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Harrenhal - 281 AC / Ashara Dayne Pov (After Midday):
The final joust of the grand tourney of Harrenhal had arrived. The stands were packed, and the crowd was buzzing with anticipation.
Ashara and Oberyn sat together in the front row of the noble stands, under the bright blue sky. The heat from the sun and the dust that kicked up from the tiltyard settled on them, making the moment feel suffocating.
Tension rippled through the air as everyone awaited for the final joust between Maekar and Rhaegar Targaryen to begin. Oberyn's dark eyes sparkled with mischief then, as he leaned toward his childhood-friend, his voice a low murmur under the roar of the crowd. "You've become fond of the dragon prince, haven't you, Ash? I should warn you however,— get too close, and you might get burned."
In turn, Ashara's violet eyes glimmered under the afternoon sun, as she let out a soft laugh, though the tension in her voice was clear. "Do you forget who raised me, Oberyn? I grew up in the heat of Dorne, fostered with you and your siblings. I know how to deal with the heat very well, thank you."
"Ah, but you forget, my dear Ashara, that Targaryens burn hotter. Especially when they are laced with ambition for that of which is not theirs." He flashed her a grin that was more wolf than viper, and Ashara shot him a look, yet her gaze quickly flickered to the royal box, where Elia sat, serene but distant, her eyes locked on Rhaegar.
Oberyn's smile faded as his gaze followed hers. His brow furrowed with concern.
"Rhaegar is clouded with prophecies lately, if what I have heard from my sister is to be believed, but Elia… she does not see the storm brewing. Her care for him and her children blinds her. And if he does what I fear he will,—..."
",— Elia will be torn apart, I know it." Ashara finished, her voice tight with worry.
Oberyn gripped the edge of his chair, his knuckles white. "If Rhaegar humiliates my sister today, I swear to you, Ashara. I will see him burn for it."
She could only nod her head, turning back to the tilt-yard, where Maekar already sat atop his loyal steed, his armor gleaming like polished silver.
Her heart twisted right there.
She had seen the determination in Maekar's eyes the night before, and on the morrow too,— the need to win, not just for himself, but to prove something to the entire realm.
His father, his brother, the crowd… they all demanded it of him, even if they did not know it themselves.
She had offered him her favor even, knowing it would do little to ease the weight pressing down on his shoulders, and could already sense the impending heartbreak he would face if he lost.
And if Rhaegar's rumours of being led by prophecy and dreams that truly demanded another woman to be given the crown of 'Love and Beauty', as many whispered through the halls these past few days, were true, then the loss would destroy him more than just his pride simply being wounded,— the entire realm could be affected because of it as well.
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Harrenhal - 281 AC / Maekar Targaryen Pov(At the same time):
The usual warm day had turned colder than it should have, though the sun blazed high in the sky, casting long shadows over the tiltyard of Harrenhal.
The air was thick with anticipation, a silence hanging over the crowd that felt more ominous than the usual roars of excitement.
Every eye, from the commoners who crowded the far reaches of the stands to the lords and ladies seated in the noble booths, was fixed upon the two riders at opposite ends of the field.
Dragons born of the same blood, but divided by fate and ideologies.
Maekar Targaryen sat astride his destrier, violet eyes narrowed beneath the shadow of his helm. His shield, emblazoned with the crimson dragon of House Targaryen, gleamed in the harsh light of day, and the lance in his hand felt like an extension of his will. This was it.
The final match.
Victory was within his reach, a chance to step out of his brother's shadow, to prove his worth not just to the entirety of the realm but to himself as well.
And across the field sat Rhaegar, 'the Spring Prince', his pale face calm beneath the glint of his silver helm, the long plume of his helmet fluttering in the breeze.
His expression was serene, almost otherworldly, but there was a strange heaviness in his gaze, a burden borne by prophecy and visions of a future that seemed too heavy for one man's shoulders.
He too held the common lance, but his mind was far away, lost in the fog of destiny, of things seen in the fire and whispered in dreams only.
It was then that the herald's voice rang out across the tilting-yard, announcing the final match's start, though the words barely registered in Maekar's mind.
His focus was fixed on Rhaegar, on the tilt ahead, and on the moment that would define him. He had waited months for this,— trained, fought, bled,— all for this.
The horn blew after a few seconds, and both horses bolted forward, hooves thundering against the dirt, dust flying into the air as the crowd erupted, a roar of voices blending into a single chaotic sound.
Maekar leaned into his saddle, gripping his lance tight as the distance between them narrowed.
Their lances met with a deafening crack, with wood splintering upon steel. The force of the blow jarred Maekar's arm, but he held firm, his horse staggering slightly but recovering easily.
