TO LOVE A KING || Maegor II Targaryen [SLOW UPDATES]

034▪️THE HEIR'S TOURNAMENT

NINE MOONS LATER

In the last days of the ninth month, the realm held its breath, watching the skies and whispering prayers to the gods. After ten years of barrenness, the King's line hung precariously on hope.

Bells tolled across the city with each moon's turn, but now at last the Queen had taken to her birthing bed. The people of King's Landing, both noble and smallfolk alike, waited. If the gods were kind, a prince or princess would arrive before the moon waned.

Inside the Royal Box, high above the grounds of the tourney, three young noblewomen sat in tense silence. Charlotte Hightower, hands clasped tightly in her lap, looked straight ahead, her smile practiced but eyes alert.

Alicent Hightower sat farther beside her, distractedly picking at her fingernails, occasionally glancing to her left, hoping for a familiar silver-haired figure to appear.
Her jaw tensed.

Naomi Hightower, poised and elegant, barely glanced at either of them. Her eyes were fixed on the field below, scanning the knights with a longing that was almost theatrical. The air between the three was thick, fractured trust, unspoken competitions, jealousy, resentments, and careful civility.

They used to speak freely. Laugh, even. Now, their words were chosen like swords in a duel measured, cautious, sharp when needed.

Alicent gave a soft sigh, shifting her weight. "Where is she?" she murmured more to herself than to the others. The seat beside her remained conspicuously empty.

Naomi didn't look away from the field. "She's late. As usual."

Banners of green, gold, crimson, and silver snapped in the wind across the arena. The Heir's Tournament was underway a celebration of legacy, a spectacle for lords, knights, and the common crowd. It was tradition. It was politics. And it was pageantry at its finest.

Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen finally emerged, climbing the steps at the rear of the royal box, her stride hurried yet graceful.

The sunlight filtered through the slatted canopy above, bathing her in a halo of light as she moved past rows of nobles who turned, visibly annoyed at her late entrance. She paid them no mind.

Her eyes swept the box. She spotted them brunettes; Alicent, Naomi, their auburn hair glowing beneath the sun, seated like carved statuettes. And then Charlotte, her dearest friend, whose brown ringlets shimmered like burnished gold. For a fleeting second, Rhaenyra smiled.

Her silver gown trailed behind her, embroidered with Targaryen dragons and finished with a high Valyrian collar. At her neck, the pendant of Valyrian steel given to her by Daemon her uncle, her mentor, gleamed in defiance and pride.

Two hundred knights from all corners of Westeros had come for this. The crowd thundered in anticipation, and the trumpet sounded.

Below, drums rolled in powerful rhythm as King Maegor II Targaryen rose from his seat. The noise of the arena dimmed in reverent silence.