287 AC. Dragonstone. The Training Yard.
King Robert Baratheon was suddenly taking the proceedings very seriously.
He stared down at Arthur Whent, who had just stepped forward to sign his name to the tournament roster. "Twelve years old. Ha! Good lad. He's got some fire in him."
Robert was a warrior first, a king second. He had always admired bravery and martial spirit above all else.
While this was technically just a squire's tourney and not a formal, sanctioned tournament, Dragonstone was currently packed with many of the finest young nobles in the Seven Kingdoms. The boys in this yard represented the future of Westerosi knighthood.
Is the boy arrogant, or is he a genuine prodigy? Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, looked at the twelve-year-old boy with a complex expression. Jon was old now, his strength fading. But in his youth, he had been a highly formidable Knight of the Vale, and his eye for martial talent was still sharp.
When boys that young entered the lists, they were almost always laughed out of the yard. But occasionally, a true prodigy emerged.
Maegor the Cruel. Daemon Blackfyre. Aemon the Dragonknight. Barristan the Bold.
If the boy truly is a prodigy, Jon thought grimly, it's only going to make my brother-in-law, Edmure, look even more useless by comparison.
"For Storm's End!"
"For Highgarden!"
"For the Eyrie!"
"Long live King Robert!"
The lords and ladies watching from the balconies and the sidelines were fully invested, enthusiastically shouting their support for their favored young warriors. The adrenaline was pumping; they were desperate to see some wild, visceral combat.
The fully fledged knights and the older, seasoned squires quietly stepped back, clearing the yard to make room for the younger competitors.
In Westeros, a squire was typically knighted around the age of eighteen or older. Some men, lacking the gold for armor or simply possessing no taste for battle, remained squires their entire lives. However, exceptionally gifted squires could earn their spurs anywhere between twelve and eighteen. Daemon Blackfyre, for example, had been knighted at twelve—a historical record for the Seven Kingdoms.
While a twelve-year-old entering a tourney was incredibly rare, it wasn't entirely unprecedented.
Standing near Robert was Ser Barristan Selmy. At the age of ten, Barristan had entered a tourney as a mystery knight and challenged Prince Duncan the Small, earning himself the moniker "the Bold."
"Willas, there's no need for you to rush into this. Let's see how this Whent boy handles himself first. He's your age, after all," Lord Mace Tyrell murmured to his heir, Willas.
Mace was eager for his son to win glory, but this impromptu tourney had caught him off guard, and he felt Willas was still too young to risk injury against older, stronger boys.
"I understand, Father," Willas nodded, his leg still whole and unbroken. He focused his attention on the yard, watching the preparations intently. Beside him, his younger brother, Garlan—still carrying a bit of baby fat—was also watching with rapt attention.
"A contest like this needs a proper prize!" young Lord Renly declared, looking every inch the wealthy, powerful magnate. Having inherited the massive revenues of Storm's End, he was currently swimming in gold.
"Well said, Lord Renly!" Mace Tyrell agreed heartily.
"Shall we say a hundred gold dragons for the victor?" Jon Arryn laughed.
"A hundred dragons? Bah! That's pocket change. Make it two hundred!" Robert bellowed, waving a massive hand dismissively. "Two hundred for the champion! One hundred for the runner-up! And fifty dragons each for third and fourth place!"
Jon Arryn smiled, making no attempt to curb the King's enthusiasm. Generosity was a highly effective way to win the loyalty and affection of the lords and knights; there was no strategic reason to stop him. The only issue was Robert's profound lack of financial restraint.
Robert stood up, his voice booming across the yard. "You hear that, lads?! Two hundred gold dragons from me to the champion! One hundred to second place, and fifty to third and fourth! Plus whatever the other lords decide to throw into the pot! And for the ultimate victor, I'll personally grant you your choice of any weapon from the Royal Armory!"
"I'll match the King's purse," Renly announced.
"I will match it as well," Mace Tyrell declared.
"And I," Jon Arryn added.
Edmure Tully, Yohn Royce, Mathis Rowan, Paxter Redwyne, and Alester Florent all followed suit, pledging equal amounts of gold for the victors. Other lords and ladies—like Tarly, Swann, Tarth, and Blackwood—pledged smaller, but still significant, sums to the prize pool.
"Long live King Robert!"
"Long live the King!"
The roar of the crowd was deafening. The massive prize pool instantly ignited a blazing fire in the bellies of the competitors. This wasn't just about winning glory and making a name for themselves; this was a staggering amount of cold, hard cash.
To put it in perspective, the standard ransom for a captured knight of good standing was roughly three hundred gold dragons. The combined purse pledged by the high lords was an absolute fortune.
