Chapter 2
Bealor II
After returning to Driftmark, Bealor returned to the sword. The clang of steel, the rhythm of his movements, and the clarity of focus were the things he understood. They were his constant companions, his solace in a world that often did not make sense. The feel of the sword in his hand was as familiar as his own breath, and in the dance of combat, he could forget the rest. The training yard was his place of peace, the only place where things were clear, where his purpose felt as sharp as the edge of his blade.
But even in this familiar routine, something shifted. His father's voice, steady and unyielding, drifted into his thoughts. Form alliances. Build connections. The words echoed in him like a stone dropped into still waters, creating ripples that refused to fade. They were foreign words to Bealor, words that felt like the wind on a winter night—unwelcome and difficult to grasp. The sword was his language, not the chatter of others. Yet, his father's gaze, supportive but heavy with expectation, reminded him that even a blade must be sheathed from time to time.
So, despite everything within him that urged him to remain in the solitude of his training, Bealor tried. He made the effort, not because he wanted to, but because it was what was asked of him. Leanor and Leana, his siblings, were there, their laughter and voices filling the space around him. At first, he found it jarring, like the sharp cry of an unfamiliar bird. Their ease with each other was a mystery to him, one that he could not quite decipher. Their chatter, light and effortless, sounded hollow to his ears, meaningless in comparison to the language of the sword.
Still, he stayed. He watched them, observed their ways, as if learning a new form of combat. His efforts were not driven by warmth, but by something quieter, more deliberate. He knew he was expected to engage, to be part of the world outside his training. He could not afford to be the lone wolf forever. So, though his words were clipped and his presence often felt like an imposition, he forced himself to stay with them. He had learned how to wield a sword, but this—the art of connection—was something else entirely.
His attempts at conversation were awkward, his words sharp and unpolished, like an unrefined blade. He had no natural rhythm in it, no ease. It felt like trying to move in a foreign tongue, each syllable a struggle. But he endured. He always endured. There was a kind of discipline to it, a kind of stoicism in the way he forced himself to remain, despite the discomfort. His coldness, his distance, was not from a lack of care but from the simplicity of his mind. There was strength in silence, in the controlled stillness of the mind, and so he clung to that, even as his siblings' warmth tried to pull him in.
It wasn't easy, and it wasn't natural, but it was what his father wanted. Corlys Velaryon had always been supportive, steady in his belief that Bealor would one day understand the weight of those words. Form alliances. Build connections. And so, Bealor did what he could, one step at a time. He stayed. He watched.
Leana, with her bright eyes and unbridled energy, seemed determined to disrupt Bealor's routine at every turn. She would burst into the training yard with a kind of careless grace, her hair wild from the sea breeze, a wooden practice sword clutched in her hands. "Come on, Bealor," she'd demand, her voice ringing with laughter. "Show me how the great warrior fights." It was never truly sparring—not in the way Bealor understood it. Her strikes were sloppy, her footwork nonexistent, but her spirit was relentless. He would parry her clumsy blows, correcting her grip when she allowed it, enduring her giggles as if they were the sound of the wind.
Other times, she would drag him to the gardens, talking endlessly about flowers he couldn't name or snippets of gossip from the court that he struggled to care about. "Did you know Lady Redwyne's son tripped over his own cape during a feast?" she'd say, barely waiting for a reply. Bealor would listen, silent and unmoving, like a knight bound by duty. It wasn't that he disliked her company; her chatter was as harmless as the rustling leaves. But it often left him wondering why such things seemed to matter so much to others. He knew people found him cold, distant even, and in moments like these, he understood why. Where others would laugh, he would nod. Where others would tease, he would correct. Leana, at least, didn't seem to mind. She laughed enough for the both of them.
Leanor was different—quieter, more deliberate. He didn't challenge Bealor with play, but with words that carried the weight of dreams. "Do you think we'll ever see the Jade Gates?" he asked one evening, as they stood on the cliffs overlooking the sea. "Father speaks of the Summer Isles as if they were a painting come to life. I want to see them for myself one day, sail farther than even he did." Leanor's voice carried a hint of yearning, a kind of restless ambition that didn't suit the narrow confines of Driftmark.
