A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1432 - 1432: Muddy Greatness - Part 1

"…I could not call it safe," Asabel said, when it was all done. "But I could not call it unnecessarily dangerous either. If this first round is anything to go by, I do not believe it to be any more dangerous than a normal rule set, given the swiftness with which the individual duels can now be settled."

"Indeed," Oliver said, relaxing ever so slightly. He had wondered if the decision would backfire, but if the first round was anything to go by, the created environment with those sorts of rules was just barely safe enough to keep most of their men alive. Or it was more like, because of the danger the rules created, there was an increased sense of caution, which then kept the combatants safer than they ought to have been.

Jorah gathered up the victors of the round – five of them being peasants – and presented them to the crowd. There were a good few cheers of excitement. It was hardly a storm of it – they hadn't yet been overwhelmed – but at the very least, they'd enjoyed it, and the nervousness that they'd all felt expecting to see a bloodbath had served to dissipate.

'Perhaps the bouts that follow now will be a calmer affair,' Oliver thought hopefully to himself.

The merchant stalls were already being hit hard by the tournament goers. A good many had gone before the bout had even concluded, looking in interest at the wares of the various gathered merchants – a great many of which were from Ernest, by order of Ferdinand – whilst the rest started to stream over now that the first bout had ended.

Twenty minutes it had taken to see the melee settled. If that time was set to be the average, then Oliver supposed the melees would be set to continue for a good while.

"My Queen," Lancelot said. "The Lords twitch to pay their respects to you. They've been throwing glances your way for the past half an hour."

"If that is the case, then I ought to take my leave," Oliver said, taking the hint.

"Very well, Ser Patrick," Asabel said. "I do hope that I'll see you again before the day is out, when we are both less busy. No doubt you have much that you need to attend to."

The goal of the first day, as far as Oliver was concerned, was to plough through as many of the different melees as they could, to try to cull the overwhelming number of competitors that they had. For the Battle tournament, there were barely a hundred gathered participants, and for the archery competition, there were a mere three hundred, both of which could easily be charged through in a matter of hours. For the melees, however, there were thousands that wanted to try their hand, despite the rule changes.

Up until midday, they plumbed through what they thought to be the weakest competitors. All the peasantry that had fought to stand there with the rest of them had been tested, and barely a third of their number survived to go on to the later competitions. As far as Oliver was concerned, with their lack of training, even that was impressive enough.

It wasn't as if the tournament proceeded without a hitch, though. The rules were obvious, but that didn't stop there being numerous complaints, both from the participants, and their allies that had gathered in the crowd to watch. Jorah handled the enforcement of these rules for a good couple of hours, before the exhaustion began to be written clearly on his face, and then Oliver put Yorick in his place, knowing full well that if Firyr was left to his own devices, he'd beat up half the tournament entrants himself.

There were disputes of other matters as well. Bets had been placed, and there were loud calls for people to pay up. They called upon Patrick and Blackwell soldiers to see justice enforced as the bailiffs.

One nobleman had rushed up to Oliver, practically demanding that justice be carried out for him. He'd even been bold enough to interrupt Oliver's conversation with Professor Yoreholder in the process, apparently not knowing who the woman was, given her more laid back state of dress compared to the other nobility.

"Ser Patrick!" Shouted the young man, his face flushed red from drink. "Justice! I do demand it! Coin won fair, with agreement and the shaking of hands – and now the refusal to pay up what is owed. The man of my bet made it to the final twenty, through no interference of mine. I would have justice enforced for the agreement that I put in place."

Oliver eyed him coldly.

"And who are you?"

"I am Tywin Gorne!" The man said, straightening up, as he announced himself with a hand on his chest.

"And you suppose I should order my men to act as your enforcers, Gorne?" Oliver said.

"Naturally. As a man upholding the law in the local area, you will do that, and more, I am sure," Gorne said.

Oliver glanced at Professor Yoreholder. She seemed no more sympathetic to the young man's plight than he was.

He felt his teeth clenching in his anger. "Do you remember how I introduced this tournament, Tywin Gorne? Do you remember whose memory you affect, when you walk upon this field?"

"Why, it be Dominus Patrick, naturally," Gorne said, quite pleased with himself for being able to answer the question, supposing it to be a result of his own cleverness.

"And you suppose then, that when I declared this to be a martial affair, I would have any care for the gambling that you have sullied the ground that you stand on with?" Oliver said, growling it. Ingolsol's intensity bore down on the man, and it was then that he seemed to realize the mistake that he had made.

"O-oh… Well… Well… I'd suppose… I'd suppose perhaps not," he said, sweating nervously.

"I will not forbid you from gambling," Oliver said. "No doubt you would do it anyway, even if I were to. But do not crawl to me when you have your money taken from you. The intention of this is martial. Do not be surprised when all except the martial is ignored."