A knight of House Frey?
Ned's brows furrowed even deeper.
Walder Frey's children each inherited their father's greed and cunning, and Hoster was notoriously reckless and belligerent among them.
Lynn stood up from the stands.
"Lynn! Go!"
Arya waved her small fists, shouting loudly.
Sansa, meanwhile, nervously clutched the hem of her dress, her blue eyes filled with worry.
The bloody scene just now had filled her with dread for this tourney.
Lynn merely nodded at them, then turned and walked down from the stands.
He donned the entirely black helmet and swung himself onto Storm's back.
Man and horse slowly entered the arena.
"Ha! He really rode a plow horse into the arena!"
"Ser Frey will skewer him in three lances!"
Mocking laughter erupted from the audience, echoing clearly into every corner.
Hoster Frey clearly heard it too.
He looked at the black knight on the Shire horse opposite him, his face showing undisguised contempt.
A crow from the Wall, worthy of competing with the noble House Frey?
"Crow, go back to your Wall! This is not where you belong!"
Hoster raised his lance, pointing it at Lynn from afar, and shouted insults.
Lynn did not respond.
He merely adjusted his posture clumsily.
The black plate armor seemed exceptionally heavy on him, and even the hand holding the lance was somewhat stiff.
From the high platform, Littlefinger raised his wine cup, a cold sneer playing on his lips.
Indeed, an unsophisticated bumpkin from the North.
Can't even hold a lance steady, and wants to win the tourney?
What a joke.
"Begin!"
Robert's roar sounded again.
The two knights spurred their warhorses, separating at opposite ends of the track, then charged simultaneously.
Hoster's charge was standard and powerful, full of confidence.
Lynn, however, appeared somewhat flustered.
He awkwardly squeezed his horse's flanks, his body bobbing up and down with Storm's heavy strides, looking like a novice who had just learned to ride.
The distance between the two horses rapidly shortened!
"Bang!"
A dull thud!
Hoster's lance struck Lynn's shield with precision!
The immense impact caused Lynn's body to lurch backward, his entire being swaying violently on the horse's back, nearly toppling him off.
His lance, however, slid weakly off the edge of Hoster's shield, failing to leave even a decent mark.
"Oh—"
A burst of loud laughter and jeers erupted from the audience.
"Get off! Crow!"
"Don't embarrass yourself here!"
Littlefinger's smile deepened.
Ned, meanwhile, clenched his fists tightly, his palms slick with cold sweat.
Lynn swayed several times on the horse's back before barely regaining his balance.
He gasped for breath, as if that single collision had drained all his strength.
First round, complete defeat.
Hoster Frey proudly turned his horse and took a new lance.
He looked at the disheveled black knight opposite him, the contempt in his eyes now blatant mockery.
"Again!"
The horn sounded once more.
The second charge began!
This time, Lynn seemed to have learned his lesson; he pressed his body lower, trying to appear more professional.
But his nervous demeanor appeared to everyone as bluster masking inner fear.
Hoster didn't even bother to adjust, merely raising his lance casually as he rode forward.
In his opinion, this lance would definitively end this farce.
The two figures crossed paths again!
"Bang!"
Another loud crash, wood splinters flying!
This time, both lances shattered on the opponent's shield almost simultaneously!
A draw!
The mocking laughter from the audience subsided somewhat, replaced by murmurs of surprise.
"This crow has good luck."
"He actually managed to draw with Ser Frey?"
On the high platform, Littlefinger's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly.
Luck?
Perhaps.
Lynn was still breathing heavily; he felt his arms were numb.
He even exerted great effort to soothe the somewhat anxious Storm.
Of course, this was all an act.
He didn't want his excellent performance to lead to increased odds in the next round, as that would cost him a large amount of gold dragons!
"Again!"
Hoster's smile had vanished, replaced by a hint of irritation.
He could not tolerate being forced into a third round by an unknown nobody.
This was a disgrace!
The third charge!