Bealor, older by several years, often felt the burden of their conversations. He respected Leanor's vision, even admired it in his own quiet way, but he couldn't let himself be swept up in it. Where Leanor saw horizons to conquer, Bealor saw threats to prepare for. "The sea is not kind to dreamers," he replied, his tone steady. "Father returned because he knew when to stop." But he didn't discourage Leanor outright. That would have been cruel, and cruelty did not suit him. Instead, he listened, offering advice when he could, though it was often more practical than Leanor might have liked.
People often thought they knew him. They saw his stoic demeanor and mistook it for indifference, as if his silence was a wall rather than a mirror. Bealor didn't mind; he had long since accepted that others would see what they wished to see. They thought him cold because he did not laugh easily, distant because his words were few. But Bealor knew himself better than that. He wasn't unfeeling—he simply did not waste his emotions on things that didn't matter.
When Leanor spoke of exploration or Leana prattled on about flowers, Bealor didn't dismiss them outright. He saw the value in their words, even if he couldn't always express it. Leana's laughter, though frivolous, lightened the weight of Driftmark's halls. Leanor's ambition, though untested, reminded him that there was more to the world than steel and fire. These moments, fleeting as they were, weren't just distractions. They were lessons in a language he was still learning, one of family, of connection, of the world outside his own narrow focus.
The afternoon sun stretched low over Driftmark, its golden rays spilling across the stone walls of High Tide and casting long, jagged shadows over the courtyard. Bealor stood alone, sword in hand, the weight of the blade familiar and grounding. The world around him was a quiet hum of waves and wind, broken only by the rhythmic clash of steel from distant training yards. Yet, his thoughts were elsewhere, drawn back to the dark chamber where his dragon egg had rested for years, cold and unyielding—a promise yet to be fulfilled.
It had become a habit of his, visiting the egg as others might visit a shrine. The black stone cradle held the egg like a treasure, its surface smooth yet veined with faint lines of icy blue. It seemed more alive now than when it had first been placed in his care. In the stillness of the chamber, Bealor often found himself speaking to it, not with words meant for others but with the private musings of a boy who understood fire and steel better than he did people. He would press his palm against the hardened shell, feeling its chill seep into his skin. When will you wake? he would wonder. Will you choose me, or will you leave me to stand alone?
That day, he felt compelled to visit it again, more out of ritual than expectation. He sheathed his sword and made his way through the keep, his footsteps echoing softly in the narrow halls. The chamber where the egg lay was dark and cool, the air heavy with the scent of stone and salt. Bealor knelt before the cradle, his gaze steady on the egg's surface. The veins of icy blue seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light, as though alive, though he dismissed it as a trick of the eye.
He placed both hands on the egg this time, pressing harder than usual, willing it to respond. He whispered to it, his voice low and steady, the words more instinct than thought. "You've slept long enough. The world is waiting." His palms grew warm where they touched the shell, a sensation he had felt before but never so clearly. The warmth grew, spreading through his fingers and up his arms, until it was no longer a comfort but something insistent, alive.
A faint sound reached his ears—a hiss, sharp and sudden, breaking the silence. Bealor stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. He looked down at the egg, and for the first time, it moved. Just a tremor, so slight it could have been imagined, but then it came again—stronger this time, unmistakable. The gold veins running through the shell glowed faintly, like threads of molten fire awakening after an age of slumber.
Bealor's pulse quickened as the egg began to shudder in its cradle. The hiss grew louder, sharper, like steam escaping from the depths of the earth. A hairline crack split the smooth surface, jagged and glowing, spreading like lightning across the shell. Bealor stepped back instinctively, his heart pounding in his chest, but his gaze never wavered. The egg cracked again, pieces of the shell flaking away with sharp pops. A burst of heat filled the chamber, the air shimmering with the intensity of it.
