Jorah Mormont?
Deep within Aegon's cold purple eyes, which seemed to hold nothing but the instinct to kill, a barely perceptible flicker finally stirred.
Opposite him, Jorah Mormont had already ridden into position.
He was a burly man, clad in worn but well-maintained plate armor. The faint traces of a carefully polished bear's-head sigil were still visible on his breastplate.
His expression was unusually grave, his brows tightly knitted. His rugged face bore the weathering of a long journey and a trace of bewilderment.
He had never heard of the terrifying strength or utterly ruthless fighting style displayed by this sellsword knight who called himself "Lott Hayne" and claimed to hail from Westeros.
When had Westeros produced a man like this?
There was no time to dwell on it. The horn sounded again.
This time, the pounding hooves no longer heralded a one-sided rout.
The two warhorses sprang forward almost simultaneously, bearing their riders toward each other with grim determination!
Aegon's charge remained swift and economical, possessed of a cold precision.
Jorah Mormont's charge, by contrast, was powerful and weighty, carrying the fierce courage and resilience peculiar to knights of the North.
BANG!!!
Both lances slammed into their opponents' shields at almost the same instant!
This time, neither shield was easily pierced, nor did either lance snap on impact.
The tremendous collision sent both warhorses rearing with shrill cries. Their riders rocked violently in the saddle before wrenching their mounts back under control.
Wood splinters burst from the points of impact.
They passed each other and swiftly opened the distance. With scarcely a pause, both hauled their horses around to face one another again.
Squires hurried over with fresh lances.
A second charge! A third!
Every collision unleashed a crash that made hearts clench. Under these savage impacts, cracks began