Rules Changed at the Last Moment

At most tourneys, the group melee came after the joust. It was supposed to be a noisy, bruising spectacle, a place for hedge knights, ambitious sons, and restless men-at-arms to show courage before their betters. Sometimes a lord replaced it with a mock battle for pageantry, but this time the rules had been kept loose.

Anyone with a weapon could enter.

That sounded generous until the rules changed.

The announcement came shortly before the melee was meant to begin. King Robert Baratheon, in one of those sudden decisions that made courtiers turn pale, declared that armor would be allowed.

Not tourney padding.

Real armor.

And sharpened steel.

The field changed in an instant. Men who had been laughing and drinking in leather jacks suddenly stared at one another as if they had all wandered into the wrong war.

Rumor spread even faster than fear. Some claimed the king wanted a blood offering for the birth of his heir. Others said he had grown bored of soft tourneys and wanted to see whether the realm still bred men. Whatever the truth, the result was immediate.

Entrants withdrew by the hundreds.

Then the great houses began adding men of their own.

No one wanted to look weak in the early years of the Baratheon reign. Lannister, Arryn, Tully, Martell, Stark, Tyrell: each banner needed to show it still had teeth. By the time the field was counted again, the number had climbed back to several hundred, though now the crowd was looking at armored men with live blades instead of cheerful fools chasing bruises.

The commons loved it.

Blood was cheaper than mummers, and far more honest.

Alden learned of the change when Garlan and Ser Vortimer came to his tent with two squires, a chest of armor, and expressions that told him the morning had gone rotten.

"Take off the leather," Vortimer said.

Alden looked at the breastplate the squires were already lifting out. "I thought this was a melee, not a siege."

"His Grace changed the rules."

"To what?"

"Heavy armor is allowed," Garlan said. "So are sharpened weapons."

Alden stared at him.

Then he laughed once, without humor. "A tourney field turned into a killing pit."

Vortimer's mouth tightened. "That is one way of putting it."

This had never happened in the story Alden remembered. No bloody birth tourney where Robert let half the realm cut one another apart. No massacre in King's Landing before Joffrey could even sit upright. That meant either his memory had missed something, or some unseen piece of the board had moved.

He almost blamed himself.

Then he dismissed the thought. He had not changed enough yet to push Robert Baratheon into madness. Robert had always been half warhammer, half wounded pride. A dull peace and a celebrating court were more than enough to make him reach for blood.

"You can withdraw," Garlan said quietly.

Alden turned to him.

The boy was holding two swords.

They were fine pieces, bright and balanced, made for a noble's hands rather than a butcher's. Not Valyrian steel, Alden knew at once. But good steel, cleanly forged, thinner and lighter than his own broad hand-and-a-half sword, with edges sharp enough to find the gaps in armor.

"Willas had them made for me," Garlan said. "For when I come of age. Use them today."

Alden took one, then the other. Their weight settled beautifully.

"You trust me with these?"

"Bring them back," Garlan said, attempting a smile. "Preferably with yourself attached."

Alden gave him a nod, then looked to Vortimer. "Do the others know about the rule change?"

"Yes," Garlan said. "And Father replaced the original men."

"With whom?"

"His household guard. Ser Salif leads them."

Alden's mood sank another notch.

Household guards were better than sick tourney men, but they were not his men. They would follow Salif, not him. They would not know his rhythm, would not protect his flanks, and might resent him for being there at all.

"I will stand alone," Alden said.

Garlan frowned. "Why?"

Vortimer answered before Alden could. "Because if he stands with men who do not mean to fight with him, he will become their shield. Or their excuse."

Garlan's face changed as he understood.

If the Tyrell men were embarrassed, blame could fall on Alden. If they wanted him out of the way, the chaos of a live-steel melee would hide almost anything.

So Alden would make himself impossible to blame.

The squires dressed him in plate that had clearly belonged to someone else. The fit was not perfect, but it was close enough after straps were tightened and padding adjusted. Vortimer watched the process with an expression Alden could not quite read.

"The armor belonged to my nephew," the knight said at last. "He died in the rebellion. Return it clean if you can. Return it at all if you cannot."

"Not a gift, then."

"No."

Alden flexed his hands inside the gauntlets. "Why did Lord Mace not replace me too?"

Vortimer looked away toward the field. "Because I asked him not to."

Alden studied him.

"I argued for your place," Vortimer continued. "I told him your skill against numbers is real. I told him that if Tyrell needed a man who could make the crowd remember our banner, you were the best chance we had."

"And if I die?"

"Then I will owe you more than I can repay."

For a moment, Alden said nothing.

Then he bowed his head. "Thank you."

He meant it.

The danger was real. So was the opportunity. If Robert watched this blood-soaked farce with interest, a man who performed well could rise overnight. Ser Jorah Mormont had earned a king's notice in the Greyjoy Rebellion. Alden needed men like Robert and Littlefinger to break rules, because rules were built by men who already had names, lands, and fathers worth remembering.

Without a name, a lord, a trade, or a patron, he had to climb through the cracks.

The melee field had become one.

When he reached the edge of the grounds, Ser Salif and the Tyrell household guard were already waiting. Salif looked him over and gave a smile with no warmth in it.

"Bear-Hunter," he said. "Do not expect me to pull you out if you wander too deep."

"I was not planning to ask."

"A wise man would withdraw."

"Then the field will be full of fools."

Alden walked away from the Tyrell line and took his place alone.

That drew eyes at once.

Other houses had gathered in clusters. Lannister red and gold. Arryn blue and white. Tully trout. Martell sun and spear. Stark gray. The smaller houses stood in thinner knots, seven or eight men under lesser banners. In total, the field held six or seven hundred fighters, enough armored steel to turn a tourney into a small war.

Then the crowd roared.

Robert Baratheon had arrived.

He came in full armor, an antlered helm beneath one arm and a warhammer in the other hand. Twenty men from Storm's End marched behind him.

Alden stared.

The king himself was entering the melee.

Around the field, every lord with sense began to look as though the ground had opened beneath his feet.

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