The two men faced each other again across the sand.
Ten paces separated them. Sunlight poured down from above, casting their shadows long and sharp across the fine white sand. One broad and solid, the other tall and straight-backed.
The stands had gone completely silent. Every spectator leaned forward, holding their breath as they waited for what came next.
Gendry gripped the hammer haft with both hands and settled into the same stance he had used before.
But the old knight noticed the difference. Gendry's center of gravity was lower now. His feet were set wider apart. Those earlier humiliating dodges and the fall seemed to have burned something into the young man's body.
"Interesting…" the old knight murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly as he tightened his grip on the hand-and-a-half sword.
The blade sat between a longsword and a greatsword in size. It could thrust with one hand or be swung two-handed like a heavier weapon. It worked with or without a shield. For the old knight, it was the perfect sword.
The Mormonts' famous Valyrian steel blade Longclaw was the same type.
"Here I come!"
Just like before, Gendry gave fair warning in that loud, honest voice of his, then charged. The warhammer came whistling straight at the old knight's chest.
No fancy techniques. Just a blacksmith hammering hot iron. Simple. Direct.
The old knight sidestepped and swung his sword at the hammer haft—the same move he had used several times already.
This time, Gendry changed the hammer's path in mid-swing.
The head seemed to have a mind of its own. What should have been a horizontal sweep suddenly became an upward diagonal strike, arcing around the incoming sword…
CLANG!!!
The hammer smashed squarely into the blade.
The sound wasn't normal steel-on-steel. It was deeper, like a hammer striking a great bronze gong. The entire Ring of Order seemed to vibrate with it.
The old knight's sword was driven backward. The force traveled up the blade, through his arms and shoulders, and into his whole body. His feet skidded across the sand. He stumbled, almost falling backward.
Gasps and shouts erupted from the stands.
But at the last moment the old knight planted his heel, braced his back, and forced himself upright. His chest rose and fell. The hem of his cloak fluttered in the wind he had created.
"This boy…" he thought, clear blue eyes flashing with genuine surprise. "His strength really is ridiculous."
That single blow had nearly put him on his ass.
The old knight looked up at Gendry.
Their eyes met for a heartbeat.
"This time," Gendry's voice came out muffled through the helm, carrying raw, unhidden pride, "I was only watching your sword!"
The old knight blinked. Then he smiled.
"Smart."
His tone was mild, but something burned in those blue eyes—the old, familiar excitement that only came on a real battlefield.
Hearing the approval, Gendry grinned wide, the same bright, happy grin he used to wear when he first forged a proper longsword under his master's guidance back in Flea Bottom.
He didn't get to enjoy it for long.
Without warning, the old knight stepped in hard, both hands on the sword, and attacked.
The blade came up from below in a sharp, rising cut aimed at Gendry's ribs—right where the armor was weakest.
Gendry swung the hammer to block on instinct.
CLANG!!!
Another heavy impact. Sparks flew.
This time the old knight didn't give ground. His sword held firm against the hammer. Steel ground against steel with an ugly screech. Two very different kinds of strength met head-on.
Gendry's eyes went wide.
"Impossible!" The word burst out of him, shocked and disbelieving.
His greatest advantage—raw power—had just been stopped cold by an old man with gray hair. Head-on. No tricks.
"Don't let the white hair fool you," the old knight said calmly, a trace of amusement in his voice. There was no mockery in it, only straightforward honesty. "I may be over sixty, but I can still match you young ones for strength."
He twisted his wrist. The blade slid along the haft and forced Gendry back.
The old knight didn't press the advantage right away. Instead, like Gendry had done earlier, he gave fair warning in a loud, clear voice.
"You'd better pay attention now, boy."
"Because from here on out, this is a real fight."
He stepped forward. The sword drew a bright silver arc through the air and came down hard.
CLANG!!!
Gendry blocked, but the impact jolted up his arms and stung his palms. Before he could reset, the next strike was already coming.
CLANG!!!
Another heavy blow from the side. Gendry barely got the haft in the way and was driven back a step.
Then came the third. The fourth.
The old knight's sword grew faster and heavier with every exchange. That plain hand-and-a-half sword moved like he had seven blades at once, coming from every angle. Each strike forced Gendry to give ground.
The stands erupted.
"How is this possible?!"
"The Hammer's getting pushed back! A nine-tier fighter is pushing back the Hammer!"
"Seven hells, I must be dreaming!"
Gendry kept retreating until his back was nearly at the edge of the sand. His arms were shaking. Every time the old knight's sword hit the hammer haft it sent fresh pain through his hands. Blood ran down his fingers and dripped onto the sand.
The same iron strength he had used to bully every opponent for seventeen straight fights was now being turned against him.
His breathing was ragged. Sweat stung his eyes. The hammer haft was slick with blood and sweat. He could barely keep his grip.
The old knight, by contrast, was still breathing evenly. His movements remained clean and controlled. He even had enough breath left to speak.
"What's wrong?" he called out, almost conversational. "Already done?"
"You said you could swing that thing all day."
Gendry just clenched his teeth and kept fighting. His mind had gone blank except for one thought.
Don't go down. Don't you dare go down.
But his body was failing him.
His muscles burned. For the first time, the strength he had always relied on felt completely useless against this ordinary-looking old man.
"Ahhhhh!!!"
Gendry roared and threw everything he had left into one final, desperate swing. "Again!"
CLANG!!!
The old knight gave ground half a step and caught the blow on his sword. The sheer force of it made even him respect how strong this boy really was. If his technique and timing weren't superior, he would have been in serious trouble.
