The Tourney pt.3

The grandstands surrounding the jousting grounds were packed with nobles from all over the Seven Kingdoms and foreign dignitaries. It was a sea of colors—a dazzling display of banners, noble sigils, and rich fabrics fluttering in the breeze.

Rhaenys sat among her cousins in their private section, nestled within the larger stands. Her father had asked her to join him in the royal box, but she couldn't bear to be near him—not after learning of his plans for this tourney.

Her eyes scanned the field. Today was the first day of the jousts, and knights from across the realm were competing. The brackets were filled with lords and knights alike, all vying for honor and glory. The jousts would continue over several days until only a few knights remained for the final rounds at the tourney's end.

Rhaenys had seen the brackets ahead of time, and there were several matchups she looked forward to watching. She knew her uncle Oberyn was competing, and she couldn't help but be suspicious of his motivations, especially after her uncles had revealed they had plans for Maekar.

She watched as the knights prepared themselves, the field alive with activity. Men in gleaming armor mounted powerful destriers, their polished shields bearing the sigils of their houses. Their lances caught the light, glinting in the midday sun, and their banners flapped in the breeze.

There were the usual incidents—knights unseated, bruised, and battered. Fortunately, none had perished yet. But it was only the first day; the tourney was young, and the stakes would soon grow higher.

"Isn't that Ser Selmy's great-nephew?" Nymeria said, her eyes fixed on the field below.

Rhaenys followed her gaze to see a knight being announced, his name echoing across the grounds. "Ser Aerion Selmy," the herald declared as the young knight rode out to polite cheers from the crowd.

Facing him at the other end of the field was Ser Garlan Tyrell, the famous Garlan the Gallant. Murmurs in the crowd grew as Garlan rode forward.

"I heard Maekar's shadow is competing as well," Arianne added, leaning closer to Rhaenys, her eyes full of mischief.

Rhaenys turned to her, raising an eyebrow. "You mean Lyonel?"

"Yes, Lyonel," Arianne confirmed with a sly smile. "Strangely, he looks a lot like Lord Stannis's son, Durran."

Her attention returned to the field just as the knights lined up at opposite ends of the tilting ground. The trumpet sounded, and with a sudden burst of movement, both knights urged their horses into a gallop, the ground beneath them rumbling with the force of their charge.

Their lances dropped as they closed the distance. The moment of impact was loud—a splintering crash as lances collided—and Ser Aerion was knocked clean off his horse. He hit the ground heavily, rolling as the cheers of the crowd roared to life.

Ser Garlan Tyrell circled the field, his lance raised in triumph, his mount prancing beneath him in a display of skill and control. The crowd's reaction was overwhelmingly positive; applause and cheers echoed across the stands.

Rhaenys clapped politely, offering a faint smile.

The next competitor's name being announced made Rhaenys and her cousins groan in unison.

"Ser Gerold Dayne—the Darkstar," the announcer called, his voice carrying over the crowd.

Arianne broke into laughter, shaking her head. "He announced himself as 'Darkstar'? Gods..." she said, her voice dripping with amusement.

Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene joined in, sharing a chuckle. Rhaenys allowed herself a small smile, shaking her head at the absurdity of the lesser Dayne.

Gerold Dayne rode into view, his armor gleaming in the sunlight—a deep, menacing black. He lined up against Ser Vance Rivers, a lesser-known bastard knight from the Riverlands who rode with the sigil of his noble father's house.

At the trumpet's blast, both knights charged toward each other, lances lowered, hooves pounding against the earth in a rapid, rhythmic beat. The collision came swiftly—Dayne's lance struck true, catching Ser Vance with such power that he was violently thrown from his horse. The man crashed into the ground in a heap of armor, his body tumbling across the dirt as the crowd erupted in both cheers and groans.

Dayne slowed his horse, turning back with a dramatic flourish. He raised his visor, revealing a cold, self-satisfied smile that only made Arianne's groan grow louder.

"I hope someone wipes that smirk off his face," Arianne said, her eyes glinting with a mixture of irritation and mirth.

After more jousts, one after another, the grounds erupted once more as a knight in blackened steel armor rode forward. Rhaenys straightened in her seat, her interest piqued—she recognized who it was.

His armor was something she had not seen before—even some in the stands noticed it—blackened steel with a white three headed dragon emblazoned on his breastplate.

"Prince Maekar Targaryen," the herald announced.

Across from him, his opponent rode out: Ser Amory Florent, a knight from the Reach.

Rhaenys tilted her head, glancing over at Obara. "Tell me, is Maekar any good at this?" she asked.

