The morning mist still clung to the fields outside the Gates of the Moon. Ash from last night's campfires lay embedded in the dirt of the tourney ground.
What should have been fertile wheatland was now churned to dark brown mud under horse hooves. Broken lances and splintered wood littered the edges of the field—remnants of battle, telling their own silent story of what had happened here.
Jeremiah Quick stood at the lowest tier of the viewing stand, his eyes scanning the ruined ground. He couldn't help himself. "If the Lightbringer were here, he'd never waste good farmland for a tourney."
Ivo Madison leaned against the wooden rail, his fingers drumming an unconscious rhythm against it. Tap. Tap. Tap. He looked up at the high dais, where the Defender of the Vale, Petyr Baelish, sat deep in pleasant conversation with Archbishop Clare, a warm smile fixed on his face.
Ivo snorted. "That's why Littlefinger isn't the Lightbringer, and never will be." He paused, then added: "We're sending eight men to fight the last eight of the joust. Have you all decided who you're putting forward?"
Beside him, Norbert Page was polishing his sword, its blade reflecting his grim face. Brendan stood with arms crossed, watching the crowd with sharp eyes. Leopold sat casually on the steps, legs dangling over the edge.
These five men—Solar Knight squad leaders in Archbishop Clare's fifty-man escort—sank into thought.
The Lightbringer had personally selected this detachment. Every ten men had one Solar Knight. The envoy from the Gods Eye Alliance had to protect non-combatant diplomats while showing force when necessary. His foresight was proving useful.
Leopold broke the silence first. "Bolkan from my squad. He served under the Wolf King. Real combat experience. He's crawled through enough battlefields to keep his head in any situation."
Norbert looked up, considering. "I'll send Dallas from Shattered Leaf. He already has one Promotion Token. If he performs well today, he'll earn another. The boy has talent and he doesn't shy from hard work."
Jeremiah glanced around. No one else spoke up. "I think Ivo's man, Jason, would be a good choice. If you agree."
Ivo shrugged, a rueful look crossing his face. "That boy—as long as none of you mind him not knowing his own strength. He's never killed anyone. Yet. He's been strong since he was a child. Breaks weapons in training. But his fighting is solid."
"Then it's settled." Jeremiah's voice carried finality. As the senior among them—raised from the old Bennett lands within the Alliance—the others looked to him.
With the roster chosen, the five men stopped watching the "tedious" lance duels. They gathered their gear, ready to call their brothers for tactics.
On the field, the atmosphere shifted. The young lord and Alayne were late.
The night before, the Light-blessed septon had tended to Sweetrobin. He had slept deeply. Alayne had eaten too much and played too hard. They had both overslept.
When Alayne finally led the young lord—carried by a servant—into the tourney grounds, the day's matches were already overdue.
The two contestants sat mounted in the field, their horses pawing the ground impatiently, as if complaining about the wait. The knights gripped their lances, eyes tight with frustration and helplessness, waiting for the young lord to declare the start.
"Father." Alayne dropped into a perfect curtsy.
"Petyr—my lord." Robert's voice came small and fearful. He clutched Alayne's cloak, his small body tense.
Littlefinger's false smile vanished. His face hardened. "Robin. You should call me Father."
His tone carried no room for argument.
Little Robert's hand tightened on Alayne's. "Father," he whispered, barely audible, his reluctance plain on his face.
"Good boy." Petyr nodded, satisfied. "Now give your respects to the Archbishop. The man who treated you last night is one of his brothers. Thank him."
But Robert twisted away, stubbornly marching toward his seat on the high dais with his short legs, ignoring the command entirely. His small face was set in defiance.
The Archbishop's voice broke the silence. "The young lord seems more spirited than I expected."
Petyr forced a smile. "Indeed. Much stronger." He signaled a servant. "The young lord is here. Sound the horn."
The horn cut through the air.
Ser Lennard Turner was first onto the field. He wore smoke-grey plate armor and an olive-green cloak—the only decoration on him, and it was shabby, frayed at the edges.
A man who had fought his way into the top four out of sixty-four knights clearly had not earned a living to match his skill at Coldwater Keep.
He sat tall in the saddle, his gaze sweeping the crowd, announcing his purpose.
Willis Wood rode in on an elegant blood-bay destrier, its barding of interlocking iron plates gleaming in the sunlight. Willis himself was silver from head to toe. His lance was carved from fir harvested deep in the Mountains of the Moon, polished to a glassy sheen.
