The crowd was in a frenzy. Roars and cheers rolled across the field like waves. In the pavilions, nobles enjoyed their privileged view; in the stands, the smallfolk packed together, celebrating every clash. For them, a tourney was a rare luxury — and a free one.
The master of ceremonies raised his voice, announcing the start of the melee:
"Ladies and gentlemen, nobles of all Westeros, the first contests of the tourney shall now begin! The melee will follow the ancient tradition of seven versus seven. Victory goes to the group that manages to unhorse their opponents!"
The arena erupted once more. The first groups were called in.
On one side, knights of the Stormlands, led by Lord Robert Baratheon himself, wielding his massive warhammer and a stag-horned helm. On the other, knights of the Crownlands sworn to a minor House near King's Landing.
Robert and his men emerged victorious: the warhammer alone knocked down three, and the remaining four fell to the disciplined strikes of his company.
Other matches followed throughout the day, but near the end, something peculiar was about to unfold — an episode that would carve itself into the memory of Westerosi tourneys.
The master of ceremonies announced:
"Bear witness now to the clash between the knights of House Swyft of the Westerlands, and… the Silent Knights?"
His tone betrayed uncertainty.
Through the western gate marched House Swyft's formation: seven knights, riding in tight formation, stopping at their designated end of the field.
Opposite them, only three riders emerged — fully clad in plate, their armor engraved with lines reminiscent of ancient runes. Their helms bore masks of sculpted metal: one smiling, one weeping, one snarling with beastlike ferocity.
The murmurs faded into stunned silence.
Three against seven.
In the royal pavilion, King Aerys leaned closer to his son, Rhaegar.
"What is the meaning of this? Why are there only three knights on that side?"
"I do not know, Father," the prince replied, equally perplexed.
Among the Northern seats, Lyanna Stark said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the field, anticipation tightening her chest.
She wanted — desperately — to know what that mad merchant and his companions would do now.
The master of ceremonies approached the knight with the smiling mask — clearly their leader — while the weeping and the bestial masks remained half a step behind him.
"May we begin?" the announcer asked.
Twig simply nodded and drew a short sword. Jenny and Aron each armed themselves with long spears.
"What madness is this?" muttered Oberyn Martell beside his sister, Elia.
"I don't understand either," she said. "Why would they do this? Why risk their lives like this?"
Down in the arena, tension crackled in the air.
Among the Swyft knights, someone whispered:
"You see this? There are only three."
"Strange… but they're armed. They intend to fight."
"Are we supposed to surrender because they came short-handed? Their bad luck, not ours."
"Ya! Advance!" shouted the Swyft captain.
The six at his back surged forward with him, picking up speed.
Twig merely tilted his head. Then he pushed his horse forward — but in a calculated instant, he let Jenny and Aron sprint past him, splitting at an angle and taking the flanks.
What followed was something no one would ever forget.
Jenny and Aron rushed forward in parallel lines — then crossed paths at the perfect moment, then crossed again, disrupting the enemy's read of their movements.
A portion of the Swyft formation hesitated, opening gaps — and the two lancer knights, using the hafts of their spears rather than the blades, struck the riders at the waist, knocking four knights clean off their saddles in a single, devastating sweep.
They cut straight through the enemy line.
Three Swyft knights remained.
Twig advanced from the front at a slow, steady pace. The survivors regrouped.
The arena held its breath: seven versus three had become three versus three — with Jenny and Aron already circling for the next charge.
"Fall back to me!" the Swyft captain shouted. "Together! Forward!"
He charged Twig directly.
The long sword slashed — but the Smiling Knight parried with surgical precision, diverting the blow so it passed harmlessly. When the captain turned to recover, he saw his two remaining allies already lying on the ground — and the three masked riders closing in, walling him against the edge of the arena.
He dropped his sword and raised his hands in surrender.
"Victory goes to the Silent Knights!" proclaimed the master of ceremonies.
Twig, Aron, and Jenny rode back out of the arena as silently as they had entered.
No other match that day stirred the audience the same way.
