After "offering condolences" to Garth Hightower, Arthur headed toward the high stands to watch the remaining matches and study his potential opponents.
Seeing him approach, Allyria tilted her head slightly, her pale blonde hair shimmering softly in the sunlight. "How is Ser Garth?"
Arthur replied instinctively, "Medium well."
Realizing his slip, he coughed lightly and corrected himself, "The maester says he's in a coma from heatstroke."
"May the Seven grant him a speedy recovery." Allyria blinked, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.
"Good thing the Dornish weather was on your side, or I might have thought you couldn't beat him."
Arthur felt his acting skills were truly on point, judging by Allyria's expression.
"How could that be?" Arthur waved the ribbon tied to his arm. "With your favor empowering me, I fight with fearless courage. I could never be defeated."
Allyria shook her head, her gaze drifting back to the field. "If my favor truly made people invincible, Lord Beric wouldn't have been eliminated."
Arthur followed her gaze. Two knights were charging at each other, lances shattering on impact, sending splinters flying. "Seems I missed a good match."
He asked with interest, "Who eliminated Lord Beric?"
"The mystery knight Edric is squiring for—Brienne." Allyria sighed softly.
Arthur laughed aloud, unable to help himself. "Auntie, it seems the boy has a better eye than you."
Surprisingly, Allyria didn't argue.
Arthur sensed that she no longer seemed opposed to Edric squiring for Brienne.
The clash of lances and the whinnying of horses filled the air. Knights in armor of every color took turns entering the lists like a spinning lantern, offering the audience one fierce duel after another.
Time slipped away amidst the thrilling contests. In the blink of an eye, the day's events were drawing to a close.
Although Arthur watched intently throughout, only three matches particularly caught his attention.
First, the duel between Loras Tyrell and Lord Quentyn Rogers. They broke eight lances in a deadlock.
Finally, Loras pulled a little trick in the ninth charge and narrowly won.
Lord Quentyn Rogers' seat, Amberly, was separated from Starfall only by the Red Mountains. One could say that crossing the mountains from Violet Canyon would land you directly in Amberly territory in the Reach.
House Rogers once possessed a Valyrian steel sword named "Orphan-Maker," but sadly, it had long been lost.
Second, the intense battle between Daemon Sand and Gerold Dayne.
In the fourth round, their lances struck each other simultaneously, nearly unhorsing both men. In the end, Gerold Dayne won on foot with superior swordsmanship.
Third, Ser Desmond Redwyne versus Ser Wayne, a vassal of Starfall.
In just one pass, Desmond's lance struck precisely on the visor of Ser Wayne's modified basinet, knocking him from his horse instantly and rendering him unconscious.
Ser Desmond Redwyne was a cousin of Lord Paxter. He was not only the captain of the Arbor Fleet's flagship, The Arbor Queen, but also the master-at-arms of Cider Hall.
Tourney Grounds, First-Aid Room.
Arthur stood by the bedside, looking at Ser Wayne, whose right cheek was swollen high. The maester was carefully cleaning the wound. Beside him on a wooden tray lay seven bloody teeth.
"How is he?" Arthur asked quietly.
"Dislocated jaw, seven teeth lost. Fortunately, none were aspirated. I've cleaned the wound and given him milk of the poppy," the maester said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "If he wakes and regains consciousness, the best case is he'll only be able to chew on the left side."
"Take good care of him, Maester," Arthur instructed.
He turned to Ser Wayne's wife and children. "If you need anything or encounter difficulties, come to Starfall and find me."
Leaving amidst the family's grateful thanks, Arthur walked out of the first-aid room.
He wasn't surprised by accidents in the joust. Men were flesh and blood; even encased in iron, they weren't invincible.
On the lists, if your skill was inferior, you had no one to blame. It was a competitive sport, not a gathering to respect the elderly and cherish the young in the name of chivalry.
In fact, those who dared to display excessive chivalry in the lists were usually those confident enough in their overwhelming superiority.
Under high-speed movement with limited vision, attacking the opponent's head with a lance was extremely difficult. The head presented a much smaller target area than the torso.
But if you could hit it, even with a fragile pine lance, the impact force was often enough to incapacitate the target instantly.
