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King Viserys sat at the head, his face already flushed from the cup of wine he'd been nursing since dawn.
On the king's right sat Otto Hightower, the Hand, his austere features set in their customary expression of dignified concern. Beside him was Grand Maester Mellos, whose heavy chain clinked softly as he arranged parchments before him. Ser Criston Cole stood at attention behind the king's chair, his white cloak immaculate.
On the left side sat Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, resplendent in sea-green silks that complemented his silver hair. Next to him was Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, whose massive frame dwarfed his chair. The other council positions were filled by men whose loyalties were carefully divided between the two factions that everyone pretended didn't exist.
"The treasury reports that the expense for the wedding feast has already exceeded the allocated funds," Lord Beesbury, the elderly Master of Coin, was saying. "With five more days of festivities planned, I must insist on some measure of restraint."
"Restraint?" Viserys chuckled. "At the wedding of my daughter and heir? I think not, Lord Beesbury. This union of House Targaryen and House Velaryon must be celebrated with all the grandeur it deserves."
"Indeed," Corlys agreed smoothly. "House Velaryon has contributed significantly to the expenses already. The display of unity between our houses should not be undermined by penny-pinching."
Otto Hightower's eyes narrowed slightly. "While spectacle has its place, Your Grace, prudence in royal finances sets an example for the realm. Perhaps certain... excesses might be reconsidered."
"Which excesses did you have in mind, Lord Hand?" Corlys asked, his tone deceptively light. "The ones honoring Princess Rhaenyra, perhaps?"
Before Otto could respond, Viserys waved a dismissive hand. "The wedding proceeds as planned, with no reduction in festivities. Now, what of the tournament arrangements? I understand we have over forty knights registered for the melee alone."
Lord Lyonel Strong nodded. "Forty-three, Your Grace, including several notable additions. My son Harwin has entered, as has Ser Gwayne Hightower."
"And our new arrival, Lord Daeron," Viserys added with evident interest. "I'm particularly curious to see how he fares."
Otto cleared his throat. "About this Lord Daeron, Your Grace. I've taken the liberty of making inquiries about his background."
The king's expression cooled. "Have you indeed, Lord Otto? And what urgent matter of state prompted this investigation into my personal guest?"
"Merely due diligence, Your Grace," Otto replied, unperturbed by the king's displeasure. "As Hand, it is my duty to advise you on those who gain close proximity to the royal family. I find it curious that a man of such evident martial skill has no known history in any of the Seven Kingdoms."
"He claims Northern heritage," Grand Maester Mellos offered.
"Yes," Otto agreed. "Yet Lord Stark's representatives profess no knowledge of him, though they admit there are many noble houses in the North whose bloodlines and histories are not well documented in Winterfell's records."
Corlys leaned forward. "The man carries Valyrian steel and has Valyrian eyes. Clearly, there's more to his lineage than simple Northern blood. Perhaps he descends from some forgotten branch of a noble house."
"Or perhaps," Otto suggested delicately, "he is not who he claims to be at all."
Viserys's cup hit the table with unnecessary force. "What exactly are you implying, Lord Hand?"
"Only that caution might be warranted," Otto replied. "The man appears from nowhere, with a mysterious wife who bears an uncanny resemblance to Princess Rhaenyra, and immediately captivates the court's attention. One might question his motivations."
"I've spoken at length with Lord Daeron," Corlys interjected. "He strikes me as forthright, if somewhat reserved about his past. Not every man wishes to have his history scrutinized, particularly one who has traveled beyond the Wall. Who knows what necessities such harsh conditions might impose?"
"You seem quite eager to defend him, Lord Corlys," Queen Alicent observed from her place behind her father. Though not officially a council member, she had taken to attending meetings—a fact that clearly irritated the king, though he never asked her to leave.
"I recognize a valuable potential ally when I see one," Corlys replied bluntly. "The man has clearly seen combat, knows strategy, and has the king's favor. With my son soon to marry the princess, House Velaryon's interests align with finding capable supporters for the future queen."
