The tourney grounds beyond the ancient walls of Maidenpool had never looked more splendid. Bright pennons snapped in the sea wind blowing off the Bay of Crabs, their colors spilling across the lists like a field of flowers. House Mooton's guards struggled to contain the swelling crowds that had gathered since first light, while the scents of roasting boar, fresh bread, horseflesh, and churned earth mingled beneath a cloudless sky. Merchants cried themselves hoarse, hawking sweetcakes, mulled wine, and painted ribbons bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
To the people of the riverlands, it was a day of celebration. Weeks after King Viserys's coronation, the realm had gathered at Maidenpool to honor his accession with a grand tourney.
Only those within the lords' pavilion knew how fragile that rejoicing truly was.
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen sat beside Queen Aemma Arryn upon the royal dais, her small hands folded neatly in her lap. Silver-gold hair shimmered beneath the afternoon sun, spilling over a gown of black velvet embroidered with silver dragons. Before the procession had begun, Septa Marlow had spent the better part of an hour reminding her to sit straight, acknowledge every greeting, and remember that a princess was watched even when no one seemed to be looking.
Rhaenyra had not forgotten.
Each time the commons cried, "The Realm's Delight!" she answered with a graceful inclination of her head and the practiced smile expected of her. It pleased the crowds, though anyone who knew her well might have noticed it never reached her violet eyes.
Queen Aemma wore pale blue silk trimmed with white fur despite the warmth of the day. Pregnancy had left her pale and easily wearied, yet she carried herself with quiet dignity. From time to time, Alicent Hightower stepped forward to refill her cup with watered wine or adjust the cushions at her back before returning discreetly to her place. Whenever their eyes met, Alicent offered an encouraging smile, which Rhaenyra quietly returned.
Neither girl spoke of the empty seats overlooking the lists.
They drew the eye too readily to ignore. The places reserved for House Tyrell remained deserted, their green-and-gold banners conspicuously absent from the southern galleries. Beside them sat another vacancy no less striking, where Princess Rhaenys ought to have been.
Whispers drifted through the gathered lords no quieter than the sea breeze.
"Winter fever in Highgarden."
"So the heralds claim."
"They say Lord Tyrell has closed his gates."
"Or perhaps the harvest has failed."
The rumors passed from mouth to mouth until they settled into comfortable truths.
Rhaenyra knew better.
The Reach burned.
Villages along the Mander had vanished beneath blue flame hot enough to melt stone and leave little behind but ash. No herald would dare speak such tidings before the assembled realm—not on the day of King Viserys's celebration.
Below, another pair of knights met in the lists with a crash of splintering ashwood. King Viserys laughed heartily as the crowd erupted, raising his cup high enough for the commons to see.
Rhaenyra watched him instead.
Throughout the afternoon he laughed often, perhaps too often. Each smile lingered a little longer than seemed natural, and every cup of hippocras emptied sooner than the last.
To the thousands beyond the barriers, he looked every inch the gracious young king.
His daughter saw only how tired he was.
"The king enjoys himself," Queen Aemma observed softly, following her daughter's gaze.
"He is trying to."
The queen studied her for a quiet moment before brushing a loose strand of silver hair behind her ear.
"You have sharp eyes."
"They forget I have ears as well."
Aemma's smile held equal measures of affection and sadness.
"So they do."
The horns sounded again as another tilt was announced. A knight bearing the purple lightning of House Dondarrion lowered his lance against a marcher lord whose shield displayed the black stag of House Buckler. Their first pass shattered both lances into a storm of splinters, drawing thunderous applause.
Alicent leaned closer.
"Which knight did you choose?"
"The Buckler."
"He has lost his lance."
"But not his seat."
Alicent laughed beneath her breath.
"I chose the Dondarrion."
For a little while, they watched as children should, cheering with the crowd as the second pass began. The burden of ravens and whispered councils faded beneath the thunder of hooves.
The moment ended with the arrival of Ser Otto Hightower.
The Hand bowed first to Queen Aemma before inclining his head toward the princess.
"Your Grace. Princess."
His voice remained even, but Rhaenyra noticed the stiffness in his shoulders. Otto Hightower rarely betrayed emotion, making the smallest change all the more telling.
"There are more ravens?" Queen Aemma asked.
"A few, Your Grace."
"And their tidings?"
"They are not for a day of celebration."
The answer was courteous, but final.
Aemma asked no more.
Not long after, Lord Jason Lannister climbed the steps to the royal pavilion to pay his respects. Though his smile was easy enough, his gaze lingered upon the vacant seats reserved for Highgarden.
