Chapter 11 - The Spetacular Tournament of King’s Landing

OUTSIDE OF THE MC'S POV

The tournament grounds stretched wide and grand, a celebration of splendor befitting a king's heir.

Three distinct arenas had been carved from the earth just outside the city walls: the jousting lists, a field for melee, and a smaller ring where archers would test their aim. 

Towering above them all stood a grand pavilion, draped in banners of Baratheon black and gold, flanked by Lannister crimson and Arryn blue. The scent of summer grass mingled with roasted meats and sweetwine, drifting up from the sea of spectators crowding the field beyond.

At its heart, a raised dais rested beneath a richly adorned canopy, casting deep shade over the royal box. The sun blazed overhead, but the realm's highest-born lounged beneath silken luxury.

King Robert Baratheon sat proud and loud at the center, a heavy antler crown upon his brow and an even heavier goblet in his hand. To his right, Queen Cersei Lannister was a vision of crimson and gold, untouched by the heat, unreadable as ever behind green eyes that missed nothing.

Seated slightly apart in a reserved section of the platform was the young Crown Prince Durrandon Baratheon, publicly just past his six, yet already bearing the posture of one far older. Beside him were Lady Alysse Arryn, quiet and composed, and Lady Rhaenys Targaryen, whose very presence drew more whispers than all the knights in the lists combined.

Nearer the King, Lord Tywin Lannister had taken his place, the weight of Westeros pooled in his stare. He had arrived from Casterly Rock just recently, and his presence felt like a sword unsheathed, silent, but undeniably dangerous.

Lords and ladies from every corner of the realm filled the pavilion, their silks and velvets a riot of house colors. Across the field, tens of thousands crowded into wooden stands or perched atop makeshift scaffolds. 

The capital was swollen with revelers, every inn, from the Street of Silk to the lice-ridden shacks near the Mud Gate, bursting with coin, drink, and song.

King's Landing was drunk on festival, and just as drunk on wine. Brawls, stabbings, and impromptu horse races down the Street of Sisters kept the City Watch busy, though their newfound spirit was finally beating the rust from the old force. Corruption still lingered, but it no longer ruled.

From behind his well-practiced composure, the Master of Coin watched the spectacle unfold. The influx of gold and trade would more than balance the prizes… assuming, of course, the victors could be persuaded to accept favors, writs, or tax delays in place of hard coin. And if they couldn't? Well, clever men could always invest gold they didn't yet have.

A few rows down from the King, a sardonic voice cut through the chatter.

"Your Grace." Said Tyrion Lannister, lounging with a goblet already in hand despite the hour. Dressed in wine-dark red and gold, he wore a smirk curled beneath his sharp nose. "I hear you've a fondness for games of chance?"

Robert's laugh boomed across the pavilion. "You've heard right."

Tyrion rose and swaggered closer, ignoring the disapproving glance from Queen Cersei, and the colder one from Lord Tywin, with all the grace of a man used to being unwelcome.

"One hundred gold dragons says my dear brother Jaime wins the joust." He offered, raising his cup. "Unless, of course, you're afraid of losing your coin to a Lannister?"

"Done." The King grinned as he raised his goblet to a passing servant. "I'll wager the same amount on the Hound. The younger Clegane is just mad and big enough to knock your brother on his arse."

Before their toast could be sealed, another voice chimed in, warm, hearty, and just slightly pompous.

"Mind if I join in this little gamble?" Lord Mace Tyrell approached in a velvet storm of green trimmed with sable, the gold mantle of Highgarden gleaming in the sun. He wore his usual self-satisfied smile, the kind that made a man wonder if he were truly a fool or just a master of pretending.

Tyrion's grin faltered, if only slightly. The Tyrells had begun shedding their Targaryen loyalty since Jaime's sword had cut the Mad King down. Mace Tyrell might not be driven by ideology, but opportunism was a beast with its own kind of hunger.

At least he wasn't Doran Martell, who cloaked his intentions in silence and diplomatic distance.

"The more, the merrier! Let the lad write this down." Robert, oblivious or unconcerned, roared with laughter before nodding to a young servant who quickly scrambled for parchment and ink. "The little Lannister has picked the Kingslayer, I've taken the Hound since his older brother isn't around. Who's your coin on, Tyrell?"

"One hundred gold dragons on Ser Barristan." Mace said without hesitation. "A knight of honor and, I'd wager, unmatched skill."

"A respectable choice." Tyrion murmured, sipping his wine. "Though I've rarely heard of honor winning against raw talent. Still…wish you best of luck."

Mace smiled, but his eyes were unreadable. "As do I."

"I'm only here for the sport." Robert said, raising his cup in salute. "Though if I win, I expect to see my winnings before the wine wears off!"

A long, low horn echoed across the field then, and the crowd's excitement turned to hush.

"I believe the first event is the archery competition," Tyrion remarked, lounging back with his cup. "Thank the gods I didn't wager on that. Bows are even less reliable than my usual pastimes."

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DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

The scent of trampled grass, oil-waxed bowstrings, and summer sweat filled the air as I slipped into the line of archery contestants, clad in the leathers and loose garb I had carefully selected for my Jaskier Dandelions persona.

Around my bicep was a small wooden badge, painted with the symbol of a drawn bow, the mark of a competitor. A dozen others stood around me, some seasoned archers tightening their strings, others wide-eyed squires trying not to drop their quivers. All of us herded along toward the archery field by squawking stewards and the murmuring roar of the crowd beyond the railings.

Children perched on shoulders, hawkers weaved between nobles with trays of sweetwine and lemon cakes, and the sound of some distant bards' musical instruments danced through the festival air.

That's when the voice reached me. Sweet, teasing, and sharpened just enough to cut. "Hey, pretty boy, did you get lost?"

I turned slightly, catching sight of the speaker. 

A girl, just on the edge of womanhood, wearing layers of yellow and purple silk laced with tiny gemstones that glittered under the sun. She was graceful, dangerously so, with sleek black hair that shimmered like obsidian and almond eyes that assessed me like a cat watching a bird decide whether or not to fly.

She looked about thirteen, a touch older than Alysse, but carried herself like a princess used to holding court. Behind her stood three other girls dressed in Dornish fashion, light fabrics, different skin colors, confidence in the tilt of their hips. One wore armor while the other carried herself with the obvious care of concealed weapons. All of them were smirking.

I knew them. I'd seen them recently, from the shadows of my Instant Dungeon subtle portal, during Rhaenys' quiet reunion with her kin. 

[ARIANNE MARTELL, PRINCESS OF DORNE // LV: 0]

[OBARA SAND, ELDEST OF THE SAND SNAKES // CHAMPION // LV: 5]

[NYMERIA SAND, SECOND OLDEST OF THE SAND SNAKES // THIEF // LV: 4]

[TYENE SAND, THIRD OLDEST OF THE SAND SNAKES // LV: 0]

The proud young woman before me could only be Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne, and behind her, the unpolished gems of what would become the infamous Sand Snakes.

"You're admittedly better looking than the others." She said, her tone half-mocking, half-appraising until her gaze lingered. "And those arms…" 

I smirked and crossed them. "Archery isn't just about strength. It's hand-eye coordination. And if you mean to use it in a fight, say, in the chaos of a real battle, skill becomes essential. Speed too."

Her lips curved. "A charmer and a philosopher. Don't tell me you've signed up for the melee as well? That pretty head of yours might not survive the afternoon."

Her hair lifted in the breeze, brushing over one shoulder like a black banner. There was something knowing behind her teasing, a test, maybe. One I had no intention of failing.

"True, deaths are allowed." I said, tilting my head. "But rare. And I like my odds. Besides…" I added, flicking a glance at the targets being set in the field ahead, "…today's archery round is just that. Target shooting. No danger there would compare to one of my thrilling hunts."

"Mm. Modesty is clearly beneath you." Arianne graced me with her gentle sarcasm.

I smiled. "Not at all. I just save it for those who surprise me."

That earned a laugh, sharp, amused, genuine. "So tell me, gallant boy, what do they call you? I'll need a name in case I have to inform the guards about the charming corpse in the field."

"The name…" I said with a dramatic half-bow. "…is Jaskier Dandelions. I would ask you to remember it, but I suspect that, in time, you'll hear it in songs before you even think to recall it yourself."

Arianne let out a peal of laughter, delicate fingers brushing her lips. "Gods, you're insufferable. And bold. I like bold."

I shrugged, adjusting my quiver on my back and making sure the string of my soot-stained Goldenheart shortbow was still taut. "You haven't seen a fraction of it, my lady."

Her cousins whispered and grinned behind her, teasing her, most likely, but Arianne stood straighter then, hands on her hips.

"Well, then. Since you clearly know who I am, there's no need for introductions… but I'll humor you. I'm Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne. And these are my cousins. We've come to see the tournament with my father."

"It is truly an honor to meet the Princesses of Dorne, whose reputation does no justice to your true beauty and wonderful smile." I feigned surprise and dipped into a deeper, more theatrical bow.

She tilted her head, eyeing me with faint amusement. "I should've known you'd recognize us the moment I said my name."

I opened my mouth to respond, but one of the Sand Snakes, Nymeria, judging by the dark, calculating eyes and the way she touched Arianne's shoulder without needing permission, leaned in and whispered something to her.

Arianne hesitated. For just a flicker, the veil of amusement slipped. But she nodded all the same.

"Well, we must get back to the pavilion. My father doesn't like waiting." She said, clearly reluctant. She stepped away, but cast a glance back over her shoulder. "If you survive this and keep all your limbs attached… perhaps we'll meet again."

I nodded. "I'll look forward to it, Princess."

Arianne flashed one last wink before disappearing into the crowd with her cousins, their silks fluttering like bright banners in the wind.

I watched until they vanished into the press of bodies, then turned back to the field, rolling my shoulders once and letting out a slow breath.

Time to give them something to remember.

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ARIANNE MARTELL'S POV

"You sure were interested in that silly merchant." Nymeria said, brushing her dark curls behind her ear with a sly smile that didn't need explaining. "Cute, sure, and those arms certainly caught your eye. But he's no highborn. You know your father wouldn't be pleased if you got too cozy with someone like that."

