281 AC
Daemon POV
I sat on the royal stands overlooking the jousting fields, the smell of trampled grass and horse sweat thick in the air. The banners of a hundred noble houses danced above the crowd lions, stags, trout, and falcons, all fluttering in proud defiance of one another. The smallfolk roared as two knights thundered down the lists, their lances meeting with a crash that echoed across the field like thunder. Splinters flew. One knight fell. The cheers grew louder.
I barely moved.
It was all noise to me the kind of noise that only reminded me how shallow spectacle could be. I had seen too much, lived too much, to be awed by men in armor breaking wood for the praise of women and wine. The entire realm had gathered to witness this tourney, yet all I could think of was Ashara her smile, her laugh, the soft curve of her hand when she touched her belly and whispered that it was my child she carried.
My child.
A strange thing, how that word could soften me and terrify me in the same breath. I wondered if it would be a boy or girl. I wondered if she would name it after her fallen kin, or one of mine. Then my mind darkened, as it always did when memory reared its cruel head. Ashara had once given birth to a stillborn child in another life, in the pages of a book I had read when I was just a man from another world. A world that had never known dragons or kings.
Back then, I had pitied her as a fictional tragedy.
Now, I pitied her as a woman I loved.
I had changed much since I came into this world.
Dragons that were supposed to die and turn to dust, I brought back fifteen years before their time. I reforged a dynasty that was supposed to crumble. I created a trading fleet, filled treasuries, and turned House Targaryen from a relic into a power the world once again feared. The Seven Kingdoms were no longer a fragile mosaic of grudges. They were mine to shape, to command, to ready for what was coming.
But it was not enough. It never was.
The knights below the stands were perfect symbols of our weakness pretty armor, expensive horses, fine words about honor and glory… yet half of them would soil their breeches if faced with a trained host of disciplined killers. That was why I dreamed of a standing army , a true royal force, drilled, hardened, and loyal only to the Crown. Not the soft-footed peasants that lords called upon in war, but men forged for it.
That is where the Unsullied would come in.
I would take the Redwyne fleet across the Narrow Sea for that very purpose. They thought I was bringing them to escort my future wife on a tour of the Free Cities, but my true intent was far less romantic. I was going to return with soldiers, thousands of them, trained in obedience and death. The Unsullied were not Westerosi, not bound by house or blood. They would be mine.
A standing army loyal to the dragon alone.
I could almost see it rows upon rows of spearmen in perfect formation, silent as the grave, while my dragons wheeled overhead. Order and fire, iron and blood. A realm too strong for rebellion, too unified for treachery.
But reality has a way of spoiling visions.
For all I knew, the realm might already be sliding toward chaos. Rebellion brews not in open defiance, but in whispers and jealous glances. And where better for such whispers to fester than in a tourney meant to celebrate peace?
Aerys my 'father', had changed, but perhaps not enough. The madness had not taken root in this world, at least not yet. I had ensured that. I fed him everything he desired: praise, comfort, indulgence. I made him believe he was loved, that he was still the king, even as I tightened my hand around the realm. I fattened him like a prized turkey, and he never once questioned why the knife was missing from the feast.
He ruled in name. I ruled in truth.
And the kingdom prospered because of it.
Still, I knew that even the cleverest manipulator could only delay fate. The same sparks that once burned this realm to ash were still here, buried in flesh and pride.
One of those sparks sat not far from me.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen my brother, the realm's beloved tragedy-in-waiting. He sat quietly, silver hair glinting under the sun, the faintest melancholy carved into his face like an artist's stroke. His companion, Jon Connington the sword swallower, leaned close, speaking animatedly about some tale of valour, his eyes gleaming like a man who worships. Rhaegar smiled faintly, nodding at the right moments, but I could see he wasn't listening.
He never listened. Not really.
Rhaegar had always been trapped inside his own legend a man chasing prophecy, music, and ghosts. The worst part was that he believed he could fix it all, that his sense of destiny excused the wreckage he left behind. I knew it too well. I had read his story once. I had seen the ruin he brought upon 'my' House.
Not this time.
"Who do you think that knight is, Prince Daemon?"
The question came from beside me soft, polite, and utterly uninterested. Lady Janna Tyrell, my betrothed. A marriage of politics, not love. She was beautiful, yes dark-haired, sharp-eyed, big tits, perfectly mannered but she was not Ashara. She could never be.
I glanced toward the lists where a small, armored figure was mounting a horse. The Knight of the Laughing Tree. Even before the crowd named her so, I knew who she was.
Lyanna Stark.
Her armor did not fit quite right; her movements were too fluid for a man's bulk. Yet she rode with uncanny grace, her voice disguised but clear as a bell as she called out her challengers knights who's squires had mocked Howland Reed, and now paid for it in bruises and humiliation. One by one, she unhorsed them, her lance striking true while the crowd roared in delight.
