Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

The jousting lists ran north to south, intended to keep the sun out of each competitors eyes. The seven lanes were side by side, stands flanking them. On one end sat the grand dais, where Princess Daenerys Targaryen—the Queen of Love and Beauty, at least for now—sat alongside the King and hosting family. The front of the dais bore five shields, each representing one of the original five champions, chosen by Daenerys herself.

There were near countless knights set to challenge, from nameless hedge knights to celebrated former tourney winners. They would challenge a current champion by riding to the dais and tapping the shield of the man they intended to face. The two would joust until one or the other yielded, be it when one was knocked from his mount and conceded the match or after the two crossed blades and one emerged the victor. When one knight lost he would forfeit his armor and mount to the victor, though Aelor as the hosting lord had made it mandatory that the victorious knight allow the defeated one the opportunity to ransom back his possessions at a reasonable price.

The jousting would go for four days, after which the five champions— whoever they turned out to be— would communally either select a new Queen of Love and Beauty or crown a new one. Archery competitions and melees would be scattered throughout, and each night a feast would be held at the Dun Fort. It was absurdly expensive, but Aelor was at peace with that. Sometimes one needed to make time for joy, especially when they were closely tied to the game of thrones and all its intricacies and secrets.

Though the 'joy' aspect had disappeared the night before, when the Starks had arrived.

Jaehaerys had stopped Aelor from breaking Lyanna Stark's fool neck, something he was thankful for, but his nephew had asked him to leave the two of them alone without another statement. When Aelor had protested, Jaehaerys had merely fed him his own words about not standing in his way, and Aelor had relented.

He'd not seen him the rest of that night, and now his black haired nephew was seated with the Starks.

Alysanne and Aelor both stared, the former in worry and the latter in anger, as the boy they had raised as their own took a seat between his actual mother and his uncle, surrounded by the cousins he'd heard about but never met. Robb was set to ride in the tourney, having been taught how to use a lance by Aelor and the Kingsguard though tourneys were a knightly pastime and most Northerners weren't knights, but Jaehaerys had decided against it himself. The Targaryen who looked like a Stark was good with both sword and lance, maybe even as good as or better than his older brother the King, but he had never expressed a d.e.s.i.r.e to become a tourney knight.

So instead he sat with the mother and family he had never known, as the one that raised him watched from well out of earshot. It was nearly killing Aelor, worry about what falsehoods Lyanna may be filling her son's head with, but he refused to encroach on Jaehaerys' requested privacy.

So he sat and he worried, glaring daggers at Lyanna Stark and wondering if he should have just killed the spiteful woman years ago.

Daenerys sat to Aelor's left, as splendidly beautiful now as she had been the day he'd first held her. His baby sister was no longer a baby, having grown into a strong willed and highly intelligent woman, but he still tried to care for her as if she were a child though he knew she wasn't one. She was deep in conversation with Rhaella, named after the dead mother he had failed in life. His daughter was nearly as beautiful, the niece and aunt the embodiment of Valyrian beauty.

King Aegon was at Renlor's pavilion, likely chatting with his younger cousin in order to take his mind off of his vexation. Aegon the Sixth had wisely elected against riding in the tourney; though he desperately wished to test his skills against other knights, he was smart enough to realize he wouldn't likely be challenged as no one would risk harming the King of the Iron Throne. Just because he was wise didn't mean he was happy about it, and he'd been pouting since the royal family had risen early that morning.

It wasn't kingly, but Aelor understood it. He remembered seventeen years and a lifetime ago, when he himself had wanted to ride in every tourney from Sunspear to White Harbor. That was before the war of course, when he'd seen the real version of what tourney's made light of, and before he'd had more on his shoulders than he could feasibly carry. He hadn't ridden in a joust that wasn't deadly serious since Harrenhal, nearly two decades ago.

The champions began to gather beneath the dais, their shields displayed prominently on the front of the viewing box. This style of tournament was not common, most tourneys ending when one single knight was declared winner, but Daenerys for reasons all her own enjoyed the story of the Tourney at Ashford Meadow that had occurred nine decades ago and had wanted to choose champions of her own. Aelor had of course relented, because he could deny her nothing.

