Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 113: Chapter 113: The First Bouts

The melee field at Highgarden looked too beautiful for men to beat each other bloody upon it.

That was my first thought when I saw it properly.

The lists had been raised beyond the outer gardens, far enough from the castle that the noise would not swallow the halls, but close enough that Highgarden watched over everything like a white-stoned judge.

Banners snapped in the warm wind. Green and gold flew highest for House Tyrell, but beneath them hung the colours of half the Reach: the grapes of Redwyne, the huntsman of Tarly, the black bars of Bandallon, the orange field of Ashford, the ring of Roxton, the ships of Hewett, and several lesser arms I had not yet learned to place quickly.

The stands were full long before the first bout began.

Reachmen enjoyed spectacle. That was not surprising. What interested me was how carefully they arranged themselves around it. Lords sat according to rank and favour. Younger knights stood where they could be seen by ladies.

Older men pretended they had come only to judge skill and not to remember their own youth. Servants moved with wine and fruit. Squires carried helms, shields, and blunted weapons with serious faces that made them look like children playing at war too near the real thing.

The melee was not a true battlefield, though men often liked to speak as if a tourney proved the same things war did. It did not. Tourneys measured courage, strength, skill, pride, and sometimes stupidity. War measured all of that, then added hunger, mud, panic, bad orders, infection, and the cruel habit of killing men who had done everything correctly.

Still, a tourney revealed enough.

A bracket of sixty-four competitors had been set. The first four rounds would be fought through the day. The final three bouts would wait until evening, once the field had been cleared, the torches set, and the crowd fed just enough wine to mistake exhaustion for grandeur.

I would need four victories to reach that evening. Six to win the whole thing.

No bout was expected to last more than a few minutes. Men in armour could not afford longer unless both were cautious, and caution rarely survived the roar of a crowd. A man who fought five hard minutes beneath the sun often looked as though he had marched half a day. A man who did that four times and still had strength for the evening deserved respect, even if he did not deserve a song.

My armour had been prepared in a tent near the edge of the field.

It was my usual plate: blackened steel chased with gold and fitted over deep purple cloth. It was not the polished silver vanity many Reach knights favoured for tourneys, though it had been cleaned well enough to catch the light along the edges.

The white sword within the crescent wreath had been worked into the breast and repeated more subtly at the fittings. It was armour meant to be seen, but not armour made only for being seen.

Jace watched while a squire checked the straps at my side.

He had dressed carefully as well, though not for fighting. Black and red, with a cloak fastened neatly over one shoulder, his silver hair tied back. Ser Arryk stood close enough to guard him without making the boy look caged. Landrey had men placed around the stands and along the approach to our tent. Not too many. Enough.

Jace tried to look at ease. He did not quite manage it. "Will the first bouts be dangerous?" he asked.

"Less dangerous than war and more dangerous than the men organising them will admit," I said. "The weapons are blunted, and the rules are clear, but pride sharpens things rules cannot reach."

He looked toward the field, where two squires were carrying shields toward the racks. "Mother told me not to cheer too loudly if you win."

"Your mother gives wise counsel."

"She said a prince should not look like a boy watching a mummer show."

"That sounds like your mother."

"She also said I should not look bored, because that would be worse."

"That sounds even more like your mother."

Jace glanced at me, trying not to smile. "What should I do, then?"

"Watch. Applaud when it is proper. Do not mock defeated men, even if others do. Notice who becomes louder when I win and who becomes quiet. You do not need to understand every look today. Just begin learning that men reveal themselves when they think all eyes are on the field."

He took that seriously, as I knew he would. "I will try," he said. "I may not notice everything."

"No one does. Anyone who claims otherwise is either lying or Larys Strong."

That won a small smile from him. Ser Arryk’s mouth twitched, though he gave no other sign.

A horn sounded across the field.

