"Naturally," Rhaenyra replied. "It's my wedding tournament. Every blow struck is in my honor."
And two men I find fascinating will be attempting to kill each other, she added silently. The thought sent an unexpected thrill through her. Daemon, her uncle, her first teacher in the arts of desire and power. And Daeron, the enigma who had appeared from nowhere to capture her imagination so completely.
A part of her—a part she wouldn't admit to anyone—was desperately curious to see which of them would prove superior. Would Daemon's experience and legendary skill triumph, or would the mysterious northerner's unexpected talents prevail?
A sharp knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. "Come," she called, expecting perhaps her father's summons or word from the tournament grounds.
Instead, Queen Alicent Hightower swept into the chamber, resplendent in green silk that complemented her dark/auburn hair. Her smile was perfectly courteous and completely cold.
"Rhaenyra," Alicent said with a graceful curtsy that managed to seem both respectful and mocking. "You look lovely. Though perhaps a touch... flushed? I do hope you're not coming down with something on such an important day."
Still playing the concerned stepmother, Rhaenyra thought, returning the curtsy with equal insincerity. "How thoughtful of you to worry, Alicent. Though I assure you, I've never felt better. The excitement of the day, you understand."
"Oh, I understand perfectly." Alicent's brown eyes glittered with malice. "Young maidens do get so worked up over tournaments. All those strong men displaying their... prowess. It must be quite overwhelming for someone of your... passionate nature."
The barb was expertly delivered, a reference to the rumors that had destroyed their friendship—whispers of Rhaenyra's supposed liaison with Daemon in a pleasure house months ago. Lies, mostly, though not entirely without foundation.
"Indeed," Rhaenyra replied smoothly. "Though I imagine it's been some time since you found yourself overwhelmed by displays of masculine prowess. Marriage to my father must be so... calming."
Alicent's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Your father is a man of great wisdom and restraint. Qualities that become more attractive with age and experience."
"How fortunate for you both." Rhaenyra gestured to her handmaidens, who quickly found excuses to busy themselves at the far end of the chamber. "Was there something specific you needed, or did you simply wish to exchange pleasantries?"
"I wanted to wish you well for the day ahead," Alicent said, settling herself into a chair without invitation. "And perhaps offer some... advice."
"How generous. Please, share your wisdom."
"Men are creatures of impulse in tournaments," Alicent began, her tone suggesting she was imparting great secrets. "They take risks they wouldn't normally consider, all for the chance to impress a beautiful woman. Sometimes those risks prove... costly."
Is that a threat? Rhaenyra wondered, studying her stepmother's face. Or simply another barb about my supposed effect on men?
"I'm sure the competitors are all experienced enough to manage their own safety," she replied carefully. "Though I suppose accidents do happen."
"They do indeed." Alicent's smile widened. "Why, just yesterday I heard the most fascinating rumors about dragons. Apparently, some of the Dragonstone keepers reported seeing Silverwing in flight. Isn't that curious? A dragon taking to the skies after so many years of solitude?"
Dragons. The change of subject was so abrupt it caught Rhaenyra off guard. "Silverwing hasn't flown since Queen Alysanne's death. The keepers must have been mistaken." She knew that was a lie; she had seen someone riding Silverwing when she had been in the sky with Syrax, but she had kept it to herself for now, thinking of telling her uncle later about it, and right now, she didn't want Alicent to know that someone had tamed Silverwing and the Royal Family had no idea who it was.
"Perhaps. Though they say she wasn't alone. That there was a rider on her back." Alicent leaned forward conspiratorially. "Someone with the blood of Old Valyria, presumably. There are so few of us left, after all."
"Gossip and speculation," Rhaenyra said dismissively. "You know how servants love to create excitement where none exists. If rumors were always right then Lord Stark is a cannibal, Storm's End was built by gods, and the dragons came from the moon."
"Of course, of course. Though it would be... interesting, wouldn't it? If someone had managed to claim a dragon without proper permission. One might wonder about their... intentions."
"One might wonder about many things, Alicent. Such as why someone would be so interested in unsubstantiated rumors. Surely a queen has better ways to occupy her time?"
"I find knowledge to be... valuable currency. Especially knowledge about potential threats to the realm's stability."
"How noble of you to be so concerned with stability," Rhaenyra said, her voice dripping with false admiration. "Though I confess, I've always thought you were more concerned with... other kinds of security."
"Security comes in many forms, dear. Some build it through alliances, others through... understanding. And some, perhaps, through ensuring that certain secrets remain buried."
The threat was barely veiled now, and Rhaenyra felt her temper flare. "Secrets have a way of surfacing when least expected, don't they? Like flowers blooming in spring—quite impossible to stop once they've taken root."
"True. Though weeds, unfortunately, have the same tendency. Sometimes a gardener must be... proactive in their removal."
"How fortunate, then, that dragons are excellent at clearing fields. Very thorough. Very... final."
Alicent's smile never wavered, but something cold flickered in her eyes. "Indeed. Though even dragons must land eventually. And when they do, they're quite vulnerable to those who know where to strike."
The two women stared at each other for a long moment.
"Well," Alicent said finally, rising gracefully. "I should let you finish your preparations. Do try to enjoy the tournament, dear. And do be careful who you choose to... favor with your attention. Some choices have longer consequences than others."
"How thoughtful," Rhaenyra replied, her smile matching Alicent's for sheer insincerity. "I'll be sure to wave at you from the royal box. Try not to strain your neck looking up."
