章節 13: Chapter 13
As soon as the signal was given to start the round, Robert spurred his horse, leaving no time for hesitation. He charged forward like a wild storm, his lance aimed straight at my heart. The spectators held their breath, anticipating the collision.
I slowed my horse just slightly, forcing it to shift to the side at the last moment. Robert's strike was powerful but predictable—his lance barely grazed my shield as it passed by. I responded with precision and cold calculation, aiming my lance at his shoulder, intending to unbalance him.
But Baratheon was too heavy and sturdy. Despite my maneuver, he held firm in the saddle without even flinching. The crowd roared with excitement. They loved Robert's wildness—his aggression and animalistic nature. But to me, it was clear he was charging blindly, relying solely on instinct. And that would be his downfall.
In the second round, he attacked even more aggressively, driving his horse hard in his eagerness to reach his target. I, once again, aimed to exploit his impatience, using all my agility to avoid his intended path. This time, I managed to catch him off guard with a subtle trick, angling my lance in a way he couldn't anticipate. The strike hit his side—not as powerful as Robert's, but accurate enough to make him sway in the saddle.
In response, Baratheon's face, red beneath his helmet, contorted with rage. With each exchange, he grew more frustrated at his inability to land a blow. On one hand, this presented another opportunity for me, but on the other, one lucky move from him and I'd surely lose.
In the third round, he completely abandoned caution, putting all his strength into striking me. And, strangely enough, it worked: I instinctively raised my shield, which nearly cracked under the impact. My arm muscles screamed in pain, my body practically draped over the horse, and only tremendous effort kept me from falling. But that maneuver cost the wild stag dearly: in return, my lance struck him square in the head, knocking off his helmet and cutting a gash across his right brow.
It seemed that the heir to Storm's End was offered the chance to concede, but with blood streaming into his eye and a wide grin on his lips, he barked at his squire. The squire hurriedly brought him the stag helmet and a new lance. Laughing maniacally, Robert spurred his horse forward, swinging his lance as if he meant to take off my head. Though the situation seemed dangerously close, I ducked sharply at the last moment, letting his strike pass by.
My own thrust was calculated to the smallest detail. Using a feint directed at his head, I opened up his defense and struck directly at his breastplate. Baratheon finally lost his balance and slumped over his mount. After a brief but desperate struggle, his massive body crashed to the ground with a resounding thud.
I raised my weapon in acknowledgment of the crowd's cheers, while Robert slowly got back on his feet. His eyes burned with a mix of disappointment and pride. He clearly didn't see himself as defeated. Even now, barely standing, he looked ready to continue the fight. But instead, he just nodded in my direction.
After my performance, other knights took to the arena, each eager to show off their valor and strength. Lords and ladies watched in awe, cheering on the knights from their lands as they engaged in fierce battles. Several rounds were predictable, with the stronger contenders easily outmatching the less experienced.
A few moments stood out among the string of clashes: one riverlands knight's lance snapped so violently that splinters embedded themselves in his hand, forcing him to withdraw. In another instance, a knight who seemed certain to be unseated somehow clung to his saddle, defying expectations.
Special attention was drawn to the match between my dear brother and Ser Barristan Selmy. Rhaegar, as always, entered the arena with regal composure, but it soon became clear that his previous duel had taken a toll. In the first round, both competitors exchanged precise hits to each other's shields, showcasing their high level of skill.
However, as the contest went on, Rhaegar began to lose control, and the advantage shifted to Selmy. In the second and third rounds, my brother's lance barely grazed the target, leaving the spectators puzzled given his reputation.
The fourth round proved decisive: Barristan, cool and precise, delivered a blow that knocked the prince from his saddle. Rhaegar fell hard to the ground, several rubies from his armor scattering across the arena, plunging the crowd into tense silence. The audience couldn't believe that the star of the event, the king's son, had been defeated so unexpectedly. Of course, the more experienced lords quickly understood that the crown prince still had much to learn before he could match one of Westeros' finest knights.
