Gimme your powerstones.
…
Orys Baratheon leaned back against the carved oak of his high-backed chair, his heavy gaze drifting downward from the shaded royal pavilion toward the sun-drenched expanse of the tourney field below.
The great tourney was in full spring, the stands packed with shouting lords, rustling silks, and sun-blinded commoners whose roars of approval washed over the wooden railings like the tide hitting the cliffs of Storm’s End.
Today would be the final day of the knightly jousts, the clash where legends would be forged for years to come.
Taking the silver chalice of dark arbor wine offered to him by a nervous young servant, Orys raised the vessel to his lips and took a slow, deliberate sip, savoring the tart plum flavor upon his tongue before lowering the cup again.
After so many long decades of blood, mud, and bone-breaking struggles across a continent at war, it felt almost strange that he could finally sit in peace and relax for a moment.
It had been two full decades since his brother Aegon had been crowned king, and the realm had been climbing steadily uphill ever since, growing fatter and richer under the dragon’s wide shadow.
Who in their right mind would have ever thought that a lowborn bastard of Dragonstone could accomplish so much in one lifetime?
No one would have believed it back then, yet he had done it anyway.
“Who in the seven hells is that down there?” King Aegon’s sharp voice broke through Orys’s reverie.
The conqueror leaned forward in his high seat, pointing a thick, calloused finger out toward the far end of the lists, his dark brows furrowing in deep, suspicious thought.
Orys immediately traced his gaze along the line of the king’s extended finger, searching the dust for the rider in question.
The man was mounted upon a monster of a midnight-black warhorse, the beast’s dark coat glistening with sweat in the afternoon heat.
The rider himself was clad head to heel in heavy plate armor of a matching shade, utterly void of polished brass, silver inlay, or painted crests.
It was plain steel, yet it was clearly not cheap munition armor scraped together from some village blacksmith’s scrap heap.
It had been shaped by the hands of a true master armor smith, every joint fitting with fluid, seamless perfection.
In his right hand, the rider held a heavy tourney lance resting against his pauldron, while his left arm buckled a blank shield that bore no sigil, no colors, and no proud house motto.
“A mystery knight, Your Grace?” Orys mused aloud, swirling the dark red wine around the rim of his chalice.
The king hummed softly to himself, rubbing his stubbled chin in contemplation.
“I have been watching him since the first round, but it is still a shock to me that he has managed to push his way this far into the lists.” Aegon narrowed his violet eyes, leaning closer to the balcony rail.
“Could it be some famous hedge knight playing at games, or perhaps a lord’s son riding under a false guise?” Mystery knights were a copper a dozen in grand spectacles like this one.
Every foolish young man who had ever picked up a wooden sword harbored grand, romantic dreams of forging his own legendary tale.
They dreamed of storming through the lists through sheer unadulterated luck, unhorsing every seasoned champion in the realm, and having sweet-voiced bards sing songs of their mysterious glory for a hundred years to come.
Yet, the brutal reality of the joust rarely cared for fairy tales.
Hardly one in twenty ever made it past the initial bouts, and the rare few who survived the first hour usually ended up coughing blood into the dirt long before the quarter-finals.
Orys could not recall ever seeing a true mystery knight actually win a major tourney in his entire life.
Yet this silent, shadow-clad figure had somehow managed to accomplish the near impossible.
If he could somehow manage to unhorse his final opponents today, the unknown rider would instantly enter the realm of living legend.
Orys fingered the heavy gold rings on his thick hand, his eyes sharpening as he studied the rider’s posture in the saddle.
Though the knight was undeniably broad across the chest and shoulders, there was a certain restless, agile fluidness to his movements that suggested a youth of no more than six-and-ten years of age.
He was remarkably young to be breaking lances against seasoned killers.
Who in the seven heavens could the boy be?
Orys let his eyes dart around the shaded benches of the royal box, scrutinizing the familiar faces around him with a sharp, critical eye.