Obara grunted her agreement, arms folded across her chest like she was ready to punch someone just for existing. Tyene, ever the picture of innocence, kept that sweet little smile on her lips, like a doll carved from honeyed marble, but her eyes gleamed with quiet mischief.

I only smirked and gave a dramatic shrug. "I don't know why, but he was fun to talk to. Not shy, not full of himself like so many other boys we've met. And come now, did you see his muscles?" I licked my lips and grinned, unable to help myself. "A body like that isn't built on lies and poetry alone."

Nymeria giggled and looped her arm through mine. "Mother Rhoyne save us, you sound just like my father. Too horny for your own good."

Heat touched my cheeks, but I didn't deny it. I'd once been half in love with my uncle Oberyn, every girl in Dorne had a phase like that for the forbidden. I smacked Nymeria's arm playfully, and we both laughed.

"You're the heir to Sunspear." She said in mock-seriousness. "Not a tavern girl from the Shadow City. Maybe rein in the ogling, Ari."

"And as heir to Sunspear." I replied, standing a little taller. "I should be able to choose my own lover, don't you think?" I cast a glance behind us, hoping for another glimpse of Jaskier Dandelions through the sea of people. He was gone, hidden by the crowd, but the ghost of that roguish grin lingered in my mind, like a challenge I'd already accepted. "I'll choose carefully when it comes to marriage, but that doesn't mean I can't have a little fun before then."

"I love you." Tyene said brightly, clapping her hands together with delight. "You always say what I'm thinking, just louder and prettier."

Nymeria rolled her eyes, and even Obara let out a reluctant chuckle.

As we made our way back toward the Martell pavilion, we passed rows of colorful merchant stands, none of them Dornish. The smells were foreign, spices too sharp, perfumes too sweet, smoke and roast and fire everywhere. It was my first time outside Dorne, and though I tried not to show it, I was drunk on the sights.

Father had brought us to King's Landing to meet our cousin, Princess Rhaenys, and to get a proper look at the realm we were tied to by blood, but rarely by choice. My first impression of her had been… fine. Sweet. Proper. But she was only barely past her eight name day, still all ribbons and reverence. Time would tell what sort of queen she might become.

And King's Landing…well, the stench wasn't that bad. Not as bad as the horror stories made it sound. I'd expected to be disgusted. Instead, I was intrigued.

The noise faded as we reached our section of the royal viewing stands. Here, the lords and ladies sat stiff-backed, whispering behind jeweled fans. My father, Prince Doran, waited with his usual patience, watching the proceedings below with unreadable eyes. He'd made it clear we were to be models of decorum during our visit. No escapades. No acting like Uncle Oberyn.

It amused me to no end.

My uncle's passions were part of what made him so beloved. I'd seen him with more lovers than I could count, some women, some men, and at least one pair of twins, and more than once, I'd caught glimpses of his indulgences in the courtyards. Father had banned him from that garden for a fortnight once, but Oberyn only laughed and found new places to misbehave.

"I wonder how that Dandelions fella will fare in this first stage?" Nymeria teased, resting her head against my shoulder once we were safely out of my father's line of sight. "For all his bravado, his fine clothes were barely fit for a traveling bard."

I hummed and leaned forward, peering through the crowds until I spotted him again. There, lute in hands, already singing to those around him like he hadn't a care in the world.

"He's performing." I murmured, amused. "Of course he is."

"Ten silver stags say he'll shoot himself in the foot or someone else by mistake before the second round." Obara grinned.

I ignored her and kept watching him.

"Do you think he's really just a merchant?" Tyene asked, her voice as soft as a feather, but the curiosity behind it sharp. "Or perhaps something else? His hands didn't look like they belonged to a trader. Too smooth to be calloused, too clean for a craftsman, and yet strong. Like he knows how to kill."

The way she said it, gently, almost kindly, made Obara pause. Even Nymeria lifted her head.

I glanced sideways at Tyene, her face all sweetness and sunlight. "You noticed that?"

She beamed. "I always notice."

Nymeria sat up and gave Tyene a light shove. "If you keep acting like that, we're all going to start thinking you're the dangerous one."

"Oh, but I am." Tyene said with a little giggle, then twirled a strand of her golden hair around her finger. "Just in the quiet ways."

We all laughed, and for a moment, I felt like no matter what happened in this city, what alliances were made, what wars were born, we would face it together. Four girls from Dorne, bold as flame, each dangerous in their own way.

And somewhere down there, singing to the wind like it might carry his song to the gods, was a young man who'd made me smile, and perhaps something more.

————————————————————————

The archery field sprawled wide across the northern end of the tourney grounds, second in size only to the melee pits. 

Rows of colorful banners fluttered in the wind, and dozens of circular targets stood planted in neat lines, each row farther than the last. The grass had been flattened by countless boots, and the distant thrum of strings loosing arrows created a steady rhythm, like the heartbeat of the competition itself.

The rules were simple: fifteen archers lined up at once, each loosing a single arrow. Only the top marksman from each group would move on. With so many hopefuls, the culling was brutal, fourteen eliminated with every round.

From our seats, I couldn't make out the precise results, we were seated on the right side of the pavilion, far from the action, but I could still make out enough to know Jaskier Dandelions hadn't taken his turn yet.

He wasn't hard to spot when he did.

When the next group of contestants stepped onto the shooting line, one of them stood out at once: dark-haired, dressed with more flair than function, and smiling like he'd stumbled into a bard's tale instead of a bloodless war of skill.

"That him?" Obara asked, squinting toward the field, her tone dry.

I smiled, tilting my head. "That's him."

He stood out even more when he dropped his battered helmet to the grass beside his feet and casually drew his bow, a smaller, unadorned thing that looked more suited for hunting rabbits than winning tourneys. Around him, older men with weathered faces and solemn faces adjusted their gear with purpose. Jaskier, by contrast, looked positively delighted to be there.

"He's the only one here who looks like he owns a silk pillow." Obara muttered. "Probably lost a drinking bet and thought this would be the honorable way out."

Nymeria chuckled, then reached over and lightly tapped my cheek. "Stop smiling like that. If your father sees, he's going to start asking questions."

I rolled my eyes but instinctively glanced up toward the higher seats, where Prince Doran sat like a statue carved from patience and expectations. Then I glared back at Nymeria.

"I'm serious." She teased, nudging me with her elbow. "You've got the same dreamy face my father gets when he's halfway to bedding someone."

"I. Am. Not. Smitten!" I snapped, perhaps too loudly.

Tyene giggled softly behind her jeweled fan, and Nymeria all but melted against my side. "Oh gods, you are blushing."

"Shut up!" I hissed, tugging my shawl tighter. "Just watch the damn competition."

When I looked back at the field, the round had already ended. My heart sank… had I missed his shot? Was he walking off with the rest of the failures?

But no. There he stood, grinning lazily among the winners, one of only a handful moving on to the second round. He adjusted his quiver like it was part of a performance, shortbow resting casually in his hand, as if he belonged here more than any of them.

"Wow…" I breathed. "He actually made it through."

Nymeria raised her cup in mock salute and sipped her summerwine. "Looks like he's not just a pretty face after all."

Obara scoffed and leaned back with her arms crossed. "There are still plenty of rounds to go. Care to double my bet, princess?"

I didn't answer. Not right away.

Nymeria, ever the realist, filled the silence. "He'll trip over his own charm before the finals."

I should have agreed. But for some strange reason, I didn't. Despite everything, the silk and black leathers, the smile, the foolish bravado, part of me wanted him to win. Not just to prove them wrong. But because there was something there. Something else.

He stepped back onto the shooting line as the second round began, fifteen archers again, fewer now, more serious than before. The targets had been moved farther away, perhaps twice the distance from before. I could barely see the arrowheads glint from here.

The announcers had explained it earlier: five rounds total, thinning the field each time, until only two archers remained for the final shot. That one, they said, would stretch across the entire field.

It would take more than charm to win this. It would take skill. Luck. And maybe something else entirely.

I leaned forward, unable to stop watching.

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DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

Eyes followed me as I stepped up to the line, not with respect, not yet, but with confusion. 

Whispered questions passed among the competitors, and even some of the crowd. How had the peacock with the cheap helm and the troubadour grin made it to the second round?

I chuckled under my breath. 'Let them wonder.'

They hadn't trained in an Instant Dungeon where every missed shot could very well mean death, where dead things clawed and bit and bled you dry if you got too close. Where each arrow was a decision between survival and game over. No, most of them had trained in castles and yards, the best amongst them hunted for food, not to slay predators before they came for them. 

I had trained in necessity, through fear and exhaustion.

"Alright you lot, draw your arrows!" One of the judges called, raising his hand.

Fifteen bows creaked in unison, the sound oddly intimate, like wood groaning under the weight of a hundred expectations. I drew my arrow back with practiced ease, breathing steady as I aligned my sights. The target was further than before, a distance most of these men respected. 

I only smiled.

"Release!" We all heard the judge's shout.

As the signal came, I silently invoked my True Strike cantrip, a whisper of magic that shimmered along my fingertips and eyes, subtle and unseen by the crowd. My fingers let go.

The arrow soared, trailing the faintest glimmer along its iron tip. It hummed through the air like a promise, and when it struck, it struck true. The dead center of the target swallowed the point completely.

Bullseye.

I lowered my bow and turned away without even watching the others. I didn't need to. Confidence didn't strut, it simply stood tall, results in hand.

A few of the other archers were staring now. Some with suspicion, others with quiet awe. One or two just looked angry.

I rejoined the winners' area, where a growing number of smallfolk were already cheering me on. They didn't know my name, yet, but they liked my flair. I gave them a wink, a nod, and even struck a ridiculous pose or two for the children near the edge of the ropes.

Let the knights have their lances. I had charisma.

Truth be told, it was all still a little surreal. I'd never so much as touched a bow in my old life, never even came close enough in a competition to even dream about the golden medal. But here I was, charming the masses, nailing perfect shots from increasing distances, and starting to hear the murmurs ripple through the crowd.