That kind of power reminded him of another man he once knew—a brother in white who could swing a greatsword one-handed like it weighed nothing.
Youth really was something.
He remembered when his own strength had been just as overwhelming. Pity he never had a sword as good as that man's.
Still…
This was far enough.
"Hah!"
The old knight braced, shoved the hammer aside, and left Gendry wide open. Then he drove a hard front kick straight into the younger man's chest.
Thud!
"Ghh—!"
Gendry dropped to his knees with a choked sound. The hammer slipped from his hands and hit the sand. He stayed there on all fours, chest heaving, blood and sweat dripping from his fingers.
Seventeen straight wins.
Over.
For a few seconds the stands were silent.
Then the applause started. It grew and grew until it became a roaring wave. People stood up, clapping with genuine respect for the gray-cloaked old knight.
They didn't know who he was.
But they knew they had just watched something extraordinary.
An ordinary nine-tier fighter had beaten a one-tier champion in a straight fight.
Something that had never happened in the Ring of Order before.
Gendry knelt in the sand, listening to the applause that felt like it was happening somewhere far away.
He had lost.
Truly lost.
Not a close fight. Not "almost won." He had been completely dominated.
From the very first swing, he had never really touched the old man.
He looked down at the hammer lying beside him.
The head was still dusted with sand from his earlier misses. The haft now carried more than a dozen fresh cuts from the old knight's sword—some shallow, some deep.
Gendry suddenly remembered what he had shouted earlier.
"I can swing this thing all day and never get tired!"
How stupid that sounded now.
He closed his eyes. Something thick and heavy sat in his throat.
This was the first time he had ever truly tasted defeat. And he had done it in front of thousands.
Still not good enough, he thought.
Seventeen wins had made him believe he was strong. He had even started thinking that, aside from Corleone, no one in this arena could beat him.
Now he understood.
The reason those other fighters had lost to him wasn't because he was that good.
It was because they were that weak.
Thud.
Gendry let himself fall backward onto the sand. The impact was dull and final.
He stared up at the sky. The afternoon sun stung his eyes, but he didn't close them.
Footsteps approached across the sand.
A shadow fell over his face.
The old knight stood above him, looking down. The hood still hid most of his features, but Gendry could see the neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and the faint curve of a smile.
The old knight extended his right hand.
"Going to quit after one loss, boy?"
Gendry didn't answer right away. After a few seconds of silence he slowly reached to his belt and pulled something out.
It was a wooden token. One side was carved with the word "One-Tier." The other side carried his number.
Every fighter in the Ring carried one of these. Only a handful of one-tier tokens existed in all of King's Landing.
This one he had earned with blood and sweat.
"You won," Gendry said quietly, holding the token up toward the old knight. "It's yours now."
That was the rule.
When a lower-ranked fighter defeated a higher-ranked one, the higher rank's token went to the winner.
The old knight looked at the token in Gendry's hand for a moment. Then he realized the boy had misunderstood what he meant by the earlier comment.
He didn't explain. He simply pulled his hand back and shook his head.
"I'm long past the age where I need pieces of wood to prove anything."
He said it without pride or false modesty. Just the quiet certainty of a man who had lived long enough to stop caring about such things.
Like an old tree that no longer bothered with the vines growing at its roots.
Without another word, he slid his sword back into its sheath and turned toward the exit tunnel. He didn't spare another glance at the stunned Gendry.
The sound of his footsteps faded.
Gendry turned his head slightly, looking at the hammer beside him, then at the old knight's retreating back.
Sunlight caught the broad shoulders and turned the edge of the gray cloak gold. It swayed gently in the breeze like a faded banner.
"Pick the hammer up when you drop it."
"Next time you fight, just keep fighting."
The old knight stopped at the mouth of the tunnel without turning around. There was a trace of amusement in his voice, as if remembering something from long ago.
"The first time I entered a tourney, I looked even more pathetic than you do right now, boy."
Gendry pushed himself up on one elbow.
"You… you didn't come here just to challenge me and take the one-tier rank for money and fame?"
The old knight paused. He turned his head just enough for Gendry to see the line of his jaw under the hood.
"I only came to find one person."
"But someone told me the only way I'd be allowed to see him was if I defeated a one-tier fighter first. So here I am."
Gendry's mind went blank for a second.
Find someone?
This old man had registered as a fighter, spent two hundred gold dragons to challenge him, and beaten him into the dirt… just to find one person?
"Who—"
Before Gendry could finish, the old knight stepped into the dark mouth of the tunnel and disappeared.
The fighter tunnel was cool and smelled of rust and old sweat.
The old knight walked at an unhurried pace, as if the darkness didn't bother him at all.
Footsteps came hurrying up behind him.
He didn't turn, but he slowed his stride slightly.
"You actually did it?"
The voice beside him was full of shock.
The old knight glanced over.
A lean, sharp-featured man was staring at him like he had just watched a horse give birth to a dragon.
The man wore expensive brown leather armor trimmed with gold thread at the collar and cuffs. A longsword with a large ruby set into the pommel hung at his hip.
Everything about him screamed I have money and I don't know how to spend it properly.
Right now his face was pure disbelief.
"You beat the fucking Hammer. There's no way you're some nobody. Who the hell are you?"
The old knight didn't answer the question. He simply rested his hand on his sword hilt and spoke in the same calm tone he had used all afternoon.
"Who I am doesn't matter."
"What matters is that you keep your end of the bargain, Lord Bronn."
"Take me to Vito Corleone."