The tourney followed a modified "Trial of the Seven" format: each side fielded ten men. Gear was unrestricted, but "live" steel was forbidden—blunted practice weapons only. The fight continued until one side was incapacitated or yielded.
However, with their Lords watching from the edges of the plaza, yielding was not a social option. These men were prepared to break bones and lose teeth. A tourney without blood and tears, after all, was merely a dance.
In Westeros, the feudal system meant even a King lacked a professional standing army. Beyond the small City Watch—the "Gold Cloaks"—war was a matter of call-ups. High Lords directed commanders, who directed knights, who led veterans, who huddled peasants around them. In a large battle, this formed a crude but effective infantry wall. In a small melee like this, it was simpler: the veterans charged, the boys followed, and whoever had more men left standing when the dust settled was the victor.
It was a perfect simulation of the "Broken Man's War" currently ravaging the Riverlands.
The first match pitted House Blount against the hosts, House Ward. Ser Karlo Schmidt, acting as herald, dropped his hand and bellowed, "Begin!"
The two squads charged, wooden shields clattering and muffled thuds echoing off the stone. It was like two jars of ink—blue and black—shattering in a pool of water. At first, you could see the lines, but quickly they bled into a single, chaotic smear.
Screams, the ring of wood on steel helms, and the grunts of exertion filled the air. Ten minutes later, only two men from House Blount remained standing, leaning on their practice swords and gasping for breath.
They looked around at the eighteen bodies littering the mud and raised their blunted steel. "For Blount! Victory for Blount!"
Outside the ropes, Ser Dean Blount and his remaining guards erupted in a deafening cheer. But the celebration was cut short as the Ward servants rushed onto the field. They began dragging the unconscious and the maimed to the sidelines, where their respective kin began the grim work of traditional medicine—cold water, dirty bandages, and prayers that went unanswered.
Ser Charles Costa leaned toward Aldric. "Blount won, but eight of his ten are out of the next round. The Wards are finished entirely. It doesn't matter how many reserves they have; they've lost the right to command."
"Aye," Aldric murmured, his eyes tracking the injured.
Aldric was calculating. These men weren't members of the Golden Dawn, and this wasn't a joint operation. By his own rules, he had no obligation to heal them for free. Yet, they were ostensibly "allies." To withhold the Light would be a tactical waste; to give it freely would diminish its value.
Ser Charles, misinterpreting Aldric's silence as tactical worry, added, "Dean only brought a dozen guards. He won't be able to field ten healthy men for the next round. Malin Sharp is the real threat now. He brought twenty-one men. He can rotate fresh bodies in for every match. He's the one to beat."
Aldric decided it was time to move. He walked over to Ser Dean Blount, who was currently kneeling over a young man, inspecting a swollen leg. Dean looked up, his face grim, and placed a wet cloth over the boy's ankle.
"It's bad," Dean grunted, standing up. "Two men are out cold. One has a shattered ankle, another a broken arm. The rest are limping. Even if we win another bout, we won't have a squad left for the final." He looked at Aldric with a cynical smirk. "You have the smallest guard, Commander. If I were you, I'd yield now before you're forced to walk back to your monastery alone."
Aldric smiled thinly. "I'll take my chances, Ser Dean. But I have a question for you."
"Speak."
"If I could heal your men—make them ready to fight in the next hour—what would that be worth to you?"
Dean scoffed, waving a hand. "Boy, if you want to play jests, go find young Bennett. He's closer to your age; you can amuse one another."
"I am not jesting, Ser Dean," Aldric said, his voice dropping into a resonant, commanding register.
Dean froze. The seriousness in Aldric's eyes was infectious. He looked at the injured men on the ground. "These are my nephews, my cousins, the sons of the veterans who saved my life. They are my blood and my trust. I don't want them crippled, and I don't want to leave them here for Tywin's dogs to find. If your 'medicine' can put them back on their feet... if you truly have that power... name your price. If I have it, it is yours."
Aldric knelt beside the boy with the swollen ankle. He looked no older than twenty, his beard a thin, patchy shadow. "Your name, lad?"
The boy looked at his Lord, then back at Aldric. "Descartes, my Lord."
Aldric checked the injury. The ankle was a purple balloon. "Nothing else hurts?"
"No. I fell when it turned, and the scrum moved past me."
Aldric looked up at Dean. "For the ankle, a full recovery with no lasting limp? Ten Silver Moons. In the Northern host, I charged a Gold Dragon for less, but we are allies. I'll make you a deal."
A shattered ankle could end a career. Even if it healed naturally, the man might be a "Broken Man" for life. Ten silvers was a pittance for a loyal soldier's life.
"Done!" Dean barked. "Use whatever potions you have. If it works, the silver is yours."
Aldric rolled up his sleeves. "I have no potions, Descartes. This will sting for a moment. Do not move."
Aldric hovered his palms over the purple flesh. He looked toward the sky, his voice filling the courtyard:
"Great Anshe, source of the Seven, you are the brilliance of the sky and the eternal Light of growth. I pray for your Grace. Look upon this broken flesh and Seek its mending! Let the shadow of pain flee before your warmth!"
A sphere of white-gold light erupted from Aldric's hands. Descartes grunted, his body tensing, his jaw locked. Ser Dean watched in stunned horror as the swelling vanished in heartbeats. The skin returned to its natural hue, the bruising fading like mist in the sun.
Aldric grabbed Descartes's foot and gave it a sharp, wide twist. "Well? Does it hurt?"
Descartes stared at his leg, blinking. He stood up tentatively, then did a small hop. "It... it's gone, my Lord! It's whole!"
Aldric stood and turned to Dean. The knight was on one knee, his face pale.
"What miracle is this?" Dean whispered. "I heard you call upon the Seven... is this... the Father's mercy?"
Aldric offered a dignified nod. "It is the Grace of the Source."
Ser Dean Blount did something Aldric didn't expect. He lunged forward and threw his arms around him, letting out a roar of laughter that turned into a ragged sob.
"Finally! The Seven have remembered us! Father, do you see this from the Heavens? A messenger has come to the Riverlands!"
Aldric stood stiffly in the embrace of the middle-aged, balding knight, feeling a bit lost. He had performed miracles for hundreds, but he had never had a Lord weep into his surcoat.
"Ser Dean... we have more work to do," Aldric said gently, disentangling himself.
He moved to the next man—a soldier with a broken arm and a cracked rib, likely suffering from internal bleeding. "This one is more difficult. It will require more of the Light. Twenty Silver Moons."
"Don't speak of the price!" Dean cried, wiping his eyes. "Twenty, forty—it matters not! Show us the miracle!"
Aldric worked his way through the Blount guards. One by one, he cast Solar Radiance, knitting bone and sealing vessels. As the men stood up, whole and strong, they looked at Aldric with a terror that rapidly turned into worship.
"You are a savior, Commander Aldric!" Dean exclaimed. "I knew it! Two centuries of my house's devotion, and finally, hope has arrived!"
Aldric was genuinely confused now. "Ser Dean, what are you talking about? 'Two centuries'?"
Dean looked around the plaza, his excitement barely contained. "Not here, Commander. Not in front of the others. Once the melee is done... please. Give me an hour of your time. There are things you must know about House Blount."
Aldric nodded, though his brow remained furrowed. "Very well. But for now, your men are ready. The second round is waiting."
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