287 AC. Dragonstone. The Squire's Tourney.
The victors of the first round cleared the yard, swapping out their dented helms, cracked shields, and blunted swords.
What followed was the far more thrilling, and far more brutal, second round.
There was no point-based Swiss system in Westeros. It was a pure, unforgiving elimination bracket: eight to four, four to two, two to one. Draws were practically nonexistent.
"By the grace of the Old Gods and the New, His Grace King Robert Baratheon, and Lord Hand Jon Arryn! My lords, ladies, knights, and gentle maidens! The second round of the Dragonstone tourney begins now! May the Warrior grant you strength, and may your strikes ring true!" the herald bellowed enthusiastically.
Arthur listened carefully.
Regardless of how many actual benefits the title of Hand brought, the sheer prestige and absolute authority of the position were enough to make every Great Lord salivate.
It was just a pity that old Jon Arryn was a man of pure, selfless devotion, while Robert was a man who only knew how to take. In a twisted way, the foster father and son were a perfect match.
"First, allow us to introduce a formidable challenger from the Riverlands! The fearless twelve-year-old, Master Arthur Whent! While ordinary boys his age are merely polishing swords and oiling armor for their betters, he has already proven himself a dangerous, bloodthirsty, and razor-sharp swordsman!"
"The Black Bat!"
"The Bat Knight!"
"Black Arthur!"
"Arthur! Arthur!"
Amidst the deafening cheers, Lord Jason Mallister replayed the previous bout in his mind.
For years, the Riverlands had been stuck in a severe martial slump. Even his own son, Patrek, was decidedly average. Jason never expected their lands to produce such a ruthless, terrifying talent.
Given this new reality, he needed to seriously re-evaluate Arthur's political and strategic worth.
Across the yard, Edmure Tully and his posse of western Riverland heirs shifted awkwardly. They were exceptionally skilled at drinking and feasting, but when it came to actual fighting, they were utterly useless.
Arthur Whent stepped onto the field as the first combatant of the second round.
"Since you are the youngest, you have the privilege of choosing your opponent first," the herald informed him, clearly acting on a subtle nod from King Robert.
It was an intentional green light. All Arthur had to do was pick the weakest remaining fighter, and he was guaranteed an easy pass to the semi-finals.
"I appreciate the courtesy, but I welcome anyone to challenge me," Arthur replied coolly, his voice carrying across the yard. "I am here to take the championship."
"Black Arthur!"
"Black Arthur!"
The lords and ladies went wild, howling and cheering like a pack of blood-crazed hounds. This was exactly what they wanted. If you aren't arrogant and hot-blooded, are you even young?
Naturally, Arthur's declaration instantly infuriated the remaining competitors. They were all young, proud men. How could they tolerate such blatant disrespect from a Riverman—a region they had always looked down upon?
"Well, my warriors! Who among you will step up to challenge this arrogant little shit?" Robert boomed with laughter. This tourney was turning out to be incredibly entertaining.
"I will!"
A highly trained Knight of the Vale stepped forward, determined to put an end to this farce. Wearing a bright crimson cloak, it was Jasper Redfort. The sixteen-year-old heir to the Redfort.
"You may have beaten Donnel Swann, but you will not defeat a fearless warrior of the Vale, little bat," Jasper declared proudly, pointing his blunted sword at Arthur.
"Come on, then," Arthur said calmly, holding his ground.
Much like Donnel Swann, Jasper possessed a younger brother who was blessed with far superior innate talent. Eight-year-old Mychel Redfort was the youngest son of the house, currently squiring for Lyn Corbray, and destined to become one of the finest young swordsmen in the Vale.
Both older brothers were merely competent; relying on hard work and their noble bloodlines, they could barely scrape their way into the upper tiers of knighthood.
Even so, the four-year age gap and the massive disparity in physical strength gave Jasper total confidence in his victory.
"The moment of glory begins now!"
The brass horns blared, signaling the start of the bout. With fewer competitors remaining, the fighting area had been expanded, allowing the combatants far more room to maneuver and display their true skill.
"I fight for the honor of the Vale!" Jasper roared as he charged.
"For the Eyrie!" the Valemen cheered in response, while Lord Horton Redfort looked on with immense pride.
"For the Riverlands!"
"Watch carefully. Study his swordplay. I don't think your brother is going to walk away from this," Lyn Corbray, the Vale's deadliest swordsman—a man as lean and lethal as a drawn blade—muttered to his squire, Mychel.
"Is he really that strong?" Mychel asked, confused.
"I trust my instincts," Lyn sighed heavily. He really should have placed a bet on Arthur; he was perpetually short on coin.
Arthur and Jasper briefly tested each other's defenses before launching fully into the offensive.
They traded blows rapidly. But this time, Arthur didn't rely on defensive counterattacks. He met Jasper head-on, fighting strength with strength.
"Arthur! Arthur!" the Rivermen roared.
"Jasper! Jasper!" the Valemen shouted back, refusing to be outdone.
But the cheers for Arthur were noticeably louder. Not only was he far more striking and charismatic, but an underdog shattering the limits of age and size was simply a far more thrilling spectacle to witness.
The expressions of the seasoned knights and lords grew serious. Arthur had already crushed Donnel; the fact that he was now fighting Jasper to a standstill—matching him blow for blow—proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was an exceptionally dangerous swordsman.
