The open grassy field had been roped off into a space roughly the size of a football field for the group melee.
With King Robert jumping in himself, the entry list had exploded past two hundred fighters. Spectators packed the edges shoulder-to-shoulder, turning the whole area into a sea of people.
Robert stood like a black iron tower in heavy plate, antlered greathelm on his head, warhammer in one fist and round shield in the other. Leo stayed glued to his side in his gleaming Seventh Legion plate armor (lion-head version removed for the occasion), sword and shield ready. The pair looked downright intimidating.
Five solid knights Jon Arryn had picked from the Crownlands and the Vale rounded out the royal squad. None of them were amateurs.
The rest of the field was the same story—teams of five to a dozen men each. Some were sworn retainers of a lord; others were freeriders who had banded together on the spot just to survive.
Before the horn even sounded, every fighter had claimed ground. Strong teams took the edges and corners so they couldn't be flanked. Weaker crews got shoved into the vulnerable center.
Eyes swept the field, sizing up who looked like easy meat and who needed watching.
Grips tightened on weapons. Every man burned for victory, glory, and the fat prize purse.
Plenty of stares kept sliding toward the king's group—some wary of his title, others already imagining the fame that would come from smashing the royal squad.
Robert's seven-man team formed a tight wedge with the king at the tip and Leo guarding his left rear. They scanned the opposition and quietly talked tactics.
The horn finally blew.
Chaos exploded.
Robert roared and charged straight for the center. Leo and the five knights raised their weapons and stormed after him.
The crowd outside the ropes erupted in wild cheers. Even nobles on the high dais stood up and craned their necks.
Steel rang, men shouted, grunts and thuds filled the air as blunt weapons hammered armor.
In seconds Robert's squad slammed into the thick of the fight.
Robert bellowed and swung his warhammer in a huge arc, smashing it into a Riverlands knight's shield. The man staggered back several steps from the raw power.
Before he could recover, someone darted in from the side and drove a sword into his waist. The knight screamed, clutched the wound, and dropped. The stampede of boots finished him.
In this kind of melee nobody stopped to help a fallen man. Doing so meant turning your back on the enemy. Only if the downed fighter was a lord or someone important would his team risk everything to drag him clear.
This knight got none of that mercy. He was trampled unconscious in seconds.
That single moment showed exactly how brutal and chaotic the group melee really was.
Unlike the clean one-on-one jousts or foot fights, this was pure battlefield madness.
Enemies came from every direction. You never knew when a spear or sword would come stabbing out of nowhere at your weakest spot.
That's why fighters formed squads—to cover each other's flanks and backs.
Robert didn't even glance at the fallen knight. Another lance was already thrusting at his side.
Leo snapped his shield up instantly and blocked it cold. Then he lashed out with his sword, driving back a second attacker trying to sneak in.
"Well done!" Robert laughed. He swung his hammer again and barreled toward the next enemy without hesitation.
The rest of the squad stayed tight around him, fending off attacks from all angles so Robert could swing freely and enjoy the fight.
For a while, wherever the royal team went, opponents scattered.
In that moment Robert looked like the warrior he had been at the Trident—young, unstoppable, full of fire.
The thrill hit him harder than any wine or woman ever could.
Of course, most fighters weren't retreating purely out of respect for his skill. They were wary of his crown.
The smart ones knew Robert had grown soft from years of drinking and debauchery. He still had bull strength, but it never lasted.
They planned to wait him out. Once he tired, they would carve up his squad piece by piece and politely usher the king off the field.
Sure enough, it didn't take long.
Robert was soon huffing like a bellows. The warhammer felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. His legs were lead. The hand gripping the weapon trembled.
"These bastards… tougher than I expected…" he growled, voice thick with exhaustion and frustration.
He swung again, but only clipped the edge of a shield. The shock numbed his arm and nearly made him drop the hammer. He staggered, barely keeping his feet.
Seeing the king stumble, one reckless freerider smelled blood and glory. Taking down the king would make his name legendary.
Without hesitation he thrust his blunted spear straight at Robert's bulging gut.
"Your Grace, watch out!"
Leo was tangled with two enemies and had drifted a few yards away. The other guards were pinned down too.
Robert, still off-balance, felt a sharp stab in his side. The freerider's spear had slipped through a gap in his ill-fitting armor and drawn blood.
His weight gain had stretched the plates, creating dangerous openings.
Worse, another attacker was already raising a warhammer to smash him while he was hurt.
Leo didn't have time to think.
[Charge]!
He triggered the skill and rocketed forward like a whirlwind.
The instant he closed the distance he slammed his shield forward with [Shield Bash], smashing it straight into the man's face.
The attacker, already dazed from the Charge, took the brutal hit to the head and crumpled backward, blood spraying. He hit the ground unconscious.
"Gained 900 EXP!"
A line of text only Leo could see floated across his vision.