And there, among the spectators, I saw her brothers. Brandon Stark reckless, handsome, too proud for his own good cheered the loudest, his laughter echoing across the stands as another knight fell into the mud.
I smirked. Some things, it seemed, were fixed points in time.
Lyanna chastised the defeated knights, her disguised voice fierce and chiding, demanding they teach their squires better manners. The smallfolk loved her for it. Nobles frowned. Aerys, at first, merely squinted in amusement.
"I wonder who that mystery knight is," Daeron muttered near the King's seat. I caught the glimmer of curiosity in his tone enough to make Aerys shift.
That was when it happened.
The Mad King who wasn't mad yet the man I had tamed with flattery and honeyed control rose from his seat. His voice, high and sharp, cut through the field.
"Knight of the Laughing Tree!" he called. "You have performed admirably besting knights greater in size and station. Come forth, unmask yourself, and let the realm know your name!"
The crowd hushed. Every eye turned toward the small armored figure.
For a heartbeat, I thought perhaps Lyanna would yield, reveal herself, laugh it off. But instead she turned her horse, spurred it hard, and fled.
The stands erupted in confusion. Gasps, laughter, shouts of disbelief. Even I blinked, caught off guard by how quickly she vanished into the trees beyond the lists. Aerys's expression twisted surprise, giving way to fury. His face flushed red as he slammed a jewelled hand on the rail.
"Find that knight!" he shrieked. "Find him, whoever he is! He has insulted the king!"
The court scrambled. Kingsguard, lords, squires all rushing down from the stands, their pride and obedience spurred by royal wrath.
And among them, I saw Rhaegar his calm mask breaking as he leapt to his feet, calling for his horse. Of course he would go. Of course he would chase the mystery, the romance, the poetry of it all.
I sighed and leaned back, watching as the sun began to dip lower on the horizon, painting the field in orange and gold.
Some things could never be changed.
Not even by me.
The wheel still turned, even if I had bent its spokes.
Rhaegar would always be drawn to Lyanna Stark. The knight would always flee. The song would always begin its first, fateful note.
And yet I was not the same reader who had watched it all play out helplessly on a page. I was Daemon Targaryen, now the golden prince. And if the gods thought I would let their prophecy unfold without my hand on the reins, then they had forgotten what dragons truly were.
I folded my arms, eyes narrowing as the chaos unfolded below.
The tourney would continue. The songs would be sung. But somewhere beyond the trees, a prince and a wolf-maid would cross paths, and the storm would begin to gather.
Let it.
This time, the fire would answer in kind.
The gardens of Highgarden were drowning in gold and green that evening, the roses heavy with scent, the air thick with honey and rot.
Janna walked beside me in silence. Her gown of pale green brushed against the grass as she moved, her face calm ,too calm. I had known her long enough to read the language of her silences. Every step we took together sounded like the fading rhythm of a march that had already ended.
The sun dipped behind the western towers, throwing our shadows long upon the path. I said nothing. Neither did she. There were too many words between us already, too many lies disguised as courtesies, too many truths we had both chosen to bury.
When we reached the stone bench beneath the goldenheart tree, I stopped. She sat first, hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression untouched by emotion. I sat beside her. For a long time, the only sound was the faint murmur of the fountain behind us.
"You do not want to marry me," I said finally. My voice came out lower than I intended less a question, more an accusation.
For a heartbeat, she did not move. Then the mask slipped.
Her eyes met mine, green as the garden, sharp as glass. "No," she said.
I nodded slowly, though my chest tightened. I had expected her answer. I had not expected the calm with which she said it.
"Why?" I asked.
Her breath trembled. "Because you are Daemon Targaryen."
A corner of my mouth lifted. "You'll have to be more specific. That name means many things to many people."
Her voice hardened. "You drown yourself in wine and women. You burn those who cross you. You use people as you wish, and when you are done with them, you cast them aside."
I laughed quietly, though it sounded hollow even to me. "And yet those are the very qualities for which I am loved, are they not? The prince who dares. The dragon who will not bend."
Her gaze didn't waver. "Loved? No. Feared, perhaps. Envied, certainly. But love?" She shook her head. "There was a time I did love you, Daemon."
That stilled me.
She looked away, her eyes drifting to the roses climbing the wall. "Back when you were just Daemon Targaryen, the second son. Before you became the Golden Prince. Before the court began to whisper your name like a prayer and a curse. You were different then, a boy who loved his elder brother, who worried for his mother. You were good."
Good. The word stung like a blade drawn too quickly.
"I was weak," I said, my tone cold enough to slice through her nostalgia.
She turned back to me, startled.
