The atmosphere in the tourney grounds was ignited the moment the knights entered.
Deafening cheers mixed with the smell of roasting meat, sweat, and cheap perfume.
These scents steamed under the blazing sun, forming a frenzied atmosphere unique to King's Landing.
The rules followed the traditional elimination format.
Lynn sat quietly in the Stark box.
His pitch-black plate armor made him look starkly out of place among the silk-clad nobles.
Arya sat beside him, her face flushed with excitement, pumping her fist in the air.
Sansa seemed a bit uncomfortable.
She adjusted her blue gown from time to time, stealing glances toward one side of the stands.
High on the royal dais, Robert Baratheon impatiently urged his squire to pour him wine, his massive frame sinking into the wide chair.
"How long have I been sitting here!"
"Hurry up! Start the damn thing!"
"I can't wait to see these tin cans smash into each other!"
His roar carried clearly across the dais, drawing a ripple of good-natured laughter.
Ned Stark sat beside him, no smile on his face.
His grey eyes were filled with weariness toward this extravagant revelry.
Lynn stood up, walked behind Ned, and whispered in his ear.
"Lord Stark, I need a favor."
Ned turned back, a questioning look in his eyes.
"Find the biggest betting pool in the city,"
Lynn's voice was pressed extremely low.
"And bet every copper you can spare on me."
Ned's pupils contracted sharply.
All of it?
He knew Lynn had his plans, but this near-gambling behavior was truly not the Stark way.
"Previous tourneys have had fluctuating odds until the finals. Should we not wait and see?"
"This is too risky, Lynn."
"The higher the risk, the greater the reward."
Lynn looked at him, the gaze beneath his visor deep and resolute.
"This is part of the plan."
"We don't just need fame; we need coin."
"I understand."
Ned hesitated no longer, nodding heavily.
He gave Lynn a deep look, then stood up and quietly left the dais.
Having secured Ned's help, Lynn walked down from the stands and headed straight for the busiest tent at the edge of the tourney grounds.
It was the official betting pool run by the Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish.
Gold dragons from all over King's Landing flowed here like a river.
Lynn's appearance immediately caused a small stir.
The black armor, the direwolf-embroidered cloak, and the aura of someone not to be trifled with made the gamblers instinctively part to make a path.
The clerk keeping the ledger looked up, a trace of disdain flashing across his face when he saw it was Lynn.
"Oh, isn't it our Lord Black Knight? What, looking to place a small bet for fun?"
Lynn ignored the mockery.
He dropped a heavy leather bag onto the table with a thud.
Clatter—
The bag opened, and golden dragons spilled out, instantly covering the tabletop.
Gasps sounded from the surrounding crowd.
There were at least a thousand gold dragons here!
The clerk's eyes went wide.
"Here is one thousand gold dragons. I will have someone bring another two thousand six hundred shortly."
Lynn's voice was calm and waveless.
This was the investment from Robb and Mormont; he hadn't spent much on the road.
"All on myself. To win the champion's purse."
The tent fell silent instantly.
Everyone looked at Lynn like he was an idiot.
The clerk was stunned for a long moment before stammering:
"Are... are you sure?"
"Sure."
"The initial odds... are fifty to one."
"The odds will fluctuate until they lock for the final. Are you certain, my Lord? Would you not like to reconsider?"
The clerk licked his dry lips.
Most people waited for the finals to bet, preferring to watch and wait. Few dared to enter the pool now.
This meant if Lynn won, and assuming no one else bet on him to shift the odds throughout the tourney, the house would have to pay out a maximum of one hundred and eighty thousand gold dragons!
This wasn't gambling anymore.
If Lynn actually won, it was practically robbery!
Lynn knew Littlefinger would lock the bets for the final, relying on that mare. The man was so stingy he didn't want even a sliver of risk.
But that didn't matter. Lynn was just that confident.
He only needed to stabilize the odds.
The more he showed weakness or incompetence in the early rounds, the higher his odds would go, and the fewer people would bet on him.
When everyone bet on the stronger favorites—Jaime, the Mountain, the Knight of Flowers—in the finals, Lynn, who had appeared weak, would harvest everyone's wealth.
That would be the moment he bared his fangs.
Tyrell had done him a huge favor.
"Is there a problem?"
"No... no problem! Of course no problem!"
News of this massive bet quickly reached the royal dais.
