26 A Tourney of Exiles
Scattered across the Disputed Lands were crumbling stone watchtowers and holdfasts; structures raised in ancient days to give the smallfolk warnings of marauding horsemen looking for slaves, slaughter and loot. For a region said to be little more than a burning waste, there were plenty of villages, plantations worked by armies of slaves, and bustling market towns. Many of the ruined settlements had been rebuilt and made alive with all those seeking prosperity in the fertile heel of Essos. Haldon said much, going on long monologues about how land was cheap and the cities of the Triarchy were all eager to stamp their claim to as much as possible.
As they rode, Arya looked back on the city they had left a few days ago. Settled on the eastern shore of the Sea of Myrth, Myr laid north of the Disputed Lands where the ancient Valyrian dragonroad met the sea. It was the largest city she'd ever seen, larger than both Pentos and King's Landing. It was a city of trade where people from all over the world brought and sold. She couldn't help but be intrigued at all the queer sights and smells that assaulted her as she stood atop the deck of the Prince of Pentos. The rich scents of spices and exotic fruits, the clingy thickness of the air, the olive-skinned Myrmen with their liquid tongue she couldn't understand, sellswords in dark mail patrolling the streets and slaves marked and collared. Those that did speak the common tongue were usually sailors who remained at the docks, and Arya had wondered if they might be willing to take her home. Arya didn't have the chance, however. She was always watched and was placed in a curtained litter with Septa Lemore and the Targaryen where they were hidden from the outside world. Whenever the septa wasn't looking, Arya would sneak peaks at expansive marble manses, public buildings and temples to a hundred gods all foreign to her as Myr was.
They didn't stay long. Due to fears of someone finding out who she was, Arya had been left in the lodge where Septa Lemore taught her cyvesse and Arya played against Daenerys until Aegon Blackfyre returned smiling from his visit to the alchemist and city armouries. Buying a couple dozen horses, they left at the head of a column into the Disputed Lands, following the dragonroad and a tall roadway supported by three tiers of arches that brought in fresh water from one of the inland seas.
In Winterfell they had called her Arya Horseface, and Jeyne Poole would neigh as she passed. Here, in Essos, they called her Lady Arya Stark, the Wolf Girl, or simply Stark. She didn't feel like a lady, nor did Arya feel like a wolf without her pack. Bran and Rickon were in Winterfell and Sansa in the Red Keep. Robb had marched south and was now called the Young Wolf for smashing the Kingslayer's host outside the walls of Riverrun, while Jon sat at the Wall. Lemore attempted to teach her to be a proper lady alongside Daenerys but that was not something Arya cared for. A true lady should be pretty like her mother or the silver-haired princess with her fine dresses and swarming with handmaidens. Arya wasn't pretty. She was not Sansa who was everything a lady should be. Instead, Arya had short hair from where hers had been cut to make her look like a boy, nor did she wear a dress. Arya had worn a dress in Pentos that Lemore fretted over. It was lilac and decorated with baby pearls and made Arya feel like one of Sansa's dolls. The only good thing was that it was decided a dress wasn't the best thing to wear while riding, so Arya wore a boy's riding clothes: a woollen tunic, supple doeskin jerkin and leather breeches. She preferred that. It felt more comfortable.
They led several wagons out of Myr laden with supplies for the Golden Company: hides and bolts of cloth, bars of iron, a cage of ravens and messenger pigeons, books and paper and ink, jars of oil, chests of gold, armour and crossbows and most dangerous of all - wildfire. Teams of oxen and plough horses pulled the carriages and behind them rode a couple dozen donkeys, destriers imported from the Reach and Essarian light horse. Arya was mounted atop a pony though she would have preferred a proper horse. It was still better than riding a wagon like a few of the smaller boys who talked in tongues she couldn't understand. The older sellswords paid her no mind but she was not so lucky with those guarding the horses. She was younger than all of them and the only woman was a sellsword everyone would rather stay away from: a solid woman near six feet tall with wiry black hair, broad warped shoulders and a homely tanned face with weeping sores on her cheeks. The female sellsword was of Westeros, but her voice was so raspy Arya couldn't understand a word she said.
"You look like a boy," young D'hllor informed her rudely as he rode at her side on a grey pony with one blind eye and a coat eaten by flies. He was as old as Robb, with a long lean face and hazel eyes, a weak chin and a mouth forever curled into a moody frown. "Not a lady."
The older Patrick Snow sniggered. He was broad and stout with dark fuzz on his upper lip. There was a scar on his forehead he claimed to have gotten fighting pirates in the Stepstones but was really from where he'd tripped and slammed his head against the corner of a table. "Ladies are meant to be pretty and noble. They do not carry swords. Look at that thing! Looks like something Dalabhar uses to pick his teeth!"
Both boys laughed and Patrick's sounded like the braying of a donkey. Arya pressed a hand to Needle and looked away, chewing her lip solemnly.
"Where did you even get a sword?" Joren Brownteeth asked, his rank breath smelling of garlic and onions. "You are no squire, nor even a boy. Steal it from the back of the wagons did you? Do I have to punish you with a spanking?" He licked his swollen lips.
Arya flushed angrily. "I am no thief. I'm a Stark, stupid. This is castle-forged steel, a gift from my brother." She turned in the saddle to glare at them. "And you better shut your mouths."
"Oh, you hear that, lads? The little wolf girl's got some fangs on her. She's going to punish us, she is."
"Bite your cock off she will." D'hllor laughed. "I can see it in her eyes. She's going to jump off that pony and beat you bloody. Give you a thrashing she will."
"Shut up!" Arya screamed but that didn't dissuade them. The opposite if anything. It only made them laugh.
"She's got a temper on her, for sure. Needs a man to teach her her place. Snow, take her sword. I dare you. You could use a sword like that. Better than the cheap iron you have now."
"Have you seen how big it is? Little more than a knife. It'll snap."
"Better a sword than an axe. Might even be worth a pretty penny if what she says is true."
Patrick glared at Needle for a moment before making a move. He kicked his mount. "Give me the sword, girl. I wager you know not how to use it."
Yes, I do. She had killed a boy in the Red Keep, a fat red-faced boy who grabbed at her. I stabbed him in the belly, and he died. I will kill you too if you don't leave me alone. Only she did not dare. The boy she had killed had been fat and slow and unprepared. These three were bigger and meaner, and they were sellswords of the Golden Company besides.
"Look at her. She's going to cry. Are you going to cry little wolf girl?" He jeered, pretending to rub his eyes as his friends laughed. She had cried in King's Landing when the Lannisters killed her friends, after the death of her father, and had done so throughout their voyage across the Narrow Sea. When she was done, she didn't believe she could shed another tear if her life depended on it. She had been wrong.
He rode over and tried to grab the sword, but his hand missed when Arya pulled her pony around. "Oh, go get it, Pat!" D'hllor jeered, "you better give him the sword else—"
"Else what?" demanded the loud voice of a knight with a green surcoat with a white duck emblazoned on his breast.
The three soldiers turned around and their faces went white as snow. "Ser," Joren spluttered.
Rolly Duckfield glanced at the three of them before his eyes settled on Arya Stark. "What's happening here, your ladyship?"
"We weren't doing anything, ser," Patrick rushed out most desperately. "It was nothing. We were only playing a game, that's all."
