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CaveLeather Gavin swept his gaze across the crowded circle and quickly found the Hightower contingent.
Their banner was carried by a big, broad-shouldered soldier.
Four armored men formed a loose protective screen around him.
The moment the banner carrier felt the weight of Gavin’s stare he looked up.
Their eyes met across the field, sharp and direct, like two blades crossing before the fight even began.
The judge rode into the center and began shouting the rules, but almost no one listened.
Every fighter’s nerves were stretched tight.
The air itself felt heavy, thick with the promise of violence.
When the judge finally rode clear, the tension snapped.
A horn blared, loud and final, and the circle exploded into motion.
Allied houses began edging toward one another, trying to form larger, stronger knots.
Weaker teams saw the danger and struck first, charging the groups that were still trying to link up.
Even distant teams picked targets they thought they could take and rushed in.
A team on Gavin’s left made the first move against them.
One burly fighter lowered his lance and came straight at Gavin like a striking snake.
Before the three gladiators could react, Gavin moved.
He sidestepped, his own lance flashing out in a clean, vicious arc that knocked the man’s helmet clean off his head.
In the same motion he reversed the weapon and drove the butt end down with crushing force.
The attacker dropped without a sound.
The three gladiators roared and charged the rest of the team.
Gavin was already among them, lance thrusting, sweeping, and smashing with terrifying speed and power.
In seconds the entire opposing group was down—some groaning, most unconscious.
Nearby teams that had been watching froze, then backed away fast.
No one wanted to be next.
The melee turned into a roaring, bloody mess.
Steel rang, men screamed, and the ground quickly grew slick.
Gavin’s small group stepped back from the worst of the chaos, content to let the others bleed each other while they watched and waited.
The Hightower side didn’t attack.
Instead they locked into a tight defensive formation, supported by several allied teams on their flanks and rear.
The groups weren’t touching, but they covered one another’s backs well enough to discourage easy strikes from behind.
Four or five strong clusters had formed across the field.
The most dangerous of them flew a hunter banner.
That team had already crushed two others on its own and then pulled in two more allied groups, swelling to thirteen men.
No one had dared approach them yet.
Now they were less than thirty paces from Gavin’s position.
They didn’t hesitate.
The moment they spotted Gavin’s small group standing idle, they lowered their weapons and charged like they’d found fresh prey.
On the high stand Randyll Tarly watched with cold eyes.
His eldest son Samwell stood beside him, pale and shaking so hard his fat jiggled.
The boy looked ready to be sick.
“You useless lump,” Randyll snarled under his breath.
“Don’t bring that craven face here and shame the family name.” He turned away in disgust and put a heavy hand on his second son’s shoulder.
Dickon stood straight, eyes bright and fixed on the fighting, no fear in him at all.
Randyll’s voice dropped, serious.
“That hunter banner is ours, Dickon.
‘First in Battle.’ Remember it.
Tarly honor means we charge first, no matter the enemy.” He had already given up on Samwell.
At least he still had one son worth shaping.
Before he could say more, Dickon suddenly gasped.
Randyll’s head snapped back to the field.
Gavin’s tiny team of four had broken into a counter-charge, running straight into the thirteen-man hunter group.
The two sides slammed together in a crash of steel.
The silver-haired youth moved like a ghost.
His lance flickered left and right, stabbing and hooking, shattering the enemy formation in seconds.
Men stumbled, tried to close ranks, and failed.
Then the youth dropped the lance, drew his sword, and became something worse.
His blade moved like lightning through the press.
Every cut found flesh.
Blood sprayed in bright arcs.
The Tarly men fought hard, but against that speed and precision their swings looked clumsy and slow.
One after another they fell.
The survivors began backing up, eyes wide, courage breaking.
It was over in moments.
When the last man went down, Gavin stood in the middle of the carnage, armor streaked with blood, breathing steady.
He didn’t look tired.
He looked dangerous.
Around him the remaining fighters went quiet for a heartbeat, staring at the youth who had just dismantled one of the strongest groups on the field like it was nothing.
On the stand Randyll Tarly said nothing.
His hand was still on Dickon’s shoulder, but his eyes were locked on the silver-haired boy standing among the dead.
CaveLeather