Ser Harwin Strong is a good knight," Daeron replied, matching Cole's movement while keeping his blade in perfect defensive position. "Though I suspect his pride was wounded more than his body."
"Strong?" Cole laughed, the sound sharp and mocking. "The man fights like an ox—all brute force and no finesse. Rather like most of your Northern friends, I imagine."
Daeron's violet eyes glittered with something that might have been amusement. "Speaking of victories over notable opponents, I heard about your triumph over Prince Daemon four years ago. Quite impressive—few men can claim to have bested the Rogue Prince in single combat."
Cole's eyebrows rose in surprise, and his smile widened. "You know about that? I'm flattered. It's always pleasant to meet a... fan of one's work."
"Oh, I wouldn't call myself a fan," Daeron said mildly. "More of a student. I find it instructive to study how different warriors approach combat."
"And what," Cole asked, his morning star beginning to move in slow, hypnotic patterns, "have your studies taught you about my approach?"
"That you're skilled, experienced, and utterly without honor when it suits you," Daeron replied without missing a beat.
"Honor is a luxury for those who can afford it. I prefer victory."
The Kingsguard exploded into movement, his morning star cutting through the air in a vicious diagonal strike aimed at Daeron's ribs.
Daeron swayed backward, the flanged head passing inches from his armor, then stepped forward into Cole's guard. Stormsong swept upward in a rising cut, but Cole was already moving, throwing himself to the side and bringing his weapon around in a horizontal arc.
The morning star's haft caught Stormsong's blade with a ringing impact, steel against steel producing sparks that glittered like fallen stars. Cole used the leverage to drive his knee toward Daeron's stomach, but the younger man twisted away, the blow glancing off his hip armor.
"Fast," Cole acknowledged, dancing back to create distance. "But speed alone won't save you against proper technique."
"No," Daeron agreed, settling into a new guard position. "But it helps."
They circled each other like wolves, each looking for an opening while testing the other's reactions. Cole feinted high then swept low, his morning star seeking Daeron's legs. The Valyrian steel blade dropped to intercept, deflecting the weapon with a shower of sparks.
Daeron riposted immediately, Stormsong cutting in a perfect horizontal line toward Cole's neck. The Kingsguard ducked under the blade, his white cloak billowing, then drove the pommel of his morning star toward Daeron's stomach.
The younger man caught the strike on his crossguard, twisted his blade to trap the weapon, then drove his knee upward. Cole jerked his head back, the knee missing his chin by a hair's breadth, and used his superior leverage to break free of the bind.
"You know," Cole said, breathing slightly harder now, "I'm beginning to understand why Harwin was so upset. You do have a certain... quality to your swordwork."
"Northern training," Daeron replied, his own breathing controlled and even. "We learn early that pretty forms mean nothing if you're dead."
"Practical. I approve." Cole's morning star began to move in figure-eight patterns, the weapon cutting through the air. "Though I wonder how practical you'll feel when I'm wearing your sword on my belt."
"You're welcome to try taking it," Daeron said, then added with a slight smile, "though I should warn you—the last man who made that boast is currently nursing a broken hand, a wounded knee, and a dead pride."
Cole launched himself forward with surprising speed for a man in full armor, his morning star cutting through three different angles in rapid succession. High, low, thrust—each strike designed to overwhelm his opponent through sheer aggression.
Daeron met each attack, his blade work flowing like water around stone. He gave ground slowly, drawing Cole forward while looking for the opening that would inevitably come. The Kingsguard was skilled, but he was also proud—and pride made men take risks they shouldn't.
"You fight well for a bastard," Cole panted, pressing his attack. His morning star crashed against Stormsong's blade again and again, the impacts sending vibrations through both men's arms.
"Birth means less than training," Daeron replied, pivoting on his left foot to avoid a particularly vicious strike. "Something a man who earned his position through merit should understand."
"Merit?" Cole's laugh was bitter. "Merit got me a white cloak and a lifetime of service to spoiled princesses. Tell me, bastard—what has merit gotten you?"
"This conversation, for one thing."
Daeron's blade suddenly came alive, Stormsong moving in a complex pattern that forced Cole to give ground for the first time. The Valyrian steel sang through the air in cuts and thrusts that tested every aspect of the Kingsguard's defense.
Cole's eyes widened as he found himself pressed backward, his morning star working overtime to deflect the relentless assault. The younger man's technique was flawless—each strike flowing into the next.
"Seven hells," Cole muttered, barely getting his weapon up in time to block a thrust aimed at his throat. "Where did you learn to fight like this?"
"Here and there," Daeron replied unhelpfully, his blade continuing its deadly dance. "The North. Essos. Wherever men were willing to teach useful lessons."
Stormsong's edge found a gap in Cole's armor, sliding between breastplate and shoulder guard to draw a thin line of blood. The Kingsguard cursed and spun away, but Daeron followed him step for step, pressing his advantage.
"You know what your problem is?" Cole snarled, his morning star cutting in increasingly desperate patterns. "You think that fancy steel makes you special. But in the end, it's just a sword."
"Perhaps," Daeron agreed, his blade work never slowing. "But it's a very good sword."
As if to prove his point, Stormsong's edge bit deep into Cole's shoulder guard, the Valyrian steel parting the metal like cloth. Cole jerked away with a grunt of pain, blood seeping through the ruined armor.
The crowd had fallen strangely quiet. In the royal pavilion, King Viserys leaned forward in his chair.
Cole's breathing was becoming labored, sweat pouring down his face beneath his helm. The cuts were adding up—not individually dangerous, but collectively weakening. Daeron's superior blade was taking its toll, finding gaps that normal steel could never exploit.
Cole feinted left, then spun right with his morning star extended in a wide arc. Daeron moved to intercept, but Cole had expected this—the Kingsguard suddenly reversed direction, bringing his weapon around in a crushing blow toward Daeron's head.
The morning star's flanged head caught Daeron in the ribs, denting his armor and sending him staggering. But even as he stumbled, his body twisted, turning a potentially fatal blow into a glancing strike.
