Chương 28

Ser Arys Oakheart Ser Owen Inchfield was relentless. From the beginning of their duel, he had come after Arys with a blood madness, sword striking down with enough strength to cleave him in half. After a full morning of dueling against other Reach contenders—three bouts won, one nearly lost to Ser Erren Florent—Arys felt his shoulders burn as another of Owen's swings drove him back. His boots scraped across the cobblestones, seeking purchase.

He brought his sword up to meet the blow and felt the impact jar through his arms as steel met steel in a great clash that rang across the courtyard. Gritting his teeth, Arys pushed back against the pressure. Their blades locked, hilts nearly touching. Despite being so close, he could not see his opponent's entire face through the narrow visor slit, but Owen's eyes shone beneath the steel, red-streaked and wide like a bull gone mad. Roaring, Ser Owen lashed out with a kick that struck Arys in his armored stomach.

The impact shook him despite the plate, driving the breath from his lungs. Before he could recover, the next sword strike clanged against his pauldron. Pain lanced across his shoulder and he grunted, nearly dropping his shield as his left arm went momentarily numb. Owen jumped on the sign of weakness. The man's own shield came up to ram him in the helm, the iron rim aimed straight for Arys' visor.

Ducking at the last second, Arys felt the shield pass over his head close enough to scrape his helmet and struck back, swiping out with his blade low. He caught Owen on the thigh in a glancing blow that would've sheared through mail were they not using blunt blades. Owen cried out in pain still, nearly missing his footing. Stumbling backward, he barely managed to parry Arys' follow-up thrust before he stepped back further to reset.

Arys let him, watching the man breathe hard now through his visor, holding both sword and shield lower than when they had started. He nodded to himself despite his own exhaustion. Ser Galad had taught him that a man who fought in a rage died in a rage. Though he did not plan on killing Ser Owen Inchfield—despite thinking the man a disgrace to the very concept of knighthood after what he had tried to do at Grey Garden—the lesson remained true.

The Inchfield knight was trying to take his misguided rage at Ser Galad out on Arys. And if Arys could not stop it for its foolishness, then he could certainly use it. Both of them were tired from the day's fighting, bodies pushed to their limits by hours of combat. But if Owen kept fighting as he was, letting anger override sense, he would wear himself down faster than any opponent could manage.

Beneath his own breathing that echoed inside his helmet, Arys could hear the cheers and murmurs of the crowd gathered around them. Lord Randyll Tarly had arranged for a private courtyard where the lords and knights of the Reach could fight for the contested spots in their seven-man contingent for the coming grand melee. It was meant to be a quiet, private place for the duels to be fought without spectacle or distraction. That had been fanciful thinking.

The news of the seven-sided melee had swept through the nobility in Casterly Rock like a fever. Half the knights of the Reach had shown up for the trials this morning, and with them came the other half to watch from the galleries, along with everyone else. Curious older lords. Gossiping ladies. Young maidens who gasped whenever swords clashed and applauded softly when a man fell. The courtyard had become its own spectacle even before the tourney proper began.

Tearing his mind away from the watchers above, Arys focused on the man before him. In a duel, only the opponent matters. Everything else was distraction. Owen circled to his left, favoring his right thigh. His breathing came harsh and ragged, audible even over the ambient noise. When he attacked again, it was with the same fury as before, a heavy overhand swing that would have split Arys from shoulder to hip if it landed true. But Arys was quicker. Younger, less burdened by rage and frustration.

Stepping to the side, he let the blade pass harmlessly by and countered with a quick thrust that Owen barely turned aside. They exchanged a flurry of blows, steel ringing against steel, shields taking impacts meant for flesh. Soon enough, Arys noticed the pattern emerging. After every heavy strike Owen made, his guard dropped for just a moment. Fatigue pulling his arms down, making him slower to recover. The openings were brief but growing more pronounced with each exchange. An idea formed.

Risky, but effective if he could manage it. Feigning weakness, Arys let his own guard drop slightly. Let his shield arm sag as if the weight had become too much. Owen's eyes hardened behind his visor, and he pressed forward with renewed aggression. His sword came down in a massive blow that Arys caught on his shield, the impact driving him back a step. Another strike followed immediately. Then another.

Arys gave ground before the assault, not blocking the blows so much as deflecting them, turning his shield to let the force slide past, angling his sword to redirect rather than stop. Six heavy strikes in rapid succession, each one taxing Owen's strength more than Arys'. After the sixth, Owen paused to draw breath. His chest heaved beneath his breastplate. His sword had dipped low enough that the point nearly touched the cobbles. Now. Springing forward from behind his defense, Arys attacked in quick succession.

