The morning light of King's Landing had barely pierced the cloud layer before the clamor of the tourney grounds burned it away.
Today, the Blackwater tourney grounds bore little resemblance to the raked sand of yesterday. The stands, stretching from the Red Keep to the banks of the Blackwater Rush, had been completely refurbished. The royal box in the front row was lined with silver fox fur cushions, and above it hung a massive silk canopy emblazoned with the three-headed red dragon on black. Golden bells sewn into the canopy's hem chimed softly in the morning breeze, sounding an overture for the fiftieth year of the King's reign.
The banners flanking the stands were so dense they seemed to blot out the sky:
The Direwolf of the North was heavy with dew, its claws gleaming coldly in the sun.
The Crowned Stag of the Stormlands billowed in the sea breeze, the gold thread of its antlers looking as if it would tear through the fabric.
The Golden Lion of the West and the Golden Rose of the Reach flew side by side, red-gold and green-gold interweaving, as if the heat of the Sunset Sea and the floral scent of the Mander had both been swept into the capital.
The lords had arrived even earlier than the day before.
On the western stands, Tymond Lannister sat with his red-and-gold armor reflecting the light, whispering to Lord Marbrand beside him. Marbrand's second son stood nearby, idly twirling a silver spoon, clearly still fixated on his match with Daemon Targaryen.
Mathos Tyrell, for once, was not late. The belt of his gold-and-green tunic was loosened half an inch, and his round face was full of unease. Beside him, Garlan Tyrell in silver-green armor quietly adjusted his father's collar, though his eyes drifted toward the Kingsguard. There stood Ryam Redwyne and Clement Crabb, their white cloaks shining like two drifts of snow in the morning light.
"They're coming! The Royal Procession!"
The crowd suddenly stirred. Following the pointing fingers, a clear horn blast echoed from the direction of the Red Keep. The Kingsguard rode white horses to clear the way, their white cloaks sweeping the cobblestones, the seven-pointed stars on their scabbards gleaming cold.
At the front was the carriage of King Jaehaerys I and Queen Alysanne.
The Old King wore a black robe embroidered with gold dragons, leaning on a ruby-encrusted scepter. His silver-white hair was bound by a golden crown. Though past seventy, his back remained as straight as a spear.
Queen Alysanne wore a white fox fur shawl, the hem of her pale gown embroidered with the silhouette of Silverwing. As she lifted the curtain, her gaze swept over her family in the stands, her eyes warm as melting honey.
Vaegon stood beside Baelon, his grey robes stained with a little ink, though his usual caustic expression was absent.
Viserys held Rhaenyra, with Aemma leaning against him. The little princess wore pale pink, clutching a seashell and looking curiously at the crowd.
Jocelyn held Rhaenys's hand, trailed by Laena and Laenor, the boy clutching a freshly picked golden rose as he skipped along.
"My children, my grandchildren..." Alysanne murmured, reaching out to clasp Jaehaerys's hand. Her voice held a barely perceptible tremor. "Fifty years. I never thought I would see so many of our kin gathered together again."
Jaehaerys patted her hand, his gaze drifting toward the Dragonpit. "It will only get better. Today is not just a celebration. It is a show for the entire Seven Kingdoms—that the blood of the Dragon has never broken."
Just as the carriage stopped before the royal box, a deafening roar tore through the sky. It wasn't the savage shriek of The Cannibal, but a deep, resonant thunder filled with majestic weight.
Everyone looked up. A bronze shadow flew from the Dragonpit. When its wings unfurled, they blotted out the sun like storm clouds. It was Vermithor, the Bronze Fury!
The Old King smiled and stood. With the help of his squires, he slowly climbed onto the dragon's saddle. His movements were slow but steady. Vermithor lowered his massive head docilely, allowing his rider to settle onto his neck. The bronze scales shimmered with an ancient luster in the morning light.
"Silverwing! The Queen's Silverwing!"
