'Battle be the prayer!
Battle be our flight!'
-From 'The Red Prince', performed by the Mummer's Guild.
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She wore the red dress, the one Rhaenar had said made her look like a Tudor. Whatever that was.
King Viserys had begun his welcoming speech as Rhaenyra ascended the steps to the royal booth. Father would surely note her lateness.
Despite the wind flapping the banners high from the rafters, the air in the arena was thick with anticipation and excitement.
"I know many of you have traveled long leagues to be at these games," the King bellowed. The crowd listened attentively. "But I promise you will not be disappointed."
Rhaenyra scanned the crowd to find Alicent.
As expected, she had arrived earlier and reserved a seat.
They always sat in the front row of the booth during tourneys. A prime position for the smallfolk to marvel at the Realm's Delight. It was also the best view, and should a knight ask for their favor, all they had to do was lean over the rail and drop it onto his lance.
She expected Rhaenar's seat to be empty. Instead, there sat a tall figure, dark-skinned and adorned in a leopard cloak. Xhadho, that Summer Islander friend of Rhaenar's.
"When I look at the fine knights in these lists, I see a group without equal in our histories," King Viserys continued.
Rhaenyra scurried to her seat, ignoring the subtle glance from her father—a silent reprimand for her lateness. Despite that, his kingly smile never faltered. If anything, it beamed wider than usual.
Rhaenyra pondered the cause, and then the answer came.
"And this great day has been made more auspicious by the news I am happy to share: Queen Aemma has begun her labors!"
The crowd erupted in cheers. Rhaenyra clapped.
The King called for the favor of the Seven upon all the combatants. At that moment, the sky exploded in flame.
At the end of his speech, gasps swept through the crowd as they gawked upwards.
Flames of green and gold swirled in the sky, smoke twisting and curling. The burst of fire was so close to the arena that those in the higher rows likely felt its warmth on their faces.
'Sundance…' Rhaenyra thought.
Sure enough, Rhaenar was on the dragon's back, laughing as they flew away.
She always wondered how he managed to time these displays precisely at the end of their father's speeches.
When she asked, Rhaenar gave a boring, detailed explanation about all the planning and logistics behind it. Flag signals and smoke screens. Yawn!
The visiting lords and ladies marveled at the spectacle, astonished at how accustomed the smallfolk seemed to be. The people of King's Landing really were so used to Rhaenar's antics.
Just like that, the tournament began. The usual sounds followed: horses neighing, hooves galloping, shields splintering, and the heavy thud of riders being lanced from their mounts.
The first joust was over in an instant. The rider bore no distinguishing colors, his armor plain, but he rode his white steed gallantly, bowing in respect to the king.
Wait… that's the Dondarrion sigil on his shield.
"A mystery knight?" Rhaenyra asked.
"No," Alicent replied. "A Cole, of the Stormlands."
"I've never heard of House Cole."
By the time Rhaenyra said it, the second match was already underway. These tourneys moved quickly, with so many participants over the years that they'd learned to churn through matches at a rapid pace.
Riding a horse beneath the royal booth was none other than Lord Boremund Baratheon.
"Princess Rhaenys Targaryen! I humbly ask for the favor of 'The Queen Who Never Was.'"
The crowd reacted favorably, though Rhaenyra could tell the request made Princess Rhaenys uneasy. Everyone knew Lord Corlys still nursed the wound from his wife being snubbed.
"Good fortune to you, cousin," Rhaenys said, allowing her favor — a circlet crown of woven flowers — to fall down the shaft of his lance.
"I would gladly take it if I thought I needed it."
The whole affair made Xhadho snort softly.
"You Westerosi are strange. What kind of a 'favor' be flowers? Instead, you should be fucking. Nothing proves a lady's favor like a good fuck."
Alicent blushed, covering her mouth with a hand. Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. Time spent with her brother and his soldiers had taught her that Rhaenar often surrounded himself with foul-mouthed company.
"They can hardly do that in front of all and sundry," Rhaenyra replied.
"Why not?"
"It…" Rhaenyra faltered, taken aback by the genuine curiosity in his tone. "It wouldn't be proper."
Alicent nodded.
"Proper? Ha! None of you know what a proper fuck is. This saddens me."
Rhaenyra was shocked. This was hardly the sort of conversation one should have with noble ladies, let alone a princess.
Then, it dawned on her. It wasn't that Rhaenar liked foul language — he adored people who didn't care for proper decorum. Rebels of the rile. It just so happened many of them swore like sailors.
Below, the mysterious knight easily dispatched another opponent. He was clearly skilled.
Rhaenyra beckoned Ser Harrold, who knelt beside her.
"What do you know of this Ser Criston Cole, Ser Harrold?"
"I'm told Ser Criston is common-born, the son of Lord Dondarrion's steward. But aside from unhorsing both Baratheon lads, I don't know much else," Ser Harrold said.
"Then I know more than you," Xhadho said with a smirk. "Your prince has his own ways of favor. You could buy a small fleet for the amount he's bet on this… Cole, is it?"