And then, from the heart of the egg, a claw emerged—small, sharp, and glistening with the remnants of the hatching. The shell collapsed in a cascade of molten fragments, revealing a creature unlike anything Bealor had ever seen. Its scales shimmered like the sea at dusk, deep blues and silvers catching the dim light. Its wings unfolded slowly, translucent membranes edged in gleaming steel. And its eyes—burning blue like sapphires cast in flame—met Bealor's with an intelligence and intensity that stole his breath.
The hatchling hissed, its voice sharp and piercing, as if testing its own strength. Bealor knelt slowly, his movements deliberate, and extended a hand. The dragon tilted its head, studying him with an unblinking gaze, before stepping forward on unsteady legs. Its talons clicked against the stone as it pressed its snout to his palm, a puff of warm breath escaping its nostrils. In that moment, Bealor felt something click into place, a bond forged in heat and flame that words could not define.
"I'll call you Kaelyx," he said, his voice steady despite the tremor of awe running through him. The name came to him unbidden, drawn from the depths of Velaryon lore. The dragon blinked once, slow and deliberate, as if accepting the name, and let out a soft, rumbling growl that resonated in Bealor's chest.
The hatchling was small at first, barely larger than a hunting dog, its shimmering scales catching the light like the shifting tides. Each scale gleamed as if kissed by moonlight, a rippling effect of silver and deep, oceanic blue. Kaelyx, Bealor had named it, after the old sea god whispered of in Velaryon lore—a name that seemed to fit the creature perfectly, as though it had always been waiting for him to speak it aloud. Yet it was not the scales or the elegance of its wings that struck Bealor the most, but the eyes—burning blue, bright as molten sapphires. They were wide and knowing, unnervingly intelligent, as if the creature understood far more than it should for something only minutes old.
Kaelyx blinked slowly, lifting its head to meet Bealor's gaze, and in that moment, something ancient and unspoken passed between them. It was not submission, nor dominance. It was a bond—raw, primal, unshakable. Bealor felt it deep in his chest, a thread of connection as sure as blood. He had seen men bow to kings, lords swear oaths to their liege, but this was different. This was not an oath made in words but something forged in the fires of existence itself.
When the maesters were summoned, their initial reactions were a mixture of awe and caution. They crowded around the dragon with their ink-stained robes and speculative eyes, jotting down every flick of Kaelyx's tail and every puff of smoke that escaped his nostrils. They spoke in low, hurried tones about omens and portents, debating whether the dragon's birth heralded fortune or disaster for House Velaryon. Bealor ignored them, standing watch over Kaelyx like a sentinel, his expression cold and unreadable. He didn't trust their fascination; it felt too much like opportunism.
His mother, Rhaenys, was the first to arrive among the family. She swept into the chamber with the air of a queen, her eyes sharp and assessing. Her gaze softened only briefly when it landed on Bealor and the dragon at his feet. "He's beautiful," she said, her voice carrying both admiration and something deeper—concern, perhaps. Bealor could see it in the way her brow furrowed slightly, the way her hand lingered on the hilt of her dagger.
"What will you do with him, my son?" she asked, though there was an edge to her tone, as if testing him.
Bealor met her gaze steadily, his hand resting lightly on Kaelyx's head. "I will raise him. Train him. He is mine, and I am his."
Rhaenys studied him for a long moment before nodding, her expression unreadable. "Be careful," she said softly, though the warning was clear. "A dragon is a gift, but it is also a burden. Not everyone will see him as you do."
His father, Corlys, arrived next, his booming laughter filling the chamber as he clapped Bealor on the shoulder. "My boy," he said, pride radiating from every word. "You've done what many thought impossible. A dragon hatched in our halls!" Corlys knelt beside Kaelyx, his fingers brushing over the shimmering scales with reverence. "This is a sign, Bealor. A sign that the blood of Old Valyria burns strong in our veins."
