The Queen of Love and Beauty, the Black Dragon and the Child of Winter
The morning light in King's Landing has never been so intense.
The training ground in front of Red Keep was expanded into a tournament arena large enough to accommodate 10,000 people. Yellow sand was transported from Crab Claw Peninsula and spread to a thickness of half a foot. The dew from last night still clung to the sand grains, which looked like they were sprinkled with gold when the rising sun shone on them.
The stands around the training ground were layered upon each other, with the royal family's exclusive gilded boxes at the very top. Jaehaerys I's bronze dragon banner and Queen Alysanne's Silverwing dragon banner fluttered in the wind.
Below them were the seats of the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms: the golden lion banner of the Lannister in the Westerlands, the Direwolf banner of the Stark in the the North, the eagle banner of House Arryn in the Vale, and the rose banner of Tyrell in the Reach —a dense, colorful sea of banners.
The lowest strata of the working class were already packed with people. Bakers, the Smith, and sailors held up small, homemade wooden signs with crooked Black Dragon drawn on them—the image of Glutton, and also the symbol of "His Highness the Dragon" in their eyes.
Of course, the Flea Bottom and Silk Street ladies, gamblers, chivalrous thieves, and drinkers naturally carried the red dragon wooden plaque of "Rogue Prince," Caraxes, as their symbol of their prince.
A deep Dragonpit in the distance, causing the yellow sand on the training ground to tremble slightly.
The crowd erupted in cheers, someone pointing to the top of the tower and shouting, "It's the Glutton!"
The black dragon spread its wings, like a moving dark cloud, and slowly flew from its Dragonpit to the sky above the training ground. Its scales gleamed with a dark golden luster in the sunlight, and occasionally a wisp of black Dragonfire spilled from the corner of its mouth, landing on the open ground in the distance and burning a small scorch mark.
Following closely behind was Dreamfyre. As its pale blue dragon wings swept across the crowd, a cool breeze swept through. Gael Targaryen sat on the dragon's back, her light purple skirt fluttering in the wind. She looked down at the stands, her gaze precisely finding that familiar black figure, and a smile involuntarily crept onto her lips.
"Your Highness, it's time to change your armor." Jarman Waters carried the armor into the temporary tent, his voice filled with barely concealed excitement.
The armor was newly forged black dragonscale armor, each scale sourced from the Glutton lair of Dragonstone, tempered with steel powder by the Smith of King's Landing's Landing, and gleaming coldly in the morning light;
The three-headed dragon pattern on his chest was outlined in pure gold, echoing the brand on Daemon's right shoulder;
The shoulder armor is shaped like the skull of Glutton, with slightly curved fangs that exude a sense of intimidation;
The Blackfyre hung at his waist, its ruby polished to a shine, and its scabbard was wrapped with silver thread and embroidered with the Targaryen coat of arms.
Daemon reached out and took the armor. When his fingertips touched the dragon scales, he clearly felt a warmth—the aura of the Glutton, and the unspeakable bond between him and the Black Dragon.
"Are Colin and Lyonel ready?" he asked, fastening his armor belt.
"Colin is outside testing his lance; the tip of his lance is engraved with the wave pattern of Crab Island. Lyonel Leon's armor is decorated with silver, engraved with the ravens of House Corbray, and Rupert, Mace, Alyn, Lucas, and the others all say they want to have a good match with you," Jarman added with a laugh. "Oh, and His Highness— His Big Daemon —saw that he just tossed his cloak outside the tent and was joking with the man in the Gold Cloaks beside him, saying that today he'll show you who the real Targaryen knight is."
Daemon raised an eyebrow but didn't speak. He could imagine what the Big Daemon looked like right now: black armor inlaid with rubies, a red cloak undone, revealing a silk shirt embroidered with Caraxes underneath, and bells jingling from his lance—the very image of a "Rogue Prince."
The tent flap was lifted, and Gael walked in, holding a piece of honey cake in her hand; the oil paper was still warm.
"Here you go," she said, handing over the honey cake, her gaze sweeping over Daemon's armor, her eyes filled with amazement. "This armor is so beautiful, even more beautiful than Baelon's previous silver armor."
Daemon took the honey cake, took a bite, and the sweet aroma instantly spread on his tongue—it was the familiar taste of Gael, with honey from Honeyholt 'Beesbury, not cloying at all.
"Are you worried I'll get hungry during the fight?" he teased her, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair that had been ruffled by the wind behind her ear.
