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King Viserys Targaryen woke to the familiar throb of pain that had become his unwelcome companion these past months. The infection in his hand pulsed with each heartbeat, a reminder that even kings were mortal. He flexed what remained of his fingers—the thumb, index, and ring finger still intact, though the middle finger had begun showing the telltale blackness that meant Mellos would soon be reaching for his bone saw again.
At this rate, he thought grimly, I'll be waving at my subjects with a bloody stump.
Dawn light filtered through the windows of his chambers, carrying with it the distant sounds of preparation from the tournament grounds. Hammering, shouting, the creak of wooden stands being assembled—all the familiar chaos that preceded a grand melee. Despite the pain, Viserys felt a flutter of anticipation. Today would be spectacular, he was certain of it.
'By the Seven! I admire your confidence, Lord Daeron. Should you prove correct, I shall knight you myself on the field of victory.' Viserys remembered his promise to Daeron. Viserys was not sure yet what to make of Daeron and his wife, but he felt as if he knew them somehow.
"Your Grace," came the soft voice of Grand Maester Mellos as he entered the chamber, his chain of office clinking softly. "How are you feeling this morning?"
"Like a man whose hand is rotting off his arm," Viserys replied with dark humor. "But otherwise splendid. Nothing that watching grown men beat each other senseless won't cure."
Mellos approached with his leather satchel of instruments and potions, his lined face creased with concern. "Your Grace, I must examine the wound. The blackness has spread since yesterday."
Viserys extended his right hand with resignation. The sight of his own fingers—or lack thereof—still startled him sometimes. When did I become so bloody decrepit? he wondered. I'm only seven-and-thirty, for the Seven's sake. Aegon the Conqueror lived to be sixty-four, and he never had bits of himself falling off.
"The infection is advancing more rapidly than I hoped," Mellos said after unwrapping the bandages. His touch was gentle but clinical. "Your Grace, I strongly advise that you remain in bed today. The excitement of the tournament could—"
"Absolutely not," Viserys interrupted, pulling his hand back with more force than necessary. "My daughter is to be married. This is her wedding tournament. What manner of father would I be if I spent the week of her wedding celebrations abed like some invalid?"
"A living one," Mellos replied bluntly, then immediately looked as if he regretted his candor.
Viserys laughed, though it came out more as a wheeze. "Gods, Mellos, you've developed quite the tongue in your old age. Very well, speak plainly—how long do I have?"
The maester hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "If the infection continues to spread at this rate... perhaps a year. Maybe two, if we're fortunate."
Two years. Viserys considered this as Mellos began applying fresh bandages. Long enough to see Rhaenyra married and hopefully with child. Long enough to ensure the succession is secure. He thought of his daughter, so fierce and proud, so much like her mother. Aemma would have loved to see this day. She would have fussed over every detail of the wedding, argued with me about the guest list, and probably threatened to feed me to Syrax if I so much as suggested changing the menu.
The memory brought both comfort and pain. Aemma had been gone four years now, dead in childbirth trying to give him the male heir he'd thought he needed. The irony wasn't lost on him—he'd killed his beloved wife chasing a son, only to name their daughter as his heir anyway.
"Your Grace?" Mellos prompted, apparently having asked a question.
"Forgive me, my mind wandered. What did you say?"
"I asked if you'd given any thought to naming a regent. Someone to assist with the more demanding aspects of rule while you recover."
"Recover?" Viserys raised an eyebrow. "I thought you just told me I had two years to live. That's not recovering, that's dying slowly."
"Your Grace—"
"No regent," Viserys said firmly. "Rhaenyra is my heir. Let her take on more responsibilities, but I'll not have some ambitious lord claiming to speak with my voice."
A distant roar from the crowd drew his attention to the window. The tournament grounds were already filling with spectators, colorful pavilions dotting the field like exotic flowers. From this height, the people looked like ants scurrying about their daily business, unaware that their king was slowly rotting away above them.
Rather fitting, actually. Kings die, the realm endures.
As he watched, something caught his eye—a flash of silver in the sky, far to the east. Viserys squinted, his failing vision making it difficult to focus. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw the distinctive shape of a dragon in flight, its silver scales catching the morning light.
He blinked, and it was gone.
"Mellos," he said slowly, "remind me—when was the last time anyone reported seeing Silverwing?"
The maester paused in his work. "Queen Alysanne's dragon? Not since Her Grace's death, Your Grace. Why do you ask?"
"No reason." Viserys continued staring at the empty sky. "Just thought I saw... never mind. Probably just a cloud."
