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' "Ser Criston Cole!"
The herald's voice rang out across the tourney grounds at King's Landing. Criston knelt before the royal box, his newly won laurels clutched in his hands. He had defeated every challenger, unhorsed every knight, and now the realm would know his name.
"Rise, Ser Criston," King Viserys called, his tone warm with approval. "You have proven yourself the finest lance in the Seven Kingdoms this day."
But it wasn't the king's approval that Criston sought. His eyes lifted to meet Princess Rhaenyra's violet gaze. She sat beside her father, silver-gold hair elaborately arranged atop her head, her beauty at fourteen already the stuff of songs.
"As champion," the princess announced with a smile that seemed meant only for him, "you may claim any boon within my father's power to grant."
Criston had rehearsed this moment a hundred times. A common-born son of the Dornish Marches, he had fought his way to this moment with nothing but skill and determination.
"Princess," he said, his voice steady despite the hammer of his heart. "I ask but one thing—to serve in the Kingsguard and protect the royal family with my life."
Whispers rippled through the crowd. The white cloak was an honor typically reserved for sons of great houses, not upjumped hedge knights.
King Viserys stroked his trimmed beard, his expression thoughtful, but before he could speak, Rhaenyra leaned forward.
"Father," she said, her voice carrying easily to the hushed crowd, "Ser Criston has proven himself against the finest knights in the realm. Surely the finest knights in the realm should protect us?"
Viserys chuckled, never one to deny his daughter. "As my heir wishes. Ser Criston Cole, rise and join the Kingsguard. Your service begins today."
As a white cloak was fastened about his shoulders, Criston caught Princess Rhaenyra's gaze once more. The smile she gave him was radiant, and in that moment, he silently vowed he would die for her if necessary.
I didn't know then that she would demand my honor instead of my life.
The memory shifted to a year later, the Kingswood spreading around them in vibrant green.
"Keep up, Ser Criston!" Rhaenyra called over her shoulder, her mount plunging deeper into the woods. She had grown even more beautiful at fifteen, her figure filling out from the slenderness of girlhood to the curves of a woman.
"Princess, we're straying too far from the hunting party," Criston protested, though he spurred his horse to follow her. His duty was to stay with her, even when she was being reckless.
"Are you afraid of the woods, Ser Criston?" Her laugh floated back to him. "I thought I chose a protector with more courage."
"It's not courage that concerns me, Princess, but prudence," he replied, drawing alongside her as they entered a small clearing. "These woods harbor—"
A guttural squeal interrupted him, followed by the crash of undergrowth as a massive boar erupted from the bushes not ten paces away. Its tusks gleamed, wickedly sharp, as it charged directly toward Rhaenyra's horse.
There was no time to think. Criston vaulted from his saddle, drawing his sword as he placed himself between the princess and the charging beast. Rhaenyra's horse reared in panic, throwing her to the ground behind him.
The boar's momentum carried it straight onto Criston's blade, but not before one of its tusks raked across his thigh. Pain lanced through him as he drove the sword deeper, the beast's weight bearing him backward until he stood straddling the fallen princess, blood—his and the boar's—spattering her riding dress.
The boar collapsed, thrashing once before going still. Criston staggered, then dropped to one knee, his wounded leg no longer able to support him.
"Ser Criston!" Rhaenyra's voice was no longer teasing but filled with concern. Her hands were on him immediately, tearing a strip from her dress to bind his wound. "You're hurt!"
"A scratch, Princess," he managed, though the pain made him lightheaded. "Are you unharmed?"
She stared at him, her violet eyes wide with something he couldn't quite name. "You could have died."
"That's what the white cloak means," he replied simply.
Her fingers lingered on his thigh longer than necessary to tie the bandage. "I shall not forget this, Ser Criston. You have my gratitude... and my admiration."
The way she looked at him then, with genuine warmth—that was the moment, he realized much later, when his doom was sealed.
The years that followed saw their friendship deepen. He became her constant companion, her confidant, her champion in every tourney. When other lords and knights sought her favor, it was to Criston she turned with an exasperated eye-roll, sharing private jokes at their expense.
He cherished those moments—the brush of her fingers against his when she passed him a cup of wine, the late nights when she would dismiss her ladies and speak with him alone about her fears of the court's intrigues.
Fool that I was, I mistook friendship for something more. Or perhaps she meant me to.
The night that changed everything came six months after Prince Daemon had returned to King's Landing after the war in the Step Stones. Criston stood guard outside her chambers as the hour grew late, the corridor empty save for the occasional servant hurrying past.
The sound of unsteady footsteps and muffled laughter drew his attention. Rhaenyra appeared at the end of the hall, her gait uneven, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her dress—a daring creation of Myrish lace—was unlaced at the back, revealing glimpses of pale skin beneath.
"Princess," he said, straightening as she approached. "You should not be abroad without an escort."
"But I have you, my loyal protector," she replied, her words slightly slurred. The scent of wine hung about her, sweet and heady. "Are you not escort enough?"
"You told me wait here, Princess," he reminded her, though he could not keep the affection from his tone.
She leaned against the wall beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her. "Always so dutiful, Ser Criston. Don't you ever tire of rules?"
"Rules keep order, Princess. They protect us all."
"And what if I don't wish to be protected?" Her violet eyes, luminous in the torchlight, held his gaze. "What if I wish to be... experienced instead?"
