Daemon's horse came to a halt beneath the king's box, rearing just enough to show it still had spirit, then settling as if it had remembered where it stood. The crowd gave him little in return. A few scattered cheers from Gold Cloaks and younger knights near the rail. Some clapping from ladies who liked danger in a man, so long as it stayed at a distance. Mostly, the stands stayed cautious and quiet, as if the arena had already spent its loudness on Amon.
Daemon did not look up at the silence as an insult. He looked up as if he expected it. His chin lifted a fraction, silver hair catching the sun, eyes bright with a practised kind of contempt. He turned his mount in a tight circle, letting everyone see him, then drew close to the barrier beneath the royal box.
Viserys watched with tight lips. Alicent's posture stiffened. Otto's gaze sharpened, tracking Daemon's every movement as if Daemon were a knife someone had misplaced.
Daemon raised a hand to the king's box, two fingers lightly touching his brow in a gesture that was half salute, half mockery. Then his eyes moved to Amon, still in the arena with his six-legged horse stamping calmly, red eyes fixed on nothing and everything.
For a moment, the brothers simply looked at each other.
Daemon's grin came first.
"You've taken my day," he called, voice carrying. "And my crowd."
Amon did not answer at once. He turned his horse slightly so the beast's many hooves pressed into the churned mud and gravel with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His armour gleamed black and red, gold catching on the edges. The missing sword made him look unfinished, as if he had chosen to walk into the arena with one hand empty on purpose.
"The day was never yours," Amon replied, calm as a mountain. "You're only borrowed noise."
A ripple ran through the stands. Not laughter. Something more uneasy, like amusement mixed with fear of where the words might lead.
Daemon's grin widened. "Then let's see if you can best my skill, brother."
Amon's gaze flicked toward the royal box. "We will see."
A herald stepped forward, voice ringing out with the formalities, announcing that the princes would ride against each other. The crowd stirred at that, waking again. There was something irresistible about family violence when it wore armour and called itself sport.
Before the first lance was handed out, custom demanded favours.
Daemon moved first, guiding his horse toward the royal box with effortless confidence. He halted beneath it and looked up, letting the sun make him handsome for free.
"My king," he called, eyes on Viserys but voice meant for the whole arena. "Grant me the honour of riding for the most beautiful woman in this realm."
Alicent's mouth tightened. Viserys's eyes narrowed. Rhaenyra lifted her head from her sweets, suddenly alert.
Daemon turned his gaze to Rhaenyra and smiled in a way that made her feel older than she was. Dangerous flattery, offered like a blade held by the handle.
"Niece," Daemon said, softer now but still carrying. "Give me your favour."
Rhaenyra hesitated. She could feel her father's stare like a weight on her shoulder. She could feel the veiled women opposite her as well, their silence loud with judgment.
Then she saw Daemon's expression shift, just slightly. The smile was still there, but the impatience underneath it was too.
Rhaenyra lifted a wreath from the tray beside her, fingers trembling only a little, and tossed it down. Daemon caught it neatly and fixed it to his lance with a flourish, turning his horse to show it off.
The crowd cheered more for the show than for the sentiment.
Daemon basked in it for a heartbeat. Then he looked toward Amon, as if expecting the same courtesy, the same game.
Although he had already taken favour from Maera, he still guided his six-legged horse forward and stopped beneath the king's box as well. His posture was perfect, straight-backed, composed, almost bored. He lifted his lance, gaze drifting upward.
"To whom would give me their favour?" he asked.
The lance wavered briefly toward the royal box. It hovered near Rhaenyra for the span of a breath.
Then it moved away.
Rhaenyra's heart tightened. She told herself she did not care, told herself it was her childish feelings returning. Still, the slight felt sharp. It was the sort of thing a child remembers longer than war.
Amon's eyes slid past his niece without stopping and settled instead on the row of veiled women opposite her.
He did not look at Maera. He did not look at Nima and her crown. He looked toward Tina.
Tina was asleep.
Even sitting upright, even in the royal box, she had somehow drifted off as if boredom were a lullaby. Her veil hid her face, but the tilt of her head and the loose set of her shoulders made it obvious. She looked like a creature that did not fear being seen vulnerable because nothing here could truly harm her.
Amon's mouth curved faintly.
"Tina," he called.
There was a pause. Then Tina's head lifted slowly, as if rising through deep water. She blinked once behind the veil, then turned her face toward him.
"What," she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
A small laugh ran through nearby nobles. It died when Amon did not share it.
