Even the wind carried a restless, sweet fragrance on the final day of the tourney on the Rose Fields.
As the morning light faded, the midday sun began to bake the white marble stands. The golden rose banners snapped loudly in the wind atop the main pavilion. An even larger crowd than the previous days squeezed onto the grassy slopes and stands, clutching oatcakes or cups of wine as their gazes drifted repeatedly toward the main box.
Daemon had not been seen since dawn.
Gael sat wrapped in her pale blue rose cloak, her fingers unconsciously twisting a silk handkerchief. Mysaria sat close beside her, the eyes beneath her platinum curls darting toward the entrance every so often.
Ser Martin Tyrell held his copy of History of Tourneys in the Reach, but he hadn't turned a page in quite a while. Lady Florence's emerald green dress swayed gently; clearly, she was also keeping an eye out for the absent dragon prince.
Duke Matthos Tyrell, on the other hand, seemed exceptionally excited. Today he wore an even more opulent gold and green brocade robe, pinned with an emerald the size of a pigeon's egg. His round belly strained against his belt until it looked ready to burst. He was boasting to Earl Redwyne beside him, "The joust on the final day is guaranteed to be a good show! My boy Garlan has been practicing his lance work for half a month; he's sure to take the top spot!"
He patted his eldest son on the shoulder. Garlan Tyrell wore silver-green armor, the golden rose sigil on his breastplate glinting in the light. He only nodded faintly, his gaze resting on the knights lining up in the field, his eyes hiding a trace of worry. He couldn't shake the feeling that today, the Rose Fields held an unusual tension.
The knights' armor was even more exquisite than in the previous days. Count Thaddeus Rowan's new green armor was engraved with ivy vines accented with turquoise. Alyn Redwyne's silver armor was similarly jeweled with the patterns of the Arbor. Mace Florent's red-gold armor was even studded with tiny rubies.
Only on the far edge stood a group of figures in gold and green armor that stuck out like a sore thumb—Matthos's illegitimate sons. The oldest wore a suit of silver armor with worn edges, the golden rose engraved on the breastplate looking crooked and crude. Among them, a short, stout bastard had a fresh bruise blooming around his left eye, clearly earned just today. He was shrinking into himself, his eyes darting nervously toward the arena entrance as if afraid of something.
"Let the joust begin!"
The trumpeter blew the brass horn. As the sound faded, cheers from the stands nearly lifted the roof. Yet, in the intervals between the knights charging at each other, the empty seat in the main box remained glaringly obvious. Daemon still hadn't appeared.
Just as the crowd began to murmur, the small gate on the west side of the tourney grounds suddenly creaked open.
A figure in simple black armor rode in slowly. The armor was covered in scratches, the edges were rusty, and the helmet was plain iron, completely obscuring the face.
The nag beneath him was skin and bones, its mane a tangled mess. Compared to the magnificent warhorses in the field, it looked like an old donkey dragged out from the corner of a stable.
This shabby appearance caused the murmurs in the stands to swell instantly. Matthos frowned. "Where did this pauper knight come from? Doesn't even have decent armor and dares to come to Highgarden's tourney grounds?"
But the moment the bastard with the bruised eye saw the black-armored figure, his face went deathly pale. His body began to shake uncontrollably, and he nearly dropped his lance. There was something about that figure's stance that looked exactly like the person who had beaten him this morning—
The Mystery Knight wasted no movements. He simply rode to the center of the field. The iron helmet turned toward the bruised bastard, and a voice muffled by the metal, dull as if wrapped in burlap, came out: "First round. You."
The bruised bastard was scared out of his wits. He wheeled his horse around to run, but the Mystery Knight was much faster. The black-armored figure leaned forward suddenly, his lance striking out like a snake leaving its hole. It precisely pierced the gap in the bastard's armor, the tip whistling through the air before slamming into the saddle and jerking upward violently!
Bang!
The bastard screamed as he was launched from his horse. His body traced a pathetic arc through the air before slamming heavily into the wooden barrier at the edge of the arena. The lance had gone straight through the wood, pinning him there! Blood trickled down the wall, soaking the golden rose wreath hanging there. The bastard grimaced in pain but couldn't move an inch.
The entire arena fell dead silent.
A second later, cheers and gasps erupted simultaneously. This brutal, almost arrogant entrance was practically a slap in the face to Matthos Tyrell in front of everyone!