"Aye. We were," Joren agreed, nodding frantically.
"You were? Even when it looks like she's on the verge of tears? Do you even know who she is? This is Arya Stark of Winterfell. Lady Arya Stark. Much more valuable than the sorry likes of you three. If I could, I would stop this column and have the rest of the men beat your backs with canes until you are good and bloody. But fortunately for you, we happen to have three spots for washermen having just opened up. You can tend the men for the next five weeks and, with you in such a comfortable position, I'm sure you can afford to make due with reductions to pay and rations."
They grimaced, not saying anything.
"No objections? You can start once we reach camp. With all legions present there is no doubt much work to do." He smiled thinly before turning to Arya. "Milady, may you come with me? I don't believe being around this lot is worthy of one such as yourself."
The three soldiers glared as Arya kicked her horse and followed the brawny knight to the head of the column. "Thank you," she said to him after a moment of silence.
"Tis my duty," the knight replied, looking over his shoulder to give her a wide toothy grin. "You shouldn't be associating with those vermin . . . May I ask why you were back there? You started at the front but slowly made your way to the back."
Arya shrugged. "I was bored. Riding slow like this is dull and many here have stories to tell."
That was what she liked doing. Out of the couple hundred people who formed the column, there were many with stories and sellswords had the most colourful. There were squires, grooms, serving girls, old men, exiles and nobles of uncertain birth who made you wonder if they were actually nobles at all. There was Lysandro the Warrior Poet who wrote songs of war and love and performed marching songs for the men to sing; Torreo the Red who was a priest of R'hllor but not at all like Thoros of Myr for he was lean and had long red hair dyed orange and yellow to make it look like his head was afire; Pretty Praed with the ugliest face she'd ever seen and a body coated with so many tattoos you couldn't see the skin beneath. There were a great many and despite being asked to ride alongside the dragon princess and her soon-to-be husband, Arya had found herself slowing down so she could talk to those behind in the column before finding herself at the rear.
"Aye. I'm sure you heard a couple. I haven't seen you since we all broke our fast. Her Grace was worried you had decided to gallop away, mayhaps to find a port or, as the Halfmaester mused, to try and gallop across the Narrow Sea to Winterfell." He chuckled. "The lad knew you hadn't gone far."
"I could have run away if I wanted. I'm a better rider than you."
"You could have tried," Duck chuckled. "We would have found you and it's not like you could have got far. Some of the men here were riding before they could even walk. They would have been on you within moments."
She huffed but didn't answer. Arya knew she couldn't flee. She was in a foreign land where people spoke in a tongue she didn't know. Even if she got away, she'll need to find a ship and sail to Westeros. They'll return me. They promised and if they don't, I'll escape and go on my own. I'll return to my pack with or without them.
That night, while they were erecting her tent, Arya stared up at the great comet glowing blood red in the night sky like a second sun. It was splendid and beautiful and scary all at once. "The Red Dragon," Gerald of Hull had named it, "a sign from the Seven for the princess and the dragons she had birthed. A symbol of good fortune for our invasion of Westeros." But Arya didn't see a dragon. What she saw, if she squinted, was a sword. A red sword. It looked like Ice; Lord Eddard's greatsword all rippling Valyrian steel with the red being her father's blood after Ser Ilyn Payne cut off his head on the steps of the Sept of Baelor. They had made her look away so she didn't see, but Arya knew what happened and imagined the comet being what Ice must have looked like after it was done.
Laying in the bedroll, Arya imagined Winterfell. She yearned to see mother again, and Robb, Bran and baby Rickon, and Sansa who was still in the city. On the voyage across the Narrow Sea, Arya hoped for the sea to rise and bury King's Landing under the waves, but she remembered her sister was there and Sansa didn't deserve that, so Arya wished she was at the Wall instead. The Wall . . . Just the thought brought tears to her eyes. It was Jon of all her siblings she thought of the most. She wished he hadn't gone and was instead with her. Once she finally returned to Winterfell, Arya promised she'd visit him so he could muss up her hair once more and call her "little sister," where she'd say she missed him so much, hug him and never let go.
Arya went to sleep weeping.
They reached the town of Kios as it turned dusk. Camped outside the walls was the rest of the Golden Company who, according to Haldon, more than doubled the town's population. Entering the gates, Arya watched everyone's face turn green and red and purple from the lanterns lit along the cobblestone streets. Some lamps were parchment while others were stained glass, but all painted the streets in beautiful splotches of colour. Her ears were awash with the cacophony of foreign tongues and queer music playing from somewhere up ahead, a hundred crying cats and the distant barking of dogs.
A great square opened up before them. Even at this hour it was crowded and noisy and ablaze with light. Burning bright and fierce was a night fire outside an ornate temple of red stone. A priest in a scarlet robe stood atop the balcony, bellowing before a crowd all holding hands around the flames and singing as one. Traders were busy haggling in the maze of stalls while drunken sellswords wandered around aimlessly. Elsewhere two old men were playing a board game, so deep in concentration they ignored the crowd gathered around them. Beside a marble statue was a wooden platform where a line of women and young girls stood, with a weedy little man pointing to their naked bodies with a leather lash before a lustful crowd.
They pushed forward and before them was a wizard conjuring a ladder from a nearby pond. The water climbed upwards in a spiralling column as high as the buildings around them. Most of the spectators were sellswords dressed similarly, but had hair of many colours and skin going from palest ivory to polished ebony and everywhere in between. The wizard moved like he was trapped in a trance, and had all the elegance of master dancer, urging the water higher and higher with broad sweeps of his arms. Everyone craned their necks upwards as the pond formed a water sprout forty feet high and the wizard, upon taking a running start, scrambled up faster than she thought possible. Arya's jaw dropped. Upon reaching the top, his watery ladder vanished beneath him. She gasped with the others and the magician pulled his body forward into a frontal dive. Arya closed her eyes as hard as she could, expecting him to suffer a similar fate to Bran but when she opened them, the man had disappeared only for there to be a loud noise and everyone span to see the wizard perched atop a building blowing a horn.
"A fine trick," Blackheart announced with scepticism.
"No trick," Haldon Halfmaester said. "That is magic. Everyone's saying magic is coming back. Birthing the dragons was only the start. Who knows what other horrors have been unleashed."
"The old world is dying," Lyra the Mage said blandly. "Having just returned are dragons and darker things. People have closed their eyes and will plant their heads in the sand until the monsters they spoke of in stories are banging on their very doors and wonder how they came to be. Old powers awaken and the shadows stir. Before us is an age of wonder and terror, an age of gods and heroes and monsters beyond count." She flashed a look at Arya, her black eyes sparkling. "We'll have to see which one we are."
A few sellswords threw coins into a wicker basket while others walked off mumbling to themselves. Arya galloped her pony towards Aegon. The black dragon was with the exiled lord Jon Connington who'd greeted them with an honour guard, and they'd been talking nonstop since. Of what, Arya had no clue. Many times she asked Aegon to return her to her family and the response always was the same, "When we are ready." But when were they ready? She saw an army and if they wanted to attack Westeros, they could just do so. While she was no fan of the Targaryens for what their family did to hers, she was more than happy to watch them battle Joffrey and Cersei and the Kingslayer.
"No doubt they'll call her Azor Ahai Reborn after all she has done," Connington told Aegon as he glanced at the red priest who could be heard above all the noise of the market with Arya not understanding a word. "I should have been there."
