Aegon's gaze swept over the black and red ribbon fluttering fiercely in the gale beneath his lance tip; its faded colors seemed to be reignited under the sunlight, leaping with a scorching intensity.
He didn't spare it another glance. His right arm sank, and he leveled the three-meter-plus lance at shoulder height, its tip pointing steadily forward.
He squeezed the brown warhorse's flanks with his legs. The beast let out a long neigh, its four hooves churning as it carried him forward, beginning its acceleration.
Opposite him, the tall Mercenary also roared as he spurred his mount.
The pink ribbon tied to his armor fluttered ridiculously. Beneath his visor, the corners of his mouth curled into a cruel, contemptuous sneer.
He also leveled his lance, but the tip was slightly raised, locked onto the vulnerable neck area where Aegon's helmet met his breastplate—it was a lethal strike, far beyond the expected conduct of a tourney.
In the stands, the Lysene nobles, who had been distracted by boredom, sat up straighter, their attention captured by the suddenly heavy atmosphere and the starkly different charging postures of the two knights.
Some even leaned forward subconsciously, their eyes following the two rapidly approaching points of cold steel.
Daenerys had long since forgotten to cry. Her hands tightly gripped the edges of her worn cloak, her purple eyes unblinkingly following the silver-haired knight with the flower garland on his arm and the ribbon on his lance.
Beside her, Viserys's hollow eyes seemed as if a stone had been cast into them; a faint ripple, one he hadn't even noticed himself, spread across them as his body instinctively leaned forward.
The speed of the two warhorses reached its peak within just a few dozen paces. Heavy hooves trampled the sandy ground, producing a roar like muffled thunder.
Dust was kicked high into the air, blurring the vision of the onlookers, but it could not obstruct the cold gazes of the two men locked onto each other.
Closer!
Even closer!
The crossing happened in an instant!
A murderous light glinted in the tall Mercenary's eyes, as if he could already see the beautiful sight of his lance tip piercing the other's throat and blood spraying.
He even adjusted his angle at the last second to ensure this 'accidental' fatal blow would be 'perfect'.
However—
BOOM!!!
A dull, tooth-aching explosion of clashing metal and splintering wood, far heavier than any previous impact, suddenly erupted!
There was no sophisticated parry, no fancy evasion.
Aegon's lance, like a venomous dragon lunging to bite, struck with a precision that was cold and ruthless. Carrying all the kinetic energy of the galloping horse, he ignored the threat of the opponent's raised lance and drove his own straight and true into the opponent's crudely painted oak shield!
No, it wasn't just an impact.
It was a penetration!
The metal lance head, at the moment of contact, seemed possessed by an invincible will. It tore through the thick wood, snapped the iron reinforcements, and without losing momentum, slammed into the area behind the shield—the joint of the Mercenary's left arm guard that he had hurriedly raised to block!
CRACK—SQUELCH!
The muffled sound of bone shattering and flesh being forcibly torn by a sharp object was drowned out by the greater sound of the collision and the horse's pained neigh.
The Mercenary felt an irresistible force surge from his left arm, followed by a heart-wrenching agony.
Before he could even process the pain, he was hit head-on like he'd been struck by a battering ram, and was physically lifted off his horse by the lance, which hadn't even broken!
His heavy body traced a short arc in the air before slamming heavily onto the sandy ground several meters away like a broken sack, kicking up a large cloud of dust.
THUD!
The sound was heavy and dull.
The entire arena fell silent.
Only the riderless horse neighed in terror, dragging its empty saddle as it bolted blindly out of the arena, crashing through the perimeter fence.
The dust slowly settled.
The people saw the scene clearly.
Aegon reined in his horse. The brown warhorse reared up with a loud neigh before its front hooves slammed back into the ground, coming to a steady halt.
The front half of the lance in his hand was covered in wood splinters and dark red blood; the tip was even slightly bent.
With a casual toss, the lance that had won 'first blood' but was now unusable fell into the dust with a clang.
A squire hurriedly ran forward carrying a new lance.
Aegon took it. As he gripped it, the cold metal gauntlet rubbed against the wooden shaft, making a faint rasping sound.
He slowly turned his horse to face the main stand and the surrounding audience.