"Ten silver stags on Ser Willis," Harrold Hardyng announced.
"I'll take that," Ben Coldwater called back. "Ser Lennard looks sharp this morning." As Lennard's liege lord, his face carried a confident smile.
"Sharp means nothing when his armor's thinner than a blanket," Ser Harrold shot back, his voice dripping contempt.
Clang.
Lennard Turner slammed his visor shut. The sound of metal striking metal cut through the silence. He adjusted his posture and took his position.
Ser Willis stuttered out a promise of victory to the crowd, his voice shaking even as he forced calm. Then he pulled down his visor and rode to the edge of the field.
Both men lowered their lances. The air felt thick with smoke.
Robert bounced on his high seat, shrieking: "Fly! Fly!" His voice was thin and piercing.
Alayne's eyes went wide. She leaned forward, her hands gripping her skirts, palms damp.
If Ser Lennard could win, she prayed silently.
The horses broke into a gallop. The temporary stands shook. The Sewn Knight leaned forward in the saddle, his lance steady as stone.
But at the moment of impact, Willis shifted his body. Lennard's lance glanced off his wooden shield without damage. Willis's own lance struck true.
Splinters flew. Lennard swayed violently in the saddle, nearly thrown. Alayne gasped, both hands flying to her mouth.
A rough cheer rose from the crowd.
"I'm thinking about how to spend your money," Harrold said smugly to Lord Coldwater.
Lennard managed to stay in the saddle. He hauled the reins, spun his horse, and rode back to the edge of the field for a second pass. His face was set in hard lines. His eyes burned with refusal to lose.
Willis Wood threw down his broken lance and grabbed a fresh one. He joked with his nephew, trying to lighten the mood, but his trembling hands betrayed him.
Lennard kicked his horse forward. Willis met him.
This time, when Willis shifted, Lennard shifted with him.
Both lances exploded at once. Wood chips rained down.
When the splinters settled, the blood-bay horse had no rider. It trotted off to graze alone. Ser Willis Wood rolled in the mud, his gleaming silver armor smeared with dirt, his helmet dented.
Alayne let out a breath. "I knew Ser Lennard would win."
Harrold heard. His voice dripped scorn as he called out: "He's just a poor boy from the coast. If I hadn't had bad luck and drawn him, you'd have seen real skill."
Littlefinger smiled. Sansa had done well. The boy was hooked.
Willis Wood staggered to his feet. His ornate helmet had been knocked crooked by the fall, and the dent made it impossible to remove. He stumbled across the field like a headless fly.
The crowd pointed and jeered. The lords and ladies couldn't help laughing.
Above it all, Littlefinger heard Sweetrobin's laughter the clearest. The boy was howling, leaning back so hard in his chair he was nearly in danger of falling. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
Littlefinger finally ordered a servant to lead the blind, stumbling Ser Willis to the smith. Willis complained the whole way, his voice fading into the crowd.
At the edge of the field, Lyn Corbray was already mounted.
He was not tall or bulky, but he radiated presence. A knight of House Corbray, he bore the Valyrian steel blade Lady Forlorn. He was also the heir to his older brother, Lord Lyonel Corbray of Heart's Home.
But just before the tourney, Lord Lyonel—with Littlefinger's arrangement—had married a rich merchant's daughter. She was already pregnant.
The news burned in Ser Lyn's gut. The anger and resentment showed in his eyes. No one could say whether he wanted to win the championship and become the young lord's sworn shield, or simply to fight his fury out.
Alayne did not like Ser Lyn. He was lean as a blade, handsome, and beneath that handsomeness lurked vanity and a violent temper. He acted without thinking. His shoulder-length brown hair hung loose, and he was always short of gold.
He was famously uninterested in women. According to Petyr Baelish, Ser Lyn preferred boys. Petyr had bought him with gold and pretty lads, planting him in the enemy camp as a spy. When Alayne had spoken to him two days earlier, his words had dripped poison deadlier than a cobra's. She loathed him more with every syllable.
On the other side of the field stood Carlson Sunderland, from the Sisters. He had become the true dark horse of the tourney. Rumor had it the three brothers were better at rowing than riding. No one expected these island lords to have such horsemanship.
Carlson, wrapped in sealskin, bowed to the king and rode to the edge of the field. He lowered his lance and settled into position. His movements were calm and confident.