"Everything I have done since, everything was to ensure that no one could ever call me weak again," I said. "From the day I purged the corruption festering in King's Landing, killing the corrupted goldcloaks, taking over all the brothels , massacring the Darklyns to restore the fear of House Targaryen in everyones hearts and to the day I forged the Golden Dragon Trading Company and filled the coffers of my house. You call it cruelty. I call it necessity."
"You call it necessity," she repeated bitterly, "but all I see is blood."
"I am a monster," I admitted. "I have burned men alive. I have slain the guilty and the innocent alike. I killed a woman heavy with child because her blood was needed to wake dragons from stone. And I would do it again."
Her lips parted, horror flickering in her eyes.
"What I did, I did for House Targaryen," I said firmly.
She gave a short, sharp laugh humourless and full of scorn. "No. You did it for yourself. For your pride, for your legend. You wear the banner of your house as a shield, but it is your own reflection you serve."
Her words struck deep, but I did not show it.
"Then you had better pray I do not fall, my lady," I said quietly. "For if I drown, so will you and our children. I am House Targaryen. My blood is its flame. And when I burn, the world burns with me."
She stared at me, her face pale in the dying light. "I will marry you, Daemon," she said finally. "But I can never love you."
A cruel smile touched my lips. "I can live with that, Janna."
Her eyes softened for just a moment. "All I want is honesty from you. No more masks."
I tilted my head. "Then ask."
She hesitated. "Why did Ashara Dayne leave for Dorne?"
The question hung between us like the scent of rot beneath the roses.
I met her gaze without flinching. "She's with child."
Her breath caught.
"Mine," I said, the word dragging itself from my throat like a confession.
The look on her face was not outrage, it was realization. The gears turning behind her eyes, the pieces falling into place.
"I am not Aegon the Fourth," I said after a pause. "I will not fill the realm with bastards and call them Targaryens. I will not tarnish my bloodline for sentiment."
Her jaw tightened. "And what of the child?"
I drew in a long breath. "If it is a girl, she will be raised in Dorne, perhaps become a septa if she wishes. But if it is a boy…"
I paused.
"If it is a boy," I continued quietly, "then he will be watched over. Trained, protected. If he bears any of his uncle's skill, Ser Arthur's, then perhaps one day he might serve the realm as a knight or a Kingsguard. Not as a bastard to be hidden, but as a son who earns his own place in the world."
Janna studied me for a long while. "You already love him."
I looked away toward the fountain. "Love," I said softly. "I do love him, for he may not bear my name, but my blood flows through his veins. I will not see my blood cast to the wolves. The sins of the father need not damn the son."
There was silence again. The evening wind moved through the garden, stirring Janna's hair.
"You speak of mercy," she said finally. "And yet everything you touch turns to ash."
I smiled faintly. "Perhaps. But even ash can feed the soil for new life."
She shook her head. "You cannot make poetry out of ruin, Daemon. Not even you."
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and for a long while neither of us spoke. I could feel her watching me, waiting for some sign of the boy she once loved. But that boy was gone, buried beneath years of ambition and blood.
She rose from the bench, smoothing her gown, her voice steady, "I will pray for you, Prince Daemon, so that the seven may have mercy on your soul."
Then she turned and walked down the path, her silhouette framed by the last threads of sunlight bleeding through the trees. I watched her go until she disappeared behind the hedges, leaving me alone among the whispering leaves.
I stood quietly as my mother brushed my hair. Her fingers moved with slow care, gentle yet trembling, as though she feared this would be the last time she'd ever touch me like this. The comb glided through my dark silver hair, the light from the brazier gleaming on each strand. The faint scent of lavender clung to her, the same scent I remembered from childhood when she used to tuck me in before bed, back when I still believed she loved me more than she feared him.
"Oh, how wonderful you look, my son," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. I saw her eyes glisten with tears, and something inside me twisted. Despite everything that had passed between us, despite her years of silence, her endless defense of my elder brother and his failings, I still loved her deeply. My mother. The woman who had given me life but not always the warmth that should have come with it.
"You look quite dashing, son," came my father's voice. I turned to see him enter, a flagon of wine in hand, his crown tilted on his tangled hair as if it too had grown weary of him. Aerys Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, looking more like a jester than a ruler.
"Is it not early to start drinking, husband?" my mother asked gently.
He grinned, lips curling in a drunken smile. "Well, there must be night somewhere in the world," he said, letting out that sharp, almost mad cackle of his. A small tug came to my lips despite myself. I had taught him that line once, years ago, as a jest. It felt strange hearing it again now, worn out from his mouth like everything else he touched.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror. The black doublet I wore shimmered faintly under the firelight, stitched with threads of gold that formed the shape of a dragon in flight. The sigil of my house, the symbol of my blood. The dragon that had burned so much yet still ruled the skies.
"Brother," came another voice. Rhaegar. My father's face soured immediately as I looked at my brother entering the chamber. His expression was calm, as always, that same melancholic stillness that people mistook for wisdom.