"It was a sight, I confess. But you would have tried to stop her just as I had done." Aegon lifted his bandaged hand and laughed airily. "What is done is done and I do stress caution. Haldon desires to get support from the Red Temple in Volantis. He believes to do so would give us Volantis' aid during the war. With half their Tiger Cloaks worshipping R'hllor and holding the red god in greater reverence than the Old Blood – oh, and I must not forget the little influence Vaquo gives me – he's certain they'll aid us."
"There are certain advantages," the exiled lord who was reported to have died admitted. "But some friends can be as dangerous as foes. I trust not the red priests."
"Neither do I. But many from my century who follow Red R'hllor are saying Daenerys is the chosen one, that her steeping into the fire and hatching the dragons is her fulfilment of ancient prophecy. From smoke and salt was she born to make the world anew. She is Azor Ahai returned, and her triumph over darkness will bring about a summer that will never end."
"How unfortunate the Seven Kingdoms don't follow R'hllor in place of the Seven. Such circumstances would have our invasion gain widespread support once we land."
"And that is why I don't desire aid from Benerro. He is a double-edged sword. Oh, he may give us gold and jewels and soldiers and ships, but at what cost? I doubt Westeros will switch faith nor be willing to have a heathen of a queen rule them. Neither would Benerro be doing it out of the goodness of his heart. He'll want the Seven Kingdoms to follow his god, and the Iron Throne to bend to his will."
"I trust she is faithful to the Seven then."
"She was never raised by a septa nor septon before Lemore." Aegon shrugged. "She's doing well and is open minded to all faiths. Daenerys just needs to look more pious for the smallfolk and High Septon."
"Who is Benerro?" Arya couldn't help but ask.
Connington turned around and his eyes narrowed. The exiled knight was near an age with her father, with a weathered windswept face and crows' eyes in the corners of his pale-blue slits. Around his frowning mouth was a shortly cropped red beard that was turning grey. "You are a hostage, and this is private business. You best keep your mouth to yourself."
"She is only a child," Duck told him. "They tend to ask a lot of questions. I know I did."
It was Haldon who answered her question. "Benerro is the High Priest of the Red Temple of Volantis. The Flame of Truth, Light of Wisdom, First Servant of the Lord of Light, and Slave of R'hllor. He is to the Faith of R'hllor what the High Septon in King's Landing is to the Faith of the Seven. A powerful man, mayhaps more powerful than the Triarchy of Volantis, and one who holds much influence. He has supported our operations by buying land in the Disputed Lands, building temples and financially supporting us for bringing peace from where'd been war."
"He's buying influence," Connington grumbled. "Not that it matters. I cannot wait to leave this land and return to Griffin's Reach after so long. What happens in Essos matters not to me."
"What happens in Essos matters very much, my lord regent," Aegon said with amusement. "I've got certain plans for when the throne is ours. Essos will be very important indeed."
Dismounting their horses, they headed inside the sandstone inn where the black iron sign of a three-headed dragon hung above the iron-studded door painted in garish colours. Inside, a hundred dim red candles burned like distant stars and the air was fragrant with the smell of roasted meat and exotic fragrances. The common room was crowded with sellswords, officers and merchants. It was a maze of private alcoves and hidden nooks with blackened beams and a cracked painted ceiling. The hall was hazy with smoke and too dark for Arya's liking. Walking past, a slave girl with a leather collar around her neck was pouring pale green wine while sellswords pinched and smacked her rear.
"Are you hungry, little wolf?" Aegon Blackfyre looked at her with that cocksure half-smile of his. The young dragon wore a black tunic of lambswool with leather breeches and had a dirk hanging from his belt. Tall and lithe and fine-featured, he was handsomer than Joffrey Baratheon. His long silvery hair cascaded in smooth waves to his shoulders, looking more gold than silver beside the candles.
Sansa would love him. Arya could imagine her sister gushing over him, telling Jeyne Poole how beautiful and perfect and brave he was. How much he looked a prince from one of her stories. He could play the harp also, and had tormented Arya with that. No, she has her Joffrey. "A little," she confessed uneasily.
Grinning, Blackfyre claimed a table in a quiet corner away from everyone else. Arya sat opposite him and was flanked by Septa Lemore, Haldon Halfmaester and sitting adjacent Aegon was Daenerys, hands intertwined like lovers while Duck and two men with horsehair crested halfhelms stood guard. Soon they were eating warm flatbread stuffed with bits of fruit, honey sausage and bacon runny with grease, with spiced wine to wash it down with. Weakened in Arya's case, for Lemore said she was too young.
"You do have a healthy appetite," Haldon told her. He wore maester's robes but not the chain around his neck. Maester Luwin told Arya that only true maesters wore chains and those that didn't were not to be trusted. Hedge maesters were an untrustworthy lot and many were oathbreakers besides. "I pray you don't become sick on the morrow. I'd hate for Duck to clean it up."
"I hope not," Aegon smiled, putting down his cup. "I've a few things planned for her in the morning. The girl wants to sharpen her sword skills and who am I to deny her?"
"In Dorne it's not unknown for the womenfolk to pick up spears in the defence of their home," Lemore remarked. "The Seven are seven aspects of one god but there is much overlap between them. The Mother is just as courageous as the Warrior when it comes to defending her children, and the Maiden can be just as vengeful as the Stranger. When Daeron the Young Dragon returned to Dorne, stories say it was the bastard daughter of a knight of the Wells who slew the dragon king, shooting him in the heart to avenge her father."
Daenerys Targaryen screwed up her face. "He was never killed by a woman. He was killed by Dornishmen under the peace banner."
"That he was," Lemore nodded, "But it is widely known he'd been killed by a woman, little older than himself. Of course, House Targaryen didn't want it to said one of their kings was killed by a bastard girl when he cut such as gallant figure looting and setting fires across Dorne from the Red Mountains to Planky Town."
"Widely known, but mayhaps only in Dorne," Haldon said in a cynical tone. "It's known to all that the Young Dragon fell to the Dornishmen, but the only survivors were the Dornish. The king's party were all cut down and there were no survivors. There are many different stories and each differ. Some say Daeron was the first to die, falling to a bolt to the heart. Others say he survived long enough to slay a dozen Dornishmen before finally succumbing to his wounds. All that's truly known is that he was ambushed and fell under the peace banner."
"What they did was dishonourable," Arya said defiantly. "It was wrong they did so. They shouldn't have killed him. Daeron's heir should have gone to war and get vengeance upon the Dornish for what they did."
Lemore shook her head. "Instead Baelor the Blessed chose peace despite his lords demanding what you say. It would only have led to further war and death and plenty of young knights had already been butchered on both sides. The Andals were forced north of the Red Mountains and hadn't rode south since."
Arya frowned. She'd been told stories of the Dornishmen. How those far to the south were swarthy, dark of skin and dark of deeds. Men who would kill you if you looked at them wrongly and women who were wanton and lacked proper morals. All of Sansa's lemons came from Dorne. Yet, as she looked at Septa Lemore, she couldn't believe what she'd been told. Lemore was a septa like Mordane, but usually smiling instead of stern, warm instead of cool. Arya said nothing.
