The next morning broke clear and crisp over the Dornish Marches, bathing the pale, elegant towers of Summerhall in soft, golden light. The morning air carried a sharp, refreshing chill, but the tourney grounds laid out below the castle walls were already alive with thunderous movement, shouting crowds, and the rich scents of damp earth, roasted boar, and oiled leather.
Valarr sat in the lower wooden stands, flanked by his cousin Manfred Dondarrion and young Pearse Caron. Just a bench away sat Abelar Hightower and Lyonel Tyrell, surrounded by a handful of other squires and page-boys from the surrounding keeps. Ser Olyver Stokesworth stood rigid a few paces behind them, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his longsword, his sharp eyes scanning the shifting crowd for any signs of trouble.
Down in the muddy yard, young squires in padded gambesons and unadorned iron breastplates were running drills, tilting at the rotating wooden quintain, and trading heavy, jarring blows with blunted practice broadswords.
"Look there, Valarr!" Manfred pointed eagerly toward a stocky boy attempting to control a skittish bay warhorse near the wooden barriers. "That's the charger from Blackhaven I was telling you about! My father says he has the strongest hamstrings of any colt in our stables."
Valarr leaned forward, offering an appreciative, studied nod. "He has a fine frame, Manfred. Strong back, clear eyes. He will carry you well when you take your vows and ride into the lists."
Pearse Caron nudged Manfred's shoulder with a sharp grin. "A strong horse won't save him if he can't hold his lance straight, though. Watch the squire from Harvest Hall—House Selmy always breeds boys who know how to sit a saddle."
While the young heirs cheered, squabbled, and pointed out the various colorful sigils embroidered on the squires' tunics, Valarr kept his focus cleverly divided. His ears remained finely tuned to the conversation unfolding on the raised wooden dais just two rows above them, where a handful of prominent Reach lords had gathered under the shade of a crimson silk awning.
Among them stood Lord Leo 'Longthorn' Tyrell, tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating the easy arrogance of Highgarden. Standing near him was Lord Costayne—and Lord Gormon Peake, whose dark eyes flickered with a quiet, bitter intensity as he surveyed the red-and-gold Targaryen banners fluttering over the yard.
"King Daeron sits comfortably in the Red Keep while the Dornish walk the halls like lords of the realm," Lord Peake murmured in a hushed, sharp voice, keeping his eyes on the squires below. "My grandfather's blood spilled in the Marches fighting the Martells, yet now we share a board with them."
Lord Leo Tyrell tilted his head, taking a slow sip from his silver goblet without looking back at Peake. "Careful with your tongue, Gormon. King Daeron secured peace without burning a single crop in the Reach. Trade flows through the Mander clearer than it has in fifty years."
"Peace?" Peake spat softly, stepping an inch closer. "A peace bought with Dornish silk and Targaryen concessions. Prince Baelor looks more like a Martell than a dragon. Half the realm whispers that the true warrior of Aegon's blood rides under a black banner, breaking lances at every tourney in the Riverlands."
Lord Costayne let out a low, rumbling chuckle, though his gaze remained guarded. "Daemon is a knight without equal, none can deny it. The late King gave him the sword of the Conqueror for a reason. When he enters the lists, men see King Aegon reborn."
"A sword does not make a king, Lord Costayne," Leo Tyrell interjected smoothly, his voice dropping into a dangerous, commanding register that silenced the smaller lords around him. "Daemon is a legitimate son now, yes, but Daeron is the crowned and anointed King. Highgarden knows its oath. I suggest House Peake remembers where its fealty lies before whispers turn into foolish actions."
Lord Peake gave a stiff, tight nod, though the resentment etched into the lines of his face remained raw and unchanged. He turned away, his gaze lingering dark and bitter on the Targaryen royal box where King Daeron and Prince Baelor sat conversing with the Marcher lords.
In the lower stands, Valarr took a slow, deliberate breath, letting the lords' words settle into his memory.
The lines are already being drawn, Valarr thought, his purple eyes fixed on the mud of the tourney yard. Lord Leo will stand firm for the Crown, but houses like Peake, Osgrey, and Costayne are already nursing their grievances. They see Daemon not as a prospective rebel, but as an alternative monarch waiting for his moment.
He turned back to the young circle of heirs beside him. Lyonel Tyrell was watching the melee with open admiration, while Abelar Hightower sat quietly, processing the obvious political tension in the air just as Valarr was.
Valarr reached over and clapped Manfred on the shoulder with a bright, childlike smile. "Come on, Manfred. Let us get closer to the rails before the squires start the grand melee. I want to see if Harvest Hall's lance holds up against Blackhaven's steel."
"Right behind you, Prince Valarr!" Manfred cheered, scrambling up from the wooden bench.
As the afternoon wore on, the squires' drills gave way to the main event of the day: the grand melee of the young knights and squires. Horns blared across the Marches, signaling the start of the chaotic clash. Wooden shields splintered, steel clashed against steel, and the roar of the highborn crowd echoed against the palisades.
Valarr spent the remainder of the afternoon standing right alongside his newly formed circle of friends at the front railing. Whenever a knight from the Reach scored a clean hit, Valarr praised Lyonel and Abelar; whenever a Marcher knight held his ground against superior numbers, he clapped Pearse and Manfred on the back. He made every boy feel as though the victories in the dirt belonged to them personally.
By the time the final horn blew, signaling the end of the tourney, the sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the Marches in bruised shades of purple and gold. A young squire of House Selmy took the champion's wreath, prompting wild cheers from Pearse and the Stormland lords.
As the crowd began to disperse toward the castle for the evening's victory feast, Abelar Hightower turned to Valarr, bowing his head with genuine respect. "This was a fine day, Prince Valarr. We hope you will join us in the yard again before the royal party returns to King's Landing."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world, Abelar," Valarr replied warmly, looking each of the boys in the eye. "We are the future of this realm. It is best we stick together."
Lyonel Tyrell beamed, Manfred puffed out his chest, and Pearse nodded in firm agreement.
Standing beneath the shadow of Summerhall as the banners rustled in the cool night wind, Valarr watched the young heirs walk back toward their fathers' pavilions. The tourney was over, but for Valarr Targaryen, the real work had only just begun.