The "Rash Stag" and the "Wild Wolf's" "Team"?

The morning light in King's Landing today was somewhat languid compared to the previous days, and when it shone on the team competition area on the west side of the arena, even the wind seemed less lively.

Unlike the bustling crowds at the swordplay competitions and the cheers at the archery contests of the previous days, the team competition venue was unusually quiet today.

The makeshift wooden fence was crooked and uneven. The audience, mostly commoners from King's Landing, huddled on the grassy slope at the edge, clutching cold wheat cakes in their hands. Their expressions were less expectant and more casual, like mere spectators.

The noble stands were even more sparsely populated. Lord Taimond Lannister of the Westerlands was dozing off against the back of his chair, with only two servants behind him. He kept turning the golden lion ring in his hand, clearly not taking the match seriously.

As for Duke Mathos Tyrell, he did not appear today, but instead sent his eldest son Garlan Tyrell to watch the match in his place. However, Garlan was staring blankly at the silver spoon with grape patterns in his hand, leaning on the railing, his gaze occasionally drifting into the distance, clearly his mind was no longer on the field.

Even the most boisterous young noblemen were whispering about the exciting swordplay competition from yesterday, with no one paying any attention to the dusty arena today.

After all, team tournaments have always been a "mixed place" - the participating teams include free knights and outlaws who want to stand out, as well as commoners and strong men who want to earn some pocket money. Most nobles avoid it, feeling that it is beneath them to compete with "commoners" and are even more afraid that accidents or injuries will occur during the tournament, ruining the mood of this year's tournament celebration.

However, some people think differently this year.

"Why do they think we're no good!" Borros Baratheon's encouraging voice broke the silence of the arena. He was dressed in dark green, and the broad-bladed scabbard at his waist banged against the wooden fence.

Brandon Stark beside him nodded repeatedly, his leather armor still seemingly covered in sawdust from the previous night's revelry. "Exactly! Boros lost face in the archery Borros, and a few days ago, neither of us could beat Lorent in the sword fight. This time, we have to win the team competition!"

Just as the two were getting into a heated argument, Myles Rivers, carrying his the North Battle Axe, approached, his dark face beaming with excitement. "Borros, Brandon, count me in! I'll test my strength against you two, and I guarantee I'll smash your shields to pieces!"

Tybolt Crakehall chimed in, twirling his boar-patterned greatsword in his hand. "Me too! I lost to Myles in a strength contest last time, this is my chance to get my revenge!"

Lucas Tyrell approached, longsword in hand, his face still bearing the air of someone eager to avenge last year's humiliation in the spear duel. "I'm joining too! Last year, I lost to Little Daemon in the spear duel, a disgrace that's been etched on my Reach for almost a year. No one dares to speak ill of Little Daemon now, but I'll prove myself to him and the Seven Kingdoms!"

Tommen House Peake's eyes lit up, and he quickly stepped forward. "Then I'll join too! The swordplay competition didn't fully showcase my skills to Your Highness; I'd like to give it another try this time!"

The House Royce twins exchanged a glance and nodded with a smile, "Brother Myles, let's go call our cousin Gonsor! His two-handed greatsword is powerful; it'll be perfect for blocking the enemy's attack!"

Not long after, Gonsor House Royce arrived, his seven-foot-tall frame encased in bronze armor, his two-handed greatsword gleaming coldly. His brow furrowed. "Are you sure you want to compete with these commoners? What if my uncle and aunt find out—"

"What are you afraid of!" Brandon quickly patted his shoulder, encouraging him with a bit of reverse psychology. "If we win, we'll look good; if we lose, we'll just treat it as practice! Besides, how could we possibly lose with just the few of us? And do you really want that Daemon Targaryen guy to swagger around in front of your House Royce?"

Gonsor sighed helplessly, unsure whether to be angry or not, but seeing the expectant looks from the House Royce twins, he still joined the line.

Just as everyone was almost assembled, Brandon suddenly remembered something. "We're still missing a commander! With so many of us, we need someone to plan the tactics!"

Everyone looked at each other, and finally their gazes fell on Rayford Rosby, who had just finished dealing with the Dark Blade Guard's paperwork.

Rayford had just reached the edge of the field when Myles grabbed him and pulled him back. "Rayford, you're the smartest, you take charge!"

Rayford paused, looking at the group of eager-to-fight men before him, then glanced in the direction of Daemon in the distance— Daemon was leaning against the edge of the royal stands, nodding at him—before reluctantly agreeing, "Fine, but we agree that it's just a friendly spar, no hurting anyone."

"And us!" The sound of hooves approached, and William Dustin rode up on a white horse, followed by his brothers Harmund Umber Umber Jon Umber, both clad in the North leather armor and wielding battle axes. "Brandon, you only called for William, but don't forget us brothers! We men of Umber the North can't miss an opportunity like this!"

This conveniently filled the maximum quota of twelve people – Borros, Brandon, Myles, Lucas, Tybolt, Tommen, the House Royce twins, Gonsor, Rayford, William, Harmund, and Jon.

As soon as the team took their positions, a few scattered cheers erupted from the stands. Lorent Grandson, unusually not sleepy today, along with his two cousins, Theogood Fell and Willie Fell, waved and shouted in Borros's direction, "Borros! Don't let the boars gore you again!"

This earned him a glare from Borros, but he didn't argue back—the embarrassing incident of being chased by wild boars while hunting with them was still a source of amusement for the younger generation in Stormlands.

