An hour past high noon, the jousting grounds were filled with crowds from the melee and more. The archery tournament was also done with. Now the people of King's Landing were waiting for the main part of the tourney. The banners of a hundred houses rippled in the breeze: Lions and Falcons, Stags and Roses, even the Twin Towers of Frey flapping beneath a sunny sky. Arthur's banner hung high above his white tent—sea-green, silver, and white. The sigil of the Merman reared proudly in silk.
Donnel looked at Arthur's steed for the joust, Silver, eating a carrot from the stablehand—a snow-white destrier from the Vale, tall and proud. The horse had cost a small fortune, but it rode like wind and thunder. Donnel had helped choose it himself from the stables of Lord Grafton.
The tilts were drawn. Lords and ladies gathered in their shaded boxes, glittering with jewels and heraldry. King Robert's booming voice echoed across the field as names were called: Lord Yohn Royce. Ser Barristan Selmy. Ser Jaime Lannister. Ser Loras Tyrell. Sandor Clegane—and many others.
Donnel stood beside Arthur's squire, Tom, holding Nightfall once again while their lord remained inside the tent readying himself for the joust.
"He'll be riding against men twice his age," muttered Sergeant Tristan Woolfield at the tent's entrance.
"Aye," Donnel grunted, "Age makes no difference—hit a man in the head, and all fall the same."
"It's still unfair," Tom murmured.
"For them," came Arthur's voice with a smirk as he emerged from the tent, steel-clad and filled with confidence.
The squire gave a toothy smile clearly in awe of young Arthur. The boy wasn't officially Arthur's squire as he hadn't been made a knight yet. He was mainly the squire of Arthur's uncle Ser Wendel Manderly, who had lent the squire to Arthur for this tourney.
"Go on now, Tom, bring Silver about, if I don't hurry the king might disqualify me for tardiness." Arthur said with a smile. Tom ran like the wind towards stablehand to fetch the horse.
Arthur stepped up beside Donnel, lips curled in a half-smile. "Any pointers for the bout, Ser?"
Donnel chuckled. "Stick 'em with the pointy end."
Arthur laughed, and Donnel with him. Arthur swung up onto Silver's back with the grace of a knight from the stories, the destrier shifting beneath him like a coiled storm. Steel gleamed along his arms and shoulders, sunlight catching on the edge of his gorget as he rode toward the royal box. The crowds cheered as he passed, hoping to see him shine yet again.
Donnel watched from grounds, arms folded across his chest. As Arthur drew near the king's stand, Donnel's eyes caught on a splash of color at the boy's wrist—a ribbon, yellow and fine, bound tight about his gauntlet. Not there before. Donnel squinted. He hadn't seen Arthur ask any lady for a favor.
Strange, he thought. He's not the sort to go asking. Might be from one of the girls back home. A cousin, perhaps. Or one of the girls from Winterfell, who giggled and batted their lashes whenever they saw the boy. Though Donnel never saw the boy pay them any mind, which made it a bit curious.
Arthur drew up beneath the royal box and dipped his lance in salute. As did Sandor Clegane, his first opponent. Both of them then went in opposite directions of the field, Sandor Clegane guided his warhorse into position, black armor dull beneath the sky, helm shaped like the snarling maw of a hound. No favor or cheers for dogs, Donnel thought.
Arthur asked for a light lance—quick and hollowed for speed and shattering. Tom handed the lance at lightning speed. Donnel lauded the choice. Smart. The boy wasn't rushing for a victory through unhorsing, especially against a strong and heavy opponent like the Hound.
The horns blew.
On the first pass, Silver leapt forward, hooves pounding earth as Arthur lowered his lance with textbook precision. Sandor came thundering toward him, heavy and brutal. The clash was sudden—the snap like a branch breaking in winter. Arthur's lance shattered against Clegane's shield, shards flying. Sandor's hard lance struck Arthur's shield and remained unbroken. It pushed the boy back in his saddle and Arthur barely held on.
A murmur rose from the crowd.
Two points for Arthur, Donnel thought. One for Clegane. The boy would need another good run.
Arthur signaled for another light lance as he turned Silver with a flick of his wrist, lined up, and charged. This time his aim was lower—center mass and sure. The lance struck Sandor just below the shoulder and broke clean. Clegane, using a hard lance, tried to shove him from the saddle with sheer force. This time, Arthur twisted in the stirrups, letting the blow glance wide.