"He hit center again!" One child shouted loud enough for me to hear.

"Who is that one…the singer?" I heard a fellow competitor ask for me.

"They say he's a noble… no, a bard… no, a hedge knight…" A judge replied soon after.

Let them speculate. I was all those things. And more.

Because while my rivals had reputations, experience, and perhaps bloodlines in the case of the few Tarly soldiers, I had the System. My Steady Aim, my Sharpshooter's precision, my disguised Goldenheart shortbow, they weren't just talent. They were earned. And that gap between me and the others? It would only grow wider with time.

Hopefully it won't take long before I start leading men through the fiercest of battlefields, earning not only glory but respect of foes and allies alike.

In any case, the rounds passed like the slow rise of a crescendo. Round three, another bullseye. Round four, same. Not once did my arrow stray, not even by a hair. The only question the judges ever asked was how deep my arrow had landed when compared to another contestant's perfect shot.

Each time, I won.

People began placing last-minute bets on me. I could hear coins clinking, names shouted, odds whispered behind cupped hands.

"…the bard, yes…"

"…never seen anything like it…"

"…swear it, the arrow glowed with the light of the seven as it flew!"

By the time the final round arrived, I had a half-dozen nicknames echoing from the stands. Balladeer of the Bullseye, Ser Serenade and Arrowminstrel were my favorite so far.

And there he was, my final opponent, Jalabhar Xho, the exiled Summer Island prince. Tall, lean, focused. His bow was a work of art, and the man clearly knew how to use it. He had glided through the tournament with grace and silent skill.

But I had come to steal the thunder of Loras Tyrell years before the boy had even grown into his flowery legend. And nothing, not exile, not nobility, not even foreign experience, was going to get in my way.

Flexing my fingers, I could already feel the weight of the final arrow. From this far, the targets looked like pinpricks on parchment. But that challenge only made the shot sweeter.

I was ready. And the crowd? They were ready too, no longer whispering, but chanting my name.

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OUTSIDE OF THE MC'S POV

High above the field, beneath the royal pavilion's golden canopy, eyes both amused and wary followed the bard with the bow.

"Did that man truly make it to the final round?" Ser Jaime Lannister asked, arms crossed over his pristine white armor. His tone was light, but his eyes followed the bard with a curious squint. "He looks more like he belongs on a stage than in a tourney field. I was halfway through telling the Gold Cloaks to escort him back to the brothel he came from."

"He draws a bow better than most knights draw a sword." Ser Barristan Selmy replied, his tone level but intrigued. "Background matters little when it comes to skill. Some men are simply born with it." He tilted his head slightly. "Still… there's something strange about him. Too calm. Too collected. Like he's done this a thousand times."

"He smirks like he knows the outcome." Jaime added, his lips twitching into a half-grin. "I hate that."

Barristan didn't respond, though in truth, the bard reminded him of another boy from years past, another youth who had carried himself with casual certainty, and now wore white. He folded his arms and watched the bard take his stance.

Meanwhile, a few steps above them, King Robert bellowed out a laugh that echoed across the pavilion.

"One thousand gold dragons on the fancy lad!" he shouted, casually slapping his muscular hand against Tyrion's back with enough force to nearly knock the smaller man off balance.

Tyrion chuckled, steadying himself with a goblet. "Why not, Your Grace? Though I suspect the Summer Islander's bow cost more than the bard's entire wardrobe. I'll keep my silver on tradition."

Robert snorted. "Tradition can go bugger itself. The boy's got flair. And I like flair."

Seated near them, Lord Jon Arryn raised a pale brow. "He's not just a showman." The Hand said, voice low but firm. "There's discipline behind the swagger. Every movement is measured."

"A performer with restraint." Tyrion mused. "That's rarer than a penniless Lannister."

"I'll drink to that." Robert grunted, draining his cup.

Further back in the pavilion, Queen Cersei sat with elegant poise, her green eyes narrowing ever so slightly as they followed the bard's every movement.

"How…peculiar…" She said, as if tasting the word. "A no-name with a penchant for dramatics suddenly becomes a rising star. These kinds of stories usually end with a knife in someone's back."

"I'm more interested in where he learned to shoot like that." Lord Tywin said coolly from her left, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "And who taught him."

He hadn't spoken for most of the competition, but now his eyes were fixed sharply on the bard, not as a source of amusement, but as a potential threat. Unknown variables were rarely good news.

"Perhaps we're looking at a sellsword with delusions of nobility." He added, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. "Or worse, an assassin in disguise."

"A bard is never just a bard. Their lot thrives on trading secrets." Murmured Grand Maester Pycelle, stroking his beard as if he'd uncovered some ancient truth with scholarly gravitas. "Much like ravens with grain, yes…"

"That one doesn't seem to trade secrets." Muttered Tywin Lannister, his voice grave. "He collects them. Locked behind that grin of his." The Lord of Casterly Rock leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed in quiet scrutiny. "I'd wager he's not here for sport alone."

"He's charming the smallfolk." Cersei said with disdain. "Listen to them, they chant like he's some knightly hero. It's… sickening."

Tywin didn't reply. He merely watched. Evaluating. Calculating.

On the opposite side of the royal stand, Mace Tyrell shifted uncomfortably in his gilded seat.

"Quite the shot, I'll give him that." He said to no one in particular, stroking his doublet as if trying to straighten it further. "Though these competitions are often deceptive. The true test is consistency, poise under pressure." He glanced sideways at the crowd of people embracing the few flowers he threw at them. "Still, what is a bard doing outshining noble sons and knights? It's… irregular."

"The crowd doesn't seem to mind." A Reachman lord offered with a grin.

"Yes, well…" Mace said with a forced chuckle. "The crowd once cheered for Rhaegar Targaryen, too, before he nearly cost my house everything."

Nearby, the two younger Baratheon brothers shared the moment.

Twelve-year-old Renly leaned forward on the railing, face alight. "Did you see that? He barely blinked before loosing it. I want to shoot like that."

"You want to be like that." Stannis said without looking at him, arms crossed stiffly. "Smiling. Mocking. Playing to the crowd."

Renly shrugged. "He's winning, isn't he?"

Stannis's jaw tightened, his eyes not leaving the bard. "We'll see."

Not far from the royal pavilion, nestled beneath a canopy of silk and shadow, Lord Varys observed the bard through the veil of his lashes, his powdered face placid as a still pond.

"I must admit, I'm surprised." The eunuch murmured to no one in particular, though a nearby littlebird tilted her head as if listening. "Our charming little bard seems to have sprung fully-formed from the gutter… yet last night, he was already being toasted in Chataya's brothel like a beloved guest." He tapped a finger gently against the lacquered wood of his armrest. "So quick to win hearts. One wonders what else he's come to win."

The bard made a show of his sleight of hand tricks with his arrows, effortless and unhurried, his poise theatrical, his smile practiced. Varys's eyes narrowed the way a spider watches a fly spin silk of its own.

He had sent birds the moment the name 'Jaskier Dandelion' had flitted through silk-curtained rooms and perfumed salons. No known house. No true accent. No trace in any ledger, ship registry, or old whore's memory. Too refined for the streets. Too poor for the courts.

A ghost, dressed in velvet. And ghosts, he knew, were never born, they were made. A mask, then. And behind every mask… someone else's game.

Unbeknownst to the Spider, far across the stands, seated beneath a tasteful arrangement of Reach flowers and highborn gossip, Lord Petyr Baelish traced the rim of his wine cup with idle fingers, though his eyes never left the bard.

"Fascinating fellow." He said to a silk-robed handmaiden who wasn't expected to answer. "The way he handles the crowd… It's like he was born for the stage."

He watched as the bard winked at a girl in the front row and tossed her a flower, sending the crowd into fresh waves of delight.

Baelish's smile barely twitched, but his mind raced ahead. That kind of adoration was rare, and dangerous. But it could be bottled. Sold. Weaponized.

"Popularity is a candle." He whispered, mostly to himself. "Bright and warm… until someone places it too close to the curtain."

His gaze lingered on the bard's bow. Then on the subtle strength behind the draw. Not just a performer, that one. Not just a pretty face. There was precision there. Discipline. Control.

And worst of all…mystery.

"I wonder what it would cost…" He mused, voice low. "To make a bard sing only for me."

Then he laughed softly, sipping his wine, and filed the question away, like a name in a ledger, or a debt yet to be collected.

His mind was already tallying costs. A new establishment at the Street of Silk? A partnership with the bard himself? How much would it take to tempt him? Coin? Protection? Fame?

"Everyone has a price." Littlefinger whispered, his smile growing. "The trick is finding it before someone else does and paying it before they realize how much they're actually worth."

————————————————————————

ARIANNE MARTELL'S POV

"By the Great River Rhoyne, I can't believe he's actually in the final round!" Obara said, sitting up straight with sudden focus, her earlier boredom burned away by fresh adrenaline. "Men like him should have better things to do than nocking sticks and aiming at straw targets."

For the past hour, none of us had spoken much. We were too busy watching him. Jaskier Dandelion, the bard with the bow and the smirk. 

The performer with the gall to charm a city full of wolves.

I'd meant to watch the competition casually, like any noble lady at a tourney, with idle curiosity, not… investment. But somewhere between his first shot and the third round, I'd stopped pretending. 

Now I was half-leaning over the edge of the pavilion, elbows pressed to the silken rail, heart stupidly fluttering.

"If he wins, half the city will be poorer by nightfall." Nymeria murmured beside me, her voice low and amused. "It would be a delicious upset."

She didn't take her eyes off him, but her hand found mine and squeezed it, a quiet tether to keep me from tumbling over the edge in my excitement. I didn't mind. Both of us always did like troublemakers, and this bard was weaving himself into a proper storm.

"I hope he wins." I said, barely above a whisper.

"Of course you do." Obara snorted, her tone was dry, but there was the faintest edge of annoyance. Likely still bitter from losing silver stags on our last wager, a rare thing, when she usually bet with her fists.

"Shut up." I snapped, though not with heat. My voice was soft, too full of tension to be angry.

