Roman's sudden arrival in the VIP stands instantly ignited the atmosphere of the entire arena. Thousands of nobles and commoners alike stretched their necks, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of the terrifying, legendary Lord of Harrenhal.
However, upon seeing him, the majority of the crowd felt slightly disappointed.
"Is that it? He just has black horns on his head? That doesn't seem like a big deal."
"Not a big deal? The man has literal demonic horns sprouting from his skull! Are you certain he isn't cursed by the Stranger?"
"How can a man afflicted by a demonic curse possess such devastatingly handsome features? If that is what a curse looks like, by the Gods, curse me too!"
"Let us disperse. The rumors of him turning into a giant, scaly dragon were clearly just exaggerated tavern gossip invented by greedy minstrels to scam coin. The horns are probably just some bizarre, decorative headpiece he pinned to his hair."
Completely ignoring the chaotic whispering of the crowd, Roman calmly took his seat directly beside Princess Myrcella.
Sitting in the royal box above, Queen Cersei could only watch helplessly as Roman and Sansa Stark cozied up beside her beloved daughter. Bound by the public setting, the Queen could do nothing but writhe in impotent, venomous rage.
Cersei discreetly gestured to Joffrey's sworn shield, Sandor Clegane, the "Hound," silently ordering him to step forward and physically separate Myrcella and Roman.
But the Hound explicitly pretended not to see the Queen's frantic hand signals. He was absolutely not foolish enough to offend King Robert by interfering with his chosen son-in-law. More importantly, Sandor's honed survivor's instincts were screaming at him. He could sense an unfathomable, terrifying aura of lethal danger violently radiating from Roman.
Standing near the horned lord, the Hound felt physically oppressed and suffocated. Sandor truly could not comprehend how those two little girls could sit so comfortably beside a creature that felt like a coiled apex predator.
Since the opening jousts had not yet begun, Roman casually distributed several vials of exquisite, Harrenhal-crafted floral perfume to the surrounding noblewomen. Simultaneously, he offered small, insulated chests of magically frozen ice cubes to King Robert and the senior lords to cool their wine.
These small, highly luxurious diplomatic gifts instantly eased the lingering tension in the stands, winning Roman unanimous, delighted praise from the surrounding nobility.
Roman then beckoned Fili over to Myrcella's side. Together, Roman and his aide gently and meticulously braided the princess's golden hair into an intricate Northern style.
Such intimate, domestic behavior naturally aroused the quiet contempt of the surrounding aristocratic men. The bastard lord truly is as eccentric and uncultured as the rumors claim,they sneered internally. What kind of high lord plays with a girl's hair in public?
But Myrcella enjoyed the attention immensely. Under Fili's exquisite craftsmanship, the princess looked absolutely adorable and charming.
Looking at the brilliant, capable woman standing before her, Myrcella suddenly felt a profound urge to rely on Fili.
Her younger brother Tommen was far too timid to protect her, while Joffrey only grew older and more cruel by the day. Sometimes, Myrcella desperately wished she had an older sister to guide her.
Myrcella gazed admiringly at Fili. The aide possessed long, flawlessly straight blonde hair braided into elegant twin tails. Her serene, lovely face was arguably more captivating than the princess's own, and her figure was undeniably stunning—slender, full, and incredibly athletic.
For a brief, treasonous moment, Myrcella felt that even her famously beautiful mother seemed somewhat ordinary when standing next to Fili.
However, before Myrcella could dwell on the comparison, the booming blast of warhorns signaled the official commencement of the Hand's Tourney.
Heavily armored riders violently charged and clashed on the lists below. Wooden lances violently shattered against steel shields. The losers were brutally knocked from their saddles into the dirt, while the victors proudly basked in the deafening cheers of the crowd.
Time flew by. In the chaotic, thrilling atmosphere, Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, finally faced off against a young, relatively unknown knight named Ser Hugh of the Vale.
The tragic sequence of events played out exactly as Roman knew it would. During the violent clash, the Mountain deliberately raised the tip of his lance at the very last second. The splintering wood bypassed Ser Hugh's shield entirely, driving straight through the young knight's throat and killing him in a single, devastating blow.
The brutal, unexpected murder instantly shocked the entire arena into dead silence. Several noblewomen shrieked in horror, covering their mouths and averting their eyes from the gruesome spray of arterial blood.