Petyr Baelish paused, his hand holding the wine cup freezing for a moment.
He looked at the black figure in the field, the smile on his lips turning colder.
Fool.
A fool from the North.
Does he really think saving a Prince once makes him invincible?
The fifty-to-one initial odds were set by Littlefinger himself.
Not only to humiliate this arrogant Night's Watchman but also to scare off anyone thinking of betting on him.
Though some gamblers, eyeing the high return, had bet on Lynn, lowering the odds slightly, the majority were scared off.
It seemed the effect was surprisingly good.
Petyr signaled the servant beside him with his eyes.
"Tell them to take the bet."
He couldn't wait to see.
When Lynn was sent flying by the Mountain's lance, what kind of despair would be painted on his face?
Just then, the horn sounded on the field.
A royal herald rode to the center of the lists and announced loudly:
"The Hand's Tourney, Jousting, First Match!"
"Ser Gregor Clegane, 'The Mountain That Rides', of the Westerlands!"
"Against—Ser Hugh of the Vale!"
"OOOOHHHH!"
Thunderous cheers erupted from the stands.
The colossal Gregor Clegane rode a black warhorse nearly as massive as himself slowly into the lists.
His heavy steel plate reflected a terrifying cold light in the sun.
Just sitting there, he was like an immovable mountain, exuding a suffocating oppression.
His opponent, Ser Hugh, looked much frailer in comparison.
He had been Jon Arryn's squire.
Now, wearing a brand-new suit of armor, his face showed a mix of nervousness and excitement, eager to prove himself in this high-profile tourney.
On the dais, Ned Stark frowned tightly as he looked at Ser Hugh.
He remembered the young man.
Always silent and taciturn by Jon Arryn's side.
And now, he had to face the most brutal beast in Westeros.
"Begin!"
Robert couldn't wait any longer.
He waved his hand violently and downed his wine in one gulp.
The two knights spurred their horses, putting distance between them at opposite ends of the lists.
"For the King!"
Ser Hugh shouted, lowering his visor and raising his lance.
The Mountain said nothing. He simply urged his horse forward, beginning his charge.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Heavy hoofbeats struck like war drums on everyone's heart.
Two figures, like two meteors, rapidly closed the distance on the track!
CRASH—
A deafening sound!
Both lances struck the opponent's shield with precision at almost the same time!
Ser Hugh's lance shattered instantly.
The massive impact shook him violently in the saddle, nearly throwing him off.
But the Mountain's figure merely paused slightly.
His lance, made of solid oak, had snapped in the middle from the terrifying impact.
But the splintered front end of the shaft...
Driven by immense inertia, the jagged wooden spike thrust upward at a vicious angle, straight at Ser Hugh!
SQUELCH—
A dull sound of flesh being pierced.
Ser Hugh's helm and gorget could not stop the lethal blow.
The splintered lance shaft drove straight through the gap in his visor, piercing through his neck and out the back!
Blood sprayed instantly.
Ser Hugh didn't even have time to scream.
His body went rigid on the horse for a second, then fell heavily to the ground like a broken sack.
Dead silence filled the arena.
The deafening cheers from a second ago vanished without a trace.
Everyone stared dumbfounded at the twitching corpse on the field, and the gushing blood.
"Ah!"
Sansa let out a terrified scream, her face pale as she clamped her hands over her mouth.
This was nothing like the tourney she had imagined!
This wasn't a romantic duel of knights; it was a bloody slaughter!
Robert's face darkened slightly.
He gave Gregor a deep look.
"Guards! Drag the body away! Next match!"
Squires scrambled onto the field, carrying away Ser Hugh's body and hastily covering the striking bloodstain with sand.
Ned Stark's face was dark enough to drip water.
This was the "chivalry" the southern nobles prided themselves on.
Absurd, cruel, and utterly devoid of honor.
Lynn's expression didn't change.
He simply watched the mountain of a man calmly toss aside the broken lance and take a new one.
He was analyzing, calculating.
The Mountain's strength, speed, and that almost bestial killing instinct.
Just then, the royal herald's voice rang out again.
His voice carried an imperceptible tremor from the bloody scene just now.
"Next match!"
The herald's voice cracked slightly from tension.
"Ser Hosteen Frey of the Twins!"
"Against—"
The herald's gaze paused on the list for a moment, as if confirming the unfamiliar title.
"The Nameless Black Knight of the Wall!"
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