After Alicent departed, leaving only the faint scent of rosewater in her wake, Rhaenyra stood silent for a long moment. The conversation had been typical of their new relationship—cordial on the surface, poisonous beneath. But the mention of dragons troubled her more than she cared to admit.
I need to tell Daemon about this, he needs to know. Whoever has Silverwing is not part of the Targaryen family or the Velayron family, whoever they are. I need to know if they are trustworthy or someone I need to take care of, Rhaenyra thought.
"Your Grace?" Elinda approached hesitantly. "Shall we finish with your jewelry?"
"Yes," Rhaenyra murmured, extending her wrist for the ruby bracelets. "And send word to the stables. I want Syrax saddled and ready after the tournament. I think it's time I paid a visit to Dragonstone."
If there are new players in this game, she decided, I intend to know exactly who they are.
Daenerys Targaryen
Daenerys Targaryen had witnessed many spectacles in her time—the fighting pits of Meereen, the great pyramids of Slaver's Bay, the frozen wasteland beyond the Wall—but there was something uniquely magnificent about a Westerosi tourney, she had never been in one before, she and Jon didn't rule long enough to have that opportunity.
Some things never change, she mused, adjusting the deep blue silk of her gown as her litter swayed through the crowded streets of King's Landing. People have always loved watching others bleed for their entertainment.
Through the gauze curtains, she could see the masses lining the streets—smallfolk who had risen before dawn to claim the best vantage points, merchants hawking meat pies and ale, children darting between legs trying to catch glimpses of the royal procession. Their faces held the same mixture of excitement and bloodlust she remembered from her own time.
The litter lurched to a stop, and she heard the herald's voice booming across the tournament grounds: "Her Grace, Queen Alicent of House Hightower!"
The tournament grounds were a marvel of organized chaos. Wooden stands rose on all sides of the field, draped in the colors of dozens of great houses. Banners snapped in the morning breeze— the roaring lion of Lannister, the silver trout of Tully. But it was the massive dragon banners of House Targaryen that dominated the royal pavilion, their red fabric seeming to writhe in the wind like living flames.
My house, she thought with a fierce surge of pride. Our house, now.
"Lady Daenerys!" A warm voice called out, and she turned to see Lady Gilliane Glover Stark approaching with a genuine smile. The Northern lady was handsome rather than beautiful, with the practical bearing Daenerys remembered from the few Northern women she'd encountered in her previous life. "Would you care to join us? We've saved a place."
The Northern lords and their wives. Perfect. These were people who valued directness over subtlety, honor over ambition. Exactly the sort of allies she and Daeron would need.
"I would be honored, my lady," Daenerys replied, following Lady Stark toward a section of the stands where the unmistakable gray and white of Northern houses clustered together.
As they walked, she could hear the buzz of conversation from every direction—speculation about the day's competitors, wagers being placed, gossip about the upcoming royal wedding. Her name came up more than once, along with Daeron's, and she smiled to hear the mixture of curiosity and approval in their voices.
"Such a lovely couple," one lady was saying. "And did you see how gracefully she danced last night?"
"Shame about the mystery, though," another replied. "No one knows where they truly come from."
If only you knew, Daenerys thought. You'd have more questions than answers.
The Northern section was refreshingly unpretentious compared to the elaborate displays surrounding them. Lord Rickon Stark nodded respectfully as she approached, his gray eyes holding that same penetrating intelligence she'd noticed in Daeron's descriptions of Ned Stark.
"Lady Daenerys," Lord Stark said, rising to greet her. "An honor to have you join us."
"The honor is mine, my lord," she replied, settling beside Lady Stark with carefully practiced courtesy. "I confess, I find Northern company preferable to the... elaborate courtesies of the South."
This earned her approving chuckles from several of the Northern lords. A woman with the fierce bearing of a Mormont leaned closer. "Spoken like someone with sense. All this peacocking and preening—give me an honest fight any day."
"Lady Dyanna speaks for all of us," Lord Stark said with dry humor. "Though I suspect today's melee will provide plenty of honest fighting."
"And dishonest fighting too," muttered Lord Manderly, his eyes fixed on the royal pavilion where the Hightowers had taken their places. "Mark my words, there'll be more than sport decided on that field today."
Daenerys followed his gaze to where Queen Alicent sat in regal splendor, her green gown a contrast to the Targaryen reds and blacks surrounding her. Even from this distance, the tension between the queen and Princess Rhaenyra was visible—two women who had once been friends, now enemies in all but name.
The seeds of the Dance are already planted, she realized. Growing stronger every day.
Trumpets blared, and the crowd fell silent as King Viserys rose from his throne. Even from across the field, Daenerys could see how the crown seemed to weigh heavily on his brow, how he favored his right hand. His left hand was wrapped in bandages.
Soon, she thought grimly. Soon Rhaenyra will face her first real test, and we'll see what kind of queen she truly has the potential to become.
"Good people of King's Landing!" the herald's voice boomed across the grounds. "Lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms! Welcome to the grand melee in honor of the coming marriage of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Lord Laenor Velaryon!"
The crowd erupted in cheers, thousands of voices raised in celebration. Daenerys found herself caught up in the spectacle despite her concerns, remembering her own triumphant moments when crowds had cheered her name.
"The rules are simple!" the herald continued. "Twenty of the realm's finest warriors will enter the field! The last man standing claims victory and the honor of being knighted by His Grace the King!"
