The sun was high, the wind light, the banners rippling like restless tongues across Harrenhal's green fields. Hundreds of spectators packed the stands—nobles in their silks, hedge knights in worn mail, smallfolk leaning on the railings, hawking fruit or snatching glimpses through gaps.
Edric sat beside Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark, close enough to feel the heat rising off his friend's barely-contained mood.
"They're doing something decent," Robert muttered, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "And you're sitting on your hands."
"It's an archery contest, Robert," Edric said mildly. "I'm probably the worst archer here. I'm not of much use to them."
"You know what I mean," Robert snapped. "The Squire Melee's tomorrow. Don't think I've forgotten."
Edric didn't answer. There was nothing to say.
Dude, I literally tried to get them to bring me in the grand melee. He thought, a little exasperated. Why is he still on that anyway.
On the field, an unusual figure stepped forward—slim, dark, smooth as river stone. He wore a carved wooden gorget and a short kilt, no shirt, skin slick with oil and sunlight. Bright feathers were tied into his hair.
Instantly, Robert's sour mood seemed to brighten. He pointed at the man in the field.
"That one's from the Summer Isles," The Storm lord said, with a hint of excitement. "Koja Mo. A Summer Islander. He has a goldenheart tree bow."
The man drew. No wasted movement. Loosed.
Thwack. Center ring.
"Godness," Edric murmured. "He made that look easy."
"Easy?!" Robert laughed. "Had everyone in the stormlands been this good, we'd have been kings of Westeros until the Targaryens came."
"One arrow doesn't win a prize," Edric said, though his tone had an edge of respect. "He looks good now, but maybe it was only a fluke."
Koja loosed again. Bullseye. Again. The man moved like water. Not a breath out of place.
"I actually didn't say anything." The squire replied shamelessly. The other two laughed at him.
By his fifth shot, the crowd was murmuring like a rising tide.
"Is anyone catching him?" Edric asked.
"No," Robert scowled. "And they won't. Bastard's not even sweating."
Next up came a younger man in crisp mail and a black-and-white tabard. He looked proud, perhaps too proud, chin high and jaw tight.
"Alester Swann," Ned said. "Best in Stormlands they say."
"Yes, I saw him at my last trip to Storm's End. He's the only archer that can give the islander a good challenge."
Swann nocked his first arrow—and released a hair too fast.
It went wide, thunking into the second ring.
Robert grunted. "Hmm, pressure maybe."
Swann rolled his shoulders. Breathed in. The second arrow hit clean—dead center. Then another. And another.
By his fifth, he'd found his rhythm. It came in dead center, mimicking his earlier success and saving him from his previous blunder.
"He's settled now," Ned said. "Did well to steady his hand."
"Still behind," Robert said, though there wasn't much bite in it. "He'll regret that first shot for sure! Of course the difference in quality between bows is big. The Stormland bows are the best in Westeros, especially if all your archers wield it. But if you make your bow using goldenheart tree wood then it will be better!"
Over the next hour, competitors came and went. A few reached the final round, mostly archers from the Dornish Marches, the Reach and the lands od Storm with an obvious advantage going to the latter, due to their culture.
None, however showed Koja's unshakable calm.
Their discussion lasted until the final round, where they were forced to stop to avoid missing the winner's shot.
Koja stepped forward once again—same slow breath, same even draw.
Five arrows. Five bullseyes.
Not even a blink.
The crowd erupted.
Then came Swann. He wasted no time now—steady, focused. One after another—bullseye, bullseye, bullseye. They were all perfect until the fourth that was slightly low. The distance having grown enough to the point of making even the most skilled Alester struggle. The fifth thumped into the target ending the last round on a skillful note. That arrow was unable to save him however, ending the contest between both worthy opponents and demonstrating the clear difference between bows.
The crowd was loud praising the skill of the winner or mocking the loser.
"A near-perfect round," Ned said. "Only Koja bettered him and he barely did so."
"A shame," Robert muttered. "Another shot, and it'd be different."
"Yes," Edric agreed. "But it wasn't."
The heralds posted the results on a lacquered board, gold ink catching the sun. 1st – Koja Mo of the Summer Isles. 2nd – Ser Alester Swann, House Swann of Stonehelm. The third was of no importance whatsoever to anyone in the stands, showing that their interest was only in the final rounds.
As the crowd broke apart and coins changed hands, Edric watched Koja Mo sling the bow across his back. The Summer Islander didn't wave, didn't smile. He just walked off like a man doing something he was born to do. He took his rival's hand in respect and they spoke. Before Alester let out a laugh he couldn't hear.
Edric leaned back, quiet.
"You thinking something?" Ned asked.
Edric's eyes followed Koja's retreating form. "Just that I'm impressed."
Robert laughed. "It would have been more impressive to see your hammer in the melee!"
"Still on that? It seems you'll have to settle for the old generation. I have a Squire melee, to win," Edric said before remembering. "Did Ser Barristan talk to you?"
Robert turned toward him. "Ah yes. Yes he did. Told me I had a nice squire and asked me if he could knight him if he won his melee!"
Edric leaned in closer. "What did you say?"
Robert shook his head. "I wanted to knight you myself to be honest. But depriving you of that legend would be foolish! So I said yes."
"Barristan Selmy wants to knight you? You need to tell me about that." Ned interjected.
They sat there for a while longer, talking just watching the sun dip toward the towers, and the banners shift with the wind.
___
The next day, Edric woke to the sounds of birdsong and distant hooves, the fabric of his tent glowing gold with morning light. For a moment, he lay still—muscles sore, breath steady—until the pressure in his gut became unavoidable.
He rose, threw on his shirt, and stepped out into the cool air. The tournament grounds were quieter than usual. Most of the camp still slept, or spoke in hushed tones around low fires. Somewhere, a teenager cursed at a stubborn mule. Edric moved a few paces from his tent, pulled his genitals out of his pants, and pissed into the grass, steam rising from the stream.
The air smelled of dew and ash. His eyes drifted across the tilting yard in the distance, and the rising banners of half a hundred houses—colors stretching into the sky like a painter's fever dream. He could still hear yesterday's cheers, see Koja Mo's fluid movements, feel the weight of what was coming.
This afternoon, the squire melee.
He'd seen the lists—over two hundred names. Most in their teens. Some would be weak and of no concern. Others would be hardened already, veterans of more battles than their fathers. Edric felt the weight of it settle behind his ribs.
But he had armor. They did too, but not like his.
He laced up again and turned toward the forge, rubbing his neck—
The tent flap flew open with a slap.
Robert Baratheon stood there, broad as a gate and just as loud. "There you are!" he barked. "Still scratching your arse!? Put yourself in armor—we're going."
Edric blinked. "Going?"
"Aye. Going to eat. A proper meal. With bread, meat, eggs, the works. If you're getting thumped in front of half the realm, you'll do it with a full belly. And take a piss too, can't have you piss inside the armor can we?"
"I already pissed."
"Good! Then we're halfway ready."
Edric grabbed his gambeson off the hook. "You always burst into tents like that?"
Robert grinned. "I thought you knew me better! There's a reason Morden hated me so much."
The smith chuckled before changing the topic. "Will you watch?"
Robert's grin widened. "Well I have no choice, Ned will be watching with me."
They stepped into the morning light together, two silhouettes against the growing noise of Harrenhal. The day had begun.
___
A/N: Finally! I stalled enough. Next chapter we will be seeing the Squire Melee and the glorious beat downs about to be delivered.