Rhaegar lifted his chin and extended his wooden lance as far as possible.
"Do your best."
Rhaenyra's lips curved slightly as she leaned forward and tossed a garland.
The red garland landed precisely on the lance, twirling down to its base.
Helena pouted, resting her chin on the railing, her eyes dim with disappointment.
Rhaenyra glanced sideways, noticing the young girl's melancholy. She picked up Helena's white garland and tossed it as well, saying calmly, "Double encouragement. Don't let us down."
Helena's violet eyes widened, darting between her brother and sister.
Rhaegar retrieved his lance and smiled brightly. "I won't disappoint you."
"Hyah!"
He turned his horse around and rode back to the starting end of the tiltyard, waiting for the duel to begin.
Rhaenyra, still smiling, took Helena's hand, and the sisters walked to the front row of the stands.
Without hesitation, she chose the seat right next to Jeyne.
After indulging herself for half a month, her mindset had shifted slightly. She had become more at ease and, at the same time, more magnanimous.
This change stemmed from Rhaegar's unwavering support.
In the tournament grounds, the duel was about to begin.
Clang!
Amid the eager anticipation of the crowd, the rotund referee struck the brass gong, and both warhorses charged forward.
As hooves pounded against the earth, drummers surrounding the stands beat their drums in rhythm, while trumpets heightened the excitement.
Rhaegar's eyes gleamed. He held his lance steady, his body leaning forward with the horse's gallop.
Harwin was clad in full plate armor, his visor tightly shut, concealing his gray-blue eyes. His entire presence exuded menace.
In the next moment—
Black armor and silver armor clashed, both knights aiming at each other's chests as they thrust their long lances.
Crack!
Rhaegar's shield, raised before his chest, splintered into pieces. His body wavered but remained in the saddle as he reached the end of the course.
On the other side, Harwin had failed to land his strike in time. He hurriedly raised his shield to block the incoming lance, barely managing to stay in the saddle under the impact.
His shield shattered as well, and his left arm was scraped by the lance, though his armor protected him from serious harm.
Clang!
The referee struck the gong again, signaling the start of the second charge.
Rhaegar turned his horse around and caught the shield tossed to him by his squire—a red three-headed dragon sigil painted on its surface. He raised his lance and prepared to charge once more.
Though a dragonrider, he was not particularly skilled in jousting—he was barely among the first-tier competitors.
"Hyah!"
Harwin roared, not even bothering to take a new shield. He whipped his horse fiercely, spurring it into a frenzied charge.
His posture made it clear—he was willing to risk everything.
Up on the royal dais, King Viserys looked stunned and turned to Lyonel Strong.
Setting aside the fact that this tournament was meant to celebrate the Crown Prince's coming of age, Harwin's reckless state of mind was clearly off.
Lyonel's brows furrowed deeply, his eyes flickering with concern, but there was nothing he could do.
The joust continued.
This time, the black armor and silver armor hurtled toward each other like two shooting stars on a collision course.
At the moment they crossed paths, Rhaegar thrust his lance at Harwin's breastplate, his shield covering his body.
"Fall!"
Harwin roared, completely exposing his own defenses as he angled his lance downward in an attempt to trip Rhaegar's charging steed.
Rhaegar was caught off guard, quickly abandoning his attack and yanking his reins.
"Whoa!"
His silver warhorse neighed and reared onto its hind legs, narrowly avoiding the treacherous strike.
Harwin, galloping past, turned his head sharply, eyes wide with disbelief.
He hadn't expected such a sudden underhanded move to be evaded so effortlessly.
After leaping clear, Rhaegar's horse slowed slightly. The prince turned, his gaze icy cold.
"So, that's how we're playing it now?"
His anger flared.
Tripping a horse's legs was strictly forbidden in any tournament.
A warhorse charging at full speed—if tripped—would crash, throwing its rider violently. Broken limbs would be the least of their concerns.
Up in the royal dais, Viserys' face twisted with rage. He slammed his hand against the table with a loud bang.
Daring to use such dirty tricks against the Crown Prince?
Harwin's days as commander of the City Watch were numbered.
In the front row, Rhaenyra's lips parted in shock as she watched the scene unfold.
Harwin had always been cautious, always loyal to her. His father's warnings were deeply ingrained in him.
Why would he dare attack Rhaegar like this in a tournament?
"Doesn't he listen to you?" Helena pouted, glaring at her.
Rhaenyra's face darkened, and she gritted her teeth. "I haven't even left the castle recently. How would I know?"
Seated nearby, Jeyne and the other ladies gasped, clutching their chests in alarm.
After just two passes, the duel felt far more intense than the previous joust, which had taken nine rounds to settle.
Clang!
The gong rang out for the third charge.
"Hyah!"
Rhaegar gave a low shout and urged his horse into a gallop, holding his lance low, parallel to his waist.