Leanor and Laena were not far behind, drawn by the commotion. Leanor's eyes widened at the sight of Kaelyx, and he immediately began peppering Bealor with questions. "What will he eat? How big will he get? Can I ride him when he's older?" His excitement was infectious, though Bealor responded with his usual brevity, deflecting most of his brother's questions with curt nods or faint shrugs.
Laena, however, approached the dragon with the careful, measured steps of someone who understood the power before her. At just eight years old, she had already shown a natural affinity for dragons. She crouched down to Kaelyx's level, her dark eyes studying him as intently as he studied her. "He's small now," she said matter-of-factly, "but he'll grow. They always do." Her gaze flicked up to Bealor, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "He suits you. Both of you are too serious for your own good."
Bealor said nothing to that, though his lips tightened into a thin line. He wasn't sure if it was meant as a compliment or a jest.
The servants, meanwhile, avoided the dragon entirely, muttering prayers under their breath and casting wary glances as they passed the chamber. Kaelyx's screeches, though infrequent, echoed through the halls of Driftmark, a sound that sent shivers down the spines of even the bravest knights.
Bealor noticed the way people looked at him now—with awe, with fear, and sometimes with something he couldn't quite place. It didn't bother him, not exactly, but it added a weight to his shoulders that hadn't been there before. He could hear the whispers, the way his name was spoken with a new reverence, a new caution.
The bond between them was immediate, woven from something deeper than blood or steel, something ancient and primal. Kaelyx followed Bealor with the unrelenting loyalty of a shadow, his small wings fluttering like restless banners as he scrambled to keep pace. His cries were sharp and bright, echoing through the stone halls of Driftmark, filling the keep with a wild, untamed energy. It wasn't long before the sound became as much a part of the estate as the crash of waves against the cliffs or the salt-laden wind that swept in from the Narrow Sea.
In the training yard, Kaelyx would perch on a low wall or the edge of a barrel, his molten sapphire eyes fixed on Bealor with an unsettling intensity, as if committing each movement of sword and shield to memory. In the quiet corridors of the keep, the dragon's soft chirrups echoed ahead of him, heralding his approach. Kaelyx was a living emblem of Velaryon pride and Targaryen fire, a constant reminder of what Bealor carried in his veins. Yet the dragon was more than a symbol. He was a presence, a creature whose raw, burgeoning power mirrored Bealor's own ambitions, unspoken but undeniable.
It was Rhaenys who first broke the silence that had lingered between mother and son since Kaelyx's hatching. She found them one evening in the courtyard, Bealor seated cross-legged on the stones, Kaelyx curled against his leg like a hound at rest. The moonlight shimmered off the dragon's silvery-blue scales, and Rhaenys, for all her composure, paused at the sight.
"He'll grow quickly," she said softly, stepping closer, her voice carrying the weight of someone who had seen more than she cared to admit. "And so will the expectations placed upon you because of him."
Bealor didn't look up, his hand resting lightly on Kaelyx's back. The dragon stirred, lifting his head to regard Rhaenys with a piercing gaze. "I've always had expectations," Bealor said after a moment, his voice even. "This changes nothing."
Rhaenys knelt beside him, the edges of her gown brushing against the stone. "It changes everything," she said, her tone more mother than princess. "A dragon is not just a companion or a weapon, Bealor. He is a part of you now. His strength will reflect your own, and his wildness will test you."
Bealor finally turned to face her, his expression as stoic as ever, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty. "And what if I fail him?"
Rhaenys reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You won't. You have the blood of kings and conquerors in your veins, but more than that, you have a will as unyielding as the sea. Kaelyx chose you, just as you chose him. That bond cannot be broken."
For a moment, the courtyard fell silent, save for the soft rustle of Kaelyx's wings as he shifted against Bealor.
Rhaenys smiled faintly, her hand dropping to brush against the dragon's scaled head. "Do you know what your grandmother used to tell me when I was your age?"
Bealor shook his head, though his gaze remained fixed on her.
"She said, 'We are fire and blood, but we are also salt and stone. We endure because we must, and we thrive because we can.'" Rhaenys tilted her head, her eyes meeting his. "You'll endure, my son. And you'll thrive. With Kaelyx at your side, there's no limit to what you can achieve. But remember, the dragon isn't just yours to command. He is yours to protect, just as you are his."