Twenty men, Daenerys thought, her eyes searching the preparation area for a glimpse of Daeron. And at least three of them are planning to kill each other.
"First to enter the field—Ser Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard!"
Where other knights might have received polite applause, Cole was met with a chorus of boos and jeers that seemed to shake the very stands.
"Murderer!" someone shouted from the crowd.
"He killed the Knight of Kisses!" a woman screamed.
Good, Daenerys thought with satisfaction. Let them remember what he is. Let them see justice done.
Cole himself seemed unmoved by the hostility, his face a mask of cold professionalism as he strode onto the field in his pristine white armor. But Daenerys could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rested on his morning star.
You know what's coming, she thought.
"Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince!" the herald announced, and the crowd's mood shifted instantly to wild enthusiasm.
Daemon emerged from the preparation area like a creature of legend, Dark Sister gleaming at his hip, his silver-gold hair catching the morning sun. The crowd roared its approval, and he acknowledged them with the easy confidence of a man born to command attention.
He feeds on their adoration, Daenerys observed. Just as I once did. The danger is in believing it makes you invincible.
"Ser Daeron of... ah..." The herald faltered slightly, clearly struggling with Daeron's lack of official house affiliation. "Daeron, the swordsmen of mysterious origin!"
The crowd cheered just as loudly for her husband, and Daenerys felt a surge of pride as he entered the field. Unlike Daemon's theatrical entrance, Daeron moved with quiet purpose, his red and black armor marking him as someone to watch. When he raised Stormsong in acknowledgment of the crowd, the Valyrian steel caught the light like captured fire.
Let them see what a true king looks like, she thought fiercely.
The herald announced many other names from other main houses and minor houses. But then, near the end, the herald's announcement caught her completely off guard.
"Lord Laenor Velaryon, heir to Driftmark!"
What? Daenerys turned sharply toward the royal pavilion, where Lord Corlys and Lady Rhaenys sat in stunned silence. The Sea Snake's face had gone white with fury, while Rhaenys looked as if she'd been slapped. Even Lady Laena Velaryon looked absolutely stunned.
They didn't know, she realized. Their son entered the melee without telling them.
On the field, Laenor Velaryon emerged in sea-green armor, his silver-gold hair braided in the Velaryon fashion. But it was his eyes that told the real story—eyes filled with a cold rage that Daenerys recognized all too well.
The fool is going to try to kill Cole himself, she understood with growing alarm. He's going to throw away his life for revenge, and get in the way of Daeron.
"Seven hells," muttered Lord Manderly beside her. "This just became considerably more interesting."
Interesting, Daenerys thought grimly, is one word for it.
She caught sight of Princess Rhaenyra in the royal pavilion, her face a mask of concern as she watched her betrothed stride onto the field with death in his eyes. This wasn't part of their plan—Laenor was not supposed to be in this meele.
A new change, she realized. First it's Daemon early arrival, now, Laenor had decided to enter the Meele and risk his life and their plan to kill Criston Cole.
The other participants were announced—minor lords and household knights whose names would be forgotten by evening—but Daenerys barely heard them. Her attention was fixed on the three men who would determine not just the day's outcome, but potentially the fate of the realm itself.
Daeron, who needed to eliminate Cole.
Daemon, who fought for pride and the thrill of combat.
And Laenor, who fought for love and vengeance, the most dangerous motivations of all.
Corlys Velaryon
Lord Corlys Velaryon felt the blood drain from his face as his son's name echoed across the tournament grounds. For a moment, he was certain he had misheard—surely the herald had not just announced Laenor as a participant in the melee. His heir, his carefully groomed successor, the keystone of the Targaryen alliance, could not be so monumentally foolish. His place belonged with Rhaenyra, not in the field, not one day after Joffrey Lonmouth died, not one day after he screamed 'No' in front of everyone.
But there was Laenor, striding onto the field in sea-green armor that Corlys had never seen before.
"What is the meaning of this?" Corlys hissed, turning to his wife. "Did you know?"
Rhaenys's violet eyes were wide with shock, her usually composed features twisted with disbelief. "Of course I didn't know!" she whispered back, mindful of the watching crowd. "I would have stopped him!"
"Father," Laena said quietly from beside them, she too looked shocked, but she seemed more concerned than shocked. "Perhaps we should—"
"Perhaps we should what?" Corlys snapped, his legendary composure cracking like a ship's hull in a storm. "Watch our heir throw his life away for a dead knight? Watch him destroy the most important alliance our house has ever forged?"
Twenty years of careful planning, twenty years of building Velaryon power and influence, and his son was about to risk it all in a fit of grief-fueled madness. The irony was not lost on him—the Sea Snake, master of political currents and tides, undone by his own blood's recklessness.
"He's grieving," Laena said softly, keeping her tone as quite as possible, though even she looked uncertain. "Joffrey meant—"
"I know what Joffrey meant to him," Corlys cut her off, his voice deadly quiet, making sure no one could hear his words. "And I know what this display will mean to our enemies. Look around you, daughter. See how Queen Alicent smiles? See how the Hightowers whisper among themselves?"
Indeed, he could feel the shift in the political winds already. His son's public grief, his reckless entry into the melee, would be seen as weakness. Worse, it confirmed every rumor about Laenor's... preferences. The careful facade they had maintained was crumbling with every step his son took across that field.
