For a century, the Targaryens held sway over the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros: from the arid deserts of Dorne to the icy expanses of the North, from the verdant plains of the Reach to the rugged coasts of the Stormlands. Yet, amidst the splendor of th...
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»Nicely outplayed, Daemon,« she emphasized his name grumpily, showing no respect for his title or surname. She was too exposed that he had come straight to her.
»More like strategically considered, mylady,« he smirked provocatively. His words echoed across the square, and he spoke louder to continue humiliating her. »Now I am firmly convinced of winning the tournament. With your favor, I would be even more certain.« He pointed his lance in her direction, and with a forced smile, she tossed the flower wreath less gently around his lance. She would have preferred to throw it right in his face.
»I wish you good fortune, my prince«, she had to hold herself together and play down her anger by smiling. »Not that you'll need it,« she wanted to provoke him as well.
»Not anymore,« he replied in a low, deep voice meant only for her ears, before riding back to his position. Suddenly, Siveen's breath became heavy, and she immediately attributed it to the growing contempt she felt for this man. With clenched jaws, she sat back in her seat, aware that she was being watched by everyone. She wished she could just bury herself in the sand.
»Should I be worried?« Lyonel asked softly, so only she could hear.
»No,« she grumbled, crossing her arms angrily over her chest, appearing like a petulant child. When Daemon looked back at her and saw her in this state, he couldn't help but grin broadly.
The moment of decision had come, and ironically, her brother and Daemon were to face each other in the final round of the tournament. Henryk had defeated two opponents, just like the prince. Annoyed, Siveen sighed and straightened up again, trying not to appear even more desperate. Deep down, she even prayed to the gods—if they existed—that her favor toward the prince would unseat him from his horse.
»Ser Henryk Maegyr will now face Daemon Targaryen, the Prince of the City!« announced the tournament leader once again with a deafening voice and an ugly, wide grin on his lips, causing the crowd to cheer.
»Now I wonder, whose side you are on: your brother's or the one you've blessed with your favor?« whispered Lyonel to her, and she rolled her eyes annoyed.
»A favor can also backfire, mylord,« Siveen replied with a forced smile.
»A well-intended advice, mylady,« Larys placed his sweaty hand on her shoulder and nodded towards Daemon, who was already on his black stallion, waiting only for the starting signal. »Don't alienate yourself from Daemon Targaryen. He's not exactly—" he trailed off as the two knights charged at each other. Henryk deliberately veered slightly away from the dividing line of the tracks to prevent Daemon from stabbing his horse's legs like he did to Hightower. The lances crashed against the shields, Henryk lost his balance, his shield shattered in the air, but he managed to stay on the horse. »Known for his kindness,« Larys finished the sentence and let go of Siveen, who watched her brother intently with wide eyes.
Oh, if Daemon were to harm her brother, she thought, he wouldn't live to see the next day. Screw whether the Targaryens were closer to the gods than to men, they all bled the same. Siveen leaned forward as Daemon rode his squire, who was holding his lance, completely over and charged towards her brother again.