Bealor looked down at Kaelyx, who blinked up at him with those burning, intelligent eyes. He ran a hand along the dragon's back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breaths. "I'll protect him," Bealor said, his voice low but firm.
Rhaenys rose, her presence regal even in the quiet of the moment. "I know you will," she said, turning to leave. But before she disappeared into the shadows of the keep, she glanced back. "And Bealor—Kaelyx is not the only one who will test you. The world will, too. Never let them see you falter."
As her footsteps faded, Bealor remained where he was, the weight of her words settling over him like a mantle. Kaelyx chirped softly, pressing closer to his leg, and Bealor let out a slow breath. The dragon's warmth was a comfort, but it was also a reminder.
As the years passed, Bealor's life was marked by two unrelenting forces: the sword and the dragon. From the age of eight, it became clear that the latter would demand as much from him as the former. His dragon, Kaelyx, was still small, but the bond that would define Bealor's future was already taking shape. The dragon's scales shimmered like the sea at twilight, dark cobalt blue with veins of silver, and his eyes burned with a fierce intelligence. Yet, despite the natural bond that existed between them, Bealor had to be trained. Rhaenys, his mother, was the one to guide him through those first, turbulent years of dragon-riding.
It wasn't easy. For Bealor, training was something he knew well—it was an art of repetition, of refining movements until they became instinctive. But riding a dragon was no mere swordplay. Kaelyx was wild, unpredictable, and in the early years, Bealor's control over him was as tentative as a fledgling trying to grasp the wind. Rhaenys, who had once flown Meleys with grace and fire, insisted that Bealor learn to command Kaelyx as she had commanded her own dragon.
Every morning, from the age of eight, Bealor would rise before the sun. His mother would meet him in the courtyard, where Kaelyx stood, his wings twitching with the restless energy of youth. Bealor's first lessons were humble—learning to mount the dragon, to sit firm, to control the creature's instincts with only his legs and his voice. Kaelyx, still growing into his immense size, would sometimes buck beneath Bealor, but Rhaenys never allowed him to retreat. "No hesitation," she would bark. "You want to lead him, not follow."
From the age of ten to twelve, Bealor's training became a series of grueling drills. Rhaenys would direct him through a strict regimen, pairing the dragon's growth with Bealor's own. Kaelyx was becoming larger, his wings stretching to their full span, the power of a future titan in the making. Bealor's body, too, was transforming. By the age of twelve, he stood over six feet tall, his muscles honed from years of swordplay and relentless training. His frame, broad and capable, suited the power of a dragon-rider, but it was the cold precision with which he executed his training that set him apart. No matter the weapon, no matter the challenge, Bealor trained with one purpose: perfection.
His mother was relentless, pushing him beyond what he believed possible. Sword after sword, he trained with every master on Driftmark. With longswords, rapiers, and greatswords, Bealor learned the art of combat, his technique always precise, always sharp. He learned to wield a spear, to move with the agility of a hunter stalking his prey. The bow, the crossbow, the ancient dragonbone axes—all were in his hands. But none of these weapons could match the bond between Bealor and Kaelyx.
By the age of sixteen, Bealor had grown to six feet four inches, his body a perfect reflection of years of disciplined training. His face had hardened into a mask of stoic resolve, now gleamed with the confidence of a man who had mastered his craft. Kaelyx had grown alongside him, now the third-largest dragon alive, his wings as wide as a ship's sail, his roar shaking the heavens. It was a power that both frightened and thrilled Bealor, and though he still showed little emotion, the bond between them was undeniable.
The training was not only physical—it was a mental battle, too. For Bealor to truly command Kaelyx, he had to understand the dragon in ways that went beyond brute force. He spent long hours with his mother, studying the history of dragons, learning their movements, the way their eyes flickered with the flames of their souls. Rhaenys never coddled him, never spoke to him as a child. To her, Bealor was not a boy who needed gentle care—he was a rider, a warrior, and the future of House Velaryon.
