The fighting in the arena was crude and chaotic. The clashing of weapons, the cheers and boos of the audience mixed together like a boiling, rusty soup.
Daenerys watched blankly.
Those blessed warriors, with bright ribbons representing different ladies tied to their helmets and spear tips, collided and hacked at each other savagely in the field.
The cheers, gasps, and the occasional mocking laughter from the nearby noble stands directed at the clumsy performances in the field all felt like they were coming through a thick, blurry layer of glass, having nothing to do with her.
She only gripped the rough hem of her clothes tighter, her nails digging into her palms, leaving deep white marks.
She buried her head lower and lower, almost shrinking into that worn-out cloak, as if she could retreat into a safe shell and isolate herself from all the malicious gazes—those curious, sarcastic, or mocking eyes.
In the crowded outer stands, the noise reached a fever pitch, while Aegon stood in silence.
His violet eyes calmly swept over the clumsy performance in the arena and across the Lysene nobles on the main stand, who wore expressions of weariness and boredom.
Finally, his gaze settled on the almost forgotten, curled-up thin figure at the edge of the field, and the stone-like statue beside her that seemed to have completely lost all life.
In his ears, various mocks directed at 'Targaryen' and ridicule toward the 'Beggar King and his sister' buzzed like flies, becoming clearer and more piercing.
"Look at that 'princess,' she doesn't even dare to raise her head..."
"Targaryen? Hah, a family that should have been swept into the trash heap of history long ago."
"I heard that brother is still daydreaming about reclaiming the iron throne..."
Henry stood beside Aegon, his fat face flushed red, his chest heaving violently, and his fists clenching until they creaked.
He gritted his teeth tightly and squeezed out a low growl of extreme suppression from his throat: "Prince... Boss! They... they've gone too far! The one sitting over there is..."
He didn't finish the sentence, but the surging fire of anger in his eyes and a sense of indignation akin to 'the official dies for his lord's humiliation' were almost ready to burst forth.
He stared fixedly at a sailor not far away who was shouting the loudest, spittle flying everywhere, as if he would pounce over and snap the man's neck the next second.
A steady and powerful hand pressed down on Henry's shoulder.
It was Aegon.
There was no expression on his face, but deep within those violet eyes, it was as if ten-thousand-year-old ice was freezing over, emitting a silent yet heart-palpitating cold aura.
The surrounding noisy sounds seemed to be isolated and frozen by some invisible force as they approached him.
"Henry," Aegon's voice was not loud, but it clearly penetrated the surrounding clamor with an unquestionable calmness, "follow me."
"The others, stay on standby."
After saying that, he turned, parted the crowd, and walked toward the back of the arena.
His steps were steady, without the slightest hesitation.
Henry was stunned for a moment, then glared fiercely at the sailor, took a deep breath to suppress his boiling anger, and quickly followed Aegon.
The other Bloodsworn soldiers scattered in the crowd received Aegon's signal and remained still, but their gazes sharply scanned the surroundings.
The back of the arena was a temporary designated area where mud mixed with grass clippings, and weapon racks were stacked haphazardly. A few warhorses were being impatiently groomed by grooms.
A dozen or so participants waiting to go on or who had already finished and were removing their armor gathered here. Most wore a hodgepodge of armor, carrying the smell of sweat and a crude aura.
A greasy-faced steward wearing a leather soft cap was holding a wooden board, checking the list while nodding perfunctorily to several guys complaining that their opponents were too weak or their luck was bad.
The sudden appearance of Aegon and Henry was somewhat out of place in this environment.
The steward looked up and saw Aegon's sharp black clothes and cold face, which were completely different from the participants. He froze for a moment and instinctively asked, "Who are you? No loiterers are allowed here..."
"Competing," Aegon interrupted him, his voice flat.
"Competing?" The steward frowned and looked at the wooden board in his hand. "The tournament has already begun, and the list was set long ago. Now..." His voice stopped abruptly when he saw the bright yellow gold coin that Aegon had casually tossed onto the wooden table in front of him, shimmering with an enticing luster.
The gold coin rolled half a circle on the table and stopped.
The steward's eyes lit up instantly, and the impatience and official tone on his face were quickly replaced by a smile mixed with greed and slickness.
He quickly bent down to pick up the gold coin, rubbed it on his sleeve, and coughed: "Well... rules are dead, but people are alive. This... Excellency, you look like you have extraordinary skills! It's our honor to have you join! Please wait a moment, I'll register you right away!"
