The four finalists decided in today's joust belonged to three generations: young, middle aged, and old. They differed in age and came from different regions.
On the field beside the Blackwater Rush, warriors from King's Landing, Gendry truly counted as a native of King's Landing, The Reach, the Stormlands Marches, and Dorne had fought their way to the end.
The youthful King "Storm" Gendry the Breaker I and Ser Loras Tyrell, the "Knight of Flowers."
The elderly Kingsguard Ser Barristan Selmy, and the middle aged "Red Viper," Prince Oberyn Martell.
"Tomorrow, the semifinals and final of the Longspear joust will be held to decide who is the crown of warriors and the light of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Our beloved King Gendry, favored by the old and new gods, will face Ser Loras of The Reach, while Prince Oberyn of Dorne will face Ser Barristan, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," the heralds announced loudly, and the brass horns rang out.
The four favored warriors spurred their horses and circled the field. The champion would be born from among them.
The knights removed their helmets and visors, and the watching crowds, lords, noble ladies, young maidens, and foreign envoys cheered for them in waves.
Gendry, dressed in black armor and a golden robe, stood six feet seven inches tall, about two meters. The "Storm" had short jet-black hair and blue eyes. Tall, handsome, and vigorous, he towered over the crowd like a grand pillar.
Loras wore silver armor and a green robe. He had beautiful golden curls and a handsome, almost lovely face.
Then there was the old yet still formidable Ser Barristan, every movement of his graceful.
And the Red Viper was exactly as the legends said, fierce and fearless.
"Long live the Storm!"
"Long live King Gendry!"
"Barristan the Bold!"
"Loras!"
"The Knight of Flowers!"
"The Red Viper of Dorne!"
The cheers rose wave after wave. The crowd cheered loudly for the Knight of Flowers and Barristan, but the cheers for the King were the loudest of all, drowning out everything else.
"Storm" Gendry was young, handsome, brave, fearless, heroic, and bold. He had won the hearts of the people and the lords alike.
"He really is so handsome, warm, and powerful," Sansa Stark thought. Young, handsome, and imposing, he made Sansa envy Daenerys. "Will I ever see such a gallant knight again?"
"The Stag cannot compete with him," the Braavos envoy whispered to the Black Pearl. "Look at the King's popularity. The people of the Seven Kingdoms love him. Each victory adds another layer of glory."
"We are only observing, not drawing conclusions," the Black Pearl replied softly. She turned the thought over and over in her mind. The danger of the Storm exceeded anyone she had ever met.
Handsome, charismatic, able to fight, and able to win in single combat. These were practically the golden standards for a King of Westeros, and Gendry met every one.
The Longspear joust represented honor and knightly skill, so warriors flocked to it eagerly.
"We knights of the Stormlands are the finest!"
"Nonsense. Only King Gendry is the strongest, but the King is a man of the Crownlands." The spectators from the regions of the four finalists cheered even more fiercely, laughing aloud as if sharing in the honor.
As for the spectators from the regions of the defeated knights, though they also clapped and shouted, they still felt somewhat deflated. They could only prepare themselves and hope to win honor later.
"There are only so many truly strong ones." Gendry's gaze swept over the spectators in the stands, and over the unwilling knights as well.
The Vale knights were the most depressed. They had once been the light of the Seven Kingdoms, yet this time not a single one of them had reached the final four.
The Crownlands, places such as Maidenpool and Duskendale, had almost no famous knights.
"The Reach, the Stormlands, the Vale, and even the Westerlands all have a fierce martial spirit. Dorne and The North stand somewhat apart from Andalan culture, but they are brave as well. The Riverlands and the Crownlands, except for Crackclaw Point, are rather lacking."
The strong competitors of the day were obvious, apart from the final four.
There were also Lothor Bren and Jack Crabb, the half-wildlings of Crackclaw Point in the Crownlands.
From the Vale, Lyn Corbray, Ser Mychel Redfort, the father and son knights of House Royce, and Harry the Arse.
From the Stormlands, Guyard Morrigen, Rolland Storm, Balon Swann, and others.
From The North, Jon Snow Stark.
From the Riverlands, Lord Gerold Melisent.
Yet the dragons flying out of the King's great tent drew even more cheers than the knights. As soon as the dragons took flight, the people and lords fixed their eyes on these creatures of Fire and Blood.
A black dragon, a green dragon, and a white dragon.
These dragons were strong, powerful, and free, nothing like the Last Dragon.
The green dragon Vhagar circled above the stand where Daenerys Targaryen sat, drawing screams from noble ladies, attendants, and children.
Daenerys Targaryen maintained her royal composure, while Margaery Tyrell, her expression a little strange, could not help praising her.
"You truly have the bearing of a Dragonlord house."
"I am the Mother of Dragons, Margaery," Daenerys said with a giggle to her companion.
"Dragons. Those are dragons." Arya Stark rubbed her eyes, feeling as though the world itself had split open.
