The speech was the familiar kind expected from any ruler opening a grand event.
Fortunately for everyone present, Karl did not waste the crowd's patience with endless boasting or empty promises. He spoke clearly, briefly outlining the events of the coming Martial Games, explaining the rules, emphasizing fairness, and reminding all competitors that victory would bring real rewards rather than hollow praise.
When he finished, he raised one hand toward the roaring crowd.
"I officially declare the First Victorious Martial Games open!"
The stadium erupted.
Cheers rolled like thunder across the stone stands. Nobles rose from their seats. Merchants shouted. Commoners waved cloth banners and hats. The excitement was infectious.
And with the opening ceremony complete, the first competition of the games began immediately.
The Opening Event
Karl had deliberately chosen two traditional events from the old martial tournaments to open the games.
The first was group combat, a brutal elimination-style melee in which many fighters entered the arena at once and battled until only one remained standing.
The second was a small-unit mock battle, where teams of knights fought organized skirmishes.
Both were crowd favorites.
They were also dangerous.
Even with blunted weapons and strict rules, proper armor was essential. That alone kept many would-be participants away. A man without decent protection would be lucky to leave with only broken bones.
Yet because Karl had lowered many of the older barriers to entry, hundreds still registered.
The rewards were simply too tempting.
Some competitors were wealthy merchants hoping for glory.
Others were mercenaries who had saved enough coin to purchase equipment—or inherited armor from their fathers.
There were hedge knights, free riders, squires seeking recognition, and ambitious common-born men hoping to rise through courage.
With so many participants, the contests had to be divided into multiple rounds.
Fortunately, the newly built stadium was enormous.
Seven or eight separate arenas operated at once, each hosting simultaneous matches. As soon as one round ended, another began. The pace was relentless.
The crowd loved it.
Even seasoned nobles admitted privately that they had never seen anything on this scale before.
Karl Chooses to Watch
Karl himself did not enter the group combat.
There was little point.
If he truly stepped into the arena wearing full armor and carrying one of his monstrous weapons—a sword the size of a door or a warhammer fit for smashing gates—the match would become less a contest and more a massacre.
It would certainly be entertaining.
Explosively entertaining.
But not fair.
So, in the spirit of giving younger men a chance to shine, Karl decided to enjoy the games as a spectator.
Once his duties were complete, he made his way toward the high platform seating reserved for distinguished guests.
He intended to sit down, relax, and watch others struggle for his amusement.
The Stark Sisters
Before he even found a seat, a familiar voice sounded behind him.
"This is even better than the songs!"
Karl turned.
Standing nearby was Sansa Stark, dressed in a graceful green gown that perfectly complemented her reddish-brown hair. The color made her look radiant.
Beside her stood Arya Stark, restless as ever, and their childhood companion Jeyne Poole.
Karl had to admit it—Jeyne was strikingly pretty.
She came from House Poole, loyal retainers of Winterfell. Her father, Vayon Poole, served as steward there.
Looking at the three young ladies gathered together improved Karl's mood instantly.
So he smiled and bowed.
"That is certainly true. Though I have never entered a proper tournament myself, I dare say this is the grandest martial event the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen."
"Good morning, Lady Sansa Stark. Lady Arya Stark. Lady Jeyne Poole."
The three girls had been so absorbed in the clashing battle below that Karl's sudden greeting startled them.
Sansa recovered first.
Realizing it was Duke Karl himself, she immediately rose, smoothed the hair beside her temples, and curtsied gracefully.
She had no intention of appearing rude before such an important lord.
"Good morning, Duke Karl."
Arya, however, cared little for formalities.
She looked at Karl with open curiosity.
"Ser Karl, why aren't you fighting today? I wanted to see you win the championship."
Karl blinked.
Arya continued honestly.
"I even wanted to bet with Jon that you'd win."
Sansa's face tightened instantly.
"Arya!"
A sharp female voice followed.
"You must remember your manners. Duke Karl greeted you properly."
Karl glanced sideways.
