Aegon V Targaryen
"Oh…" Duncan nodded slowly, piecing the matter together. "I see. But where did he hear such things? Did someone tell him about this?"
"No, no one told him anything," Jaehaerys replied, shaking his head. "It all started during our brother's funeral. You remember how Rhaella was inconsolable that day? Well, it seems her crying reached someone it shouldn't have—and you know the rest." His voice softened, a hint of sorrow creeping in. "If only Daeron were still alive…"
Aegon sighed, deep and weary. The weight of his crown felt heavier each year. "What's done is done," he murmured. "I heard Tywin Lannister is a clever boy. What I don't understand is why he did what he did."
Ser Duncan chuckled dryly. "A child's tantrum, Egg. Imagine an arrogant pup from nowhere suddenly getting all the attention. I still know grown lords who would throw fits like that if ignored long enough."
Aegon gave a reluctant hum of agreement, then straightened. "Anyway, I called you both here to find a solution—" He looked at his sons. "I suggest we do so."
"Father," Jaehaerys said after a pause, "I heard Tywin's the same age as Aerys. What if we invite him to serve as a ward of the Crown? We could bring the Baratheon heir as well. Aerys needs companions now that Daeron is away."
"Hmm…" Aegon rubbed his chin. "That sounds reasonable. Let's do that. But let me warn you both—the ladies of this family won't be pleased. Your mother will likely throw me out of our chambers, but that's my burden. As for you two…" He shot Jaehaerys a knowing smirk. "Shaera and Jenny will likely be just as furious. Best prepare your apologies—and perhaps find somewhere else to sleep for a few weeks."
With that, he stood, straightened his cloak, and strode out of the solar, Ser Duncan the Tall following in his wake. "Good luck, my sons!"
The door closed behind him, his laughter echoing down the corridor.
Jaehaerys and Duncan exchanged a look.
"The old man set us up," Jaehaerys muttered.
Duncan sighed. "What did we do?"
===================
Daeron Targaryen
He and Lord Roger sat together as the next tilt was being readied below.
"My prince, House Reyne is honored to host a Targaryen," Roger Reyne said warmly, clasping Daeron's hand. His grin was broad, the kind worn by a man too aware of his own station. "You'll want for nothing while you're at Castamere."
"Thank you, my lord." Daeron inclined his head politely. "Though I must say—I expected to see you ride in the lists today."
Roger chuckled, a low, rueful sound. "I would have, if not for yesterday's melee. My body is still sore, and I thought it wiser to spend the day getting to know my ward."
"I hope you're not Disappointed?" Daeron asked, one brow raised.
"Far from it." Roger's grin sharpened, the resemblance to Ser Gerold uncanny enough to make the prince's skin prickle. "I already have a plan for your training. When I'm done with you, there will be no finer swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "King Aegon wrote to me—said you've a temper. I saw a younger version of myself in that letter. Don't worry, my prince. I know how to deal with that."
A chill crept up Daeron's spine at those words.
A trumpet blared, the sound slicing through the crowd's chatter. "Ser Reynard Reyne! Ser Jason Lannister!" cried the herald.
Roger turned, nodding toward a broad-shouldered knight tightening his helmet strap. "That's my brother, Reynard. He sat out the melee—saving himself for the joust. And as you've seen, he's already bested every opponent so far." A sly smile curved his lips. "You won three thousand gold dragons today, my prince. Care to wager against my brother?"
Daeron met his gaze evenly. "After what you just told me? No. I'll pass this round."
Roger laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ha! I should've kept my mouth shut."
Five thunderous passes followed—lances shattering, splinters flying—until on the last tilt, Ser Jason Lannister was hurled clean from his saddle, crashing hard onto the ground. The crowd erupted.
"Ser Reynard Reyne advances to the finals! He shall face Ser Gerold Hightower!" the herald bellowed.
Daeron leaned forward slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Tell you what, my lord—three thousand gold dragons on Ser Gerold."
Roger's eyes gleamed. "You have yourself a wager, my prince. I accept."
Daeron's attention drifted, drawn toward the Lady Lioness seated a few rows down. "Joanna…" he called softly.
She turned, eyes glistening. When she noticed his gaze, she quickly turned away, dabbing at her tears.
"Oh…" Daeron murmured, the sound barely audible. For a heartbeat, the noise of the crowd fell away, drowned beneath the sudden stillness in his chest.
"If you'll excuse me, Lord Roger," he said finally, straightening. "I need to have a word with Ser Gerold."
"Of course, my prince," Roger replied with a polite bow, though curiosity flickered behind his eyes as Daeron stepped away.
========================
He entered the Kingsguard's tent and found Ser Gerold buckling the last of his plate. The tent smelled faintly of oil, leather, and cold steel.
"Gerold, where's your Squire?" Daeron began, leaning against a post, "Anyway, you'll win, right?"
Gerold looked up from his armor, eyes squinting at him. "Do you still doubt me after all these years, my prince? I had thought you trusted me completely."
"I do," Daeron replied quickly, hands raised in mock surrender. "Just confirming—after all, I still remember last year."
Gerold's brow furrowed. "Last year?"
"The King's name day tourney," Daeron said with a smirk. "You withdrew before the second match because you wanted to sleep. I lost a thousand dragons that day."
"I was exhausted, my prince," Gerold huffed, fastening his gauntlet. "And if your memory serves you right, it was you who insisted we spend the entire previous day running around the Kingswood."
Daeron chuckled. "True enough. Still, you owe me a win this time."
"How much have you wagered?"
"Three thousand."
Gerold stopped mid-motion, giving him a long look. "Three thousand? You earned that much?"
"Gambling, Ser," Daeron said lightly, folding his arms. "Quickest way to make coin—and lose it just as fast."
Gerold gave a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You're your father's son through and through."
"Anyway," Daeron straightened, the playfulness fading a touch, "that's not what I came for."
Gerold looked up. "No? Then what?"
"Did any lady catch your eye today?"
Gerold blinked. "No."
"Good," Daeron said, his tone lowering into something almost serious. "I want you to…"
==================================
Ser Gerold's lance splintered clean through, the crack echoing across the lists as Ser Reynard was flung from his horse, crashing into the dirt in a plume of dust.
"Damn," Daeron muttered under his breath, clapping with a faint grin. "I should start practicing with Nike soon."
His eyes met Gerold's across the field. The Kingsguard gave a subtle nod, which Daeron returned.
"The victor of the joust," the herald's voice boomed, "shall now name his Queen of Love and Beauty!"
A young temporary squire—some boy named Erwin—hurried up to Gerold, holding a simple circlet of woven flowers. The white petals trembled slightly in his small hands as the knight took the crown.
Ser Gerold guided his destrier toward the stands where the ladies sat. The crowd hushed. Joanna Lannister sat among the nobles, her golden hair catching the sunlight.
Gerold halted before her and bowed his head. "I crown Lady Joanna Lannister," he declared, his voice steady, "the Queen of Love and Beauty."
He set the floral crown gently in her lap—and turned his gaze away, toward the prince watching from above, giving the faintest nod.
Joanna's breath caught. She looked down at the crown, then toward Gerold's line of sight. Her eyes found Daeron's. The noise of the crowd faded to a distant hum as their eyes met.
Tears welled unbidden in her eyes, then spilled freely down her cheeks. A shy, radiant smile broke across her face as she lifted the crown and placed it upon her head.
"Thank you, Ser Gerold," she said softly, her voice trembling, her little cheeks flushed the color of spring roses. "Thank you… so much."