Your Grace." The taller one bowed. Serious face, good shoulders.

"Ser Rolland Storm, Your Grace." The other was stockier, with a bastard's hungry look.

"Good names. Try not to die, eh?" Robert clapped Rolland on the shoulder hard enough to make the young knight stagger. "Save that for the real war that's coming."

He walked to the side of the pavilion where weapons hung on racks, swords and axes and maces, all live steel for this melee. His eyes found what he was looking for immediately.

The warhammer.

It was bigger than anything else around it, with an iron spike that, were it not blunted, would carve through a breastplate like parchment. Just like he had asked Selwyn to commission for him. 

Putting on his helmet first, Robert reached down and lifted the warhammer. A grin spread wide across his mouth. Gods, but it felt good. Heavy and real in his grasp, the weight familiar and comfortable like greeting an old friend. This was what he was made for, not sitting on thrones and listening to lords bicker about taxes and trade. This. Battle. Blood. Victory.

Robert turned to face his team, the hammer resting on his shoulder. Through the slits of his antlered helm, he could see their eager faces, their barely contained violence.

"Let's smash some fucking kingsguards, eh?"

The Stormlander contingent roared their approval, and Robert felt more alive than he had in years.

xxx

The trumpet's blast cut through the roar of the crowd and Robert did not waste a second.

He charged forward, warhammer in hand, making straight for the white cloaks among the Crownlands contingent. His boots pounded against the churned earth, the weight of his armor feeling right on his shoulders.

The Stormlanders followed in a tight wedge around him, their war cries joining the cacophony that had erupted across the melee ground.

Young Horpe's words from earlier still burned in Robert's mind, making his blood hotter with each step. No horses, Your Grace. Ser Barristan had a talk with the master-of-games after you decided to join. Says it could avoid some accidents.

Accidents. As if Robert were some doddering old fool who might fall off his horse and break his neck. He was twenty-seven, in his prime, not some ancient relic ready for the grave.

He would show Selmy something worse than an accident.

Around them, the melee had already exploded into chaos. Across the field, Northmen clashed with Westerlanders in a churning mass of steel and fury. To his right, Reachmen in their golden roses traded blows with Riverlanders. Some fought in tight groups, shield walls pressing against each other. Others had broken off into individual duels, two knights circling, testing, striking. Live steel glinted in the afternoon sun. Blood would be spilled today. Bones would be broken.

It was not war, but it was close enough to make Robert's heart sing.

The Valemen, who had been closest to the Stormlanders at the start, veered sharply away when they noticed Robert showing them his back as he moved toward the Crownlanders. Smart. Let them find easier prey. Robert only had eyes for the white cloaks.

He reached Ser Boros Blount first. The kingsguard stood with a knot of Crownland knights, more white cloaks among them than regular men. Inside his helmet, the man's piggy eyes widened when he saw the antlered king bearing down on him.

In that moment, that single heartbeat of hesitation, Robert found himself disgusted. How had he let such rabble don a white cloak? Boros Blount was a name without glory, a knight without distinction. What had possessed him to make such a mediocre man one of his seven?

The Stormlanders engaged with the Crownlanders around them in a clash of steel and shouting. Robert caught glimpses of the matchups as they formed, Ser Barristan crossing swords with Bonifer Hasty, both men moving with the grace of veterans. Lord Selwyn Tarth pressing hard against Ser Ilyn Payne, the mute king's justice defending with mechanical precision. The eager young knights, Horpe and Rolland Storm, facing off against Ser Mandon Moore's simple but deadly swordsmanship and Ser Meryn Trant's brutality.

"Your Grace," Boros said, his voice uncertain. His sword wavered, half-raised, as if unsure whether to lift it in attack or defense.

Robert growled, a sound that came from deep in his chest, animal and furious, and attacked.

The warhammer came down in a devastating arc. Boros barely got his shield up in time. The impact sent a crack through the painted wood, his own crowned stag splitting down the middle.

