The Measure of Men
"A true blade does not boast. It simply cuts." — Old Northern Saying
(Third POV)
The tourney ground roared like a living thing. Drums beat in cadence with the hooves of charging destriers, and banners snapped in the summer wind. King's Landing had never known quiet, but today, the clamour felt ritualistic—like the city had become a witness to spectacle and blood.
Rickon Stark and his family sat in the same box as before, shaded beneath a canopy of silk dyed in northern greys. Rickon held his usual silent and unreadable expression. Around them, noblemen chatted idly, some already deep in drink. The South loved its pageantry. They wore bright silks and gems like armour and carried themselves with the lazy pride of those who'd never known true suffering.
Below, the tourney opened with flourish. Trumpets blared as the first knight rode out, each clad in polished plate, their house sigils emblazoned like declarations of pride. Some waved to the crowd, others stared ahead—grim and focused. The crowd roared with every familiar name announced by the herald.
At the centre of the viewing gallery sat the king himself, with Prince Baelon also present beside him, along with his son Prince Viserys and his lady wife, Aemma Arryn. Several members of Small Council were seated nearby. Before the start of the tourney, Prince Baelon stood and thanked everyone present for coming to celebrate his granddaughter's birth and offering the seven's blessing to the knights who would soon test their mettle.
(Alaric Stark POV)
I am bored. It's been close to thirty minutes since tourney began, and I'm already done. It's not that the event is dull—it's as exciting as hitting someone without any care for safety can be—but when you carry the memories of actual exciting fights, it loses its lustre.
There are many knights from different corners of the realm, but all my focus is on the royal family.
The king looks exactly how I imagined— old, wearied by the crown, but there's a sharpness in his gaze. He looks like a man who's seen too much and learned to remain standing through it all. Regal, but not rigid—his authority is effortless. Shoulders straight but relaxed, like power had melded itself into him over time.
Prince Baelon, 'the Spring Prince', is his opposite. He stands with the kind of ease that comes from knowing exactly who he is. There's laughter in his eyes, but danger too. He's enjoying himself, clearly—but there's steel beneath that smile. The kind of man who'd ride into battle grinning just to see what might happen.
And then there's Prince Viserys. He's immersed in his drink and more animated than anyone else. Not slouching, exactly, but lacking that quiet discipline you expect from men of power. He seems like a man who'd rather be loved than feared, the sort who tries to win hearts instead of battles.
This is all new to me. I was always observant, even before I inherited Noah's memories, but now... it's different. With one glance, I can read surface truths from the way people move, breathe, blink.
I'm getting better at using my templates. Not fully—there's still too much I don't know—but they're becoming familiar, like old armour I haven't quite grown into. My body's too young, too soft, too slow. That's why I can't use Transparent World for long. My eyes ache. My nerves fray.
I think I'm getting more influenced by my templates. It's probably why I'm disinterested. Not because I dislike knights or jousting or the honour of it all—I understand the value of spectacle, of symbolism. But for someone who can read people, all of this feels… predictable.
That man, House Tarly. Broad stance, left shoulder slightly dropped. Weak on the off-side parry. If he misses the first tilt, he'll overcorrect. Easy target for a feint.
Another from House Redwyne parades across the field, armour gleaming, crest tall. His lance is striped wine-red to match his banners. Too heavy in the shoulders. Carries his weight too far forward in the saddle. Opens his right flank with every charge.
I leaned back in my seat, eyes half-lidded as I watched a joust between a knight from the Vale and a Reachman with green-and-gold colours. Their horses thundered past each other. A clean strike. The Reachman toppled, his helm flying.
The crowd gasped, then cheered.
I didn't.
I had predicted the outcome the moment they entered the tilt. The Reachman's horse was too spirited—restless in the lead-up. He hadn't calmed it, hadn't adjusted for the animal's sideways gait. When the lance came for him, he couldn't compensate.
Showy, not sharp. Flash over function. The kind of man who dies on the first day of war.
Beside me, my father and mother watched politely. Rickon Stark bore the same stern calm he always did, though I caught the flicker of tension in his jaw—still upset about my wager, no doubt. Mother sat straighter, smiling faintly when appropriate, the picture of Northern dignity among a garden of painted masks.
Then the crowd shifted. Whispers moved like a wave. Even the herald paused.
"He's here," someone murmured.
And he was.
Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince.
He entered the field not like a knight, but like a storm wrapped in crimson and black. His armour was dark as dragon's blood, chased with Valyrian filigree. He clearly prided himself on his heritage from the number of dragons adorning him. His entire suit resembled dragon scales. He wore a helm shaped like a snarling dragon, and even his sword had a dragon-wings shaped hilt.
The crowd erupted the moment he entered, but it was a different kind of applause. Not the mindless cheering for hedge knights or sons of minor lords. This was reverence. Excitement laced with fear.
He dismounted slowly, bowed once toward the royal gallery, then mounted again to face his opponent—a knight from the Reach.
He's different from the other knights here. It's not that he's the strongest, but his whole presence screams danger. He isn't pretending like the others. Let's see if he's as dangerous as he looks.
'Transparent World.'
Hmm… he's in optimal condition. His muscles weren't made through training alone—they're shaped by combat. There's a rhythm to his body, a kind of harmony. Precise, fast, strong. But some of his arm muscles aren't as active. It's like he pushed them hard early on, then stopped stressing them once they became strong enough. Why would he do that?
Oh.
He didn't stop using them. He just stopped pushing them further. So that's the famous Dark Sister. "Father, is 'Ice' lighter compared to other great swords?" I asked. He looked at me briefly before answering. "Compared to traditional great swords, 'Ice' is indeed lighter. Same goes for Dark Sister, if that's why you're asking."
It's been like this with him since that wager with the Lannister. It's embarrassing seeing a grown man sulk like a child denied his favourite toy. He still refuses to see that I did that only to save him from further embarrassment. Whatever. Mother will handle it.
I was pulled from my musings when Prince Daemon unhorsed his opponent in brutal display of speed and precision. I really need to start paying attention to their names. I can't keep calling them "this" and "that" knight.
The whole crowd cheered for his victory. There's something off about him. Just like his brother, he craves admiration— but not through warmth or charm. Through awe. Through fear. Through the dance of steel and blood.
I'm still not very proficient at reading people, but it's evident in the way the crowd cheers for him and the way he carries himself. He's the type of man people will follow willingly. Whether in love, or terror.
Seeing him now makes it more certain for me—what kind of place I've been reincarnated into. Place where people like him rule, cruel people. But I'm not scared. I may be young now. Still green. My body is short, thin, and untrained. My mind knows how to move, when to feint, where to strike—but this body can't always keep up. Not yet.
If I fought him today, I'd lose. Even if I knew what he'd do. Especially if I knew.
Knowledge without power is just awareness of your own doom.
But still… watching Daemon stirs something in me. Not admiration. Not envy. Not fear.
Recognition.
Daemon Targaryen is the storm. The kind of man who reshapes kingdoms through force of will.
And Alaric Stark?
He's still learning how to breathe in that kind of wind.
The tourney continues. More knights fall. Daemon remains undefeated.
But I barely notice. My mind has already moved past the lists, past the noise.
I'm not here to cheer.
I'm here to understand.
Because one day—maybe not soon, maybe not even for years—I'll need to stand in the storm.
And when that day comes, I will not break.
I will be the storm's answer.