Ser Lyn's horse would not obey. He tugged and pulled at the reins, fighting the animal for what felt like an age. By the time he finally reached the starting line, sweat beaded on his forehead and his breath came short.
The match began.
Ser Lyn's charger charged forward, hooves pounding the mud, sending up sprays of dirt. Carlson's mount flowed like silk into its stride, elegant and powerful.
Lyn twisted his shield into place and adjusted his lance, fighting to keep his unruly horse running straight. Then, in a blink, Carlson was on him.
The lance struck true. Lyn Corbray fell.
Alayne heard the storm of cheers, whistles, gasps, excited whispers, and above them all, the grating laughter of Ser Shadrich, whom Lyn had beaten earlier. Carlson reined in at the far end of the field, his lance still whole. A smug smile spread across his face.
"Ha! This is the man who killed Prince Lewyn Martell? Maybe you should give Lady Forlorn back to your brother!"
The words cut like a blade.
Lady Forlorn was House Corbray's ancestral sword. The previous Lord Corbray had left it to Ser Lyn for his deeds in battle. But everyone whispered that Prince Lewyn was already badly wounded when Lyn killed him. Anyone who brought it up in Ser Lyn's presence rarely lived long.
In the middle of the field, Ser Lyn Corbray finally let go of his reins. He rose in fury, his chest heaving, murder in his eyes. He ripped off his helmet and hurled it to the ground. It rolled, clanking, leaving a dull sound in the air. His face was dark with rage, his hair falling over his eyes.
"Sword," he roared at his squire. The boy scrambled forward and handed it to him.
Shing.
The blade of Lady Forlorn slid free, cold light flashing across the field.
Lyn strode toward Carlson, each step heavy with purpose. "I'll use your head to show you my skill!"
It happened too fast.
Carlson shouted for his sword. But Lyn shoved the squire aside, gripped the greatsword in both hands, and swung it at the young knight's chest with brutal force.
The impact hurled Carlson from his saddle. His spooked horse bolted. Carlson Sunderland lay unconscious in the mud, unmoving.
Lyn raised his blade for the killing stroke.
A hoarse voice warned him: "Don't touch him."
An iron-gauntleted hand wrenched Lyn away from the fallen youth.
Lyn spun in silent fury, swinging with all his unnatural strength. But Lennard caught the blow and deflected it. The two men clashed in the center of the field, steel ringing against steel, sparks flying.
Time passed. They stood there, trading blows, while others rushed to drag the dazed Carlson Sunderland to safety.
The Defender of the Vale's voice cut through the chaos.
"In the name of your liege lord—" Petyr Baelish rose to his feet, his voice quiet but enough to silence the crowd. "Stop. Now."
Lennard blocked one final strike, then stepped aside.
Ser Lyn Corbray's rage cooled into reason. He bowed his head and slid his sword home. His shoulders trembled.
"Does the Grey Knight win?" Sweetrobin asked Alayne. He did not know the stranger's name. He called him by the color of his armor.
"No," she told him. "Ser Lennard and Carlson must fight again."
The young lord heard there was another match. He bounced in his wide-backed chair. "Fight again! Fight ten more! Fight a hundred more!" Excitement lit up his face.
The young lord was right.
Minutes later, Ser Carlson walked back into the field in a plain linen tunic. His steps were unsteady and his face still pale. He spoke to Lennard Turner: "I owe you my life. The victory is yours, Ser."
"Striking a man when he's down is shameful. I simply could not abide it." Lennard's voice was calm, steady.
But he accepted the victory. The prize money. And perhaps the first real crowd's adoration he had ever known.
As he left the field and walked back to his tent, the crowd erupted. Cheers and applause rolled like a tide.
The joust was the most important event of the tourney. It had drawn sixty-four brave knights, each hoping to become the young lord's sworn shield.
On the other side of the grounds, the archery contest—meant mainly for commoners—drew a sparse crowd. The facilities were crude, the atmosphere cold, and the excitement could not compare.
One event remained: the melee.
Forty men of low birth—veterans, hedge knights, squires—would enter a fenced arena and fight until only one man stood.
It should have been a day of blood and glory.
But the Defender of the Vale stood. Everyone noticed.
He announced a strange decision: "The melee is canceled. In its place, the eight winners of the joust will form a team. They will fight against eight warriors from Archbishop Clare's escort."
He paused. "If you win, I will outfit each of you with a full set of plate armor and a war horse."
The crowd erupted in noise. Contestants stared in shock.
No one dared question the Lord Protector.
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