"Fight back!" Robert roared, pressing forward. Another strike. The shield splintered further. "Fight back, damn you!"

Boros tried a weak thrust with his sword, a hesitant probe that had no power behind it. Robert batted it aside contemptuously with the haft of his hammer, then brought the weapon around in a brutal sideways swing that caught Boros on the leg. Even through the armor, the impact was tremendous.

The knight cried out and fell to one knee, sword arm dropping.

Robert did not hesitate. He brought the haft of his warhammer down on Boros's helmet in a ringing blow that sent the man sprawling face-first into the mud.

Yield did not even make it past the knight's lips before unconsciousness took him.

Robert stood over the fallen kingsguard, breathing hard, disgust curling his lip. The man was not good enough to polish the blades at the Red Keep, much less wield one and call himself a knight of the Kingsguard. Another of his mistakes. Another reminder of how far things had fallen since he took the throne.

He turned from Boros's motionless form to survey the melee.

Most of the men were still locked in their individual duels, honor-bound not to interfere. Lord Gulian Swann and Ser Cedrik Storm fought in a pair against Ser Roger Hogg and a knight whose surcoat bore the Byrch sigil, trading blows in a brutal four-way dance. Swords rang against shields. Men grunted with effort.

Closer by, Ser Barristan had finally turned up the intensity against Bonifer Hasty. Robert watched as the Lord Commander executed a brilliant counter-riposte—blade sliding along blade, a twist of the wrist, and suddenly Hasty's sword was spinning through the air. A heartbeat later, Barristan's blade rested against the knight's throat.

He couldn’t help the grunt of acknowledgement that escaped him. Say what you would about Selmy, the man was damned good with a sword. Even if he was a meddlesome, Targaryen-loving headache.

"Selmy!" Robert bellowed at him.

Ser Barristan turned, his white cloak swirling. "Your Grace."

Robert grinned behind his antlered helm. "Come. I'll show you how I killed that prissy prince of yours."

For just an instant, Robert swore he saw a shadow flash across the old knight's eyes beneath his helmet. Good. Let him feel it. Let him remember.

Barristan said nothing, but his grip on his sword tightened as he strode forward to meet the king, and they came together like thunder.

Robert struck first, his warhammer descending in a blow that would have caved in a lesser man's skull. Barristan's shield caught it, absorbing the impact, but the force drove him back a step. The Lord Commander recovered instantly, his sword darting forward in a thrust aimed at the gap beneath Robert's arm. Robert twisted, the blade scraping harmlessly across his breastplate, and countered with a horizontal swing.

Back and forth they went, attack and defense, each testing the other. Robert pressed with his superior strength, each hammer blow carrying enough force to shatter bone. But Barristan was faster, more experienced, his blade always there to deflect or his feet carrying him out of range at the last instant.

Robert tried a feint, pretending to overextend, leaving his left side open, but Barristan did not take the bait. The old knight had seen too many battles to fall for such tricks.

They circled, trading blows that rang out across the melee ground. Robert's breath came harder now, his chest heaving. He was strong, yes, but he was not as fast as he had been at the Trident. Too many years sitting on his arse, drinking and eating and letting himself grow soft. The warrior who had killed Rhaegar was still there, but buried under years of apathy and wine.

Barristan pressed his advantage, his sword a silver blur. Robert gave ground, his hammer coming up again and again to block. The old knight did not tire, did not slow.

Robert's boot hit a patch of mud churned up by earlier fighting. His foot slipped. For a terrible instant he was off-balance, his guard open, his throat exposed.

Barristan's sword did not move.

The moment passed. Robert recovered his footing. And rage, pure, incandescent rage, flooded through him.

"I'll fucking kill you if you don't take me seriously, Selmy!" Robert roared.

He attacked with a fury that bordered on madness, hammer rising and falling like a smith at his forge. Each blow was meant to kill, to crush, to break. No more testing. No more sparring.

"Ours!" Strike. "Is!" Strike. "The!" Strike. "Fury!" The final blow came down with all Robert's strength behind it, smashing into Barristan's shield with such force that it drove the Lord Commander to his knees.