"That black bow of his is strange." Tyene said thoughtfully, tilting her head. "It behaves like that Summer Islander golden one." Her blonde hair caught the sun like spun silk, but her eyes, soft though they appeared, were watching the bard like a hawk. "But it's not just the bow. It's the way he moves. Calm, but not overly careful. Like he's hiding something he knows no one will uncover."

"Maybe he is." Nymeria said, her lips curling into that fox-like smile of hers. She leaned against me, shoulder to shoulder. "I like the mystery."

She traced a finger along the edge of one of her hidden daggers, tucked just beneath her belt. I saw her watching the bard's hands, the way he palmed the arrow, twirled it, made it part of the performance. It wasn't just flair. It was skill, intentional and dangerous.

"Careful, Nym." I teased, glancing sideways. "You're starting to sound like me."

She only hummed in reply, eyes still locked on the target below. "We all fall for the knife eventually. Yours just came early with a song."

That made me laugh, a short, sharp breath, but real.

Obara muttered something in Old Rhoynish that I didn't quite catch, and Tyene just smiled sweetly, the way she always did before saying something wicked. 

But for a brief moment, the four of us weren't daughters of the most dangerous and influential men in Dorne. We were just girls, watching a boy, and wondering what kind of fire he might bring next.

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

"Ready your bows!" Barked the main judge, his voice clear and steady behind the final two contestants. "Draw your arrows!"

Jalabhar Xho stood beside me, flamboyant and proud in his own way as he wore his usual bright-feathered garb. The Summer Islander, not much older than twenty, had his arrow nocked and ready, his longbow drawn with the elegance of a man who had trained all his life for this moment.

Sweat rolled from his brow, trailing down his jaw and dripping onto his collar. Ten thousand gold dragons were at stake, not just coin, but the keys to a throne lost, a future reclaimed. 

With that gold, Jalabhar might raise men, buy ships, and carve out a place for himself once more in the Summer Isles, far from the biting chill of Westerosi winters. 

But between him and that dream stood a dark horse rival who managed to outmatch every opponent he came across.

Me.

"May the best archer win!" Declared the Summer Islander. He didn't glance my way, didn't need to. His voice rang out with a practiced noble etiquette flair. 

Thanks to my Insight skill, it was clear to me that he wondered if I was trembling. If I doubted myself.

I wasn't and I didn't.

My arms were loose, fingers still, breath controlled. My eyes never left the target. I'd faced worse odds than this, moving targets in pitch-black tunnels, dead corpses that lunged from shadow. Compared to that, an archery target beneath the sun was almost child's play. 

At least in theory.

Because despite all the perks my System now granted me, Jalabhar had the advantage of a longbow made of the same material as the compact shortbow of Goldenheart he gifted me in advance for my name day. 

Lucky me I had a great grasp of my Disguise Kit, otherwise I might've feared that Jhalabar could be the one to suspect my real identity.

Beautiful, deadly, but lacking in range, such was the bow in my hands. To match him, I'd need to arc my shot higher inconsideration of my arrow's weight, judge the air's resistance of the open sky, compensate for the unexpected strong recoil my weapon gave despite its lighter weight. 

A single miscalculation would cost me both pride and prize.

It was a stretch even for me, but ten thousand dragons and the respect that came with them were worth the risk.

But I had something nothing else could compare, I had faith, not in the gods, but in myself.

"Release!" Came the call and I loosed the string with practiced ease aided by some magical divination.

[HEROIC INSPIRATION USE EXPENDED]

As if time had slowed around me, eyes followed the feathered tail as the arrow soared high, nearly vanishing against the sky. Some in the crowd gasped, thinking I had botched it. But they didn't see what I saw. Didn't feel what I felt.

The arc was perfect and the descent inevitable. As my arrow loomed closer to my target with each breath, I finally heard the echoing sound reverberating across the silent field.

Thunk!

Dead center. A flawless strike.

Cheers erupted around us, a thunderous wave crashing over the grounds. I smiled faintly, not for the applause, but for the satisfaction of precision met with execution.

Then I heard it, my adversary's cheer. Jalabhar was applauding too, until he wasn't.

"Judges need a ruling!" One of the officials immediately called out.

The trio marched downrange to inspect both targets. Jalabhar and I stood still, silent, the tension between us electric as they reached the marks, bent, inspected, then conferred with hushed urgency.

Soon I understood why. Our arrows had struck the exact same spot. An undeniable tie.

The Summer Islander turned to me and bowed his head, not as a man defeated, but as a marksman paying homage to his equal.

A hush fell over the crowd. Even the nobles quieted.

"What's the result?!" Boomed a familiar voice.

We turned to see King Robert standing, one large hand resting on the handle of his warhammer. He looked like he might storm the field himself if the answer took too long.

The main judge jogged over, breathless. "Your Grace, both arrows hit the bullseye, same depth, same placement. We declare a second shot."

"Then what are you waiting for?" The King roared. "Let's see it done!"

The judge scurried back. The targets were cleared but left with the original arrows embedded, silent witnesses to what came next as the same three judges lined up behind us. Eyes narrowed and mouths shut.

"Draw your arrows!" Came the command.

I heard Jalabhar exhale slowly. He muttered something, a prayer in his summer tongue, soft and sharp like waves over coral.

"Release!"

His second arrow flew. Fast, clean, and just as true as the first. It struck almost beside the first one, just a hair off, but still within the bullseye.

A lesser archer would've wept for joy. He smiled instead, confident. Hopeful. He could practically smell the gold coming to him and feel the tightness of the women he was going to get after reclaiming his birthright. 

Until he looked at my target.

His smile shattered once he sighted my arrow which had landed in the exact same place as before. Only… the first arrow was no longer intact.

The second had split it, shaft sundered down the middle, fletching torn apart. The broken halves now flared out from the target splayed like a courtesan's skirts at court, extravagant, torn, and impossible to ignore. 

My second arrow buried deeper than the first, rammed through it, embedded into the heart of the target like a dagger between ribs.

The crowd erupted soon as they recovered themselves from what they witnessed.

"We have a winner!" Shouted the main judge, raising my hand to the sky. "By all the gods, I've never seen the like! Probably the most skilled archer alive!"

Applause exploded like a storm. The nobles on the pavilion stood and clapped. Especially the Dornish girls, who'd watched the earlier rounds with the same intensity, were screaming with delight.

And the King, my father, was laughing, his applause thunderous. I could clearly hear him bellow through the cheer. "That's how it's done!" 

I bowed, first to the crowd, then to the nobles, and finally to the King. Deep and slow. Not a trace of surprise on my face or body language. Leaving them wondering if I'd expected this outcome all along.

The judges approached, still glowing with disbelief.

"Please follow us to receive your winnings, my good man." One said. "We can assign guards to escort you until you've properly secured it if you'd like."

I held up a hand. "One moment, please."

Turning to Jalabhar, I took his hand in a firm shake before raising his arm skyward.

"I would like to forfeit my prize!" I announced, projecting my voice across the arena as loud as I could. "To the man who gave me the finest challenge of my life."

A beat of stunned silence until madness broke out.

Cries rang out, some in awe, others in outrage. Had I lost my mind? Thrown away a fortune? Or had I actually managed to carve my name into legend with generosity and grace?

Let them argue all they want, either way, they'd remember my name.

Looking at Jalabhar's still stunned expression, I mentally remarked that just like my Lannister side of the family, I paid my debts.

————————————————————————

JON ARRYN'S POV

The tourney held in celebration of the Crown Prince's sixth name day was a luxury the Kingdom could scarcely afford.

Especially now, with the sudden turn of the seasons after the rebellion.

Since the fall of the Targaryens and the rise of House Baratheon, the realm had bled gold with reckless abandon. A million dragons once kept safe within the Red Keep had begun to vanish into feasts, tourneys, and half-baked campaigns that pleased only the new king's appetites.

"Counting pennies is for misers!" Robert often barked, waving away concern with a grin and a drink. But those of us who served him knew better. No one more so than I, the King's Hand.

I had known Robert since the boy's first sword lessons in the Vale, and that boy, despite the crown, despite the years, had never truly grown up.

Every time he proposed another costly celebration, I would protest with quiet firmness, laying out ledgers, speaking of debts and obligations. 

And every time, Robert would laugh, clap me on the back, and ignore me. "What were numbers compared to a knight's glory or a cup of Arbor red?"

This tourney was no different. I had tried to stop it, or at least scale it down, but Robert had been unmoved.

"It's the boy's name day, gods damn it!" He'd said, as if that simple excuse could hide the extravagance. "Let him see what a real realm looks like."

The champions' prizes alone totaled more than forty-five thousand dragons. Logistics, tents, prizes, food, guards… another dozen thousand at least.

Technically, the Crown could still pay. Barely. But, just as I had expected, the Master of Coin had already reached out to Lord Tywin of Casterly Rock.

I had never been present for those negotiations, but I could well imagine the scene: Tywin's green eyes gleaming, his mouth curling, minimally, mockingly, as he lent the gold he knew would one way or another return to him tenfold.

The Lannisters were buying the realm, one favor at a time. And Robert, my former ward, now my king, was selling it.

What stung most was the bitter irony. The champions of these tourneys were almost always noblemen. So the gold borrowed from Casterly Rock would simply flow back into the hands of other lords, reinforcing the cycle of debt and privilege.

More often than not, Jaime Lannister himself would emerge victorious, reclaiming a portion of his family's loan through valor and flair.

It was enough to make this old falcon want to fly far away.

I could have skipped the tourney. I had considered it. There was always another letter to write, another scheme to block.

But Robert had ordered my presence. "You need to relax, Jon! Gods know I'll die of excitement if you don't come and frown beside me!"

So, I came. And, to my mild surprise, it wasn't wholly unpleasant.

"Well done!" Robert bellowed now, slamming back his goblet of summer wine even as he lost a hefty sum in prize gold.

I smiled faintly, watching the slim young man at the field's edge hoist his black bow overhead.

