The Tourney pt.1

The clang of steel rang through the air, echoing across the makeshift training yard as Maekar's sword met his uncle's. Dust rose with each impact, the intensity of their blows sending vibrations up their arms. Around them, Northern lords cheered loudly, urging the two men on.

"Come on, Ned! Don't let the boy best you!" Greatjon Umber's bellowing laughter cut through the air.

"Show him how the Starks fight!" called out Rickard Karstark, his voice heavy with mirth.

Sweat trickled down Maekar's forehead as he pivoted, his feet moving deftly over the packed earth. Ned swung his sword in an arc, aiming for Maekar's shoulder, but Maekar was faster—he sidestepped, bringing his sword up to tap Ned on the ribs. The crowd erupted in cheers.

Ned stumbled back, slightly winded, and gave Maekar an approving nod. The younger man wasted no time, pressing his advantage. With a swift motion, he swept Ned's legs out from under him, sending his uncle sprawling to the ground.

"Yield, uncle?" Maekar grinned, offering his hand to help Ned up.

Ned took Maekar's hand, shaking his head with a rueful smile. "I yield," he admitted, dusting himself off as he stood.

Brandon Stark, who had been watching, let out a hearty laugh. "Seems you're getting rusty, Ned. Maybe all that time sailing ships is making you soft!"

Ned gave his brother a flat look, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

The other lords gathered closer, having just finished their own rounds of sparring. They were in an area of the tourney grounds reserved for the Lord of the North. The Greatjon thumped Maekar on the back, nearly sending him off balance.

"You should join us for the melee, lad! Show them what a Northern-raised prince can do!" the Greatjon suggested, his grin stretching ear to ear.

"Aye, but the rules won't allow that, you know it!" Brandon interjected, shaking his head.

Rickard Karstark crossed his arms, his eyes glinting with agreement. "Maekar was raised in the North. It's only right he fights with us, isn't it?"

Maekar smiled at their enthusiasm, though he shook his head. "You know how it is, Lord Karstark. I have to be with the royal bunch and the Kingsguard. I'm a prince, after all."

"Bah!" Greatjon said, shaking his head.

Brandon chuckled. "Careful, nephew. These men won't go easy on you out there."

"I'd expect nothing less," Maekar replied, his eyes glinting with amusement as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He walked away and began unbuckling his training gear, his muscles aching pleasantly from the spar. As he moved aside to pull off his armor, Ned approached him, his face more serious.

"Maekar," Ned began, his voice low so none of the other lords could overhear. "Does your sworn sword know who his father is?"

Maekar paused, giving Ned a sharp look before shaking his head. "He doesn't need to know that."

Ned sighed, glancing across the grounds where Lyonel stood. The resemblance to Robert Baratheon was uncanny—the same build, the same dark hair, and those stormy blue eyes. "You know he looks just like Robert," Ned said quietly. "It won't take long for people to put two and two together."

Maekar shrugged, his expression calm. "What difference does it make? I want him to be one of my Kingsguard, not Lord of Storm's End."

Ned frowned at first, but then his face softened with acceptance. "I've already taken in Robert's bastards that I know of, cared for them in his memory. Gods know how many more there are."

Maekar let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Lyonel is safe, Uncle. I promise you that. This isn't something you need to worry about."

Ned's eyes softened, though the concern remained. "Good. I hope you're right."

"I'm heading back. I'll see you all at the feast tonight," Maekar said, giving Ned and the others his leave before turning to exit the tourney grounds, Lyonel falling into step behind him.

Mounting his horse, Maekar rode from the camp of the Northern lords, his eyes taking in the sprawling scene before him. The scale of the tourney was massive—his father had spared no expense. It was as if Rhaegar believed this would be the last tourney to ever happen in Westeros.

'Oh wait,' Maekar thought dryly, he probably did believe that, considering his father had been waiting for the Others to arrive.

As Maekar rode by, many bowed their heads in respect when they recognized him. Other knights and nobles, notably those from regions that did not look favorably upon him, simply ignored him, pretending not to see him.

He passed through the section of the grounds where the smallfolk were permitted. It was bustling with activity. Food markets sprawled along either side of the dusty path, with merchants hawking exotic fruits, spiced meats, and barrels of wine from the Arbor. The air smelled of roasted meats and freshly baked bread. Blacksmiths and armorers had set up makeshift shops, their forges glowing as they repaired the armor of knights preparing for the tourney. Musicians and acrobats moved amongst the crowds, providing impromptu performances for the spectators, bringing smiles to the faces of the common folk.

