"Beast. Tyrant. Merciless. They whisper these names behind my back. But when I say, I love you, it is not out of desire, nor out of denial. It is not for my sake at all. I love you for what you are, for what you do, for how you fight. I have witness...
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"Lord Stokeworth's daughter is betrothed to that young squire," Rhaenyra said, tilting her head toward the field.
"Lord Massey's son?" Charlotte asked, unimpressed.
"Mmm." Rhaenyra nodded. "He's meant to win his knighthood this summer. Then they'll wed."
"He'd best get on with it," Charlotte muttered with a dry scoff.
Alicent, quiet beside them, made mental notes. Names. Faces. Rumors. If she were to survive here, thrive, she'd need to learn quickly. Especially about Charlotte. Especially about the man she had scribbled in that little bronze diary she always kept hidden.
Suddenly a sudden shift in the box drew their attention.
Cassandra Baratheon, tall, blonde hair, sharp-featured, and dressed in pale green, swept in and took a seat beside Naiomi.
The air between them crackled with shared secrets and subtle smirks.
"Naiomi," she greeted, voice sweet but tight.
"Cassandra." Naiomi smiled graciously. "How fares your brother Borros?"
"Oh, Borros is well. Bored of tilting and blood. Prefers real books."
Alicent glanced over with polite interest, Cassandra acknowledged her. As for Rhaenyra and Charlotte she ignored completely.
Rhaenyra leaned toward Charlotte, lips tight. "How rude. She pretended we weren't even here. Bitchiest blonde!"
Charlotte sniffed. "Ignore the ugly toad. Irrelevant. Besides, I heard Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her silks." Her brown eyes glimmered with mischief.
Rhaenyra giggled, scandal lighting up her face.
Alicent said nothing, fingers twisting idly in her lap. The sounds of the tournament roared around them, but she felt the burn of eyes, King Maegor's eyes, studying her. Undressing her with every glance.
And still, she kept her back straight.
If she was to be a Hightower in King's Landing, she would be more than Otto's daughter.
She would be seen. Unbroken. Unbowed. Unbent by any man.
A second horn sounded.
The drums of the tourney beat once more, echoing through the courtyard like the pulse of the realm itself. Dust curled under the hooves of the next knight as he trotted onto the field tall, proud, and unmistakably Baratheon.
Lord Boremund Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, sat atop his black courser, his armor a brilliant gleam of gold and midnight.
His stag sigil shone boldly on his breastplate, antlers flaring as if ready to charge. Behind him, his young squire scurried to keep pace, clutching a spare lance and struggling not to trip on the edge of his surcoat.
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