Galladon's earlier victory left a strong impression on the crowd.
But it was only his first appearance. The tourney moved on quickly, duel after duel igniting cheers from the stands.
As custom dictated, Jon Fossoway's family redeemed his horse and armor.
Galladon received six gold dragons in ransom.
Such was the appeal of tourneys—fame and fortune in equal measure.
But the same rule frightened poorer knights. For some, horse and armor were their entire livelihood. Losing meant ruin.
In the afternoon, the challenge round began.
Knights who had failed to qualify earlier could challenge any advancing knight.
Victory meant replacing them.
Naturally, challengers avoided legends like Arthur Dayne, Rhaegar, and Barristan Selmy.
Few dared approach Galladon either after his decisive win.
He had already ridden two slow laps around the field when—
"Edmund Waxley of Wickenden in the Vale challenges Galladon Tarth of Tarth!"
The crowd stirred eagerly.
A red-armored knight, about twenty years old, rode out confidently.
Galladon narrowed his eyes.
Wickenden.
Closely tied to Gulltown.
A memory flashed.
Marq Grafton.
The Lord of Gulltown.
The man he humiliated at the dance.
"So this is your move," Galladon thought coldly.
A puppet challenger.
Pathetic.
In the stands, Jon Arryn frowned subtly. He had long held a favorable impression of Galladon and now noticed Marq Grafton standing near Lord Waxley.
He said nothing—but he saw.
The knights approached the center.
"Is this challenge your own will," Galladon asked calmly, "or someone else's idea?"
Edmund Waxley smirked.
"Guess."
He turned his horse without another word.
Galladon smiled faintly.
The answer was obvious.
His eyes grew cold.
"Begin!"
Both riders charged.
From the stands, Marq Grafton watched with a thin smile.
Edmund Waxley was known for wielding heavy lances of black ironwood—dense and powerful, nearly as dangerous as steel.
"If that brat is crippled…" Marq's lips curled greedily.
Helena's image filled his mind.
The hooves thundered.
Fifteen meters apart—
Galladon's gaze sharpened.
Waxley had raised his lance slightly.
Aiming at the neck.
Though not forbidden, striking the neck in a joust was notoriously dangerous. The force at full gallop could snap vertebrae.
It was a calculated risk.
A cruel one.
Galladon's expression turned icy.
So that was the game.
Waxley thrust viciously, black ironwood spear streaking toward Galladon's throat.
He imagined glory. Reward. Marq's favor.
But in that final instant—
He saw something that froze his blood.
Galladon's lance was aimed at his neck as well.
Their horses crossed in a heartbeat.
Galladon leaned with perfect timing, narrowly evading the black spear. Beneath his visor, his blue eyes were cold and merciless.
Boom—!
(End of Chapter 39)
A/N:
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