Otto's lips thinned. "Your enthusiasm for Princess Rhaenyra's cause is admirable, Lord Corlys. One might almost forget how recently you were negotiating with me regarding a match between your daughter and my grandson."
A tense silence fell over the chamber. Corlys's dark eyes fixed on Otto with dangerous intensity. "Political realities change, Lord Hand. House Velaryon follows the king's will in recognizing Princess Rhaenyra as heir. Perhaps others should demonstrate similar loyalty."
"Enough," Viserys said sharply. "I will not have my Small Council dissolved into petty factionalism. Lord Daeron and his wife are my guests, and they will be treated with all courtesy. If they have secrets, they are entitled to them, so long as they pose no threat to the realm—which I have seen no evidence of whatsoever."
"As you say, Your Grace," Otto conceded with a slight bow of his head. "I merely counsel prudence."
"Your counsel is noted," Viserys replied coldly. "Now, what other matters require our attention?"
Grand Maester Mellos cleared his throat, lifting a parchment. "A raven from the Vale, Your Grace. Lady Rhea Royce, wife to Prince Daemon Targaryen, has died following a hunting accident."
The council chamber went utterly still. Every man present knew of Prince Daemon's long-standing desire to be free of his "bronze bitch," as he called her.
"An accident, you say?" Viserys asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"According to the report, her horse threw her while hunting. She struck her head on a stone and never regained consciousness," Mellos explained, though his tone suggested he placed as much belief in this account as everyone else at the table—which was to say, none whatsoever.
"How convenient for my brother," Viserys muttered.
"There's more, Your Grace," Mellos continued, looking uncomfortable. "We've received reports that Prince Daemon may be planning to attend the wedding tournament, despite his... current status."
Viserys's face darkened. "He remains banished from court. He knows this."
"Perhaps he believes his brother's love outweighs his king's command," Ser Criston Cole suggested, speaking for the first time.
"Then he is mistaken," Viserys declared, though the conflict in his eyes betrayed his words. He had always had a soft spot for his roguish younger brother, despite Daemon's countless provocations.
"Shall I reinforce the city watch at the gates?" Lord Strong asked. "To ensure the prince understands his presence is unwelcome?"
Before Viserys could answer, Mellos cleared his throat again. "There is one final matter, Your Grace. A curious report from smallfolk in the Crownlands. They claim to have seen Vermithor in flight, with a rider on his back."
This news caused even more consternation than the previous items. Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, had been the dragon of King Jaehaerys I. Since the old king's death, the massive beast had made its lair on Dragonstone, refusing all attempts at claiming.
"Impossible," Lord Beesbury declared. "No one has approached Vermithor successfully in years. Who would dare?"
"The report names no rider," Mellos admitted. "Merely that the dragon was seen flying near Driftmark three days past, with what appeared to be a figure on its back."
All eyes turned to Corlys, whose island home lay close to Dragonstone.
"I've heard no such reports," the Sea Snake said, though something flickered in his eyes that suggested he wasn't entirely surprised by the news. "But I shall make inquiries among my captains and fishermen."
"Please do," Viserys said, his expression troubled. "A dragon as powerful as Vermithor, bonded to an unknown rider... this requires investigation."
Otto Hightower's gaze remained fixed on Corlys, suspicion evident in his features. "It seems there are many mysteries suddenly appearing in the realm, Your Grace. Daemon's convenient widowhood, unknown dragon riders, mysterious northern lords with Valyrian features... one might almost suspect some greater game afoot."
"Or perhaps," Corlys countered, "these are merely the interesting times in which we live. The blood of Old Valyria stirs, Lord Hand. Those of us who carry it feel it in our veins. Change is coming to the realm—whether certain parties welcome it or not."
The threat in his words was barely veiled, and Otto's jaw tightened in response.
"This meeting is adjourned," Viserys declared, rising from his seat with obvious discomfort. The wound on his back, which had been troubling him for weeks, seemed to pain him as he straightened. "We have a tournament to prepare for, and apparently, a wayward prince to watch for. Lord Commander, double the gold cloaks at the city gates, but discreetly. If my brother does attempt to return, I wish to know of it privately before any public confrontation."