Harwin charged as well, his eyes bloodshot as he relentlessly whipped his mount.
In just a few breaths, they closed the distance once more.
Harwin's expression turned savage as he aimed for Rhaegar's chest, determined to unseat him in a single strike.
This was his trump card.
The last time he used it, he shattered his opponent's bones, earning the title Bonebreaker.
Rhaegar, face cold as ice, locked eyes with him.
The thousands of spectators held their breath, fixated on the final charge.
Deep down, many secretly hoped to see the Crown Prince humiliated in his very first match.
Within the tilt, black armor and white helm streaked past each other—
And then, the unexpected happened.
Harwin lunged forward, ready to strike—
But Rhaegar suddenly hooked his feet into the stirrups and leaned all the way back, his body flat against his horse's back.
The tip of his lance tilted upward—
THUD!
A dull impact rang out as a silver-gray figure was flung from the saddle.
Harwin had no time to react. His left shoulder slammed into Rhaegar's upturned lance, sending him flying seven or eight yards through the air.
Amidst the gasps of the crowd, Harwin crashed onto the muddy ground with a heavy thud. Fortunately, his thick armor absorbed most of the impact.
"Quick, get over there!"
Squires and maesters rushed forward to assist Harwin, who had fallen from his horse.
"Get off me! I'm fine!"
Dizzy from the fall, Harwin shoved a squire to the ground and struggled to his feet, swaying slightly.
He lifted his right hand—no issues.
Then, he raised his left, only to be struck by a sharp, searing pain.
"Hiss—!"
Harwin gritted his teeth and sucked in a sharp breath.
Glancing down, he saw a deep dent in the left shoulder plate of his armor. It felt like his scapula or arm bone had fractured.
Lifting his gaze, he saw Rhaegar sitting tall on his horse in the distance. Gritting his teeth, he bellowed, "Give me a sword!"
A squire bearing a three-striped emblem on his chest hurriedly handed over a hand-and-a-half sword.
Seeing this, the portly referee banged a brass gong and shouted, "Contestant Harwin Strong wishes to continue the duel with weapons!"
Rhaegar remained astride his white horse, gazing down at the furious Harwin. His expression gradually turned dangerous.
He had already held back—his lance had not been aimed at Harwin's throat or head.
"But no matter the reason, this cannot be allowed to continue."
Dismounting, Rhaegar removed his helmet, which obstructed his vision, and signaled to a squire.
The squire hurried over and handed him the Valyrian steel longsword, Brightflame.
Rhaegar glanced at it briefly and scolded, "Bring me a battle-axe instead."
Though Valyrian steel was incredibly strong, it still struggled against heavy plate armor.
He needed something with brute force.
From the high stands, the atmosphere grew tense. All eyes were locked on the dueling ground, their expressions grave.
In the back rows, Lyman raised an eyebrow and motioned to a young squire wearing a roaring lion emblem on his chest. Pulling a handful of gold dragons from his pouch, he whispered, "Fifteen gold dragons on Prince Rhaegar to win."
Viserys' ears twitched as he overheard the murmuring behind him.
He, too, wanted to wager some gold on his eldest son. However, he was currently furious and in no mood for gambling.
Lowering his head, Lyonel muttered apologetically, "Your Grace, about Harwin—"
"It's fine," Viserys interrupted with a wave of his hand, restraining his anger. "As long as it's a fair duel, everything is within reason."
His message was clear—he would tolerate a fair fight, but no underhanded tricks.
After all, his dear brother Daemon had always been notorious for using dirty tactics in tournaments to create advantages for himself.
Now, it was someone else's turn to experience that. He could not afford to show favoritism toward his eldest son.
His gaze returned to the dueling ground.
Rhaegar discarded his shield and lance, gripping a half-man-tall cold-iron battle-axe in his right hand. Two floral wreaths were looped around his left wrist.
"Ahhh!"
With a furious roar, Harwin charged forward, wielding his sword in one hand.
Rhaegar's lips curled into a cold smirk. Twisting his wrist with practiced ease, he swung his battle-axe in a swift arc, sidestepping and crouching slightly as he aimed for the back of Harwin's knee.
Clang!
The razor-sharp axe blade embedded itself in the steel greaves, causing a spray of fresh blood.
Harwin let out a piercing scream, his sweat instantly soaking his tunic.
With his leg injured, he staggered and dropped to one knee, using his sword to prop himself up and prevent a complete collapse.
Rhaegar gazed down coldly. With a sharp shhhtk, he yanked the battle-axe free and immediately swung it at Harwin's exposed backplate.
Melee combat was his true strength—few could match him in close-quarters combat.
Clang!
Once more, the axe bit deep, denting the heavy armor. As he pulled the weapon free, it tore away a chunk of the insulating padding beneath.
