Horses neighed, men roared, crowds cheered, and steel rang against steel.
In the faint mist, the great camp on the south bank of the Blackwater Rush was unusually lively. The Blackwater Rush camp was spacious, free of the stench of King's Landing, with only the salty bite of the sea breeze in the air.
Aside from the living miracle of the Dragon's return to the world, the soldiers had not slackened in their training. The Gold Cloak Knights had also brought in short runs, long runs, and weighted runs. No one was merely pushing himself. Everyone was pushing harder. Westeros knights hoping to make their names, along with Knight Attendants aspiring to become knights, trained with even greater effort.
The knightly culture brought by the Andals had swept through most regions. People were far more willing to admire rough-and-ready knights than bookish scholars.
That was because the knights and soldiers had heard that, aside from the coronation of King "The Storm" Gendry, there would also be a grand and lively tournament. Everyone wanted to stand out and show his face before the Storm, the True Dragon, and the assembled knights.
First place in the tournament was hopelessly out of reach, but second and third were still worth fighting for.
Formal knightly training in Westeros included horsemanship, archery, and sword-and-shield combat, which could also be practiced with blunt weapons. Then came the later costs of warhorses, knightly armor, weapons, and food, every one of them expensive.
Apart from fighting, a knight's life was meat, wine, and women. All of it cost money. If a knight had a great appetite and could eat and drink heartily, it was often taken as a sign of strength, though not always. Beyond that, there were the usual pastimes: hunting, tournaments, horse training, falconry, hounds, board games, gambling, and the tales of the Bard.
Only wealthy lords and propertied knightly families had the gold dragons to support a warrior's day-after-day training. For most farmers and small craftsmen pressed into temporary service, going to the battlefield meant learning in a rush, which was hardly different from being sent to die.
Worst of all, if a knight wanted to rise above his station, his choices were basically war or tournaments. And if he lost in a tournament, he might lose his armor as well, which was no different from having his equipment looted on the spot.
Knighthood was not merely a class. It was a culture. Knights were fearless, and a king should be more so.
"Roar! Roar!"
In the open ground at the center of the clustered tents beside the Blackwater Rush, weapons clashed and cheers rose in waves.
The soldiers had already cleared the field and set up barriers. This was not the tournament, but a training bout. Men and women alike were practicing their martial skills, and the most eye-catching field belonged to the Storm, where Gendry himself had stepped in.
A temporary wooden platform had also been built nearby. Lords, nobles, knights, senior commanders of the Army of the Seven Kingdoms, and battle heroes sat there to watch.
"Clang. Clang. Clang."
Gendry wore black chainmail and wielded a broad, heavy blunt sword, heavy compared with a slender practice sword, though battlefield weapons as a whole were not especially heavy. He struck left and right.
His shield was a golden quartered shield, gleaming brightly in the sun. Opposite him were several knights charging in to attack.
Today's sparring partners were Harrold Hardyng of the Vale, the wildling Timett, Guyard Morrigen of the Stormlands, Rolland Storm, Brienne Tarth, and Lothor Bren and Jack Crabb of Crackclaw Point.
Tall and long-legged, Gendry shifted across the field as his heavy black blunt sword whistled through the air. He was blindingly fast, almost dizzying to watch. His offense was sharp and ferocious, like a Storm sweeping across the world.
None of his opponents dared be careless. Each charged forward with his or her weapon.
"Clang!" "Clang!"
Steel collided in midair. The sound of clashing weapons came without pause.
For a time, longswords, Morningstars, and shields flew in all directions as the warriors exchanged blow after blow.
"Ha!"
Gendry laughed in the midst of the fight, his clear blue eyes, like a mountain lake, fixed on his opponents.
So long as he was stronger and faster, the rhythm of his enemies' attacks seemed to slow before him. It almost became a kind of prediction.
At that moment, Ser Garlan Tyrell of Highgarden led a group of important figures from King's Landing on horseback, then dismounted one after another. They had brought honored guests, including Mya Baratheon.
Garlan and the others watched the field without disturbing the knightly bout, simply finding a place among the spectators and enjoying the scene. Knightly culture was extremely popular throughout the Green lands, with the Vale, The Reach, and the Stormlands standing at the forefront.