His throat went dry. "Princess, you've had too much wine. Allow me to call your ladies to attend you."
Her laugh was throaty, knowing. "My ladies are asleep, as they should be. As all the castle is. Except for us." She pushed away from the wall, stepping close enough that he could count the freckles scattered across her nose. "Do you know what I wish, Ser Criston? Something no one else can give me."
"Princess—"
"Rhaenyra," she corrected, reaching up to touch his cheek. "Tonight, I am not the princess heir. I am just a woman."
"You are never just anything," he replied, his pulse quickening treacherously.
Her fingers moved to the clasp of his white cloak. "Come inside, Criston. Just for a while."
He knew he should refuse. Knew it with the certainty of the oath he had sworn. And yet, when she opened her door and drew him after her, he followed.
The gravest mistake of my life, but gods help me, I would make it again.
That night unfolded in his memory like a fever dream—the softness of her skin beneath his calloused hands, the silver-gold curtain of her hair falling around them both, the way she sighed his name against his ear. He had imagined her a maid, innocent despite her bold words. But her confidence as she guided him told a different story.
She had lain with another before me. Daemon, it must have been. Rumors said he had taken her to pleasure houses, taught her the ways of love. I was a fool not to see it.
Still, in the warm glow of dawn, as she slept curled against him, Criston allowed himself to hope. Their joining felt like destiny. Perhaps, somehow, they could find a way forward together.
A week passed, each night spent in secret passion, before Criston finally gave voice to the dream that had taken root in his heart.
They lay tangled in her sheets, the first light of dawn painting the chamber in gold. Criston propped himself on an elbow, gazing down at her beautiful face.
"Come away with me," he said softly, tracing the curve of her cheek.
She blinked up at him, her expression curious. "Away? To where?"
"Essos. The Free Cities." The words tumbled out, a plan he had been forming all week. "We could take a ship from Duskendale. I have some coin saved. Enough to start a new life."
Rhaenyra sat up slowly, the sheet falling away to reveal her nakedness. But for the first time, Criston saw not desire in her eyes but something like puzzled amusement.
"You can't be serious," she said, her tone making it clear she thought he was jesting.
"I am entirely serious," he insisted, taking her hand. "I love you, Rhaenyra. I want to marry you, to build a life with you, away from the burdens of court."
She withdrew her hand, her expression cooling. "You forget yourself, Ser Criston. I am heir to the Iron Throne. I cannot simply abandon my birthright for... for what? To be the wife of a sellsword in some foreign city?"
The scorn in her voice cut deeper than any blade. "Is that all I am to you? A passing amusement?"
Rhaenyra sighed, rising from the bed to wrap herself in a robe. "Don't be dramatic, Criston. What we have... it's pleasant. We can continue, discreetly."
"Continue?" He stood as well, anger and shame warring within him. "I have broken my vows for you. Forsaken my honor. And you would have me do so indefinitely, with no hope of redemption?"
She turned to him, one eyebrow raised. "What did you think this was? I am to be married eventually, to secure alliances for House Targaryen. Did you imagine I would throw away the throne for the sake of your honor?"
"I imagined you loved me," he said simply.
Her laugh was not cruel, merely practical, which somehow hurt more. "I care for you deeply, Criston. But love? Love is a luxury a Princess cannot afford." She approached him, resting a hand on his chest. "You can serve me in other ways. Private ways. Stay in the Kingsguard, continue to be mine alone in the darkness. Is that not enough?"
The realization dawned cold and clear. "You would make me your paramour. Your... whore."
"I would make you mine," she corrected. "Is that so terrible? To belong to the future queen?"
He stepped back from her touch. "I am a knight, sworn to honor. Not a... a plaything to be used and set aside at your convenience."
Irritation flashed in her violet eyes. "Then what was this past week, Ser Criston? Did you not enjoy being 'used'?"
The crudeness of her question struck him like a physical blow. He gathered his discarded clothes in silence, the magnitude of his mistake crushing down upon him with each passing moment.
"You presume too much," she said as he dressed, her voice hardening to that of Princess Rhaenyra once more. "You are not the first man to warm my bed, nor will you be the last. If discretion and loyalty are beyond you, then perhaps you should request reassignment from my father."
He paused at the door, his white cloak feeling heavier than ever before. "I have been loyal, Princess. With my life and my heart. It seems that was my mistake."
That following day, with guilt and shame threatening to choke him, Criston sought private audience with the one person who might understand his predicament.
Queen Alicent received him in her solar, her green eyes assessing as he knelt before her.
"Rise, Ser Criston," she said, her voice cool but not unkind. "What matter brings the Princess's sworn shield to me in such obvious distress?"
"I have failed in my duty, Your Grace," he managed, his voice hoarse with unshed tears. "I have broken my vows as a Kingsguard."
Alicent's expression remained impassive. "Speak plainly, Ser. What vows have you broken?"
"I have..." He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet her gaze. "I have lain with Princess Rhaenyra."
A flicker of something—shock? triumph?—crossed the queen's face before she composed herself. "I see. And does my stepdaughter return your affections?"
"She..." The memory of Rhaenyra's dismissive laugh twisted in his gut. "She does not love me. She merely... used me for her pleasure."
"As she has used others, I suspect," Alicent said softly, almost to herself. "Tell me, Ser Criston, do you believe the princess was a maid when she came to your arms?"
