Chapter 17 — The Martial Tournament
To celebrate the birth of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, King Jaehaerys I proclaimed a grand tourney upon the slopes of Rhaenys' Hill, before the shadow of the Dragonpit itself.
For the people of Westeros, tourneys were more than sport—they were pageant, theater, and battlefield all in one. Commoners wagered their coppers and silvers, nobles risked fortunes and pride, and every knight sought glory beneath the eyes of gods and kings.
The event was vast: contests for squires, knights, teams, and archers.
Prince Daemon Targaryen, though of royal blood, was yet unknighted. Still a squire, he could only enter the lesser competition.
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The Royal Platform
The aging King Jaehaerys and his beloved Queen Alysanne sat upon the dais beneath a crimson canopy trimmed in gold. Time had thinned their hair and softened their tempers, and where once their hearts had thrilled to the clash of arms, now only weariness lingered in their smiles.
"Tourneys," the Queen sighed, gazing at the tiltyard below. "Gold poured into dirt. Were it not to honor our sweet Rhaenyra's birth, I'd rather see the coin build another sept for the Faith."
Daemon, standing a few steps below, gave a faint, almost roguish smile.
"Grandmother, even gold spent in the dirt grows the realm. Tourneys feed the blacksmiths, the armorers, the horse traders, and the taverns of King's Landing alike. The crown's coffers grow fatter, not thinner."
Alysanne raised an eyebrow, amused by her grandson's precocious confidence.
"And the ladies?" she asked lightly.
"They profit too," Daemon replied, unflinching. "Silks and jewels, flowers for garlands, perfumes to turn heads—King's Landing is a richer city when the lists are full."
The old Queen laughed softly. "You have your grandsire's tongue, boy. Let us hope you wield a sword as deftly."
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The Gathering of Houses
In the stands above, the banners of the great and lesser houses rippled in the sea breeze. Velaryon sea serpents glinted silver beside the golden lions of Lannister, the direwolves of Stark, and the green-and-white falcons of Arryn.
Prince Viserys and Princess Aemma Arryn sat nearby, with their infant daughter Rhaenyra bundled in silks. The young mother's face was pale and tired; she had only recently given birth.
Daemon, ever proud of his cousin, turned and said, "Princess, your brother, the Lord of the Eyrie, has not arrived?"
Aemma sighed faintly. "A raven came this morning. Artys turned back—raiders from the mountain clans struck the Vale's villages. Duty calls him home."
She smiled weakly, stroking her child's hair. Daemon's violet eyes softened for a fleeting instant.
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Blood and Banners
At length, Prince Baelon strode toward his son with several guards bearing a long chest. The Prince of Dragonstone was still strong and broad of shoulder, his beard streaked with silver.
"Daemon," Baelon said, "a gift."
Inside lay armor of exquisite make: dark red plate chased with black steel, the breastplate etched with the three-headed dragon of Targaryen wrought in rubies and obsidian.
Daemon's lips curved upward. "Father, you spoil me."
Baelon smirked. "It was forged for me. But you have earned it."
As Daemon's companions—Qidan Massey, Bill Rosby, and young Harver—helped him don the armor, the crowd murmured in awe. Even among Targaryens, few shone as brightly as this silver-haired prince when the sun struck his polished helm.
Overhead, dragons circled—Vermithor, Silverwing, Caraxes, and mighty Vhagar—casting their vast shadows upon the field as the horns blared.
The tourney began.
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The Squire's Trial
Daemon entered the lists astride a black destrier, crimson plume streaming. His first opponent bore the twin towers of House Frey.
A heartbeat later, the Frey was unhorsed so violently his squire had to drag him from the mud.
In the second round, Daemon's lance shattered against Kevan of House Balaemon, but Daemon's strike broke through the shield and sent him sprawling.
The third match was harder—Ross Darry of the Trident fought fiercely, but Daemon's final tilt left him breathless and defeated.
Each victory drew louder cheers from the crowd, their chants of "Prince Daemon!" echoing off the stone of the Dragonpit.
Yet whispers grew of another—
a squire from Blackhaven, dark-haired and green-eyed, whose worn armor hid a serpent's grace.
Criston Cole.
He fought like one born to the lists, unseating Celtigar, Tarbeck, and even Daemon's friend Massey with almost careless precision.
By the time Criston faced Diamante—the Sea Snake's favored singer—half the crowd was chanting his name.
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The Final Tilt
The finals came at sunset, the sky painted red and gold as if drenched in dragonfire.
From his dais, King Jaehaerys murmured, "Daemon, your match today will test you."
Daemon bowed slightly. "Every foe is a stepping stone, Your Grace."
When the horns blew, both lances lowered. The first three passes ended in splintered wood and equal strikes. The fourth saw Criston's lance pierce Daemon's shield, nearly toppling him.
Gasps rippled through the stands.
Daemon steadied his mount, jaw tightening.
The fifth tilt came like a storm. Dust flew, wood shattered—and Criston Cole tumbled from his horse, armor ringing like a bell.
The crowd roared.
King Jaehaerys descended himself, bearing the Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister.
"Prince Daemon," he declared, "kneel."
Daemon dropped to one knee.
"In the name of the Father, be just."
The blade touched his right shoulder.
"In the name of the Mother, protect the innocent."
The left.
"In the name of the Warrior, be brave."
The blade rose high.
Then, with a faint smile, Jaehaerys offered the sword hilt-first.
"Rise, Ser Daemon Targaryen—knight of the Seven Kingdoms. And bearer of Dark Sister."
The cheers were deafening.
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Murmurs and Shadows
In the stands, Princess Rhaenys and her husband Corlys Velaryon exchanged dark looks.
"That sword was my father's," Rhaenys murmured bitterly. "And now it's given to him."
"The King favors Baelon's line," the Sea Snake replied, voice low. "First Blackfyre to Baelon, now Dark Sister to his son. The rest of us are ghosts at our own feast."
Queen Alysanne overheard and sighed. "The old sword is cursed for women, my dear. Better that it stays in a man's hand."
But her tone held little conviction.
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After the Lists
Later, among the pavilions, Daemon approached the man who had almost unhorsed him.
"You fought well, Ser Criston," he said.
Criston smiled faintly. "I thank you, my prince. But I cannot accept a place in your service. Lord Corlys Velaryon has already claimed me for his own guard."
Daemon's eyes lingered on him, measuring, unreadable.
"So be it. Perhaps we will cross lances again—under a redder sky."
The young knight bowed, the sunlight glinting off his dented helm.
Thus ended the tourney that marked Rhaenyra's birth—and began the quiet rivalry between two men whose names would one day echo through t
he annals of the realm.
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