Of the five shields displayed on the viewing box, three of them were the blank white of the Kingsguard representing Sers Arthur Dayne, Rolland Storm and Balon Swann. The last had replaced Ser Horras Costayne in the white cloaks only a few months prior, after a period of illness had done Horras in after Costayne had in turn replaced old Gerold Hightower three and ten years before that. Each of the men were excellent with a lance though Arthur Dayne was the most formidable, and Aelor knew each of them had a solid chance of remaining champions throughout the four days of competition.

The other men of the Kingsguard had gracefully opted out of riding, even Lord Commander Barristan Selmy, who even in his increasing age was still likely the strongest jouster in Duskendale. Ser Manfred Darke had never been an option, of course; he was an incompetent rider and had no hope or d.e.s.i.r.e of ever improving, though he had taught the King and the other Targaryen boys more than a little about winning a fight by any means necessary. The ugly knight currently stood directly behind Daenerys, massive arms crossed over his massive c.h.e.s.t. Oswell Whent was with the King at Ren's tent, a quiet and lethal man who Aelor was less than fond of but who was completely loyal to Aegon. The seventh and final member of the Kingsguard was Ser Borran of the Bramsfort, the lowborn former household knight of House Chelsted who had captured Aelor's notice during Robert's Rebellion, taking the vacancy left by Prince Lewyn Martell when the old Dornishman had passed peacefully in his sleep ten years prior. The small, deadly son of a farmer stood behind Jaehaerys in the Stark box, ever serious about his duty as a guard to all the royal family.

The other two of the original champions were selected by Daenerys more for their blood ties with her than true likelihood to remain champions. One shield on the dais bore the golden three-headed dragon on black field of her brother Viserys, who had only arrived that morning with his army of a personal retinue. The Prince of Summerhall was a decent jouster and good with a sword—Aelor had trained him personally and relentlessly, despite Viserys protests—but he was not on par with the strongest competitors in Duskendale such as Robar Royce or Alaric Langward or Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers.

The same could be said for the final champion, who was only a squire but was competing at Daenerys' insistence. Aelor's son and heir Ren was represented by two warring white dragons on a black field, Aelor's once personal coat of arms that had become the family sigil for the Duskendale branch of House Targaryen. Renlor was good—one had to be if he was trained from birth by the likes of Barristan the Bold and the Sword of the Morning. But his eldest son would ultimately be a better diplomat than fighter, and while he would more than hold his own against near any foe he would not be mentioned in the same breath as Ryam Redwyne or Barristan or Aelor himself.

Baelon would one day, Aelor knew; his middle child and personal squire would surpass them all in martial prowess in the years to come. But that was the future, and this was the now.

His son and brother arrived at the same time, both in brilliant black plate, striking opposites to the men of the Kingsguard in their white armor and cloaks. Viserys and Ren were each mounted on black destriers, from the line of warhorses Aelor had bred from Warrior. Only the royal family rode the still-young line of the still-living stallion with the exception of Barristan and Willis Tyrell; the former had received a stallion as a gift a few years past and the latter had been granted breeding rights on the day he married Rhaenys, as a gift from her uncle. Viserys bore ornate golden dragon wings on his helm, something Aelor found as hideous now as he had when Rhaegar had worn a similar design when he was still alive. Ren had opted for seven spikes along the crest, giving a warlike appearance to a still growing and unbloodied boy.

King Aegon the Sixth returned to the box, still obviously wishing to be on the tourney grounds, and took a seat beside his aunt and betrothed, instantly taking the full attention of Rhaella as he did most young ladies. Aegon was a good, honorable lad—Aelor had raised him to be a better man than he himself was—and doted on her, though Aelor had not quite decided if he was truly romantically inclined towards his future Queen. He prayed to the Seven every night, though heavens knew he had given them plenty of reason to ignore him in his life, that they would at least find happiness if not true love, and that Aegon didn't turn out to be the fool his father could be.

So far so good.

"You do know you have fed poor Renlor to the hounds correct, beloved aunt?" The King asked glancing sideways at Daenerys who simply smiled and raised an eyebrow in response.

"Whatever do you mean?"

Aegon returned the smile. "Look on his arm."

The entire box, from Aelor and Daenerys right down to little Daemon who was seated in quiet Aemon's l.a.p, followed the instruction. Tied above Ren's right elbow was a purple and black kerchief, one Aelor knew for a fact his son didn't own. Alysanne came to the correct conclusion the quickest, as was most often the case. "Is that Myrcella's?"