Robert followed through, hooking the spike of his hammer onto the edge of the shield and wrenching it aside. His boot lashed out, catching Barristan square in the chest and sending him sprawling onto his back.

Robert stood over him, hammer raised for the killing blow.

"Yield, Your Grace," Barristan said.

But his voice was not winded. Not tired. Not the ragged breathing of a man pushed to his limit.

Robert realized with a sick twist in his gut that the old knight had not given his all. Had been holding back. Treating him like a child who needed to be humored, allowed his little victory so he would not throw a tantrum.

"Gods damn you, Selmy," Robert growled. He wanted to smash the hammer down anyway, consequences be damned. But he did not. Could not. Not when half the realm was watching. Not when he knew he would regret it as soon as he did it.

Instead, he looked around the melee ground, searching for something to vent the fury burning in his chest.

Ser Mandon Moore had defeated young Horpe, but Ser Rolland Storm had downed Meryn Trant and was now pressing the attack against Moore, his bastard's hunger driving him forward. Selwyn Tarth had gained the upper hand against Ser Ilyn Payne, raining blows down on the mute knight's defense. The other pairs were still locked in their slow, grinding duels.

Robert did not care about any of it.

His eyes scanned the chaos, looking for worthy prey. He spotted the Mountain first—an impossibly tall figure in grey plate, fighting alongside so many men with roaring lions on their breastplates that they looked like a giant mummer and his troupe. Gregor Clegane was laying about with a greatsword that would have taken three normal men to lift, sending knights flying with each swing.

And there, among the Westerlanders, Robert found what he was looking for.

A knight in glittering golden armor, white cloak billowing as he finished off a Northman with a precise thrust through the armpit gap. Even from this distance, Robert recognized that arrogant grace.

Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer.

Robert's grip tightened on his warhammer. Only smashing the golden boy could settle the fury inside him now.

He started forward, leaving Barristan in the mud behind him, his eyes fixed on the man who had robbed him of his chance to kill the Mad King himself.

Time to remind the realm what Robert Baratheon's warhammer could do.

xxx

Galad

The melee ground erupted into chaos at the sound of the trumpet.

Lord Randyll Tarly's plan had been simple: stay put and let another team approach first. Let them expend their energy crossing the open ground while the Reach contingent conserved theirs. Ser Emmon Cuy had whinged about it, and Ser Jon Fossoway had muttered something about looking like cowards before the realm, but Lord Randyll was not a man to be moved by grumbling. His word was law among the Reach's seven, and his word was to hold position.

They did not have to wait long. The Riverlanders came at them immediately, their formation spreading out as they crossed the churned earth of the melee ground. 

Galad spotted sigils and faces he recognized from the jousting. Lord Jason Mallister with an embossed silver eagle on his breastplate, the red stallion of Stone Hedge, the black and scarlet of Lord Blackwood's colors, two men bearing the twin towers of Frey. Others he did not recognize, their houses too minor or too distant for him to have learned their heraldry.

Beside him, Ser Arys Oakheart gripped his sword tighter, his feet shuffling nervously beneath him despite his armor's weight.

"Easy, ser," Galad said quietly.

Arys glanced at him, swallowed, and nodded.

Galad thought it strange that Arys seemed more ill at ease here than when they had been fighting Ironborn in Harlaw. Then again, with the eyes of the realm watching from the packed stands, hundreds of nobles and thousands of smallfolk on the hillocks beyond, he could understand how a young man might suddenly feel more nervous about his performance than he ever had in actual war. In war, only your brothers-in-arms saw your blunders. Here, those mistakes would be discussed in castles across Westeros for months to come.

Across the open ground, Lord Jonos Bracken called out, his voice carrying over the noise. "Shall we behave as knights, Tarly?"

"Aye," Lord Randyll's voice boomed back. Then, to his own men: "Spread out! Give yourselves room!"