Soon, the conversation turned with Daenerys smiling and said, "should I be jealous of this time you're spending with our ward? Should I pick up the sword so you'll still spend time with me. Would you be willing to train me?"
"Should Her Grace be willing," Aegon said with a shrug. "Mayhaps I can train you with Arya. You might enjoy it. I think you both have much in common despite belonging to different sides. It might also help with talking to the Starks."
"I would rather have private lessons," Daenerys said, her voice going hard.
"Is that because you're a dragon and dragons don't like sharing? If that's your wish it will be done. We can talk about it later. But Arya, seeing that you're here, could you tell me about Sansa and Robb and the others of your pack. I know you don't know what they're doing, but it would help us if you tell us a bit about them."
He smiled his charming smile and Arya felt her cheeks warm for a reason she didn't understand. "There is much. Too much to say."
"We've got time. Barmaid, another drink and some more food. We're going to be here a while."
...
Arya's sword weighed heavy in her hands and the muscles of her arms burned like fire. The blade was only wood yet despite being similar to the one Syrio trained her with, it was still too heavy for her. The core had been filled with lead and proved clumsy and awkward. Duck promised it would build up her muscles so, once they train with proper steel, Needle would feel light as a feather. Arya hoped so and imagined showing Jon who would be impressed and ruffle her hair.
She imagined his smile, the kind words and him calling her little sister, but Jon's warmth warped into Aegon Blackfyre who stood before her with a face like it'd been carved from cold rock. Syrio taught Arya to read her opponent's face and movements. A minor flex or a twitch could tell her of their actions even before their blade started singing, but Aegon's face told her nothing. He had perfectly schooled his features to hide his thoughts and it was most unsettling. Like her, he wore thick padded garbs and held in his hands a slender blade. Aegon was taller which gave him greater reach, but he carried himself with less grace in no small part to his lanky frame.
"Are you ready for another bout?" he asked cheerfully, stone face breaking into a teasing half-smile.
Arya wanted to; she really did. Every morning they rose early to practise away from the army. Her arms ached and bruises formed horrid splotches across her skin, but it was a good pain. Aegon was no Syrio, though she learnt a lot by him. Grinning, Arya nodded, and the black dragon bowed his head respectfully.
"I should have known that'll be your answer. Alright then. Stand straight. That's it. Shoulders back, legs further apart. Much better. Now, Arya Stark of Winterfell, tell me the names of the basic slashes so I know you understand." Arya grimaced. Between sparring sessions, the Blackfyre told her the names and showed her treatises of the various fighting schools bravos trained in. Arya didn't believe reading would form part of sword fighting but she'd been proven wrong. "I'm going to list a few and want you to perform them. Fendente." Arya juggled the word in her mind for a moment before springing forward to perform a downwards slash. Aegon parried so casually it made her angry. Then he rapped off a series faster than she could act. "Sganlembrato, Tondo, Ridoppio."
Arya cut diagonally downwards, horizontal and then diagonally up, with a lunge before stepping back to avoid a counterattack that never came. Aegon instead stepped back one step and positioned himself in a defensive posture.
Arya was about to demand he do something. But before she could, Aegon suddenly said, "You need to relax your body some more. Your hands especially. You're holding your blade too tight. The body's full of muscles and when you tense, they're not so loose. A Water Dancer needs to keep their body fluid. If you forget that, just say the name. When you strike, do so like this." He lunged but not very far and swiftly withdrew. "Watch my feet and follow my example. Hold your sword up like this and perform a cut while stepping forwards before withdrawing while performing a reverso. Continue a few times until you get a hang of it."
What was what they did and after striking against the air, they sparred each other. When Arya was done, she was sweating profusely. The sun was bearing down upon them and it was sweltering without shade. The Disputed Lands was the hottest place she'd ever been, more so than King's Landing and much more than Winterfell. Aegon didn't sweat nor did his skin blister like hers did, instead going brown as a Dornishman. He looked cool and dry, more dusty than sweaty. It had to be his dragon blood.
"Do something, stupid," she snapped, blinking sweat from her eyes.
"A true bravo doesn't rush," he said so mildly it bordered on patronising. "A proper swordsman waits for the right opportunity to strike and should that mean waiting for their opponent to tire themselves out, so be it. Didn't Syrio teach you about conserving your strength? You're striking me with everything and I've moved only as far as I need to, conversing my energy while yours wastes away. Now you're sweating with the blade slacking in your hands."
"What do you think I should do then? Tell me that instead of telling what not to do?" He sounded like Mordane. She didn't have Sansa or Jeyne eyeing her sideways but in their place were guards who treated this whole thing as a mummer's farce.
"You're small and a girl. Men will underestimate you. Their pride will make them wish to vanquish you quickly else you dishonour them, and will treat you as lesser because of your sex. You are fast and nimble and small. Let them spend their strength while you conserve your own. Provided you have enough room, dodge and use your blade to parry and control their attacks. Once you see an opening, use Needle and poke them with it. Be patient and watch them get angry and reckless. That's if you do fight. Until you are capable of standing on your own, I recommend using stealth should you really need to kill something." He slid his sword back in its sheath and Arya let hers relax. "I suggest we practise more with cutting and I'd like to congratulate your footwork. It's improved substantially. You're lighter on your feet than myself and no doubt you'll surpass me soon. Syrio Forel would be proud."
Arya licked her lips and thanked him for the kind words. "How long had you been under him?"
"Little over two months," he said after a moment. "Though it seemed longer given all my lessons. I woke up at first light and went to bed late with bruises on every part of my body. Syrio didn't go soft on me. But I was used to it by that point, being trained in the Golden Company. I suppose you never got training before him, did you?"
Arya shook her head. She enjoyed watching her brothers and Theon spar in the yard under the supervision of Ser Rodrik Cassel against each other or other lordlings, but she couldn't participate. Mother wouldn't let her, nor would father. She and her brothers played with sticks on occasion, but it was only when Jon gave her Needle where she truly began to learn how to stick them with the pointy end. She then remembered Mycah and the Hound and Darry, then Syrio and the boy she killed. She bit her lip and felt sad. "In Winterfell I watched my brothers, but nothing before father gave me Syrio."
"Were your brothers good? You think I could beat them?" There was humour in his voice and Arya shook her head. Robb was good but Jon was better. "Can't I? Duck, the wolf girl says I can't beat her brothers." Arya looked over at Duck laying in the shade of a tree, straw hat obstructing his face. The knight only grumbled and Aegon turned back to her, smiling as if it were confirmation.
"Jon can beat you. He's better then Robb and few in Winterfell could beat him."
"I do like a challenge," he grinned, eyes sparking beneath thick lashes. "Though he's a member of the Night's Watch and it would be unbecoming for a prince to challenge a bastard."
"You're no prince." Arya huffed.
"Not yet, my dear. But within a few days I will be."
