According to common practice, among the various events of a tourney, the melee should come after the knightly jousts. Sometimes, the melee would not even be held at all, replaced instead by a simulated battle between knightly orders.
However, this year's tourney was slightly different.
The melee was scheduled after the archery competition, and the qualifications for participation were loosened to the extreme—so long as one was human and held a weapon, they could register for the melee.
Moreover, unlike previous melees where participants were required to use wooden weapons or blunted arms provided by the organizers, King Robert suddenly announced before the competition that all participants were permitted to use real, sharpened weapons.
In past tourneys, the melee had already been the event with the highest casualty rate. Participants typically wielded highly lethal blunt weapons such as warhammers and flails. Allowing sharpened steel weapons would undoubtedly multiply the number of injuries and deaths severalfold.
As a result, rumors quickly spread through the streets and alleys of King's Landing that King Robert intended to celebrate the birth of his heir through a blood sacrifice.
Anyone with clear eyes could tell at a glance that this was slander spread by remnants of the Dragon loyalists. But rumors rarely need reason to survive—many people still believed it, and not a small number at that.
Because of this, those who had already registered for the melee began withdrawing one after another under various pretexts. Before the competition even began, the number of participants dropped from several thousand to just over a hundred.
However, new participants soon filled the gap.
Four to five hundred people joined almost immediately, nearly all of them warriors from the great noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms. Before long, someone analyzed the situation and concluded that the great lords were using this melee as a way to display their strength to King Robert.
The establishment of a new dynasty meant the establishment of a new order. At the same time, the balance of power between old and new factions was shifting. Everyone needed to present their best face before the new king if they wished to secure a place within the new order. This melee was merely a continuation of the power struggles that had played out in King's Landing over the past year.
For the common folk of King's Landing, for spectators who had traveled great distances to attend the tourney, and for those who hoped to rise to fame through a single battle, this melee was unimaginably exciting.
They knew very well that everyone would fight with full force in this battle. The level of bloodshed would be unprecedented. That knowledge alone thrilled them. Long before the match began, they had already gathered around the arena, even erecting raised platforms, eagerly awaiting the start of a bloody feast.
Outside the arena, within the temporary encampment set up by House Tyrell, Lind was being helped by attendants as he donned a suit of guard-issued leather armor. His weapons were also switched—from dual swords to a one-handed sword and a short sword.
In the combat memories of the Peacekeeper, a pair of weapons—one long and one short—wielded with both hands was the configuration that allowed him to fully unleash his strength.
However, while that fighting style was highly efficient and practical, it was better suited for one-on-one duels. In a chaotic melee involving multiple opponents, using that style made him more vulnerable to attacks from behind.
Fortunately, Lind possessed extraordinary senses, giving him a significant advantage against sneak attacks. Moreover, he would not be fighting alone. Several warriors from House Tyrell would be participating alongside him, providing cover and allowing him to deal with enemies more efficiently.
After finishing donning his leather armor and checking his equipment to ensure nothing was amiss, Lind temporarily locked Glory inside a specially forged cast-iron cage. He then prepared to leave the tent and rendezvous with his comrades to discuss coordination for the melee.
At that moment, a series of footsteps sounded outside the tent.
The next instant, Garlan and Fottimo entered with grave expressions on their faces, followed by several knightly squires carrying various pieces of metal plate armor.
"Quick—put it on him. Let him get used to the weight of plate armor as soon as possible," Fottimo ordered without explanation.
The squires immediately complied, removing the leather armor Lind had just put on and replacing it with exquisite, sturdy plate armor. They carefully adjusted the spacing between each piece, ensuring that Lind would not be hindered when performing various movements.
"Lord Garlan, Lord Fottimo, what happened?" Lind asked in confusion. "Why suddenly switch to plate armor? I remember that melee participants were only allowed to wear leather armor."
Garlan and Fottimo exchanged dark looks, clearly unsure how to respond.
In the end, Fottimo spoke first. "We just received word. King Robert made a last-minute decision—participants in this melee are now allowed to wear heavy armor and use bladed weapons."