The tourney grounds were like a temporary city raised in the Kingswood. To his right, he could see banners of red and gold clustered over—the Lannisters. Further still were the green and gold of the Tyrells, their opulent tents bearing the golden rose of Highgarden. Beyond that lay the contingents from the Stormlands, Riverlands, Dorne, and the Vale, each represented by a colorful display of banners fluttering in the breeze. It was an overwhelming tapestry of color, noise, and chaos—a display of the Seven Kingdoms united in celebration.

Maekar rode past the massive expanse of the jousting fields, where soon knights and nobles from all over Westeros would seek to prove themselves. It was an impressive sight—pavilions and viewing stands were set up in neat rows, providing ample space for the spectators who would soon gather to watch the tourney.

He moved on, arriving near the melee fields, where several knights were inspecting the grounds. Unlike the joust, the melee would be a grand group brawl, where warriors representing each of the Seven Kingdoms would battle until only one side was left standing.

As he continued his ride toward his own tent, he marveled at the sheer scale of it all. How long had his father been planning this? It had taken Maekar months to finalize the security arrangements alone. This level of preparation must have been in his father's mind for years. The logistics behind it were staggering.

Supplies had been shipped in from every corner of Westeros—bread and meat from the Riverlands, wine from the Arbor, seafood from the Stormlands and Dorne. Hundreds of laborers had been hired to build the pavilions, the grandstands, and the tents, and they, too, had to be housed, fed, and paid. Thousands of people were here—not just the nobles who had come for the feast and the tournament, but their retainers, guards, and countless spectators who had traveled far to witness the event.

Finally, Maekar approached the area near the royal pavilion, the most grand and opulent of all. Maekar's own tent was nearby, more modest compared to the royal pavilion, but still grand enough for a prince. As he drew near, he spotted Ghost. The massive white direwolf, with his bright red eyes, drew stares and gasps from passersby. Most stepped aside quickly to make way for the beast, some even bowing their heads slightly, as if in reverence.

He dismounted his horse, handing the reins over to a squire who quickly bowed and led the animal away. Ghost padded over to him, nuzzling against Maekar's side, his fur brushing against Maekar's leg. Maekar smiled, scratching behind Ghost's ear as they walked toward his tent.

"Good boy," he murmured, his gaze drifting over to the entrance of his tent.

He saw Basil waiting, his face unusually tense. Maekar frowned, catching the alarmed look in his steward's eyes.

"What is it?" he asked as he approached him.

Basil hesitated, then spoke quietly. "Qoherys is here."

"Oh, is he now?" Maekar said, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Quenton had been playing a delicate game, sending informants to him from time to time to keep him updated on Aegon and Rhaenys' movements—at least, the parts that Quenton wanted Maekar to know. For a while, Maekar had found it useful, as it allowed him insight into what Aegon and Rhaenys were plotting.

Quenton played all sides—a triple agent, puppet master, or so he thought himself. Feeding each party just enough information to remain valuable, to be indispensable. Maekar had allowed it, even used it to his advantage. But Quenton, like Varys, was a liability now—a piece that needed to be removed. Whether Quenton lived or died would depend on what he would say in the next few minutes.

"It's time I took him off the board. It's getting too crowded," Maekar said as he gestured for Basil to follow him as he pushed open the flaps of the tent, Lyonel trailing closely behind them.

Inside, Maekar was surprised to see Quenton standing alone. The man almost always had Sandor Clegane lurking behind him like an ever-present shadow. But today, it was just him.

"Quenton," Maekar called, catching the man's attention.

Quenton turned and bowed deeply. "Prince Maekar," he greeted, his tone respectful.

Maekar turned to Lyonel and Basil. "Wait outside," he ordered. Lyonel looked hesitant, his eyes flicking to Quenton suspiciously, but Maekar's expression was firm. "Leave us."

The two exchanged glances before nodding and stepping outside, Lyonel casting one last wary glance at Quenton as he left.

Maekar gestured for Quenton to sit, taking a seat himself across the table. Quenton smiled as he took his place. "It has been some time since we last spoke. Not since the formation of the Merchant Council," Quenton began, his smile polite.

