Chapter 253: Shield Wall and Roses
Morning light pierced the clouds, staining the sandy field amber.
The stands were already packed with nobles in fine clothes and commoners in rough linen. Their whispers and excited chatter wove together into a wall of noise.
After two days of fierce selection, eight men had emerged as the finalists for the Falcon Guard: the four knights who had competed in yesterday's semifinals and finals, plus Shadrach, Ser Harrold Hardyng, Ser Michel Redfort, and Caryl Stone.
These eight were the finest of the tourney.
By custom, those who had already jousted did not compete in other events. Harrold and the others had stripped off their armor and weapons, handed them to their squires, and settled into the stands to enjoy their victory in leisure.
But when they heard they would still have to fight in a group battle against Archbishop Clare's escort, Harrold leaped from his seat. His eyes blazed. Excitement shone on his face.
He sprinted toward his tent, kicking up dust.
Inside, he dressed quickly in his ornate armor. With his squire's help, he fastened every plate, cinched every strap until there was no gap. He buckled his longsword at his hip, slung his shield across his back, and raced back to the field.
Harrold dropped to one knee before Alayne. Dust puffed against her skirts.
In his hands, he held a bouquet of fresh roses, still wet with morning dew, carrying a faint sweetness.
"Lady Alayne," he said, lifting his head, his eyes full of sincerity and hope. "I apologize for my rudeness and foolishness. Allow me to fight in your name today. I swear I will take an opponent's helm and bring it to you as a trophy."
Alayne looked down at his blue, jewel-like eyes. Her fingers twisted in her skirt.
Petyr's words echoed in her mind.
He had told her she could refuse the betrothal to Harry the Heir if she wished. But she knew that if she refused, her only path might be to serve as Sweetrobin's nursemaid.
The former Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish, kept no one who had no value.
If she could not prove her worth here, she would have to serve elsewhere. And Harrold... at least he was not the worst choice.
She thought of her true father, Lord Eddard Stark, stern and just. Had he not brought his bastard son home?
Perhaps all men were the same.
Alayne slowly reached out and took the bouquet. She set it gently beside her seat.
Then she unpinned a ribbon from her bodice. Her fingers trembled as she tied it carefully around Harrold's helm.
"Harry," she said softly, "I hope you win."
Harrold rose. His gaze was steady. "Wait for me." He turned and strode into the circle for the group melee.
The other knights were making their final preparations. Some had squires tightening their armor straps. Others, like Harrold, approached noble ladies to ask for favors, hoping for good fortune. Some ladies blushed and handed over handkerchiefs or ribbons. Others smiled and offered blessings.
"All this fuss," muttered Jason Madison, Ivo Madison's younger brother, his face full of disdain.
"Mind yourself!" Ivo smacked his brother's helm with a dull thunk. "Go easy in there. We're here to make friends, not enemies. If you lose control and kill someone, I'll have Captain Quick strip your rank and send you back to the pikes."
In the Order of the Golden Dawn, recruits started as spearmen. From there, they advanced to pitchfork-men or crossbowmen based on talent. Only when their experience and skill met the standard could they rise to sword-and-shield men.
In a wedge formation, there were only two sword-and-shield men, usually the captain and his second. At that rank, a man earned not only higher pay and more land than a recruit, but also a chance to be selected as a Solar Knight.
Losing that position because he killed someone in a tourney would be a fool's bargain.
Jason grunted an acknowledgment and followed his brothers into the field.
By then, both teams stood on the sand.
The eight tourney champions came from different houses and regions. They wore armor of different colors, carried wooden shields painted with different sigils, and held practice swords of the same make.
Before this fight, most had never met. Some, like Harrold and Lennard, Lyn and Carlson, even held grudges.
But when they stood shoulder to shoulder, the instinct bred by years of training as professional soldiers made them set aside their differences. Their eyes were hard. They watched the eight men across from them without blinking.
They looked formidable. The crowd roared.
The reception for the Golden Dawn's men was far colder.
The eight church soldiers wore identical black tunics of coarse cloth. Not a single piece of decent armor among them.
Five carried sword and shield. The other three had chosen short spears, half again as tall as a man.
The nobles on the high dais laughed. In their eyes, those were weapons for common foot soldiers.
"Archbishop Clare," the Defender of the Vale said, frowning with concern, "are you certain you don't want to change your men? I am no skilled knight, but even my shallow experience tells me that spearmen cannot stand against armored knights in close quarters."
