Chapter 19
And as the realm prepared to celebrate the birth of a Princess, the learned men of the Citadel gathered together in secret. The infamous conclave sat down; twenty-one Archmaesters, each more learned than the next, all sat together and talked of one man.
One boy who had begun to unravel a legacy that had taken more than a thousand years to build.
"We should have dealt with him when we had the chance," a voice suggested, his tone young and powerful as he spoke with the arrogance and fear of youth and inexperience.
"Look at him now. He has entrenched himself in the Royal Court, and gathers more and more support as we speak," and that was true, for the boy had just helped perform a miracle, and had given the Royal Family a Princess, after saving one.
"What are we to do now?" he questioned, as a wiser and older voice spoke up.
"Hundred have tried to usurp us before, but none have succeeded. He will be no different," he added, yet the majority did not agree with him. It was why they had gathered like this, in secret, away from prying eyes.
"And none of them had ever had his gift, or the support from the Crown as he does," a third voice added, as the chains clacked.
"Still, the order has already intervened once in this century when we chose to end the life of Maegor," and many bristled at that name.
"To do so again would invite risk of exposure and discovery," and the conclave's existence was no secret. Yet, their mission was a secret, for the learned men of this room were not just maesters, they were stewards of history and legacy and dynasty itself.
"That was a necessity," another one argued, and indeed it was, for if they had not intervened, Maegor would have destroyed the entire realm and would have plunged them into a war unlike any.
His actions had already begun to cause unrest across the Sea, and many lords and ladies had begun considering inviting those foreigners into these lands to help them against the tyrant.
"And so is this," the first voice argued, as the room grew silent at that admission.
"We must remove him, but it is a task easier said than done. He has the Crown's trust and support, and to uproot him we must unravel that," came the aged voice, suggesting to them a path forward.
"Then that is what we shall do," the young Maester agreed.
"But understand that we must move in silence, for we..." and the whole room spoke at once as they voiced their motto.
"...Are the Hands that guide History!"
0000
DAEMON TARGARYEN
Daemon was jealous.
The entire realm was celebrating the birth of his brother's daughter, yet every time he glanced at him and met him, he found his presence diminished under the shadow of the boy Healer who had performed a so-called miracle.
Galen. Galen. Galen.
It was all they spoke of. He was getting tired of hearing that same name everywhere, and even now as he stood at the edge of the field, rearing to ride for the final of the joust, the people whose gazes shouldn't leave his side, were split between him and the Royal booth, or more specifically between him and the Healer whose name had taken over the entire capital.
Even now, he sat with his kin—His family. With Viserys and Aemma, and Gael, who sat beside him, as the crowd fawned over them.
In the end, Daemon grit his teeth as he dropped the helm, as the herald announced the start of the joust.
"AND NOW IT IS TIME FOR THE FINAL BOUT!" and if he were to win this, he would get his hands on something that few Targaryens had ever held—Darksister, a Valyrian Blade.
"ON ONE SIDE, WE HAVE THE PRINCE OF THE CITY! THE RIDER OF CERAXES! PRINCE DAEMON TARGARYEN!" and the crowd cheered for him, as the herald called his name, before he turned towards the knight on the other end of the arena.
"AND HE WILL BE FACING NONE OTHER THAN THE MYSTERY KNIGHT!" he wore simple, unpolished armor, with nothing but a simple drake painted roughly on the shield.
He was thin and lean and was quicker than most knights. And his smaller frame allowed him to unhorse even veterans like Ser Harold from the Kingsguard, but Daemon was not one of those men.
A thick helmet and cloak covered his face, and Daemon had yet to see it along with the rest of the crowd. Not that he cared much for it, as the herald moved away, the squire handed them both their spears.
Daemon twisted the handle in his arms as he prepared himself for the joust. And their eyes met one last time before they pushed their horses forward, and the herald's voice grew thin amidst the heat of the bout, as they strode forward at full speed and pushed out their lances at the last minute, and just as the rumors had spoken, the Mystery Knight was smaller than he had thought, as Daemon's lance slid from his shield, as his lance hit his shield.
"AGHH!" he grunted as it was the shield slammed into his body, but he tilted slightly and steadied himself.
