The grandeur of the Martial Games left Sansa breathless—the gleaming suits of armor, the tall warhorses draped in gold and silver, the loud cheers of the crowd, the vivid banners fluttering in the wind.
And those knights, especially those knights.
"This is even better than the songs!"
Kal had just casually found a seat and sat down when he heard Sansa Stark's voice from behind him.
He turned around and saw that Sansa was wearing a green gown today, which perfectly set off her reddish-brown hair—she looked truly beautiful.
Beside her were her younger sister Arya Stark and her childhood friend, Jeyne Poole.
Kal had to admit, Jeyne Poole was very beautiful.
Looking at the two girls sitting closely together, Kal felt his mood lift considerably.
So he smiled and joined in the conversation.
"Of course. Though I've never participated in a tournament before, I can guarantee this is absolutely the grandest one in the history of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Good morning, Lady Sansa Stark, Lady Arya Stark, and Lady Jeyne Poole."
Kal bowed in greeting to the two young ladies of House Stark and to Jeyne.
The sudden voice startled the three girls, whose eyes had been fixed on the clashing and spark-filled group tournament below.
When Sansa came back to her senses and realized that it was Kal greeting them, she hurriedly composed herself and smoothed the hair beside her ear.
She certainly did not wish to appear rude before Kal, especially by doing anything that might damage her image as a lady.
Sansa quickly rose, lifted her skirts slightly, and greeted him, "Good morning, Lord Kal El."
Arya, however, clearly had no such concerns. She looked at Kal, who had suddenly appeared in the stands, her eyes full of curiosity.
"Ser Kal, aren't you going to take part in today's tournament? I was hoping to see you win the championship."
Arya was a little surprised that Kal had not appeared on the field below. She had been looking forward to seeing him compete, even planning to bet with Jon that the winner of the tournament would definitely be Kal.
Unfortunately, her brother Jon refused to bet with her—unless both of them wagered that Kal would be the victor.
Thus, their bet never took place.
But just as her careless words had fallen, they were immediately followed by a reprimanding voice.
"Arya, you should maintain the manners you ought to have. Lord Kal is greeting you."
Hearing the rebuke, Kal also paused slightly, then turned his head toward the figure seated beside the two girls—a septa wearing a wimple.
She had a thin, narrow face and a pair of sharp eyes, and the words had come from lips so thin they were barely visible.
At this moment, her expression was fixed in a stern mask.
Noticing Kal's gaze, Septa Mordane rose and gave a slight curtsey.
"No need to be too harsh on Arya, Septa Mordane. She's just a bit lively by nature."
"And I also hope nothing that's happened here has frightened you all."
Kal appeared completely courteous and gentlemanly, neglecting none of the ladies present—except for Septa Mordane.
He suspected this woman had been a septa for too long and had become a bit pent-up.
"Courtesy is a lady's armor, Your Grace Lord Kal El," Septa Mordane replied.
Mm, Kal was certain.
At that moment, Jeyne, seemingly not expecting Kal to actually greet her, blushed at once, hurriedly lowered her head, and replied softly.
"Ser Kal, good morning. Everything here is dazzling, but so far I think I can manage."
Jeyne's voice sounded enchantingly soft, like that of a kitten.
Sansa glanced at her and pressed her lips together.
Just then, from the battlefield below, which moments ago had been filled with the ringing of weapons, a cheer erupted as the final victor was decided.
The man raised the four-flanged mace in his hand high, calling to the surrounding spectators for applause.
Their attention was unconsciously drawn back to him, and Kal clapped his hands.
"The victor is Ser Andar Royce, the eldest son and heir of Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone."
Kal recognized the man who had won below and smiled as he explained to the ladies.
Hearing his words, Sansa also recalled that Lord Yohn Royce had visited Winterfell as a guest two years ago.
Then, her expression turned slightly excited as she quickly said, "I know them—the House Royce! And Lord Yohn Royce's armor is made of bronze; it's thousands of years old, engraved with magical runes that protect him from harm."
Whether it was to make up for not having noticed Kal El right away earlier or simply to show off her own breadth of knowledge, Sansa followed along with Kal's topic.
Although the armor worn by Andar Royce, who had won below, was made of fine steel plated with silver, it too was inscribed with bronze protective runes like his father's.
Hearing Sansa's words, Kal rubbed his chin.
Sansa's remark reminded Kal—he thought that, if he had the chance, perhaps he could collect some similar occult knowledge and bring it back to show the witch in the Tower of Horror in the game world.