"A pity Lord Tyrell could not attend such a splendid occasion."
"The queen regrets his absence," Aemma replied.
"So do I," King Viserys added with practiced warmth. "May his household soon recover."
"As we all pray, Your Grace."
Lord Jason turned to Rhaenyra, his expression softening.
"And how fares our little princess?"
"I fare well, my lord."
"You have won the hearts of the realm."
Rhaenyra answered exactly as Septa Marlow had taught her.
"They honor my father. I merely share in their kindness."
"A gracious answer," Lord Jason said with an approving smile.
Before the conversation could drift toward Highgarden or the troubling rumors from the south, Otto Hightower stepped smoothly between them. With practiced ease, he turned the discussion toward trade upon the Narrow Sea, the coming harvest, and the knights expected at the autumn tourneys until Lord Jason departed seemingly satisfied.
Watching him, Rhaenyra understood why her father trusted Ser Otto above so many others. The Hand possessed a rare gift for making dangerous questions simply disappear.
Not every absence could be dismissed so easily.
Princess Rhaenys's empty seat lingered over the royal dais like an unspoken accusation. Many believed the Queen Who Never Was had chosen to remain upon Driftmark rather than honor Viserys's accession.
The court accepted that tale.
Rhaenyra knew otherwise.
Prince Daemon had failed his invasion into Dorne, and Princess Rhaenys had gone to bring him home before his captivity became the spark that set the realm ablaze.
As cheers rolled across the lists, Rhaenyra smiled once more for the crowd.
The realm saw flowers where others smelled smoke.
The afternoon wore on beneath a flawless blue sky as competitors were unhorsed or carried bruised and bloodied from the lists. Fresh challengers rode forth to the thunder of drums and silver trumpets while the commons answered every shattered lance and broken shield with deafening cheers.
From the royal dais, Rhaenyra watched them all.
Some knights lowered their lances before King Viserys as they passed. Others saluted Queen Aemma, while more than a few turned their banners toward the little princess whose name the people never seemed to tire of shouting.
"The Realm's Delight!"
She answered each cry with the same poised grace Septa Marlow had taught her, though the muscles of her cheeks had begun to ache.
Alicent leaned closer.
"I think they cheer louder for you than for the king."
Rhaenyra glanced toward her father. Viserys laughed as another knight tumbled into the dirt, lifting his cup in acknowledgment of the roaring crowd.
"They cheer because Father smiles."
"And because you smile back."
Before Rhaenyra could answer, Queen Aemma rested a gentle hand atop hers.
"It costs little to be gracious," she said quietly. "Kindness is remembered long after victories are forgotten."
Rhaenyra nodded, her gaze returning to the lists. Perhaps that was why her father had insisted she remain beside him throughout the day. The sight of the king, his queen, and their only child reminded the realm that House Targaryen stood united.
As the cheers rolled across the tourney grounds, she felt the quiet weight of that duty settle upon her shoulders.
By late afternoon, long shadows stretched across the field as the heralds announced the final tilt.
A murmur of anticipation swept through the spectators when Ser Criston Cole entered the lists, his plain steel armor marked only by three black crows upon his shield. Opposite him waited a seasoned knight who had earned the favor of much of the crowd.
At the herald's command, both men lowered their lances.
The first pass exploded into splintered ashwood, drawing a roar from the galleries. Neither rider yielded.
They wheeled their mounts about and charged again.
This time Ser Criston's lance struck true.
His opponent was hurled from the saddle, crashing heavily into the churned earth while the young knight remained firmly seated, guiding his horse into a smooth circle as the crowd erupted.
"Ser Criston!"
"Cole!"
"The Black Crow!"
Even King Viserys rose to applaud.
"There rides a fine knight."
"He rides well," Queen Aemma agreed.
"He rides fearlessly," Otto observed in his measured tone. "The two are not always the same."
Viserys smiled over his shoulder.
"There is always another lesson hidden in your words, Otto."
"The realm has little use for men who mistake courage for wisdom, Your Grace."
The king laughed softly before returning his attention to the field.
A serving boy hurried forward carrying a wreath woven from laurel and fresh summer blooms, their fragrance drifting faintly upon the evening breeze. He placed it into Ser Criston's hands, and for a moment many assumed the young knight would ride toward the queen.
Instead, he turned toward the princess.
Excited murmurs rippled through the galleries before swelling into cheers as Ser Criston approached the royal dais. Drawing rein before the king, he removed his helm, revealing a shallow cut upon one cheek where blood had begun to dry.
