Before the Tourney Pt.1

The sun had yet to rise as Maekar and Lyonel walked through the dim corridors of Dragonstone. The morning air was cool, carrying the scent of salt from the sea below, while the sky above remained a deep indigo, untouched by daylight. In Maekar's hand was a dark blade with a storied past—Blackfyre, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror. Alongside it was another sword, a trophy from his victory over the Golden Company.

They reached the private training yard of Dragonstone, a place steeped in history, once trodden by the likes of Queen Visenya, the Rogue Prince, and the legendary Ser Aemon the Dragonknight.

Maekar stopped, lifting the second sword in his hand, eyeing its glint in the low light. Without a word, he tossed it to Lyonel, who caught it with quick reflexes.

"My prince, I..." Lyonel began, but Maekar waved him off.

"Just keep it for now, Lyonel," Maekar said. "I didn't expect to find another Valyrian steel sword, but I did. I don't want it going unused."

Lyonel studied the blade, his fingers brushing over it with near reverence. "Does it have a name?"

"If Harry Strickland named it," Maekar replied, "then it died with him and the Golden Company."

Unsheathing the sword, Lyonel's eyes gleamed as he marveled at its craftsmanship. It wasn't every day one had the chance to hold such a weapon. Maekar stepped a few paces back, his hand gripping Blackfyre. He gave the sword a few experimental swings, the edge cutting through the air with a sharp hiss.

"Now," Maekar said, his gaze settling on Lyonel, "let's fight."

The two faced off. Lyonel eyed Maekar with a faint grin. "Have you improved with a sword since last time, my prince?"

Maekar returned the smile, his eyes narrowing. "I beat you with my warhammer, didn't I?"

With a sudden burst of movement, Lyonel lunged, and their swords clashed, the ring of Valyrian steel filling the quiet courtyard. Lyonel moved with precision, his strikes swift and calculated, while Maekar countered, his defense steady but noticeably rusty. The duel began with Lyonel firmly in control, his blade darting with practiced grace as Maekar struggled to regain his rhythm. It was clear that Lyonel, the better swordsman, had the upper hand.

Each swing of Lyonel's blade pushed Maekar back, step by step. Maekar blocked and parried but knew he was on the defensive. A grin broke out on Lyonel's face as he pressed the advantage, his footwork flawless, his strikes relentless.

But Maekar, slowly, found his footing, matching Lyonel's rhythm. Blackfyre moved in his hands with a new fluidity, its weight becoming more familiar with every passing moment. Maekar's strikes began to carry more precision, his counters more aggressive, and soon, the duel evened out.

As the sun began to rise, its light casting a golden glow over the courtyard, the two warriors became a blur of movement—each strike met with a block, every thrust with a parry. The clash of their Valyrian steel swords echoed through the air as neither man could gain the upper hand.

Then, in a moment of distraction, Maekar's attention shifted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Melisandre approaching, her scarlet robes flowing behind her, flanked by two other red priestesses. Just as Maekar's gaze faltered, Lyonel seized the opportunity, his sword crashing into Maekar's, disarming him with a swift, practiced motion and a kick that sent him sprawling to the ground. Lyonel stood over him, panting, his sword lowered but with a grin of victory.

"You were distracted, my prince," Lyonel said with a hint of amusement as he extended a hand to help Maekar up. "I thought you planned to beat me."

Maekar looked up at his loyal swordshield, letting out a breath of frustration before accepting his hand.

"Good thing the lords weren't here to see it," he said in jest as he rose to his feet.

He glanced over at Melisandre again, who stood silently at the edge of the courtyard, her gaze unreadable.

"Come, Lyonel," Maekar said as he walked toward Melisandre, his eyes flickering to the two women standing at her sides. The one on her left had strikingly pale skin, her fiery red hair cascading down her back in thick waves. Her sharp features gave her an almost ethereal look, and her eyes burned with the same fervor as Melisandre's. The other woman, standing to Melisandre's right, was of olive complexion, her dark hair pulled back into a simple yet elegant knot. Her expression was calm, but her eyes, like those of her companions, were filled with reverence as they gazed at him.

Melisandre had left Dragonstone after Maekar claimed the dragon. She had been headed to Pentos to meet with her fellow priests and priestesses. Maekar knew that having priests of R'hllor by his side would not be well-received, but he had to think ahead. They would be very useful when the Others came.

As he approached, all three of them bowed.

"Azor Ahai," Melisandre greeted, her voice a smooth whisper. "I have returned."

