The field held its breath.
Two archers remained.
One—Anguy, a man whose name was spoken with respect wherever bows were drawn.
The other—
Michel Arryn.
The boy who had not missed.
Not once.
"Ninety-five yards," the herald called.
They both loosed.
Two arrows.
Two perfect strikes.
Bullseye.
The crowd roared.
Even the most seasoned knights leaned forward now.
This was no longer a contest.
This was a duel.
The herald raised his voice again.
"One hundred yards!"
A murmur rippled through the stands.
That distance was no longer skill alone.
It was mastery.
Anguy stepped forward first.
He inhaled slowly.
Measured the wind.
Adjusted his stance.
Released.
The arrow flew—
True.
Precise.
It struck the below the center.
The crowd erupted.
"A perfect shot!"
"Unbelievable!"
Anguy stepped back, calm… but his eyes shifted.
Toward Michel.
Because now—
He understood.
This boy was not ordinary.
Michel stepped forward.
Silence fell again.
Complete.
Heavy.
Even the banners seemed to still.
He raised the bow.
Drew the string.
Held.
For a moment—
Nothing existed except the target.
Distance.
Wind.
Breath.
Then—
He released.
The arrow flew.
Faster.
Straighter.
Cleaner.
Bullseye.
Dead center.
Perfect.
The crowd exploded.
Cheers thundered across the field.
Some stood.
Some shouted.
Some simply stared in disbelief.
Because they had just witnessed something rare.
Something undeniable.
Anguy lowered his bow.
Then smiled.
A quiet, respectful smile.
He stepped forward and gave a slight nod.
"The better archer wins."
No bitterness.
Only truth.
The herald's voice rang out across the grounds.
"Champion of the archery competition—"
A pause.
Then—
"Michel Arryn!"
High above, King Robert Baratheon rose to his feet.
"Ha!"
"That's my boy!"
He laughed loudly, clapping his hands.
"A born fighter!"
Michel stood calm amidst the storm of applause.
He bowed slightly.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
But in the royal stand—
Not all reactions were loud.
Some were quiet.
Measured.
Tywin Lannister turned his gaze toward Jon Arryn.
"Your son is… exceptionally talented."
His voice was neutral.
But his eyes—
Sharp.
Jon Arryn inclined his head.
"Thank you, Lord Tywin."
That was all he said.
But inside—
Pride burned bright.
Unshakable.
Below—
Michel stepped forward again.
His voice carried clearly.
"Your Grace."
Robert leaned forward, still smiling.
"What is it, lad?"
Michel met his gaze.
"I wish to participate in the jousting."
The reaction was immediate.
"No!"
Lysa Arryn's voice cut through the moment.
Sharp.
Fearful.
She stood, her hands trembling slightly.
"It is too dangerous!"
Her eyes locked onto Michel.
"You will not risk yourself like that!"
The field quieted slightly.
All eyes turned.
Michel did not argue.
He simply turned his head.
Toward his father.
Jon Arryn stood still.
Silent.
Thinking.
Jousting was dangerous.
Even for grown men.
And Michel—
Was still only twelve.
But Jon had seen him.
His strength.
His control.
His mind.
He knew what his son had become.
For a moment—
Father and son held each other's gaze.
No words.
Only understanding.
Then—
Jon Arryn gave a small nod.
Permission.
Lysa gasped softly.
"Jon—!"
But it was already decided.
Michel turned back.
Calm.
Certain.
Robert grinned widely.
"Ha!"
"That's the spirit!"
He slammed his hand against the armrest.
"Let the boy ride!"
And just like that—
The next challenge was set .
The horns sounded again.
Deep.
Thunderous.
Rolling across the tourney grounds like the promise of war.
Jousting had begun.
The lists stretched long beneath the blazing sun, two narrow lanes divided by a wooden barrier. Knights mounted their warhorses, armor gleaming, lances held steady.
The crowd leaned forward.
Because this—
This was where legends were made.
Or broken.
Michel Arryn mounted his horse.
A powerful destrier, restless beneath him, sensing the tension in the air.
Servants fastened his armor.
Falcon-forged steel.
Light.
Strong.
Perfectly fitted.
He lowered his visor.
The world narrowed.
"First match!"
A hedge knight rode out to face him.
Unknown.
Unremarkable.
But not to be underestimated.
No opponent ever was.
The knights took their positions.
Lances lowered.
The world went silent.
"Ride!"
The horses surged forward.
Hooves thundered against the ground.
The distance closed in seconds.
The hedge knight aimed—
Michel adjusted.
Calculated.
Waited—
Then—
Impact.
A crack like thunder.
The hedge knight was lifted clean from his saddle.
Thrown back into the dust.
Michel rode through.
Unshaken.
Unmoved.
For a heartbeat—
Silence.
Then—
The crowd erupted.
"In one strike!"
"Gods—did you see that?!"
High above, Robert Baratheon roared with laughter.
"Ha! The boy's a natural!"
Across the field—
Ser Jaime Lannister watched.
Golden.
Still.
His green eyes narrowed slightly.
Not anger.
Not yet.
But something else.
Interest.
Beside him, Tyrion Lannister stood, arms folded, observing with quiet amusement.
"Well," Tyrion muttered softly, "that's inconvenient."
Jaime glanced down at him.
Tyrion smirked faintly.
"A boy who can fight, think, and win crowds?"
He shrugged.
"Seems the gods were feeling generous."
Jaime said nothing.
But his gaze remained on Michel.
The matches continued.
One by one—
Michel rode.
And one by one—
His opponents fell.
Knights older.
Stronger.
More experienced.
It did not matter.
His timing was perfect.
His strikes precise.
His control absolute.
Lances shattered.
Men fell.
The crowd grew louder with each victory.
Until finally—
The field narrowed.
The strongest remained.
The best of the best.
The final eight stood together beneath the sun.
And now—
The names mattered.
Ser Jaime Lannister.
The Kingslayer.
Gregor Clegane.
The Mountain That Rides.
Sandor Clegane.
The Hound.
Ser Barristan Selmy.
Legend of the Kingsguard.
Prince Oberyn Martell.
The Red Viper of Dorne.
Ser Willas Tyrell.
Heir of Highgarden.
A son of House Frey, unknown but fierce.
And—
Michel Arryn.
A murmur spread across the crowd.
Now…
This was no longer a spectacle.
This was war in sport's clothing.
Michel sat upon his horse, calm as ever.
But inside—
His mind sharpened.
Every opponent here was dangerous.
Every one of them capable of ending him with a single strike.
Across the field—
Gregor Clegane loomed like a monster in steel.
Sandor stood beside him, silent, watching.
Oberyn smiled faintly, amused.
Barristan remained composed.
Jaime—
Watched.
The tension in the air was thick.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
High above—
The great houses leaned forward.
Tywin Lannister.
Olenna Tyrell.
Varys.
Littlefinger.
All watching.