Astan had sky-blue eyes similar to his great-uncle's, long, flowing brown hair, and a handsome, heroic face.
The White Knight's grandnephew wore a blue-purple cloak lined with silver, a silver helmet adorned with golden wheat, and a breastplate decorated with a colorful enamel painting of a vast wheat field. The moment he stepped onto the field, the crowd erupted in thunderous cheers.
He waved at the noble ladies in the front row, triggering a wave of excited shrieks, then blew a flying kiss, igniting an atmosphere so passionate it felt as if the entire arena would melt.
"How strong is that guy's armor?" Dany asked her attendant.
"Very strong. It was forged by a true master smith from Qohor, nearly four hundred years ago. Astan's ancestors have worn it in at least a hundred tournaments," the old man muttered.
"That puts me at ease," Dany exhaled deeply, her gaze sharpening.
After riding his horse up and down the track, basking in the cheers and blessings of nearly all the women in the audience, Count Astan finally pulled down his visor and took his position on the opposite end of the field.
As the referee abruptly swung down the small red flag he held high, both contestants lowered their lances simultaneously. Their steeds charged forward at full speed, and the audience could feel the makeshift stands tremble with the thunderous gallop.
The Count of Harvest Hall leaned forward on his horse, his lance as steady as a rock, tracing an almost perfectly straight line through the air.
In contrast, the mysterious knight appeared frail. As his warhorse gained speed, his upper body swayed slightly with the rhythm of the hooves, and his arm trembled.
Astan was delighted. He aimed his lance directly at the exposed waist of his opponent. But just as they clashed, the mysterious knight shifted his body ever so slightly—his lance tip was effortlessly deflected by the black bat-shaped wooden shield. Before he could even register his surprise—
"Dong!"
It was as if a bell had tolled across the field.
Most spectators barely saw what happened. The next thing they knew, Astan had been struck hard and sent flying backward off his horse. Meanwhile, his warhorse continued galloping forward.
"Clang—"
He was thrown five or six meters away, landing headfirst, his legs kicking up as he crashed into the dirt. The violent impact made the entire audience gasp sharply.
Fortunately, the old knight hadn't been lying—his ancestral armor was indeed of exceptional quality. Even though the soil was soft, the Count of Harvest Hall's helmet was visibly dented. But he was not unconscious.
Struggling like an overturned turtle, he eventually climbed to his feet and even had the audacity to flamboyantly wave to the crowd. The audience immediately erupted in wild cheers.
To his credit, he was gracious in defeat. Without much delay, after catching his breath, he led his horse over to Dany, bowed elegantly, removed his lobster-gauntlet, and handed it to her.
"This is my ancestral armor. How about five golden dragons to redeem it?"
Dany nodded and returned the gauntlet to him.
Five golden dragons were reasonable. In her last five matches, she had won five sets of scrap-metal armor. The cheapest had been worth only 200 copper pennies, and she had gladly allowed the defeated knights to buy them back.
While the Count of Harvest Hall's attendants pulled Barristan aside to settle the payment, Dany rode her horse around the arena, basking in her triumph as the crowd showered her with cheers.
The young ladies were especially ecstatic. Even Queen Rhaella, seated on the dais, stood by the railing and applauded the slender knight.
"My lady, what a windfall! No one had faith in you—one hundred gold dragons turned into twenty-five!" the old knight joyfully reported on their way back.
"You say no one believed in me, yet the odds seem a bit low. Not even a one-to-one payout?" Dany asked in confusion.
"Sigh, my lady, though you were just one person, you bet gold dragons—one hundred at that! The amount was too large. The bookmakers adjusted the odds based on total wagers. You single-handedly won against hundreds of gamblers!"
"Well, since we've made dozens of gold dragons, we should find a way to spend them," Dany mused, stroking her chin, then began whispering to the old knight.
"This…" Barristan's aged face twisted in hesitation. "Isn't that a bit too flashy?"
"Look at your grandnephew—he lost, yet he's still strutting around."
That night, another raucous banquet lasted until the next morning, finally concluding the elimination round. By then, only 110 contestants remained. The final elimination matches would take place that afternoon.
Once the number of participants dwindled to 55, they would proceed to the final ceremony—the contest for 'The Queen of Love and Beauty.'
As the tournament neared its climax, the matches grew fiercer, and the audience grew larger.
That afternoon, beneath the pure-white canopy shading the VIP stands, even four or five Maesters, their long chains draped over their robes, were present.
"No way—the Maesters of the Citadel have come in person? Are they here to record the tournament?" someone exclaimed.
"They must have realized the Ironborn crisis is over. Now they've come to celebrate the victory with everyone."
"Let the whole world rejoice!"
The Maesters would witness history and inscribe it into the annals of time. Even if the knights here were not truly legendary, once their tales were written as epic stories and spread far and wide, a thousand years later, they would be remembered as legends.
And so, the knights became even more flamboyant. Each time they entered the field, they struck exaggerated poses and showcased all sorts of theatrics—tossing rose petals, spraying perfume on their cloaks, even commissioning artisans to paint their armor in dazzling colors.
Some knights even recited poetry during their duels, accompanied by a bard strumming a harp beside them.
Such an extravagant spectacle naturally fueled the audience's excitement, sending waves of cheers crashing through the stands.
As one match concluded, the announcer's voice rang out—
"Ser Garlan Tyrell of Brightwater Keep!"
