Thirty broken lances, white-cloaked brothers crowned together
The sand in the arena gleamed coldly in the morning light. When Lyan Redwyne and Clymont Crabb's warhorses simultaneously reared up, the entire arena seemed to freeze. Even the Grey Ghost circling in the air forgot to flap their wings, tilting their little heads to look down, their golden eyes filled with curiosity.
Lyan's white robes billowed like snow in the wind, the tip of his silver spear gleamed coldly, and the white horse beneath him was the finest breed from Arbor, its mane combed smooth and glossy. It was now restlessly pawing at the gravel, its breath mingling with the morning dew, condensing into a fine mist in the air.
Clymont rode a brown-red warhorse, the shaft of his oak lance wrapped in worn red cloth—a memento from his time fighting a rebellion in the Vale. The scratches on his grey armor seemed to still hold traces of dust from those days, yet they did not diminish the steadiness of his grip on the lance.
"Please enlighten me." The two spoke almost simultaneously, their voices carried on the wind to the stands, carrying the composure unique to knights.
Lyan nodded slightly, his silver spear pointing diagonally at the ground; Clymont raised his hand and placed it on his breastplate, a gesture of respect from the Oldtown Knights, which drew soft applause from the nobles of the House Oakheart below the stage.
The horn sounded again, and the two warhorses charged at each other like arrows released from a bow!
Lyan's silver spear was as fast as lightning, aiming straight for Clymont's shoulder armor. The speed was so great that the House Marbrand boy in the Westerlands stands couldn't help but stand up, forgetting to even swing the silver spoon in his hand.
But Clymont was clearly just as shrewd. He suddenly turned to the side, his oak lance striking the side of his opponent's silver spear with a sharp clang that made everyone's eardrums vibrate. The two lances grazed past his opponent's armor, the sand kicked up by the spear tips splashing onto the horse's belly, causing the warhorse to neigh.
"Good!" Borros Baratheon's booming voice was the first to erupt. He slammed his hand on the wooden planks of the stands, twirling his battle axe in his hand. "That old bastard Clymont certainly didn't disappoint!"
Brandon frowned, forgetting to even bite into his bread. "Show some respect! What do you know? Sir Lyan deliberately held back! If that shot had been even half a second faster, Clymont would have been dead! And are you guys even that close?"
The two immediately started arguing. Borros said, "the North barbarians don't know how to use a gun," Brandon cursed, "Stormlands brutes only know how to shout." In the end, it was Jocelyn who handed them a piece of honey cake, which temporarily shut the two big boys up.
However, there was also the reason why the Dukes of Boremund Baratheon and Ellard Stark glanced at the two of them.
Daemon Targaryen was beside Daemon and the others, but leaning alone against the railing of the stands, his wine jug swaying incessantly, oblivious to the spilled wine on his golden robes, his eyes fixed on the arena. "Faster! More ruthless! Now that's what a duel should be!"
Gael rolled her eyes and snatched the wine jug from his shoulder. "Drink yours! If you get drunk, you won't even know who won!"
Mysaria nodded in agreement, handing the box of sweet cakes to Rhaenyra: "Your Highness, please don't follow your uncle, Big Daemon's example. Sweets are the best!"
Rhaenyra, however, shook her head, nestled in Daemon's arms, pointing her little hand repeatedly at the arena, babbling as if she were chanting "Gun! Gun!", which made Viserys and Aemma laugh helplessly.
In the second round, Ryan switched to a new silver spear handed to him by Erin, the shaft of which was engraved with the grape pattern of their Redwyn family's Green Pavilion Island.
This time, he didn't rush to attack. Instead, he slowed down, his warhorse pacing around Clymont with light, quick steps, his silver spear tracing circles in his hand as if searching for an opening.
Clymont remained calm, his oak spear always aimed at Lyan's chest, his grey armor gleaming in the sunlight, even his breathing maintaining a steady rhythm—a skill he had honed since childhood fighting Wildlings on Crab Claw Peninsula: the more impatient one becomes, the more composed one must be.
Suddenly, Lyan's warhorse accelerated! The silver spear swept across the ground towards Clymont's horse's leg, the movement so fast it was almost invisible. Even Taimond Lannister in the Westerlands stands couldn't help but lean forward.
But Clymont was prepared. He jerked the reins, and his horse reared up, the oak lance slamming into the shaft of the silver spear with a "crack!"
The silver spear snapped in two, sending splinters flying, but Lyan used the recoil to flip and leap into the air, landing steadily on the ground, still clutching half the spear shaft. He bowed to Clymont: "Old buddy, good skills."
Clymont dismounted and handed over the oak lance. "Your speed remains unmatched in the Seven Kingdoms."
The two exchanged a smile, showing no hostility whatsoever towards a duel, but rather like old friends sparring.
The lords in the stands applauded. Queen Alysanne held Jaehaerys's hand, tears welling in her eyes. "It's just like when Aemon and Baelon fought. They were like that back then, not angry even when they lost."
Jaehaerys patted the back of her hand, his voice gentle. "Yes, that's what a knight should be like."
The ensuing competition turned into a "spear-throwing contest" between the two.
Lyan went through one silver spear after another, each shaft bearing a different emblem—grapes from Arbor, sails from House Redwyne's ships, and even the flowers of the Reach;
Clymont's oak lances have also broken several times. Each time he changes a lance, he touches the red cloth on the shaft, as if paying homage to his past self.