Gael's cheeks flushed slightly as she reached out and grasped his sleeve. "I just told Dreamfyre that it will cheer you on later. And Little Mei, Hannah, Brienne, and the others too—"
She softened her voice, a hint of nervousness in her eyes, "You'd better be careful this time, don't do what you did last year, hiding even after you've clearly won."
Daemon looked into her bright, sparkling eyes, and his heart felt filled with something.
He gently took her hand, feeling the warmth of her palm through his fingertips. "I won't dodge this time."
A cheer suddenly erupted outside the tent, and Colin's voice carried from afar. "Your Highness! It's time to enter!"
Daemon Gael's hand and picked up the lance that was placed to the side. The shaft was made of elm wood, which was hard and tough. The top was made of fine steel in the shape of a dragon, with fine lines engraved on it to reduce air resistance.
"Wait for me to come back." He glanced at Gael one last time, then turned and walked out of the tent.
On the training ground, the contestants were already entering. Colin Celtigar rode a brown warhorse, his armor being the white armor of Crab Island, engraved with wave patterns and his personal Blue Crab markings. A small seashell hung from the top of his lance, seemingly picked up on the day he left Crab Island to begin his journey with Daemon.
Lyonel Corbray's warhorse was a white horse from the Vale, its silver armor engraved with the House Corbray's "Crows of the Heart," and the "Lady Forlorn" hung beside its saddle. The moonstone on its scabbard gleamed in the sunlight.
Daemon Targaryen rode a black warhorse, his black armor studded with rubies, and his red cloak fluttered in the wind. As he rode past the stands, he deliberately waved in the direction of House Tully, causing Lysa Tully to blush, while Rhea House Royce, on Vale other hand, remained as cold as ice.
When Daemon rode into the arena, the training ground fell silent for a moment, then erupted in deafening cheers.
"Your Highness the Black Dragon!" "It's Prince Daemon!" The commoners held up small wooden signs and pushed forward desperately, while the nobles also stood up, their eyes focused on the black figure who had been invincible since returning to the royal family and was rumored to be "a warrior descended to earth."
The Glutton let out a dragon's roar high in the sky, and its jet-black dragon wings spread out as if to protect it;
Dreamfyre also roared, its pale blue Dragonfire drawing an arc in the distant sky, drawing even more cheers.
Daemon reined in his horse and scanned the entire arena.
He saw Prince Baelon sitting in the royal box, his deep purple eyes filled with expectation;
Jocelyn Baratheon wiped her eyes, clutching Prince Aemon's old cloak in her hand;
Rhaenys Targaryen, holding Laena and Laenor, nodded and smiled at him;
Gael stood beside the Dreamfyre that had flown back to her side, with Mysaria and Johanna following behind. She clutched a white handkerchief in her hand, her eyes fixed on him.
"Round One: His Highness Daemon Targaryen vs. Harlan Hunter!" The master of ceremonies' voice echoed throughout the arena through the horns.
Harlan, a knight of the traditional Vale, rode a chestnut warhorse, his armor being ordinary steel, engraved with the silver sword emblem of his House Hunter.
He rode up to Daemon, gripping his lance tightly, his voice tense. "Your Highness, I will show no mercy today!"
Daemon nodded slightly and adjusted his posture. The horn sounded, and Harlan immediately spurred his horse forward, his lance pointed directly at Daemon's chest.
The audience held their breath; some even closed their eyes.
They expected a fierce clash, but to their surprise, Daemon simply shifted his body slightly to the side, using the barrel of his rifle to brace against Harlan's lance and push him away.
Harlan's lance veered off course, his horse lost its balance, and he fell from its back. Fortunately, Daemon showed mercy, and he only landed on the sand without injury.
"You flatter me, Harlan." Daemon reined in his horse and looked down at him.
Harlan got up and bowed to Daemon: "Your Highness's strength remains as formidable as ever. I accept my defeat wholeheartedly!"
Cheers erupted again on the training ground.
A bread-selling woman said to the Smith beside her, "Did you see that? His Highness didn't even break a sweat! Last year he won and he hid, but this year he's really showing off!"
The Smith nodded, forgetting to put down what he was holding. "This is His Highness the Dragon! He's naturally different from those pretentious nobles!"
The following rounds of duels were full of exciting moments. Colin Celtigar, with the agility typical of sailors, defeated a noble knight from the Westerlands.
Lyonel Corbray, using his Vale marksmanship, shattered the Reach Knight's helmet with a single thrust;
Daemon Targaryen appeared exceptionally brave today. He charged forward on his horse, knocking his opponent and horse to the ground, eliciting gasps from the audience and making Rhea House Royce's expression even colder.