"You look good," he said simply.
"Finally, we are having a proper wedding," father muttered. "Unlike you, who took his own brother's betrothed for a wife. Fucking dimwit." His words came out sharp, cutting through the fragile air in the room.
"Brother, why?" my mother whispered in dismay, but he only sneered.
"The past is the past, Aerys," she said quickly, trying to mend the wound before it deepened. But I felt my blood boiling. The way she always tried to shield Rhaegar, as though he were some fragile relic instead of a man who had brought shame to our name.
"Just forget", she began, but I cut her off.
"Just stop defending him, mother," I snapped, moving away from her touch.
"Do not be disrespectful to mother," Rhaegar said in that same calm, measured tone that made me want to strangle him. I turned to him and saw the faint pity in his eyes, and it enraged me.
"Shut up, Rhaegar," I said through clenched teeth.
He took a step forward. "Arthur told me about Ashara," he said quietly. The moment her name left his lips, something inside me snapped. I grabbed his collar and slammed him against the door. The look of surprise in his eyes was brief, almost theatrical.
"Keep talking if you want to lose your teeth, brother," I hissed.
"Daemon, stop!" mother cried, her hands clutching at my arm.
Rhaegar's voice was low but steady. "What were you thinking?" he said, as if he had any right to judge me.
"The fucker's nerve," I muttered, pulling away from him as father stepped forward, half amused, half delighted at the chaos.
"Son, forget him. He is not worth it," father said, his breath reeking of wine as he pulled me back.
Mother immediately went to Rhaegar, her hands fluttering over him as if he were made of glass. My lips curled into a bitter smile.
"Both of them are made for each other," father said with a dry laugh, looking from her to Rhaegar. His words stung her more than they did me.
"Viserys and Daeron must be waiting for us in the sept, alongside the rest of the nobility," father said finally, straightening his crown. The moment shattered, leaving behind a cold silence.
We left together. The corridor leading to the Sept of Highgarden was filled with the faint echo of our footsteps. The air outside was heavy with the scent of incense and the murmurs of thousands gathered.
As we entered the sept, all the nobles stood. Rows upon rows of silk and steel, jewels and pride, filling every inch of space. Light streamed through the great crystal windows, scattering colors across the marble floor. I walked ahead, my boots echoing loudly in the hush, until I reached the altar where the High Septon awaited.
I could feel every gaze fixed upon me. I stood tall, letting the weight of their eyes rest upon my shoulders. The realm was watching. The bastard son, the prince with the temper, the one who had defied his brother and carved his own path. Let them watch.
My eyes drifted across the gathered lords. The Starks, grim as winter. The Tullys, flushed and restless. The Baratheons, whispering among themselves. Then my gaze found him, Tywin Lannister. He stood near the front, his red and golden doublet gleaming, his face unreadable. Our eyes met for the briefest moment, and I saw it then the faintest glimmer of pride in his expression. Pride a father would have. I returned his nod with a subtle one of my own, though no one around us could understand what passed between us in that silence.
Then the great doors opened.
A hush fell over the sept as my bride entered. Janna Tyrell walked arm in arm with her brother Mace, the faint sound of her heels tapping against the marble echoing through the hall. Her gown was green and gold, the colours of her house, with threads of silver woven across the bodice that caught the light like morning dew. Her hair was a cascade of soft brown curls, and her eyes, bright, clever eyes, met mine with a confidence that caught me off guard.
Mace kissed her cheek before placing her hand in mine. She was warm to the touch, steady.
"I assumed you would be drunk," she whispered with a teasing smile.
"I would rather have my wits about me," I replied quietly.
"You look beautiful," I said, and meant it.
Her lips curved faintly. "You look handsome," she said.
The High Septon began his prayers, his voice echoing through the vast chamber like the toll of a bell. As the words washed over us, my mind wandered for a fleeting second. I looked toward the distant window, where a butterfly fluttered lazily against the colored glass. I remembered another butterfly long ago, the one that had landed on my shoulder the day I was baptized. Seventeen years. In those years I had burned a noble house to ashes, made alliances, and brought the fear of Targaryens back into every noble house. The boy who once believed in honour was long gone. What stood in his place was a man the world had begun to fear.
"…and now, the groom shall place his house's cloak upon his bride," the High Septon intoned.
I turned to her, fingers brushing the soft fabric of her maiden's cloak, pale green and embroidered with roses. Slowly, I removed it from her shoulders. The hall was silent as I replaced it with one of my own, black and gold, the dragon of my house spread across it, wings unfurled. The golden dragon gleamed as it caught the light, its scales shimmering like fire.
My gaze flicked toward the front rows, where the Queen of Thorns sat. For the first time since I had known her, Olenna Tyrell's sharp eyes glistened. Tears gathered as she watched her youngest daughter swathed in dragon's gold. She tried to mask it with that proud, tight smile of hers, but I saw the tremor in her jaw. It was not fear I saw, but the sorrow of a mother who knew her child was walking into a world of fire.
