Under the blazing midday sun of King's Landing, Aegon Targaryen once more drove his lance into the rim of his opponent's shield.
The Florent knight of the Reach misjudged the impact and was hurled from his saddle, his armor striking the sand with a dull, hollow crash.
"Prince Aegon is victorious!"
The herald's voice carried across the arena.
Applause erupted at once from the stands.
The nobles applauded warmly, their approval unmistakable.
This was Aegon's sixth bout of the day. Every knight who had faced him had been struck cleanly by his lance in the first pass, then unhorsed moments later.
Aegon raised his lance high and accepted the crowd's cheers.
Sunlight caught in his silver-gold hair and gleamed upon his polished silver armor. Over his shoulders flowed a black-and-crimson cloak emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
He smiled brightly, and in the common tiers—where few truly understood the subtleties of jousting—a frenzy broke out nonetheless.
They had watched the prince ride again and again, had heard the herald shout his name again and again.
"Long live the prince!"
"Long live Aegon!"
"Aegon! Aegon! Aegon!"
Aegon rode the length of the field, waving to the roaring crowd.
This time, he followed his wife's counsel to the letter, offering the people a smile that was open, sincere, and kind.
In the prince's box beside the royal gallery, Irene Rogare sat upon a brocade chair.
She wore a deep violet gown, silver-threaded flowers rising from the hem to coil about her waist, where an amethyst clasp caught the light. Her hair was arranged in an intricate knot, a few pale strands framing her face.
"Prince Aegon is truly magnificent today," said Lady Lejani Rosby, seated to Irene's right, fanning herself with peacock feathers.
"Indeed," agreed Marge Stokeworth, a young woman with soft, rounded cheeks.
"Six victories—flawless."
"He is a splendid knight."
Irene's lips curved into a gentle smile.
"Aegon… it truly worked."
Her gaze drifted over the surrounding ladies—Rosby, Stokeworth, Celtigar, Buckler—all women of houses that held lands and levies within the Crownlands. Their husbands and fathers sat not far away among the male nobility.
Marge Stokeworth hid her smile behind her fan.
"Hard work is one thing, but talent is another."
"Truly, Lady Irene, the prince's recent conduct… it is as though he were a different man."
Several ladies exchanged knowing looks.
Irene's smile did not fade, though a hint of modest embarrassment crossed her face. She raised her hand lightly, and the maids behind her stepped forward at once.
Each carried a roll of fabric. When they unfurled them in the sunlight, the ladies gasped.
It was rare cloth from the Free Cities—star-silk from Lys, midnight blue and woven with silver thread in the pattern of constellations, each star dusted with fine pearl powder.
"All of this was sent by my brother, Lysandro, from across the Narrow Sea," Irene said softly.
"He asked me to give it to friends who would appreciate it."
The maids distributed the precious fabric among the ladies.
"It's far too valuable…" Lady Rosby murmured, her eyes shining as she touched it.
Irene waved the concern aside.
"It is only cloth."
"Compared with the friendship of you ladies, it is of no account."
Marge had already draped the fabric against herself, admiring it.
"Lady Irene, you are truly generous."
"I've heard the Rogare trade reaches every Free City?"
Irene lifted a crystal goblet and took a sip of honeyed wine.
"Our family has endured for generations. Only now has it gathered some measure of fortune."
"But however great our trade, it cannot compare to your houses—whose ancestors were heroes who followed Aegon the Conqueror."
The compliment was masterful. Wealth was displayed without arrogance, and the standing of the assembled nobles subtly elevated.
The smiles around her grew warmer.
"Speaking of heroes," Lady Rosby leaned forward, her fan slowing, "my husband said only yesterday that the realm's situation is… troubling."
"His Grace's health declines, and Princess Rhaenyra refuses to relinquish her claim…"
Marge spoke politely.
"As my husband says, succession should follow primogeniture."
Irene listened quietly, then spoke only when they had finished.
"The situation is indeed delicate. But His Grace will soon proclaim Aegon the lawful heir."
Several ladies' eyes lit up. This was information they would eagerly carry back to their families.
