The days leading up to the tourney passed faster than they should have.
King's Landing had a way of doing that—time slipping through fingers while the city distracted you with noise and movement and a thousand small urgencies that all insisted they mattered. Morning bled into afternoon. Afternoon into evening. By the time the bells rang for night, I'd already walked miles, listened to dozens of conversations, and memorized more faces than I'd planned to.
Reconnaissance, I reminded myself.
Not sightseeing.
Each day began the same way. I rose early, before the Copper Gull filled with the smell of bread and ale, strapped on my armor piece by piece, and stepped into the city while it was still shaking sleep from its eyes.
The tourney grounds were being prepared outside the city—lists erected, stands reinforced, banners going up in bright swathes of color. Even unfinished, the place drew men like a lodestone. Knights drilling with squires. Sellswords shadowboxing. Groups forming and dissolving as quickly as rumors.
I watched.
Listened.
Measured.
Most of the competitors weren't anything special. That wasn't arrogance—it was simple truth. Many were hedge knights looking for a purse big enough to keep them fed through winter. Others were young men chasing a name they didn't yet have, their armor too new, their movements too stiff.
But there were a few worth noting.
A broad-shouldered knight from the The Reach, green and gold enamel polished to a mirror shine. His footwork was disciplined, almost graceful, and he favored a mace—good against armor, less forgiving of mistakes.
Two brothers out of Lannisport, judging by their matching cloaks and shared grin. They fought like men who'd grown up brawling in docks and alleys—dirty, efficient, and always watching each other's backs.
A river knight from the Riverlands, older than most, with battered mail and the relaxed posture of someone who had nothing left to prove. He didn't swing often in practice. When he did, others made room.
And then there were the Westerlands men—well-funded, well-fed, and well aware of it. Their armor gleamed. Their voices carried. They laughed loudly, like men unused to being contradicted.
None of them scared me.
That realization settled quietly, without the rush of triumph I might've expected. My body—this body—felt coiled, ready, like a drawn bow that didn't tremble.
The system remained mercifully silent. No flashing prompts. No intrusive advice.
It trusted me to do the rest.
By midday, I usually drifted back into the city, shedding the outskirts for crowded streets and market squares. I learned which inns hosted which fighters, which merchants were laying odds, which Gold Cloaks had been assigned to keep the peace and which ones were already taking bribes to look the other way.
Information flowed freely in King's Landing if you knew how to listen.
And if you bought enough ale.
Evenings, inevitably, brought me back to the Copper Gull.
Marra noticed everything.
She noticed when my armor came back a little dustier, when my hands bore the faint ache of training even without visible cuts. She noticed when I sat closer to the fire than usual, or when I watched the door a heartbeat longer than necessary.
What she did not do was make it easy.
"You're getting popular," she said one night, sliding a mug across the bar to me. "Three men asked about you today."
"Concerned?" I asked.
"Curious," she corrected. "Dangerous difference."
I took a drink. "You worried?"
She leaned her elbows on the bar, eyes bright in the firelight. "About you? No."
"That hurts."
She smiled sweetly. "I'll survive."
I tried a different angle.
"So," I said lightly, "do you always collect fighters before tourneys, or am I special?"
She laughed, low and genuine. "Careful, Storm. Confidence like that gets men stabbed."
"Only if it's misplaced."
Her gaze lingered on me a second longer than strictly necessary.
"Finish strong in the melee," she said at last, straightening. "Then we'll see how confident you feel."
Not a promise.
Not a refusal.
An almost.
I was old enough—in spirit, at least—to recognize a challenge when I heard one.
The truth was, some part of me found the whole exchange absurd.
The real Garen—the man this body belonged to—wasn't a flirt. He was duty, discipline, steel wrapped in conviction. Romance, if it existed at all, came second to ideals and oaths.
Unfortunately for him—or perhaps for the world—the soul behind his eyes now had different priorities.
I liked Marra's smile.
I liked her confidence.
I liked the way she watched me like she was deciding whether I was worth the trouble.
And I liked the idea that winning might tip that balance.
The nights grew louder as the tourney drew closer. The Copper Gull filled with strangers—fighters from distant roads, merchants hoping to profit, locals eager to watch blood spilled in a sanctioned way.
I heard my name more than once.
"Storm."
"The big one."
"Sellsword from Essos."
No one knew much else. That was good.
On the eve of the tourney, I sat alone at a corner table, cleaning my sword with slow, methodical strokes. The steel caught the firelight and reflected it back in hard lines.
Marra passed by, paused, and watched for a moment.
"You nervous?" she asked.
"No."
"Good," she said. "Nervous men drink too much."
"And confident ones?"
She smiled. "Confident ones usually surprise me."
She walked away before I could reply.
I leaned back in my chair and exhaled.
Tomorrow, the city would gather to watch men break each other for coin and pride. Tomorrow, I'd step into the ring and let steel speak louder than rumor.
Maybe I'd earn a purse.
Maybe I'd earn a name.
And maybe—just maybe—I'd earn the attention of a woman who knew better than to give it freely.
The system stirred once, faint as a breath.
[EVENT IMMINENT] King Robert's Name Day Melee — Tomorrow
• Status: Prepared
I sheathed the sword and stood.
Time to see what all this preparation was worth.