Following the Hand of the King's simple yet solemn wedding, a grand seven-day tourney was held.
Rogar, who had always valued martial strength, forwent an extravagant wedding but meticulously arranged this large-scale contest. And during it, an event unfolded that would forever be remembered in history.
The reason was this: of the seven Kingsguard who had once served under "Maegor the Cruel," three were now dead, and the remaining four had been sent to the Wall to don the black of the Night's Watch. At present, only Ser Gyles Morrigen and Ser Joffrey Doggett, personally appointed by Emperor Aegon, remained.
It was Queen Dowager Alyssa who first proposed that the remaining five Kingsguard be chosen through a tournament.
At the wedding feast, she suggested to the Emperor:
"Isn't my marriage to Rogar the perfect chance to gather knights from across the realm? Maegor's men were nothing but old fools, flatterers, cowards, and brutes.
Those worthy of guarding the Emperor must be Westeros' very best—true knights, whose loyalty and courage are beyond reproach. Let them prove themselves before all, winning the white cloak of honor with their lances."
No sooner had she spoken than Emperor Aegon gave his assent, and even added a far-sighted condition of his own.
The young king declared with solemn authority that his personal guards could not be chosen by jousts alone—they must also demonstrate their skill in combat on foot.
"Enemies rarely come charging at the king on horseback, lance in hand," he reminded the assembly.
Thus, in the tourney following the Dowager's wedding, the glory of the joust—once the centerpiece—yielded its place to a brutal and bloody melee. Learned maesters later recorded it as the "Battle of the White Cloaks."
Hundreds of knights from every corner of Westeros fought fiercely for the supreme honor of joining the Kingsguard. The contests raged for seven days and seven nights.
Several challengers with unique styles and bold presence emerged as crowd favorites, drawing thunderous cheers whenever they stepped into the lists.
Among them was Ser William Staford, the so-called "Drunken Knight." Short and stout with a great belly, he always looked half in his cups, as though he could barely stand—let alone fight. The smallfolk affectionately called him "the Wine Barrel," and whenever he appeared, the stands rang with cries of:
"Victory! Victory! Little Wine Barrel!"
Another favorite was Tom "the Fiddler" of Flea Bottom, a bard whose crude yet witty songs mocked his foes and brought laughter to tense duels.
There was also a slender, mysterious knight known only as the "Scarlet Serpent." But when "he" was finally unhorsed and unmasked, the crowd gasped to see not a man, but Jonquil Dark—the bastard daughter of the Lord of Duskendale.
Though such figures won fame and affection, none of them earned the right to wear the white cloak.
The five who did were less flamboyant, yet unmatched in courage, skill, and the true spirit of knighthood.
Of them, only Ser Lorance Roxton of the Reach was of noble birth. Two others were sworn swords in noble service: "the Valiant" Ser Victor, retainer of Lord Royce of Runestone, and "the Wasp" Ser William, sworn to Lord Myles Smallwood of Acorn Hall.
The youngest victor was Pate, called "the Woodcock." Unlike most knights, he favored a spear over the longsword. Though some questioned his claim to knighthood, his mastery of the spear silenced all doubts.
Amidst roaring cheers, Ser Joffrey Doggett himself performed the knighting ceremony, formally bestowing Pate with the title of knight.
The oldest victor was Samgood of Sour Hill, a gray-bearded hedge knight.
At sixty-three years of age, his body was covered in scars, his face deeply lined, as if each wrinkle carried a tale of hardship. He claimed to have fought in over a hundred battles, though he always said with quiet indifference, "Do not ask me for whom I fought—those truths are known only to me and the gods."
One-eyed, bald, and nearly toothless, his frame was so gaunt it resembled a fence post. The people called him "Sour Sam." Yet in battle he moved with the vigor of a youth, his decades of hard-won, ruthless skills carrying him to victory time and again.
The seven Kingsguard of Aegon II were each formidable dragonborn. At that moment, Aegon realized anew how thoroughly the power of dragonblood had seeped into every level of Westerosi society, like veins running unseen beneath the skin.
This power—relatively safe and easily obtained—was quietly reshaping all corners of the realm. A spark of anticipation stirred in him.
If the strength of dragonblood could be properly guided and developed, could it not bring about an age of wonders never before seen in Westeros? Perhaps in time, wiser minds would find a way to tame its magic, weaving it into human bloodlines so it could be inherited, no longer reliant on the crude grafting of demonic flesh.