The knights of the Crownlands were relatively lacking, perhaps because the Crownlands were more commercialized. People from the Crownlands might not be great fighters, but they loved a spectacle.
"One against seven?" Garlan Tyrell, wearing a green robe embroidered with twin roses, watched the noisy battlefield with complicated feelings.
Garlan usually trained against three or four men, but his partners were nowhere near as top-tier as the ones Gendry had chosen. Especially that tall, powerfully built Brienne. Though she was a lady, this smaller The Mountain was terrifying on the battlefield.
Gendry's blunt sword whistled down and smashed into Harrold Hardyng's iron helmet, denting it slightly. The blond, blue-eyed Harrold felt dizzy at once. His movements slowed despite himself, and then Gendry kicked him flying, forcing him out of the field.
"I lost! I..." The Young Eagle King sprawled half on the ground in a sorry state, every muscle aching, stars flashing before his eyes. Though he would not dare call himself the foremost young swordsman of the Vale, he was at least no weakling.
But the gap was simply too great. No one would mock this sparring partner.
The one-eyed Timett roared and swung his blunt sword. Timett's wild sword intent seemed slow before Gendry, whose heavy sword was faster and fiercer.
"Clang."
Timett's slender blunt sword felt as if it had struck a boulder, sending a convulsive pain through his body.
Gendry's sword momentum roared like a great wave. With every burst of force, the power behind the next blow grew heavier, like layers of surging waves piling one upon another.
Timett staggered backward until, in the end, he miserably threw away his sword and shield, joining Harry the Arse as a pair of unfortunate brothers.
The watching knights and squires stared with eyes as round as eggs. Gendry's performance was simply absurd. His strength and speed were unmatched. A heavy blunt sword greatly restricted a man's speed, yet Gendry still looked completely at ease.
"Again!"
Gendry strode forward and tossed aside his oak-and-steel shield. He would not defend, only attack.
"Storm" Gendry's long, powerful hands moved the heavy blunt sword as though it were a light flower. His swordplay flowed freely, without the slightest pause. A storm of iron light seemed to press down on the remaining five from three directions at once.
"Defend first, then counterattack!" Brienne of Tarth shouted at once. Tall and strong, she had quietly become the leader of the five.
Lothor and the other four defended calmly, trying to knock aside every strike with their weapons before counterattacking. None of them were weak, and they even had the Maiden of Tarth, a near top-tier master. But their efforts were in vain.
"Careful!"
Gendry's forceful chops became unpredictable, at times like a gale whipping up a raging tide, at times like a fine, unbroken rain. It was not only blazing fire. It could also be yielding water.
Gendry's greatsword flew up, down, left, and right. High cuts linked into low slashes, diagonal sweeps shifted into straight thrusts. Each time a Stormblade technique fell and collided, the defender felt his blood surge upward, as if being crushed beneath the enormous palm of a god.
With Gendry's extraordinary five senses and reaction speed, Brienne's formation also began to collapse. The older Jack Crabb and the weaker Guyard Morrigen were the first to fall. Their muscles could no longer support a counterattack. Pain throbbed through their bodies, and their legs trembled.
Jack and Guyard felt as though they had been thrown into a Storm, without the slightest chance to strike back. When they remembered that Gendry was using a specially made, oversized heavy blunt sword, they felt even more hopeless.
"I've lost!"
"But losing to the strongest knight is no disgrace."
Lothor and Rolland were also beaten senseless. They lasted one more exchange before being knocked down, but there was still pride on their faces. After all, they had faced the Storm, and lasting until now was already no small feat.
The surrounding knights, squires, and soldiers applauded them. The accompanying squires and Healers immediately checked their muscles and injuries to see whether anyone had been seriously hurt.
Garlan was taller, stronger, and had a beard. He was five years older than Loras, while Loras was slender and handsome.
Garlan watched the battle, then asked his younger brother Loras quietly, "Convinced yet?"
Loras nodded heavily and said nothing more. Compared with the Storm, he was far too lacking.
As a slender, agile fighter, the Knights of the Flower was superb in horsemanship and Swordsmanship, but on a battlefield he simply could not overpower strength-focused warriors like Brienne and The Mountain, much less even more terrifying opponents.