Arthur hadn't expected House Redwyne to have such a skilled jouster as Desmond.
He wondered if this Desmond was bald too. As the saying goes, baldness makes you stronger.
Returning to the camp, Arthur found a group waiting outside his tent.
"My lord! Ser Jimmy Sunderland won the archery championship!" Vic Five spotted Arthur immediately and shouted excitedly.
"You should have seen it! His shooting with Anguy was divine. At the standard 100 yards, they hit the bullseye every time."
"The judges had to extend the distance twice, all the way to 150 yards, before a winner was decided..."
The crowd parted, and Jimmy strode forward, accompanied by a lanky, red-haired youth with freckles—presumably the extraordinary archer Anguy.
"My lord," Jimmy said deeply, "I did not fail your mission!"
"Well done." Arthur patted his shoulder appreciatively.
"After the tourney ends and you stand vigil in the sept of Starfall, I will fulfill my promise and knight you with Dawn."
Arthur looked at his mature, capable squire. He remembered their first meeting, when Jimmy was a chuunibyou boy wrapped in a white sheet with a red stripe, dreaming of the Kingsguard all day.
In just two or three years, Jimmy had unknowingly changed so much, growing into a steady and capable warrior. Arthur's cultivation hadn't been in vain.
For some reason, Arthur felt a fatherly pride watching his son grow up.
Later, Jimmy, flush with the 4,000 Gold Dragon prize money, was goaded by familiar squires from nearby tents into treating them to a lavish night at a tavern in Star Station.
Arthur didn't stop him, nor did he join. He had to joust tomorrow and needed to maintain his condition.
The Next Morning.
When Arthur was putting on his armor, surprisingly, one of his four squires managed to show up on time.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You didn't drink?"
"I drank," Zach scratched his head, smiling simply. "I drank with them. Just drank and drank until they all ended up under the table."
Arthur laughed as he fastened his gauntlet. "Didn't know you had a tolerance of a thousand cups."
Zach paused. "I thought using cups was trouble, so I hugged a keg of Amber Peach Wine. In the end, I drank the whole keg myself."
He then corrected innocently, "I'm not 'thousand-cup sober,' I'm 'one-keg sober.'"
As the tourney progressed, the number of contestants dwindled, but the spectators on the stands grew ever more crowded.
Arthur's fifth-round opponent was Ser Desmond Redwyne. He wasn't a large man.
Through his open-faced helm, Arthur could see freckles covering his nose and cheeks, though he couldn't tell if the man was bald.
During the pre-match circling, Desmond rode close, his voice laced with anger:
"Boy, Ser Praed, whom you hanged in the plaza, was once my squire!
Today my lance won't aim for your head, but for your eyes!"
Without waiting for Arthur's reaction, Desmond slammed his visor down, spurred his horse hard, and rode off.
Fine, Arthur thought, I'm used to Reachmen trash-talking before a match. However, Desmond's trash talk had revealed his target!
The horn sounded.
Violet responded instantly, launching like a purple bolt of lightning. Arthur raised his shield and leveled his lance, focusing entirely on Desmond's lance tip.
Desmond held his lance very low. As the horses closed the distance... there was no sign of him raising it!
CRACK!
Wood chips flew. Desmond's lance didn't aim for Arthur's eyes at all—it pointed straight at his torso from start to finish!
The tip, carrying the full force of the charge, slid along Arthur's heart-sigil shield and slammed directly into his chest.
The massive impact shook Arthur to his core. If not for his legs gripping the horse like a vice and the force-dispersing properties of the [Rattan Armor], he might have been unhorsed.
Meanwhile, because Arthur's attention had been focused on guarding against a sudden change in aim, his own attack landed harmlessly on Desmond's vine shield.
Good grief, playing dirty with me, huh?
After circling back to the starting point and catching his breath, Arthur felt not only anger at being duped but also a lingering fear. He had nearly capsized in the gutter just now.
Standing at the starting point, Arthur exhaled slowly, suppressing his rage. He tossed aside the broken lance and shouted sternly:
"Lance!"
On the other side, Desmond was secretly shocked that Arthur hadn't fallen. His full-force strike, delivered with calculated deception, had been withstood.
"This guy is tougher to deal with than I imagined..."
