Pre-Chapter A/N:First of all, Happy Holidays to all who celebrate. And now we're on to the second post of 2026. You might have slipped off the horse already, so here's permission from me to get back on it. No judgement, anything. If you haven't already, I recommend turning on notifications for my stuff so you can see when new stuff drops right as it drops. More chapters on my patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga)— same username as here and link in bio.
XXXXXXX- RHAENYRA TARGARYEN
As Crown Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, Princess of Dragonstone, and Heir to the Throne, she had never lived a life free of expectations. Even before she had been officially named her father's heir, eyes had watched her from the very beginning. Now, it felt like there was not a single thing she could do that would fall beneath the notice of those who kept their attention on her. Were she a lesser woman, it might have bothered her.
But she was the Blood of the Dragon, and it was understandable that the Dragon would be the center of attention in every situation. That attention was why she was careful to keep a straight face as the first match of the semi-finals was called out between Baratheon and Fossoway. Borros Baratheon was a burly brute of a man with more strength than sense and little in the way of charm besides. Fossoway was another one of the Reacher knights who dared reach above his station with dreams of courting her. Neither of them was worthy of her attention, and the fact that they would joust was not why she hid her reaction.
It was that their joust cast in stone the next matchup. Laenor Velaryon, her principal suitor and clearly the one whom her father wanted her to marry, would face Criston Cole, her sworn shield, the man for whom she held no small amount of affection.
Were she the girl she had been in her youth—before Daemon died and she realised the truth of their mortality—this match would have brought her no small amount of excitement. Now it was just a feeling of dread. Criston, she knew, was jealous. His love for her meant that the thought of her being with another brought no small amount of rage to his belly.
And that was ordinarily a good thing. She did so enjoy seeing his small jealousies come to life and wake the fire in his eyes. It made him all the more passionate a lover when they were alone, she had found. It was not something she hesitated to take advantage of. So why was it an issue now? Because of who was on the other side of said rage. She had no doubts that Criston would overcome Laenor. He had beaten even Daemon all those years ago. What worried her was how he would do so.
Laenor Velaryon was not like any of her other suitors. He rode a dragon. Both his sister and mother rode dragons as well. They had so much gold that they could afford to maintain the two largest fleets in the Seven Kingdoms—the only fleet larger than that of House Velaryon of Driftmark was House Velaryon of the Stepstones'. He was not the kind of suitor to be spurned or humiliated without consequence. And she feared that when he and Criston faced, Criston would deal out that humiliation. She could only hope that the consequences would not be too severe—for his sake.
The horn blew and she turned her attention back to the joust. As the Crown Princess, Rhaenyra was no stranger to jousts. She had seen enough of them from a young age that, more often than not, she could tell who would be victorious from the first couple of tilts. In this case, the clear favourite was Borros Baratheon after the first clash of lances.
Fossoway was a skilled knight, better than most. If he were not the heir to his family, and there was an opening, she knew that her father would have offered him a spot in the Kingsguard at the end of the tourney. He was just that good. And even better, he was young, so most agreed that he still had growing to do.
Borros Baratheon, however, was not the kind of opponent that could be beaten with skill alone. It did not matter how well Fossoway rode or how precisely he placed his lance; Borros Baratheon could just shrug off the strikes, while each one he aimed at his opponent seemed to land with more force than Fossoway could handle. Maybe he would spend more time putting meat on his bones, and less time trying to court women above his station after today.
It took nine tilts, for despite the clear physical mismatch, Fossoway was so brilliant with lance and with horse that he managed to last so long. But in the end, the difference showed, and it told in the winner. Borros Baratheon's lance was raised high in the air as he rode around the field to the cheers of the smallfolk. Fossoway, on the other hand, was planted in the sand for a minute or so before he managed to push himself upwards.
She waited with bated breath as the next match was called. Laenor Velaryon waved at the screaming crowd, clearly a showman to the core as he placed his helmet on his head and rode towards his starting point. Her knight had never taken off his own helmet even. He must have been baking inside that armour. The King's Landing sun was cruel, deep in the throes of summer as they were. She knew it was because he felt self-conscious about the injury that Baratheon had given him during the melee. She felt it no big matter. The Maester had assured them that his face would be healed and back to normal in a matter of weeks, but her knight was so prone to worry. It was one of the traits that she did not quite like about him, but she was a patient woman. She knew no one was perfect, and she would take the bad with the good.
Criston rode to his own starting point with less fanfare than Laenor Velaryon did. The Velaryon lord had quickly turned into a favourite for the smallfolk. His mother's charity towards their lot had probably done a lot of handwork, and his good looks had done the rest. Smallfolk could not think beyond their stomachs after all.