"My king."
Viserys acknowledged him with a nod.
"My queen."
Aemma returned the courtesy with a warm smile.
Only then did Ser Criston's gaze settle upon Rhaenyra.
"If it pleases Your Grace, I would name Princess Rhaenyra Queen of Love and Beauty."
The crowd scarcely waited for the king's answer.
"The Realm's Delight!"
"The princess!"
Their voices rolled across the stands like crashing waves until Viserys laughed aloud.
"It pleases me well."
Ser Criston lowered his lance, allowing the garland of flowers to rest within the young princess's reach.
Rhaenyra accepted it after only the briefest hesitation.
At her mother's gentle encouragement, she placed the wreath upon her silver-gold hair.
The applause that followed eclipsed every cheer that had come before.
The celebrations continued well into the evening. Music echoed through the great hall of Maidenpool as servants kept the wine flowing and singers filled the feast with songs celebrating the glory of House Targaryen. Rhaenyra remained beside Queen Aemma, thanking each lord and lady who offered congratulations upon receiving the title.
More than once, curious nobles remarked upon Princess Rhaenys's absence or wondered whether Highgarden's illness had truly become so severe. Each inquiry met the same courteous reply before Otto Hightower deftly guided the conversation elsewhere, speaking instead of trade upon the Blackwater, the success of the tourney, or the coming harvest. He never appeared hurried, smoothing over dangerous conversations so naturally that few realized they had been diverted at all.
By the feast's end, the corridors of Jon Mooton's castle had fallen quiet save for servants clearing tables and extinguishing candles.
Within the king's solar, the mood was altogether different.
Flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the heavy oak table. King Viserys stood with both hands upon its edge, gazing silently at the map of the Seven Kingdoms.
Not tonight.
The cheerfulness that had carried him through the tourney had faded, leaving only the weariness of a king burdened by too many cares.
Queen Aemma sat nearby, visibly exhausted, while Alicent remained quietly at her side. Rhaenyra stood beside the window overlooking the darkened waters of the bay. Though no one had dismissed her, neither had anyone invited her into the discussion. She remained still enough that the adults soon spoke as though she were no longer there.
"The tourney served its purpose," Otto said at last.
Viserys did not answer immediately. His fingers drifted across the painted map before he finally spoke.
"The realm believes itself secure."
"For another day."
The king gave a weary nod.
"I grow tired of borrowing tomorrow."
Aemma reached across the table and took his hand.
"You will not always have to."
"We will, so long as truth hides behind banners and songs." Viserys lifted his eyes toward the darkened south beyond the windows.
"Has there been word?"
"None since Princess Rhaenys crossed the marches," Otto replied. "Meleys is swift. If anyone can reach Sunspear before pride gives way to bloodshed, it is the Red Queen."
"And if pride prevails?" Aemma asked.
Otto fell silent.
"Princess Rhaenys possesses wisdom enough for ten lords."
"That was not what I asked."
For the first time that day, certainty slipped from the Hand's composed expression.
"If parley fails..."
He let the words hang.
Viserys finished them himself.
"...then my brother remains a hostage, and Dorne learns the Iron Throne is weaker than it appears."
Silence settled over the chamber. Only the crackling hearth disturbed the stillness.
Rhaenyra kept her gaze upon the dark waters of the Bay of Crabs, though every word reached her ears.
Daemon.
Dorne.
Meleys.
She imagined her uncle beneath the blazing Dornish sun while Princess Rhaenys crossed the skies upon her scarlet dragon.
Quietly, she offered a prayer to whichever gods still listened.
After a long silence, Viserys looked toward his daughter.
"You did well today."
Rhaenyra crossed the room.
"I only smiled, Father."
The king knelt despite the weariness etched upon his face.
"You gave the people something worth smiling for," he said, brushing a loose strand of silver hair behind her ear. "Never believe that to be a small thing."
Rhaenyra wanted to ask whether Prince Daemon would return... whether Princess Rhaenys would succeed... whether the Reach still burned beneath blue fire.
The questions reached her lips.
She swallowed them.
"Yes, Father."
Viserys kissed her brow.
Beyond the windows, the southern horizon lay swallowed by darkness. No flames could be seen from Maidenpool, but distance did not quench fire.
Somewhere far beyond these walls, dragons still crossed the skies, kingdoms held their breath, and the fate of the Seven Kingdoms rested not upon the cheers of a tourney—but upon a lone red dragon flying toward the sands of Dorne.
TBC
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