"Hyah!"
Daemon shouted, his gaze flashing dangerously as he galloped forward on his jet-black warhorse.
Uncle and nephew charged at each other simultaneously, like two streaks of lightning—one silver, one black.
Their red cloaks billowed behind them, flowing with the momentum of their steeds. Lances were aimed at each other's chests.
Boom!
The shields, both adorned with the three-headed red dragon sigil, shattered at the same time, splintering into a spray of wooden shards.
Rhaegar swayed slightly, tightening his grip on the reins to steady himself before guiding his horse to a slower pace at the far end of the barrier.
Daemon, however, fared worse—his black armor rattled from the impact, nearly causing him to topple backward.
The truth was undeniable: Rhaegar was physically stronger.
The rich Valyrian blood coursing through his veins surged with vitality, nourishing every inch of his bones and flesh.
"Nephew, you never cease to impress me!"
Daemon's tone was laced with sarcasm. Without hesitation, he swapped out his broken shield and charged again.
Rhaegar's expression darkened. "Uncle, we're not done yet!"
The magic in his blood surged violently, his body temperature rising as the veins at the corners of his eyes bulged.
Silver and black armor clashed once more, both combatants giving the fight their all.
Daemon's eyes sharpened as he hurled his shield like a spinning discus while keeping his lance aimed at his nephew's chest.
Thud!
Rhaegar raised his shield to block the flying projectile while thrusting his lance precisely at his uncle's abdomen.
Both lances struck their targets, sending uncle and nephew tumbling from their horses.
"Whoa!"
The warhorses neighed in panic, veering off course and bolting from the arena.
Crash!
The devastating impact left the entire audience in an uproar.
The nobles in the stands jumped to their feet, their eyes locked on the two figures sprawled on the ground.
A duel between the Prince Regent and the Rogue Prince—this was a battle destined to spread across the Seven Kingdoms.
Screeech—
A massive black dragon dove from the clouds, its enormous wings churning up fierce winds. Its green slit pupils locked onto the jousting arena below.
The other dragons circling the sky scattered, instinctively avoiding the notoriously cruel dragon-eater.
Screeech...
A sharp cry pierced the air. A scarlet serpent-like dragon, nimble and aggressive, swooped down toward the arena, unwilling to be outdone.
Their riders were brimming with battle spirit, their wills fueling their fully-grown dragons.
On the high platform, King Viserys sat with a grave expression, his eyes unblinking as he watched the duel unfold.
He was no warrior, but he had witnessed countless tournaments.
Both Rhaegar and Daemon had abandoned defense in favor of brute force, determined to unseat the other at any cost.
The Targaryens were dragon riders—true strength was never fully realized atop mere horses.
Beside him, Alicent sat anxiously, her fingers digging into her nails as tension filled her eyes.
The way uncle and nephew fought, there was no sign of familial affection—only the fury of mortal enemies.
In the arena, two figures slowly rose from the mud.
"Ahh—"
Rhaegar gritted his teeth as he pushed himself up, tearing off his helmet and involuntarily sucking in a sharp breath.
The fall had been hard—his left shoulder ached terribly from the impact.
Nearby, Daemon had rolled several times across the ground after being thrown from his horse. Dazed, he staggered to his feet.
Such reckless, brutal combat demanded a price from both.
A pair of squires rushed forward to present them with weapons. Uncle and nephew faced off once more.
Blood trickled from the corner of Daemon's mouth as he clenched his teeth and took up a one-handed sword and shield.
Even without Dark Sister, he hadn't abandoned his preference for single-handed swordplay.
Swift and ruthless swordsmanship—that was his path to victory.
"Uncle, do you remember our family's words?"
Rhaegar grinned, spinning his Truefire sword by its dragonbone hilt.
As he spoke, the red gemstone embedded in the pommel flickered with a crimson glow, its translucent core flickering like a living flame.
Daemon sneered, unimpressed. "What kind of trick are you playing now?"
"Heh, it's Fire and Blood."
Rhaegar answered himself, gripping the dragonbone hilt with both hands.
The obsidian-black Truefire blade pulsed with heat, the scorching air distorting slightly around it.
He had no intention of openly displaying his skills as a pyromancer, but Daemon was worthy of witnessing some of his power.
His system panel flickered into view—his blood was surging.
[Rhaegar Targaryen]
Talents: Dreamer (Gold), Pyromancer (Purple), Longevity (Green) Bloodline: High Valyrian Dragonlord (+48%) Runes: Ouroboros (Blue), Bronze (Green) Blood Magic: Empowerment Charm (Blue), Dragonstone (Blue) Relics: Fire and Blood, True Dragon's Blood, Dreamer's Sight...
