Mud splashed across the arena as blood sprayed through the air.
Twenty fighters stood inside the circular pit, each armed with a shield and a blunt weapon. What had begun as an organized contest quickly descended into chaos.
The shields, though sturdy, proved less useful than expected. The moment two men met, each tried first to seize the other's shield arm, wrench the weapon away, or force the opponent off balance. Blows came fast and wild. Clubs crashed against helmets. Boots slipped in the mud. Men shouted, cursed, and grappled like animals.
Small alliances formed without warning.
Just as quickly, they broke apart.
Two fighters would join together to knock down a stronger rival, only to turn on each other the instant he hit the ground.
No trust lasted longer than a few breaths.
No friendship survived opportunity.
One by one, contestants were dragged away groaning, limping, or unconscious, until only two men remained standing in the center of the ruined arena.
One of them was a knight of the House Frey, wearing plate armor marked with the twin towers of his family.
The other was an unnamed mercenary knight—young, broad-shouldered, and battered from head to toe.
The Frey knight, Theon Frey, had reached the final round through caution rather than aggression.
While others exhausted themselves early, he had chosen to defend.
When the match began, many contestants had targeted the armored knight first. He had been surrounded more than once and even driven to one knee. Yet he never panicked.
He rarely swung his sword recklessly.
Instead, he kept his shield raised, moved constantly, and denied others a clean strike.
He dodged left, shoved right, and always sought chances to redirect enemies toward one another.
Whenever a fighter was isolated, Theon would briefly cooperate with another contestant to eliminate him.
Then he would slip away again.
It was clever, efficient, and deeply irritating to watch.
Now he faced the final opponent.
Holding his shield before him, Theon called out:
"Yield. You are no match for me."
His sword hand remained hidden behind the shield's edge.
"You are one of the few sensible men among these fools."
The mercenary knight smiled.
He wore only a small round shield strapped to his left arm. His original hammer lay broken nearby, its wooden haft shattered earlier in the melee. In its place, he now held a longsword scavenged from the ground.
"Ser," he replied calmly, "you are the one who should surrender."
"You already have armor, status, and coin. Why continue?"
Neither man moved.
Neither believed the other's words.
Both were simply using the moment to steady their breathing and regain strength.
Above the arena, nobles and guests watched from a raised platform.
Karl sat beside Sansa Stark, while Arya Stark leaned eagerly over the rail.
Sansa's cheeks were pink, though it had little to do with the fighting below. She seemed far more aware of Karl's presence beside her than the battle in the mud.
Arya, meanwhile, watched every movement with fierce concentration.
"Both of them are clever," Karl said casually. "But what comes next will not be pleasant."
Arya immediately turned toward him.
"Why?"
Only when Arya spoke did Sansa realize she had missed part of the conversation.
She quickly added, unwilling to be ignored.
"Yes, Lord Karl… I'd like to know as well."
Three pairs of eyes fixed on him, including Jeyne Poole, who rarely spoke unless curious.
Karl pointed toward the mercenary knight.
"If you watched carefully, you would have seen that when he rolled earlier, he picked up a hand axe from the ground and tucked it behind his belt."
"The Frey knight never noticed."
Arya's eyes widened.
Karl then shifted his gaze toward Theon Frey.
"As for him, he is experienced, cautious, and very good at reading battlefields."
"He has conserved more stamina than his opponent."
Jeyne asked softly, "Then who will win?"
Before Karl could answer, Arya spoke first.
"The mercenary knight."
Karl smiled.
"And why do you think so?"
"Because I hate the Frey knight," Arya said bluntly. "He kept dodging and barely fought anyone."
Karl laughed quietly.
"That is because he is older. His opponent is younger and stronger."
"One has experience and cunning."
"The other has power."
He gestured toward the arena again.
"If the Frey knight cannot finish this quickly while standing, he will be in trouble."
"The younger man will drag him into the mud."
"And once they are wrestling on the ground, armor becomes a burden."
The fight resumed.
The mercenary knight attacked first.
He rushed forward recklessly—or so it seemed.
Theon took the bait and struck.
The younger man twisted aside at the last instant, avoiding the blow.
Then, without warning, he hurled the longsword in his hand like a spear.
Theon instinctively raised his shield.
For one brief moment, his sight was blocked.
That was enough.
The mercenary knight lunged forward and slammed into him like a charging bull.
Both men crashed into the mud.
They rolled together in a tangle of limbs, armor, curses, and fists.