"And with company, I see," Maekar replied, glancing at the two women beside her.

Melisandre gestured toward the women, her tone formal. "This is Nyssandra," she said, indicating the olive-skinned woman with the dark hair. "And this is Kinvara," she added, gesturing to the pale woman with red hair.

Nyessandra and Kinvara both inclined their heads toward Maekar. "Azor Ahai," they murmured in unison, their voices soft.

Maekar nodded to them both before turning back to Melisandre. "So, I assume your journey was successful?"

Melisandre's expression remained neutral, though there was a hint of disappointment in her eyes. "Not completely," she answered, her voice steady.

"Oh?" Maekar raised an eyebrow, curious but calm.

"As you know, my prince," Melisandre began, "I have been in contact with the Red Temple in Volantis ever since you revealed yourself." Her tone was measured, but there was an underlying tension in her voice.

Maekar nodded, listening carefully.

"I traveled to Pentos to meet with High Priest Benerro, who personally came to see me," she continued.

"Well, isn't that good news?" Maekar asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

Melisandre's gaze dropped slightly, and her tone grew more somber. "Yes, many believe that you are Azor Ahai, even Benerro himself. He is convinced that the signs are clear and that you are the one destined to lead us against the darkness. But..." She hesitated, her lips tightening before continuing. "There are still those who do not. Some priests and priestesses remain skeptical. They question whether the signs truly point to you or whether they've been misinterpreted."

Maekar sighed, his expression thoughtful as he processed her words. "Well, that is to be expected. Prophecies are often shrouded in doubt until they come to pass. When the time comes—when winter truly descends upon us—they will have no choice but to believe."

Melisandre nodded, though her lips were pressed together tightly, her frustration still palpable. She lived to spread the message of R'hllor, the Lord of Light, and anything less than full devotion must have felt like a failure to her.

Maekar looked at Melisandre, his face thoughtful. "I need to learn more about the Others," he said. "If I'm to face them, I must know how to defeat them. I want you and your priestesses on the forefront of that task."

Melisandre inclined her head slightly, her eyes flickering with the faintest trace of satisfaction. "As you wish, my prince. The Others are a darkness that has existed since before the dawn of time, but R'hllor's light will always guide us toward the way to vanquish them."

Maekar nodded, satisfied, but then his gaze grew more serious. "One more thing," he added, his voice lowering. "Your faith is powerful, and I do not question it. But do not preach too openly for now. There are many who will not understand your teachings, and it could cause... problems for me. Keep your beliefs among those who want to hear them."

Melisandre accepted his words without hesitation, her head bowing slightly. "Of course, my prince. I will not risk your cause."

"I will be leaving for King's Landing tomorrow. You are to stay here until I call on you," Maekar continued.

Melisandre's eyes glinted as she met his gaze. "Your ascension is at hand," she said in a hushed, almost reverent tone. "I have seen it. The flames have shown me."

Her next words, however, made Maekar's heart skip a beat. "Why not kill your brother now?" she asked, her tone calm, almost casual. "I have the means to do it. He need not stand in your way."

Maekar's eyes widened, his mind flashing back to the shadow baby. He raised a hand, quickly shaking his head. "No," he said, his voice firm. "A war is inevitable. Killing Aegon now... it would make things worse, not better. I need the war to reshape Westeros for the better. If he dies too soon, everything will unravel."

Melisandre studied him for a moment, then gave a slight nod. "As you wish, my prince," she said softly, though a flicker of something unreadable passed across her features.

.

.

.

Quenton watched as the crown prince swung a sword, his strikes clumsy but determined. Despite his frail state, Aegon was clearly pushing himself, eager to regain his former strength. His recovery was slow, but the fire still burned brightly within him.

Quenton's eyes shifted from the prince to the grounds around him. The melee grounds were colossal, sprawling across the field like a battlefield designed for chaos. It could host hundreds of knights at once, its vast, oval-shaped arena surrounded by stands and the elevated royal box, all built to accommodate the brutality and unpredictability of the melee. And that, Quenton knew, was exactly what Prince Aegon planned to use to his advantage. The chaos would serve as cover for the prince's plot—the perfect setting to snuff out his brother.

Quenton approached Aegon with his loyal sword Sandor Clegane following close behind, his hulking frame looming like a shadow.

Ahead, Gerold Dayne and Joffrey Lannister stood near the prince, offering words of encouragement as Aegon attempted another swing, only to hand the sword to Joffrey with a grimace.

"Ah, Quenton, and Ser Clegane, was it?" Aegon called out, his voice strained but still holding a note of confidence.