Evaluation:"An ancient and noble bloodline, awaiting the day when fire shall reignite."
His blood purity had been stuck at 47% for a long time. No matter how many dragons he bonded with or how much he indulged the Devourer, it refused to increase.
Rhaenyra's pregnancy, the duel with Daemon, the war looming on the horizon…
These swirling emotions stirred within him, and suddenly, his blood boiled—a sign of awakening.
Whoosh!
Rhaegar took deep, scorching breaths, his eyes locked onto his formidable uncle.
In the blink of an eye, he moved—faster than lightning.
The True Flame Strikes Head-On, Carrying the Force of Ten Thousand Pounds.
"Hiss—Grrr—"
The Devourer roared continuously, its pitch-black wings blocking out the sky as it hovered just beneath the clouds.
Boom!
Daemon neither dodged nor flinched. He raised his shield to block the attack, but the thick wooden shield shattered instantly.
Seizing the brief opportunity, he swung his single-handed steel-forged sword in a ruthless horizontal slash.
A green dragon pattern flickered in Rhaegar's eyes, and his aura surged to its peak.
He was even more ruthless than Daemon. Instead of dodging, he allowed the sword to strike his side, embedding itself into his silver-white armor and cutting through to his skin.
Rhaegar knew the thickness of his armor—there was no way an ordinary steel sword could easily break through it.
That's why he didn't even activate his bronze runes, ensuring a fair duel.
"Uncle, you're getting old!"
Rhaegar shouted coldly before kicking Daemon square in the chest, sending him staggering backward.
Seizing the moment when Daemon was off balance, he followed up with relentless strikes, each sword swing heavier than the last.
Clang! Clang!
Daemon retreated hastily. With his shield destroyed, he had no choice but to block with his single-handed sword.
But how could a single-handed sword withstand the onslaught of a hand-and-a-half sword?
Rhaegar's powerful strikes continued to explode forth, his cold eyes locking onto his target as he prepared for the final, devastating blow.
In a flash, flames burst forth from the blade, sending a wave of heat surging outward.
Crack!
The slender single-handed sword shattered upon impact, its broken fragments scattering through the air.
Daemon's expression darkened. With a swift motion, he pulled a dagger from his waist, ready to continue the fight.
"Daemon, surrender!"
Rhaegar wasn't about to give him the chance. He struck the dagger from Daemon's hand and pressed his blade against his uncle's forehead.
In that instant, the outcome was decided.
Daemon's body stiffened, his expression turning grim.
"Hiss—Grrr…"
Above them, Caraxes stirred, letting out a furious roar. The red dragon's maw flared as it spewed crimson flames, seething with rage.
The Devourer's green slit pupils flashed with malice. It locked onto the red dragon and dove, unleashing ghostly green dragonfire in an instant.
Boom!
The eerie green flames spread across the sky like mist, but Caraxes nimbly dodged in advance, flapping its crimson wings before disappearing into the clouds.
"Hiss—Grrr—"
The Devourer let out a low growl as it slowly descended onto the northern shore of the Gods Eye, lifting its head in contempt.
Its rider had signaled a ceasefire—now was not the time to hunt.
Above the clouds, Caraxes remained hidden, its crimson form barely visible through the drifting white mist.
A bloodthirsty beast it may be, but it was not one to recklessly engage in battle.
Inside the Tournament Grounds
The brief yet dazzling clash between the two dragons had left the assembled nobles pale with fear.
If a dragon battle broke out, they would be the first casualties.
Even the Targaryens seated in the high stands were shaken, rising to their feet with tense expressions as they watched the duel between uncle and nephew unfold.
Rhaegar stood tall with his sword, forcing Daemon to surrender.
His cheeks were flushed, the heat of the battle causing the fine strands of hair on his forehead to curl slightly. His violet eyes, however, shone with brilliance.
Daemon, his forehead pressed against the tip of the sword, stiffened before forcing a smirk. "Not bad. You've got quite the strength."
"Good enough to deal with you."
Rhaegar shot back without hesitation.
After years of training under Ser Syrio, his swordsmanship had reached its peak speed.
Now that his body had matured, his strength was nothing to scoff at either.
Clang!
The portly referee struck the copper gong forcefully, his bright red robe flapping as he scurried about, shouting at the top of his lungs:
"Congratulations to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen! He has defeated all challengers and is the champion of this tournament!!"
Drummers beat out a rapid rhythm, and trumpeters sounded triumphant fanfare, celebrating the crowning of the victor.
