The Hedge Knight

The wind of July still carried a damp heat. Dry heat could be fought with ice. Wet heat was a punishment without an answer.

By rights, this part of the world should have felt gentle, almost springlike. Instead, stopping and starting rains left the roads slick and the air heavy.

Good moods vanished quickly in weather like this. From a distance, the hedge knight rode a shabby white horse that was nearly black from mud. Even so, someone had decided his property looked worth stealing.

On the narrow muddy road, a man with a longsword stepped out ahead of him.

The man wore arrogance better than skill. His posture suggested he had some ability, but his manners made that difficult to appreciate.

"Hey," the man called. "I think you should get down and hand over something useful."

When Ronan turned his head, the robber's companion loosed an arrow from behind a pine.

The crude shaft passed over Ronan's head and buried itself in a branch behind him. The swordsman grinned. "Now you should..." He did not finish.

The listless hedge knight drew in a flash. The man's head came away cleanly, and his companion had just enough time to see blood rise like a fountain from the cut.

"Chah."

The horse surged forward with its master. The archer fumbled for revenge, but his second shot was nowhere near as steady as the first. Ronan slipped aside easily.

Hooves struck over roots. Steel flashed cold through the trees. A headless body fell beside the road.

Scattered robbers were as irritating as scattered rain, but Ronan could not change the realm by killing two men on a muddy track.

This was the kingswood. If life was this poor so near the king, one could imagine the rest of the realm.

Robert Baratheon was not a good king. At least, governance did not seem to be among his gifts.

As King's Landing drew closer, more travelers appeared on the road. Watching them slog through mud on foot made Ronan's patience thin.

"Damned weather. Damned road."

When the walls finally came into view, a stench rode the wind so foul that Ronan nearly turned his horse aside on instinct.

He took the animal down to the river and washed both himself and his old companion as thoroughly as he could.

It was not vanity. A man who had not smelled King's Landing with his own nose could not understand the capital of the Seven Kingdoms.

The place was worse than the villages he had passed. Its only advantage was that more people lived there, and more knights and guards could be seen. Shouts rose in the distance.

Curious, Ronan asked a local and learned that the king was holding a tourney in honor of the new Hand's arrival.

Any fighter with real skill had reason to try his luck. A tourney was the quickest place to earn glory, coin, and the eye of someone powerful.

This time, the contest did not restrict itself to highborn knights. Even a sellsword or hedge knight could enter.

The events were varied as well. There was the expected joust, but archery and team melees had been added.

It seemed Robert was at least interested in gathering useful men around him. Ronan made his way toward the grounds with interest. The first event he found was archery.

Few common-born knights trained that art to its limit. Most could draw and loose, but their accuracy rarely matched men raised with leisure and good instruction.

One marksman from the Dornish Marches, however, had suppressed two noble competitors. The nobles had just scored an eight and a nine on the hundred-yard target.

The marcher archer did not even need to draw for the crowd to begin celebrating. In the earlier rounds, every one of his arrows had struck the center.

His opponents sighed helplessly, already admitting the man's skill. As expected, his next arrow struck the center again.

He was ready to enjoy the victory when something impossible stole the moment. An arrow that did not belong to the contest knocked his shaft from the target. The fletching fell to the ground.

The archer spun, searching the crowd. Ronan stepped out from among the spectators. "May I test myself against you?"

The archer's confidence remained. "Of course. But you must use the tournament bow." The tournament bows lacked the power of true war bows.

A Dornish nobleman named Ser Jabar Sorel handed one to Ronan. Ronan accepted it, then asked, "Could I trouble you for two more arrows?"

"Of course."

Jabar drew two more from the quiver and passed them over. After thanking him again, Ronan signaled for the archer to begin.

The marcher assumed Ronan had taken three arrows because he expected to need three rounds. He ordered the target moved thirty yards farther back.

At a hundred and thirty yards, the difference between a good archer and a true marksman became obvious.

The archer looked at Ronan, drew, and released without spending long on his aim. Cheers erupted. Another center shot.

Ronan was not impressed. If the man wanted theater, Ronan could provide it. He did not aim for long either. He kept his gaze on his opponent.

Only his string held three arrows instead of one. The archer's mouth curled with contempt. The crowd murmured, already mocking the foreign showoff. The arrows left the string. Every eye turned to Ronan's target.

As expected, it was empty. The archer laughed. "Not every man has my skill. Perhaps you should practice a few more years."

"Perhaps I should."

Ronan brushed past him with a meaningful smile. Then someone in the field shouted, "He hit! He hit it!" The archer turned.

Three new arrows stood in his own target. His arrow had been knocked away. By the rules, each archer's score had to appear on his own target. Ronan's shot was, technically, worth nothing.

But the marcher no longer had the nerve to accept the championship.

"I withdraw," he said.

The two nobles withdrew as well. The honor had become too cheap to touch. No later competitor dared claim it.

By the time the judge officially announced the final winner of the archery event, the true champion had already vanished into the crowd.

Fixed targets were interesting, but not as thrilling as warriors testing themselves against one another.

Only true fighters entered contests where a mistake could cost more than pride. Several events were running at once, and the melee was nearing its end.

Ronan had just squeezed into the inner ring when the crowd around him scattered. For a moment, he thought they were being considerate. Then a greatsword came toward him.

Instinct moved first. Ronan drew and blocked. The man's strength was enormous. For one ugly instant, Ronan nearly went down in front of half King's Landing.

He had not yet made his entrance. Kneeling now was unacceptable. Ronan gathered force and drove the attacker back. The field fell silent.

On the royal platform, the king stirred awake. Robert Baratheon had not expected the tail end of a tourney to produce someone worth watching.

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