As the council members rose and began to disperse, the divisions among them had never been more apparent. Otto and Alicent remained in close conversation, their expressions grave, while Corlys exchanged meaningful glances with Lord Strong. The realm was balanced on a knife's edge, with the princess's wedding serving as the fulcrum upon which everything might turn.
Rhaenyra
The carriage rocked steadily over the uneven stones of King's Landing as Rhaenyra gazed absently through the window. Morning sunlight bathed the cramped streets in golden hues, yet her mind remained clouded with thoughts she dared not voice aloud. She had dismissed her handmaidens, preferring solitude for this journey to the Dragonpit.
What is wrong with me? The question had plagued her throughout a sleepless night. Laena's words about unconventional relationships still echoed in her mind. Yet it wasn't just Laena's suggestions that had kept her awake. It was the dream that followed—vivid images of Daeron that made her cheeks flush even now in the privacy of her carriage.
"Seven save me," she muttered, pressing cool fingertips to her heated face.
With her wedding mere days away, these inappropriate thoughts about a married man were dangerous—politically and personally. Something about Daeron and Daenerys unsettled and fascinated her in equal measure. Their mysterious appearance, their cryptic words, and the strange connection she felt toward both of them.
The carriage lurched to a halt, and the driver's voice called down, "The Dragonpit, Princess."
"Finally," she breathed. Perhaps flight would clear her mind where reason had failed.
The massive domed structure loomed before her as she stepped from the carriage. Even after all these years, the Dragonpit inspired awe—a monument to Targaryen power, built to house the living weapons that had secured her family's rule over the Seven Kingdoms.
She nodded curtly to the Targaryen household guards who flanked the main entrance. They bowed deeply, stepping aside without question. At least here, her authority remained unchallenged, unlike in the Red Keep, where Alicent's influence grew daily.
The cavernous interior was cool and dim, illuminated by shafts of sunlight that penetrated the high windows and the great opening in the dome's apex. The space echoed with the occasional rumble and snort of dragons in their separate chambers around the periphery. But Rhaenyra headed straight for the largest of the pens on the eastern side.
"Syrax," she called out, her voice softening as she approached the golden dragon who had been her companion since childhood.
The she-dragon lifted her massive head, golden scales gleaming in the half-light. Steam curled from her nostrils as she recognized her rider, stretching her long neck forward in greeting.
"Skorkydoso jorrāelagon ao, ñuha jorrāelarzy," Rhaenyra said, switching to High Valyrian as she always did with Syrax. How I've missed you, my dear.
Syrax rumbled deep in her throat, a sound Rhaenyra had long ago learned to interpret as pleasure. She reached out, placing her palm against the warm scales of Syrax's snout.
"Skori gaomagon ao jikagon naejot jikagon sōvegon?" When will you take me flying? The dragon seemed to ask with her bright eyes.
"Right now," Rhaenyra answered with a smile. "I need the sky today, perhaps more than ever."
Within minutes, they were emerging through the dome's opening, Syrax's powerful wings carrying them up into the clear blue sky above King's Landing. Rhaenyra exhaled deeply as the city fell away beneath them, the petty concerns of court seeming smaller with each beat of Syrax's wings.
"Naejot se belma!" To the clouds! she commanded, and Syrax responded with an enthusiastic surge upward.
The wind whipped Rhaenyra's silver-gold hair free from its careful arrangement, and she laughed, uncaring of how she would look upon her return. This freedom—this was what it meant to be Targaryen, to be a dragon rider. No political marriage or court intrigue could take this from her.
As they soared higher, her thoughts drifted to the first time she had experienced flight. She had been only five name days old, and her uncle Daemon had taken her up on Caraxes, his fearsome red dragon.
"A Targaryen who fears flight may as well fear their own shadow," he had told her, ignoring Queen Aemma's horrified protests. "She has the blood of the dragon, good sister. Let her discover what that truly means."
