The sunlight was a hazy, washed-out yellow, filtered through the thick, pale-grey smoke constantly venting from the Dragonmont.
The brass horns blared. The heralds called out the names. The fighters prepared to engage.
The crowd erupted into cheers. This was a pure, unadulterated sword-and-shield melee, a chance to watch the next generation of Westerosi knighthood test their mettle.
"For our first bout, all eyes are on the duel between our two noble heirs: Arthur Whent, the Bat Knight, and Donnel Swann, the Knight of the Swan!" the master of games roared, spit flying from his lips.
The people of Westeros loved a good heroic epic, and they loved a good moniker even more.
The Dragonknight. The Knight of the Falcon. The Hungry Wolf. Barristan the Bold. The Sword of the Morning. The Laughing Storm. The Hammer of Justice.
Every single one of these legendary titles was cooler than the last, typically earned through extraordinary feats on the battlefield or in the lists, or derived from a knight's distinctive armor and house sigil.
Arthur's deliberate self-branding had undoubtedly skyrocketed his public profile.
The sigil of House Swann was two swans, one white and one black, facing each other. The sigil of House Whent was the black bat.
Arthur's helm, armor, and shield all bore the bat motif. Donnel Swann proudly displayed the fighting swans of his house.
The match-up between Donnel and Arthur naturally drew the bulk of the crowd's attention.
The Stormlands were famous for their fierce, aggressive martial culture, and the Marcher Lords were considered the absolute cream of the crop. House Swann was one of the most powerful Marcher houses, renowned for being as proud as they were cautious. In the Marches, boys learned to fight before they learned to walk.
Furthermore, Donnel was older, larger, and had been training for years longer than Arthur. If Arthur actually managed to win, it would be a massive upset.
"My money is on Ser Donnel. He's already fifteen; he holds a massive advantage in size and age," Renly declared confidently.
"You're too young for this," Donnel Swann, who was noticeably taller, muttered quietly to Arthur. "My sword takes no pleasure in bullying children. Just try not to lose too embarrassingly, Master Arthur."
It was a psychological tactic—an attempt to win the bout before it even began. If Arthur lost his nerve and yielded, Donnel would secure an effortless first-round victory.
"We shall see," Arthur replied with a faint smile.
Donnel glanced at Arthur's blunted tourney sword. It was wider and thicker than standard, which meant it was significantly heavier. Swinging a blade like that would drain a boy's stamina rapidly.
Arthur casually spun the heavy blade through a few practice forms, his movements fluid and blindingly fast.
Donnel narrowed his eyes, studying Arthur's physique. The boy was unusually tall and powerfully built for a twelve-year-old; he actually possessed the physical dimensions of a much older swordsman.
Wisely, Donnel decided to shut his mouth.
The Whent boy had clearly come prepared. This wasn't just blind arrogance.
"For Storm's End! Take him, Donnel!" young Lord Renly cheered enthusiastically, eager to see his vassal triumph.
"Smash him, Donnel! Show the little bat how a true Stormlander fights!" Donnel's younger brother, Balon Swann, shouted from the sidelines.
"On your guard!" Donnel roared.
With practiced, methodical precision, the heir to Stonehelm launched his attack.
While Donnel's innate talent couldn't quite match that of his younger brother, Balon (who would eventually become a Kingsguard knight in the original timeline), he was still a highly experienced, formidable young swordsman. He immediately applied intense pressure, aiming to overwhelm Arthur with a rapid, unrelenting assault.
He wanted to leverage his superior age and stamina to seize the initiative early.
Left, right. High, low.
Fast! Faster! Faster!
Right out of the gate, Donnel unleashed a torrential storm of strikes.
Yet, his blade constantly found empty air, or was casually deflected at the very last microsecond.
"Did you forget to eat breakfast, Donnel?!" someone from House Caron heckled loudly.
Houses Swann and Caron were both premier Marcher Lords, which naturally made them fierce rivals.
"Hit him, Donnel! The boy is three years younger than you! Don't embarrass the Stormlands!" the other Stormlords shouted, their impatience growing.
The longer the bout dragged on, the more frustrated Donnel became. Fueled by the taunts of the Caron men and the demanding cheers of Lord Renly and the other Stormlords, his frustration rapidly morphed into anger. If he lost the very first round to a twelve-year-old, he would be the laughingstock of the entire castle.
"Patience, Ser Donnel!"
Arthur smiled faintly. Let's see how your stats compare to mine.
In Westeros, martial combat was much like any other elite athletic or musical pursuit. At its core, it required grueling, repetitive training. But to reach the absolute pinnacle—to become a true legend—you ultimately relied on raw physical attributes and innate, god-given talent.
Arthur remained perfectly calm, his footwork light and incredibly agile.
He didn't rely on flashy, overly complex maneuvers. He simply maintained the perfect defensive distance, pivoting and circling with fluid grace. His blocks were absolute, arriving at the exact moment of impact, followed instantly by vicious, highly unorthodox counterattacks.
Slowly, a creeping sense of dread settled over Donnel.
This isn't right, Donnel thought, his chest heaving. There is no way a twelve-year-old possesses this kind of strength and speed!
Sweat poured down Donnel's face. For the first time, he realized he might actually lose.
Arthur Whent's absolute mastery over the tempo of the fight, his flawless control of his own strength, and his preternatural reading of his opponent's strikes were leagues beyond his age.
But what was truly terrifying was his endurance and recovery.
