"The mysterious knight, Batman, has arrived?"
Dany immediately spurred her horse forward, deliberately making her voice low and hoarse: "Batman is here!"
"You've advanced."
"What?"
"Congratulations, you've eliminated 'Dung Beetle' Jimmy and moved on to the next round! There's no match for you this morning, but report to Arena No. 44 in the afternoon—don't be late," the announcer said.
Dany was stunned. She sat there in a daze for a moment before finally riding off under the announcer's repeated urging.
"Let's go," the old knight said as he approached.
"I want to watch a little longer."
"Pay attention to the contestants around you." The old knight pointed at the armored knights preparing for their matches. "Many of them have armor that is either old and rusted or assembled from second-hand parts. A knight who can't even afford proper armor—imagine what that says about their skills and tactics. If you really want to watch a fight, you'd be better off returning to the main arena."
Dany glanced around, sighed, and silently followed the old knight out of the arena.
He was right. This world did not have peerless swordmasters like Ah Fei or Fu Hongxue.
The idea that one could wield a broken iron ruler, master no martial arts techniques, and become one of the greatest warriors in the land by refining just two simple moves—thrusting and drawing the sword—was a fantasy that only existed in wuxia novels.
In this world, where strength, endurance, skill, horsemanship, warhorses, and armor determined a knight's fate, such stories would never come to pass.
A great knight could only be born into a wealthy family, one that never had to worry about food or clothing and could afford to hire a martial instructor from childhood.
The horse walked steadily along the dirt road, while the sounds of clashing lances and shields, cheers, and cries of pain occasionally drifted from the nearby arena. As she watched the matches, Dany muttered to the knight beside her, "Have there ever been legendary knights from poor backgrounds?"
The White Knight thought for a moment before replying, "In the past hundred years? Half of one."
Dany turned to him in surprise. "Half of one?"
"Do you know what Prince Dragonfly's real name is?"
"Duncan Targaryen."
"Yes, the prince was also called 'Duncan the Tall,' but he wasn't actually short—he was a handsome man standing at 1.8 meters."
"So that means there must have been a truly legendary 'Tall Duncan'—a great knight of common birth?" Dany mused.
"Exactly. My lady, you're quite sharp." The White Knight gave her an approving glance before continuing, "Ser Duncan was a Kingsguard of the previous generation, standing over two meters tall.
When he was a boy, King Aegon V—who had yet to ascend the throne and was still going by the name 'Egg'—once served as his squire for a time."
Aegon V was Daenerys' great-grandfather, and the first prince in history to break an engagement—Duncan the Small—was his eldest son.
To name his crown prince after a White Knight of common birth… Aegon V must have deeply admired his Kingsguard.
"But while Ser Duncan was indeed from the slums of King's Landing, he was taken in by Ser Arlan at the age of five and received proper knightly training. So, he wasn't a true commoner in the strictest sense."
Compared to the competition grounds of the hedge knights, the main arena was a spectacle of fluttering banners and roaring crowds. The competitors were clad in gleaming, magnificent armor, appearing like the very heroes sung about in countless ballads, each more gallant than the last.
The thunder of galloping hooves trampled the tournament grounds into a muddy mess.
The wooden stands were packed with spectators dressed in luxurious attire, their expressions both reserved and fervent as they cheered for each victor and lamented each knight who fell from his horse.
Especially the noble ladies and young maidens seated in the front rows—whenever a knight waved toward the audience, their cheeks would flush, and they would fan themselves with perfumed handkerchiefs, shrieking in excitement as if every knight was their personal champion.
Perhaps they thought: With so many people shouting, no one can tell that I did too. And no one can see the gaping maw I just opened like a hungry hippo.
The blare of a war horn echoed as Dany arrived. The spectators quieted down from their discussions of the previous duel, and as the horn call ended, the announcer declared,
"The champion of Lady Rhaella—Garlan Tyrell, Earl of Brightwater Keep!"