Over the next two days, they repeated the pattern: fast, clean, precise victories.
Strategy and overwhelming power over numbers.
No one heard them speak.
No one managed to unhorse any of them.
Curiosity became fever.
Who were they? From which House?
Why did no one find them after the matches?
In the royal pavilion, King Aerys grew increasingly irritated, sending men to scout the encampments — all futile.
"An insult to the Targaryens," he snarled. "They appear from nowhere, bearing no sigil, and vanish like smoke."
Then came the final match of the melee.
Their opponents: House Baratheon, led by Robert — who, in another tale, would have claimed the champion title.
The master of ceremonies introduced the formations. The fame of the Silent Knights sent the arena into a frenzy.
Robert gathered his men:
"Men, this will be remembered in songs. Do not underestimate they fewer numbers. They've made fools of great houses and toppled knights like wheat before the scythe.
Stay together. Hold formation. Let's see their pretty tricks work against seven at once. My hammer will show them where true strength lies."
The horn sounded.
Robert pushed forward with three to his right and three to his left — a tight, unified block.
This time, Jenny and Aron did not cross paths. Each rode far to one side of the arena, preparing to flank, while Twig held the center alone.
"They're attempting to flank!" Robert warned.
Lyanna watched intensely, still unable to reconcile the image before her: the comedic, foolish merchant she met on the road was now a figure capable of dismantling expert riders with frightening ease.
Oberyn Martell admired the flawless lance-work of the Weeping and the Bestial — the two knights whose performances had shone throughout the melee.
In the stands, Ned Stark watched anxiously, remembering the foolish wager his sister had made.
"Who is this merchant?" he wondered.
Aerys gripped the armrest of his throne, anger brewing:
"Three knights like this… appearing from nowhere… I smell treachery."
Near the king and the prince, in the noble pavilion, members of the Kingsguard fixed their eyes on the Silent Knights — warriors who, in the past days, had demonstrated martial prowess rivaling the greatest in Westeros.
Ser Arthur Dayne brushed his fingers across the hilts of the twin blades at his waist, as if ready to leap into the arena. Even Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold, found himself wondering what it would be like to test his mettle against them.
Prince Rhaegar watched with growing suspicion.
The masked knights disappeared after each match — the masked merchant he sought had vanished as well.
Masks, perfect technique, an enigmatic trader…
And then there were the odd rumors from years past: a masked creature that breathed fire, stories that, conveniently, originated in Riverrun.
I must get to the bottom of this, he thought.
On the arena floor, Aron swept wide with his long spear and struck the leftmost Baratheon rider in the ribs, sending him flying.
Two allies pulled back to avoid trampling him — only to fall into Jenny's path, where she repeated Aron's maneuver on the opposite side.
In seconds, it was five versus three.
Twig feinted right, drawing the remaining riders toward that flank.
Jenny and Aron punished the opening.
Before Robert could reorganize his line, the Smiling Knight shifted direction sharply and, together with his companions, formed a pincer.
The side riders moved to shield their lord — sacrificing themselves.
Twig cut down two in a single motion.
Only he — and Robert — remained.
Surrounded, Robert stared at the masks:
The smiling one mocked him.
The weeping one pitied him.
The beastly one promised only terror.
"Have you no honor!?" Robert roared. "Face me one on one!"
All three surged forward — but Twig raised a hand.
Jenny and Aron pulled back.
He advanced alone — and sheathed his sword.
"Are you mocking me!?" Robert bellowed, charging.
His warhammer cut through the air — but Twig leaned aside, letting the strike pass.
In the same movement, he drove a single punch into Robert's helm.
The force blasted Robert off his mount.
The giant collapsed in the dirt.
Silence.
Then an eruption — a roar that shook Harrenhal to its foundations.
Twig and the others reorganized swiftly, and rode out of the arena under thunderous ovation.
With a single punch, an unarmed rider had felled the favorite.
And so, the legend of the three Silent Knights — the Smiling, the Weeping, and the Bestial — was carved into stone forever for all history at the greatest tourney Westeros had ever seen.