After arranging for Lothor Brune to be sent to Star Station to recuperate, Arthur patted the man on the shoulder and watched as the tenacious "Apple-Eater" limped away supported by an attendant.
Then, Arthur turned to the stables. Violet was grazing with her head down, but as he approached, she immediately tossed her head and neighed, white mist huffing from her nostrils.
Arthur rubbed her mane, instructed the stable boy to care for her well, and returned to his tent.
Inside, Jimmy Sunderland was carefully wiping down Arthur's armor with an oilcloth.
Seeing Arthur enter, Jimmy held up the left pauldron. In the candlelight, a distinct dent was visible on the metal surface.
"My lord, the joust must have been exciting today," Jimmy grinned. "Your pauldron is dented. Needs a trip to the smithy."
Vic Five followed Arthur in. "My lord met a lucky fool today."
He then recounted what had happened with Lothor Brune in the lists to Jimmy.
"You mean that freerider from the Fingers outside the tent?" Jimmy raised an eyebrow as he polished a greave.
"I saw he was hurt and invited him inside to rest, but he refused. Insisted on waiting outside for my lord's return."
"Understandable. People from the Fingers are like the rocks and sheep dung on their islands—hard and stubborn."
Listening to his squires chat, Arthur took the pauldron and examined it closely under the candlelight.
The dent reflected distorted shadows—clearly the result of a heavy blow.
Recalling the match, Arthur concluded it was the mark left by Lothor Brune's first lance strike.
"Take it to the camp smithy for repair," Arthur handed the pauldron to Vic Six. "And summon Karen the Fat Steward to see me."
After Vic Six left, Arthur turned to Jimmy. "How did you fare in the archery contest today?"
Jimmy hung the cleaned rattan armor back on the rack. "I passed the qualifiers easily. The finals are tomorrow."
"My lord, if I place, you have to keep your word and knight me with Dawn."
"Of course. If you win the championship, I'll knight you with Dawn myself."
Arthur emphasized the word win.
Vic Five jeered, "Ser Jimmy Sunderland of Sisterton."
"My lord," Jimmy ignored Vic Five and looked at Arthur, "you promised to knight me if I placed. Why has it changed to winning the championship?"
"Why? No confidence in winning?"
Arthur had seen Jimmy's hard work in practicing archery. Jimmy deserved to be knighted, but Arthur wanted to use this to push his potential a little further.
As they say, if you don't squeeze your squire, you'll never know what surprises they can give you.
"No, it's just that I met an extraordinary archer in the qualifiers today."
A flicker of hesitation crossed Jimmy's brow. "His name is Anguy. Heard he's a commoner from the Marches, but his arrows almost never miss. Bullseye every time."
"That's exactly what I wanted." A small smile touched Arthur's lips. He patted Jimmy's shoulder.
"Without a worthy rival, an easy win won't help you improve."
Jimmy clenched his fist, taking a deep breath. The fighting spirit in his eyes rekindled. "My lord, I will win the archery championship for you to see."
"My lord, dinner is ready!"
A guard lifted the tent flap, and the camp cook entered carrying a pot of milky-white crucian carp soup with both hands. The rich aroma instantly filled the tent.
Zach followed closely behind, balancing a platter piled high with dark bread and purple olives in one hand, and holding a spit with half a roasted lamb in the other.
The lamb sizzled with fat, seasoned with spices and crushed peppers. The mouth-watering scent permeated the air, stimulating everyone's appetite.
"Come in, everyone eat together," Arthur called to the guards at the door.
He tore off a chunk of dark bread, hollowed out the center with a knife to make a simple soup bowl, and poured in a ladle of fish soup.
After a few bites, Karen the Fat Steward waddled in, following his nose. His belt looked ready to burst.
Arthur took the roasted leg of lamb Zach carved for him. "How is the recruitment of hedge knights going?"
Karen accepted a bread bowl and reported between slurps of soup:
"The three rounds of jousting today eliminated over 200 knights. We've made contact with over 100 of them and reached preliminary agreements. You can screen them personally after the tourney ends."