A thrust at the shoulder joint that made Owen's sword arm spasm. A strike to the other shoulder that sent his shield swinging wide. Then a quick bash with his own shield rim against Owen's helmet that snapped the man's head back. Disoriented, Owen tried to bring his sword up. Too slow. Sweeping low with his blade, Arys caught both of Owen's feet and sent him crashing backward onto the stones. Before the man could rise, Arys was standing over him with the point of his sword at Owen's throat, just above the gorget.

"Yield," Arys said, his voice muffled by his own helmet. For a moment, Owen just lay there breathing hard. Then he let his sword clatter to the cobbles. Cheers and applause erupted from the galleries. Stepping back, Arys lowered his sword and extended a hand to help Owen up. The older knight ignored it, rolling to his side and pushing himself to his feet with a grunt. Without a word or a glance, Owen stormed toward the courtyard exit, shouldering past nobles in the galleries who scattered before him.

Removing his helmet, Arys sucked in fresh air that tasted sweet after the staleness inside the steel. Sweat plastered his hair to his scalp, running down his face in rivulets. His shoulders felt like they weighed a ton each, muscles screaming from hours of combat. But beneath the exhaustion, elation sang in his blood. He had won. Earned his spot through skill and courage. Stolen story; please report.

"Well done, ser." Lord Randyll Tarly approached from where he had been observing the duels, his expression showing something that might have been approval.

"Ser Galad was right about you. You've earned your spot in the melee." Pride swelled in Arys' chest, momentarily overwhelming the fatigue.

"Thank you, my lord. I won't disappoint you." Tarly gave a curt nod, then turned to address the gathered crowd. Silence fell immediately, every eye fixed on the Lord of Horn Hill.

"The chivalry of the Reach is the finest in the Seven Kingdoms," Tarly said, his voice carrying across the courtyard.

"Every man who fought here today showed courage and skill worthy of our kingdom. But only seven can represent us in the grand melee." He paused, letting the weight of that settle.

"Those seven are: myself, Lord Mathis Rowan, Ser Baelor Hightower, Ser Jon Fossoway, Ser Emmon Cuy, Ser Arys Oakheart, and Ser Galad of Dunstonbury." More cheers erupted. The named men were slapped on the back by their peers, congratulated, praised. Arys found himself surrounded by well-wishers, knights he had dueled against earlier offering their respect. His arm was raised by someone, held aloft like a tournament champion.

Then the ladies descended from the galleries, bringing with them small wreaths of flowers woven into circles. Favors to be worn on the arms of champions. Arys recognized several of them—Lady Bethany Redwyne with her auburn curls, Rhonda Hightower beside her husband Baelor, Lady Jana Fossoway blushing as she approached Ser Jon. And Lynesse Hightower. She moved through the crowd with effortless grace, golden hair catching the sunlight, her gown of pale blue silk seeming to float around her.

When she stopped before Arys, her bright blue eyes looked up at him with warmth that made his heart leap inside his chest.

"For the champion," she said, her voice like music. Reaching up, she wrapped the flower wreath around his forearm where it rested against his vambrace. Her fingers brushed his wrist, light as butterfly wings. Suddenly, Arys felt like he could fight for the entire day. The exhaustion in his shoulders melted away, replaced by a giddy energy that had nothing to do with victory and everything to do with the beautiful woman standing before him.

"Thank you, my lady," he managed, hoping his voice sounded steadier than it felt.

"I shall wear it with honor."

"I know you will, Ser Arys." Lynesse smiled at him, then glanced around as if searching for someone.

"Do you know where Ser Galad is?" The question hit like cold water.

"Ser... Galad, my lady?"

"Yes." She held up another wreath, this one more elaborately woven with golden roses and white lilies.

"Lady Margaery made this one especially for him, and I hoped to present it on her behalf. She would have come herself, but her lady mother forbade it." A small laugh.

"Too many rough knights and dangerous swords, she said." Arys felt his cheeks warm in a way that had nothing to do with the heat of wearing armor under the afternoon sun.

"He's down in the city, my lady. For the tourney." Lynesse tilted her head, confusion crossing her pretty features.

"I thought the tourney started this afternoon?"

"The jousting, aye," Arys said, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice.

"But not the archery. Ser Galad is as deft a hand with a bow as he is with a sword." The words came out more bitter than he intended.

"Oh." A blush colored Lynesse's cheeks, making her even more beautiful.

"I have heard so much of him, you see. Even back at the start of the rebellion, his deeds at the Flower Hearth were so heroic. Saving Lord Willas and the younger Tyrell children from those Ironborn raiders." Her eyelashes batted as she spoke.

"And when I saw him yesterday at the feast, he looked so dashing in his fine clothes, with that gleaming sword at his side..." Arys did not know what to say. His tongue felt tied up in knots. It was not as if he could compete with Ser Galad for a maiden's attentions. The man was everything a knight should be—brave, skilled, honorable, and now famous throughout the realm.

