The tent flap moved.
Perrin’s breath stopped. His fingers tightened on the leather until his knuckles ached.
Hal emerged into the morning light. The expression on his face was—different. Gone was the defeated fury he’d entered with, though the loss still clearly weighed on him. Neither was he triumphant, though something had happened inside that tent. His expression was tense and nervous, a kind of disturbance that went deeper than anger, deeper than humiliation.
He looked like. . .he’d understood something suddenly, and now didn’t know what to do with the knowledge. Or perhaps Perrin was seeing himself in that expression (for what was he to do about his feelings)?
Nothing at all, you fool.
Perrin tracked his knight’s movements across the grounds, noting he stalked not back toward their tent, but aimlessly. Hal held himself rigidly, appeared to walk with purpose, but his eyes were far away, and he walked without destination.
Perrin almost went to him, the instinct running bone deep. Hal was in distress; therefore, Perrin should offer comfort. Wasn’t that his very purpose?
But Hal had shaken him off, had made the line between them clear, and Perrin had to remember he wasn’t anything but Ser Halden the Upstart’s squire.
Perrin stayed where he was, half-hidden behind the merchant’s stall, and let himself feel all of it. The attraction—yes, to both of them, the knight with his sharp beauty and Hal with his blunt presence. The resentment—toward the Nameless Knight for winning, and ultimately for drawing Hal’s attention in a way that Perrin never had. Toward Hal himself, for not seeing,for never seeing, and for treating Perrin as furniture while chasing after a stranger who had humiliated him in front of everyone.
It was a tangled thing in his chest, the wanting and the anger, and Perrin put his head in his hands. These feelings weren’t compatible with his life and his duty. Perrin had to put them aside.
He looked up.
Across the grounds, Hal had reached the fence at the edge of the tournament grounds, his white-knuckled hands gripping the rail as he stared at nothing.
The Nameless Knight’s tent remained still.
There was work to be done. Perrin was a squire, and his knight had another bout before the afternoon.
Perrin put aside all his emotions and walked back to the tent.
6
ALARIC
The following morning, on the second last day of the tournament, Alaric’s opponent fell with disappointing ease. Pathetic. Alaric’s lance had struck with precision while the other knight’s had wobbled uselessly, the impact nothing more than a mosquito bite against Alaric’s shoulder. Nothing like the delicious shock of facing the Upstart. Even with the win, Alaric had earned nothing like the bone-deep satisfaction he’d felt unseating Halden.
The peasants cheered, but not loudly enough. They wanted blood and drama, not the efficient execution he'd delivered. Alaric couldn’t fault them. He'd proven he could win without his title, but where was the glory in crushing insects?
Only Halden had made his pulse quicken. Only Halden had forced him to actually try.
Alaric tossed Fiona’s reins to a waiting groom and strode from the field, already bored with today's victory and fixated on tomorrow's challenge. The tournament crown was practically his already—he'd outscored everyopponent despite his late entry. He should have been savouring his inevitable triumph, but the thought tasted stale. Meaningless.
He needed Halden.
The scribe was still hunched over his ledgers like a gargoyle when Alaric entered the registration pavilion. No need for pleasantries this time. Alaric extracted a leather pouch from his boot and dropped it onto the desk with a satisfying clink of silver, heavy enough to snap the man to attention.
“You again,” the scribe muttered, eyes widening at the purse. “Ser Nameless Knight. Your performance is most impressive.”
“Tomorrow's brackets,” Alaric said, cutting to the point. “I want them changed.”
The scribe blinked. “The brackets are set, ser. Final matches arranged.”
“And schedules are flexible, as we have well learned.” Alaric smiled the smile that had so often opened doors and legs across the kingdom. “I want Halden again.”
“The Upstart? He's matched with Ser Duncan of House Marlowe. A worthy challenger.”
Not worthy of licking my boots,Alaric thought.
“I'm certain he is,” he said smoothly. “But I defeated Halden through mere fortune, or so he claimed. I'd like the opportunity to prove his... mistake."
