Edwyn was already at the table when Alex came down for breakfast, which was unusual enough that Alex looked twice to make sure it was actually him.
“You’re here,” Alex said.
“I live here.
Temporarily.” Edwyn pushed the bread toward him.
“Sit down.
I have news.” Mikal came down two minutes later, looked at Edwyn with the mild surprise of a man who had genuinely not expected to see him before midday, and sat.
“Ser Clement knows people,” Edwyn said, without preamble.
“Good people.
The kind who talk to other people who talk to everyone.” He leaned forward slightly.
“Rhaegar Targaryen is entering the joust.
Personally.
Not just attending, Competing.” Mikal raised an eyebrow.
“He’s seventeen.” “Newly knighted apparently.
And from what Clement heard, he’s been training seriously for years.” Edwyn broke off a piece of bread.
“People are already talking about him like he’s the favourite.” “He’s the crown prince,” Mikal said.
“People would say that regardless.” “Maybe.
But Clement watched him in the practice yard yesterday morning and he wasn’t being polite about it.
Said the boy moves like he was born on a horse.” Edwyn paused for effect the way he always did before the part he considered most interesting.
“Barristan Selmy is entered as well.
And Arthur Dayne.” Alex stopped chewing.
He picked it back up a moment later and kept his face level and reached for his cup.
“Dayne,” Mikal said.
The word came out with a particular weight, different from the other names.
“The Sword of the Morning.” “The same.” Mikal was quiet for a moment.
He turned his cup on the table once.
“That changes the odds on everything.” “Changes them how?” Alex asked.
Mikal looked at him.
“A knight earns the title Sword of the Morning by being judged worthy to carry Dawn.
The ancestral sword of House Dayne.” He paused.
“There have been maybe a dozen Swords of the Morning in all of recorded history.
That title alone tells you everything you need to know about the man carrying it.” Alex thought about that.
Then: “So he wins.” “I wouldn’t bet against him,” Mikal said simply.
Alex said nothing.
But he had already decided.
The registration area was set up in a large open yard beside the lists, a long table running across one end with four clerks sitting behind it and a small crowd of competing knights milling around in front.
To the side a raised wooden platform had been built, and as they arrived a herald in Lannister crimson was already climbing the steps.
The crowd quieted with the particular attention of men who had a financial interest in what was about to be said.
“By the authority of Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King,” the herald began, in the trained carrying voice of someone who had done this many times, “the following prizes are declared for the Tourney in Honour of Prince Viserys Targaryen.” He unrolled a parchment.
“The joust.
Champion — 10000 gold dragons.
Second — 5000.
Third — 1000.” He paused briefly.
“Fourth through Seventh place — 500 gold dragons each.” A murmur through the crowd.
Not surprise exactly, the scale had been rumoured, but the reality of hearing it said aloud did something to the air.
“The melee.
Champion — 5000 gold dragons.
Second — 2000.
Third — 1000.” Another pause.
“Fourth through seventh place — five hundred gold dragons each.” “The Archery.
Champion — 1000 gold dragons.
Second — 500.
Third — 500.” “Total prize purse, thirty thousand gold dragons.” The herald rolled the parchment back up with the brisk efficiency of a man who had more announcements to make and moved on to competition format and scheduling.
Alex stopped listening to the words and started doing arithmetic.
Top seven in the joust.
Top seven in the melee.
Five hundred gold dragons for each if Mikal reached those thresholds.
A thousand total.
He ran the number against what he knew of their finances, what a thousand gold dragons actually meant for two people living on escort fees and tourney winnings.
It meant a great deal.
It meant a year of breathing room and then some.
He looked at Mikal, who was listening to the herald with his arms folded and his expression giving nothing away.
Whatever his father was calculating, he was doing it quietly.
The registration clerk had the face of a man for whom enthusiasm had departed some years ago and was not expected to return.
“Name,” he said, when Mikal stepped up.
“Mikal.
Hedge knight.” “House.” “None.” The clerk wrote it without comment.
‘Mikal.
No house.’ “Events.” “Joust and melee.” The entry fee was stated.
