The crowd gasped in astonishment, their eyes fixed intently on the spectacle.
Ser Criston Cole, astride his white steed, continued his charge. The shield in his grip—its orange surface adorned with black dots—shattered upon impact, while the tip of his wooden lance splintered.
Behind him, a jet-black warhorse reared and neighed, galloping forward with reckless abandon.
Cregan Stark, its rider, swayed precariously before collapsing onto the fence, dragged forward by his frenzied mount.
The shield in his hand, emblazoned with the head of an ice wolf, remained intact. His wooden lance, however, had snapped in two, and his shoulder armor bore a noticeable dent.
Fortunately, he had yet to fall from his horse—he was still in the fight.
From the upper platform, Rhaegar watched with a broad smile, his enthusiasm undiminished.
In their previous pass, the young and impulsive Cregan had attacked without guarding himself, aiming straight for Cole's abdomen, hoping for a decisive strike.
But Cole, seasoned and experienced, had anticipated the move. He had countered with a defensive stance, deflecting the attack while thrusting his own lance at Cregan's shoulder armor—nearly unseating him.
Rhaenyra glanced at Rhaegar, twisting a ring on her finger as she murmured, "Cole's skill is as remarkable as ever—still as gallant as I remember."
Rhaegar's expression shifted at her words, his gaze turning oddly amused. "Cole wants to return to court service. Perhaps you should leave him a path back."
"Hmph."
Rhaenyra turned away, picking up a delicate confection from the table and taking a bite.
Rhaegar chuckled, reaching for her hand as he turned his attention back to the joust.
Criston Cole had once been Rhaenyra's sworn protector, and she had admired him since childhood—a fact well known in court.
However, after Rhaegar became heir to the throne, Rhaenyra gradually distanced herself from Cole.
When Ser Harrold Westerling, the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, passed away, Cole vied for the position of captain, ultimately swearing his allegiance to the king.
Rhaegar, for his part, saw no reason to be jealous.
The duel in the lists pressed on.
Cregan slammed his elbow against the railing, using the momentum to right himself before seizing the reins and calming his agitated horse.
Even in the heat of the tournament, his composure and adaptability rivaled that of many seasoned knights.
**CLANG!**
The competitors switched places, and the judge struck a bronze gong to signal the second charge.
Squires rushed forward, handing each knight a fresh wooden lance and shield. Cregan and Cole exchanged intense glances before spurring their horses forward once more.
Cole stuck to his original strategy—shield raised to parry, lance aimed at his opponent's breastplate.
Cregan, his body coiled like a drawn bow, eyes as sharp as a wolf's on the hunt, thrust his lance with brutal precision.
**CRACK!**
The two warhorses thundered past each other, both knights tilting dangerously to the side as their lances shattered into splinters.
"What an impressive young warrior!"
King Viserys sprang to his feet, clapping in admiration.
Otto Hightower, however, remained unusually grim, though he still managed to offer measured praise. "The Starks of the North have never lacked for courage."
The breathtaking exchange had left no detail hidden from the audience.
Fully aware of his lack of experience, Cregan had pressed himself low against his horse's back, using his full weight to drive his lance into Cole's shield.
Cole, unwilling to take the full brunt of the attack, had swung his own lance in a precise counterstrike—shattering both weapons and preventing himself from being unhorsed.
One round down, and both knights had nearly been thrown from their saddles by the sheer force of impact.
**Hooah!**
The intensity of the match only grew. The moment fresh lances were delivered, the knights steadied themselves and charged once more.
**CRACK!**
A different approach, yet the same outcome—this time, it was Cole's lance that splintered.
The young Stark was indeed formidable, his raw strength beginning to outmatch even the seasoned Criston Cole.
**THUD! THUD! THUD!**
Time and again, they clashed, their lances breaking in brutal succession, neither willing to yield.
Rhaegar could not suppress his laughter as he turned to Rhaenyra. "If they keep this up, Harrenhal's entire stockpile of lances will be exhausted."
"The Widow's Tower treasury is empty?" Rhaenyra teased, holding a grape to her lips with feigned innocence.
