A Song of Ash and Mirror Flame
Arc XVII: Silk, Steel, and Silver Favor
I. The Song for the Queen
Before the tourney horns sounded, before the dust rose—
You requested one moment.
The crowd murmured as you stepped into the center of the field, guitar in hand.
Upon the royal dais sat:
Aemma Arryn — pale, dignified, carrying the quiet strength of the Vale.
Beside her, Viserys I Targaryen watched curiously.
And just beyond them, Rhaenyra Targaryen leaned forward.
You bowed — deeper this time.
"For Her Grace."
And you began.
"The Falcon and the Flame"
(Āemma Hen Vala)
Gentle. Noble. Like wind through mountain passes.
Āemma vala, hen Arryn rōva,
Aemma of the Vale, mountain queen.
Vējes hen eyrie, sȳndror hen dārilaros,
Wind of the Eyrie, shield of the realm.
Daor zaldrīzes māzigon ōz sȳz,
No dragon burns brighter than her heart.
Hen jēdar se riñar, hen vāedar se sȳndror,
Of gentle hand and steadfast will.
Rōva hen sȳz morghūlīs naejot jemagon,
A queen whose grace conquers death itself.
Āemma… vala hen qēlos.
Aemma… light of the realm.
The field was silent.
Not dramatic.
Not fiery.
But reverent.
Queen Aemma's eyes shimmered.
Viserys looked at her with such tenderness that even hardened knights shifted awkwardly.
Rhaenyra watched you differently now.
Not as rival.
Not as mystery.
But as someone who understood her mother.
The applause was softer than war cries—
But deeper.
II. The Tourney Begins
Trumpets sounded.
Dust rose.
Knights rode forward beneath banners of every great house.
Daemon leaned lazily against the rail.
"Who rides first against our silver bard?" he asked aloud.
The herald's voice rang clear:
"Ser Gwayne Hightower!"
A murmur swept the crowd.
The son of Oldtown.
Brother of Alicent Hightower.
Otto's blood.
A deliberate choice.
Across the field, Gwayne lowered his helm.
Confident.
Smiling faintly beneath polished steel.
Otto watched from the stands — composed.
Political message clear:
If the new prince bleeds today, he bleeds at Hightower steel.
You mounted calmly.
Lance in hand.
Rhaenyra's gaze never left you.
III. First Tilt
The horns blew.
Hooves thundered.
Wood splintered on impact.
Both lances shattered cleanly.
Even.
The crowd roared approval.
Gwayne nodded once across the field.
Respectful.
But calculating.
IV. Second Tilt
This time, Gwayne angled his strike higher.
A dangerous move.
Your lance struck first.
Direct to shield.
The impact cracked his balance.
But not enough.
His lance glanced off your shoulder plate—
Pain exploded down your arm.
You stayed mounted.
Barely.
Gasps rippled through the stands.
Rhaenyra rose to her feet.
V. The Public Favor
Before the final tilt—
Movement in the royal box.
Rhaenyra stepped forward.
The crowd quieted immediately.
From her wrist, she untied a thin ribbon of deep red silk.
She did not send a servant.
She descended the steps herself.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
She approached your horse.
Held the ribbon up.
"Ride," she said clearly,
"with the favor of the Crown Princess."
Not subtle.
Not private.
Public.
Bold.
You inclined your head slightly.
"I will honor it."
The ribbon tied around your lance.
Across the field—
Otto's jaw tightened.
Alicent's expression flickered — unreadable.
Daemon burst into delighted laughter.
"Oh, this just became war."
VI. Final Tilt
The horns screamed.
You did not aim for glory.
You aimed for precision.
Your lance struck Gwayne squarely in the chestplate seam.
The impact lifted him clean from the saddle.
He crashed into the dust.
The field erupted.
You reined in sharply, dismounted, and offered your hand to him.
Honor maintained.
Message delivered.
Rhaenyra did not hide her smile.
She applauded openly.
The crowd followed her lead.
VII. The Shift
He had:
• Honored the Queen
• Defeated a Hightower
• Accepted Rhaenyra's public favor
• Remained controlled
This was not recklessness.
It was positioning.
Daemon approached you afterward.
"Well struck, brother."
Corlys nodded approvingly from afar.
Rhaenys watched thoughtfully.
Otto did not clap.
But he was already thinking.