The death of a bastard child did not cause widespread shock.
If there was any impact...
The members of the Swann family in the audience gasped in disbelief. At the forefront, Earl Swann was overcome with fury, pounding his thigh in frustration.
His sharp-tongued and shrewd wife, however, showed more restraint.
The old woman grabbed her husband's arm, unwilling to let a mere bastard stir up unnecessary trouble.
Rhaegar scanned the scene, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile.
As he left the field to rest, the next contestant was called forward.
The Third Match
Clad in silver-gray armor, Cole stepped into the arena to face Manderly's eldest son, Medrick Manderly, the heir to White Harbor.
The Manderly family had once played a subordinate role during the Stepstones Campaign and had faced ridicule in recent years because of it.
Medrick, tall and handsome, wore gleaming silver-white armor emblazoned with the sigil of a mermaid holding a trident. He was hailed as the finest knight of the North.
Cole and Medrick clashed head-on, their riding skills evenly matched.
In the final charge, both were unseated from their horses.
Cole hit the ground and swiftly swung his flail, disarming Medrick by knocking his longsword aside, earning a hard-fought victory.
What followed were several more rounds of combat.
Skilled knights from across the kingdom competed fiercely, using a variety of tactics to secure victory.
Daemon entered the arena at one point, facing William Royce from the Vale.
William was a distant cousin of Yohn Royce, the Warden of the East, and had participated in multiple campaigns against the mountain clans.
Rhaegar had considered William as a candidate for the Kingsguard.
Unfortunately, William's skills were not top-tier. His moves lacked Daemon's decisiveness and ferocity. After a few charges, William was knocked from his horse.
The tournament advanced to its final rounds.
Four knights remained, paired into two matchups.
Rhaegar faced Cole, while Daemon went up against the bastard Boros Storm.
High up on the viewing platform, spectators eagerly watched the matches.
Viserys beamed with joy, his eyes darting between Rhaegar and Cole as they prepared to duel. He raised his goblet repeatedly in celebration.
A duel between his eldest son and a former commander of the Kingsguard promised to be spectacular.
He already planned to propose Cole as a potential Kingsguard member after the tournament for consideration at the Small Council.
Seated lower on the platform, Rhaenyra maintained a dignified posture, with Helaena nestled in her arms.
Helaena had taken Rhaegar's seat, pressing her face against her sister's belly in an attempt to hear the unborn child's movements.
After a long while, all she heard was a series of gurgling sounds.
Raising her head, Rhaenyra maintained a composed expression as she picked up a pastry from the table and nibbled on it delicately.
"Is the baby hungry?" Helaena whispered softly, sitting upright obediently.
From behind, Aemond abandoned his fiancée and interjected, "No, it's Rhaenyra who's hungry."
Since taking in the stolen sheep, Aemond's confidence had grown daily. The gloom in his eyes had faded, replaced by an air of arrogance.
"Kid, shut up. No one would think you're mute," Aegon sneered, holding a half-empty wine jug, mercilessly mocking his brother.
Aemond raised an eyebrow in displeasure. "Aegon, I wasn't talking to you."
"Tch. So what? You think you're the only one allowed to butt in?" Aegon clicked his tongue.
Since the warning incident, the brothers' relationship had hit rock bottom. They rarely spoke unless trading barbs.
Rhaenyra, annoyed by the bickering, raised a goblet of wine to her lips but quickly spat it out, rinsing her mouth with a cup of tea instead.
She might argue endlessly with Rhaegar, but she would never do anything to harm the baby in her womb.
On the field, the duel had already begun.
Rhaegar and Cole charged at each other repeatedly, smashing each other's shields to pieces before being thrown from their horses by the sheer force of impact.
"Sword!"
Rhaegar's eyes narrowed as he took the blazing sword from his squire.
Cole still wielded his signature close-combat weapon, a spiked flail. He spat blood from a split lip and took a deep breath. "Prince, you'd better be careful."
"Bring it on!"
Rhaegar grinned, eager to test Cole's skill.