They mounted their horses and returned to camp with Ser Duck and the rest of the escort trailing behind. As they rode, Arya told Aegon of her family, Winterfell and what they'd done. She told him of Nymeria and Joffrey and the incident on the banks of the Trident, and that time in the Winterfell crypts. "Once, Robb took us down to the crypts to show us the old tombs. Sansa was scared and kept looking at her stubby little candle, scared it might go out. Jon gave it to her after she was being stupid and refusing to go down the steps. She was scared of the darkness and what Old Nan said. Old Nan said there were spiders down there with webs so thick they were like curtains and could snatch a child up, and there were rats as big as dogs. Robb only smiled and said there are worse things than spiders and rats. He said the old lords of Winterfell still walk." She looked back at the memory and smiled. "When we reached grandfather's tomb, we heard a sound and stopped. Sansa whimpered and Bran clutched my hand so hard I felt he was about to crush me. We stood around not knowing what to do. Then something came out from an open tomb, pale white and moaning for blood. Sansa ran up the stairs, dropping her stupid candle. Bran burst out crying and clutched Robb's leg."
"Scary. Was it a ghost? Were you scared, my lady? Did you manage to get out in time?"
"It was no ghost, stupid. Nor was I scared, and I aren't no lady! It was only Jon. He had sneaked away and covered himself in flour. I punched him and called him stupid for scaring the baby. But he and Robb only laughed and pretty soon Bran and I were to. Septa Mordane lectured us afterwards for going in the crypts and scaring Sansa but none of us cared. I miss them." The happiness left and only sadness remained. "When are we practising again? On the morrow?"
"We can't unfortunately. This may be our last lesson for a while. Tis a shame for I quite enjoy our bouts. It allows me to relax some and your little stories do make me laugh. But I need to practise for the coming tourney and then there's the wedding afterwards where my father will no doubt praise me for my choice in wife as if he had nothing to do with it himself."
Aegon told her he was participating in the squire's tourney and the melee afterwards. To gain the respect of the Company and experience some combat before they fight the Lannisters. Arya was worried about the dragons fighting her family. Would Robb fight them, or would they join forces against Joffrey? She bit her lip and tried to remain hopeful.
"It should be quite an event," Aegon continued. "Will you be cheering for me? Can I expect you to shout my name in the stands?"
He looked over and smiled. As she stared into his hauntingly dark eyes, she cursed herself as he caught her staring and his lips curved into a smirk, and that infuriated Arya. "I don't like watching tourneys. I want to be in one though. I want a horse and push some pimply squire off. If you want someone to cheer, you'll want my sister. Sansa loves tourneys. She loves the knights and colours and everything."
"I won't ask for your favour then, and promise not to name you my queen of love and beauty. It upsets me truly, my lady. My heart will weep and forever remain a dark hole . . . Don't pull that face, it was only a jest. Must you wolves always be a solemn lot?" They continued a moment before he asked, "I understand something similar happened to your aunt . . . correct?"
Arya nodded. "My aunt was crowned in the Tourney of Harrenhal. She was betrothed to Robert Baratheon who loved her, but Prince Rhaegar won and crowned my aunt. He was married though, and they say that when he walked past his wife, all the smiles died. Then he stole aunt Lyanna near Riverrun when mother was to be married to Uncle Brandon." She chewed her lip.
"What about fighting?" Aegon asked, sensing her discomfort and changing the subject. "We all know you enjoy playing with swords. What about watching it? Will you be watching me in the melee? Can I count on your support then?"
"I would prefer that," Arya decided. She enjoyed watching Jon and Robb and Theon spar. They looked like they were having so much fun down there from where she usually watched above. Ser Rodrick usually ended up shouting at them to get off each other when they found themselves on the ground wrestling, but they were always smiling and laughing. "Can I miss the tourney?"
"You are expected to be there. You're a member of House Stark and one of our most honoured guests. It would be unseemly to not be in attendance."
A prisoner to show off. Arya knew she had no choice. While they might claim she had freedom, there were always eyes watching and ready to step in should she do anything they disagreed with. She had no choice about the tourney either. Labourers had been busy constructing the tourney yard and fighting pit as part of the marriage celebrations. Arya look a sniff of her training leathers and wrinkled her nose. Septa Lemore wouldn't be pleased and would try to bathe her as soon as she returned.
That was exactly what happened.
As soon as the septa saw her, Arya promptly found herself being thrown into a tub of scolding hot water with Larra and Irri scrubbing her raw with rough sponges that felt like they were flaying her alive. When Arya stopped struggling, they dumped some sweet stuff that smelled of flowers and upon finally getting out, Lemore decided Arya should wear something "more fitting for the daughter of a high lord of Westeros." They didn't have any garbs with a Stark direwolf to dress her in, but Septa Lemore gave her a linen shift that was slightly too big, a dark green gown of lambswool with a bodice of gold-brown thread with supple leather sandals. Lemore spent some time fussing over her hair, talking about this and that. "Don't try to run in this, nor spoil it," the septa finished, pulling back to smile proudly of her charge. "You look like a proper young lady."
I am no lady, Arya wanted to tell her, I'm a wolf. But instead said, "Thank you, Lady Septa. Thank you for the dress. It is pretty." That was what her mother had told her to say. She was no Septa Mordane even if she tried to make a lady out of her. But unlike Mordane with her sour face and disappointment etched across her features whenever she looked at Arya, Lemore was kind and quick to laugh. Back in Pentos, when they were doing sewing, Lemore suggested she practise with her left hand instead of her right, which Arya discovered was much better and her stitches were not so crooked.
"Yes, child," Septa Lemore said, brushing away a loose strand of hair from her face. "And so are you. I know all this is hard but . . . continue being brave."
...
Daenerys Targaryen had never experienced a tourney before.
When she was little, Ser Willem Darry told her stories from when he used to joust in his youth, and later by Viserys who enlightened her about the greatest knights and how Rhaegar was the best lance in the Seven Kingdoms. Her brother was unstoppable in the lists and everyone fell to him at the Tourney of Harrenhal where he defeated Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning, Lord Yohn Royce of the Vale, hot-bloodied Brandon Stark and the famed Ser Barristan Selmy on the final tilt.
Across the field and outside the palisades of the encampment, the tourney grounds awaited. Marked by flamboyant banners of black-and-red, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen and Blackfyre flew high for all to see. It may be the first time in over a hundred years where they'd ever been flying together in ways other than war. Daemon the Pretender rode in jousts alongside his kin and Haldon informed Daenerys how he was defeated by the crown prince in the tourney where Breakspear got his name. That had fuelled resentment between the supporters of the black dragon and the red for the former believed it was Daemon who deserved to win once the victor was decided by King Daeron the Good after a tie. Around the grounds were the pavilions of knights from the Golden Company and mercenary knights from without. They had sprung up and the labourers had just finished the spectator's galley.
"Is this not a most splendid affair?" Daenerys asked her handmaidens excitedly.
"It is truly, Your Grace," Doreah agreed, smiling brightly. "It feels magical."
Dany stared out at the tournament grounds in the centre of a city of colourful pavilions, feeling butterflies flutter in her belly. Hundreds had been raised and even the locals of Kios were leaving their walls to gaze upon the games originating from across the Narrow Sea which were as foreign to them as they were for her. This was how she imagined tourneys to look. She remembered the stories that spoke of shining armour, splendid chargers caparisoned in bright colours, the cheers of the crowd and handsome knights fighting for a lady's favour. It'll be like the stories. Like I'm really in Westeros . . .
She felt giddy.