Lord Matthos Tyrell rose from his place in the stands to welcome those gathered. He spoke well, as Reach lords often did, with courtesy bright enough to hide calculation beneath it. He praised his newborn son, Lyonel, thanked the noble houses in attendance, and honoured the knights who had entered the lists. There was applause, then a louder cheer when the first pairs were called.

My name came early. "Prince Othorion Galeris against Ser Morris, in service to Lord Hewett."

A stir moved through the crowd. That was useful. First impressions mattered more than most men liked to admit.

Ser Morris was already waiting near the centre of the field when I walked out. He was a broad man in serviceable plate, blue and white worked into his surcoat beneath the dust. A knight in Lord Hewett’s service, likely competent, likely brave, and likely displeased to discover that his first bout was against me.

He saluted properly. I returned it. "I had hoped to last longer in the lists before meeting a prince," he said, loud enough for courtesy but not the crowd.

"A prince can be beaten as easily as any man if he forgets to guard his head."

Ser Morris gave a short laugh, though his grip tightened around his blunted sword. "Then I will aim there and see if fortune is generous."

"Fortune favours men who keep their feet."

"That sounds like advice."

"It is. I give it freely before the horn."

He nodded, and we stepped apart.

The horn sounded.

Ser Morris came forward with commitment. Not wild, not foolish, but direct. He wanted to test me early, perhaps hoping strength and pressure would earn him a quick mistake. I let him close, took the first strike on my shield, and felt the weight behind it. Solid enough. He followed with a second blow, this one angled toward my shoulder, then tried to use his bulk to drive me back.

I did not give him the contest he wanted.

Instead of meeting strength with strength, I shifted half a step, caught his shield edge with mine, and turned him. His weight carried where I had been. Before he recovered, I struck the back of his thigh hard enough to buckle his leg, then brought the rim of my shield into his chest.

He went down on one knee. I placed the blunted edge of my sword against the gap beneath his helm. The bout was over. It had lasted less than a minute.

The marshal called it, and the crowd gave a strong cheer, though not a wild one. They had expected competence. They had received decisiveness. Ser Morris accepted my offered hand and rose with a grimace that belonged more to wounded pride than pain.

"Well struck, my prince," he said.

"You came in honestly. There is no shame in losing that way."

"I will try to believe that before supper."

"It usually becomes easier after wine."

He laughed properly then and left the field with his dignity mostly intact. That mattered. I had no need to humiliate a Hewett knight in the first round. A clean victory said enough.

When I returned to the edge of the field, Jace was standing straighter than before. "You ended it quickly," he said.

"I had the chance. Longer fights please crowds, but they also spend strength."

"He looked stronger than you."

"He may be in a simple contest. That is why I did not give him one."

Jace looked toward Ser Morris, who was speaking with one of Lord Hewett’s men. "He did not seem angry."

"He lost cleanly, and I helped him rise. Men often forgive defeat more easily when they are not made small by it."

Jace considered that. "So even winning has manners."

"Especially winning."

The next round took time to reach me.

A bracket of sixty-four men meant much waiting between bursts of violence. I watched several bouts from the shade near our tent. Some were clean. Some were ugly. One ended with a young knight from a lesser house taking a shield blow to the helm and forgetting the name of his horse. The maesters led him away while the crowd grew quiet for the length of three breaths, then returned to cheering once they learned he could stand.

Reach tourneys were not gentle. They were simply better dressed than war.

After an hour and a half, my second opponent had been decided.

"Prince Othorion Galeris against Dickon Ashford, nephew to Lord Ashford."

Dickon Ashford was not large.

That was the first thing many men likely noticed and the first mistake some would make. He moved lightly across the field, helm tucked beneath one arm until the last moment, with a lean, fast build and the bright confidence of a young man who had learned that larger opponents disliked chasing him. His armour was good but not heavy. His shield was smaller than mine. The sword in his hand looked almost too quick for blunted steel.

