The stands buzzed like a living thing.
Gold changed hands.
Whispers turned into wagers.
And high above the lists, in a shaded pavilion, two men watched with very different smiles.
"I'll put fifty gold dragons on Oberyn Martell."
Tyrion Lannister swirled his wine lazily, eyes sharp with amusement.
Across from him, Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger—tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"Bold," he said softly. "But I'll take that wager."
His gaze drifted to the field below.
"I say Willas Tyrell wins."
Tyrion raised a brow.
"Oh?"
Littlefinger's smile deepened.
"Skill. Control. And the Reach breeds fine riders."
Tyrion chuckled.
"We shall see."
Below—
The herald called the names.
Oberyn Martell.
Willas Tyrell.
The crowd stirred.
Two very different men.
Two very different styles.
They mounted.
Lances lowered.
Eyes locked.
"Ride!"
The first charge thundered across the field.
Hooves struck like drums.
Lances aligned—
Impact.
Wood splintered.
But both men held.
Still mounted.
Still steady.
A murmur rose.
"Again!"
Second charge.
This time—
Oberyn shifted his aim.
Low.
Deceptive.
A strike toward the chest.
Willas countered—
Angling his lance for the unhorsing.
Impact—
Crack—
But again—
Both remained.
The tension tightened.
Third charge.
Silence fell.
Oberyn's eyes gleamed.
This time—
He committed.
Full speed.
Full force.
His lance drove forward—
Striking true.
Directly into Willas's chest.
The impact was brutal.
Willas was thrown from his horse.
Hard.
He hit the ground with a sickening force.
The crowd gasped.
Oberyn rode through.
Victorious.
Unshaken.
But on the ground—
Willas did not rise.
Servants rushed forward.
Maesters followed.
His legs—
Twisted.
Broken.
High above, Mace Tyrell stood abruptly.
"Willas!"
Rage burned in his eyes.
But he said nothing more.
Because he knew.
Everyone knew.
This was jousting.
Accidents happened.
And sometimes—
They changed lives forever.
Oberyn removed his helm slowly.
No smile now.
Only a quiet acknowledgment.
Victory—
But not without cost.
In the pavilion—
Tyrion exhaled.
"Well," he said lightly, "that's fifty gold dragons well spent."
Littlefinger only smiled faintly.
"Fortune favors the bold."
But his eyes—
Watched everything.
The next names were called.
Jaime Lannister.
Sandor Clegane.
The crowd leaned forward again.
This—
This was a clash of titans.
They rode.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Each charge thundered.
Each strike fierce.
Neither man yielding.
Neither breaking.
Until—
The final charge.
Sandor adjusted too late.
Jaime's lance struck clean.
Solid.
Perfect.
Sandor was thrown.
Hard.
The Hound lay still for a moment—
Then slowly rose.
Defeated.
Jaime lowered his lance.
Golden.
Victorious.
Then—
The final match of the round.
Gregor Clegane.
A son of House Frey.
The difference was clear before they even rode.
Gregor was not a man.
He was a mountain wrapped in steel.
"Ride!"
The charge lasted seconds.
Gregor's lance struck like a battering ram.
The Frey knight never stood a chance.
Impact.
Destruction.
The man was thrown violently from his horse.
Unconscious before he hit the ground.
Gregor rode through without even turning back.
As if nothing had happened.
As if it meant nothing.
The crowd fell into uneasy silence.
Because that was not skill.
That was power.
Brutal.
Overwhelming.
And now—
The field narrowed again.
Fewer names remained
The lists grew quieter.
Not from disinterest—
But from tension.
Because now the match called was not merely a contest.
It was a question.
"Ser Barristan Selmy… versus Michel Arryn!"
A ripple moved through the crowd.
The old legend.
Against the rising storm.
In the shaded pavilion, wagers began again.
Edmure Tully leaned forward eagerly.
"I'll wager five hundred gold dragons on my nephew."
His voice carried confidence.
Pride.
Across from him, Tyrion Lannister lifted a brow.
"Five hundred?" he said lightly. "Ambitious."
He took a sip of wine.
"I'll place mine on Barristan Selmy."
Beside him, Petyr Baelish smiled faintly.
"As will I."
Two sharp minds.
One shared expectation.
Experience would prevail.
It always did.
Below—
Michel mounted his horse.
Across from him—
Ser Barristan Selmy sat tall in white armor, calm as ever.
A man who had fought kings.
Killed legends.
Survived wars.
Their eyes met.
No words.
None needed.
"Ride!"
First charge.
The thunder of hooves echoed across the field.
Lances lowered.
Perfect alignment.
Impact—
Wood shattered.
But both held.
Still mounted.
Still balanced.
A murmur rose.
"Even."
Second charge.
Barristan adjusted.
Subtle.
Precise.
This time—
He aimed not just to strike—
But to end it.
His lance angled toward Michel's chest.
A perfect unhorsing strike.
They collided.
The force was immense.
Michel felt it—
The skill.
The precision.
But—
He moved.
Adjusted.
Countered.
The impact broke—
But Michel held.
Still in the saddle.
The crowd gasped.
Barristan's eyes narrowed slightly.
Good, they seemed to say.
Third charge.
Silence fell.
Heavy.
Complete.
Michel lowered his lance.
And this time—
He did not hold back.
His body moved with power beyond ordinary men.
Muscles coiled.
Strength surged.
Five times the force of a normal human—
Focused into a single strike.
"Ride!"
The distance vanished.
The moment came.
Impact.
A crack like thunder split the air.
Barristan's lance shattered—
But Michel's struck true.
Overwhelming.
Unstoppable.
For the first time—
Ser Barristan Selmy was unhorsed.
The White Knight fell.
Not violently.
Not broken.
But undeniably—
Defeated.
The crowd erupted.
Shouts.
Gasps.
Disbelief.
"Barristan Selmy—!"
"Unhorsed?!"
"By the boy?!"
Michel rode through.
Then turned calmly.
As if this…
Was expected.
On the ground, Barristan rose slowly.
Uninjured.
But his eyes—
Held something new.
Respect.
High above—
Edmure Tully slammed his hand down.
"Ha!"
"I told you!"
"I win!"
He laughed loudly, triumphant.
But beside him—
Tyrion did not laugh.
Littlefinger did not smile.
They watched.
Quietly.
Carefully.
Because they had just seen something important.
Not luck.
Not chance.
Not even skill alone.
Power.
Raw.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
Tyrion murmured softly, almost to himself—
"…That's not normal."
Littlefinger's eyes gleamed faintly.
"No," he whispered.
"It's not."