But even as he said it, he didn't believe it. Daemon's words when he arrived echoed in his mind: Two riderless dragons vanish from Dragonstone just as these mysterious strangers appear. At the time, he'd dismissed it as his brother's paranoia, but now...
If someone has truly claimed Silverwing and Vermithor without our knowledge, he thought, then we have a problem far greater than my rotting hand.
"Your Grace," Mellos ventured, "perhaps we should postpone the melee. Given your condition—"
"My condition," Viserys said with sudden steel in his voice, "is that I am King of the Seven Kingdoms. My daughter will marry once in her life, and I will be there to see it. Every bloody moment of it."
He stood, swaying slightly as the pain lanced through his arm. "Now help me dress. And make sure my crown is polished—if I'm going to sit through hours of watching men try to kill each other, I want to look properly regal while doing it."
"But Your Grace—"
"Mellos," Viserys interrupted, his voice carrying the authority that had cowed lords and dragons alike, "I've buried a wife, lost children, and watched my brother scheme against my wishes for years. I will not be denied the pleasure of watching my daughter's wedding tournament because my hand has decided to rot off. Is that understood?"
The maester bowed his head. "Understood, Your Grace."
As Mellos helped him into his robes, Viserys found his thoughts returning to that flash of silver in the sky. Dragons were creatures of fire and blood, drawn to those who shared their nature. If Silverwing had indeed chosen a new rider, it meant someone with significant Valyrian blood had entered the game.
Someone like Lord Daeron and Lady Daenerys, he mused. Daemon may be paranoid, but he's rarely wrong about matters of blood and dragons.
The thought should have alarmed him, but instead, Viserys felt a curious sense of anticipation. If these mysterious newcomers truly were dragonriders, then perhaps the gods had sent them for a purpose. Perhaps they were exactly what House Targaryen needed.
Or perhaps, he thought with grim humor, they're here to finish what my infected hand started.
Either way, today's melee would be far more interesting than anyone expected. And if it was to be one of his last great spectacles as king, Viserys intended to enjoy every moment of it—rotting hand be damned.
The distant sound of trumpets announced the official beginning of the tournament day. Soon, the greatest fighters in the realm would clash for glory, honor, and his daughter's favor.
"Your Grace?" Mellos suddenly called him, causing Viserys to turn to look at him.
"What?"
"I think there might be a way to give you more time," Mellos repeated carefully. "More years, Your Grace."
Viserys looked up sharply, meeting the maester's grey eyes. "Go on."
Mellos cleared his throat nervously. "With your previous fingers—the ones we've already lost—we tried to treat them, to save them. We only resorted to amputation when it was far too late, when the infection had already spread beyond hope." He gestured to the blackened middle finger. "But this time, we could act... preemptively."
Understanding dawned on Viserys's face. "You think I should have the finger removed now? Before the rot spreads further?"
"Yes, Your Grace. If we take it now, while the infection is still localized, it could buy you significantly more time. Years, potentially."
Viserys stared down at his hand—at the finger that had once worn rings, once signed documents that shaped the realm, once touched his beloved Aemma's face. Now it was little more than a blackened reminder of mortality.
"How much time are we talking about?"
"Impossible to say with certainty, Your Grace, but... if we're aggressive about future infections, if we act quickly each time..." Mellos paused. "You could see your grandchildren, Your Grace. You could see Rhaenyra's reign begin."
The promise of seeing Rhaenyra rule tasted sweet like honey in his tongue. More time with his daughter. More time to secure the succession. More time to ensure the realm's stability.
"Do you truly believe this will help?" Viserys asked.
"I do, Your Grace. But the choice must be yours."
Viserys looked out the window again, toward the tournament grounds where his daughter's future was being celebrated. Where Rhaenyra would soon stand as a married woman, closer to taking the throne that would one day be hers.
Aemma, he thought, give me strength.
"Very well," he said, settling back in his chair with resignation. "Get on with it."
Mellos nodded and began retrieving instruments from his satchel. "I'll fetch milk of the poppy—"
"No," Viserys interrupted. "If I'm to lose another piece of myself, I'll do it with a clear head. Just... be quick about it."
"As you wish, Your Grace."
Daenerys Targaryen
Daenerys woke to the sound of distant hammering from the tournament grounds, though truthfully, she'd been only half-asleep for the past hour. The bed beside her was warm but empty—Daeron had risen before dawn, as was his habit when facing potential death. She found him standing by the window, already dressed in his smallclothes, watching the early preparations below.
Some things never change, she thought with fond exasperation. Jon Snow always did brood before a battle. At least now he has better reasons than bastard angst. She had never told him, but Dany had found Jon quite annoying at first, he had been so sure that his parents were never married, so even after being with her for three months in Meeren, he still often talked about his Bastard status, until finally it was confirmed that he was a Trueborn, and never a bastard.