"I am with you now," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "For better or for worse."
"For better or for worse," I echoed.
The High Septon raised his hands. "You may kiss the bride."
I turned to her. The world seemed to narrow until only she existed. Her face, her breath, the faint tremor of her fingers as they brushed against mine. When I bent down, she met me halfway. Her lips were soft, steady, sure. The applause of the gathered crowd erupted around us, echoing like distant thunder, but I hardly heard it.
When we finally parted, she looked at me and smiled a real smile this time, neither political nor practiced. And in that fleeting moment, I saw something that made my heart ache. Hope. Perhaps even faith.
I turned to face the crowd as they clapped and cheered. The nobles of Westeros, united in pretence. Father laughed somewhere behind me, drunk on both wine and chaos. Mother dabbed at her tears, her gaze flicking between me and Rhaegar. Tywin remained still, his approval silent but unmissable.
I stood there, a married man. A prince, a dragon and a bastard, all at once.
The tourney stands were full again, their noise rolling faintly through the camp like the tide. The four final jousts would decide the victor, though the melee had already been claimed by Robert Baratheon the previous day. I should have been sitting beside my new wife, smiling for the realm, but the weight of the vows still clung to me like damp silk. I needed a breath, a space away from all of it, and so I went to find an old friend.
I pushed aside the flap of Oberyn Martell's tent. The smell of oiled leather and Dornish wine hung heavy inside. He stood by the armor stand, tightening the straps across his chest, his movements sharp, precise, almost angry. Elia sat nearby on a cushioned stool, one hand resting over the curve of her belly. The lamplight softened her, but there was a tired sadness in her eyes.
"Oberyn," I said.
He turned at once. His eyes were red, though he tried to hide it behind a grin that came too quickly. "Daemon, my friend, finally married, huh?"
Before I could answer, he came to me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. The embrace was fierce, tighter than I expected. For a heartbeat, he didn't let go. His hand came up against the back of my neck, holding me there as though he feared I might vanish. I felt the tremor in his grip, the rise and fall of his breath against me.
When he finally released me, it was sudden, like someone pulling away from fire. His grin stayed in place, but there was strain behind it, a flicker of something that slipped through the cracks before he masked it again.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice lighter now, though it carried a rough edge. "Shouldn't you be on the stands with your bride? The realm waits to see its golden prince and his golden rose of the Reach."
I gave a small smile, missing the hint beneath his words. Elia's eyes lifted to mine, full of quiet sympathy for something I didn't yet understand.
"I came to cheer for my old friend," I said. "Who I hope will win the jousts."
Oberyn smiled again, though his eyes stayed distant. "Aye, I'll win it," he said. "No matter what, Daemon."
He spoke my name with a kind of force that surprised me. I watched him fasten his armour straps, each movement tight with purpose, as if preparing for more than just a joust. Elia's hand lingered on the arm of her chair, and for a moment I thought she might say something, but she only looked at him with a sorrow that made me uneasy.
"Who do you think your brother will name as his queen of love and beauty?" I asked, hoping to draw him out of that strange mood.
Oberyn's hands stilled on the strap of his gauntlet. The movement froze, half-done, as if my words had struck somewhere I could not see. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to mine. For an instant, there was nothing playful in them, only something raw and searching, as though he wanted to say my name again but dared not. The air between us seemed to tighten.
Elia's fingers brushed the rim of her chair, her gaze dropping to the floor.
Then Oberyn smiled, sharp and practiced. "My sister deserves the crown, doesn't she, Daemon?" he said. The grin returned, but it did not reach his eyes. They stayed on me too long, and I could not quite read what lived behind them pride, perhaps, or challenge, or something I had no name for.
"Aye," I said. "I agree."
He blinked once and looked away, the smile fading as he fastened the strap again.
"Come, Princess," I said to Elia, breaking the silence. "We should leave for the stands. The jousts will begin soon."
Elia rose carefully. "Congratulations on your marriage, my prince," she said, her voice gentle, sincere.
"Thank you, Princess," I said. She was kind, always had been.
As we walked out into the sunlight, I asked, "When is your child due?"
"The maester says I am four moons along, five more remain," she said, her hand resting on her stomach.
"Will it be a boy or a girl?" I asked, smiling.
"I think a boy," she said. "It feels different from when I carried Joanna."
"How is your daughter, Princess?" I asked.
"She is wonderful, my prince. She keeps asking for your dragon," she said with a small laugh. "She has Jaime's hair and my eyes."
"She must be a beauty then," I said, and Elia smiled again, though there was a shadow behind it.
