Dawn broke clear over Maidenpool, and the field of pavilions looked like a board laid out for play. Trampled grass kept yesterday's marks, banners shivered in a breeze that smelled of salt and cookfire smoke, and guy lines creaked like boats straining at moorings. Halmar checked my straps twice inside the colorless tent. Breastplate set, mail straight, thin blue bands wherever the silver wanted company. Loryn tapped my collar twice with a knuckle. The helm was already on the table. I looked at it for a moment. My wall and my disguise. The whole plan depended on staying whole behind that smooth face.
"No rush on the first pass," Loryn said.
"I know," I said.
Yohn lifted the tent flap and came in with morning dust on his cloak. He looked me over like a man checking whether years of work fit inside a single body. He didn't talk about secrets. He didn't talk about who I was. He only pointed outward with a short gesture, the kind you learn young.
"Time to saddle," he said.
We saddled. The horse felt the field's hum and lowered his head slowly, like he heard the trumpets before I did. Horseback is an old conversation between two bodies. The animal and I had a deal already: I asked for steadiness, he gave me balance. The first lap around the lists was to remember the ground. I thought of Rhea, voice never raised, saying control comes before speed. I thought of the yard at Runestone, of the sandbag on the spinning board thumping my shoulder when I let anxiety choose. Not a day for anxiety.
We climbed the little rise where the royal pavilion watched the field. The makeshift grandstand looked like a stacked city. I saw the white of the Kingsguard, the green cloaks around Otto Hightower, the sea-blue of two Velaryons, and Rhaenys with a face like polished stone. Corlys had the calm of a man who knows currents and wind. Queen Aemma arrived surrounded by ladies. Princess Rhaenyra came soon after, attention bright the way it always is where there's horse and speed. Alicent Hightower walked beside her, tall carriage, simple and clean, a green bracelet on her wrist. Young Laena and Laenor tried to peer through adults, hopping to win a hand's worth of horizon.
The heralds cleared their throats and began to sing out names. Lords of the Reach with shields painted in flowers and light, Riverlands men with fish and waves, the West with lions and warhammers, the Vale with runes and bronze, the Stormlands with lightning and spears. Among them, the names the crowd knew without effort. "Daemon Targaryen." A wave of whistles, half respect, half appetite. "The Cargyll twins." Kingsguard white shone like a beacon. "Criston Cole, of the Stormlands." Heavier voices around me muttered a "let's see." And last, mine, the way Yohn entered it and I asked for it: "The Silver Knight."
My horse stretched his neck as if he understood that from here on there was no practice. I went down to the tilt to smash a warm-up lance on the spinning quintain, and that first splinter brought back a music that's already mine: the crack that runs up your arm and tells you the point bit. I didn't look to the royal pavilion. I didn't need to know who was watching. The plan was simple. Even pace, no waving, no arm high begging applause. Winning buys room. Bearing buys respect. And respect buys silence when silence is the weapon.
The first official tilt was against a knight of the Reach. Shield of lilies, fresh paint, well-fed horse. He came fast and high, just like the book for men who try to win with force. My point hit the center of his shield, my shoulder yielded at the right breath, my saddle stayed quiet. His didn't. He sailed in an arc, hit hard, slapped the ground and raised a hand to his helm to be walked off. No humiliation. No show. Just a clean fall. The next bout, a Westerlander with a thick arm and square shield. Three passes. Two lances turned to splinters. On the third, I touched lower and his horse lost a hand of ground at the worst moment. Enough.
Criston Cole dealt with the first Cargyll with the kind of precision that drags respect out of men. Point true, shield firm, a spine of stone. When he unhorsed the second, the grandstand learned his name for real. No posing. Cadence. Daemon was sweeping anyone who stepped up. He didn't only break wood. He made it look personal, like every man across from him had said something unforgivable. I kept my tempo. Not a day to prove anything I didn't need to.
The rounds narrowed and I reached the place I wanted without a stumble. The heralds announced that by blood privilege the prince would choose his foe in the semifinal. Daemon leveled his lance at me, drawing a line in the air. No mystery to the gesture. He'd wanted me since the melee. Now he was fresh, the saddle his edge, and the whole field was praying the tilt would turn into a story.
Yohn came up beside me at the rail. He didn't touch my knee. He didn't raise his voice. He checked the cinch like the fight was only that, an honest strap in the right hole.
"Breathe with the stride," he said.
"Understood," I said.