His nephew, Crown Prince Aenys, was sitting just to the king’s right, leaning over to chat amiably with a young lady whose face was obscured by the bright Targaryen banners fluttering overhead.
On Orys’s own left sat his own son, Davos, leaning over the wooden railing with an eager grin plastered across his face.
Davos had been knighted just a year prior and had insisted on entering the lists himself.
The boy had put up a ferocious fight, reaching a respectable ranking in the middle brackets before a heavy blow from a Reachman’s lance had sent him tumbling into the soft dirt.
Humming quietly to himself, Orys suddenly realized that his other nephew, Prince Maegor, was nowhere to be seen among the royal party.
He did not pay the absence much mind.
The younger prince had a notorious habit of vanishing into thin air for hours at a time, only to reappear whenever it suited his whims.
Maegor was a cordial enough boy when approached, polite to a fault, undeniably clever, and possessed of a frighteningly sharp tongue, yet Orys had always harbored a faint, quiet inkling of deep-seated unease regarding the child.
Perhaps it was the unsettling manner in which Maegor suspiciously cultivated close, intimate friendships with almost every major heir and highborn squire in the seven kingdoms.
The lords’ sons all seemed to admire and follow him for reasons Orys could not quite fathom.
Even young Davos, despite every stern warning Orys had given him about royal court politics, had fallen completely under Maegor’s strange, magnetic charm.
There was simply something hidden deep in Maegor’s dark eyes that made Orys inherently distrustful of the boy.
He had the sharp, cold gaze of someone who was far too smart, far too ambitious, and far too dangerous for his own good.
Such relentless ambition would not necessarily be a terrible trait if he were born to a lesser noble house, but when your elder brother was as gentle, frail, and soft-spoken as Aenys…
well, quiet whispers were already circulating through the corners of the keep about whether the crown prince could actually hold the realm together with an iron grip when Aegon eventually passed.
In a strange, uncomfortable way, Maegor reminded Orys of his own younger self.
While Orys would have never dared lift a finger against his royal brother, he knew the dark, hungry pull of ambition all too well.
Had Aegon not launched his grand conquest and elevated Orys to a lord paramount, Orys knew that sooner or later his own restless ambition would have driven him to cross the narrow sea to sell his sword, forge his own mercenary company, and carve his name into history with blood and iron.
Of course, he would never dare admit such treasonous thoughts aloud to a living soul, much less to himself in the cold light of day.
Some dark truths were far better left buried in the shadowy corners of the mind.
A sudden wave of thunderous shouting from the crowd dragged Orys straight out of his brooding thoughts.
Down on the sandy track, the mystery knight pulled sharply on his reins, wheeling his midnight destrier around to take his position at the far end of the tilt barrier.
From the opposite entrance, another knight trotted out onto the field to a chorus of deafening cheers.
The grand herald raised his trumpet and shouted the contender’s name across the arena: Ser Burton Crakehall.
The massive Westerman laughed boisterously from beneath his silver-plated helm, swinging his heavy oak lance loosely at his side as his towering charger trotted forward with graceful, heavy steps.
It was a miracle that the poor horse could even support the sheer, ungodly mass of the man riding it.
Ser Burton was easily the largest, most terrifying brute of a human being Orys had seen in the entire tourney, a colossal, hulking boar of a knight who had already brutalized half his opponents and left two of them being carried off the field on wooden stretchers.
Compared to the boisterous, energetic bravado of the Crakehall giant, the mystery knight stood completely motionless at the far end of the lists.
Mounted atop his sleek black horse, his lance was held rigidly upright at his side, his posture loose yet completely devoid of tension.
Beneath the shadows of his steel visor, the black knight simply stared down the track at the laughing giant, refusing to budge a single inch or acknowledge the crowd’s roar.
For the first time in a very long while, Orys felt a jolt of electric excitement tighten in his chest.
From what he had observed of the mystery knight’s previous matches, the unknown rider did not rely on brute strength or a single repetitive tactical formula.