Donnel had thrown everything he had at the boy, utilizing every technique in his arsenal, yet he hadn't found a single opening. Worse, the boy didn't even look winded.
Donnel was forced to admit he had severely underestimated his opponent's raw physical power.
Is he actually a monster?
A protracted sword fight was an agonizingly exhausting endeavor. After his initial, explosive flurry of attacks yielded no results, Donnel felt his stamina rapidly bottoming out. His muscles burned with lactic acid, and the speed and frequency of his strikes began to visibly drag.
Clang!
Suddenly, Arthur accelerated. His blunted sword lashed out like a striking viper, finally baring its fangs.
He moved with the terrifying, explosive agility of a hunting leopard.
Arthur launched a lightning-fast feint. Donnel panicked, frantically raising his shield to block. The blunted sword shrieked against the metal-rimmed wood, the impact sending a jarring shockwave up Donnel's arm.
Instantly, Arthur altered the angle of his swing, bringing the heavy blade crashing down against Donnel's swan-crested helm. The blow landed with a sickening crack, making the older boy's vision swim.
One strike. Then a second.
Arthur's blade hammered Donnel's knee, then his sword arm, systematically dismantling his defense.
Then, Arthur brought his shield up.
Smash! Smash!
He brutally shield-bashed Donnel in the chest, sending the older boy reeling backwards.
Donnel's head spun wildly, his mouth flooding with the coppery taste of blood.
"I yield! I yield!"
Donnel rasped, his voice thick with defeat as he desperately raised a hand. He dropped his splintered shield, his face pale and utterly hollowed out by the humiliation. He had stepped into the yard hoping to make a name for himself; instead, he had just been publicly humiliated by a twelve-year-old.
His squires rushed forward, carefully removing his dented helm and helping the defeated knight limp off the field.
After that brutal, overwhelming display, Arthur still looked completely fresh, practically glowing with vitality. It only made Donnel look more pathetic by comparison.
The victors of the other first-round bouts—the elite fighters from the Stormlands and the Vale—immediately recalibrated their threat assessments of the Whent boy.
Donnel Swann wasn't a legendary swordmaster, but he was a highly competent, well-trained knight with a massive age advantage. The fact that the Bat Knight had completely dismantled him without breaking a sweat proved that the "Black Arthur" was genuinely terrifying.
"Master Arthur Whent is the victor!" the herald bellowed, his voice ringing with excitement.
It seemed the Riverlands truly had produced a dark horse.
"Ha! Good lad!" Robert Baratheon roared, slapping his thigh in delight.
With the edge of his blade, the Bat Knight had ruthlessly shattered the expectations of everyone who had mocked the Riverlands' martial prowess.
His talent is even greater than I realized, Ser Barristan Selmy thought, watching Arthur intently. The only other man he had ever seen wield a blade with such terrifying, innate prodigy was Jaime Lannister.
"The Bat Knight!"
"The Bat Knight!"
"Black Arthur!"
"Black Arthur!"
"Arthur! Arthur!"
The lords and ladies were completely swept up in the spectacle, screaming his name in a frenzy. It had been a truly masterful display.
Even Lord Tytos Blackwood was clapping enthusiastically, a rare, genuine smile on his face. He hadn't expected the younger generation of the Riverlands to produce such a monstrous talent. It's just a shame he's from the east, Tytos thought.
"How is he that strong?" nine-year-old Balon Swann muttered, staring at the yard in disbelief.
"He's not just stronger than your brother; he was toying with him," Lord Gulian Swann replied quietly, his brow furrowed. "But how can a boy that young possess such monstrous ability?"
Lord Gulian was a seasoned, famous knight himself, and his eye for combat was incredibly sharp.
Throughout Westerosi history, the only warriors capable of ignoring massive age and size disadvantages to utterly crush their opponents were the absolute most terrifying, legendary figures.
Men like Maegor the Cruel.
At twelve years old, Maegor was already entering tourneys and consecutively unhorsing men four or five years his senior. In the training yards, he had mercilessly beaten hardened, veteran men-at-arms into the dirt.
"Thank you all!" Arthur offered a graceful, sweeping bow to the crowd before stepping back to await the start of the second round.
This was the terrifying reality of pure, unadulterated physical stats.
This was the power of the Greenhand.
When your strength, speed, endurance, perception, and recovery were all intrinsically boosted to a state of absolute perfection... you became a biological freak of nature. A statistical anomaly.
Westeros had never lacked for these genetic anomalies. Robert Baratheon, Arthur Dayne, Aemon the Dragonknight, Daemon Blackfyre, Maegor the Cruel, Lyonel Baratheon—they were all freaks of nature.
And Arthur fully intended to not only join their ranks, but to surpass them entirely.
While Arthur's victory had looked effortless, the rest of the Riverlands contingent had been absolutely butchered.
Edmure Tully, Marq Piper, and Karyl Vance had all turned in embarrassingly mediocre performances and were quickly swept from the field. Three of the Riverlands' top heirs had been eliminated in the very first round.
Lucas Roote and Wylis Wode had barely managed to scrape by into the second round.
But this was likely their absolute limit. Both squires possessed a ceiling that would, at best, eventually make them competent, first-rate swordsmen—but nothing more.
The Crownlands and Dragonstone factions fared even worse; their entire roster was completely wiped out in the first round.
To be fair, neither region was particularly famous for producing legendary warriors. Moreover, their martial talent pools had been utterly decimated by the slaughter at the Trident and the brutal Sack of King's Landing.