The count rode into the arena with his back straight, astride a magnificent black stallion. He wore a dazzling silver suit of armor, polished so brightly it was almost blinding. Across his chest was an emblem of two entwined green vines and two golden roses.
To the shock of Dany and the other spectators, the gold flowers—each the size of a bowl—were made of countless tiny gold crystals.
A collective gasp filled the air as thousands of throats sucked in breath at once.
"And his opponent: the mysterious knight of Brightwater Keep—Old Gardener!" the announcer continued.
This knight wore ashen gray armor, draped in a sky-blue cloak—the only adornments on him were this cloak and a fox-shaped helmet.
Yet, the moment this mysterious knight appeared, the previously festive atmosphere seemed to freeze, as if an awkward guest had just walked into a lively banquet. Even the noble ladies had stopped cheering.
"Who is he? It looks like everyone recognizes him," Dany asked in confusion.
"Sky-blue cloak, fox helmet, from Brightwater Keep, calling himself 'the Gardener's son'—he must be a Florent," the old knight said confidently. "From what we've gathered, he's most likely Ser Arrec, the man who came seeking Lord Hightower's aid."
As the two conversed, the two knights in the arena had already begun their charge.
Boom!
The mysterious knight's lance smashed violently into Earl Garlan's wooden shield, shattering instantly. In that moment, time seemed to slow, and Dany could clearly see the metal surface of the shield dent inward before splinters of wood burst out like bullets, scattering in all directions and striking against both knights' armor with a series of sharp, muffled impacts.
"Whoa—" Thousands of spectators inhaled in unison.
"Excellent!" the old knight exclaimed. "Stable, precise, and fierce—and he even used finesse. His lance broke, yet the rider remained unharmed.
And Earl Garlan held firm as well. Despite enduring such a powerful strike, his warhorse maintained perfect form, meaning the force was completely absorbed and didn't disrupt his mount."
While the Fox-Helmed Knight was switching to a long spear, the old knight spoke again:
"During the War of the Four Kings, House Florent originally sided with House Tyrell in supporting Renly.
After Renly's death, the Tyrells withdrew, but Alester Florent, due to his brother and niece, defected to Stannis instead."
Stannis' wife was from House Florent.
"Later, the Tyrells allied with the Lannisters, Stannis was defeated, and House Florent of Brightwater Keep found themselves in an awkward position.
Duke Tywin stripped House Florent of all their lands and noble titles, granting Brightwater Keep to Ser Garlan Tyrell as a reward for his valor in the Battle of the Blackwater.
To reclaim Brightwater Keep, Lord Alester sought to negotiate on Dragonstone's behalf with King's Landing, but Stannis sacrificed him to the Lord of Light.
Brightwater Keep's heir, Ser Alekyn, Alester's son, fled to Oldtown to seek protection from House Hightower. Unexpectedly, he also entered the tourney and, in a dramatic twist, ran into Lord Garlan."
"What is Ser Alekyn's relation to the Oldtown Elder?" Dany asked.
"Alekyn's older sister is the wife of Lord Leyton."
"Wait…" Dany was momentarily confused. "Isn't Garlan Tyrell's mother also Lord Leyton's daughter? Does that mean… infighting within the family?"
"No, Lord Leyton has had three wives pass away. His current wife from House Florent is his fourth. Each wife bore different children. Lynesse and Humphrey share both parents, but Humphrey and Smiling Baelor are half-brothers."
"So complicated… If I were the Oldtown Elder, I'd hide in the Hightower and never come out too." Dany muttered, twitching her lips.
As they chatted, they watched the mysterious knight clash with Lord Garlan. In the second, third, and fourth rounds, both knights successfully parried each other's lances, but none shattered.
"Judging by the score so far, it seems Lord Garlan is going to lose," the old knight remarked.
"Not necessarily."