Instead, he fluidly adapted his entire riding style to exploit the specific weaknesses of whoever sat across from him.
Even now, Orys could not help but wonder how in the seven hells the kid planned on overcoming a walking mountain like Burton Crakehall.
Judging by the sudden hush that washed over the pavilion, Orys was certainly not the only one anticipating the bloodbath.
The chatter in the royal box died down completely as the king and the lords along with everyone else leaned over the railings to watch the impending violence.
Ser Burton trotted his massive mount up to the central divider, tossing his head back and lifting his visor to shout a loud, vulgar taunt across the dirt at his silent opponent, laughing so hard his heavy belly shook beneath his steel breastplate.
In an eerie, deeply unnerving display of discipline, neither the black knight nor his warhorse twitched so much as a muscle in response.
They remained as cold and unreadable as carved granite.
Growing visibly frustrated when he realized his taunts were falling on deaf ears, the Crakehall knight let out a grunt of annoyance, slammed his visor shut, and waved his heavy gauntlet at the master of the tourney, demanding that the herald signal the start of the bout.
The herald blew his bronze horn, the sound piercing the afternoon heat, and the match began.
The first second passed in a blur of motion as the mystery knight exploded into action.
His sleek black destrier dug its hooves deep into the dirt, accelerating down the lists with astounding speed, charging straight toward the giant without a single fraction of hesitation.
Burton Crakehall thundered forward from the opposite side, his massive charger tearing up clods of earth as he lowered his heavy lance and pulled his thick shield tight against his ribs.
Burton was not aiming for the center of his opponent’s shield; he had angled his iron tip directly at the mystery knight’s visor.
Orys furrowed his heavy brows in sudden anger, realizing the dirty trick.
A devastating blow like that, delivered with the full kinetic force of a hulking giant like Burton, would easily shatter a man’s neck or punch clean through his faceplate, killing him on the spot.
Unlike most green squires or timid knights, who would have panicked at the sight of an iron point rushing toward their eyes and tried to clumsily check their horse at the last microsecond, the mystery knight did neither.
Instead, he aggressively lowered his center of gravity, leaning his body far forward over his horse’s neck as if he were born in the saddle.
The deafening thunder of galloping hooves violently hammered against the dirt as the two warhorses closed the distance until there was no space left to maneuver.
Burton’s heavy iron tip rushed straight for the black visor, and just when it appeared the weapon would impact and tear the mystery knight’s head clean off his shoulders, the rider executed a terrifyingly precise tilt of his neck.
He shifted his head just half an inch to the side at the exact millisecond of contact, causing Burton’s iron tip to slide off the sloped steel cheek of his helm with an ear-splitting, metallic screech that set every tooth in Orys’s mouth on edge.
Before Burton could even register that his lethal blow had missed, the mystery knight struck back with precision.
Adjusting his grip on his own lance in a flash, he drove his oak shaft forward, driving the blunt tip directly into the high seam of Ser Burton’s left shoulder pauldron.
A thunderous THWACK echoed across the entire tourney ground like a catapult firing a boulder.
The mystery knight’s lance shattered into a hundred flying splinters, and the sheer force of the impact lifted the giant Crakehall cleanly out of his high saddle.
Burton flew backward through the air like a sack of grain, crashing violently onto the hard-packed dirt with a deafening rattle of steel plates that shook the ground.
The crowd erupted into an absolute frenzy of screaming and cheered wildly.
Orys let out a long breath he had not even realized he was holding, slowly leaning back into his wooden chair once more.
He stared down at the black-armored rider, who was calmly trotting his horse in a slow circle while waving a polite gauntlet at the roaring crowd.
As the knight turned, Orys’s sharp eyes caught a strange detail about his gear.
The mystery knight’s saddle was built rather oddly compared to standard Westerosi leatherwork.
It featured a significantly higher cantle and modified stirrup angles designed to lock the rider’s lower body into place, offering unprecedented leverage during an impact.