Cole pressed forward, sensing victory, but Daeron was already recovering. As the Kingsguard raised his weapon for another strike, Stormsong moved with lightning speed.
The Valyrian steel blade swept toward Cole's throat in a perfect killing cut. Cole threw his morning star down desperately, trying to block, but the weapon's haft couldn't cover enough distance. In desperation, he threw himself backward—
—and Stormsong's point plunged deep into his stomach instead.
Blood erupted around the blade as Daeron drove it home, the Valyrian steel sliding between the plates of Cole's armor like it was butter. Cole's eyes went wide with shock and pain, his mouth opening in a silent scream.
Daeron began to pull the blade free, cutting even more of Cole's flesh, preparing to finish what he'd started, when he heard the whisper of steel behind him. Without conscious thought, he spun around, bringing Stormsong up in a perfect defensive arc.
The blade caught an approaching sword just inches from his neck, deflecting it with a ringing crash. In the same motion, Daeron reversed his grip and drove the pommel into his attacker's throat.
The man dropped like a stone, blood fountaining from the crushed ruin of his windpipe. He hit the ground hard, his hands clawing at his throat as crimson spread across the churned earth.
From the royal pavilion came a woman's piercing scream: "GWAYNE!"
Daeron's blood turned to ice as he looked down at the dying man. Auburn hair beneath a dented helm. Green and gold armor. The sharp features of House Hightower.
Seven hells, he thought. I've just killed the Queen's brother.
He spun back toward Cole, ready to finish what he'd started, but squires were already swarming onto the field. They lifted the wounded Kingsguard between them, carrying him toward the medical pavilion with urgent efficiency.
Cole's eyes met Daeron's over the squires' shoulders, and despite his pain, the man managed a bloody smile. He'd won after all—not through superior skill, but through the intervention of political necessity.
Daeron couldn't pursue him now. To attack wounded men being carried from the field would be murder, not combat. This was something the King would never tolerate. Daeron knew he could say that Gwayne Hightower's death was an accident, but if he pursued Criston Cole right now, that would be no accident.
The tournament field was nearly empty, those defeated were carried away by squires, and only one fighter was a corpse now. Only two men remained standing, and the crowd held its collective breath.
Prince Daemon Targaryen stood over the prone form of Ser Desmond Tully, Dark Sister's point resting casually against the knight's throat. The Tully's armor was dented and bloodied, his sword arm hanging useless at his side.
"Yield," Daemon said with theatrical boredom, "before I decide to redecorate this field with what's left of your courage."
"I yield!" Ser Desmond gasped, relief flooding his voice.
Daemon stepped back, cleaning Dark Sister's blade on a piece of torn fabric. He turned to survey the field with the satisfied air of a predator who'd saved the best prey for last.
"Well, well," he called out, his voice carrying clearly across the bloodied ground. "It seems we're the last dancers at this particular feast."
Daeron wiped Gwayne Hightower's blood from Stormsong's blade, his face grim. He knew the Queen will demand blood for her brother's death, but he forced himself to focus on the immediate threat. Daemon Targaryen was no bumbling knight or grief-stricken boy—he was one of the most dangerous men in Westeros, and his suspicions from last night made this confrontation far more perilous than it appeared.
"So it seems, Your Grace," Daeron replied, settling into a defensive stance. "Though I confess, after our conversation last evening, I hadn't expected to face the Rogue Prince himself today."
Daemon's violet eyes lit up with genuine pleasure as he began walking toward Daeron, Dark Sister held in casual readiness. "Do you know how long it's been since I've faced another man with Valyrian steel? Years, literally years. Most knights carry common metal—adequate for cutting through peasants, but hardly sporting."
"I imagine it does become tedious," Daeron said carefully, backing away slightly to maintain distance. He had no intention of harming Daemon if he could avoid it—the prince was too important to the future, and Daeron would much rather not have him as enemy. Daeron knew he and Daemon would never be friends, but being neutral was much better than enemies.
"Tedious?" Daemon laughed. "My dear Northern, tedious doesn't begin to describe it. Do you know what Ser Criston used against me four years ago? Common steel. Good quality, mind you, but still just iron and carbon. But two blades forged in dragonfire, wielded by men with the blood of Old Valyria in their veins? That's a true fight."
Dark Sister swept toward Daeron's left side in a testing cut. Daeron met it with Stormsong's edge, and both men felt the unique sensation of Valyrian steel kissing Valyrian steel—a perfectly balanced meeting that sent no vibrations up their arms.
"Beautiful," Daemon breathed, his eyes bright with excitement. "Like a song, isn't it? The way they ring together?"
"Your Grace has a poet's soul," Daeron observed, disengaging and stepping back.
"Rhaenyra says the same thing," Daemon replied, pressing forward with a series of quick cuts that Daeron deflected with minimal effort. "Though she usually means it as criticism. Tell me, do you know my niece well?"
The question carried hidden weight, and Daeron caught the calculating look behind Daemon's apparent casualness.
"We've spoken," Daeron said carefully.
"Spoken," Daemon repeated with a knowing smirk. "I suspect Princess Rhaenyra would prefer more than conversation from a man like you. Tell me, where exactly did you acquire those remarkable eyes of yours?"
"My father's side, Your Grace. As I mentioned, my parentage is... complicated."
"Indeed it must be," Daemon mused, his blade work becoming more aggressive. "A Northern mother, you claim, and a father with Valyrian blood strong enough to breed true. Such bloodlines are rare outside the great houses."
Their swords met again, both men testing the other's strength. Daemon was smaller than Daeron but wiry and quick.
"You're suspicious of me," Daeron observed, not quite making it a question.
"I'm suspicious of everyone," Daemon replied easily. "It's kept me alive this long. But yes, you and your lovely wife intrigue me greatly. Such remarkable timing, your arrival at court."
"Timing, Your Grace?"
"Just as two dragons vanish from Dragonstone," Daemon said casually, then watched Daeron's face carefully for any reaction. "Vermithor and Silverwing, gone without explanation. Quite the coincidence, wouldn't you say?"