He leveled the new lance, its tip still tied with that length of black and red ribbon—
As his arm moved, it traced a cold arc in the air like an invisible blade, 'cutting' across every face in the stands, whether they were shocked, stunned, or suddenly excited.
A few strands of silver-white hair escaped from the gaps in his helmet, fluttering silently in the blood-scented wind.
There was a brief, suffocating silence.
Then—
ROAR—!!!
Deafening shouts, cries of surprise, and whistles erupted like a tsunami, nearly toppling the simple stands!
The human thirst for excitement and violence was completely ignited in this moment by a victory so simple, brutal, and efficiently terrifying!
"Hain!!"
"Kill him! Well done!!"
"This is a real tourney!!"
"Look at that guy's arm! Hahaha!"
The chaotic waves of sound nearly drowned out everything.
Daenerys covered her mouth in shock, her purple eyes wide as she looked at the cold figure in the center of the arena, bathed in the clamor and gazes yet seemingly detached from the boiling excitement.
The cruelty and decisiveness of that strike just now far exceeded her meager imagination.
Viserys had stood up at some point, his hands death-gripping the low wooden railing in front of him, his knuckles turning white.
His chest heaved as he stared fixedly at the silver-haired knight. In his eyes, where there had been dead ashes, sparks now seemed to be dancing wildly:
"Is there someone... is there still someone willing to fight for Targaryen?!"
With the appearance of this silver-haired knight, everything seemed different.
The subsequent battles completely departed from the initial 'monkey fight' category. This informal tourney gradually slid into an abyss of blood and cruelty.
A gladiator from Meereen stepped onto the field dragging a heavy flail, roaring that he would crush Aegon into pulp, only to have his knee accurately pierced. After falling, his sternum was crushed by horse hooves, and he died spitting blood.
A screaming warrior from the Dothraki Sea charged on horseback, wielding an Arakh and attempting to tear his opponent apart with the ferocity of the plains, only to be run through the throat by a lance. His corpse was dragged a long way by his own horse, plowing a long bloody furrow in the sand.
The fighting grew more intense and bloodier.
Broken weapons, shattered armor plates, and spraying blood stained the sands dark red.
Primal savagery was awakened in the hearts of the refined Lysene nobles. They cast aside their initial reserve and boredom, frantically cheering for the contestants they had bet on or favored, shouting until they were hoarse.
The liberal noblewomen of Lys let loose completely. Drenched in sweat with eyes like silk, some even excitedly tore off their undergarments or thin chemises, waving them to encourage the warriors bathing in blood, drawing even wilder howls.
And Aegon remained standing in the arena.
Undefeated.
Every strike was concise, direct, and efficient, carrying a near-instinctual, merciless ruthlessness.
The opponents' shields, armor, and bodies seemed to be nothing more than obstacles that needed to be 'dealt with'.
There were no superfluous movements, no boasting after victory—only combat, followed by the selection of the next opponent.
The cowardly had long since lost their nerve and surrendered.
More and more eyes focused on him. Noblewomen passionately called out the name 'Hain', throwing flowers, silk scarves, and even jewelry into the arena, which landed on the sand where he passed.
Amidst the crowd, a beautiful figure with charming almond eyes narrowed slightly, watching the silver-haired figure with a deep, meaningful gaze as he stood silent as an iceberg while constantly stirring up waves of blood.
Her fingertips unconsciously and gently stroked the fine embroidery on her sleeve.
"Hain... Hain?..." Her red lips moved, silently repeating the name. Her eyes sparkled with scrutiny, curiosity, and a very subtle light, as if she had discovered an interesting prey.
Just as the atmosphere reached its peak, Aegon had just unhorsed a Mercenary captain from the Disputed Lands who was wearing full plate armor. He used the butt of his lance to heavily strike the opponent's helmet, knocking him unconscious.
The announcer at the edge of the field received a new list, and his spirits suddenly soared.
He struck the bronze bell forcefully, suppressing the clamor of the crowd, and shouted with all his might, his voice hoarse:
"Ladies and gentlemen! Next—another warrior from Westeros will challenge our undefeated 'Lotte Haine'!"
"Let us welcome—"
"Jorah... Mormont—!!!"
The hornblowers puffed out their cheeks, blowing a stirring call filled with battle intent, unlike any heard before!
The crowd erupted once more in earth-shattering cheers and anticipation.
A new bloodshed was about to begin.
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn luffy1898