Aegon was still grinning, all Valyrian charm. "It certainly is, dear mother. Your son has taken quite an interest in blonde haired Myrcella Langward, and that in turn has made Lord Alaric take an interest in Renlor—and Alaric is riding in the tournament. It doesn't take a superior mind like Aemon's here to see who he will challenge." His nephew turned to him then, the Infant King raising a question to the Dragon of Duskendale. "How many tilts do you think Ren will remain seated, uncle?"

"Ren is good, right father?" Asked the innocent voice of Daemon, his only child to have taken solely after Alysanne in physical appearance. "He will ride well?"

Aelor smiled at his youngest son, Aemon ruffling his hair in his brotherly way. "Ren is very good, Daemon, but Alaric has two decades of experience on him and is a master at fighting from horseback." Aelor turned back to the king. "I'd say he won't last more than five lances."

"I bet he'll make it at least seven."

Aelor waited just a moment before extending his hand, Aegon taking it. "Deal."

Renlor lasted eight, and while he cost his father money Aelor couldn't deny it made him proud.

Aelor had deferred to Aegon to open the tourney, though he as hosting lord had the right. There was no point in showing any display of power, however minute, to his jealous nephew—Aegon was in a good mood today even if he didn't get to ride, and Aelor preferred to keep him in those to avoid the headache a snappy King could make. Alaric had tapped Renlor's shield as Aegon had predicted, shooting his old friends Alysanne and Aelor an apologetic look as he did so. Loras Tyrell and his cape of woven roses had challenged Rolland Storm, Donnel Swann in the white and black of his house his brother Balon. A hedgeknight in a blood red cloak had challenged Viserys and another in brown and white Arthur Dayne.

As they had at Ashford near one hundred years earlier, all ten lances broke to the crowds roaring approval at the first pass, not a man unseated. It was an omen to the success of the tourney, one Aelor hoped proved true as it hadn't as Ashford Meadow.

Ren finally flipped over the rear of his stallion on the ninth pass between himself and Alaric, the Lord of Brindlewood placing his lance perfectly and deflecting Renlor's own away. The heir to Duskendale rose to his feet again almost as soon as he hit the ground, drawing his blunted sword. Alaric obliged him, honorably dismounting his own red stallion and meeting the Targaryen squire on foot, despite the disadvantage his bad leg provided. The two dueled for several minutes, the crowd cheering for one man or the other or both. Renlor was in his youth quicker and more mobile, nearly dancing around the other knight, but Alaric had the advantage of having actually fought a war and decades more of experience, and the Lord of Brindlewood eventually knocked Ren's blade away.

The heir to Duskendale yielded with Alaric's blunted blade at his throat, removing his helm to reveal a genuine smile. Alaric did the same, clasping arms with the young man who was wooing his daughter and speaking a few words before departing. The warring white dragons were taken down, the crown of white stars on burgundy above black taking its place on the dais as Alaric replaced Ren as a champion.

The three golden roses on green field of Loras Tyrell soon joined it, the third son of Lord Mace defeating Rolland Storm of the Kingsguard on the seventh pass. Balon Swann defeated his brother in five, Viserys the red hedgeknight in the same number and Arthur Dayne the other hedgeknight after only two.

And so it went.

Many challengers passed beneath the dais to tap a champion's shield throughout the day. Since it was up to the challenging knights on their own time, usually no more than one or two lanes were used at a time after the original pass, and some champions remained at their pavilion for extended amounts of time without being challenged. Alaric was tested frequently, many knights foolishly believing him to be the weakest of the champions not of Targaryen blood, but he held his own through each, after the midday break and resumption of the jousting having unhorsed thirteen knights as dusk approached. Loras Tyrell was less frequently challenged and Arthur Dayne was only called out by the very brave or very foolish, both defeating a handful of lesser knights respectively. Balon Swann unhorsed three men before he was defeated by Robar Royce, the black iron studs on a bronze field taking its place on the dais, and Royce in turn defeated three more.