Rhaegar's smile froze momentarily before he shot her an exasperated look. "Not entirely. There's still a third left."
After all, he had plundered the fabled Rogare Bank, and even after funding an army of three thousand Unsullied, there was enough gold left to last him for decades—
That is, as long as he refrained from costly ventures like expanding Harrenhal, developing Mushroom Keep, or constructing lavish tournament grounds.
As they bantered, the joust reached its climax.
Cregan and Cole had now charged each other **eight times**—shattering countless lances and shields, turning the duel into a grueling spectacle far more intense than anticipated.
The exhilarating display had ignited the crowd, their excitement peaking as they cheered and hollered for their favored champion.
The **ninth charge** commenced.
Cregan straightened his back, pressing his knees tightly against his horse's flanks. Sweat dripped from beneath his visor, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
In the end, youth was still a disadvantage—his body had yet to reach its full potential.
Cole, too, was drenched in sweat, his eyes locked onto his opponent, teeth gritted as he spurred his mount forward.
He could not afford to lose. He refused to remain exiled on the barren wastelands of Bloodstone. This tournament was his ticket back to King's Landing.
The stakes were clear: by unanimous decision of Rhaegar and the Small Council, one knight would be selected from the tournament to join the Kingsguard.
That news had already spread across the Seven Kingdoms.
And Criston Cole had come to claim his place.
The black horse and the white horse charged at each other, light and shadow intertwining and then splitting apart.
**Bang—**
Clad in old, battered plate armor, Kragen took a hit to his lower ribs, immediately losing balance and tumbling off his horse.
Cole thrust his lance with force, knocking his opponent off decisively before galloping swiftly to the finish line on his white steed.
**"Well done!"**
**"Great strike!"**
**"..."**
The outcome was decided. The crowd erupted into cheers, creating a chaotic uproar like a flea-infested marketplace.
Unsullied warriors in black armor rushed onto the field, accompanied by attendants and maesters.
After a quick examination confirmed that Kragen's injuries were not severe, they swiftly placed him on a stretcher and carried him away.
Cole lifted his visor, spreading his arms wide with excitement, basking in the ovation from the spectators.
He glanced sideways at the high platform where the king and Rhaenyra sat.
Unfortunately, Viserys was too busy laughing and celebrating with Otto, seemingly thrilled at winning a bet.
Rhaenyra, on the other hand, sipped her tea in boredom, her figure partially obscured by Rhaegar, clad in black armor.
---
With the warm-up matches concluded, the main event was about to begin.
Rhaegar, who had been preparing for this moment, rose to his feet. Lowering his head slightly, he kissed the back of Rhaenyra's hand and chuckled. **"Not going to say a few words of encouragement?"**
**"Mwah!"**
Rhaenyra wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, her eyes brimming with warmth. She spoke solemnly, **"Good luck. Don't get hurt."**
**"No one strong enough to hurt me has been born yet."**
Rhaegar gave her a firm hug, then strode down from the high platform with a smile.
Moments later, he mounted a gleaming silver-white horse, gripping his lance and shield as he entered the tournament field.
The rotund referee struck the gong and excitedly announced, **"Let us celebrate the thrilling conclusion of the last battle! Welcome, Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the Breaker of Chains, the Ashbringer, and heir to the Iron Throne!"**
Rhaegar held his helmet under one arm and raised his lance high, his bright gaze sweeping across the field.
The crowd erupted into applause, with noble ladies leaning over the railing, waving flower garlands and cheering his name.
According to the tournament custom, knights entering the field would receive an encouraging flower garland from a lady.
If victorious, the champion would be crowned with the Wreath of Love and Beauty, which he could then bestow upon the woman of his choice.
As the excitement in the stands continued to grow, the red-faced referee bellowed, **"Prince Rhaegar will now choose his first opponent!"**
On one side of the barrier, a row of tall knights in armor sat astride their horses, all selected as potential challengers for the Crown Prince.
