"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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Elsewhere in the royal box, the atmosphere had shifted. The tension was a living thing. Amid the jeweled and perfumed lords and ladies, the Hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower, sat as still as a stone effigy, jaw tight, fingers clenched on the armrest of his seat.
His face betrayed nothing, but those who knew him well could feel the low boil beneath his skin.
A few feet away, Lord Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin, leaned forward toward a young page holding a small ledger and a coin purse. "Five gold dragons on Daemon," he whispered under his breath, not daring to look at Otto.
Lord Corlys Velaryon, seated near the Queen, was harder to read. A quiet, knowing smirk played across his lips as he watched Daemon circle the tiltyard like a predator.
The Sea Snake had seen war and worse; this was only jousting, but still, Daemon's taste for provocation never failed to amuse.
Ser Otto's nostrils flared faintly. He knew exactly what this was. This wasn't sport. This was Daemon Targaryen dragging his name into the dirt, choosing Gwayne was no accident. It was a message.
Below, Daemon glanced up, and for a single heartbeat, the two men locked eyes. Otto's were cold and unreadable. Daemon's were molten with glee. He smirked, then turned his dragon-helmed head away, all but taunting him.
"YA!" The horn shrieked and the crowd erupted. The horses bolted forward, hooves like thunder on the packed earth.
The first clash was brutal. Daemon and Gwayne's lances cracked against one another's shields wood splinters flew like shrapnel.
Both men held fast, but their weapons were lost, tossed aside by the impact. The crowd roared in approval.
Without hesitation, they wheeled around and trotted back to the far ends of the list, preparing for a second charge. The dust hadn't even settled from the first.
Gwayne adjusted his great helm, silver and green glinting in the sun. His family's colors. The honor of Oldtown and his House rode on this moment. He glanced to the royal box, briefly catching his sister Alicent's anxious gaze.
Daemon adjusted his grip on a new lance, long, deadly, and perfectly balanced. He didn't need to win. He needed to humiliate.
The horn blared again. Hooves pounded. Daemon and Gwayne charged. This time, Daemon didn't aim for Gwayne's chest, he aimed lower.
In a blink, Daemon's lance dug beneath the horse's front haunch, lifting it with sheer force. The beast shrieked and stumbled, its legs folding violently. Gwayne was launched into the air, his armor catching the sun before he hit the mud with a sickening thud.
Gasps and screams erupted from the crowd.
"Gwayne!" Naiomi Hightower leapt from her seat, both hands gripping the balustrade, her face blanched with fear.
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