The two traded vicious strikes, the yellow surcoat and the crimson cloak weaving and clashing in the center of the yard.
Arthur countered Jasper's brute-force charges with explosive speed and flawless agility.
Jasper grew increasingly cautious. He had initially assumed the little bat had simply gotten lucky, exploiting Donnel Swann's arrogance and carelessness. Now, he realized the terrifying truth. His opponent was a complete freak of nature—a born warrior who possessed an impossible blend of agility and raw physical power.
How is this possible? I can't break through! Fine beads of sweat broke out across Jasper's face. His sword arm was already beginning to go numb.
Jasper's strength and speed were rapidly deteriorating, while Arthur kept coming, crashing against him like an endless, tireless wave.
"Wait, so neither the Stormlands nor the Vale can handle him?" Mace Tyrell muttered, rubbing his eyes in disbelief.
There was no trickery here, no capitalizing on arrogance. Arthur was systematically crushing Jasper in a pure, head-to-head physical contest. Mace completely abandoned his previous disdain. The little bat was an absolute genetic monster.
"A fearsome lad," Randyll Tarly praised begrudgingly. He glanced down at his own son, Samwell, and his scowl deepened. Only a truly strong man was fit to wield the Valyrian steel blade Heartsbane, and Sam looked absolutely hopeless.
Suddenly, Arthur's sword was everywhere.
Left, right, high, low—the strikes rained down in a blinding flurry. His blade moved in perfect synchronization with his mind, fluid and impossibly elegant.
Jasper panicked. Unfortunately for him, this wasn't a turn-based game; it was a battle of attrition. Jasper had an ordinary stamina pool, while Arthur's health bar was massive, and his recovery rate was absurdly fast.
As Jasper's speed, strength, and reflexes plummeted, his defense cracked. The longer the fight dragged on, the more agonizing it became. He was completely outmatched, desperately trying to block as the gaps in his guard widened.
Arthur's blunted sword darted out, viciously striking Jasper across multiple joints and armor gaps in rapid succession.
Jasper felt like his arm was encased in solid stone; it was simply too heavy to lift. He certainly couldn't laugh at Donnel Swann now. In the face of absolute power, everyone was Donnel Swann.
"Incredible... I yield."
Jasper lowered his head and unclasped his helm. He was thoroughly convinced of his defeat. Clutching his fiercely aching arm, he raised a hand to signal his surrender, not forgetting to offer a word of genuine praise.
The entire yard fell dead silent for a split second, before erupting into a thunderous roar of applause.
"Black Arthur!"
"Black Arthur!"
"Black Arthur!"
"Ha! Good lad!" Robert slammed his meaty hand against the high table, roaring with laughter.
In the third round, Arthur faced Imry Florent, Stannis's brother-in-law.
The Florent scion favored heavy, cumbersome armor, having scraped his way into the quarter-finals by fighting his own younger brother. Unsurprisingly, the big-eared knight was slow, clumsy, and only grew more sluggish as the bout wore on. Arthur easily kited him around the yard, picking him apart until he collapsed from exhaustion.
The Black Bat had risen from absolute obscurity to dominate the field. No one dared question the terrifying storm of the Bat Knight any longer.
"Arthur!"
"The Warrior protects!"
Even the most demanding, hyper-critical lords like Yohn Royce and Randyll Tarly were clapping furiously, completely entranced by the spectacle. Ser Barristan Selmy looked on with an expression of sheer disbelief. The boy's talent was simply too exaggerated to comprehend.
The brackets narrowed. The third round, the fourth round... until only the final bout remained.
Arthur Whent would face another of King Robert's squires: Richard Horpe.
Richard was lean and hard, with cropped black hair, a steely gaze, and a face heavily pitted with pockmarks and old scars. He harbored a dark, obsessive love for killing and battle, but he was undeniably a master swordsman.
His greatest dream was to don the white cloak of the Kingsguard, though it was a dream destined to fail. Cersei despised him and constantly poisoned Robert's ear against him, causing the King to eventually sideline and ignore his loyal squire.
"Champion! Arthur!"
"Champion! Arthur!"
Regardless of who won this final clash, Arthur's name was already etched into the history books.
"You are freakishly strong for a boy," Richard rasped, circling slowly. "But I'm older, I'm bigger, and you've burned through far too much stamina getting here."
"I know you're tired too, Richard," Arthur replied coolly.
Despite the age gap, Richard's stamina recovery rate was agonizingly slow compared to Arthur's monstrous vitality.
The two blunted swords met—kissing, parting, kissing, parting in a deadly rhythm.
High strikes, lateral sweeps, downward chops. Both fighters pressed forward relentlessly, constantly fighting for dominance. A thrust with every step. A parry and a pivot. A slice, a cleave, a crushing blow.
Speed. Speed. Speed.
The final bout was destined to end much faster than the previous ones. The grueling, brutal gauntlet to reach the finals had severely drained their reserves.
Inevitably, Richard's blade began to slow.
"The little bat's got him!" Robert declared.
He could feel his own blood boiling, desperate for the release of battle. Though the final blow hadn't yet fallen, Robert's warrior instinct told him it was over.
Arthur had created too many miracles today. That kind of pure, unadulterated strength and terrifying recovery speed was something Robert had rarely seen in his life. In fact, the only other person he knew who possessed it was himself.