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The morning light over King's Landing was lazy compared to the days before, and when it spilled onto the melee grounds on the western side of the tourney, even the wind seemed less eager.
Unlike the roaring crowds of the sword competition or the cheers of the archery contest, the melee grounds were notably desolate today.
The makeshift wooden barriers were crooked. The audience consisted mostly of King's Landing smallfolk huddled on the grassy slopes, clutching cold oatcakes. Their gazes held less anticipation and more casual curiosity.
The noble stands were even sparser. Tymond Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, dozed in his chair, attended by only two squires. The golden lion ring on his finger spun incessantly, a sign he cared little for this contest.
Mathos Tyrell didn't even show his face, sending his eldest son, Garlan, in his stead. But Garlan was staring blankly at a silver spoon engraved with grapes, leaning against the railing, his gaze drifting far away—clearly, his mind was elsewhere.
Even the young nobles, usually so fond of causing a ruckus, were whispering about yesterday's sword duels, paying no heed to the dusty field below.
After all, the melee had always been a "mixed bag." The teams included hedge knights seeking glory, sellswords looking for coin, and brawny smallfolk. Most highborns avoided it, feeling it beneath their dignity to compete with the "lowborn," and fearing injuries that might spoil the mood of the King's Jubilee.
But this year, some people thought differently.
"Why do they think we can't do it!" Borros Baratheon's booming voice shattered the silence of the grounds. Wearing dark green leathers, his broadsword scabbard banged loudly against the wooden fence.
Beside him, Brandon Stark nodded vigorously, sawdust from last night's revelry still clinging to his leather armor. "Exactly! Borros embarrassed himself at archery, and neither of us beat Lorent Marbrand with the sword. We have to win this back in the melee!"
As they psyched themselves up, Myles Rivers approached, shouldering his Northern battle-axe, his dark face alight with excitement. "Borros, Brandon! Count me in! I'll match strength with anyone—I guarantee I'll split their shields!"
Tybolt Crakehall chimed in, spinning his boar-crested greatsword. "And me! I lost the strength contest to Myles last time; I need to make up for it!"
Lucas Tyrell gripped his longsword, his face set with determination to wash away the shame of last year's joust. "I'm in. I lost to Prince Daemon at the Field of Roses and was a laughingstock in the Reach for a year. Now that no one questions the Prince's skill, I need to prove myself to him and the Seven Kingdoms!"
Thomen Peake's eyes lit up, and he stepped forward quickly. "I'll join too. The sword competition didn't fully show the Prince what I can do. I want to try again!"
The Royce twins exchanged a look and nodded with a smile. "Brother Myles, we'll go get our cousin Gunthor! His greatsword is formidable; perfect for holding the line!"
Before long, Gunthor Royce arrived. His seven-foot frame was encased in bronze armor, and his two-handed greatsword gleamed coldly. But his brow was furrowed. "Are you sure you want to compete with these commoners? If Great-Uncle and Aunt Rhea find out..."
"What are you afraid of?" Brandon slapped his shoulder, mixing encouragement with provocation. "If we win, we look good. If we lose, it's practice! Besides, do you want Daemon Targaryen strutting around in front of House Royce forever?"
Gunthor sighed helplessly. He didn't know whether to be angry or amused, but seeing the expectant gazes of the twins, he stepped into line.
Seeing the team almost assembled, Brandon suddenly realized something. "We need a commander! With this many people, someone needs to arrange tactics!"
They looked at each other. Finally, all eyes landed on Rayford Rosby, who was passing by after delivering Darkblade documents.
Rayford had barely reached the edge of the field when Myles grabbed him. "Rayford! You've got a good head. You command!"
Rayford blinked, looking at the eager group, then toward the royal box where Daemon was leaning against the railing, nodding at him. He sighed. "Fine. But we agree: touch to win. No serious injuries."
"And us!" Hoofbeats approached. William Dustin rode up on a white horse, followed by Harmond and Jon Umber. The Umber brothers wore Northern furs and carried battle-axes. "Brandon! You called William but forgot us? How can a Northern fight happen without House Umber!"
That made exactly twelve—the maximum team size. Borros, Brandon, Myles, Lucas, Tybolt, Thomen, the Royce twins, Gunthor, Rayford, William, Harmond, and Jon.
As the team formed up, scattered cheers came from the stands. Lorent Grandison, awake for once, waved with his cousins Thurgood and Wyl Fell. "Borros! Don't get chased by a boar again!"
