A knight of House Frey?
Ned's frown deepened.
Walder Frey's progeny had all inherited their father's greed and cunning, and Hosteen Frey was notoriously brash and pugnacious among them.
Lynn stood up from the stands.
"Lynn! Go get him!"
Arya waved her small fist, shouting loudly.
Sansa clutched the hem of her dress nervously, worry written all over her blue eyes.
The bloody scene just now had filled her with fear for this tourney.
Lynn simply nodded to them, then turned and walked down from the stands.
He put on the pitch-black helm and mounted "Storm."
Man and horse slowly entered the lists.
"Hah! He's really riding a plow horse onto the field!"
"Ser Frey will skewer him within three passes!"
Mockery from the stands rose and fell, clearly reaching every corner.
Hosteen Frey obviously heard it too.
He looked at the Black Knight riding the Shire horse opposite him, his face showing undisguised contempt.
A crow from the Wall, worthy to compete with the noble House Frey?
"Crow, crawl back to your Wall! This is no place for you!"
Hosteen raised his lance, pointing it at Lynn from afar, shouting insults.
Lynn did not respond.
He simply adjusted his posture clumsily.
The black plate armor seemed exceptionally heavy on him; even the hand gripping the lance looked stiff.
On the high dais, Littlefinger raised his wine cup, a sneer curling his lips.
Indeed, a country bumpkin from the North who hasn't seen the world.
Can't even hold a lance steady, and wants to win the tourney?
What a joke.
"Begin!"
Robert's roar sounded again.
The two knights spurred their horses, putting distance between them at opposite ends of the track, then began their charge simultaneously.
Hosteen's charge was standard and powerful, full of confidence.
Lynn, on the other hand, seemed flustered.
He clamped his legs clumsily around the horse's belly, his body bobbing up and down with "Storm's" heavy strides, looking like a novice who had just learned to ride.
The distance between the two horses shrank rapidly!
CLANG!
A dull, heavy sound!
Hosteen's lance smashed precisely into Lynn's shield!
The massive impact threw Lynn's body backward violently. He shook wildly in the saddle, nearly unhorsed directly.
Meanwhile, the lance in his hand slid weakly off the edge of Hosteen's shield, failing to leave even a decent scratch.
"Oooooh—"
A huge wave of laughter and boos erupted from the stands.
"Get off the field! Crow!"
"Stop embarrassing yourself!"
The smile on Littlefinger's face deepened.
Ned clenched his fists tightly, his palms slick with cold sweat.
Lynn swayed on the horse several times before barely stabilizing himself.
He gasped for air heavily, as if that single impact had exhausted all his strength.
Round one, a complete defeat.
Hosteen Frey turned his horse triumphantly and took a new lance.
He looked at the disheveled Black Knight opposite him, the contempt in his eyes turning into naked mockery.
"Again!"
The horn sounded once more.
The second charge began!
This time, Lynn seemed to have learned his lesson. He lowered his body further, trying to look more professional.
But his nervous appearance looked like mere bravado to everyone.
Hosteen didn't even bother to adjust. He simply held his lance casually and rode to meet him.
In his view, this pass would end the farce completely.
Two figures crossed again!
CRASH!
Another loud bang, wood chips flying!
This time, both lances shattered against the opponent's shield almost simultaneously!
A draw!
The mockery in the stands quieted slightly, replaced by murmurs of surprise.
"This crow has good luck."
"Managed to draw even with Ser Frey?"
On the high dais, Littlefinger raised an eyebrow imperceptibly.
Luck?
Perhaps.
Lynn was still panting heavily, feeling his arm go numb.
He even made a show of struggling to calm the somewhat agitated "Storm."
Of course, this was all an act.
He didn't want his performance to be too good, causing people to bet on him in the next round and raising the odds. That would cost him a lot of gold dragons!
"Again!"
The smile was gone from Hosteen's face, replaced by irritation.
He couldn't tolerate being forced to a third round by a nobody.