He had no idea if it would be of any use, but it might be worth a try.
So Kal nodded and said, "Ancient houses possess deep heritage—that's something I lack."
At those words, Sansa opened her mouth but found herself at a loss for how to respond.
After all, though Kal was expressing humility, he was indeed a newly risen noble, even one who had soared straight to the position of Warden of the West.
It was true that, aside from Kal El himself, the El family currently had no other members.
But Arya, who had also been listening attentively, thought for a moment and then offered a few comforting words.
"Your house will surely become very strong too. I don't think you have any reason to be disheartened, Ser Kal El."
In response to Arya's encouragement, Kal smiled.
"All right, thank you for your blessing, Arya. Now, shall we continue watching the exciting duels ahead?"
After the victor had been decided, the field below was quickly cleared.
Then, the next group of twenty, who had long been ready, entered the arena, each of them looking somewhat excited.
With the sound of the tournament horn, another elimination round of the group tournament began.
The ladies—whose enjoyment of the thrilling battles had already been interrupted by Kal's sudden arrival—naturally had no objections.
Yet after sitting down, Sansa, who had been watching the combat with full concentration, suddenly found herself unable to focus.
Now her mind was filled entirely with the face of Kal El sitting beside her.
On the arena enclosed by railings, the twenty new participants who had just entered the field stood in their respective positions.
They had no factions, no teams—after all, the rules of the game dictated that everyone fought for themselves.
They wore all kinds of armor.
But no matter what they wore, however varied or extravagant, it did not change the fact that the atmosphere within the arena was growing increasingly tense.
These twenty men held all sorts of weapons—the most common were shields and longswords.
Some wielded hand-and-a-half swords, long knives, and there were even those who carried hand axes or clubs bound with iron hoops.
Kal could tell that most of these men were free riders, mercenary knights, and newly knighted squires seeking fame and advancement.
The Martial Games that Kal had organized had given them an excellent opportunity to prove themselves.
Inside the arena, the twenty men watched each other warily, studying one another.
Until a young squire clad in plate armor lost his patience first and swung the longsword in his hand toward a nearby opponent wielding a hand axe.
In this confrontation, however, the two opponents who could afford to wear plate armor were, of course, the focus of everyone's attention.
The moment one of them made a move, he was immediately noticed by those who had been keeping a wary eye on him.
Seeing the man coming for him, the free rider holding a hand axe quickly raised his shield to block.
With a loud crack, the longsword struck the edge of the iron-bound wooden shield, leaving a notch before sliding off to the side.
The free rider, his arm numbed by the impact, gritted his teeth and endured it. Taking advantage of the moment, he braced his shoulder against the shield and rammed it straight into the young squire.
The already tense atmosphere on the field shattered the instant the squire made his move.
A single spark set the whole thing ablaze—the others, who had all been watching each other warily, at once turned and charged at the opponents they had silently chosen.
The spectators, who had been holding their breath in silence, were suddenly ignited with excitement, shouting themselves hoarse.
"Hit him! Cut down that bastard—yes, go for his knees, knock him to the ground!"
"Kick him! Kick his helmet off and he's out—yes, just like that!"
"Hey, what are you doing—ah! Can't you even block?!"
"Go home and train for another two and a half years!"
In an instant, all sorts of shouting, jeering, advice, bickering, and curses erupted one after another.
But the fighters in the arena had no time to care what was being shouted outside.
The young squire who had struck first at his nearby opponent was now surrounded by three others.
A wooden club bound with an iron hoop came crashing down on his head—his helmet caved in slightly with a dull thud.
Before he could even understand what had happened, the squire felt dizzy, his stomach churning with nausea.
Before he could steady himself, he realized that someone had hooked his shield away.
Then a hand axe came cleaving down onto the armor on his arm—one strike was enough to knock the longsword from his grasp to the ground.
The next moment, everything went black as a heavy elbow smashed into the side of his head, and the squire, not yet a knight, could no longer hold on and collapsed to the ground.
In the arena, it was forbidden to use stomping, hammering, or other finishing blows against those who had fallen.
So as soon as he hit the ground, the free rider he had struck earlier mounted him at once.
After a few more fierce punches, the squire had no choice but to drop his shield and slap the ground with his hand to signal surrender.
But before the free rider sitting astride him could even revel in having just taken down a squire clad in full plate armor, a heavy boot swung up and smashed straight into his face.
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