"I'm no knight," Sandor grumbled, his tone indifferent, but his eyes flickered with a hint of disdain for the title.

Quenton gave a respectful nod, greeting the prince. "My prince, I've procured the knights as you requested."

Aegon arched an eyebrow. "Are they any good?" Gerold Dayne asked, his voice laced with a cold edge. "I need them at least passable in skill. I want to finish off that bastard myself, but I'll need them to weaken and isolate him first."

Quenton's gaze shifted toward the entrance of the grounds. "They are here now," he said, his voice steady.

A group of knights entered the grounds, their armor gleaming in the morning light. Quenton listed their names as they approached.

"Ser Luthor Tyrell, Ser Vance Rivers, Ser Amory Florent, and Ser Edric Oakheart."

Aegon watched them with a sharp, calculating gaze, his expression betraying a flicker of satisfaction. Quenton had chosen well. These knights were ambitious, eager for power, and most importantly, expendable. Aegon had no plans to let them live after their dirty work was done.

Luthor Tyrell was a young knight from House Tyrell. He was a man looking for a way to rise within his powerful house, and aligning with Aegon seemed the perfect opportunity.

Ser Vance Rivers, a bastard from the Riverlands, was a man willing to do anything for legitimacy and recognition. His loyalty was fueled by his hunger for more.

Ser Amory Florent was a man unbothered by the dirtiness of the tasks before him, knowing that Aegon's favor would cleanse any stain.

Finally, Ser Edric Oakheart, pragmatic and calculating, had his eye on a white cloak and a place in the Kingsguard, even if it meant spilling royal blood to get there.

Aegon smiled darkly as the knights approached, his eyes flicking from one to the next, sizing them up with cold precision.

Aegon turned to Gerold, who gave a nod of approval.

"Well chosen, Quenton," Aegon said, his tone carrying a chilling sense of satisfaction. "They'll serve their purpose well enough."

Quenton bowed slightly. "They are all loyal, my prince. Eager to serve."

The knights knelt before Aegon, their heads bowed in deference. Aegon's gaze swept over them before he spoke, his voice low but commanding.

"The kingdoms are in peril," he began, his tone grave. "My bastard brother, lusting for my throne, seeks to plunge the Seven Kingdoms into chaos once more. He is backed by those who would see the realm torn apart—the former rebels, the houses that have long stood against the crown."

He let the silence stretch for a moment, watching their reactions. "But you—" he pointed at the knights, "you can help me stop this. You can save the realm from another Dance of Dragons. You can be the sword that defends the crown."

The knights, bolstered by Aegon's words, nodded with determination. Gerold stepped forward. "I'll prepare them for the melee. The bastard won't leave the field alive."

Before Gerold could take the knights away, Joffrey, who had been lounging nearby, chimed in with a grin. "I'm planning to enter the melee as well."

Gerold scoffed, barely hiding his disdain. "You? Enter the melee? You can't even lift a sword properly, Lannister."

Joffrey's face twisted in anger, but he maintained his composure. "It would be better if I, as heir to Casterly Rock, landed the killing blow on Maekar," Joffrey said, his voice dripping with smugness. "It'll cause less trouble if he dies by accident at my hand, rather than yours, Dayne."

Gerold's eyes flared with rage, and he stepped toward Joffrey, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. "You little—"

"Stop," Aegon commanded, raising a hand to halt Gerold. He looked at Joffrey. "You can enter, but Gerold will be the one to deal with Maekar."

Joffrey's smirk faltered slightly.

Aegon turned to Gerold. "Take the knights and make sure everything is in place. I don't want any mistakes."

Gerold nodded sharply, motioning for the knights to follow him. As they began to move away, Gerold glanced at Quenton. "I want him as well," Gerold said, pointing at the Hound.

Quenton nodded at Sandor, signaling his approval. "Fine," the Hound muttered, falling in line with the others as they made their way out.

Quenton watched as Aegon and Joffrey left the grounds, their forms disappearing into the distance. His lips curled into a smile as his gaze settled on a figure lurking in the shadows of the stands—a figure that quickly disappeared the moment Quenton's eyes met theirs.

'Chaos and disorder open many doors,' he thought, his mind already working through the possibilities. 'To the ambitious and the cunning, there's always a way to profit.'

Now, all he had to do was wait.

Standing alone in the center of the melee grounds, Quenton could almost hear the sound of swords clashing, the roar of the crowd, and above all, the opportunity that lay in the chaos to come.