In the tournament arena.
Rhaegar's expression remained calm as he held the reins of his white horse, preparing for the match.
On the other side, Garwin fastened his visor and patted the flank of his chestnut mare.
To secure victory, he had specifically chosen a mare in heat, hoping to distract and disrupt his opponent's stallion.
Clang!
The bronze gong sounded, signaling the start of the joust.
"Hyah!"
Rhaegar shouted, pressing his heels into his horse's sides.
The white stallion bolted forward, its temperamental nature driving it into a wild sprint.
As the two warhorses thundered toward each other, Rhaegar lowered his lance and raised his shield, aiming to unseat his opponent with a single strike.
Neigh—
The white stallion let out a cry and wavered for a brief moment, disrupting Rhaegar's timing.
Crash!
The two lances collided, exploding into a spray of splintered wood.
Rhaegar glanced back and saw that his opponent had been thrown off balance, teetering precariously on his horse's back.
Just moments ago, Garwin's lance had been aimed directly at Rhaegar's chest, as if he had anticipated his every move.
Fortunately, Rhaegar had reacted swiftly, shattering Garwin's lance in the clash.
Thud, thud, thud…
His white horse came to a halt at the far end of the tiltyard, behaving strangely—pawing at the ground and flicking out its tongue to wet its nose.
Rhaegar frowned slightly, recognizing these as courtship behaviors of a stallion in the presence of a mare in heat.
He carefully examined Garwin's chestnut horse, which was panting heavily, its nostrils foaming, and its entire demeanor signaling that it was in heat.
Seeing this, Rhaegar smirked coldly.
"Resorting to such tricks? Pathetic."
He tightened his grip on the reins, swapped out his lance, and his gaze turned icy.
Glancing briefly at the high platform where Alicent and Otto sat, he noted how his opponents kept playing tricks while he had yet to retaliate.
"Fine, I'll show you something harsher."
The second charge began.
Under his visor, Garwin's expression was solemn as he focused entirely on the match.
He had joined the City Watch in the year 111 AC and currently held the position of deputy commander.
With Harwin Strong seriously injured in a previous tournament, it would take at least a year and a half for him to recover.
Winning this joust could elevate Garwin's status, potentially removing the "deputy" from his title.
"Hyah!"
Garwin shouted as his chestnut mare surged forward, his lance aimed at the prince's shoulder plate.
His father was the Hand of the King, and his sister was the queen—he had little fear of offending the crown prince in a jousting match.
"Hyah!!"
Rhaegar's eyes gleamed coldly as his white horse charged again, still completely uncooperative with its rider.
It didn't matter. A six-year-old Targaryen, already a skilled dragon rider, had no need to fear an unruly warhorse.
In mere moments, the red and white warhorses closed the gap.
Garwin's eyes burned with excitement as he leaned forward, his lance steady, about to strike Rhaegar's unshielded shoulder plate.
But just then, a glint of frost flickered in Rhaegar's gaze.
With a sudden burst of strength from his core, he planted his feet firmly in the stirrups and rose to a standing position in the saddle.
Leaning forward, he drove his lance downward with tremendous force.
His lance struck first, slamming into Garwin's breastplate with devastating impact.
In an instant—
CRACK!
The wooden lance shattered.
Garwin let out a muffled grunt as both he and his horse crashed backward.
His body slammed into the muddy ground, and his horse toppled onto him.
A sickening snap echoed through the arena as bones broke.
"Quick! Get the horse off him!"
The portly referee bellowed, his jowls trembling with urgency.
Rhaegar reined in his stallion, forcing it to a stop. He circled the edge of the tiltyard, surveying his opponent's injuries.
Garwin had fallen hard, but the weight of his collapsing horse had crushed him even worse.
His legs had remained caught in the stirrups, and as the horse struggled to rise, it had twisted them at unnatural angles.
From a distance, Rhaegar could see both of Garwin's lower legs grotesquely bent. His right leg was the worst, with bone protruding through torn flesh.
A maester rushed in and removed Garwin's visor, revealing a gaunt face flushed unnaturally red. Blood and froth bubbled from his mouth.
Rhaegar cast him a single glance before riding off the field.
There was no need to check further—his lance had shattered Garwin's collarbone, and with the added impact of the horse, his lungs and heart were almost certainly damaged.
Luckily, the tournament used wooden lances—otherwise, Garwin wouldn't have survived.
On the high platform—
Alicent covered her mouth, barely stifling a scream.
Otto shot up from his seat, his face filled with concern for his eldest son.
In the blink of an eye, Garwin had suffered devastating injuries.
"Otto, don't panic. I'll summon Orwyle to tend to Garwin," King Viserys reassured him awkwardly.
Rhaegar had indeed struck harder than necessary.
Garwin's armor was carefully removed, revealing his legs—completely mangled. A jagged piece of bone jutted through his skin, exposed to the air.
His life could be saved, but he would never walk again.
Otto, sharp-eyed as ever, immediately understood the severity of the injuries. He took deep, steadying breaths.
"Your Grace, forgive my rudeness—I must see to my son," he said, voice strained.
"Go quickly," Viserys replied with a sigh of regret.
Otto's expression darkened as he hurried down the steps of the high platform.
Injuries are common in tournaments.
Within reasonable bounds, even if Garwin ended up crippled, it was simply because his skills weren't up to par.
At this moment, Alicent walked over, holding back her frustration. "Viserys, don't you think Rhaegar was a bit too harsh?"
She only had one brother, and she couldn't stand seeing him hurt.
Viserys looked uncomfortable, trying to find words of comfort.
Leonnor interjected from the side, "Your Grace, injuries are inevitable in tournaments. The prince did not intentionally harm anyone."