The question pierced his last illusion. "No, Your Grace. She was... experienced. I believe..." He hesitated, then forced himself to voice his suspicion. "I believe Prince Daemon may have claimed that honor before me."
Alicent's mouth tightened. "As I have long suspected." She rose, moving to a table where a flagon of wine waited. She poured two cups, offering one to Criston. "You have shown great courage in confessing this, Ser Criston. Many men would have continued the deception, enjoying the princess's... favor while abandoning their honor entirely."
He accepted the wine but did not drink. "I cannot serve her any longer, Your Grace. Not as she wishes me to. But I have nowhere to turn. If the king learns of my transgression—"
"He will not," Alicent interrupted firmly. "Your confession was made to me alone, and here it shall remain." She studied him, calculation evident in her gaze. "The princess has wronged you grievously, using your devotion against you. She has proven herself unworthy of the Iron Throne through her caprice and disregard for sacred vows. Including, I suspect, her own eventual marriage vows."
Criston looked up sharply. "What would you have me do, Your Grace?"
The queen's smile was thin but genuine. "Serve me instead, Ser Criston. Remain in the Kingsguard, but give your loyalty to those who value honor and duty. To my son Aegon, the true heir by all the laws of gods and men. And to me."
"And my shame? My broken vows?"
Alicent reached out, her cool fingers resting briefly on his armored forearm. "The Seven teach us that true repentance washes away all sin. You have repented. Now you must atone through loyal service to the rightful cause." Her green eyes held his, promising salvation. "While you serve me and mine, your honor remains intact. I shall ensure it."
In that moment, kneeling before Queen Alicent with his broken heart and tarnished honor, Ser Criston Cole made a new vow—one that would shape the destiny of the realm far more than his Kingsguard oath ever could.
"I am yours to command, Your Grace," he said, and drank deeply from the cup she had given him. "Now and always." '
The roar of the crowd snapped Criston back to the present. He remembered that he needed to fight in the Melee.
From his position, he had a clear view of the royal box. King Viserys sat at its center, resplendent in Targaryen black and red, his golden crown catching the midday sun. Despite himself, Criston's eyes were drawn inevitably to the figure at the king's right—Princess Rhaenyra, radiant in a gown of crimson and black, her silver-gold hair elaborately braided and pinned with dragon-shaped clasps.
Still so beautiful, he thought bitterly. And still so false.
He watched as Ser Harwin Strong approached the royal box, his massive frame making the wooden structure seem fragile by comparison. The brute knelt, his voice carrying clearly as he requested Rhaenyra's favor for the melee. Criston's jaw clenched as the princess smiled—that same beguiling smile she had once bestowed upon him—and presented Strong with a crimson flower from her garland.
"May it bring you fortune, Ser Harwin," her voice drifted across the field, sweet as summer wine and just as intoxicating.
Her new paramour, Criston thought, bile rising in his throat. Does he know what awaits him when he no longer amuses her? Does he realize he's merely a plaything to be discarded?
Harwin tucked the flower beneath his breastplate, pressing it against his heart with a gesture that made the crowd sigh appreciatively. Criston's hand tightened on his morningstar until his knuckles whitened beneath his gauntlet.
Perhaps I should enlighten him, he considered darkly.
Suddenly, Ser Joffrey Lonmouth strode into view, resplendent in his polished armor adorned with purple lips—a sigil as mocking as the man himself. The Knight of Kisses approached the royal box, but instead of addressing Princess Rhaenyra as tradition dictated, he knelt before Lord Laenor Velaryon.
"Lord Laenor," Joffrey called, his voice carrying across the hushed field. "Might I have the honor of your favor for today's combat?"
The silence that followed was deafening. Criston watched the color rise in Lord Corlys Velaryon's face, the barely concealed fury in his eyes as his son—the future king consort of the Seven Kingdoms—hesitated only briefly before nodding.
"You have my favor, Ser Joffrey," Laenor replied, his voice steady despite the scandal he was courting. "Fight well."
Shameless, Criston thought, disgust twisting his features beneath his helm. Both of them, flaunting their perversion before the entire realm. And this is the man who would stand beside the future queen? This is what the realm is coming to?
Movement at the edge of the field caught Criston's attention. A figure in distinctive armor entered the arena—red and black plate that gleamed like dragonscales in the sunlight. Lord Daeron, the mysterious northerner with Valyrian eyes who had appeared at court mere days ago.
He moves like a warrior born, Criston noted professionally, watching the man's easy grace as he took his position. And that sword...
The Valyrian steel blade on Daeron's back caught the sun, its rippled surface seeming almost to flow like water. Queen Alicent's words echoed in his mind: By evening, that sword should be in worthier hands.
But that would come later. First, there was another matter to attend to. Criston's gaze returned to Joffrey Lonmouth, who was adjusting his helm, laughing at something his squire had said.
Laugh while you can, Knight of Kisses, Criston thought, a cold calm settling over him. Before this day ends, I'll teach you the true meaning of pain.
He had his strategy planned. In the chaos of the melee's opening moments, he would make straight for Joffrey. Not an immediate attack—that would be too obvious. He would circle, wait for the right moment when attention was focused elsewhere, and then strike. The morningstar was a brutal weapon, designed not for clean kills but for crushing armor and the flesh beneath. A blow to the helm would be devastating, possibly fatal.
So be it, Criston decided. Let one oath-breaker answer for all of them.