Desmond had carefully studied every match of this so-called "Sword of the Morning," whether against Garth Hightower or that suicidal freerider Lothor Brune.
He could clearly see that the "Sword of the Morning" possessed superb horsemanship, reflexes, and lance technique.
In the last round, Arthur had even toyed with Garth.
However, this "Sword of the Morning" was arrogant and overconfident, treating the tourney like a game.
And why wouldn't he? A bastard named Snow suddenly gaining the title of Sword of the Morning and possessing such skill—if it were Desmond, his tail would be wagging in the clouds too.
So, Desmond had carefully planned the setup before the match, intending to defeat the enemy in one blow. He hadn't expected to fall just short.
A look of gravity crossed Desmond's eyes. Now it comes down to hard power.
The horn blew.
Desmond leveled his lance and spurred his horse. The purple figure in his eyes grew rapidly from small to large.
He noticed Arthur holding his lance very level, so he tensed his right arm muscles, bracing his shield to cover the expected point of impact.
Simultaneously, he aimed his own lance at Arthur's chest, the same spot he hit last time.
Against an expert, he dared not risk aiming for the head; it was too easy to miss.
THUD!
A smile appeared on Desmond's face as Snow's lance struck his shield exactly where he was prepared. But a moment later, his smile turned to horror.
Because the fragile pine lance didn't shatter upon impact. Instead, like a war lance used on the battlefield, it punched straight through his shield!
Then, Desmond felt a massive force transmit through to his breastplate, lifting his entire body into the air and sending him flying backward.
Motherfucker, not even hiding it anymore? Openly cheating?
This was Desmond's last thought as he flew through the air and lost consciousness.
So, did Arthur really cheat?
[Kill]: Can be used to perform a burst attack.
Using a hack shouldn't count as cheating, Arthur reasoned.
Watching Desmond, struck by the pine lance, become a flying man and smash into the ground in a cloud of dust, Arthur felt utterly relieved.
Simultaneously, Arthur reflected on why he had fallen for Desmond's trick earlier.
After a brief thought, he concluded that mixing 20% lies into 80% truth made them hard to detect.
And people were always more prone to believing conclusions they reached themselves.
While Arthur was reflecting, after three minutes of stunned silence from the stands, Lord Paxter Redwyne was the first to react, shouting repeatedly:
"He cheated! He used a war lance!"
"How could a pine lance pierce a shield!"
"Herald! I demand an inspection of the lance!"
Arthur was extremely cooperative with Paxter's demand.
He sat quietly on Violet and tossed the lance to the herald and the other knights gathering from the high stands.
"This is undoubtedly a tourney lance, a standard twelve-foot pine shaft." Loras Tyrell took the lance, felt the material, and noted the tip was shattered.
"Now it's eleven feet."
He weighed the lance. "A war lance is heavier than a tourney lance. Lord Paxter, this is undoubtedly a regulation tourney lance."
"How is this possible..."
The Old Hawk interrupted bluntly. "Paxter, any fool knows a war lance uses an eight-foot ash shaft with an iron tip.
Are you a fool, or blind, or are you insisting on treating us all like fools?"
Gerold Dayne picked up the pierced vine shield, a look of surprise in his eyes. He announced loudly:
"My lords, Ser Arthur's two strikes hit the exact same spot on the shield."
Arthur calmly lifted his visor, his unforgettable violet eyes looking impassively at the still-disbelieving Lord Paxter.
"Lord Paxter, don't be so surprised. Who says a pine lance can't break a shield? With a combination of exquisite technique and strength, even a shaft without a tip can kill a man."
Mathis Rowan chimed in, "Paxter, withdraw the accusation. Go see how your kinsman is doing."
Seeing his own kin by marriage say this, Paxter turned red and stammered, "I... withdraw my accusation. I apologize to you, Ser Arthur."
Seeing that everyone had reached a conclusion, the herald announced loudly:
"Ser Arthur Snow, the Sword of the Morning, has pierced a shield with a lance in just two rounds! A feat so rare it can be called a miracle!"
"He wins this round!"
"Please cheer for the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Snow!"
Instantly, the cheers from the stands shook the sky. Almost everyone was chanting the words "Sword of the Morning."