## Chapter 4: The Princess and the Dragon's Song
The roar of the Highgarden crowd suddenly died down, replaced by a ripple of excited whispers that cascaded through the grandstands. At the main gates of the tourney grounds, a royal escort draped in the black and red banners of House Targaryen marched into the arena.
Leading the procession on a fine white palfrey was Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.
Though only twelve name-days old, she held herself with the distinct, effortless pride of old Valyria. Her silver-gold hair fell in intricate braids down her back, and her violet eyes scanned the crowd with keen curiosity. Word of the miraculous "Masked Bard" who had defied all odds to reach the final rounds of the joust had reached her wheelhouse miles back, prompting her to ride ahead of her main vanguard.
Lord Tyrell immediately rose from his dais to greet the blood royal, offering her the seat of honor. Rhaenyra accepted with a polite nod, but her eyes were already locked onto the paddock, where Benedarion stood beside his black destrier. Even covered in plain, dented steel armor and a simple wooden mask, his commanding stature drew her gaze.
"I am told the finals must wait," Rhaenyra announced, her young voice carrying clearly across the quieted pavilion. "The realm whispers of a singer who commands the soul with strange rhythms and carries himself like a knight. Before I witness your skill with a lance, Sir Bard, I demand to hear the music that has captured the Reach."
The crowd cheered in agreement. Lord Tyrell signaled his servants, who rushed to fetch Benedarion's custom-built acoustic guitar from the tents.
Benedarion stepped into the center of the tilting yard. The midday sun beat down on his dark, charcoal-dyed hair. He looked up at the royal box, his violet eyes meeting Rhaenyra's from behind the slits of his wooden mask. A strange, profound emotion stirred in his chest. *This was his niece.* A girl destined for a tragic, fiery fate in the history books he remembered.
He bowed deeply, unslung his guitar, and sat upon a wooden bench placed in the dirt.
### The First Song: *Titani Valyrio* (The Theme of the Dragon)
Benedarion closed his eyes for a brief second, channeling the epic, swelling orchestrations of his past life into the rhythm of his fingers. He began to strike the heavy gut strings.
It started with a dark, driving, low-tempo thrum—a rhythmic, percussive heartbeat produced by the palm of his hand striking the wood of the guitar, mimicking the steady, ominous march of an empire. Then, his fingers blurred. He plucked a haunting, cello-like melody that rose in tension, a dark and melancholic tune that felt heavier than the stone walls of Valyria itself.
The melody was instantly recognizable to anyone who knew the soul of the dragon, yet entirely brand new. It was a song of blood, of destiny, and of empires rising and falling in fire.
As the instrumental reached a sweeping, dramatic crescendo, Benedarion opened his mouth, singing in flawless, resonant High Valyria—a language his new throat shaped with terrifying, ancient perfection:
> *"Hen jēdo bōsa, jōbā bāsa...* (From the long era, the blood flows...)
> *Zaldrīzes buzdari iknos daor.* (A dragon is no slave.)
> *Perzys hen sōnar, bōsa iksan...* (Fire from the ash, I am eternal...)"
>
His voice swelled, carrying the exact, chilling weight of a dynasty's anthem. The chords became frantic, grand, and majestic, evoking images of massive wings blocking out the sun and rivers of blood binding a family together.
In the royal box, Rhaenyra gripped the armrests of her chair, her breath catching in her throat. The High Valyria he spoke wasn't the stiff, rehearsed language of Westerosi maesters; it was the living, breathing tongue of old Valyria, spoken with an accent so pure it sent chills down her spine. The song felt like a warning, a tragedy, and a triumph all woven into one.
As the final, heavy chord reverberated through the silent stadium, fading out like dying embers, Rhaenyra was the first to stand, her hands clapping furiously, her violet eyes wide with a mixture of awe and intense suspicion.
### The Second Song: *Could You Be Loved*
"Magnificent," Rhaenyra breathed, leaning over the velvet railing. "A song of pure fire and blood. But the rumors say you also bring melodies of warmth and freedom. Sing me one more, Masked Bard. Something from the distant lands you claim to have walked."
Benedarion smiled behind his mask. He shifted his posture, altering his grip on the guitar neck. The heavy, dark atmosphere of the Valyrian anthem vanished in an instant.
He struck a upbeat, syncopated, sun-drenched rhythm. *Chuk-ika, chuk-ika, chuk-ika.* It was the unmistakable, infectious skank of reggae. The transition was so sudden and joyful that the tense crowd instantly relaxed, a few smallfolk already swaying their shoulders to the bouncy, foreign beat.
Benedarion leaned into the microphone-less air, his voice turning smooth, soulful, and warmly raspy as he adapted Bob Marley's timeless words into the common tongue:
> *"Could you be loved... and be loved?*
> *Could you be loved... and be loved?"*
>
He tapped his boot against the earth, building a groove so powerful that even the stern Tarly and Hightower guards began to tap their feet.
> *"Don't let them change your mind,*
> *No, we've got a life to live!*
> *They can't tell you what to do,*
> *Only you can rule your mind..."*
>
He looked directly at Rhaenyra as he sang the lines about ruling one's own mind, a subtle nod to the immense pressure she faced as a young princess in a world that wanted to dictate her future. The song was a anthem of pure, unadulterated survival, resilience, and love—concepts so radically different from the bleak, honor-bound ballads of Westeros that it felt like a breath of fresh summer air.
> *"The road of life is rocky and you may stumble too,*
> *So while you point your fingers someone else is judging you...*
> *Could you be loved?"*
>
When he brought the song to a bright, rhythmic finish with a final, cheerful strum, the entire arena erupted into absolute pandemonium. Smallfolk cheered his name, and ladies threw winter roses into the dirt at his feet.
Rose of Essos clapped gracefully from her box, a knowing smile on her face, while Princess Rhaenyra looked down at the mystery knight with an expression of profound fascination.
"You are no ordinary singer, Knight of the Charcoal String," Rhaenyra said softly, though her voice carried to him. "You sing of our ancestors' blood, and then you sing of a freedom the world has never known. Win your joust today, and you shall have an audience with the Crown."
Benedarion bowed deeply, slinging the guitar over his back. He walked toward his horse, his blood pumping. The stage was set. He had captivated the realm's delight; now, it was time to conquer the lists.