Chapter 138: The Melee Tournament

The moonlight cast a gentle glow over the Blackwater River, flowing quietly like a ribbon of starlit silk. Fires flickered along the riverbank, filling the air with the aroma of roasted meats and spiced wine.

Samwell bade farewell to his "esteemed teacher" Petyr Baelish and found Margaery and Nathalie by one of the fires.

For the evening's casual gathering, the "Rose of Highgarden" dressed simply in a linen gown layered with a green woven shawl, her bare feet in sandals that showed her flawless, delicate skin. Beside her, Nathalie had chosen a bubble-sleeved dress, making her look sweet and charming.

"Our champion knight is here!" Margaery teased with a laugh.

"Sam, hurry up! The beef's ready!" Nathalie called, holding a huge roast but struggling to figure out how to take a bite.

Samwell chuckled, greeting everyone before taking the roast from Nathalie. He cut it into small pieces, coating them with butter and seasoning, while taking in the compliments and jokes from the Reach nobles.

Nathalie, crouched by his side and eagerly awaiting her next bite, flashed a sweet smile as she was fed.

Meanwhile, servants wandered between the fires, serving barley venison soup and fresh vegetable salad.

Margaery poured wine for the gathered Reach nobles, laughing as she watched the performance unfolding in the center of the crowd.

A jester tossed flaming torches high into the air. He could throw them—but catching them proved a different story, and the falling fire sent him scurrying, covering his head as he staggered and stumbled, causing the crowd to burst out in laughter.

Margaery told them the jester was the king's personal fool, known as "Moon Boy."

After fumbling with the torches, Moon Boy switched into another colorful outfit, parading through the crowd on stilts while making jokes and poking fun at the lords present.

As the "star of the day," Samwell was, of course, not spared. The fool mimicked his jousting style, only to charge headfirst into a tent, stumbling out shouting that he had won and was indeed the champion.

Samwell was far from offended by the joke, and it was clear that the fool, who even dared to tease the king and queen, was very much in favor at court.

Just then, a servant brought over garlic-cooked snails. Nathalie, having never tried such a dish, eyed it with both curiosity and caution.

Finally, Margaery guided her on how to scoop out the meat and coaxed her into taking the first bite.

With one taste, Nathalie was won over and happily dug in, but when she pried out a piece of snail meat, she held it up to Samwell.

"Sam, try it! It's delicious!"

Samwell took the morsel, patting her head in thanks.

Next came sweet bread, pigeon pies, and lemon cakes... Nathalie's stomach was full to the brim, and she could eat no more.

Just as she considered a walk by the river to digest, a loud voice cut through the air:

"Silence!"

Nathalie jumped, startled to see King Robert on his feet, swaying unsteadily, his face flushed.

In one hand, he clutched a wine goblet, clearly drunk beyond reason. He staggered, shouting, "Woman! Stop trying to tell me where to sit or stand! I am the king! I do as I please! Tomorrow, I will fight!"

Queen Cersei's face turned as white as a mask of carved snow. "You are the king, and you intend to lower yourself by fighting mercenaries? Do you have no sense of shame?"

"Shame?" Robert slammed his goblet onto the table, the impact echoing through the night. "How do you think I took this throne? Does my hammer only smash noble skulls? Servants, sellswords, peasants, farmers—anyone who stands in my way, I'll smash them to pieces!"

"You've disgraced the crown," Cersei said icily before turning and sweeping away in a fury.

Robert continued shouting after her, while Jaime Lannister, the "Kingslayer," stepped forward to place a calming hand on the king's shoulder.

Robert shook him off with such force that Jaime stumbled backward.

"Ha!" Robert laughed wildly. "See that? Some so-called White Knight! Even he eats dirt in front of me!"

Robert beat his chest with his fist. "As long as I have my hammer, no one will stand against me!"

Petyr Baelish stepped up, pressing another goblet into the king's hand. "Drink, Your Grace, drink."

Renly Baratheon and other nobles quickly moved in to soothe the king's temper, finally coaxing him back into his seat.

Samwell, observing all this, suddenly realized that King Robert truly intended to participate in tomorrow's melee tournament.