Nearby, a middle-aged Mercenary who was organizing a well-maintained set of plate armor saw this scene.
His eyes rolled as he saw the gold coin and Aegon's extraordinary bearing, immediately sniffing out a business opportunity.
He picked up his set of armor and pointed to a brown warhorse nearby that looked fairly sturdy, approaching Aegon with a fawning smile on his face: "My lord, you look like you've come on a whim and didn't bring equipment, right? Look at this set of armor of mine; it's good stuff from Myr, forged not long ago. This horse is also a proper warhorse with steady legs! If you need it, this outfit, horse and armor included, is only... five gold coins! No, three! Consider it making a friend!"
Aegon's gaze swept over the armor and the warhorse. He didn't speak, but simply gave a slight nod to Henry.
Henry understood immediately, stepped forward, counted out three gold coins from his purse, and slapped them into the Mercenary's hand, then unceremoniously began helping Aegon put on the armor.
The Mercenary happily took the money and also hurriedly helped out.
The armor was somewhat heavy but fit reasonably well. The breastplate made a light metallic scraping sound as it was buckled.
Bracers, greaves, iron gauntlets... one by one, the cold metal components covered Aegon's body.
When the knight's helmet with a visor and a simple plume on top was finally put on, Aegon's entire aura changed. From a cold young man in black, he became a silent and dangerous steel statue.
Aegon took a seemingly sturdy oak shield and a blunt-tipped tournament lance handed over by an attendant, weighing them in his hand.
Only then did the steward, who had received the benefit, seem to finally recover from the light of the gold coin. Remembering the procedure, he hurriedly raised the parchment scroll and charcoal pencil in his hand: "Wait! Sir... Knight! Your title! You haven't reported your title and origin!"
Aegon's steps paused slightly, and he turned his head a fraction.
Those violet eyes gave the steward a cold glance.
"Lotte Haine—"
He paused and added the second half of the sentence. His voice was not loud, yet it made the nearby steward and the Mercenary who provided the equipment feel an inexplicable shiver in their hearts.
"—from Westeros."
Having said that, he no longer lingered. With a flick of his arm, he completely pulled down the visor on his helmet.
The cold metal completely obscured his handsome face, leaving only a narrow eye-slit and... a few strands of brilliant silver-white hair that hadn't been fully tucked away, hanging from the gap between the helmet and the gorget, fluttering gently in the afternoon breeze.
He mounted the horse with clean, swift movements, showing even an indescribable sense of elegance and power.
With a shake of the reins, the brown warhorse snorted and took steady steps, carrying him toward the center of the noisy and dusty arena... in the arena.
After the initial novelty and curiosity had passed, the Lysene nobles, accustomed to refined pleasures, gradually lost interest in this crude program.
The 'knights' and mercenaries thrown together on the field mostly had mediocre martial skills, and their fighting lacked technique, looking more like an amplified version of a street brawl.
The cheering became sparse, and the noble ladies began to wave their fans out of boredom, whispering among themselves about other topics.
The announcer on the hosting platform also appeared somewhat listless.
Just then, an attendant hurriedly ran up to the platform and handed a new wooden plaque with wet ink to the announcer.
The announcer glanced at it, and his drowsy eyes suddenly lit up. He cleared his throat and forcefully struck the bronze bell beside him.
"Clang—!"
The sound of the bell temporarily suppressed the noise in the field. The audience looked up in confusion.
In a much louder voice than before, the announcer loudly announced:
"Ladies and gentlemen! Entering next is—a warrior from afar!"
"From across the Narrow Sea, of Westeros—"
"The Hedge Knight, Lotte Haine!!"
A Hedge Knight from Westeros?
This title made many nobles, who had already begun to doze off or chat, perk up a little bit of interest.
After all, this tournament was originally an imitation of Westerosi customs. Perhaps an 'authentic' Westerosi knight could be worth watching?
Another trumpet blast sounded. Though still somewhat out of tune, it was louder than before.
At the entrance, a brown warhorse carrying a knight slowly stepped into the field.
The sunlight fell on the knight's cold armor, reflecting a metallic luster that was not dazzling but exceptionally solid.