"Contemplating your glorious death, my love?" she asked, stretching languidly beneath the furs. "Because I have to say, if you're planning to die today, you could have mentioned it last night. I would have demanded a more memorable farewell."
Daeron turned, a smile tugging at his lips. "Good morning to you too, Your Grace. And no, I'm not planning to die. I'm planning to win."
"Excellent. I've grown rather fond of this face." She sat up, pulling the sheet around herself as she joined him at the window. "Though I suppose if you die heroically, I could commission a statue. 'Here lies Daeron, who was adequate at swordplay and exceptional at other things.'"
"Adequate?" He raised an eyebrow. "I defeated Ser Harwin Strong."
"Yes, well, Ser Harwin fights like a bull—all charging and no finesse. Today you face Ser Criston Cole, and Prince Daemon, who fights like..." She paused, considering. "A very dangerous dragon with decades of practice and a legendary Valyrian steel sword."
The levity faded from Daeron's expression. "About that. We need to discuss strategy."
"Enter the melee, survive the initial chaos, eliminate Criston Cole when the opportunity presents itself. Make it look like a fair fight, nothing suspicious."
"And Daemon?"
"Avoid him if possible. If not..." Daeron shrugged and Dany continued. "Try not to embarrass him too badly."
Daenerys frowned. "He was very confident last night that he would defeat you. Almost arrogantly so."
"Should I let him win?" Daeron asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"Gods, no." Daenerys sat up fully now, her violet eyes flashing. "Daemon Targaryen is many things, but he's not stupid. If you hold back, he'll notice. And then he'll see it as the insult it is—some unknown handsome man taking pity on a prince of the blood." She shook her head. "That would make an enemy of him faster than defeating him honestly ever could."
"And if he defeats me?"
"Then you'll be dead, and I'll have to find another handsome husband with mysterious origins and excellent sword skills. Do you know how exhausting that sounds?"
Daeron chuckled despite himself. "You're terrible at reassurance."
"I'm excellent at honesty, which is far more useful." She fastened the buckles on his chest piece, her fingers lingering over the red fabric. "Besides, it's only a matter of time before they realize who's been flying Silverwing and Vermithor. We can't hide forever."
The reminder sobered them both. Two riderless dragons suddenly taking to the skies again hadn't gone unnoticed—Daemon's arrival proved that much.
"Perhaps we could speak with the king," Daeron suggested. "Explain our situation."
"Our situation being that we're time-traveling Targaryens from a future where dragons went extinct and the realm nearly destroyed itself in civil war?" Daenerys gave him a look. "Yes, I'm sure that conversation would go swimmingly. 'Your Grace, we're here to prevent your descendants from being idiots. Also, two powerful dragons.'"
"When you put it like that..."
"The king might be persuaded to listen, eventually. But Daemon and Rhaenyra?" She shook her head. "That's a different matter entirely."
Daeron's expression grew troubled. "You think Rhaenyra might become an enemy?"
"I think Rhaenyra is young, proud, and unused to sharing power or attention. She's also her father's heir, which means she'll see anyone with dragons as a potential threat to her claim." Daenerys moved to retrieve Stormsong from where it rested against the wall. "And let's not forget what the history books told us about her—toward the end of the Dance, she turned on her own allies. Paranoia and desperation make people do terrible things."
"We don't know her well enough yet to be certain she'll follow the same path."
"No, but we know enough to be cautious." She handed him the Valyrian steel blade, noting how his grip on the hilt seemed to steady him. "Our mission is simple: ensure the dragons survive, ensure House Targaryen remains on the throne. Everything else is secondary."
"Including our own survival?"
Daenerys was quiet for a moment, thinking of all they'd already lost, all they'd already sacrificed to be here. "We've died before, my love. We can die again if necessary. But preferably not today—I have plans for tonight that require you to be alive and relatively unmaimed."
She helped him strap on his sword belt, the familiar weight of Stormsong settling against his hip. In the red and black leather, with his dark hair and violet eyes, he looked every inch a Targaryen prince. The irony wasn't lost on her.
"There's something else," she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "I noticed how Princess Rhaenyra looked at you during the dancing last night."
"What about it?"
"She wants you." Daenerys's tone was matter-of-fact rather than jealous. "And she's not used to being denied what she wants."
Daeron's cheeks reddened slightly. "Dany—"
"I'm not jealous," she assured him with amusement. "Well, not much. But you should be aware that you've caught the attention of the realm's future queen. That could be useful... or dangerous."
