The cold morning light shimmered off the tourney sands. When the warhorses of Ryam Redwyne and Clement Crabb reared simultaneously, the entire arena seemed to stop breathing. Even Grey Ghost, circling overhead, forgot to flap his wings, tilting his head to watch with curious golden eyes.
Ser Ryam's white cloak unfurled in the wind like a drift of snow. The tip of his silver lance gleamed sharply. Beneath him, a white stallion—the finest breed from the Arbor—pawed the gravel restlessly, its mane oiled to a sheen, its breath mingling with the morning dew to form a fine mist.
Ser Clement rode a sorrel destrier. His oak lance was wrapped in worn red cloth, a memento from a rebellion he had quelled in the Vale years ago. The scratches on his grey armor seemed to hold the dust of past battles, yet they did nothing to diminish the steady strength of his grip.
"Your instruction, ser."
Both knights spoke at nearly the same instant. Their voices carried on the wind to the stands, filled with the quiet composure unique to veteran knights.
Ryam nodded slightly, dipping his silver lance toward the ground. Clement placed a hand over his breastplate—a traditional salute of Oldtown knights that drew polite applause from the House Oakheart delegation in the stands.
The horn blew again. Like arrows loosed from a bow, the two horses charged!
Ryam's silver lance was a bolt of lightning, aiming straight for Clement's pauldron. The speed brought the Marbrand boy in the Westerlands stands to his feet, forgetting to twirl his silver spoon.
But Clement was equally seasoned. He twisted his body sharply, his oak lance striking the side of Ryam's silver shaft with precision. CLANG! The crisp sound vibrated against eardrums. The two lances scraped past armor, kicking up sand that spattered against the horses' bellies, causing the steeds to whinny.
"Good!" Borros Baratheon's booming voice was the first to explode. He slammed his hand on the wooden railing, spinning his axe. "Old Clement didn't disappoint!"
Brandon Stark frowned, forgetting to bite into his oatcake. "Show some respect. What do you know? Ser Ryam held back! If that thrust had been half a breath faster, Clement would be in the dirt. And since when are you so familiar with him?"
The two immediately started arguing. Borros called Brandon a "Northern savage who knows nothing of lances," while Brandon called Borros a "Stormlands brute who only knows how to shout." It took a honey cake from Jocelyn to shut them both up.
Of course, the stern glares from Lord Boremund Baratheon and Lord Ellard Stark also helped.
Daemon Targaryen stood apart from Daemon Blackfyre's group, leaning alone against the railing. He shook his wine flask incessantly, oblivious to the drops spilling onto his gold cloak, his eyes locked on the arena. "Faster! Harder! That is a joust!"
Gael rolled her eyes and snatched the flask from him. "Drink your wine! You'll be too drunk to know who won."
Mysaria nodded, offering the box of honey cakes to Rhaenyra. "Princess, don't learn from your Uncle Daemon. Sweets are much better."
Rhaenyra shook her head, leaning back in Daemon Blackfyre's arms. She pointed a tiny hand toward the lists, babbling something that sounded like, "Lance! Lance!" causing Viserys and Aemma to laugh helplessly.
Round Two.
Ryam took a new silver lance from a squire, the shaft carved with the grapevines of the Arbor. This time, he didn't rush. His white stallion trotted in intricate patterns, circling Clement, the silver lance tracing arcs in the air as if searching for a weakness.
Clement remained immovable. His oak lance stayed leveled at Ryam's chest. His grey armor gleamed in the sun, and his breathing remained even—a skill honed from fighting wildlings in Crackclaw Point since childhood. The more urgent the situation, the calmer one must be.
Suddenly, Ryam's horse accelerated! The silver lance swept low toward the legs of Clement's mount. The move was a blur, causing Tymond Lannister to lean forward in the Westerlands box.
But Clement was ready. He yanked the reins, his horse rearing up on hind legs. He thrust his oak lance upward, catching the shaft of the silver lance perfectly.
CRACK!
The silver lance snapped in the middle, sending splinters flying. Ryam used the recoil to vault from his saddle, landing steadily on his feet, half a lance shaft still in his hand. He bowed to Clement. "Old friend. Good moves."
Clement dismounted and handed over his oak lance. "Your speed remains rare in the Seven Kingdoms."
They smiled at each other, devoid of hostility, like old friends sparring.
The lords in the stands applauded wildly. Queen Alysanne squeezed Jaehaerys's hand, tears in her eyes. "It's just like when Aemon and Baelon used to joust. They were like this too. Never angry in defeat."
Jaehaerys patted her hand, his voice warm. "Yes. This is what knights should be."
The contest turned into a "Lance-Breaking Festival."
Ryam broke silver lance after silver lance, each carved with a different sigil—Arbor grapes, Redwyne ships, even the flowers of the Reach.
