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King's Landing – Tourney Grounds
The next morning the tourney field hit a fever pitch. Sunlight blazed hotter than usual, turning the dust in the lists into glittering gold.
The stands were jammed shoulder-to-shoulder—every walkway, every railing packed. The air smelled of sweat, leather, horses, and raw, electric tension.
Jousting in Westeros was the same drug as pit fights in Essos—nobles and smallfolk alike lived for it. And today? Two of King's Landing's biggest names were about to clash. The crowd was already half-mad with excitement.
Up on the royal dais, King Robert drummed thick fingers on his gilded armrest, grinning like a kid at a tourney for the first time. His booming voice rolled over the noise. "Here we go! This is gonna be a show! My Kingslayer against my Golden Crab! Who do you bet gets knocked on his arse first?" He looked around like he was taking wagers.
The match everyone wanted had arrived. Pierce had drawn Jaime in the second bout of the day.
Queen Cersei sat ramrod-straight beside Robert in a deep-red gown, golden hair shining like molten sunlight. Her emerald eyes never left the two men making final preparations. Her face looked calm, but her white-knuckled grip on the armrest told another story.
She wanted Jaime to win—for Lannister honor. Yet a secret, dangerous part of her ached for Pierce to prove himself… and stay safe.
Hand Jon Arryn frowned, genuinely worried. He liked what Pierce was doing for the realm; he didn't want the young lord crippled or worse.
Renly Baratheon just looked amused, ready for a good show. The Tyrell siblings beside him wore very different expressions: Loras was openly gleeful and itching to jump in; Willas looked haunted, clearly remembering the day his own leg was shattered in a joust; Margaery's eyes sparkled with pure excitement. Like most highborn girls, she loved the raw display of courage and skill.
Tyrion Lannister had wedged himself into a corner of the noble section, standing on tiptoe to see. The little man was buzzing with delight—this was the kind of top-tier violence he lived for.
At the edge of the field, Pierce made final checks while Rosco and Benard Blount tightened every strap and buckle.
"My lord," Rosco said quietly, voice grave, "we watched every one of Ser Jaime's tilts. His speed off the mark is insane, his horsemanship flawless, and that lance finds every gap like it's got a mind of its own. He likes to adjust at the last second and hit the edge of the shield or the seam in the armor. His power might not be the greatest, but the combination of speed and precision is perfect."
Benard added, respect thick in his voice, "We both faced Barristan once. We lost badly, but we felt that hopeless gap. Jaime… he feels even sharper."
The Blount cousins had spent their lives clawing for status. They'd scraped together coin years ago to ride in the capital's tourney—only to draw Barristan both times. Bad luck.
"My lord, you have to end it early," Rosco warned. "Once he sets the rhythm, his experience will wear you down. Your armor and strength are huge advantages, but they're not invincible."
Pierce listened in silence, then patted the thick neck of his black warhorse. Shadow snorted and nuzzled his shoulder.
He lowered the signature frog-mouth helm. The visor clicked shut, leaving only a narrow vision slit. His voice rang out metallic and calm. "I understand. Don't worry, Rosco, Benard. Today the whole realm is going to learn that the Golden Crab of Crackclaw Point doesn't just make money—he takes what he wants."
Golden Port needed more than gold to thrive. It needed Pierce to have real prestige and pull. The Dragonpit spending and today's joust were both part of that plan. Win here, in the heart of King's Landing, and his name would carry across the Seven Kingdoms.
Across the field, Jaime sat tall on his white stallion, gilded armor blazing like a second sun.
He settled his lance, green eyes locked on Pierce like twin daggers. One thought burned in his mind: crush this upstart who dared touch Cersei and challenge Lannister pride.
Ser Barristan Selmy stepped to the center once more. The entire arena fell silent. He raised his arm—then slashed it down.
BOOM!
The gong crashed.
First pass!
Jaime exploded forward the instant the sound rang out—pure golden lightning. Body low, lance rock-steady, he charged with terrifying speed and intent.
Pierce's black stallion surged a heartbeat later, steady and powerful, like a mountain meeting the storm.
Pierce's mind sharpened to a razor's edge. His Shifter bond let him feel every flex of muscle beneath him. The world slowed. He saw the tiny tremor in Jaime's lance tip, heard the Kingslayer's controlled breathing, even predicted the final adjustment.
Fifty yards… thirty… ten…
At the last instant Jaime's lance dipped like a striking viper, aiming for the seam where Pierce's shield met his shoulder armor—a vicious, expert angle.
Pierce's wrist flicked with perfect timing. His own lance rose in a tiny arc and met Jaime's dead center on the shield.
CRACK!
The impact was deafening. Both lances exploded in showers of splinters.
The shock jolted both riders in the saddle. Jaime recovered instantly with flawless horsemanship. Pierce absorbed it through raw core strength and his armor's superior load distribution.
The horses thundered past each other.
First pass—dead even.
The stands erupted.
Second pass!
Jaime's eyes had gone ice-cold. He'd realized Pierce wasn't some soft merchant. That weird helm and the strange blocking technique were real problems. He changed tactics.
This time his lance traced a deceptive curve in the final moment, aiming straight for the narrow gap between Pierce's frog-mouth helm and gorget—the one weak point.
Pierce's enhanced senses caught the deadly shift. He tried to turn his shield, but Jaime was too fast.
THUD!
Jaime's lance slammed into the shoulder seam. Even with the armor, the force punched through. Pierce's left shoulder exploded with pain and numbness. His body rocked violently backward; he barely stayed mounted by clamping his thighs and gripping the saddle.
The crowd roared for the Kingslayer.
Third pass!
Pierce came out aggressive. He abandoned finesse, poured everything into raw power, and drove straight at the center of Jaime's shield.
Jaime met him coolly—then struck like a serpent, again targeting the helm's vision slit.
BOOM!
Pierce's lance hammered Jaime's shield so hard the wood splintered and sprayed chips into Jaime's faceplate, blinding him for a split second. Jaime's own lance, thrown off by the interference, glanced harmlessly off Pierce's shield edge.
Still no one fell.
Fourth—and final—pass!
Both men were breathing hard now. Sweat poured down Jaime's handsome face. Pierce's left shoulder burned like fire. But his violet eyes behind the slit burned hotter.
The final charge began.
Jaime made a desperate, brilliant gamble. He ignored his own defense, aimed his lance with lethal precision at the narrow vision slit in Pierce's helm. If it landed, the impact would rattle Pierce's brain and end the match instantly.
But in that fraction of a second, Pierce's superhuman senses caught the opening. Jaime's all-out attack had left his right shoulder momentarily exposed.
Pierce didn't block. He didn't defend.
He attacked.
His lance shot forward like a thunderbolt, striking first by the tiniest margin—straight into the seam of Jaime's right shoulder armor.
THUNK!
The blunt tip slammed home with the full combined speed and weight of two warhorses and two armored men.
Jaime let out a strangled grunt. His right arm went dead. The lance flew from his hand. The impact hurled him backward out of the saddle like a broken doll.
In front of the entire realm, the shining golden figure of the Kingslayer sailed through the air and crashed hard into the dirt.
Silence.
Then the stands detonated—cheers, screams, roars, disbelief.
Pierce reined in his panting stallion, slowly flipped up his visor, and revealed a sweat-streaked, dust-covered face wearing a calm, victorious smile.
He had won.