"It is no matter." Archbishop Clare smiled. "The gods will protect them."
"Will the gods protect my Falcon Guard too?" young Lord Robert cut in, worry plain on his face.
"Of course. If you believe in the gods with all your heart, they will protect you." Clare ruffled the boy's tangled hair.
"But—" Robert was not convinced. "Your men wear black. The gods will favor them!"
"My child, the gods are just and merciful. If they favor anyone, it is those who stand on the side of justice and the light." Clare's face was stern, but his voice was kind. It reminded Robert of his dead father. For once, he did not argue. He turned and hugged Alayne. "The Grey Knight will win, won't he?"
"He will, my lord." Alayne stroked Sweetrobin's head. Her eyes were soft but certain. "He will."
Many in the crowd thought the same.
The nobles and commoners were all Vale folk. They revered the Archbishop, but that did not stop them from disliking his escort.
To them, those black-clad men were like a flock of sparrows who did not know their place, daring to challenge noble knights. It was an outrage.
Leopold shrugged lazily. "Well. We're the villains now."
Jeremiah laughed, his eyes bright with fighting spirit. "Then let's be good villains. Let's trample the pride of these knightly lords. And remember—no calling on the Light until the fight is over."
The Defender of the Vale raised his arm and ordered the match to begin. A sharp horn cut through the air.
The eight Vale knights raised their weapons and charged, shouting as one. Their steps were steady, their momentum fierce.
The black-clad guards formed a quick half-circle, smooth and practiced, shielding the three spearmen behind them.
Both sides began to probe.
The Golden Dawn's men were used to defensive counterattacks, relying on their superior magic and ranged advantage. They moved lightly, weapons shifting, eyes watching for any opening.
The Vale knights took this caution for weakness.
Ser Lyn Corbray was the first to break. With a roar, he charged ahead, his armor flashing in the sun, his sword raised high as if to split his enemy in two.
The other knights followed. Shouts filled the air.
"Take the first one!" Jeremiah's voice rang like a bell.
The three spearmen thrust without hesitation. Their points gleamed.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
One spear struck Lyn's chest. The other two hit true as well.
The man who struck Lyn was Jason. Whether he had forgotten his brother's warning or was simply born with unnatural strength, the blow was massive. Lyn toppled backward and hit the ground with a heavy crash.
Lyn was not a popular man, but seeing him fall so quickly shook the Vale knights. Their charge faltered. Surprise flickered across their faces.
Shadrach, however, was a veteran. He did not waste time on shock or hesitation.
Using his small frame to stay unnoticed, he circled to the black-clad guards' flank, planning to strike from the side.
Norbert Page caught him. The quiet man turned smoothly, his blunted sword held crosswise, and caught Shadrach's attack.
"Hey, lad. Step aside, and I'll give you five silver stags after this," Shadrach said, licking his dry lips. Greed flickered in his eyes.
Norbert said nothing. He thrust again, fast and sharp, forcing Shadrach back.
But Norbert did not pursue. He returned to his position, held steady, and guarded his comrades' flank.
Shadrach scowled. "No honor in this fight."
"I am a soldier, not a knight," Norbert replied, short and firm.
Steel clashed. Sparks flew.
Blades met twice, slid past each other, and were caught by raised shields.
Then the crowd gasped.
Shadrach turned. Ser Willis was on the ground too.
Willis was not unconscious, but when he tried to pick up his weapon, the black-clad captain kicked him in the belly. The blow was vicious. Willis curled up like a boiled shrimp, rolling in the dirt.
"Lennard! Willis! Cover my flank!" Harrold knew that if they could not break the enemy's formation, they would lose.
He shouted to his companions, his voice edged with desperation. Then he raised his shield over his head, used his body as a battering ram, and charged.
"Brace! Spears down!" Jeremiah ordered.
The two shield-men on the flank closed in, locking their shields together into a solid wall. Behind them, three spears angled downward, aimed at Harrold's thighs.
Harrold could not see past his own shield. When he felt something press against his legs, it was too late. He lost his balance and crashed sideways into the sand.
That was the third Vale knight down.
Lennard saw what was happening and called off the mindless charges. He tried to form his own defensive line, hoping to find a chance to win through formation fighting.
But formation fighting was not something these young knights knew. Though five of them stood together, they had no coordination. Their movements were clumsy.
