Jorah Mormont?
In the depths of Aegon's cold purple eyes, which seemed to hold nothing but the instinct to kill, a faint, almost imperceptible ripple finally appeared.
Opposite him, Jorah Mormont had already taken his position on horseback.
He was of a burly build, wearing a suit of semi-old but well-maintained plate armor, with the faint traces of a meticulously polished bear's head sigil visible on his breastplate.
His expression was exceptionally solemn at this moment, his brow furrowed, and his rugged face bore the weathering of a long journey and a hint of confusion.
He had never heard of the terrifying strength and the extremely cold fighting style displayed by the sellsword knight "Lotte Haine," who claimed to be from Westeros.
When did such a figure emerge from Westeros?
There was no time to think. The horn sounded again.
This time, the thundering of the charging hooves was no longer the prelude to a one-sided crushing.
The two warhorses started almost simultaneously, colliding with a determined momentum!
Aegon's charge remained concise and swift, carrying a cold precision.
Jorah Mormont's charge, on the other hand, was powerful and heavy, carrying the characteristic ferocity and tenacity of a knight of The North.
"Bang!!!"
Two lances slammed hard into the opposing shields at almost the same instant!
This time, no shield was easily pierced, and no lance snapped upon impact.
The immense force caused both warhorses to neigh and rear up, the riders shaking violently in their saddles before gripping tight to maintain control.
Wood splinters sprayed from the point of impact.
They brushed past each other and quickly pulled apart; without any pause, both men reined their horses around to face each other again.
Squires quickly brought forward new lances.
A second charge! A third charge!
Every collision erupted with a heart-stopping roar. The oak shields began to crack under such fierce impact, their leather coverings splitting open.
The crisp sound of lances breaking began to ring out frequently; every snap signified a thrilling exchange.
The lysene nobles in the stands had long since forgotten their previous lethargy and arrogance. They stood up, craning their necks, screaming themselves hoarse to cheer, regardless of which side they had bet on.
This was no longer a "barbaric game" in their eyes, but a peak collision of true power and skill, bloody and exhilarating, striking straight at the soul.
The Magister of Lys, Dorian, and Cassimir were equally shocked. They had intended this as a mere "monkey show" to humiliate the Targaryen siblings and practice using the grounds, so how had it evolved into such an intense struggle between dragon and tiger? Who exactly was this "Lotte Haine" who had suddenly appeared?
Sa Melis leaned against a pillar, her slender fingers unconsciously playing with the tips of her hair.
Her alluring amber eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the silver figure in the field, especially on that strand of bright silver hair flying from the gaps in his helmet every time he charged or turned.
The face of the silver-haired, black-clad young man who had coldly rejected Cassimir in the garden yesterday, refusing even to give his name, gradually overlapped with this killing machine before her.
Her red lips parted slightly as she murmured inaudibly, "So... it's you?"
Daenerys had long since forgotten everything around her.
Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her chest, her purple eyes following the silver figure closely. Every perilous exchange sent her heart into her throat, and every successful parry or strike sent a strange tremor through her soul.
That silver hair, those purple eyes, and the way he fought for her and her brother... or rather, for that black and red ribbon, cast a stone into the long-dead lake of her heart, sending out ripples of unfamiliar, burning emotion.
Viserys's gaze was even more like it was drawn by a magnet, unable to shift even a fraction from Aegon.
The sickly flush on his face grew heavier, and a fanatical fire burned in his eyes.
This is a true Westerosi knight!
This is the martial power sufficient to sweep away all obstacles!
If he could be used... if such a warrior could be recruited... he could already see the glorious image of himself ascending the iron throne, guarded by this invincible knight.
In the field, the clash had reached a fever pitch.
The brown warhorse beneath Aegon was foaming at the mouth, clearly at its limit. A squire hurriedly brought him another, even more magnificent black warhorse.
Jorah Mormont was also drenched in sweat, his breathing as heavy as a bull's. Every time he raised his lance and shield, they seemed exceptionally heavy; he was at the end of his tether. But his eyes remained fierce, the tenacity of a Northman supporting him so that he would not easily fall.
Finally, after an unknown number of earth-shattering charges.
"Crack! Crack!"
Both lances snapped in the middle simultaneously! Splinters of wood flew!
The moment the two horses crossed paths, Jorah could no longer hold on. The massive recoil and physical exhaustion caused his body to tilt; with a muffled groan, he fell heavily from his horse, crashing onto the sandy ground amidst a cloud of dust.
He struggled to get up, but his arms were weak, and for a moment he could not support the weight of his heavy plate armor.
Under Aegon's skilled control, the black warhorse carved a beautiful arc, coming to a steady stop and turning its head.
Only a small fragment of the lance remained in Aegon's hand.
He tossed it aside casually, and it hit the ground with a dull thud.
Then, he urged his horse forward, slowly coming to a stop before Jorah Mormont, who was lying on his back.
The black hooves were right beside Jorah's head.
Aegon looked down at him, the gaze behind his visor still cold.
He did not speak, but merely raised his arm. A squire from the sidelines had already cleverly run over, handing him a fresh lance.
The black and red ribbon was untied from the broken lance and tied to the tip of the new one.
The tip of the lance lowered, hovering three inches above Jorah's throat.
A cold killing intent spread out like something physical.
Jorah stopped his futile struggling.
He looked up at the figure on horseback, at the silver hair visible through the gaps in the helmet, and at those eyes whose cold texture could be felt even through the visor, a bitter and complex expression appearing on his face.
He panted heavily and spoke hoarsely:
"I yield."
He paused, looking at the lance tip and then at his opponent, adding with difficulty, his voice filled with incomprehension and defeat: "A sellsword knight?... When did such a person as yourself emerge from Westeros?"