Garlan rode a silver-maned white horse with fur as pure as snow. He was still clad in his magnificent silver armor, gleaming under the afternoon sun, reflecting a dazzling silver light. However, his cloak had changed.
The count's cloak was heavy, adorned with hundreds of golden roses and a circle of lush green olive branches. A mesmerizing fragrance followed wherever he walked, causing a stir among the crowd once again.
"Garlan! Garlan!" The young girls blushed, screaming wildly for their "Prince on a White Horse."
"Isn't he just imitating his younger brother, the Knight of Flowers?" Some nobles muttered sourly.
On the grandstand, the jovial Lord Baylor chuckled and said to Dr. Perestan beside him, "At this moment, half the women here want to share Garlan's bed, and all the men wish to take his place. Garlan is undoubtedly the most legendary knight of this tournament."
Dr. Perestan, a historian, had authored Historical Studies, the greatest historical work of the past century in the Academic City.
"Indeed, indeed," the elderly scholar squinted his eyes and nodded in satisfaction. "I am certain that Sir Garlan will leave a glorious mark in The Chronicles of Knights."
Receiving such an implicit promise from the old scholar, Baylor was overjoyed and immediately lavished him with hundreds of flattery-filled praises—after all, he was a contestant himself!
The master of ceremonies, well aware of how to cater to the audience, gave Garlan Tyrell ample time to bask in the spotlight. Only after he had paraded twice around the field and settled in the western stand did the announcer finally call out, "The Mystery Knight—Batman!"
Suddenly, from the east, along Rose Avenue, a deep cello sound echoed. Almost instantly, violins, trumpets, and saxophones joined in, the melody soaring to an overwhelming crescendo—majestic, grand, and heart-pounding. The symphony's ups and downs made the audience feel as if they were ascending the Iron Throne itself, issuing commands to the Dukes of the Seven Kingdoms, the countless Counts and Marquesses kneeling below.
The source of the music gradually approached the arena. The outer spectators instinctively parted to create a path. Leading the way was a knight's squire, clad in tattered black armor, leading a sleek black steed. Behind him came an open-top palanquin carried by eight people.
Lounging lazily atop the palanquin, legs crossed, was a knight clad in black armor. Upon his chest was the emblem of a black bat—who else could it be but Batman?
The crowd was dumbfounded. The eight palanquin bearers were all young, fair-skinned girls with golden hair and blue eyes, dressed in uniform white floral skirts. In front and behind the palanquin, there were four more women dressed in blue robes, with black hair and black eyes—each as beautiful as a blossoming lotus, their smiles dazzling.
These women carried baskets, scattering a cascade of red roses, white peonies, golden tulips, and blue Persian chrysanthemums with every step they took.
Following the palanquin was another, even larger, carried by sixteen men. These men, bare-chested with golden sashes wrapped around their waists, lifted a wooden platform enclosed by railings, nearly 20 square meters wide. Upon it, twelve musicians sat or stood, playing cellos, violins, trumpets, harps, small drums, saxophones, and flutes.
The powerful symphony emanated from this mobile stage.
The music soared, and the arena fell into a stunned silence. Thousands of spectators seemed to have their jaws drop to the floor, their eyes nearly popping out of their sockets, rendered speechless and incapable of thought.
As Game of Thrones (the theme song) reached its climactic conclusion, the old knight guided his black steed to a halt exactly five meters before the palanquin.
The four flower-scattering girls in front gracefully stepped aside, leaving an open space. Then, four blue-haired, red-robed girls brought in four colorful stools, placing them evenly between the warhorse and the mysterious knight, each about 1.2 meters apart.
The moment the stools were set, the music abruptly changed.
The melody was somewhat unusual, not quite in the style of Westeros, carrying an exotic flair. Yet, its rhythm was brisk, free-spirited, and exuded a sense of galloping through the martial world, wielding the whip with reckless abandon.
In simpler terms, it transitioned from the Game of Thrones theme to the grandmaster's entrance theme. And no, not the one who led the "Iron-Blood Youth Corps" only to get humiliated (Manning), but the one from Fong Sai-Yuk who successfully pulled off the ultimate showboating act.
As the music climaxed, the once-lazy knight, reclining on his soft couch, suddenly sprang to his feet. With the rhythm, he strode forward in a near-flight-like motion, stepping fluidly across the four stools, covering the five-meter distance effortlessly before leaping onto his horse.
Despite the weight of his armor, the stools creaked under his steps, yet his movement remained light and graceful, as if he were walking on air. The perfect harmony between his actions and the music created a breathtaking spectacle.
The moment he mounted his steed, the symphony on the wooden stage ceased instantly.
The afternoon sun bathed the land in its golden glow. The vast arena, filled with thousands, fell so silent that one could almost hear eyeballs rolling on the ground—if that were even possible.
Meanwhile, across from him, Count Garlan's face had turned red with embarrassment. He looked as though he wanted nothing more than to rip off the floral cloak draped over his shoulders.
Because those four woven stools he had just stepped on? Each was adorned with lush green olive branches, golden roses, blue forget-me-nots, and crimson spider lilies.
The Mystery Knight had just used them as stepping stones, while Garlan wore them proudly on his back.
And so, at Oldtown's "Mead River Showboating Tournament," Dany had already stolen the show, securing the championship—even though most of the contestants hadn't even entered the field yet.
(End of Chapter)
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