"My favour," Amon said simply. "If you please."
Tina stared at him for a heartbeat longer. Then, with slow, lazy grace, she reached to the tray at her side, took a wreath, and leaned forward enough to toss it down.
It landed cleanly.
Amon caught it with one hand and fixed it to his lance without looking away from her.
Tina smiled.
Even behind the veil, it came through. A soft curve of mouth, amused, fond, as if the arena were nothing more than a stage built for their private entertainment.
Then she settled back and promptly fell asleep again, head tilting, veil unmoving, as if she had completed the only task that mattered.
The crowd did not know what to do with that. Some laughed uncertainly. Others cheered because cheering was easier than thinking. In the royal box, Viserys stared as if he had swallowed a thorn. Otto's expression did not change, but his eyes sharpened. Alicent looked away first, as though refusing to grant the moment more power.
Daemon's jaw tightened.
He turned his horse away, the wreath on his lance suddenly feeling less like triumph.
The herald raised his hand. Lances were handed out. The princes took their places at opposite ends of the list.
The crowd rose.
The first pass began.
They spurred forward, hooves striking mud in a thunder of impact. Daemon leaned low, lance steady. Amon's six-legged horse surged like a beast bred for war rather than sport, its movement oddly smooth despite the extra limbs.
The lances struck.
Wood splintered, but neither man fell. The crowd roared anyway.
Second pass. Daemon's lance glanced off Amon's shoulder plate, sparks flying. Amon's lance hit Daemon's shield hard enough to jolt him back in the saddle. Still no fall.
Third pass. Amon's six-legged horse moved too fast for the eye to follow cleanly, the rhythm of its hooves confusing the mind. Daemon adjusted, a predator learning the prey's stride. They hit, and Daemon's lance shattered into long wooden shards that spun into the air like thrown knives.
The crowd cheered louder now.
Fourth pass. The lances struck nearly centre. Amon rocked, but held. Daemon rocked, but held. The barrier between them rattled. Someone shouted Amon's name. Someone else shouted Daemon's.
Fifth pass. Their lances hit with a crack like a snapped tree. The impact was brutal enough that both men had to fight their saddles for a heartbeat. Still, neither fell.
The herald's voice rang out, calling the break.
They reined in at opposite ends of the list, breathing hard now, sweat darkening beneath armour. The horses steamed in the sun.
Servants rushed forward with fresh lances. The crowd buzzed like a nest of hornets.
Daemon rode toward the royal box again, as if repeating the ritual would change its meaning. His smile returned, sharper at the edges.
"Niece," he called, raising his lance. "Once more."
Rhaenyra hesitated again. She felt her father's stare, then felt it shift toward Amon. She took another wreath and tossed it down. Daemon caught it and fixed it with exaggerated care, as if daring anyone to object.
Then Amon came forward again.
"To whom would give me their favour?" he asked, as if the words cost him nothing.
Again, the lance hovered near Rhaenyra. Again, it moved past her.
Again, Amon looked to Tina.
Tina was still asleep.
Amon's gaze softened just a fraction. "Tina," he called, quieter this time, almost indulgent.
Tina stirred, blinked behind the veil, and made a small sound of annoyance. Then she reached out, found another wreath, and tossed it down without fully waking.
Amon caught it and fixed it.
Tina smiled again, then sank back into sleep as if the world had no claim on her.
This time, the crowd laughed more openly, not at Tina, but at Daemon. The laughter was not cruel yet. It was the laughter of people enjoying a story taking shape.
Daemon's eyes flashed. He forced a grin and turned away, but the heat under his skin was visible now.
They took their positions again.
The next passes came faster, rougher.
Daemon began to press harder, timing his strikes, using the list as if it were a battlefield. Amon matched him, calm and precise, letting Daemon spend fury like coin.
On the third pass after the break, Daemon's lance struck true.
It hit Amon at the angle that matters, the point where balance becomes betrayal. Amon's body rocked back, the six-legged horse still surging forward beneath him, but the saddle could not hold the shift. Amon's lance shattered uselessly against Daemon's shield as Amon went over the side.
He hit the ground hard.
Mud sprayed. Armour rang. The crowd gasped, then erupted, the sound a wave of shock and exhilaration.
Amon lay still for half a heartbeat.
Then he moved.
He rose with controlled speed, but the motion carried something sharp now, something that had not been there before. He turned his head, and the expression behind his helm was unreadable, yet the air around him changed.
Daemon reined in, victorious grin returning.
But the six-legged horse did not recover.