The Reach lords on the stands had varying reactions. Count Florent's hand paused on his wine cup, but the corner of his mouth twitched into an imperceptible smile. Count Peake scoffed, his eyes full of schadenfreude. The young ladies of House Oakheart covered their mouths, but their eyes shone with excitement. Everyone knew Matthos's bastards ran wild in Highgarden and the Reach, robbing shops and bullying commoners. They had long since drawn public ire. Now that someone was venting that anger for them, how could they not feel secretly delighted?
"Insolence!" Matthos slammed the table and stood up, his round belly trembling with rage, the golden rose brooch nearly flying off. "Guards! Save my son! This madman dares to run wild in Highgarden? He must have a death wish!"
He completely disregarded the looks of those around him. Martin Tyrell's face was dark enough to drip water; he reached out to pull Matthos back but was shrugged off. Lady Florence covered half her face with her handkerchief, her eyes full of resignation. Earl Redwyne (Matthos's brother-in-law) coughed lightly, trying to smooth things over. "Brother-in-law, the tourney has rules. A mystery knight is allowed to hide their identity..."
But Matthos wasn't listening. He roared at the squires below, "What are you staring at? Get him!"
Three squires in green tunics immediately drew longswords and rushed into the arena, trying to pull the lance out of the pinned bastard. But the Mystery Knight moved faster. He vaulted off his nag, snatched the oak lance the bastard had dropped, and pointed the tip at the squires. The black armor glinted cold in the sunlight. "Take another step, and you'll be the next ones pinned to the wall."
The squires, terrified by the chill in his voice, backed away. But the black figure didn't stop. He turned to look at the other bastards in the field. They were clutching their weapons, eyes filled with hatred and fear, but none dared to move first. "All together, or one by one?" The Mystery Knight's voice was still muffled, but every word felt like an ice pick, chilling the heart.
A tall bastard gritted his teeth and charged with his lance. "You dare hurt my brother? I'll kill you!" But just as he got close, the Mystery Knight sidestepped, sweeping his lance around to smash heavily into the horse's legs. The warhorse reared in panic, throwing the tall bastard to the ground with a scream. Before he could scramble up, a lance tip was pressed against his throat.
"Who else?"
The remaining four bastards exchanged glances and actually charged together. But the Mystery Knight's lance work was astonishingly fast. Sometimes he deflected their lances, other times he used the shaft to smash their saddles. within three breaths, three bastards had been unhorsed. Two of them were pinned to the wooden walls in different directions, just like the first, while the last one lay on the ground clutching his leg and wailing.
The stands were in absolute uproar! Broken armor lay scattered on the grass, spooked horses ran wild, and groaning knights littered the ground. In the center stood the black-armored Mystery Knight, alone, his lance angled toward the ground, blood dripping from the tip onto the grass. The scene was both terrifying and awe-inspiring.
Matthos Tyrell's face was now as red as a boiled lobster, even his ears burning hot.
"I'm offering a bounty! Fifty gold dragons! No, a hundred!" Matthos suddenly shrieked, abandoning all noble dignity. "Whoever takes down this madman gets the gold and can marry any daughter of House Tyrell! Even as a mistress!"
The crowd went into an uproar at these words! Even Mysaria frowned, and Gael whispered, "How can the Duke say such things..." Martin Tyrell was shaking with anger, Lady Florence shook her head gently, and the Duchess glared furiously. Garlan Tyrell clenched his fists, his eyes full of shame. The Tyrell motto, "Growing Strong," was being trampled into the dirt by his own father.
Under such a heavy reward, brave men naturally appeared. A dozen or so knights in mismatched armor rushed out from the crowd. Most were obscure hedge knights or "gamblers," eyes fixed only on the gold and the Tyrell daughters, caring nothing for knightly honor.
But these men were utterly helpless before the Mystery Knight. Some were unhorsed the moment they entered the field; others fell without even touching their opponent's hem. In less than fifteen minutes, over a dozen more bodies littered the ground. The black armor was splattered with mud, making the figure look even more intimidating.
Finally, only the Mystery Knight remained in the center, facing a group of knights gathered on the east side—Corwyn Celtigar in silver armor speckled with grass, Rupert Crabb gripping his longsword, Lyn Corbray with his silver sword sheathed, along with Thaddeus Rowan, Lucas Tyrell, Alyn Redwyne, Mace Florent, and several other knights and lords of the Reach.