Tournament Opening
King Viserys I Targaryen rose from his ornate chair, the movement requiring more effort than it once had. The wound on his back—a seemingly minor cut from the Iron Throne that refused to heal—sent a flash of pain across his features before he mastered it. As he stepped to the front of the royal box, the crowd's murmurs quieted to an expectant hush.
"Lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms," Viserys called, his voice stronger than his body, carrying across the tournament grounds. "Smallfolk of King's Landing. We gather today for a celebration of union—the joining of two great houses, Targaryen and Velaryon, through the marriage of my daughter and heir, Princess Rhaenyra, to Ser Laenor of House Velaryon."
He gestured to where Rhaenyra and Laenor sat, carefully maintaining polite expressions despite the tension evident in both their postures. The crowd cheered dutifully, though Viserys noted the enthusiasm varied depending on where one looked.
"This union," Viserys continued, "represents not just a marriage, but a reaffirmation of the bonds that have sustained the realm since Aegon's Conquest. House Velaryon stood with House Targaryen when we first came to these shores, and together we shall continue to lead the Seven Kingdoms into a new era of peace and prosperity."
More cheers, louder this time. Viserys smiled, warming to his theme.
"Today's tournament celebrates this alliance with feats of martial skill and valor. But first—" he raised a hand, his expression becoming conspiratorial, "—I must confess something to you all."
The crowd quieted, curious at this unexpected turn.
"When I told Lord Corlys that I intended to host a melee with forty knights, he said to me, 'Your Grace, that's a terrible waste.'" Viserys paused, his eyes twinkling. "When I asked why, he said, 'Because you only need two knights to make a night!'"
A moment of confused silence followed, then scattered laughter rippled through the crowd, more for the king's evident delight at his own jest than for its questionable quality. Queen Alicent's smile was fixed and brittle, while Princess Rhaenyra managed a genuine laugh, if only for her father's sake.
"My wife tells me my humor is more suited to a tavern than a throne room," Viserys added, glancing affectionately at Alicent, who inclined her head with practiced grace. "But what good is a crown if I cannot occasionally make a poor jest at my own expense?"
This earned him warmer laughter and appreciative calls from the commonfolk.
In the northern section of the stands, Lord Stark sat with his bannermen, their attire more austere than the colorful finery of the southern lords. Unlike many around him who shouted encouragement to various competitors, his gaze remained fixed on the mysterious northerner in Targaryen colors.
"NORTH! NORTH! NORTH!" The chant rose from the contingent of northern lords and their retainers, their voices raised in support of their own fighters.
"Quiet yourself, Lord Umber," Stark muttered to the enthusiastic giant beside him.
"Who are you supporting, my Lord?" Lord Umber asked and followed the Starks' gaze. "Ahh, the one who claims his mother was from the North,"
"Claims," Stark repeated, his eyes never leaving Daeron. "Many men claim many things when far from those who might contradict them."
Down on the field, the competitors had taken their positions. Heralds stepped forward, unfurling scrolls with elaborate flourishes.
"Hear the rules of the melee, as decreed by His Grace, King Viserys of House Targaryen, First of His Name!" the chief herald proclaimed. "Combat shall continue until a man yields or is rendered unable to continue. Death is neither required nor desired—this is a celebration, not a war."
The crowd laughed at this traditional reminder, though everyone knew accidents—sometimes convenient ones—were not uncommon in such contests.
"Blunted weapons are permitted but not required. No deliberate maiming. The last man standing shall be declared champion and awarded the prize of one thousand gold dragons, as well as the honor of crowning the Queen of Love and Beauty for the tournament."
In the royal box, tension rippled visibly between Rhaenyra and Alicent at this announcement. The question of whether the winner would crown the king's daughter or his wife was fraught with political significance.
"Competitors, to your positions!" the herald called, stepping back from the field.
The fighters spread out in a rough circle, each gripping their chosen weapons. Criston Cole with his morningstar. Harwin Strong with his broadsword. Joffrey Lonmouth with his ornate blade. Daeron with his Valyrian steel. Dozens more, each seeking glory or gold or political advantage.
A moment of stillness fell over the tournament grounds, the crowd holding its collective breath. Then the trumpets sounded—a harsh, brassy call that shattered the silence.
And the melee began.
Daeron
The chaos of battle erupted around Daeron like a storm breaking. The tournament field transformed instantly from ordered formation to frenzied combat, the air filling with shouts, the clash of steel, and the dull thud of weapons against armor. Despite the disorienting cacophony, Daeron's mind remained clear, focused.
Not so different from beyond the Wall, he thought, side Stepping a wild sword thrust from a knight he didn't recognize.
Through the narrow slit of his helm, Daeron tracked Ser Criston Cole's white-cloaked figure cutting purposefully through the melee, heading directly toward Joffrey Lonmouth. Good. Let history take its course, at least in this.
He knew what would happen—had read it in the histories. The Knight of Kisses would die today, beaten to death by Ser Criston's morningstar. That death would widen the rift between the Blacks and Greens, feeding the animosity that would eventually consume the realm in dragonfire.
We're here to make sure the Dragons will not die out this time, not every tragedy that precedes it, Daenerys had reminded him when they discussed their approach. Some events must unfold as written.
A movement to his left caught Daeron's attention—a massive figure charging directly at him, a great axe held high. The black stag of House Baratheon emblazoned on the man's breastplate shone like a target.
