GOT King of Dragon

Pointing at the dazed Bart, the Dornish youth mocked, 

"This knight seems unfriendly toward me and holds clear prejudice against the people of Dorne." 

"This is unacceptable." 

With a quick slash, his spear sliced off one of Bart's ears. The Dornish youth remarked, 

"I've heard a saying that Vale women are less attractive than goats. Is that true?" 

"Honestly, I haven't had the chance to experience the allure of Vale women. I wouldn't know if they really fall short compared to goats." 

He nudged Bart's head with his boot, taunting, 

"Hey, knight of the Vale, what's your opinion? Give me some insight." 

Bart, bleeding profusely from multiple wounds, was dizzy and pale. 

Despite his weakening state, Bart struggled to speak as the Dornish youth's incessant jeers continued. 

The youth squatted down, grabbed a fistful of Bart's hair, and yanked his head up. With a wicked grin, he snarled, 

"If you have something to say, spit it out loud." 

Coughing, Bart finally managed to rasp, 

"You… bastard… Dornish… monkey…" 

He spat two mouthfuls of clotted blood and followed it with a bloody glob of spit, hitting the youth square on his face. Laughing weakly, he continued to hurl insults. 

"Ha! Damn Vale scum." 

The filthy insult enraged the Dornish youth, but he refrained from delivering a swift kill. 

A quick death would be too merciful. 

He wanted Bart to suffer. 

His spear pierced Bart's limbs one by one, twisting and grinding into the flesh each time, inflicting excruciating pain. 

For ten agonizing minutes, the torture went on. 

Only when Bart finally lost all strength did the youth drive his spear through Bart's throat, ending his suffering. 

"You vile Dornish scum, you'll face retribution!" 

Suddenly, a voice cursed from the stands, followed by a flying empty wine cup. 

The cup landed with a clatter in the muddy arena. 

The single insult seemed to ignite a wave of outrage. 

More spectators rose, hurling verbal abuse at the Dornish youth and pelting him with objects. 

Wine cups, apples, plates… 

Even several pairs of women's high-heeled shoes. 

Rhaenyra stood among the crowd, her expression cold as she watched the Dornish youth dodge and laugh arrogantly amidst the chaos. 

As a princess of the realm, she already harbored no fondness for the Dornish people. 

Moreover, her mother, Aemma Arryn, was from the Vale's ruling family. 

The Dornish youth had not only brutally killed a knight loyal to the Vale but also openly mocked the women of the region. 

This only fueled Rhaenyra's desire for revenge. 

"Ser Criston, go down there and challenge him to a duel. Kill him for me!" 

Rhaenyra turned and gave the order to Ser Criston Cole. 

Ser Criston hesitated, visibly troubled. 

"I'd gladly serve the princess, and that Dornish man is indeed detestable." 

"But as a Kingsguard, I cannot engage in combat without the king's command." 

"Then I'll find someone who can give the order." 

Rhaenyra stormed away from Ser Criston and approached King Viserys, speaking in a low voice, 

"Father, that man is too arrogant. He's disgracing the realm." 

"I can have Ser Criston take action. He'll avenge Ser Bart." 

Viserys, already fuming with anger, found himself agreeing with her sentiment. However, he reasoned calmly, 

"Hold on. The kingdom has many brave knights. The Kingsguard cannot act impulsively. Let this be an opportunity for the younger generation to prove themselves." 

His words made sense. Rhaenyra nearly retorted but ultimately swallowed her arguments. 

The tournament continued. 

Laenor Velaryon stepped in to pacify the crowd, silencing their jeers and stopping the barrage of objects aimed at the Dornish youth. 

Standing proudly in the arena, the Dornish youth brazenly declared, 

"Knights of the Vale are pathetic! Is there no one stronger? I crave a real opponent, not these cowards and weaklings." 

He burst into laughter, as arrogant as ever. 

"I'll fight!" 

Such a hateful figure quickly drew the ire of many contestants. 

A middle-aged knight in silver-gray armor stepped forward. 

He walked confidently to the center of the arena, gripping a longsword, and said sternly, 

"I am Ser Saul Barrow, from the Stormlands. Let me teach you that arrogance has consequences." 

The Dornish youth smirked playfully. 

"Oh? I hope you're as impressive as you sound, knight of the Stormlands." 

... 

Meanwhile, at the banquet area: 

Lavish dishes lined the long tables, where noblewomen and young ladies gathered, chatting like it was a tea party. 

Rhaegar sat alone at one table, having cleared a large section in front of him to focus on a single dessert. 

The name of the dish had yet to be announced. 

It resembled a chocolate cookie but was shaped like an egg tart, offering a sweet, chewy texture.

"This is delicious. Who came up with this?" 

Rhaegar ate with big bites, his eyes curving into joyful crescents. He couldn't be happier. 

"No, I have to ask Alison when I get back. Which chef made this? I'll make sure they focus solely on desserts for me from now on." 

Such were Rhaegar's thoughts. 

As he enjoyed his treat, a figure suddenly sat down beside him. 

Under Rhaegar's puzzled gaze, the newcomer took a plate of chocolate pastries, started chewing, and appeared utterly enraptured. 

"Where did this person come from? And why are they eating my pastries?" 

Rhaegar silently grumbled but didn't say much. After all, there were still several plates left. 

However, reality soon taught Rhaegar a valuable lesson: 

When something displeases you and you don't stop it, it'll only get worse. 

Rhaegar had barely taken a few more bites before the other person began wolfing down the pastries. 

In no time, one plate was completely emptied. 

"These are amazing. Truly the work of a dedicated chef," the stranger mumbled. 

Before Rhaegar could react, the person reached for another plate of pastries. 

Then the third, the fourth... 

When only the final plate remained, Rhaegar couldn't hold back any longer. 

He shot up from his chair, shielding the last plate of pastries with his arms, and demanded loudly: 

"Do you even know who I am? How dare you steal my pastries? Are you always this bold?" 

Though his words carried an air of authority, he was still too young. 

His voice was childlike, and his increasingly rounded cheeks made him look more like a child throwing a tantrum than a figure to be feared. 

The stranger scratched his curly hair awkwardly and said with a sheepish smile, "You're the prince, but aren't these pastries placed here for the guests?" 

Rhaegar grew even angrier. "You know I'm the prince, yet you're still stealing my pastries?" 

"You're not even sparing the last plate. Competing with a child for food—don't you have any shame?" 

"Uh…" 

"There's no age limit when it comes to good food. Besides, Prince, you're a kid. Too many sweets will give you cavities." 

"You can't handle this, so just leave the pastries to me. I'm not afraid of cavities." 

The stranger shamelessly retorted. 

"You scoundrel! You're trying to trick me? Do you think I'm a three-year-old?" 

Pointing at the man, Rhaegar instructed Sir Elick, "Sir, teach him a lesson for me. Make him remember this so he won't act so shamelessly again." 

Elick hesitated but eventually responded, "…Yes, Prince." 

Although he was reluctant to cause a scene at the banquet, it was his duty to defend the young prince's dignity. 

Elick didn't draw his sword. Instead, he strode behind the man and extended a large hand to grab his shoulder. 

"No, no, no, honorable White Knight, I think there's been a misunderstanding," the man protested nervously. 

"That's none of my concern. If you provoke someone you shouldn't, you'll have to face the consequences." 

Elick had no patience for discussion. Grabbing the man's shoulder, he prepared to throw him down. 

*Smack!* 

In a flash, a shadow struck the back of Elick's hand with a crisp, precise hit. 

The sharp pain made Elick instinctively let go, revealing a bruised mark on the back of his hand.