Ten Thousand Gold Dragons for the Champion

The daylight gradually dimmed.

Inside the tent, Sandor Clegane, the Hound, silently wiped the sword across his knees.

It calmed his heart.

Whenever he was not at the prince's side carrying out orders, he never knew what else he could do.

Ever since leaving House Clegane to join the Lannister family more than a decade ago, the Hound had served as Prince Joffrey's guard.

Through countless days and nights, he had watched the prince gradually become what he was now.

He had become Joffrey's most loyal dog.

No matter how foolish or willful the prince's commands and actions were, he simply obeyed.

He let Prince Joffrey rule his body while allowing Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, to scorch his soul.

Gregor Clegane!

The hideous burn scars on his left cheek constantly reminded him of what the Mountain had done. His father, his sister, his family—Gregor had destroyed everything!

From then on, the Hound feared Flames.

Behind every flicker of firelight lay those unbearable memories, and the Mountain!

The Hound had sworn to kill Gregor with his own hands.

But he feared that monster too.

Anger, sorrow, hatred, and fear tangled around him day after day.

Only when the prince gave him orders could he temporarily forget everything and catch his breath.

This time should have been no different.

The Hound could not help recalling what had happened yesterday.

In the silent Kingswood.

He had heard the prince say with his own ears, "Sandor Clegane."

What a foreign name.

Normally, people only called him "the Hound" or "dog."

Only when they compared him to that bastard, the Mountain, did he hear the word "Clegane."

Gregor Clegane.

Hmph! A man like that can be an anointed knight?!

I'd rather be a dog than a knight!

The dog had received his command.

"At tomorrow's tournament, you will win the championship. I need those ten thousand Gold Dragons."

That was no small sum.

Even if a dog drank the finest Golden Wine from the Arbor every day until he died of old age, he might never spend it all.

The dog had been ready to agree.

But unexpectedly, this time there was an enormous bone waiting for him.

The prince wore a confident smile. "I know about that. There's nothing to fear from the Mountain. You can defeat him. Kill him."

The dog discovered that the prince seemed to have grown up in an instant.

"Don't worry. Once I become king, the Mountain won't be a problem at all."

Joffrey was going to help him kill Gregor?

The Hound felt as though he were dreaming.

But he thought that if Joffrey truly wanted it, Lord Tywin probably would not keep protecting Gregor.

Strangely, the dog was not especially happy.

Prince Joffrey and the Mountain—the two most important people in his life—had crossed paths in a way he could never have imagined.

After killing Gregor, what then?

The Hound had not figured that out yet.

But at this very moment, he sat here polishing his sword, thinking of nothing, waiting only to enter the field, fight, and defeat knight after knight.

The tent flap was suddenly lifted, and pale yellow light fell across the blade, scattering Golden Light.

"Hound, it's your turn. Your opponent is Dickon Tarly."

Sandor Clegane sheathed his sword.

"Who gives a damn who it is?! I'm taking the championship!"

He shoved the man aside and charged out...

After more than half a day of elimination rounds, only five contestants remained in the Jousting Tournament.

Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers.

Barristan the Bold, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, who had received a bye this round.

Sandor Clegane, the Hound.

Dickon Tarly, the new heir of Horn Hill.

After four more matches, the owner of the ten thousand Gold Dragons would be decided.

"First match of the fifth round of the Jousting Tournament: Ser Dickon Tarly versus Sandor Clegane!"

Dickon Tarly sat astride a tall warhorse, his entire body sealed within an airtight suit of full plate. The armor's design was ordinary, but highly practical.

As usual, the Hound wore ash-gray armor. He lowered the visor of his dog-headed helm and rode out to meet his foe on his mount, Stranger.

The two men faced each other, one in the west and one in the east, over a hundred paces apart, shields raised in their left hands and lances gripped in their right.

The Hound was on the eastern side, and the evening sun had become his opponent as well.

But that was nothing. He knew he would win.

The red signal flag in the center of the field swept down, and both men kicked their horses forward at once.

Stranger and its opponent shot forward in an instant, accelerating, accelerating, and accelerating again as they pushed themselves to their limits.

The Hound silently counted.

One, two, three, four.

Stranger had reached a steady full gallop. The Hound began adjusting his posture, raising his shield and leveling his lance.

Five, six.

They were close enough now to clearly see each other's stances. The Hound searched for an opening.

Seven, eight.

The shield was held too tightly. He would not be able to react in time.

Nine.

The Hound suddenly ducked low. Dickon Tarly did not move an inch.

Ten.

Crack, crack, bang.

The two lances snapped with nearly simultaneous sharp reports.

Dickon Tarly's lance struck the Hound's small square shield with precision, but his own shield failed to stop the Hound's sudden attack.

Amid cries of surprise, Dickon staggered to his feet.