Galad gave Arys a final nod as they moved apart, each man taking enough space to duel without interference. To his left, Lord Tarly moved to engage Bracken himself, the two lords circling with the wariness of men who had fought in plenty of real battles. Along their side of the field, the rest of the men began to pair off, almost like a mockery of real war, with two neat lines of armored men meeting in individual contests rather than the chaotic press of actual combat.

The man who ended up before Galad was Lord Jason Mallister. They exchanged no words. There was no need for them. Both men held swords and shields. They began cautiously, testing each other with probing strikes and careful footwork. Mallister's blade darted forward, aiming for Galad's side. Galad shifted his shield, deflecting. He countered with a thrust toward the gap beneath Mallister's arm. The lord twisted, his shield coming up to catch the blade.

They traded quick swipes and clips until Mallister suddenly picked up speed. The Riverlord began cutting downward, focusing on Galad's legs, trying to force him to lower his guard and create an opening higher up. The strikes came faster, each one precise and controlled. Galad fought defensively, parrying and blocking each blow, his footwork doing most of the job. He gave ground when needed, circled when pressed, kept his shield positioned to deflect rather than absorb the full force of each strike.

After several exchanges, Galad assessed his opponent. Lord Jason Mallister was a competent fighter. Better than most knights he had met in this world, certainly better than the average warrior who relied on strength over technique. The man had clearly trained for years, had likely fought in real battles.

But Galad did not even feel the need to delve into the void. He had come to realize, over these months in Westeros, that there were perhaps only a handful of swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms who could force him deep into the Oneness in a one-on-one duel. Lord Jason Mallister, skilled though he was, was not one of them.

Then, in his periphery, Galad noticed movement. Without warning, two men charged at him from the side while he was still engaged with Mallister. Even the Riverlord seemed taken by surprise, his eyes widening behind his helmet as he stepped back.

Galad recognized one of them immediately: Ser Hosteen Frey, the broad, powerful knight he had unhorsed during the joust. The other was wiry and quick, with a black beard showing beneath his open-faced helm. They came at him with weapons raised, swinging not for a clean yield but with clear intent to injure.

"I'll take that sword of yours!" the wiry knight shouted, his voice sharp with malice. "Same as you took it from the Ironborn!"

Galad's expression did not change as he blocked and dodged around the strikes. Ser Hosteen’s swings had plenty of weight behind them, but anyone with a keen eye could see them coming for a mile away. The other Frey knight was reckless, if skilled, and attacked relentlessly with an unfounded confidence that his prey would not fight back.

Galad meant to dissuade him of that. Pivoting on his feet, he stopped giving ground.

The wiry knight swung again, a wild overhead chop aimed at Galad's shoulder. He sidestepped and parried in the same motion, his blade catching the descending sword and redirecting it past his body. Before the knight could recover, Galad planted his boot in the man's chest and shoved hard.

The knight stumbled backward directly into Ser Hosteen, who had been moving in from the other side. They collided, tangling for a crucial moment.

And then Galad was on them.

Nightfall flashed in the afternoon sun, the Valyrian steel singing as it cut through the air. Galad's blade found the gap between Hosteen's pauldron and gorget, scoring a line across the knight's collarbone, deep enough to draw blood, shallow enough not to kill. He pivoted on light feet as the wiry knight recovered and thrust at him, diverting the blade aside and countering with a cut across the man's sword arm.

Blood sprayed. The man cursed but did not yield.

Galad danced between them, never staying still, always moving. When Hosteen's superior strength tried to overpower him with a massive sideways slash, Galad was already elsewhere, circling to attack from a different angle. When the wiry knight tried to use his speed to dart inside Galad's guard, he found Nightfall waiting, the blade moving with inhuman precision to cut at exposed wrists, at the backs of knees, at any gap the armor presented.

In under a minute, both Frey knights were bleeding from a dozen wounds each.

Throughout the exchange, Lord Jason Mallister had not intervened. He stood back, watching, his sword lowered. Galad understood it had been done out of chivalry, to allow the duel to resolve itself without interference, even if that duel had become two against one.

