Morning came to King's Landing on a thousand bells.
They rang from septs, towers, gatehouses—overlapping, uneven, impossible to ignore. The city didn't wake so much as lurch into motion, spilling people into the streets in a slow, unstoppable tide. Vendors shouted before the sun fully cleared the rooftops. Children ran ahead of their parents, waving cheap wooden swords. Drunkards staggered home, colliding headfirst with men already dressed for spectacle.
By the time I stepped out of the Copper Gull, the air was already thick with anticipation.
Marra stood behind the bar, counting coins with practiced speed. She glanced up as I adjusted the straps of my armor, her eyes lingering—not on the steel, but on my face.
"Big day," she said.
"So I've heard."
She slid a wrapped bundle across the bar. Bread, meat, something salted.
"You'll want this," she added. "Crowds make fools forget to eat."
"Concerned for my health?" I asked.
She smiled, just enough. "Concerned you'll bleed on my floor later if you don't."
Not encouragement. Not discouragement.
An almost.
I took the food, inclined my head, and stepped back into the street.
By the time I reached the tourney grounds, it felt as if half the realm had decided to attend.
The field stretched wide and uneven, trampled grass already turning to mud beneath thousands of boots. Temporary stands rose in tiers, wooden and ugly but sturdy enough to hold shouting crowds. Banners snapped overhead in clashing colors—green and gold from the Reach, crimson lions of the Westerlands, river sigils fluttering beside plainer cloths bearing no sigil at all.
Those were the ones to watch.
The competitors gathered in numbers that made my initial estimates laughable.
Not dozens.
Hundreds.
Knights in polished mail and plate, some with banners, some without. Squires darting through the press, adjusting straps, fetching water, carrying spare helms. Sellswords of every stripe—lean Essosi blades, scarred Westerosi veterans, men who had clearly borrowed armor and hoped no one noticed.
And then there were the fools.
Barely armored men gripping spears with white-knuckled terror. Blacksmiths' sons who had never faced a blade sharpened for war. Farmers wearing boiled leather and borrowed swords, eyes bright with dreams of coin and glory that would not survive first contact.
This was what an open melee truly meant.
A grinder.
I stood among them, helmet under my arm, greatsword resting against my shoulder, and felt the weight of attention settle slowly onto me.
Not all at once.
Gradually.
Men noticed size first.
Then armor.
Then the sword.
They didn't stare—not openly—but space began to appear around me in subtle ways. Conversations shifted. Laughter faded when I stepped closer. A few men made the sign of the Seven without realizing they were doing it.
I ignored them.
Reconnaissance was easier now that everyone was gathered in one place.
The Reach contingent alone numbered nearly twenty knights, their armor immaculate, their squires efficient to the point of severity. The Westerlands had fewer men but better-equipped ones—gold accents gleaming, confidence radiating from them like heat. Riverlands fighters were scattered throughout, quieter, less flashy, but solid.
I counted at least a hundred competitors who would actually matter.
Twice that who wouldn't last long enough to be counted.
The pit itself sat empty for now, a wide ring of churned earth encircled by barriers and guards. It looked too small.
It wouldn't be.
Trumpets sounded.
Not the sharp blast of beginning—but ceremonial, rolling and grandiose.
A ripple went through the crowd.
"He's coming."
The stands erupted as a procession emerged from the far end of the field.
Robert Baratheon came riding in surrounded by banners and guards, laughter booming ahead of him like a challenge.
The king looked every bit the man the songs mocked and praised in equal measure.
Broad to the point of excess, armor stretched over a belly earned from feasts rather than battles. His beard was thick and wild, shot through with gray, his hair receding but still unruly. He wore his crown like an afterthought, tilted slightly as if it were inconvenient.
And yet—
When he laughed, the sound rolled across the field like thunder.
When he raised a hand, the noise died.
This was a man who had once broken the realm and now coasted on the memory of it.
"Gods!" Robert bellowed, spreading his arms wide. "Look at you all! Knights, fools, and men too stupid to stay home!"
The crowd roared its approval.
I watched carefully.
This wasn't a weak king.
Just a tired one.
Robert leaned forward in his saddle, eyes scanning the assembled fighters. They lingered on shining armor, on banners, on the men who stood tallest.
They did not linger on me.
Not yet.
"Today," he continued, "we drink, we cheer, and we watch you lot beat each other senseless in my name!"
More laughter. More cheers.
"Try not to die," he added, grinning. "It spoils the mood."
The king rode on toward the stands, still laughing, already halfway to his next cup.
The message was clear.
This was spectacle.
But the steel was real.
As the procession settled, officials began herding competitors closer, organizing them into loose groupings. The sheer scale of it became undeniable. Men packed shoulder to shoulder, the smell of oil, sweat, and steel thick in the air.
I felt something then—not fear, not excitement.
Recognition.
This was a battlefield pretending to be a game.
I adjusted my grip on the sword and exhaled slowly.
Around me, men whispered prayers. Others boasted loudly, desperately. A few stared straight ahead, faces blank, already retreating inward.
The system stirred faintly—not with instructions, but with acknowledgement.
This was the moment before history bent.
And it hadn't even started yet.