The handmaidens dressed Daenerys Targaryen in a splendid gown that made her feel not a mere princess, but a true queen. Thanks to Illyrio's generosity she wore the latest fashion from Lys. Her gown was ivory samite and cloth-of-silver, the bodice decorated with dragon scales of shimmering satin. The sleeves were delicate translucent silk with floral patterns and joined with dropping sleeves that almost touched the ground. It was no girl's gown for it had a low-cut collar of swirling pale flowers and showed her as a woman grown. Not even Aegon would see her as a child. The shirts were full, swirling around her with an overlay of sheet satin with cloth-of-silver and ornate lace in much evidence. Her shoulders were decorative pauldrons of soft gold, wrought into the shapes of swirling leaves and joined by a simple chain where hung a cut ruby which seemed to pulse in rhythm with her heart. Daenerys wore a thin cloak of sleek ivory and emblazoned on the back was the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, and atop her head was mother's crown.
"Do you think this is a bit excessive?" Dany asked her handmaidens as she stared into the mirror, fiddling with the silver wig they'd given her. She wondered if instead she should throw it away and let the world know of her baldness. Connington and Lemore had pressured her to wear it and Dany had relented against her wishes. "I'm wearing more jewels and silk than I'm sure exists in the North."
Doreah smiled. "Tis a show, Your Grace. To show everyone, from the lowliest sellsword and potboy, to archons and merchant princes, of your power and the wealth of your allies." She stepped closer, straightening Daenerys' wig. "The crowds will be enraptured with their new queen. Now can they not?"
"It will not hide the blood," Jhiqui told her. "Blood would ruin your dress during the fight."
Irri flickered her on the shoulder. "This is no fight to the death. Men in iron suits don't fight to the death. Nor do they bleed."
"If they don't bleed from swords, why do they wear steel suits?" Jhiqui shot back.
Irri huffed, folding her slender arms. "You are stupid. They are men. Men who coat themselves in steel. It is known." She looked at Dany for confirmation, her pretty face begging for assurance.
"It is known," Dany agreed with a smile. "You do have a point though, Jhiqui. I should have gone with something black. It would show me more as a Targaryen. It feels if I'm to show myself before the army, I should be wearing Targaryen colours. Black and red, that seems better . . ."
"It won't look the same," Doreah sighed. "You look beautiful the way you are. The white and silver works well with you features. You look so innocent. Like the Maiden of the Andals or the Weeping Lady of Lys."
"It is known," Irri stated. "You look like the moon, wrapped in starlight with eyes of amethysts."
Dany couldn't help but blush and smile shyly. "Well, I suppose. It is too late to get something else on and Illyrio did spend a fortune. They'll be expecting me and no doubt soon. Though innocent makes me sound like a child."
"You are a child," Jhiqui told her. "You have yet to lay with your Khal."
Irri pursed her lips. "The boy serves her. That makes him the Khaleesi." Jhiqui laughed and Irri smiled.
"Has there truly been no female Khal? Has no Khaleesi ever led a Dothraki Khalasar?" Dany couldn't help but ask.
Jhiqui shook her head. "No Khaleesi. Only Khals lead. Only men fight. Those that cannot fight do not deserve to lead. Women have no place leading men, and should a Khal die, his Khaleesi's are taken back to Vaes Dothrak to join the Dosh Khaleen and serve the Stallion before joining their Khal in the night lands to serve him in the stars."
Daenerys didn't like the sound of that. "Fortunate I am no Khaleesi. I am a queen or will be soon enough, and you will not be my handmaidens. You will be ladies-in-waiting."
Larra and Doreah looked at each other, sharing a smile before curtsying. "I am thankful for the honour, Your Grace," Doreah said, which Larra was quick to echo while Irri asked, "What's a lady-in-waiting?"
"The most trusted companions of a queen. More than handmaidens, though I don't really see much of a difference if I am being honest. As I am the rightful queen, I need to embrace Westerosi customs and show myself as one of them." She took Irri's hands in hers and kissed the girl lightly on the cheek before doing the same for Jhiqui. "You are my most trusted companions, my dearest friends. I thank you for all you have done."
"I thank you for freeing me, Your Grace," Larra said, her cornflower eyes downcast. "I—no . . . it would be wrong to disparage Magister Illyrio."
She didn't need to say the words. Daenerys Targaryen couldn't imagine sharing the merchant's bed. He was her betroths father so it would be wrong to say anything, but he was so fat. Aegon is young and slender and handsome. Nothing like his father. "You are free to remain at my side or you may return home. If you desire to go your own way and not join me into a foreign land at war, just say the word. I can hire a ship to send you elsewhere."
The girls looked at each other. "I would be honoured to stay," Larra declared. "I hear much of the Sunset Kingdom of the Andals and very much want to see these castles we hear so much about. All my life I've been bound and, like a bird leaving the nest, I want to spread my wings and explore. Mayhaps Her Grace would one day show me the skies."
"We serve the Khaleesi," Jhiqui said softly. "We were given to you as a gift. We are bound to serve you. To do as you wish."
"You are no slaves," said Dany gently. "You are free."
"We are freer than we hoped," Irri began. "If you send us back, where do we go? We were daughters of a Khal, slaves of another to pleasure him and his bloodriders whenever they desired. Qotho was cruel and made me weep. Even his horse was afraid of him. I cannot return for I have no life there. Here, I am yours and will serve until I am ready to ride into the night lands. With you I am safe."
Those words made Dany's eyes fill with tears. "I want to keep you safe. All of you." How could she rightfully be called queen if she couldn't protect those closest to her? They had lost their home and family but, unlike her, they couldn't go back. She hugged Irri then, wrapping her arms around the Dothraki girl in a tight embrace. Irri flinched, tightening her body for a moment before returning the gesture. Dany enjoyed the hug; it made her feel she wasn't alone.
When they pried away, Daenerys kissed her on the cheek once more. "If you are to stay, you may ask anything you wish from me. I will see it is done. All of you. Just ask."
Doreah curtsied. "I thank you, Your Grace. I ask for nothing more. You have given me what I desired."
"A duck," Larra giggled.
"He's kind," the other blonde girl said in an airy voice, "He's not the wisest nor the most well-groomed, but have you seen him shirtless? Some days I imagine him in a hot forge hammering away beside a burning furnace." They all shared a laugh.
The sun was beating down relentlessly when Daenerys mounted a sedan chair and was led to the tourney grounds. All around was the army that would soon swear their swords to her cause. Some saluted and shouted her name, but most only stared in silence. Ser Duck rode beside Daenerys on a grey stallion, hand resting on the handle of his sword as if an assassin would jump out at her. After what happened to Viserys, Daenerys had no doubt there were plenty in the crowd who would kill her in return for a fat purse of Lannister gold. She couldn't be seen to be frightened, though. She was a dragon, a daughter of House Targaryen. She would not shy away.
When they arrived at the stands, Daenerys was aided down by Ser Jon Hawkwood who fought for her brother at the Trident, slaying a great many knights and swore to return to Westeros at the dragon's side. He cleared the path to the private box where she thanked him and sat on one of the two thrones. They were simple seats but stood tall and prominent. The nobles sat on benches while everyone else stood. Daenerys sat straight, her hands resting on her lap just as Lady Lemore instructed her. The septa soon arrived, wearing bleached white robes with a crystal dangling from a chain around her neck. She brought with her the young Arya Stark who wore a fine dress and a moody frown.