Privately, Galad thought he would not have minded trying his hand against all three of them at once. It would have made for a fairer fight. 

Ser Hosteen, blood streaming down his armor from multiple cuts, finally leaned on his sword like a crutch. "I yield," he said through gritted teeth, though he somehow remained standing despite the wounds.

The wiry knight, however, did not yield.

"Lowborn cunt!" he screamed, charging forward with the last of his strength, his sword raised for a desperate final strike. "I'll kill you for this!"

Galad parried the sloppy swing easily, the blade sliding off Nightfall's superior steel. Then he stepped forward and brought his shield up in a brutal arc, the rim catching the knight squarely on the side of his helmet.

The man collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, hitting the ground in a crash of metal and falling completely still. Ser Hosteen limped from the field without so much as a glance at his fallen companion, leaving the unconscious knight in the mud.

Lord Jason Mallister gave Galad a simple nod of respect, before he raised his sword again and moved to re-engage.

Galad obliged. But this time he did not hold back.

Their blades met once, twice, three times. On the third exchange, Galad's cut slipped past Mallister's defense and scored across the lord's thigh. As he had no desire to leave Lord Jason unable to walk, he’d held back a lot of power, but the Riverlord hissed still in pain despite his caution, immediately favoring the wounded leg.

The duel continued, but the outcome was no longer in doubt. With Mallister unable to move as freely, his footwork compromised, Galad pressed his advantage. He feinted high, drawing the lord's shield up, then swept low with his leg and sent Mallister crashing to the ground.

Before the man could rise, Nightfall's point rested against his throat.

"I yield, ser." Mallister's breath came in huge gulps, his chest heaving. "Well fought."

Galad, his own breath still well within control, nodded back and withdrew his blade. He offered his hand, helping pull the wounded lord to his feet.

Around them, the melee continued to rage. He caught glimpses of the other duels, Lord Randyll pressing hard against Lord Bracken, Ser Baelor Hightower trading heavy blows with a Vance knight, Ser Arys holding his ground against an older opponent. Most of the Reachmen seemed to be coming out on top.

Then he saw them approaching—the tall, bronze-armored form of Lord Yohn Royce at their head, surrounded by knights bearing gleaming silver plates. The Vale contingent.

And it was not Lord Royce who engaged him.

Shouldering past the older lord, a slim man in a surcoat showing ravens clutching red hearts strode forward. He bore a longsword that caught the afternoon sun, and Galad recognized the familiar rippling pattern on the blade immediately. Valyrian steel. Another ancestral sword, like Nightfall.

"What say you, ser?" the man called out, his voice carrying a note of eager anticipation. "Let us give the people a show they have not seen since the Redgrass Field. My lady wishes to try herself against dragonsteel once more."

Galad was no historian, but even he had heard of the famous duel between Ser Gwayne Corbray of the Kingsguard and Daemon Blackfyre during the First Blackfyre Rebellion. Valyrian steel against Valyrian steel, two of the greatest swordsmen of their age locked in mortal combat.

This must be the current wielder of Lady Forlorn, then. Ser Lyn Corbray.

Galad nodded at the man, and felt a flare of genuine excitement rise in his chest. Finally, a proper challenge.

They came together without preamble.

The first clash of their blades sent a sound across the melee ground unlike any other, a high, piercing ring that seemed to vibrate in the air itself. Steel meeting steel was one thing, but Valyrian steel against Valyrian steel created a resonance that cut through the general din of combat.

Around them, several duels faltered. Men turned their heads to watch, even as they defended against their own opponents. The crowd in the stands gasped, then cheered all the louder.

Ser Lyn attacked with a series of swift cuts, his blade moving in patterns designed to probe Galad's defense. Galad parried each one, Nightfall meeting Lady Forlorn in another cascade of those distinctive ringing clashes. The two swords seemed almost to sing against each other.

"You're good," Lyn said, his voice holding a wicked edge. "Better than I expected from a woodsman playing at knight."