Alicent widened her eyes, surprised at this statement from the Hand of the King.
She gritted her teeth, unwilling to back down. "Lord Leonnor, Garwin is my brother. We are discussing family matters here."
Leonnor's expression remained calm and composed. "I am the Hand of the King, responsible for all affairs of His Majesty, whether family or state."
He had already concluded that the second son, Larys, was connected to House Hightower, which only strengthened his resolve to support the Crown Prince's faction.
From another perspective, Harwin had been provocative and only received a few axe wounds.
Garwin, on the other hand, almost died in just two bouts against Rhaegar.
Viserys glanced approvingly at Leonnor, thinking to himself that he had indeed chosen the right Hand of the King; Leonnor was dependable when it mattered most.
With the hostility now redirected from Rhaegar to Leonnor, Alicent regained her composure, her eyes welling with tears.
Being a kind-hearted person, Viserys quickly hugged his wife and whispered comforting words.
…
After incapacitating Garwin, Rhaegar didn't immediately leave the field. Instead, he switched horses and continued a few more knightly duels.
Truth be told, the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms had become complacent in these peaceful times.
The knights who hadn't experienced real battles were mediocre at best; there wasn't a single formidable opponent among them.
Rhaegar rode fiercely, sweeping through five or six contestants, prompting cheers from the nobles around him.
Noticing his horse was beginning to tire, Rhaegar took the opportunity to leave the field.
He could still fight, but there was no need.
As he often said, knights from all over the kingdom came to the tournament seeking fame, so it was only fair to leave some opportunities for others.
By noon, the warm early summer sun was shining, with a gentle breeze bringing a touch of coolness.
In the Pebble Garden, within a white stone palace…
"Screech…"
A golden-scaled dragon lay lazily on the floor, its head resting on its tail.
"Syrax, stop making noise."
Rhaenyra's voice came through, like a mother scolding a naughty child.
"Roar…"
Syrax grumbled, shifting its body restlessly, its golden scales scraping against the floor.
Next to the dragon, the floor was covered with soft cushions where silver-haired, black-clad Rhaegar and Rhaenyra sat together, embracing.
The siblings had left the tournament early to return to Harrenhal, enjoying each other's company in private.
Rhaenyra smiled softly, leaning against Rhaegar with her arms wrapped around his waist.
Rhaegar buried his face in her neck, inhaling the soothing scent of the orchid in her hair, his hand gently caressing her flat stomach.
"Rhaenyra, after the tournament, let's return to Dragonstone and hold the ceremony."
Rhaegar's eyes were filled with tenderness, his cheek softly brushing against her hair, his voice both joyful and sincere.
After leaving the field, Rhaenyra had told him about her pregnancy.
The tournament was now forgotten as they rode Syrax back to Harrenhal.
Rhaenyra's violet eyes sparkled mischievously, her lips curving into a smile. "Alright, let's follow the traditions of Old Valyria."
According to family customs, they had already made a "pact."
Now that she was pregnant, the formal ceremony had to be held as soon as possible to avoid any scandal over a child born out of wedlock.
"Screech…"
Syrax tilted its head, its vertical pupils staring curiously at the pair.
Noticing how Syrax mirrored her rider's temperament, Rhaegar hugged Rhaenyra tighter and chuckled. "Rhaenyra, it's watching us."
Rhaenyra placed her hands over his on her stomach, huffing playfully. "Syrax is very protective of me. If Cannibal were here, it would teach you a lesson."
"It seems to have grown quite a bit?" Rhaegar observed closely.
Syrax was a third-generation dragon, around 20 to 30 years old, with a wingspan exceeding a hundred feet.
The dragons Sunfyre and Seasmoke were of similar size, while Grey Ghost was slightly smaller.
Rhaenyra looked thoughtful. "I followed your suggestion and let Syrax hunt freely. It seems to have grown somewhat."
Most dragons were fed livestock by their handlers and spent their days resting in the Dragonpit.
Vhagar, Cannibal, and Vermithor, being fully grown, couldn't comfortably fit in the Dragonpit and were essentially free-range.
Besides them, only Syrax and Sheepstealer were allowed to roam freely.
Sheepstealer was a unique case, not fully obedient to Aemond, often wandering and stealing sheep from farmers.
Syrax, on the other hand, was pampered by Rhaenyra and spent its days flying freely, returning to the Red Keep's garden at sunset.
"Dragons shouldn't be confined to the Dragonpit. They lose the spirit of the wild."
Rhaegar thought to himself as he pulled out an old book he had recently acquired.
"What's written in there?"
Rhaenyra rested her head on his chest, curiously flipping through the pages.
Rhaegar gently caught her wandering hand and explained, "It's a collection of notes by a scholar from the Freehold era, mentioning some scarce knowledge on dragon-rearing among the Dragonlords."
For instance, the Dragonlords' attitude toward wild and tamed dragons was always to allow them to roam freely, letting them nest on the Fourteen Flames.
The book contained a crucial piece of information.
Except for young dragons, the most powerful Dragonlords never confined any adolescent or adult dragon.
As dragons and their riders spent years together, their personalities would gradually align.
Rhaegar found himself agreeing with this idea.
Looking at the three wild dragons on Dragonstone—Cannibal, a brutal dragon that fed on eggs and hatchlings, reportedly traveled across the Narrow Sea and explored Essos and various islands after reaching adolescence.
Sheepstealer, sneaky and obsessed with sheep, found thrill in stealing livestock.
Grey Ghost, a shy dragon, would hide in the clouds at the sight of fishermen.
In contrast, the dragons raised in the Dragonpit—Vhagar, Vermithor, Caraxes, Sunfyre—seemed to have personalities defined solely by ferocity, lacking the distinctive quirks of wild dragons.