In this melee, the numerous fighters would compete individually in a bloody free-for-all, with only one victor standing at the end—a Westerosi version of a battle royale.

Unlike the jousting, which used blunted weapons, the melee involved real weapons, making it a brutal affair with broken limbs and even deaths all too common.

Few nobles would enter such a dangerous contest. It usually attracted only sellswords, squires, and other men of low rank hoping to win recognition from the kingdom's noble families.

For the king to enter was entirely inappropriate, but then again, only Robert could come up with such an outrageous plan.

After this spectacle, the mood at the banquet grew tense.

Following the queen's departure, other members of the royal family also took their leave.

Princess Myrcella, in a pink dress and her crown of flowers, came to bid Samwell a sweet and charming goodnight.

"Lord Samwell, thank you again for choosing me as your 'Queen of Love and Beauty.' Goodnight, my champion knight!"

"Goodnight, Princess."

After returning her bow, Samwell took Margaery and Nathalie back to the Red Keep.

---

The next morning, a thick mist hung in the air, as eager spectators filled the tournament grounds.

Near the Blackwater, a large, ornate tent stood with a massive war hammer and shield marked with the crowned stag of House Baratheon.

Inside, King Robert sipped wine while Lancel Lannister, his squire, struggled to help him into his armor.

"Sire, this armor... it's too small... it doesn't fit..." Lancel gasped, sweating profusely.

"Useless idiot! Is there no one worthwhile in your whole damned family?" Robert cursed. "I should never have listened to Cersei and taken you as a squire. You don't even know how to fit armor! Some squire!"

Lancel, glancing nervously at the king's bulging stomach, held back tears as Robert's scolding continued.

Finally, Robert hurled his wine goblet to the floor, shouting, "Get me some pliers to pry this breastplate open, fool!"

Lancel scrambled out of the tent, bumping into Queen Cersei on his way.

"Cousin, the king…"

"He's still insisting on fighting?"

"Yes."

Cersei's face hardened as she marched into the tent, and soon their heated argument could be heard across the camp.

When Samwell arrived at the spectators' stands with the two ladies, he caught bits of their bickering.

"Surely His Majesty won't truly participate?" Margaery laughed. "That would be absurd."

"Someone's bound to stop him…" Samwell murmured, frowning.

With the sound of drums, the melee tournament finally began.

Nearly fifty competitors had entered: squires, sellswords, common swordsmen, and, of course, none other than King Robert Baratheon himself.

"Come on, lads! Let's see what you're made of!" Robert shouted, laughing boldly.

The king wore a fine plate, though his massive stomach forced the breastplate to bulge, making him look even larger. In his hands, he held a terrifyingly large war hammer, and his helmet bore the Baratheon stag's antlers that glinted in the sun. Despite years of indulgence, his old warrior spirit shone through.

The competitors glanced uneasily at each other, none wanting to challenge their king.

Impatient, Robert rushed forward, aiming his hammer at Thoros of Myr.

The red-robed, bald-headed priest wielded a flaming sword, making him, aside from the king, the most striking figure on the field.

Evidently, Robert could not tolerate anyone stealing the spotlight. He laughed loudly, charging at Thoros with his hammer raised.

"Come on, Thoros! Let's see what you've got!"

Thoros, unwilling to clash directly with the king, dodged around Robert's hammer strikes, keeping his distance.

Once the others saw the king occupied, they began battling fiercely among themselves, forming alliances and then turning on each other in an effort to remain standing.

The scene quickly descended into a chaotic bloodbath, with fingers sliced, bones broken, and blood spilled. Thankfully, surrendering allowed fighters to withdraw, preventing any fatalities thus far.

"Coward! Thoros, you soft-bellied weakling!" Robert cursed as Thoros continued to evade him. Eventually, the king gave up the chase, charging into the thick of the melee instead.

Despite his years of overindulgence, Robert fought like a storm. His hammer shattered the shield of an unlucky sellsword with a single blow.

Laughing triumphantly, Robert swung his hammer wildly, scattering opponents who dared approach him.

Yet, as Robert's excitement grew, his overstrained breastplate suddenly popped open.

(End of Chapter)