Daeron's expression remained neutral. "I wouldn't know anything about that, Your Grace. My wife and I have been traveling from Essos."
"Have you?" Daemon's smile was sharp. "And yet you fight like you were born in the North, not trained in the fighting pits of the Free Cities. Curious."
"Men can learn from many masters," Daeron replied, deflecting both the verbal probe and a particularly aggressive thrust.
"True enough." Daemon disengaged suddenly, taking several steps back. His expression had shifted from playful to calculating. "You know what I think, Daeron? I think you're not nearly as simple as you pretend to be."
"Your Grace is welcome to think whatever pleases him."
"Oh, I intend to." Daemon's voice turned cold. "I think your wife might be more than just another exile from Essos. That resemblance to Rhaenyra is quite striking—almost as if she shared blood with House Targaryen."
Daeron's grip tightened on Stormsong's hilt. "Many in Essos carry Valyrian features."
"Indeed they do. Particularly the descendants of those who fled Westeros during times of... trouble." Daemon began to circle. "Take Princess Saera, my late aunt. King Jaehaerys's daughter, who fled to Lys decades ago. I wonder what became of her children? Her grandchildren?"
Daemon suspected Daenerys might be Saera's descendant—a theory that was both completely wrong and dangerously close to the truth in its own way.
"You have quite an imagination, Your Grace," Daeron said carefully.
"Exiled Targaryens have a way of... returning when the realm faces upheaval. Sometimes with allies. Sometimes with dragons."
"I assure you, Your Grace, neither my wife nor I have any dragons."
"Don't you?" Daemon's attack came suddenly. "Because someone has been flying Silverwing at dawn, when the light is too dim for most to see clearly. Someone who knows how to approach a dragon that hasn't been ridden in decades."
Daeron gave ground, his defenses hard-pressed by Daemon's renewed assault. "Gossip and speculation."
"Is it?" Daemon pressed forward relentlessly. "I've made inquiries, you know. Quiet ones. And the most interesting thing isn't what people have seen—it's what they haven't seen. No one can account for your movements in the early morning hours. Or your wife's, for that matter."
"We keep early hours," Daeron said, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead as he struggled to match Daemon's pace.
"I'm sure you do." Daemon's smile was predatory. "Tell me something else, Northern. If you're truly just a wandering sellsword with a lucky sword, why do you hold back in this fight?"
The question caught Daeron off guard. "I don't—"
"You do," Daemon interrupted, his blade finding a gap in Daeron's defense to score a line across his forearm. "You fight defensively, conservatively. Like a man who doesn't want to hurt his opponent. Why would that be?"
Daeron cursed silently. Of course Daemon would notice—the man had probably fought more single combats than anyone else alive.
"Perhaps I simply prefer to take my opponent's measure before—"
"Bullshit," Daemon interrupted, his voice turning cold. "You think I'm some green boy who might break if you hit him too hard? Some doddering old man who needs to be handled gently?"
"Your Grace, I meant no—"
"Or perhaps," Daemon's voice turned silky with menace, "you have reasons for wanting to keep me alive and unharmed? Planning to make use of me in whatever scheme brought you to King's Landing?"
Dark Sister began to move faster now, the blade cutting through increasingly complex patterns as Daemon's mood shifted from curious to dangerous.
"Show me what you're really capable of," Daemon snarled, pressing forward with renewed aggression. "Fight me like you mean it, or I'll carve my disappointment into your flesh."
Daeron gave ground, deflecting strikes that came closer and closer to finding their mark. Daemon was magnificent in his fury.
His next attack came with the force of a thunderbolt, Dark Sister moving in a perfect diagonal cut that would have removed Daeron's head if it connected.
Daeron barely got Stormsong up in time, the impact of the blow sending him staggering backward. Daemon pressed his advantage ruthlessly, his blade work becoming a silver blur of death.
"Just a bastard with a bit of Valyrian blood," Daemon hissed as their swords locked again. "Who thinks he can take pity on his betters. Let me teach you the price of condescension."
Daemon suddenly shifted his weight, using a technique Daeron didn't recognize. His knee came up toward Daeron's groin while Dark Sister swept toward his neck in a coordinated attack.
Daeron twisted desperately, taking the knee on his hip armor, but couldn't avoid Dark Sister entirely. The blade scored across his chest, parting the red and black steel like paper and drawing a line of fire across his ribs.
From the stands came a woman's sharp intake of breath—Daenerys, half-rising from her seat in alarm.
Daeron staggered backward, blood seeping through the rent in his armor. The wound wasn't deep, but it burned like dragonfire, and Daemon's triumphant smile made it clear he considered the point made.
"There," Daemon said with satisfaction. "Now we're having a proper conversation."
Daeron straightened, his stance was different. More dangerous. The restraint was gone, replaced by the killing instinct that had seen him through countless battles.
"Very well, Your Grace," Daeron said quietly. "Let's have that conversation."
Daemon's experience met Daeron's raw skill, and for several minutes, neither man could gain a decisive advantage. The crowd fell silent, sensing they were witnessing something extraordinary.
But gradually, inexorably, youth and strength began to tell. Daemon's breathing grew labored, his attacks a fraction slower. When Daeron's pommel strike caught him in the temple, the prince staggered and nearly fell.
Stormsong's point came to rest against Daemon's throat, steady as stone.
"Yield, Your Grace," Daeron said softly. "You've fought magnificently, but this is finished."
Daemon looked up at him for a long moment, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead. Then, impossibly, he smiled.
"Well fought, Northern," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "Well fought indeed."
As the crowd erupted in cheers, both men stood breathing heavily in the afternoon sun.
"This conversation isn't finished," Daemon said quietly as squires approached to tend his wounds.
"I wouldn't expect it to be," Daeron replied.
The melee was over. But Daeron knew that Daemon's suspicions remained, simmering beneath the surface like dragonfire waiting to erupt. The prince might not know the truth, but he was far too clever to stop digging for it.