Roman immediately turned to check on Myrcella. This was the sheltered little princess's first time witnessing such a barbaric, visceral death, and her delicate face had turned completely deathly pale.
Yet, Myrcella remained remarkably composed. She simply looked away from the bloody corpse, refusing to scream or cry out in front of the court.
Roman quickly leaned forward, gently wrapping his massive arm around the princess's shoulders and softly stroking the back of her head to shield her from the gruesome sight.
The sudden, protective embrace caused Myrcella to tremble slightly. Realizing Roman was actively comforting her, she grabbed tightly onto the lapels of his dark leather doublet.
"Is... is that knight going to survive?" Myrcella whispered shakily.
Roman shook his head gravely. "No, Your Highness. That poor man has already been claimed by the Stranger. There is absolutely nothing the maesters can do for him now."
Myrcella looked profoundly heartbroken. She curled up against Roman's chest like a frightened, trembling doe.
"That was a tragic accident, Your Highness," Roman lied smoothly, his voice a comforting rumble. "But please believe me, I will never, ever allow you to suffer such harm."
Upon hearing his absolute vow of protection, Myrcella finally stopped trembling. Instead of focusing on Ser Hugh's horrific demise, she greedily enjoyed the absolute safety of Roman's embrace, an intimate display that made Fili smile with a pang of bittersweet envy.
The other noble ladies were significantly more traumatized. Sansa's friend Jeyne Poole broke down sobbing hysterically, while Sansa forced herself to remain stoic and calm, absolutely refusing to embarrass House Stark by weeping in public.
The Mountain's brutal "accident" created a terrifying, suffocatingly tense atmosphere across the entire tourney grounds. Everyone was terrified that another knight would suffer a similar lethal misfortune in the upcoming brackets.
Roman's glowing blue eyes locked onto Gregor Clegane. The Mountain was an absolute monster among beasts. Just thinking about the horrific atrocities the Mountain had committed during the Sack of King's Landing made Roman want to tear the giant limb from limb.
I cannot easily assassinate you in the middle of a public royal tourney, Roman thought coldly. But I can certainly make you suffer.
Soon enough, the semi-finals arrived, featuring the highly anticipated duel between Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, and the Mountain.
Loras employed a notoriously underhanded tactic. He rode a mare currently in heat, which completely distracted and agitated the Mountain's massive stallion, causing the beast to buck wildly and violently throw Gregor into the dirt.
Humiliated and sent into an absolute, berserk rage, the Mountain drew his massive two-handed greatsword and decapitated his own horse with a single, horrifying swing. Covered in his own mount's blood, the giant immediately charged toward the entirely unprepared Loras Tyrell.
The Knight of Flowers was caught completely off guard by the murderous turn of events. He frantically attempted to defend himself, but the Mountain's overwhelming strength quickly battered him to the ground.
Just as the Mountain raised his blood-soaked greatsword to cleave Loras in two, the Hound finally moved, drawing his own steel to defend the Tyrell boy.
But a dark silhouette was infinitely faster than Sandor Clegane. A blur of black and silver slammed into the dirt directly in front of the Demon Mountain.
CLANG!!!!
A deafening, concussive shockwave of metal striking metal echoed across the entire arena. The crowd gasped in absolute shock to find Roman Rivers standing squarely between the towering Mountain and the fallen Knight of Flowers.
Lord Roman? When in the seven hells did he get down there?! That was the collective, bewildered thought of the entire royal court.
Myrcella was deeply stunned. Just a fraction of a second ago, Roman had been gently holding her hand in the royal box. In the blink of an eye, he had crossed the entire arena to intercept the execution.
Roman stood casually in the dirt, holding his massive steel warhammer entirely in his left hand. He gripped the center of the heavy haft, tucking the bottom end firmly under his arm for leverage. The thick steel ring encompassing the hammer's head was perfectly locked against the razor-sharp edge of the Mountain's descending greatsword.
"Ser Gregor," Roman's voice rang out, entirely calm and devoid of any emotional fluctuation. "Your behavior is severely lacking in honor."
The surrounding crowd erupted into an absolute uproar.
They had just witnessed the eight-foot-tall Demon Mountain deliver a full-force, two-handed executioner's strike, only for it to be effortlessly blocked by the young lord using a single hand.