We reached the edge of the lists where the crowds swelled and the banners stirred in the wind. Oberyn followed behind us, his armor gleaming. As we took our seats, I looked back at him and saw that his gaze was fixed on me, not on the field. When our eyes met, he smiled quickly and turned away, but the look lingered in my mind.
The field shimmered beneath the noon sun, gold and white banners rippling as the crowd roared. From my seat, I could smell the dust rising from the churned earth, the sweat of horses, the faint sweetness of crushed flowers the maidens had tossed earlier. It was strange how beauty and violence always seemed to share the same space in this world.
Rhaegar sat astride his silver stallion at the far end of the field, calm as always. His armour caught the sunlight, black and red, his dragon-winged helm glinting like starlight. Across from him stood Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, his white cloak immaculate, his lance lowered with the reverence of a knight praying before battle.
The horn sounded. Both horses surged forward, the thunder of hooves shaking the ground. Their lances struck with a crack like splitting wood. Splinters flew. Both held their seats. A murmur passed through the crowd.
Again.
The second pass was fiercer. Arthur's lance grazed Rhaegar's shoulder, sending shards of painted ash spinning through the air. Rhaegar's counterblow struck true against Dayne's shield, knocking it aside but not unseating him. There was no hostility, only respect, a duel of grace and discipline.
By the third tilt, their movements were one , two knights who knew each other's rhythm like old lovers in a dance. When Rhaegar's lance finally found its mark, striking Arthur square in the chest and lifting him half from the saddle, the crowd erupted in thunderous applause. Arthur fell lightly, like a man surrendering to fate rather than defeat.
I caught the faintest smile on his lips as he bowed his head to Rhaegar.
Rhaegar raised Arthur's hand to the stands, and the cheers redoubled. I joined them softly, my gloved hands meeting only air before I realized I hadn't moved at all.
The second joust began soon after.
Oberyn Martell rode in crimson and gold, the sun of Dorne blazing on his chest. His horse was a sleek sand-coloured destrier, restless beneath him. Across from him stood Ser Barristan Selmy, White Cloak shining, a living monument of honor and poise.
Oberyn's smile was sharp, his eyes alight with challenge. He looked almost too alive for this place — too wild for the rigid traditions that surrounded him. When he saluted Barristan, it was with mockery and admiration both.
Then they charged.
The first impact rattled through the stands. Barristan struck Oberyn's shield dead-center, a perfect hit, yet the Dornish prince barely flinched. His own lance scraped across Selmy's pauldron, sparks flying. They wheeled around in a cloud of dust, lances shattered, faces flushed.
Oberyn laughed. A low, reckless sound that carried even through the din.
The next pass was faster, both men spurring their mounts to near collision. Barristan's precision met Oberyn's fury, the old knight's control against the younger man's hunger. When their lances struck again, Barristan's shattered, but Oberyn's held. His point slammed into the white knight's shoulder, sending him reeling.
The crowd gasped.
Barristan wavered but stayed mounted. He was too proud to fall, though his arm trembled visibly as he raised his hand for the next pass.
It was then I realized I was leaning forward, my palms pressed tight together. I could not look away.
The third tilt was chaos. Both men lowered their lances and thundered forward, but Barristan's aim faltered by a fraction. Oberyn's blow struck cleanly, breaking through the older man's guard and slamming into his chestplate. Selmy toppled from his saddle, rolling hard against the sand.
For a moment, silence fell, stunned, uneasy. Then the Dornish contingent erupted in cheers. Oberyn reined in his horse and turned in a slow circle, raising his splintered lance toward the stands.
His eyes found mine.
He smiled. Not triumphant, not mocking, but something else entirely. It unsettled me, that look. It felt almost tender, though there was blood on his gauntlet and dust on his lips.
I returned the gesture faintly, unsure why my throat felt dry.
Barristan rose with dignity, bowing low. Oberyn dismounted and clasped his arm, whispering something I couldn't hear. When they parted, I saw the respect in their nods, but also the fire in Oberyn's face, the hunger that had not yet been satisfied.
And then came the final joust.
The crowd fell into a hush, sensing what this meant, the Silver Prince against the Red Viper. Fire and water, calm and storm.
Rhaegar rode out once more, his silver armor streaked with dust, his face calm. Oberyn mounted his horse, eyes gleaming like molten copper beneath his helm. They saluted each other in silence.
I held my breath.
The horn sounded, and they charged.
Their first collision was brutal. Rhaegar's lance snapped across Oberyn's shield, but the Dornishman's blow glanced off the prince's side, too shallow to count. Both turned sharply, their horses screaming, dust swirling around them.
They charged again.
Oberyn's second strike was truer, it hit Rhaegar square in the chest, staggering him but not toppling him. Rhaegar's counter landed hard, splintering against Oberyn's pauldron.
The crowd was on its feet now. The sound was deafening. I could see sweat running down Oberyn's neck, his jaw clenched in fury and exhilaration. He looked alive in a way few men ever did.