Borros glared but didn't retort—the incident of being chased by a wild boar during the last hunt was still a joke among the Stormlands youth.
To avoid ruining the atmosphere of King Jaehaerys's fiftieth anniversary, the melee rules were more civilized this year, though still brutally simple:
Teams of eight to twelve. Capture the flag in the center of the opponent's territory to win. Blunted weapons. Shield bashes and grappling allowed. No strikes to vital areas.
Borros's team breezed through the first few matches. Opponents either saw the lineup of noble scions and forfeited, or were dismantled by their coordination.
In the semifinals, they faced a team of Riverlands household knights led by a man in brown armor with an oak spear. They looked somewhat formidable, but to Borros and his crew, they were barely a warm-up.
It wasn't until the finals that they met a real challenge—a band of hedge knights led by a scar-faced brute rumored to be a former pirate from the Narrow Sea.
Seeing the team of noble sons, the hedge knights sneered with contempt. But they didn't dare say much—Gunthor's greatsword and Myles's axe were deterrents no one wanted to test head-on.
The horn blew. Rayford immediately barked orders. "Gunthor, Myles, Tybolt—front line! Hold their charge! Brandon, Borros—flank from the sides! Twins, William, Umbers—protect the wings! Thomen, Lucas—with me! We go for the flag!"
The enemy charged. Gunthor moved first, his greatsword sweeping horizontally, forcing them back.
Myles's axe whistled through the air, smashing a shield so hard the bearer's arm went numb.
Tybolt coordinated his defense, letting no one pass.
Brandon and Borros flanked perfectly. Brandon's longsword flicked a weapon from an opponent's hand; Borros's broadsword pressed against another's chest. Their teamwork was seamless, clearing the flanks effortlessly.
Rayford led Thomen and Lucas straight for the flag. Thomen, though young, dodged attacks nimbly. Lucas entangled defenders with his sword, creating an opening.
Finally, Rayford grabbed the flag and yanked it from the earth.
Cheers erupted. Borros and Brandon rushed over, hugging Rayford and shouting, "We won! We won!" Even Gunthor cracked a rare smile.
In a shadowed corner of the stands, a figure in a wide-brimmed black hat clapped gently. Silver-gold hair peeked out from beneath the brim—it was Daemon Targaryen in disguise.
His companion, Lysa Tully, wore a pale blue dress and held a daisy, her eyes shining. "Prince Daemon, they are amazing!"
"Amazing?" Daemon Targaryen scoffed, unconvinced. "If they'd asked me, we would have won ages ago without all this trouble!"
"Oh? Is that so?" A familiar, cold voice cut in.
Daemon Targaryen stiffened. He turned slowly to see his lawful wife, Rhea Royce, standing behind them. Her bronze armor gleamed coldly, and she tapped her rune-etched scabbard against her palm.
"If you dared to step onto that field, your grandmother Queen Alysanne would likely drag you off by your ear, with your grandfather and father right behind her. I heard you used a Gold Cloak's helmet as a wine pot last night. Are you not grounded enough?"
Daemon Targaryen's face turned crimson. He opened his mouth to argue, but Rhea's gaze shifted to Lysa.
Lysa shrank back, hiding instinctively behind the Prince.
Rhea laughed suddenly, a sound laced with mockery. "The Tully girl has good taste. That dress is fine Arbor silk; looks to have better texture than the black rags some people are wearing."
She paused, her eyes sweeping over Daemon Targaryen. "A pity her judgment of men is poor. She can't see that some are gold on the outside and rot on the inside—men who play with spoons as weapons. Still drunk from last night? Is that why you're hiding in the shadows like a rat today?"
"Rhea! Don't go too far!" Daemon Targaryen shielded Lysa, his eyes wary.
He feared Rhea would attack Lysa, and he feared Lysa seeing his embarrassment. Seeing the way Rhea looked at the girl, his voice wavered slightly. "We are just watching the match. It has nothing to do with you!"
Rhea raised an eyebrow. She didn't press further, turning to walk toward the Vale stands. As she passed, she threw back one last line. "Guard your lady well. Don't let the 'rot' infect her eyes."
As she turned the corner, a rare smile touched her lips. Watching someone she detested squirm was indeed satisfying. But a pity about the Tully girl—pretty, but not very bright.
Daemon Targaryen watched his wife's retreating back, baring his teeth in frustration. But he could only stomp his foot impotently, causing Lysa behind him to giggle secretly.