Rhaenyra smiled at the memory. Her mother had been furious, yet when Daemon had returned her safely to the ground, little Rhaenyra's face had been alight with joy rather than fear. Queen Aemma had been unable to maintain her anger in the face of her daughter's happiness.
Mother. The thought of Aemma Arryn brought a familiar pang of grief. It had been six years since childbed had claimed her, yet the loss still felt fresh on days like this.
"What would you say of my marriage, Mother?" she whispered into the wind. "Would you approve of Laenor?"
She remembered her mother's words, spoken on a rare occasion when they had been alone, free from the constant presence of septas and handmaidens.
"When it is time for you to marry, my little dragon, I will do everything in my power to see that you wed for love, not merely for alliance. It is a rare thing among our kind, but you deserve that happiness."
Rhaenyra laughed bitterly. "Love has little use in the Red Keep, Mother. Even less for the heir to the Iron Throne."
Syrax banked suddenly, circling over Blackwater Bay where ships were dwarfed to mere specks on the glittering water. Rhaenyra gauged the sun's position—they had been flying for nearly an hour, but she was reluctant to return just yet.
"Let's go further, Syrax. Out over the Kingswood perhaps."
As if in answer, Syrax let out a sudden, sharp whistle—a sound Rhaenyra had never heard from her before. The dragon's head swiveled, her body tensing beneath Rhaenyra's legs.
"What is it? Skoriot iksis daor?" What is wrong?
A sound like distant thunder reached her ears, but the sky remained clear in all directions. Then she realized—not thunder. Wingbeats. Another dragon was nearby.
Rhaenyra scanned the skies, her heart quickening. Had Laena decided to take Vhagar out this morning? Or perhaps Rhaenys on Meleys?
Then she saw it—a flash of silver scales against the sun. A dragon with pale, shimmering coloration was circling high above them, at least twice as large as Syrax.
"Silverwing?" she gasped in disbelief.
Queen Alysanne's mount had taken no rider since the beloved queen's death years ago. The dragon had retreated to a remote corner of Dragonstone, avoiding human contact. Yet here she was, unmistakably Silverwing, flying openly near King's Landing.
More shocking still was the small figure perched upon the great dragon's back.
"Impossible," Rhaenyra breathed. "Who would dare...?"
She urged Syrax higher, straining to make out the rider's identity, but the distance was too great. The figure was small, possibly a woman or a young man, wrapped in what appeared to be a dark cloak despite the summer warmth.
"Jikagon, Syrax! Jikagon naejot bisa zōbrie!" Go, Syrax! Go to that stranger!
Syrax hesitated, something Rhaenyra had never experienced before. The golden dragon shook her head with a reluctant growl, telling her with her eyes that she didn't want to approach Silverwing.
"Jikagon!" Rhaenyra commanded again, more firmly.
Finally, Syrax complied, surging upward toward the silver dragon. But as soon as they began their approach, Silverwing banked sharply and plunged into a bank of clouds that had gathered on the horizon.
"No! After her!" Rhaenyra called, but Syrax's pursuit was halfhearted at best. The golden dragon seemed almost... afraid.
By the time they broke through the clouds, Silverwing had vanished completely. Rhaenyra scanned the horizon in all directions, but the massive silver dragon had disappeared as completely as if she had never been there at all.
"How is that possible?" Rhaenyra murmured. "A dragon that size cannot simply vanish."
After circling fruitlessly for several more minutes, she reluctantly turned Syrax back toward King's Landing. Her mind raced with questions. Who had claimed Silverwing? Why was Syrax so reluctant to approach? And what did it mean that a previously riderless dragon had suddenly bonded with someone unknown?
The Dragonpit came into view all too soon. As Syrax descended through the great opening in the dome, Rhaenyra composed herself, pushing her windswept hair back into some semblance of order. The mystery would have to wait—she couldn't appear flustered before the guards and attendants.
Syrax settled onto the stone floor with a thud that echoed throughout the cavernous space. Rhaenyra dismounted gracefully, patting her dragon's neck in silent thanks before approaching the guards stationed at the interior entrance.
