The horn was about to sound when I felt something soft tap the top of my helmet.
Rain.
It was light—barely more than a mist—but it fell steadily. The kind that comes from a single wandering cloud while the sun still shines bright. Golden morning light and silver droplets mixed together, glittering like something from a song.
The horn blew.
Lyonel's lance came straight toward my chest, clean and direct. I lowered my own lance, turned my wrist, and angled the tip just right.
CLACK—SCRAAAAPE—
His lance slid off my breastplate instead of hitting true.
Mine struck his shield dead center.
CRACK.
My lance shattered into splinters.
The blow rocked him in the saddle, but Ser Lyonel held firm. His stance was as steady as if he were carved from oak.
We thundered past each other.
A servent rushed over with a fresh lance. I took it, rolling my shoulder once to loosen the muscles.
Then I heard Egg's voice ring out from the stands.
"Aim for the antlers!" he shouted, bright and fierce. "I hates those antlers! Break them!"
A laugh broke out of me before I could stop it.
Across the field, Ser Lyonel lifted his visor just long enough to call out: "If you break my helm, I'll expect you to buy me a new one!"
"Aye," I shouted back, "if you stay in the saddle long enough to collect!"
The stands erupted in laughter. Even the rain seemed to shine brighter.
We lowered our visors.
The horn sounded again, and we charged.
This time Lyonel was ready. When I aimed my lance toward his helm, he angled his the same way I had done—turning my strike aside.
But I shifted Thunder's stride. A sharp pull of my knee and rein.
A sideways half-step at full gallop.
My lance barely skimmed his shoulder plate. His missed my shield entirely.
We thundered past.
And Ser Lyonel Baratheon laughed.
A big, booming laugh that echoed across the lists.
"Seven hells!" he called, grinning through his helm. "what was that?"
I couldn't help it. I smiled, and prepared for third round.
No words this time. Just the weight of the moment. We both knew this was the deciding pass.
I lowered my lance—not for his helm, but for his chestplate. Straight. True. Direct.
Lyonel lowered his for my helm.
The horn sounded.
Thunder launched forward like a thunderbolt from the sky. Rain spattered my visor. Lyonel grew larger—large as a tower—filling the world—
BOOM—CRRRAAACK—
The hit struck deep. My arm jarred all the way to my shoulder. His lance hit my helm, ringing my skull like a bell.
But my seat held.
His did not.
Ser Lyonel Baratheon flew backward from his saddle and crashed into the wet earth with the weight of falling stone.
The stands erupted.
I reined Thunder in, breath steady, feeling the vibration of the hit still humming through my bones.
Lyonel lay on his back. Then he laughed again—full-throated, joyful, unashamed.
"Seven bloody gods," he wheezed, still laughing. "That was a strike!"
I dismounted, walked to him, and offered my hand.
He took it. His grip was strong, warm, solid. I hauled him up.
He clapped my shoulder once—hard enough to bruise.
"Well ridden," he said simply.
The herald stepped forward and raised his voice for the crowd: "Victory to the Tall newcomer knight!"
Egg whooped, nearly falling over the rail in excitement. Some knights clapped. Some looked thoughtful. Some looked wary.
Because a hedge knight had just unhorsed a Baratheon.
Rain still fell softly. The sun still shone behind it. The kind of moment songs are born from.
I placed a hand on Thunder's neck and breathed deep—steady as stone. My heart did not race. It moved with quiet pride and something close to peace.
Another step forward in a land of kings and dragons.
....
POV: Aerion
I watched them cheer for him.
A fucking hedge knight.
A man with no sigil worth remembering. No name worth singing. Yet the rabble clapped their hands raw as if he were some hero from a child's tale.
Ridiculous.
My jaw tightened.
They did not cheer for me like that. A Targaryen prince. Blood of the dragon. Better than all of them by birth alone.
But the smallfolk always loved their stories of "good men." They adored the idea that virtue grows in mud.
Fools.
Across the field, Lyonel Baratheon mounted up—a stag of a man, heavy and broad, with no grace.
Power, yes. But strength without refinement is just noise. He carried his lance like a tree trunk someone had shoved in his fist. The crowd roared for him too. Stormland brutes.
It made my skin burn.
Egg was down by the rail, watching with too-bright eyes, lips parted in admiration. For him. Not me. The little fool. I would correct him later.
The horn blew. The horses kicked up dust. They thundered forward.
I leaned forward too, though I would never admit excitement. I wanted to see it—wanted to know why the crowd worshiped this giant nobody. Lyonel's lance struck first, but clumsily. Duncan took it, shifted, kept his seat. Grace in size. Irritating.
They passed and turned again.
The crowd murmured. Not for Lyonel. Not for the stag. For the hedge knight.
What plot does he hide? No common man carries himself so simply. No knight of mud and coin meets a lord's charge like that without purpose.
He means to make himself beloved. He means to gather favor. To set the crowd against their betters. Against me!
The second pass came. Duncan lowered his lance clean, straight, unshaking. It hit Lyonel full in the chestplate—rang like a bell. The stag toppled hard. His armor slammed into earth with a crack that made the air jump.
The stands erupted.
Duncan! Duncan!
I sat very, very still. My expression stayed calm. My teeth ground behind closed lips.
Look at them. Look how quickly they forget the blood of kings.
Egg was cheering now. Loud. Disgraceful.
My hands were cold, but there was heat inside me—bright and sharp—like a candle flame held too close.
So this is how the game will be played.
Let them cheer him today.
When the time comes, I will show them what it means to worship a dragon.
And I will burn whatever story they think they're writing of him.
...