This time, Hoster put all his strength into it!
He was like a provoked boar, his eyes filled only with the savage desire to crush his opponent!
Lynn also rode forward to meet him.
His movements were still clumsy, his posture still comical.
In everyone's eyes, he had reached his limit.
He was bound to lose this lance.
The distance rapidly closed!
Fifty paces!
Thirty paces!
Ten paces!
Just as the two horses were about to cross!
Lynn's seemingly stiff body made an incredibly subtle, unbelievable adjustment.
He did not try to block Hoster's shield.
His lance in hand subtly tilted upward!
The target was no longer that wide shield!
But the narrow gap where Hoster's right shoulder met his breastplate!
"Crack—"
A sharp, piercing snap!
Hoster's lance still struck Lynn's shield, the immense force causing Lynn to lurch backward again.
But this time, he held his ground!
And Lynn's seemingly casual lance strike accurately hit its target!
The lance tip instantly pierced the gap, then violently pried upward!
Hoster Frey didn't even understand what had happened.
He only felt an irresistible immense force coming from his right shoulder, as if he had been violently struck by a mammoth!
His robust body was, as if flung, instantly torn from the horse's back!
"Ah!"
A short cry of surprise.
Hoster Frey arced through the air in a disheveled parabola, then with a "thump," like a heavy sack of garbage, he slammed heavily into the muddy, manure-filled ground of the arena.
The entire arena fell silent.
Everyone's eyes widened, unable to believe the scene before them.
That arrogant Ser Frey, just like that... was unhorsed by a crow riding a plow horse, in an almost comical manner?
After a brief silence, scattered cheers began to sound.
"He won!"
Arya excitedly jumped out of her chair!
Sansa covered her mouth, her beautiful blue eyes sparkling with wonder.
On the high platform, Prince Joffrey was even more flushed with excitement.
He vigorously waved his fists, shouting loudly.
"I knew it! I knew it! Ser Lynn is the strongest!"
Ned let out a long sigh, his clenched fists finally relaxing.
He began to understand; Lynn was hiding his true abilities.
On the other side, Petyr Baelish's smile completely froze.
His hand, holding the wine cup, paused in mid-air, his gaze terribly grim.
He lost.
Though it was only the first match, he lost.
That fool from the North actually won against Hoster Frey with sheer luck!
But it didn't matter.
Littlefinger quickly adjusted his mindset.
Luck, it always runs out.
He refused to believe this crow could keep winning.
Lynn ignored the surrounding cheers.
He merely sat calmly on his horse, his chest heaving violently, as if exhausted.
He laboriously raised his broken lance towards the King's high platform, offering a clumsy salute.
Then, he turned his horse and slowly exited the arena.
His retreating figure, in the eyes of the crowd, was filled with fatigue and a stroke of luck.
He left the arena and returned to the stands.
The royal herald's high-pitched voice once again resounded throughout the arena, announcing the next round's matchups.
...Next, the Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras Tyrell, will face Ser Rolly Westerling of Lannisport!"
"...And!"
The herald's voice paused; he glanced at the newly updated list in his hand, then shouted in a tone mixed with shock and excitement:
"The Black Knight, who just won, will, in the next round, face—"
"The Hound, Sandor Clegane!"
As the words fell.
The entire tourney grounds instantly erupted!
Everyone's gaze collectively turned to the man in the hideous helmet, silent as a rock.
And to the black figure, who had just won by "luck" and was now slowly exiting the arena.
Lynn stopped and looked back.
This competition seems a bit unfair; I just competed, and I have to go again in the next round?
Lynn looked at Robert's figure on the high platform.
It seems Robert wants to see how capable he truly is, whether he has the ability to defeat the remnants of House Targaryen across the Narrow Sea.
But it doesn't matter.
Same as always, feign weakness to the enemy.
Earning gold dragons is important.
This is his capital to purchase an army of Unsullied.
From a great distance, Lynn's gaze fell upon The Hound beside Joffrey.
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