Clement's oak lances snapped one by one. Every time he took a new one, he touched the red cloth on the shaft, as if saluting his past self.
By the twentieth round, twenty broken lances littered the sand. Some tips were embedded in the wooden barriers; others were batted around playfully by Grey Ghost, making Jeyne clap and laugh. "Little Dragon likes the joust too!"
Daemon stood at the edge of the royal box. The three-headed dragon brand on his shoulder burned.
He could feel The Cannibal's emotions. The black dragon lay at the edge of the grounds, obsidian eyes fixed on the center, breath steaming with heat. To outsiders, it looked like the dragon was cheering; Daemon knew the beast was urging him to join the fight.
Dreamfyre walked elegantly to The Cannibal, her pale blue wing brushing against the black dragon's side as if to say, Calm down.
Vhagar and Vermithor raised their heads, letting out low, approving rumbles.
Round Thirty.
Ryam took a silver lance encrusted with sapphires—a Redwyne heirloom.
Clement picked up his final oak lance, the wood grain clear and distinct, chosen by his own hand.
They mounted again. No flourishes this time. They simply bowed deeply to one another. The arena fell silent. Even the flapping of banners seemed loud. The lords held their breath.
The horn blew. The horses charged!
Ryam's silver lance aimed for Clement's chest, the tip whistling through the air.
Clement's oak lance targeted Ryam's pauldron, steady as a mountain.
CLANG—CRACK!
Both lances shattered simultaneously. The sapphire from the silver lance fell into the sand, rolling to Grey Ghost's feet; the dragon batted it curiously.
The red cloth from the oak lance was caught by the wind, drifting into the stands and landing right in front of Jeyne. The little girl grabbed it, waving it excitedly. "Little Daemon! Look!"
The horses thundered past each other. Ryam and Clement dismounted in unison, each holding half a broken shaft. Neither had fallen.
Silence held the arena for a heartbeat, then shattered into deafening cheers!
Borros jumped up, forgetting his axe on the ground, shouting, "A draw! It must be a draw!"
Brandon clapped, yelling, "Now that is glorious!"
Daemon Targaryen snatched the flask back from Gael and downed a huge gulp, wine running down his chin onto his gold cloak. "Satisfying! A hundred times better than shopping with Lysa!"
King Jaehaerys stood. He tapped his scepter against the railing, and silence returned instantly.
The Old King looked at Ryam and Clement, then at the cheering lords. His voice carried across the field.
"Ser Ryam Redwyne! Ser Clement Crabb! Thirty lances broken, and no victor found! Today, I declare: You are both Champions of the Joust!"
As he finished, Vermithor let out a roar, his bronze wings beating the air, sending the splinters on the sand flying.
Silverwing joined in, her silver-grey breath forming a mist like a coronation shroud for the two knights.
Ryam and Clement walked to the center of the field and clasped hands.
Ser Ryam smiled at his White Cloak brother. "Old friend. Next time, I will beat you."
Ser Clement nodded. "I'll be waiting."
Daemon looked down at Rhaenyra, who was clapping her hands, eyes bright as stars.
Gael leaned against him, her violet eyes shining. "That was amazing! Better than I imagined!"
Jocelyn approached, draping a cloak over Daemon's shoulders. "Don't catch a chill. There are smaller melees warming up. Will you participate?"
Daemon shook his head, looking at Ryam and Clement embracing on the field. "Today's glory belongs to them."
Queen Alysanne walked to Jaehaerys, looking at the scene and the circling dragons. She whispered, "If Aemon were here... seeing this... he would be so happy."
Jaehaerys held her hand, emotion in his voice. "He is. He would be proud of his old friends, and of these young ones."
The sun dipped low, dying the tourney grounds gold and red. Ryam and Clement were surrounded by lords offering congratulations.
Borros and Brandon were still arguing about who was stronger, finally deciding on an axe duel next time.
Daemon Targaryen was being pestered by the Marbrand boy about spoons, with Gael laughing nearby.
Rhaenyra rested her head on Daemon's shoulder, clutching the red cloth Jeyne had given her.
Jeyne was excitedly telling Laena about the joust, while Laenor followed with a broken lance shaft, claiming he would "draw it."
Daemon watched it all. The brand on his shoulder cooled, but his heart was warm. He knew this peace might not last.
The undercurrents of the Triarchy, the threat of the Others, and the looming Dance of the Dragons were shadows waiting in the dark.
But right now, seeing his family and friends, hearing the cheers and the dragon song, he felt that as long as he protected these bonds, no obstacle was insurmountable.
The bells of the Red Keep rang, interweaving with the cheers—an epic poem crowning two heroes.
On the sands of the tourney ground, thirty broken lances lay quietly. Each one carved with the honor of a knight, and marking this moment—the most precious peace of Westeros.