He saluted with a lively grace. "My prince," he said, "I watched your first bout and decided I would rather not stand still in front of you."

"That is the most sensible thing anyone has said to me today."

"I hope to remain sensible for at least four minutes."

"That would make you one of the wiser men in the lists."

He grinned beneath the rim of his helm before lowering it.

The horn sounded.

Dickon moved immediately, not toward me but around me. He tested distance with a quick strike at my shield, withdrew before I could answer, then came in again from a different angle. Fast hands. Good feet. He wanted me turning, wanted the heavier armour to become a burden, wanted impatience to make me reach.

A younger version of Othorion might have chased him. A more foolish man certainly would have. I let him circle.

He landed the first clean touch, a sharp strike against my upper arm that rang through the plate but did little more than irritate me. The crowd liked that. Ashford men cheered, and a few others joined them because everyone enjoyed seeing a prince reminded that armour did not make him untouchable.

Dickon came in again, quicker this time, and I gave ground. Only a step. Then another. He thought he was moving me. In truth, I was moving him.

The field had been churned by earlier bouts. Near the western side, the grass gave way to a patch of softer, broken earth where several men had slipped already. I angled toward it slowly, never enough to make the intention clear. Dickon followed because speed made him confident and youth made him hungry for proof.

His foot hit the broken patch on a retreat. Not badly. Not enough to fall.

His weight shifted half a breath too late. I closed the distance, caught his sword on my shield, and drove forward before he could recover the space he needed. He twisted well, avoiding the first strike, but my shoulder caught him in the chest and forced him back. I hooked my leg behind his and pushed.

He hit the ground hard. His sword came up defensively, but mine was already at his throat.

The marshal called the bout. The crowd cheered louder this time. Not because the fight had been brutal, but because they had seen the problem and the answer. Dickon had made me work. That made the victory more valuable.

I stepped back and offered him my hand. He took it, breathing hard, eyes bright despite the loss.

"I thought I had you turning too slowly," he said.

"You did."

"That does not comfort me."

"It should. You read the first part correctly."

"And the second part?"

"You forgot to ask where I was letting you turn me."

He looked toward the patch of broken ground, then laughed despite himself. "I will hate that for several days."

"Only several?"

"I am trying to appear gracious."

"You are doing well."

He bowed and withdrew, pride bruised but not broken. Jace met me near the water table. One of Landrey’s men handed me a cup, and I drank slowly, letting the squire lift my helm away for a moment.

"He was faster than I expected," Jace said.

"Faster than most men here."

"You let him move you."

"I let him think so."

Jace frowned slightly, replaying the fight in his head. "You were taking him toward that bad ground."

"Yes."

"I noticed only near the end."

"That is enough for today. A fight often looks different once you know what question to ask."

He looked pleased, but not smug. Good.

Across the field, I saw Lord Ashford speaking with his nephew. The lord did not look angry. If anything, he seemed satisfied that Dickon had made a respectable showing. That was useful. A man could lose and still rise in reputation if the right people understood what he had attempted.

Lord Tarly, seated not far from Lord Tyrell, watched me with a sterner expression than before. Not unfriendly. Measuring.

I wondered what Jace saw. Probably not all of it. He was eleven, not a spider. But he did glance from Tarly to me, and I saw him register that the lord’s silence mattered more than a cheer.

The day warmed as it lengthened.

By the time the third round approached, the field had begun to show its use. Grass tore beneath boots. Dust rose where men landed hard. Squires carried dented shields away. The early brightness of the tourney had shifted into something rougher, though the banners still looked lovely above it.

Men who had won twice moved differently now. Some gained confidence. Others grew cautious, having learned that the day intended to keep asking for more. Bruises accumulated beneath plate. Hands tired. Breath came harder. Small mistakes became more likely.

My third opponent was announced shortly after midday. "Prince Othorion Galeris against Lord Elwood Blackbar, Lord of Bandallon."

That name drew a more serious murmur.