"Keeping the dragons and House Targaryen alive doesn't require me fucking the Princess, and—"
"But," Dany interrupted him, leaning forward to kiss his lips. "But if it becomes necessary for our mission, if seducing Princess Rhaenyra might give us an edge or advantage..."
"Or might be our doom, we need to be careful with what we do with the Princess. Last night Lord Corlys was glaring at me when his daughter started flirting with me while we were dancing."
"I would trust you to do what's necessary." Her voice was soft but steady. "Just as you trusted me to do what was necessary when the Wildfire destroyed King's Landing."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Daeron said finally.
"Let's hope." She stood on her toes to kiss him, a brief but fierce press of lips that tasted of wine. "Now go. Show them what happens when the dragon and the wolf hunt together."
As he moved toward the door, she called after him. "Daeron?"
He turned back.
"Try not to die stupidly. If you must die, make it spectacular. I refuse to mourn a husband who tripped over his own feet."
His laughter followed him out the door, and Daenerys was left alone with her thoughts and the distant roar of the gathering crowd.
Gods help us all, she thought, moving to the window to watch the tournament grounds fill with spectators. We're about to change the course of history with nothing but wit, steel, and the questionable decision-making skills that costed us the first time.
But as she watched the red and black banners flutter in the morning breeze, she felt a familiar fire kindle in her chest. They were dragons, after all. And dragons were meant to soar.
Rhaenyra Targaryen
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stood before her looking glass as her handmaidens fussed about her like anxious butterflies, adjusting the drape of her crimson silk gown and weaving small rubies through her silver-gold braids. The tournament colors suited her—red and black, the ancient colors of her house—and she knew she looked every inch the dragon princess she was born to be.
Yet beneath the regal composure, her stomach churned with a mixture of anticipation.
"Your Grace looks radiant," murmured Elinda Massey, her most trusted handmaiden, as she pinned a particularly stubborn curl into place. "The lords will be fighting twice as hard with you watching."
"Let them," Rhaenyra replied, though her thoughts were far from the flattery of court lords. "Men always fight harder when they have something beautiful to impress."
Something beautiful. The words felt hollow in her mouth. Beautiful she might be, but today she felt more like a prize to be won than a person to be admired. In a few short days, she would be married to Laenor Velaryon, bound in a union that would serve everyone's interests except her own desires.
Her mind wandered, as it had with increasing frequency, to a certain dark-haired Northern with purple eyes and the most intriguing sword work she had ever witnessed. Daeron—mysterious, skilled, and frustratingly married to a woman who looked far too much like herself for comfort.
If only he were unwed, she mused, watching her reflection as Elinda added the final touches to her hair. A man like that could serve as more than just a soldier. He could be... useful.
The memory of that night crept unbidden into her thoughts—the night she had been unable to sleep and found herself wandering the castle corridors. The night she had heard sounds from Daeron and Daenerys's chambers and, in a moment of shameful curiosity, had peered through the keyhole. What she had seen there—the fierce passion, the way Daeron commanded his wife's body with such confident skill—had left her breathless and aching.
In her mind's eye, she had replaced Daenerys with herself, imagined those strong hands on her skin, his big cock inside her, his rough voice in her ears as he fucked her like he owned her. The fantasy had sustained her through many lonely nights since.
While Laenor busies himself with his... preferences, she thought with bitter amusement, I could busy myself with more appealing company. If only the man weren't so inconveniently devoted to his wife.
She had seen how Ser Harwin looked at her, with want and worship in equal measure. It had been flattering, even useful, but ultimately uninspiring. Harwin was strength without subtlety, passion without artistry. Compared to what she had glimpsed of Daeron's capabilities, poor Harwin seemed like a boy playing at being a man. He had been defeated so easily by Daeron and Rhaenyra found herself wanting Daeron's company more and more, especially after last night, he still remembered his hands on her waist, if only she could feel his hands in other places as well.
"Will you be watching the melee closely, Your Grace?" asked another handmaiden, a young woman whose name Rhaenyra could never be bothered to remember.
"Naturally," Rhaenyra replied. "It's my wedding tournament. Every blow struck is in my honor."
And two men I find fascinating will be attempting to kill each other, she added silently. The thought sent an unexpected thrill through her. Daemon, her uncle, her first teacher in the arts of desire and power. And Daeron, the enigma who had appeared from nowhere to capture her imagination so completely.
A part of her—a part she wouldn't admit to anyone—was desperately curious to see which of them would prove superior. Would Daemon's experience and legendary skill triumph, or would the mysterious northerner's unexpected talents prevail?