Under the thunderous cheers, Rhaegar donned his fearsome dragon-helm and rode toward the assembled knights.
Their faces were hidden behind visors, but their houses could be identified by the sigils on their armor and shields.
His gaze swept from left to right: a leaping hunter, a roaring lion, a green tower, a striped pattern of blue, green, and red...
After surveying them all, his eyes landed on a burly knight with a broad waist, whose shield bore the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
The reason was simple—House Baratheon had no legitimate male heirs, so this knight was likely one of their bastards who had come to compete.
Rhaegar had little patience for such pretenders and decided he would teach this one a lesson.
Just as he lifted his lance, the silver-armored knight with the three-colored striped sigil coughed under his visor, his cold gray-blue eyes fixed on Rhaegar.
Rhaegar glanced at him briefly, then urged his horse forward, stopping in front of him.
A single look at the three-colored stripes told him this was the eldest son of Lyonel Strong, the current Commander of the City Watch.
The **Bonebreaker**—Harwin Strong.
Rhaegar pointed his lance at him and said calmly, **"Do you wish to be my opponent?"**
Harwin replied with a solemn face, his voice cold, **"It would be my honor."**
Rhaegar was slightly surprised, unsure where such hostility came from, but he accepted readily. **"Then it's you."**
The referee wasted no time in announcing, **"For the first round, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen has chosen to face Harwin Strong, son of the Hand of the King and known as the Bonebreaker!"**
On the high platform, Viserys grinned and turned to look at Lyonel Strong.
The meaning was clear: *Watch as my son beats up your son.*
Lyonel's face remained grim. He sat in silence, clearly lost in thought.
---
Down in the tournament grounds, the knights made their final preparations.
Rhaegar rode along the barrier, heading toward the area beneath the high platform.
As he passed a corner, his peripheral vision caught sight of Tormund, clad in black and white robes.
Tormund's gaze was deep, and he tilted his head slightly, subtly signaling toward the field.
Rhaegar felt a sense of unease, suspecting something was amiss. It likely had something to do with Harwin.
Setting that thought aside for the moment, Rhaegar continued his ride until he reached the base of the platform. Looking up at Rhaenyra, who stood tall above, he grinned.
**"Where's my flower garland? Hurry and grant me the blessing of invincibility."**
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes at him but smiled playfully. **"Wait here. I'll go get it."**
Rhaegar obediently waited, raising his wooden lance in anticipation of receiving the garland.
Meanwhile, seated at the very front of the ladies' section, Jeyne, Margaery, and three of the four Storm sisters all had their eyes fixed on him.
**"Screech—"**
A sharp dragon cry suddenly pierced the air, and a pale blue dragon appeared in the sky above the tournament grounds.
Rhaegar looked up and immediately spotted the saddle on Dreamfyre's silver-scaled back, where a delicate girl with silver-golden curls sat.
Having already seen Sunfyre and Syrax at the tournament's opening, the presence of Dreamfyre did not cause much panic.
With soft beats of its pale blue wings, the dragon gracefully descended onto the same high platform where Syrax had landed earlier.
Helaena had dressed beautifully for the occasion—she wore a red inner tunic beneath a sleeveless black overcoat, paired with matching black trousers and deerskin boots.
She looked nothing like a pampered princess and more like a valiant dragonrider.
**"Brother, I'm here to cheer you on."**
Helena swiftly climbed down from the dragon's back, excitedly running over while holding a white flower crown.
Rhaegar tilted his head slightly, maintaining his usual gentle smile.
He had been accompanying Rhaenyra recently and hadn't seen Helena for quite some time.
At first glance, her different attire almost made him fail to recognize her.
Now 13 years old, Helena had been diligently practicing swordsmanship for the past six months. She had grown significantly taller, and her figure was gradually becoming more developed.
Her once purely adorable appearance now carried a hint of youthful elegance.
Rhaegar raised his lance slightly and gently declined, saying, "No, this spot is reserved for Rhaenyra."
Just then, Rhaenyra approached, holding a red flower crown in her hands. She smiled lightly and said, "Aren't you coming?"