The semifinals were fast approaching, with Daemon and Lyonel Corbray facing off.
Lyonel rode up to Daemon, the "Lady Forlorn" gleaming coldly in the sunlight. "Your Highness, last year you won the jousting tournament, but you weren't officially crowned; the crown was given to Princess Rhaenyra. This year—"
He paused, his gaze shifting towards Gael on the sidelines. "On behalf of your brothers, you can no longer hide."
Daemon smiled. "Don't worry, it won't happen again."
As the horn sounded, Lyonel immediately spurred his horse forward. His spearmanship was fierce, his lance aimed directly at Daemon's shoulder armor, the weakest point in the armor.
The audience gasped in surprise, Gael clenched her handkerchief so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
Daemon, however, appeared remarkably composed. He leaned slightly forward and simultaneously held his lance horizontally, the shaft of which precisely blocked Lyonel's lance.
The two lances clashed together with a loud clang, sparks flying everywhere.
Lyonel was surprised by Daemon's strength. He tried to push him away, but Daemon's arm didn't budge.
In the instant he was distracted, Daemon suddenly spun the lance, using the momentum to knock his lance away.
Lyonel lost his balance and was about to fall off his horse when Daemon reached out and grabbed his belt, pulling him back.
"You lost, Lyonel." Daemon's voice was soft, yet it reached Lyonel's ears clearly.
Lyonel breathed a sigh of relief and bowed to Daemon: "Your Highness is not only powerful, but also so kind. Of course I admire you."
Cheers erupted again on the training ground. Prince Baelon smiled and said to Jaehaerys beside him, "Father, look at this child, he's becoming more and more like Aemon."
Jaehaerys nodded, his silver hair looking particularly kind in the sunlight. "He's more mature and responsible than young Aemon."
The final battle has finally arrived, and the two sides facing off are naturally the duel between Daemon Blackfyre and Daemon Targaryen, two dragons.
Daemon Targaryen rode up to Daemon, the jewels on his black armor gleaming in the sunlight. His red cloak was pulled tight, and his eyes, feignedly defiant, gleamed with resentment. "Little Daemon, you won the jousting last year, and this year in the lance duel, I won't let you win! Give it your all! Don't let your brother find out you're holding back again!"
Daemon didn't say anything, he just adjusted the angle of his lance.
He could feel the Glutton watching from high above, and he could see the nervous look in Gael's eyes. He couldn't lose, not only for Baelon's entrustment, but also for the "Child of Winter" who awaited his coronation.
As soon as the horn sounded, Daemon Targaryen spurred his horse and charged over.
He moved swiftly, his lance aimed directly at Daemon's chest, his red cloak billowing in the wind like a burning flame.
Daemon responded calmly, spurring his horse forward to meet him. The two lances clashed together, producing a deafening sound.
Daemon Targaryen was incredibly strong today; his young arms were slightly numb, yet Daemon still gripped his lance firmly.
The two men passed each other without falling from their horses. Daemon Targaryen reined in his horse, turned, and charged again, this time changing his strategy, pointing his lance directly at Daemon's warhorse.
Daemon was prepared; he gently pulled on the reins, and his warhorse reared up, dodging Daemon Targaryen's lance.
Daemon Targaryen's lance missed its mark, his horse lost its balance, and he nearly fell off.
The audience gasped in surprise.
Otto Hightower sat in the noble's seat, frowning as he said to Leonno Strong beside him, "This Black Dragon seems to be getting increasingly difficult to control."
Leonno didn't speak, but his gaze was fixed on the smaller black figure on the training ground. He knew that Little Daemon's strength had already exceeded everyone's expectations.
In the third round, our "Rogue Prince" seemed a bit impatient. When he charged forward on horseback, his lance wobbled violently.
Daemon seized the opportunity and suddenly drew his Blackfyre from his waist. The ruby on the hilt reflected a bright light in the afterglow, which dazzled Daemon Targaryen's eyes.
Daemon Targaryen squinted instinctively, and in that instant, Daemon's lance was already pressed against his shoulder armor.
"Brother, you've lost." Daemon's voice was soft, yet carried an undeniable firmness.
Daemon Targaryen's horse came to a halt. He stared at the lance pressed against his shoulder armor, his face flushed, but he had to admit, "I've lost. I didn't expect you to be so strong, Little Daemon— "
The drill ground erupted in deafening cheers. Commoners threw hats and flowers, while nobles rose to their feet, applauding in respect.
