The trial by combat was set for the next morning at dawn.
Paxter named Ser Desmond Redwyne as his champion.
Arthur had crossed lances with Desmond before, back at the Starfall tourney jousts. He'd nearly been unhorsed by the man's silver tongue tricking him—only to pay him back by smashing through his shield and sending the skilled Redwyne knight crashing to the dirt. "I had nothing to do with this," Duke Mace insisted after Paxter demanded the trial. "It was all his doing..."
Arthur just shrugged. "Won't change a thing. Desmond led the raid on the Peach Groves—he was a dead man walking anyway. This way, I get to finish him quick."
"Truth is, Paxter pushing for a trial this late in the game? If Desmond loses, he's done for too. And his death might just be the best thing for the Arbor, the Reach... hell, for all of us. Call it closure."
Mace's face darkened, but he said no more. Once Arthur confirmed their deal was still on, the duke hurried off.
It was a fight on foot, and even though Arthur felt sure of victory, he checked his gear twice over, tuned up his body, and made damn sure nothing went wrong.
Come first light the next day, Penrose and Zack helped him into his brigandine and the rest of his kit—just like at the Starfall tourney. Only this time, no full greathelm with a visor; he'd swapped it for an open-faced half-helm.
"Better sightlines," Arthur said, rolling his neck and enjoying the wider field of view. Footwork fights needed sharp eyes all around.
The outer yard of the Red Keep was the chosen ground.
Thousands poured in to watch the duel that would decide the "gods-cursed traitor's" fate.
The wall walks were packed with gawkers, their shoulders jammed together, shadows stretching long in the rising sun like a swaying forest of men.
Stables, balconies, rooftops—folks crammed everywhere.
Some hauled up barrels or stools to get a better perch; others even scrambled through the archbridge windows.
The yard itself was jammed tight, forcing Gold Cloaks and Kingsguard to shove the crowd back and clear space for the fight.
Up on the moonlit platform jutting from the Tower of the Hand sat the king, the queen, and the Small Council.
Robert had cut his Kingswood hunt short the moment he heard about the trial and raced back.
Arthur strode into the yard, and Desmond emerged from the far side. They halted thirty paces apart.
Desmond gripped sword in one hand, shield in the other—its purple grapevine sigil bold on the iron-banded oak. No heavy Reach plate for him; just light chainmail, with gorget and pauldrons.
His helm matched Arthur's—no visor.
Arthur could see the man's face, grim as a storm about to break, ignoring the roar of the crowd. His eyes raked Arthur up and down, hunting for weakness.
Smart play, skipping the heavy armor. Looked like Desmond had studied his bout with Jaime Lannister.
The king raised his arm from the platform.
Trumpets blared, hushing the mob.
The fat High Septon waddled forward in his towering crystal crown, planting himself between them. He prayed to the Father for judgment on the innocent, to the Warrior for strength to the just.
When the bloated septon shuffled off, Arthur drew his twin blades and charged ahead. Dawn gleamed with a pearly white light; its black counterpart shone midnight-dark, every bit as razor-lethal.
Desmond didn't back down. He rushed forward, closing fast.
Clang!
Arthur's first strike tested with Dawn on the shield—splinters flew, a jagged gash splitting the grapevine blazon.
Desmond gritted his teeth against the force, shoving with his shield arm to bat the blade away while his longsword lashed like a viper at Arthur's throat.
Cling!
Arthur parried clean with the black sword—sparks flew, metal screeching.
Three cautious exchanges like that, getting the measure of Desmond's style. Then Arthur cut loose.
His blades blurred into black-and-white shadows. Desmond could only block, but his guard crumbled fast—fresh blood welled through rents in his chainmail.
Desperate, he bellowed and went all-in, trading life for a kill shot.
But raw skill crushed that gamble.
Arthur seized the opening. With a killer's surge, Dawn flashed down like lightning.
Desmond raised his shield—it split like kindling. The blade's momentum sheared clean through his right wrist.
"Aaagh—!"
Desmond dropped to his knees, pain locking him up. He slumped, clutching the stump, but blood fountained out.
Not again.
The familiar agony dragged up old memories.
At Starfall, that lance had punched through his shield the same way, hurling him from his horse.
Only now it was a sword. From losing a joust and paying ransom... to losing a trial by combat and paying with his life.
Snapping back, he opened his mouth to yield—Snow never killed a man who surrendered. His one shot.
Thump.
Too late. The black blade struck like a serpent's fang, punching up through his jaw, through his throat. His unspoken plea died in his gullet.
A flick of the wrist, and Desmond's head tumbled free along the neat slice. It rolled a few turns, coming to rest by the shattered grapevine shield.
The crowd erupted in cheers, praising the gods' fair verdict.
"The gods have spoken!" Robert's bellow cut through the din.
He surged to his feet, eyes blazing under his crown. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm...
"I declare Paxter Redwyne guilty. He'll swing soon enough!"
The roar swelled again—loudest from the High Septon, whose blubber quaked with joy at the traitor's doom. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
Across the yard, the instant Dawn clove that grapevine shield, Paxter slumped in his chair, eyes dead.
In a hail of jeers, the guards hauled his limp ass off to the Red Keep dungeons to await the noose.