The morning light over King's Landing was softer today than yesterday. The tourney sands still bore the scars of the jousting preliminaries—thirty broken lances were neatly stacked in the corner by squires, their metal tips reflecting the rising sun like a silent honor guard for the archery contest to come.
Unlike the day before, the western side of the grounds was now lined with ten archery targets. Their centers were sewn with scarlet silk, arranged at increasing distances. The furthest target was mounted on a small skiff bobbing in Blackwater Bay, its red heart drifting in and out of sight with the waves.
The atmosphere in the stands was lighter. Most lords had shed their heavy armor. Tymond Lannister of the Westerlands wore a dark red brocade tunic, idly spinning a bronze ring on his finger.
On the eastern stands, the Reach delegation was led by Ser Horas Redwyne the Elder, who had finished negotiating trade deals for the Arbor fleet. He stood with his two nephews. Allan Redwyne wore a sea-blue doublet, toying with an anchor-shaped pendant. Beside him, Horas Redwyne the Younger looked nervous, his fingers repeatedly brushing the fletching in his quiver, crumpling the hem of his pale green tunic.
"What are you nervous about? It's just loosing a few arrows." Allan slapped his younger brother on the shoulder, teasing him. "Forgot the tips Jarman and Harlan gave you yesterday? Draw steady, aim true. Don't be like last time on the Arbor, feeding arrows to the seagulls instead of hitting the fish."
Young Horas blushed and shoved his brother's hand away. "I haven't forgotten! The wind and waves were high last time! Today is calm; I can definitely hit the furthest target!" Despite his bravado, he stole a glance toward Daemon.
Jarman of the Darkblade and Harlan Hunter stood beside the Prince. Jarman wore dark grey leathers with a short blade at his waist, the feathers in his quiver black as night. Harlan wore the silver-grey tunic common in the Vale, his arrow shafts carved with the hunter's mark of his house. The two were speaking quietly, occasionally glancing at the moving target boat in the bay.
"Jarman," Harlan asked softly, "when you put an arrow through that Lyseni pirate's throat in the Stepstones... was it with these black-feathered arrows?"
Jarman nodded, pulling an arrow to show him. The wood grain was clear. "Oak shaft, raven feather, tip dusted with dragonglass powder. Good enough for pirates. But for a moving target, it's all about precision."
Daemon, holding Rhaenyra, smiled and added, "Don't let him be humble. Last time in Crackclaw Point, he shot the quiver off a wildling chieftain from three hundred paces. The man dropped his arrows all over the ground and surrendered on the spot."
Rhaenyra seemed to understand, slapping Daemon's arm and babbling, "Arrow! Arrow!"
Aemma hurried over, gently taking her daughter. "Don't teach her bad habits. Girls should learn embroidery."
"Embroidery isn't nearly as fun as archery!" Jeyne Arryn's voice piped up. Wrapped in her silver fox cloak, she held up a small wooden bow Daemon had commissioned for her yesterday. "Little Daemon, I want to shoot too! I bet I can hit the closest bullseye!"
Daemon smiled and ruffled her hair. "Deal. Later, we'll let Harlan teach you. His archery is unmatched by almost anyone in the Vale."
Just then, a horn blew. The Kingsguard overseeing the event walked to the center of the field. "The archery contest will have three rounds! First round: fixed target at thirty paces. Hit the bullseye to advance. Second round: moving target at one hundred paces, ranked by hits. Third round: boat target at three hundred paces. Hits determine the winner!"
As the announcement ended, the noble scions took the field. Young Horas took a deep breath and walked to the starting line. Allan shouted from the stands, "Don't panic! Pretend you're shooting grape clusters on the Arbor!"
Young Horas glared at his brother and drew an arrow from his quiver. His bow was a custom yew piece from House Redwyne, carved with grapevines—a gift from his father when he left the Arbor to follow Daemon.
The first round began quickly. Fixed targets were trivial for most highborn sons.
The Marbrand boy from the Westerlands hit the bullseye dead center, waving his bow excitedly.