"If he dies down there," Corlys said, his words barely audible, "our alliance dies with him. Everything we've worked for—gone."
Rhaenys placed a hand on his arm, her touch meant to be comforting but only serving to remind him how powerless they both were to stop what was coming.
"He won't die," she said. "He's been trained by the best masters-at-arms gold can buy."
Corlys knew those were empty words, Laenor was never weak with a sword, but he was just that, average, while Criston Cole was clearly one of the best fighters that Westeros had. "Training means nothing when a man fights with his heart instead of his head," Corlys replied, watching as his son took his position on the field. "And right now, Laenor's heart is screaming for blood."
Laenor Velaryon
Laenor Velaryon stood on the tournament field, the weight of his armor nothing compared to the weight of grief and rage that pressed down upon his chest. Around him, nineteen other men prepared for combat, checking weapons and adjusting straps, but his eyes were fixed on only one figure.
Ser Criston Cole stood twenty paces away, resplendent in his white Kingsguard armor, the morning star at his side gleaming like the instrument of murder it was. The same weapon that had caved in Joffrey's skull. The same weapon that had stolen the only light from Laenor's world.
Look at him, Laenor thought, his violet eyes never wavering from his target. Standing there like a conquering hero, basking in the crowd's hatred as if it were applause.
Cole seemed to sense his stare and turned, their eyes meeting across the field. For a moment, Laenor saw something flicker in the Kingsguard's expression—recognition, perhaps even a hint of wariness. Good. Let him know what was coming.
The crowd's noise faded to a distant murmur as Laenor's world narrowed to this single moment, this one purpose that had driven him from his bed before dawn to don armor his parents didn't even know he possessed. He had spent every coin of his personal allowance on it, commissioning it in secret from the same smith who had forged Joffrey's blade.
"A kiss brings more luck than all the armor in the Seven Kingdoms," he remembered Joffrey saying, that first day they'd met at Driftmark. How young they'd both been then, how full of hope and laughter.
Now there would be no more kisses. No more luck. Only the cold arithmetic of steel and blood.
The herald was saying something about rules, about honor, about the glory of combat, but Laenor heard none of it. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword—not some ceremonial blade, but a weapon of war he had carried in the Stepstones, baptized in the blood of pirates and sellswords.
Today, he thought, his gaze never leaving Cole's face, the dead will have their due.
He thought of his parents' shocked faces in the stands, his sister's worried gaze, of the political ramifications his presence here would create, of the alliance his recklessness might endanger. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered except the debt that needed paying.
The herald raised his horn, the signal that would begin the melee, and Laenor drew his sword with a sound like winter wind through bare branches.
"Criston Cole," he said, loud enough for Cole to hear, "I told you, you will die. We all serve death. Today, I serve it gladly."The horn's deep bellow cut through the morning air like a war cry, and twenty warriors exploded into motion across the tournament field. Dust rose in clouds as armored boots pounded against packed earth, the thunder of their charge drowning out the crowd's roar.
Daeron moved directly toward Ser Criston Cole. His violet eyes locked onto the white-cloaked figure across the field, Stormsong's weight familiar and reassuring at his hip. End this quickly, he told himself. One clean strike, and—
Steel rang against steel as a blade swept toward his head in a vicious arc. Daeron ducked low, pivoting on his left foot as he drew Stormsong in one fluid motion. The Valyrian steel sang as it cleared the scabbard, deflecting his attacker's sword with a shower of sparks.
"Well, well," drawled a voice thick with Westerlands arrogance. "The mystery Northern himself."
Daeron found himself facing a tall man in crimson and gold, a golden lion roaring across his breastplate. The knight's helm was pushed back, revealing a sharp-featured face with the green eyes and golden hair that marked him as Lannister-born. His sword was good castle-forged steel.
"Ser Jason Lannister," the knight announced with a grin, circling slowly to Daeron's left. "And you, mystery man, have something I want." His eyes fixed hungrily on Stormsong's distinctive rippled blade. "That pretty sword will look magnificent hanging in Casterly Rock's great hall."
"You're welcome to try and take it," Daeron replied, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. Around them, the melee raged—the clash of steel on steel, grunts of effort, and the wet sound of blade meeting flesh. But Daeron's world had narrowed to this single opponent blocking his path to Cole.
Jason attacked without warning, his longsword cutting downward in a brutal overhead strike meant to cleave Daeron from crown to groin. Daeron sidestepped, letting the blade whistle past his ear, and riposted with a thrust toward Jason's exposed ribs. The Lannister twisted desperately, the Valyrian steel point scraping along his armor with a screech of metal.
"Fast," Jason acknowledged, recovering his guard with practiced ease. "But speed won't save you when I take your head."
Across the field, Prince Daemon Targaryen moved like he was dancing. Two Northern knights—one bearing the silver mailed fist of House Glover, the other the standing bear of House Mormont—had converged on him with obvious coordination. They attacked in unison, hoping to overwhelm the legendary Rogue Prince through sheer numbers.
Daemon yawned.
"Really, lads?" he called out, Dark Sister dancing in lazy patterns as he deflected their strikes with contemptuous ease. "Is this the best the North can offer? I've faced harder challenges from my morning shave."
The Glover knight snarled and pressed forward, his sword cutting in a rapid series of strikes—high, low, thrust, sweep. Each blow was met by Dark Sister's blade, Daemon barely seeming to exert himself. His silver-gold hair caught the light as he spun away from a particularly aggressive lunge.