This year's team duel rules, in order to avoid injuries and spoil the atmosphere of King Jaehaerys' fiftieth anniversary celebration of ruling the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, are clearly more written and civilized than in previous years, but they are still simple and brutal:

Each team must have at least eight to twelve players to participate in the duel. The team that captures the flag in the center of the opponent's position wins. Swords are not sharpened, but blunt weapons are allowed for parrying. Attacking vital organs is prohibited.

However, Borros and his team had a smooth run in their next few matches. Either their opponents, seeing their formidable lineup, didn't dare to really fight and hastily conceded defeat; or they were completely overwhelmed by their teamwork.

In the semi-finals and finals, their opponents were a team composed of retainers of minor lords from the Riverlands. The leader was a knight in brown armor, holding an oak lance. He looked quite imposing, but in the eyes of Borros and his men, he was still not much of a threat.

It wasn't until the finals that Borros and his team faced a worthy opponent—a group of free riders led by a burly man with a face full of scars who was said to have been a pirate in the Narrow Sea.

Seeing that their group was full of noble scions, the opposing side's eyes flashed with a hint of contempt, but they didn't dare to say anything. After all, with Gonsor's two-handed greatsword and Myles's the North Battle Axe on display, no one wanted to confront them head-on.

As the bugle sounded, Rayford immediately laid out the tactics. "Gonsor, Myles, and Tybolt, hold the front and block the enemy's attack; Brandon and Borros, flank from both sides; the House Royce twins and William and the Umber brothers, protect the flanks; Tommen and Lucas, follow me and look for an opportunity to capture the flag!"

The moment the order was given, the opponent charged forward. Gonsor struck first, sweeping his greatsword horizontally, forcing his opponent to retreat repeatedly;

Myles's battle axe was even more powerful, smashing into the opponent's shield with a single blow, making the man's arm go numb;

Tybolt then coordinated with the blocking to prevent his opponent from getting close.

Brandon and Borros seized the opportunity to flank from both sides. Brandon's longsword deflected one opponent's weapon, while Borros's broadsword pressed against another's chest. The two worked in perfect harmony and easily dealt with the enemies on the flanks.

Rayford, along with Tommen and Lucas, headed straight for the flag. Although young, Tommen skillfully dodged the opponent's attacks, while Lucas used his longsword to entangle the enemy, creating opportunities for Rayford.

Finally, Rayford grabbed the flag and pulled it up with all his might. Cheers erupted throughout the arena. Borros and Brandon rushed over and hugged Rayford, shouting, "We won! We won!" Even Gonsor showed a rare smile.

In an inconspicuous corner of the stands, a figure wearing a black wide-brimmed hat clapped softly in the shadows, his silver-gold hair peeking out from under the brim—it was Daemon Targaryen, disguised as a spectator at the game.

His companion Lysa Tully, dressed in a light blue dress and clutching a daisy, exclaimed excitedly, "Your Big Daemon, they're amazing!"

"What's so great about that!" Daemon Targaryen curled his lip, his tone full of dissatisfaction. "If you had called me, we would have won long ago. We wouldn't have needed all this trouble!"

"Oh? Is that so?" A familiar yet cool voice suddenly rang out.

Daemon Targaryen froze, slowly turning around to see his legal wife Rhea House Royce, standing behind them, her bronze armor gleaming coldly, her runic sword sheath lightly tapping her palm.

"If you dare to get involved, your grandmother, Queen Alysanne, will probably grab her silver fox fur shawl and bring your grandfather, His Majesty Jaehaerys, and your father, Crown Prince Baelon, to beat you up. After all, I heard you used the old helmet of the Gold Cloaks as a wine jug last night. Haven't you been banned enough yet?"

Daemon Targaryen's face flushed instantly, and he was about to defend himself when Rhea's gaze fell on Lysa.

Lysa felt a little nervous under her gaze and instinctively hid behind Daemon Targaryen.

Rhea suddenly laughed, her voice tinged with a hint of teasing. "Miss House Tully, you have quite the looks and taste. The fabric of this dress must be top-quality silk from Arbor; it looks even more luxurious than some people's black robes."

She paused, her gaze sweeping over Daemon Targaryen. "He just has poor judgment. He didn't realize that someone is all show and no substance, even using a spoon as a weapon. Was he drunk last night? Is that why he's so timid today?"

"Rhea! Don't go too far!" Daemon Targaryen quickly shielded Lysa behind him, his eyes filled with vigilance.

He was afraid that Rhea would retaliate against Lysa, and also afraid that Lysa would see through his embarrassment. However, noticing that Rhea's gaze towards Lysa was somewhat strange, his tone was clearly a little hesitant, "We're just here to watch the match, it has nothing to do with you!"

Rhea raised an eyebrow, didn't press the matter further, and turned to walk towards the Vale's viewing platform. As she passed, she didn't forget to turn back and add, "Take good care of your female companion, don't let her be tainted by 'filth'."

However, when he reached the corner, he surprisingly smiled. It turns out that seeing someone you dislike make a fool of themselves can indeed make you feel good. But it's a pity about that Miss Lysa; she's beautiful, but not very smart!

Daemon Targaryen grimaced in anger as he watched his legal wife walk away, but all he could do now was stomp his feet at her retreating figure, which made Lysa behind him secretly laugh out loud.