"Has anyone unusual visited the Dragonpit today?" she asked without preamble.
The guards exchanged confused glances before the senior among them answered, "No, Princess. Only the dragon keepers and your own party. Is something amiss?"
"I saw a dragon in flight. Silverwing, I believe, with a rider."
The guards looked genuinely shocked. "That's impossible, Princess. No one has approached Silverwing since Queen Alysanne's death."
"And yet I saw what I saw," Rhaenyra replied sharply. "Has anyone come here who isn't part of the royal family or House Velaryon? Has Silverwing landed here perhaps with an unknown rider? Anyone at all who might have visited in recent days?"
The guards shook their heads. "No one, Princess. Few dare come here without express permission. The dragons..." The guard trailed off, not needing to explain the fear most people felt toward the great beasts.
"Increase the watch," Rhaenyra ordered. "And send word to the Red Keep that I wish to speak with my father about this matter."
"At once, Princess."
As Rhaenyra strode toward the exit where her carriage waited, her mind was still filled with the image of Silverwing and her mysterious rider. A new dragon rider appearing without anyone's knowledge was unprecedented—and potentially dangerous.
First Daeron and Daenerys appear from nowhere, and now a mysterious dragon rider claims Silverwing? she thought. These cannot be coincidences.
For a brief, wild moment, she wondered if there could be a connection between these events. But that was absurd. She knew Daenerys and Daeron had Valyrian blood, that much was clear as day, but did they have enough of it to claim a dragon?
Alicent
Queen Alicent Hightower stood at the window of her private solar, one hand resting protectively over the swell of her belly where her third child grew. From this vantage point, she could observe the training yard below, where knights and lords prepared for the upcoming tournament. Her green eyes narrowed as they fixed on a particular figure—the mysterious northerner called Daeron, currently sparring with two opponents simultaneously.
Look at him, she thought bitterly. Another piece on the board that shouldn't be there.
The stranger had appeared from nowhere, insinuated himself into Viserys's good graces, and now threatened to complicate her carefully laid plans. Worse still was the way Rhaenyra looked at him—with the same reckless hunger she had once shown for Daemon Targaryen. If the princess formed an attachment to this man, he could become dangerous in the future.
The soft knock at her door broke her reverie.
"Enter," she commanded, turning from the window.
Ser Criston Cole stepped inside, resplendent in his white Kingsguard armor. She allowed herself a moment to appreciate his handsome features—the strong jaw, the dark curls, the intense eyes that had once looked upon Rhaenyra with devotion before the princess had spurned him.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing deeply. "You wished to see me?"
"Yes, Ser Criston. Please, close the door."
As he did so, Alicent moved to a small table where wine had been prepared. She poured two cups, offering one to the knight.
"I'm not permitted while on duty, Your Grace," he reminded her gently.
"Consider this a private council of war, Ser Criston. The rules are different here." She held the cup out until he accepted it with a slightly bemused smile. "Besides, you're not truly on duty, are you? My husband has you guarding me as a courtesy, not out of necessity."
"I take all my duties seriously, Your Grace," he replied, though he did take a small sip of the wine.
"Of course you do. It's one of your many admirable qualities." She gestured to a chair, taking the one opposite. "Tell me, what do you make of our northern visitor? You've observed him in the training yard, I presume?"
Criston's expression darkened slightly. "Lord Daeron? Yes, I've watched him fight. He's... unusual."
"Unusual how?" Alicent pressed, leaning forward slightly.
"His style is unlike anything I've seen at court. Not the formal techniques taught in the Seven Kingdoms, nor the water dancing of Braavos." Criston frowned. "Sometimes he moves like everyone, and some other times, he moves much faster."
"Yet you could defeat him," Alicent stated rather than asked, her eyes fixed on Criston's face.
The knight hesitated just long enough for Alicent to see the truth, but then nodded firmly. "Of course, Your Grace. I am Lord Commander of the Kingsguard for good reason."