They looked at the Mystery Knight with the appreciation one warrior has for another, but also with hesitation. The opponent had fought battle after battle; his stamina must be drained. To challenge him now would feel like taking unfair advantage.
But the Mystery Knight didn't seem to care. He walked over to a brown horse abandoned by its owner. Though not as magnificent as Corwyn's white steed, it was sturdy enough. He mounted up, picked up a fresh oak lance, and turned toward the knights on the east side, clearly inviting them to continue.
This contest, however, was completely different from before.
Facing Alyn Redwyne, the Mystery Knight didn't rush to attack. Instead, he slowed down, using the shaft of his lance to gently correct Alyn's posture—drop the shoulder, steady the tip.
So when Alyn Redwyne was lightly unhorsed, he wasn't angry. Instead, he got up and bowed. "Thank you for the lesson!"
Against Count Thaddeus Rowan, the Mystery Knight deliberately reduced the force of his charge. In the end, he even reached out to steady the old Count before he could fall, as if to say, Your lance work is still sharp, my lord; this junior got lucky. Count Rowan laughed and nodded happily. "The young are to be feared, truly!"
The noble knights who were defeated voluntarily withdrew from the arena. The Mystery Knight didn't stop them. His movements were no longer brutal but revealed a rare elegance and gentleness, as if the madman who had pinned people to the wall earlier was a different person entirely.
The atmosphere on the stands gradually softened, but Matthos's face remained ugly. He stared at Garlan, his tone carrying an unquestionable command. "Garlan! You go! House Tyrell cannot lose face like this!"
Garlan frowned. He knew his father's demand was absurd, but the honor of House Tyrell truly couldn't take any more trampling.
He took a deep breath and mounted his horse. His silver-green armor shone in the sun as he pointed his lance at the Mystery Knight. "Please."
The two horses charged simultaneously. The sharp crack of lances colliding made eardrums vibrate.
Garlan's lance work carried the grace of a Reach knight, every move revealing well-trained stability.
But the Mystery Knight's skill was superior. Sometimes fast as lightning, sometimes steady as a mountain. Within three rounds, Garlan's wrist went numb, his lance completely suppressed by the opponent. In the next second, the Mystery Knight's lance tip was pressed against his neck.
Garlan didn't struggle. He just stared at the black armor, his voice filled with confusion. "Who exactly are you? Why target House Tyrell?"
The Mystery Knight was silent for a moment. A voice, familiar yet strange, low but clear, came from under the helmet. "You shouldn't have moved against me. In a sense, I fought for you."
This sentence froze Garlan in place.
Meanwhile, Lucas Tyrell—Matthos's nephew, the one who had been unhorsed by Daemon at the King's Landing tourney last year and mocked by the Reach for months—suddenly shuddered. The Mystery Knight's moves just now... that precise avoidance of the lance tip, the way he used the shaft to tap the saddle... it was exactly the same move Daemon Blackfyre had used to unhorse him last year!
"You are—you are Prince Daemon!"
Lucas was so excited he nearly shouted it out, but his words were cut off by the commotion in the field. The Mystery Knight slowly raised his hand and removed the iron helmet.
Gasps erupted from the entire arena. The men marveled at his identity, while the women swooned at his appearance. The Duke's bastards, meanwhile, looked ready to flee in terror.
The golden light of the setting sun spilled down. Silver-gold hair fell like molten metal, glowing with a soft yet blinding light.
Those violet eyes were deep as the night sky, captivating the soul. His handsome face bore no expression, yet it naturally carried the majesty of a true dragon.
The black three-headed dragon brand on Daemon's right shoulder seemed to warm in the sunset, as if calling out to something in the distance.
Garlan Tyrell's pupils contracted sharply. His mouth unconsciously formed the name: "Prince Daemon?"
At that very moment, a deafening dragon roar tore through the sky!
The Cannibal's black form swept over the Rose Fields like a dark cloud. His massive wings blocked out half the setting sun. His pitch-black pupils swept over the arena, and the white steam from his nostrils carried a scorching heat, making everyone hold their breath.
The black dragon circled above Daemon, roaring in fury, as if announcing the arrival of his master.
Dead silence filled the grounds, save for the echo of the Cannibal's roar across the Rose Fields. The golden sunset lit up Daemon's silver hair, making the dragon mark on his shoulder stand out clearly.
Garlan's grip on his lance unconsciously loosened.