The Great Tourney at Harrenhal was nearing its conclusion, yet the feverish excitement had only climbed to its zenith.
Today was the second to last day of the ten-day festival. Every competition had entered its final, white-hot stage, with schedules packed so tight there was barely room to breathe.
At dawn, as the first rays of sunlight scattered the mists of the Riverlands, the horse racing finals began.
Euron gathered his friends—Ashara, Oberyn, Arianne, and Tyrion—and secured a prime viewing spot by the racetrack. On the wide track before them, a full one hundred steeds that had qualified for the finals pranced and snorted. Each one rippled with muscle, their coats gleaming with oil and sweat, radiating the raw beauty of power and speed.
Tyrion Lannister pointed excitedly toward a rider in crimson and gold in the distance, grinning smugly. "Look! That's the Lannister rider! Heh, for this race, the family spent a fortune to buy a descendant of the horse lords from the Dothraki Sea!"
Euron crossed his arms, his sharp gaze sweeping over the powerful foreign steed. He nodded in approval. "Indeed, a magnificent beast. The lines are fluid; the explosive power is obvious at a glance." His eyes then roamed over the rest of the pack. "But look, nearly half of these hundred horses are high coursers from the Reach. They are taller, with thicker bones. Their strength is dominant, perfectly suited for short sprints."
Oberyn heard this and the corner of his mouth curled into a proud Dornish smile. "Our Dornish sand steeds do not rely on momentary bursts. Their endurance is unmatched. They can run on scorching sands for a day and a night without tiring. That resilience is carved into their blood."
The main reason for his comment, however, was that among the hundred finalists, only one was a Dornish sand steed.
Euron smiled and replied, "Endurance is vital, especially for long raids or desert warfare. But on this track, explosive power and absolute speed are the keys to victory. For a thunderous charge across a flat plain, the tall, powerful warhorses of the Reach naturally hold the advantage."
Arianne cast a sidelong glance at Euron, her lips curving with typical Dornish mockery. "Oh? Since when did our Great Kraken become an expert on horseflesh? I'd love to hear your insights. It's not as if the Iron Islands are known for famous steeds. Hmph, I know for a fact you only have those Harlaw ponies—tiny things, stubborn tempers, good only for pulling carts and hauling goods."
Ashara immediately linked her arm through Euron's, coming to his defense. "That's ancient history! Things are different now. Euron bought a large batch of fine horses from the Dothraki Sea long ago. The Iron Islands have good horses now!"
Arianne shot her an exaggerated look of disdain. "My, my. You get a fiancé and immediately forget your sisters, defending him so fiercely! Have you forgotten that the sand and blood of Dorne flows in your veins?"
The two young women dissolved into laughter and playful shoving.
Euron watched them with a helpless smile before explaining further. "We did import a few hundred Dothraki horses. But the journey from the vast grass sea to the harsh winds and rocky shores of the Iron Islands is long, and they haven't been there long enough to fully adapt to the salty air and damp climate. Having even one qualify for the finals is a good start."
He added with a touch of hidden pride, "There are ten of the most skilled Ironborn riders competing this time, and one made it to the finals riding one of those Dothraki warhorses."
As he spoke, Euron affectionately patted the neck of his own steed, Farul. Since their defeat in the joust yesterday, the divine horse had seemed a bit depressed, hanging its head low.
"But if my Farul were running," Euron's tone filled with unquestionable confidence, "today's champion would already be in the bag."
"Fa~~ru~~lu~~lu——"
As if understanding its master's praise, Farul immediately threw its head up, letting out a series of loud, rhythmic whinnies. It bared its teeth and shook its mane, excitement sweeping away its previous gloom, as if declaring to everyone that it indeed possessed such power.
Farul's seemingly human-like response drew a round of laughter from the group.
Tyrion swirled the wine in his cup and interjected, "If you ask me, having one qualifier is pretty good. Look at the North—the mighty North doesn't have a single horse in the finals. Though, I suppose their plow horses have a cold resistance no other breed can match."
Amidst their lighthearted banter, a loud horn blast tore through the sky, instantly drawing everyone's attention.
The riders of the final race shot from the starting line like arrows, galloping across the field like lightning, chasing the supreme glory of ultimate speed.
---
Meanwhile, the atmosphere at the specially constructed archery range in the distance was solemn and tense. Every seat in the stands was filled.
Here, the archery finals were about to begin, gathering fifty of the finest marksmen from across the Seven Kingdoms.
The rules for the final were strict, designed to test every facet of an archer's skill. Each competitor had twenty arrows. The contest was split into two parts: ten for fixed targets, and ten for moving targets.
The fixed targets were set at a daunting distance of two hundred yards. For an ordinary archer, one hundred yards was the limit; this was double that! Archers fired in turn, with ten chances. Missing the target meant 0 points, while only a bullseye awarded the maximum 10 points.