"I partly share my sister's interests." Turning, Arys found Ser Baelor Hightower approaching. The knight was tall and handsome and broad around the shoulders, his armor polished to a mirror shine despite the morning's exertions. His brown hair was only slightly damp with sweat, as if the duels had barely taxed him.

"I had hoped to see Ser Galad in action today as well," Baelor continued, smiling easily.

"Is it not strange that every man must compete for such a prestigious spot save him?" Arys could not help but frown.

"Lord Tarly says Lord Mace nominated Ser Galad himself as one of the seven, Ser Baelor."

"I see." Baelor nodded, his expression remaining pleasant.

"Then I shall defer to Lord Mace's wisdom. The Lord of Highgarden knows his knights better than any." He glanced toward where other champions were celebrating.

"Then again, if half the stories about Ser Galad are true, I need not worry at all about his worthiness in this melee." To the side, Ser Emmon Cuy spat on the ground. The knight had shed his armor already, having earned his spot early in the day. His sun-darkened face was twisted in a scowl.

"Far be it from me to doubt Lord Mace's choices, but it does not sit right with me that a lowborn woodsman should represent the Reach as one of its greatest seven knights. It's a stain on our kingdom's good name, if you ask me." Baelor shrugged.

"Lowborn he may be, but it's his skill with a sword that counts in a melee, not his family's name or the quarterings on his shield."

"Aye," Emmon said, his tone sour.

"And the stories of his skills are great indeed. But it shames us to put so much stock in stories alone. Every man here earned his spot through combat today. Even Lord Tarly donned his armor and joined us for the trials." His scowl deepened.

"Why shouldn't Ser Erren Florent or even Ser Owen Inchfield, both with great showings today, take the spot of a commoner with stories to tell?"

"They are no mere stories, ser." Arys felt irritation rising in his chest, hot and sharp.

"I saw it with mine own eyes. A thousand Reachmen saw it at Grey Garden when he scaled the walls first and held the gatehouse alone. When he faced Ser Harras Harlaw in single combat and won." Ser Emmon Cuy made a disgruntled face but had no ready answer. Giving Arys an approving nod, Ser Baelor said, "Then we shall see it for ourselves come the grand melee. And stories or not, the Valyrian steel sword he carries is real enough. That shall be a boon for us on the battlefield."

"A stolen trophy that by all rights should have gone to a greater knight than him," Emmon said with a sneer.

"I've heard the real story from Ser Owen himself. I know not what half-cooked lie the woodsman told to deceive Lord Mace, but I mistrust the word of a woodsman who thinks himself above his station."

"He is an anointed knight, ser," Arys said, his voice hardening.

"Lord Mace was the one to knight him after he saved Lord Willas and the children. And Lord Mace named Ser Galad the rightful owner of Nightfall after his duel with Ser Harras Harlaw. The entire army witnessed it."

"A woodsman knight, then." Emmon shrugged, uncaring.

"And if it's Lord Mace's word, so be it. He can keep the sword." A pause, calculating.

"Only perhaps he shouldn't be the one to wield it in the melee." Baelor raised an eyebrow.

"You'll be hard-pressed to part a man from his Valyrian steel sword peacefully, Ser Emmon. I know not even my fair wife could separate me from Vigilance if it had not been lost at Tumbleton generations past." Emmon let out another disgruntled noise at that and turned to leave. And as if summoned by his words, Lady Rhonda appeared at her husband's side, her eyes dancing with mischief.

"Oh, do I hear it right, husband?" She placed a hand on Ser Baelor's arm.

"You would pick a sword over me?" Baelor's confident expression faltered.

"My lady, I only meant—""I'm certain you meant exactly what you said." Rhonda's smile was sweet as poisoned honey. Suddenly, Arys felt like he was intruding on something private. As the married nobles began their playful bickering, he started to turn away. A small hand touched his arm.

"Ser Arys?" Looking down, he found Lynesse gazing up at him with those impossible blue eyes. Arys swallowed hard.

"Yes, my lady?"

"Do you know if Ser Galad has accepted any favors for the tourney yet?" The question struck him like a physical blow.

"Uh, no, my lady. That is... I do not know."

"I see." Then she gave him the biggest smile, so pretty it almost hurt to look at.

"Thank you, ser." With that, she turned and walked away, the flower wreath meant for Galad still clutched in her hands. She moved through the crowd with the same grace as before, leaving Arys standing alone with the favor she had given him feeling suddenly worthless on his arm. And for the first time since meeting the man, Arys Oakheart found himself cursing Ser Galad of Dunstonbury.