In this tournament, Ser Garth had set the rules: the joust consisted of five rounds.
Knocking an opponent off their horse didn't always happen, so if both knights remained mounted, the winner was determined by points after five passes.
Points were awarded based on where the lance struck, the fluidity of movements, the rider's control over their steed—whether the horse slowed down or stumbled during impact—and the precision of the lance strikes.
In the past four rounds, the mysterious knight had launched fierce attacks, even grazing Garlan's abdomen, causing him to lose points.
Now came the fifth and final round. Like the thousands of spectators, Dany held her breath, eyes locked on the two knights as they steadily gained speed.
The thunderous sound of hooves filled the air under the sunlight. The knights leaned forward, shields raised before their chests, lances aimed straight, warhorses charging at full speed, yet their lance tips remained steady.
Suddenly, just before impact—perhaps blinded by the sunlight—the mysterious knight's vision wavered, and his right hand trembled slightly, causing his lance tip to lift.
"Boom—Crash—"
Garlan's lance struck dead center on the mysterious knight's chest, knocking him sideways onto his horse's back. But at nearly the same moment, "the Old Gardener's" lance slipped past Garlan's shield, aiming directly for his face.
Fortunately, Lord Garlan reacted swiftly, jerking his head back. The wooden lance scraped against his gorget with a teeth-grating screech before striking the lower edge of his helmet. The silver-plated helm was sent flying, leaving a bloody mark stretching from his chin to his ear.
Blood gushed out.
"Ahhh!" The audience gasped, young maidens covering their mouths, eyes brimming with tears.
"Woo-woo!" The horn sounded as Ser Garth Hightower rushed onto the field, loudly calling for the maesters to treat the two riders.
In truth, neither was seriously injured. Garlan's face was bloodied, looking more frightening than it actually was, just a flesh wound. Meanwhile, the mysterious knight, well-armored, was merely struck by a blunt wooden lance and was completely unharmed.
After about seven or eight minutes, once both knights had left the field, the announcer stepped forward and declared:
"The mysterious knight has committed a foul! Lord Garlan Tyrell is the victor!"
"That bastard did it on purpose. He wanted to kill Garlan." Ser Barristan said grimly.
"Mm." Dany nodded in agreement.
In jousting, striking an opponent above the neck was considered a foul—unless it was an accidental hit from a shattered lance. The "Old Gardener" had displayed skillful, seasoned maneuvers in the previous rounds. He didn't seem like someone who would make such a low-level mistake.
The old knight's face darkened. "Brightwater Keep is still under Florent control. Garlan led half of House Tyrell's forces back to Highgarden specifically to reclaim it.
But then an unexpected crisis arose—the Ironborn seized the Shield Islands, invaded the Mander River, and threatened the very heart of House Tyrell: Highgarden itself.
The Seven Kingdoms are already in ruins—
The North, the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Crownlands… Storm's End is still under siege, and now even the Reach is in turmoil."
"What the hell is happening to Westeros?" The old man sighed sorrowfully.
"Report! Report!"
Suddenly, a rider galloped down the Rose Road, waving a scroll of parchment and shouting:
"Latest news! Fresh from the Citadel! Balon is dead! Balon fell from a bridge four days ago! The King of the Ironborn is dead! Oldtown is safe!"
"Is it true?" The tournament grounds erupted in uproar. Spectators abandoned the joust, rushing toward the rider.
"The Citadel just received confirmation—King Balon fell to his death from a bridge! His brother Euron seeks to claim the Seastone Chair, throwing the Iron Islands into chaos. The crisis in Oldtown is over!"
The rider pushed through the crowd, reaching the grandstand, and loudly reported to Lord Baelor and the other noble lords.
"Good, good, good!" Smiling Baelor grinned ear to ear, momentarily forgetting the earlier family dispute, reveling in the good news.
"Good my ass. The Reach is in danger!" Dany's face changed dramatically.
(End of Chapter)
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