Aegon did not answer.
He merely flicked his wrist and moved the lance tip away.
"Clang—!!!"
The bell symbolizing final victory was struck forcefully by the Herald, whose voice was almost cracking with excitement.
"THE VICTOOOOOR!!!"
The Herald roared with all his might, his voice still clearly audible amidst the sudden explosion of fanatical cheering that nearly overturned the entire arena:
"Is the warrior from Westeros—Lotte Haine!!!!"
"The championship belongs to Knight Hain!!! He has won a prize of five hundred gold coins!!!!"
Five hundred gold coins! A fortune sufficient for an ordinary person to live in wealth for a lifetime!
But at this moment, no one cared about the prize money.
Everyone's gaze was focused on that silver figure mounted on the black horse.
Amidst the deafening waves of sound, Aegon slowly raised his hand and removed the helmet, which was covered in dust and sweat and bore several fresh scratches.
A head of long hair as dazzling as moonlight or flowing mercury instantly cascaded down, flying in the blood-scented wind.
Sweat soaked several strands, sticking them to the side of his sharp-featured face, which looked like a sculpture of a god.
That handsome, almost fierce face was completely exposed to the sunlight, with slanted brows and a high bridge of the nose, but what was most unforgettable were those calm, ripple-less, yet seemingly storm-filled—violet eyes.
"Victory! Hain! Victory!!"
The Bloodsworn soldiers mixed in the crowd were the first to erupt in rhythmic shouts, their voices hoarse yet filled with fanaticism.
Then, the lysene people, completely ignited by the atmosphere—
Whether nobles, commoners, or the sailors and merchants docked here—
All began to shout frantically, waving their arms and throwing anything they could throw:
"Victory!! Silver-haired knight! Victory!!"
"Hain! Look here!!"
"Sir Knight!!"
The screams of the noble ladies almost pierced the clouds, their faces flushed and their eyes shining with infatuation.
They waved their handkerchiefs and silk scarves desperately, and some even excitedly took off their earrings and necklaces to throw down, hoping only to catch a glimpse from the champion who was as handsome as a god and as powerful as a demon.
Aegon seemed oblivious to this mountain-shaking roar.
He raised the intact lance in his hand, pointing the tip toward the sky, and quietly looked around at the boiling surroundings, like a king receiving the homage of his subjects.
That old black and red ribbon tied beneath the lance tip fluttered loudly in the gale, exceptionally striking.
A moment later, he withdrew his arm, turned his horse around, and under the pursuit of countless gazes, unhurriedly urged his horse toward that almost forgotten corner—
Toward the siblings huddled on the hardwood bench at the side and rear of the main stand.
The Herald was stunned at first, then suddenly reacted, scrambling to pick up a silver tray covered in deep blue velvet nearby.
On the tray lay a crown crafted from gold vines, inlaid with small gems and pearls, and centered with the largest teardrop-shaped ruby—the crown of love and beauty.
He almost ran, holding the silver tray high above his head as he came before Aegon's horse.
Aegon lowered his lance.
Trembling, the Herald carefully hung that dazzling, priceless crown onto the lance tip, which was stained with a bit of dark red blood.
The gold, gems, and pearls reflected a dizzying brilliance in the afternoon sun.
The slight bloodstain on the lance tip, rather than defiling its beauty, added a hint of cruel and alluring strangeness to it.
Under the gaze of countless lysene noble ladies, whose eyes instantly widened with jealousy, resentment, and even heartbreak, Aegon held the lance with the crown, riding the black steed step by step toward Daenerys.
On the high platform, the Magister of Lys, Dorian's eyes flickered violently.
He watched the crown being carried by the lance tip toward the Targaryen girl, and watched the waves of sound from the entire arena boiling for that silver-haired knight and indirectly for those siblings, his thoughts spinning rapidly.
It seemed the Targaryen name had not completely lost its hold on people's hearts... perhaps his attitude toward them needed to be re-evaluated... Sa Melis's eyes widened and her red lips parted slightly, completely confirming the suspicion in her heart.
It really was him! The mysterious, cold, silver-haired young man from yesterday who didn't even deign to give his name!
He actually possessed such terrifying strength, and... he chose to offer the crown to that Targaryen princess? The meaning behind this... Daenerys sat there as if a freezing spell had been cast upon her.
Her eyes, once red from crying, had dried, leaving only a slight puffiness.
Her purple eyes followed the figure walking toward her without blinking, looking at his face which was as handsome as the sun yet as cold as frost, looking at his loose silver hair dancing in the wind, and looking at the calm, ripple-less depth in his purple eyes.
Her heart was beating so fast it felt like it would burst.
The knight who had just proven his invincibility on the field of blood and sand, the champion who had won the cheers and awe of everyone, was now riding a tall horse toward her.
Hanging from the blood-stained lance tip in his hand was that dazzling "crown of love and beauty," symbolizing supreme glory and admiration.
That crown woven of gold and gems, hanging beneath the blood-stained lance tip, set against the hot noon sun and the lingering scent of slaughter, radiated a heart-stopping, contradictory, and yet incredibly real beauty.
She watched the knight ride up to her and pull the reins.
The black steed snorted, its warm breath almost blowing onto her face.
Aegon looked down at the thin, pale girl before him, whose eyes still held traces of alarm and tears, yet were shining brilliantly at this moment.
With a slight movement of his wrist, he delivered the lance tip with the crown steadily and firmly before her.
The crown swayed gently on the lance tip, the gems reflecting the sunlight and stinging the eyes of all the noble ladies present.
It also illuminated Daenerys's pale little face and her purple eyes, which were suddenly lit up as if they held
an entire galaxy.
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