"AND IT'S A TIE!" and Daemon's arm was in pain, but he was not yet done as he turned his horse around and saw the bend of his spear.
"Another!" he shouted as he threw it to the ground, and his opponent's lance had broken during the tilt, and both of them drew new lances and aimed them at one another once more.
And rode again. And again. And again. And again.
It was the sixth tilt, and they were both tired as Daemon's frustrations grew and grew. He could finally see how this mystery knight had made it so far, for what he lacked in strength and power, he made up in technique and frame.
The man was small, and better yet, he knew best how to take advantage of that, but Daemon was not going to let that stop him.
"Lance!" he screamed once more as he threw his last one to the ground in rage, as the Mystery Knight faced him once more as Daemon turned the handle in his hands, and leaned down ready to end this bout and obtain his prize.
"AND THE RIDERS ARE READY!" the Herald whispered as Daemon kicked his horse. The stallion followed his command and galloped forward as Daemon kicked it again, pushing it to his limits, as he pushed it closer and closer to the fence, to get closer to the fence separating them. The Mystery Knight rode forward as well, and yet just as he pushed his lance, aiming at his neck, the man simply pushed himself to the side, as the tip of his lance hit his horse's head.
"BAGHH!" and the horse screamed in agony, as it lost its balance, and even as Daemon tried to stay atop it, it mattered little as the horse stumbled, and Daemon fell to the ground, and the dirt entered his mouth.
"AND WE HAVE A VICTOR!"
"PRINCE DAEMON IS DOWN! THE MYSTERY KNIGHT WINS THE JOUST AND ALONG WITH IT TEN THOUSAND GOLD DRAGONS!" and Daemon winced in pain, as the squires and servants all rushed to help him, and they pushed the horse away.
"AGHHH!"
"AGHHH!" and the acolyte saw the pain and tried to take him to the tent.
"We need to take him away!" and he pushed him away as he cradled his hand, as the mystery knight stopped in front of the Royal Booth, as the crowd roared for him.
"I have to see his face!" he thundered as he pushed himself back to his feet and threw away the helmet.
"AND IT IS TIME FOR US TO SEE JUST WHO IS THIS MYSTERY KNIGHT!" and he could see the ladies at court, eyeing the knight and the crown in his hand, and how his anger bloomed at the sight, for it should have been him standing there.
HIM! Not some no-name mystery knight.
"Would you do us the honor of showing us all your face?" the King called as the loud cheers grew to a whisper as the Knight knelt on one knee, and reached for the helm on his head, and as it was removed, what flowed out was a stream of long, raven-black hair.
The face that came was not that of a man. It was thin and long, and carried the beauty that could belong to no man, and finally, the strangeness all began to make sense.
"AND WHAT DO WE HAVE HERE!" "THE MYSTERY KNIGHT IS A WOMAN!"
"THE PRINCE WAS UNHORSED BY A WOMAN!"
And the surprise was too much, and the crowd was all quiet.
"What is your name?" the Queen called out, as she joined the King, and Daemon grit his teeth in humiliation.
"Elsa. Elsa Waters," and she was a bastard, at that, and relatively young at that.
"Have you found a head suitable for that crown?" the Queen asked, and the young woman nodded as she moved forward and climbed up the stairs, and walked past the King and Queen, before she was in front of Gael.
And then she walked forward, and Daemon was stunned, for she did not walk towards Gael. No, she stepped forward and knelt down in front of that commoner Healer as she offered him the Crown of flowers.
"You may have forgotten about me by now, young Healer, but I would not be standing here today if not for you!" Her strong voice tore through the crowd, as everyone gasped at the sight.
"So, I offer you this crown and my life, the one that you gave me! Accept this and allow me to become your sworn shield...."
0000
GAEL TARGARYEN
"HAHAHA!" Gael heard her mother chuckle as they sat in her solar, reminiscing about the scenes from earlier, for no one alive had ever seen something like that.
"A female knight offering a crown of flowers to a young man!" her mother teased. She saw Galen flush in embarrassment, for it was against every tale and song ever written, for in all the tales and songs and stories, it was the young man who knelt and offered the Princess the crown, not the opposite.
