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On the jousting field, a black destrier and a white stallion thundered toward each other, their riders locked in a dead sprint.
Both horses were flying. In seconds they met at the center of the lists.
Leo gripped his lance, eyes narrowed, every sense locked on the perfect moment. He drove the point straight at the Hound.
Sandor Clegane wasn't the same man Leo had embarrassed in the training yard. He'd learned the hard way not to underestimate this foreign knight. Today his focus was razor-sharp, reading every twitch of Leo's body.
A split second before Leo's lance shot forward, the Hound saw it coming—the exact timing, the exact angle. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth behind the dog-head helm. He snapped his shield up and angled it just right.
The lance slammed into the shield and skidded off the curved surface, robbed of most of its power.
Even so, the sheer force rocked the Hound in the saddle. His own counter-thrust wobbled off line.
Leo's shield caught the glancing blow cleanly.
They flashed past each other, lances shattered or deflected, neither man unhorsed. The crowd roared at the lightning exchange.
Leo exhaled as he reached the end of the lists. Hound's no joke. Last time he'd caught the man cold with [Charge] and finished it with [Slam]. Now, after two months of training under Barristan and sitting at level 8 with Strength 15.4, he still hadn't gained an inch.
This isn't going to be easy.
The Hound was thinking the same thing. That hit had carried real weight—close to what his brother Gregor could put behind a lance. Sandor's whole life had been built around one goal: beating the Mountain for shoving his face into a brazier as a boy.
If this eastern upstart had power like Gregor's, then crushing him was the next step on the road to revenge.
Neo… you're just the stepping-stone.
He wheeled his black destrier and charged again.
Seconds later the two riders collided in the middle of the field to a thunderous roar from the stands.
Both men threw everything they had. The Hound used a veteran's trick—a quick feint with the lance tip—then struck hard and low.
Leo spotted the deception a heartbeat late. Pure reflex saved him. He twisted hard in the saddle, raised his shield, and triggered [Precise Block].
The shield held. The lance still hammered him with the full weight of horse, rider, and steel. Leo rocked backward, nearly torn from the saddle. Only his expert riding skill and the perfect sync he shared with his game-bred stallion kept him mounted.
The Hound's lance exploded into splinters.
Wood shards sprayed everywhere. The crowd gasped. Even King Robert half-rose from his seat, eyes wide.
Joffrey jumped to his feet, screaming, "Hound! Yes! That's it! Knock the bastard off his horse!"
The Hound felt a rush of savage satisfaction—then a flicker of frustration. If we'd been using real war lances instead of tourney blunts, he'd be on the ground right now.
No point dwelling on it. A squire ran up with a fresh lance. The Hound took it, pointed it down the lists, and bellowed, "Neo! This time I'm putting you in the dirt!"
The crowd lost their minds.
Leo's jaw tightened. He'd almost been unhorsed. Anger flared—not at the Hound, but at himself for getting cocky after a string of easy wins.
Up on the royal dais, Barristan Selmy had gone pale. He'd watched Leo dominate every opponent so far; a little setback might be exactly what the boy needed. But being thrown from a galloping warhorse was no joke. Knights had died from less.
Beside her father in the stands, Brienne clutched the railing, silently praying to the Seven. Please… Ser Neo has to win.
Leo shook the tension out of his shoulders, leveled his lance, and kicked his stallion into a full charge.
This time he wasn't holding back.
He was saving [Charge] for the exact right second—the same move that had caught the Hound off guard once before. The ace he'd kept in reserve since the bandit fight.
Let's see how you like it this time.
The two riders closed fast.
The Hound calculated distance, timing, angle—then froze.
Leo's body language said he was about to strike.
Impossible. We're still too far. He can't reach me from there—
The split-second doubt clouded the Hound's mind.
In the next heartbeat his eyes widened in pure shock.
Leo's form blurred. Rider and horse surged forward like a bolt from a crossbow. The lance tip filled the Hound's vision in an instant.
Shit—
That same gut-wrenching feeling from the training yard slammed into him all over again.