Today's tournament was destined to be anything but peaceful.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen continued to display a valor and elegance that no other man could match. In the joust, he faced the heir to the North, Brandon Stark. After eight rounds of fierce collision, Prince Rhaegar finally delivered a precise and graceful thrust, knocking the "Wild Wolf" from his horse. Once again, he had proven his worth as the "Heir of the Dragon."
However, high in the stands, young Benjen Stark was not fully immersed in the spectacle of the duel. His gaze was drifting, subtly following his sister, Lyanna.
The moment he saw his eldest brother, Brandon, fall to the dirt, Benjen's sharp eyes caught something peculiar—Lyanna showed not a hint of worry or dismay for her brother's defeat. Instead, she subconsciously let out a long, audible sigh of relief, her tense shoulders finally relaxing.
Benjen was struck with a sudden sense of disbelief. He could hardly trust his own eyes.
Is this a joke? He shouted silently in his heart. That is our big brother down there! You aren't worried about whether he's hurt, but instead... you were worried for Prince Rhaegar, the man who beat him?!
A strange, unsettling feeling, like a cold stream, quietly flowed over Benjen's heart.
---
Meanwhile, Euron's third joust was about to begin. The herald's voice boomed across the arena, emphasizing his age and record.
"Next to take the field is Euron Greyjoy of the Iron Islands! Only eleven years of age, yet already the victor of two matches! His opponent today hails from Horn Hill, a man who holds martial prowess above all else, the head of House Tarly, whose words are 'First in Battle'—Lord Randyll Tarly! Can the young Greyjoy create another miracle? Let us watch and see!"
Fully armored and mounted on Falulu, the corners of Euron's mouth twitched beneath his helm. He cursed internally.
I really thank you for that. With an introduction like that, if Lord Tarly doesn't use every ounce of his strength to smash me into the dirt, where would the 'Vanguard of Horn Hill' put his face?
As expected, Lord Randyll Tarly was the most difficult adversary Euron had faced yet.
The Lord of Horn Hill, famous for his severity and martial skill, launched an offensive as relentless as a storm. He showed absolutely no mercy because of his opponent's youth. For ten full rounds, Euron's pauldrons and shield were struck repeatedly by Tarly's heavy, powerful lance, the impacts shaking him until his arms went numb.
> [Skill: Pegasus Dash Lv.1]
> Source: Sky Island, Kingdom of God, 6th God Gan Fall.
> Description: Use a lance while mounted to perform a charging attack with Super Armor.
> Effect: While mounted, the user cannot be easily knocked off.
Euron relied entirely on the stable "Super Armor" effect provided by [Pegasus Dash Lv.1] to stay nailed to his saddle. This strange ability, derived from a distant world in the clouds, had become his greatest crutch.
In the eleventh round, in that split second as the two horses thundered toward each other once more, Euron's senses suddenly sharpened to a terrifying degree. The clamor of the crowd seemed to fade instantly. His vision focused and magnified in a bizarre way; he could clearly see the minute twitch of muscles beneath Lord Tarly's armored wrist, and his ears seemed to catch the man's steady, powerful heartbeat.
In Euron's eyes, Tarly's thrust—usually lightning fast—seemed to sink into viscous amber, becoming slow and predictable.
In that instant where time seemed to stagnate, the lance in Euron's hand seemed to possess a life of its own. Moving later but arriving first, it struck the wrist of Randyll Tarly's lance arm with absolute precision!
CLANG!
A crisp, metallic ring echoed.
Lord Tarly grunted in pain. His fingers involuntarily loosened their grip. His massive body, thrown off balance by the precise strike and the inertia of the charge, crashed down from his horse with a heavy thud!
For a moment, the arena was plunged into absolute silence, followed immediately by a deafening, tsunami-like roar of cheers!
---
After several more intense battles, the atmosphere in the tourney grounds reached a fever pitch. The next match featured figures of significant renown.
On one side was the Prince of Dorne, the "Red Viper," renowned for his agility and viciousness—Oberyn Martell. He moved with a light step, a cynical, playful smile hanging on his lips, as if he were approaching a game rather than a duel.
On the other side was the heir to Highgarden, young but known for his wisdom and valor, Willas Tyrell. He looked steady and composed, the Golden Rose representing the supreme glory of the Reach shining on his chest.
The horn blew, and the duel began. For the first two rounds, they were evenly matched, their lances colliding with thunderous cracks that drew cheers from the crowd.
But in the third round, disaster struck.
Oberyn seized a fleeting opening. His lance struck out like a viper leaving its hole, slamming precisely into Willas's shield. The force of the blow was tremendous; Prince Willas lost his balance and was thrown backward off his horse!
However, a terrible accident occurred—his foot had the misfortune of twisting and catching tight in the stirrup leather. The startled warhorse panicked and bolted, dragging the fallen man across the rough, stony ground for a long, agonizing stretch.
"Ah—!"
Panic-stricken screams and an uproar erupted instantly from the stands.
The Highgarden box descended into chaos. The Queen of Thorns, Lady Olenna, shot to her feet, her face drained of all color. Several Tyrell knights and squires sprinted madly from the stands toward the field, desperate to check on their heir.
Oberyn Martell clearly hadn't expected such an accident. He threw down his lance, the playful smile gone from his face, replaced by genuine concern and regret. He spurred his horse to help, but was rudely blocked by several grim-faced Highgarden guards with weapons drawn, their eyes filled with vigilance and hostility.
High in the royal box, King Aerys II watched the chaos unfold. Twisting his tangled, matted beard, he showed not a shred of worry. Instead, a low, uncomfortable "Heh heh heh" bubbled up from his throat, as if he were enjoying a magnificent play.
In the center of the field, Willas Tyrell was surrounded by Tyrell guards and maesters. He was unconscious. The maesters frantically examined his injuries, struggling to free his trapped foot from the stirrup amidst the panic. Lady Olenna gripped the railing of her box, her knuckles white, the shrewdness in her eyes replaced by a grandmother's sheer terror.
---
The great wheel of the tourney would not stop turning for any one man.
Amidst the noise, the herald's voice rang out again, forcibly pulling the crowd's attention back to the competition.
Next came "The Mountain That Rides," Gregor Clegane, against Othon Merryweather. There was no suspense in this fight. With terrifying brute strength and a savage offensive, Gregor crushed his opponent—man and shield alike—in the very first tilt. His victory was brutal and direct, as if he were merely venting a desire for destruction.
Following him was the "Sword of the Morning," Arthur Dayne, against Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard. This match displayed the other extreme of martial arts—precision, elegance, and efficiency. Ser Arthur's lancework was as transcendent as his swordsmanship. After several rounds of exquisite exchange, he unhorsed Lewyn Martell with a flawless thrust, winning the heartfelt admiration of every knight and noble present.
The schedule continued coldly, as if the earlier tragedy were nothing but a trivial interlude.
Euron's gaze cut through the noisy arena, fixing dead on the chaotic rescue scene around the Highgarden heir. He watched as the maesters finally, carefully—almost brutally—extricated Willas Tyrell's trapped foot from the twisted stirrup.
The sight was spine-chilling.
The entire ankle was a bloody mess. The expensive leather boot and sock had been ground into pulp, mixing with the flayed flesh. Even more horrifying, amidst the crimson, one could faintly see jagged shards of white bone and crushed cartilage.
Euron watched the gruesome scene without expression, his mind already forming a conclusion.
Willas Tyrell... the heir to Highgarden. I'm afraid he is going to be a cripple from this day forward.