Chapter 16

Aeryon's gaze was fixed on Martell, like a predator closing in on its prey. The wind gently caressed his face, while the helmet, snugly fitted to his head, felt like an extension of his body. He knew that Lewyn Martell was a skilled rider, perhaps even the best in the Seven Kingdoms. But in this duel, skill wasn't the only weapon the prince possessed.

He was aware of the wound inflicted on Lewyn by an arrow, knew that it would be his weak point, but he also understood that he couldn't reveal his intentions immediately. It had to appear natural, as part of the fight. The opponents were ready, and the ground beneath the horses' hooves began to tremble as they charged toward each other.

The prince felt the tension building, knowing that every move now was crucial. Aeryon deliberately held back, not acting too aggressively. In the first clash, he only slightly shifted to the left, forcing Martell to change the trajectory of his attack, thereby causing his arm to tense up, revealing the discomfort of the Dornish prince to any experienced warriors watching.

Lewyn reacted instantly, diverting his lance to the side, but the expression on his face did not escape Aeryon's sharp eyes. A faint shadow of pain, a barely noticeable grimace, distorted his features for a moment before he refocused. It was the signal. The prince realized that his plan had worked, and now he could aim his attacks at the Dornishman's injured arm.

In the second round, Targaryen acted with cold calculation. He attacked more aggressively, his lance aimed directly at the spot where Lewyn tried to conceal his injury. But this time, he didn't shift. His strike was precise, but not strong enough to end the fight, only adding to Martell's pain and suffering. Lewyn wavered again in the saddle, his face twitching.

It seemed the next round would be the last. The dragon, having tasted blood, was ready to tear his prey apart, but the defiant and very experienced opponent was not about to give up. At the last moment before the clash, every muscle in Lewyn's body tensed like a bowstring, and he, almost hanging off his horse, broke through the dragon rider's defense, eliciting a painful growl.

The spectators were overwhelmed by the emotions that this entire tournament had brought them: the fierce and thrilling battles of famous knights from all over Westeros—what a celebration it was! And the final battle seemed to underscore the mood of the crowd.

The fourth round was decisive. Two angry and pained men looked each other in the eyes with a clear desire to win. Their powerful steeds charged forward with all their might. Hearts pounded, and the tension in the air was almost palpable.

The dragon prince focused all his strength and determination into this final push. Meanwhile, Martell couldn't completely overcome the pain, his body faltered at the crucial moment, and the hand holding the lance trembled as if it could no longer bear the strain. It was a barely noticeable movement, but in such a duel, even the slightest mistake was fatal. Aeryon's blow hit its mark with crushing force, landing directly on the weakened defense of the Dornishman.

Lewyn, staggering, lost his balance and was thrown from the saddle, crashing to the ground with a thud and a groan. The victory was Aeryon's. Surveying the cheering crowd with tired but satisfied eyes, he raised his lance high, celebrating his success with everyone. In that brief moment, he no longer cared about fears, intrigues, and plans. The young prince was genuinely, almost childishly, caught up in the joy of his first major victory.

Only when he was handed the wreath to name the queen of love and beauty did Aeryon regain his composure. After making a round of the arena on his horse, he gave a meaningful look to Hoster Tully, but not seeing his daughter beside him, the young prince placed the wreath on the lap of his smiling mother, whose eyes clearly showed pride and love for her son.

Meanwhile, King Aerys sat in his seat with a slight, barely noticeable smile; his eyes gleamed with a strange mixture of pride and mockery. He glanced between his two sons—Aeryon, who had just won a brilliant victory, and Rhaegar, in whose honor the tournament had been held, but who had been eliminated earlier than anyone had expected.

To the young prince, it seemed that his father was comparing them at that moment. Perhaps memories of his own ambitions and disappointments were surfacing in his mind, or maybe he was simply enjoying the turn of events. This mockery could be perceived as a form of schadenfreude, as Rhaegar, the crowd's favorite, had suffered defeat. The king had always been irritated by the fanatical joy with which people greeted his Hand and son, while the reaction to Aerys himself was noticeably weaker.

