An unexpected championship

In the lists, the clash had already begun.

The Mountain was built like a hulking beast, and his warhorse was an especially large, carefully selected mount. As he charged, he resembled an unstoppable battering ram.

Barristan, meanwhile, had fought through decades of war and possessed a wealth of combat experience.

He never met the Mountain's brute force head-on. Instead, he repeatedly relied on technique, either deflecting the Mountain's lance or calmly evading it. Several times, he escaped danger and easily neutralized the Mountain's savage attacks.

The two traded passes, charging at each other four times without a victor emerging.

By then, the Mountain's warhorse was already panting, its nostrils flaring and its body drenched in sweat.

Even though it had been specially selected for its ability to carry heavy loads, it could not bear the Mountain's several hundred pounds indefinitely. Its charge had noticeably slowed.

This was precisely the opportunity Barristan had been waiting for.

On the fifth pass, he stopped defending and took the offensive, aiming his lance straight at the Mountain.

The Mountain also knew that his horse could not last many more passes. He decided to stake everything on this one, determined to knock Barristan hard from his saddle and end their drawn-out contest.

The two riders charged swiftly toward each other. In the end, their lances struck each other at the same time.

Barristan had devoted all his attention to attacking, inevitably leaving his defense somewhat lax. The Mountain's brutal strength drove into his shield, throwing him off balance and straight from his saddle. He slammed heavily into the ground.

The Mountain fared little better.

More precisely, his warhorse could take no more!

The instant their lances struck, the tremendous impact checked the horse's movement. Its hind legs buckled slightly, and it staggered several steps.

After the riders passed each other, the horse could no longer hold out. Its hind legs gave way, and under the Mountain's crushing weight, it collapsed onto its haunches with a pitiful whinny.

Caught off guard, the Mountain tumbled from the saddle and hit the ground hard, looking thoroughly bedraggled.

Even with the Mountain off its back, the horse could no longer stand.

The Mountain's warhorses were all painstakingly chosen. They had to carry his enormous body while possessing both speed and endurance. Another such fine mount could not possibly be found on short notice.

As for ordinary warhorses, once the Mountain mounted one, it would probably exhaust itself after barely two passes. It could not sustain an entire contest.

His face livid, the Mountain went straight to his younger brother, the Hound, Sandor Clegane.

Though the Hound was not as massive as the Mountain, he was still nearly two meters tall, and his horse could carry more weight than an ordinary warhorse.

Yet when the Mountain asked for help, the Hound gave him only two words:

"No chance!"

Those words ignited the Mountain's fury. He drew his sword on the spot and moved to slash at the Hound.

Fortunately, Tywin Lannister shouted for him to stop in time. Only then did the Mountain reluctantly sheath his sword, bringing the farce to an end.

In the main stand, Robert had long since lost patience with the deadlocked contest. All he could think about was the open-air feast afterward!

He had already chosen his targets for the evening from among the young noblewomen and common women. He only wanted the tourney to end quickly so he could spend a delightful night with those beautiful women!

And so, with a broad wave of his hand, he announced loudly:

"The champion of the joust at this Hand's Tourney is Davion Whent! His prize is twenty-five thousand gold dragons!"

Davion watched Tyrion gesticulating before him as he excitedly described what had just happened.

A flicker of surprise crossed Davion's eyes.

"Something that good actually happened? Heh, then I won't refuse!"

"Come on, come on, Davion!"

Tyrion tugged impatiently at his sleeve.

"The king's still waiting in the main stand to present your prize! Hahaha, you really are a monster. You even beat Jaime!"

Davion discreetly freed himself from Tyrion's small hand, his tone carrying a hint of smugness.

"I was strong to begin with. Why else would I dare bet a thousand gold dragons with you?"

"Speaking of which, Tyrion, shouldn't you pay out half the wager first and give me five hundred gold dragons?"

"Pah. House Lannister always pays its debts. Do you think I'd cheat you out of a thousand gold dragons?"

Tyrion rolled his eyes, then changed the subject, casting a disdainful glance at Gendry, who stood nearby looking somewhat bewildered still.

"Don't forget, you still have to win the Melee of the Seven!"

"The Melee of the Seven isn't like the Joust. That's a fight with real weapons, not something you can win through brute strength alone!"

"You're on your own, with only this dimwit beside you. Don't tell me you actually plan to take him into the melee?"

Davion walked over to his warhorse and swung into the saddle, his tone dismissive.

"I'm enough on my own. Hahaha!"

With that, he nudged the horse's belly. It gave a long whinny and carried him straight into the lists.

Behind him, Tyrion stamped his feet in agitation and shouted:

"Hey, Davion! I went out of my way to bring you the news. Why didn't you take me along?"