"The Grand Melee of over 200 men today was decided after three deaths, a dozen broken legs and arms, and several broken ribs."
He wiped grease from his mouth. "The champion is a mountain clansman named Cara from the Shadowskin Clan in the Red Mountains."
Arthur searched his memory. Shadowskin Clan, Cara...
Never heard of the name, nor the clan.
"Is the Shadowskin Clan a wildling tribe near Starfall?"
"No, my lord," Karen replied, taking another bite of his bread bowl. "To recruit him, I specifically asked Ser Bard. His wildling soldiers told me the Shadowskin Clan usually operates near Blackmont and the Prince's Pass."
"He also said the Shadowskin Clan worships shadowcats. Also, this Cara refused our recruitment offer."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Refused?"
"Yes. Took the 7,000 Gold Dragon prize for the Melee champion and left immediately," Karen shrugged.
Arthur chuckled. "Normal enough. Sudden wealth makes one unwilling to serve another."
He paused. "Try to retain the contestants eliminated from the archery competition as well. Let Jimmy pick the suitable ones to recruit."
"Me?" Jimmy was stunned, not expecting to be involved, but quickly nodded. "Understood, my lord."
Karen asked again, "In that case, what about the musicians and bards for the poetry and music competition later? Should we recruit them?"
The poetry and music competition wasn't suitable for the noisy outdoor environment. The master of ceremonies had suggested holding it in Starfall after the jousting concluded.
Arthur shook his head. "No need. Just give the eliminated musicians and bards some coin and send them on their way."
Musicians and bards were useful for spreading fame; keeping them here served little purpose. Giving them money ensured they remembered Starfall fondly and sang its praises elsewhere.
---
The Second Day.
After yesterday's three rounds of elimination, over 60 knights remained in the joust. The matches were no longer held simultaneously but one pair at a time.
Only one dividing barrier remained on the field. The wood chips scattered yesterday had been cleared, and the mud churned by hooves had been packed solid.
Following yesterday's precedent, Arthur was scheduled for the opening match. His fourth-round opponent was Ser Garth Hightower, known as "Greysteel," somewhat famous in the Reach.
Ser Garth Hightower was the younger brother of Baelor "Brightsmile" Hightower and the second son of Lord Leyton Hightower of Oldtown.
Baelor Brightsmile had been defeated yesterday in the third round by Ser Gerold Dayne, "Darkstar." He had twisted his ankle falling from his horse.
The maester said no bones were broken, and he would recover with some rest.
"You stole the honor of the Sword of the Morning! Today I will reveal your true form!"
While circling the field, instead of seeking favors from ladies, Garth stuck to Arthur's side, spewing trash talk.
Arthur couldn't tell if Garth was angry because his brother had been injured by Gerold Dayne and was taking it out on him...
Or if he was using trash talk tactics to provoke Arthur into losing his cool and revealing a flaw.
Or maybe both. Arthur couldn't be bothered to respond.
"Snow, pray to your tree gods. After I knock you off your horse, you won't have time."
"Bastard..."
Seeing Arthur ignore him, Garth got more excited, his insults growing viler and dirtier.
"Did the White Bull, Gerold Hightower, play these honorless little tricks before a match?" Arthur finally gave Garth a look of disdain as they took their positions.
"Your behavior shames House Hightower."
With that, he rode to his starting position without looking back.
From the other side of the field, Arthur carefully observed Garth's equipment. He wore a full suit of heavy grey plate armor, with only a white tower and red flame on the breastplate.
His pauldrons, breastplate, gorget, and great helm were seamlessly connected, tight as a drum. He looked like a tin can on a horse.
Eyeing this impenetrable tin can, Arthur suddenly found inspiration in the red flame on his breastplate.
A brilliant way to defeat Garth formed in his mind. Two words: Slow Cook!
Arthur decided to drag it out with Ser Garth. Let the Dornish sun teach Ser Garth how to be a good person.
The horn blew!
Arthur abandoned his usual swift and fierce offense. Instead, he focused on defense, using his superior horsemanship to dodge and parry Garth's attacks.