Yet the design was subtle enough that a commoner would never notice it.
Orys did not have time to ponder the strange engineering, however, as the bruised and battered Crakehall giant was dragged off the field by his sweating squires, his head hanging low in absolute humiliation.
The trumpet sounded once more, announcing the final challenger of the day.
Ser Robin Darklyn of the Kingsguard, having already won his previous brackets with flawless grace, rode out onto the lists to face the unknown champion.
The White Cloak was a magnificent picture of knightly perfection, his polished silver armor gleaming in the sun, his pristine white cloak billowing behind him like a cloud.
Yet Ser Robin did not immediately lower his lance or demand the start of the final bout.
In a display of chivalry, the Kingsguard knight reined in his charger, raised his visor, and declared to the grand herald that he would wait as long as necessary for his opponent to rest his mount and catch his breath before they broke lances.
Orys nodded in respect from the royal box.
It was good to see that true chivalry was not yet dead in the realm; Aegon had chosen the men of his Kingsguard exceptionally well.
After a long pause, the black knight raised his lance in a crisp salute, signaling to the herald that he was ready.
The trumpet blared, and the final clash commenced.
The first pass was a display of pure, terrifying speed and relentless discipline from both men.
The destriers thundered down the track, their hooves striking the earth in perfect synchronization.
Both riders held their weapons flawlessly, and as they crossed the center line, both lances shattered simultaneously flush against the centers of their opponents’ shields with a roar like thunder.
Wood exploded into cloud of splinters.
Neither man swerved, nor did either rider lose his seat by so much as an inch.
As Ser Robin wheeled his horse around at the far end of the lists, Orys noticed a subtle flicker of shock across the White Cloak’s exposed face.
The heralds handed both men fresh lances, and the second pass began immediately.
Seeking to end the contest through superior reach, Ser Robin changed his approach, angling his lance high toward the black knight’s helm.
But the mystery knight anticipated the move entirely.
As the horses closed in, the black rider dropped low over his horse’s neck in a startling posture, letting Robin’s lance point slice harmlessly through empty air above his right ear.
Simultaneously, the mystery knight extended his own arm with lethal precision, driving his lance tip directly into the small, exposed joint of Ser Robin’s right elbow plate.
The heavy wooden tip struck the precise nerve center, shattering the lance and instantly deadening the White Cloak’s right arm.
Ser Robin let out a sharp grunt of pain as his arm went limp, his own shattered lance clattering uselessly into the dirt.
The crowd gasped in disbelief as Ser Robin fought to retain his grip on the reins with his left hand, barely managing to wheel his horse around for the third and final pass.
The mystery knight accepted a third lance from his squire without a word, his movements as calm and methodical.
On the third pass, the mystery knight moved in for the kill.
He did not aim for the head, nor did he target the center of the White Cloak’s dented shield.
Instead, as the horses thundered past one another at breakneck speed, the black rider targeted the exact, vulnerable seam where Ser Robin’s wooden shield was buckled to his steel breastplate harness.
The impact was absolute perfection.
With a violent, explosive splintering of oak, the mystery knight’s lance hit the seam like a heavy siege engine.
The tremendous mechanical force tore the shield harness clean off the Kingsguard’s armor and lifted Ser Robin straight out of his stirrups.
The White Cloak flipped backward through the air, his pristine white mantle swirling around him before he crashed heavily onto the turf on his back.
Silence fell over the entire arena for one shocking second, followed by an explosion of sheer, unadulterated noise from tens of thousands of cheering spectators.
Ser Robin Darklyn lay in the dirt for a moment, catching his breath before slowly pushing himself up onto his knees.
Rejecting the rushed assistance of his squires, the bruised Kingsguard stood up on his own two feet, retrieved his fallen helm, and offered his victorious opponent a deep, gracious bow of total respect.
The grand tourney was over.
The mystery knight had won.
Trotting his sweaty midnight horse down the center of the lists, the silent champion approached the front of the grand royal pavilion.