The eight black-clad soldiers, moving as one, picked them apart one by one.
When Carlson hit the ground, Lennard stood alone in the dusty field. His armor was caked with dirt. His hair was wild. Despair filled his eyes.
"You fight without honor!" he shouted. "This is not a tourney!"
In his mind, a tourney was a place to show one's finest skill, not a battlefield of tricks and strategy.
"Sorry, lad. We know how to fight, not how to tourney. But if you want to prove yourself, I'll give you a chance."
Ivo Madison came from a poor knightly house. He saw the quality of Lennard's armor and recognized a fellow poor knight. He waved his men back and stepped forward. He tossed aside his round shield, held his sword in one hand, and took a fighting stance. "Come. I'll play with you."
On the high dais, Littlefinger frowned at the Archbishop. "You'll let them fight?"
"Why not? Young men need a chance to prove themselves." Clare smiled, his eyes full of expectation.
Lennard threw away his shield too. He raised his longsword overhead, shouted, and charged Ivo, his blade tracing a swift arc.
Steel met steel with a deafening clang that made every bone in the crowd vibrate.
"Quick reflexes!" Jeremiah watched with an appreciative grin. "Not bad, lad. You've got some skill."
"I am no lad, you crow," Lennard snarled.
"Crow" was a name for the Night's Watch, but Jeremiah's black tunic made the comparison fit.
"Oh, have it your way!" Jeremiah roared. He leaped forward and charged. His sword danced like a living thing, a blur of steel.
Lennard jumped back, dodging left and right. Ivo pressed him relentlessly, driving him breathless.
Their blades kissed and parted, sparks scattering like stars. Lennard's blood was boiling. This was the fight he loved. Only in this dance of death did he feel alive.
He attacked again and again. High. Low. Overhead. Left. Right. A spinning slash. His strikes came like a storm, sparks flashing in the sun.
But Ivo was not shaken. With experience and skill, he turned aside every blow. They traded strike for strike, the fight growing fiercer.
Time slipped by in the clash of steel. Lennard's breath grew ragged. Sweat soaked his tunic. He was forced back, step by step, until he drove his sword into the dirt to rest.
"Not bad," Ivo panted, his eyes still sharp on his opponent. "For a lad. I won't hurt you. Keep going. Show me what you've got."
"You think you can?" Lennard glared. He raised his sword again and attacked.
His movements were slower now, but still full of force.
The duel stretched on. To the crowd, it felt like minutes, or maybe hours.
Then Ivo stumbled. His foot caught in a shallow pit. He wobbled.
Lennard's eyes lit up. He saw his chance. He swung without hesitation.
But Ivo dropped to one knee, his sword spinning in a tight guard. He caught Lennard's killing blow and turned it aside. Then he struck back like thunder.
Slowly, Ivo rose to his feet. The fight continued.
Steel sang as it clashed. Lennard was panting like a tired sow. His attacks grew sluggish.
Ivo was still quick.
Lennard realized with horror that no matter how he struck, he could not touch the man. It was as if Ivo had iron skin, proof against any blade.
The knowledge shook him. Despair crept in.
From the day he left Watershed Village, Lennard had sworn to win glory with his sword. He had trained every day, never slacking.
And today, he could not even beat a veteran who wore no armor.
Then a mad thought struck him. The other man had no armor. He did.
If he abandoned all defense, if he traded blow for blow, the other man would have to yield.
Lennard dropped his guard. He let Ivo's sword fall on his shoulder. He felt no pain. He put all his strength into a two-handed thrust at Ivo's belly.
The point stopped against something hard.
Through a haze, Lennard saw a fist the size of a melon flying at his face. Everything went black. He hit the ground and knew no more.
The last Vale knight, the tourney champion, the cavalry captain of Coldwater, Ser Lennard Turner, had lost in single combat to Archbishop Clare's unknown guard captain.
When Lennard fell, the field went silent. Everyone was stunned.
Then cheers erupted.
The one-on-one duel had been more gripping than the group fight.
Servants rushed to drag the unconscious Lennard off the field. Archbishop Clare smiled at Littlefinger. "Well? Five hundred soldiers like these would crush anyone who stood against you. Do you need more time to consider?"
Littlefinger looked at Sweetrobin's flushed face and Alayne's stunned expression. His own face was grave.
After a long silence, he nodded slowly. "How much grain do you need?"
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