The melee
7th moon, 281 AC.
The wind tugged gently at the banners above the stands, each fluttering pennant painted with the proud sigils of old Riverland houses—ravens, eagles, bats, and black fish upon silver fields. Beneath a shared canopy, draped in green and grey, sat three of the most powerful lords in the Riverlands.
Hosteen Mudd sat at the center, broad-shouldered and still for such a young man, his cloak clasped by the ancient hammer of his house, crowned in emerald. To his left, Lord Jason Mallister leaned back with the ease of a man at sea, his silver hair braided behind his head. At his right, grim and contemplative, sat Lord Tytos Blackwood, robed in dark wool despite the sun.
Below them, the field bustled with squires and heralds preparing for the melee to come—thousands of eyes would soon turn toward the blood-swept plain. But the lords' attention, for the moment, was fixed not on swords and lances, but on subtler contests.
"Ser Edric's looking leaner than when I last saw him," said Jason, nodding toward the line of Riverland champions assembling. "Your training at Oldstones is showing, Hosteen."
"He trains hard," Hosteen replied. "And fights harder. Brynden Tully's taken a liking to him as well. That's a pairing few would stand against."
Tytos gave a quiet grunt of agreement. "Let's hope they don't need to. This isn't just sport. Half the kingdoms are watching to see what we make of ourselves without the Freys."
That name hung heavy in the air.
Jason's jaw twitched. "Speaking of what's left behind... Charlton grows stronger by the year. The Twins under his command, minor lords bending toward him from the south. He's not yet picked a side, but he'll need to. Soon."
Hosteen nodded, resting his arms on his knees as he leaned forward, watching the field. "If we don't bring Maynard into the alliance, Riverrun will. Or worse—he'll trade favors with the Crown and come north with gold and royal backing. That would potentially mean enemies on two fronts. And if we count the Ironborn as well then we are truly encircled."
Jason frowned at that, his voice thoughtful. "We've had... strains with the Charltons, especially since the Twins fell. Still, they've a long memory for trade, and longer for vengeance. What do you propose?"
"Honor him," Hosteen said simply. "Let him see that strength lies here, not in Tully promises or southern coin. Edric's victory today—if it comes—could help. His brother Ser Hoster is on the field. That's worth something. Marry that to a promise of trade and shared roads, and perhaps—"
"Perhaps Bracken will think he's been forgotten," Blackwood interrupted dryly. "Jonos is watching every move you make, Hosteen. He thinks your marriage to Alysanne was a slight, not just a match. He thinks every gain we make cuts into his future."
"He thinks too much," Jason said, with a faint smile. "But he's not wrong to be bitter. We've taken what he thought was his. He'll run to Tully the first time a levy is raised without his name on it."
"I know," Hosteen said. "But giving Bracken too much will only embolden his temper. Better to give Charlton a seat near the hearth—warm him—and leave Bracken at the edge. Let him see the glow and think it's within reach. That's how you keep a warhorse from biting."
Blackwood chuckled low in his throat. "And if he starts kicking?"
"Then he'll find himself isolated. Let him go to Hoster and complain. Let Tully deal with his grievances. But if we have Charlton, with the Twins and his gold, Bracken's anger won't matter much."
Jason leaned in, his tone conspiratorial. "So we tempt Charlton. Marriage?"
"To someone in our service, perhaps," Hosteen said. "A daughter of House Keath or even Bryne. Even a Blackwood cousin—though I know you've few to spare, Tytos."
The Blackwood lord smirked. "I've more than Bracken would like. But fewer than I'd offer for Charlton's son. Still... a trade deal with a whisper of marriage might be enough for now."
Jason nodded, slow and calculating. "Bring him in, settle Bracken with promises and gifts he doesn't quite deserve. We balance the scales."
Hosteen leaned back, eyes scanning the field again as the horns began to sound. "And then we see how well our champions do when swords are drawn. If Ser Hoster fights well, it gives us leverage. If Ser Edric bests Robert Baratheon, it gives us more than that—it gives us a symbol."
Below them, the roar of the crowd began to swell. Steel met steel as the first knights thundered into motion. But in the stands, the game of lords was already well underway.
The trumpets cried out, shrill and high, and a hush fell over the field.
Below the grandstand at Harrenhal, the open ground stretched wide—scarred, muddied, and churned by the bootfalls of hundreds of men. Where once dragon kings fought and hosts of Rivermen gathered, now warriors marched to bruise and batter one another for gold, glory, and the gaze of the realm.
