King's Landing announced itself long before its walls did.
The smell came first.
Rotting fish, hot bread, horse dung, sweat, smoke—layered together into a thick, choking haze that sat heavy in the air. It was the scent of too many people crammed into too little space, of coin changing hands faster than it could be cleaned, of a city that ate constantly and was never full.
The noise followed close behind.
Shouts, laughter, curses, the clatter of hooves on stone, hawkers crying out prices, children darting through crowds like sparks from a fire. By the time the walls finally rose before us—massive, pale stone streaked with age and grime—it felt less like arriving somewhere new and more like stepping into the open mouth of a beast.
King's Landing.
Up close, the walls were even uglier than the stories. Tall, yes. Thick, yes. But poorly loved. Cracks spidered through old stonework. Repairs stood out like scars, mismatched blocks fitted wherever someone had decided "good enough" was good enough.
Wyllam slowed the wagon as the line thickened near the main gate. Merchants, travelers, sellswords, pilgrims—everyone pressed forward in uneven waves, checked and shouted at by men in gold cloaks and iron helms.
Gold Cloaks.
I straightened slightly, letting my posture settle into something neutral but confident. Not aggressive. Not meek.
Just capable.
"City watch'll ask questions," Wyllam muttered under his breath. "You answer short. Don't volunteer."
"Wasn't planning to," I replied.
The wagon rolled to a stop.
A Gold Cloak stepped forward, spear in hand, eyes already narrowed as they slid over the cart—and then stuck on me.
His gaze traced the lines of my armor, the sheer size of the greatsword strapped across my back, the lack of any shield or sigil. His jaw tightened.
"You," he said, jerking his chin toward me. "Name."
"Garen Storm."
The word Storm landed like a stone dropped into water—small splash, quick ripples. His expression shifted, just slightly. Less suspicion. More curiosity.
"Origin?"
"Stormlands."
"What business in the city?"
I didn't answer immediately. Just enough pause to suggest thought, not hesitation.
"Looking for work. Coin," I said. "Maybe the tourney."
That earned me a second look. Then a third.
"The melee?" he asked.
"If it's open."
He snorted. "It's open enough. Dangerous, too."
"So I've heard."
He circled the wagon once, boots crunching on gravel, eyes flicking to Wyllam, then back to me.
"No shield," he said. "Bold."
"Habit."
"Or foolish."
I met his gaze evenly. "Could be both."
For a moment, I thought he might push it further. Ask where I got the armor. Demand proof of who I was. Maybe even try to levy a "gate fee" heavier than necessary.
Instead, he spat to the side.
"City's full of fools lately," he said. "One more won't tip it over."
He waved us through.
The gate swallowed us whole.
Inside, the city closed around us instantly. Buildings leaned inward like they were conspiring. Upper floors nearly touched across narrow streets, laundry strung overhead like banners of surrender. The road shifted from packed dirt to uneven stone, jolting the wagon and rattling teeth.
I took it all in quietly.
This was not a heroic city.
This was a hungry one.
Wyllam guided the cart with practiced ease, calling warnings, cursing pedestrians, laughing when someone cursed back. He seemed to shrink into the city, blending in, while I stood out more with every step the wagon took.
People noticed.
Their eyes slid to me, lingered, then snapped away. Some with fear. Some with interest. A few with calculation.
Armor like mine didn't exist without a story behind it—and in King's Landing, people loved stories almost as much as they loved tearing them apart.
We passed a square where a small crowd had gathered. A man stood on a crate, hammering parchment to a post while shouting himself hoarse.
"—by decree of His Grace! Tourney to be held in honor of King Robert's four-and-thirtieth name day! Jousts, melees, archery! Purse to be announced!"
I felt it then—a tightening in my chest, a familiar, almost electric focus.
This was it.
A sanctioned place to fight.
A place where killing wasn't the goal—but breaking men was.
Wyllam followed my gaze and grinned. "That's your chance, Storm."
"Looks like it," I said.
He guided the wagon toward a wider street and finally reined in near a cluster of inns and stables.
"This is as far as I go," he said, hopping down. "Got deliveries to make."
I climbed down after him, the cobbles solid beneath my boots. My armor drew stares immediately, but I ignored them.
Wyllam hesitated, then reached into his pouch and tossed me a small loaf of bread.
"For the road," he said. "Or the ring."
I caught it easily. "Appreciated."
He paused, studying me one last time.
"Word of advice," he said. "King's Landing eats men who think strength's enough."
I met his eyes. "Then it'll choke on me."
He laughed—loud and genuine—and clapped me once on the shoulder before turning away.
I was alone.
The city pressed closer, louder, more alive. Somewhere far above, the Red Keep loomed, unseen but ever-present, like a crown digging into the skull of the city.
I exhaled slowly and let the system surface again.
[OBJECTIVE UPDATED] Register for the King's Name Day Melee
• Secure lodging
• Avoid unnecessary attention
"Too late for that last one," I muttered.
I followed the crowd toward the square, where the notice had already drawn a cluster of men—knights in polished mail, sellswords with battered gear, boys pretending not to be afraid.
As I stepped closer, the murmurs began.
"Big one."
"Gods, look at that sword."
"No shield—mad bastard."
"Stormlander, maybe?"
I ignored them all.
A clerk sat at a rough table beneath the notice, quill in hand, looking bored and overwhelmed.
"Name?" he asked without looking up.
"Garen Storm."
That got his attention.
He looked up slowly, eyes traveling up, up, up—armor, chest, shoulders, sword.
"…Right," he said, clearing his throat. "Background?"
"Sellsword."
"Knighted?"
"No."
He hesitated. "That's fine. Melee's open. Entry fee's one silver."
I reached into my pouch and placed the coin on the table.
He scribbled my name down.
And somewhere in the crowd, I felt it.
A gaze.
Not curious. Not fearful.
Assessing.
I glanced sideways and caught sight of a man leaning against a post—tall, lean, wearing mail that had seen better days. His eyes were sharp, calculating, already measuring angles and distance.
He met my gaze and smiled.
Not friendly.
Not nervous.
Interested.
Good.
I turned back to the clerk as the system pulsed softly behind my eyes.
[REPUTATION: KING'S LANDING] Unknown — But Not Unnoticed
I tightened my grip on the sword strap across my shoulder and stepped back into the crowd.
The city roared around me.
The game had begun.