"You fight like you're at a dance," growled Ser Robett Mormont, sweat already beading on his forehead beneath his helm. "This is a melee, princeling!"
"Oh, I'm well aware," Daemon purred, suddenly exploding into motion. Dark Sister swept in a perfect circle, forcing both Northerners to stumble backward. "I'm simply enjoying the music."
The bear knight roared and charged, raising his sword for a crushing overhead blow. Daemon stepped smoothly to his right, letting the blade crash into the earth where he'd been standing, then brought Dark Sister's pommel up in a vicious strike to Mormont's helm. The knight staggered, dazed, as Daemon turned to face his companion with an expression of theatrical disappointment.
"Honestly," he sighed. "I expected better from the sons of the North."
But it was Laenor Velaryon who fought with the fury of the truly desperate. The young lord charged across the battlefield like a man possessed, his sea-green armor gleaming as he carved a path through the chaos. Knights scattered before him—not from fear of his skill, but from the wild, reckless abandon with which he swung his blade.
"Cole!" Laenor's voice cracked with grief and rage as he spotted his target. "Face me, you murdering dog!"
Ser Criston Cole had just finished dismantling a knight of House Frey, his morning star rising and falling. The Frey's shield arm hung useless at his side, the limb clearly broken, and he raised his sword in a desperate guard as Cole's weapon descended like a falling star.
The morning star's flanged head caught the Frey's blade at the crossguard, the impact sending vibrations up the knight's arm that made him cry out in pain. Cole twisted his weapon, trapping the sword, then drove his knee into the man's stomach. As the Frey doubled over, gasping, Cole brought his morning star around in a horizontal arc that took the knight in the temple.
The Frey dropped like a stone.
"Yield!" Cole commanded, standing over the fallen man with his weapon raised for another strike.
"I yield!" the Frey gasped, blood trickling from beneath his dented helm.
Cole nodded curtly and stepped back, already turning to seek his next opponent. That's when he saw Laenor Velaryon bearing down on him like an avenging angel, sword raised high and violet eyes blazing with murderous intent.
"Ah," Cole murmured, shifting his grip on the morning star's leather-wrapped handle. "The grieving lover comes to play."
Jason Lannister pressed his attack with renewed vigor, his blade work flowing in the deadly patterns taught by the finest masters gold could buy. He fought with the confidence of a man who had never truly been tested, who believed wealth and breeding would carry him to victory.
He was wrong.
Daeron gave ground slowly, his movements economical and precise. Each of Jason's strikes was met with just enough force to deflect it, never more than necessary. He was conserving his strength, waiting for the opening that would inevitably come.
"Stand still, you bastard!" Jason snarled, lunging forward with a thrust aimed at Daeron's throat.
Daeron swayed aside like smoke, letting the blade pass harmlessly by, then brought Stormsong's pommel up in a sharp strike to Jason's wrist. The Lannister's grip loosened for just an instant—but an instant was all Daeron needed.
Stormsong's edge found the gap between Jason's gauntlet and vambrace, drawing a thin line of blood. Not deep enough to cripple, but enough to send a message.
"First blood to me," Daeron said quietly. "Yield now, and you can walk away with all your pieces intact."
Jason's green eyes blazed with fury and humiliation. "I'll see you in seven hells first!"
Across the field, Ser Criston Cole rolled his shoulders as Laenor Velaryon approached, the morning star's weight familiar and deadly in his right hand.
"If it isn't Lord Laenor Velaryon. Though I must say, you look rather like a fish out of water here."
Cole's white cloak snapped in the breeze as he began to circle slowly. The morning star hung loose at his side, deceptively casual, while his left hand rested on the pommel of his backup sword.
Laenor's violet eyes blazed with grief-fueled hatred as he raised his sword in a high guard. "I told you last night, Cole," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "You will die soon."
"Oh, the threats again," Cole chuckled, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "You know, your precious Joffrey made similar threats before I smashed the side of his head?" He raised his morning star slightly, letting the light catch the dried blood still staining its flanged head. "You know, I haven't even cleaned this since yesterday. Some of dear Joffrey's blood is still decorating the steel. I thought it might bring me luck."
Laenor's face went white beneath his helm, then flushed red with an rage so pure it seemed to set the air around him ablaze. A sound escaped his throat—part roar, part sob—as every ounce of restraint he possessed shattered like glass.
"You bastard!" Laenor screamed, charging forward with his sword raised high. "I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you!"
His blade descended in a wild overhead strike that carried all his strength behind it. Cole stepped smoothly to his left, letting the sword crash into the earth where he'd been standing, sending up a spray of dirt and grass. Before Laenor could recover, Cole was already moving, the morning star whistling through the air in a controlled arc toward the young lord's exposed ribs.
Laenor threw himself backward, the weapon's flanged head missing his armor by inches. He stumbled, off-balance, and Cole pressed his advantage. No wild swings, no wasted motion—each strike calculated to wear down his opponent while conserving his own strength.
"Is this what passes for swordplay among the Velaryons?" Cole asked conversationally, deflecting a desperate thrust with the haft of his morning star. "I've seen tavern brawlers with better form."
Laenor attacked again, his sword cutting in a horizontal sweep aimed at Cole's neck. The Kingsguard ducked under the blade, then drove the pommel of his morning star up toward Laenor's chin. The young lord jerked his head back, the metal stud missing his jaw by a hair's breadth.