Lord Elwood Blackbar was in his mid-forties, broad through the shoulders and thick through the waist in the way of a man who had grown heavier without growing soft. His armour was dark, the black bars of his house displayed plainly. He carried a heavy blunted sword and a shield marked by fresh dents from his earlier bouts.

He had fought his way here with force.

I had watched part of his previous match. He did not waste much energy on elegance. He pressed, battered, and forced opponents into errors. His style was ferocious without being mindless, which made him more dangerous than a mere brute. Men who mistook aggression for stupidity often found themselves beneath it.

He saluted me with a hard nod. "My prince," he said. "You have made neat work so far."

"Neatness saves strength."

"Sometimes strength is meant to be spent."

"When the purchase is worth it."

His grin was not friendly, but it was honest. "Then let us see what we can afford."

The horn sounded.

Lord Blackbar came at me like a door kicked open.

His first blow struck my shield hard enough to numb my forearm. The second followed immediately, low toward the hip, then a third aimed at my helm. He did not give me the room Dickon had offered. He wanted pressure, collision, and discomfort. He wanted the fight decided before careful thought could become useful.

I gave ground because I had to, not because I chose to.

The crowd roared.

Blackbar drove again. His shield slammed into mine, and for a moment we were close enough that I could hear his breath inside his helm. He was strong. Stronger than Ser Morris. Less nimble than Dickon, but much harder to turn. He struck with the confidence of a man accustomed to making others flinch.

I did not flinch. I absorbed two more blows, felt one glance painfully across my ribs, then changed the rhythm. That was the danger with men like Blackbar. Their style trained opponents to expect force in steady succession. Break the timing, and strength could become weight.

When his next strike came high, I stepped inside rather than away. My shield caught his arm before the blow fully formed. I drove the edge of my own shield into his shoulder, then struck his thigh, not hard enough to cripple, but hard enough to make the leg hesitate. He snarled and tried to shove me back.

I let him. Then I hit him as he came forward.

The blow landed across his helm with a crack that silenced the nearest part of the crowd. He staggered, recovered, and swung from the side with enough force that taking it badly might have ended the bout. I ducked under the worst of it, slammed my shoulder into him, and hooked my shield behind his.

We struggled for one ugly moment. No grace. No clean line. Just armour scraping, boots tearing earth, breath hot inside steel. Then his injured leg betrayed him. I forced him down onto one knee and struck the sword from his hand.

The marshal called the bout before pride could convince him to continue unarmed.

For a heartbeat, Lord Blackbar remained kneeling, breathing hard. Then he looked up at me. I offered my hand. He stared at it long enough that the crowd began to wonder. Then he took it.

I hauled him to his feet. "Well fought," I said.

He rolled his shoulder and gave a rough laugh. "You hit harder than your manners suggest."

"My manners are mostly political."

"That explains much."

"It often does."

He lifted his sword after a squire returned it and saluted the stands. The crowd gave him strong applause, which he deserved. I did the same, and that mattered too. Defeating a lord required care after the fact. Bruises healed faster when honour was left intact.

As I left the field, I felt the ache in my ribs properly for the first time. Jace saw it. "Are you hurt?" he asked when I reached the tent.

"Bruised."

"That looked harder than the others."

"It was."

"You still won."

"I did. But winning does not mean the other man failed to matter."

He looked toward Lord Blackbar, who was now speaking with his own men while removing his helm. "He seemed angry at first."

"He was deciding whether pride would make him foolish. He chose against it."

"That is a choice?"

"One of the most important."

Jace was quiet after that.

He watched Lord Blackbar accept wine from a squire, laugh at something said by a bannerman, and gesture toward the field with no visible bitterness. I could almost see my son placing that beside Ser Morris, beside Dickon Ashford, beside the different ways men carried defeat.

Not all lessons needed to be explained at once.

By late afternoon, the tournament had changed character.