Borros Baratheon of the Stormlands, however, was clumsy. Clearly more accustomed to axes and spears, his arm shook as he drew the bow. His first arrow went wide, grazing the edge of the target.
This drew a roar of laughter from Brandon Stark, who looked up at the sky in mock confusion. "Borros! Were you aiming for a bird? I didn't see one!"
Borros turned red. For his second shot, he used brute force. SNAP! The bowstring broke. The crowd roared with laughter. Borros threw the broken bow on the ground, grumbling, "Archery is boring. Real hunting takes axes and spears!" and stormed back to the stands.
On the other side, Jarman and Harlan made it look effortless.
Jarman drew and released in one fluid motion, like a gust of wind. Thwip. The black-feathered arrow struck the bullseye, the fletching still quivering.
Harlan was more deliberate. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them with a gaze sharp as a hawk's. His silver-feathered arrow landed dead center next to Jarman's.
"Fine shooting!" Daemon applauded.
Young Horas also advanced. His first arrow hit the edge of the red silk; his second, after a steadying breath, hit the center. As he walked off, Allan gave him a thumbs-up, and Ser Horas the Elder beamed, bragging to the Reach lords nearby about his nephew.
Round Two: Moving Targets.
The targets were mounted on wooden carts pushed back and forth by squires. The difficulty spiked.
Many noble sons missed. A young lord from the Westerlands even sent an arrow flying into the stands, nearly skewering Tymond Lannister's robe, causing the Lion Lord's face to darken instantly.
Jarman went first. He watched the moving cart, tapping his fingers on his quiver. When the cart reached the middle, he suddenly drew—
The black arrow was a blur, cutting through the morning light to strike the bullseye. Squires ran to check and found the arrow had punched through the target and pinned it to the wooden frame behind!
Silence, then cheers. Daemon Targaryen whistled loudly. "Jarman! What skill! The One-Eyed Sharpshooter!"
Harlan took a different approach. He didn't wait for the cart to reach a fixed point. He moved his feet in rhythm with the cart, keeping his bow trained on the center. Just as the cart turned, he loosed. The silver arrow struck true. His movements flowed like a dance.
Even Yorbert Royce in the Vale stands nodded approval, praising Lord Hunter beside him. "House Hunter's archery lives up to its name."
Young Horas struggled. Nerves made his first shot go wide. The cart was faster than he expected. His second arrow only clipped the edge.
Allan stomped his foot in the stands. "Track the cart! Don't just stare at the arrow tip!"
Young Horas inhaled deeply, remembering Jarman's advice: Move with the target. For the third arrow, he tracked the cart's rhythm. The moment the red center aligned with his vision, he loosed. The pale green arrow struck the bullseye. He exhaled, sweat beading on his forehead.
Round Two ended. Only Jarman, Harlan, Young Horas, and three other nobles advanced to the final round, including a young knight from the Reach rumored to be an Oldtown archery champion.
Round Three: The Boat Target.
Three hundred paces out. A small boat bobbing in Blackwater Bay. Wind and waves made this a nightmare shot.
Many lords stood up, eyes fixed on the distant skiff. Queen Alysanne lifted her carriage curtain, whispering to Jaehaerys, "Who do you think will win?"
Jaehaerys smiled and shook his head. "Hard to say. This requires more than aim; you must understand the wind and the waves. It comes down to who is more observant."
The first to shoot was a young Vale knight, a squire of Harlan's father. His arrow wavered in the sea breeze and splashed into the water near the boat.
The second, a Riverlands boy, missed by a mile.
Young Horas was fourth. He walked to the water's edge, feeling the wind—it was blowing from the Narrow Sea today, carrying the scent of salt. It would push the arrow.
He drew a custom long arrow from his quiver, the shaft half an inch longer than standard, fletched with seagull feathers to cut the wind.
Allan shouted, "Watch the wind! Aim half an inch left!"
Young Horas nodded. He aimed slightly left, drew, and released—
The pale green arrow sliced through the breeze, flying toward the boat. Everyone held their breath. THWACK. It hit the edge of the bullseye. Not center, but a hit. Young Horas waved his bow in triumph, and Ser Horas the Elder's eyes lit up.