In stark contrast to the previous participants with their mismatched armor and loose postures, this knight sat on his horse with a body as steady as a rock. The arm holding the lance didn't shake in the slightest; man and horse seemed to be one.
Even through the visor, one could feel an extraordinary, cold focus.
The gazes of some nobles, who had originally just glanced casually, couldn't help but stop.
The one who came this time seems... a bit different?
Aegon ignored the various gazes from the stands and did not ride around the field to show off like other participants, nor did he head straight for the most dazzling noble ladies in the front row.
He controlled his warhorse and walked straight toward the side-rear of the main stand, that neglected corner.
Daenerys still kept her head down, tears having already blurred her vision, and the noisy sounds in her ears felt as if they were separated by a layer of water.
Until a shadow loomed over her, accompanied by the steady sound of horse hooves stopping in front of her.
A cold and hard object—the tip of a lance—was gently presented below her lowered gaze, stopping beside the simple, somewhat withered wildflower wreath at her knees.
Daenerys trembled all over and raised her head slowly and blankly.
Tears made her vision a blur. She only saw a tall figure covered in cold armor sitting on a horse, standing quietly before her.
The afternoon sun shone from behind him, giving him a blurry halo.
Behind the knight's helmet, in that narrow eye-slit, she collided with a pair of eyes.
Purple.
The same purple as hers.
But unlike hers, which were filled with tears and confusion, they were like the most distant stars in the coldest winter night—cold and deep. Yet at this moment, they clearly reflected her tear-stained, utterly bewildered face.
Her heart skipped a beat at that moment.
Who... who is it?
She hurriedly wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand, and her vision cleared a bit.
This strange knight just stood his horse quietly before her, his lance held steadily toward her. There were no words, but it was a crystal-clear, undeniable invitation.
A blessing. He was asking for her blessing.
Daenerys instinctively looked at the forgotten, small wreath woven hurriedly from wildflowers at her feet, which had already begun to wilt.
She then looked up at the knight's calmly waiting purple eyes.
Some surprised and confused low whispers seemed to rise around her, but she could no longer hear them clearly.
A strange, warm current with a slight stinging sensation suddenly surged from the deepest part of her cold and desperate heart, crashing through that thick layer of self-isolating glass.
Her hands shook slightly as she bent down, picked up that small, humble wreath, and then, with all the courage she could muster and a hint of clumsiness, hung it onto the tip of the lance presented before her.
She still remembered the scattered bits of knowledge about tournaments her brother had mentioned while telling stories.
In a flurry, she tore a dark red strip of cloth from the inside of her faded old cloak—a piece whose original color was barely recognizable and whose edges were already frayed. It was the closest thing to Targaryen colors she could find.
Trembling, she carefully tied this humble black-red strip below the lance head, making a crooked but exceptionally serious knot.
Aegon's arm dipped slightly as he steadily withdrew the lance.
That small, inconspicuous wreath slid down and settled on his forearm, which was covered in a bracer.
The hand he used to grip the lance tightened silently.
Through the cold metal gauntlet, he seemed to feel the trembling of the wreath's fragile stems and the weight of the dark red strip, which carried all of a girl's helplessness and her last bit of humble hope.
He took a deep look at this girl who had finally raised her head, whose purple eyes had regained a slight glimmer but were also filled with more bewilderment and uncertainty.
Then, he turned his horse around.
He paid no heed to the startled and uncertain gazes from the main stand, the gradually increasing buzz of discussion around him, or the blatant mockery and confusion.
He spurred his horse and entered the center of the arena.
The sunlight fell on his dust-stained spaulders, on the humble wreath on his arm, and even more so on the tip of that lance—
That old black-red strip of cloth, so out of place among the surrounding magnificent ribbons, was fluttering gently in the breeze.
He reined in his horse and stood still.
The brown warhorse pawed the sand beneath its hooves uneasily.
Opposite him, his opponent—a tall Mercenary wearing mismatched armor, who was impatiently tapping the edge of his shield with his lance—had also entered the field.
He was looking over with ill intent, seemingly thinking this newcomer was just putting on a show and wasting his time to earn the prize money.
Aegon's gaze, through the eye-slit of his visor, locked onto his opponent.
Deep within those violet eyes, the last ripple caused by the siblings' plight and the humiliation suffered by Targaryen had completely subsided.
All that remained was a bottomless, icy chill.
And a hint of cruel killing intent to put an end to
this long humiliation.
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