The first rounds had carried excitement, colour, and novelty. Now there was fatigue under the cheering. Men who had been eliminated drank, boasted, excused themselves, or praised the men who had beaten them depending on temperament. The crowd had favourites. Wagers had grown serious. The remaining fighters were no longer names on a bracket but men the stands had watched survive the day.

Sixty-four had become eight. My fourth bout would decide whether I reached the evening matches.

When the herald called the next pairing, the reaction came before the full name had left his mouth. "Prince Othorion Galeris against Ser Jon Roxton."

There it was. Ser Jon Roxton strode onto the field with the confidence of a man already accustomed to being watched. He was young, strong, and handsome in the irritating way certain knights managed even after hours in armour. His surcoat bore the ring of House Roxton, and he carried himself as if he believed every eye upon him had made the correct decision.

He was highly skilled. That was clear before the horn. His earlier bouts had shown speed, strength, and a boldness that was not empty. He attacked decisively, recovered quickly, and understood how to turn applause into pressure. Men like him often became dangerous in war because they believed daring was a form of destiny.

In another life, Jon Roxton would make a name for himself during the Dance, especially in the battles around Tumbleton.

Bold Jon Roxton. A name sung differently depending on who survived to tell the tale. Here, in this field, he was not yet that man. Not fully. But the shape was there.

He saluted me with a flourish just restrained enough to remain proper. "My prince," he said. "I hoped the bracket would be generous enough to bring us together."

"Generosity is not always kindness."

"No, but it does make for better stories."

"Only if both men survive the telling."

His smile sharpened. "I intend to do more than survive."

"I imagine most men do before the horn."

A few nearby knights laughed. Roxton heard them. His pride did not like it, though his face kept its charm. "Then I will try to make my intention clear," he said.

"I would expect nothing less."

We stepped apart.

The field felt different before this bout. The crowd had leaned forward, not literally in every case, but the attention changed. Lord Roxton’s men were loud. Lord Tarly watched without speaking.

Lord Redwyne had stopped pretending interest in his cup. Ormund Hightower stood near Gwayne, both focused now. Lord Matthos Tyrell looked pleased in the way hosts did when the entertainment justified the expense.

Jace sat very still. Ser Arryk stood beside him. Then the horn sounded.

Roxton came fast. Not as light as Dickon Ashford, not as heavy as Blackbar. Better balanced than both. His first attack was a sharp sequence meant to test reactions: high strike, shield feint, low cut, immediate withdrawal. I blocked without committing. He turned away from my answer and came in again from the opposite side.

The crowd responded to his speed, and he fed from it. His second exchange was harder, bolder. He struck my shield, then used the rebound to pivot and aim at my shoulder. I caught it on the upper rim and answered with a thrust of my blunted blade toward his chest. He twisted aside and struck my arm as he passed.

A clean touch. The Roxton men cheered. I ignored them. Roxton did not. That was one difference between us.

He smiled beneath his helm and pressed harder, wanting the moment to grow. He had touched me, the crowd had seen it, and now he wanted to turn that into a story before I took the pen from him.

I let him come. For the first minute, he looked excellent. For the second, he began to look impatient. That was the flaw.

Bold men often hated delayed victory more than danger. Roxton had skill, strength, and courage, but he wanted the fight to announce him. He wanted a decisive exchange the crowd would remember with his name attached. Each time I denied him that, his attacks gained a fraction more force and lost a fraction more judgement.

He tried to crowd me after a shield bind, using his strength to force my guard open. I yielded half a step and turned my wrist so his blade slid across my shield rather than catching it. His weight followed the failed pressure. I struck his side, not full force, but clean enough to make him grunt.

The crowd shifted. Roxton attacked again. This time I answered harder.

Our swords cracked together. Shield met shield. He tried to hook my guard and pull it down, a clever movement, but one I had seen before in less comfortable places than Highgarden. I stepped inside, drove my shoulder into his chest, and forced him back. He recovered quickly and swung for my helm.

