The warhorses pawed the earth, snorting as dust rose around them.
Galladon and Jon Fossoway lowered their lances and locked eyes.
The air between them crackled with tension.
"Begin!"
At Ser Lonmouth's signal, both riders dug in their heels.
The horses surged forward.
Thundersmoke exploded ahead with terrifying acceleration. More powerful. More stable. Galladon held his wooden lance level, eyes sharp and composed.
Ten meters.
Eight.
Five.
In that split second, Galladon's heightened perception came into play. He clearly read Jon Fossoway's posture, the angle of his lance, the direction of force.
In a joust, falling first means defeat.
Ordinary knights rely on fortune.
Experienced knights rely on balance.
Elite knights manipulate angles, using armor curvature to deflect impact and unload force.
And they must do this while striking their opponent.
In a blink—
They collided.
Galladon's lance struck Fossoway square in the chest.
Fast. Precise. Ruthless.
Fossoway's lance also struck Galladon's breastplate.
Avoiding impact entirely was impossible.
But at the moment of contact, Galladon subtly twisted his torso, letting the curve of his armor absorb and redirect part of the blow. His left foot pressed hard against the stirrup, stabilizing his center of gravity.
Boom!
Two heavy impacts rang out.
The crowd gasped.
Galladon swayed slightly—
And steadied.
Fossoway was not so fortunate.
The force that slammed into him felt like being trampled by a charging horse. Even through mail and plate, the shock drove into his chest. His breath vanished. His vision darkened.
His body tilted backward.
His waist could not recover the balance.
He fell—
But his left foot had been braced too firmly in the stirrup.
Instead of dropping cleanly, he was yanked backward and dragged across the dirt as his horse continued forward.
A muffled cry escaped him before he lost consciousness.
The entire arena froze.
Then—
An eruption.
Galladon had unseated Jon Fossoway in a single pass.
Clean.
Decisive.
Absolute.
Fossoway's squires rushed in to halt the horse and free him. From the looks of it, he would live—but whether he would walk unscarred was uncertain.
Galladon lifted his visor.
He guided Thundersmoke at a slow pace across the field, scanning the stands.
The reaction was explosive.
"Galladon!"
"Galladon Tarth!"
Noble ladies leaned forward with shining eyes. The audience loved an upset—especially one delivered with such elegance.
At the Hightower pavilion, Helena and her family had gone from shock to elation in seconds. They stood cheering openly.
Alerie waved wildly, forgetting entirely that Fossoway was connected to the Tyrells.
In the Tyrell seats, silence.
Olenna stared at the field, eyes sharp and unreadable.
That had not been luck.
That had been superiority.
Her daughter rushed out in distress to check on her injured husband.
Paxter Redwyne watched thoughtfully.
He had suspected Galladon would win.
He had not expected it to be so effortless.
In the Stormlands section, Robert Baratheon roared with laughter and applause, armor clanking as he stood.
"Good job, Galladon!"
Other Stormlords joined him enthusiastically.
Among the northern nobles, Eddard Stark cheered sincerely.
He admired Galladon deeply and had spent years training to match him.
Brandon clapped his brother's shoulder.
"So this is the Galladon you spoke of?"
Eddard nodded, rare pride in his smile.
Lyanna watched intently.
"Not just clever," she murmured. "He's strong."
Her gaze sharpened with sudden inspiration.
Beside her, Howland Reed looked uneasy, shrinking under her attention.
Lyanna clenched her fists.
An idea was forming.
Galladon guided Thundersmoke back toward the waiting knights, calm and composed.
His first battle before the realm—
And it had ended in a single strike.
The nobles of Westeros would remember this name.
(End of Chapter 38)
A/N:
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