The victor of the archery contest couldn't have been more than two-and-twenty, yet he'd bested hundreds, sons of lords, knighted champions, famed marksmen from the Dornish Marches.

And he had done it with grace, precision… and a name like something from a bard's tale: Jaskier Dandelions. The smallfolk and even the nobles were already chanting nicknames like Arrowminstrel.

That a commoner had taken the gold was rare enough.

But that he then forfeited it, quietly, without fanfare, to the Summer Islander he had bested, was truly unexpected.

At least, I thought, that poor exiled prince would no longer need to beg the Crown for coin to survive.

Tyrion Lannister raised his wine with a smirk. 

"An oddity, that one. I've never seen a man split an arrow, much less at that range. Not even during that massive bow contest in Lannisport." His mismatched eyes flicked across the lords gathered in the royal stand. "They'll be falling over themselves to recruit him by sundown."

I said nothing, but I noticed Tywin Lannister watching from a few rows above, his expression unreadable.

Not disapproving. Calculating. Almost impressed.

Had I not known Tywin so well, I might have mistaken it for interest. But Tywin did not spend gold where it did not benefit him tenfold.

"Jon!" Robert roared again, elbowing me with drunken enthusiasm. "He's almost as good as you were back in the day!"

I chuckled softly, bowing my head. "You flatter me, Your Grace." But as I looked back at the young archer, a strange warmth stirred in my chest.

No… I was never that good.

"It's heartening to see such skill rise from the smallfolk." I added more seriously. "The sons of lords win too often. It's good to be surprised."

Robert let out a booming laugh, raising his cup. "Well said!"

"It does make one wonder." Lord Mace Tyrell mused from the King's left, seated higher up on the dais. "I hired the finest bowmasters in Westeros to train my Garlan, and while the lad is exceptional… even he wouldn't split an arrow like that."

Robert and I exchanged knowing glances. Garlan Tyrell was already famed among the Reach for his martial promise.

"How did he learn?" Mace went on. "Who trained this… Arrowminstrel?"

"I'd wager hunting," said Lord Randyll Tarly, joining us with a stiff bow. "Most archers of true skill hunt for survival. Rabbits and wolves move faster than targets, and bite harder when missed."

"Ha!" Robert barked. "I've hunted my whole life and I can't do that!" He waved for more wine. "That boy's leagues better than me, gods help us."

"Perhaps we should keep him." Stannis said, emerging from behind the royal dais, arms crossed, his face a block of stone. "Such skill should serve the realm."

"I'd very much like to see him under my banner." Mace Tyrell agreed with a nod.

"I'm afraid you'll have to outbid my father, Lord Tyrell." Tyrion quipped, sipping his wine. "Talent like that? We could use some color in dour old Casterly Rock."

"Let's not fight over a man whose allegiances we do not yet know." I said, cutting in gently, ever the mediator. "From what I've heard, this same lad is to compete in the melee. Perhaps we'll be surprised again."

"Indeed!" Robert grinned broadly. "Let's hope he knocks a few of those pompous knights on their arses."

"Or gets knocked down himself." Tyrion added with a shrug. "Luck can be a dangerous illusion."

I didn't respond. My eyes followed the young archer as the crowd began to shift toward the melee grounds.

For the first time in a long while, I felt the faintest flicker of excitement while watching one of Robert's tournaments.

————————————————————————

ARIANNE MARTELL'S POV

I wanted to see Jaskier one more time before he disappeared into the crowd or the melee, whichever claimed him first. I found him right where I first laid eyes on him, by the archery field, where splintered arrows still lay strewn across the grass like broken promises.

He was surrounded by people, not lords or knights, but bakers, smiths, and sailors. They clapped his shoulders, offering words thick with admiration. Some of the other marksmen did the same, albeit stiffly, as if congratulating a man for beating them with a stolen weapon. 

Others looked at him like he'd cheated, like winning wasn't his place.

On the stage, I caught sight of a chest. Someone whispered it was full of gold. His prize, tossed aside like it meant nothing, gifted to the Summer Islander without worries. 

Me and my cousins were still trying to decide if that was noble or stupid. Probably both.

My eyes followed him. He was heading toward the melee grounds now. That's when it finally clicked, he was competing again.

As I leaned against the wooden fence, I raised my voice. "Care to tell me where you learned how to shoot a bow like that?"

He stopped and turned, blinking like I'd startled him. Good.

I pointed straight at his face, not caring that we had an audience. "Don't pretend I'm the first to ask. The way you split that arrow…people don't just do that." My jeweled slippers tapped impatiently against the packed dirt, my hair flinging from shoulder to shoulder with every toss of my head.

For nearly a minute I didn't stop… questions, compliments and challenges. All spilling from my lips like wine.

"You are just too incredible." I finally sighed, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.

He slung his quiver over his shoulder and smiled, easy, playful, like he hadn't just embarrassed half the realm's noble archers.

"Please, my Princess, calm down a moment." He subtly flexed his bicep, the bastard knew exactly what he was doing. "We'll have time to talk once the tourney ends. That is, if by then I'm still able to entice your interest."

I hated that he made me blush. Even with my darker skin, I felt the flush creeping across my cheeks.

"I-I will hold you to that promise!" I snapped, trying to sound commanding.

He crossed his arms. "I must say though, I'm flattered. I never thought the most beautiful girl in Dorne would take such interest in a little bard like me."

My jaw dropped. "I–Am–Not–Interested–In–You!"

He arched a brow, feigning innocence. "Really? That minute-long interrogation of yours said otherwise."

I opened my mouth to retort, but nothing clever came. 

He smiled again, softer this time. "Don't worry, Princess. You'll see me again. I know a thing or two on how to take care of myself."

Crossing my arms, I stepped back with a mutter. "Whatever…" But when he walked away, confident and unbothered, I found myself whispering, more to myself than anyone else. "I hope so."

That's when I felt the presence of my cousins behind me.

Obara was chewing a piece of dried fig, arms crossed and unimpressed.

"Archery is pretty, but I want to see how he handles a shield to the face. It's one thing to shoot at a target. Another to face someone who hits back." She spit the fig stem into the grass. "Not that they'd let me fight. These Andal knights would faint at the sight of a woman in the melee."

"Perhaps it's because you're just too frightening, Obara." Nymeria teased, glancing sideways. Her eyes tracked Jaskier like a hawk. "I think he has secrets. The way he moves… it's too clean for a simple minstrel. Perhaps he worked for some assassin's guild. Or just a criminal that has been lucky enough to avoid being caught."

Obara scoffed. "You think every pretty man is a spy."

"Only the ones that look like trouble." Nymeria said with a sly smile.

Tyene, dressed like a whisper of silk and sunlight, leaned closer to me. "He's charming, I'll give him that." Her voice was light, airy, the perfect mask as always. "Too charming. He makes girls blush, even our oh-so-poised Princess."

Then she giggled, but her next words were almost a purr.

"I tried to toy with him earlier. Innocent act, sweet smiles, he saw right through it. Told me I wasn't bad at pretending."

My brows rose. If Tyene couldn't deceive him, that meant something.

Obara cracked her knuckles. "I say we let the melee decide. If he gets knocked on his arse in the first bout, you should all stop wasting thoughts on him."

"Even if we pretend to forget what he just accomplished here before everyone's eyes, what if he doesn't?" Nymeria asked.

Obara grinned. "Then I might start."

We watched him go as the crowd parted for him like waves before a ship, eyes still trailing his wake.

Still, he didn't look back. I said nothing aloud, but in my heart, I whispered it once more 'I hope so.'

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

By the time I slipped past the gold-and-silver drapes of the royal pavilion, the noise of the archery field had faded into the distance, muffled applause, still echoing, still chasing a name that wasn't mine.

Inside, the air was cooler, thick with the perfume of lilac oil and lavender. Cushions lay scattered across low couches, untouched platters of sweets and dates resting beneath shaded canopies. 

The guards stationed at the entrance barely glanced my way, already trained to overlook the presence of a small boy dressed in Baratheon gold. 

Especially if that boy was the Crown Prince.

Rhaenys turned first, hair gleaming, eyes bright with mischief. 

"Where have you been?" She asked, too cheerfully to be seen as the tragic Targaryen Princess, ward of the crown. "You missed everything!"

"Everything!" Alysse echoed, bounding up beside her. Her Arryn-blue gown billowed with the motion. "There was this bard, Jaskier Dandelions, if you can believe it, and he put all the other archers to shame. Every shot, bullseye. Not even the knights stood a chance. Ser Gwayne said it was sorcery, but I think it was luck. Or maybe both."

Rhaenys grinned. "And flair. He had so much flair. You'd have loved him. He even split an arrow right down the middle…have you ever seen someone do that? The whole crowd gasped!"

They were both glowing with excitement, talking over each other, giddy in the way only girls too clever and too bored can be when something finally surprises them.

I sank into a cushion and waved a hand, calm and measured. "Hmm. Sounds impressive. But I had… other matters."

That made them blink.

"Other matters?" Alysse tilted her head, skeptical. "More important than attending your own name day?"

"I will be leaving King's Landing soon…" I said smoothly, bringing back some sadness to both girls. "…some things can't be ignored. Besides, I made sure not to be gone long." I offered a faint, knowing smile. "You both covered for me admirably. Though truth be told, from what you two just told me I doubt anyone noticed my absence with such a spectacle going on."

That distracted them just enough for me to reach for the satchel hidden beneath my cloak and draw the crossbow out, careful to keep it out of sight from anyone but us three.

It was small, a hand crossbow, compact and deadly, but every inch of it screamed masterwork. Dragonbone, polished and dark like obsidian and ivory, formed the stock. The lever mechanism had been reinforced with delicate Qohorik steel, arched just enough to ensure smoother reloads. The string gleamed like a raven's wing under torchlight, taut with precision.

They both fell silent. Rhaenys leaned forward first, lips parted in awe.

"Where did you get that?" Alysse breathed, stepping closer.

"Had it commissioned. A private gift. From a very discreet craftsman in the city." I ran a thumb across the dragonbone, feigning nonchalance for Alysse's sake, while Rhaenys, more aware of that part of my secrets, watched in silence, already guessing its connection to the Stranger's Cult from Flea Bottom.