Galad said nothing, circling to keep the sun from his eyes.

Lyn pressed forward, his attacks growing more aggressive. Each strike, Galad noticed, was aimed not just to score a touch or force a yield, but to kill. He saw it in the way the blade sought gaps in his armor, the way Lyn committed fully to each attack without the caution that usually governed tourney combat.

This man was not here to win honor. He was here to take a life.

"Silent type, are you?" Lyn's blade darted toward Galad's throat, turned aside at the last instant by Nightfall. "Or perhaps you simply have nothing to say worth hearing. After all, what would a common-born bastard know of proper speech?"

The insults washed over Galad like water. He had heard worse, had been called far crueler things by men far more dangerous than this peacock knight.

They exchanged another flurry of blows, the crowd roaring with each clash. Galad could feel the eyes upon them, thousands of them, nobles and smallfolk alike, watching this contest between two legendary blades.

"I wonder," Lyn said, breathing harder now as Galad turned aside another killing thrust, "what your whore of a mother would think, seeing you play with a sword you stole from a dead man? Oh, but I suppose she's used to spreading her legs for whoever has coin, isn't she?"

Galad's grip on Nightfall's hilt tightened fractionally.

"Some two-copper whore,” the man continued, “good only for a tumble in the hay. Did she even know which man planted you in her belly? Or was it so many she lost count?"

The words hit harder than Galad wanted to admit. He remembered another man's insults uttered in another duel, cruel words about Queen Morgase spoken to throw him off balance. She might not have birthed him in either of his lives, but she was the only woman who had ever been something of a mother to him. And hearing similar filth spoken now, even about a woman he had not seen in decades, set something off within him.

Noticing his reaction, Ser Lyn smiled like a wolf scenting blood. "There it is," he crowed, pressing his attack with renewed vigor. "Does it burn, bastard? Knowing your mother was nothing but a common whore? That she probably died with her legs spread for some other man, forgotten in a ditch somewhere!"

For the first time in a long while, Galad did not call upon the void to quench his anger.

He let it build.

Let it fuel his strikes as he stopped defending and started attacking. Nightfall became a silver blur, each cut precise despite the fury behind it. He drove the knight back step by step, pressed him until he started to huff and his guard lowered. But instead of ending the fight quickly, Galad made him suffer.

A cut across the back of Lyn's sword hand. A slash across the outside of his thigh that opened the mail beneath his cuisses. A thrust that punched through the mail under his vambrace, scoring the flesh beneath.

The insults stopped as Lyn had to focus entirely on defending himself, his earlier confidence evaporating as Galad cut him piece by piece. Each wound was calculated to be painful, to bleed, but never quite enough to force him to yield or make him unable to continue. He aimed for every gap in the armor. Cut through mail rings. Slashed at exposed joints. His blade work was surgical, picking Lyn apart like a master carver separating meat from bone.

"Will you yield?" Galad asked quietly.

"Go to the seven hells!" Lyn spat back, blood running down his arm from a cut at his elbow.

So be it, he thought.

They clashed again, and Lyn tried a desperate overhand slash. Parrying it effortlessly, Galad felt the opening, and struck in a lightning-fast thrust that punched through the viewing slit of Lyn's helmet.

The knight's scream was immediate and terrible. His sword fell from nerveless fingers, clattering into the mud. Both hands flew to his face, to the helmet now painted with blood streaming from inside.

Galad looked at the tip of Nightfall, at the blood and viscous fluid coating the steel. He had taken one of the man's eyes, though it was a shame he had to settle for it. His tongue would’ve been a finer prize.

Driven by the anger still burning in his chest, Galad stepped forward, Nightfall at his side.

"Enough, lad." Lord Yohn Royce suddenly stood between Galad and the fallen Corbray. "He yields."

The words cut through the red haze like cold water. Galad looked down at Lyn Corbray writhing in the mud, looked at his own raised sword, and realized what he had been about to do.

He let out a sigh. He was letting old wounds get the better of him. Morgase wouldn’t wish that on him.