Rhaegar, by contrast, looked almost serene, as if the chaos around him meant nothing, as if he were simply doing what destiny required.
Their third tilt came swift and final.
Oberyn's horse lunged forward with desperate speed. His lance struck, shattering on Rhaegar's chestplate, but the prince's counter came a heartbeat later, faster and surer. His blow hit square, bursting Oberyn's shield apart and sending him crashing to the ground.
Gasps rose from every corner of the field.
Rhaegar dismounted immediately, running to Oberyn's side. The Dornish prince was on one knee, breathing hard, blood trickling down his chin from a split lip. He looked up at Rhaegar and laughed softly, a sound that broke something inside me.
Rhaegar extended his hand, and Oberyn took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet.
When the crowd began to cheer, it was for both of them.
The announcer's voice rang out, naming Rhaegar victor of the lists, and petals rained from the stands like soft rain. But my gaze stayed on Oberyn. His smile was still there, but his eyes, his eyes were something else.
When he turned toward the royal stand, the sunlight caught the faint bruise along his jaw. He looked proud, unbroken, and yet somehow distant. As if the fight had been for something more than glory.
"Who do you think your brother will name as the Queen of Love and Beauty?" Janna asked me, her voice soft but edged with curiosity as the sound of trumpets and cheers echoed through the bright fields of Highgarden.
Her question hung in the air like perfume, sweet, familiar, and faintly dangerous.
I did not need to think. I already knew what my brother was going to do. I had seen the look in his eyes that morning, the quiet storm brewing behind his princely calm.
"Rhaegar will name my good-sister as his Queen of Love and Beauty," Viserys said with the feverish certainty only a boy of five could possess. His voice was bright, filled with the innocence of a world not yet broken.
I smiled faintly but did not answer. The words that sat on my tongue were not meant for the company of others, "He will not," I muttered under my breath.
Only Janna heard me. She turned to look at me, her hazel brown eyes searching mine. She said nothing, but in her silence there was an unspoken understanding that she knew, somehow, that this day would not end as the songs promised.
The tourney field shimmered beneath the golden sun of the Reach. Banners of every great house danced in the wind, their colors glimmering like jewels, the gold lion of Lannister, the direwolf of Stark, the stag of Baratheon, the trout of Tully, the falcon of Arryn, and the roses of Highgarden themselves. The air smelled of wine, sweat, and horses and beneath it all, the quiet tremor of something far greater stirring.
Rhaegar stood at the far end of the field, silver hair gleaming beneath his helm. His black armor caught the light like midnight glass, the three-headed dragon of our House wrought upon his breast in red enamel.
As Rhaegar dismounted and took the victor's crown, a simple circlet of blue winter roses, freshly woven by the maidens of Highgarden, the noise seemed to fade into nothing.
He lifted his helmet, scanning the crowd.
The herald stepped forward, his voice trembling with both reverence and fear as he asked the question that had lingered unspoken since dawn.
"My prince," the herald called, bowing low, "who shall you name as the Queen of Love and Beauty?"
The question silenced the world. Even the banners seemed to still. The wind paused; the murmurs died.
The crowd waited. Every eye turned to Rhaegar. Every breath held.
The air was heavy, not with anticipation, but with the weight of prophecy fulfilled.
He held the crown in his hands for a long moment, his gaze unfathomable. Then, without a word, he placed the circlet upon the tip of his lance, mounted his silver horse, and began to ride.
I felt my heart tighten.
He rode not toward the west not toward the Lannister encampment where all had expected him to go, to honour his lawful wife in spirit before the realm but north.
Toward the Starks.
Toward Lyanna Stark, the she-wolf of Winterfell.
The moment stretched endlessly, like the silence before the fall of a sword.
As he rode, the sunlight broke against his armour, dazzling and cold. I could see the faces of the northern contingent stiffen, Brandon Stark, his eyes narrowing in suspicion; Benjen Stark, confusion giving way to fury; Eddard Stark, impassive as ever but with his jaw clenched tight.
Beside them sat Robert Baratheon, a mountain of a man with a smile always ready to bloom into laughter, but not today. His eyes followed Rhaegar with disbelief that would quickly turn into rage once my brother was done with his stupidity.
dawned about
And further west, in the Lannister section, Ser Jaime Lannister's face went pale, the proud knight's composure cracking as realisation dawned about what his good-brother was about to do. He looked as though he might leap down from the stands and draw his sword there and then.
Tywin Lannister sat beside him, cold and still, his golden eyes glinting like coins in the sun. His hands never moved, but I saw his jaw tighten just barely as if he were biting down on his fury as his wife Joanna held his hand.
And then, before them all, Rhaegar stopped his horse before Lyanna Stark.
He lowered his lance, the blue roses trembling upon its tip, and placed the crown gently in her lap.
