Because of the large number of participants in this tourney, a special rule was introduced.
Registration was strict. Only knights of noble birth or proven reputation could officially compete.
However, to avoid excluding promising newcomers, the organizers added a challenge system. In the morning, official contestants would compete in elimination matches. In the afternoon, qualified knights could be challenged.
Anyone who defeated a qualified knight would seize his place in the next round.
This rule allowed unknown knights to prove themselves—just as the mysterious "Knight of the Laughing Tree" once had in legend.
The lists thundered with hooves and splintering lances.
Barristan Selmy.
Prince Rhaegar.
Arthur Dayne.
Each won swiftly, often in a single pass, drawing roaring cheers from the crowd.
For a realm starved of spectacle, this tourney was a grand feast.
After thirteen duels—
It was Galladon's turn.
The Young Challenger
Galladon mounted his silver-gray warhorse, Thundersmoke. He accepted a wooden lance from Harrison and rode toward the field.
Ser Lonmouth, presiding over the event, announced loudly:
"Next—Galladon Tarth, heir of Tarth, only fourteen years of age!"
A murmur spread across the stands.
Fourteen was extraordinarily young for a tourney knight. Most exceptional talents entered the lists at sixteen.
"And his opponent—Ser Jon Fossoway of House Fossoway of New Barrel!!"
Now cheers rose louder.
Jon Fossoway was a known and capable knight.
Yet when Galladon rode into full view, the energy shifted.
He was striking.
Tall for his age. Broad-shouldered. Handsome, with deep blue eyes and calm confidence. His dark-gray armor shimmered with flowing patterns like rippling water.
Even from afar, he commanded attention.
Many noble ladies leaned forward eagerly.
In terms of appearance alone, he rivaled Jaime Lannister and Prince Rhaegar.
The cheers grew stronger.
At the Hightower seats, tension rose.
Helena clasped her hands tightly.
Jon Fossoway was experienced. Mature. Strong.
Could a fourteen-year-old truly defeat him?
Only Lord Leyton remained composed.
He already knew that Galladon had defeated every knight on Tarth.
If sacred blades were permitted in the lists, Leyton might even consider the championship within reach.
In the Reach's pavilion, Olenna Tyrell—the Queen of Thorns—watched keenly.
"That boy," she remarked to Mace Tyrell, "is Helena's betrothed. Your future Goodbrother."
Mace frowned. "Why would House Hightower marry into House Tarth?"
Olenna smirked. "Rumor says he found the legendary holy sword 'Maiden of Justice.' Perhaps Lord Leyton has grown fond of fairy tales."
She did not believe the sword story.
But Paxter Redwyne, sitting nearby, spoke up.
"Aunt, look at his horse."
They studied it.
Silver-gray coat. Tall. Powerful.
"Not a Westerosi breed," Paxter continued. "Likely from Essos."
"And his armor," he added. "Those patterns are not carved. They are the metal itself."
Olenna narrowed her eyes.
Dark steel with flowing patterns.
It resembled Valyrian craftsmanship.
The Tyrells possessed no Valyrian blade—a long-standing regret.
Paxter shook his head. "Not true Valyrian steel. But perhaps forged by master smiths in the Free Cities. The Tarths may have strong trade ties."
Olenna grew more thoughtful.
Wealth. Connections. Ambition.
Interesting.
Still, she said coolly, "Fine armor does not win a tourney. Let us see the boy's skill."
Most nobles outside the Stormlands doubted Galladon.
He was too young.
Too inexperienced.
The stands buzzed with speculation.
Galladon scanned the sea of faces. Tens of thousands.
This was his first appearance before the realm.
He would not hold back.
Across the field, Jon Fossoway lowered his lance.
Galladon adjusted his grip.
Sorry, Ser Jon, he thought calmly.
But today, I make my mark.
(End of Chapter 37)
A/N:
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