Rhaegar quickly ended his conversation with Tormund, ignoring the growing tension around him.
"What's going on?" Rhaenyra asked, her eyes bright with anticipation.
Rhaegar shook his head gently, took her small hand and kissed it lightly, raising his voice deliberately. "News from Volantis. It seems someone has incited the Tiger Party to burn Lys' fleet."
Syrio's latest letter revealed that Tiger Party Archon Tesrio had privately targeted Lys's innocent merchant ships for plunder. Lys had condemned these actions and showed signs of a possible counterattack in partnership with Myr and Tyrosh.
Rhaegar's voice was firm and loud, ensuring everyone present could hear him.
Daemon was the first to react, casually pouring himself more wine.
Viserys glared angrily at his brother. "Daemon, have I not warned you against provoking the ships of the Triarchy?"
"This is clearly the Triarchy's own doing, facing retaliation from Volantis," Daemon replied lazily, dismissing the connection.
Viserys' face reddened, his chest heaving with anger. "Respect your king, or I'll send you back to the Stepstones to cool off!"
He was truly fed up with his rebellious brother, who always sought to provoke and stir conflict, disregarding the kingdom's need for peace.
Stifling his irritation, Daemon pointed at his nephew. "Your Grace, before you lecture me, take a look at your own eldest son. I'm not the only one who expects war."
Viserys, slightly taken aback, looked at Rhaegar. He knew that his son had prepared an army and had made a significant impact in Volantis.
Rhaegar's expression remained calm and he said nothing. He had no immediate plans for war, at least not until Rhaenyra and Laena's pregnancies were over.
Rhaenyra was expecting, and he was not comfortable going to war while she was pregnant. The Targaryens had lost too many children in the past.
Laena, who controlled the largest dragon, Vhagar, could not be absent from a potential Dornish War or conflict with the Triarchy.
Rhaegar's silence could be seen as either agreement or defiance.
Viserys felt a splitting headache, his old wounds aching faintly.
Alicent, worried, took her husband's arm and stroked it gently, trying to calm him.
"Hoo~, I'm fine."
Viserys took two deep breaths, glaring at his brother and eldest son. "I don't care what either of you think; I won't allow anyone to start a private war during my reign!"
He was a king of peace and prosperity, not known for great deeds or conquests. Since inheriting the throne from his grandfather, Jaehaerys I, his rule had been defined by stability and abundance. He didn't want future history books to erase those achievements and instead record only his mediocrity and continuous wars.
Sensing his brother's anger, Daemon, uncharacteristically subdued, rose silently and walked off the high platform.
Rhaegar remained unmoved, pondering how his uncle had discovered his intentions to prepare for war. Clearly, his preparations had not been as secret as he had thought. Either word had leaked out of the Prince's Palace or spies in Dorne had learned of his plans.
"Rhaegar, did you hear what your father said?" Viserys's voice was filled with fury, directing his anger at his eldest son.
Rhaegar's thoughts snapped back to the present, and he smiled brightly. "Father, I have no desire for war. I just want to marry Rhaenyra as soon as possible after the tournament."
Viserys looked puzzled, watching as Rhaegar intertwined his fingers with Rhaenyra's and gently caressed her back under her long red silk dress.
Rhaenyra allowed him to touch her but remained silent.
Viserys's eyes widened with surprise, a smile spreading across his face. "You mean...?"
As a father concerned about his children's reputation, he spoke subtly. Unmarried pregnancy was frowned upon, and discretion was necessary in public.
Rhaegar raised his chin, speaking proudly. "The maester isn't sure yet, but all signs point to it."
He couldn't wait to share his joy with his father, to tell him that his heir would soon have an heir as well. He wanted to scream about how wonderful Rhaenyra was, imagining the possibility of her giving birth to two healthy babies at once. But he held himself back, not wanting to pressure her.
Rhaenyra looked at him, her expression dark with pain. She had waited two days with no explanation from Rhaegar.
It wasn't entirely Rhaegar's fault. When the bastard daughters arrived in Westeros, they were discreetly settled in a Mushroom Set Cavan a dozen miles away from Harrenhal Castle. Rhaegar had made it clear to them, providing a peaceful place to live and enough money to live comfortably, but severing other ties.
Aunt Saera's grandchildren were distant enough in bloodline that it wasn't illegal in Westeros. Rhaegar had initially sought the experience of being with someone his own age, but it hadn't been as satisfying as he had hoped.
Daella gave him a similar feeling to the noble ladies of Westeros, and the process had been boring. He had privately asked Orwyle for advice, who had politely suggested it might be a mental issue rather than a physical one.
Rhaenyra and Jeyne, who genuinely loved him, could give him all-night pleasures. Daella, on the other hand, was a blind admirer and asylum seeker, someone Rhaegar subconsciously resisted.
Back to the topic at hand.
Viserys, overwhelmed with joy upon hearing the great news, couldn't help but exclaim, "Rhaenyra, so it's normal for you to feel uncomfortable lately. I was secretly worrying about you with Alicent."