The beast stumbled.
One of its legs buckled, then another. It collapsed awkwardly, breathing hard, dark blood seeping into the mud beneath it. Its red eyes rolled wildly, then fixed on Amon with something like helplessness.
A murmur rippled through the stands. Even hardened men disliked seeing an animal die for sport.
Amon's shoulders tensed.
He raised his hand toward the dying horse.
The gesture was simple.
"rȳndagon nyke oh rhēdes se thee"
Amon's voice was deepened to the end of sounding like steel being plunged into water after being forged.
The blood on the ground lifted.
At first, it looked like heat shimmer. Then it became undeniable. Dark liquid rose from the mud in thin strands, twisting upward as if pulled by invisible fingers. Gasps spread. Nobles leaned forward despite themselves. Some recoiled. Some could not look away.
The blood gathered in the air in Amon's palm.
It thickened.
It darkened.
It hardened into a shape.
A dagger formed, solid and slick-looking, its edge gleaming wetly in the sun before it dulled into something darker, something more final.
Amon held it as if it had always belonged in his hand.
The dying horse's body sagged, the life leaving it in a last shudder. The crowd went quiet in horror and awe.
Daemon's smile faltered.
He nudged his horse forward, anger spiking at the sight of magic used so openly. "You cheated," he snarled, loud enough for the nearest rows to hear.
Amon did not answer.
Daemon spurred his horse, charging toward Amon.
Amon moved first.
He sprang with a speed that did not fit the weight of his armour. He leapt over Daemon's charge, clearing horse and rider with a single motion, cloak snapping in the air behind him. The crowd cried out, some in disbelief, some in delight.
As Amon came down, he threw the blood-forged dagger.
It struck Daemon's horse deep.
The animal screamed and collapsed almost immediately, legs folding under it in a violent tangle. Daemon flew forward, tumoring into the mud, armour hitting the ground with a heavy, humiliating crash.
For a heartbeat, the arena was silent.
Then laughter mixed with unbelievable screams filled with awe erupted.
Not from the smallfolk alone. Even some noble boxes could not help it. It was the kind of laughter that bursts out before dignity can stop it.
Even the high lords within their family boxes stood from their seats, from the Starks to Martells all looked into the arena with awe and evident excitement.
Daemon pushed himself up, mud coating his armour, breathing hard. His eyes blazed.
"Sword!" he roared.
A squire sprinted forward, nearly tripping in his haste, and shoved Dark Sister into Daemon's hands.
Daemon unsheathed the blade.
Valyrian steel caught the sun like water catching light. The crowd quieted again as the mood shifted from sport to something sharper.
Daemon began to circle Amon slowly, blade held loose but ready. His steps were deliberate, each one meant to show control, to reclaim the moment he had lost.
Amon stood still, blood dagger gone now, his hands empty.
Daemon's grin returned, crueller this time.
Then Amon turned his head toward the royal box where his brides sat.
"Ronara," he shouted.
The sound cut through the arena like a whip.
Ronara rose.
Even veiled, even in a gown, she moved with easy strength. She reached beneath the folds of her white fabric and, to the shock of everyone watching, drew out a massive sword as if it weighed nothing at all. The blade was enormous, absurd in size for a woman to conceal, and yet there it was, gleaming darkly, its surface shifting with faint red tones that seemed to move like blood beneath skin.
The king's box erupted in silent disbelief.
Viserys stared as if his eyes had stopped working. Rhaenyra's mouth parted, her hand rising to the necklace at her throat as if it could anchor her. Otto's face remained composed, but his eyes widened a fraction, the smallest crack in his control. Alicent's breath caught, one hand tightening around Aemond's shoulder. Aegon leaned forward, enthralled. Helaena went very still.
Ronara did not hesitate.
She hurled the sword.
The throw was clean, powerful, and precise.
Amon caught it one-handed.
The impact should have staggered him. It did not. He adjusted his grip as if the blade were an old friend returning to its place.
Daemon's circling stopped.
The arena held its breath.
Amon lowered the sword's point toward the ground, then lifted it slowly, meeting Dark Sister with a calm that felt almost insulting.
Daemon took a step forward.
Amon stepped in to meet him.
Steel met steel.
The sound cracked through the arena as grunts exploded from the two brothers, with all within the arena looking at the two walls fighting one another.
(Mb for not posting in a while. Ngl, been very busy and forgot about all my projects. Erm, but yh i hope this chapter could say I'm sorry for not posting, and it should be getting back in order soon, so enjoy!)