Cole remained calm and collected, advancing cautiously to close the distance before swinging the flail with precision and force.
Clang!
Rhaegar leaned back, slashing the chain of the flail with his sword before shifting his feet to charge forward.
"Ah-ha!"
Cole roared, spinning the flail back around to strike at Rhaegar's waist.
The spiked head of the flail was small, allowing for rapid and continuous swings.
A single hit to the waist would typically incapacitate an opponent.
Clang!
As the flail descended, Rhaegar raised his sword vertically to block it, the spiked head smashing against the black blade.
"You've lost!"
With a low shout, Rhaegar stepped forward and kicked Cole in the abdomen, reversing his grip to slash at his opponent's chest plate.
Zzzk!
Sparks flew as the blade carved a deep dent into the steel armor.
Cole's expression darkened as he retreated, twisting his waist to swing the flail and force Rhaegar back.
But Rhaegar remained steady and calm, having already anticipated Cole's intentions.
He ducked under the hurried swing, closing the distance in a half-step before thrusting his sword forward.
The Valyrian steel blade pierced through the protective gorget, stopping just short of Cole's throat.
Cole's eyes widened in shock as he froze, the raised flail in his hand held motionless.
He could feel it—the unmistakable threat of death.
The skin on his neck was pierced, and trickles of fresh blood flowed onto his collar.
Clang!
The overweight referee struck the brass gong and cheered excitedly, "Congratulations to Prince Rhaegar for defeating Ser Criston Cole!"
Cole's bravery was renowned across the Seven Kingdoms.
The former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had repeatedly achieved outstanding results in tournaments.
Despite his humble origins as the son of the steward of Blackhaven, he had earned the favor of Princess Rhaenyra, the kingdom's shining star. For a time, he was admired and envied by countless noble sons and knights.
As the duel ended, Cole let go of his morningstar, yet he remained rigidly upright.
The reason was obvious—Rhaegar's sword, Truefire, was still lodged in the collar of his armor.
For two long seconds.
Rhaegar removed his stifling helmet, leisurely pulled out Truefire, and smirked.
Just as Cole was about to move, the gleaming sword tip stopped right in front of his eyes, making his breath hitch.
Clink—
The tip of the sword flicked open his visor, revealing Cole's face—still handsome but marked by the wear of time.
Rhaegar held his sword against Cole's throat, scrutinized him with amusement, and chuckled, "Cole, three years have passed in the blink of an eye. Have you grown old, or have you spent too much time in the sea wind and neglected your training?"
Born in 82 AC, Cole was now 39 years old—just a year younger than Good Uncle Daemon.
Resigned, he let go of his morningstar and gave a wry smile. "It is you who have grown up, Your Highness."
The image of the young crown prince daring to tame the mighty Glutton was still fresh in his memory. And yet, in the blink of an eye, everything had changed.
Seeing Cole's expression, Rhaegar's smile grew a bit more genuine. With pride, he declared, "Welcome back. I will discuss your position at the Small Council."
"My deepest thanks."
Cole was momentarily stunned before expressing his gratitude with a complicated expression.
Given his merits, he should have long been recalled to King's Landing, even if only as a Goldcloak officer.
After all, the Stepstones were at peace. A few pirates and smugglers were hardly a challenge worthy of him.
Yet, despite his repeated requests to return, the Small Council had consistently denied them.
Rhaegar sheathed Truefire and turned to bask in the crowd's cheers.
That's right—Cole wasn't able to return to King's Landing because he had made sure of it!
As a child, Rhaenyra never stopped praising Cole's handsomeness, his valor—her ideal White Knight.
But Rhaegar had never been a broad-minded child. Every slight, no matter how small, was remembered.
When Cole made a mistake, how could he escape?
Let him endure three years of sea winds before thinking about returning to King's Landing.
…
From the high platform, Viserys cheered excitedly, celebrating his eldest son's victory over Cole.
He was no expert in martial arts, so he judged skill based on Daemon and the Kingsguard.