A dent in the upper left portion of his breastplate explained the reason for his defeat. At that angle, it was no wonder he had been knocked out in one blow.

The Hound had won.

Those who had won their bets cheered, while those who had lost cursed and sighed even louder. The Hound did not care about any of it.

The matches continued.

Old Barristan the Bold ultimately lost to the young Knight of Flowers, like a cycle coming full circle.

The semifinals.

The Hound received a bye.

Loras Tyrell faced Jaime Lannister.

The audience had given the match their highest expectations.

The Knight of Flowers and the Kingslayer were like the two sides of a Gold Dragon Coin, evenly matched.

In terms of birth, both had illustrious Lordly families behind them.

Among the Seven Kingdoms under the Iron Throne, the Lannister family's western lands were rich and prosperous, abundant in gold, while House Tyrell's Reach had flourishing agriculture and the largest population.

Both were powerful forces capable of competing for first or second place among the Seven Kingdoms.

In terms of martial skill and looks, Loras and Jaime were both among the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms, the dream lovers of countless young women.

Their opposing reputations only made the duel more compelling.

The Knight of Flowers, bathed in sunlight, and the Kingslayer, reviled for betraying his vows, were practically fated opponents.

Even with personal leanings involved, no one could determine the winner until the very end.

Not even Joffrey could be entirely certain.

Although Jaime had lost to Loras in the original story, and Tyrion had thrown his state of mind into turmoil again last night.

Combat was never one hundred percent certain.

Bang. A figure tumbled from his horse.

Amid the fierce uproar, Joffrey could still clearly hear King Robert's booming laughter.

The Kingslayer had actually been defeated in a single pass.

Joffrey felt no ripple in his heart.

He did not care which of the two won. He only wanted money.

The coming months would be crucial. He needed a large sum of reasonable, low-profile funds.

The tournament prize was the best opportunity: its source was clear and legitimate, it would not invite trouble, and most importantly, the amount was enormous.

It also would not draw the king's attention.

Looking at his bold and generous "father," Joffrey felt complicated.

In all his plans, Robert was almost always the greatest obstacle. Only because—he was not King Robert's son.

Joffrey Baratheon was the Queen's child by her twin brother, the Kingslayer, and that was no longer much of a secret.

Those who knew included, but were not limited to, the Lannister faction, Hand of the King Arryn, Lord Stannis Baratheon, Varys the Eunuch, and Littlefinger, the Master of Coin.

Because of this, Joffrey could not use the same methods he had used on Tyrion to persuade the king to support his actions.

Any information that could help persuade the king might drastically change the future, strengthening his rule and improving his chances of survival.

That would clearly be aiding the enemy.

For the same reason, he could not reveal anything unusual about himself, especially not by becoming intelligent and rational.

If his changes made any one of those who knew the secret wary and uneasy, prompting them to expose it...

Joffrey did not know what would happen then, but it certainly would not benefit him.

He and Robert, father and son in name only, were destined not to coexist.

Yet the current peace of the Seven Kingdoms rested entirely on the king's authority. Before he was prepared to deal with chaos, removing the king would bring more harm than benefit.

Under such circumstances, he could only lie low for now and wait for the right moment.

A sudden eruption of shouts and gasps pulled Joffrey from his thoughts back into reality.

The final was over.

He focused his eyes, sprang to his feet, and applauded with a cheer. "Good dog! Well done!"

Ten thousand Gold Dragons were his.

Even as Joffrey rejoiced, he could not help marveling at King Robert's extravagance.

Ten thousand Gold Dragons for the mounted jousting champion, five thousand for the runner-up, five thousand for the group melee champion, not to mention the banquet and other expenses.

More than twenty thousand Gold Dragons.

With staple grain prices as the benchmark, one Copper Star was worth about sixteen yuan. One Gold Dragon equaled 210 Silver Stags, 1,470 Copper Stars, or 23,520 yuan.

A farming household in the Seven Kingdoms might not save up even one Gold Dragon in several decades.

The Royal Treasury only took in two or three million Gold Dragons each year.

Yet a single tournament now spent one percent of annual revenue—and in his own name, too. Uh.

He could no longer be happy.

My money! They took twenty thousand, and I only get ten thousand. What a huge loss!

Thinking of the Royal Treasury's staggering debts, then looking at the lavish scene around him, Joffrey suddenly lost all interest.

The sun sank lower and lower.

Just as the red sun was nearly obscured by the distant mountains, the group melee of thirty or forty men finally produced a winner—Bronze Yohn, Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone in the Vale.

Joffrey sat behind the king, absentmindedly sipping the golden liquid.

Yohn Royce stepped forward to thank the king for his grace.

In an instant.

Beyond his five senses, Joffrey suddenly sensed something indescribable, something that seemed to seize the soul.

He stared blankly at Yohn.

Within a crimson world, a faint azure glimmer seemed to emerge.