"And it works?" Rhaenys asked, already sounding like she wanted to test it for herself.

"Oh yes." I murmured. "Perfectly balanced. More reliable than a longbow in close quarters. More subtle, too."

They stopped talking about Jaskier and my mysterious absence after that, now distracted by newly acquired masterfully crafted weapon, just as I allowed myself a small smirk.

Tobho Mott had certainly outdone himself, again. 

I'd visited him under disguise just that morning, a false face and a new name, careful not to leave a trail. This crossbow had been one of few secret requests like my Dragonbone clubs and bucklers that were presented to the most devout amongst the followers of my Cult of the Stranger. 

But it wasn't the only treasure got from him today.

The armor, I could still feel its weight distributed across my body, packed beneath layers, the first time I tried it, now safely secured in my Inventory. 

Interlocked rings forged tighter than most smiths bothered to make, sewn between layers of quilted padding. A hidden shirt of mail, quiet and efficient. Aside from its size now being a better fit for an adult body, it wasn't that much different than the first one I had to leave behind during my second exploration of the Instant Dungeon of the Red Keep.

Though the chest plate piece was new. Shaped steel, reinforced with supple leather, merging well with the chain shirt while keeping it molded for movement and silence.

[AC: 16 (Breastplate armor)]

Outstanding. And all of it was without taking into consideration the bonus I got from my Dragonbone Buckler shield and the reaction I got from my Defensive Duelist feat. 

That's a theoretical Armor Class of 22. Freaking insane!

So, after finally convincing my two close friends and still unaware Party Members that I still had more matters to deal with but would certainly stay around to witness the jousting, I left looking for somewhere I could secretly shift back to my Jaskier persona and properly equip myself with my new set of armor.

————————————————————————

Later on, as I made my way toward the registration line for the melee, I quickly noticed it was even more crowded than the archery competition.

There were easily close to three hundred participants. Most had brought their own weapons and armor, many looking like they had just walked off the battlefield, or out of a tavern fight.

From where I stood, I caught glimpses of all manner of weapons: warhammers, longswords, broadswords, maces, battle axes, daggers, and even a few improvised tools with sharpened ends. 

Some bore belts lined with throwing knives, javelins, or small hatchets meant for hurling. Each man had come ready to carve out their place in history, or die trying.

The sheer diversity of the crowd was striking.

There were youths with gleaming swords fresh from the forge, and older men with notched axes and tired eyes. Wide-eyed peasants clutching secondhand gear stood beside grizzled squires and cocksure hedge knights. 

Many had brought their own shields and full armor, while others wore boiled leather or mismatched pieces scavenged from gods knew where. Those without proper defense already stood at a marked disadvantage.

The combatants had been directed to a wide holding area just outside the arena. A long tent lined with benches, weapon racks, and buckets of water while most seats were already claimed. 

As I walked in, a dozen pairs of eyes turned to me, sizing me up.

They saw the silk first, black and elegant, untouched by blood or dust. Then they noticed the lack of a proper breastplate, or any visible armor at all.

Let them stare.

You'd better believe I spent one of my precious Arcane Points in my Disguise Self spell to complete the effect, Jaskier, the bard with divine aim, strolling into the melee tent in high fashion, clad in supple black leather and embroidered silk. 

I wasn't just here to fight, I was here to make an impression.

Ignoring the stares, I soon sat down on one of the emptier benches. With some subtle sleight of hand, I retrieved without anyone noticing my Dragonbone Club and Buckler from my Inventory, one in each hand. 

No flash of Valyrian steel for this event, too much attention, and not the kind I wanted. 

The club and shield, however, would serve a dual purpose, functional enough for combat, and a quiet symbol to any nearby zealots of the Stranger's faithful followers hidden among the crowd.

'Time for my second victory today.' I thought as I twirled the dragonbone club in one hand, letting it spin lazily in a flourish, half for the show, half to reacquaint myself with its weight and balance. 

I will be doing quite a lot of parrying with it soon.

"You're not fond of armor, are you?" A voice came from nearby. "How about your life?"

Turning, I was presented to a man in his early-thirties, clean-shaven head, thick neck, and the unmistakable glint of red enamel on the accents of his armor. His mail was fine, interlocked rings sewn over quilted fabric, reinforced at the joints and weighed just right to absorb a good beating. 

It was a smith's masterpiece, no doubt customized to his liking.

He looked like a warrior-priest from a fever dream. A red priest, maybe, but not like the usual kind with holy chants and dead eyes. This one stank of wine, sweat, and last night's brothel.

"You know…" He went on, eyeing me up and down, "…a man can live without his hands, maybe even a foot or two. But a blade through the chest? Doesn't matter how famous you are…down you go."

I shook my head and shrugged. "Wasn't satisfied with my current set yet, so I left the main segment of it unfinished. Besides…" I smiled. "It makes things a little more fair for the others."

He barked a laugh and sat down beside me. "You wear your own craft when it meets your standards. I like that. This is a man's game, after all. If you're afraid of dying, better leave now before someone makes the decision for you."

"Thanks for the compliment. And the warning. But I'll be fine."

He nodded, then started oiling his sword with a practiced hand, coating the steel in a glossy sheen of greenish liquid. "So what's your deal, eh… Arrowminstrel?"

"Please. Just call me Jaskier." I offered a warm, casual tone, already recognizing the man despite the haze of alcohol and theatrics. "And you?"

"The name's Thoros… of Myr, as most folks insist on saying. Just a red priest with a sword and a thirst for fifteen thousand gold dragons." He grinned and extended a hand, which I shook before he asked me while uncorking his wineskin, ready for another generous swig. "You're the one from the archery contest, right? Would've been funnier if you brought your bow. Not that they'd let you use it in a melee."

"I did consider asking for a special ruling." I said, standing up. "But I decided I'd rather win their game, not bend them into mine."

Thoros chuckled. "Fair enough. But… if you do pull off another miracle in there, any chance you'd forfeit the prize again for second place?" He added with a wink.

"Oh, and spoil the spirit of healthy competition? What kind of performer do you take me for?" I said with mock offense. "But fair warning…I don't intend to lose."

"You are one peculiar individual, you know, bard?" He said, laughing before going back to his wine.

"Look who's talking, cleric of R'hllor." I shot back with a smirk, stepping away and blending into the crowd as the officials began organizing the match.

Three hundred contestants turned toward a raised platform, where three judges collected names and went over the rules.

The melee was simple in structure, brutal in execution.

The first round would be a mass elimination. All three hundred would enter the arena at once and fight until only eight remained standing.

Those eight would then draw lots and face each other in single combat. One-on-one duels until there was one left standing to claim the grand prize, fifteen thousand gold dragons.

It was an elegant system, really. Efficient. Brutal. Honest in its own bloody way.

The free-for-all was designed to weed out the weak and foolish. Anyone too slow, too proud, too soft, would be trampled, beaten, or stabbed within minutes. But survival wouldn't go only to the strongest, it would go to the smartest. The ones who knew when to strike and when to hide. The ones who made allies quickly and shed them even quicker.

But perhaps I could have it go even quicker since I was running on a fixed schedule thanks to my Disguise Self's illusion that hid my armor being limited to an hour and my reserves of arcane points were still very limited.

They soon divided us into four massive groups and sent us behind four separate gates leading into the arena.

The arena itself was immense, easily several times larger than the archery field. The dirt and sand floor had already been churned by countless practice duels, and the three-meter-high wall circling the battlefield kept both fighters and spectators safe from each other.

The common folk in the lower stands would struggle to see much of the action. But the highborns in the royal pavilion? They'd have a perfect view.

I glanced upward, eyes scanning the noble gallery until I found the royal box and the separate piece reserved for me while everyone else seemed to forget about whose name day this tourney was really meant to celebrate.

Regardless, there they were, Rhaenys and Alysse, eyes locked on the arena, undoubtedly holding their breath in anticipation. Waiting. Watching.

This wasn't just a mere battle, but a performance. And I was ready to give them another show they'd never forget.

————————————————————————

As I mentally prepared myself for what was about to happen, I couldn't help but notice someone speaking to me.

"Hahahaha! Are you that desperate to enter a melee without proper armor? Don't tell me you couldn't afford the most important piece of it?" Boomed a gruff voice behind me.

The speaker was a tower of a man, thick-armed and red-faced, gripping a notched battle-axe. His beard spilled onto the rivets of his mail shirt, and the sour tang of wine clung to him like a second skin.

"I can't believe you thought this was a good idea, singer! Hahaha!" His mocking laughter drew chuckles from a few others. "You're so green I can still smell your mother's milk on you."

'Of course one of these types would be part of my group.' I exhaled slowly before finally answering. "Is that jealousy I hear?" I tilted my head with a smirk beneath my helmet. "With a face like yours, I'd wager your mother abandoned you the moment she saw you. Probably pissed herself doing it, too."

The laughter stopped.

He loomed over me, eyes narrowing. "Mind your tongue, pretty boy, or you'll die worse than we planned."

I crossed my arms, voice light. "Oh no, I'm trembling. Especially with a horse-slaying axe like that one." I looked at the axe again before looking back down at the man, subtly lacing my words with the casting of my Vicious Mockery cantrip. "It's so large, I almost admire it… but do tell me, old man…are you compensating for something that's… lacking?"

[-1 HP]

He fumbled for a retort, face twitching if he had just been slapped. "Y-you're dead meat!"

Behind the helm, I grinned while few others were laughing at him now. But I chose to ignore him after that. He was too busy recovering from the mental sting of Psychic Damage my words delivered. 

Fortunately, I didn't have long to wait.

The gate shuddered and parted, blinding light pouring through the widening crack. Then came the roar, shouts of fury, joy, and raw anticipation as the melee spilled onto the field like a damn bursting.

Within moments, the arena became a storm of steel and shrieking voices. The stands erupted in cheers and gasps as blood hit the dirt. 

Killings weren't encouraged, but they weren't exactly banned either, and I could feel dozens of eyes zero in on me, their would-be easy mark.