Rhaegar's lance glanced off his shield, harmless. Neither man unseated, neither willing to yield an inch.
And that was the first tilt.
They turned for the second tilt, after grabbing new lances, and when the horn sounded once more, the horses galloped toward each other again, the tension rising in the stands, every nobleman and woman leaning forward in antecipation.
This time however, Maekar aimed his lance higher, hoping to catch his brother's chest.
But Rhaegar was too quick and flawless, his shield shifting at the last moment, deflecting the strike with a sharp thud. Maekar felt the impact reverberate through his entire arm, but still, he stayed steady, as both he and Rhaegar had not fallen yet.
Then, the third tilt came right after.
With the crowd going quieter now, the initial excitement giving way to a palpable tension.
Maekar's heart pounded in his chest as his destrier charged forward. His grip tightened on his lance, and this time, he struck true,— Rhaegar's shield splintered upon impact, sending a cascade of wood chips into the air.
For a moment, Maekar thought he had him, both brothers side-by-side,— as if time was slowed down, but Rhaegar kept his seat, his lance coming perilously close to Maekar's helm in the last moment.
Yet, no brother fell, and so the fourth tilt came upon the tourney's final jousting match.
And again they charged, and again, lances shattered upon shields. The crowd stirred restlessly, whispers spreading like wildfire about who should, and would win.
"You can do it, Prince Maekar!" A child shouted from the stands, but Maekar was not listening.
His eyes were locked on his brother's figure, his body coiled with tension. With each tilt, the frustration gnawed at him, threatening to unravel the calm he had forced upon himself.
Rhaegar was too graceful, too elusive. He was not jousting as a man,— he seemed to be jousting as if he were fulfilling some fate that was already written.
And so came the fifth.
They clashed once more, the horses' hooves digging deep into the churned earth, their lances meeting with a resounding crack.
This time, Maekar's lance slid off Rhaegar's armor, a near miss that sent a jolt of frustration through him. He could feel it, that burning heat under his skin, the anger of knowing he was fighting not just his brother, but the mountain that usually obscured him from the world,— fated to always be in its shadow.
And so, quickly came the sixth tilt as well.
The crowd had grown louder now, murmurs of disbelief filling the air.
Six tilts already? How long could this go on?
Maekar clenched his jaw as he wheeled his horse around for the next run, his knuckles white against the handle of his lance. His brother had been winning these matches for years, draped in glory, but Maekar knew he had something to prove,— something more than just being another dragon. He had to take it from him.
And after no prince fell from his horse, yet again, the seventh tilt came knocking.
This time, Maekar's lance struck true, catching Rhaegar's shoulder and nearly unseating him, and the crowd gasped as the 'Spring Prince' wobbled in his saddle, his shield hanging loosely by his side.
Maekar's heart surged with hope right there.
But then Rhaegar righted himself, the calm still on his face as if he had been saved by something unseen, something that should've not meddled on Maekar's win.
And so, after Rhaegar was saved from a loss, came the eighth tilt.
The dust was thick now, swirling in the air like ghosts of past kings, past battles.
Maekar's breathing was growing heavier with every pass, the weight of the match pressing down on him already. He glanced toward the royal booth, where his father, Aerys, sat watching. Aerys' face was a mask of fire and disdain, his eyes burning into Maekar with a fury that told him of the anger that he was feeling.
Yet, both brothers remained seated still, persisting through the pain and tiredness that enveloped them both.
And so, the ninth tilt came to pass.
This time, it was Rhaegar who struck Maekar's shield with such force that his arm went numb, his shield hanging at an awkward angle. Maekar barely managed to stay upright, his horse skidding in the dirt.
His vision swam for a moment, but he forced himself to focus. One more tilt would need to do the trick. One more chance, and Maekar was certain that he would win and crown Ashara in front of every noble of the Seven Kingdoms,— one more, and he would suprass the mountain that was his older brother's shadow.
And so, it all came to be on the Tenth Tilt.
As Maekar readied himself for the final charge, a strange stillness settled over the field. Time seemed to slow for both brothers, and for a moment, the crowd disappeared.
All that remained were the two princes, locked in a dance that would certainly defy fate itself.
And so they both urged their steeds foward, with Rhaegar's lance lowering itself, aimed as it always was, at Maekar's shield. But there was something different in Rhaegar's eyes now,— something distant, something consumed by visions and dreams that only he could see.
That made Maekar feel a cold shiver run down his spine, a sense that something was wrong, but there was no turning back now,— this was it.
The horses kept thundering forward, each step bringing them closer.
And closer.
The distance between them closed in an instant, and Maekar braced himself for the final strike. His lance was aimed at Rhaegar's chest, his victory so close he could taste it, and to anyone watching, it was almost certain that victory would come to the second son of Aerys II Targaryen.
