After taking their break, Twig, Aron, and Jenny were ready to face the jousts.
For them, it wouldn't be much of a challenge.
For everyone else, a very big surprise was on the way.
The next day, they arrived early at the arena. There were no lists or sign-ups there — you just showed up, lined up, and waited to be called.
"All right, you two. Have fun," said Twig.
"Have fun? You're kidding, right?" Aron grumbled. "We're about to face some of the greatest knights in Westeros and you call it fun?"
Jenny stayed quiet, just watching.
"Yes, have fun," Twig repeated. "And remember: don't kill anyone. Your strength and skill are way beyond what anyone here can handle. And what we agreed still stands: once it's clear we've qualified to the next day, we leave. No hanging around and tempting misfortune."
"Got it," the siblings answered together.
Then they passed through the gates and entered the arena.
Eddard Stark – POV
I never imagined I would witness such feats in a joust.
It sounds unlikely, impossible. If my own eyes hadn't seen it, I wouldn't believe it.
Yet everyone saw — and the truth is undeniable.
I, Ned Stark, was still stunned by what had been happening in the Jousting Tourney. From the very first day, something felt wrong. Those masked knights, so mysterious in the melee, had now returned for the jousts. They looked more like beasts than men. Their lances struck dead center on the breastplate with cruel precision, knocking opponents from the saddle at once. Clean, quick victories. Their horses were handled with impossible mastery, charging at absurd speed.
Impossible, I thought. There's no way to handle a jousting lance like that — with such ease and precision — in the middle of a full gallop. The weight, the wind… it doesn't add up.
I remember clearly the first match.
The smiling knight appeared while the others were still lining up. To his left, the bestial one; in the middle, the smallest of them, wearing the sad mask. While the nobles lifted their shields and announced their names, one of Lord Walter Whent's sons stepped forward and challenged the Smiling Knight.
The young Whent raised his yellow shield with black bats and lowered his lance. The masked knight, however, only lifted a round shield — with a smiling mask carved into the center — and didn't lower his lance right away.
When the horn sounded, the young Whent knight charged. The Smiling Knight spurred forward faster than he had any right to and, in a single descending motion, lowered the lance only at the very end of the pass.
The blow struck the absolute center of the boy's breastplate, hurling him from the saddle as if struck by a battering ram.
The smallfolk roared with delight — but the seasoned knights fell silent. I saw fear in some of their eyes.
That's not natural, I thought. No man, no matter how strong, moves a lance like that against the resistance of the wind, at that speed.
Next, the Bestial faced another Whent son. The maneuver was less strange, but the speed of the horse and the weight of the thrust were terrifying. The lance punched through the guard, struck the center of the chest — wood against steel — and the knight flew to the ground, carried by a squire away, still unconscious moments later.
Then came my brother Brandon's challenge against the sad knight.
The smallest of the three looked like the "weakest."
A mistake of judgement.
Before Brandon could even properly line up his strike, the sad knight had already hit him square in the chest. My brother wasn't sent flying — the blow was clearly held back — but he fell hard and needed a moment to recover. He forced himself up and gave a respectful nod to the victor. The Sad Masked knight said nothing; just retook his place in silence between the other masked knights.
When there were no more challengers, the three knights guided their horses out of the lists and vanished. I saw the king's soldiers heading in the same direction they'd exited. I'd seen this scene already. They won't find anything, I already knew.
Robert is searching for them too.
Lyanna hasn't been much help regarding that merchant — the man with the masks disappeared. No one knows where he is.
Brandon Stark – POV
Damn it. Beaten on the first day.
The humiliation burned in my gut.
That knight better go far into the tourney — it'll be even worse if he falls early.
I, Brandon Stark, sat in the stands with Ned, watching the jousts. Benjen was with us, as well as the young Howland Reed. Lyanna, however, was nowhere to be seen.
Yesterday, a fourth mysterious knight also showed up.
As if three weren't enough — now there are four.
The king is furious — you can hear his outbursts even from here.
Today, by some cruel joke of the gods, the sad knight who unhorsed me opened the matches against the last of Lord Whent's sons still in the running.
The poor man didn't even have time to aim.
He hit the sand even faster than I had.
Who are they? Where did they come from? How do you even acquire this kind of skill?
No one appears out of thin air at that level. They must belong to some house — maybe from abroad.
I saw the other two in action and, by the Old Gods and the New, it was madness.
The Bestial is really a monster. He faced a nobleman knight from the Westerlands: both lances shattered — but it was the opponent who flew, while the Bestial rode on as if nothing had happened, solid as a wall.
The Smiling one, on the other hand, did something bordering on insolent.
Instead of lowering his lance early, he kept it high most of the run — and with one precise strike, he hit the shaft of the Dornish knight lance he faced like a slap to the hand, knocking it downward.
The opponent's own weapon struck the ground with strength and unhorsed himself.
It happened so fast.
How? I still ask myself.
Never saw or heard of such thing, maybe no one else but the present will ever testimony such maneuver once again.
At the end of the day, they slipped away again. And, louder and louder, the king's screams echoed over the lists.
King Aerys II Targaryen – POV
"Traitors. All of them."
Three cursed knights weren't enough — now there's a fourth to mock my crown.
For days these masked wretches have made sport of House Targaryen.
"They think they can wake the dragon and go unburned?"
They will burn.
Useless guards.
No one brings me names, faces, no answers. Those vermin vanish like smoke.
"I'll burn them all — especially the one with the smiling mask."
He laughs at me.
He laughs at the Iron Throne.
He flirts with death every time he rides into that arena.
Curses, useless guards, masked wretches, damn them all!
Oberyn Martell – POV
The king truly is mad — and it's no mere rumor. Anyone can see it.
These mysterious knights only made his madness more obvious: refusing to reveal their faces, mocking the crown by vanishing after every last match, slipping past the king's men as if they were blind…
Perhaps they are foreigners.
But that level of skill… it's the finest I've ever seen.
I hope them come tomorrow again, Oberyn thought.
I want to see if their legend survives when the steel gets serious: Prince Rhaegar, Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Arthur Dayne.
If those masked knights are everything, they appear to be…
then the final clash will be the kind of thing songs are written about.