Obara laughed heartily. "The joust? It's what he is weakest at."

The trumpet sounded, and both men spurred their horses into motion, charging at one another. Rhaenys watched closely, her eyes following Maekar as he leaned into his ride, his lance steady. He seemed to be at a disadvantage—Ser Amory's skill was apparent as he skillfully maneuvered his horse, his lance striking true in the first pass, though it glanced off Maekar's shield.

On the next pass, Rhaenys could see Maekar adjusting, leaning into the rhythm, calculating his approach. The horses thundered down the list again, and this time, Maekar seemed to anticipate Amory's movements. On the third pass, Rhaenys couldn't help but notice something strange. As Amory's lance lowered, his horse seemed to falter—its hooves stumbled awkwardly, throwing off his balance for just a brief moment. That was all Maekar needed. He took advantage of the slip, his lance striking clean against Ser Amory's shield and sending the Florent knight tumbling backward from his horse.

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Maekar steadied his horse, turning slightly. As he looked toward the grandstands, his eyes met Rhaenys's. He gave her a slow, almost lazy wink before turning and riding off.

Rhaenys blinked, her lips tightening into a bemused smile.

"Where are we supposed to meet him?" Rhaenys asked Obara, her eyes still following Maekar as he disappeared into the distance.

"A lake nearby," Obara replied, keeping her voice low. "It's a bit of a ride from here, out past the edge of the tourney grounds."

Rhaenys turned her attention back to the grounds, wondering what she would say to Maekar.

.

.

.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Rhaenys and Obara quietly slipped away from the bustling tourney grounds. The cool air embraced them, and the sounds of the festivities gradually faded as they rode toward the lake Maekar had mentioned. The woods deepened around them, trees casting long shadows across their path. Obara had assured Rhaenys that Maekar would ensure their safety as they passed through the woods and seeing how it was getting dark she hoped Obara was right.

The lake soon came into view, its surface shimmering under the first twinkling stars. 

"There, Rhae," Obara murmured, pointing ahead. Rhaenys followed her gaze to see Lyonel, Maekar's sworn sword, standing beside two horse's at the edge of the clearing.

They dismounted, their cloaks billowing slightly in the cool breeze as they approached. Obara tossed her reins over a low-hanging branch, casting Lyonel a challenging look as she strode toward him.

"Princess Rhaenys, Lady Obara," Lyonel greeted with a respectful nod.

"Ser Storm," Rhaenys replied, returning the nod.

Lyonel inclined his head toward the lake. "Prince Maekar is waiting for you, Princess, by the water's edge. He requested that you come alone. Lady Obara can wait here with me."

Obara's lips tightened, her eyes darting to Rhaenys. "Alone?" she echoed.

Rhaenys placed a reassuring hand on her cousin's arm. "It's fine, Obara," she said gently. "I'll go alone."

Obara hesitated but then sighed, crossing her arms as she stepped back. "Fine."

Rhaenys gave a brief nod before turning toward the lake. The water shimmered under the moonlight, its surface reflecting the pale glow like a mirror. She spotted Maekar standing at the shoreline, his eyes lifted to the star-strewn sky.

He turned at the sound of her footsteps, a faint smile curving his lips. "Rhaenys," he greeted softly.

"Maekar," she acknowledged.

He glanced out over the lake before meeting her eyes again. "Shall we walk?" he suggested.

She hesitated briefly, then nodded. "All right."

They walked side by side along the shore, the gentle lapping of the water the only sound accompanying them. Silence stretched between them, both lost in their thoughts. The moon cast a silver glow over everything, and for a fleeting moment, Rhaenys felt an unexpected sense of peace.

After a while, Maekar broke the silence, his voice calm yet piercing. "I assume your uncles were not pleased with you," he remarked, his gaze fixed ahead. "I can imagine what Doran and Oberyn had to say."

Rhaenys stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. "You already know what they said, Maekar," she replied tersely. She was well aware that her brother had spies everywhere.

He nodded slightly, unsurprised. "Yes."

He paused before speaking again, his tone more pointed. "What do you plan to do? Will you go along with their scheme?" His eyes flicked toward her, scrutinizing her expression.

Her jaw tightened, lips pressing into a thin line. "I have my own side, Maekar," she said at last, her voice edged with defiance. "My own allies." But even as she spoke, she felt the emptiness of her words, like a lie told too often to be believed.

Maekar halted, turning to face her directly. His gaze was sharp, eyes cold as they locked onto hers. "Your side?" he echoed, a hint of amusement in his voice. He stepped closer, his presence looming.

