Euron's first jousting match finally arrived.
His opponent was Ser Jon Redfort, son of the Lord of Redfort. Euron did not slight him in the least because of his lesser fame. Controlling the restless Faruru, he rode slowly to the base of the stands. Under the gaze of everyone, he extended his tourney lance toward his fiancée, Ashara Dayne.
A bright smile bloomed on Ashara's face. She stood up gracefully and carefully tied a sky-blue ribbon—symbolizing blessing and good luck—around Euron's lance shaft.
This traditional ceremony drew a wave of well-meaning whispers and admiration from the stands.
Ceremony complete, the two riders met in the center of the field. The tips of their lances touched lightly in a courteous gesture, making a crisp sound. Then, both sides turned their horses, trotted back to the ends of the field, opened up the distance, and prepared to charge.
The horn tore through the air!
Faruru shot out like an arrow from a bow. The powerful burst of speed even pushed Euron back into his saddle. Opposite him, Ser Jon Redfort also spurred his horse into a wild gallop.
In the flash of lightning as the two horses crossed, Euron's eyes were sharp. He precisely caught the momentary opening exposed when his opponent raised his shield. His waist and abdomen exerted force suddenly. The lance struck out like a venomous snake leaving its hole, carrying the strength of his entire body in a fierce blow!
"BANG!"
A heavy, muffled thud!
A precise and ferocious strike landed solidly on Ser Jon's breastplate. The massive impact caused him to lose balance instantly. Like a thrown sack, he flew backward off his horse, crashing heavily into the dust.
First battle: Euron Greyjoy declared victory with a perfect, decisive strike.
Euron reined in his warhorse, dismounted nimbly, walked to the defeated Ser Jon Redfort, and reached out to pull him up from the dust, displaying proper chivalry. Then, he looked up at the stands, casting a reassuring smile at Ashara, who had been clutching her chest nervously but now finally breathed a sigh of relief.
The cheers boiling from the circular stands swept down like a tsunami, celebrating the birth of the final victor.
Amidst that thunderous applause, one figure stood out particularly—Brienne of Tarth. She almost stood up from her stone bench, clapping forcefully and selflessly. Unconcealed adoration and excitement flashed in her clear blue eyes. She was oblivious to her broad palms turning red from clapping, as if she were the one who had won glory on the field.
Beside her, her father, Lord Selwyn Tarth of Tarth, was out of tune with the surrounding fanaticism. He didn't look at the arena but turned his head to gaze at his daughter's simple and fervent profile. His brows knitted tightly together, finally turning into a heavy sigh almost inaudible, drowned in the boiling voices.
He saw that familiar light in his daughter's eyes—an admiration he had long known but was powerless to stop. His gaze involuntarily turned to the victor surrounded by the crowd below, then fell back on his daughter, his eyes filled with love, worry, and a trace of helpless bitterness.
"Silly daughter..." he murmured in his heart, his voice full of fatigue and pity. "Why does your gaze always chase those most dazzling yet most unreachable figures? That man... not only does he already have a fiancée, but standing together, how matching they look in the eyes of the world."
The word "matching" was like a cold needle piercing his heart as a father.
He knew his daughter possessed a soul more noble and brave than any knight, but the cold rules and cruel aesthetics of this world had long drawn boundaries for the object of her admiration. He could only watch as his daughter offered her true heart time and again to people destined unable to respond to her. Apart from a silent sigh, he could do nothing.
While there was joy, naturally there were those extremely angry at this result. Aerys II's displeasure had been accumulating for a long time.
First, Lord Whent openly declared that the tourney's wine was provided free by the Iron Islands—if they hadn't robbed the Arbor, where did that group of Ironborn get red wine? He couldn't help but taste a mouthful just now, and that damned Kraken wine was actually unusually mellow and delicious, leaving him no opening to pick a fault and curse, "What kind of swill is this you brewed?!"
Now seeing an Ironborn not only participating in the sacred joust but also exchanging affectionate glances with Arthur Dayne's sister in public before the match, his anger was already burning.
Finally, this Ironborn actually won, and was only eleven years old! These successive irritations made his face terribly gloomy.
He turned sharply to "The Bold" Barristan Selmy beside him, asking acidly, "How old were you when you participated in your first tourney?"