This was a disgrace!
Third charge!
This time, Hosteen used his full strength!
Like an enraged boar, his eyes held only the brutal desire to crush his opponent!
Lynn rode to meet him.
His movements were still clumsy, his posture still laughable.
To everyone watching, he had reached his limit.
He was bound to lose this pass.
The distance closed rapidly!
Fifty paces!
Thirty paces!
Ten paces!
Just as the horses were about to cross!
Lynn's seemingly stiff body made an unbelievably subtle adjustment with a minimal range of motion.
He didn't aim to block Hosteen's shield.
His lance tip tilted slightly upward!
The target was no longer the broad shield!
But the narrow gap where Hosteen's right pauldron met his breastplate!
CRACK—
A sharp, ear-piercing snap!
Hosteen's lance still smashed into Lynn's shield, the massive force throwing Lynn backward again.
But this time, he held on!
And Lynn's seemingly casual thrust hit its mark with precision!
The lance tip instantly pierced into the gap, then pried upward violently!
Hosteen Frey didn't even understand what happened.
He only felt an irresistible force from his right shoulder, as if slammed by a mammoth!
His burly body was torn from the saddle instantly, as if whipped away!
"Ah!"
A short scream.
Hosteen Frey traced a pathetic arc in the air, then landed with a thud, like a heavy bag of trash, crashing heavily into the horse-dung-filled mud of the lists.
Dead silence filled the arena.
Everyone's eyes went wide, unable to believe what they were seeing.
The arrogant Ser Frey, just like that...
Was sent flying by a crow on a plow horse, in an almost comical manner?
After a brief silence, scattered cheers rang out.
"He won!"
Arya jumped up from her seat in excitement!
Sansa covered her mouth, her beautiful blue eyes shining with wonder.
On the high dais, Prince Joffrey was red-faced with excitement.
He pumped his fist vigorously, shouting hoarsely.
"I knew it! I knew it! Ser Lynn is the strongest!"
Ned let out a long breath of stale air, his clenched fists finally relaxing.
He began to understand; Lynn was hiding his strength.
On the other side, the smile on Petyr Baelish's face froze completely.
His hand holding the wine cup stopped in mid-air, his eyes terrifyingly dark.
He lost.
Though it was only the first match, he lost.
That fool from the North actually won against Hosteen Frey on dumb luck!
But it didn't matter.
Littlefinger quickly adjusted his mindset.
Luck always runs out eventually.
He didn't believe this crow could keep winning.
Lynn ignored the cheers around him.
He just sat quietly on his horse, his chest heaving violently as if exhausted.
He struggled to raise his broken lance toward the King's dais in a clumsy salute.
Then, he turned his horse and slowly exited the field.
His retreating figure looked full of exhaustion and sheer luck to the onlookers.
He left the lists and returned to the stands.
The royal herald's high-pitched voice rang out again, announcing the matchups for the next round.
"...Next match, Ser Loras Tyrell, the 'Knight of Flowers', against Ser Raynald Westerling of Lannisport!"
"...And!"
The herald's voice paused. He looked at the freshly updated list in his hand, and shouted in a tone mixed with shock and excitement:
"The victorious Black Knight will face in the next round—"
"The Hound, Sandor Clegane!"
Silence fell.
Then the entire arena exploded!
Everyone's eyes turned in unison to the man wearing the helm shaped like a snarling dog's head, silent as a rock.
And to the black figure who had just won by "luck" and was slowly leaving the field.
Lynn stopped and looked back.
This competition seems a bit unfair. I just fought, and I'm up again in the next round?
Lynn looked toward Robert on the high dais.
It seems Robert wants to see exactly how capable I am, and if I truly have the ability to take down the Targaryen remnant across the Narrow Sea.
But it didn't matter.
Same old strategy: show weakness to the enemy.
Earning gold dragons was important.
This was his capital to purchase the Unsullied army.
Across the distance, Lynn's gaze locked onto the Hound standing beside Joffrey.
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