I ducked under it and struck his thigh. He stumbled. Not fell. Stumbled. For a man like Jon Roxton, that was nearly worse. The crowd saw it.

His next attack came with anger beneath the polish. I did not punish it immediately. I let it show. Let the stands see the difference between boldness and temper. Let Lord Roxton’s own men feel the uncertainty of cheering a man who was no longer fully in command of himself.

Then I ended it.

Roxton came forward with a heavy diagonal cut meant to break through my guard. I caught it on my shield, stepped across his lead foot, and drove the rim of the shield into his helm. His head snapped sideways. Before he recovered, I struck his sword arm hard enough to loosen his grip, then slammed my shoulder into him and turned.

He hit the ground on his back. His sword landed two feet away. I placed my blade against his chest.

The marshal called the bout.

For a moment, the field held still. Then the crowd erupted. Not all for me. Some in surprise, some in admiration, some because men liked seeing pride fall as much as they liked seeing it rise. Roxton lay where he had fallen, chest heaving beneath his armour, staring up through his helm as though the sky had betrayed him.

I stepped back and offered my hand. He did not take it at once. That delay was small. Everyone noticed.

Finally, he reached up. I pulled him to his feet. "Well fought, Ser Jon," I said, loud enough for those nearest to hear.

His jaw worked before he answered. "You fought cleanly, my prince."

The words were correct. The feeling behind them was not.

"That is all any of us can ask in a tourney," I said.

His eyes met mine through the slit of his helm. He wanted to say more. Pride pressed at him. Sense, or perhaps the eyes of half the Reach, held him back.

He bowed. Not deeply, but enough to seem polite. Then he left the field with mud on one knee and anger in every line of his back. I watched him go.

Jon Roxton had not been humiliated by a trick. That would have been easier for him to bear. He had been beaten clearly, in front of lords whose opinions mattered to him, by a man he had hoped to turn into a step beneath his own reputation. Pride remembered that kind of defeat.

When I returned to the tent, Jace was waiting. He had not run down from the stands. He had walked, which told me Ser Arryk had either given good counsel or my son had remembered it himself.

"That one was different," Jace said.

I let the squire unfasten my helm before answering. "How?"

"Ser Roxton was angrier after losing than the others. Ser Morris looked disappointed, Dickon Ashford almost laughed, and Lord Blackbar seemed to accept it once he stood. Ser Roxton looked as if you had taken something from him."

I looked at him properly. That was not every layer of it. But it was enough. "You saw well," I said.

Jace’s expression shifted, pleased but cautious. "Did I?"

"Yes. Ser Roxton wanted more than victory. He wanted the story of victory. Losing cost him both."

Jace looked back toward the field, where Roxton’s men had gathered around him. "Will he hate you for it?"

"Perhaps for a while. Perhaps longer, if he decides the defeat says more about me than about his own pride."

"That seems foolish."

"It is. Many dangerous things begin that way."

A horn sounded again, this one longer.

The heralds moved to the centre of the field as the sun dipped lower beyond Highgarden’s towers. The light had turned warmer, gilding the white stone and catching the dust that hung over the trampled grass. Men quieted by degrees as the announcement was made.

Sixty-four competitors had entered the lists that morning.

Four remained. The final three bouts would be fought in the evening, after the field was cleared, the torches lit, and the remaining fighters given time to rest.

A cheer rolled through the stands.

I drank water and felt the rest of the afternoon settle into my bones. My arm ached from Morris’s first blows, my ribs complained from Blackbar’s pressure, and my thigh had tightened where Roxton’s strike had landed. None of it was serious. All of it was real.

Jace stood beside me, looking toward the field with less simple excitement than he had carried that morning. He had noticed a thing or two. Not everything. Not yet. But enough to understand that men did not only lose with their bodies.

Sometimes they lost with their pride. And pride often took longer to heal.