Even trickier was the sudden intervention of the moving targets. While the archers focused on the distant fixed targets, two moving targets would suddenly slide along a taut wire at the one-hundred-yard mark—one from left to right, the other right to left. Their paths crossed, and they were gone in a flash. Once they reached the end of the wire, they stopped. Each moving target appeared only once.
Crucially, the exact timing of their release was controlled entirely by the Lord of House Whent, who served as judge. This added a massive element of unpredictability, demanding not just range and precision, but superb dynamic vision, rapid reflexes, and cool judgment.
The moving targets were difficult, but the reward was substantial: 5 points for a hit. Hitting even one extra moving target could change the final outcome—and decide the owner of the massive twenty-thousand-dragon prize.
Finally, the competition would begin on the first blast of the horn and end on the tenth. Each blast would ratchet up the psychological pressure on the archers.
Every thrum of a released bowstring, every sharp whistle of an arrow cutting the air, held the audience breathless. Whenever an arrow slammed precisely into the bullseye, the stands erupted in tsunami-like cheers.
Shortly after the second horn blast—
"Moving target! Look, the left!"
Amidst the shouts, a target slid rapidly along the wire from left to right!
Many archers, focused entirely on the two-hundred-yard fixed target, were caught off guard. Their rhythm shattered. Some hurriedly shifted their aim; others hesitated for a split second and missed their chance. Arrows flew askew, missing the moving target and drawing sighs of regret from the crowd.
After the fifth horn, another shout rang out—
The second moving target shot out from right to left like a bolt of lightning!
Archers who had missed the first opportunity were now frantic. In their anxiety, their form crumbled: bows were not drawn fully, aim was superficial. Arrows whizzed through the air only to graze the edges or plunge into the mud. The sound of frustrated stomping mixed with the gasps of the audience.
When the tenth horn finally sounded, the competition ended.
Surprisingly, among fifty elite marksmen, more than ten had completely lost their composure due to the interference of the moving targets. They failed to loose all their arrows in time and could only lower their bows, faces full of regret and unwillingness.
Judges rushed onto the field to tally the scores. They counted the rings on the fixed targets one by one, then searched the moving target zone for the scattered arrows to calculate the more difficult dynamic scores.
Finally, after a tense calculation, a hunter from the Vale named Adrian crushed the competition with an astonishing score of 148 points, crowning himself the champion of the archery tournament!
This sharpshooter, who had already performed brilliantly in the preliminaries, had attracted attention from many factions. Euron himself had admired the man's calm precision and had privately tried to recruit him with promises of gold and status.
However, Adrian ultimately chose to pledge his loyalty to Lord Jon Arryn, Warden of the East. Losing such a talented ranged specialist was a disappointment for Euron, who was intent on gathering capable men.
---
The results of the horse race were announced before the cheers for the archery had even fully subsided.
The crown was taken by the Lannister rider Tyrion had so strongly recommended, riding the magnificent "Horse Lord."
The descendant of kings from the Dothraki Sea, with unparalleled speed and stamina, tore through the wind like red lightning to cross the finish line first, winning thunderous applause from the full house.
Euron stood in the distance, his eyes tracking the "Horse Lord." The way its muscles rippled under the sun and the wild, earth-shaking manner of its gallop drew a look of undisguised awe and envy from him. Such a supreme mount was the dream of every man who thirsted for conquest.
Seemingly sensing his master's wandering eye, Farul let out an unhappy whinny and nudged Euron with his head, reminding him of his presence.
On one side of the stands, the Lannisters were ecstatic. They held their heads high, smiles of shared glory on their faces. It was as if this victory had instantly elevated the entire family's status, the sun shining particularly favorably on their golden lion.
Tyrion waved a stack of betting slips and bumped Euron's—thigh, chuckling non-stop. It seemed he had won a considerable sum.
The champion jockey might soon be forgotten, but the "Horse Lord" that took first place instantly became the brightest star of the event. Its streamlined body, gleaming coat, and raw speed attracted countless envious stares.
As soon as the race ended, illustrious nobles, wealthy merchants, and obsessed collectors swarmed the Lannister tent. They eagerly inquired about the price of the "Horse Lord," shouting offers more shocking than the last.
The Lannisters, who had always viewed gold as dirt, naturally refused every offer—with a touch of arrogance. Could a mount symbolizing victory and glory be measured in coin?
Subsequently, negotiations regarding the "Horse Lord's" breeding rights began quietly. Requests to improve bloodlines came from all over the Seven Kingdoms, accompanied by hefty deposits. The schedule was quickly booked out for years to come.
This champion horse would continue to bring prestige—and rolling wealth—to Casterly Rock in a very different way.