Four rounds passed. Arthur's pine lance hadn't even shattered once.
Initially feeling the weak impact, Garth thought this Snow, who had stolen the name of the Sword of the Morning, was indeed a fraud propped up by House Dayne.
Perfect, he thought. The honor of defeating the Sword of the Morning will be enough for me to be sung of by future generations, just like my kinsman the White Bull.
But as time went on, Garth felt something was wrong. The kid's attacks were weak, but his riding was good.
Every time Garth hit him, the kid wobbled but stayed in the saddle, always hanging on by a thread.
As time passed, Garth began to feel unwell—the temperature inside his plate armor skyrocketed, sweat soaked his padding, and his vision began to blur.
But remembering the kid's disdainful look, Garth gritted his teeth. This little heat is nothing compared to the glory of defeating the Sword of the Morning!
And so, Arthur played with the old boy for half an hour. Fearing Garth would realize his "slow cook" intention, Arthur deliberately angled his lance to shatter it occasionally.
To give Garth the illusion of impending victory, Arthur feigned nearly falling off his horse whenever he was hit.
The audience, unaware of the truth, cheered and applauded wildly for this intensely gridlocked battle that had broken over ten lances.
By the sixteenth round, even Arthur, wearing breathable rattan armor, was sweating all over, his helm padding soaked.
Arthur felt he was reaching his limit.
He wondered, Is this old boy a legendary Heat Resister? Or the Unburnt?
Just as Arthur decided to stop "slow cooking" Garth into a good person and get serious, a gasp erupted from the high stands.
Turning his horse, Arthur saw Garth lying on his back on the ground not far away, motionless. He had fallen off his horse without Arthur noticing.
Attendants rushed to him, preparing to strip off his plate and helm. But the moment a hand touched the breastplate, it was jerked back.
"It's hot!"
Not hot, not hot. Braised meat in a tin can, medium well.
Arthur suppressed his laughter, the corners of his mouth under his visor stretching to his ears. The satisfaction of a successful scheme washed over him.
"Idiots! Cool him down with water first, then drag him to the shade!" On the high stand, Baelor Brightsmile hopped on his good leg, shouting urgently.
"Hurry! Faster!"
Attendants brought buckets and splashed water frantically over Garth.
Whether it was an illusion or not, Arthur saw steam rising from Garth's plate armor like smoke from a barbecue.
Seeing the chaos end, Arthur took his victory lap. Stopping under the Hightower banner, he displayed impeccable knightly grace with a serious face:
"Ser Garth was truly heroic. It was not I who defeated him, but the sun of Dorne."
"I will send my maester to attend him. If he can still fight, I am willing to face him again."
Some clueless Reach nobles nodded frequently, praising Arthur's chivalry.
Next to the Hightower seats were the Tyrells. Margaery's cousins and handmaids looked at him with overflowing adoration, eyes shining as if looking at a 'brother'.
Margaery, impressed by the knightly spirit Arthur had shown over the last two days, praised him with admiring eyes: "Ser Arthur, you are worthy of the name Sword of the Morning."
Arthur nodded slightly. Learning he had no more opponents for the day, he returned to his tent to change.
When he returned to the tourney grounds, he made a point to visit Garth.
In the first-aid room, Garth lay stark naked on a bed. Two Hightower attendants were fanning him vigorously with large fans.
Baelor Brightsmile was constantly splashing water on him, looking like he was trying to save a boiled steak.
Suppressing a smile, Arthur asked, "Maester, how is Ser Garth? You must save him."
Maester Ewan sighed first. "Ser Garth is in a coma from severe heatstroke."
"He is undoubtedly a man of incredibly strong constitution and will. An ordinary man would have fainted long ago."
"Maester," Baelor asked anxiously, "when will my brother wake up?"
"I am mixing a remedy for heatstroke. I hope it helps." Maester Ewan crushed herbs with a stone mortar, mixing the juice with some strange ingredients.
"As for when he wakes... only the Seven know."
Arthur looked at Baelor's unsmiling face, pondering whether this was the right time to ask for the ransom for Garth's horse and armor...