"NORTHERN BASTARD!" the Baratheon lord bellowed, his voice muffled but still powerful behind his antlered helm. "LET'S SEE IF YOUR FANCY SWORD MATCHES YOUR FANCY ARMOR!"
Daeron said nothing, studying his opponent's movements. The Baratheon was strong, clearly, the muscles in his arms bunching as he brought the axe down in a devastating arc aimed at Daeron's shoulder. But strength was often purchased at the expense of speed.
Daeron waited until the last possible moment, then stepped aside with a fluid grace that seemed almost casual. The great axe whistled past him, burying its edge in the trampled earth.
"Stand and fight, damn you!" the Baratheon snarled, wrenching his weapon free and whirling for another attack. This time, he swung horizontally, hoping to catch Daeron across the midsection.
Again, Daeron moved just enough to let the blade pass harmlessly before him. He had not yet drawn Stormsong from its scabbard.
"Is this some Northern jest?" The Baratheon's voice rose in frustration. "Draw your sword or yield!"
"Why waste good steel when you're defeating yourself so efficiently?" Daeron replied, his Northern accent thicker than usual. He circled the larger man, his footwork light and precise. "Your axe spends more time kissing dirt than testing my armor."
The Baratheon roared and charged, abandoning technique for raw aggression. Now he swung the axe in continuous arcs, forcing Daeron to retreat across the field in a weaving pattern.
"I've hunted rabbits less evasive than you," the Baratheon taunted, breathing heavily. "Is running the Northern way of war?"
Daeron smirked behind his helm. "Beyond the Wall, we call it 'letting the bear tire himself.'"
With each swing, the Baratheon's movements grew fractionally slower, his breathing more labored. The great axe, so devastating when it connected, became a liability with each missed strike. Sweat poured down the man's face inside his helm, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision.
"Stop—" the Baratheon gasped, swinging again and missing as Daeron pivoted gracefully away, "—dancing and FIGHT!"
"As you wish," Daeron replied, finally drawing Stormsong. The Valyrian steel caught the sunlight, its rippled surface seeming to flow like dark water.
The crowd's reaction was immediate—gasps and exclamations at the sight of the rare blade. Valyrian steel was power made manifest, a symbol of ancient magic and noble bloodlines. That this unknown northerner possessed such a treasure added to the mystery surrounding him.
The Baratheon hesitated, his axe wavering slightly as he reassessed his opponent. "Valyrian steel," he muttered. "I have fought one before."
Daeron advanced now, Stormsong held in the ready position before him. Unlike the Baratheon's wild swings, Daeron's movements were precise. He didn't attack immediately, instead circling, letting the larger man track him with increasingly desperate turns.
"Stand still, damn you!" The Baratheon swung again, the arc of his axe noticeably lower than before. His right arm trembled with fatigue, the muscles burning from swinging the heavy weapon in full armor under the hot sun.
Daeron parried the blow with Stormsong, the Valyrian steel meeting the axe's shaft with a solid thunk. He disengaged quickly, not giving the Baratheon time to bring his superior strength to bear in a clinch.
"My sister hits harder than that," Daeron taunted. "But she's only eight."
The Baratheon's face purpled with rage behind his visor. "I'll feed you that sword piece by piece, dog!"
He charged again, but his movements had lost their earlier power. The great axe, once wielded with impressive speed despite its weight, now seemed to drag his arms downward. Sweat had soaked through his padding, making his grip slippery on the axe's haft.
Daeron saw his opportunity. As the Baratheon swung yet again, he stepped not away but toward the attack, inside the axe's arc where its head couldn't reach him. Stormsong flashed, striking not at the man but at his weapon, the Valyrian steel biting deep into the wooden haft just below the axehead.
The damaged shaft cracked but held, though the impact sent vibrations up the Baratheon's already exhausted arms. He stumbled back, trying to maintain his grip.
"Seven hells," the man gasped, his right arm hanging lower now, clearly on the verge of failure. "What manner of northman are you?"
"One who's faced worse than stags," Daeron replied, advancing steadily.
The Baratheon attempted one final, desperate swing. As he raised the axe, his overtaxed arm betrayed him. The muscles seized, fingers spasming, and the weapon slipped from his grasp, thudding harmlessly to the ground beside him. A cry of pain escaped him as he clutched his arm, the muscles knotted with cramps.
Before he could recover, Daeron closed the distance between them, Stormsong's tip finding the narrow gap between the Baratheon's gorget and helm—the vulnerable throat beneath.
"Yield," Daeron said quietly, all taunting gone from his voice. "There's no shame in it."
For a moment, the Baratheon's pride warred with his sense. Then, with a resigned nod, he raised his left hand. "I yield to you, Lord Daeron."
Daeron immediately withdrew Stormsong, stepping back. "Well fought, my lord. Few men could swing that axe for half as long."
The Baratheon removed his helm, revealing a sweat-soaked face framed by thick black hair. Despite his defeat, he managed a grudging smile. "Perhaps there's something to this Northern water dancing after all. Didn't lay a finger on me, yet here I stand defeated."
"Sometimes victory comes from allowing your opponent to defeat himself," Daeron replied, sheathing Stormsong.
As the Baratheon limped from the field, massaging his cramped arm, Daeron turned his attention back to the melee's center.