"But Prince Aemond—" Lady Celtigar began, then stopped under Irene's gaze.
Irene's smile vanished.
"Aemond is Aegon's younger brother," she said calmly.
"And he will, of course, be utterly loyal to his brother."
The ladies nodded in agreement.
Another round of applause thundered through the arena as Aegon tossed a victor's wreath into the common stands, sparking fresh chaos.
Irene watched, her expression serene—but her heart was not.
She knew every woman here was a keen observer, weighing every word.
This is only the beginning, she thought.
Let them grow accustomed to standing at Aegon's side.
Let them grow accustomed to receiving favors from me.
Her gaze drifted, unbidden, to the opposite box.
Aemond and Helaena sat there.
Aemond did not applaud.
He reclined against the wooden seat, calmly watching his brother bask in acclaim.
Helaena sat beside him in a pale blue gown, pearls woven through her hair. Resting on her knee was an embroidery hoop: a half-finished black dragon, wings spread, flame spilling from its jaws, the eyes picked out in vivid red silk.
She glanced at Aegon below and resumed her stitching.
"My brother seems very happy today," she said softly.
Aemond answered without emotion.
"He enjoys applause."
"Irene has dressed him well."
"Bright armor. A splendid cloak."
"Why would it not charm the crowd?"
Helaena paused her needle and looked at him.
"And you? Are you displeased?"
Aemond turned his head toward her.
"I am not displeased."
"Irene is building momentum for him."
"She uses victory to shape his image."
"She is clever."
"She is," Helaena agreed.
A chill entered Aemond's voice.
"But she should not be too clever."
Helaena stiffened.
"You think she is a threat?"
Aemond considered.
"I respect her position."
"But she fears you."
"And she should," he said plainly.
Helaena fell silent. As she was about to speak again, she stopped.
She looked up at the sky.
Aemond felt it too—the low vibration in the air.
Unease rippled through the stands. Voices fell silent as heads turned eastward.
At first, it was only a black speck among the clouds.
Then it grew—spreading into a vast shadow that blotted the sun.
The beat of wings became unmistakable.
A dragon.
King's Landing knew dragons well. The Dragonpit housed royal beasts year-round, and dragonriders often passed over the city.
But this one's color—
"It's blood-red," someone whispered.
It truly was.
The dragon flew through the sunlight, its scales burning like living flame.
Aemond's eyes narrowed. He spoke the name under his breath.
"Caraxes."
Helaena caught his hand.
The Blood Wyrm wheeled toward the Dragonpit.
Then they saw the rider.
A figure in black armor, long silver-gold hair streaming in the wind.
Even at this distance, there was no mistaking him.
Daemon Targaryen.
Silence fell.
Mouths hung open. The easy cheer and idle gossip vanished at once.
Whispers spread like a sickness.
"Prince Daemon…"
"How dares he come to King's Landing?"
"Now? During the tourney? What does he intend?"
In the royal box, Viserys I stood at the railing, watching Caraxes descend toward the Dragonpit.
Queen Alicent stood beside him.
"He has come," Viserys said.
"You invited him?" Alicent asked, reproach faint in her voice.
"At a time like this?"
Viserys turned to her.
"Alicent—do you doubt me again?"
She stiffened.
"I would never dare, Your Grace."
He studied her a moment, then turned back toward the Dragonpit.
"Do not worry."
"This time, I have made my decision."
"I will not divide the Seven Kingdoms."
"I will not allow my children to kill one another."
Carefully, Alicent replied,
"Princess Rhaenyra may yet compromise."
"But Daemon will not."
Viserys was silent for a long time.
At last, he spoke.
"I do not wish for this."
"I truly do not."
Alicent waited.
"But if he insists on defying me…" Viserys sighed.
"Even if he is my own brother."
A chill passed through her. Still, she asked,
"And if… he persists?"
Viserys did not answer.
He crossed to the table, poured himself a cup of milk of the poppy, and drank it down.
"I gave them a choice."
"She may keep Dragonstone."
"She may enjoy every honor—save the Iron Throne."