The field erupted.
Gasps, cries, and the rustle of silks, shock, disbelief, and outrage all colliding into one great noise that shook the air.
Lyanna's face flushed red, her lips parting as though she might protest, but no sound came. Her hands hovered above the flowers, unsure whether to touch them or cast them away.
And then the roar came.
Brandon Stark was on his feet, shouting words that could not be heard over the chaos. Robert Baratheon screamed his fury, his voice like thunder. Jaime Lannister turned white with rage, and I thought for just an instant that he might draw his sword even against his prince.
The lords of the realm stirred like a hive disturbed. Some whispered that Rhaegar had gone mad. Others spoke of how a dragon can take what he wants.
Tywin said nothing. But his stillness was more terrifying than any outburst could have been.
I simply watched.
The noon sun was harsh and bright above me, its light merciless as it fell upon the golden field.
I tilted my head back, looking at that burning disc in the sky, and for a long moment, I could not hear the crowd.
I could only feel the weight of time pressing down as though all the ages that had come before us were ending in that instant.
The Year of the False Spring, they called it. A year of peace, of warmth and song, of the illusion that summer might never end.
But illusions always shatter.
And as I watched Rhaegar Targaryen my brother, my prince, the man whom half the realm adored and the other half despised place the crown of love and beauty in the lap of another man's betrothed, I knew it was over.
The songs would change now. The realm would never sing the same way again.
I felt the wind shift, the scent of roses fading into the heavy air. It smelled of iron. Of smoke. Of war.
Janna said something beside me, her voice small and distant through the roar. But I did not hear her words. My gaze was fixed on Rhaegar as he turned away from the northern stands, his face serene, almost sorrowful as if he understood what he had done and had accepted it all the same.
The crowd screamed around him, but he looked beyond them, as if already lost to another world.
It was not a prince's act of gallantry. It was a herald's act of doom.
I drew a slow breath, my hands tightening around the rail of the royal box.
So this is how the song begins.
The war I had always known was coming. The one I had been born to fight, what I was shaped for, and tempered by.
The war that would either end with my House upon the Iron Throne or of me dying on the Trident, my blood mixing with the river's red current.
"And now it begins," I whispered.
No one heard me but the wind.
The lords of the Reach shouted and cursed; the women gasped and wept; the heralds called for calm that would not come. Yet above it all, I could hear the slow, steady beating of my own heart, the rhythm of prophecy fulfilled.
It had always been coming to this.
From the moment my mother told me that dragons must never grow complacent. From the day my true father had warned me that the realm would not forgive arrogance. From the years I had watched my brother dream of songs while I learned the language of steel.
I had seen this moment long before it arrived in whispers, in omens, in the way Rhaegar's eyes would drift toward the horizon as though searching for something he could never name.
And now, at last, I understood.
He was never searching for peace. He was searching for destiny.
And destiny, when found, is never kind.
The roses in Lyanna Stark's lap would wither, their petals falling one by one until all that remained was the memory of beauty and the scent of ruin.
The north would not forgive. The stormlands would not forget. The lions would not be humiliated twice.
And I would make sure the dragons would not fall this time.
Highgarden shimmered in the sunlight, its towers rising proud above the fields. Yet even here, amidst its beauty, I could sense the fracture forming a hairline crack that would soon split the realm asunder.
The laughter, the songs, the splendour, all of it was a mask, hiding the truth that the age of knights and honour was dying. The age of fire and blood was returning.
I turned to look at Janna beside me. She was pale, her hands clasped tightly together, her eyes wide as the din of the crowd swelled around us.
"Daemon," she whispered, "what happens now?"
I looked back at the field, where Rhaegar had ridden away, leaving the storm to break in his wake.
"What happens now?" I echoed softly. "Now the world will remember us for who we are. I will ensure they do."
A banner fluttered loose in the wind, a golden dragon on a field of black, torn from its pole and carried upward, spinning against the blinding sun before falling to the ground. A sign of the times, perhaps.
I watched it drift down and thought how fitting it was.
The false spring had ended.
The dragon's peace had died.
And in its place, only one truth remained that all songs end in fire.
I closed my eyes and listened, not to the crowd, not to the trumpets, but to the faint whisper that seemed to rise from the very earth beneath Highgarden's stones.
It was not the sound of victory.
It was the sound of something ancient awakening.
Of history turning its page.
"And now it begins," I said again, softer this time. "For good or for ill."
The words were swallowed by the wind, carried north toward Winterfell, east toward the Eyrie, west toward Casterly Rock and toward Dragonstone, where my sister by law, Princess Cersei, waited in silence, unaware that her husband had just doomed them all with a crown of flowers.
The Queen of Love and Beauty, Cersei would call herself.
But it was Lyanna Stark who wore the roses.
And it would be fire and blood that crowned the world thereafter.