"Rhaenys, whatever 'side' you believe you have is already crumbling," he stated bluntly. "You're a figurehead for a handful of lords too insignificant to matter. Haven't most of them already deserted you for me or Aegon? Once they realized that war is inevitable, they saw no value in you."

She remained silent, eyes narrowing as she swallowed the sting of his words. Turning away, she resumed walking, her back straight, determined not to let him see her waver.

Maekar fell into step behind her, his pace unhurried.

"Perhaps you'll cause some trouble," he continued, his voice cold and relentless. "Some inconvenience for Aegon. Maybe even for me. But it won't change the inevitable. You're alone, Rhaenys. Too weak to make a difference."

Her teeth clenched, hands balling into fists beneath her cloak. She wanted to argue, to shout, but deep down she couldn't deny the kernel of truth in his words. She had tried to build something, to forge her own path, but her allies were slipping away.

"Why should I join you, Maekar?" Rhaenys challenged, her voice laced with skepticism. "What do you offer me in this so-called alliance?" Her tone sharpened, cutting through the stillness of the night. "What will I be in this marriage? Will I have to suffer watching you parade our aunt as your mistress, or will you dispose of me once I'm no longer useful?"

A flicker of something dark crossed Maekar's face, an expression dancing between amusement and something more sinister. He didn't hesitate. "I'm a greedy man, Rhaenys. I crave power. I take what I want and don't apologize for it." His voice was unyielding, almost daring her to challenge him further. Then his expression softened into a smirk. "I'm sure we can come to an arrangement."

Rhaenys's stomach churned, anger and disgust roiling within her. "And what of Daenerys? How will she feel about this 'arrangement'?" she spat, her voice trembling slightly.

Maekar smiled faintly, as if the thought of Daenerys had never troubled him. "I will marry her, yes. But after you, of course."

A bitter laugh escaped Rhaenys's lips, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "You're mad, Maekar. Just like Father. Just like Aegon." She shook her head, almost laughing at the absurdity. "Why did I even come here?" she muttered, her voice tinged with self-loathing.

Maekar's expression shifted, his eyes darkening. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "Our father's madness holds more truth than you realize."

Rhaenys looked at him, confusion flickering in her eyes.

"But that's a conversation for another time," he added.

Her patience wearing thin, Rhaenys said, "Aegon is too strong." Her voice wavered slightly. "He has the Reach, Dorne, most of the Riverlands, the Stormlands, and the West. You may have the North, the Vale, and some control over King's Landing, but his numbers far outweigh yours. How do you think you'll win this?" She gazed at him, eyes almost pleading for an answer that made sense.

Maekar laughed coldly, the sound dismissive. He began to circle her, like a predator sizing up its prey. Rhaenys stiffened, his laugh igniting her anger and unease.

"What do you have against all that?" she demanded. "What advantage could you possibly have?"

He stopped behind her, his breath warm against her ear. She could feel him—too close—but refused to turn and face him. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Does he?" he said.

Before she could react, Maekar's arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her sharply against him. She stiffened, breath catching in her throat. Her heart pounded as his hand rested firmly on her side, holding her in place. She wanted to protest, to break free, but his grip was strong, his body a solid wall behind her.

"What are you doing?" she hissed.

"Look up," Maekar whispered, his head close to hers, his breath brushing her skin. She shivered slightly at his proximity, anger mingling with confusion.

For a moment, Rhaenys resisted, but then her eyes lifted to the sky above. The full moon hung there, round and bright, illuminating the world in a soft silver glow.

And then she saw it—something that made her heart lurch and her breath catch. A dark silhouette crossed in front of the moon. Small at first but unmistakable. Her mind fought to deny it, but the shape—the wings outstretched in the moonlight—left no room for doubt.

It was a dragon.

She watched, mouth dry, as the creature soared across the night sky, its form casting an eerie shadow against the pale light of the moon. Its wings stretched wide, moving with grace.

Rhaenys couldn't speak. She couldn't breathe. Her mind whirled in disbelief, awe, and fear.

"That is my power, Rhaenys," Maekar whispered into her ear. He held her for another heartbeat before releasing her, stepping back and leaving her standing alone by the lake.

She remained frozen, staring at the sky as the dragon disappeared into the darkness. Her mind was in turmoil—chaos, questions, doubts.

"Think on this matter," Maekar said, his voice growing distant as he turned and began to walk away, footsteps crunching softly on the grass. "I grow tired of these games."

Rhaenys stood there by the lake for what felt like an eternity, her gaze locked on the sky even after the dragon was gone. She tried to make sense of what she had seen, of what Maekar had said.

Deep down, she knew she had already made her decision.