Another cheer. Another two points for Arthur. Sandor had none.
"Only one more point for victory," Tom cried out in excitement.
Donnel muttered under his breath, "Hold fast, lad."
For the final pass, Arthur raised a hand—not for a light lance this time, but a hard one. Donnel's brows rose. Bold move. Risky too.
Arthur leveled the heavier lance, steadied Silver, and charged. Arthur had angled the point high, too high, then he suddenly bent ahead and rose in the stirrups at the last instant and lowered the lance—a feint turned into a crushing blow. The impact came like thunder. The lance struck square on Sandor's helm and knocked the Hound clean from his saddle. He hit the ground with a grunt and a clatter of steel.
The field erupted. "That'll bruise," Donnel muttered with a grin.
"The victor!" cried the herald, "Arthur of House Manderly!"
Donnel exhaled. Excitement filled the Manderly camp, the guards and servants cheered for their young lord. Arthur rode back to where Sandor lay, dismounted, and extended a hand. The Hound stared at it a moment, then took it, grumbling as Arthur hauled him to his feet. Arthur refused Sandor's armor and his horse as his prize, stating they were too big for him.
Then, the next riders were being called. Ser Jaime Lannister took his place at one end of the field, golden armor shining in the sun. At the other, Lord Yohn Royce wheeled his horse into position, his ancestral bronze armor heavily filled with ancient runes.
Silver stood tethered beside the tent, flanks heaving, his coat gleaming with sweat. The stablehands moved around him quickly—scraping mud from hooves, brushing down his flanks, and feeding him slivers of apple and oats. One boy offered a second carrot, which the great white destrier took with calm dignity, as if the first bout had been a morning stroll.
Donnel stood nearby, arms crossed again, watching the beast cool. Arthur sat on a low camp stool in the shade of the tent, visor up, helm off, his hair damp and clinging to his brow. He sipped from a cup— salted lemonwater, sharp enough to wake a dead man.
"You didn't tell me about the ribbon," Donnel said casually.
Arthur didn't look up. "Didn't I?"
"No. You didn't."
Arthur smirked into his cup. "It's only a ribbon, Donnel."
"From whom?"
The boy only drank deeper, his silence more telling than a dozen words.
Before Donnel could press him about it, a trumpet blast rolled across the field. The king had taken the gilded box, a goblet in one hand and a parchment scroll in the other. Lords and ladies leaned forward in their seats. The air thickened, tense with spectacle.
One by one, names were drawn. Victors paired by the king's hands and the favor of the gods. The herald's voice rang loud across the field,
"Ser Jaime Lannister against Lord Jason Mallister!"
"Ser Loras Tyrell against Ser Addam Marbrand!"
Cheers erupted. For the golden lion and the knight of flowers. Crowd favourites of the tourney.
"Ser Arys Oakheart against Ser Balon Swann!"
Then the final draw. "Arthur of House Manderly…" The herald paused. A hush fell over the crowd.
"…against Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard!"
The field exploded. Donnel's mouth went dry. He looked at Arthur but the boy's expression was still. Not fear, not quite. But something close to awe. Or perhaps the weight of what it meant.
Ser Barristan the Bold. A legend in steel. The sword of kings, who had unhorsed scores of acclaimed knights and slain Maelys the Monstrous in single combat. He had only been bested in battle once, in all his years. By none other than Ser William the Brave.
And now his son would ride against Ser Barristan.
"Well," Donnel said, clearing his throat. "You wanted to make a name."
Arthur stood slowly and handed the cup back to the squire.
"There are worse names to fall to," he said.
Donnel nodded, "Aye. But there are few better to beat."
The boy gave a faint smile, though something flickered behind his eyes—doubt, maybe. Or memory. Ser William's name still carried weight in the North and beyond, but in the South, time dulled all things. Now would be the opportune time to remind them. And who better to do it than Arthur.
Across the tiltyard, Ser Barristan Selmy rode forth from the all white pavilion of the Kingsguard, mounted on a milk-white courser, his armor gleaming like a mirror beneath the golden sun. His surcoat bore the arms of the Kingsguard, a crown surrounded by seven white swords; his cloak trailed behind him like a banner of snow. Even at his age, the Lord Commander sat straight as a lance, his every movement precise, measured, and deadly calm.