"I never imagined that I would ever see something like that," her mother continued amidst her laughs before she turned towards a familiar face behind her.
"Jonaquil, did you?" and Elsa Waters was not the first female warrior, but she was the first one to win a joust against a Prince of blood.
Years ago, another warrior had risen through the ranks and had become the Sworn Shield to the Queen. Yet this time, the woman had not asked to serve a Queen or a Princess.
No. She had asked to serve a man. A young man.
"No, my Queen," answered the dutiful woman, and there was a time when she had feared the woman, but age had made her weak and hollow. She was no longer the warrior that she was before, but she was one of her mother's most trusted companions, and she was somewhat reluctant to part with her even if she was no longer the stellar and stalwart protector that she once was.
"I don't know if I should be honored or ashamed," Galen whispered, and Gael offered her own opinion as she turned towards her mother.
"I don't understand why Father accepted her request," for it was entirely unreasonable and insulting.
"The girl won a joust against Daemon of all people," her mother answered.
"She asked for no reward but to serve someone. How could your father deny her that?" she asked, and she could think of a thousand reasons, but she could not get the sight of that girl looking at Galen out of her mind.
She could still picture it, her heart beating fast, and her breath quickening at the sight of those blue eyes gazing intensely at Galen.
"She is a woman," Gael argued, and her mother shrugged.
"Better so, that she can serve as an example for years to come for young girls and women all over the land. It gives me joy that Jonaquil's reputation has emboldened at least one girl across the realm to pick up the blade and learn to defend herself," and Gael would agree with her on most days, yet for some reason, the girl's presence irked her.
"I will train her myself, Princess," Jonaquil added from behind, and it was not her skills that she doubted.
"We have guards," she offered, and both her mother and Jonaquil offered her no retort as her mother raised a brow, as she turned to Galen helplessly.
"And you! Why did you accept her offer? If you needed a guard or a sworn shield, you could have just asked?" she demanded, and he was quiet for a second before he answered calmly.
"My lady, it was the King she pled to. I had no say in this," he argued helplessly, and she was about to say more.
"Enough, Gael," her mother's soft voice interrupted her softly as she turned towards Galen.
"Still, I am curious about what you did for that girl?" she asked, and Gale was curious as well about what he had done to inspire devotion like that.
"Greyscale," he answered, and the room stilled, and of course, he remembered.
"You remember her?" Her mother seemed surprised by his words, for she did not know what Gael knew.
"I do," he answered before adding in a whisper.
"I remember them all," and gave her a soft glance as he continued.
"She was among the few I treated when I came to the capital a few years ago," and while, as a part of her training, he had shown her a dozen cases and even a few dead bodies, yet it was the one disease he refused to let her near.
She had read about it, of course, in his writings, and she could imagine the reason why, for Greyscale was a horrendous disease that left its marks. And she could spot the scars sometimes on his neck, when he would remove his cloak, but to have your whole body covered in them.
"Then those scars on her face," her mother gasped, and he nodded.
"Those are from the disease...."
.
.
.
And in the city around the castle, the people had long forgotten about the Prince who had lost the joust. They spoke not of the rider of Ceraxes, but of Elsa Waters and the Healer Galen.
The bards sang of the maiden warrior, and the men all japed about the young Healer, hiding their jealousy in their laughs and taunts, as the women all fawned over the young Healer who had saved the Princess and helped the Lady Aemma give birth to a daughter.
They sang his praises in bars, inns, and whore Houses, and each time that name was mentioned, the rage inside Daeon Targaryen grew more and more as he was forced to relive his embarrassment and humiliation.
He had come to the brothel to relieve his anger, yet no girl or woman could soothe him away, none until a new girl walked into the room, bearing the silver hair of his House and the amethyst eyes that he had so longingly sought.
"Who are you..." he asked, as she slid away the sheer gown from her shoulders and made herself bare for him, as those eyes gazed deep into his soul.
"I am yours to call whatever you desire," and yet she did not speak in the sultry tone of whores. She spoke with defiance and pride as she came closer and slid her hands down his breeches, giving his neck a small kiss.
"You must have a name," he asked as he pushed back her head, and looked her in the eyes, as she gave him an answer...
"Mysaria..."
0000
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