Seeing this terrifying display of supernatural strength, the most logical course of action for any normal man would be to immediately back down and apologize. But Gregor Clegane's brain was notoriously addled by milk of the poppy and sheer, psychopathic rage.
Seeing that a bastard lord dared to block his kill, the Mountain roared like a wounded bear. He violently wrenched his greatsword back and launched a lethal, sweeping horizontal strike aimed directly at Roman's neck.
Roman casually stepped back, allowing the blade to whistle past his throat. He then forcefully flicked his warhammer to the right with his single hand, violently smashing the heavy steel head directly into the flat of the Mountain's blade to deflect the momentum.
Before Gregor could recover his balance, Roman gripped the hammer with both hands and swung it in a blinding, brutal upward arc. The heavy steel collided with the Mountain's greatsword with the force of a siege engine.
The impact was so catastrophically violent that the Mountain's sturdy, castle-forged greatsword literally shattered in mid-air, exploding into dozens of lethal steel shrapnel fragments.
Seeing his favorite weapon utterly destroyed, the Mountain became completely unhinged. Dropping the broken hilt, he lunged forward, opening his massive, armored arms in a desperate attempt to grab Roman's head and crush his skull.
But Roman's reaction speed was superhuman. He violently raised his right leg and delivered a devastating, piston-like front kick directly into the center of the Mountain's heavy breastplate.
The audience heard a sickening, muffled thud. The next second, they watched in absolute disbelief as the massive, four-hundred-pound body of the Demon Mountain was launched violently through the air.
Gregor Clegane flew a full fifteen feet backward before violently crashing through the heavy wooden guardrails lining the jousting lanes.
When the giant finally slammed into the dirt, the crowd could clearly see a massive, terrifying dent caved directly into the center of his thick steel breastplate. However, protected by the heavy armor, the Mountain miraculously survived the kinetic impact. He groaned, quickly scrambling to his feet, ready to continue the bloody brawl with his bare hands.
Up in the royal box, King Robert had finally recovered from his drunken shock. He stood up, preparing to scream at the Mountain to stand down, but Roman's booming voice cut him off.
"Your Grace!" Roman shouted toward the stands. "Ser Gregor has violently desecrated your royal arena and attempted to murder a disarmed opponent! I formally request your royal permission to punish him!"
Robert, catching the utterly ruthless, predatory gleam in Roman's glowing blue eyes, immediately understood the assignment. He grinned wickedly and waved his heavy hand.
"Granted! Just do not kill him!"
Roman offered a crisp, formal bow to the king. He turned back toward the Mountain, finally allowing his true, menacing draconic aura to bleed into the air.
The Mountain, completely blinded by rage, grabbed a shattered wooden lance from the dirt and charged wildly at Roman. The clumsy giant swung the heavy timber like a club, but Roman effortlessly sidestepped the sluggish attack.
Without a moment of hesitation, Roman swung his warhammer in a brutal, low arc. The heavy steel violently smashed directly into the side of the Mountain's right knee. The heavy plate armor instantly shattered upon impact, sending sharp metal shards flying into the dirt.
The sickening crunch of shattering bone echoed across the silent arena. The Mountain's right leg buckled completely, forcing the massive giant violently down onto his knees.
Roman dropped his warhammer. He stepped forward, violently grabbed the edges of the Mountain's heavy steel helmet, and effortlessly ripped it off the giant's head. Gripping Gregor by the back of his thick neck with both hands, Roman forcefully drove his armored knee directly upward into the center of the Mountain's exposed face.
Another horrific, wet crack of breaking bone rang out. The Mountain's nose and orbital bones shattered instantly. The massive giant's eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed face-first into the dirt, completely unconscious, as a thick pool of dark blood slowly leaked from his ruined face.
After a brief, stunned silence, the entire arena erupted into absolute, deafening cheers. The nobles and smallfolk alike roared in joyous celebration, congratulating the legendary Lord of Harrenhal on brutally defeating the most terrifying beast in Westeros.
However, not everyone was cheering.
Up in the VIP stands, Tywin Lannister sat completely motionless. His face was a mask of cold, gloomy stone as he stared intently down at Roman, calculating the sheer, terrifying threat the young lord posed.
Beside him, Queen Cersei was entirely consumed by a fit of hysterical, humiliated rage.
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