The banner rose. The tilt felt longer than before. When the flag dropped, the world narrowed. The first shock brought that good sound of wood breaking with pride. My lance shattered on his shield, his cracked on the rim of mine. Saddle steady, axis set. We turned, switched lanes, another banner. On the second, he tried to throw the point at my throat where steel meets skin. I canted the shield and lifted my forearm a finger, just enough to turn the line. My point bit into the iron of his shoulder plate. His horse felt it and pulled his weight to recover. On we went. The third call brought the hush before a septon's sermon, the kind that means everyone wants to hear, not shout.
On the third pass, I changed only my waist. No tells. The horse answered like we'd trained together a lifetime. My point hit the top edge of Daemon's shield and drove. His hand held, strong as ever, but the saddle wanted more than he could give in that sliver of time. I saw the right leg lose pressure and the body go to ground. It was a pretty fall, the way men fall who've fallen before. The prince rolled and came up in one motion, already asking for a sword.
"Sword for the prince," the herald called again.
I dismounted without hurry and called for two short blades. The field knows real steel and shrinks to the size of a kitchen. Daemon drew Dark Sister. Her shine tasted like danger. Up close the blade looked like a piece of night. He came first. He cut high to test, scraped low to check my base. I didn't dance back. I had the courtesy to stay where he could reach, because he was a prince and I didn't need to humiliate him. I traded short. Three thumps on my shield, two sweeps I'd already expected, one feigned lag where he thought my arm would be late and I gave it at the right beat. Bad sand stole a finger of footing. The fall had taxed a slice of his breath. And I was whole.
He swept again, better this time, and Dark Sister rang off my shoulder plate with a music no smith loves to hear. The shake ran up and down the bone. I answered with my crossguard into his hilt, more shove than strike, just to break the rhythm and drag the game back where I wanted it. I closed a handspan. When the distance turned into breathing, I tapped twice at the hand that held his blade, once outside, once in, not hard enough to open, hard enough to remind him that tired hands err. He stepped back, breathed short, measured again. No anger on his face. The cool joy of a man who likes this. I like it too.
He went for the high that turns low in one arc, and I gave ground into the line, taking weight off the foot he needed. The support failed a hair. I came in left along his guard and stopped the point a breath above the hollow at his collarbone. I didn't cut. In tourney, a touch is enough. In war, the tale is other. Daemon stopped. No humiliation there. Only conclusion.
"I yield," he said.
A sound rose, half respect, half surprise. I took one breath inside the helm. The herald named the victory with the old words that somehow ring different when the royal tent is looking.
Criston Cole waited for the final across the field. He had dropped both Cargylls without fuss, the way Stormland knights seem to learn early. Lance true, shield a wall, balance clean. He didn't carry the shine the crowd loves. He carried the kind of certainty that tires whoever faces it.
I mounted again, asked for a new lance, felt the weight. He raised his too. We didn't trade words. The herald lowered the flag.
First pass. Two fine cracks, no falls. Second. Same picture. Third. The field went quieter than before a septon's sermon. Fourth. If I changed too much, I'd give my hand away. If he changed too much, he'd give his. So I changed almost nothing. Half a breath sooner at the set, a palm more pressure with my thigh to ask the horse for the neck I wanted. My point caught the corner of Cole's shield and pressed it outward. His horse lost half a step when it needed a full one more. The saddle lagged. He flew in a clean sketch, hit hard, rolled, rose whole and already called for a mace.
I dropped, left the shield, went in with twin blades. He circled the mace high, tested my retreat, hunted for a shin with a surprise swing. I took the weight off my leg and gave the mace air instead of bone. On the return, I touched his weapon hand with my right and set my left against the slit between helm and shoulder plate. Still. A ring of silence around us. He felt what it was. He stilled too.
"I yield," he said, plain.
The field took one heartbeat to understand and then turned to sea. Banners rose, hands clapped, voices braided names. The herald sang my title for the day. "Champion of the joust, the Silver Knight." I didn't bow deep. I only took the flower crown, heavy with scent, and walked to the front of the royal pavilion. The crowd opened like water learning where it ought to run.
I stopped where men stop, looked first to Rhaenyra and to Laena, then to Alicent. Not an easy choice for outside eyes. For my plan, simple. There was a future there that could cost dear, and doors don't open by themselves.
"Lady Alicent," I said, "among the flowers that brought me luck, I choose to honor the one already most mature among us. Accept the Crown of Love and Beauty."