"Yes, it has been some time," Maekar agreed, his eyes not leaving Quenton's. "But we have kept in touch. You've kept sending me all those reports... all those informants you have."

Quenton's smile widened. "Oh, I hope I have served you well, my prince," he said smoothly.

Maekar reached over, pouring wine into a goblet for Quenton before beginning to fill his own. He said nothing, the silence between them growing thick, the only sound that of the wine pouring into the goblet.

Quenton watched Maekar carefully, a flicker of unease crossing his face. Clearing his throat, he finally spoke again, "Did you know, my prince, that Lord Stannis has been with Prince Aegon these last few days?"

Maekar paused mid-pour, his eyes lifting to Quenton. "Is he now?" he asked, his voice giving nothing away.

"Oh yes," Quenton said, his tone a mix of intrigue and faux concern. "And his son—young Durran—seems none too pleased. He's been staying as far from his father as possible."

Maekar remained silent, setting the wine jug down with a soft thud. Quenton continued, his voice taking on a softer tone, one that hinted at false sincerity.

"My prince, your position seems to be… in danger. Weakening, if I may say so." He leaned forward, his voice almost a whisper. "But I can help you. I've always helped you, haven't I?"

Maekar remained still, his gaze unwavering, as silence filled the space between them. The uneasy quiet stretched, and Maekar could see Quenton's confidence begin to falter. The smug smile faded from his lips, replaced by a flicker of doubt.

Ghost, who had slipped in silently through the tent flaps, began to circle Quenton, the direwolf's crimson eyes fixed on him. Ghost moved without a sound, its paws padding softly over the ground, its gaze cold and predatory. Quenton's eyes shifted nervously, one eye on Maekar, the other on Ghost, whose movement never broke.

"My prince?" Quenton finally said, his voice betraying the unease that had taken hold.

Maekar studied him for a long moment, then finally spoke. "You have served me well, Qoherys," he said, his voice smooth, his eyes unreadable.

Quenton gave a quick nod, his lips parting as he began to speak, "I only hope you remember my—"

But Maekar cut him off, his voice suddenly more amused. "You have served me well… as well as you've served my brother and my sister."

Quenton's face twitched, just for a split moment—a crack in his carefully constructed mask. His eyes met Maekar's, searching for something, anything that might reveal how much the prince truly knew.

Maekar took a sip from his goblet, his eyes never leaving Quenton's.

"I mean, you're not surprised by this, are you?" Maekar asked, the amusement evident in his voice. He tilted his head slightly, studying the man across from him. "I could see it… what you were doing."

Quenton forced a smile, his unease more evident now. "Then you understand," he said, his voice an attempt at reassurance.

But Maekar did not respond and remained silent for a long while, letting the tension build, watching as Quenton shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Finally, he broke the silence.

"You see, Quenton," Maekar began, swirling his goblet absently, "when I first learned of your little game here in the city, I hoped—truly hoped—that you were someone grand. A true schemer. A puppet master who could manipulate nobles, hells, even the King himself. I wanted a challenge." He paused, locking eyes with Quenton, the disappointment evident. "But you… you've disappointed me. Disappointed me greatly."

Quenton blinked, clearly caught off guard. He looked confused, unsure of how this conversation had taken such an unexpected turn.

Maekar's voice turned colder, sharper, as he continued. "It was quite bold. Playing all sides. Feeding Aegon's paranoia, whispering rebellion into Rhaenys' ear, and, of course, playing spy for me." Maekar leaned forward, his lips twisting into a mocking smile. "Quite impressive. I'd almost say you're a genius—the grand schemer I imagined, the eminent shadow behind it all… trying to play kingmaker."

Quenton opened his mouth to speak, but Maekar cut him off with a swift, dismissive gesture.

"But here's the problem with your little game," Maekar said, his eyes narrowing, his tone dripping with disdain. "You're far too clever for your own good." He leaned back, his gaze never wavering from Quenton, eyes fixed on him like a predator watching prey.

"Aegon thinks you're his faithful confidant—his little whisperer, feeding him information on my every move, warning him of dangers only you can see. Rhaenys likely believes that you genuinely sympathize with her cause, that you're the one person who truly understands her plight." He paused, his eyes darkening. "And you wanted me to believe that your loyalty lay with me all along, that your supposed alliance with Aegon was nothing but an act, a facade to help my cause. That you were simply playing along to feed me valuable information." Maekar's voice dripped with mockery.

