The first real blow landed less than ten heartbeats after the horn.
It wasn't meant for me.
A man to my left—too young, armor hanging loose—caught a sword across the forearm as he raised it late. The sound was wrong, wet and final in a way cheers never were. He screamed and went down, clutching at a wound that bled far too freely. Men surged around him without slowing, boots trampling dirt and blood into a slick, treacherous paste.
That was the moment the crowd understood.
This wasn't a game.
The pit contracted violently as fighters pressed inward, space vanishing under sheer momentum. Shouts became grunts, then snarls. Steel rang out in sharp, overlapping notes that scraped along the nerves. Dust rose, mixing with sweat and iron until the air tasted metallic.
I stepped forward and claimed a pocket of ground.
Not by force at first—by presence.
The greatsword came up into guard, not swinging, just there, its reach an unspoken promise. Men angled away without quite realizing why. A few tested it anyway.
The first charged straight in, shield raised, blade tucked behind it. I let him close—too close—then shifted my weight and brought the flat of my sword down diagonally across his helm. The impact rang like a bell struck by a hammer. He collapsed bonelessly, shield skidding from numb fingers.
I didn't watch him fall.
The second came from the right, faster, smarter, blade darting for the gaps in my armor. I stepped inside his reach, caught his wrist, and drove my shoulder into his chest. He flew backward into another man, both of them crashing to the dirt in a tangle of limbs and curses.
The third hesitated.
That hesitation was his mistake.
I kicked his knee sideways and sent him sprawling without ever swinging the blade.
Three down.
None dead.
The pit seethed around me, violence folding in on itself. To my right, the Lannisport brother I hadn't disarmed earlier went down screaming, thigh opened by a desperate slash. To my left, two hedge knights locked shields and blades until one slipped in the blood and the other buried steel into his side. The crowd roared at that—some cheering, some recoiling, all of them hungry.
I felt it then.
The line.
The invisible boundary between restraint and inevitability.
I kept my movements economical, conserving energy, letting the sword do the talking without letting it finish conversations. Disarms. Knockdowns. Blows with the flat, aimed to rattle, to end fights without ending lives.
But live steel had a way of escalating things whether you wanted it to or not.
A man with a spear tried to rush me through the press, tip darting low and fast. I batted it aside and broke the shaft with a single downward chop—not clean, but decisive. He stumbled back, eyes wide, weapon ruined.
Another lunged from behind, timing his strike with someone else's distraction. I turned just enough that the blade scraped sparks off my pauldron instead of slipping between plates. My answer was reflexive—a backhand strike that sent him spinning to the ground, blood pouring from a split scalp.
I could hear my breathing now. Slow. Controlled.
Too controlled, maybe.
Because others noticed.
The Reach knight shifted his position, no longer angling away. His eyes tracked me carefully, not with fear but with calculation. He was waiting for an opening—or for someone else to force one.
The river knight was closer now, blade up, posture loose but coiled. He hadn't committed to any major exchange yet. He was conserving himself, watching how the pit moved around me like water around a stone.
Smart.
Then the fools reached me.
Three of them at once, bolstered by numbers and desperation. Their armor was mismatched, their grips wrong, their eyes wild. One shouted something incoherent and charged.
I couldn't disarm all three.
I stepped forward instead.
The sword came around in a wide arc—not fast, not furious—just heavy. The flat smashed into the first man's chest and sent him flying backward into the second. The third tried to cut at my exposed flank and caught my vambrace instead; I answered with a thrust that stopped an inch short of his throat and drove him to his knees.
"Yield," I said, voice steady.
He dropped his sword instantly.
Around us, the pit had thinned dramatically. Bodies lay scattered, some groaning, some blessedly quiet. Blood painted the dirt in dark streaks and pools. The crowd's roar had changed pitch—less chaotic now, more focused.
They were watching me.
That was dangerous.
Attention in King's Landing always was.
The Reach knight chose his moment then, closing the distance with a disciplined advance. His mace swung in a tight arc meant to crush, not cut. I caught it on my blade and felt the jolt run up my arms, armor absorbing the worst of it. He pressed, strong and relentless, driving me back a step.
Good form. Good timing.
I gave him ground deliberately, then shifted sideways and knocked his mace wide. My counterstroke cracked against his shoulder, not enough to break plate, but enough to stagger him.
He recovered quickly.
We circled.
The river knight moved too, flanking without committing, eyes flicking between me and the Reach man. Others hovered at the edges, unsure whether to press their luck or wait for an opening that might never come.
This was the danger point.
Restraint had thinned the field, but it had also concentrated what remained.
I felt the pressure building again—not panic, not fear—familiarity. The sense that my body recognized this configuration, this convergence of threats and angles, as something it had solved before.
I took another step back and nearly slipped.
Blood-slick earth betrayed me, just a fraction, but enough.
The Reach knight lunged, mace swinging toward my head with full commitment.
I caught it—barely—steel ringing, arms straining under the impact. The river knight saw his chance and surged in from the side, blade flashing.
For the first time, restraint wasn't enough.
I twisted, letting the river knight's blade scrape along my armor instead of biting deep, and shoved the Reach knight away with brute force. Space collapsed around me as others sensed weakness and rushed in.
Too many.
Too close.
The pressure inside me snapped into place like a gear engaging.
My stance widened.
My grip shifted.
The world narrowed to motion and balance and the clean geometry of violence.
I turned.
Not yet fully.
Just enough to feel it.
The sword swept out in a broad, warning arc that forced men back, steel singing as it cut the air. The Reach knight stumbled, barely avoiding the edge. The river knight halted mid-step, eyes widening as he realized what was about to happen.
The crowd gasped.
I felt the rotation settle into my hips, into my shoulders, into the very center of my being. The greatsword felt lighter than it had any right to, momentum building, begging to be released.
This was the line.
Cross it, and the pit would empty fast.
Cross it, and men would fall whether I wanted them to or not.
I completed the turn.
The first full spin began, steel carving a perfect, terrifying circle through the chaos—
—and the chapter of restraint ended.