“You’re taking too long,” Hal said, though Perrin hadn’tbeen slow at all. He just enjoyed the way Perrin’s whole body reacted to a light scolding; Perrin leapt to attention and sped over.
When his squire’s hands finally pressed into the meat of his shoulders, Hal groaned, loud and shameless. This kind of contact used to make him flinch, the sudden intrusion of another person’s heat against his skin. But Perrin was, in many ways, an extension of himself now, so the squire’s touch felt expected. Wanted, even. It helped, Hal supposed, that Perrin knew what he was doing—the man’s hands were probably the only strong thing about him.
The squire’s thumbs dug into the knots where tension gathered, and Hal’s breath hissed through his teeth.
“Too hard, sir?” Perrin asked, voice tight with concentration.
“Harder,” Hal commanded, flashing a grin over his shoulder. “I’m not some delicate lordling who’ll break. Put your back into it.”
He wanted it to hurt before it helped. Wanted the pain to peak and break like a fever so he could sleep tonight without his body reminding him of all he’d demanded from it.
Perrin’s touch altered, pressure increasing until Hal’s eyes watered. Perfect. He leaned into it, making a show of his satisfaction. Let the boy know his worth. Not that Hal would admit needing anyone, but if he did — well, those hands were worth their weight in tournament gold.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he muttered, not caring how it sounded. “Keep that up, and I might just let you have tomorrow off.”
Perrin suppressed a breathy laugh. “You don’t mean that, sir.”
“No,” Hal chuckled, “I don’t.”
Hal breathed through Perrin’s touch, focusing on the feeling of tissue yielding, the slow surrender of muscle that had been rigid all day. Eighteen months without defeat. Eighteen months of proving everyone wrong.
The thought swelled his chest with pride.
He remembered those first tournaments, how they’d laughed at his borrowed armour and common speech. But he’d shut them up, one by one, as lances splintered against shields and bodies tumbled into dust. The Upstart had a good first season, they’d conceded. The Upstart wouldn’t last.
The Upstart was just lucky.
Well, luck didn’t last eighteen fucking months. Skill did. Strength did.Haldid.
And now everyone said that title—which had been given to him as a mocking jab—with a little more respect. Ser Halden the Upstart was a knight worth remembering.
“Who’d I just beat?” Hal snorted, realising he’d already forgotten his last opponent’s name and heraldry. They’d begun to blur together, all those polished young men with their expensive training and their shock when they found themselves unseated. “Had the fancy gold trim on the saddle.”
“House Pidon. Third son.” Perrin’s fingers found another knot beneath Hal’s skin. “Lord Merrin’s nephew.”
“Nephew to a lord and still rides with his elbow out like a tavern drunk.” Hal laughed, the sound sharp with satisfaction. All that fancy training, and for what? “Like he’d never held a lance in his life. Practically asking to get knocked on his ass.”
Perrin hummed in agreement, his hands moving now to the tightness in Hal’s neck. “His balance was wrong from the start.”
Hal slumped forward at Perrin’s touch. Gods, this was bliss, even with all the angry muscle sending jabs of pain back into his skull. Almost too late, he realised Perrin had said something. . .well, smart. “You noticed his balance.”
It wasn’t a question, but Perrin answered anyway. “I notice everything.”
And he did. Maybe Perrin hadn’t known the first thing about jousting when he’d started, but for two years now, he’d watched the circuit with those quiet eyes of his, and listened, and put things together in a way Hal could only dream of. His squire was bloody smart. He was the reason Hal had known which knights to challenge first in early tournaments with rolling lists, and which to avoid until he had more wins under his belt. More recently, Perrin was the one coming to Hal with all the gossip from other squires, so Hal knew who was injured and where, and who was a little unfit for the season and might easily fall off his horse three days into the competition. Perrin didn’t just maintain Hal’s equipment: he maintained his reputation, his strategy, hisedge.
He was, in a way, the Upstart knight, too. But Hal would never tell him. Not on his life.
A sharp whistle at the tent’s entrance made Perrin’s hands jerk back from Hal’s skin.
“Keep going,” Hal ordered, catching Perrin’s wrist before he could retreat completely. “My shoulders are still fucked.”
Perrin hesitated—a sweet gasp of shock, a stiffening at Hal’s fingers around his wrist—then resumed his work as Hal called out, “Enter.”
The tent flap parted to reveal Lady Isolde Kerran, Hal’s sponsor, and his good mood suffered a bit.
Here we bloody go.
His lady ducked inside, cheeks red from the walk and hands fussing as if she’d run the lists herself, her plain brown braid slipping loose over one shoulder. Her eyes were too bright, a strange blue that felt almost repellent to stare into, and they were set in a face that would never have turned a head if not for the name attached to it. Hal figured that was an alright thing to think, given he wasn’t a pretty face himself. And Lady Isolde was, at best, very annoying to listen to.