Alicent paused for a split second before saying with genuine delight, "Rhaenyra, congratulations."
She herself was unsure of her true emotions at that moment, her heart a mix of repressed feelings and vague joy. At least outwardly, she had to offer her blessings.
Rhaenys, Sea Snake, Laenor, and the others extended their congratulations, all with smiles on their faces. The prosperity of the Targaryen bloodline and the news of a successor to the Heir Prince were joyous events worthy of celebration.
Especially Laenor, who was smiling like a fool, unable to stop pursing his lips.
His wife, Celine Setiga, looked gloomy, her eyes full of envy as she forced a smile to match the applause. She longed to conceive a child herself and didn't know how much longer she would have to wait.
Rhaenyra accepted the well-wishes with a smile, quietly shaking off Rhaegar's large, tightly clasped hand.
Rhaegar, smiling without saying a word, let his hand rest on her thigh and stroked it gently.
With keen eyes, Viserys noticed their subtle exchange and called out in warning, "Rhaegar, today is the last day of the tournament. Daemon has already gone down; you are about to fall behind."
The best way to please a woman was to win the crown of love and beauty for her.
Receiving the signal, Rhaegar rose, donning his armor, and smiled confidently. "No problem, let me go and test their mettle."
He glanced back at Rhaenyra, whose eyelashes fluttered slightly, her purple eyes reflecting his silhouette.
Rhaenyra crossed one leg and bashfully picked up her tea, saying perfunctorily, "Go on."
Unsatisfied, Rhaegar leaned down and boldly cupped her face, aiming to kiss her delicate red lips.
He couldn't fathom where the fault lay, knowing only that Rhaenyra could be forgiving.
After a long moment, their lips parted, leaving Rhaenyra with misty eyes and watery strands clinging to her lips.
Rhaegar's eyes were filled with love and a hint of hope. "I prepared a gift for you. I originally wanted to give it to you on the day of the ceremony, but I want you to be happy now."
"Take it out," Rhaenyra said, her eyes shining with ecstasy.
Rhaegar shook his head slightly. "When I win the crown of love and beauty, I will place it in your hands along with the gift."
He kissed her forehead lightly once more before stepping down from the stage amidst the curious gazes of all.
...
The tournament arena buzzed with excitement.
Daemon had already secured a victory by spilling his opponent's guts and breaking several of his ribs.
Rhaegar rode a silver-white warhorse, which now stood facing his uncle.
With only a glance, Daemon reined in his mount and warned, "Dorne is not a good place to live. It is barren and hot, leading to years of protracted fighting."
Rhaegar replied frankly, "If the Seven Kingdoms are not unified, how can we expand our territories outward?"
Daemon, looking untamed, rode his pitch-black warhorse the wrong way and said coldly, "The Triarchy is the preferred choice, not Dorne."
"Uncle, I have to think about the family," Rhaegar sighed.
He knew that Dorne would not be easy to conquer and was much more menacing than the Triarchy. However, conquering Dorne would reassert the Targaryens' might over the Seven Kingdoms. In contrast, most of the nobles in Westeros were unwilling to invade territories outside the Narrow Sea.
With a nod, Rhaegar spurred his horse onto the tournament field.
Danglang!
The obese referee sounded the gong, and Rhaegar's opponent revealed himself: a tall and robust young man wearing tin can armor and riding a brown warhorse.
"This matchup, Prince Rhaegar of Targaryen, against Arno Storm of Stonehelm!"
Dang!
The referee chanted the introduction and struck the opening gong again. Both fighters took the field and sized each other up.
Rhaegar donned a silver helmet with dragon wings on either side and clutched the hilt of his spear.
His opponent was Arno, a bastard son of the House Baratheon. He had participated in the Second Battle of the Stone Islands and had seen the Prince ride a dragon. His heart trembled with fear.
The first charge.
Rhaegar slightly sidestepped, aiming his lance at Arno's abdomen in a moderate test.
Bang--
Arno's riding skills were unrefined. He lifted his shield to block but was almost knocked off his horse. Both sides brushed past each other, and the second round unfolded.
"Heya!"
Ten feet away, Rhaegar's gaze turned cold as he spurred his horse with a low shout.
This bastard dared to covet Storm's End Castle; so he could not live!
As they neared, Arno raised his arm and thrust his spear, aiming it fiercely at the Prince's breastplate.
Rhaegar's horse was even faster. The shield with the three red dragons on it deflected the tip of Arno's spear, and Rhaegar thrust his lance fiercely.
Pfft...
The wooden lance hit Arno's throat accurately. The iron-wrapped tip broke through the thin armor and pierced deeply into his neck.
Rhaegar discarded the lance and rode away.
Arno flew backward, landing heavily on the ground. His eyes filled with blood as he clutched his blood-soaked throat, gasping for breath.
The squire and maester rushed forward to check, but it was too late. Arno was dead.
(Word count: 1,784)