"Indeed you are," she replied, smiling thinly. She took a deliberate sip of her wine before continuing. "Did you know that House Hightower's history extends back to the Age of Heroes? Before Aegon's Conquest."
"A noble lineage, Your Grace," Criston acknowledged, clearly wondering where this was leading.
"Yes. One of the oldest, wealthiest, most influential houses in the Seven Kingdoms." She set her cup down with precision. "And yet, in all our history, we only ever had one Valyrian Steel Sword, Vigilance."
Understanding dawned in Criston's eyes. "You speak of Lord Daeron's sword."
"Stormsong, he calls it," Alicent said, her voice hardening. "A ridiculous name for such an ancient weapon. But then, what else would one expect from a savage northerner? Such treasures are wasted on those who cannot appreciate their true value and history."
She rose, moving to a chest from which she withdrew a small leather-bound book. "Did you know that before the Doom, House Hightower had connections to several Valyrian noble houses? There are some who believe we might even have distant Valyrian blood." She smiled wryly. "Though we prefer not to emphasize that particular rumor."
"I was unaware, Your Grace," Criston replied carefully.
"Few are. The point, Ser Criston, is that such a blade belongs in worthy hands. Hands that understand its significance. Hands that serve the true future of the realm."
"The true future," he repeated softly, and she knew he understood her meaning. Not Rhaenyra, but her son Aegon—the rightful heir to the Iron Throne by all the laws of gods and men.
"It seems a waste, doesn't it?" she continued. "That such a fine weapon should be carried by an upstart stranger with no name, no house, no true claim to nobility."
Criston set his barely-touched wine down. "What would you have me do, Your Grace?"
Alicent smiled, pleased by his directness. "The melee provides opportunities, does it not? For challenges, for wagers." She paused, letting the silence stretch. "For accidents."
"Accidents," he echoed, his expression carefully neutral.
"Tournament combat can be... unpredictable. Especially in a melee, where so much happens at once, where it's difficult to determine exactly who struck whom." She returned to her chair, her movements deliberately graceful despite her pregnancy. "I merely suggest that by this evening, House Hightower might be better positioned than it was this morning."
Criston's jaw tightened. "You wish me to take his sword."
"I wish you to ensure that valuable assets are properly aligned with those who will determine the realm's future." Alicent leaned forward. "The symbols of power matter, Ser Criston. A Valyrian steel sword is not merely a weapon—it's a statement."
She watched the conflict play across his features. The Kingsguard were supposed to be above politics, yet Criston had already chosen sides when he turned against Rhaenyra after her rejection.
"He will not surrender it willingly," he said at last.
"Then don't ask for his willingness," Alicent replied coolly. "The first Hightower was called the Battle Isle Beacon. He claimed what was his by right of strength. Sometimes ancient traditions are best."
Criston stood, his decision made. "By evening, Your Grace, you shall have what you desire."
What I desire is the throne for my son, and Rhaenyra's head on a spike, Alicent thought, but merely smiled. "I have every confidence in you, Ser Criston. You've always been loyal to those who recognize your true worth."
The barb about Rhaenyra's rejection hung unspoken between them, but its effect was visible in the hardening of his expression.
"For House Hightower," he said with a bow. "And for the rightful succession."
"For the future," Alicent corrected gently. "My children's future. The realm's future."
As he left, she returned to the window, watching as Daeron dispatched yet another practice opponent below. Soon that northern upstart would learn what it meant to interfere with her plans, no matter how indirectly. The dragon might be the sigil of House Targaryen, but the flame atop the Hightower burned eternal—outlasting dragons, kings, and the schemes of silver-haired princesses alike.
Let the games begin, she thought, her hand once again moving protectively over her unborn child. And let all who oppose us burn.
Tomorrow - Rhaenyra
Rhaenyra adjusted the dragon-shaped pins securing her elaborate hairstyle as servants arranged her crimson and black gown around her seat in the royal viewing box. The tourney grounds sprawled before her, filled with the colors and sounds of half the realm gathered to celebrate her upcoming wedding—a spectacle she viewed with decidedly mixed emotions.
