Gavin pulled in a long, steady breath, tasting blood and smoke on the back of his tongue.
He turned to the three men who had fought beside him.
They were still standing, but only just.
One clutched a ragged hole in his gut, fingers slick with red.
The other two bore long, ugly slashes across chest and thigh, blood already soaking their tunics dark.
They swayed but refused to drop.
Gavin swept his gaze across what was left of the field.
Fewer than a hundred fighters remained, scattered in loose knots.
The Hightower core still looked solid—tight shields, fresh enough to hold formation.
The rest had paid for every step.
He felt the truth of it in his own body.
The master-forged plate moved with him like a second skin.
His sword arm was light, sure, hungry.
The fight had burned some wind out of him, but the fire in his blood only burned hotter.
He could take any team left standing.
He jerked his chin toward the barriers.
“You’re done.
Get clear.” The three men hesitated, then nodded once and limped toward the nearest gap.
Gavin watched them go, then bent and hauled the banner lance from the dirt.
He walked forward alone.
Thirty paces from the Hightower line he stopped.
Both hands locked around the shaft.
He drove the butt end straight down into the packed earth until the banner snapped upright and stood on its own.
The crowd on the stands sucked in a collective breath.
“Seven hells—he didn’t even use the head.” The Hightower men went still.
Their easy confidence cracked.
Shields locked tighter.
Spears and swords came up.
Eyes narrowed behind visors.
On the high gallery the nobles leaned forward like hounds on a scent.
Some muttered he was mad.
Others grinned, already counting the odds.
A few simply watched, cold and calculating.
Ser Emond was on his feet, face red, shouting Gavin’s name and waving both arms.
The roar of the crowd swallowed every word.
Willas Tyrell watched from his wheeled chair, one corner of his mouth lifted.
“That sword work… stronger than I expected.
I wonder what else you’re hiding.” Margaery Tyrell turned toward her brother, eyes bright.
“Who is he, Willas?” “Gavin Flowers.
Met him at the feast.
Sharp with numbers and people.
I’ve been thinking of pulling him into Highgarden’s service.” She tilted her head, considering.
“He’s not a knight yet.
You could take him as a squire.” Willas shook his head.
“Fifteen.
Not of age.
And he’s a Cotoin bastard.” Margaery’s brow furrowed for a heartbeat.
Then understanding lit her face.
“Ah.” Willas glanced at her, amused.
“What did you work out?” She spoke softly, voice steady.
“House Cotoin has only two men left—Lord Horton and Ser Emond.
Emond’s wife Lillys has been married seven years and is finally with child.
That makes Gavin the only other male blood in the next generation, bastard or not.
If we move first to bring him here, it looks like we’re throwing our weight behind Emond’s pregnant wife.
Better to let them offer him.” Willas gave a slow nod.
“Clever.” Margaery’s smile turned sly.
“I have an idea.” Willas raised an eyebrow.
“Go on.” “On my naming day I can name him my sworn guardian knight.
Just an honorary title—no real power, no insult to Emond.
Then we have every excuse to keep him close afterward.” Willas laughed under his breath.
“You little schemer.
Run it past Grandmother first.” Margaery lifted her chin.
“I will.
The sword is real, but we should see how he handles actual responsibility before we decide anything.” Willas studied his sister, half proud, half wary of whatever she was already planning.
Back on the field the other teams had gone quiet.
Most had pulled back to watch.
A few still traded half-hearted blows, but every eye kept drifting toward the silver-haired youth and the tight Hightower knot facing him.
Gavin stood alone in the open ground, banner planted at his back.
He rolled his shoulders once, then his right hand closed around his sword hilt.
Steel whispered free.
The blade caught the sun, cold and bright, ready.
The Hightower line braced.
Gavin’s eyes went hard.
He started forward.