'Let them try.' Were my daring thoughts expressed through my bold smile.

Soon I found myself darting between skirmishes, my movement swift and unpredictable as I focused entirely on avoiding stray attacks, casting my Shillelagh cantrip with the subtlest flick of my fingers once I had the breathing room. My Dragonbone club thrummed with raw primal power, turning the modest weapon into what felt like a juggernaut in my hands.

Kept moving, evading blows, ducking behind locked combatants to explore the fog of war, analyzing. Until I finally came across him, my loudmouthed friend from before.

"You're a dead man!" He roared, not all that creative with his threats, before charging straight at me, axe lifted for a murderous downward blow.

I merely sighed, not in fear, but boredom. Casually sidestepping the clumsy attack, my club flicked out to parry as the man's own momentum staggered him. Quickly activating my Steady Aim feature, I planted my heels and unleashed a punishing strike. 

[SNEAK ATTACK!]

[CRITICAL HIT!]

[-36 HP]

Crack!

The weak spot of his armor folded like thin tin as he immediately gasped when his ribs gave way beneath the blow. 

But with my extra attack, I struck again…less forceful, more precise to capitalize upon my opponent's recently dealt wounds, now snapping bone just above the hip.

[-18 HP]

The brutish Hedge Knight didn't retreat, too stupid or too proud, maybe both. 

As he attempted again to swing his two-handed weapon at me, I found it even easier to parry with both club and buckler before knocking him out. This time, shattering his kneecap and dropping him with a final, ringing crack to the helm.

[SNEAK ATTACK!]

[-25 HP]

[-8 HP]

A bit of an overkill I know, but at least I left him still breathing. He wouldn't be getting up though.

Some nearby fighters gave me a wide berth after that. Others, less wise, saw only a flashy weapon and my "lack of armor" and decided to try their luck.

Bad luck for them.

I made use of the chaos, striking from unexpected angles when I could find someone distracted, or simply letting my footwork do the work. My baton-like club smashed through poorly made helms, cracked shields, and crushed ribcages. 

The primal magic sang with every hit.

The blood wasn't something I relished, but I didn't shy from it either. Let others gasp and cry out in horror, I had a point to make.

A few fights in, I kept the same proven strategy of parrying and rolling like some sort of FromSoftware game protagonist, trading sneak for shock, dancing between offense and defense.

Once, I spotted a towering brute, tall enough to draw crowd whispers and make others competitors avoid him. Not quite the Mountain, not even the Hound. But close enough to be a front-runner.

This stage of the competition was the perfect opportunity to take out those I wasn't entirely confident that I could take in a fair fight, so I charged him as soon as he gave me his back.

His surprise cost him dearly, for not only was I in my element, but also because the tall man took some beating while carving his way through several men. 

My dark and iron-heavy Dragonbone club clashed twice against the man's helm and thanks to a near impossible double critical hits combo I managed to render the man unconscious with my impacts powerful enough to thrash the piece of armor guarding his head. 

[SNEAK ATTACK!]

[CRITICAL HIT!]

[-32 HP]

[CRITICAL HIT!]

[-16 HP]

His helm dented in with the second strike just as the tall knight crumpled.

Before I could celebrate my success in eliminating the competition, a second later, I felt danger behind me. Didn't have time to turn… so I shifted, letting Uncanny Dodge blunt the strike. 

[-4 HP]

[HEALTH POINTS: 13/17]

Then I spun, low and fast, and brought the dragonbone club crashing into the attacker's jaw. Bone cracked like dry wood and the man collapsed in a heap once I brought my weapon back in the opposite direction of my previous blow.

'That was close.' I thought while inspecting the wound that I just received, immediately understanding that I wasn't the only one planning to take out the competition.

This Melee allowed me to learn first hand just how many idiots screamed before attacking, helpful for me, less so for them. But I should have stayed wary, for the silent ones were the true danger.

Still, I tore through them whenever the odds were in my favor.

I wasn't just fighting for myself, mind you. When I saw young squires flailing, I gave them support, took down their tormentors, and sometimes, when no one was looking, gave them a taste of my Heroism spell. Just enough to stop them from fleeing in shame, and to persuade them to help me take down the still remaining front runners.

Giving the crowd something more for them to whisper amongst themselves, I let some minor lord's son remember my face. 

At least the face that I had crafted for my Jaskier persona.

Eventually, half the field was down, dead, unconscious, or too broken to stand, that finally gave me some breathing room to recast my Shillelagh cantrip as its effect has once again ended.

Once done, I hoisted the club over my shoulder, letting the light catch the iron-dark grain. The crowd cheered, a particularly excited woman screamed my name. Or a name, at least, I couldn't hear clearly with everyone else cheering for me.

Then I saw him. Tall, lean, and fast. A spear in one hand, a short sword in the other. He spun like a dancer, keeping his foes at bay with graceful, practiced strikes.

Not efficient, much less safe. But it worked, for now.

I darted forward, ducking behind the laid down bodies of surrendered fighters and screams of the broken, sprinting low to the ground until I reached striking distance.

My target once again didn't see me until it was far too late. For my club struck his shin with surgical precision, dropping him to the ground with a Cunning Strike.

Just as the man gasped for air, my small Dragonbone club came swinging like a golf club, right across the man's face.

Teeth flew and blood followed as my target stopped twitching and his limbs went still, dropping both his weapons unceremoniously into the ground.

I stood above him, breathIng a bit heavy, club dripping before I raised both arms to the sky and bellowed to the watching crowd. "ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?!"

The stands erupted, not in anger for my underhanded tactics, but mad excited for I knew at least how to put up a show for them, proven by the few random shouts I managed to make out amidst the chaos.

"Did you see that? The Bonebreaker Bard just shattered another one!"

"The Dancing Stranger is at it again!"

"Beware the Bare Knight!"

"The Bloody Balladeer leaves 'em all crawling!"

————————————————————————

OUTSIDE OF THE MC'S POV

Meanwhile, while the battles raged on down below, the nobles kept watching from their pavilion and had their own thoughts about what they were witnessing.

"The seven have mercy, that minstrel is unstoppable!" Hoster Tully exclaimed, rising halfway from his seat to get a better look while his daughter Lysa seemed to be appalled by everything. "He's moving so fast it makes sense now why he came in without full armor…it wasn't madness, it was part of his plan all along!"

Even Hoster's brother, Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish himself, had to nod in agreement, eyes sharp with the glint of a seasoned warrior recognizing something rare.

The pavilion, once echoing with idle chatter and polite clapping since the end of the Archery competition, had fallen quiet before roaring back to life, louder than ever. The crowd could barely take their eyes off the whirlwind of violence and cunning that was Jaskier Dandelions.

That he had won the archery contest was indeed impressive, but somewhat understandable. But how he was now dancing through blood and steel in the melee with such brutal precision was unheard of.

King Robert laughed, wine spilling down his chin as he slapped his knee. "Hah! Look at him! Gods, I could've used a dozen like him during the Rebellion!"

Jon Arryn, standing calmly by the royal seat, smiled at the king's enthusiasm. "Indeed, Your Grace. I haven't seen such ferocity since the war. Wouldn't you say so, Your Grace?"

Robert barked another laugh, raising his goblet. "Yes, Ned would've liked him!"

Jon allowed himself a quiet chuckle and a knowing shake of the head. "No. No, he wouldn't."

At that, Cersei Lannister rolled her eyes and turned away from her husband, barely hiding her annoyance. His drunken mention of House Stark grated on her ears like sand on silk, but even she couldn't deny that the melee had become more entertaining than she'd expected. 

The minstrel, or whatever he truly was, moved like a man born of both violence and theater. The Queen could see the crowd eating it up.

Not since Jaime first took up his sword had a fighter so young drawn so many eyes at once. But even her golden twin had never chosen to fight like this, swarmed, surrounded, bleeding, yet still performing.

Further down the row, Tyrion Lannister sipped from his own goblet and smirked. 

"Father's going to trip over himself recruiting this one." He tilted his head, watching another skull-crushing blow land. "A bard with bones of steel. That'll make quite the addition to our repertoire of terror, especially if he knows The Rains of Castamere by heart."

A few rows down, Ser Jaime Lannister watched in silence, his eyes narrowed in thought. Beside him, Ser Barristan Selmy leaned forward, fingers folded before his lips.

As Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Barristan had spent decades sifting through boys and men for a glimmer of greatness. It was rare. Precious. And this boy, no, this man, was unmistakably touched by it.

Jaime saw it too. The instinct, the timing, the ferocity wrapped in wit. He's dangerous, there was no doubt in that. 

And yet, the Kingslayer couldn't help himself from smiling. Because deep down, he relished the idea of crossing blades with this skilled balladmonger. Not out of jealousy, he told himself, but curiosity. 'Let's see if you're a flash of lightning, bard… or a storm that stays.'

All the way across the pavilion, near the Dornish delegation, Arianne Martell gripped her hands together as she leaned forward, watching every move. The way Jaskier shattered helmets like they were clay. The way he turned his hips before every strike, dancing through death like a blade himself.

He scared her, not because he was cruel, but because he was so sure and casual about all of it. So calm amidst chaos. It made her heart thump in a way no courtly suitor had ever managed.

Beside her, Tyene's hand fluttered toward her mouth. "Oh gods… he's brutal. I think that man is dead!"

"Of course he's dead!" Barked Obara, practically climbing over the rail. "The bard smacked him so hard his helmet flew off! Did you see that?"

Nymeria, meanwhile, only smiled sweetly, a glint of mischief dancing in her eyes. "Such fury." She murmured, almost wistful. "Imagine if he could channel it into places other than the battlefield.

Arianne didn't answer her cousin's teasing, for she didn't actually hear it. Her eyes were on the man beneath the grime, the streaks of blood, mud and rust. There was something wild about him. Something… special.

The way his muscles coiled and shifted as he dodged and struck reminded her of the Dornish tales she heard after the rebellion was over, of how the Demon of the Trident carved his path towards the iron throne before stealing it from the Targaryens.