Both of the knights waited for the horn to blow as they sat on their horses. It took a few more seconds, and then the match started with that signal. It happened so quickly. Both the horses shot at each other, storming across the ground as quickly as they could. And then right before they clashed, when she no longer had to pan her head from side to side to keep both knights in her view—Criston's horse reared. He lost control of it? How?
And it was too late for Laenor Velaryon to stop. She could see the way he tried to bring his own horse to a halt. His lance finished the job though as it stabbed straight into the horse's neck. The force that the Velaryon knight had been moving at was enough to force the horse to tip over backwards.
The crowd—no, the world itself—was silent. It was like every single thing slowed down as Criston Cole, her knight, her protector, her lover, fell to the ground with his horse atop him. Velaryon only made it a few more steps before he was off his horse and rushing straight for Cole's position.
Rhaenyra was frozen still. She did not know when her hands had made it to her face, covering her mouth completely as she tried not to scream. Laenor Velaryon reached Criston's body. Body. Not corpse. Body. He could not be dead. Not her Criston. Not her knight. It could be anyone else, but not him.
Velaryon struggled to lift the horse until another pair of hands joined his underneath it. Between him and Borros Baratheon, they managed to lift the horse long enough for Criston to be dragged out from underneath it. He wasn't conscious; she could see that clearly enough. The lack of screams from what had to have been a devastating injury went further to confirm it.
She could not breathe. Air struggled to leave her mouth as she watched with said mouth wide open as the body of her knight was dragged along the ground. Velaryon was struggling to help even as the Maesters were moving to place him on a stretcher. It took both Velaryon and Baratheon to move her knight's armoured form to the stretcher.
They even took over carrying it from the Maester's acolytes as they went into the tent.
Rhaenyra could not take it anymore. She did not even fully feel herself push up to her feet and gather her skirts in her grip as she ran from the box. She heard none of the calls of her name and did not see the Velaryon matriarch watch her movements with a raised eyebrow.
XXXXX- LAENOR VELARYON
It went even better than I had expected if I was being honest. All my practice sessions with the skill had had inconsistent results. The horses I had gone to visit at the stable had differed in their reactions to me pulling on Igneel's essence. And then there was the risk that my own horse would react as well. I just had to hope that the fact that I had ridden him towards Igneel on more than one occasion and trained out a lot of his aversion would help.
Luck had played a factor, that was for sure. My plan had had too many variables, too many probabilities, but it had worked either way, and that was enough for me. It would have to be enough. We waited outside the medical tent as the Maesters worked on him. I had seen his wounds in real time as his armour was removed. Even if he survived, he would never walk again. His potential as a threat had been erased. Now I just had to hope that things worked out the way I wanted when it came to the real reason I had done it.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up to see Borros looking directly at me. There was no accusation in his eyes like I might have expected. Instead, there was a softness there that was out of place on the face of such a brutish man.
"Twas an accident. I could see it clear as day. Cole's horse reared and there was no way you could stop in time. No one could have done any differently in that situation, and I will personally duel anyone who says otherwise," he said in his customarily gruff tone.
That—that was one hell of a declaration. Anyone with more political awareness would not have gone so far, but Borros was Borros for a reason. He was foolhardy as all hells and when he chose a path he stuck to it. In this case, that path was this version of events. And now anyone with sense would have to accept it. Borros had placed his honour on it and not just that, promised to duel to defend it. Even so much as spreading a contrary tale would be enough to run afoul of his challenge.
"Thank you, Cousin." I managed to force the words out of my throat even as I felt guilt take me. He was pledging his honour on mine. It was a touching gesture that should have brought good feelings to me and strengthened our bond, but instead, it just tasted like ash in my mouth. It was a lie. It was all a lie. I had done it purposefully. I hadn't tried particularly hard to stop my horse. If I hadn't wanted to kill Cole, I could simply have dropped my lance. I had the time to do so. From the outside, everything must have seemed to happen so quickly, but I had seen every aspect of it in slow motion.
Whatever words Borros would have said in addition were cut off as a visibly distraught Rhaenyra ran into the tent, practically forcing us to get out of her way lest we be bowled over.
"Cole must be one hell of a sworn shield," Borros said. I looked over to him and he winked in my direction instead of saying anything else. I wondered if he knew. Or at least suspected. Quite a few people must have suspected at this point. Rhaenyra's stunt with waiting at his bed had been foolish. The Master of Whispers had spread rumors that it was because she was a caring princess cut from the same cloth as the Mother herself, but he lacked the deft touch to make it organic. People were much less likely to fall for propaganda when they could see it as such.