Mikal counted it out in coin.
The clerk swept it off the table and added Mikal’s name to the list with the same energy he’d given the previous forty names and the same energy he’d give the next forty.
“Draw for joust bracket is tomorrow morning.
Be here at the first bell.” “Thank you,” Mikal said.
The clerk was already looking at the next man.
They stepped away from the table.
Mikal stood for a moment looking at nothing in particular, the way he did when he was settling something internally.
Alex waited.
“All right,” Mikal said, more to himself than to Alex.
“All right.” They found a quieter corner of the yard.
“The betting money,” Alex said.
Mikal looked at him.
“I wondered when you’d get to that.” “I want to split it three ways.” Alex kept his voice low, not because anyone was listening but because it felt like the right register for this conversation.
“Dayne to win the joust.
Selmy to place well.
Rhaegar to perform strongly.” Mikal considered that.
“Not everything on Dayne.” “No.
I’m not certain enough for everything.
But I know those three names and I don’t know the others.
That’s enough to go on.” “Selmy could win,” Mikal said.
“He’s been Kingsguard for years.
His record is —” “I know.
But Dayne is the Sword of the Morning.
You said it yourself.” Alex paused.
“Biggest share on Dayne.
Smaller on Selmy and Rhaegar.” Mikal looked at him for a moment with that expression.
The one without a name.
Then he nodded once, the way he nodded when a decision had been made and didn’t need further discussion.
“I’ll find the bookmakers this afternoon,” he said.
“You don’t come with me for that part.” “Why not?” “Because you’re eight and I’m not explaining to anyone why my eight year old son is placing bets on the Kingsguard.” Alex opened his mouth and closed it again.
Fair enough.
They spent the rest of the morning walking the full grounds.
The stables were vast, hundreds of horses already, more arriving, the smell considerable even by Lannisport’s generous standards.
Pavilions were going up in the noble areas, elaborate structures that were less tents and more temporary rooms, servants hammering stakes and running fabric over frames.
Alex watched the practice yard from the fence for a long while.
The difference between what he’d seen at smaller tourneys and what he was seeing here was immediate and not subtle.
These men moved with a different quality, not just skilled but refined, the kind of refined that came from doing nothing else for years with good equipment and good instruction.
Household knights running drills with the ease of men for whom this was as natural as walking.
Lords’ sons sparring with the slight edge of people who had always been told they were exceptional and mostly believed it.
And at the far end of the yard, separate from the main groups, a knight in a white cloak working through something alone.
Alex watched him.
Not a drill exactly, more like thinking with a sword.
Moving through positions slowly, stopping, adjusting, moving again.
Nothing performed about it.
Nobody watching that he seemed aware of or cared about.
Just a man and a blade working something out between them.
The white cloak moved when he moved, catching the light.
Alex watched until Mikal’s hand came down on his shoulder.
“Come on.” “Who is that?” Alex asked, nodding toward the far end of the yard.
Mikal looked.
Considered.
“White cloak.
Could be Selmy.
Could be Dayne.
Hard to tell from here.” Alex looked one more time.
Then he turned and followed his father.
That evening Edwyn came back with the news that the bets were placed, good odds on Dayne, shorter on Selmy, very short on Rhaegar because apparently half of Lannisport had already had the same idea about the crown prince.
“Short odds on Rhaegar means everyone thinks he wins,” Alex said.
“Everyone thinks he’ll do well,” Edwyn corrected.
“Whether he wins is another matter.
Selmy and Dayne aren’t going to just step aside for a prince.” He seemed to find this genuinely entertaining.
“Should be interesting.” After Edwyn went out again Alex lay on his bed in the narrow room and looked at the ceiling and listened to the city outside, still loud even at this hour, voices and horses and somewhere down toward the harbour someone singing something he didn’t recognise.
He thought about white cloaks and dragon banners and the particular feeling of standing in a place where everything you’d known as a name in a story was suddenly a real person with a real face walking around in real streets.
Two more days.
He closed his eyes and let the city noise carry him toward sleep.