Her hand went to her chest, clean surprise, her face opening to a held-back smile. She took the crown like something that might fall if the breath went wrong. Rhaenyra wore a look of proud curiosity, almost a grin at the corner, more question than jealousy. Laena bit her lip, then nodded, the look that says one day she will be the one. I kept the whole tableau inside. These things come back when you need them.
"Thank you," Alicent said, voice low, close. "It's a great honor."
"Earned," I said, and let the word stay simple. Simple carries weight when everyone expects ribbon.
Rhaenyra stepped forward. Her favor, the same I'd won in the melee, still hung from my shield. Her eyes had that light that appears when curiosity beats protocol.
"Ser, may you take off your helm now?"
I looked to the king. Viserys leaned in his chair, pleased with the day's show. Corlys folded his arms without losing track of anything that mattered. Rhaenys seemed to measure not my figure but the size of the tide that would follow the word I hadn't said yet. Otto Hightower tilted his head like a man counting paths. Daemon, a few paces off, was whole again, hand far from Dark Sister, eyes fixed on me without a shadow of play.
"I promised I'd show my face if I won the joust," I said. "A promise is a promise."
I slipped the straps and lifted the helm. Wind hit my eyes and made the world fit again. Murmur turned to shock and shock to silence. Silver hair. Pale violet eyes. The face the court's books know from other times. I had always been the same. They were only seeing it now.
"Your name, ser," Viserys said. The voice was gentle, but firm.
"Maevor of Runestone."
The field stopped on the word. Not a strange name. A name everyone had heard, only tied to a smaller body than this. Viserys turned to Daemon in a slow, almost lazy motion, then back to me.
"Your son?"
Daemon didn't answer. He didn't need to. The king smiled wide, the kind of smile that opens doors without a key.
"My nephew," Viserys said. "Enough formality in all this dust. I'm your uncle. You call me uncle. I want to know you properly. Come to my pavilion at first light. Today the body asks for rest."
"Yes, Your Grace," I said. "I'll come early. The body wakes whole when the night is good."
Rhaenyra still watched me like someone finding a new story inside the old one. Alicent held the crown near her breast and seemed to weigh each stem, maybe to keep the scene exactly right. Laena played with the blue ribbon she'd given me, as if already planning where she'd tie the next. Otto whispered two words I didn't need to hear to understand: caution and calculation. Corlys let out a short breath that might have been approval. Rhaenys dipped her chin once, and that nod was worth a page of counsel.
Yohn came to a halt a step behind me, present the way a man is who guarantees another's name. He didn't announce anything. He didn't ask for applause. He was simply there to be seen by the king when the king wished to look.
"Lord Yohn," Viserys said, "bring the boy to my pavilion at dawn."
"Yes, Your Grace," Yohn answered, hard as good stone.
I bowed my head the proper measure, hooked the helm to my arm, and went down the side track between tents and kitchens. A page tripped on a bucket and cursed under his breath, the smith across the lane swore because the fire wouldn't catch, a horse hammered a stake, impatient. Life moved on the way it does after dust from a shout settles and turns to plain powder.
Inside our pavilion, Halmar helped me out of the steel. Wet leather smelled like effort. Loryn counted my breaths and checked two fresh bruises. Nothing broken. Good enough. Yohn stood with his arms crossed, as if holding the rest of what he'd say for tomorrow.
"Today you did what needed doing," Yohn said. "Tomorrow we talk."
"We talk," I said. I sat on the cot and felt the body complain in its own language. I let it. The quiet inside the tent was the right size for thoughts that matter.
I thought of the crown in Alicent's hands and the smile she didn't try to hide. I thought of Rhaenyra's held-in joy and Laena's lifted chin. I thought of "my nephew" from Viserys, said for all to hear, heavy as a seal and light as an embrace. I thought of Daemon silent, the kind of silence that cuts deeper than steel when it wants to. He'd fallen from me twice in two days, and the whole field saw it. I hadn't bought an enemy. I'd bought time. Time enough for him to look at me without yesterday's fog.
The tent breathed in wood and canvas.
I lay back and let my eyes close without a fight. The last image was the tilt seen from above, as if I stood on the world's edge looking at a long line that always ends in a meeting. Today the line brought me where I wanted. Tomorrow I walk the rest. Uncle high in the pavilion. Father at the side. Me between. Big board. Pieces set.
Control. The rest comes with me.