The tourney grounds erupted the moment the knights entered.
Deafening cheers. Mixed with roasted meat, sour sweat, and cheap perfume from the women.
These smells steamed under the scorching sun. Formed King's Landing's unique fever.
The rules were traditional elimination brackets.
Lynn sat quietly in the Stark section.
His black plate armor clashed with the silk-clad nobles around him.
Arya sat beside him. Face flushed with excitement. Fists pumping.
Sansa looked uneasy.
She kept smoothing her blue gown. Stealing glances toward one side of the stands.
On the high platform, Robert Baratheon impatiently urged servants to pour him wine. His bulk sank into the wide chair.
"How long have I been sitting here?!"
"Hurry up! Start already!"
"I can't wait to see these tin cans smash into each other!"
His roar echoed across the platform. Drew good-natured laughter.
Eddard Stark sat beside him. No smile on his face.
His gray eyes full of weariness toward this decadent carnival.
Lynn stood. Walked behind Ned. Leaned down to whisper.
"Lord Eddard. I need a favor."
Ned turned. Eyes questioning.
"Find the biggest betting house in the city."
Lynn's voice was barely audible.
"Every coin you can spare. Bet it all on me."
Ned's pupils shrank.
All of it?
He knew Lynn had a plan. But this kind of gambling didn't fit Stark principles.
"Past tourneys had floating odds. Locked only before the finals. Shouldn't we wait and see?"
"This is too risky, Lynn."
"Higher risk. Higher reward."
Lynn looked at him. His gaze behind the visor deep and certain.
"This is part of the plan."
"We don't just need fame. We need money."
"I understand."
Ned hesitated no longer. Nodded firmly.
He looked at Lynn deeply. Then stood. Left the platform discreetly.
With Ned handled, Lynn descended. Walked straight toward the liveliest tent at the arena's edge.
The official betting house. Run by Master of Coin Petyr Baelish.
Gold dragons from all King's Landing flowed here like streams.
Lynn's appearance caused a small stir.
Black armor. Direwolf cloak. An aura that screamed don't mess with me.
The gamblers instinctively cleared a path.
The clerk looked up. Saw Lynn. A flash of contempt crossed his face.
"Well, well. Our Black Knight. Here to place a bet?"
Lynn ignored the mockery.
He dropped a heavy leather pouch on the table.
Clink.
The mouth opened. Gold dragons spilled out. Covered the entire surface.
Gasps all around.
At least a thousand dragons!
The clerk's eyes went wide.
"One thousand gold dragons here. I'll have another twenty-six hundred delivered shortly."
Lynn's voice was flat.
This was Robb and Mormont's investment. He'd barely spent any on the road.
"All of it on myself. Champion."
The tent fell silent.
Everyone stared at Lynn like he was insane.
The clerk stammered after a long pause.
"You... you're sure?"
"Sure."
"The starting odds... are fifty to one."
"Odds will fluctuate. Lock before the finals. Are you certain, my lord? Won't you reconsider?"
The clerk licked his dry lips.
Most people waited until the finals to bet. Watching. Few dared enter the pool now.
This meant if Lynn won—and if no one else bet on him so the odds stayed—they'd owe up to one hundred eighty thousand gold dragons.
This wasn't gambling anymore.
If Lynn actually won, this was robbery.
Lynn knew Littlefinger locked the finals odds because of that mare in heat. The man was so stingy he wouldn't risk even a copper.
But that was fine. He was just that confident.
He just needed to stabilize the odds.
The more pathetic he looked, the higher his odds would climb. Fewer people would bet on him.
When everyone bet on Jaime, the Mountain, the Knight of Flowers in the finals—when he'd shown weakness—that's when he'd harvest their wealth.
That's when he'd bare his fangs.
The Tyrells had done him a huge favor.
"Any problem?"
"No... no problem! Of course not!"
The massive bet quickly reached the high platform.
Petyr Baelish's hand paused mid-sip.
He looked at the black figure in the arena. His smile grew colder.
Fool.
A Northern fool.
Thinks saving the prince once makes him invincible?
Fifty-to-one starting odds. He'd set them himself.
Not just to humiliate this arrogant crow. But to scare off anyone who'd bet on Lynn.
Some gamblers had bet on Lynn for the payout. Dropped his odds slightly. But most were scared off.
The effect was perfect.
Petyr signaled a servant.
"Tell them. Take the bet."
He couldn't wait to see it.
When the Mountain's lance sent Lynn flying—what kind of despair would be on his face?
Just then, horns blared.
A royal herald rode to the arena center. Announced loudly:
"The Hand's Tourney! Jousting! First match!"
"From the Westerlands—the Mountain! Ser Gregor Clegane!"
"Versus—from the Vale! Ser Hugh of the Vale!"
"OHHHHH!"
The crowd roared.
The massive Gregor Clegane rode a black warhorse nearly as huge as him. Entered slowly.
His thick steel armor reflected terrifying cold light in the sun.
Just sitting there, he was an immovable mountain. Radiating suffocating pressure.
His opponent, Ser Hugh, looked frail by comparison.
He'd been Jon Arryn's squire.
Now he wore new armor. Face nervous and excited. Like he wanted to prove himself in this grand tourney.
On the high platform, Eddard Stark saw Ser Hugh. His brow furrowed.
He remembered this young man.
Always quiet around Jon Arryn.
And now he faced Westeros's most brutal beast.
"BEGIN!"
Robert couldn't wait.
He waved his hand. Drained his cup.
The two knights spurred their horses. Took positions at opposite ends.
"FOR THE KING!"
Ser Hugh shouted. Lowered his visor. Raised his lance.
The Mountain said nothing. Just spurred his horse. Began his charge.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Heavy hoofbeats like war drums. Pounding every heart.
Two figures. Like meteors. Closing fast on the track!
CRACK—
A massive impact!
Both lances hit shields at the same instant!
Ser Hugh's lance shattered.
The force made him sway in the saddle. Nearly fell.
The Mountain's form barely shifted.
His lance—solid oak—only cracked under the horrific impact.
The broken tip.
The jagged wooden shard. Carried by momentum. At a vicious angle.
Drove straight toward Ser Hugh!
THUNK—
A dull sound of piercing flesh.
Ser Hugh's helmet and visor couldn't stop it.
The broken lance drove through the gap in his visor. Punched out the back of his neck!
Blood sprayed.
Ser Hugh didn't even scream.
His body stiffened on the horse. Then fell like a sack of grain.
The crowd went silent.
The deafening cheers vanished.
Everyone stared at the twitching corpse. The pooling blood.
"AH!"
Sansa screamed. Face white. Hands over her mouth.
This wasn't the tourney she'd imagined!
This wasn't romantic knights dueling. This was butchery!
Robert's face darkened.
He stared at Gregor.
"Someone! Drag the body off! Next match!"
Servants scrambled into the arena. Carried Ser Hugh's corpse away. Covered the blood with sand and dirt.
Eddard Stark's face was black as thunder.
This was the "chivalry" southern nobles were so proud of.
Absurd. Cruel. Honorless.
Lynn's expression didn't change.
He just watched the mountain of a man calmly. Watched him toss aside the broken lance. Grab a new one.
He was analyzing. Calculating.
The Mountain's strength. Speed. Beast-like killing instinct.
Just then, the herald's voice rang out again.
His voice trembled slightly after the bloody scene.
"Next match!"
The herald's voice cracked with nerves.
"From the Twins! Ser Hosteen Frey the Bold!"
"Versus—"
The herald's eyes paused on the roster. Like he was confirming the unfamiliar name.
"From the Wall! The Nameless Black Knight!"
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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