The nobles in the stands, still hungry for more, erupted in cheers and applause for their champion.
"Prince Rhaegar…"
"Long live the heir!"
The nobility of Westeros revered strength. Witnessing the triumph of a true warrior, they were willing to shout until their throats went raw.
Inside the arena, Rhaegar smiled, raising both hands to welcome the cheers.
Though he disliked noise, this was his reward for victory.
The portly referee, in full showmanship, bellowed:
"Prince Rhaegar is victorious! This summer belongs to him! The land shall yield bountiful harvests, and wisdom and fortune shall greet everyone!!"
His words were filled with both praise and grandeur, striking deep into the hearts of the people.
At that moment, some of the more poetic nobles realized that simply chanting "Prince" was too plain.
Rhaegar had many titles—The Kind Prince, The Breaker of Shackles, The Ashmaker…
But "The Kind Prince" sounded too soft, and the other titles had originated from across the Narrow Sea.
The only truly imposing title he had, "Young Dragon King," felt out of place at this moment.
Then, they thought of Rhaegar's grandfather, Prince Baelon Targaryen, known as "The Spring Prince."
Spring had passed, and summer had arrived. The cycle of the seasons was turning.
One voice called out first:
"The Midsummer Prince!!"
Midsummer, the peak of June, symbolized the blazing sun of summer.
Rhaegar accepted the title gladly, mounting his silver-white warhorse and leisurely riding around the tournament grounds.
The nobles' cheers grew even more fervent. Prince and Heir Apparent were gradually replaced by a new title.
"The Midsummer Prince…"
"Long live the Prince…"
On the high platform, Viserys clapped his hands and laughed heartily, overjoyed at his eldest son's victory.
Upon hearing the title "Midsummer Prince," he could hardly contain his ecstasy, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.
His father, Baelor, had once been called the "Dawn Prince," a symbol of hope, glory, and the arrival of a new era. In the history of their family, he was regarded as an exceptional Targaryen.
Not to mention, he had tamed the largest dragon of his time—Vhagar.
From the corner of his eye, Viserys caught sight of Alicent, and a sudden realization struck him. Without hesitation, he urged the Kingsguard twins, Erryk and Arryk, to enter the field.
Below, Rhaegar was still basking in the cheers of the crowd when he saw the Cargyll brothers approach—one carrying a wooden lance, the other holding a flower crown.
"Prince."
Arryk, his face flushed with excitement, respectfully presented the lance with both hands.
"Thank you, Ser."
Rhaegar accepted it with a soft smile.
"Your Grace, your garland."
Erryk, solemn-faced, placed the wreath, woven from purple blossoms, onto the tip of the lance.
Though the crown itself was simple, it was imbued with the highest honor.
Rhaegar beamed and declared in a clear, confident voice, "I shall present this to my queen of love and beauty!"
"Skreee—"
The Glutton soared high above the jousting arena, tilting its head back to let out a triumphant roar, as if it could feel its rider's surging emotions.
"Haha, good boy."
Rhaegar's smile widened as he raised the lance high above his head with one hand.
His silver-white warhorse galloped around the tournament grounds, carrying the young crown prince, clad in silver armor and a crimson cloak, as he basked in glory.
Overhead, the shadow of a great black dragon swooped down, spewing bursts of eerie green dragonfire into the sky, leaving behind a striking display against the brilliant blue backdrop.
At last, Rhaegar reined in his horse at the foot of the grandstand.
He was breathtaking—his handsome face illuminated by the sunlight, silver-gold hair cascading over his shoulders, his violet eyes shimmering like stardust.
Above him, the massive black dragon circled, while his gleaming silver armor radiated an aura of strength. His crimson cloak billowed in the wind.
At some point, the balcony railing had become crowded with onlookers.
One by one, finely dressed noble ladies leaned over the edge, their bright, eager eyes fixed on the young crown prince.
Even though their chances were slim, they still longed to receive the "Crown of Love and Beauty."
Rhaegar lifted his lance high, his gaze locked onto one person.
She had long, silver-gold hair cascading down to her waist, with delicate braids woven behind her ears.
She wore a fitted, pale lavender gown, and around her neck hung a Valyrian steel pendant in the shape of three dragon heads. Her simple yet elegant appearance was nothing short of dazzling.
Rhaenyra leaned lightly against the railing, her hands resting in front of her abdomen, her eyes smiling as she watched him.
Rhaegar gazed up at her, his expression warm and affectionate. Raising the lance with the purple flower crown, he declared with heartfelt sincerity:
"Rhaenyra, you are my true queen of love and beauty."
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