King's Landing – Tourney Grounds
The next morning, the first rays of sunlight burned away the thin mist over the lists, and the air was already crackling with hotter excitement than the day before.
Every seat in the stands was packed. The crowd buzzed like a giant beehive.
Every conversation circled back to the same thing: today's jousts, especially the one everyone had been whispering about—the powder-keg matchup between the filthy-rich "Golden Crab" Pierce Celtigar and the legendary "Kingslayer" Jaime Lannister.
Up on the royal dais, young Prince Joffrey Baratheon sat in his fancy princely clothes, but his small face wore a scowl far too sour for a thirteen-year-old.
He kept glancing from his uncle (and real father) Jaime, who was checking his armor at the edge of the field, to Pierce on the opposite side—cool, calm, and completely unbothered.
Normally he should be cheering for Jaime. But Pierce had given him that incredible aquarium and the ant castle where he could play god and decide which "subjects" lived or died. The words "In their eyes, you are a god" had sunk deep into Joffrey's cruel little heart and fed his hunger for control.
"Hound!" Joffrey snapped, turning to the massive, half-burned shadow standing behind him. "Who do you think wins? Who should I cheer for?"
Sandor Clegane's scarred face stayed blank. His rough voice was as cold as ever. "Both of them are strong. Either one could knock the other flat. As for who to cheer for…" He paused, glancing toward the field. "That's your business, Your Highness."
Deep down, Sandor felt a tiny, grudging respect for Pierce. At least the man's weird toys had distracted Joffrey from torturing stray cats and dogs lately. The prince's cruelty was worse than anything Sandor had seen—even his own brother Gregor's—and Sandor was the one forced to help. Sometimes he felt like he was turning into that monster himself.
The drawing horn blasted across the grounds, cutting through the noise and snapping every rider's attention to the center.
Squires and servants rushed forward. Grand Maester Pycelle stood ready with the lots, flanked by assistant maesters who would sort them.
In under fifteen minutes the order for more than a hundred knights and lords was set.
Ser Barristan Selmy—still limping from his wound but every inch the legendary knight—walked to the middle of the field to serve as master of ceremonies.
Nobles in the stands murmured, many of them staring at Pierce, wondering if he'd actually draw Jaime today.
Even the Hound watched Barristan, wondering the same thing.
Barristan unrolled the parchment, his voice booming clear and strong.
"First match! Lord Pierce Celtigar of Crackclaw Point versus Ser Robin Wyverwater of the Red Keep!"
A ripple of surprise swept the crowd. No one expected Pierce to ride first.
Ser Robin Wyverwater rode out from the right-side entrance. He wasn't famous, so the cheers were polite at best.
He sat a sturdy but ordinary chestnut mare. His armor was old, patched in places, with visible rust spots. His shield showed a blue field split between an oak barrel and an iron fist—House Wyverwater.
The family claimed distant blood from Jon Waters, and Pierce's own mother had been a Velaryon, so technically they were distant kin. None of that mattered now.
Robin looked nervous and stiff. Standing in the shadow of Pierce's wealth and reputation, he seemed like a reluctant extra.
Then Pierce rode out.
A collective gasp rolled through the stands, followed by a storm of excited chatter.
It wasn't the man or the big black warhorse that stole every eye—it was the armor.
He wore a full suit of expertly crafted plate, the metal given a matte dark-gray finish with only subtle gold trim along the joints and edges that highlighted every muscle. The design was sleek and modern, minimizing weak points.
But the real show-stopper was the helmet.
A bizarre "frog-mouth" helm completely enclosed his head. The visor could flip up; when closed, only a narrow vision slit remained. The top sloped back like a crouching frog. The smooth, forward-angled surface was built to deflect lances and blades with terrifying efficiency.
"Seven hells… what kind of helmet is that?"
"Never seen anything like it…"
"Look at that curve—the lance will just slide right off!"
"Where did Celtigar get armor like that? Essos?"
Experienced knights and lords instantly recognized the genius of the design. That frog-mouth helm was practically custom-made for jousting.
Jaime Lannister, already in his gleaming golden plate outside his tent, watched with a cold sneer.
"Hmph. Thinks fancy armor can make up for no real skill? Cute." But deep in his eyes, a flicker of unease appeared. Pierce looked far too calm for a man stepping into his first joust.
Both riders took their positions a hundred yards apart.
Barristan raised his hand. The entire arena fell silent.
BOOM! The heavy gong sounded.
Robin kicked his mare and charged, leaning forward, lance aimed at Pierce's chest—textbook form, but stiff with nerves.
Pierce didn't rush. He gave his stallion "Shadow" a light squeeze. The warhorse surged forward smoothly, powerful and controlled.
Pierce's body moved with the horse like they were one creature. He held his lance casually low at first, but rock-steady.
As a powerful Shifter, Pierce might lack formal knightly training, but his bond with the horse was absolute. After countless possessions, the stallion read his every thought.
His enhanced senses—sharpened by his immense soul strength—slowed the world around him. He saw the tiny tremor in Robin's lance tip, heard the man's ragged breathing, even predicted the last-second adjustments Robin would try.
The two horses thundered toward each other like twin lightning bolts.
At the final instant, Robin adjusted his aim for Pierce's center chest.
Pierce made a tiny, perfect wrist flick. His lance tip rose and met Robin's at the perfect angle.
CRACK!
The impact was deafening.
Robin's arms jolted violently. His grip broke. The recoil threw him backward out of the saddle like a rag doll.
Pierce barely moved. His frog-mouth helm and advanced plate absorbed and redirected the force effortlessly. His own lance slid along Robin's shaft, stayed intact, and kept riding the momentum forward.
Robin's lance flew spinning into the air. He hit the dirt with a heavy thud, rolling in a cloud of dust. His mare bolted.
Pierce cantered a calm half-circle, completely in control.
The stands exploded.
He'd won—clean, decisive, and in the very first tilt.
Robin Wyverwater might not have been a famous name, but he was a properly anointed knight of the Seven, not some hedge knight. Pierce had just knocked him flat in front of the entire realm.
The custom armor had performed exactly as designed.
Pierce reined in, flipped up his visor, and gave the royal box a respectful nod—first to King Robert, then a lingering look toward Cersei. His eyes flicked once toward Jaime's tent, and the corner of his mouth curved.
The rest of the day's matches flew by.
Pierce advanced like a machine—four more victories, each one clean. He used his raw strength, Shifter precision, and superior armor to deflect lances and unhorse opponents with surgical efficiency.
He even took down a well-known knight from Storm's End.
Jaime, meanwhile, was pure poetry—fast, precise, devastating. Every tilt ended in a single, beautiful strike that sent men flying. The ladies screamed his name.
When the day's schedule ended, Barristan Selmy returned to the center of the field for the next draw.
After a tense pause, the old knight's voice rang out:
"After today's bouts, the knights advancing to tomorrow's final rounds are…"
He let the silence stretch, milking the drama.
"Ser Jaime Lannister… Lord Pierce Celtigar… and Ser Yohn Royce…"
The stands detonated.
Tomorrow's card was set.
The Golden Crab would face the Kingslayer in the lists.
The entire city lost its mind.