"Too slow," Cole observed, dancing backward as Laenor stumbled forward, overextended. "Joffrey was faster than you, you know. Not fast enough, obviously, but faster than this pathetic display."
In the royal pavilion, the spectacle was met growing unease. Princess Rhaenyra sat rigidly in her chair, her knuckles white as she gripped the armrests. She felt no romantic love for Laenor, but watching him throw his life away in such a futile gesture for nothing filled her with a cold dread that had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with political necessity.
"Seven hells," she whispered under her breath. "He's going to get himself killed."
Laenor's attacks grew increasingly desperate as Cole continued to evade him with maddening ease. The young lord's breathing was already labored, his movements becoming sluggish as exhaustion began to set in. Sweat poured down his face beneath his helm, and his sword arm trembled slightly from the effort of swinging the blade with such wild abandon.
Cole, by contrast, looked as fresh as when the melee began. He moved with the confident grace of a man completely in control of the situation, his morning star weaving defensive patterns that turned aside every attack with minimal effort.
"You know what your problem is, fish?" Cole said, stepping aside as another wild swing went wide. "You're fighting with your heart instead of your head. Joffrey made the same mistake—all passion, no technique."
"Don't you dare speak his name!" Laenor roared, reversing his grip and thrusting toward Cole's stomach. The Kingsguard twisted away, grabbing Laenor's sword arm and using the young lord's momentum to send him stumbling past.
"Joffrey, Joffrey, Joffrey," Cole sang mockingly, his voice carrying clearly across the field. "The Knight of Kisses. Tell me, did he scream your name when I crushed his skull? I was too busy enjoying the sound of breaking bone to pay close attention."
Laenor spun around, tears of rage streaming down his face, and launched himself at Cole with a wordless cry. His sword cut in a series of rapid strikes—high, low, thrust, sweep—each blow telegraphed so clearly that Cole had time to consider his dinner plans while deflecting them.
The morning star's haft caught Laenor's blade at the crossguard, trapping it for a crucial moment. Cole drove his knee up toward the young lord's stomach, but Laenor managed to twist away, taking the blow on his hip instead. The impact still sent him staggering, his guard dropping for just an instant.
Cole's morning star sang through the air in a vicious horizontal arc. Laenor threw himself backward, but not quite far enough—the weapon's flanged head caught the edge of his breastplate with a ringing impact that dented the sea-green steel and sent him sprawling.
"Getting tired already?" Cole asked, standing over Laenor with his weapon raised. "This is disappointing. I expected at least a few minutes of entertainment from Corlys Velaryon's heir."
Laenor rolled away and scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth where he'd bitten his tongue during the fall. His sword shook in his grip as he raised it again, the weight seeming to have doubled.
"I'm... not... finished," he gasped between breaths.
The Royal Seats
Rhaenyra watched the brutal spectacle below with mounting dread, her fingers digging into the carved armrests of her chair. Laenor was going to die down there—any fool could see it. The political ramifications crashed through her mind like waves against a seawall: a broken betrothal, her father's fury, Alicent's smug satisfaction.
"Lord Corlys," King Viserys's voice cut through the crowd's roar like a blade. His bandaged right hand rested stiffly in his lap as he turned to face the Sea Snake. "Perhaps you can explain to me why your son—my daughter's betrothed—is currently attempting to get himself killed on that field?"
Corlys Velaryon's legendary composure cracked like ice in spring. For the first time in Rhaenyra's memory, the master of tides and politics looked genuinely at a loss for words. His weathered face had gone pale beneath his silver beard, and his knuckles were white where they gripped his chair.
"Your Grace, I..." Corlys began, then stopped, clearly struggling. The silence stretched uncomfortably before he finally spoke again, each word seeming to cost him. "My son wished to participate in the melee. I... gave him my permission."
The lie hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. Everyone in the royal box knew it for what it was—Corlys would never have willingly allowed his heir to risk his life and their alliance in such a reckless manner.
Viserys's violet eyes flashed with fury. "You gave him permission? To throw away his life fighting a member of my Kingsguard? What madness possessed you to—"
"My husband made a difficult decision," Rhaenys Targaryen interrupted, her own violet eyes blazing as she came to Corlys's defense. "Laenor is a man grown, Your Grace. He has the right to make his own choices, even foolish ones."
"How noble," Queen Alicent's voice was honey over steel as she leaned forward with false concern. "Though I confess myself curious about young Lord Laenor's... motivation. He seems quite determined to fight Ser Criston specifically." Her eyes glittered with malicious innocence. "One might wonder why he's so intent on avenging Ser Joffrey Lonmouth's death. They must have been very close friends indeed."
The barb hit its target perfectly. Rhaenyra felt her jaw clench as Alicent's implication hung in the air like a sword over all their heads. Close friends. As if anyone with eyes couldn't see what Joffrey had meant to Laenor.
"They were friends since childhood," Lady Laena Velaryon spoke up, her young voice carrying clearly despite the crowd's noise. She looked directly at Alicent as she continued, "Like brothers, really. I imagine you understand such bonds, Your Grace—you have two brothers yourself. Surely you can comprehend what one might do if harm came to Ser Gwayne or Ser Gerold?"
Alicent's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Indeed, family bonds can drive us to... passionate responses. Though one hopes wisdom might temper such passion when greater responsibilities are at stake."
