Chapter 2 Hal #3
Hal’s lips twitched, threatening a smile.
“Ah.” He threw back the covers and stood quickly, stretching his back until it popped satisfactorily.
He was giving Perrin a view, he knew; he was amused by the way the squire’s eyes kept glancing at his taut, barrel-sized chest and hairy belly, and, oh, lower still—Perrin was feeling quite bold that morning, apparently.
Hal reached for his clothes and began to dress. “So that’s the first bracket?”
“The schedule was fixed,” Perrin said, dogged as always when he sensed injustice on Hal’s behalf. “You were to face Odenkirk first. An easy draw.”
One of the three victories he needed to satisfy Lady Isolde. “And now this.”
Going from a likely win to uncertainty stung.
Hal finished dressing and stepped into the weak sunlight, Perrin trailing behind. The tournament grounds were waking slowly, smoke rising from cook fires, voices calling across the trampled grass.
“He must have asked for you specifically, sir.”
Hal stopped walking. A cold spike of something—not quite anger, not quite fear—drove through his chest. “You really think so?”
“Why else change the brackets? Any gap would have served if he just wanted to compete.”
Hal resumed walking, faster now, his stride eating the distance to the lists where the day’s matchups were posted.
Around them, the encampment stirred with morning rituals: squires fetching water and running errands, knights emerging bleary-eyed from their tents.
The smell of porridge hung in the air alongside wood smoke and horse dung.
The tournament herald had nailed the parchment to a post near the main pavilion. A small crowd gathered, murmuring over the changes. Hal shouldered his way forward, ignoring the glances that followed him.
It took him some time to read it, but there it was, right at the top.
First Bout: Ser Halden the Upstart vs The Nameless Knight
“Who is he?” Hal demanded of no one in particular, though heads turned at his voice. “Has anyone seen him ride?”
“Got a good horse, I heard,” some anonymous voice declared behind him. “Thoroughbred.”
Thoroughbred. Probably the Nameless Knight was just as well-bred, too. Hal turned and shoved back through the crowd.
“Show me,” he commanded. Perrin was still trapped in the sea of bodies but ran out with purpose the moment he was free.
The squire darted ahead and led the way through the sprawl of tents and pavilions to where competitors were allotted space according to their standing.
The Nameless Knight’s area was near the edge, and he only had a modest tent.
A tent he didn’t even own, by the patches on it. He’d hired the tent from the scribe.
But beside it was the famed mare, dozing in the early light. And that anonymous voice had been right; she was exceptional. Her coat was gleaming, her size and shape were perfect, and Hal knew this wasn’t a beast you’d find in any common stable.
The armour laid out on a work cloth nearby was old and simple, but still had the shine of quality steel to it. Then the tent flap opened, and out the knight walked, and Hal’s whole body seized up at the sight.
Hal had the unfamiliar sensation of being caught off guard. Hal’s gaze raked over the stranger, jaw tightening with each detail. Tall, with the kind of lean muscle that suggested a natural build rather than Hal’s own hard-won strength.
He wore his long black hair pulled severely away from a face too perfectly sculpted.
High cheekbones pressed beneath sun-gilded skin; really, he seemed to glow beneath the morning rays.
When the man glanced up, amber eyes catching the light, something twisted in Hal’s gut.
His breath shortened. His skin went hot beneath his tunic.
This didn’t look like the sort of man who’d ever had calluses burst open mid-tilt. He looked too clean for this kind of life. For the reality of knighthood. Is that why Hal wanted so desperately to see that perfect face contorted in defeat?
Hal imagined the satisfaction of unseating him, watching that perfect body hit the dirt—then caught himself wondering how he’d look gripping a lance. How those large, strong hands might wrap around—
No. Hal looked away, then immediately back again.
The stranger smiled, and Hal’s mouth went dry with the sudden, violent urge to wipe that expression away with his fist. Or his mouth.
“Fuck him,” Hal muttered. “That’s a lord, for sure.”
And Hal couldn’t be blamed for his attraction to a lord. There was something god-like about a noble’s breeding. A proper noble, not like homely Lady Isolde.
But then the knight knelt beside his armour and began to tend it, methodically checking each strap and buckle.
“Doing his own work,” Hal murmured, grudging respect colouring his voice.
“Or he can’t keep a squire,” Perrin suggested.
“With that horse?” Hal laughed. “He’s rich.”
“Of course, ser. But maybe he’s a rich bastard.”
Perrin was smiling softly when Hal looked over.
He supposed the squire had a point—though he couldn’t say he treated Perrin with the utmost respect.
Hal was an indentured bastard, and he knew plenty of squires who’d prefer the lap of a rich bastard over his own.
Most squires bore far more than Hal’s loud frustration, though, and did it gladly.
Surely, if this knight wanted help, he’d have it.
“Ser,” Perrin ventured. He chewed on his words for a while. “Will he be trouble?”
Hal’s mouth twisted. Damn it, Perrin. He fixed the boy, or rather, young man, with a look. “Never let me hear you doubt me again.”
He turned away, mind already shifting to the bout ahead.
He pictured the impact, the line of the charge, the precise angle needed to unseat a rider cleanly.
His body understood these calculations better than his mind ever had.
Numbers and letters had always danced before his eyes, but the language of force and motion—that he spoke fluently.
“Ser!” Perrin chased after him in a run. “I don’t—I wasn’t—!”
But Hal was thinking of Ser Pretty with that bright smile.
“Eighteen months,” he said as they walked back to their own tent.
“Eighteen months since anyone’s unhorsed me.
He thinks he can beat me, Perrin, and it won’t happen.
I’m not letting some nameless bastard with a pretty horse and a pretty face end that streak. ”
“Of course not,” Perrin agreed. “It’s only, what if he’s good? I mean, he asked for you specifically, and—”
“Then he’s a fool.” Hal’s voice hardened. He stopped in front of the tent and turned to his wide-eyed squire. They still had an hour to prepare.
“One of the pauldrons needs adjusting after yesterday,” he said. “Check my saddle for the balance. And check the lances. His, too, if you can manage; I don’t want to be dealing with a nobleman’s tricks.”
Perrin nodded and ducked inside to complete the first of his tasks. Alone for a moment, Hal looked back across the camp in the direction of the Nameless Knight’s tent.
The Upstart against the Nameless.
There would be no competition. Hal had earned his place here with blood and broken bones. No one—named or nameless—would take that from him.