He knew his son was skilled but hadn't expected this level of prowess.
After all, even Daemon—proud of his combat skills—had once been thoroughly beaten by Cole's morningstar.
"Oh! Brother, you're the best!"
Helaena cheered loudly, boldly expressing her admiration.
Aemond stood beside his sister, clapping and gazing at Rhaegar with admiration, secretly vowing to train even harder.
In contrast, Rhaenyra and Aegon remained utterly indifferent.
Aegon rolled his eyes and gulped down his wine.
Rhaenyra stared at Rhaegar, her hand gently caressing her abdomen, and secretly rolled her eyes.
He had told her to go easy on Cole so he wouldn't be barred from returning to King's Landing.
Yet, wasn't it his petty grudge that had kept Cole away all this time?
Thinking of this, Rhaenyra's lips curled into a smirk, and much of her frustration dissipated.
…
Amidst the roaring cheers, Rhaegar exited the arena with his sword in hand.
The second semifinal was about to begin—Daemon versus the bastard Borros Storm.
Borros was a hulking brute with a thick beard, the spitting image of the late Duke Beomund.
Daemon, however, didn't care who he resembled. To him, he was just another bastard.
Their duel had no finesse—just sheer brute force.
Despite his rugged appearance, Borros was a skilled rider. After several intense rounds, he managed to unseat Daemon.
Daemon refused to yield, picking up a longsword and shield to continue the fight.
Borros wielded a massive greatsword, swinging it with unrestrained ferocity.
Their clash was a chaotic flurry of steel, more like a brawl between unruly peasants than a proper duel.
But Daemon fought dirty. He cunningly gouged out one of Borros' eyes before ruthlessly kicking him in the groin.
Crack!
A chilling sound echoed through the arena, making every man present wince in sympathy.
Watching from below, Rhaegar instinctively clenched his thighs, his lips twitching.
Good Uncle Daemon's tactics were enough to make him wary before the fight had even begun.
Rooooar—!
Suddenly, a deep, thunderous dragon roar shook the tournament grounds.
A massive, jet-black silhouette cut through the clouds, stirring fierce winds as it vanished into the horizon.
Rhaegar looked up and smiled, shaking his head.
Clang!
The referee struck the gong—the final match of the tournament had begun.
As the attendants carried the groaning, broken Borros off the field, Daemon tossed aside his shattered shield and mounted his horse once more.
Rhaegar rode into the arena, studying his increasingly fierce Good Uncle. He asked casually, "Not taking a break?"
"Strike while the iron's hot—no need to waste time."
Daemon, ever prideful, locked eyes with Rhaegar like a predator sizing up its prey, eager for revenge.
"Big words," Rhaegar sneered before provoking, "Come then, let's see what you're really made of."
Anyone could talk tough, but when it came to their past encounters, Daemon had always been the one to suffer defeat.
Clang!
The referee struck the bronze gong with force as the drummers pounded out a rapid rhythm. Stirring music filled the air, and an announcer's voice rang out:
"Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen faces off against his own uncle, Prince Daemon! A clash of ancient and noble bloodlines!"
A piercing screech echoed through the vast blue sky as a massive crimson figure soared above, unleashing a stream of dragonfire toward the drifting white clouds.
It had sensed its rider's fervent emotions.
"Screeeech!"
"Screeeech!"
Blood Wyrm's cry triggered a chain reaction—one after another, roars erupted from the shores of the God's Eye. One after another, colossal figures took to the skies.
The golden Sunfyre, the pale blue Dreamfyre, the cobalt-hued Tessarion…
One by one, the mighty dragons ascended, their vertical pupils blazing as they gazed down at the white stone buildings below. Their vast wings beat against the wind, circling gracefully overhead.
Clang!
Forcing themselves to suppress both fear and exhilaration in the presence of the dragons, the referee struck the gong once more, sending the crowd's excitement to its peak.
"Hyah!"
Rhaegar's eyes were icy cold as he tightened his grip on his horse's reins and spurred it into a gallop.
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