The day Bealor turned sixteen, Kaelyx was finally ready for his first real flight. The dragon's massive wings spread wide as he crouched, preparing to take off. Bealor mounted him, the familiar feeling of the dragon's back beneath him sending a surge of power through his body. As Kaelyx took to the sky, Bealor felt a thrill unlike any he had ever known. The wind roared in his ears, and the island of Driftmark shrank beneath them. In those moments, as he soared above the earth, it was clear that nothing could stop him.
Rhaenyra I
The winds of change were stirring, as they always did when something important was about to happen. It started with whispers in the halls, soft and careful, like a secret too dangerous to speak aloud. But soon, they grew louder, undeniable. Queen Aemma was pregnant. The rumors, which had been floating around for what seemed like forever, were finally confirmed, and with it came the growing hope that she would give King Viserys a son—the son he had wanted for so long.
And truthfully? I was happy about it. I wasn't one of those spoiled children who sulked when the world turned its gaze elsewhere. A new sibling, especially a brother, was a gift. The idea of a little brother—someone I could teach and protect, someone who could one day be my ally in all the madness that was bound to come—was comforting.
Of course, I knew the implications. The kingdom was holding its breath, praying for a boy, as if the very future of the realm depended on it. A son would give my father the stability he wanted. A male heir meant everything could settle neatly, without the endless debates that followed the idea of a woman on the throne.
But even so, I couldn't help but feel a little… miffed by it all. Not at the baby—never at the baby. No, it was the way the kingdom reacted, as if my own existence was somehow less important. People looked at me with pity, as though I was a forgotten trinket gathering dust, when all I'd ever wanted was to show them what I was capable of.
The tournament should have been a celebration, a grand affair, a thing of joy to mark the arrival of the son my father had longed for, the heir who might finally silence the murmurs of doubt and secure the Targaryen legacy. Yet, standing there in the midst of the Red Keep, it felt like nothing more than a show—a grand display for the realm to see that my father had gotten his wish, that the bloodline would continue, that all was well in the kingdom. But it wasn't. Not really.
The halls of the Keep were abuzz with preparation, but beneath the surface, something darker lingered. The clink of armor being polished rang in my ears like the tolling of a bell, too loud, too insistent. The banners hung high above, their bright colors dancing in the torchlight like the wings of a bird about to take flight, but all I could see was the weight of it all, the meaning behind every flutter of fabric.
Knights moved like ghosts, their steel gleaming in the light, their eyes filled with determination—or was it ambition? Lords and ladies, too, whispered in the corners, their voices barely audible over the clamor. The favors they would bestow upon champions, the bets they would place on who would emerge victorious—it all felt so… empty. I couldn't help but wonder if anyone else saw it, too. Or if I was the only one who understood that this tournament wasn't just about honor. It was about something darker, something tied to the future of House Targaryen, a future that now seemed to hang by a thread.
I walked through the corridors, my footsteps muted by the thick stone, and every gaze that met mine seemed to carry an unspoken question: What now, Rhaenyra? What will you do when they finally see that you are not enough?
They didn't dare voice it, of course. No one dared. But I could feel it in the air, heavy and suffocating. This tournament, meant to celebrate the birth of a son, had become a reminder of what I was losing, of what had already been taken from me. My place as heir. The moment my father's son drew breath, my claim—my birthright—was diminished.
The tournament began with all the pomp and pageantry one would expect from such an occasion. The horns blared, the knights trotted onto the field, and the crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers and shouts. It was a festival of violence, the kind of spectacle that brought out the best—and the worst—in the men who rode out to prove their worth. The lords were eager to see who would best their opponents, who would claim the prize and bring glory to their houses.
Rhaenyra, for all the noise and excitement, found her attention drifting in one direction, and one direction alone.
It was his first tournament, she knew. Bealor Velaryon, the eldest son of her aunt and uncle, the one who had earned his reputation as a swordsman even before he could properly grow into the man he was becoming.
