Leo was paying close attention to the foot melee for one simple reason: it was the perfect place to farm experience.
He had just earned 4,000 EXP for beating Ser Balman. His bar now sat at 4,200/9,600—almost halfway to level 7. Not as much as he'd gotten for dropping the Hound, but still a huge haul. Coming to this tourney had been the right call.
Too bad the jousts only gave him one match today. The afternoon melee, though… that was wide open.
No brackets, no waiting for your turn. If you thought you were good enough, you stepped into the ring and challenged—or got challenged. You could keep fighting as long as you stayed on your feet.
With his [Victory Rush] skill, Leo could heal a little and keep going round after round, stacking up experience the whole time.
He wasn't about to miss that.
For the next hour he sat near King Robert, sipping Arbor gold and watching the jousts roll on.
Eventually the Hound rode out, made short work of his opponent, and returned to the platform. He shot Leo a murderous glare on the way past.
Littlefinger leaned in and murmured, "According to the draw, if both of you keep winning, you'll meet in the quarterfinals. He's still smarting from that training-yard loss."
Leo nodded. Let him stay mad.
He glanced toward Jaime Lannister standing beside the queen. "And him?"
Littlefinger smiled. "Ser Jaime? You can relax. The draw puts him on the opposite side. He'd have to go through Barristan to reach you—and you'd have to win every match on your side. Only way you meet is in the final."
Leo breathed easier.
"What about the Mountain?"
"Ser Gregor?" Littlefinger waved a hand. "Some trouble in the Westerlands kept him away. He's not here."
Perfect. No Mountain, no Kingslayer until the very end. The path was clear.
A new name rang out across the field.
"Next tilt—Ser Beric Dondarrion of House Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven!"
Lightning Lord.
Leo leaned forward as the young knight rode up on a black destrier. Beric looked barely out of his teens—fresh-faced, wearing a black satin cloak slashed with purple lightning, his shield and breastplate painted the same. He bowed to the king with the eager confidence of a university athlete.
Beric wasn't a legendary fighter. In the original story he got killed multiple times. But every time the red priest Thoros brought him back with the Lord of Light's magic, he came back harder, more fanatical, until he became the leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners.
Leo watched the match with real interest.
Beric's skill was… average at best. Even Leo's defeated opponent Balman had looked sharper. The two knights traded broken lances for several passes in a sloppy, back-and-forth scrap that the crowd loved. They finally called it after Beric landed a solid hit and both men started praising each other's "fine horsemanship" like old friends.
The smallfolk cheered wildly. To them this was exciting. One-sided instant knockouts were boring.
Beric and his opponent took a victory lap together, waving and grinning.
Leo sat back while Littlefinger quietly filled him in on the next few knights—house sigils, family histories, who owed whom money, who had feuds. The man really did know everything.
Finally the herald's voice rang out again.
"Ser Barristan Selmy!"
The stands exploded. Even Robert shot to his feet and walked to the railing, raising a hand in salute as the living legend rode out.
Barristan the Bold had arrived.