Yet it was then, that Rhaegar's lance veered.
And in the blink of an eye, Rhaegar's lance struck not Maekar, but the legs of his horse.
The impact sent a shockwave through Maekar's body as his horse let out a terrible scream, its legs buckling beneath it. Maekar felt the ground rushing toward him, the world spinning out of control as his steed collapsed, throwing him high in the air.
Screams from the crowd could be heard all around, and then,— Maekar hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs as pain exploded through his body.
And for a moment, everything went pitch black. Then came the ringing in his head.
It filled his ears, drowning out the gasps of the crowd, and the cries of his wounded horse. He tried to move, but his limbs felt like lead, his body a mass of throbbing agony.
However, through the haze of pain, he saw Rhaegar, still on top of his horse, looking down at him with an expression that Maekar couldn't quite place. It wasn't triumph, nor was it pity. It was something else, something distant and cold.
The crowd erupted into chaos then, but Maekar heard none of it. His eyes drifted to the royal box with quite the strain, where his father sat. Aerys' face was twisted in a snarl, but whether it was directed at Maekar or Rhaegar, he could not tell.
His vision blurred, the edges of the world growing dim, and the last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the figure of Rhaegar, his silver hair catching the sunlight, and the hollow apology in his eyes.
'For the greater good.' Rhaegar mouthed with his lips, and then, as the world tilted, Maekar remembered Ashara's favor, the warmth of her hand against his as she tied it to his arm.
Her smile had been a lifeline in the storm that was his mind, but now… now, that lifeline was slipping from his grasp.
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Harrenhal - 281 AC / Barristan Selmy Pov(At the same time):
The air was taut with the aftermath of battle, the charged silence that follows the thunderous roar of the crowd.
Ser Barristan Selmy stood near the edge of the royal box, his hand unconsciously brushing the pommel of his sword as he watched Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, resplendent in black and red, ride his stallion with the grace of a man born to the saddle.
The cheers and gasps that had erupted when he bested his brother Maekar in the final tilt had begun to fade, replaced now by the murmurs of confusion rippling through the assembled nobles.
Rhaegar rode slowly, his expression distant, as if the world around him had fallen away, leaving him alone in his thoughts, alone with whatever visions had seized his heart. In his hand, he carried a crown of blue winter roses, the petals quivering in the breeze. But it was not the crown itself that troubled Barristan. It was the direction of Rhaegar's gaze,— fixed, unwavering, and dangerous.
"Gods..." Barristan whispered, though there was no one beside him to hear. His breath caught as the prince's silver-haired head turned, not toward the royal box where his wife, Elia Martell, sat watching with a composed but expectant look, but toward the stands where Lyanna Stark, daughter of the Warden of the North, sat amongst her kinsmen.
The crowd, too, had begun to stir. First in confusion, then in disbelief. A collective murmur swept through them like the rustling of leaves before a storm. They saw it too.
Rhaegar was not looking at Elia.
The Winter Rose.
"Not Elia..." Barristan's words were swallowed by the din, his chest tightening with unease. He had always trusted in Rhaegar's judgment, in the prince's ability to weigh the balance of power and loyalty. But this… this was folly.
"Gods, he's going to crown her..." he muttered, dread seeping into his voice. And then, the inevitable came to pass.
Rhaegar's horse approached the Stark girl, the prince dismounting with a fluid grace, his silver-gold hair falling loose about his shoulders.
He stepped toward her, each movement deliberate, his violet eyes locked on Lyanna Stark. She was still, as if frozen by the intensity of his gaze. And then, as the crowd seemed to hold its collective breath, he placed the crown of blue winter roses atop her dark hair.
A ripple went through the air, like the tightening of a noose, and the weight of that moment pressed down on Barristan with crushing finality.
There was no turning back now. Rhaegar, with that single act, had set the wheel of fate spinning wildly out of control. A crack, like the first crack in the ice, had splintered the delicate peace holding House Targaryen together. Barristan felt it, an unspoken certainty of what was to come.
Aerys would not care about the meaning of this gesture, but the lords would. The kingdom would. Barristan's fingers clenched tightly around his sword's hilt, though there was no battle here to be fought, no way to stop the course that had been set.
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The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows over the rolling fields beyond Harrenhal. The golden light shimmered on the still surface of a small lake nestled in the forest. It was a place of peace, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within the walls of the great castle.
Barristan found them there, by the water's edge,— Prince Maekar and Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, standing a short distance apart. Maekar's back was to him, his silver hair falling loose to his shoulders, his armor gleaming in the fading light. He was still, as if carved from stone, his eyes locked on the rippling waters before him.