Viserys had surpassed both Aelor and Aegon's expectations, remaining a champion until dusk. It was partly due to the limited number of challengers, as many knights were weary of openly challenging the blood of the dragon; not for fear of Viserys, as he was well trained but not naturally gifted, but for fear of harming one of royal blood. And it was no secret Viserys was more Aerys than either Aelor or Rhaegar were/had been.

But when he arrived as light began to fade, resplendent atop his white stallion and shining in his black armor and cloak of yellow with black nightingales, Aelor suddenly became very uneasy.

Bryce Caron was the trueborn brother of Ser Rolland Storm of the Kingsguard, the Lord of Nightsong in the Dornish Marches. Tall and fair to look upon, he was a decade his bastard brother's junior, with long coppery hair that maidens were rumored to have urges to run their hands through. It seemed to be true, as he was one of the few serious suitors for Daenerys' hand. Though not as highborn as Aelor d.e.s.i.r.ed for his sister, Bryce had made no small amount of headway in winning the current Queen of Love and Beauty's affections, Daenerys proving not immune to his charm.

That infatuation mixed with Bryce's reputation as a respected warrior, Aelor had been wondering why Lord Caron waited so long to challenge, as the longer a man remained a champion and the more knights of the steadily shrinking field he defeated the more prestige the man demanded. When Caron rode to Viserys' shield, tapping it in challenge as he smirked up at Daenerys, Aelor felt his unease grow.

The two hated each other.

Viserys was of the traditional Targaryen mindset, and he l.u.s.ted after Dany something fierce. Aelor had rebuffed his repeated attempts to persuade the Dragon of Duskendale into letting him marry their sister, as Aelor himself was against the practice and Dany was not romantically interested in her brother, but Viserys had let the idea become his obsession. Aelor had been forced to strike his brother to ill.u.s.trate his seriousness after one particularly vicious argument, and Viserys had withdrawn from court to Summerhall in a rage at what he considered a denial of his birthright. He sat in his rebuilt palace, a wheel of noble ladies like Alla Roxton rotating through his bedchambers, and brooded and plotted to have his sister's hand. Aelor, Varys and Grandmaester Colmar had worked together to keep the true drama under wraps from the eyes of the court, but there were whispers none the less.

Viserys knew Daenerys didn't d.e.s.i.r.e him, which increased his rage and madness all the more. When Bryce Caron had arrived at court not long before Viserys withdrew, publicly making progress in wooing Dany, the Targaryen Prince and Lord of Nightsong had been at each other's throats nearly instantaneously.

And now it seemed Caron was going to ignite the flames of that hatred. Aelor couldn't decide if he was more disturbed by Caron's audacity or the cruel smile that crossed Viserys' face when the challenge was made.

As Viserys mounted and Caron waited on one end of the lists for him, Aelor leaned back towards Barristan, who had taken over for Manfred in the viewing box. "Barristan, if this becomes a sword duel, keep a sharp eye for live steel on either man's part. I will not have their grudge turn into a bloodbath under my hospitality."

"Bryce would never," Daenerys protested, even as Barristan moved to obey.

Aelor met his little sister's eyes, so identical to his own. "I wouldn't be so sure, Dany. But even if he wouldn't, Viserys very well might."

Aelor watched with baited breath as Viserys reached the other end of the lane, turning to face his rival in the dying sunlight. With shouts from both men their destriers vaulted forward, charging down the churned dirt with lances at the ready.

As the two men neared, Aelor noticed Viserys' lance rise higher and higher. He kept willing his eccentric young brother to lower it back down but he never did, and Aelor realized hopelessly what he intended to do. Viserys, don't!

Viserys did.

The Prince of Summerhall dealt a near perfectly placed blow, one he would never be able to land again in a thousand tries, the end of the tourney lance catching Bryce Caron between the eyeholes of his helm. The Lord of Nightsong's head snapped back, driven by the strength of Viserys' destrier and the Targaryen's anger, and the knight went limp, dropping his own lance and shield and cartwheeling from the saddle, limbs limp.

Aelor barely heard Daenerys' screams, didn't pay attention to the knights and men—including Ser Rolland—rushing to the motionless body of the downed lord, and didn't feel Alysanne and Rhaella's hands grab both his own in shock. All he saw was Viserys ride back to pull his stallion to a halt a few feet from the man he may have just killed and remove his helmet.

The Prince of Summerhall looked to his downed rival and then his sister's terrified face and smiled.