"Speaking of your brothers," Rhaenyra said, unable to resist the opening, "it appears Ser Gwayne is about to have another opportunity to distinguish himself." She gestured toward the field where Gwayne Hightower was indeed approaching Daeron. "How exciting. Though based on his last tournament performance against my uncle Daemon, I do hope he's improved his swordwork."
Alicent's mask slipped for just a moment, genuine concern flickering in her eyes as she followed Rhaenyra's gesture. "Gwayne is a skilled knight," she said, but her voice carried less certainty than her words.
Good, Rhaenyra thought with vicious satisfaction. Let her worry. Let her feel what it's like to watch someone she cares about in danger.
She found herself hoping—quite fervently—that Daeron would give Gwayne Hightower exactly what he deserved. Perhaps a broken nose to match his broken pride from four years ago. Or better yet, something that would leave permanent marks. A scar to remind him of his arrogance, a limp to humble his swagger.
Daenerys Targaryen
In the northern section of the stands, Daenerys found herself the center of increasingly pointed attention as Daeron's fighting prowess became evident on the field below. Lord Rickon Stark leaned forward in his seat, his grey eyes sharp with curiosity as he watched her husband fight like a wild beast.
"Lady Daenerys," Lord Stark said carefully. "Your husband fights remarkably well. Many of his techniques... they're distinctly Northern in origin. Where exactly did he learn such skills?"
Daenerys kept her expression pleasantly neutral, though inwardly she cursed the perceptiveness of Stark eyes. "Daeron spent much of his childhood in the North, my lord. His mother was Northern-born, and he was raised there until he was old enough to seek his fortune elsewhere."
"Strange that we've never heard tell of a Northern lad with such... distinctive features. Those purple eyes of his are rather memorable." Lady Manderly said.
"Aye," rumbled Lord Roderick Dustin, stroking his iron-grey beard. "The North's not so vast that word of a boy with dragon's eyes wouldn't reach the great houses. Which family did you say his mother belonged to?"
These Northerners were no fools—they were probing, testing her story for inconsistencies.
Daenerys felt the weight of their collective scrutiny like a physical thing. These were not southern courtiers content with pretty lies and half-truths—these were Northerners, blunt and direct, who valued honesty above courtesy.
"A village woman," she said smoothly, letting a note of sadness creep into her voice. "Daeron's father... well, according to my husband, the man had Valyrian blood but never acknowledged his bastard son. Daeron's mother raised him among the common folk, far from the great castles. It's hardly surprising that lords and ladies never encountered him—those born to village life rarely venture beyond their birthplace."
Lady Mormont's dark eyes glittered with something that might have been amusement—or hunger. "A pity," she said, her voice carrying just the faintest hint of suggestion. "A man with such... qualities might have found a warm welcome in the right household. Had I known of him before his marriage, I might have been inclined to... make his acquaintance."
The implication was delicate but unmistakable, and Daenerys felt a familiar surge of possessiveness. You can look all you want, bear-woman, but he's mine.
"How fortunate for you both that fate intervened," Daenerys replied with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Indeed," Lady Gilliane Stark interjected with diplomatic smoothness. "Speaking of fate—how did you two meet? It must be quite a tale, given your... exotic origins."
Daenerys's expression softened, and for the first time since the questioning began, her smile was genuinely warm. "He came to me," she said simply, the memory bringing real fondness to her voice. "We met in Essos, when I was... in need of capable protection. Daeron proved himself to be exactly what I required."
Not a lie, she thought. Just not the whole truth. Jon Snow had indeed come to her in Essos, though it had been in a different life, a different time.
"A romantic tale," Lady Manderly observed with approval. "Though I confess myself curious about the details. Essos is vast—where exactly did this meeting occur?"
"Near Meereen," Daenerys replied without hesitation. "During one of the many conflicts that plague that region. Daeron was... freelancing at the time, and I had need of a good sword."
Lord Stark's eyes remained fixed on her face, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he was seeing more than she intended to reveal.
"A sellsword with purple eyes and Northern training," he mused quietly. "Quite the combination."
"The world is full of wonders, my lord," Daenerys said lightly. "Especially in Essos, where bloodlines from across the known world mingle freely."
Down on the field, Daeron had won against Lord Lannister, and Daenerys was grateful for the distraction as the assembled Northerners turned their attention back to the combat. But she could feel Lord Stark's eyes returning to her face periodically, as if he were working through some complex puzzle in his mind.
Let him wonder, she thought. He can suspect all he likes, but he'll never guess the truth.
Daeron Targaryen
Daeron wiped Jason Lannister's blood from Stormsong's blade as he surveyed the field, the Lannister lord was carried away by his squires to be treated by a Maester, his violet eyes tracking the remaining combatants. Across the churned earth, Laenor Velaryon was still throwing himself at Criston Cole with increasingly desperate attacks, while Cole seemed content to toy with his prey like a cat with a wounded mouse.
Time to end this, Daeron thought, adjusting his grip on his sword's hilt. He took three steps towards when a voice spoke.
"Where do you think you're going, bastard?"
Daeron spun, bringing Stormsong up in a defensive arc just in time to catch a longsword aimed at his neck. The force of the blow sent vibrations up his arm, and he found himself face-to-face with a knight in green and gold—the distinctive colors of House Hightower.
The man's helm was pushed back, revealing sharp features and the characteristic auburn hair of Alicent's line. This had to be Gwayne Hightower, the queen's younger brother, and his green eyes blazed with arrogant fury.