Quenton swallowed hard, visibly struggling to maintain his composure, beads of sweat forming on his brow. He attempted to speak, his voice shaky, "Prince Maekar, I—"

"Shut up." Maekar's voice was cold. The sudden harshness caused Quenton to flinch slightly, his mouth snapping shut.

"You think you're the only one pulling strings?" Maekar continued. "Do you honestly think I'm oblivious to your little games? That you are the puppet master in this play?"

Maekar leaned forward, his voice lowering to an almost whisper, yet filled with a force that pinned Quenton in place. "Let me make this clear. I have always been in control. Every word you've fed Aegon, every whisper to Rhaenys—all of it. You've only been doing what I wanted you to do, giving them exactly what I intended. You were nothing more than a tool, doing my bidding."

Quenton tried to form a response, but words failed him. He opened his mouth, but the weight of Maekar's gaze seemed to crush whatever shred of confidence remained in him.

"I've let you continue this little charade," Maekar said, his voice even, "but your usefulness, it seems, has come to an end."

Ghost began growling, his eyes fixed on Quenton.

"My prince, I have always been loyal to you," Quenton began, losing all composure. "I warned you about Prince Aegon's plot against you, the melee—"

"Yes," Maekar interrupted. "The plot to kill me. I suppose I should give you some credit for warning me of that." He looked at Quenton as if assessing a misbehaving child. "Like I said, you have your uses."

He leaned back in his chair. "You've played your role well, Quenton," Maekar admitted. "I'll give you that. But don't mistake that for control. You've been allowed to live because I find you useful. For now."

Quenton remained frozen, every word from Maekar hammering him down, any illusion of his schemes shattered.

Maekar's tone shifted, softening almost to a conversational level. "Do you know what I like about you, Quenton?" He paused, his gaze fixed on the other man. "You're a survivor. You don't care who wins as long as you come out on top. And that's admirable. You see, I need people like that—people who can thrive in the chaos." He leaned in closer, the intensity in his eyes drilling into Quenton's own. "But make no mistake—the moment you become more of a liability than an asset, I will kill you myself, just like your old friend Varys."

Quenton's eyes widened. "You…"

"And believe me, like Varys… no one will shed a tear at your passing," Maekar added.

Quenton nodded slowly, the realization dawning on him, as though his entire life's value had just been crushed in a matter of minutes. He had no response. His spirit was broken, the sweat on his forehead now dripping in beads.

'Damn, he broke so easily. Why didn't I do this earlier?' Maekar thought.

"You want Harrenhal, don't you?" he asked, watching Quenton's reaction.

Quenton hesitated before nodding, the ghost of hope still flickering.

"The Whents won't hold it much longer," Maekar said, his voice steady. "I can promise Harrenhal to you, Quenton. Your family's old seat. But only if you offer me your complete loyalty." His eyes were piercing, seeking any sign of deceit.

"This is your chance to regain what your ancestors lost. You can have those lands, the castle, and you even get to keep some of your wealth… Do we have an understanding?"

Quenton nodded once more, slower this time.

Maekar continued, the corner of his mouth curling slightly, "You know, something gnaws at you every day, doesn't it? Something that keeps you wondering why I don't seem concerned by Aegon's alliances. Why I don't care that he has more houses and banners on his side." He paused, watching the unease in Quenton grow. "My victory is assured, Quenton. It doesn't matter how many lords flock to my brother—I possess something that assures my triumph."

The room fell silent, the only sound was the low rumble of Ghost, still lying nearby.

Maekar stood, signaling the end of their conversation. "Think on it," he said. "And remember what you stand to gain. Or lose."

Quenton rose, visibly shaken, and made his way towards the tent's entrance. He was almost out when Maekar spoke once more, his voice commanding.

"Quenton."

The man turned, startled, his eyes wide.

"Tell your hound to deal with those knights Aegon's hired for the tournament. I don't want to deal with them myself," Maekar said, his voice dismissive.

Quenton nodded silently and left, the tent flap falling shut behind him.

Moments later, Basil stepped inside, his expression tight with concern. "Will he be any trouble, my prince?" he asked.

Maekar gave a dismissive shrug as he stood, adjusting his cloths. "It doesn't matter," he replied. "We'll see soon enough."