A sharp knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. "Come," she called, expecting perhaps her father's summons or word from the tournament grounds.
Instead, Queen Alicent Hightower swept into the chamber, resplendent in green silk that complemented her dark/auburn hair. Her smile was perfectly courteous and completely cold.
"Rhaenyra," Alicent said with a graceful curtsy that managed to seem both respectful and mocking. "You look lovely. Though perhaps a touch... flushed? I do hope you're not coming down with something on such an important day."
Still playing the concerned stepmother, Rhaenyra thought, returning the curtsy with equal insincerity. "How thoughtful of you to worry, Alicent. Though I assure you, I've never felt better. The excitement of the day, you understand."
"Oh, I understand perfectly." Alicent's brown eyes glittered with malice. "Young maidens do get so worked up over tournaments. All those strong men displaying their... prowess. It must be quite overwhelming for someone of your... passionate nature."
The barb was expertly delivered, a reference to the rumors that had destroyed their friendship—whispers of Rhaenyra's supposed liaison with Daemon in a pleasure house months ago. Lies, mostly, though not entirely without foundation.
"Indeed," Rhaenyra replied smoothly. "Though I imagine it's been some time since you found yourself overwhelmed by displays of masculine prowess. Marriage to my father must be so... calming."
Alicent's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Your father is a man of great wisdom and restraint. Qualities that become more attractive with age and experience."
"How fortunate for you both." Rhaenyra gestured to her handmaidens, who quickly found excuses to busy themselves at the far end of the chamber. "Was there something specific you needed, or did you simply wish to exchange pleasantries?"
"I wanted to wish you well for the day ahead," Alicent said, settling herself into a chair without invitation. "And perhaps offer some... advice."
"How generous. Please, share your wisdom."
"Men are creatures of impulse in tournaments," Alicent began, her tone suggesting she was imparting great secrets. "They take risks they wouldn't normally consider, all for the chance to impress a beautiful woman. Sometimes those risks prove... costly."
Is that a threat? Rhaenyra wondered, studying her stepmother's face. Or simply another barb about my supposed effect on men?
"I'm sure the competitors are all experienced enough to manage their own safety," she replied carefully. "Though I suppose accidents do happen."
"They do indeed." Alicent's smile widened. "Why, just yesterday I heard the most fascinating rumors about dragons. Apparently, some of the Dragonstone keepers reported seeing Silverwing in flight. Isn't that curious? A dragon taking to the skies after so many years of solitude?"
Dragons. The change of subject was so abrupt it caught Rhaenyra off guard. "Silverwing hasn't flown since Queen Alysanne's death. The keepers must have been mistaken." She knew that was a lie; she had seen someone riding Silverwing when she had been in the sky with Syrax, but she had kept it to herself for now, thinking of telling her uncle later about it, and right now, she didn't want Alicent to know that someone had tamed Silverwing and the Royal Family had no idea who it was.
"Perhaps. Though they say she wasn't alone. That there was a rider on her back." Alicent leaned forward conspiratorially. "Someone with the blood of Old Valyria, presumably. There are so few of us left, after all."
"Gossip and speculation," Rhaenyra said dismissively. "You know how servants love to create excitement where none exists. If rumors were always right then Lord Stark is a cannibal, Storm's End was built by gods, and the dragons came from the moon."
"Of course, of course. Though it would be... interesting, wouldn't it? If someone had managed to claim a dragon without proper permission. One might wonder about their... intentions."
"One might wonder about many things, Alicent. Such as why someone would be so interested in unsubstantiated rumors. Surely a queen has better ways to occupy her time?"
"I find knowledge to be... valuable currency. Especially knowledge about potential threats to the realm's stability."
"How noble of you to be so concerned with stability," Rhaenyra said, her voice dripping with false admiration. "Though I confess, I've always thought you were more concerned with... other kinds of security."
"Security comes in many forms, dear. Some build it through alliances, others through... understanding. And some, perhaps, through ensuring that certain secrets remain buried."
The threat was barely veiled now, and Rhaenyra felt her temper flare. "Secrets have a way of surfacing when least expected, don't they? Like flowers blooming in spring—quite impossible to stop once they've taken root."
"True. Though weeds, unfortunately, have the same tendency. Sometimes a gardener must be... proactive in their removal."
"How fortunate, then, that dragons are excellent at clearing fields. Very thorough. Very... final."
Alicent's smile never wavered, but something cold flickered in her eyes. "Indeed. Though even dragons must land eventually. And when they do, they're quite vulnerable to those who know where to strike."
The two women stared at each other for a long moment.
