Chapter 10:
Outside King's Landing, at the tourney grounds.
The sun was blindingly bright, and banners fluttered across the sky. To celebrate the appointment of the new Hand of the King, Robert had nearly emptied half the royal treasury, turning the tourney into an event of extreme extravagance.
The stands were packed with spectators. Commoners pressed against the railings, roaring wildly, while nobles sat under shaded pavilions, fanning themselves and judging the knights below.
"Next match! From the Twins — Ser Hosteen Frey!"
At the herald's loud announcement, a bear-like knight in heavy silver-grey plate armor rode into the arena. He was one of House Frey's proudest warriors. Though not particularly bright, his brute strength was famous across the Seven Kingdoms.
Hosteen lifted his visor, waved to the crowd, and received scattered applause. Then he pointed his lance toward the opposite end of the field and let out a contemptuous snort.
"Where's my opponent? Where's that fallen baron who crawled in through a woman's skirts? Bring him out! My lance is already thirsty!"
Laughter erupted from the stands.
Rumors about Victor Pompey marrying a merchant's daughter and currying favor with the Queen had long been spread by those with ill intent. In the eyes of most knights, he was nothing more than a pretty boy who lived off women.
"Has Baron Pompey pissed himself yet?"
"I heard he sold everything he owned just to make a fancy suit of armor."
"I bet he won't even survive the first round!"
In the noble section, Sansa Stark nervously twisted her handkerchief. Listening to the mockery around her, her small face flushed red as she prayed silently: Gods, please… Lord Victor, you must win…
Not far away, Queen Cersei lazily sipped her red wine. She was wearing the [Conquest] perfume Victor had given her, radiating the aura of a true queen.
"If you lose, Victor…" Cersei narrowed her eyes, "then you'll only be fit to be a perfume peddler."
Just as the mocking laughter reached its peak—
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Heavy hoofbeats struck like drumbeats against everyone's hearts.
The gate at the opposite end of the arena slowly rose.
A pitch-black figure rode out from the shadows on a tall warhorse clad in black barding.
Instantly, the entire venue fell silent.
It was a masterpiece forged entirely from steel.
The streamlined black plate armor did not reflect the sunlight. Instead, it swallowed light like a black hole. The shoulder pauldrons were shaped like roaring griffin heads, and the joints were perfectly articulated — heavy yet terrifyingly agile.
Especially the fully enclosed helmet, which left only a T-shaped slit revealing a cold purple gleam, like the gaze of the Grim Reaper from the abyss.
Victor Pompey had arrived.
Though he was only one man and one horse, the oppressive pressure he emitted was several times stronger than the bear-like Frey.
"Show-off!"
Hosteen Frey spat and roared, "No matter how pretty you dress, you're still just a tin can! Pompey boy, when I knock you off your horse, remember to call for your mommy!"
Faced with the provocation, the black steel demon gave no response.
He simply accepted the lance from his attendant and lowered it steadily.
His posture was textbook perfect — steady as a rock.
[System Scan: Hosteen Frey (Strength 85, Agility 60).] [Host Comparison: Strength 95 (Spartan + Dragon Kidney enhancement), Equipment Advantage 30%.] [Conclusion: Overwhelming victory expected.]
"The match… begins!"
At King Robert's command, the horns blared across the sky.
"Hyah!"
Both warhorses charged forward at the same time, hooves thundering and kicking up clouds of yellow sand.
Two steel torrents raced toward each other at terrifying speed!
Fifty meters… Thirty meters… Ten meters!
This was the purest clash of power, with no room for tricks.
Hosteen Frey grinned savagely and aimed straight at Victor's chest. His lance carried immense force — enough to send a bull flying!
"Die!!"
But at the exact moment the lances were about to clash—
Victor moved.
Assisted by the "Black Griffon's Fury" armor, his movement was so fast it left afterimages in the air.
He didn't dodge. Instead, he shifted slightly, using the curved surface of his streamlined breastplate to cleverly catch the incoming lance.