The impact shook Harwin's entire body. Though his armor absorbed most of the blow, his organs rattled violently. Unable to suppress it, he coughed up a mouthful of blood.
His strength drained instantly, and he collapsed face-first into the dirt.
Rhaegar nudged him over with a boot, pointing the gleaming axe blade at his chest. His voice was cold. "Yield."
"Pah!"
Harwin spat out a mouthful of blood, his eyes filled with defiance.
"Good."
Rhaegar grinned but had no intention of stopping. He raised his battle-axe and slammed it down onto Harwin's chestplate with brutal force.
Harwin let out a muffled grunt, his face turning crimson as fresh blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Before the referee could announce the duel's end, Rhaegar wrenched the axe free and swung it once more at the same wounded leg.
Crunch!
Without armor to protect it, the blade sank deep into flesh and bone, the sharp crack of fracturing bone echoing in the air.
"No, no! Prince, you've already won!"
The rotund referee was utterly panicked, hastily summoning attendants to intervene before Rhaegar could continue his onslaught.
Several squires rushed in, but Rhaegar simply tossed aside his bloodied axe and panted, "No need to stop me. I know what I'm doing."
A shattered clavicle and a broken leg—nothing a maester couldn't mend with a few years of careful treatment.
Ignoring the squires and maesters as they carried the unconscious and severely wounded Harwin away, Rhaegar strode back to his white horse, mounted, and prepared to leave the field.
Harwin's hostility had been unusual. He needed to speak with Tormund for answers.
For a brief moment, silence reigned. Then, the stands erupted into thunderous applause, the crowd cheering and shouting for the victorious prince.
The spectacle of both the jousting match and the weapons duel had been utterly captivating.
At the moment Rhaegar wielded his battle-axe, he seemed like a warrior descended from legend—an unstoppable force.
"Hisss—!!"
As the crowd roared, a piercing dragon cry suddenly echoed through the air, originating from the direction of the God's Eye Lake.
Rhaegar frowned slightly, lifting his head toward the sky.
A massive, crimson beast burst through the clouds, its mighty wings stirring fierce winds as it dove toward the tournament grounds.
Its sharp horns jutted forward, its long serpentine body coiled with power, and its enormous red wings spread wide.
The Blood Wyrm—Caraxes.
"Caraxes, descend!"
A deep, magnetic voice rang out over the dark red scales. Caraxes stretched his long neck and let out a sharp screech, his body angling downward as his powerful wings beat the air, gradually lowering his altitude.
"Screeech!"
Just then, another dragon's roar—deep and heavy like rolling thunder—shattered the sky. The thin clouds scattered in an instant, revealing an enormous green figure.
Cold, amber-hued slit pupils gazed down indifferently. Its scales, thick and steel-like from age, covered a body as vast as an endless oasis. Its massive wings, stretched wide like a withering desert on either side, cast an overwhelming shadow over everyone below.
One of the three original great dragons of House Targaryen—Vhagar.
Though Vhagar's form appeared heavy and unwieldy, there was no denying her immense size.
She circled the sky above the tourney grounds, scanning for a suitable landing spot before descending slowly toward the place where the Glutton had previously landed.
In the stands, nobles both highborn and low shifted uneasily. Some covered their faces, others held down their skirts, shielding themselves from the gusts of wind whipped up by the dragons' wings.
The might of House Targaryen was absolute. One dragon after another, emerging in endless succession, ensured that no one with rebellious intent dared act recklessly.
Boom—!
Caraxes landed squarely in the center of the tourney grounds, his unique, sinewy hind legs—adapted for gripping and retracting his wing membranes—touching down first. His massive wings supported his body as he settled.
Atop the dragon's back, Daemon Targaryen lifted his chin proudly. He was clad in black dragon-scale armor, a crimson cape billowing behind him.
About a month ago, his dragon had fully recovered from its injuries, once again carrying the Rogue Prince across the skies.
"Screeech..."
Caraxes, attuned to his rider's emotions, fixed his slitted gaze on the silver-haired youth at the far end of the arena. His jaws parted as he let out a piercing cry.
Both dragon and rider had suffered at the hands of that very boy—and they were still seething with unresolved fury.
A dozen meters away.
Rhaegar had anticipated this. He swiftly pulled his crimson cape over his horse's head, tightening the reins to keep the white steed under control.
The stench of dragon breath and the force of the wind rushed toward him. Rhaegar raised a hand to shield his nose and mouth, his expression calm as he gazed at his dear uncle.
Trying to startle my horse and make me fall?
Not a chance.
The roar faded, but Caraxes' vicious, vertical pupils remained locked onto the silver-haired youth, looking down at him with a predatory glare.
On the dragon's black iron saddle, Daemon narrowed his eyes slightly, mirroring his nephew's stare.
For a moment, uncle and nephew locked eyes. Their gazes clashed like sparks flying from flint and steel.
(End of Chapter.)