Ser Barristan answered respectfully, "Reporting to Your Grace, it was the tourney held at Blackhaven. I was ten that year."
Aerys II let out an extremely disdainful snort. "Hmph, he is a year older than you were. I thought he was something special." His tone was full of belittlement and sarcasm.
Barristan maintained respect but stated objectively, "Your Grace, at the age of eleven, having the courage to step onto the tourney grounds is already beyond ordinary people. Winning a match is even rarer. Moreover, this subject observed that his timing with the lance was extremely precise, and his strength also—"
"That's nothing!" The Mad King interrupted the Kingsguard roughly, waving his hand with yellowed nails impatiently. "Just a single victory, worth such praise from you?"
Mad King Aerys II's bloodshot eyes turned sharply to the "Sword of the Morning" Arthur Dayne beside him. His voice became sharper due to dissatisfaction. "That Ironborn brat! I see he harbors no good intentions toward your sister!"
Arthur Dayne maintained knightly calm, bowing slightly, answering clearly and calmly. "Your Grace, you misunderstand. Euron Greyjoy and my sister Ashara are formally betrothed, expected to marry in two years."
"Betrothed? To an Ironborn?" Aerys II's brows locked tight, as if hearing something blasphemous. "They worship the Drowned God! That is a god of pirates and barbarians!"
Arthur still tried to explain, his tone carrying a trace of defense. "Though Euron is young, his character and ability are top-tier, Your Grace. Given time, perhaps he can become a true knight."
This sentence seemed to touch some absurd nerve in the Mad King. He suddenly burst into hysterical laughter. The laughter was sharp and ear-piercing, instantly attracting the gaze of the entire stand.
"Hahahahaha! An Ironborn? Wants to be a knight?" He laughed, leaning back and forth, almost out of breath, pointing randomly at Euron below with his yellow-nailed finger. "Is he crazy? Or has your House Dayne gone crazy? Hahaha! A Pirate Knight? That is truly the funniest joke I've ever heard!"
Since Duskendale, Aerys II had always spoken like this. Arthur and Barristan stopped responding, maintaining silence. King Quellon looked at the Mad King mocking the Iron Islands without scruple, huffed coldly, and calculated the future in his heart.
---
The dust of the Joust settled in the morning of each tourney day, the sound of hooves and the roar of breaking lances temporarily silenced.
When the afternoon sun poured onto the vast tourney grounds of Harrenhal, a completely different kind of noise began to take the stage—the freer, wilder Single Combat.
Unlike the Joust, which symbolized noble status and chivalry, that morning event had an extremely high threshold. Only anointed knights or those with Seven Kingdoms noble blood could participate, and they needed to provide expensive warhorses and full sets of armor; those qualified to enter were few in the end.
The afternoon Single Combat opened its doors wide to everyone. Here, there were no restrictions on birth, no thresholds set. Whether freeriders eager to prove themselves, mercenaries wanting to win bounty, commoners with unique skills, or anyone confident they could win honor with the weapon in their hand, all could step onto this sandy field.
The only rules were cold and direct: Weapons must not be poisoned, no hidden weapons of any kind, no shields, and no heavy armor.
Strength, skill, and courage were the only passes.
To ensure fairness, no participants were allowed to wear their own armor or leather armor. House Whent prepared uniform leather armor for the competition, distributed by the tourney organizers. This rule aimed to prevent some from gaining unfair advantages through precious magic armor inherited by families or bought with heavy gold that could resist blade cuts.
As for weapons, the tourney set no restrictions. Longswords, battle axes, morningstars, or more obscure weapons could all be brought into the arena.
The rule-makers had the simplest and cruelest understanding of this: on this sandy field, no matter what one held, as long as it could be precisely inserted into the opponent's neck, it was enough to be fatal and decide victory.
The standards for determining victory were: loss of combat capability—unable to rise or continue fighting after being knocked down, weapon breakage or loss of weapon, death, stepping out of bounds, and surrender.
Because of the large number of participants, ten combat areas were designated at once. Each area was a circular zone ten meters in diameter. Anyone whose feet stepped out of the circle or whose body was more than halfway out lost.
There was no loser's bracket or resurrection group; one match decided victory or defeat.
This afternoon alone would eliminate half... or more of the participants.
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