Basil hesitated for a moment, then spoke again, his voice lowered. "There's another matter, my prince." He paused, as if unsure how to proceed. "We've found something in Varys' hideout in the city."

Maekar frowned, turning towards him. "So my suspicions were true, then?" he asked.

"It's true," Basil said, his expression darkening. "A slow-acting poison."

Maekar's eyes widened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "How long?" he demanded, his voice low but dangerous.

"Months," Basil replied.

"Fuck." The word left Maekar. It meant his father was not too long for this world. He wanted more time after the tourney ended, but it seemed the old bastard was right.

Kings die.

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Maekar walked through the grand wooden structure built to host the feasts during the tourney. It was a massive pavilion—mostly tent fabric supported by a sturdy wooden framework, adorned with Targaryen banners in red and black. The tent was designed to accommodate over eight hundred guests, its high ceiling supported by timber beams, creating an impressive but practical space.

As he passed through the long corridors lined with servants and workers, he could hear the clinking of goblets and the chatter of nobles already seated inside, awaiting the entrance of the royal family.

Beside him, Ser Oswell Whent followed quietly. It pained Maekar to think that when the war began, men like Oswell and the rest of the Kingsguard would likely stand against him, choosing loyalty to Aegon. The thought troubled him more than he liked to admit; he had a deep respect for Ser Oswell and Barristan. There was one Kingsguard he would have to try to keep alive—that was Jaime Lannister—but that was a worry for another day.

Ahead, Maekar caught sight of Daenerys. She was as beautiful as ever—her hair a flowing cascade of silvery-gold, her gown a soft shade of violet that matched her eyes. She stood with Viserys and his wife, Allyria Dayne, speaking in hushed tones. As he approached, he caught bits of their conversation.

"It's dangerous," Viserys was saying, his tone edged with concern.

"It's my choice," Daenerys replied, a hint of defiance in her voice.

Viserys saw Maekar approaching and turned, his face shifting to a more neutral expression, though Maekar could see the disappointment flickering in his eyes. It was as if Viserys had caught a trespasser. Daenerys turned as well, her face lighting up at the sight of Maekar. Viserys sighed audibly, clearly noting her reaction.

"Maekar," Viserys greeted him, his voice cool and composed.

"Uncle," Maekar responded evenly, his gaze sweeping over Viserys.

"We should go. The king is waiting," Viserys said, his words clipped, his eyes flicking between his sister and his nephew, betraying his unease.

But Daenerys paid no mind to her brother's impatience. She stepped forward quickly, holding her hand out to Maekar, eager for him to escort her. Maekar accepted her hand, feeling the warmth of her fingers intertwine with his, and they moved forward together.

As they walked, the noise inside the pavilion swelled. The grandeur of the hall was breathtaking. Lanterns hanging from the high beams cast a warm glow over long tables lined with nobles dressed in their finest silks and velvets. The scent of roasting meats, freshly baked bread, and exotic fruits filled the air, mingling with the tang of spiced wine.

At the entrance to the hall, his father, King Rhaegar, stood with the Kingsguard at his side—Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, and Jaime Lannister among them, their white cloaks shimmering in the torchlight. Rhaegar looked frailer than when Maekar had seen him just a week ago, his skin pallid, looking thin and worn.

When Rhaegar saw them approaching, he nodded to the herald stationed at the entrance, signaling for them to be announced. Rhaegar entered, and behind him followed Aegon and Rhaenys. Aegon's face was sour, his mouth set in a tight line, and his eyes darting around the hall with a simmering anger. Rhaenys walked beside him, her expression dark as well—a tension rolling off the two of them that Maekar could feel even from across the room.

As Maekar entered with Daenerys beside him, he felt the eyes of the entire room upon them. He scanned the room, allowing his gaze to find each of the key players in the game that he and Aegon were playing, their positions already telling him much.

He caught Lord Tywin Lannister's gaze first—Tywin's face was as unreadable as always, but there was something in his eyes, a flicker of calculation, that met Maekar's gaze head-on. Seated beside Tywin was Cersei, her gaze lingering on Maekar, a subtle smile curving her lips that almost made her green eyes gleam.