And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous outcome of all. Daeron knew Daemon saw him as a threat, and Daeron wondered how long before he decided that he was too dangerous to be left alive.
The Royal Chambers
The solar adjoining the royal chambers had been hastily converted into a war room of sorts, with Grand Maester Mellos standing before an assembly of the realm's most powerful figures. King Viserys sat heavily in his chair, his bandaged hand resting on the armrest, while the stress of the day's events etched new lines around his eyes. To his right, Queen Alicent clutched a bloodstained piece of green fabric—all that remained of her brother's surcoat.
Lord Corlys and Lady Rhaenys flanked their wounded son Laenor, whose left arm hung in a silk sling. The young lord's face was pale but set with grim determination, his violet eyes holding a cold fire that spoke of unfinished business.
Princess Rhaenyra stood near her father, a small smile forming on her lips.
"Your Grace," Mellos began, his chain of office clinking softly as he bowed. "I have attended to all the wounded from today's melee. The casualties are... significant."
"Speak plainly, Mellos," Viserys commanded, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "How many dead?"
"Three confirmed deaths, Your Grace. Ser Gwayne Hightower, Ser Willem Frey, and Ser Joffrey Lonmouth from yesterday's fighting. Several others may yet succumb to their wounds."
A sob escaped Queen Alicent's lips at the mention of her brother's name. She pressed the bloodied fabric to her face, her shoulders shaking with grief.
"And what about my son?" Rhaenys asked, her hand resting protectively on Laenor's good shoulder.
"Lord Laenor's shoulder was dislocated and the bone cracked, but it will heal properly with rest," Mellos reported. "He'll need to keep the arm immobilized for several weeks, but there should be no lasting damage."
Corlys nodded grimly. His son was alive, which was more than he'd dared hope after watching that brutal confrontation with Ser Criston.
"What about my brother?" The King asked, thought he didn't sound worried.
"Prince Daemon suffered a concussion and several deep cuts, but nothing that won't heal," the maester continued. "He's already demanding to be released from the infirmary, claiming he has 'better things to do than lie about like an invalid.'"
Despite the circumstances, Viserys almost smiled at that. His brother's stubbornness was as legendary as his sword skill.
"What of Ser Criston?" Alicent asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Mellos hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "Ser Criston Cole's injuries are... severe, Your Grace. The Valyrian steel blade penetrated deep into his abdomen, missing vital organs. He's lost a great deal of blood, and infection is a serious concern."
"Will he live?" Viserys demanded.
"I cannot say with certainty, Your Grace. The next few days will be critical. If fever doesn't take him, he may survive, though he'll never fight at full strength again."
The room fell silent. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard lay dying from wounds inflicted in what was supposed to be sport.
"And Ser Daeron?" Rhaenyra asked, unable to keep the concern from her voice.
"Ser Daeron will recover fully," Mellos replied. "Prince Daemon's blade left a significant cut across his chest, but it avoided major vessels. He'll bear a scar, but nothing more serious."
"A scar he earned by murdering my brother!" Alicent exploded, rising from her chair with fury blazing in her eyes. "Gwayne was defending himself, and that northern savage cut his throat like a butcher!"
All eyes turned to King Viserys, whose expression had grown dangerously cold.
"I demand justice," Alicent continued, her voice breaking with grief and rage. "I demand that this... this man be arrested and executed for the murder of a knight of the realm!"
"Murder?" Viserys's voice was deceptively quiet, a warning sign that those who knew him recognized. "In a melee? Where the express purpose is armed combat between warriors?"
"It was murder, not combat!" Alicent insisted, tears streaming down her face. "Gwayne was defending himself, and Daeron struck him down like—"
"Like Ser Criston struck down Ser Joffrey?" Laenor interrupted, his voice carrying a bitter edge. "Or was that just sport, Your Grace?"
Alicent's face flushed red, but before she could respond, Viserys spoke.
"Lord Laenor speaks truly," the king said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "If we are to call Ser Daeron's actions murder, then we must apply the same standard to every death in that melee that ever existed. Ser Criston killed Joffrey Lonmouth. Ser Harwin killed Ser Willem Frey by punching his face with his gloved hand."
Corlys nodded grimly. "Melees are not courtly dances, Your Grace. Men die. It's the nature of the thing."
"This is different!" Alicent protested. "Gwayne was—"
"Was armed, armored, and engaged in single combat with a man who was defending himself," Viserys cut her off. "Whatever your grief, wife, it does not change the facts. Your brother entered that field knowing the risks."
"So we're to do nothing?" Alicent's voice cracked with pain. "My brother lies dead, and his killer walks free?"
"His killer won a melee in front of half the realm," Viserys replied firmly. "If you demand Ser Daeron's head for that, then you must also demand Ser Criston's for what he did to Ser Joffrey. And Ser Harwin's. And every other man who ever drew blood from a Meele."
"I want justice for my brother," Alicent said quietly, deflated by the king's logic but no less grieved.
"Your brother has justice," Viserys replied, his tone gentling slightly. "He died as a knight should—sword in hand, facing a worthy opponent. There is honor in that death, Alicent. Do not cheapen it by crying murder where none exists."
The queen sank back into her chair, clutching the bloodied fabric as tears continued to flow.
"The melee is ended," Viserys declared. "The tournament continues tomorrow with the joust. Tonight, we mourn our dead and tend our wounded. And we remember that the price of glory is often paid in blood."
Alicent remained numb, but in her heart, she knew what it was. The Bastard with purple eyes had killed her brother, and House Hightower never forgave, and would never forgive Daeron until his body was feast for worms.
Criston Cole - Night
Ser Criston Cole drifted in and out of fevered consciousness, the milk of the poppy providing only intermittent relief from the fire that burned in his gut. The wound Daeron's Valyrian steel had carved through his abdomen pulsed with each heartbeat, a constant reminder of his mortality. For a man who had built his identity on physical prowess and martial dominance, lying helpless in a sickbed felt like a foretaste of the seven hells.