Through the narrow vision of his helm, Daeron spotted Ser Harwin Strong—Breakbones, they called him—grappling with a slender knight whose armor bore the twin towers of House Frey. Even from a distance, the outcome seemed inevitable. Harwin towered over his opponent, his shoulders twice as broad, his arms thick as tree trunks.
Rhaenyra's current paramour, Daeron reminded himself. At least according to the histories. Father to her first three sons, though few will acknowledge it openly.
What happened next made Daeron's stomach turn. Having disarmed the Frey knight, Harwin didn't accept his yield. Instead, he caught the man's arm, yanked him forward, and tore his helm off in a display of brute strength. Before the knight could protest, Harwin's mailed fist connected with his unprotected face.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Blood sprayed across Harwin's armor with each impact. The Frey knight went limp after the third blow, but Harwin continued regardless.
Four. Five.
The knight collapsed, his face a ruined mess. Blood pooled under his head as he lay motionless. Squires rushed onto the field to drag him away, but Harwin was already turning, searching for a new opponent. His eyes locked onto Daeron.
Seven hells, Daeron thought. This wasn't in my plans for today.
But history rarely obliged the convenient wishes of time travelers. Daeron had learned that lesson well enough.
Harwin stomped toward him, blood still dripping from his gauntlet. His sword, retrieved from where he'd dropped it to pummel the Frey knight, looked almost delicate in his massive hand.
"Lord Daeron," Harwin called, loud enough to be heard over the clash of combat around them, but not so loud as to attract wider attention. "Our courtyard bout was cut short, was it not? Let us settle the matter properly now."
Daeron rolled his shoulders, loosening muscles that weren't truly tired. "I have no quarrel with you, Ser Harwin."
"No?" Harwin circled closer, his movements deliberate. "Then why do your eyes follow the princess whenever she's near?"
The accusation caught Daeron off guard. Sure, he had looked at the Princess, but he had not paid any extra attention to her. To him, Rhaenyra was someone who would either be his enemy or ally.
"I think you mistake courtesy for something more," Daeron replied, raising Stormsong in a defensive position.
Harwin snorted, the sound echoing inside his helm. "I see how she looks at you, too. That Valyrian blood calling to Valyrian blood, perhaps?" He lunged forward, his sword slashing in a vicious arc toward Daeron's side.
Daeron parried, the Valyrian steel of Stormsong meeting Harwin's castle-forged blade with a clear ring. The impact reverberated up his arm—Harwin's strength was not exaggerated in the stories.
"She is betrothed to Lord Laenor," Daeron said, keeping his voice low as they exchanged a flurry of blows. "And I am married. Whatever you imagine exists between us is your own invention."
"Pretty words," Harwin growled, pressing his attack. "But I've watched you watch her. And that wife of yours—" He broke off, focusing on a powerful overhand strike that Daeron barely deflected.
He knows something, Daeron realized. Or suspects.
They circled each other, trading experimental strikes. Harwin relied on brute force, each blow designed to overwhelm through sheer power. Daeron, lighter and quicker, focused on precision and timing. For several minutes, neither gained a clear advantage.
Sweat began to darken the padding visible at the joints of Harwin's armor. His breathing grew heavier, his attacks fractionally slower. Daeron, meanwhile, maintained his pace.
"How are you not tiring?" Harwin demanded after a particularly intense exchange left him breathing hard. "You're not natural."
"Beyond the Wall," Daeron replied, his voice steady, "a man learns to fight past exhaustion or he doesn't survive the night."
"Beyond the Wall?" Harwin's sword wavered slightly. "What business would a lord with Valyrian features have with wildlings?"
"My mother's family had Northern connections," he improvised, using the momentary distraction to launch a complex attack sequence—a feint to the left, followed by a swift change of direction and a thrust toward Harwin's right shoulder.
Harwin parried the feint but was caught by the redirection. Stormsong's tip scraped across his pauldron, not penetrating but demonstrating the gap in their speed.
"You fight like no Northman I've ever seen," Harwin said, his voice betraying both suspicion and growing fatigue. "More like a... like a..."
"Like someone who's faced creatures you couldn't imagine," Daeron finished for him, pressing his advantage with a series of quick strikes. "Things that don't tire, don't fear, don't stop until you've separated their heads from their bodies."
The words, too close to his true experiences fighting the Army of the Dead, came unbidden. For a heartbeat, Daeron wasn't in the tournament field but back on the frozen battlefield of Winterfell, surrounded by the endless wave of wights, their blue eyes glowing in the darkness.
Harwin seized on his momentary distraction, bringing his sword down in a powerful overhead strike. "Creatures beyond the Wall? You speak madness!"
Daeron snapped back to the present just in time to sidestep. The blade missed him by inches, its momentum carrying Harwin slightly off-balance. In that moment of vulnerability, Daeron struck—not with his sword's edge but with its pommel, hammering it against Harwin's wrist.
The impact forced Harwin's fingers open reflexively. His sword dropped to the churned earth, but the man himself was far from defeated. With a roar that seemed more animal than human, he charged forward, massive arms outstretched to grapple.
Daeron had anticipated this. Harwin Strong wouldn't yield simply because he'd lost his sword. The man was called Breakbones for a reason.
Instead of evading, Daeron stepped directly into Harwin's charge, ducking under the grasping arms. As they passed, he struck the back of Harwin's knee with Stormsong's flat—not hard enough to sever tendons but with sufficient force to buckle the joint.
