Chapter 111 — Three Contests

Ser Manfryd Redwyne fought mounted swordplay the way some men argued at council: quickly, confidently, and with the assumption that constant pressure would eventually force the other man into a foolish concession. His blade rarely stopped moving. Arlan's did, and that difference slowly became the fight.

Manfryd cut from the right; Arlan caught the stroke near the middle of his blade and let it slide away. A backhand followed, but Arlan leaned beyond it instead of wasting strength on another hard bind. The Reach knight recovered, turned his horse cleanly, and came again.

Five exchanges became seven while the cheers shifted with every clash. Manfryd was too skilled to offer the sort of obvious mistake Jess Caron had made in the joust, so Arlan stopped waiting for one and watched instead for something smaller that repeated under fatigue.

He found it in Manfryd's right wrist. Whenever the Reach knight committed to a descending cut from that side, he rolled the wrist slightly too far after impact. The first time meant nothing, the second confirmed the habit, and on the third Arlan deliberately yielded ground to encourage the same attack again.

Manfryd took it. Arlan parried late. The opposing sword slid farther than expected, pulling Manfryd's hand across his body, and Arlan snapped the spine of his own blade down against the exposed wrist. Manfryd's fingers opened. His sword struck the sand, while Arlan's point stopped beneath the gap of his bevor before the Reach knight could recover.

The herald called the match. For the second time that day, Storm's End proclaimed Arlan Ashenblade champion. Surprise in the noble galleries had become attention, because one victory could be dismissed as a clever pass while two contests demanded different skills.

Robert applauded with his wine cup raised, Ser Barristan gave one measured nod, and Jaime Lannister had moved closer to the railing. Elton Caron looked as though every cheer cost him coin. Brienne was less restrained. "You baited him."

"He baited himself."

"You gave him the opening."

Arlan handed the rebated sword to an attendant. "Then perhaps I baited him a little." Her smile disappeared when a servant brought equipment for the final event. Foot combat required no horse and offered fewer excuses. Sword and shield carried the fighters until surrender, disarmament, or a clearly decisive touch ended the bout. The weapons were blunted where possible, but men still broke fingers, ribs, and occasionally skulls.

This was the contest Arlan understood best. Between rounds, Brienne forced water into his hand and checked the shallow split across his cheek. Around them, men who had ignored FireStorm's camp during registration now found reasons to walk nearby, asking about the black armor or watching Cade's veterans maintain equipment with the same discipline visible in their lord.

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The field narrowed quickly. Arlan forced one Stormlands household knight backward until churned sand betrayed his footing, closed inside the reach of a Crownlands fighter who preferred distance, and won the semifinal after taking a shield edge against his cheek and trapping the other man's sword arm.

By sunset only two fighters remained: Arlan and Ser Alan Trant. Alan was a younger kinsman of Meryn Trant and had spent enough time in the Red Keep's yards to learn from men better than himself. His reputation rested on conservative footwork, strong shield discipline, and allowing impatient opponents to exhaust themselves against a defense that refused to open.

The source of that reputation stood visible on the royal dais. Meryn watched with folded arms, while Ser Barristan's interest seemed more professional than familial. Alan entered carrying a steel-rimmed shield and a rebated longsword. He bowed first to Robert, then to Arlan. "My lord."

"Ser."

No insults. Arlan appreciated that. The horn sounded and Alan advanced behind his shield, sword held near the hip where the first motion of a thrust remained hidden. Arlan carried an oak shield in his left hand and shortened his grip slightly on the hand-and-a-half sword for control.

Alan circled. Arlan did not chase him. A small shield feint received no answer. A second came with a step and earned the same result, while impatience began to appear in the movement of Alan's shoulders. His style depended upon opponents offering attacks he could punish, and Arlan had no obligation to cooperate.

They completed another half-turn before Alan finally committed. Shield forward and sword concealed, he stepped hard into range and thrust beneath the shield rim toward Arlan's abdomen. It was fast, but it was also the first true line Arlan had been given.

Arlan turned his hips, caught the thrust against the angled face of his oak shield, and let the steel slide past rather than stopping it dead. At the same moment he stepped inside Alan's guard, too close for a comfortable longsword cut and exactly where Arlan wanted to be.

His pommel struck the steel-rimmed shield and twisted it outward. The hand-and-a-half blade rose beneath the opening, its point stopping in the narrow gap at Alan's lower breastplate. Alan froze. Arlan held the point long enough for the judges to see it, then stepped back.

The horn sounded twice. Alan lowered his sword, touched the place where the point had stopped, and saluted instead of arguing the decision. Arlan returned the gesture; a clean opponent deserved more respect than a loud one, particularly after a day already filled with Caron bluster.

For one heartbeat, Storm's End seemed to forget how to make noise. Then several knights near the rail began striking gauntlets against shields, Robert broke the silence with a bark of laughter, and the rest of the grounds followed. Joust. Mounted sword. Foot combat. Arlan had won all three.

The herald's voice rolled over the field, declaring him grand champion. Commoners shouted his name, knights struck hilts against shields, and even men with no reason to favor a newly risen marcher lord understood what they had watched. Brienne stood at the rail with pride unhidden in her face. Elton Caron had gone very still.

A royal page hurried across the sand as Arlan returned his shield to an attendant. "Lord Ashenblade, His Grace commands you to present yourself before the dais." Arlan wiped blood from the cut on his cheek. "Then we should not keep him waiting."