So this is how it ends, he thought bitterly, staring at the stone ceiling of the infirmary. Not in glorious battle against the realm's enemies, but gutted by some northern man in a tournament melee.
The irony wasn't lost on him. He had killed Joffrey Lonmouth with such ease, such casual brutality, reveling in the young knight's helplessness. Now he lay as vulnerable as his victim had been, dependent on others for his very survival.
His mind wandered through the haze of pain and potions to the choices that had brought him here. Joining the Kingsguard at Rhaenyra's request—the first mistake. Believing her promises of love and devotion—the second. Asking her to flee with him to Essos, to abandon everything for a life together—the greatest folly of all.
I should have known better, he reflected, his breathing shallow and labored. Princesses don't marry Dornish knights, no matter how skilled with a blade. They use them, discard them, and move on to more suitable matches.
The sound of soft footsteps in the corridor beyond his door pulled him from his bitter reverie. Probably another maester coming to check his bandages or adjust his dosage. The Red Keep never truly slept, and the infirmary saw a steady stream of visitors throughout the night.
But these footsteps paused outside his door, lingering longer than a casual passerby would. Criston tried to turn his head, but even that small movement sent fresh waves of agony through his torn abdomen.
The door opened with barely a whisper of sound, and a cloaked figure stepped into the chamber. In the dim light of the single candle burning on the bedside table, Criston could make out little detail—someone of medium height wearing a dark hooded cloak that concealed their features entirely.
A maester? No, the robes are wrong. Alarm bells began to ring in Criston's mind, but his body refused to respond. The wound had left him weak as a newborn kitten, barely able to lift his head, much less defend himself and the Milk of the Poppy made his head swim.
The figure approached slowly, their footsteps silent on the stone floor. As they drew closer, candlelight caught the gleam of steel—a knife, held low and ready.
"Who—" Criston tried to speak, but his voice came out as barely a whisper, his throat dry from the fever and pain.
The hooded figure stopped beside his bed, and for a moment, they simply stood there in silence. Then a familiar voice spoke, cold as winter ice.
"I told you that you would die before this week was done."
Laenor Velaryon. Recognition hit Criston. The grieving lover, come to claim his pound of flesh. Criston tried to move, to call out, but his body betrayed him completely.
"Joffrey sends his regards," Laenor said quietly, raising the knife.
In his final moments, Criston's thoughts turned not to prayers or pleas for mercy, but to regret.
I could have been different, he realized with crystal clarity. I could have served with honor, protected the royal family without bitterness, found contentment in duty rather than nursing wounded pride.
But it was too late for such revelations. Ser Criston Cole, the Kingmaker who would never make a king, felt the cold steel part his throat like silk.
The blade bit deep across his throat, parting flesh like a razor through silk. Criston felt the sharp, burning line of steel as it opened his neck from ear to ear—not the crushing impact of a morning star or the thrusting agony of a sword point, but a precise, almost surgical slice that severed everything vital in its path.
Blood flooded his throat immediately, hot and copper-tasting, drowning any attempt to cry out. The sensation was bizarre—not the explosive pain he expected, but a spreading numbness accompanied by the horrible awareness that his life was pouring out onto the pillow beneath his head. Each heartbeat sent fresh gouts of crimson across the white linen, and he could feel his strength ebbing like tide from a broken seawall.
His last thought was of Rhaenyra—not the princess who had rejected him, but the laughing girl who had once convinced her father to grant a young knight's impossible dream. In the end, perhaps that memory was mercy enough.
The candle flickered once, casting dancing shadows on the walls, then burned steadily on as the footsteps retreated into the night, leaving only silence and the debt of blood finally paid. Alicent Hightower
Queen Alicent Hightower sat curled in the window seat of her chambers, her knees drawn up beneath her green silk gown like a child seeking comfort. The afternoon light streaming through the diamond-paned glass did nothing to warm the ice that had settled in her bones since watching her brother's blood pool on the tournament field. Her hands clutched a piece of torn fabric—all that remained of Gwayne's surcoat after the maesters had cut it away.
My little brother, she thought, pressing the bloodstained silk to her cheek. Who used to steal honey cakes from the kitchens and blame the servants. Who practiced his swordwork until his hands bled because he wanted to be worthy of our name.
The tears came fresh again, silent streams that she no longer bothered to wipe away. Let them fall. Let the world see what grief looked like on a queen's face.
"Alicent." Ser Gerold Hightower's voice was gentle as he approached, his heavy boots muffled against the thick Myrish carpet. "You shouldn't torment yourself like this."
She looked up at him through her tears, seeing echoes of Gwayne in the sharp angles of his face. All Hightowers bore that look—the aristocratic features that marked them as descendants of the Reach's nobility, bred for politics and ambition rather than the raw power of dragons.
"How can I not?" she whispered, her voice hoarse from crying. "He was barely past his twentieth name day, Gerold. He had his whole life ahead of him, and that northern savage cut him down like he was nothing more than—"
"Hush." Gerold settled beside her on the wide stone ledge, his arm coming around her shoulders in the same protective gesture he'd used when she had told him for the first time that their father would take her to King's Landing. "Gwayne died as a knight should—sword in hand, facing his enemy. There's honor in that."
"Honor?" Alicent's laugh was bitter as wormwood. "What honor is there in being murdered by some bastard pretending at nobility? You saw how he fought—like he was born with steel in his hands. No mere sellsword fights like that."
There's something wrong about Daeron and his wife, she thought, her grief sharpening into focused anger. Father was right to be suspicious. No one appears from nowhere with such skills, such confidence. They're playing a game, and my brother paid the price for their ambitions.
"You think he targeted Gwayne deliberately?" Gerold asked, his own voice hardening slightly.
"I know he did." Alicent wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to compose herself. "The way he moved in that melee. He was in control of what he was doing, he could have chosen to not do it, he had already won against Ser Criston, he was in no danger. And when Gwayne tried to help Ser Criston..." She shuddered. "It was like watching a wolf among sheep."