"Well," Alicent said finally, rising gracefully. "I should let you finish your preparations. Do try to enjoy the tournament, dear. And do be careful who you choose to... favor with your attention. Some choices have longer consequences than others."
"How thoughtful," Rhaenyra replied, her smile matching Alicent's for sheer insincerity. "I'll be sure to wave at you from the royal box. Try not to strain your neck looking up."
After Alicent departed, leaving only the faint scent of rosewater in her wake, Rhaenyra stood silent for a long moment. The conversation had been typical of their new relationship—cordial on the surface, poisonous beneath. But the mention of dragons troubled her more than she cared to admit.
I need to tell Daemon about this, he needs to know. Whoever has Silverwing is not part of the Targaryen family or the Velayron family, whoever they are. I need to know if they are trustworthy or someone I need to take care of, Rhaenyra thought.
"Your Grace?" Elinda approached hesitantly. "Shall we finish with your jewelry?"
"Yes," Rhaenyra murmured, extending her wrist for the ruby bracelets. "And send word to the stables. I want Syrax saddled and ready after the tournament. I think it's time I paid a visit to Dragonstone."
If there are new players in this game, she decided, I intend to know exactly who they are.
Daenerys Targaryen
Daenerys Targaryen had witnessed many spectacles in her time—the fighting pits of Meereen, the great pyramids of Slaver's Bay, the frozen wasteland beyond the Wall—but there was something uniquely magnificent about a Westerosi tourney, she had never been in one before, she and Jon didn't rule long enough to have that opportunity.
Some things never change, she mused, adjusting the deep blue silk of her gown as her litter swayed through the crowded streets of King's Landing. People have always loved watching others bleed for their entertainment.
Through the gauze curtains, she could see the masses lining the streets—smallfolk who had risen before dawn to claim the best vantage points, merchants hawking meat pies and ale, children darting between legs trying to catch glimpses of the royal procession. Their faces held the same mixture of excitement and bloodlust she remembered from her own time.
The litter lurched to a stop, and she heard the herald's voice booming across the tournament grounds: "Her Grace, Queen Alicent of House Hightower!"
The tournament grounds were a marvel of organized chaos. Wooden stands rose on all sides of the field, draped in the colors of dozens of great houses. Banners snapped in the morning breeze— the roaring lion of Lannister, the silver trout of Tully. But it was the massive dragon banners of House Targaryen that dominated the royal pavilion, their red fabric seeming to writhe in the wind like living flames.
My house, she thought with a fierce surge of pride. Our house, now.
"Lady Daenerys!" A warm voice called out, and she turned to see Lady Gilliane Glover Stark approaching with a genuine smile. The Northern lady was handsome rather than beautiful, with the practical bearing Daenerys remembered from the few Northern women she'd encountered in her previous life. "Would you care to join us? We've saved a place."
The Northern lords and their wives. Perfect. These were people who valued directness over subtlety, honor over ambition. Exactly the sort of allies she and Daeron would need.
"I would be honored, my lady," Daenerys replied, following Lady Stark toward a section of the stands where the unmistakable gray and white of Northern houses clustered together.
As they walked, she could hear the buzz of conversation from every direction—speculation about the day's competitors, wagers being placed, gossip about the upcoming royal wedding. Her name came up more than once, along with Daeron's, and she smiled to hear the mixture of curiosity and approval in their voices.
"Such a lovely couple," one lady was saying. "And did you see how gracefully she danced last night?"
"Shame about the mystery, though," another replied. "No one knows where they truly come from."
If only you knew, Daenerys thought. You'd have more questions than answers.
The Northern section was refreshingly unpretentious compared to the elaborate displays surrounding them. Lord Rickon Stark nodded respectfully as she approached, his gray eyes holding that same penetrating intelligence she'd noticed in Daeron's descriptions of Ned Stark.
"Lady Daenerys," Lord Stark said, rising to greet her. "An honor to have you join us."
"The honor is mine, my lord," she replied, settling beside Lady Stark with carefully practiced courtesy. "I confess, I find Northern company preferable to the... elaborate courtesies of the South."
This earned her approving chuckles from several of the Northern lords. A woman with the fierce bearing of a Mormont leaned closer. "Spoken like someone with sense. All this peacocking and preening—give me an honest fight any day."
"Lady Dyanna speaks for all of us," Lord Stark said with dry humor. "Though I suspect today's melee will provide plenty of honest fighting."
"And dishonest fighting too," muttered Lord Manderly, his eyes fixed on the royal pavilion where the Hightowers had taken their places. "Mark my words, there'll be more than sport decided on that field today."