Randyll watched the fierce battle and let out a long breath, his eldest son's name echoing in his mind.
"Samwell."
If his eldest son had been an outstanding knight, he ought to be making a name for himself on the tournament field by now. But that fool did not understand that Westeros was a feudal society ruled by knightly force. A bookworm would only shame House Tarly's thousand-year name.
"I haven't lost yet."
Brienne, the knight in deep blue armor, was still on the field, though she was left standing alone. She was panting hard, holding on by a single breath. Though she was a woman, her physical strength was exceptional.
"Go, Brienne!" Dacey the Bear Girl shouted, cheering for her companion.
"Gendry!" Daenerys called his name.
Ser Barristan watched Gendry's offensive. He had seen hundreds of battles and tournaments. Even the most terrifying enemies had flaws, yet the opponents before him had not forced the Storm to reveal any.
At around six feet five inches tall, Brienne was as strong as most knights, and her former master-at-arms had once said that a woman as tall as she was should never have been so agile. On top of that, the gods had granted her excellent endurance. Ser Goodwyn had thought it almost unbelievable.
But before the Storm, Brienne felt a little desperate. Every one of Gendry's stats was terrifyingly high. He was taller than her, stronger than her, faster than her, and had more endurance. His stamina seemed endless, and he only grew stronger the longer he fought. But Brienne could not admit defeat.
"Let me."
Brienne took a deep breath, then strode forward. The Maiden of Tarth's blunted Morningstar whistled through the air, sweeping high and low, left and right.
Brienne brought out every technique she knew with the Morningstar: smashing, hammering, advancing, charging. She adjusted herself carefully, making sure each strike reached perfection.
The dance of battle began again. This was a dance of steel, a dance of killing and death. Gendry swung his steel sword, his swordplay tight and impenetrable, fierce chops mixed with rapid strikes that roared like a downpour.
Brienne's attacks seemed flawless. Her towering body allowed her to block off her enemy's path.
But Gendry was even taller. The Storm dodged the shadows of Brienne's hammer with an unbelievably nimble path, then reversed his greatsword in a brilliant, ingenious change of move. Only strength and timing pushed to the limit could make such a movement possible.
"Clang." "Clang."
Gendry spun and attacked hard. Several rounds of heavy blows, each full of crushing force, left Brienne struggling for breath.
Sweat blurred Brienne's vision. Her shoulders went numb, and the weight of her shield and Morningstar began to drag at her wrists. Every counterattack felt heavier than the last, until her Morningstar was knocked from her hand and sent flying to the ground.
"I surrender."
Brienne moved unsteadily, then raised her Morningstar and pointed it at Gendry. It was her salute.
When she removed her helmet, Brienne's eyes were large and blue, the eyes of a maiden, innocent and direct. Apart from those eyes, however, she was almost inhumanly ugly, with a flat, solidly built chest.
A smile spread across Brienne's face, and her voice rang high and proud.
"Though I was defeated by the Storm, I fought until the final moment. I will guard the two Princes with my life. I swear it by the old gods and the new."
"Brienne of Tarth!"
"Tarth!"
"Beauty!"
Many people cheered. The soldiers in the camp were not used to women being there, but Brienne of Tarth's martial strength had won them over.
Selwyn Tarth pressed a hand to his forehead, his heart filled with mixed feelings. His daughter would not follow his plans at all.
"Long live the Storm!"
"Long live the Storm!"
Even more soldiers began to cheer.
"Aside from sweat, it all comes down to stats." Stats stood above technique. Before pure stats and talent, skill had to take second place.
As the bond between man and dragon deepened, and as the path of the Pyromancer opened to him, Gendry felt his stats rise once more.
"Forgive my interruption, Your Highnesses!"
Garlan went down on one knee.
"I am honored to bring you Lord Stannis Baratheon, Hand of the King, Lord Mace Tyrell, Master of Coin, and the others."
Stannis and Mace led the group of important ministers in a bow.
"You are most welcome!"
Gendry wiped away his sweat. His short hair was coal black and strong-looking, and his body gleamed with perspiration as he turned toward Daenerys.