Harwin stumbled, off-balance but not down. He whirled with surprising agility for such a large man, his mailed fist already swinging toward Daeron's head. The punch connected with Daeron's helm, snapping his head back with the force of the blow.
Daeron tasted blood in his mouth. Even through the steel of his helmet, Harwin's strength was fearsome. But the impact had cost Harwin as well. A sickening crack accompanied the blow—not from Daeron's helmet, but from the bones of Harwin's hand.
"Seven fucking hells!" Harwin howled, cradling his damaged hand against his chest. The gauntlet had crumpled inward at the knuckles, blood already seeping through the joints of the armor.
Daeron recovered quickly, blinking away the momentary disorientation. His lip was split inside his helm, the taste of copper filling his mouth. But he remained standing, Stormsong still gripped firmly in his hand.
"Yield, Ser Harwin," he said, his voice calm despite the throbbing pain in his jaw. "You've broken your hand, and I've no desire to injure you further."
"Fuck your mercy," Harwin snarled, reaching down with his uninjured hand to retrieve his fallen sword. "The only way this ends is—"
Daeron didn't let him finish. As Harwin bent, Daeron struck, Stormsong's edge slicing through the leather and padding at the back of Harwin's knee.
Harwin's leg gave way. He collapsed to one knee, a grunt of pain escaping him despite his evident effort to suppress it. Blood darkened his greaves, spreading from the precision cut.
"Now yield," Daeron said, not a request but a command, Stormsong's tip hovering at the base of Harwin's throat. "Or you will met your gods much sooner."
For a moment, rage and pride warred in Harwin's posture. Then, with a grudging nod, he raised his uninjured hand. "I yield. But this isn't finished between us... Lord Daeron."
The way he said the title suggested he questioned Daeron's right to it. Daeron merely nodded, withdrawing his sword and stepping back to allow Harwin's squires to help him from the field.
As they half-carried Harwin away, the massive knight called back over his shoulder: "Watch yourself with the princess, northman. She belongs to greater men than you."
Daeron said nothing, merely wiping blood from Stormsong's edge with a cloth from his belt.
Criston
Ser Criston Cole moved through the melee like the Stranger himself—silent, purposeful, dealing judgment with each swing of his morningstar. Three opponents had already fallen before him, yielding quickly when faced with the morning star of Ser Criston Cole. But they were not his target. They were merely obstacles between him and the Knight of Kisses.
Joffrey Lonmouth stood near the western edge of the field. He had just dispatched a Royce knight, his technique refined if somewhat theatrical. As he turned, searching for a new opponent, his gaze fell upon Criston.
There you are, oath-breaker, Criston thought, striding forward with deliberate steps. Flaunting your perversion before the entire realm.
Joffrey noticed his approach, raising his elegant longsword in salute. "Ser Criston," he called, his voice light and confident. "Shall we dance?"
The casualness of his tone, the presumption of equality it implied, scraped against Criston's raw nerves like a blade on bone. He said nothing, merely continued his measured advance, the spiked head of his morningstar swinging in a slow, hypnotic arc at his side.
"Not feeling talkative today?" Joffrey adjusted his stance. "Perhaps your white cloak is too tight around your throat."
Criston remained silent as they began to circle one another. Joffrey's sword was longer, allowing him greater reach, but the morningstar was a devastating weapon when it connected—and Criston had no intention of missing.
Steel met steel as Joffrey initiated the first exchange, his blade a silver blur as he tested Criston's defenses. Criston parried with the haft of his morningstar, then countered with a swing that Joffrey danced away from with almost insulting ease.
"Is that the best the Lord Commander can offer?" Joffrey taunted, though he kept his voice low enough that only Criston could hear. "No wonder the princess seeks entertainment elsewhere."
Criston's jaw clenched inside his helm. "You speak of things you know nothing about," he finally replied, his voice a dangerous whisper.
"Oh? I know more than you might think." Joffrey's blade flashed again, slipping past Criston's guard to score a glancing blow against his pauldron. "Laenor and I share everything, you see. Including Princess Rhaenyra's confidences about her... dissatisfactions."
Rage bloomed hot and dark in Criston's chest. He knows. The whore told her intended, who told his catamite. My shame is a jest between them.
"She speaks of your fumbling attempts at love," Joffrey continued, pressing his advantage as Criston momentarily faltered. "How disappointing it was to discover the famed Ser Criston Cole was more capable with a sword than with his—"
The rest of his words were lost as Criston roared, abandoning strategy for raw aggression. The morningstar whirled in a lethal arc, forcing Joffrey to leap backward or be crushed. For all his elegant swordplay, the Knight of Kisses had not expected such unbridled fury.
"Have I touched a nerve, Ser Criston?" Joffrey recovered his composure quickly, though now there was wariness in his stance. "Such passion! If only you'd shown that to her—"
"Shut your mouth," Criston snarled, advancing with precision. Each swing of his morningstar came closer to Joffrey's flesh. "You think you know me? You think you know her? You're nothing but Lord Laenor's whore."
Now it was Joffrey's turn to flush with anger. "You go too far, Ser. What exists between Laenor and myself is—"
"An abomination," Criston finished, his voice dripping with contempt. "As is what exists between him and the princess. A marriage of lies and perversion. And you think to mock my honor?"
