"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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It appeared the gods had gifted them with a fine day for blood and sport.
Lances shattered and shields splintered like kindling as the first day of the grand tournament roared on. The grounds of the Dragonpit were thick with the thunder of hooves, the clash of armor, and the fevered cries of the crowd.
Lord Boremund Baratheon, caked in mud and barely conscious, was hauled from the lists by a pair of frantic squires. He groaned wordlessly, eyes rolling back, his pride as bruised as his ribs.
Jason Lannister’s knight fared no better, a lanky fool who’d been too dazed to hold his lance properly, now slumped against a post like a discarded puppet.
From the dust rose a victor: a knight in plain steel, unadorned by house colors or sigils. Ser Criston Cole, a man of modest birth and arresting presence, rode calmly to the center lane. The midday sun glinted off his armor, yet his bearing was steady, grounded, unshaken by triumph.
In the royal box, Rhaenyra Targaryen leaned forward, her lilac eyes sharp with curiosity. She gestured subtly to her sworn shield.
“Ser Harrold,” she murmured, “what do you know of this Ser Criston Cole?”
Ser Harrold crouched beside her, eyeing the field. “I’ve wondered the same, Princess. They say he’s common-born, son of the steward to Lord Dondarrion of Blackhaven. Nothing of name or nobility, yet he’s unhorsed both Baratheon brothers without breaking a sweat.”
Alicent Hightower, seated nearby, turned her head slightly, her expression unreadable, but her attention was piqued. Her fingers paused mid-motion on the stem of her goblet.
A sudden bellow from the herald cut through the chatter.
“Ser Criston Cole will now tilt against Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Prince of the City!”
The crowd stirred like a hive of bees. Rhaenyra’s breath caught with excitement. She stood and swept down to the guard-rail at the front of the royal box, her silk skirts flowing behind her. Charlotte followed at once, struggling to peer over the crowd.
Behind them, Naiomi Hightower crossed her legs, picking idly at her nail. “Should’ve brought her tulips with her,” she mused aloud, voice low and sardonic. “Though I doubt the Pirate cares for flowers.”
Alicent narrowed her eyes and gave her stepsister a warning glare. Naiomi only smirked.
A servant approached with a platter of goblets. Alicent reached for one with studied grace, then handed another to Naiomi, who passed it casually to Cassandra. “Thank you,” the girl whispered.
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