Chapter 60: Miracle Tournament — The True Dragon Rises
The banners of House Targaryen rippled above the Dragonpit, scarlet and black twisting like fire and blood in the summer wind. Beneath them, tens of thousands of throats thundered in unison as the tourney of King Jaehaerys's fiftieth year reached its crescendo.
In one corner of the field, two old warriors clashed in a storm of splintered lances. Ser Ryam Redwyne, the famed Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, unhorsed his sworn brother Ser Clement Crabb after thirty brutal passes. Their duel was a master's lesson in grace and power, and the crowd erupted, chanting Redwyne's name until the very air trembled.
Then came the melee — a riot of steel and chaos. A hundred knights and sellswords fought for glory, alliances forming and breaking in the same heartbeat. Seven proud knights of the Reach carved through the crowd together, their armor bright as summer wine, until ambition turned brother against brother. When the dust settled, a towering Northman named Brandon Jon stood alone, his flail dripping with sweat and sand, the champion of the melee.
The archery contest followed. Windsgrace Raven Greyjoy, Daemon's sworn man, faced two foreign marksmen — Didier of the Summer Isles and Khaso, a Dothraki exile. Khaso's dragonbone longbow sang truest, his arrows striking with deadly perfection. Didier took silver, and Raven, scowling, took third.
"If I had a dragonbone bow," Raven muttered darkly, "the champion would be me. I might just pay the iron price for one."
Daemon only smiled. "To me, you already are the best shot in Westeros."
That quiet charm was his power. By dusk, both Didier and Khaso had bent the knee, drawn into his orbit like moths to flame.
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The next morning dawned gold and clear — the day of the final joust.
At one end of the field waited Ser Ryam Redwyne, his white armor gleaming, the perfect image of the chivalric ideal. At the other, mounted on a warhorse clad in black steel, sat Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Blood Wyrm's rider, the Dragon of the Blackwater. His crimson cloak streamed behind him like a banner of war.
"Prince Daemon," Ryam called, lowering his visor, "did you not once claim to have dreamed of this day — of defeating me before all the realm? I tell you, boy, you will only best me in dreams."
Daemon's voice was steady as ice. "Then today, Ser Ryam, the dream becomes truth."
From the royal box, Princess Gael sat beside Alicent Hightower, her hands trembling over her rounded belly.
"I pray Daemon wins," she whispered.
Alicent smiled politely. "Ser Ryam has never lost a final. Some say the Warrior himself guides his lance."
Even the High Septon, robed in green silk, overheard and proclaimed loudly, "Indeed! Ser Ryam Redwyne fights with the Seven at his back!"
The trumpets sounded.
The two knights charged.
Lance met shield, splinters flew, and the crowd roared. Again and again, they thundered across the field, each pass more furious than the last. Daemon's black armor was dented and streaked with dust, Ryam's white enameled scales gleamed under the sun.
"Daemon is spent," muttered Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake. "Ryam has never lost after thirty passes."
Princess Rhaenys smirked. "Daemon's dream will end here, and so will this nonsense of prophecy."
But Daemon refused to yield. Sweat poured down his face beneath the dragon-helm, his blood burning with the pulse of Caraxes high above. The sun dipped below the horizon. Torches were lit, flames dancing like restless spirits around the lists.
And then, the heavens split.
A rainbow of seven colors arched across the night sky, seven stars blazing above it — sharp, bright, and unearthly. Gasps rippled through the crowd like wind through a field of wheat.
"The Seven!" cried the High Septon, trembling. "The Seven have come to bless Ser Ryam Redwyne!"
The people took up the cry, chanting Ryam's name — until Gael rose, voice ringing like silver.
"You are wrong, High Septon! The gods bless not one knight, but a house — the House of Dragons! This is their light, their omen, their glory!"
The chant changed.
"Gods save the Dragons! Long live Prince Daemon! Long live House Targaryen!"
Under the rainbow's light, Ryam's strength began to wane. Daemon's eyes gleamed red behind his visor, dragonfire coursing in his veins. One last charge — a shattering impact — and Ryam Redwyne was thrown from his saddle, landing hard upon the ground.
For a moment, there was silence. Then the Dragonpit Square exploded in cheers.
"Daemon! Daemon! The True Dragon!"
King Jaehaerys rose, clapping with a broad smile. Queen Alysanne wept openly. The dragons — Caraxes and Dreamfyre — swooped low overhead, their roars echoing across King's Landing.
Daemon, still mounted, accepted the wreath of Love and Beauty from young Matthew Tyrell. Riding before the royal box, he placed it gently upon Gael's brow.
"Gael," he said softly, his voice carrying to every corner of the arena, "you are my eternal Queen of Love and Beauty."
The dragons roared again, their shadows merging in the torchlight, and for one breathtaking moment, the rainbow in the heavens crowned them both.
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That night, the whispers began — that the Seven themselves had blessed the Dragon Prince. That his dreams were true visions, and that Daemon was the chosen one of both gods and dragons.
Even the septons of the Blackwater called him the True Dragon Prince descended from heaven.
King Jaehaerys laughed heartily. "You dreamed of this victory, Daemon — and made it real. Perhaps you truly are a Dreamwalker."
But Queen Alysanne's eyes were thoughtful. "He dreamed also of the Bronze Dragon losing its right wing. Does that not sound like Vermithor… or the King's Hand?"
Daemon's gaze darkened. "It means what it means. Maester Barth's time is nearly done."
Maester Barth, old and calm, only chuckled. "All men must die, my prince. But not tonight."
The High Septon scoffed. "Dreams and omens — foolish tales. Maester Barth will live another twenty years."
The Sea Snake smirked. "Daemon's dreams are tricks of smoke and pride."
Daemon only smiled that dangerous smile. "You will see soon enough."
Before dawn, Maester Barth was found dead in his bed.
When word reached the Red Keep, a hush fell over the court. King Jaehaerys wept openly; Queen Alysanne clutched her rosary, trembling. All eyes turned toward Daemon.
"He said it would happen," whispered a courtier. "He dreamed it."
The Queen bowed her head. "The dream was true. He is a Dreamwalker… blessed by the gods."
Only the Sea Snake spoke again, his voice low and wary.
"If his dreams can bring death, then tell me, Prince Daemon — what else do you see?"
Daemon's eyes gleamed like the reflection of dragonfire.
"Everything," he said. "Everything yet to burn."
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