Three days had passed.
The guests who had traveled from afar had rested well, and now, the grand tournament was officially commencing.
On the northern shore of the Gods Eye, an elliptical white-stone arena stood tall.
This arena had been constructed in just a few months, yet it far surpassed any other tournament ground in the kingdom in both grandeur and size.
At its center was an eye-shaped open space, reserved for knights to duel.
The spectator stands were built in a tiered terrace-like structure, rising step by step to a height of thirty feet.
It was estimated to accommodate up to thirty thousand spectators.
Early in the morning, the eagerly awaiting nobles streamed out of Harrenhal's gates, hurrying to the arena to claim their seats.
The scene was overwhelming—nobles of all ranks filled the space, their excited chatter creating a deafening hum.
On one side of the stands, a special section had been set apart, featuring a spacious platform with an optimal view.
Viserys, dressed in a flowing black robe and wearing a golden crown, sat upright in the place of honor.
Before long, Alicent arrived with a group of royal advisors, gathering around the king.
"This tournament ground is quite impressive—far larger than most," Viserys remarked as he surveyed the surroundings, initiating the conversation.
Otto nodded in agreement, his expression full of approval. "You'd be hard-pressed to find a finer arena anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Haha, you're absolutely right," Viserys laughed heartily, visibly pleased with the arena's magnificence. It was a venue worthy of the legendary Gods Eye Tournament, destined to be recorded in history.
After chatting for a while, Viserys's gaze flickered across the crowd as he searched for someone. With a hint of surprise, he asked, "Has Rhaegar and Rhaenyra not arrived yet?"
His eldest son was one of the main figures of this tournament—tardiness was not a habit he wished to encourage.
"They should be here soon. I saw them strolling through the Pebble Garden this morning," Alicent hesitated before responding.
Moments later, the platform filled with distinguished guests.
Royal advisors, dukes and their families, renowned young talents of the Seven Kingdoms…
"Screeeech—"
Suddenly, a piercing dragon roar echoed across the northern shore of the Gods Eye, followed by a gust of wind that cast a vast shadow over the tournament grounds.
Noblewomen clutched their skirts, gasping as they looked up.
A massive, jet-black dragon soared over the glistening lake, its wings stretching like storm clouds blotting out the sun. From above, it surveyed the crowd with an indifferent, almost chilling gaze.
Its enormous, green, slit-pupiled eyes—like great bronze bells—paired with a grayish-white, menacingly curved pair of horns, gave it the appearance of a nightmarish deity.
Some recognized the beast and immediately erupted into cheers and excited shouts.
However, many other nobles and knights, having never encountered the infamous Devourer before, held their breath in stunned silence.
"Screeeech—"
Another sharp cry rang out as a golden-scaled dragon shimmered under the sunlight, circling gracefully beside the black behemoth.
The two dragons spiraled together in the sky above the arena, their intertwining forms resembling a dance of twin serpents.
"Screeeech—"
The Devourer let out a low, guttural growl before twisting its massive body midair. With a powerful sweep of its wings, it unleashed a stream of emerald-green dragonfire that slashed through the drifting white clouds.
Boom!
The blast of dragonflame raised the early summer temperature as the Devourer made a swift, effortless landing just outside the high walls of the arena, its obsidian wings folding neatly against its body.
Even grounded, the beast's spine—covered in ridges of black scales—rose higher than the stone fortifications, revealing a silver-haired rider seated upon its saddle.
Syrax, meanwhile, completed a graceful circle before lightly perching atop the high wall, its golden claws gripping the platform with precision.
Under the watchful eyes of thousands, Rhaegar dismounted first, stepping onto the platform before turning to look at Rhaenyra astride Syrax.
For today's tournament, Rhaegar was clad in a black dragon-scale armor with a crimson cloak draped over his shoulders, his silver-gold hair flowing freely.
Rhaenyra, in contrast, wore a fitted black ensemble with a short, streamlined skirt. Her long hair had been woven into a single braid trailing down her back.
"How are you feeling today?" Rhaegar asked teasingly as he reached up to help her down.
A confident smile curved at Rhaenyra's lips. "Quite well."
After three days of guidance, her previously restless mind had finally settled.
Hand in hand, the siblings descended from the platform, walking down the white-stone steps of the spectator stands toward their father's viewing platform.
Ignoring the varied gazes directed their way, Rhaegar leaned in slightly, inhaling the faint fragrance of Rhaenyra's hair before chuckling, "Seems like it worked."
"This stuff has finally given me a few good nights of sleep."
Rhaenyra shot him a sideways glance, patting the pouch hidden within her robes.
To ease her worries, Rhaegar had shared his prized soul-soothing orchid powder—a rare treasure he had kept for years.
A light sprinkle on one's pillow ensured the most restful sleep.
Most of the dark circles under Rhaegar's eyes had faded, all thanks to the scent.
…
At the viewing platform, everyone had taken their seats.
Viserys sat in the central position, with Alicent on one side and Otto on the other.
Behind them, a row of chairs accommodated the royal advisors, who were engaged in lively conversations with the surrounding noble lords.
In front of the king, on either side, were several prominent seats. Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys sat on the right, their presence symbolizing their distinguished status.
Further ahead, two additional rows of chairs had been arranged, set aside for noble ladies and maidens to gather.
"Father."
Rhaegar descended the steps, greeting his father with a faint smile.
Viserys's expression was dark—his knuckles white as he gripped his goblet, pressing so hard that the rim cut into his palm, drawing blood.
Alicent reached out, clasping his hand with concern. "Viserys, don't dwell on it now—the tournament is about to begin."
Exhaling slowly, Viserys forced a smile as he turned to his eldest son, gesturing toward the seat before him. "Sit. Your turn will come soon enough."