There was a kind of madness in him. Or maybe brilliance. And she trembled, unsure if it was from fear… or something far more dangerous.

Arianne swallowed, breath catching as another man fell. Whatever he was, she knew she wouldn't be able to look away.

————————————————————————

DURRANDON BARATHEON'S POV

The preliminary round was nearing its end, only ten fighters remained standing.

Two hundred and ninety men littered the field, groaning in pain or lying still in death. The wounded vastly outnumbered the dead, but the latter left a harsher silence in their wake.

Weapons lay abandoned everywhere, warhammers, swords, maces, spears, like the corpses of beasts no longer tamed. Their former wielders could not claim them now. 

The field itself had become treacherous, scattered with steel and strewn with blood. Maces acted like spiked caltrops, ready to twist ankles. Warhammers lay like anchors to drag a man down.

And then, there was the blood.

It was everywhere. Pooled around the fallen, sprayed on the walls like grotesque murals. Every man still standing wore some shade of red, whether his own or another's. 

This melee had long since passed the expected quota of violence. It had become something else entirely.

I stood alone, much like seven of the others, spaced out from the crowd. We were circling now, like wolves watching a pair of lions tear into each other.

All eyes were on the duel.

One wielded a heavy warhammer, his red hair now plastered to his scalp with sweat. He fought with raw power, but his swings were slower now. The other, barely a man, with sandy brown hair and a tall, lean build, danced around him like smoke. He fought with a spear, all precision and poise.

Daemon Sand, they called him, a Dornish bastard. And a talented one at that.

I took the moment to steady my breath, letting the surge of Second Wind push through my limbs and refill some of my fraying Health Bar. I knew I had minutes, maybe seconds, before my Disguise Self illusion faded and everyone witnessed my set of breastplate armor coming out for everyone to see.

The others were waiting for the duel to end before they pounced, it was obvious. I could see them already shifting their footing, eyes angled not at each other but at the victor-to-be. Whoever survived the duel would be tired, winded and bleeding.

An easy kill before ending this round of the Melee.

One of them was Thoros of Myr, the red priest that greeted me before the start of the competition. He'd lasted this long with that flaming sword of his, cutting through men like parchment, to the point even I knew better to keep my distance.

Didn't matter now, I was ready even if I had to face him.

Suddenly, a piercing cry cut through the arena as the red-haired hammerman dropped his weapon once Daemon's spear found his shoulder. The point slid in clean and fast, then back out in a burst of blood. The big man fell to his knees, gasping and yielded.

Ten became nine. One more had to fall.

"Well…" I stepped forward right before the poor Dornish bastard got attacked from all fronts and began, voice low and steady, before the vultures could descend. "Before we get started… does anyone want to get out now?"

Eight sets of eyes turned toward me. Even Daemon Sand, breath still heavy, turned from his wounded opponent to look. I met their gazes without blinking.

"If one of you surrenders now…" I said. "…no one else needs to bleed before the next round."

A burly man with rotten teeth grinned, thinking he'd snuck up behind me, spinning his battle-axe once, hungry for a cheap kill. "The only one who's gonna be hurting is you."

"Get him!" Barked another, more willing to risk his chances on the still recovering Dornish bastard. "He can barely stand!"

And then the wolves lunged.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement from the pavilion, Arianne Martell rising from her seat, leaning over the rail. I caught a glimpse of her hands clutching the wood, of genuine fear in her eyes.

'Pretty girls worrying about me, how quaint.' I thought before the moment passed.

Shifting in reaction to the strike from behind, pivoting low, knees bent, club held firm at my hip, I kicked off the ground in a quick burst, light and fast. My body moved before my mind finished thinking.

"You're all full of openings." I muttered as steel missed me by inches. 

My counterstrikes landed where previous wounds had already been carved from previous clashes. Elbows, ribs and hamstrings, they buckled fast.

Simultaneously, I saw the rest of them rushing towards Daemon. The young bastard was still winded, he wouldn't be able to block all of them at once.

Quickly activating my Action Surge I let my Dragonbone buckler drop from my left arm mid-motion, doing my best to pretend on drawing a hidden weapon as I pulled arcane threads together into a stem I had picked from my pouch. My Sleight of Hand and Deception skills on top of Reliable Talent helped mask the motion. 

Finally, everyone saw a black thorned whip burst from my palm like a serpent of brambles, Thorn Whip cantrip.

It lashed at the leader of the would-be attackers and yanked him back several feet before I pretended to store away this 'hidden weapon' of mine, surprise written all over everyones face as the other competitors hesitated.

Not for long, since my opponent from before was still standing.

Without the buckler shield made of Dragonbone, my guard was open, proven by how I felt one blow slamming into my shoulder. I rolled with it, gritting my teeth while activating Uncanny Dodge mid-motion to absorb the brunt of the strike.

[-5 HP]

[HEALTH POINTS: 12/17]

Pain sang through my arm, but my club sang louder. My first blow once again exploited my opponent's injuries but my second strike shattered his jaw, teeth flying like rice from a wedding toss.

And then, fortunately I was allowed to recover in silence, for the round was over.

The crowd was cheering, now louder than before, maybe louder than they had all day, but I could barely hear it. My right arm throbbed, muscle and bone aching from impact after impact, blood and sweat running down to my fingers.

Still, I remained standing. Exhausted?

[CONSTITUTION CHECK FAILED! ONE LEVEL OF EXHAUSTION GAINED!]

Sadly yes….But standing. And as the crowd roared, and the nobles rose to their feet, just as I found myself smiling for all to see once I removed my helmet. 

My smile wasn't just because of the response I got from everyone, but primarily due to the ping I got from my System, followed by notifications worth more than any reward I could get from winning whatever competition in this tourney.

————————————————————————

The System pinged alive before my eyes like a waterfall of rewards.

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: GLAMOUR (RANK C-)]

[FONT OF INSPIRATION: You now regain all your expended uses of Bardic Inspiration when you finish a Short or Long Rest. In addition, you can expend two spell points to regain one expended use of Bardic Inspiration.]

My continuous effort in enthralling my audience through every step and move I made had thankfully paid off.

Lovely. More songs, more lies, and now I could refill my inspiring tricks over a few mugs of ale instead of a full night of sleep.

[DIVINE POINTS: 6→14 (MAX TIER: 1→2)]

[SECOND TIER DIVINE SPELLS UNLOCKED: SUGGESTION // PHANTASMAL FORCE]

Always good to keep enhancing my magic. Whispers strong enough to bend wills or plant nightmares. Good for my friends. Even worse for my enemies.

And that wasn't all. Another cascade of notifications followed.

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: ASSASSIN (RANK B-)]

[INFILTRATION EXPERTISE: You are expert at posing as someone else to aid your infiltrations. While in a disguise aided by the use of your Disguise Kit, you have Advantage on any Charisma (Deception) check you make while pretending to be someone else. You can also unerringly mimic another person's speech, handwriting, or both if you have spent at least one hour studying each one.]

[ROVING AIM: Your Speed isn't reduced to 0 by using Steady Aim.]

To be honest, I expected that all those challenges of marksmanship and carefully picking on my targets during the small battle that was the melee would lead me to raise my Hunter class instead. 

But I won't complain. It was still excellent, not only have I boosted the effectiveness of my Mask of the Changeling, now I could keep focusing on my aim for the next strike and not sacrifice my mobility while doing it. 

Outstanding progress. But the System wasn't finished yet.

[CLASS PROGRESS UPDATE: CHAMPION (RANK C-)]

[TACTICAL SHIFT: Whenever you expend a use of your Second Wind, you can move up to half your Speed without provoking Opportunity Attacks.]

Interesting, that ability had admittedly been a back burner amongst all my options during combat up till now.

With this upgrade I could more reliably heal myself while getting some breathing room between my opponents. Hadn't done it before because usually most of my regained HP would just go to waste once an opponent found another gap in my defenses.

This on top of my momentarily extra boost of speed after every critical hit was pushing me into becoming a target very hard for my enemies to pin down.

Regardless, just as the deluge of notifications ended I managed to hear the judges call out from the center of the arena.

"By the decree of King Robert Baratheon, the final contenders are granted an hour's rest!" The man's voice rang out, amplified by the sudden silence everyone else made. "Tend your wounds! Sharpen your steel! The final rounds will resume after!"

Cheers rolled again from the stands. The still standing fighters, myself included, began to stagger toward the shade of the arena walls or toward the apprentices of maesters moving hesitantly onto the bloodstained field.

It was only after spending the next hour doing nothing but light activity and recovering all my HP with my last use of Second Wind that the next ping from the System popped up like a smug reminder.

[YOU HAVE TAKEN A SHORT REST. YOU MAY HAVE ANOTHER SHORT REST BEFORE REQUIRING TO TAKE A LONG ONE.]

[ACTION SURGE USE RESTORED!]

[ONE SECOND WIND USE RESTORED!]

A slow grin tugged at my mouth as I finished cleaning my breastplate armor so it didn't appear to have accompanied me through the first stage of the melee, especially now that my Disguise Self spell had ended and I had no extra Arcane Points remaining to recast it.

A deep breath filled my lungs. The throbbing ache of my arm dulled, receding under the touch of whatever silent magic stitched me back together during the use of my Second Wind.

I rolled my shoulders experimentally. Good enough. Not perfect, the Exhaustion level still weighed on me like a chain around my ribs, but manageable enough.

As the cheers rang out and I could hear even the nobles shouting for blood and glory, I glanced across the remaining fighters resting alongside me. 

Thoros of Myr wiped wine from his mouth, grinning like a madman. Daemon Sand, pride smoldering in his dark eyes despite his young age, straightened slowly.

'So this is it.' I thought, finishing stretching my body and reading myself for the final acts of my performance to all the people of King's Landing.

————————————————————————

(08/10/2021)

(24/04/2022)

(01/01/2025)

*Hope this chapter is of your liking. 

Anything you wish to ask, feel free to do so.

Check out my auxiliary chapter if you still haven't.

Thanks as always for your attention and please be safe.

Any problems with my writing, just point them out and I will correct them as soon as possible.