The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside made them both turn toward the door. Alicent recognized that particular cadence.
"Father," she called out before he could knock.
Otto Hightower entered without ceremony, his expression grave as he took in the scene before him. Despite being past his sixtieth year, the Hand of the King still carried himself with the bearing of a man accustomed to command.
"Daughter." His voice was gentler than usual as he approached, though his face remained carefully controlled. "Son." He nodded to Gerold before his gaze returned to Alicent. "How are you bearing up?"
"How do you think?" Alicent's composure cracked again, fresh tears spilling over. "My brother is dead, and his killer walks free. He needs to pay, Father. He needs to pay for what he's done."
Make it right, she pleaded silently. You've always known how to make things right. Show, that House Hightower doesn't simply swallow insults we show them that we make people pay the worst price their life.
Otto's jaw tightened, but his voice remained level. "And what would you have me do, exactly? Challenge the king's justice? Viserys has already ruled that no crime was committed."
"Then we make our own justice," Gerold interjected, his hand moving instinctively to his sword hilt. "I can challenge this Daeron to single combat.I hear he is all about honor he will not reject me father and I will avenge my brother.
"No." Otto's refusal was immediate and absolute. "Absolutely not."
"Father—" Alicent started, but Otto cut her off with a sharp gesture.
"Do you want me to lose another son?" Otto turned to face Gerold fully, his expression stern. "Because that's exactly what will happen if you face that man savage. I watched him fight. We all did. He carved through seasoned knights like they were training dummies."
He's right, Alicent realized with a fresh stab of anguish. you are strong and fast brother but even if you can defeat him I would never take chances with my only brother. And Daeron... there was something almost inhuman about the way he moved. Like death itself had taken the shape of a man.
"Then what?" Gerold's voice carried frustrated anger. "We simply accept Gwayne's murder and move on? What manner of men does that make us?"
"It makes us living men," Otto replied coldly. "Which is preferable to dead heroes, I assure you. This Daeron has proven he can best any knight in single combat. But combat isn't the only field of battle."
Otto tapped his temple with one long finger, his smile sharp as a blade. "What good is strength when your enemies have what truly matters up here? Swords can kill a man, but the right words can destroy entire houses."
Alicent leaned forward, her grief beginning to transform into something harder and more focused. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that our mysterious Northern has made several very dangerous enemies today," Otto said, settling into the chair across from them with the satisfied air of a chess master contemplating his next move. "He has allies like Lord Corlys who Daeron saved his son kind of at least that is how he saw it and also he has princess Rhaenyra but I can turn tables around for him. Lord Corlys and the princess alone can't save him."
Yes, Alicent thought, her mind beginning to work along the same lines as her father's. Turn them all against him. Make him see what it costs to spill Hightower blood.
"I want him to suffer. I want him to know fear the way Gwayne knew fear in his final moments. I want to hear him scream and beg for his life."
The venom in her own voice surprised her. But grief had burned away those careful restraints, leaving something rawer and more dangerous in their place.
Otto studied her for a long moment.
"Your anger is justified, but you need to focus my daughter that's all I ask from you. Daeron has supporters—powerful ones. The king himself seems taken with the man, and Princess Rhaenyra..." He paused meaningfully. "Well, let's say her interest appears to extend beyond mere courtesy."
"Then how?" Alicent demanded. "How do we make him pay?"
"Patience," Otto replied. "And careful planning. There are pieces, we just need to find them and simply need to guide them to the proper conclusion." His green eyes glittered with cold intelligence. "But I need both of you to swear to me that you'll do nothing rash. No challenges, no public accusations, no midnight attempts at revenge. Our enemies are watching for exactly such mistakes."
He's treating this like one of his political campaigns, Alicent realized. this should comfort me, but all I want is to see that bastard's blood on the stones.
"I want justice for Gwayne," she said, her voice steady despite the fire burning in her chest. "Whatever it takes."
"Justice will come," Otto promised, rising from his chair. "But it will come on our terms, in our time, and in such a way that no one can question our righteousness." He moved toward the door, then paused to look back at them. "House Hightower has survived and thrived for centuries because we understand that the mind is mightier than the sword. Daeron will learn that lesson."
After he left, Alicent remained in the window seat, her brother's arm still around her shoulders. The anger Otto had awakened still burned in her chest, but it was controlled now, focused.
Gwayne, she thought, pressing her brother's bloodstained fabric to her heart. I swear by the Seven, by the memory of our mother, by everything we held dear—your death will not go unavenged. That northern savage may have won today, but he has no idea what he's truly awakened.
.
.
The Great Sept had never felt more suffocating. Hundreds of candles flickered in the sacred space, their light dancing across the seven-pointed stars carved into every surface, but the warmth they provided seemed to stop short of the assembled mourners.
Ser Gwayne Hightower's body had been dressed in his finest armor—polished steel that bore no trace of yesterday's blood, the green and gold of his house displayed prominently across his chest. His hands were folded over his sword, and someone had arranged his auburn hair to hide the terrible wound that had ended his life. He looked peaceful, almost serene, but the illusion couldn't hide what everyone in attendance knew: this was a young man cut down in his prime.
King Viserys stood at the front of the assembly, his crown heavy on his brow and his bandaged hand carefully concealed within his robes. This was his wife's brother, and as a loving husband, he needed to be there for during such dark hours.
"We gather today," the High Septon intoned, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling, "to commend the soul of Ser Gwayne Hightower to the Seven's eternal care. He was a knight of honor, a son of the Faith, a brother beloved..."
Behind the king, Lords of many great houses had gathered here, but Alicent was sure they weren't here to grieve, no, they had never known him, so why would they care, instead, this was a chance to talk with important people of the Realm. Nothing more. There was no sadness in their eyes.
Lord Corlys Velaryon stood near the King, his weathered face betraying nothing as his violet eyes surveyed the crowd. Beside him, Lady Rhaenys maintained the composure expected of her station, though her frequent glances toward her son spoke of deeper concerns.