"My apologies, my lord." Galad lowered Nightfall and stepped back, breathing carefully.

Lord Royce nodded, his expression understanding beneath his helm. He glanced at the fallen Corbray, then back at Galad. "The boy fought well enough," he said, gesturing to where Ser Arys was limping away from the melee ground, eliminated. "But I wanted to try my hand against you myself before Lyn jumped in. Just a shame House Royce no longer wields Lamentation as well. Would have been quite the show, three Valyrian blades clashing."

Galad raised his sword, settling into a guard position. The anger was cooling now, replaced by something closer to shame. He should have ended that duel quickly and decisively, should never have let it become personal.

They began to circle, testing each other with cautious strikes. Lord Royce was good, perhaps better than Mallister, certainly more experienced. His footwork was impeccable, his defense solid.

After less than a minute of exchanging blows, Royce suddenly shouted: "Corbray!"

Galad barely turned aside in time.

Lady Forlorn's edge brushed across his breastplate, leaving a thin rent in the metal. Ser Lyn Corbray, his face a mask of blood, had retrieved his sword and lunged at him from behind while he was engaged with Royce.

Galad reacted in an instant. And this time, he did not hesitate.

Two cuts, executed with absolute precision. The first took Lyn Corbray's sword arm at the elbow, Lady Forlorn falling from the severed hand. The second came across at the neck, before the man could ever scream, Nightfall's Valyrian edge passing through mail and flesh and bone as if they were parchment.

Ser Lyn Corbray's head rolled from his shoulders before his body hit the ground.

A great collective gasp spread across the noble stands, a sound like wind through trees. Then the smallfolk on the hillocks erupted in cheers, their voices washing over the melee ground in waves.

"Bloody fool," Lord Royce growled, staring at the headless corpse. "Attacking from behind after being spared. Damn him."

Galad shook his head, looking down at the body. It was his mistake for turning his back on a man who had not yielded with his own words, and who had shown himself dishonorable enough to try exactly this kind of treachery. He should have known better.

"Don't blame yourself, lad," Royce said, misinterpreting Galad's reaction. "That was a disgraceful thing Lyn tried to do. You had every right."

Galad said nothing. He did not feel guilty for killing Corbray. The man had tried to murder him, had forfeited any claim to mercy. But he felt guilty that he had not ended the duel quickly enough, decisively enough, that it should never have come to this point.

So before engaging Lord Royce again, Galad closed his eyes for a heartbeat and called up the familiar image. The flame flickered to life in the darkness of his mind. He fed his emotions into it, the lingering anger, the shame, the frustration, everything. Let it all burn away until only the void remained.

When he opened his eyes again, the world had sharpened into crystalline clarity.

"Ready, my lord?" he asked.

Lord Royce raised his sword. "Let's see what you can do."

Five heartbeats.

That was all it took.

Galad moved like water, like wind, Nightfall flowing through patterns too fast for the eye to follow. He feinted high twice and struck on the third, going low, catching Royce's blade and redirecting it, then stepping inside the lord's guard and sweeping out his leg. Royce crashed to the ground, and before he could recover, Nightfall's point rested against his throat.

"I yield," Royce said immediately. Then, breathing hard: "Seven hells."

He looked up at Galad as if he could not quite understand how he had ended up on the ground, how a duel that had seemed even only moments before had ended so quickly.

Galad pulled the sword away and offered his hand, helping the older lord to his feet like he did with Mallister. Around them, the melee continued, the clash of steel, the shouts of men, the roar of the crowd. But in the deep calm of the void, all of it seemed distant.

The absolute focus let him remember he was not at this tourney to play around and humor opponents. Lord Mace's advice echoed in his mind: The realm needs to see you with Nightfall. Needs to understand what it would cost to take it from you.

This was meant to be a display. A warning.

And as Galad surveyed the battlefield with eyes sharpened by the void, searching for his next opponent, he resolved to show Westeros exactly how hard it would be to take Nightfall from his hands.

The time for restraint was over.