Screeech—!
Hosteen's lance struck the black chestplate but failed to penetrate. Thanks to the strange curvature and special steel, it slid off to the side, sending a shower of bright sparks flying!
This was technological superiority — the principle of sloped armor!
At the same time, Victor's lance shot forward like a venomous dragon bursting from the sea, striking dead center on Hosteen's shield with brutal force.
BOOM!!!
A thunderous crash echoed like a bolt from the blue.
The spectators watched in horror as the bear-like Hosteen Frey was sent flying backward off his horse as if struck by a battering ram.
Yes — he actually flew!
He flew three or four meters through the air!
Crack!
Wood shards exploded as Victor's lance shattered from the terrifying recoil.
But Hosteen suffered worse. He tumbled through the air in a pathetic arc and slammed heavily into the sand. His plate armor was badly dented, and he lay there groaning in pain, unable to get up.
One strike.
Instant victory.
The entire tourney ground fell into deathly silence.
Those who had been mocking moments ago now had their mouths hanging open wide enough to fit an egg.
"What kind of strength was that…?"
King Robert shot up from his throne, eyes bulging. "That Frey bear must weigh at least two hundred pounds, plus armor makes three hundred… and he was just knocked flying like that?!"
After the brief silence—
Someone started cheering, and the next moment, a tidal wave of roars swept over King's Landing.
"Pompey! Pompey! Pompey!"
This was the glory a true strongman deserved.
In this world that worshipped martial prowess, nothing ignited the crowd's blood more than a violent, overwhelming victory.
Victor reined in his horse and casually tossed aside the broken lance.
He rode over to the noble stands, slowly lifting his visor.
His handsome yet cold face was revealed under the sunlight — not a single drop of sweat on his forehead.
His gaze swept across the stands.
It paused for a second on Littlefinger, whose face had turned ashen.
Then he looked at Sansa.
The young Northern lady had stood up in excitement, her eyes filled with starry admiration. Victor gave her a gentle smile and lightly tossed the broken lance tip — the symbol of his victory — at her feet.
"For you, Lady Stark."
"Ah!!"
Envious screams erupted from the noble ladies around her. Sansa felt like she was about to faint from happiness. She tremblingly picked up the lance tip and clutched it tightly to her chest as if it were the rarest treasure.
Cersei, seated above, didn't scream, but the way she pressed her legs together and the faint blush on her cheeks betrayed her excitement.
"What a fine lion…" she murmured softly, her eyes filled with the desire to devour this man whole. "It seems I'll need to 'summon you privately' tonight."
…
Victor didn't bask in the cheers for long.
As he left the field, he felt a bone-chilling killing intent.
At the entrance to the arena stood a literal mountain blocking his path.
"The Mountain" — Gregor Clegane.
This nearly two-and-a-half-meter-tall monster wore absurdly thick plate armor and carried a greatsword that would require two ordinary men to lift. He stared down at Victor from above.
Victor's performance had clearly caught the monster's attention.
"Nice armor, little man."
The Mountain's voice sounded like stones grinding in a mill — low, hoarse, and brutal. "Take it off and give it to me. I might consider letting you die quickly."
Any ordinary knight hearing those words would likely have wet himself in fear.
But Victor simply sat on his horse, calmly staring back at the beast.
"You want it?"
Victor pointed at his own chest — the spot that had just blocked Hosteen's strike without even a scratch.
"See you in the finals, Gregor."
"Then I'll take off your helmet and use it as my chamber pot."
With that, Victor rode past without stopping.
[Ding! Hidden Quest Progress Updated: Provoke the Mountain (Completed).] [Mountain's Rage Level: MAX.] [Warning: The finals will be a fight to the death! Please prepare yourself, host!]
A mad, excited smile curved Victor's lips.
A fight to the death?
He couldn't ask for anything better.
Only by stepping on the corpse of this mountain would House Pompey's banner truly fly at the highest point of Westeros!
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