Their weapons clashed again, the force of Criston's blow sending vibrations up Joffrey's arm. For all his skill, Joffrey lacked the raw strength that Criston's larger frame and years of disciplined training provided.
"At least we're honest about what we are," Joffrey retorted, his earlier playfulness gone. "Which is more than can be said for a Kingsguard who forsakes his vows for a princess's bed, then rages when she doesn't return his pathetic devotion."
The words sliced deeper than any blade. Criston's vision narrowed to a crimson tunnel with Joffrey at its end. His next attack. The morningstar struck not at Joffrey directly but at his sword, the impact nearly wrenching the weapon from the knight's grasp.
"Do you imagine she loves you?" Criston asked, his voice deadly quiet as they circled again. "Do you think any of them do? Rhaenyra, Laenor—they use people like toys, discarding them when they tire of the game."
"You know nothing of love," Joffrey shot back, his own anger now evident. "What you felt was obsession, not love. You wanted to possess her, not cherish her."
"And what would the Knight of Kisses know about true love?" Criston laughed, a hollow sound without mirth. "How many men have you 'kissed' before Laenor? How many will you kiss after he tires of you?"
"Enough!" Joffrey abandoned his defensive posture, launching a flurry of attacks that forced Criston to give ground. His technique remained impeccable even in anger, each thrust and slash flowing into the next.
Criston weathered the assault, his armor absorbing the few strikes that penetrated his guard. Joffrey was good—better than Criston had anticipated—but no match for a man who had spent his life preparing for battle rather than tournaments.
"He will never tire of me," Joffrey declared between strikes. "What Laenor and I share is true and lasting. Something you could never understand, with your brittle honor and fragile pride."
"Is that what you tell yourself at night?" Criston taunted, deliberately giving ground, drawing Joffrey further from the center of the melee where witnesses might intervene. "When you're warming his bed while he dreams of the sons he'll never give the princess?"
Joffrey's next attack was wild, uncoordinated—exactly what Criston had been provoking. The Knight of Kisses lunged forward, his blade aimed not at Criston's body but at the narrow gap between his helm and gorget—a killing strike if it landed.
But Criston had expected this. He sidestepped, and Joffrey's momentum carried him past his target. In that moment of vulnerability, Criston struck.
The morningstar arced through the air. Time seemed to slow as Criston watched its spiked head align perfectly with the side of Joffrey's helmet. There was a heartbeat when he could have pulled the blow, reduced its force from lethal to merely disabling.
He chose not to.
The impact produced a sound unlike any other on the battlefield—not the clean ring of steel on steel, but a sickening crunch as metal collapsed inward. The force spun Joffrey halfway around, his sword flying from suddenly nerveless fingers.
From somewhere in the stands came a cry—a single voice rising above the general roar of the crowd. "NO!"
Criston paid it no mind. His focus remained on Joffrey, who stood swaying for an impossible moment. Through the dented visor of his helm, Criston caught a glimpse of wide, disbelieving eyes. Then blood began to seep through the joints of the helmet, first in drops, then in steadily thickening rivulets that traced crimson patterns down the ornate armor.
Joffrey took one stumbling step toward Criston. He looked as if he didn't know where he was, seemed confused, and raised his gauntleted hand—whether in appeal or defiance, Criston would never know. Then his legs folded beneath him, and the Knight of Kisses collapsed to the churned earth, twitching once before lying still.
Squires and maesters rushing onto the field to attend to the fallen knight parted before Criston as he turned away. The rage that had fueled him moments before drained away, leaving only a cold, hollow satisfaction.
Justice, he told himself. For honor. For the sacred vows he mocked.
He retrieved his morningstar, wiping Joffrey's blood from its spikes. Around him, the melee continued, though fighters gave him a wider berth now.
Let them fear me, he thought. Let them all fear what happens when honor is mocked and sacred vows are broken.
A shadow swept across the tournament grounds, vast and swift, plunging the melee into momentary darkness. The fighting paused as if by unspoken command, knights and lords alike tilting their heads skyward.
Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, circled low over King's Landing—his long, serpentine body a slash of crimson against the blue sky. Sunlight glinted off his scales as he banked, his wings spanning wider than twenty warhorses lined nose to tail. The dragon's sinuous neck extended forward, jaws parting to release a roar that shook the very air, reverberating through bone and steel alike.
"Daemon," the name rippled through the crowd, first as a whisper, then growing to an astonished chorus. "Prince Daemon has returned!"
Atop the massive dragon sat a solitary figure in black armor accented with blood-red. Even without a helm, his silver-gold hair marked him unmistakably as a Targaryen. Prince Daemon, the king's brother, the Rogue Prince.
In the royal box, King Viserys rose to his feet, his face a complex mask of anger, surprise, and something that might have been reluctant affection.
"Halt!" he commanded, his voice carrying across the suddenly quiet field. "The melee is suspended for now!"
In the royal box, Princess Rhaenyra leaned forward, her expression caught between concern and poorly concealed excitement.
Beside her, Queen Alicent's face had gone rigid. Her hand sought her father's arm, and Otto Hightower bent to hear her urgent whisper, his own features darkening as she spoke.
"Your Grace," Otto straightened, addressing Viserys. "Prince Daemon remains under banishment. His return in such a manner is a clear defiance of your royal decree."
"I know," Viserys said, then turned to face House Velayron. "I will speak with my brother. We will continue the Meele tomorrow."
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