Another cheer erupted as a silver-grey shadow followed Vermithor. Queen Alysanne ascended to the dragon's back, lifting her skirt gracefully as she settled into the saddle. Silverwing's wings beat gently, the wind rustling the cloaks of the lords below. Her movements were elegant, unlike the other dragons—more like a flowing cloud as she hovered beside Vermithor.
Next came Prince Baelon on Vhagar. The green dragon's wingspan was even wider than Vermithor's. Her ancient scales bore the scars of a hundred battles, yet her majesty was undimmed. Baelon, in dark grey scale armor, held his sword and nodded to the lords below. Vhagar let out a low rumble, a sound filled with regal arrogance—this beast, who had seen the Conquest, was declaring the authority of House Targaryen.
"Look there! The Blood Wyrm!"
Daemon Targaryen appeared on the back of the scarlet dragon. Caraxes moved like a meteor, his red scales looking like burning blood in the sun. He circled above the stands, deliberately blowing a puff of steam toward the Westerlands section, causing the Marbrand boy to cheer wildly.
Rhaenys, having bid farewell to her mother, arrived on Meleys. The Red Queen's scarlet scales looked tempered in fire. Rhaenys wore black-and-red riding leathers, gripping the saddle tight. Laena and Laenor sat behind her, waving excitedly as Meleys swooped low over the stands, causing the Velaryon household guard to bow in unison.
Daemon stood at the edge of the royal box holding Rhaenyra. Gael had already arrived on Dreamfyre, the pale blue dragon glowing softly. Wearing her pale blue rose cloak, Gael waved to him. "Come on up! The Cannibal and Grey Ghost are waiting!"
Daemon smiled, handed Rhaenyra to Jocelyn, and vaulted onto The Cannibal. The black dragon let out a low growl, his obsidian scales gleaming coldly. Grey Ghost followed beside him, his pale grey form sticking close like a shadow, occasionally nuzzling The Cannibal's claws.
At this moment, eight dragons gathered in the skies above King's Landing:
Vermithor (Bronze), Silverwing (Silver-grey), Vhagar (Green), Caraxes (Scarlet), Meleys (Red), The Cannibal (Black), Dreamfyre (Pale Blue), and Grey Ghost (Pale Grey).
The sound of their wings drowned out all noise. Their roars echoed through the clouds, causing the smallfolk below to fall to their knees in worship. Even the lords in the stands stood up, their eyes filled with awe.
"Westeros... has never seen so many dragons together," Lord Ellard Stark murmured. William Dustin pushed his wheelchair, his eyes locked on the sky. "In the legends of the North, only the Age of Heroes saw such sights."
Boremund Baratheon slapped Brandon Stark on the back, his voice thick with emotion. "Look at The Cannibal! That black dragon's presence... it rivals Balerion in his prime!" Brandon nodded vigorously, gripping his axe until his knuckles turned white, wishing he could challenge Daemon right then and there.
The dragons began to circle the tourney grounds.
Vermithor and Silverwing flew at the front, like protective elders.
Vhagar and Meleys followed, green and red intertwining.
Caraxes and Dreamfyre chased each other's shadows, scarlet and blue breath condensing into mist.
The Cannibal and Grey Ghost swooped low over the lords' stands. The black dragon's breath hit the sand, hissing as it superheated the grains. Grey Ghost chirped twice at Jeyne in the stands, making the little girl clap and laugh.
Queen Alysanne sat on Silverwing, looking down at her reunited family and the circling dragons. Suddenly, her eyes reddened.
She remembered riding across the Seven Kingdoms with Jaehaerys in their youth. She remembered the children they had lost. Now, seeing the living, seeing so many dragons, she felt that fifty years of storms were worth it.
"It is time. Let us land," Jaehaerys's voice carried on the wind.
Vermithor dove first, landing steadily in the center of the tourney grounds. Bronze claws gently pawed the sand, laying the foundation for the celebration.