Lind froze.
What was supposed to be a spectacle-oriented melee had suddenly turned into a real battlefield of steel and blood.
Once true weapons were used, casualties would rise exponentially. The brutality would far exceed that of any previous melee. In later generations, this event would undoubtedly be remembered with labels such as bloody and cruel, recorded in history books.
Yet Lind distinctly remembered that no such massacre-like tourney had occurred in his previous life.
This made him suspect that he might be experiencing the butterfly effect.
But he quickly dismissed the thought.
The variable index required to produce a true butterfly effect would have to be enormous—and he was far from being capable of creating that level of deviation.
While Lind was still lost in thought, both Fottimo and Garlan assumed he had been frightened by the news. They could understand—after all, they themselves had been shocked upon hearing it. The participants would naturally be even more shaken.
"You don't need to push yourself," Garlan said almost explicitly. "If you can't hold out on the field, withdraw immediately. Don't waste your life on a foolish blood-soaked performance."
As he spoke, he gestured to a nearby squire, who placed two exquisitely crafted steel swords on the low table beside Lind.
"These were carefully forged for me by my brother, Vilas. I planned to use them as my personal swords once I came of age. But you need them more right now. I'll lend them to you for the time being."
Lind said nothing. He picked up one of the swords and drew it to inspect.
He had seen Valyrian steel on the dragonbone dagger before and knew that such steel bore distinctive, scale-like patterns on its surface. This sword had none—clearly, it was ordinary steel.
Yet even ordinary steel varied in quality.
This sword was far from common. After all, it had been personally forged by Vilas Tyrell for his younger brother. The steel used was of exceptional quality. While it could not compare to Valyrian steel, it was not far behind.
Its only drawback was that both swords were standard hand-and-a-half swords. Compared to the broad-bladed hand-and-a-half sword Lind was accustomed to, they were noticeably lighter. The thinner blade also carried a risk of chipping or breaking when blocking heavy attacks.
But their advantages were equally obvious.
They were incredibly sharp. Even standard plate armor could be pierced with a precise thrust. With these swords, Lind's specialty—striking weak points—would be much easier to execute.
"Does everyone else know about the rule change?" Lind asked.
"They do," Garlan nodded. "This melee has completely departed from normal bounds. It's no longer a simple group fight. There are… matters involved that even I don't fully understand yet. Because of that, even if House Tyrell loses, we cannot lose too badly."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"The people you selected earlier are no longer suitable. They've all been replaced. Leading now is my father's ducal guard, commanded by Captain Sir Salif."
Fottimo added, "Sir Salif's swordsmanship may not be on my level, but he's not far off. More importantly, the ducal guard was trained entirely by him. Their coordination in battle will be excellent. You don't need to worry about the change affecting overall combat strength."
For House Tyrell, replacing the team with the ducal guard was undoubtedly beneficial.
For Lind, however, it was bad news.
Once the lineup changed, command authority would naturally fall into Sir Salif's hands. The ducal guard would certainly not coordinate their offense and defense around Lind. They wouldn't cover for him if he were attacked, nor would they adjust to his movements.
He would be fighting largely on his own.
That meant far greater danger.
Though Lind wanted to change this decision, he knew very well that his status made that impossible. Since he couldn't alter it, he could only try to steer the situation in a direction more favorable to himself.
So he asked, "May I form a separate team instead of joining Sir Salif's unit?"
"Why?" Garlan was taken aback. "Joining the ducal guard would be safer for you."
"No. He should go solo," Fottimo said instead, agreeing with Lind. "If he joins the ducal guard's formation, he'll interfere with their performance. And if something unexpected happens, he might very well…"
Fottimo stopped mid-sentence, but both Lind and Garlan understood the implication.
Lind could become a shield—or, if things went poorly, a convenient scapegoat.
Garlan couldn't refute this. It was a common noble practice, something he had no power to change. Still, having such unspoken rules laid bare so bluntly by Fottimo made him uncomfortable, his expression darkening.
