In the courtyard, the sea breeze suddenly picked up.
The air was thick with the scent of salt, sulfur, sweat, and blood. The sun had begun its slow descent into the west, stretching the shadow of the Dragonmont across the stones.
But the final bout raged on.
Steel clashing against steel. A pure, brutal contest of strength, speed, endurance, and bloodlust.
Arthur thought Richard Horpe was more than qualified to wear the white cloak of the Kingsguard; he was a genuinely lethal fighter. A true Stormlands knight and Robert's own squire. Yet Robert preferred to listen to Cersei's poisonous whispers and ignore the man—an absolute fool.
Stronger, faster, taller, Randyll Tarly mused darkly from the sidelines.
Tall, powerfully built, agile, and ferocious. Arthur was the exact embodiment of Randyll's ideal knight. It was just a damn shame he was someone else's son.
The game between high lords always came down to two things: gold in one hand, steel in the other. Wealth and martial might.
The black-haired Arthur opened with a probing flurry of fast strikes, the Bat Knight pressing the advance.
Richard Horpe countered instantly, the Moth Knight attempting to shred Arthur's defense. The sigil of House Horpe was a chevron engrailed, separating a field of bone and grey, with three skull-moths fluttering over the ash.
Richard wasn't a glorified pimp like Justin Massey; he had earned his place as Robert's squire through sheer martial prowess.
Steel hammered against steel. Blunted blades swung in wide, sweeping arcs, followed by brutal shield bashes. At this point, these two represented the absolute pinnacle of the tourney.
Arthur took a half-step back, intentionally letting his movements slow by a fraction of a second.
Thinking he saw an opening, Richard surged forward, accelerating into another storm of rapid strikes. But Arthur's defense was airtight. He brought his heavy blunted sword around, effortlessly deflecting Richard's wave-cleaving chops.
Then, moving with the speed of a thunderbolt, Arthur launched his counterattack.
Arthur wielded a blade wider and thicker than standard, yet he moved it with terrifying speed. It wasn't just a matter of his raw physical strength. Dawn, the ancestral sword of House Dayne, was essentially a greatsword. Ser Lucas had specifically trained him to fight as if he were wielding a weapon of that immense caliber.
Such vicious technique. Donnel Swann and Jasper Redfort, having both been eliminated, watched from the sidelines. They could see the insurmountable gulf between them.
It wasn't just about winning a few bouts; the gap in sheer, innate talent was something they could never bridge in a lifetime of training. Arthur Whent was a biological freak of nature, utterly peerless. His stamina and recovery were broken, allowing him to fight through multiple grueling rounds and still look entirely fresh.
Combined with his masterful technique, he was a nightmare.
I can't land a single hit! Richard thought, his frustration boiling over into rage.
He was out of options. The steel sang a deadly tune as Arthur's blunted sword rained down like a tempest. Richard's eyelids grew heavy, his shoulders went numb, and his wrists burned with the agonizing weight of his armor and sword.
His defense was no longer airtight. A series of heavy blows sent his head spinning.
Smash! Arthur closed the distance, viciously batting Richard's sword away. His blunted blade and heavy shield battered Richard's body. Again and again.
The world spun wildly around Richard until his legs gave out, leaving him kneeling weakly in the dirt, his muscles entirely spent.
"The championship is yours, Arthur Whent. You're a bloody monster! The Warrior clearly abandoned me today," Richard rasped bitterly.
They had fought through so many rounds. The fact that his opponent was still this fast and agile in the final bout meant victory was completely impossible.
Arthur reached down and helped the yielding squire to his feet. The outcome was absolute.
In that moment, no one dared question the legitimacy of the champion.
"By the grace of the Old Gods and the New! Witnessed by His Grace King Robert and Lord Hand Jon Arryn! My lords, ladies, knights, and gentle maidens! The champion of the Dragonstone Squire's Tourney is the heir to Harrenhal and Earl of Whitewalls... Arthur Whent!" the herald roared in triumph.
Instantly, the brass horns blasted a resounding fanfare.
Arthur unclasped his bat-winged helm, pulling it free before slowly raising his blunted sword in a salute toward the King's pavilion.
The late afternoon sun washed over his face. The youthful champion—tall, strikingly handsome, holding his sword high—radiated an unmatched, glorious presence. His greatness required no further words.
He had claimed the crown, a spectacle gifted to everyone on Dragonstone for Stannis's wedding!
The final four were now set in stone: Arthur Whent, Richard Horpe, Rolland Storm, and Andar Royce.