To the other side of the room, Maekar's eyes passed over the Tyrells, a tightly gathered unit that seemed focused entirely on Aegon—especially Margaery Tyrell. Olenna Tyrell, on the other hand, caught Maekar's eyes and gave him a sly smile. He returned it with a smug smile of his own.

Stannis Baratheon was seated further along the side, his stormy blue eyes flicking briefly towards Maekar before settling back down to his plate, his discontent evident. To Stannis' left was Edmure Tully and, further along, Prince Doran Martell, their expressions carefully neutral. Their presence, however, made it abundantly clear where they stood.

The hall, Maekar noted, was already divided—politically charged in every sense. Aegon's camp was the largest, with lords from the Reach, Riverlands, Stormlands, Westerlands, and several of the Crownlands clustered together.

Maekar's allies, meanwhile, were gathered together as well. Lords from the North, the Vale, and a few of his supporters from King's Landing and select houses from the Riverlands, Crownlands, and Stormlands occupied another part of the hall.

As Maekar moved down the main aisle, he couldn't help but note how oblivious his father seemed to the tensions simmering beneath the surface. If Rhaegar had any inkling of the storm brewing around him, he gave no indication of it. He moved as if this feast was merely another celebratory event—an occasion for merriment, a time for the realm to bask in the glory of House Targaryen.

Reaching the high table, they sat down with Maekar positioned to his father's left and Aegon to his right. To Aegon's right, Rhaenys sat, her gaze flicking between Aegon, Maekar, and the assembled nobles in the hall.

Rhaegar stood and raised his hands. The room gradually fell into a hush, all eyes turning towards the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

"My lords and ladies," Rhaegar began, his voice trembling before slowly gaining strength. "Three hundred years ago, my ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, united the Seven Kingdoms under one rule. He did it with fire and blood, and we have thrived under the banner of House Targaryen ever since."

Maekar's attention waned as his father continued his long-winded speech, his words full of grand rhetoric. Maekar leaned closer to Daenerys, whispering a small joke about the speech, which earned him a playful scolding from her.

After some time, his attention was drawn back as he felt his father's tone change.

"Before this tourney ends," Rhaegar said, his gaze sweeping across the hall, "I will make an important announcement—one that will decide the fate of the Seven Kingdoms for generations to come."

Maekar's eyes narrowed, and he fought the urge to groan aloud. He knew exactly what the announcement would be—his father's way of trying to prepare for the future, without a clue about the storm brewing between his children. Oh, how he wanted to see Aegon and Rhaenys' reactions when he eventually announced it, and Aegon's allies as well.

"Dark times are coming," Rhaegar continued ominously, "and only together can we survive the trying times ahead."

A somber mood settled over the hall, the feasting nobles quiet, exchanging confused glances. Maekar sighed; what a way to kill the mood. He saw the curious looks among the gathered lords and ladies, uncertainty flickering in their eyes.

Rhaegar sat down, and gradually, the murmur of the nobles resumed. The chatter shifted, filled with speculation about what the king's words could mean.

Soon the feast began in earnest—platters of roasted meats and fruits were brought to the tables, and fine wines flowed freely.

Maekar took a moment to survey the room. He could feel the eyes of the nobility on him—some filled with admiration, others with suspicion or outright hostility.

As they ate, Rhaegar spoke in a low voice meant only for Maekar, Aegon, and Rhaenys to hear.

"It warms my heart to see my children together," Rhaegar said softly. "The future of the realm lies with the three of you."

Aegon smiled, though the smile was hollow—more a baring of teeth than a gesture of warmth. "Yes, Father," he replied, his voice dripping with politeness. "The three of us, united, can achieve anything. The safety of the realm, and perhaps even its longevity, rests on our shoulders." He turned his gaze towards Maekar, his eyes narrowing slightly. "That is, as long as all three of us understand our proper roles."

Maekar returned Aegon's smile with one of his own, equally as hollow, though his eyes betrayed a hint of amusement. "Oh, indeed, brother. Each of us has a part to play. I, for one, look forward to seeing each of us fulfill our duties." He raised his goblet towards Aegon, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "I look forward to taking my 'rightful' seat."

Aegon's eyes darkened, his smile tightening, his grip on his own goblet tightening until his knuckles whitened.

Rhaenys simply rolled her eyes at their words.

Maekar turned his gaze to the hall, looking over the gathered lords and ladies before saying—his voice carrying just a touch louder, "I have no doubt this tourney will be one to remember."