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In a corner of the lists, several maesters wearing heavy silver chains around their necks stood by, ready to offer medical aid to any knights injured during the joust.
The herald's booming voice rang out, reciting the rules of the tourney.
And as each knight prepared to enter the yard, the herald would bellow their name to the crowd.
"Ser Edric of House Woolfield!"
Ser Edric rode onto the field from the west.
He wore magnificent green armor, though his visored helm was white.
He rode a sturdy brown destrier.
The horse's brown mane whipped in the wind, complementing its green trappings.
His shield was pale purple, bearing the sigil of his house:
Three white wool sacks with white borders on a purple field.
The smallfolk cheered as he appeared.
"Ser Jeremy of House Byrch! Sworn sword to Lord Wyman!"
Ser Jeremy galloped onto the field from the east, also mounted on a powerful, dark brown Northern destrier.
He wore white plate armor over a dark gray wool surcoat.
He wore a visored helm.
His kite-shaped oak shield was rimmed with iron, its face painted with his personal arms:
A brown falcon clutching a fish on a gray field.
The herald looked left and right at the two knights before shouting:
"Prove your valor!
"Brave knights! The eyes of the Lord watch you, and beautiful eyes await your deeds!"
Moments later, the joust officially began.
The tightly packed commoners around the yard instantly erupted into deafening, joyous roars.
The lords and highborn ladies sat in the elevated stands, taking in the entire field and the heroic figures of the knights below.
When a knight they favored rode out...
Some noblewomen waved their silk handkerchiefs, unable to contain their delight.
Their eyes tracked his every movement, their breathing growing shallow and quick.
Someone yelled:
"I bet on Ser Edric!"
Another immediately shot back:
"No way, he's losing this tilt for sure!"
But soon, another voice chimed in:
"You're blind!
"He landed a hit! Ser Edric wins! Did you see how hard that strike was?!"
The first victor was soon decided.
Many women in the crowd shrieked with laughter, tossing wildflowers and blossoms onto the field.
The outskirts of White Harbor were thus swallowed by a sea of noise and cheering.
From morning until noon, the roar of the crowd shook the very earth.
The cheering and applause came in endless, crashing waves.
---
The herald cried out:
"Of the Bloody Hand Mercenary Company, Ser Don Quixote!"
Ser Don Quixote rode onto the field from the east.
He wore a suit of black, forged steel plate armor, polished to a mirror shine.
An ink-black wool cloak with dark crimson trim was draped over his shoulders.
He wore a full iron helm, the visor half-raised, revealing a pair of calm, silent eyes and a hard brow line. The helm itself was unadorned.
And his shield—a crude wooden buckler carved from ancient oak, its edges bound tight with rough iron bands, reinforced until it was unbreakable.
The face of the shield was pale white, and dead center was a dark red hand with five splayed fingers, looking as if it were dripping blood.
A bloody hand on a white field!
Glaring, savage, and carrying an undisguised brutality.
The herald cried out again:
"Of Oldcastle and House Locke, Ser Donnel Locke!"
Ser Donnel Locke rode onto the field from the west.
The herald bellowed one last time:
"Brave knights, show us your skill!
"Charge!"
In an instant.
Both knights leveled their lances simultaneously.
They spurred their horses, charging at full tilt!
The lords and the smallfolk in the stands erupted in a deafening roar.
The two knights collided in the center of the lists with a thunderous crash of splintering wood and ringing steel.
In the blink of an eye, a blunted wooden tourney lance shattered into a thousand pieces.
Don Quixote's blunted lance struck dead center on Ser Donnel's oak shield with pinpoint accuracy.
The immense kinetic energy of the blow forced Ser Donnel's horse to rear up on its hind legs, sending both man and beast tumbling backward.
Meanwhile, Ser Donnel's lance slid harmlessly past Don Quixote's side, striking nothing but air!
Seeing Don Quixote land such a clean, devastating blow on Ser Donnel's shield—unhorsing both rider and mount in a single strike...
The crowd erupted in a thunderous roar, their cheers deafening:
"Don Quixote! Don Quixote!"
And if one looked closely at the audience, they would notice many faces twisted in ecstatic, passionate, almost crazed devotion.
These were the people Don Quixote had generously helped.
A tourney was the only free, grand festival in Westeros where the lowest born could temporarily forget their hunger and fear.
It was a carnival of violent beauty, and when coupled with deep, genuine gratitude...
These people instantly transformed years of pent-up fear, exhaustion, and suffering into pure, roaring adoration!
They unleashed their emotions completely and utterly!
"Don Quixote! Don Quixote!"
"Bloody Hand! Bloody Hand!"
Infected by the crazed, fanatical cheers of these few, more and more people began to scream and roar along with them.
Sailors tossed colorful headscarves high into the air.
Shreds of seaweed tangled in the scarves fluttered down over the crowd.
Men with frostbitten hands slapped each other on the back in sheer joy.
Their roaring drowned out the crashing of the distant waves; it drowned out the herald's booming voice.
The nobles exchanged surprised glances, applauding with measured restraint.
But soon, even some of the younger nobles were shouting:
"Beautiful!"
"Oh, magnificent!"
Noble ladies and matrons clapped gracefully, their silk gloves tapping softly together, their eyes filled with admiration and poise.
At that moment, the roar of the crowd was the only universal language.
The tourney continued.
Knight after knight took the field, including the other two chosen members of the Bloody Hand Mercenary Company:
Phoenix Johnson and Kyle Rhodes.
Over the past month, Don Quixote had sponsored several minor lords to host small-scale tourneys.
The seven knights of the Bloody Hand who had vied for a spot in the White Harbor tourney had practically lived in those smaller lists.
Jousting before the main events, jousting during the events, jousting after the events.
Based on their overall strength and performance, Don Quixote had ultimately selected Phoenix and Kyle to compete in White Harbor.
While Zachary possessed great strength, he hadn't received any formal knightly training prior to joining the company.
His skill simply couldn't match Phoenix or Kyle.
However, Zachary wasn't disappointed by his exclusion.
He had already been knighted by Don Quixote.
That alone was enough to keep him ecstatic.
---
"They both won."
Standing by the edge of the lists, Don Quixote smiled as he watched Phoenix and Kyle each win a tilt.
But he wasn't particularly surprised.
To those members of the Bloody Hand who proved their loyalty...
He had never been stingy. He had dedicated himself to teaching them and pushing them into real, practical combat.
Because of that, he wasn't the only one growing stronger—the entire Bloody Hand was improving day by day.
And since their foundational skills were far weaker than his, their initial rate of improvement was actually faster than his own.
Beside him, Cole spoke up with deep reverence:
"My Lord, it's your turn to ride."
Don Quixote nodded.