On his path to victory, Arthur had sequentially dismantled the Stormlands' Donnel Swann, the Vale's Jasper Redfort, Stannis's Florent brother-in-law, and finally, Robert's own squire, Richard Horpe. Warriors of the Stormlands, knights of the Vale, and fighters of the Reach. Every single bout had been a brutal, grueling test.
"The crown is yours, you fierce little bastard! The gold is yours, and when we return to King's Landing, you can pick any two weapons you want from the Royal Armory!" King Robert stood up, roaring with laughter as he clapped his massive hands.
Comfort breeds lust.
Watching the violent spectacle had set Robert's blood boiling, and he was ready for a different kind of release. Lady Delena Florent had been throwing him heated glances all afternoon. With Cersei and the Kingslayer safely tucked away in the capital, Robert fully intended to wage a glorious campaign in the bedchamber.
Beside the King, Jon Arryn maintained a calm exterior, though his mind was racing.
The Bat Knight. Any man would be proud to call him a son. While the old Hand genuinely applauded the boy's brilliance, a deep, creeping anxiety for House Tully settled in his gut.
Edmure and the rest of the Riverlands' youth were painfully mediocre, utterly lacking any top-tier talent. The Riverlands squires had generally performed terribly, displaying a severe polarization in skill. Arthur Whent stood entirely alone at the summit.
The only other two Rivermen who performed even passably were Arthur's own squires, clearly drilled by a master. As for Edmure, Piper, Vance, and Patrek Mallister? Utterly unremarkable. Not worth mentioning. If they couldn't even handle basic sword-and-shield combat, they would be absolutely useless in a proper mounted joust.
A great, legendary knight could naturally attract swarms of hedge knights, freeriders, and sellswords to his banner. Combine that martial prestige with the immense wealth of House Whent—those beautiful gold dragons—and the outcome was entirely predictable.
The vassal would inevitably eclipse and puppet the liege lord. Jon Arryn could only pray his fears wouldn't become reality.
"Arthur Whent!"
"Arthur Whent!"
"Black Arthur!"
"Black Arthur!"
The assembled lords and ladies immediately began cheering again, eager as well-trained hounds. They were ecstatic; the sheer entertainment value of the spectacle had far outweighed any gold they had lost on their bets.
But what made Arthur happiest was the massive, sudden influx of wealth.
The champion's purse was incredibly fat. Add to that the payout from the fifty gold dragons he had bet on himself, and it was a staggering sum. Combining the two, Arthur roughly estimated his winnings at several thousand gold dragons.
Gold, gold, and more gold. Being an elite tourney knight was a highly lucrative profession. Leaving aside the prize money, simply capturing the armor and warhorses of defeated opponents at formal jousts was a surefire way to amass a fortune.
While the entire yard was celebrating, up in the royal pavilion, a heavily intoxicated King Robert slurred, "I'll be right back."
He stumbled out of the courtyard, taking the young Florent girl with him. Amidst the deafening roar of the crowd, hardly anyone noticed the little interlude. And even if they did, the King seeking out a woman was practically a daily occurrence. No one was stupid enough to ruin the King's mood when his blood was up.
Sigh. Jon Arryn frowned deeply, but he was powerless to stop it.
Arthur also caught a glimpse of Robert openly leaving with the Florent girl he had hooked, mentally checking off another famous historical scene. Stannis was getting married, but Robert was the one having all the fun.
Even with the King gone, the courtyard remained a sea of joyous celebration.
Without the suffocating presence of royalty, and fueled by the festive wedding atmosphere, the lords, knights, squires, and ladies mingled freely, fluttering through the crowd like butterflies to forge new connections and alliances.
As the undisputed star of the tourney and the ultimate dark horse champion, Arthur naturally drew the most attention.
The younger generation chatted casually around the yard. Arthur took the opportunity to familiarize himself with the young squires and knights. The future belonged to them; these were the very men who would serve as the backbone of the War of the Five Kings in the original timeline.
Richard Horpe and Justin Massey—Robert's squires. (Though Cersei's constant pillow talk meant both would eventually be fired.) Then there were the youths from the Riverlands, the Crownlands, the Stormlands, and the Vale. The rising stars and heirs of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Congratulations, good lad!"
"Well fought, young man."
It wasn't just the youth; many of the Great Lords were now treating Arthur with the utmost warmth and courtesy. Ser Barristan, Lord Arryn, Lord Tyrell, Lord Renly.
This wasn't merely because he was the heir to Harrenhal.
He was the champion of the Dragonstone Squire's Tourney, having overcome massive age and size disadvantages to seize victory at twelve years old. In the annals of any noble house, such a feat warranted its own dedicated page.
A rising, monstrously talented knight demanded respect from everyone. Gold could buy influence, certainly. But iron and blood earned a completely different, far more primal kind of respect.