Surrounding Daenerys were prominent members of the Company who were to enter the later games. Sitting close was Connington and Myles Toyne, talking in hushed tones and wearing their houses' respective colours. There was House Plum and Peake, Strickland and Cole to name a few. Others were Essosi nobles who didn't wear heraldry like they did in Westeros, but she knew who they were. These included one of the magisters of Myr, three wealthy lord freeholders of the Tyroshi Conclave who were accompanied by a cluster of youths who decided they wanted to become knights, and an envoy from Lys including Magister Tregar Ormollen and his concubine: the Lady Lynesse Hightower, who was a startling beauty with long golden hair, striking cornflower eyes and skin as pale and smooth as cream.
"Your Grace," the magister said as he bowed his head to kiss Daenerys' hand. Magister Tregar was slim and handsome, with hair like flax and clear blue eyes that finished at her breasts. "It is an honour to come to your wedding and see first-hand a Westerosi joust. I have heard much of them, but never fortunate to experience one until this day."
"I have told my love much of them and yourself," Lady Lynesse said, smiling as she took the man's hand and giving a gentle squeeze. "I only hope these valiant men wont disappoint."
I pray they don't. "I thank you joining me. Please, my lord and lady, pray take a seat. Are you hungry? Thirsty? I will have my handmaidens bring anything you desire."
"Arbor Red would be most perfect," Lynesse decided before Magister Tregar opened his mouth. "It is a hot day and I have a feeling we need much in way of refreshments." She took a seat near Daenerys, close enough to easily talk but not close enough to be derived for being overly ambitious. "Pray, may I ask where your betrothed is? Surely he would be joining us this day."
"This is the squire's tourney," Septa Lemore announced, "And Aegon will be participating to show himself a scion of Ser Daemon Blackfyre before the Golden Company."
Lady Lynesse made a musing sound. "I have experienced many tourneys in my life, both great and small. In my experience few are duller than squires trying to push each other off a horse. They are young and not experienced enough to be proper knights."
"I heard men die in these games," Tregar said, leaning forward. "Is that not so?"
"Is it true, Lady Lemore?" Dany asked, suddenly frightened.
"Such things are not uncommon," the septa clarified. "I have unfortunately seen many promising knights be snuffed by a lance on the tourney grounds. While most lances glance off plate, some tips unfortunately strike a weak point."
"During my father's tourney, one knight was killed by the Mountain's hand," Arya said softly. "Fat Tom said Ser Barristan stood over the young knight's body himself for he had no one else."
Just another body for the Mountain's butchery. "How old was this knight?" Dany couldn't help but ask.
Arya shrugged.
"We have fighting pits in Lys," Tregar explained. "But are unlike the Sunset Kingdoms in that the combatants fight to the death for that proves ones skill in that of arms. My lady loves jousts and told me of Ser Barristan Selmy, one of the most reputed fighters in all of Westeros."
"Knight," Lynesse corrected. "Ser Barristan the Bold is among the best jousters and greatest of knights. Few can beat him."
"He fought on the Stepstones and slew Maelys Blackfyre, correct?" He sniffed. "Ser Barristan the Old, you mean then. If he is among the best fighters Westeros has still, then I fear for the Andals. I pity them against such an army as this."
"Ser Barristan's a true knight," Septa Lemore defended him, an edge creeping into her voice. "Most formidable with the lance and sword, and loyally served Her Graces father and grandfather."
He also betrayed them, Dany remembered. The Kingsguard had both betrayed her family when they were needed most. The handsome golden-haired Lannister boy stabbed her father in the back, and Barristan Selmy went to serve the Usurper after the Trident. Both swore to follow the king above all, to remain true and stalwart and die for their monarch, but instead proved themselves false knights.
"Protected. He protects the Usurper now," Lady Hightower said with a raised, perfectly trimmed eyebrow. "He faithfully served House Targaryen before switching to join the winning side. The Golden Company are sellswords, yet they have not switched sides once unlike that true knight."
Dany was about to say something but Jhiqui returned with a platter of soft white cheese, grapes and wine, and the words were forgotten.
The jousting was a spectacle Daenerys had never thought to experience. The splendour and bravery took her breath away. Despite being squires yet to earn their spurs, each one she watched ride at full gallop could one day end up renowned in song. The squires and horses were armoured in every colour in the world: blacks and dark purples, striking reds and clear blues, sea greens and pure white, pale yellows and crisp greens, all worn in various patterns and stripes. While many of these squires were smallfolk by birth or were born into the Company and never looked upon Westeros, they had proven themselves before her eyes. Swarthy Terrance Sloan rode out well against three squires before falling to young Rollam Storm who wore iron scales and a shield bearing a lightning bolt cracking a castle in two.
Then it was her betroths turn.
Aegon Blackfyre looked every inch a dark prince as he rode out atop a beautiful mare black as sin. He wore night-black plate decorated with scales and elaborate fluting, with the first thing Daenerys noticing being the three-headed dragon decorating his breastplate. It was how she imagined her brother's to look but where Rhaegar's dragon was made of rubies, Aegon's own was onyx that seemed to drink the light. Draping from his shoulders was a dark scarlet cloak that was so large it covered most of his mount's hindquarters, and tucked beneath Egg's arm was his helm: a sallet with a pair of dragon wings sprouting from the sides.
"A black knight," Lady Lynesse mused as Aegon made his entrance. "If not for the cloak I would be mistaken to think he was a member of the Night's Watch."
Daenerys couldn't argue. He looked wonderful and the crowd seemed to love him. Aegon smiled at the masses, waved and the watchers only howled for more. At fifteen he was wasn't the oldest but nor was he the youngest. He was the most handsome though, and looked every inch a warrior from Old Valyria, every inch a young king. He rode up beneath her and smiled confidently. "My queen," he declared, his voice high and sweet and elegant. "No woman here is half so beautiful, nor is any victory I could dare have be half so lovely as yourself." His silvery hair fell to his shoulders in lazy waves and Dany could drown in his purple eyes. "May I ask for your favour so I might ride out and defend your honour as my one true Queen of Love and Beauty?"
Daenerys Targaryen could not refuse. He was her future husband and the crowds were howling at her to give Egg her favour. Feeling herself blush and her belly flutter, Dany smiled at him and pulled out a black silken cloth bearing the sigil of House Targaryen stitched by herself. The dragon was wonky for she had never embroidered before. Arya was better at needlework than herself. "I name you my knight," Daenerys declared back after the herald shouted for everyone to be quiet. "And so I will give you my favour."
She leaned down and Aegon wrapped it around his hand where he declared, "With this gift I will ride down all those who go against me and defend your honour. Should the Seven lend their favour to my lance, I will declare you the most worthy of women and dedicate my victory to your name."
The crowd cheered once more and when Aegon rode off to be fitted with shield and lance. Lady Hightower snickered. "Young love," she said, giving Daenerys a sardonic wink.
"The crowd loves him," young Arya Stark observed, having made a face when Egg asked for Daenerys' favour.
How can they not? He is their king, even if he lacks the title. The thought upset her. Daenerys saw their faces and eager smiles, their adoration. Aegon had been prepared to rule and had promised to help her be a good and just queen. But that was all she would be. Westeros never had a ruling queen before. They would look to him for guidance and strength, not her. Aegon swore he would never accept the Iron Throne nor the title of king, yet it still felt he had stolen it from her. Marriage had always been her future, but still, it galled.