Daenerys followed his gaze to where Queen Alicent sat in regal splendor, her green gown a contrast to the Targaryen reds and blacks surrounding her. Even from this distance, the tension between the queen and Princess Rhaenyra was visible—two women who had once been friends, now enemies in all but name.
The seeds of the Dance are already planted, she realized. Growing stronger every day.
Trumpets blared, and the crowd fell silent as King Viserys rose from his throne. Even from across the field, Daenerys could see how the crown seemed to weigh heavily on his brow, how he favored his right hand. His left hand was wrapped in bandages.
Soon, she thought grimly. Soon Rhaenyra will face her first real test, and we'll see what kind of queen she truly has the potential to become.
"Good people of King's Landing!" the herald's voice boomed across the grounds. "Lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms! Welcome to the grand melee in honor of the coming marriage of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Lord Laenor Velaryon!"
The crowd erupted in cheers, thousands of voices raised in celebration. Daenerys found herself caught up in the spectacle despite her concerns, remembering her own triumphant moments when crowds had cheered her name.
"The rules are simple!" the herald continued. "Twenty of the realm's finest warriors will enter the field! The last man standing claims victory and the honor of being knighted by His Grace the King!"
Twenty men, Daenerys thought, her eyes searching the preparation area for a glimpse of Daeron. And at least three of them are planning to kill each other.
"First to enter the field—Ser Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard!"
Where other knights might have received polite applause, Cole was met with a chorus of boos and jeers that seemed to shake the very stands.
"Murderer!" someone shouted from the crowd.
"He killed the Knight of Kisses!" a woman screamed.
Good, Daenerys thought with satisfaction. Let them remember what he is. Let them see justice done.
Cole himself seemed unmoved by the hostility, his face a mask of cold professionalism as he strode onto the field in his pristine white armor. But Daenerys could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rested on his morning star.
You know what's coming, she thought.
"Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince!" the herald announced, and the crowd's mood shifted instantly to wild enthusiasm.
Daemon emerged from the preparation area like a creature of legend, Dark Sister gleaming at his hip, his silver-gold hair catching the morning sun. The crowd roared its approval, and he acknowledged them with the easy confidence of a man born to command attention.
He feeds on their adoration, Daenerys observed. Just as I once did. The danger is in believing it makes you invincible.
"Ser Daeron of... ah..." The herald faltered slightly, clearly struggling with Daeron's lack of official house affiliation. "Daeron, the swordsmen of mysterious origin!"
The crowd cheered just as loudly for her husband, and Daenerys felt a surge of pride as he entered the field. Unlike Daemon's theatrical entrance, Daeron moved with quiet purpose, his red and black armor marking him as someone to watch. When he raised Stormsong in acknowledgment of the crowd, the Valyrian steel caught the light like captured fire.
Let them see what a true king looks like, she thought fiercely.
The herald announced many other names from other main houses and minor houses. But then, near the end, the herald's announcement caught her completely off guard.
"Lord Laenor Velaryon, heir to Driftmark!"
What? Daenerys turned sharply toward the royal pavilion, where Lord Corlys and Lady Rhaenys sat in stunned silence. The Sea Snake's face had gone white with fury, while Rhaenys looked as if she'd been slapped. Even Lady Laena Velaryon looked absolutely stunned.
They didn't know, she realized. Their son entered the melee without telling them.
On the field, Laenor Velaryon emerged in sea-green armor, his silver-gold hair braided in the Velaryon fashion. But it was his eyes that told the real story—eyes filled with a cold rage that Daenerys recognized all too well.
The fool is going to try to kill Cole himself, she understood with growing alarm. He's going to throw away his life for revenge, and get in the way of Daeron.
"Seven hells," muttered Lord Manderly beside her. "This just became considerably more interesting."
Interesting, Daenerys thought grimly, is one word for it.
She caught sight of Princess Rhaenyra in the royal pavilion, her face a mask of concern as she watched her betrothed stride onto the field with death in his eyes. This wasn't part of their plan—Laenor was not supposed to be in this meele.
A new change, she realized. First it's Daemon early arrival, now, Laenor had decided to enter the Meele and risk his life and their plan to kill Criston Cole.
The other participants were announced—minor lords and household knights whose names would be forgotten by evening—but Daenerys barely heard them. Her attention was fixed on the three men who would determine not just the day's outcome, but potentially the fate of the realm itself.
Daeron, who needed to eliminate Cole.
Daemon, who fought for pride and the thrill of combat.
And Laenor, who fought for love and vengeance, the most dangerous motivations of all.
