No one knew what schemes or secrets had unfolded in the darkness of the previous night. Most people in King's Landing cared little for hidden politics. Their attention was fixed entirely on one thing—the final round of the grand Martial Games.
By early morning, Karl Stadium was already overflowing.
Compared to the previous day, the atmosphere was even more intense. Those who had missed the earlier matches had returned after hearing exaggerated and excited retellings from friends, merchants, and drunkards across the city.
By the time Karl entered his private seating area, the cheers rolling through the arena were nearly deafening.
The final had arrived.
The Grand Melee Final
Because this was the championship round, the field had been redesigned.
Only the massive central arena remained open, while the surrounding space had been widened to hold more spectators. Seats around the royal platform and noble galleries were packed tightly, while thousands more commoners stood shoulder to shoulder behind railings.
Forty finalists had advanced from the previous day's elimination rounds.
Each of them now stood within the arena, stretching, testing weapons, and quietly studying their rivals.
No fool had made it this far.
Most wore heavy mail or plate armor. Only a handful had chosen lighter gear, relying on speed instead of steel.
Karl had personally altered the format for the final.
Instead of smaller matches, the forty competitors would fight in one massive free-for-all.
The rules were simple.
The last warrior standing would be champion.
The final two eliminated before him would claim second and third place.
And if there was any dispute, the surviving finalists could duel again to settle the matter.
As the heralds finished reading the rules, the tension on the field rose sharply.
But the stands were already wild.
Men and women alike screamed themselves hoarse.
Some cursed fighters they disliked.
Some shouted support for those they had wagered fortunes on.
Some simply screamed from excitement.
The roar of the crowd rose and fell like waves crashing against cliffs, making chests vibrate and ears ring.
At last, King Robert stood and raised a hand.
"The final begins!"
The crowd exploded.
Three Hours of Chaos
The melee lasted nearly three full hours.
Those who had come this far were unwilling to fall easily. Some fought for coin. Others for fame. Some for pride.
Many had to be dragged off after being knocked senseless.
Some surrendered voluntarily, tearing off their helmets and throwing them aside.
One hedge knight, who had barely survived the previous day after defeating a Frey man-at-arms, lasted less than a minute.
After taking three heavy blows in quick succession, he screamed surrender and threw himself into the mud, desperately crawling away from trampling boots.
His fingers were bloodied and broken after being smashed by a hammer and stepped on in the chaos.
He became the first man eliminated.
The crowd laughed mercilessly.
As the hours passed, the field thinned.
Bodies littered the mud.
Broken shields, snapped spears, dented helms, and lost swords covered the ground.
At last, only three men remained.
The Final Three
The first was Thoros of Myr.
Tall, broad, bald, and wild-eyed, he was a Red Priest known as much for drunkenness as devotion. He had once been sent to convert the Mad King Aerys to the Lord of Light.
Instead, he had stayed in King's Landing, drinking with Robert and brawling whenever bored.
He had also become famous during the Greyjoy Rebellion, where he had charged first through the breach at Pyke wielding a flaming sword.
The second was Beric Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven.
Young, bold, and handsome, Beric had loudly declared upon entering the city that he would win the championship.
His nickname, the Lord of Lightning, was already spreading through taverns and betting halls.
The third—and most surprising of all—was Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne.
The Red Viper himself.
No one had expected the prince to enter.
Even fewer had expected him to win.
Yet now, with the ease of a man enjoying himself, Oberyn stood over the other two.
Beric was on one knee, unable to rise.
Thoros had been knocked flat after a brief exchange.
Oberyn twirled his spear and laughed.
"You thought stopping my army outside Blackhaven made you great?" he mocked Beric.
"Lightning indeed. You fall faster than lightning—and strike much softer."
The crowd howled with laughter.
Beric glared but lacked the strength to answer.
Moments later, the herald raised his voice.
"Champion of the Grand Melee—Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne!"
The Dornish delegation erupted in cheers.
Thus ended the first great melee of Karl's Martial Games.
It was already clear the event would be remembered for generations.
Two Months Later
The Games continued through the following weeks.
Archery contests.
Sword exhibitions.
Mounted races.
Trials of strength.
Dozens of lesser champions emerged, gaining fame overnight.