Laenor Velaryon swayed slightly where he stood, the sharp scent of wine rising from his disheveled form like incense. His silver hair hung lank and unwashed, his usually immaculate court attire wrinkled and stained. When he shifted his weight, the movement was too loose, too uncontrolled.
Princess Rhaenyra stood two paces away from her betrothed, her violet eyes flashing with disgust. The distance between them might as well have been a chasm.
Near the front of the sept, Queen Alicent clutched young Prince Aegon's hand with white-knuckled intensity. Tears streamed down her face in an endless river, but she held herself upright through sheer force of will. Her other children flanked her—Princess Helaena staring at the candle flames like they were interesting fire flies, while Prince Aemond fidgeted restlessly.
The High Septon continued his sermon, speaking of honor and duty, of the warrior's path and the rewards that awaited the faithful in the Seven's embrace. The words washed over the assembled mourners like waves against stone, offering little comfort but fulfilling the necessary forms.
"Mother," Princess Helaena whispered, her young voice cutting through the holy man's droning, "why don't they call the dragon to burn him?"
"Hush, my love," Alicent whispered back.
"But I wanted to see Silverwing, again." She insisted, but a look from Alicent made the little girl close her mouth, and look at her nearest brother, Aegon, a look that asked the same question, but Aegon merely shrugged his shoulders.
But her daughter's words had sparked something in her grief-addled mind. Dragons. The missing dragons. The mysterious couple of savages who had appeared just as Silverwing and Vermithor had disappeared from Dragonstone.
The idea struck her like lightning. What if Daemon's suspicions were correct? During the Meele the Prince had claimed that Daeron had stolen either Vermithor or Silverwing, at least that's what Alicent was told later by a servant. What if Vermithor and Silverwing were indeed stolen by Daeron and his whore wife? The thought should have terrified her, but instead, it filled her with a cold satisfaction. Dragons or no dragons, accusations alone might be enough to destroy them.
"—and so we commit his body to the earth," the High Septon concluded, "secure in the knowledge that his soul has found peace in the Seven's embrace."
As the ceremony drew to a close, the assembled mourners began to shift and murmur among themselves.
Lord Beesbury leaned close to Lord Caswell, his whisper carrying despite his attempt at discretion. "Tragic business. The queen will want satisfaction, mark my words."
"She already demanded it from the king," came the reply. "Viserys refused. Called it the fortune of battle."
"The fortune of battle," Otto Hightower repeated coldly, having overheard the exchange. His green eyes remained fixed on the altar, but his voice carried the sharp edge of winter steel. "Yes, fortune indeed. Some seem to have rather more of it than others."
As the royal family began their procession from the sept, Laenor stumbled slightly, catching himself against a pillar with an audible grunt. The sound echoed embarrassingly in the sacred space.
"Seven hells," Princess Rhaenyra muttered under her breath, her cheeks flushing with mortification. "Can he not maintain even the pretense of sobriety at least when he is close to me?"
Alicent heard Prince Daemon say something to the Princess, and the latter giggled slightly.
As the mourners filed out into the afternoon sun, Queen Alicent remained beside her brother's bier for a moment longer, her mind thinking of new ways to destroy Daeron and his whore wife. Dragons. Mystery riders.
"Rest well, sweet brother," she whispered to Gwayne's still form. "Your death will not be in vain."
Rhaenyra Targaryen
The godswood of the Red Keep offered little in the way of true wilderness—a few ancient oaks and a modest heart tree surrounded by manicured paths—but it provided the privacy Princess Rhaenyra needed after the suffocating atmosphere of Gwayne's funeral.
She hadn't expected to find Daemon lounging against the heart tree as he cleaned his fingernails with a small knife. But then again, her uncle had always possessed an uncanny ability to appear exactly where he wasn't supposed to be.
"Following me now, Uncle?" she asked, settling onto the bench. "How... predictable."
"Following?" Daemon's violet eyes glittered with amusement as he sheathed the knife. "I was here first, dear niece. If anyone's doing the following, it's you."
"My apologies," she replied with mock contrition. "I didn't realize you'd claimed this particular patch of greenery as your brooding ground. Though I suppose you need somewhere quiet to nurse your wounded pride."
"Wounded pride?" Daemon pushed away from the tree with fluid grace, his eyebrow arching in that infuriating way that had always made her want to both slap him and kiss him. "Whatever could you mean?"
"Oh, I don't know." Rhaenyra's smile was sharp as a blade. "Perhaps the fact that you—the legendary Rogue Prince, wielder of Dark Sister, terror of the Stepstones—got beaten by some mysterious northern in front of half the Seven Kingdoms?"
Got you, she thought with satisfaction as she watched a muscle twitch in Daemon's jaw. For all your swagger and confidence, you're still just a man who doesn't like losing.
"I wasn't beaten," Daemon replied, settling beside her on the bench. "I was... temporarily outmaneuvered."
"Temporarily outmaneuvered? Uncle, he had Stormsong at your throat. You yielded. In front of everyone."
"The important thing," Daemon said through gritted teeth, "is that I learned something valuable about our mysterious Ser Daeron."
"Such as?" she asked, unable to keep the teasing lilt from her voice.
"Such as the fact that he's far more dangerous than he pretends to be," Daemon replied, his voice dropping to little more than a murmur. "Tell me, niece—did you hear about Ser Criston's unfortunate demise?"
The abrupt change of subject made her blink, but she recovered quickly. "Cole? Of course I heard. Someone cut his throat in the infirmary. Terribly tragic." Her smile suggested she found it anything but. "Though I can't say I'm particularly grief-stricken about it."
Good riddance, she thought privately. The man was a viper in white silk, and his obsession with me had grown tedious years ago.
"Indeed," Daemon's smile was sharp as a blade. "And who do you suppose might have wanted the good Ser Criston dead?"