Corlys Velaryon
Lord Corlys Velaryon felt the blood drain from his face as his son's name echoed across the tournament grounds. For a moment, he was certain he had misheard—surely the herald had not just announced Laenor as a participant in the melee. His heir, his carefully groomed successor, the keystone of the Targaryen alliance, could not be so monumentally foolish. His place belonged with Rhaenyra, not in the field, not one day after Joffrey Lonmouth died, not one day after he screamed 'No' in front of everyone.
But there was Laenor, striding onto the field in sea-green armor that Corlys had never seen before.
"What is the meaning of this?" Corlys hissed, turning to his wife. "Did you know?"
Rhaenys's violet eyes were wide with shock, her usually composed features twisted with disbelief. "Of course I didn't know!" she whispered back, mindful of the watching crowd. "I would have stopped him!"
"Father," Laena said quietly from beside them, she too looked shocked, but she seemed more concerned than shocked. "Perhaps we should—"
"Perhaps we should what?" Corlys snapped, his legendary composure cracking like a ship's hull in a storm. "Watch our heir throw his life away for a dead knight? Watch him destroy the most important alliance our house has ever forged?"
Twenty years of careful planning, twenty years of building Velaryon power and influence, and his son was about to risk it all in a fit of grief-fueled madness. The irony was not lost on him—the Sea Snake, master of political currents and tides, undone by his own blood's recklessness.
"He's grieving," Laena said softly, keeping her tone as quite as possible, though even she looked uncertain. "Joffrey meant—"
"I know what Joffrey meant to him," Corlys cut her off, his voice deadly quiet, making sure no one could hear his words. "And I know what this display will mean to our enemies. Look around you, daughter. See how Queen Alicent smiles? See how the Hightowers whisper among themselves?"
Indeed, he could feel the shift in the political winds already. His son's public grief, his reckless entry into the melee, would be seen as weakness. Worse, it confirmed every rumor about Laenor's... preferences. The careful facade they had maintained was crumbling with every step his son took across that field.
"If he dies down there," Corlys said, his words barely audible, "our alliance dies with him. Everything we've worked for—gone."
Rhaenys placed a hand on his arm, her touch meant to be comforting but only serving to remind him how powerless they both were to stop what was coming.
"He won't die," she said. "He's been trained by the best masters-at-arms gold can buy."
Corlys knew those were empty words, Laenor was never weak with a sword, but he was just that, average, while Criston Cole was clearly one of the best fighters that Westeros had. "Training means nothing when a man fights with his heart instead of his head," Corlys replied, watching as his son took his position on the field. "And right now, Laenor's heart is screaming for blood."
Laenor Velaryon
Laenor Velaryon stood on the tournament field, the weight of his armor nothing compared to the weight of grief and rage that pressed down upon his chest. Around him, nineteen other men prepared for combat, checking weapons and adjusting straps, but his eyes were fixed on only one figure.
Ser Criston Cole stood twenty paces away, resplendent in his white Kingsguard armor, the morning star at his side gleaming like the instrument of murder it was. The same weapon that had caved in Joffrey's skull. The same weapon that had stolen the only light from Laenor's world.
Look at him, Laenor thought, his violet eyes never wavering from his target. Standing there like a conquering hero, basking in the crowd's hatred as if it were applause.
Cole seemed to sense his stare and turned, their eyes meeting across the field. For a moment, Laenor saw something flicker in the Kingsguard's expression—recognition, perhaps even a hint of wariness. Good. Let him know what was coming.
The crowd's noise faded to a distant murmur as Laenor's world narrowed to this single moment, this one purpose that had driven him from his bed before dawn to don armor his parents didn't even know he possessed. He had spent every coin of his personal allowance on it, commissioning it in secret from the same smith who had forged Joffrey's blade.
"A kiss brings more luck than all the armor in the Seven Kingdoms," he remembered Joffrey saying, that first day they'd met at Driftmark. How young they'd both been then, how full of hope and laughter.
Now there would be no more kisses. No more luck. Only the cold arithmetic of steel and blood.
The herald was saying something about rules, about honor, about the glory of combat, but Laenor heard none of it. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword—not some ceremonial blade, but a weapon of war he had carried in the Stepstones, baptized in the blood of pirates and sellswords.
Today, he thought, his gaze never leaving Cole's face, the dead will have their due.
He thought of his parents' shocked faces in the stands, his sister's worried gaze, of the political ramifications his presence here would create, of the alliance his recklessness might endanger. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered except the debt that needed paying.
The herald raised his horn, the signal that would begin the melee, and Laenor drew his sword with a sound like winter wind through bare branches.
"Criston Cole," he said, loud enough for Cole to hear, "I told you, you will die. We all serve death. Today, I serve it gladly."
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