Yet no matter how magnificent the feast, all celebrations must eventually end.
Two months after the opening ceremonies, the final and most anticipated event arrived.
The joust.
For nobles and commoners alike, no spectacle matched the thunder of armored knights charging with lances lowered.
Karl had deliberately saved it for last.
And he himself had entered.
The Champion of the Lists
The joust required wealth.
Only great houses and rich knights could afford the horses, armor, squires, and equipment necessary to compete.
The finest of Westeros assembled.
Karl rode onto the field wearing custom-forged armor crafted by Tobho Mott.
He was dazzling.
Even before the first tilt began, all eyes were upon him.
Then the matches started.
And one by one, legends fell.
Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers.
Thrown from the saddle in a single pass.
Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Unhorsed cleanly.
Prince Oberyn Martell.
Defeated.
Beric Dondarrion.
Defeated.
Robar Royce.
Defeated.
Renly Baratheon.
Defeated.
None lasted more than one pass.
No matter their skill, fame, beauty, courage, or reputation, all became names on Karl's road to victory.
Worse still, he humiliated several challengers.
Rather than simply striking them from the saddle, Karl used overwhelming strength to deflect their lance at impact, then pinned them against his own blunted spear.
With one arm, he lifted armored knights into the air like children.
He carried them around the arena before setting them down.
After the third time, no one dared challenge him recklessly again.
When the final match ended, Karl's armor remained spotless.
Not a scratch marked it.
Only then did many realize the terrifying truth.
Karl's skill was not merely superior.
It was on another level entirely.
The Crown of Beauty
As champion, Karl received the floral crown of the Queen of Love and Beauty.
Traditionally, the victor named the lady most worthy of admiration and placed the crown before her.
Many expected Karl to honor Margaery Tyrell.
She was King Robert's betrothed and known throughout the realm as the Rose of Highgarden.
Margaery sat radiant among the nobles, elegant and smiling, already seeming the obvious choice.
Karl removed his helm.
His horse circled the arena as thousands cheered and women shouted declarations of love.
Then he turned toward the royal platform.
Everyone held their breath.
Even the commoners in the farthest stands fell silent.
Karl stopped before the high seats.
Then, smiling, he spoke clearly.
"I choose Lady Sansa Stark of House Stark of the North as the Queen of Love and Beauty of the First Victory Martial Games."
Gasps spread instantly.
Karl continued, his gaze fixed on the young northern girl.
"Lady Sansa, in my eyes, you are the most beautiful winter rose."
With steady hands, he lifted the floral crown on the tip of his lance and gently lowered it onto Sansa Stark's lap.
The stadium erupted.
Some shouted in delight.
Some in disbelief.
Some laughed.
Some cursed.
But no one could deny the boldness of it.
Sansa's Joy
Sansa froze.
Her face turned bright red.
She looked as though she might faint from happiness.
Every dream of songs and gallant knights she had cherished since childhood now seemed to stand before her in shining armor.
Karl was everything the singers promised.
Strong.
Handsome.
Victorious.
Bold enough to defy expectation.
She could barely breathe.
Two Fathers
On the high platform, King Robert held a goblet of summerwine.
For once, he had barely drunk from it.
Throughout the joust, he had watched every one of Karl's matches with fierce pride, cheering louder than many commoners.
Now he stared at Karl and Sansa with a strange expression.
There was love in it.
And something like jealousy.
"Ned," Robert muttered sourly, "you won today."
"Your daughter became Queen of Love and Beauty."
"My son took the crown from my own betrothed and gave it to your girl."
Beside him, Eddard Stark's usually stern face softened into a rare smile.
"When Sansa has flowered," Ned said calmly, "they may wed before the Old Gods and the New."
Robert grunted.
"Karl says the vows should be spoken beneath a heart tree."
His voice still sounded offended.
As if he were Sansa's father.
Ned's smile deepened.
"Karl is a good lad."
"He will cherish her."
Robert drank at last, then nodded heavily.
"There is a small godswood in the stone gardens of Casterly Rock."
"It will do."
"I'll attend the wedding myself."
At those words, Eddard Stark's smile could no longer be hidden.
Below them, Karl remained in the arena beside his horse, the crowd roaring around him.
And above all the banners and noise, one truth had become clear.
The realm was watching him now.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)