Chapter 109 — The Lists of Storm's End

Storm's End appeared first as a dark line against the sea-grey horizon, then as walls so massive they seemed less constructed than rooted into the coast. Autumn wind came hard off Shipbreaker Bay, carrying salt and spray inland while crowned-stag banners cracked above the battlements.

Ten days on the road brought them to approaches already crowded. Mounted knights rode beside squires leading spare horses; armorers, singers, merchant wagons, and noble households pressed toward the gates before Robert's court could fill every hall and inn around the castle. FireStorm's twenty veterans drew attention without trying, because their black equipment matched, their intervals stayed clean even in the traffic, and none shouted at commoners to clear the road.

Rodrick waited at an inn outside the main gate, his grey cloak damp with mist. After bowing to Arlan and greeting Brienne, he led them directly into a private room and spread several pages across the table.

"Robert's vanguard arrived yesterday," Rodrick said. "The King should be here within three days, perhaps sooner if he refuses another hunting stop. Renly has announced a great tourney for the visit, and registration closes when the royal party arrives."

Brienne leaned over the papers. "What contests?"

"Jousting, mounted swordplay, and foot combat. One hundred gold dragons for each champion, five hundred for the overall victor, and Robert intends to recognize the grand champion himself."

That last reward mattered more than the purse. A king could forget a petitioner before supper, but Robert Baratheon was less likely to forget a man who gave him a fight worth watching.

Rodrick tapped another page. "Elton understands that too. For several days he has been telling anyone willing to listen that you bought Renly's favor with liquor and glass, that FireStorm's soldiers are dressed merchants, and that you barely know which end of a lance points toward the enemy."

Brienne's jaw tightened. "I can correct him."

"Preferably without killing anyone inside Storm's End," Rodrick replied.

Arlan studied the tournament roster. Ser Jess Caron, Elton's eldest son, had entered all three events and carried a strong reputation among younger Stormlands knights. Several Crownlands fighters had arrived with Robert's vanguard, and men from the Reach had entered as well; the field was not ceremonial.

"Register me," Arlan said.

Rodrick looked up. "For which event?"

"All three."

Brienne's first reaction was interest, followed quickly by concern. "The joust is not the same as a battlefield."

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"Neither is mounted swordplay, and I know it."

Arlan's previous life had taught him many efficient ways to kill a man and almost nothing about breaking lances for applause. Since taking FireStorm, however, he had learned Westerosi horsemanship because a marcher lord who could not ride was a corpse waiting for a road ambush. Brienne had also corrected enough of his lance work that he understood his weaknesses even if he lacked a tourney knight's experience.

"Elton wants Robert to see a merchant hiding behind soldiers," Arlan said. "I can spend three days denying it, or let the King watch the answer."

Rodrick smiled faintly. "That was my conclusion."

The registration tables occupied one side of Storm's End's outer training yard, beneath a growing wall of shields displaying accepted entrants. When Arlan gave his name, the maester behind the desk checked the parchment twice before looking at the black-armored escort.

"Lord Arlan Ashenblade of FireStorm?"

"Yes."

The maester left his quill above the parchment. "You are entering personally?"

"I am."

Arlan was not a knight and did not pretend otherwise. The rules allowed noble lords and recognized household champions into the mounted contests at Renly's discretion, a practical concession for a royal spectacle intended to gather every notable fighter in the region. His name therefore entered the roster without a Ser before it. Several nearby knights noticed immediately.

"That's him?" one murmured.

Another snorted. "The glass lord. Caron says he learned swordplay from bandits." Brienne turned her head, but Arlan kept walking. Mockery cost nothing and proved less.

Over the next three days, Storm's End filled until nearly every gallery carried another banner. Arlan used the time to inspect the lists, test the footing, ride the black courser chosen for the joust, and refuse several invitations from men who seemed unusually eager to fill his cup while asking about FireStorm.

The rules received almost as much attention as the horse. A legal jousting strike had accepted targets, mounted swordplay used rebated weapons and judges, and foot combat ended on surrender, disarmament, or an obviously decisive touch. Fighting well inside rules required knowing exactly where those rules stopped.

The courser mattered most. A Braavosi merchant who had traded with FireStorm had supplied the animal, a powerful black horse with strong hindquarters and a foul opinion of crowds. Arlan spent two mornings learning its rhythm instead of demanding instant obedience, and by the second day it no longer fought the bit whenever the stands erupted nearby.

Brienne watched him circle the practice yard. "Jess Caron favors a heavy first pass."

"You've seen him?"

"Twice. He commits his weight early because most men meet strength with strength."

"Then I won't."

On the third afternoon, horns sounded from the eastern road. Robert Baratheon entered Storm's End beneath crowned-stag banners, broad in the saddle and surrounded by white cloaks, royal retainers, Lannister crimson, and enough courtiers to overwhelm FireStorm's entire lord's house.

Queen Cersei rode near him in gold and red. Renly met his brother at the gate with all the ceremony Storm's End could provide, while the summoned vassals stood in rank and bowed as the royal party passed. Robert's gaze moved over Arlan without stopping.

The next morning, workers opened the tournament grounds before sunrise. Commoners crowded the lower benches, nobles filled the raised galleries, and Robert occupied the central dais with Cersei, Renly, Kingsguard, and court officers gathered around him. Elton Caron sat below Renly. His eyes found Arlan across the field. Arlan met the look once, reached for his helmet, and turned toward the lists as the herald raised his staff.

The first horn sounded.