The hush that had fallen over the crowd broke slowly into chants.
"Barristan the Bold!" "The White Sword!"
The two riders took their places at opposite ends of the list. The trumpets called. The field was cleared. Ser Barristan dipped his lance in solemn salute. A gesture not of ceremony, but of respect. Arthur returned it in kind.
And then the horns blew.
Arthur and Ser Barristan lowered their lances, spurred their horses, and thundered down the field. A heartbeat of silence—and then the crash.
Both lances struck true—Arthur's against Ser Barristan's breastplate, Barristan's clean across Arthur's left shoulder. Both shattered into splinters that rained across the tiltyard like summer hail.
The crowd erupted.
Donnel's breath caught in his throat. Even, he thought. That was even.
The servants ran out, retrieving splintered shafts. Squires handing new lances to the riders for the second tilt.
They charged again, and again both lances broke—Arthur leaning low, steady, Barristan fluid and unflinching, his white cloak snapping behind him. Wood burst apart on contact—two perfect strikes.
By the third pass, the crowd was no longer cheering—they were holding their breath. Even King Robert had stopped drinking. Silver surged amazingly fast. The horse looked like a streak of moonlight, and Arthur leaned so far in the saddle that Donnel feared he might fall. Yet the boy struck true again, and so did Barristan. Two more lances shattered. Same points for both riders, Still equal. This was a test now. Of mettle. Of will.
In the fourth pass. Both of their strikes hit their marks again. Arthur's shoulder buckled under the hit, and Arthur hit directly at Barristan's shield. Splinters flew once more yet neither men fell.
By the gods, Donnel thought, how long can they keep this up?
He looked at the crowd—wide eyes, parted lips. Even the old lords were leaning forward in their seats, lips pressed tight. No one spoke.
Fifth pass! Arthur reached out for the lance. His fingers trembled slightly before closing tight. Silver pawed the earth, eager to run. Across the field, Ser Barristan adjusted his grip with slow precision. The sun glanced off his helm. The Lord Commander did not show a hint of weariness, but he couldn't press for dominance either.
The horn blew. They charged. And once more, the lances shattered. Both riders rocked in their saddles. Arthur's body snapped to the side he barely held on. Barristan's arm would have ripped away from the force of the blow had his shield not taken the impact.
The crowd stood still. Six tilts. Six perfect hits. Six shattered lances.
The herald stood dumbfounded, looking towards the king and the judges.
Robert Baratheon had already risen from his seat after the fourth pass.
"By all the gods," he muttered, awestruck. "It's a dead match."
Donnel turned toward Arthur, who sat motionless atop Silver, breathing hard inside his helm. Across the field, Ser Barristan sat still, then finally raised a hand—the traditional knight's salute, small and respectful.
The herald, confused for a beat, stepped forward. "Riders, to the center!" he called. A murmur rolled through the stands.
Arthur turned his reins and guided Silver forward. Ser Barristan followed, his courser stately as ever. They rode together to the heart of the list, beneath the high box where King Robert leaned forward with narrowed eyes.
Donnel watched in silence. His heart was still racing from the last tilt, and now it thudded slower, heavier. Something was about to pass here, he could feel it in his bones.
Arthur sat tall in the saddle, his visor lifted. Ser Barristan did the same. Then, before any word from the king, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard turned to the crowd and raised his voice—clear, dignified, and touched with the iron of age.
"I yield."
A gasp swept through the stands like wind through leaves.
Even Arthur's head turned sharply. "My lord?" he asked, stunned.
Ser Barristan gave a small smile. "There is no shame in defeat, my boy," he said. "And no shame in knowing when a man has done his part."
"You don't need to yield, Barristan," Robert said, eyes narrowing. "You're even. Ride again if you'd have it."
"I have ridden enough, Your Grace," said Barristan. He turned his gaze back to Arthur. "The next pass, or the next after, this young knight would have me. He rides like the wind itself. Precise, calm, without arrogance." He glanced at the crowd. "He is a worthy heir to Ser William the Brave."
Donnel saw heads turn in the crowds and whisper among themselves.