And then there was a rival faction that had spread much more subtle whispers. Rhaenyra at Cole's bedside was said to conjure up images of a distraught wife caring for her husband rather than anything else. Whoever had been behind them—my gold was on Otto—had done a much better job than the Master of Whispers. Of course, they were helped by the natural inclination of scandal to spread faster than anything else. Probably very few people believed that anything untoward had happened—it was unthinkable that a Princess would sully herself such—but more than a few believed that there were feelings there. It was only natural.
If the realm got up in arms whenever a young lady fell for a handsome knight, then there wouldn't be much of a realm left.
"My Lords," a page said, drawing me out of my thoughts. The red hair and blue eyes said he could come from only a small amount of families. A Tully was the most entertaining possibility. But what would bring one of them all the way to King's Landing serving as an unattached Page?
"The King has ruled what happened to Ser Cole an accident and declared that the final joust must proceed between the two of you," he said.
"Noted," I replied, and message delivered, he scurried off to wherever he had come from.
"Get your head out of your arse, Cousin. Forget about Cole. I want a good joust out of you," Borros said, clapping my shoulders with enough force that I stumbled as he walked off back towards the field. I followed in his wake.
We walked to the field and met it just as abuzz as it would have been if nothing had happened. The smallfolk were roaring for another round—more spectacle, more violence, just more. What did they care that a man was fighting for his life not even a kilometer away?
Then again, what had Criston Cole cared for them? For their losses? Their pains and struggles? To be honest, I cared little for them either, and I knew they would care little for me if I died. It was just the way of this world. We were not human to them and they were not human to us. One could argue that it was wrong for either party to see the other that way, but then what would one do about it after all the whinging?
I walked towards my horse. My trusty steed. A Sand Steed of Yronwood. One of the most surefooted animals in all the Seven Kingdoms. Never had he disappointed me, proud stallion that he was. Any other horse would have failed to do what I needed in that duel against Cole. Any other would have turned my pull on Igneel's bare essence into a suicide play.
"How are you doing, boy?" I asked, rubbing at his mane.
"You know what? You deserve a name," I said. His head turned in my direction, nuzzling against my neck almost like he understood me. Almost like he was asking, why haven't you given me one then?
"We win this together and I'll give you a name. One more round. The hardest of them all for sure," I said.
Even before I had finished speaking, his head had turned towards the field. How uncanny. I led him to the starting position before I mounted him with the help of a conveniently placed platform. Ahead of me, Borros had already done the same and was waiting for me. His customary impatience showed again.
There was not much thinking for me to do. I had come up with a plan for duelling Borros even before a single lance had been broken in this tournament. He was the knight other than Ben whose temperament I knew best. His jousting was better than I expected, but I suspected more than half of his dominance could be laid at the feet of his frame. His strength was his greatest differentiator and he was going to find that I was much stronger than I looked.
I pulled on Igneel's power which he gave happily. So happily that I almost took more than I could handle. Luckily the burning sensation in my core was warning enough. Part of me wondered what was on the other side of that feeling. The other part did not want to even find out. Dragons were creatures of fire and magic. Igneel had more magic in a single claw than I did in my whole body and it was not even close. If I tried to contain so much, I suspected I would explode.
The horn blew, snapping me from my gruesome thoughts, and I spurred my horse into action. Just as planned, I remained planted in my seat. Beyond a token attempt at pointing my lance at him, I did not attempt to attack. Borros gave it his all as he always did, but I was the mountain his tsunami washed against. I would not be moved. And moved I was not. Twelve lances he shattered against me. Not once did I attempt a more serious attack than a token attempt.
Never the most patient, it took Borros little time to begin putting his all into the attacks. And yet I did not trigger the trap. Not yet. I was plenty strong but I wanted this to be clean. If I tried it once and it failed, then his guard would be up.
I allowed both frustration and complacency to set in after eighteen tilts and when we rode at each other the next time, I waited until the last possible moment before lashing out. I pushed forward with my lance, Borros' attack broke against my solid core. Mine hit him straight in the chest. He had leaned too far forward in his seat in his eagerness. He went swooping to the floor and kissed dirt in a second. He was up like nothing had happened seconds later, laughing for all he had.
His hands moved, and I worried he was going to call for swords but instead, he began to clap.
"Congratulations, Cousin."
It hit me then—this was the final round. I'd done it. I'd won my very first tourney.
A/N: Now just one more chapter until we can put this whole tourney behind us. Thanks for sticking with this, guys. Next five chapters up on patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga) (same username as here and link in bio), support me there and read them early.