Chapter 110 — A Nightingale Unhorsed

By the final rounds of the joust, no one in the lower stands was calling Arlan the glass lord anymore. He had not dominated every pass, but he had survived two strikes hard enough to numb his shield arm and an older marcher knight who forced a third run after both men broke lances cleanly.

Arlan lacked the elegance of men raised for tourneys, so he relied on adaptation. He watched how each rider settled into the saddle, how the horse answered the spur, and which side of a shield drifted when fatigue began to loosen the arm behind it.

In the semifinal he faced Ser Holland, a heavy knight known around Storm's End as the Black Stone. Holland tried to overwhelm him with mass; Arlan let the first pass glance across his shield, changed the angle on the second, and drove his own lance squarely enough to tear the larger man from the saddle.

The judges accepted the pass without complaint, and Robert liked it even more than the crowd. "Again!" the King shouted while Holland's squires dragged him clear. "Give me a final worth the wine!"

Jess Caron's earlier rounds explained his confidence. He had broken two lances cleanly, unhorsed one opponent on the first pass, and controlled a difficult horse without losing his seat. Arlan watched each bout because arrogance became dangerous when attached to genuine skill, and House Caron's heir possessed both.

Ser Jess rode into the lists beneath House Caron's black nightingales, his plate polished bright enough to throw back the afternoon sun. Elton stood when the herald announced his son's name, and Caron retainers answered with cheers rehearsed enough to sound almost military. Jess lowered his visor, then rode close before taking position. "Enjoyed your little run?"

Arlan adjusted his grip on the ashwood lance. "It has been educational."

"My father says Renly made a lord out of a peddler. I intend to show the King what he bought."

"Your father says many things."

Jess's horse sidestepped beneath him. "I'll make you crawl home." Arlan looked at the animal rather than the rider. The horse was already breathing hard, Jess carried his lance farther forward than Arlan preferred, and his right shoulder opened whenever he committed his weight into the strike. None guaranteed victory, but together they offered a plan.

The herald dropped his arm. Jess launched first, his horse accelerating violently enough to throw sand behind the hooves. The lance settled toward Arlan's shield with the confidence of thousands of practiced repetitions, while Arlan gave his own courser one heartbeat longer before asking it to move.

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From the stands, that delay looked like hesitation. From the saddle, it gave Jess time to commit. The black courser gathered beneath Arlan and drove forward. Wind pressed against his visor as the barrier blurred beside him, while Jess's lance tip grew from a point into a length of ash aimed directly at his chest.

A conventional response would have met it with shield and counterstrike. Arlan shifted instead.

His left knee tightened and the courser moved half a body-width from the line Jess expected, not enough to leave the lane, only enough to turn a solid hit into a sliding one. Jess's lance struck the outer edge of Arlan's shield and skated across it, pulling the Caron heir forward just as his right shoulder opened.

Arlan drove his lance upward into the gap between shield, pauldron, and upper arm. He did not try to pierce; he caught the armor and allowed the combined speed of both horses to do the work. Jess left the saddle. For an instant he hung beside his horse, bright armor flashing in the sun, then struck the sand shoulder-first and rolled twice before stopping. His lance landed several yards away.

Silence lasted less than a breath before the stands erupted. Robert surged to his feet, laughing loudly enough to carry across the field. "There! That's riding! Did you see the bastard take the line away from him?" Ser Barristan Selmy leaned forward beside the royal chair, while Jaime Lannister stopped pretending not to watch. Elton Caron did not move.

Arlan reined the courser down and turned. Jess was conscious, although one arm hung badly and healers were already running toward him. Only after confirming that did Arlan remove his helmet and bow toward the royal dais. He deliberately did not look at Elton.

The herald proclaimed Arlan champion of the joust. Later the healers reported a broken arm and heavy bruising rather than a mortal injury, which suited Arlan perfectly; killing Elton's son in a tourney would have handed the old lord a grievance every Stormlands house could understand. Defeating Jess cleanly left him humiliation and very little else.

One hundred gold dragons would come later. The immediate reward was the change in the crowd, because men who had laughed during registration now shouted Ashenblade with everyone else. Brienne met him at the rail when he dismounted. "Your shoulder?"

"Bruised." Arlan eased the weight off his shoulder.

"Your shield is split."

"Then it did its work."

She glanced toward the healers carrying Jess away. "You saw the opening before the charge."

"I saw several possibilities. He chose that one."

Brienne gave him the look she reserved for answers that were technically true and therefore irritating. The mounted sword contest began after an hour's rest. Arlan changed horses, replaced the damaged shield, and took up the hand-and-a-half sword that had been with him since FireStorm's poorest days. The rebated edge altered the danger but not the balance, and his hands relaxed as soon as they closed around the familiar grip.

He advanced through the early rounds without spectacle, which disappointed the crowd and pleased Arlan. His final opponent, Ser Manfryd Redwyne, had no intention of allowing a dull match.

The Reach knight rode beautifully and attacked from the opening signal with the precision of someone trained since childhood. His first three cuts tested Arlan's head, sword arm, and reins in quick succession; Arlan stopped them all, although the fourth nearly caught him and struck hard enough to send a tremor through his wrist. The stands roared as Manfryd pressed. Arlan let him.