The close of the "Battle for the White Cloaks" marked the end of the grand celebration.
The gathered guests, full of admiration for the splendid tourney, departed for their keeps and strongholds. Young Emperor Aegon II, with his keen decisions and regal bearing, won the respect of nobles high and low alike. Their sisters, wives, and daughters spoke with glowing admiration of Princess Alysanne's grace and warmth.
The people of King's Landing were equally pleased, seeing in their boy-emperor a ruler who was just, merciful, and possessed of true knightly spirit.
Lord Rogar, Hand of the King, had shown fearless valor in battle and generous magnanimity at court, winning broad praise in his own right.
But none rejoiced more than the innkeepers, brewers, merchants, cutpurses, whores, and brothel keepers of the city. The influx of visitors during the tourney brought a flood of coin, and they lined their purses to bursting.
The fiftieth year of the Conquest was without doubt a turning point in Westeros's destiny.
So ended the legendary year of the Golden and Silver Weddings, as the fifty-first year of the Conquest began. Yet Westeros soon found itself ensnared in a dire knot.
The twin Awakened Forms of Aegon's younger sisters began to act beyond their control. Shaped like towering twin goddesses, the colossal beings drifted restlessly toward populated lands.
When Aegon received word, he wasted no time. With the Demon-Hunting Knights at his side, he rode hard to the site of the awakening.
Seeing with his own eyes the sisters' monstrous bodies—towering more than a hundred meters tall—filled him with awe.
"Why have they grown so vast?" he asked Larissa the Swift Sword, who commanded the cordon around them.
Larissa sighed. "If we don't feed the colossi, they lose control and slaughter our men in madness. Already we've given them more than a thousand cattle and sheep."
Aegon's chest tightened with helpless sorrow. That the last hidden threat to Westeros should be his own sisters…
He called forth the magic within him, partially unleashing his body as a pair of steel-feathered wings tore from his back. Beating them, he flew toward the twin giants. Only up close did he feel the true scale of their enormity, himself no more than a dragonfly before two titans.
"They cannot be allowed to keep growing unchecked. It's time to send them to Valyria."
So he resolved.
But in that instant, countless rootlike tendrils shot from the hem of the colossi's gowns, lashing at him like arrows.
Aegon twisted through the air, wings flashing as he dodged. The tendrils were blindingly fast; he had to call upon phantom battle techniques merely to keep ahead of them.
"Aerea! Rhaella! Can you hear me?" he cried through resonance, projecting his voice into their minds.
For a long moment, silence. His heart sank. He pushed closer.
Then, faint as whispers, two voices reached him:
"Brother… is it you?"
"You're finally here. We… we can't hold on…"
Feeling their fading strength, guilt pierced him.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I came too late."
"We're… so tired, brother. We just want to sleep… sleep forever…"
Forcing back his grief, Aegon spoke firmly:
"I'll take you to Valyria. But your Awakened Forms are too large. I'll have to sever your heads to move you by ship. Restrain them as best you can. Don't resist."
"Mm…"
With their weary consent, Aegon shifted into his half-awakened state. At full strength, he struck—his spiral slash cleaving through both titanic necks in one sweeping stroke.
He then sealed the magic within the severed heads with his synchronization technique, to prevent regrowth. But the seal bound him in turn—forcing him to remain close to the ten-meter remnants, maintaining the sync without pause.
With no other choice, he bore the heads himself to the Blackwater Rush.
Once loaded aboard ships, the remnants, Aegon, and the Demon-Hunters sailed downstream.
Upon reaching King's Landing, Aegon appointed Alysanne as regent.
Before departing, he gouged out one of his own eyes and placed it within Alysanne's brow.
Years of study in blood sorcery made such surgery simple. With it, Alysanne could commune with him at distance, and through it he could see what transpired across the realm.
Despite the protests of the Targaryen lords, Aegon's mind was set. He left Westeros behind.
From Blackwater Bay he sailed east, toward the ruins of Old Valyria.
The voyage lasted half a year.
In that time, Westeros thrived under Queen Regent Alysanne's steady rule.
And at last, Aegon arrived with his sisters' remains upon the Valyrian peninsula—where he would soon reunite with his demigod self.
Gazing upon the mists that swathed the cursed land, his heart stirred with thought:
"If I can merge this flesh with my true body, perhaps this vessel too will gain a demigod's longevity. At least for centuries… I will not die of age."