His white-brother and Commander, Gerold Hightower stood a few paces behind him, silent and watchful, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his greatsword.
Even from this distance, Barristan could sense the storm brewing within Maekar. The air was thick with tension, the kind that clung to the skin like a cloak, heavy and oppressive. He approached slowly, his footsteps barely a whisper in the grass. The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
"Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark."
Maekar did not turn, but Barristan saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his hand flexed at his side as if resisting the urge to strike something, someone. The prince's voice, when it came, was cold, stripped of the fire that usually burned within him.
"I know."
The words were sharp, brittle, like the crack of ice beneath a heavy boot. Barristan hesitated for a moment, glancing toward Ser Gerold, who offered nothing but a solemn nod. The silence between them stretched, and the only sound was the soft lapping of the water at the shore.
"You should have won that match, my prince." Barristan said softly, stepping closer. "What your brother did... it was not the honorable thing to do. The realm knows it, even if they won't say it aloud. Perhaps things would be different, the lords would not be so tense right now, and—"
Maekar turned slowly then, his violet eyes ablaze with a cold fire, his face a mask of barely restrained fury. "But I did not win that match!" he said, his voice low and dangerous, each word a hammer's blow.
"And now, I am sure the realm and my family will pay for my brother's idiocy and foolishness." For a moment, Barristan felt a flicker of unease.
This was not the same Maekar he had known,— the daring prince, always quick to laugh, quick to act. This Maekar was something else, something darker, his anger simmering just beneath the surface like a smoldering ember waiting to ignite.
"I fought with everything I had, Barristan. And still, I was bested. Rhaegar knew what he was doing when he aimed at my horse. He always knows what he's doing." Maekar's lips curled into a bitter smile then, but there was no mirth in it, only resentment. "He apologised, you know? As if that would make it right. 'For the greater good.' he said."
Barristan and Gerold's hearts sank at those words.
Rhaegar's obsession with prophecy, with his visions and dreams was no secret to those closest to him.
But now, that obsession had spilled out into the open, into the realm, and the consequences would be far-reaching.
The crown of blue roses had not just adorned Lyanna Stark's head,— it had set fire to the tinder of rebellion, and Barristan feared that none of them would be able to stop it from consuming them all.
"I don't trust him anymore..." Maekar said, his voice a low growl. "And if he believes his prophecies will save this realm, then he's a greater fool than I ever thought."
Ser Gerold shifted behind them, his voice calm but firm. "The realm will feel the weight of this day, my prince. But it will also look to you for guidance when the time is right, I am sure of it. You may have lost today, but the game is far from over."
Maekar turned back toward the lake, his hands clenched into fists. "Then let them look all they want." he muttered, more to himself than to the others. "And let them see a dragon be unchained."
The words hung in the air like a dark promise, and Barristan could not shake the feeling that the world had shifted beneath his feet.
The storm was coming, and when it broke, it would tear the realm apart.
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Change of Scene (At the same time):
Deep within the ruins of ancient Valyria, the air is heavy with the stench of sulfur and ash.
The skies above were painted red and black, filled with smoke and the faint glow of molten rivers running like veins through the desolate landscape. Beneath the cracked earth, something ancient was currently waking, shifting, as if drawn by a force long forgotten by men.
The ground trembled faintly, a low rumble that echoed through the bones of the earth.
Beneath the ashen landscape, buried in the heart of Valyria's ruins, something stirred.
The heat from the volcanic rivers pulsed through the stone, sending waves of warmth into the air.
In the depths of a forgotten chamber, hidden far beneath the crumbled spires of the old empire, a dragon's egg, black as night and veined with streaks of crimson, lay undisturbed. The surface of the egg gleamed in the faint light of the molten lava below, its shell cold to the touch but thrumming with life.
A single crack appeared, splintering across the smooth surface.
Then another.
The air around it shimmered, thick with the scent of smoke and something darker, more primal. A soft, almost imperceptible whisper echoed through the chamber, like the breath of something ancient, awakening after centuries of slumber.
The crack widened, a sliver of red light spilling out from within the egg. And then, a faint but unmistakable sound,— the beat of wings.
Not from the egg itself, but from what had crawled out of it. Carrying the power of the heart of Valyria itself.
And so, after a few hours, somewhere in the distant Old Valyria ruins, a small shadow passed over the molten rivers, the shape of wings against the fiery sky gracing this world with the feared predators of the dragonlords of old.
The dragon had awakened, and soon enough,— when of a size big enough to cross entire oceans,— the reunion between dragonrider and beast would happen once more.
Shall those in the future, who oppose its rider, tremble and burn to ashes with the fury of the awakened predator of old.
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Well, any thoughts regarding this one?