Bealor's attire for the tournament was as much a statement of his skill and heritage as it was a reflection of his personality—stoic, refined, and without the need for excessive ornamentation. He wore a suit of plate armor crafted from blackened steel, each piece shaped with sharp angles to reflect the strength and precision he demanded of himself. The armor was practical, unadorned with excess filigree or embellishments, but it bore the unmistakable sigil of House Velaryon, the silver seahorse on a field of blue, embossed on his breastplate and the pauldrons that guarded his shoulders.
His helm, too, was simple, with a narrow slit for his eyes, allowing only the barest glimpse of his sharp, focused gaze. The design was sleek, with a high crest that mimicked the curves of a dragon's spine, and a faint shimmer of silver mixed in with the dark metal, as if to hint at the power he commanded—not through outward display, but through controlled strength.
The deep blue of House Velaryon's colors ran through his attire, with the surcoat that hung over his armor embroidered with a subtle pattern, the fabric itself rich and smooth, but without the vibrancy that would draw attention to itself. It flowed easily as he moved, suggesting both grace and purpose, the perfect foil to the coldness that Bealor often projected.
At his waist, he wore a sword—his father's steel, the hilt wrapped in dark leather for grip, its blade honed to a razor's edge. The sword itself was practical, not a weapon for show, but one to be wielded in battle, and Bealor carried it with the same quiet confidence that he carried himself.
His gauntlets were tight, with the faint gleam of silver tracing their edges, designed for both protection and precision. And though he bore no adornment beyond what was necessary for the tournament, there was a certain undeniable presence about him. The quiet, unspoken power in his every movement, the way his armor fit him like a second skin, and the determination in his eyes all spoke louder than any garish display could.
To those who looked closely, there was something otherworldly about him—his attire, his demeanor, everything about him felt like it belonged to a different time, as though he had stepped from the pages of an ancient legend. Bealor Velaryon was a warrior not for the glory of others to admire, but for the strength within himself.
She had watched him train on Driftmark, during a visit, observed his quiet, unwavering focus as he honed his skill with sword and spear, and there had always been something about him—something that drew her eyes like a magnet. The other knights, the ones who strutted and postured for attention, seemed far less interesting today. They were simply distractions.
Today, Bealor would show them all.
The noise of the crowd dimmed to a low hum in her ears as she watched him prepare, standing with quiet confidence at the edge of the lists. There was no fanfare for him, no display of bravado like the others—only the purposeful movements of a warrior who had no need to prove his worth. She had seen the way he carried himself, the way he approached every challenge with the calm of a seasoned fighter, and now it was time for him to show the court just what he was made of.
Rhaenyra tried to pay attention to the other knights as they lined up for their jousts, but her gaze kept returning to Bealor. His stance was poised, his eyes narrowed as he focused on the opponent in the distance. He looked every inch the warrior, his tall frame squared and his sword hanging at his side like an extension of his will.
When the first joust began, she watched as the knights charged at one another, their lances splintering with the impact, their horses thundering across the field. There were moments of skill, moments of valor, but none of it truly held her attention. Not until Bealor took his turn.
The crowd fell silent as he mounted his horse, his movements swift and sure. The tension in the air was palpable. Bealor didn't need to show off or make a spectacle of himself—he was simply there to win. Rhaenyra could see it in the set of his jaw, the tightness of his grip on his lance. This wasn't about glory for him. It was about proving something to himself. The crowd could wait.
When the charge came, it was devastating. The other knight barely had time to raise his lance before Bealor's spear collided with his, sending him crashing to the ground in a heap of armor and broken pride. Bealor didn't even look back as he dismounted, his face a mask of determination. There was no showmanship, no reveling in the victory. He simply moved on to the next.
Rhaenyra felt a strange thrill at the sight of his victory. It was different from the usual excitement of a tournament win—it was quieter, more personal. Watching him, she felt a strange sense of pride, even though she had no claim to him, no right to the satisfaction that curled in her chest. But there it was.
