Chapter 6: The Melee Begins - Part 1
The tournament grounds sprawled outside King's Landing's walls—a wide dirt field churned into mud by yesterday's rain. Wooden stands ringed the arena, already filling with spectators. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. All here to watch men beat each other bloody for entertainment.
I joined the line at the registration table, armor clinking with each step. Around me: knights in polished steel, hedge knights in battered plate, commoners like me in leather scraps. Fifty men, maybe more. All thinking they could win.
Most of them were wrong.
The registrar—a bored-looking man with ink-stained fingers—barely glanced up when I reached the table.
"Name?"
"White."
He paused. Looked at my hair. Smirked. "White. How original. House?"
"None."
"Right. White the Bastard it is." He scribbled on parchment. "Third wave. When the horn blows, enter the arena and don't die too quickly. Next!"
I moved aside, found a space near the fighter's entrance. The stands were filling fast. I spotted nobles in the higher seats—silks and jewels catching the morning light. The lower stands packed with commoners, already shouting and placing bets.
Somewhere up there was King Viserys. Princess Rhaenyra. Maybe others.
They'd see what I could do.
Or they'll see me get my skull craved in. Either way.
A knight shouldered past me, plate armor gleaming, a sneer on his face. "Out of my way, bastard."
I stepped aside. Didn't respond. Conserving energy.
Another fighter—a massive man with a club the size of my leg—laughed. "Look at this one. Leather armor and a bent sword. Dead in the first minute."
Let them think that. Underestimation was a weapon too.
The horn blew.
Fifty men surged into the arena.
I dropped my weight immediately—down to thirty kilograms—and sprinted past the initial crush. Bodies collided behind me, swords clanging, men shouting. I ignored it all and targeted the edges.
A baker's son. I knew because he still had flour dust on his tunic. He wielded a club, swinging it in wide arcs that would've crushed a normal opponent.
I flowed around the first swing—Kami-e, making my body loose and flexible. The club passed inches from my face. He overextended. I stepped in, drove my stiffened fingers into his solar plexus.
Shigan. Not full power—I didn't want to kill him—but enough.
He folded like wet paper, gasping, club falling from nerveless hands. I swept his legs and moved on.
Four seconds.
Next opponent: a man in chainmail, sword raised. He saw me coming, brought the blade down in a vertical chop.
I sidestepped—light weight made me faster—and slammed my fist into his helmet. Shifted to heavy mid-punch. Three hundred kilograms of force.
The helmet dented. His head snapped sideways. He dropped.
Around me, chaos. Men grappling in the mud. Swords clashing. Someone screaming about a broken arm. I kept moving, kept picking off isolated fighters.
A third man charged. I hardened my forearm with Tekkai, blocked his sword. The blade rebounded with a metallic ring that turned heads.
He stared at his sword, then at my uncut arm.
I kicked his knee. He went down.
Three eliminated. How many left?
A roar from the crowd. I glanced up—mistake.
Something massive slammed into me from the side. I hit the mud hard, air driven from my lungs. A weight pinned me. I looked up into the scarred face of a hedge knight.
Ser Derren Stone. I'd seen him during registration. Older, maybe forty, with the flat eyes of someone who'd killed before.
He raised his sword for a downward thrust.
I hardened my chest with Tekkai. The blunted blade hit—pain exploded across my ribs but the technique held. No penetration. He blinked in confusion.
I bucked, throwing my weight upward. He stumbled. I rolled, came up in a crouch.
He recovered faster than I expected. Swung horizontally.
I blocked with Tekkai-hardened forearms. Once. Twice. Three times. Each impact sent shockwaves up my arms. The muscle cramps started—I'd held Tekkai too long.
He adapted. Stopped aiming for my torso and forearms. Went for my knees.
Shit.
I jumped back. He pressed forward, blade a blur. I couldn't harden everywhere at once. My control wasn't good enough.
He feinted high, struck low. Caught my thigh. The leather held but pain flared.
I triggered Soru.
The world blurred. I shot backward five meters, putting distance between us. Nearly lost my balance, arms windmilling.
Derren stopped, staring. "What in the Seven Hells—?"
The horn blew. Long, sustained. The end of Round One.
Around us, fighters stopped. Some collapsed. Others limped toward the rest area. I counted quickly. Twenty men still standing.
Twenty out of fifty.
Derren was still watching me, sword lowered but ready. His expression was pure suspicion.
I turned and walked toward the rest area, forcing my legs to work normally despite the throbbing in my thigh.
The fighters' rest area was a cordoned section near the arena entrance. Water barrels. Benches. A single maester checking injuries.
I collapsed onto a bench, gasping. My forearms throbbed despite the Tekkai protection. The cramps were setting in—I'd pushed the technique too hard. My thigh ached where Derren's blade had connected.
But I was alive. Still in the tournament.
Across the mud-churned space, Ser Derren sat on another bench. He was staring at me. Just staring. His eyes narrowed, calculating.
He knows something's wrong. My techniques don't match anything he's seen.
A problem. If he talked to the other knights, compared notes, they might figure out I was cheating. Well, not cheating—there were no rules against supernatural abilities—but different enough to draw unwanted attention.
I drank water from a ladle, letting it spill down my chin. My hands shook slightly. Adrenaline crash.
Around me, other fighters boasted or groaned. The massive man with the club was gone—eliminated. The sneering knight in polished armor sat nearby, wiping blood from a split lip. He'd survived too.
The tourney master walked through, calling out the rules for Round Two. Smaller arena. Twenty fighters. Ten would advance to the finals.
One hour rest. Then it started again.
I leaned back against the bench, closing my eyes, trying to slow my racing heart.
One hour. I need to recover the Tekkai, let the cramps fade. Derren will come for me again in Round Two. He knows I'm dangerous now.
The smart play: eliminate me early before I could use those "strange techniques" again.
I'd have to be faster. Smarter. Reveal more of my abilities.
Soru to evade. Tekkai to defend. Maybe Rankyaku if I could pull it off—launch an air blade from a kick, catch him off-guard.
Or just hit him so hard he stayed down.
The crowd roared above us. I opened my eyes, looked up at the stands. Thousands of faces. Somewhere in that mass: the king. The princess. The nobles who decided who mattered and who didn't.
After today, I'll matter. One way or another.
I stood, ignoring the protests from my thigh, and walked to the water barrel. Splashed my face. The cold helped clear my head.
Fifty minutes until Round Two.
Time to prepare.
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