"Knighthood is more than strength," Barristan continued. "It is judgment. Honor. Grace. I see all three in this boy. The realm will be lucky to have him."
Arthur sat still, awe writ across his face, words lost somewhere behind his lips. Ser Barristan spurred his horse forward gently, leaned over, and took Arthur's gauntleted hand in his own. Not just a shake—but a gesture of passing, of recognition.
"I name you victor of this tilt," said Barristan, "and pray you remain as true in heart as you are skilled in hand."
Arthur bowed his head deeply, eyes shut behind his helm.
For a moment, Donnel feared the crowd might not understand. Might mock the yield. Might jeer. But instead—They cheered.
First a ripple. Then a wave. "Arthur!" they cried.
"Ser Barristan the Bold!"
"Ser William the Brave!" Names old and new echoed together, and the field rang with applause—not for blood, not for spectacle, but for chivalry.
The tilts were called again as the sun dipped lower on the western rim of the sky. "Ser Jaime Lannister versus Ser Balon Swann!"
A roar answered the herald.
"Arthur of House Manderly versus Ser Loras Tyrell!"
Another eruption—though mixed. Cheers and murmurs tangled together in the warm summer air.
After a short rest, Arthur again sat atop Silver, visor lifted, his face calm despite the dust and sweat. Arthur was getting ready to take his place at the opposite end of the field. Donnel stood near the gate, eyes sharp on the field. Ser Loras Tyrell was already trotting his fine white courser forward, roses blooming across the green enamelled plate armor of his. Surprisingly, Ser Loras did not take his place at the end of the lists. The young knight instead made his way toward the royal box.
"My King," he called, his voice high and clear, "I must raise a protest."
Robert Baratheon, seated in his heavy chair with a goblet in hand, blinked at the interruption. "What now?"
"I protest the legality of this match," Ser Loras said. "Lord Arthur Manderly is no knight—he is not anointed, not dubbed, not sworn. I will not cross lances with a squire."
A murmur swept through the crowd. Arthur's eyes narrowed. Donnel stiffened. "Gods be good," muttered Sergeant Woolfield beside him.
Robert set down his cup with a thunk. "He broke lances with Barristan Selmy and lived. You'd do well to fear him less and ride harder, lad."
But Loras held his ground. "The laws of chivalry are not meant to be bent for convenience, Your Grace. Clegane is no knight, but neither is he a squire. He holds no vows. But this one does." He pointed toward Arthur. "He's unmade. A squire still. This tilt is unlawful."
Boos rang out—some from Tyrell men, others from Manderly men.
Words turned ugly.
Cries of "Coward!" battled back and forth with "Cheat!" and worse.
Arthur did not speak. He sat still as a statue. But Donnel saw the flicker in his eyes. Hurt, not anger.
Robert stood, his face thunder. "Silence!" he bellowed, voice like a warhorn. "Or I'll end this whole damn tourney and send you all to your rooms like squabbling babes!"
The crowd quieted, cowed.
Suddenly, Ser Barristan stepped down from the royal box where he had taken his place guarding the king, walking across the field he made his way towards Arthur. His white cloak trailed behind. He wore no helm now, the silver of his hair caught the light. The crowd hushed as Ser Barristan stood before Arthur, and the field held its breath.
Ser Barristan looked at Arthur and said, "Dismount."
The boy obeyed diligently. Ser Barristan turned slowly, drawing his sword. The blade shone with memory: the sword that had served Aerys and Robert both, a weapon of duty, in the hands of a legend.
"Arthur of House Manderly," Ser Barristan said, his voice clear, "kneel."
Arthur knelt before the Lord Commander.
Donnel suddenly realized what was happening Gods... he's doing it.
Barristan raised the sword.
"In the name of the Warrior," he said, and laid the flat of the blade upon Arthur's right shoulder, "I charge you to be brave."
He moved the sword to the left shoulder.
"In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just."
The blade returned to the center, poised above Arthur's brow.
"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and the innocent."
"In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women."
Then Ser Barristan lowered the blade, the air filled with reverence.
"Arthur Manderly, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and to do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?"
Arthur raised his head, voice steady. "I swear it."
"Then rise, Ser Arthur of House Manderly—a knight of the realm."