Daenerys forced her misgivings aside. She wouldn't let her worries trouble her. She would enjoy this tourney and cheer for her betrothed, and her Aegon did not disappoint. Rollam Storm was the first to fall to her betroths lance, falling unceremoniously into the dirt after being struck in the chest on the first tilt. Others rode only to fall as well, though it seemed to Daenerys that many of the squires who performed most admirably suddenly looked less skilled when riding against Aegon. Many with sure lances become suddenly less sure, more like to sag, that they lunged a little too early or too late. She ignored that though. It was her first joust and no doubt she was seeing things.
While there weren't as many squires as there were knights, the tourney still dragged on longer than expected. Daenerys couldn't complain. After an interval, the last four squires rode out once more. Aegon was the most prominent and well-loved evidenced by the roars of the crowds while the other three squires were largely ignored. The eighteen-year-old Wyman Shallow was thrown from his horse by Jaspar Peake so hard, with such a loud crack, that Dany gasped and expected the boy to have died. When Haldon rushed forward with men carrying a stretcher, the helm was pulled from his head to reveal he was fine, only dazed. That reminded Daenerys that while these were games, they were still dangerous.
Next up was Egg against the older Cletus of Sandy Tower – a dark-skinned Dornishman with a temper as bad as his stallion and had been unstoppable before this point. Dany chewed the inside of her cheek when the two charged and collided in the centre of the lists. Both lances broke and splinters flew. Aegon almost fell, only rebalancing himself in the saddle at the last moment before collecting another lance and jerking the reins for a second pass. They rode against each other again but neither lance struck true and neither struggled in the saddle. The crowd cheered and the Dornishman grew angrier and angrier by the second. During their final bout, the older boy spurred forward in a hard gallop, his long lance aimed directly for Egg's throat. The world slowed to a crawl and everyone grew silent with anxiously and anticipation. Seeing the lance, Aegon shifted, bending his body sideways and letting the spear cut through the air whilst Aegon's lance, black as a moonless night, crashed with full force against his opponent's helm. A moment later the red bay was riderless and the Dornishboy was face down in the dirt.
On the final tilt rode out Aegon and Jasper Peake to the sound of trumpets. The Peake boy rode out first in smoky grey plate and bronze surcoat with three castles - two of which his house had lost in its many rebellions. He rode atop a large white charger and his eyes were hard. Peake's scarred lips twisted in disgust when Aegon made his entrance and cheers erupted from the stands. Aegon rode one round around the grounds and pulled off his helmet, waving at the crowds be it nobles, ladies and peasants alike, a beaming smile over his face. Dany joined in with the clapping and when he turned to her, Egg raised his arm up high, her silk ribbon flying in the wind like a banner. She smiled.
In a wonderful show of chivalry, the two young men charged at each other again and again, each time returning to their starting positions to collect fresh lances. With the sound of a trumpet, both squires kicked their horses into a gallop and met exactly in the middle, both lances breaking against the other's shield. But this time it seemed Jasper was nearly unbalanced with the powerful thrust, only catching his balance after a fierce struggle.
"Keep going, Aegon! You can get him! You can beat him!" Daenerys shouted, rising from her seat only for Lemore to turn to her with a disapproving look and Daenerys sat back down again unhappily.
They returned to the starting position and new lances were handed to them. They waited again for the signal and both horses began to grow as restless as their riders. Then they charged, kicking up sand as they practically flew at each other but, once more, neither fell and the most they did was stagger slightly in the saddle to the disappointment of everyone.
With no clear victor, it was Daenerys' duty to give the win to the best rider with the surest lance. Daenerys, having already given her favour to Egg and not wanting to seem partial, instead said, "I am no knight and because I promised my betrothed my favour, it would be unseemly that I be the one to judge this most splendid event. Instead, I will ask the captain-general to decide the matter in my stead. I only ask that he is fair and just and picks the one most worthy squire."
Dipping his head politely, Blackheart studied the combatants for longer than most would. "Both these squires have performed most admirably in this joust. Both have proven themselves to be skilled lancers that it seems unseemly to pick only the one. But there can only be one winner and from what I'd seen with my own eyes, it was Aegon Blackfyre who has crouched his lance more skilfully and has showed himself to be more chivalric."
Not even a second later, the herald declared Aegon the winner and Daenerys' ears erupted with applause and fervent cheers. They called him Daemon the Black Dragon Come Again, that he was a true dragon, the perfect heir for House Blackfyre who would achieve what Bittersteel failed to do. They even called him the second coming of Aegon the Conqueror to Daenerys' displeasure.
Ser Jon Connington climbed down the steps, face stern but proud. Aegon dismounted and was presented with a crown of purple flowers by Doreah. Egg bowed his head and thanked the former slave before Connington pulled out his sword and ordered his former-charge to his knees. Aegon did so and Jon laid the longsword light upon the boy's shoulder. Lord Jon Connington's voice was loud and clear. "Aegon Blackfyre, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege, and your queen, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?"
Aegon looked up, "I do, my lord."
The knight from the Stormlands moved his sword from right shoulder to the left, saying, "In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Smith I charge you to be diligent. In the name of the Crone I charge you to be wise and serve as a guiding force to all those who come after you. Arise Ser Aegon Blackfyre, knight and servant of our queen."
Aegon arose and if the cheering upon his victory was loud, this one was colossal. "A knight, a knight!" one woman cried, while a man shouted at the top of his lungs, "Ser Blackfyre. The Black Dragon rides again!"
Myles Toyne stepped down from the stands as servants rushed forward carrying a chest of cedar wood and polished copper. Bowing his head, the captain-general of the Golden Company opened it to reveal a sword.
"Blackfyre," Septa Lemore gasped. She wasn't referring to the house, but the actual sword. The sword of Aegon the Conqueror. The fabled blade of kings and false pretenders. It was a beauty. The blade was all Valyrian steel: smoky grey and covered in ripples from where the metal had been folded back on itself thousands of times. A ruby was embedded in the pommel, beautifully cut while at the end of the cold iron crossguard were a pair of roaring dragon heads.
The sword that was lost has now returned and in the hands of those who had taken it. As the head of her house and last true Targaryen, the sword should be hers. Myles Toyne should have presented her Blackfyre, not Aegon. But what use was having a sword if she lacked the skill to wield one?
Aegon smiled, bowed his head and took the sword gently before turning to her with a boyish smile. He sheathed Blackfyre in the supple leather casing and tied it to his belt before mounting his mare with a flourish. "My queen," he declared, holding the purple crown above his head for all to see. "I had proclaimed you my queen of love and beauty for everyone to know. I could only have won for your favour and I have my knighthood thanks to you. My silver queen, most splendid and wonderful. Would you do me the honour of being my Queen of Love and Beauty?"
Daenerys smiled but no words left her throat. The thoughts of Blackfyre had soured her mood but she could not afford to let it show. She leaned leaned over the edge, took the purple crown from Aegon's hands and placed it atop her head. All the ladies before her curtsied and all the lords and knights, sellswords and smallfolk bowed to their newly crowned Queen of Love and Beauty.
"The Black Knight!" one person cried. "The Silver Queen!" cried another. "A beauty, a beauty, Daenerys, the Queen of Love and Beauty!" It was a chorus of different titles but all the shouts gradually turned to, "Aegon, the Black Dragon of the East! The warrior who'll take us home!"