By the twentieth round, twenty broken spears had piled up on the sand, some tips still embedded in the wooden railing, while others were being curiously pawed at and played with by the Grey Ghost, prompting Jeyne to clap her hands and laugh, "Little Dragon likes watching martial arts too!"
Daemon stood at the edge of the royal stands, the three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder slightly warm.
He could sense the Glutton's emotions. The Black Dragon lay on the edge of the arena, its dark dragon eyes fixed on the center of the arena. The white steam it exhaled carried a scorching temperature. Although it was clearly instigating him to fight as well, to outsiders it looked like it was cheering on the two people in the arena.
Dreamfyre gracefully walked to the Glutton's side, its pale blue dragon wings gently touching the Black Dragon's wing, as if to say, "Don't get excited."
Vhagar and Vermithor also raised their heads and let out a deep dragon roar towards the arena. The voice was not as majestic as usual, but rather carried a hint of approval.
In the thirtieth round, Lyan switched to a silver spear inlaid with sapphires, a family heirloom of the House Redwyne;
Clymont picked up the last oak lance; the grain of the wood on the shaft was clearly visible, indicating that he had personally selected the wood.
The two mounted their horses again, this time without any unnecessary movements, simply bowing deeply to each other—the entire arena fell silent, even the sound of the wind blowing through the flags became clear, the lords held their breath, awaiting the final showdown.
The moment the horn sounded, the two warhorses charged forward simultaneously!
Lyan's silver spear aimed straight for Clymont's chest, the tip whistling as it cut through the air;
Clymont's oak lance was aimed at Lyan's shoulder armor, his movements as steady as a mountain.
"Clang!" Both spears broke at the same time. The sapphire on the silver spear fell onto the sand and rolled to the Grey Ghost's feet. The Grey Ghost curiously scratched at it with its paws.
The red cloth covering the oak spear fluttered in the wind, drifting towards the stands and landing right in front of Jeyne. The little girl grabbed it, waving it excitedly. "Little Daemon! Look!"
The two warhorses passed each other, and Lyan and Clymont simultaneously dismounted, each clutching half a spear shaft in their hands; neither of them fell off their horses.
The entire stadium was silent for a moment, then erupted in deafening cheers!
Borros even jumped up, forgetting to pick up his tomahawk from the ground, shouting, "Tie! We must be tied!"
Brandon clapped his hands, shouting, "That's more like it!"
Daemon Targaryen snatched the Gael's hand, tilted his head back, and gulped down a large mouthful of wine, the liquid running down his chin and into his golden robes. "That was exhilarating! A hundred times more exhilarating than shopping with Lysa!"
King Jaehaerys stood up and tapped his scepter lightly on the table, instantly silencing the entire hall.
The old king's gaze swept over Lyan and Clymont, then turned to the cheering lords, his voice carrying across the entire arena. "Lyan Redwyne, Ser Clymont Crabb, thirty spears, a draw! Today I declare you two to be the joint champions of this spear duel!"
No sooner had he finished speaking than Vermithor suddenly let out a dragon's roar, its bronze dragon wings flapping and blowing the broken spear shafts off the sand.
Silverwing echoed, its silver-gray dragon breath condensing into white vapor in the air, as if crowning the two.
Lyan and Clymont walked to the center of the field and shook hands with each other.
Sir Lyan smiled at his white-robed brother and said, "Old friend, I'll definitely beat you in the next duel."
Sir Clymont nodded in agreement. "I'll be waiting."
Daemon looked down at Rhaenyra in his arms; the little one was clapping her hands, her eyes shining like stars.
Gael leaned against him, her pale purple eyes filled with excitement. "It was amazing! Even better than I imagined!"
Jocelyn walked over to them, holding a cloak, and gently draped it over Daemon's shoulders. "Don't catch a cold. There are a few more small-scale warm-up matches coming up. Do you want to participate?"
Daemon shook his head, his gaze falling on Lyan and Clymont, who were embracing in the arena. "Today's glory belongs to them."
Queen Alysanne walked over to Jaehaerys, watching the spectacle unfold before glancing at the dragons circling overhead, and murmured, "If Aemon were still here, he would be delighted to see this."
Jaehaerys held her hand, his voice tinged with emotion. "Yes, he will be proud of his old friends and these young men on the sidelines."
As the sun gradually set in the west, it bathed the arena in a golden-red hue. Lyan and Clymont were surrounded by the lords, receiving their congratulations.
Borros and Brandon were still arguing about "who's better," but finally decided to "compete with tomahawks next time."
Daemon Targaryen was being pestered by the House Marbrand boys to "compare silver spoons," while Gael laughed and egged them on from the sidelines;
Rhaenyra nestled in Daemon's arms, her little head resting on his shoulder, still clutching the red cloth Jeyne had given her;
Jeyne, pulling Laena along, excitedly recounted the duel they had just witnessed, while Laenor followed behind, holding a broken spear shaft, saying he wanted to "draw it."
Daemon gazed at everything before him, the brand on his right shoulder gradually fading in heat, yet his heart was filled with warmth. He knew this peace might not last long—
The undercurrents of the Triarchy, the threat of the White Walkers, and the potential outbreak of the Dance of the Dragons are all like shadows lurking in the dark.
But at this moment, looking at his family and friends, watching the cheers in the arena and the low growls of the dragons, he suddenly felt that as long as he held onto this bond, there was no difficulty he couldn't overcome.
The distant Red Keep's bells tolled, mingling with the roars of dragons and cheers, like an epic crowning the two heroes.
On the sands of the arena, thirty broken lances lay silently, each one etched with the glory of knights, and with this moment, the most precious peace in Westeros.