Harlan was next. He stood where Horas had been, closing his eyes to feel the wind. When he opened them, he drew a silver-feathered arrow with a heavier tip, ground specifically for sea winds.
He drew slowly. When a wave lifted the boat to its highest point, he loosed.
A silver streak struck the exact center of the bullseye. The fletching danced in the wind. Applause erupted. Yorbert Royce slapped the railing. "Good! A true son of House Hunter!"
Jarman was last. He didn't rush. He walked to the water, bent down to touch the sea, feeling the rhythm of the swell. He looked at the clouds—slowly moving, indicating subtle wind shifts.
He drew the black arrow dusted with dragonglass. He drew the bow to its limit. The black shaft gleamed cold.
Silence fell. Even Grey Ghost swooped down to land beside Daemon, tilting his head to watch Jarman.
Jarman waited. Half a minute passed. When a wave pushed the boat to the middle and the crosswind hit from the side, he loosed—
The black arrow was a bolt of lightning, piercing wind and wave. THUNK. Not only did it hit the bullseye, it punched through the wood behind it, the fletching visible from the other side, vibrating with the boat's movement!
The crowd exploded! Brandon Stark jumped up, twirling his axe. "Jarman! That shot could sink a Lyseni pirate ship!"
Borros slammed the railing, forgetting his earlier embarrassment. "Great shot! Better than me!"
Daemon walked forward, clapping Jarman on the shoulder. "Well done! Archery like that is rare in the Seven Kingdoms!"
Harlan bowed to Jarman. "You win, Brother Jarman. Your skill remains a cut above mine."
Jarman shook his head humbly. "Luck. I caught the wave and wind just right."
Young Horas looked a bit dejected. Allan patted his back. "Don't be sad. You were great. Hitting a boat target in your first big tourney is amazing."
Ser Horas the Elder walked over and pinned a golden grape badge on his nephew's tunic. "This is the Marksman's Badge of House Redwyne. You've earned it."
Horas's eyes lit up, his disappointment vanishing. "Thank you, Uncle! I'll win next time!"
King Jaehaerys personally awarded the prize to Jarman: a sapphire-encrusted dagger with a dragon-carved hilt, a custom royal weapon.
The Old King held Jarman's hand. "Your archery is excellent. I hope you will use it to serve the Iron Throne and protect this land."
Jarman bowed low. "I pledge my life to Your Grace and the people of the realm."
Queen Alysanne looked at the scene. Viserys holding Rhaenyra, Aemma laughing with Jeyne. Jocelyn holding Rhaenys's hand, Laena and Laenor admiring Horas's badge. Daemon standing with Gael, chatting happily with Jarman and Harlan.
She sighed contentedly. "Days like this... are good."
Jaehaerys held her hand, but his gaze drifted to the Narrow Sea. The flagship of the Velaryon fleet was moving slowly, silver sails shining.
He knew this peace might not last. The currents of the Triarchy, the wildlings, and hidden threats were waiting. But right now, seeing his family smile and the lords united, he felt that as long as the blood of the Dragon endured, they could face anything.
Daemon also noticed Corlys's flagship. Their gazes met across the distance. Corlys nodded slightly, his expression grave. Darkblade scouts had reported unidentified swift ships in the Narrow Sea last night—likely Triarchy vessels.
Daemon patted Jarman's shoulder, whispering, "Trouble may be coming. The Darkblade Guard needs to be ready."
Jarman nodded, his eyes sharpening instantly—like the black arrow that had pierced the heart of the target—ready for the unknown danger.
The sun dipped west. Cheers still echoed over King's Landing. Grey Ghost circled above, his cry mingling with the distant roars of dragons.
The archery contest was a gentle interlude, smoothing over the dark currents of the realm for a moment. But everyone understood—behind the calm, a greater storm was brewing.
And they could only grip their bows and arrows tight, guarding the peace before them, waiting for the challenge to come.