Selmy, showing respect, offered Rhaegar a hand and helped him to his feet, acknowledging the strength of his prince even in defeat. My next opponent was Ser Oswell Whent. He had swiftly unseated Mace Tyrell: in the first round, his lance struck Tyrell's torso, and in the second, it hit the heir to Highgarden's helmet.
As Whent left the arena, our eyes met. After years spent at Storm's End, I had come to understand Barristan's character down to the smallest detail, but Oswell remained a mystery. Despite numerous training sessions and drinking bouts, he had never fully revealed himself to me.
Meanwhile, Rhaegar and Arthur met in the prince's lavish tent, hidden from prying eyes and curious ears.
Rhaegar's POV
Arthur Dayne always knew how to lift my spirits, even when I was on the verge of doubt. As soon as I bandaged my shoulder and straightened my hair, he, leaning on his sword, began teasing:
"Well, congratulations, Rhaegar. Your rubies are now part of history," he said with a hint of a smile. I responded with nothing more than a smirk.
"Looks like I'll need to order new ones. Although, I imagine many will remember this as the highlight of the tournament."
Dayne squinted, continuing mockingly, "They'll probably remember more how you ended up on the ground. But I'm glad you're taking it so calmly. Not every prince would handle defeat with such composure."
I shrugged, trying to ignore the pain: "I'm prepared to accept defeat, especially when it's deserved. Against Barristan, I had no chance. Not in my current state."
Arthur's expression darkened, but there was no judgment in his eyes, only concern: "You knew the risk. You understood perfectly well that your body could betray you. Was it worth it?"
I waved him off: "You know, Arthur, all eyes were on me. How would I look if I refused to participate? Especially after all the expectations?"
"I understand. But you also need to remember that you shouldn't break yourself for others' hopes. A grand tournament is no reason to sacrifice your health."
Hearing this, I couldn't help but smile faintly: "Is that why you decided not to join the jousting? You left that to others so you could focus on the melee?"
"Yes, jousting is for those who want to shine. My domain is the sword. In the melee, you face real fighters, where neither status nor birth matters—only steel and resilience."
I thought for a moment and then said, "Perhaps I even envy your choice. You've always stayed true to yourself, no matter what."
He looked me in the eye and softly but firmly said, "We each have our own path, Rhaegar. The key is to keep believing and fighting no matter how many times you're knocked down. Just as you did today."
"Thank you. You always know how to find the right words, even in the worst moments."
Dayne nodded modestly and then turned his gaze to the arena, where the matches continued.
"Let's go see how the others are faring. I have a feeling there's still a lot of excitement to come."
With a slight smile, I agreed, and we left the tent, discussing the upcoming fights and enjoying a rare moment of friendly solitude.
Aeryon's POV
The noise faded in my ears as Ser Oswell and I took our places. His appearance in gray armor with the black bat on his helmet commanded both respect and wariness. We both knew this bout would be a test.
In the first round, our lance strikes were evenly matched in strength. The blows were precise, our weapons cracking against each other's shields, but both of us remained in our saddles. The crowd erupted in shouts, a mix of excitement and tension.
I felt my body tense, but my focus kept me from losing concentration for even a second. Oswell remained calm, his movements smooth and assured, as if he did this every day.
In the second round, I tried to seize the initiative by changing my attack angle. My lance struck Whent's shield hard, but he only swayed slightly before instantly regaining his balance. His counterstrike was just as dangerous, but I managed to dodge, allowing his lance to merely graze the edge of my armor. Something like approval flashed in his eyes.
The third round was far less elegant—it became a true test of nerves. We charged at each other with even greater speed, our lances glinting in the sunlight. I attacked first, trying to twist and strike at his helmet, but he skillfully redirected his horse, shifting the trajectory of my blow. Whent's strike hit its mark, spinning me around and nearly unseating me.
A sharp pain shot through my body, and I could barely feel the arm holding the shield. Glancing at my teacher with an unreadable expression, I was surprised to notice a smile.
每周推薦票狀態
-- 推薦票
榜單 
-- 推薦票