Rhaegar, however, paid no attention to his father. There was something more than mere observation in his thoughtful gaze as he watched his brother. He had always known about Aeryon's ambitions and resentments, but today, for the first time, he truly acknowledged his brother not only as a rival but also as a threat. His eyes seemed clouded with contemplation and anxiety, as if he was trying to anticipate Aeryon's next move, to understand his true intentions and goals.

He saw the growing skill and determination in his younger brother, and this only heightened his concern. Rhaegar, who had always been surrounded by mysteries and prophecies, might have felt a sense of foreboding on this day, and that frightened him more than he could admit even to himself.

But it wasn't just the royal family that was shaken by the events. Hoster Tully, sitting nearby, looked deep in thought. Aeryon's proposal of betrothal to his elder daughter still rang in the lord's ears; he hadn't been able to sleep last night, his mind racing with thoughts and worries. He assessed the situation with the depth and caution characteristic of Hoster as an experienced lord and strategist. In this young prince, who had won the tournament, he saw not just a Targaryen but a potential ally or, conversely, a threat to his house. Everything would depend on his decisions, and the weight of responsibility pressed heavily on his shoulders.

In contrast, Tywin Lannister, amidst the enthusiastic cheers of his son, captivated by the tournament, observed the events with his characteristic cold calculation. His bright green eyes seemed to absorb every detail. He knew that Aeryon's youth and ambitions could play a significant role in the future political intrigues of Westeros, and the fearsome lion was already forming plans in his mind on how best to use or, if necessary, neutralize the dragon. Lannister was a man who bet on sure winners, and the future marriage of Rhaegar and Cersei was the best proof of that.

Steffon Baratheon, meanwhile, was slightly disappointed by Robert's defeat, but he watched Aeryon's victory with pride. This young man had become not just a ward to him but a close person. In the prince, he saw strength and determination—the traits he always valued in people. The Lord of Storm's End was proud of his ward, as if he were his own son.

Denys Darklyn had no idea what consequences awaited him and Duskendale. He was lost, as the recent conversation with the king had been unsuccessful and only deepened his resentment toward the ways of Westeros. He recalled his conversation with the prince and the venture proposed to him. Now, seeing the dragon's victory, Darklyn realized that Aeryon's success could bring him fortune as well.

And so the tournament in honor of Rhaegar Targaryen's nameday came to an end. By evening, Aeryon could feel the tension accumulated throughout the day slowly receding, giving way to a long-forgotten sense of lightness. The feast was in full swing: wine flowed like rivers, music filled the air, and the loud laughter of guests echoed in the hall. Everywhere, dancing couples could be seen, while servants bustled between tables, serving roasted meats, fruits, cheese, and bread.

The prince seemed to absorb every detail of what was happening, allowing himself to relax and forget about all the intrigues that had seemingly already woven themselves into his life. He took a sip from his cup with pleasure, enjoying the taste of the wine, which was especially delightful today. Aeryon hadn't allowed himself such carefree joy in a long time.

The tournament victory had given him confidence, and now he felt the pressure that had always hung over him temporarily retreating. Of course, this didn't negate the fact that he felt the intense gazes of the other guests. Many high lords from all over Westeros were at the feast, and each of them was now viewing his victory through the lens of their own interests. But today, such things didn't concern the prince.

Soft music filled the hall, and Aeryon, feeling the rhythm, rose from his seat. His gaze met with that of a pair of dancing girls, and one of them, smiling, took a step toward him. The young dragon extended his hand to her, and they whirled in dance. For one evening, Aeryon allowed himself to forget about the future, focusing only on the present—on the music, the dance, and the wine. In this moment, he was simply a young man enjoying his victory and the pleasures of life.

When the dance ended, Aeryon returned to his table, smiling and feeling refreshed. He knew that tomorrow would once again bring a time for intrigue and difficult decisions. After all, the lords still awaited the grand melee, in which the best swordsman of Westeros, Arthur Dayne, would participate, as well as the archery contest.