Naturally, the betting started immediately.
"I've got twenty dragons on Red Rolland making the semi-finals!"
"Fifty on Rolland Storm!"
The nobles threw their gold around with wild abandon. Tourney gambling was a beloved pastime for the Westerosi elite. (Though, on rare occasions, certain unscrupulous knights were known to take a dive for a cut of the winnings.) But today, with the King, the Hand, and half the Great Lords of the realm watching a field of eager young squires, the fighting was guaranteed to be genuine.
Given the limited space, the contest was restricted to the most fundamental, brutal form of combat: a melee on foot with blunted swords and shields.
Unsurprisingly, Arthur was universally considered the ultimate dark horse—or rather, the sacrificial lamb.
The Riverlands were currently viewed as the absolute bottom of the barrel when it came to martial talent; no one expected anything from a Riverman. Furthermore, Arthur was the youngest competitor in the entire yard. The odds on him winning were astronomical.
"Fifty gold dragons says my son makes the top four," Lord Yohn Royce chuckled. House Royce was the second most powerful house in the Vale, and "Bronze Yohn" was a legendary tourney knight in his own right.
"Fifty gold dragons."
Arthur's clear, steady voice cut through the clamor. "I bet fifty dragons on myself to win the championship."
The yard erupted.
Fifty gold dragons was a massive sum for a boy to casually throw down. The sheer audacity of it sent a shockwave through the crowd.
The lords and ladies cheered, laughed, and shrieked in excitement. This was exactly the kind of arrogant, reckless drama they lived for. The boy was clearly insane, desperate to carve his name into history at any cost.
"Who does he think he is? The second coming of Leo Longthorn? Daemon Blackfyre? He's just an arrogant little Riverman who doesn't know his place," Mace Tyrell scoffed, his face twisting in distaste.
"It's not that simple, Father," Willas murmured quietly, his eyes fixed on Arthur. "Look at his eyes. There's iron in them. That kind of confidence... you can't fake that."
Dragonstone was apparently a magnet for madmen today. First the Florent girl blatantly trying to seduce the King, and now a half-grown boy betting a fortune on his own impossible victory.
Robert Baratheon lowered his wineskin, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and burst into a booming, roaring laugh that shook his chest.
"Ha! Good lad!" Robert shouted, staring down at the boy who had just bet his entire purse on himself. "I like that fire! Tell you what—since the boy's got balls of Valyrian steel, I'm doubling my own contribution to the prize pool!"
The young Whent was fierce, arrogant, and utterly fearless. He didn't seem to possess an ounce of his grandfather Walter's cautious, calculating nature; he was acting like a pure, reckless, blood-drunk knight.
Robert loved it. He was having the time of his life, throwing gold around as if it were dirt.
One by one, the competitors stepped into the designated arena.
The brass horns blared. The master of games signaled the start, and King Robert himself stepped forward to act as the supreme judge of the melee.
"The competitors from the Reach!"
Leading the Reach contingent were Imry and Erren Florent, Stannis's brand-new brothers-in-law. Following them were Parmen Crane, Emmon Cuy, and Hyle Hunt.
"The competitors from the Riverlands!"
Edmure Tully, Marq Piper, Karyl Vance, Arthur Whent, Lucas Roote, and Wylis Wode.
"The competitors from the Stormlands!"
Justin Massey and Richard Horpe—both squires to the King. Then came Donnel Swann, Rolland Connington, Elwood Fell, Bryce Caron, his bastard brother Rolland Storm, and Lester Morrigen.
"The competitors from the Vale!"
Marwyn Belmore, Andar Royce, Jasper Redfort, Morton Waynwood, and Symond Templeton, the Knight of Ninestars.
"The competitors from the Crownlands and Dragonstone!"
Young Lord Monford Velaryon stepped forward, followed by a few scions from the lesser branches of House Rykker and a handful of minor knights.
The squires' squires hurried forward, helping their masters strap on their padded gambesons and armor. Even for squires, having your own servants was a privilege of immense wealth.
Arthur slipped into his padded armor, picked up his heavy oak shield bearing the black bat, and gripped his blunted tourney sword.
Right here, right now, he thought, his blood singing. I'm bringing my talents to Dragonstone.
"For the first round—choose your opponents!" the herald roared.
The competitors immediately began pairing off.
Donnel Swann, the heir to Stonehelm in the Stormlands, swaggered directly toward Arthur. Grinning fiercely, he tapped Arthur's shield with the flat of his blunted blade.
He was looking for an easy, guaranteed win to start his run.