Rhaegar arched a brow but said nothing, quietly taking his seat.
His gaze flicked toward the second row of chairs, noticing the absence of the Master of Whisperers, Tormund—clearly, something had happened.
Tap, tap…
A light, rhythmic set of footsteps approached, accompanied by a soft, fragrant scent.
Margaery appeared, dressed immaculately, lifting the hem of her crimson gown as she glided forward. Her auburn curls shimmered under the sunlight.
"Your Highness, you look absolutely dashing in armor," she praised, her lips curving into a smile. "I must say, I've never seen a man as striking as you in all of the Reach."
Rhaegar smiled politely and joked, "Thank you for the compliment. I haven't seen a man more imposing than myself in the royal domain."
Daemon didn't count—Rhaegar had beaten him before.
"Hee hee, I love your sense of humor."
Margaery covered her mouth as she giggled. Taking advantage of Rhaegar's brief moment of distraction while observing his surroundings, she stepped forward, stood on tiptoe, wrapped her arms around his neck, and planted two quick kisses on his cheeks.
Rhaegar's expression changed instantly. He shoved her soft body away and said in a deep voice, "Lady Margaery, you are too enthusiastic."
As he spoke, he hastily raised a hand to wipe the lipstick marks from his cheeks, not daring to look at Rhaenyra's expression.
"My apologies, I only wanted to give you a blessing before your match."
Margaery curtsied apologetically, her eyes shimmering with a hint of girlish shyness.
Many onlookers had noticed the interaction, their gazes filled with curiosity and amusement.
Especially King Viserys, the old father, who stared at Margaery in disbelief, marveling at how bold and forward young ladies had become.
To kiss Rhaegar right in front of Rhaenyra—truly daring.
Rhaegar felt completely numb, stiffly wiping at the lipstick marks.
After all the effort he had put into keeping Rhaenyra's mood stable, the last thing he wanted was to get entangled in the scent of Highgarden's rose.
"Stop wiping. It looks nice."
A small hand grasped his wrist, and Rhaenyra's voice came from beside him.
Rhaegar turned his head in shock, only to see Rhaenyra smiling serenely, her eyes calmly studying his face.
She glanced left and right before grinning. "Keep it. Don't waste Lady Margaery's heartfelt gift."
"Are you sure?" Rhaegar frowned, feeling uneasy.
"Of course."
Rhaenyra's eyes curved with amusement as she softly said to Margaery, "Thank you for your gift. It has shown me how passionately Highgarden's roses bloom."
"No need to thank me. No one can resist the beauty of a rose from Highgarden."
Margaery pursed her red lips and spoke in a crisp voice, "Your Highness, you've rarely left the castle lately, so you may not be aware of the situation."
She winked playfully at Rhaegar, then subtly pointed in a certain direction from within her sleeve.
Rhaegar followed her gaze with confusion and saw a group of familiar figures gathered in the back rows.
Mund Hightower, Jason Lannister, Count Swann, Lord Dondarrion of Blackhaven…
And apart from them, Aegon sat alone in a corner, surrounded by Lord Tully's two useless sons and two Baratheon bastards.
Aegon looked utterly annoyed as the Tully brothers chattered incessantly around him.
In contrast, the two Baratheon bastards remained expressionless, occasionally glancing toward Aemond and the four Cassandra sisters sitting nearby.
At first glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but Rhaegar noticed a different picture emerging.
"Thank you, Lady Margaery."
Rhaegar snapped out of his thoughts and forced a smile.
"No thanks needed. Highgarden will always be your steadfast ally."
Margaery curtsied gracefully and sauntered away.
Rhaenyra watched her return to her seat, then took Rhaegar's arm and sat down across from Lord Corlys and his wife. In a calm tone, she said, "Before the sun rises tomorrow, you are not allowed to wipe off the lipstick."
Rhaegar: …
—
After this small interlude, the tournament officially began.
As king, Viserys gave the opening speech, igniting the excitement of the audience and elevating the atmosphere.
Then, under the announcement of a rotund middle-aged referee dressed in bright red silk, the first match commenced.
Two knights in full armor entered the arena on horseback—one riding a black warhorse, the other a white one. Each held a wooden lance as the crowd cheered.
The overweight referee raised his scepter theatrically and called out in a booming voice, "For the first match, we welcome Duke Cregan Stark of the North and Lord of the Stepstones, Ser Criston Cole!"
Rhaegar sat up straighter, his attention sharpening.
In the tournament arena, Cregan Stark was clad in an old suit of plate armor covered in scratches, fully suited up from head to toe. Beneath him, his black warhorse stood strong and steady.
Criston Cole, whom Rhaegar had not seen for a long time, had abandoned his usual silver armor and white cloak. Instead, he now wore silver-gray plate armor. Lifting his visor, he revealed his strikingly handsome face.
According to the rules of the tournament, the event consisted of three main parts: the joust, archery, and the melee.
Each tournament traditionally opened with a duel between two valiant knights—a warm-up match.
Clang—
The bronze gong sounded.
The two knights took their positions, standing at opposite ends of the tilting yard, separated by a wooden barrier. They each raised their wooden lances, poised for battle.
"Hyaah!"
With a sharp cry, both warhorses galloped forward simultaneously, carrying their riders into the charge.
Cregan leaned slightly forward, his dark eyes locked onto his opponent, his breathing steady beneath his helmet.
The warhorses moved swiftly, the distance between them closing rapidly.
At the halfway mark, black and white finally clashed.
Crack—
A lance shattered on impact, splinters flying through the air, accompanied by the pained whinny of a horse.
please support mypatreon
belamy20