The battle did not stop — not even when the prince fell. The melee raged on around him, a storm of steel and screams.
With no opponent immediately before him, Twig — still in the form of Ser Monde Rouster — took a moment to watch the chaos unfold. His eyes caught one duel in particular: a weaker knight, outmatched and desperate, was being pushed to the brink.
Cornered and trembling, the man finally lifted his shield, dropped his sword, and shouted loud enough for all nearby to hear:
"I yield! I yield!"
Twig frowned. So it's possible to surrender mid-battle... maybe I can get others to yield too — that way, I won't have to knock everyone out.
But then he saw what came next — and his expression darkened.
The stronger knight ignored the surrender. With savage fury, he raised his blade and struck again, mercilessly driving his opponent back.
Twig's body moved before his mind did. In an instant, he dashed forward.
Just as the aggressor brought his sword down for a final, killing blow, Twig intercepted it — his blade catching the descending strike with a metallic clang that echoed across the field. The force of his parry sent the attacker stumbling backward, armor rattling.
The knight regained his footing, glaring at Twig with rage burning behind his visor.
"How dare you interfere in another man's duel? Have you no honor!?" he spat.
"The one without honor is you," Twig replied calmly but firmly. "Your opponent yielded. You ignored it. You're not fighting for glory or pride — you're just chasing blood."
The knight snarled. "You insolent wretch. I'll cut you down for that!"
He swung — wild, furious, unrefined. Compared to the earlier duel against Daemon Targaryen, this opponent was nothing. Twig moved like a breeze, avoiding each strike effortlessly, his strength and reflexes far beyond mortal limits.
Within moments, the fight was over. One precise blow — a shield bash, just strong enough to knock the man flat — and it was done.
Up in the royal stands, King Viserys watched with growing curiosity. The mysterious knight had defeated the prince, and now again he displayed restraint, composure, and mercy.
"Who is that knight?" the king asked aloud, intrigued. "I must know his name."
Princess Rhaenyra, seated below, glanced at him and said,
"Father, Ser Harrold might find out for us. He knows the guards stationed at the lists."
"Your Grace," said Ser Harrold Westerling, bowing. "It would be an honor. I shall ask the watch at the entry gates — a knight of such skill cannot be unknown."
He paused, then added with sincerity,
"Not only his strength, but his honor shines through. With the power he wields, he could easily have slain those before him — yet he hasn't. Every victory so far has been clean, restrained, and merciful."
Harrold gestured toward the field.
"Even his last intervention wasn't part of his duel. He acted out of honor, defending the sanctity of the melee itself."
Viserys nodded slowly, watching the man below.
"Indeed... his virtues speak louder than his sword," he murmured.
The melee wore on. Knights fell one after another — some dead, others surrendering, some simply collapsing from exhaustion.
At last, only two remained standing.
Twig — unstoppable, precise, every motion radiating control.
And Ser Criston Cole — the very knight who had spoken kindly to him before the battle began.
The crowd hushed as the two faced each other.
"So, you weren't bluffing after all, Ser Monde Rouster," Criston said, smiling faintly.
Twig returned the smile.
"It's an honor to face you again, Ser Criston. I hope your skill with the sword lives up to your confidence."
Criston chuckled, lowering his visor. "We'll see about that."
With a steady step, he advanced — shield raised, flail spinning in a deadly arc.
"Damn... fighting against a flail's tricky," Twig thought, narrowing his eyes. "Can't parry it with the sword, and blocking could get messy. Not that he can really hurt me — but I shouldn't look like some kind of monster out here."
He exhaled slowly, adjusting his stance.
"This should be a fair duel — worthy of him."
Criston swung. The flail cut through the air with a sharp whoosh. Twig stepped back just enough — the iron ball slammed into the dirt inches from his foot, kicking up dust.
Criston blinked, astonished. Dodging a flail was nearly impossible — its range unpredictable, its chain deceiving. Yet this man moved as if he saw the future.
Instinctively, Criston raised his shield for defense.
But Twig did something unexpected. Instead of charging, he spun his own shield — and threw it.
The two shields collided mid-air with a deafening clang! The impact was so strong that Criston staggered backward several steps, his arm going numb from the shock.
His shield fell from his grasp with a heavy thud. The flail dangled loosely in his other hand, its weight swaying.
When he looked up again, Twig was already standing ready — shield gone, sword lowered in perfect posture. His stance was flawless: balanced, coiled, every muscle at ease yet ready to explode into motion.
Criston scanned for openings. There were none.
"Ser Criston," Twig said softly, "I now hold the advantage. You can yield — there's no dishonor in recognizing strength. This is not a battle to the death."
Criston's jaw tightened. "Don't be ridiculous. I still have fight left in me. I won't yield."
Twig gave a small nod. "As you wish."
Criston swung again, but Twig moved like lightning — sidestepping, pivoting. The flail swept harmlessly past. In the same breath, Twig stepped inside the knight's guard, raising his blade under Criston's chin.
"Yield," he said quietly.
Criston froze. For a long heartbeat, he said nothing — then exhaled, releasing his weapon. The flail dropped to the ground with a dull metallic clang.
"You win," he said, his tone calm, almost proud. "I yield."
The arena erupted. Cheers thundered across the field. The crowd shouted, clapped, and roared — a storm of admiration for the nameless knight who had triumphed with strength, skill, and mercy.
In the royal stand, Ser Harrold returned, bowing before the king.
"Your Grace, I have the report from the gate captain."
Viserys turned to him, eager.
"The knight presented himself as Ser Monde Rouster," said Harrold. "The name is unknown. He came uninvited, belonging to no house, yet declared he would fight for the honor of the tourney — even at the risk of his life."
He glanced back at the field. "And as we can see, Your Grace… his skill speaks for itself."
Viserys leaned back, impressed.
"Incredible," he murmured. "A hedge knight, sworn to no lord, yet possessing such mastery… remarkable."
Nearby, Otto Hightower and the surrounding nobles exchanged knowing glances. Their eyes fixed on the man still standing tall in the center of the arena — Ser Monde Rouster, the victorious mystery knight.
To them, he was prey — a rare prize. A warrior without allegiance, free for the taking. Whoever claimed him first would gain a powerful weapon.
Rhaenyra leaned forward, her eyes alight with curiosity.
"Father, a knight that skilled, without a noble house… what will you do with him?"
The king smiled faintly, not taking his eyes off the man below.
"Well, my daughter… I haven't decided yet," he said. "But I'd like to speak to him personally. I want to know who he is, what he thinks… and where he comes from."
He paused, thoughtful.
"And perhaps," he added, "if he proves worthy… I might offer him a place in the Kingsguard."
Down on the field, squires hurried to clear the fallen knights and reset the ground for the jousts to come.
Twig walked off the arena, his armor glinting in the sunlight. Madrik ran to meet him, practically jumping with excitement.
"Ser Monde! Ser Monde, you won! You're the champion!" the boy cried, his eyes wide with pride.
"Calm down, boy," Twig said with a soft laugh. "It's a knight's duty to fight with honor — nothing more."
But inside, he wasn't smiling.
So… I won the tourney, he thought, frowning. But where's the System notification? Why hasn't the mission cleared yet?
System... you there?
Silence.
System?
Still nothing.
Twig's grip on the sword tightened slightly. The cheers around him blurred into a distant hum.
Don't tell me... this isn't over yet.