Chapter 12

The roar of the crowd grew louder the moment I entered the arena. Hundreds of eyes were fixed on the knights, each of whom craved glory and recognition. The spectators eagerly discussed the upcoming battles, their gazes lingering on every knight who stepped onto the field. Among the audience were many who had come not just to witness a fight but to see a true clash between famous princes and celebrated knights. Flags fluttered in the wind, and the red and black colors of House Targaryen stood out among the rest.

I glanced at the stands where my family was seated. King Aerys sat on a raised platform, surrounded by the Kingsguard. His shadow obscured his face, but I thought I saw the feverish gleam of excitement in his eyes. Beside him sat my mother, clearly anxious. Her gaze was full of warmth and concern; even from a distance, I could feel her presence, which gave me a sense of calm.

Sitting astride my black stallion, I could feel the power of the graceful animal beneath me. The saddle was firm, the stirrups adjusted perfectly—everything was in line with the meticulous plan for this day. My armor, though heavy, felt like reliable protection, allowing me to focus on the upcoming trial. In my hand, I held a lance, perfectly balanced, as if it were an extension of my arm.

Carefully eyeing my opponent, I noticed how his massive chestnut horse fidgeted with impatience. Jon Connington, clad in gleaming armor with the griffon emblem, cut an imposing figure. His confidence mixed with irritation—he clearly longed to unseat the prince and earn glory, proving his strength and skill.

A loud signal announced the start of the contest. We lined up at opposite ends of the arena, and the murmur of the spectators instantly died down. After exchanging cold looks, we simultaneously spurred our horses, driving them forward. The crowd's noise surged again as we charged at each other. Lances leveled, ready to meet in a decisive strike.

I focused on my target—Connington's right shoulder. My goal was not just to unseat him but to throw him off balance. Jousting is not only about strength but also about precision and strategy.

The first strike was lightning-fast. My lance struck Connington's breastplate, splintering into pieces and causing him to stagger, but he managed to stay in the saddle. At the same time, his powerful blow resounded against my shield, sending an unpleasant tremor through my arm. We veered away from each other, each aiming to steady our horses and prepare for the next charge.

The second pass also yielded no victor. Jon fought aggressively and directly, his lance always aiming for a frontal strike. I, on the other hand, focused on cautious maneuvers, carefully planning each move.

The third pass was decisive. Once again, Connington relied on brute strength, targeting the center of my body. I, however, shifted slightly in the saddle at the last moment, altering the angle of attack, and aimed my lance at his helmet.

A precise strike! Jon was thrown back, crashing to the ground with a thud. The explosion of cheers and applause was deafening. I remained composed, lifting my lance in a restrained salute to the crowd, but inwardly, I savored the sweet taste of this first significant victory.

Soon after, perhaps the most thrilling duel of the first round began. Two great knights took the field: Ser Randyll Tarly, a formidable warrior and commander renowned from the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and Prince Lewyn Martell, of whom it was whispered that he was practically born with a spear in his hand.

Both knights were famous for their strength and skill, and their bout met all the spectators' expectations. Splinters from lances flew in all directions; each strike echoed through the stands. Tarly fought with iron discipline, pressing the fight through six passes, but Prince Lewyn displayed incredible agility and grace, seizing victory in the final round. He deftly deflected a blow with his shield and then, with a lightning-fast move, unseated his opponent. The disappointment among the Reach lords and ladies was evident, but Tarly accepted his defeat with dignified stoicism.

Next to take the field were Ser Barristan Selmy and Lord Selwyn Tarth. Their rivalry also attracted much attention. Tarth performed well in the first two rounds, showing strength and resilience, but his opponent was the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms. Ser Barristan, the embodiment of honor and valor, easily outmaneuvered Tarth in the third pass, demonstrating flawless skill and precision that left Lord Selwyn with no chance.

And then it was time for the main event: Prince Rhaegar Targaryen against my friend. The crowd erupted with excitement as Rhaegar, in gleaming armor adorned with a ruby dragon, rode into the arena. His snow-white horse trotted gracefully, reflecting the sunlight off the golden accents of his armor.

