73. Joust

*Daeranyx POV*

"What do you mean you built three keeps there?" Rhaenyra asked her face a mix of surprise and disbelief. Her tone was sharp and demanding as if she refused to accept the possibility outright.

I glanced around the table, gauging the reactions of the others. Viserys and Aemma wore expressions of eagerness tinged with disappointment—the former yearning to see my work with his own eyes, the latter already bound by the weight of duty and responsibility, preventing them from indulging such desires. Daemon and Corlys, however, were more measured. Skeptical, perhaps, but they had seen and heard enough from me to know that I was not one to boast without cause.

"There is little I can say to convince you," I replied, a knowing smile playing on my lips. "The only way to believe is to see for yourself. After this tourney, take Syrax and fly to Skagos. Judge my work with your own eyes."

Rhaenyra shot me a grateful look before immediately turning to her parents. "Can I?" she asked, her excitement barely restrained.

Viserys and Aemma exchanged glances before launching into a discussion with Rhaenyra—one that quickly turned into an argument as they tried to convince Rhaenyra to wait until they could all go as a family. I tuned them out, focusing instead on the meal before me.

I was mid-bite, savoring the rich flavor of roasted meat, when I felt a touch on my thigh. My hand stilled. Turning slightly, I found Laena to my left, her gaze meeting mine for the briefest moment before she flushed and turned away.

A small smile tugged at my lips. Subtly, I placed my hand over hers, brushing my fingers against her skin—a silent reassurance that her boldness was not unwelcome. But before I could dwell on it further, a pointed cough from my right pulled me back to the present.

I turned to find Daemon watching me, an unmistakable smirk curving his lips. He leaned in slightly, his voice a low murmur meant only for my ears.

"The Street of Silk has welcomed fresh recruits for the tourney," he drawled, his amusement barely contained. "Unplucked flowers, if you take my meaning. As Prince of the City, I’d be more than happy to give you a proper tour." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

A sharp glare from my left side made him scoff and turn his head away from me, opting instead to focus on his plate. I continued to focus on the meal and ignored the looks coming from Laena.

With the meal winding down, Corlys shifted the conversation toward the future of Skagos. Rhaenys joined in, offering her insights, and I listened carefully, appreciating the wisdom of the Queen Who Never Was. Corlys, however, had something else to share.

"There’s good news you might like," he said with a knowing glint in his eye. "But best discussed in private."

Beside me, Laena looked away again, her embarrassment palpable. Whatever the nature of this news, it was clearly something she already knew. I held back my curiosity, offering only a nod.

Patience had always served me well. I could wait.


{----$----}


*Daeranyx POV*
*The Next day, the day of Tourney*

The royal box overlooked the tiltyard, where King Viserys I Targaryen and his family sat in resplendent robes, his golden crown sparkling in the sunlight. At his side, Queen Aemma Arryn—alive and well thanks to my intervention—held the swaddled Prince Baelon in her arms. As I approached them, the murmurs in the stands grew louder.

“King Daeranyx, your presence honors us,” Viserys greeted me with a warm nod, although the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes did not go unnoticed.

“The honor is mine, King Viserys,” I replied smoothly, returning his nod. “It is only fitting that the birth of the future king be celebrated with such grandeur.” I took my seat in front of the row where Viserys, Aemma, Daemon, Corlys, and Rhaenys sat between Rhaenyra and Laena.

Beside Viserys, Daemon Targaryen was clad in black and red armor. The Rogue Prince had never been one for courtly pleasantries, but there was no mistaking the curiosity in his violet eyes.

“You should have participated in the mêlée, King Daeranyx,” Daemon said with a smirk. “Let us see if the praise that the King's guard is singing about your swordsmanship is true.”

I chuckled, unoffended. “Perhaps, but not this time. As for swordsmanship, I don't think it will be long before you get to see it.”

The horn blasted, signaling the next joust. Two riders emerged from opposite ends of the lists, clad in gleaming armor, their lances poised like spears of fate. The crowd erupted in cheers and wagers, the fervor of the tourney electrifying the air.

I turned my attention to those watching with me, noting the absence of certain noble houses. The Arryns, for instance, were nowhere to be seen—hardly surprising, given their dwindling numbers of late. But among those present was the one man I had eagerly awaited: Lord Rickon Stark, accompanied by his wife and brother. His younger sibling had fought well in the melee, battling his way through the ranks with commendable skill. Unfortunately, his path to victory was cut short by none other than Ser Criston Cole, who bested him in the final bout.

Meeting Lord Rickon had been one of my key objectives before the tourney even began. However, circumstances led me to cross paths with Lord Hobert Hightower first. The man extended an invitation to break my fast with his family, and though I initially considered declining, curiosity got the better of me. After all, the Hightowers prided themselves on being among the most learned and influential lords in Westeros.

In hindsight, I should have trusted my first instinct.

The entire affair was an exercise in patience. Their endless prayers to the Seven before eating, their self-congratulatory remarks about the Reach’s fertile lands and boundless wealth—each word tested my tolerance. I forced a smile, nodded along, and restrained my impulse to deliver a biting remark. I had little interest in a theological debate so early in the day.

Then, just as my mind began to wander, Lord Hobert casually introduced a proposal from the Order of the Citadel. It took all the self-control I had in me to not laugh outright upon hearing the words that left his mouth.

"Who do you think will win, my king?"

Rhaenyra’s voice pulled me back to the present. Her violet eyes sparkled with amusement as she studied me. I followed her gaze toward the field, where the two knights prepared for another tilt. Both looked weary—one more than the other.

"The man in black and gold armor," I answered after a moment’s consideration. "He still has some fight left in him, unlike his opponent."

Truth be told, I had forgotten his name when the herald announced it. No matter. The armor was distinction enough.

Rhaenyra hummed in response, watching the knights take their positions. "Harrold Darke," she supplied. "His house is a cadet branch of the Darklyns of Duskendale. You may have heard of Ser Steffon Darklyn, one of the Kingsguard."

A resounding crack echoed across the field as Harrold's lance shattered against his opponent’s shield, sending the man crashing to the dirt. The crowd erupted in cheers as Darke rode past, victorious.

Rhaenyra smiled, clearly enjoying the spectacle, before turning back to me. "I never asked, but did Valyria have anything like jousting before the Doom?"

At her question, the conversation around us hushed. Several nearby nobles leaned in, eager to hear my response.

"Not in the way Westeros does," I admitted, eyes still on the field. "Jousting wasn’t unheard of, but it was never the main attraction of Valyrian tournaments. Instead, we had the fighting pits—brutal arenas where warriors battled men and beasts alike for glory or survival."

The words left an odd taste in my mouth. Memories of those pits surfaced unbidden, and for a fleeting moment, a chill ran through me. Valyria’s past was darker than most could comprehend, its cruelty unmatched even by the Ghiscari, despite what the history books claimed.

Daemon grinned, clearly entertained by the idea. "That sounds like a proper contest—a real test of skill and strength."

I didn’t correct him. Let him imagine the grandeur of Valyria. The reality of our ancestors’ so-called civilization was something else entirely.

Another round of cheers erupted as the next knights took their places. The herald began to announce their names, but I was already lost in thought, my mind returning to Lord Hobert’s earlier words.

The Masters of the Citadel truly believed I would accept their proposal. That I would allow them into Skagos. That I would entertain their demands.

Arrogant fools.

They either underestimated me—or overestimated themselves.