The crowd roared in the stands, restless and eager for the battles to begin.
At the center of the field, the master of ceremonies — dressed in flamboyant colors and armed with a voice that could rival thunder — raised his arms and shouted:
"Attention, everyone! His Majesty, King Viserys I Targaryen, shall grace you with his words!"
On the royal dais, among nobles clad in silk and jewels, a man with long platinum-blond hair rose to his feet. Dressed in opulent robes, he exuded authority and warmth as he addressed the people.
"Welcome!" he proclaimed. "I know many of you have traveled long roads to be here today, for this great tournament. I promise you — you will not be disappointed! Behold these knights — the finest in the realm — ready to show their worth before your very eyes!"
The king paused, his expression softening into a proud smile.
"And this day is made even more blessed, for my queen, Aemma, even now brings into the world my son."
The crowd erupted in thunderous cheers.
"May the Seven bless all who fight this day!" declared Viserys before sitting once more upon his gilded seat.
Twig — or rather, Ser Monde Rouster — watched the scene closely, recalling a similar moment from the show he once saw on TV. He turned to his young squire.
"Madrik, find a safe place to wait while I take part in the fight. Stay close enough to watch, but not too close to the arena."
"Yes, Ser Monde," the boy replied quickly. "I'll stay where you told me to."
As the herald began announcing the names of well-known knights, Twig followed the other combatants entering the arena. Among them, he spotted Ser Criston Cole — whom he had met earlier — and Ser Deran Hollard, the arrogant noble he'd humbled before.
"All right," Twig thought. "Let's try not to kill anyone. A few bruises and knockouts should be enough… I think."
The master of ceremonies, realizing most knights were already lined up and the noble names had been introduced, took one last sweeping look across the field. His eyes briefly passed over Twig's unfamiliar figure but didn't linger — the man simply raised his hand and shouted for the melee to begin.
Moments later, the horn sounded and the drumming started.
The melee had begun.
The field erupted into chaos.
Metal clashed against metal, shields splintered, and shouts filled the air. Axes, maces, and swords swung in every direction as armored men collided like beasts in a storm.
Twig, despite all his combat experience, had never seen anything quite like it. He'd faced monsters, undead, even demonic beasts — but never men killing men. Watching it unfold before him churned his stomach.
A wave of nausea rose in his throat. But before weakness could betray him before the roaring crowd, instinct kicked in — he ducked just in time to dodge a mace that would have crushed his skull.
A heavy iron mace whooshed past his head, missing by inches. The attacker cursed, recovering for another swing. But Twig was already moving — fast. His strength, reflexes, and vitality far surpassed any normal man's. To his opponents, it was as though he vanished between blows, appearing where their eyes couldn't follow.
Still, he knew he couldn't get careless.
"I can't underestimate them," he thought. "Even if my stats are higher, one mistake here could be bad."
He drew his sword and shield. The next time his opponent swung, Twig met him head-on — not with his blade, but with his shield.
The upward bash landed like a thunderclap.
The man was thrown a meter into the air before slamming face-first into the ground, his armor denting loudly.
Twig winced.
"Damn… maybe I overdid it. Hope he's not dead."
Before he could think further, another knight charged. This one wielded a longsword. Their blades met — steel screaming against steel — but Twig barely felt the impact. The other man, however, staggered backward, pain flashing through his arm.
Twig parried another blow, then twisted his wrist and countered with a short, brutal punch to the side of the opponent's helmet. The knight dropped instantly.
High in the stands, murmurs began to spread among the nobles.
"Who is that knight?" one asked. "He fights like a demon, but he hasn't killed a single man."
"I don't recognize his crest," said another. "Perhaps he's from a far-off land…"
Interest grew. Curiosity rippled across the highborn seats.
As the noise grew, Twig remained calm in the center of the chaos, his focus absolute.
Then a familiar voice cut through the din — a war cry filled with fury.
Charging toward him was none other than Ser Deran Hollard.
The young noble's pride burned bright; he would reclaim his lost honor here and now. His sword crashed against Twig's shield again and again, the blows raining down like a storm.
Twig didn't strike back. He only defended — solid as a wall, moving just enough to deflect the attacks. He wasn't trying to win; he was waiting.
Finally, Deran's energy burned out. Panting, trembling, his strikes slowed. That was Twig's cue.
He stepped forward and tapped the top of Deran's helmet with the pommel of his sword — a light hit by his standards. It was still enough to drop the young knight to his knees, unconscious.
Gasps rippled through the noble stands.
"By the gods! How resilient is that man?"
"What's his name?"
"No idea. I don't recognize his arms or crest."
Whispers spread like wildfire. Interest — and curiosity — grew around the nameless knight who felled opponents without killing them.
Twig looked around. No one was rushing him now — not out of fear, but because every other fighter was locked in combat elsewhere. He decided to move toward the heart of the melee, where the fight raged the loudest.
And that's when he saw him.
A knight in black armor. The helmet shaped with sharp wings — like those of a bat… or a dragon.
The dark knight cut down his opponent with ease, then turned his head toward Twig. For a heartbeat, Twig thought he saw a wicked grin behind the visor — or maybe it was just the light.
Without hesitation, the black knight charged. Shield raised, sword flashing.
Twig met him head-on. The first clash was like thunder — raw power against raw skill. The dark knight's technique was sharp, his precision deadly. But Twig's strength was overwhelming.
He blocked the blade with ease, and the shock of the impact made the other man grunt in pain.
They locked shields next — both knights braced, and the crash echoed through the arena. Dust rose around them. The black knight stumbled back several steps.
"Damn you," growled the man beneath the dragon-helm.
Twig's eyes widened.
"That's really the crazy prince," he thought, a chill running down his spine. "Daemon Targaryen."
From the royal pavilion, the nobles had already turned their attention to the clash.
"Who is that knight fighting Daemon?" asked King Viserys, leaning forward in surprise.
"I don't recognize the armor, father," said Rhaenyra, eyes shining with excitement.
Otto Hightower's gaze narrowed. He studied the unknown warrior intently, his mind already working through possibilities.
The duel drew every eye in the arena. Even other fighters paused to watch.
Daemon's speed was incredible, his form refined — yet Twig's movements were cleaner, sharper, unnervingly efficient. Each strike Daemon threw met a parry or sidestep. Each attack Twig made hit exactly where it needed to, never wasting energy.
The fight stretched on, far longer than any before it.
"This guy doesn't tire out?" Twig thought, ducking another heavy swing. "The last one gave up after ten blows, and this man's still going strong… must be that damn Valyrian blood."
His eyes narrowed. "Guess I'll have to end this faster."
Daemon lunged, swinging with ferocious strength. Twig sidestepped at the perfect instant, letting the blade whistle past.
Using the prince's own momentum, Twig hooked a foot behind Daemon's leg, tripping him forward — and before the Targaryen could fall, Twig slammed his shield down in a crushing blow.
THUD!
Daemon hit the dirt hard, the impact echoing across the field.
Twig didn't wait to see if he'd rise. He stepped back quickly, blending into the chaos of other duels as the melee raged on.
From the royal box, Viserys rose halfway from his seat.
"Did he just— knock Daemon down?"
Rhaenyra leaned forward, eyes wide. "Father... who is that knight?" Rhaenyra's eyes sparkled with awe.
Otto Hightower remained silent, his expression unreadable — though his mind was already spinning.