Arthur rose to thunderous applause. Donnel's throat tightened with pride, no, not pride, that word was too small to describe what he was feeling, if only Ser William and Lady Helena could see their son now.
The fields were cleared again, the dust settled, and the crowd bristled in anticipation. Arthur was mounted once more, helm in place, Silver dancing beneath him—eager, restless, as if he too sensed the moment. The destrier pawed at the earth like it had heard an insult.
Across the tilt, Ser Loras Tyrell rode in shining splendor. His plate was worked with golden roses, green and brilliant as summer. His helm was crested with a plume of flowers. The Knight of Flowers, they called him. A knight of skill, yes—but a court darling above all.
Now he faced the son of White Harbor. The Knight of Winter.
The horn sounded.
Arthur leaned low in the saddle, and Silver surged forward like lightning. Arthur did not choose a light lance this time—he had asked for a hard one, and Donnel had watched him grip it tight, knuckles pale against the wood. Donnel could sense the fury that burned beneath the polished steel of Arthur's helm. Not a fury of hatred—but something harder than pride, and colder than contempt.
Loras struck first— his lance broke against Arthur's shield and its splinters went flying. Arthur's heavy lance shattered against the younger knight's shoulder, knocking Loras back in the saddle, nearly unseated.
A breathless cheer.
Second pass—again, Silver thundered down the field like hooves over stone. Loras also came with fury now, his lance aimed high, seeking the helm. He aimed true again, but Arthur saw it coming. Arthur twisted in the saddle leaning to the side and making Loras's lance to glance wide.
Arthur's heavy lance slammed into Loras's breastplate. A cracking shatter. Loras reeled, clinging to his reins with white-gloved fingers. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might fall. But Loras clung to his horse like a vine.
This time, the crowd shrieked. Some rose to their feet.
Arthur asked for another heavy lance.
He's not holding back, Donnel thought grimly. He means to break him.
The third pass came swift and savage.
The horses flew from their postion. Loras leaned forward, desperate now, trying to strike first— a bit too early. Arthur lowered the point. Donnel saw the angle and at first it seemed, too low, then suddenly Arthur leaned back and the lance hit just under Loras's breastplate. Center mass. Dead square.
The sound was like a tree splitting in a storm. The blow struck like a hammer to a shield. Loras was flung from the saddle, a flash of green and gold flying through the air as he hit the ground. His helm's plume went free and got crushed beneath the weight of his fall. The roses in his armor were scattered in the dust. The crowd gasped.
Donnel's stomach twisted. Seven save us, did he break something?
Loras lay still. His attendants rushed the field. One knelt, checked his limbs, they helped the knight of flowers to his feet. Dazed, perhaps bruised, but still standing.
Then came the roar of the crowds.
Donnel exhaled. Thank the gods. No crippled heirs today. We don't need another Willas and Oberyn mess. They can't have a blood feud in their hands because of a damned tourney.
Arthur circled the field once and lifted the shattered lance high in salute, The crowd thundered in response, their cheers crashing like the waves against stone. There was certainly flourish in the boy's gesture, but was it simply vanity, or pride, or perhaps something more, Donnel wasn't sure.
It was as if he were saying to the realm, Look upon me. Remember this day.
On the far end, Ser Loras Tyrell left the field, his helm flung aside in fury. His green cloak dragged behind him in the dust like a wounded banner, fists clenched tight at his sides. The Knight of Flowers did not look back.
Arthur dismounted outside his pavilion. Donnel was there to catch the reins and hand him a fresh skin of lemonwater. Arthur took the water, drank deep, but his gaze lingered on the gate where Loras had vanished, unblinking. His jaw was set, silent.
"Drink," he said quietly. "Forget the flower knight. You've still a tourney to win, a Lion to beat."
Donnel followed his gaze and sighed. He knew that look—the stillness before a storm. He had seen it on battlefields, in council chambers, across long feasting tables among men who smiled with wine on their lips and war in their hearts. But more often, it lived in the eyes of young lords who took wounds too deeply, who mistook bruises for insults, wars for glory, and vengeance for justice. Donnel had hoped Arthur would be different. He wasn't sure if that hope still held.
A tilt may end in the lists, he thought, but rivalries ride on. A rivalry born from crushed roses beneath Merman's feet and Donnel, gods help him, was not sure what might grow from it.