CHAPTER 153

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CHAPTER 153

290 AC

POV MC

Upon mounting my horse, I fixed my gaze on Lord Royce positioned at the distant end of the jousting arena. Lord Royce presented a striking figure astride his horse, stationed at the far expanse of the jousting arena. His ancient bronze armor, etched with intricate and faded runes, gleamed softly in the sunlight, a testament to generations past. His demeanor exuded a blend of regal pride and confidence, a man well-versed in command and accustomed to the attention of his peers.

As he adjusted his helmet, his movements carried an air of ceremonial importance, a display of his preparedness for the impending joust. The slight inclination of his head and the composed yet scrutinizing gaze he cast across the field signaled a competitor aware of the challenge ahead, poised to uphold the honor of his house with a measure of pomp and prestige.

I turned my attention to the scene of the arena; it was a great contrast: nobles luxuriated in the opulent stands on my left, enjoying the comfort of cushioned chairs and the relief of shade. Their needs were catered to with offerings of wine and fruits by diligent servants. In stark opposition, the commoners occupied the rudimentary wooden stands to the right, exposed to the unrelenting sun. Yet, their unbridled enthusiasm radiated through their eager expressions, undeterred by the harsh conditions.

Then, I turned my attention to Lord Royce's armor. At first glance, the armor appeared bereft of any magical aura. But after a prolonged and careful look, faint vestiges of magic emerged, suggesting either dormancy or the gradual erosion of its power over time. The prospect of unraveling this mystery tugged at my curiosity, compelling me to delve deeper. Thus, I proposed,

"Lord Royce, shall we inject a touch of excitement into this match?"

My words seemed to startle Lord Royce momentarily, yet his demeanor belied his reluctance to appear timorous.

"Pray tell, what do you have in mind?"

"I would wager my sword, Red Rain."

A hushed stillness swept over the arena in response to my proclamation, a silence so profound that the mere drop of a pin could be discerned. Conversations ceased as the entire assembly pivoted their attention to our exchange.

"I fear I lack an item of comparable worth, such as a Valyrian sword. Might we entertain the idea of a monetary wager?" Lord Royce ventured.

"As I am a practitioner of the Old Gods' faith, you possess an item of nearly equivalent significance. Though others might perceive it as trivial, its relevance resonates deeply with our beliefs. I invite you to contemplate wagering your bronze armor."

Lord Royce's features contorted with a flicker of irritation. "How dare you suggest I wager my family's cherished heirloom!"

"But, Lord Royce, do you not profess unwavering allegiance to the Seven?"

Once more caught off-guard, his reply carried an air of assertion. "Indeed, that I do."

"Then why, might I ask, don the very armor that invokes the Old Gods' protection?"

A fleeting expression of bewilderment passed over him. "What do you imply? I seek no favor from the realms of falsehood, nor shall I ever."

"Lord Royce, I implore you to weigh your words carefully when discussing matters of the Old Gods. Just as I hold your convictions in esteem, I anticipate a comparable courtesy. Are you well-acquainted with the inscriptions etched onto your armor?"

"And you, as a commoner, possess such knowledge?"

"The origins of my birth do not preclude my capacity for learning. Though I might not decode all the runes, I recognize those encircling your neck. They convey, 'May the Old Gods safeguard the Bronze Kings.' Do you not perceive what that means? As a devotee of the Seven, you forfeit the privilege of adorning armor consecrated by the Old Gods?"

I redirected my attention toward the septon of Lannisport. "Septon, does it comport with the tenets of the Seven to garb oneself in such an armor?"

The septon's reluctance to respond was palpable. In response, I persisted. "The Seven are vigilant observers of our deeds, septon. Do you intend to withhold your verdict?"

He conceded begrudgingly, "Indeed, donning such armor borders on sacrilege."

A cacophony of voices surged forth, presenting me with the opportune juncture to continue.

"Lord Royce, while your armor might carry familial legacy, the adherents of the Old Gods posit that you and your forebears renounced the right to wear it upon embracing the Andals' faith and adopting the Seven."

Lord Royce's retort rang with an undercurrent of anger. "How dare a commoner assail the honor of a noble? A mere knight such as you, consumed by arrogance that transcends your station."

"I harbor no presumption to assail the dignity of a noble. If I am but a humble knight, then why should a superior Vale knight feel compelled to oppose a wager? It presents you with an opportunity to showcase the mettle of Vale knights against an ostensibly inferior commoner."

"It seems you stand in need of a lesson, young man, and I shall oblige with acceptance of the wager!"

With his helmet lowered, Lord Royce took his stance. I love it when they lose their cool upon a little bit of nudging. The ensuing contest was unlikely to be marked by friendship; rather, I aimed to cultivate an atmosphere of trepidation. Accepting the proffered lance from Kegan, I poised myself for the imminent clash.

Jousting was a familiar terrain for me since I dappled in a bit, and I was amazed at how easy it was. Of course, the augmented attributes, such as high reflexes bestowed upon me by my bond, helped a lot. Augmented reflexes and enhanced flexibility endowed me with a substantial upper hand against most competitors. Predicaments arose only when confronted by adversaries boasting significantly superior physical prowess. In such instances, however, a reservoir of strategic maneuvers remained at my disposal. This was nothing but play-fighting that didn't show any real indication of how powerful someone was.

As Lord Royce and I hurtled toward each other, our steeds galloping with fervor, my heightened reflexes transcended conventional limits. This augmentation enabled me to preemptively predict the trajectory of his lance and align my position for its deflection. Concurrently, I executed a retaliatory maneuver aimed at his arm – a calibrated blow intended to administer pain rather than unhorsing. The objective was not beating him but a calculated imposition of fear. This dynamic unfolded across a sequence of clashes.

By the seventh such exchange, Lord Royce lifted his visor, bespeaking a need for water. Our gazes collided, and I detected traces of trepidation in his eyes. The realization that I was toying with him was beginning to dawn upon him. If I needed, I could apply a mantle of protective magic woven under my armor and an overlay of healing magic to repair the damage from the blunt force impact. But I didn't even need that. I was able to read him like an open book and always moved out of the way at the last second. Making his hit nothing more than a graze.

Four additional encounters transpired along comparable lines, culminating in Lord Royce's eyes beseeching surrender. He grappled with a pivotal decision – whether to uphold his pride or concede with grace. By the twelfth clash, his endurance reached its threshold; he capitulated, collapsing to the ground, gasping for air.

Guiding my horse closer, I remarked with a loud voice,

"You've magnificently exemplified the valor and prowess of Vale knights. I am, quite literally, left trembling in fear and admiration of your superiority. You really showed me who was the superior one."

With an imperious smirk, I declared, "I await the delivery of my armor to my tent within the hour."

Such audacious comportment would be reserved for no Northern lord. I had resolved to avoid cultivating hostility within the North, unless circumstances necessitated otherwise. However, my approach to the Vale differed, stemming from distinct strategic motives I had; I didn't need allies in the Vale. Raising my fractured lance aloft, I proclaimed,

"For the Glory of the North and the Old Gods!"

Expressions of satisfaction played upon the countenances of the Northern lords, while our troops erupted into frenzied chants bearing my name. Amidst the euphoria, a solitary somber visage was upheld by Lord Stark – a harbinger of the imminent lecture that awaited me.