Rhaenyra's eyes widened. Her brother, a gambler? And with such wealth? It was hard to imagine the royal treasury granting such boons without her knowledge. As the King's cup bearer she always attended small council meetings.
"Rhaenar is that certain of Cole's victory?" she said, curious.
Xhadho shrugged, his eyes glazed with disinterest in the tourney. "Who knows? You should ask him."
Rhaenyra's intrigue grew.
As if on cue, Ser Criston raised his helm's visor. Gods, he was handsome too…
He caught her gaze and smiled, sending a flutter through her stomach.
The sound of drums broke her trance as a herald placed the Targaryen sigil before the royal booth. A dozen riders, each astride powerful steeds and clad in significant armor, their house sigils recognized across generations of prominence, lined up in formation.
The Master of Revels stepped forward, his voice booming with authority.
"Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent!"
It came as no surprise when Daemon chose Ser Gwayne Hightower, Otto's son. What better way to fuel their petty feud?
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Lord Corlys Velaryon watched carefully, his eyes flicking between Ser Otto Hightower and the King, awaiting their reaction to Prince Daemon's challenge.
The Hand grimaced. The King shook his head, ever the diplomat.
Corlys scoffed. He knew that no matter how hard Viserys tried, there would be no reconciliation between Daemon and Otto. Daemon despised the man.
Corlys had always been observant; life on the high seas demanded it. His eyes were trained to catch the subtlest changes in weather, and he brought that same vigilance to court. He barely acknowledged Lord Beesbury placing a bet on Prince Daemon.
Daemon's horse, black as his armor, snorted and stirred with impatience. The beast was clearly in heat — an unsportsmanlike choice for any knight, let alone a prince. Such a blatant mockery of chivalry would have seen a lesser lord hanged, especially in the reign of Jaehaerys.
Corlys had to give credit where it was due, though. The Hightower lad put up a strong challenge on the first charge.
Which, of course, only prompted Daemon to cheat during the second. He lowered his lance in a dangerous move, tripping Ser Gwayne's horse. The fall could have severely crippled or even killed the Hightower knight.
After his "victory," Daemon had the audacity to ask for Lady Alicent's favor — right after such a blatant foul against her brother!
Naturally, Lady Alicent obliged. She could hardly deny the King's brother.
Corlys tsked in frustration. He had grown tired of these games. While they sat here watching men tilt at one another with wooden lances, the Triarchy was tightening its grip on the Narrow Sea.
It was only a matter of time before his fleet faced open hostilities.
As if on cue, a lowly maester in dull grey robes slithered into the royal booth, whispering something into Otto's ear. The Hand leaned toward the King, who stood abruptly and left.
'Must be about the Queen,' Corlys thought, 'Is the child born already?'
The tournament continued, a blur of charges, shattered lances, and bruised egos, until a particularly heated bout ended in chaos.
One knight, having lost his tilt, dismounted his opponent as he was reveling in victory. The two devolved into a bloody brawl.
His wife sighed beside him. "And the day grows ugly," Rhaenys said.
It was hard to believe, considering how enthusiastically the crowd cheered on the carnage before them.
"I wonder if this is how we should celebrate the birth of our future prince. With wanton violence."
"It's been 70 years since King Maegor's end," Rhaenys remarked, "These knights are as green as summer grass. None have known real war. Their lords send them to the tourney field with fists full of steel and balls full of seed, and we expect them to act with honor and grace. It's a marvel that war didn't break out at first blood."
They watched, indifferent, as one knight smashed another's head in with a mace, the sound of metal meeting flesh barely registering amidst the roar of the spectators.
"Perhaps that's why Prince Rhaenar no longer attends," Corlys said after a moment. "His tenure in the Vale has changed him."
Rhaenys raised a brow. Was that pride she detected in his voice?
"You admire him."
"I was much older than he when I took my first command. Even then, I was only captain of a single ship. Rhaenar's led hundreds of men on campaign to victory. I feel time is… slipping away from me."
Rhaenys placed a gentle hand on his forearm, her voice soft.
"Hush, husband. You should not make such comparisons. It's unbecoming for a man as accomplished as yourself. They don't call him 'Rhaenar the Ready' for nothing."
Corlys sighed deeply. "Perhaps you're right."
"I'm rarely not."
"That's my problem."
The two shared a smirk, husband and wife.
Corlys relaxed slightly in his chair, his eyes drifting upwards to the sky.
Why had Rhaenar stopped attending these tournaments? The boy had founded his own fighting league, for the Seven's sake. It wasn't as if he shied away from combat.
Time. That had to be it. How much of it had they wasted, sitting here, watching this pointless spectacle? Rhaenar would never allow his time to be wasted so frivolously. Not any more. Not when there were far more important matters at hand.
The thought made Corlys uncomfortable. He was falling behind. Falling behind all those with the drive and ambition he once had.
He remembered when he had been just as focused, just as relentless in pursuit of his goals.
What had changed? The man, or his ambitions?
The Sea Snake had been docked for too long. He could feel it in his bones — the need for another voyage, another adventure. He missed his sea legs.
Corlys hummed to himself, his thoughts distant.
He wondered what Rhaenar was doing at that moment.