There sat a severe-faced septa in a coif, her lips so thin they nearly disappeared when she frowned.
Septa Mordane.
She rose stiffly and gave Karl a small bow.
Karl smiled politely.
"There is no need to be harsh, Septa Mordane. Arya simply has a lively nature."
He then added pleasantly:
"And I hope the excitement here has not distressed you."
Mordane sniffed.
"Courtesy is a lady's armor, Duke Karl."
Karl nodded solemnly.
Internally, he suspected the woman had spent too many years as a septa and too few around laughter.
Reactions
Nearby, Jeyne Poole looked shocked that Karl had spoken to her directly.
Her cheeks reddened.
"G-good morning, Ser Karl," she said softly.
Her voice was so gentle it reminded Karl of a kitten.
Sansa noticed the blush and pressed her lips together.
At that moment, a roar rose from the arena below.
The first match had ended.
A knight lifted a four-sided flail above his head, demanding applause from the stands.
Karl clapped first.
"The victor is Ser Andar Royce," he announced, "eldest son and heir of Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone."
Sansa brightened.
"I know House Royce! Lord Yohn once visited Winterfell. His bronze armor is ancient and engraved with magic runes that protect him from harm."
She spoke quickly, eager to show her knowledge.
Karl stroked his chin thoughtfully.
Ancient runes?
Interesting.
Perhaps such knowledge might have value.
At the very least, it was worth investigating later.
"Ancient houses do possess deep foundations," Karl said mildly. "Something I do not yet have."
Sansa suddenly looked awkward.
After all, Karl was technically correct.
His house was new.
His family legacy was, at present, mostly himself.
Arya thought for a moment, then said sincerely:
"Your house will become powerful someday. You shouldn't feel bad, Ser Karl."
Karl laughed warmly.
"Then I thank you for the blessing, Arya."
He gestured toward the arena.
"Now shall we continue watching?"
The Next Match Begins
The field below was quickly cleared.
Then twenty new competitors entered.
They spread out across the sand, each eyeing the others with caution.
They came in all kinds of armor.
Some wore jack chains—layers of leather or canvas with metal plates sewn inside. Cheap, practical, and common among free riders.
Others wore ring mail, simpler than chainmail but weaker against thrusting weapons.
Several wore proper chainmail, interlocked rings hanging nearly to the knees, usually over padded leather.
Only two men wore true plate armor, complete with surcoats displaying their family sigils.
Weapons varied as well.
Most carried shields and longswords.
Others used hand-and-a-half swords, axes, clubs, or heavy knives.
Spears, lances, and deadly battlefield polearms were forbidden.
Karl studied them carefully.
Most were hedge knights, hired swords, or newly knighted squires seeking fame.
This was exactly the sort of opportunity he wanted the games to provide.
A stage where skill could be seen.
A ladder for ambitious men to climb.
Chaos Erupts
For several tense moments, no one moved.
Then one of the young squires in plate armor lost patience.
With a shout, he charged the man nearest him—a free rider carrying a hand axe.
Steel rang sharply as the squire's sword struck the edge of the rider's shield, leaving a deep dent.
The free rider gritted his teeth, endured the numbness in his arm, and slammed forward with his shield.
The impact staggered the squire.
That single attack shattered the tension.
Like falling dominoes, the other nineteen men immediately surged into action.
The crowd exploded.
"Hit him!"
"Take his legs!"
"Knock off his helm!"
"Block, you fool!"
The stadium became a storm of shouting.
The young squire who attacked first immediately found himself surrounded by three opponents.
A heavy club smashed into his helmet.
His vision spun.
Before he could recover, someone grabbed his shield.
Then an axe struck his sword arm, knocking the weapon from his hand.
A hard elbow slammed into the side of his helm.
He collapsed to the ground.
Under the rules, stamping and weapon strikes against fallen men were forbidden.
So one of the free riders simply jumped on top of him and punched him repeatedly until the dazed squire slapped the sand in surrender.
But before the victor could celebrate—
A massive boot crashed into his face.
The melee had only just begun.
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