All this pageantry for a marriage neither of us wants, she thought, watching as nobles and smallfolk alike filed into the wooden stands surrounding the tournament field.
King Viserys sat at the center of the royal box, resplendent in black and red velvet despite the summer heat, the crown of Aegon the Conqueror gleaming on his brow. To his left sat Queen Alicent, draped in Hightower green, her pregnancy prominently displayed rather than concealed. The message was clear to all who looked upon her—House Targaryen's future continued to grow within her, regardless of Rhaenyra's status as heir.
Rhaenyra had been strategically placed to her father's right, with the Velaryons—her soon-to-be in-laws—arranged beside her. Laenor sat stiffly in his sea-green finery, looking as uncomfortable as she felt. His parents, Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, maintained the dignified poise of those accustomed to such scrutiny, while Laena offered Rhaenyra an encouraging smile tinged with mischief.
"Quite the gathering," Laena murmured, leaning close enough that only Rhaenyra could hear. "Half the lords are watching for signs of discord between our families, while the other half simply hope to see blood spilled in the melee."
"And what are you watching for?" Rhaenyra asked, grateful for Laena's ability to lighten even the most strained circumstances.
"The same as you, cousin," Laena replied with a knowing glance. "Our mysterious northern lord and his equally mysterious wife."
Rhaenyra felt heat rise to her cheeks, but managed to keep her expression neutral.
Her thoughts were interrupted as trumpets blared, signaling the tournament's official commencement. King Viserys rose, and the assembled crowd fell silent.
"Lords and ladies of the realm," he called, his voice carrying across the field. "We gather today to celebrate the forthcoming union of House Targaryen and House Velaryon through the marriage of my daughter and heir, Princess Rhaenyra, to Ser Laenor Velaryon." He gestured toward them, and Rhaenyra forced her face into the practiced royal smile she had perfected over years at court.
"Let the contests begin with honor and valor!" Viserys concluded, raising his goblet in a toast before settling back into his seat.
The preliminary events commenced with archery competitions, where lords and hedge knights alike demonstrated their skill with the bow. Rhaenyra observed with polite interest, though her mind kept drifting to the upcoming melee where Ser Harwin and—she had to admit to herself—Lord Daeron would compete.
"Your brooch is particularly fine today, Princess," Queen Alicent remarked suddenly, her voice carrying just far enough to be heard by those in the royal box. "A dragon devouring a falcon, is it not? How... symbolic."
The reference to House Arryn—her mother's house—was deliberately provocative. Rhaenyra turned her gaze to meet Alicent's, refusing to rise to the bait.
"Thank you, stepmother. It was a gift from my father to commemorate my naming as heir to the Iron Throne." She smiled sweetly. "Some traditions are worth honoring, don't you agree?"
Alicent's eyes hardened, though her smile remained fixed. "Indeed. Just as some laws of succession have remained unchanged since Aegon's Conquest."
"Ladies," Viserys interrupted, his tone light but with an undercurrent of warning. "Let us enjoy the day's competitions without unnecessary discourse on matters already settled."
Rhaenyra inclined her head respectfully, though inwardly she seethed. Every interaction with Alicent had become a battle of veiled barbs and political positioning since the queen had begun producing male heirs.
The archery contests gave way to feats of strength, where massive men hurled logs and stones to the crowd's raucous approval. Throughout these events, Rhaenyra found her gaze wandering the stands, searching for a glimpse of silver-gold hair that might belong to Lady Daenerys. She had not seen the mysterious woman since the previous night's feast.
"Looking for someone?" Laena asked quietly, her expression knowing.
"Merely taking in the spectacle," Rhaenyra replied. "It's not often one sees so many of the realm's notables gathered in one place."
"Hmm," Laena hummed skeptically. "Well, if you were looking for Lord Daeron's lovely wife, she's seated there." She nodded discreetly toward the eastern stands where, indeed, Daenerys sat alone, her distinctive coloring setting her apart from those around her. Unlike the elaborate fashions of the court ladies, she wore a simple gown of deep blue that somehow made her appear more regal than less.
