The two warhorses—one black, one white—thundered straight at each other down the lists.
The crowd's roar swelled as the distance closed.
Twenty yards…
Fifteen…
Ten…
Eight…
Leo gripped the reins and shield in his left hand, lance raised in his right, eyes locked on his opponent. His game-enhanced riding skill kept him rock-steady in the saddle despite the pounding gallop.
Now!
The moment felt right. Leo drove the lance forward exactly as Barristan had taught him.
Balman might have been older and a little soft around the middle, but he was no amateur. He had placed well in plenty of tourneys. He thrust his own lance a split second before Leo's.
His angle was sharper, faster, more vicious.
In that heartbeat Balman was already smiling inside—he knew his strike would land first, square in the foreigner's left chest. The sheer momentum of the charging destrier would slam the younger man straight off his horse. Leo's lance would never reach him.
Too bad… Balman thought. If the kid hadn't tried to buy his knighthood, he might have been worth training.
Then he saw it.
Leo snapped his shield up in a crisp, perfect motion.
Crack! Boom!
The sounds hit at once—wood on wood, then the scream of a horse and the heavy thud of a body hitting dirt.
Leo's shield caught Balman's lance dead center and batted it aside. A heartbeat later Leo's own lance hammered into Balman's left breastplate with a dull, sickening crunch. The blunted tip struck like a warhammer. The wooden shaft couldn't take the impact and exploded into splinters.
The force lifted Balman clean out of the saddle. He kept a death-grip on the reins, so his destrier screamed and reared, snapping the leather and bolting forward riderless. Balman slammed into the ground and let out a raw, agonized howl.
The entire arena went dead silent.
Ladies covered their mouths or turned away behind their fans. Knights and smallfolk alike stared with their jaws hanging open.
No one had expected this.
Then Robert shot to his feet, drained his cup in one gulp, and hurled it to the ground. He lunged to the railing, one hand gripping the rail, the other pumping a fist in the air.
"YES! That's what I'm talking about! Beautiful! Absolutely beautiful!"
The king's roar snapped everyone else out of their shock. The stands erupted.
"The winner of the tilt—Ser Neo Presto of House Presto!"
Leo rode his white stallion to the center of the field like a conquering general, removed his helm, and bowed low toward the royal box.
Robert was grinning like a kid who'd just been handed a new warhammer. "Neo! Well done, lad! I knew I wasn't wrong about you! Hahaha!"
"Thank you for the confidence, Your Grace," Leo called back, bowing once more. Then he wheeled his horse and took a slow victory lap around the lists while the crowd cheered.
A few sour nobles still muttered, but most of the smallfolk had already forgotten the earlier gossip. They roared for the young foreigner who had just knocked a seasoned knight flat in a single pass. Bold women in the cheap seats tossed flowers at him.
Leo drank it in, calm and satisfied.
A few minutes earlier Balman had been waving to the adoring crowd, smug and superior. Now his own squires and a couple of gold cloaks were dragging him away on a stretcher like a sack of grain, groaning the whole way.
Leo watched it happen and filed the image away.
This is the game of thrones. Winners get everything. Losers get carried off and forgotten.
Varyn and the rest of his men rushed over the moment Leo reached the side of the field.
"My lord, that was incredible!" Varyn's face was flushed with pride. "One tilt! You dropped him in one tilt!"
Leo swung down from the saddle, handed off his helm, and grinned. "How much did we win?"
Varyn pumped a fist. "I sent six different men, just like you ordered—hundred gold dragons each on you to win. The odds were three-to-one. That's eighteen hundred gold dragons, my lord! Seven hells!"
"I should've put more on you winning in the first pass," Varyn added, half-laughing, half-regretful. "That was ten-to-one! We left a fortune on the table!"
"Don't get greedy," Leo laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Even I didn't expect it to end that fast. He underestimated me and came in too aggressive. Gave me the opening."
"Plenty more matches to come. We'll make up for it. Oh—and take fifty gold dragons out of the winnings. Split it among the men however you think is fair."
"Thank you, my lord!" Varyn and the others beamed.
Their excited conversation drew plenty of envious stares from the people nearby. The foreign lord from the east suddenly looked a lot more impressive.
A gold cloak jogged up a moment later. "Ser Neo, His Grace invites you to watch the rest of the day's matches from the royal platform."
Leo straightened, chest out, and walked toward the high dais under the envious eyes of half the stands.