The melee was to be fought on foot, as the rules of the day decreed. No destriers, no tilts, no charges from the saddle—only men in mail and plate, bearing blunted swords, axes, and hammers, squaring off in the truest test of grit and blood. The prize? Eighty thousand golden dragons for the victor, fifty-five for the second, twenty for the third—more than enough to tempt lords and landless knights alike.
The combatants gathered in their factions—six hosts, six regions, bound by pride more than brotherhood.
From the east marched the Stormlords, a tide of strong arms and thicker skulls, all muscle and thunder. At their head strode Robert Baratheon, taller than most by a head, stripped to the waist beneath his ringmail, his warhammer slung over one shoulder like a shepherd's crook. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and a grin curled his lips. "Let's see who bleeds best!" he shouted, and the Stormlanders roared in return.
The Reachmen came next, bright in gilded armor and fine silk surcoats already muddied at the hem. They had the numbers, the style, and the names—Fossoway, Hightower, Redwyne—but they moved like dancers among wolves. Ser Baelor Hightower, nicknamed Breakwind by his rivals, looked disdainfully across the field as though the stench offended him more than the danger.
From the far end entered the North, disorganized and wild, with war cries in guttural tones. Brandon Stark led them, clad in chainmail and boiled leather, a heavy axe in hand and a reckless look in his eye. He shouted a jape to a knight across the field, then laughed as if none of it mattered.
The Westerlanders came armored head to toe, steel over steel, with lions on their shields and blood in their teeth. Ser Crackenhall, infamous for leaving tourney fields red despite the rules, paced like a caged shadow, tapping his blade against his thigh.
Dorne appeared last of the southern factions, sun-dark and light-armored. They wore spears and curved shortblades, and the finest among them was Prince Oberyn Martell, who stalked across the field in a red and gold jerkin, no helm, eyes hard as obsidian. The Red Viper's smile was as cruel as his blade was quick.
But from the west came the Riverlanders, not the loudest, nor flashiest, but organized. A wall of men—tight ranks, plain shields, practiced signals. Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, stood among them with his axe resting on his shoulder, calling names and orders. By his side, Ser Edric Fisher, younger, cleaner, but no less serious, moved through the men like a commander inspecting troops before battle.
The horn sounded once—long and low.
Then chaos.
It began like a storm breaking: metal slammed into metal, fists cracked against helms, men shouted, screamed, cursed, and bled. The Reach surged forward, hoping to overwhelm with numbers, but their formation buckled almost at once. The Vale caught them with shields up, Bronze Yohn Royce directing his men like a captain at sea, and the Reach folded under blunt hammers and disciplined spears.
The Northmen broke right into the Dornish. Brandon Stark fought with two hands on his sword, roaring as he drove into a cluster of Dornish. Prince Oberyn met him with a feint, then a spinning kick that sent a second man sprawling. Blood sprayed. A knife glinted. A roar of pain echoed as Brandon took a cut across the ribs, but still he laughed.
Elsewhere, Crackenhall's Westerlanders waded into the Vale with heavy maces and grim efficiency. For a moment they looked unbreakable—but a flank of Riverlanders swept in behind them, Brynden and Edric leading the way.
No heraldry mattered now. Men screamed, struggled, slammed against one another in the churned earth. Mud swallowed boots. Blood matted cloaks. Blows rained from every angle.
But the Riverlands did not falter. They fought in twos and threes, pulling their own to safety, regrouping, pressing forward when gaps opened. Ser Edric was everywhere—his sword flicking, his shield raised, pulling a man to his feet, then turning to strike down a Westerlander. Brynden barked commands through bloodied lips, deflecting a warhammer with the haft of his axe before smashing it into a man's leg.
The Reach was the first to break, their knights fleeing or dragged down. Then the Westerlands, Crackenhall howling curses as he was pinned beneath three Mallister men.
The North came apart next. Brandon fell, laughing until the end, blood pouring from a cut above the eye as he raised his axe one last time. The Dornish, graceful to the last, retreated in a half-circle, Oberyn the last to fall—knocked senseless by a mace as he ducked one swing too slow.
Only two factions remained.
The Stormlands and the Riverlands.
But Robert's men were broken—every one of them sprawled in the mud, unconscious or yielded.
Only Robert Baratheon remained, chest heaving, hammer slick with red, a long cut down his arm and a crooked smile still on his face.