"Ser Gwayne Hightower," the knight announced unnecessarily, pressing forward with his blade locked against Stormsong's edge. "And you, whoever you are, have no business in this court, much less on this field."
Daeron disengaged with a twist of his wrist, stepping back to create distance. "I was invited by His Grace the King," he replied mildly. "Perhaps you should take up your complaints with him."
"Invited?" Gwayne scoffed, beginning a slow circle to Daeron's left. His sword work showed good training—the kind of precise, textbook technique taught by expensive masters-at-arms. "A bastard with stolen Valyrian steel and delusions of grandeur. You don't belong among your betters."
"My betters?" Daeron's voice carried a note of genuine amusement as he mirrored Gwayne's movement. "I was under the impression that worth was measured by deeds, not birth. Perhaps the Reach teaches different lessons?"
Gwayne's face flushed with anger. "I'll teach you about worth, you arrogant—"
He lunged forward in a classical thrust, his blade seeking Daeron's heart. Daeron sidestepped smoothly, letting the steel pass harmlessly by his ribs, then brought Stormsong around in a horizontal cut that would have opened Gwayne from hip to shoulder.
The Hightower knight threw himself backward, the Valyrian steel whistling past his breastplate by inches. He landed hard, rolled, and came up with his sword raised in a high guard.
"Fast," he admitted grudgingly. "But speed won't save you when—"
A war cry interrupted his boast as Ser Glover, bloodied but unbowed from his encounter with Prince Daemon, charged into their duel with his sword raised high. The Northern warrior had apparently decided that any enemy of a mysterious southerner was a friend of his.
"For the North!" Glover roared, his blade cutting toward Gwayne's exposed flank.
Gwayne cursed and spun to meet this new threat, his sword deflecting Glover's strike with a ringing crash of steel. The two knights locked blades, straining against each other with grunts of effort.
Daeron took the opportunity to disengage, stepping back as the two men began their own deadly dance. A quick glance across the field showed him what he'd feared—Laenor was barely moving now, his swings were pathetic.
No time for games.
Daeron sprinted across the intervening space, his armor clanking with each stride. Behind him, he could hear Gwayne and Glover trading curses and steel in equal measure, but his focus was entirely on the scene unfolding ahead.
Criston Cole had stopped toying with his prey. The Kingsguard's face was set in lines of cold determination as he stood over the kneeling Laenor, his morning star raised like an executioner's axe. The young Velaryon's sword lay several feet away, knocked from his grip by Cole's last devastating attack.
"Any last words, fish?" Cole asked mockingly, his weapon casting a shadow across Laenor's upturned face.
Laenor's left shoulder hung at an unnatural angle, clearly dislocated or worse, and blood seeped through the joints of his armor. But his violet eyes still burned with defiant rage as he glared up at his tormentor.
"Go to hell," he gasped through gritted teeth.
Cole chuckled. "After you."
The morning star began its descent, flanged head glinting in the sunlight as it fell toward Laenor's skull. The crowd's roar faded to a whisper, time seeming to slow as thousands of spectators held their breath.
Then Stormsong's blade caught the morning star's haft with a crack like thunder.
"A knight with honor," Daeron said quietly, his voice carrying clearly in the sudden silence, "knows when to stop."
Cole's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed with calculation as he took in this new opponent. He stepped back, freeing his weapon from Daeron's blade, and shifted into a combat stance.
"Lord Daeron," he said with mock courtesy. "How kind of you to join us. Though I'm afraid this is a private matter between myself and young Lord Velaryon here."
"The matter appears concluded," Daeron replied, not taking his eyes off Cole's weapon. "The man has yielded. Honor demands you accept his surrender."
"I heard no yield," Cole said with a cold smile. "Did you hear a yield, fish?"
Laenor struggled to speak through his pain, his good arm clutching his injured shoulder. "I... I never..."
"There," Cole spread his hands in a gesture of false reasonableness. "No yield. The combat continues."
Daeron's grip tightened on Stormsong's hilt. "Look at him, Cole. He can barely stand, much less fight. This isn't combat—it's murder."
"Strong words from a bastard playing at nobility," Cole replied, his morning star beginning to move in slow, hypnotic circles. "Perhaps you'd care to take his place? I've been curious about that pretty sword of yours."
Before Daeron could respond, squires came running from the sidelines, their young faces pale with fear but determined to do their duty. They reached Laenor's side and began carefully lifting him, supporting his weight between them.
"My lords," one of them squeaked, his voice cracking with nerves. "The Grand Maester requires Lord Laenor's immediate attention. By order of His Grace the King."
Cole's face darkened with frustration, but even he wouldn't dare interfere with a direct royal command. He stepped back reluctantly, his weapon still ready but no longer threatening.
"Another time, then," he said to Laenor, who was being carefully helped away. Then his cold gaze fixed on Daeron. "And as for you, Northern—I believe we have unfinished business."
Daeron settled into a combat stance, Stormsong held in a perfect middle guard. Around them, the melee continued to rage, but a circle of clear space had formed as other fighters instinctively gave the two skilled warriors room to work.
The morning star and Valyrian steel blade met with a crash that echoed across the tournament field like thunder. Daeron felt the impact travel up his arm as he deflected Cole's opening strike, the force behind it speaking to the Kingsguard's considerable strength.
"I've been waiting for this fight," Cole said conversationally, recovering his weapon and beginning a slow circle. "Ever since you humiliated Ser Harwin Weak yesterday. The man's been moping about like a kicked hound."