But Davion had already ridden away without so much as looking back.

After entering the lists, Davion passed the preparation area and casually picked up a lance. Without pausing, he rode straight to the main stand.

According to the customs of Westeros, the champion of a tourney had the right to name any lady present the "queen of love and beauty" and personally present her with a crown woven from flowers.

By convention, married knights always gave the crown to their wives.

Unmarried men had much more freedom. They could give it to their mothers, their sisters, or a girl they admired.

Davion reined in his horse, raised his lance, and with a gentle flick, lifted the flower-covered crown from the master of ceremonies' hands.

The entire crowd instantly fell silent. Every spectator held their breath, waiting to see which lady Davion would give this crown symbolizing honor and affection.

The lance in Davion's hand slowly extended toward the main stand, passing a succession of finely made-up noblewomen and heading straight toward Cersei.

Everyone understood.

It seems this Earl Whent greatly admires the queen's beauty as well.

Although Cersei was married, she was the queen, the most distinguished woman present!

Besides, Davion was only eighteen, still young. There was nothing inappropriate about giving the crown to Cersei.

A smug smile appeared on Cersei's face as she sneered inwardly.

Hmph. These wretched men. What does it matter if they can fight? In the end, they still can't resist my beauty!

She was secretly considering how to embarrass Davion shortly and vent Jaime's anger for him.

But then the lance in Davion's hand shifted slightly, passing her by and stopping directly before eight-year-old Princess Myrcella, who sat beside Cersei.

Princess Myrcella had perfectly inherited all of Jaime's and Cersei's finest features. With her delicate features and fair skin, she resembled a little rose waiting to bloom.

Looking at the crown suspended before her, she covered her mouth with her small hands in surprise, her eyes wide and her face full of disbelief.

Only after a moment did she react. She slowly rose and, imitating a noble lady, gave Davion a slight curtsy.

Then she happily took down the crown and placed it on her head, smiling until her eyes curved.

The smug expression on Cersei's face instantly froze. Then she shot Davion a fierce glare, her eyes filled with anger.

But Davion had given the crown to her daughter. However displeased she felt, she could hardly make a scene and could only seethe in silence.

After the presentation of the crown came the awarding of the prize, a simple and straightforward process.

Robert strolled lazily to the front of the stand and waved a hand. Petyr Baelish, who had long been waiting nearby, slowly stepped forward with several subordinates carrying large, heavy cloth sacks.

The sacks were filled with gold dragons.

As master of coin, Littlefinger had withdrawn all these gold dragons from the treasury at noon that day.

Davion's eyes shone at the sight of the bulging sacks. He was already making plans.

Once I get back, I'll repair Harrenhal's Kingspyre Tower first, so the whole tower is fit to live in!

Then I'll recruit more guards. At least two hundred!

I'll also buy fifty warhorses. Cavalry needs at least twenty men to be effective!

Robert had no intention of lingering. He summoned Littlefinger, gave him a few quiet instructions, then turned and hurried away.

He could no longer contain himself and wanted only to make his advances on the noblewomen he had chosen as soon as possible.

Wearing a courteous smile, Petyr Baelish bowed slightly to Davion.

"Congratulations, Earl Davion. To win the championship at your very first tourney-you truly are young and accomplished."

He pointed to the cloth sacks beside him.

"These are your winnings for the joust, twenty-five thousand gold dragons in total. Please check them."

Davion could not be bothered to waste time with this scheming Littlefinger. Right now, he only wanted to see those gold dragons as soon as possible.

He strode forward, reached out with one hand, and lifted all the heavy sacks together.

"Thank you, Lord Baelish. If there's nothing else, I'll be going!"

Davion's tone was flat. Having spoken, he carried the sacks briskly over to his horse, placed them securely across its back, then mounted and galloped toward the exit.

At the sight, exclamations rose from the spectators:

"Wow! He lifted all those gold dragons with just one hand!"

"He certainly deserves to be called the man who defeated Ser Jaime. That strength is incredible!"

Davion rode to the entrance, where Gendry and Tyrion were waiting.

Without stopping, he called loudly to the two of them:

"I'll be waiting for you at Chataya's brothel! Hahaha!"

The archery contest would take place tomorrow, and Davion had no interest in it. He simply decided not to stay in his tent at the tourney grounds that night and to thoroughly relax instead.

He would still have time to return for the Melee of the Seven the day after tomorrow.

Gendry and Tyrion looked at each other.

After standing stunned for a moment, Gendry turned to Tyrion and asked in confusion:

"Lord Tyrion, what do we do now?"

Tyrion rolled his eyes.

"What else can we do? Go to the brothel, of course!

"Good thing I brought a carriage, or we'd have to run after that brat! What a disloyal bastard, slipping off ahead of us!"