The other dragons landed in turn, forming a massive circle around the perimeter. With their wings unfurled, they looked like a wall of living scales, plunging King's Landing into a brief, reverent silence—broken only by the white steam of dragon breath rising into the morning light.
The royals dismounted. Jaehaerys walked to the raised platform in the center. He tapped his scepter against the wood, his voice amplified by the wind.
"Fifty years ago, when I took the Iron Throne, Westeros was struggling in the chaos of war. Fifty years later, we have peace. We have unity. We have this family, and these dragons."
He paused, looking at the lords. "Today's tourney is not to boast of strength, but to commemorate this peace. To let the Seven Kingdoms know: as long as we are of one heart, there is no obstacle we cannot overcome."
Alysanne walked to his side, taking his hand. Her voice was gentle but firm. "My greatest pride is not having so many dragons, but that my family is here, and the people of the Seven Kingdoms are safe."
Her gaze fell on Rhaenyra, who was being held by Viserys and waving at Grey Ghost. "This is our great-granddaughter. She is the future of House Targaryen, and the future of the realm."
The lords bowed. Tymond Lannister was the first to shout, "For the King! For the Queen! For the peace of the Seven Kingdoms!"
The sound rolled out like thunder. Ellard of the North, Boremund of the Stormlands, Mathos of the Reach—all joined the chorus. The cheers shook the banners of the tourney grounds.
Jaehaerys smiled and raised a hand for silence. "Let the Grand Tourney begin! The first event: the Joust. Today's champion shall be named 'First Lance of the Seven Kingdoms' and will receive a Valyrian steel dagger from my own hand!"
As he spoke, movement came from the Kingsguard. Ser Ryam Redwyne and Ser Clement Crabb mounted their horses simultaneously.
Ryam wore his white cloak, his lance gleaming silver.
Clement held an oak lance, the tip wrapped in red cloth.
The two knights locked eyes, and both saw the fire of battle.
"Ser Ryam! Ser Clement!" Borros Baratheon shouted. "Make it a good fight! Don't let us down!"
Brandon joined the heckling, waving his axe. "Whoever wins gets Northern ale on me!"
Daemon stood beside Gael, watching the confrontation. The three-headed dragon brand on his shoulder burned.
He knew this duel would become a legend of Westeros. Thirty broken lances, a draw with no loser—glory belonging to both knights.
Gael tugged his cloak, her violet eyes shining. "Who do you think will win? I saw Ser Ryam ride when I was little; he's fast and precise. But Ser Clement isn't bad either. Rupert says when he was a squire in the Vale, he unhorsed three mountain clansmen with one lance."
"Perhaps," Daemon smiled, shaking his head, "there will be no loser."
He glanced at the dragons nearby. The Cannibal lay on the ground with Grey Ghost nestled against him. Dreamfyre preened her wings elegantly. In the distance, Vermithor and Silverwing leaned against each other. Vhagar dozed. Caraxes and Meleys chased each other over the sands like flowing fire.
Queen Alysanne walked to Jocelyn, looking at the dragons and the lively scene. She laughed. "Look. This is what House Targaryen should look like. Dragons. Family. Peace."
Jocelyn nodded, her gaze warm on Daemon. "Yes. Perhaps this is the future Aemon and I wanted."
The tourney horn blew again. Ryam Redwyne and Clement Crabb's warhorses reared simultaneously, lances leveling at one another.
Sunlight bathed them in glory, reflecting off white cloaks and grey armor. The lords held their breath, waiting for the first crack of wood against steel.
Daemon held Rhaenyra (whom he had retrieved), with Gael leaning against him. Jocelyn and Rhaenys stood nearby. Laena and Laenor hung over the railing. Everyone's eyes were focused on the center of the grounds.
This celebration of Jaehaerys's fifty-year reign, this gathering of dragons and knights, had finally begun in the cold light of the lance.