"I hadn't noticed," Rhaenyra lied, turning her attention deliberately back to the field where the heralds were announcing the start of the melee preparations.
As if on cue, knights and lords began to gather below the royal box, many looking up expectantly. This was the traditional moment when competitors would request ladies' favors to carry into battle.
Ser Harwin Strong, imposing in his burnished steel armor, approached first. He knelt before the royal box, his gaze fixed on Rhaenyra.
"Princess," he called, his deep voice carrying clearly. "Would you honor me with your favor in today's melee? I swear to fight with all the strength and courage your blessing would inspire."
Rhaenyra felt multiple sets of eyes upon her—her father's indulgent, Alicent's calculating, and Laenor's utterly indifferent. She reached for a crimson bloom that adorned her seat and leaned forward to present it to Harwin.
"Carry this with honor, Ser Harwin," she said formally. "May it bring you fortune in the contest."
Harwin's broad face split in a grin as he took the flower and secured it to his armor before bowing deeply. As he stepped away, Rhaenyra caught the subtle look of disapproval from Lord Corlys. The Sea Snake clearly recognized the connection between her and Harwin, though he could hardly object given his own son's proclivities.
Speaking of which, the next figure to approach was Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, known as the Knight of Kisses. His appearance was immaculate, his smile charming as he bowed before them—though his eyes were fixed not on Rhaenyra but on Laenor.
"Lord Laenor," he called. "Might I have the honor of your favor for today's combat?"
Laenor hesitated, clearly torn between propriety and his feelings for Joffrey. Finally, he nodded stiffly. "You have my favor, Ser Joffrey. Fight well."
He offered no physical token, but the verbal acknowledgment was damning enough. Beside him, Corlys's face darkened with barely contained fury, while on Rhaenyra's other side, she heard Alicent's soft, mocking laugh.
"How curious," the queen murmured, just loud enough for Rhaenyra to hear. "Your husband-to-be honors his sworn shield with such... particular regard."
"A knight may grant favor to whomever he respects on the battlefield," Rhaenyra replied carefully. "House Velaryon values loyalty in all its forms."
Before Alicent could respond, a stir ran through the crowd as another competitor entered the field. Even from a distance, Rhaenyra recognized Daeron by his distinctive bearing and the streak of white in his dark hair. Unlike the other competitors in their house colors or silver armor, Daeron wore an ensemble that made Rhaenyra catch her breath.
His armor was a deep, burnished red-black, with subtle scale patterns etched into the breastplate that evoked dragonhide. The pommel of his sword—the Valyrian steel blade he called Stormsong—was visible over his shoulder, its red-tinged steel unmistakable even at this distance. He looked like a dragon made human, a warrior from Old Valyria stepped out of legend.
"Bold choice of colors," Rhaenys observed, her violet eyes narrowing. "Red and black are Targaryen colors. He wears them as if they are his birthright."
"Perhaps they are," Laena mused. "Those eyes of his aren't the grey of the North, are they?"
Rhaenyra remained silent, watching as Daeron surveyed the field with calm assessment. Unlike many of the other competitors who played to the crowd or sought favors from ladies, he seemed focused entirely on the coming contest.
Her gaze drifted again to where Daenerys sat watching. There was something striking about her expression—not the nervous anticipation of a wife fearing for her husband's safety, but the serene confidence of someone who knew precisely how the day would unfold. Their eyes met across the distance, and Daenerys offered a small, enigmatic smile before returning her attention to her husband.
"The melee will begin shortly," King Viserys announced, his voice cutting through Rhaenyra's thoughts. "Let us see which of these brave men proves himself the champion of the day!"
As servants brought refreshments and the competitors withdrew to make final preparations, Rhaenyra found her thoughts divided between the mysterious dragon rider she had seen that morning and the equally mysterious man about to fight in her wedding tournament. Something connected them, she was certain of it. And somehow, she felt that her own fate was entwined with these strangers in ways she had yet to understand.
By the end of this day, she thought, perhaps some of these mysteries will be answered.
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