Across from him stood three Riverlanders: Ser Brynden, face bloodied and helm lost; Ser Edric, limping but steady; and Ser Hoster Charlton, bruised and swaying. They looked at one another, nodded once, and surged forward.
The last clash was vicious.
Charlton was the first to fall, staggered by Robert's backhanded swing. Brynden followed, grappling with Robert long enough for Edric to strike—but the blow came late, and Robert flung the old knight aside like a rag.
Only two remained.
Edric and Robert.
They circled, both too weary for words. Edric struck first—fast, sharp, seeking the weak spot at Robert's side. Robert blocked it with the haft of his hammer and came back with a sweeping blow that sent Edric reeling. But Edric did not fall. He caught his footing and stabbed low. Robert grunted. His hammer dropped. He reached for Edric's throat—then paused, breathing hard.
They stood locked in place, panting.
"I say," Robert rasped, "we call it even."
Edric grinned. "Aye. Before one of us dies for gold neither of us needs."
The horn sounded again.
A hush fell across the field, the silence almost reverent after the thunder and roar of steel on steel. The smoke of churned dust hung low over the torn earth, scattered with discarded helms and broken shields, the stink of sweat and blood thick on the air.
Above it all, at the raised platform beneath the banners of Harenhall, the royal herald stepped forward. His voice rang clear and strong, echoing across the melee grounds like a trumpet blast.
"Let all lords and ladies bear witness!"
The gathered crowd leaned forward, silent as the grave.
"The winners of this great melee are—Lord Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands... and Ser Edric Fisher, sword of Oldstones, loyal bannerman of House Mudd! A draw has been declared! The prize of the first and second place shall be split!"
For a heartbeat, there was only stunned stillness.
Then the stands erupted.
Cheers rang out, rising like surf against cliff walls—some for Robert, louder still for Edric. Lordlings and knights whooped and stomped, tossing wine into the air, calling Edric's name. Fisher! Fisher! rang from a dozen throats, growing louder, echoing beyond the melee field. The man who'd entered as little more than a loyal second to Hosteen Mudd now stood shoulder to shoulder with the fury of Storm's End.
Atop the platform, Hosteen Mudd did not cheer. He did not grin or raise a fist.
He simply nodded.
A slow, quiet thing. Satisfied.
Ser Edric had done more than survive. He had made the Riverlands proud—and not just with valor. With vision, restraint, and discipline. The kind of man kings remember, and lords listen to.
Charlton's brother—Hoster—had fought beside him until the end. Fell hard, but not dishonorably. His blood on the ground was another seed Hosteen meant to plant. A new argument for House Charlton to join their cause—not with words, but with deeds.
The Freys had faded. The Brackens sulked. But Fisher would rise, and Charlton's blood had stood beside him.
Victory wore many faces.
The sun had long dipped low, and the banners of the pavilions danced in the warm evening breeze. The scent of roasted meat and sweet wine drifted on the air, but in the private tent of House Mudd, the talk was not of feasting.
Hosteen sat at the center of the pavilion, hunched over a carved table strewn with tokens—little figures of carved stone, representing houses, lands, and rival powers. Across from him sat Lord Jason Mallister, still flushed with the thrill of the melee, and Lord Tytos Blackwood, arms crossed, eyes ever sharp beneath heavy brows.
Jason was the first to speak. "Charlton will listen now. His brother fought like a knight of legend today. That'll matter more than gold, more than talk. That's blood honor."
Blackwood let out a breath, not quite a scoff. "If only Bracken had done the same. Instead, he sulks in his tent, glowering like a maid denied her favorite gown."
Hosteen's mouth curved, just barely. "Let him sulk. It gives him fewer ears to poison. And more time to see the river rising without him."
He looked down at the small, carved sigil of House Charlton, three sprigs of mistletoe, green and red, on a gold field within a green border, and moved it carefully into alignment beside the golden crown on brown-red and the white eagles on blue and the black ravens around the white weirwood on red.
"We've won more than gold today," Hosteen said softly. "More than pride or praise. We've won leverage. Loyalty. A proof of worth. A reason for Charlton to cast off his doubts and step into the circle."
Jason's gaze flicked to the table. "And Bracken?"
Hosteen's voice hardened. "Bracken can wait. Or beg. But we move now. Before Riverrun lays claim to what we've earned."
Blackwood gave a grunt of approval.
Jason reached for his goblet. "To us," he said, raising it.
Hosteen raised his own. "And to those who could join us in the future."
They drank in silence, the three of them.
Outside, the celebration began in earnest.
Inside, the real work had just begun.