A grand tournament was being held in King's Landing. Nobles from across the Seven Kingdoms had come, along with wandering knights eager to win renown, all entering and registering their names.
At this moment, the tourney grounds of King's Landing lay bathed in the morning sun.
The stands were packed. The nobles sat beneath awnings in the shaded galleries; the smallfolk crowded onto open benches. A few shrewd vendors of King's Landing threaded through the aisles, hawking their wares.
The air was thick with the smells of sweat and horse dung. Each splintering crash of lances drew either tidal cheers or heavy sighs.
For a brief moment, the entire field fell silent.
Then the roar broke loose like a powder keg set alight.
Aemond Targaryen stood at the center of the lists, his left hand gripping the cracked rim of his shield, his right holding a lance already snapped in two.
He stood beside his warhorse—a tall black destrier snorting sharply, its forehooves pawing the sand in restless agitation. The black caparison draped over its body was already caked with dust.
"Prince Aemond!"
"Prince Aemond!"
The cries surged in from every side.
The smallfolk's section roared in fervor.
Among the nobles, young heirs shouted with the rest; elder lords rose to their feet and applauded; noblewomen half-veiled their faces with fans, yet their eyes remained fixed upon the silver-haired prince in the field.
Aemond loosened his grip. The broken lance fell to the ground.
He did not leave the field at once. Instead, he turned toward the royal box upon the main stand and spread his arms.
The gesture stirred the crowd into even greater frenzy.
In the sunlight, his eyes burned bright as violet flame.
In a few months he would be sixteen. His frame had wholly shed the slenderness of boyhood—broad-shouldered, lean-waisted, clad in a suit of mithril armor tailored to his form.
At that moment, squires ran onto the field. One helped him remove his helm, revealing that young and keen-edged face fully to the sun, drawing startled cries from the women in the stands.
Another brought him a fresh mount; a third handed him a waterskin.
Aemond took a draught. His gaze passed over the cheering throng and settled upon the royal box.
Helaena stood there, one hand resting upon the rail.
She was not as stirred as the others. She merely smiled, her violet eyes upon him, carrying a quiet pride.
Then, surrounded by his squires, he left the field.
Within the King's box, Alicent watched the scene. She turned to Viserys and spoke in a low voice.
"You said, that day, what Alyn spoke of…"
"No," the King interrupted him.
The King let out a sigh, then continued. "For now, we should give Aegon more support—let there be more balance between the two of them."
Alicent nodded. She now served as regent. Though Aemond held command of the army, she had already done her utmost to involve Aegon in affairs of governance.
She loved her eldest son Aegon and her second son Aemond alike. Yet when she thought of what Alyn had said that day, fear took hold of her.
Viserys watched the field in silence—watched his second son's straight-backed figure as he left the lists, watched the cheering crowd, watched the undisguised admiration burning in the eyes of the young nobles of the Seven Kingdoms.
...
In the box beside the King's, the mood was altogether different.
Alyn stood before the rail in a pale golden gown. Her silver hair had been carefully woven into an intricate Lysene coiffure, secured with a fine net of small pearls.
Her hands rested lightly upon her faintly rounded belly, her posture graceful.
She watched Aemond leave the field. She watched the crowd go mad for him. She watched the noble maidens, cheeks flushed, whispering among themselves.
Then she turned to look at her husband.
Aegon reclined upon a cushioned bench, his head resting upon a maid's lap.
The maid was young, with chestnut curls and a full bosom—the very sort Aegon favored.
With slender fingers she peeled grapes one by one, feeding them into the prince's mouth.
Aegon chewed with his eyes closed, a satisfied smile at the corner of his lips. His other hand lay idly upon the maid's thigh beneath her gauzy skirt.
"Is it sweet, Your Highness?" the maid asked in a coquettish voice.
"Sweet," Aegon replied thickly, "but not so sweet as you."
The maid let out a soft giggle.
Watching Aegon's utter lack of decorum, Alyn felt a surge of anger rise within her.
She drew in a slow breath, forcing herself to remain calm.
Years of upbringing asserted themselves in that moment.
A faint sneer even touched her lips.
"Aegon." Her voice was not loud, yet the box fell silent at once.
The maid's hand froze in midair.
Aegon opened his eyes and saw his wife standing by the rail in profile. The setting sun shone in from behind her, outlining her in gold.
Beautiful—but cold.
"Ahem." Aegon sat up straight and waved the maid away. "Leave us."
The maid rose hurriedly, gave a curtsy, and fled the box as though escaping.
When the door closed, Aegon's expression turned serious.
He knew Alyn's reproach was coming again.
After marrying Alyn, he had come to care for her. Though she reproached him from time to time, it was always for his sake.
"Mm? How shall I put it… like a stern mother."
Yet he did not know why he liked that feeling. He could sense that Alyn truly cared for him.
Alyn was seldom jealous. Though he dallied with these maids, though Aegon could not wholly govern his lower urges, he still tried, as best he could, not to wound her too deeply.
"My dear," Aegon said, brazen as ever.
"What is it?"
"Have you grown weary from standing so long?"
"Come, sit. You are with child."
"I am not tired." Alyn turned to face him, her hands still shielding her belly.
"I was only thinking—the cheers out there ought to have been yours."
Aegon's expression stiffened. He scratched his head and gave an awkward laugh.
"Well… you know I have no great skill for such things."
"Tilting, swordplay… it is all too tiring."
"Besides, I have a dragon. Why contend with these knights for glory?"
"Aemond likes to draw attention—let him. He is the younger brother. As the elder, I yield to him."
"Yield to him?" Alyn's voice remained calm.
"Aegon, there are matters that cannot be yielded, nor stepped away from."
"Today, nobles from across the Seven Kingdoms sit here. What they see is a valiant and battle-proven second son—and an… idle eldest son."
"What do you think they will conclude?"
Aegon's face darkened. He rose and stepped to his wife's side, lowering his voice.
"Alyn, do not be so."
"It is a day of celebration. A tournament. Let the people have their joy."
"Joy?" Alyn cut him off, cupping her husband's face in her hands.
"Tell me, Aegon—how do you intend to inherit the Iron Throne?"
"By letting the people be merry? By having your brother seat you upon it?"
Aegon opened his mouth but found no words. He did not wish to anger her. Silence seemed the safest course.
Alyn spoke again, a trace of sorrow in her tone.
"A dragon is important—but the hearts of men are no less so."
"Your father has not formally proclaimed a change of heir."
"If, in days to come, every lord's loyalty bends toward Aemond, what authority will remain to you?"
She saw the flicker of panic and struggle in his eyes, and at last her tone softened.
"Aegon, I am not forcing you."
"I am helping you—helping our child."
Her hand pressed lightly against her belly. "I do not wish… I do not wish my child to grow beneath his uncle's shadow."
"Do you understand?"
Outside the box, another wave of cheers rose—the next tilt had begun.
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