Rhaegar's opponent was a relatively unknown knight, Qelton Fell, clad in armor bearing his house's sigil. His horse was larger and more imposing but lacked the elegance of the prince's steed. I had noticed this knight before when I began clearing the Stormlands of brigands. His ferocity and skill, despite his youth, were striking. Of course, his preferred weapon is a battle-axe rather than a lance, but even so, he proved to be a dangerous opponent for my brother.

When the sound of the trumpet signaled the start of the duel, Rhaegar and Qelton lined up at opposite ends of the arena. Rhaegar's armor gleamed under the bright sun, while Qelton looked grim and focused. They exchanged determined glances, ready for battle.

Rhaegar charged first, his horse speeding toward the target. Fell, not far behind, urged his steed forward, and soon the two knights met in the center of the arena. Their lances shot toward each other like arrows. Qelton's strike was powerful and sharp, making Rhaegar's armor creak under the force. Instantly, one of Fell's lances shattered against the prince's breastplate.

Rhaegar visibly wavered but managed to stay in the saddle and continue his charge. Qelton was already preparing a new lance as if anticipating such an outcome. With each subsequent pass, the tension mounted. My brother, feeling less confident than at the start, shifted to a more precise and swift technique reminiscent of Prince Lewyn's style. Qelton, meanwhile, combined his brute strength with clever maneuvers, trying to confuse his opponent.

Finally, in the fifth pass, the victor was determined. Rhaegar, making a sharp maneuver, altered his attack angle and landed a perfect strike to Qelton's helmet, causing him to falter. But Rhaegar himself took a dangerous hit to the shoulder. Despite an attempt to maintain his balance, Fell was unseated, crashing to the ground with a heavy thud. The crowd erupted in cheers as Rhaegar, lifting his lance, coolly saluted the spectators. Yet, it was clear to anyone paying attention that the victory had not come easily for him.

After the triumphant bout between the crown prince and Fell, as the crowd gradually began to calm down, I headed toward the edge of the arena where my loyal friend Ralf was waiting. He greeted me with a slight smile and a nod.

"Not bad, wouldn't you say?" His voice was even, but a mischievous glint sparkled in his eyes.

"Everything went according to plan," I replied quietly, maintaining a composed smile for the crowd. "I must admit, I didn't expect as much from Fell, but I'm pleasantly surprised."

"He was quite impressive," Ralf glanced around as if checking to see if anyone was eavesdropping. "I'm sure Robert will provide you with plenty of entertainment as well."

I snorted, clenching my fists slightly. "Entertainment? I'll be more concerned with avoiding having my skull cracked by one of his blows. He has the strength of a beast, but his technique... It's as if he's holding a lance for the first time."

Ralf smirked in response.

"Yes, his fighting style is rather barbaric. Straightforward and predictable strikes—that could work to your advantage."

I gave a brief nod, feeling my excitement gradually give way to calm calculation. This fight was not going to be easy. I fully understood that behind Robert's bravado and directness lay raw, untamed power. His overwhelming victory in the first round was proof of that. However, Baratheon's impulsiveness and lack of experience could be his greatest weaknesses.

"In any case, Ralf," I continued, "this tournament is just one part of our plan. I trust you haven't lost sight of the other tasks."

Ralf grew more serious and nodded in affirmation.

"Everything is on schedule."

Soon, the second round of contests began, and my turn arrived. Robert, clad in heavy dark-gray armor, evoked a primal fear in many people. His massive warhorse stomped the ground as if eager to tear it apart. The horns on Baratheon's helmet resembled a stag ready to charge, and his eyes burned with a predatory fire. At that moment, he was the embodiment of strength and unbridled fury. Robert gripped his lance impatiently, seemingly eager to knock me from my saddle with a single strike.

After our first duel, he was rather frustrated by the loss and often challenged me for a rematch. To be fair, he won three out of ten matches.

I remained calm. There was no excess bravado in my actions, only cold calculation. Each breath was slow and measured, each glance precise. I knew that Baratheon would rely on strength and aggression. But this fight required not only strength but also cunning. I intended to use every one of his mistakes to my advantage, making him play by my rules.

A loud sound signaled to the spectators and participants that the duel was about to begin.