"My dear Daenerys, these two are the Hand of the King and the Master of Coin. There is also Lord Randyll, overseer of the Dragonpit construction, along with Lord Mathis, Lord Paxter, and the other advisers of the Small Council."
"You are all very welcome, my lords," Daenerys said with gentle courtesy.
"May Your Highnesses be well."
Stannis Baratheon and Mace Tyrell bowed first.
"Lord Yohn of the Vale has gone to welcome Princess Mya and her party. Lord Eddard has taken his bastard son Jon to welcome his wife and daughters. Lord Redfort and Ser Boggs remain in King's Landing to hold the city..."
Mace looked utterly loyal and reliable.
"Prince Gendry, Princess Daenerys, I have come this time to report on the preparations for the coronation, and to discuss the crowns, sword, and ceremony for Your Highnesses' coronation."
Daenerys looked at Mace with a smile. Back when the Targaryen Dynasty had been overthrown, Mace had also contributed to it. Even if he had mostly gone through the motions, it could still be counted as repaying the grace once shown by the Dragonlord.
"As for the crowns, I already have an answer in mind."
Gendry pointed at the golden battle standard.
"Use this to make two crowns."
"As you command," Mace replied with a bow. "I will gather skilled craftsmen and have them carved beautifully."
"It is a pity Aegon the Conqueror's crown was lost," Gendry said with deep regret. In truth, he wanted that crown even more. His father, King Robert, had a crown as well, but Robert himself had rarely worn that stag crown, so it had never gained much influence or renown.
"I have to find the old treasures of the Targaryen dynasty," Gendry thought. If he could gather Valyrian steel swords, crowns, dragon eggs, and all manner of treasures, then store them in a chamber and admire them day and night, that would be a fine thing indeed.
The Sealords had their menagerie. Gendry believed his own treasure garden would not be much worse.
"Ser Anguy, bring Tiger's Roar."
Anguy the Archer brought Gendry's Tiger's Roar out from the tent. The blade was wider than a palm, and when stood upright, it was taller than Jon Snow. It was a greatsword through and through.
"The pommel of this sword is shaped like a tiger. It only needs to be changed into the shape of a stag. Its name will be Fury, which is also the house words of House Baratheon."
Gendry drew the greatsword. The ripples on the blade were extraordinary, unlike the dull darkness of ordinary ceremonial blades. The surface of Tiger's Roar carried golden waves of light, like a bright yellow tide leaping across the steel.
"That name is truly magnificent, Prince," Lord Mace said enviously.
This was a gleaming Valyrian steel greatsword, a supreme treasure. The amount of Valyrian steel in a single greatsword could be melted down into two Bastard swords. Its solid make only made it more precious. In the past, only Ice, Heartsbane, and the now-lost Brightroar had been greatswords. Now, Gendry's Fury would become a new legend.
But Mace had nothing to say about it. Gendry had personally cut down Malaquo and seized it. When one had strength, taking was faster than buying.
These were all symbols of kingship: crown, sword, and armor. When Blackfyre, Dark Sisters, and the Conqueror's crown had all been lost, that had marked the lowest point of Targaryen royal power.
And now, Gendry possessed Fury, Orphan-Maker, Storm, and the Double-Curved Dragonbone Longbow. He had more treasures than any Baratheon or Durrandon before him.
Just then, the smell of sulfur and fire suddenly filled the air.
The dragons had come. Dragons that had finished hunting by the sea and in the river. A black dragon, a green dragon, and a white dragon.
The dragons' cries drove the horses mad with terror.
The dragons began circling in the sky, then slowly descended beside Gendry and Daenerys. As the dragons beat their leathery wings, the sulfurous smell in the air grew even stronger.
Mace and the others had already heard stories of the dragons, but seeing them with their own eyes was a shock beyond words.
"A miracle."
Mace's mouth opened wide as an egg, and he immediately dropped to his knees, his rear raised high like a fat onion.
Mace's kneeling set off a chain reaction. Next came Lord Stannis, Mathis, Lord Randyll, and all the other important ministers, kneeling one after another like wheat cut down by a scythe.
After more than a hundred years, they finally heard the magnificent music of the Dragonborn once more.
The dragon. This was the highest symbol of royal authority.