He dismounted with fluid, practiced grace, dropped to one knee in the soft dirt, and bowed his head low before King Aegon.
The conqueror stood up from his throne, a rare, massive grin stretching across his weathered face as he looked down at the unknown warrior.
“You have given this realm a spectacle it will not soon forget, brave ser!” Aegon’s booming voice echoed across the quieted stands.
“Unhelm yourself at once!
Show your face to the lords and ladies of Westeros so that we may bestow upon you the champion’s crown and the gold you have so brilliantly earned!” The mystery knight remained kneeling in the dust, his dark head bowed.
He did not immediately reach for his visor.
Instead, a clear, surprisingly youthful voice echoed out from beneath the steel faceplate, ringing sharply through the quiet pavilion.
“I seek no gold or flower wreaths from your hand, My Liege,” the knight stated calmly.
“If it pleases Your Grace, I ask only one reward for my victory today.
I request to be officially knighted by the hand of the King himself.” A wave of loud, astonished gasps rippled thro wave of loud, gasps rippled through the royal box.
Orys narrowed his eyes, staring at his brother in thought.
Despite the voice being distorted due to the helm, he was fairly certain that he had heard it before.
Lords squirmed in their seats, and even Aegon raised his brows in surprise, though it seemed he hadn’t realised who’s voice it was.
A mystery knight who had just dismantled the greatest champions and Kingsguard in the entire realm was not even a knight at all.
King Aegon let out a laugh that shook his broad chest, before shaking his head with a wry smile.
“By the Seven, a squire!” The king drew his legendary Valyrian steel blade, Blackfyre, from its scabbard, the dark, rippling steel catching the sunlight like a burning ember.
“You have earned it thrice over, boy.
Spoken like a true warrior.” Aegon stepped down to the edge of the low balcony, resting the flat side of the dark Valyrian blade gently upon the mystery rider’s left shoulder, then his right.
“In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just,” Aegon proclaimed in his grand, kingly voice.
“In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the young and innocent.
In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.
Arise, Ser Knight.” Aegon sheathed his dark sword with a sharp metallic click.
“Now, cut the dramatic theatrics, unhelm yourself, and let the realm see the face of its newest champion!” The crowd leaned forward as one, holding its collective breath.
Down in the dirt, the newly dubbed knight slowly reached up with his gauntleted hands.
He unclasped the heavy iron gorget, loosened the leather neck straps, and smoothly lifted the heavy black helm off his head, shaking out his hair as the bright afternoon sun finally hit his exposed face.
…
There is something very wrong with stories on Webnovel.
Yesterday I finally decided to sit down and read a few and honestly, it reminded me why I stopped reading fanfictions on this app.
It’s either filled with Translations, AI Slop or Normal Slop.
Translations are lowkey trash, the writers just pump out like ten chapters a day by telling AI to do the translation for them.
Most stories on here are AI slop as well, they either edit the chapter heavily with AI or use it to write entirely.
And the last is Normal Slop, it’s your basic run of the mill story with nothing special going on, emotionless MC, no character development and side characters with no personality whatsoever, these fanfictions make same obvious joke for like the hundredth time and people still laugh.
I wouldn’t say my stories are better than theirs, but I try to put some effort in mine.
But the real shit are the rankings, out of curiosity I checked out the fan lists of two translation fanfictions, because no way they are so high up by pumping out so same boring slop, in the top 12 and noticed something very strange.
Almost all of their voters are either bots or alt accounts, but I am leaning more towards bots.
I don’t think I should mention them, but it’s kinda obvious when you check out their supportors list.
As a whole, Webnovel has fallen very badly from where it was back in 2020-2023.
Which is kinda sad because the app used to be very fun back then, filled with so many good stories.
The only good fanfictions worth reading anymore are from old writers, but most of them have stopped uploading.
The only one that I know still does is Evans_the_Writer.
…
Word Count: 3946.