As the tournament continued, Rhaenyra found herself stealing glances at Bealor after each of his victories, wondering how long it would take before the others started to notice the quiet power he carried. There were other knights, of course, others who showed promise and skill, but none of them moved with the same purpose as Bealor.
The air in the tournament grounds seemed to grow still as Bealor took his place opposite Daemon. For a brief moment, everything else faded—the shouts of the crowd, the clang of swords in other matches, the heavy weight of expectation in the air. Rhaenyra's eyes were fixed on the two of them, her heart beating faster than she cared to admit.
Daemon was a spectacle in himself. His armor gleamed with the pride of House Targaryen, its sharp lines and dragon motifs daring anyone to look away. But it wasn't the armor that made him a force—no, it was the fire in his eyes, the promise of destruction in every step he took. A warrior forged from years of battle, unrelenting, and unafraid. He was the one everyone watched, the one everyone believed would win. After all, he was Daemon Targaryen—the one who wore confidence like a crown.
And then there was Bealor.
Rhaenyra's gaze softened slightly as she watched him, her mind flickering between the Bealor she had known since childhood and the man he had become. The way his armor fit him so naturally, as though it had been crafted not by smiths, but by fate itself. His stance was quiet, controlled—his eyes, calm pools of concentration. He didn't stand with the arrogance of others, but there was a cold, certain confidence about him. A steadiness. He didn't need to boast or show off. His presence, silent and commanding, was enough.
The clash of steel rang out, and the crowd held its collective breath.
Daemon made the first move, as expected. His sword swung with the force of a man who had spent his life training for this exact moment. It was swift, calculated—a perfect strike meant to end the fight before it could truly begin.
But Bealor was faster. His movements were precise, like a predator tracking its prey. The way he deflected Daemon's blow with such ease was almost unnerving. Rhaenyra felt a swell of something in her chest—pride, perhaps. Or maybe a quiet awe. She had always known Bealor to be skilled, but to watch him move like this… it was like watching a storm take shape—calm on the surface, but underneath, there was raw, unrelenting power.
Daemon came at him again, faster this time, his sword a blur of steel. But Bealor was a wall. His parries were almost effortless, each movement an extension of his body, fluid and precise. Daemon's blows came harder, angrier, each strike a challenge that seemed to pulse with the weight of the crown he believed should be his. But Bealor met every one with calm determination, his eyes locked on Daemon's as if there was nothing else in the world but this moment, this fight.
Rhaenyra leaned forward, her heart quickening as Bealor's sword found its mark, pushing Daemon back just enough to give him space. It wasn't just the technique, or the way Bealor was using his size to his advantage—it was his mind. He was thinking two moves ahead, anticipating Daemon's every move, reading him like a map. And then, with a swift, precise motion, Bealor's blade found Daemon's arm. Not a kill strike, but a hit that stopped the flow of the fight.
Daemon staggered, clearly caught off guard. For a moment, the entire arena held its breath, waiting. Would Daemon rally? Would he fight harder?
But Bealor didn't give him that chance. With a fluid motion, he closed the gap, his sword sweeping in a deadly arc, forcing Daemon to block with his own blade. The clash reverberated through the arena, and for a split second, Daemon's posture faltered.
And that was enough.
Bealor moved in again, his strike faster this time, more aggressive. Daemon's sword was knocked aside, and in the same breath, Bealor's blade tapped the side of Daemon's neck, a swift and almost playful reminder that he could end it if he wished. Daemon froze, the finality of the moment hanging in the air between them.
The crowd erupted, the roar deafening, but Rhaenyra barely heard it. Her eyes were on Bealor, and his eyes on her, standing tall and unmoved, as if he hadn't just bested the most formidable warrior in the tournament.
She couldn't help it. She smiled.
Bealor had done it. He had won. And in doing so, he had claimed something more—respect. The Targaryen prince had been outmatched, and in that moment, Rhaenyra knew that Bealor wasn't just a child from Driftmark—he was a force to be reckoned with.