"Any number of people," Rhaenyra replied without hesitation. "The man made enemies the way other men make water. But if I had to guess..." She paused, thinking of Laenor's rage-filled face during the melee, the way he'd screamed Cole's name like a curse. "Laenor. It's obvious, really. Cole killed his lover, Laenor wanted revenge."
"Perhaps," Daemon said slowly. "Or perhaps it was someone else entirely. Someone who had his own reasons for wanting Cole silenced permanently."
Something in his tone made her look at him more carefully. "You think Daeron killed Cole?"
"I think," Daemon said, "that our Northern has been very busy since arriving at court. And very successful at eliminating obstacles."
Rhaenyra felt a thrill run through her at the suggestion, though she tried to hide it behind a mask of skepticism. The idea of Daeron—strong, dangerous, magnificent Daeron—cutting Cole's throat in the darkness was... arousing in a way that probably said disturbing things about her nature.
"Even if that were true," she said carefully, "I fail to see why I should be troubled by it. Cole was no friend of mine, and if Daeron removed a threat..." She shrugged elegantly. "Well, perhaps such decisive action deserves a reward. For him and his lovely wife both."
The look Daemon shot her was positively venomous. "Careful, niece. Your appetites are showing."
"Are they?" She smiled innocently. "How shocking. A Targaryen with appetites. Whatever will people think?"
Let him stew in his jealousy, she thought with satisfaction. He's always assumed he was the only men I might desire. Time he learned otherwise.
"There's more," Daemon said, clearly struggling to regain control of the conversation. "The missing dragons from Dragonstone—Vermithor and Silverwing. I believe our mysterious guests have claimed them."
That gave her pause. "That's... that's quite an accusation, Uncle. Do you have proof?"
"Proof?" Daemon laughed bitterly. "What proof does one need beyond timing and opportunity? Two dragons disappear precisely when two mysterious Valyrians appear at court."
Rhaenyra considered this, weighing the implications. If Daeron and Daenerys truly commanded dragons... the thought was both thrilling and terrifying. "Even if you're right," she said slowly, "what of it? If they have Targaryen blood—which they clearly do, judging by their appearance—then they have as much right to dragons as anyone."
"As much right as you?" Daemon's voice was dangerously soft. "As much right as me? These are not just any dragons, Rhaenyra. Vermithor was the Bronze Fury, King Jaehaerys's mount. Silverwing bore Queen Alysanne. They are symbols of Targaryen power, not prizes for ambitious pretenders."
"Pretenders?" Rhaenyra laughed, genuinely amused now. "Uncle, I think your pride is showing. You proclaimed quite boldly that you would emerge victorious from the melee, didn't you? How did that work out for you?"
Daemon's face darkened. "This has nothing to do with—"
"Doesn't it?" She leaned forward, enjoying his discomfort. "You've spent years being Father's heir, then his brother the Rogue Prince, always the most dangerous man in any room. And now suddenly there's someone younger, stronger, more skilled with a blade. Someone who makes you look... ordinary."
The word hit him like a physical blow, she could see it in the way his entire body went rigid.
"I am many things, niece, but ordinary is not one of them."
"Perhaps not," she conceded with mock graciousness. "But you're also not the victor of the Grand Melee, are you? That honor belongs to Ser Daeron. Along with Father's favor, a knighthood, and..." She smiled wickedly. "The grateful attention of a certain princess."
Daemon stood abruptly, his hand moving instinctively toward Dark Sister's hilt before stopping. For a moment, she wondered if she'd pushed too far. But then his expression shifted, becoming coldly calculating rather than simply furious.
"Enjoy your northern wolf, dear niece," he said softly. "But remember—wolves may wear pretty faces and speak sweet words, but they never stop being predators. And when this one shows his true nature..." He smiled without warmth. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
As he disappeared into the shadows between the trees, Rhaenyra remained on the bench, her mind churning with possibilities. If Daemon was right about the dragons, it changed everything. But if he was simply a jealous man lashing out at his own defeat...
She found herself hoping it was the latter. The idea of Daeron commanding the Bronze Fury was intoxicating, but it also made him infinitely more dangerous than she'd realized. And she wasn't entirely certain she was ready for that level of danger.
Viserys Targaryen
King Viserys Targaryen sat heavily in his favorite chair by the fire, his crown resting on the side table like a golden paperweight that had suddenly become too heavy to bear. The afternoon light streaming through the tall windows of his chambers highlighted every line of exhaustion etched into his face, every gray hair that had sprouted since his wife's brother had decided to get himself killed in a tournament.
Gods, I'm tired, he thought, flexing his bandaged hand carefully. The amputation Mellos had performed that morning throbbed with each heartbeat, a constant reminder that he was quite literally falling apart piece by piece. When did kingship become such a bloody complicated affair? Grandfather never had to deal with grieving wives demanding executions for tournament deaths.
The soft rustle of silk announced Alicent's presence before she spoke. She glided into the chamber with a beauty that had first caught his attention all those years ago, but her usual serene composure was nowhere to be found. Her green eyes were red-rimmed from weeping, her auburn hair slightly disheveled despite her handmaidens' best efforts.
"Husband," she said, her voice carefully controlled despite the emotion threatening to spill over. "We need to speak."
Oh, wonderful, Viserys thought with weary resignation. Here comes the storm I've been dreading all day.
"Alicent," he replied gently, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Please, sit. You look exhausted."
"I am exhausted," she said, but remained standing, her hands clasped tightly before her. "Exhausted from grief. Exhausted from watching my brother's killer walk free or should i be precise lay in bed free. Exhausted from waiting for my husband—my king—to deliver the justice he swore to uphold."
Ah, there it is, Viserys thought, suppressing a sigh. The justice speech. I knew it was coming. At least she's being direct about it—I do appreciate when people skip the preamble and get straight to the demands.
"Alicent," he began carefully, "we've discussed this. What happened to Gwayne was tragic, but it wasn't murder. It was combat. Sanctioned combat in a royal tournament."
"Sanctioned murder, you mean," Alicent's voice cracked slightly. "That northern savage cut my brother's throat like he was slaughtering a pig. In what world is that justice?"