Theon's sword and shield became nearly useless in the grapple.
Still, he reacted quickly.
He discarded both weapons at once and tried to crush the younger man beneath the sheer weight of his armor.
For a few moments, neither held the advantage.
They punched.
They clawed.
They bit.
Mud coated their faces and filled their mouths.
The crowd roared with savage delight.
Then the mercenary knight suddenly twisted, reversed position, and pinned Theon beneath him.
With one swift motion, he drew the hidden hand axe from behind his waist.
The crowd gasped.
Then cheered wildly.
He began striking at the armor's weak points like a man opening a sealed barrel.
Theon screamed for surrender.
The match was over.
The unnamed mercenary knight was declared champion.
His helmet had been torn away during the struggle, one eye was already swelling shut, and blood ran down his jaw—but standing there victorious, he still looked glorious enough to the crowd.
As for the day's injuries, the tally was grim:
Three broken legs.
Five broken arms.
One shattered collarbone.
Six crushed fingers.
And countless sprains, bruises, and cuts.
Yet no one seemed discouraged.
The people loved it.
As evening fell, the king announced that the final three team matches would continue the next morning in a larger venue.
The crowd dispersed reluctantly, still excitedly discussing today's spectacle and tomorrow's grand finale.
Nobles, officials, merchants, and honored guests then made their way to a riverside banquet.
There, ten enormous yaks slowly turned over massive roasting spits.
The beasts had been cooking for hours.
Kitchen boys basted them constantly with butter and herbs until the skin crackled golden and the meat dripped fragrant fat into the fire.
More than a hundred tents lined the riverbank.
Long tables and benches had been arranged outside them.
The tables overflowed with strawberries, beets, fresh bread, cheeses, and wine.
The Stark girls were seated in a special raised section near the king and Eddard Stark.
Even Catelyn Stark and Bran Stark had been invited.
Sansa eagerly told her mother everything that had happened during the day.
Catelyn listened with a warm smile.
Bran, however, sat quietly, brows furrowed in thought.
Arya quickly lost interest in Sansa's storytelling and slipped away to sit beside Jon Snow.
Jon, already enjoying a cup of red wine, welcomed her gladly and had food brought over.
Some time later, Sansa's attention drifted.
Then she saw him.
Karl had changed from his daytime clothes.
Now he wore a finely tailored dark blue silk robe with a fitted upper coat and long flowing lower garments. Around his waist rested a belt of linked golden plaques.
His black hair had been combed back neatly, gleaming faintly in the firelight.
His eyes seemed bluer than the sky and deeper than the sea.
The bonfires reflected across the riverbank, while the moon shone overhead through a veil of thin mist.
To Sansa, he looked unreal.
Magnificent.
She stared openly, barely hearing her mother speak.
She thought that surely he would appear in her dreams again that night.
Servants constantly refilled goblets.
Wine flowed endlessly.
But Sansa needed no wine to feel intoxicated.
The music of bards drifted through the night.
Jugglers tossed flaming clubs into the air.
Moon Boy danced on stilts in bright clothes, mocking nobles one after another with such wit that even the sternest guests laughed.
When he sang a teasing song about the Grand Maester, even Sister Modan laughed so hard she spilled wine on herself.
Dishes continued arriving:
Thick barley venison soup.
Cold beets with crushed nuts.
Snails cooked in honey and garlic.
Sweet breads.
Pigeon pies.
Baked apples scented with cinnamon.
And lemon cakes dusted with sugar.
Sansa ignored the snails and focused on desserts instead.
She ate until she could eat no more.
Yet Karl, seated nearby, seemed possessed of a bottomless appetite.
Whatever was set before him vanished quickly.
He still found time to raise his goblet and drink with passing lords.
Sansa noticed he ate snails elegantly with a small fork.
She quietly tried the same.
It did not go well.
Then the music changed.
The soft melodies ceased, replaced by a fierce and stirring rhythm.
The bards stepped before the king, received permission, and began a new song.
A deep voice rose over the firelit river.
He was the storm of the bay, yet born of the mountains.
From the North he came, scattering smoke and war.
Karl, Karl, Karl of the North Wind.
Savior of the city, breaker of lions.
Karl of the Blood Wind.
Death to traitors, mercy to the people.
Karl of the Gentle Wind.
Duke of Casterly Rock.
In him live wisdom and courage alike.
The entire riverside fell silent to listen.
And Sansa, watching Karl in the firelight while hearing his praises sung aloud, felt her heart beat faster than ever before.
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