Initially, Lind hadn't thought that far. He only wanted to avoid being hindered by the ducal guard. But after hearing Fottimo's words, he realized that he would need to perform exceptionally well in the melee—so well that no one could find fault with him.
Otherwise, he truly might become the one blamed for failure.
While the three stood in silence, the squires finished fitting Lind's plate armor and asked him to test its mobility.
Given that his life depended on it, Lind didn't hold back. He performed several high-difficulty movement drills and sword swings. Afterward, he instructed the squires to readjust the chest and shoulder plates and add two extra leather straps to the arm guards to prevent them from slipping.
Once the adjustments were made, he tested the armor again, then nodded in satisfaction.
"This set of plate belonged to my nephew," Fottimo said quietly, looking at Lind with an unreadable expression. "He died in the War of the Usurper. The armor came into my possession afterward. You need it urgently now, so I've lent it to you. But remember—once you're done, clean it properly and return it."
"This armor isn't a gift?" Lind asked.
Fottimo didn't respond. He merely looked at Lind as if staring at an idiot.
Lind chuckled awkwardly, then asked, "Everyone else was replaced. Why wasn't I?"
"Your spot was something I begged for," Fottimo said heavily. "I hope you won't resent me for placing you in danger."
Lind smiled. "No. How could I resent you, my lord? This is what I wanted. I should be thanking you."
To Lind, this melee was an opportunity—a chance to elevate his status as quickly as possible.
King Robert Baratheon had personally altered the rules at the last moment. That alone meant the king had special intentions for this melee. It was almost certain that the Iron Throne's master would attend in person.
If Lind could perform outstandingly, there was a very real chance he could rise in a single step—perhaps even be knighted personally by Robert Baratheon himself.
Just as the Great Bear, Jorah Mormont, had been knighted by Robert after displaying valor in the later Iron Islands Rebellion—despite Robert bypassing Jorah's liege lord, Duke Eddard, an act that technically violated protocol.
But that only proved one thing.
When Robert Baratheon encountered something he liked, he didn't care about rules.
And Lind needed exactly that kind of man—someone who ignored rules. Robert was like that. So was Littlefinger.
Only people like them could allow him to climb upward within the rigid, rule-bound hierarchy of the nobility.
Thus, his gratitude toward Fottimo was sincere.
Afterward, Lind strapped the two swords Garlan had lent him to his waist. He carefully checked his equipment once more, and only after confirming there were no issues did he leave the tent.
He arrived at an open area along the edge of the arena, standing alongside the ducal guard who had already assembled there.
At this moment, aside from House Tyrell, House Lannister, House Arryn, House Tully, House Martell, and nearly every great house of Westeros had already sent their representatives to wait around the arena.
Each great lord had sent the same number of people—twenty-one in total, including the commander. It was clearly a limit imposed by King Robert.
In addition to these great lords, several martial-minded nobles had also chosen to participate. Each of them brought seven or eight retainers. Altogether, the number of participants reached six to seven hundred.
Though six or seven hundred sounded like a lot, the arena had originally been cleared to accommodate several thousand. Even with everyone present, it didn't feel crowded.
All participants were now in place, yet there was still no sign of the melee beginning—as if they were waiting for something.
At this moment, Sir Salif strode over to Lind and said, "Boy, I don't know what kind of relationship you have with that fellow Fottimo, nor why he insisted on letting you take part in such a dangerous melee. But let me be clear—if you run into danger out there, I won't send anyone to save you."
"You'd best withdraw at the very start," he continued coldly. "Don't die pointlessly in this meaningless battle and damage House Tyrell's reputation."
Faced with Sir Salif's so-called goodwill, Lind merely smiled. He walked away alone, deliberately distancing himself from the ducal guard and standing by himself at the edge of the field.
That solitary figure made him stand out sharply among the many participants.
Just then, a sudden commotion erupted in the distance.
The crowd parted on both sides, and a towering warrior wearing a stag-helmed helmet and wielding a warhammer emerged, leading a squad of House Baratheon's warriors forward.
...
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(End Chapter)