Direwolves were fantastical enough, but dragons were the very word for magic made flesh.
"Dragons are flying!" Robert Arryn shouted first, his eyes full of excitement.
Edric Baratheon, Edric Dayne, and Shireen Baratheon were there as well.
The black dragon Balerion and the white dragon Viserion chased one another, circling through the sky as if at play. Their leathery wings beat the air, bringing scorching heat with them.
The warhorses grew frightened the moment they saw the dragons' shadows. Some stumbled, and when the dragons drew closer, the horses tried to break free of their reins.
It was an instinctive pressure.
"Roar."
The black dragon Balerion let out a playful roar, and all the horses became even more panicked, wanting to bolt until foam poured from their mouths, even though most of the knights rode fine steeds.
"Dismount, everyone," Gendry reminded them. "Lead the horses away, or the dragons will start hunting soon."
"A dragon's might is unpredictable. The old saying is right." The Red Viper nimbly jumped down from his horse and began soothing his steed.
Loras and Ser Barristan also quickly dismounted and calmed their mounts.
The squires came running over to help soothe the horses and lead the fine steeds away.
"I'll help you, Your Grace." The Hound began helping look after Gendry's black steed. He had brought several Dragonkeepers with him.
The Hound rode a black horse named "Stranger," a name so blasphemous only he would choose it.
All the horses had to be led away, while the dragons still circled proudly and defiantly overhead.
"Easy, Ghost." Among the knights, Jon desperately soothed his panicked white wolf to keep it from flying into a rage and hurting someone.
Seeing Sandor Clegane, the Hound, as a Dragonkeeper again, the Knight of Flowers could not help feeling deeply moved.
Within a single year, King's Landing had seen three or four kings come and go. The Mountain, Gregor Clegane, was dead; the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, was crippled; the Great Lord of Storm's End, Renly Baratheon, had been exiled.
Dragons had even appeared again. Everything had changed.
The Hound, however, was still very much alive and kicking. Yet the champion of the previous tournament had nothing but contempt for this one.
The Hound was also extremely strong. In terms of martial force, he was among the best of the knights, but he hated the way of knights with all his heart.
"Why, Ser Sandor Clegane? You clearly could have joined this tournament." The "Knight of Flowers," Loras Tyrell, could not help asking.
"No reason, Young Lord Loras. I'm not a knight, so don't call me Ser. Ser this, Ser that. My brother was a knight too. Look what kind of man he was." The Hound removed his visor and spoke impatiently.
The visor was shaped like a savage hound, jaws bared in a snarl, a shocking sight. Beneath the hound's mask was a face burned into ruin.
"You're that great brute The Mountain's younger brother?" Oberyn looked at the Hound, his eyes amused. "I've actually wanted to fight you. You were the champion of the last tournament in King's Landing. You must be quite strong."
"The day I heard Gregor was dead, Sandor died as well," the Hound replied calmly. "But I do hate you for stabbing my brother to death with that long spear. You wiped away my chance at revenge, Red Viper."
Other men dreamed of love, wealth, and honor. The Hound's dream had been to kill his own brother, The Mountain. He would not have cared even if it made him a kinslayer.
"If you're willing, we can have another match. It makes no difference who killed The Mountain. The Mountain's blood flowed down my spear, and that was the flame of my revenge." Oberyn looked at the Hound. "I can give you a Longspear at any time."
The Hound's face twitched slightly. "I've changed trades. I raise dogs now. A man who loves dogs can love dragons too. But dragons are far more willful than hounds, Prince Oberyn."
The Hound's soul had been scarred to pieces. He had never found such joy in battle or wine. Those things had only been ways to drive away his pain.
Now, among kennels and horse tongues, guarding dragons, the Hound had found a little pleasure in life.
"It seems Your Grace has found a good Dragonkeeper," Oberyn said, turning back to smile at Gendry.
"You've worked hard, Sandor."
"Just call me by my nickname," Sandor said in a rough voice. "I like that name better."
Gendry and the three warriors climbed onto the high platform, with Gendry leading the way. Ser Barristan the white knight guarded him from behind.
Sunlight fell upon the "Storm" and his golden robe. The black-haired, blue-eyed King seemed like a golden horned god, like a blazing sun.
Two dragons circled and followed Gendry's figure, never leaving his side.
The breath brought by the black and white dragons was the breath of fire, scorching and sulfurous.
Dragons the size of medium foals were like the King's crown, and the pride of the new Dragonlord house.
"Dragonlord Storm, King Gendry!"
"Dragonlord Storm, King Gendry!"
"Dragonlord Storm!"
No one knew who first thought of that new title, but it immediately swept through the whole field.
The nickname had a strange harmony to it, Dragonlord and Storm joined as one.
Tens of thousands of hands, tens of thousands of excited faces, and all their voices rose together, becoming a river of passion.
"Dragonlord Storm!"
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