The Glutton roared once more high in the sky, its dark Dragonfire drawing an arc across the distant heavens.
Dreamfyre also roared once more, its pale blue dragon wings sweeping across the crowd, drawing even more cheers.
Daemon reined in his horse, his gaze piercing through the crowd, precisely locating the figure in light purple.
He dismounted, holding the "Queen of Love and Beauty" laurel wreath handed to him by the master of ceremonies.
The laurel wreath was woven from golden roses and blue flowers from the the North, and adorned with tiny pearls that shimmered in the sunlight.
He walked towards Gael step by step, each step steady and deliberate.
Gael stood there, clutching a white handkerchief in her hand, tears welling up in her eyes.
People around them quickly made way, Rhaenys, holding Laena and Laenor, nodded and smiled at her;
Jocelyn wiped her eyes and said softly, "If Aemon saw this, he would be very happy."
Daemon walked up to Gael and knelt on one knee. He looked up at her reddened eyes and said softly:
J
Aunt Gael, this time I didn't hide.
Gael's tears finally fell, and she reached out and gently touched Daemon's cheek.
Daemon picked up the laurel wreath and carefully placed it on her head. The petals of the golden rose brushed against her cheek, carrying a hint of warmth.
Cheers erupted from the crowd. Prince Baelon nodded with a smile, and Jaehaerys I also stood up, his silver hair looking particularly benevolent in the sunlight.
"My little aunt, my Child of Winter," Daemon whispered, "From now on, I will always be with you."
Gael nodded, her voice choked with emotion, "I know."
Just then, the voice of "King Jaehaerys I," the "the Conciliator," resounded throughout the entire arena through the horns.
The old man, leaning on his cane, stood before the railing of the royal box. His silver hair fluttered in the wind, and though his voice was somewhat hoarse, it carried an undeniable, bronze-like authority. "My people, my vassals, my family!"
The training ground fell silent instantly, and everyone's eyes were focused on that aged yet upright figure.
"Today's tournament is not just a competition, but a testament. We have witnessed the glory of knights, the power of dragons, and the future of Westeros."
Jaehaerys paused, his sharp, deep gaze sweeping across the entire hall. "Since I ascended the throne as a young man and ruled the Seven Kingdoms for fifty years, I have witnessed rebellions, plagues, and famines, but I have never considered giving up—because I know that we Targaryen are not only royalty riding dragons, but also guardians of this land."
His voice rose, becoming increasingly compelling. "Aemon, my son, sacrificed himself for the peace of the Stormlands and the Stepstones; Baelon, my second son, toiled day and night for the stability of the Seven Kingdoms; Little Daemon, my grandson, traveled the Seven Kingdoms, quelling rebellions and mediating sworn feuds—they all protected Westeros in their own ways."
"Nobles and commoners, lords and vassals, are all children of this land. We may have different surnames, different beliefs, and different stances, but we all share a common desire for peace."
Jaehaerys's gaze fell on Daemon and Gael, his eyes filled with pride. "Today, my grandson Little Daemon. crowns my youngest daughter Gael as Queen of Love and Beauty." This is not only a sentiment, but also a promise—a promise to protect each other, a promise to protect this land.
May the flames of the dragon forever protect Westeros! May peace, like the sun today, shine upon every corner of the world! May our descendants forever remember the glory and responsibility of this day!
As soon as Jaehaerys finished speaking, Vermithor suddenly let out a dragon roar, and its bronze wings spread out like a huge dark cloud;
Silverwing also cried out, its silver-gray Dragonfire drawing an arc in the distant sky;
Glutton, Dreamfyre, Caraxes, Meleys —all the dragons roared, causing the yellow sand of the training ground to tremble slightly, and stirring the blood in everyone's hearts.
The audience erupted in deafening cheers, with some shouting "Long live His Majesty the King!", others "Long live His Highness the Dragon!", and still others "Long live the Targaryen!"
The nobles all stood up and bowed to the royal box;
The common people, holding up small wooden signs, pushed and shoved forward, trying to get a clearer view of the black figure and the light purple figure wearing a laurel wreath.
Daemon held Gael's hand and looked up at the sky. The sunlight shone on them, bringing warmth.
The dragon's roar echoed in my ears, carrying power; cheers rose and fell all around, carrying hope.
He knew that this duel was not the end, but the beginning—he had to protect Gael, protect the Targaryen, protect this land from a hundred years ago, stop the Dance of the Dragons, resist the threat of the White Walkers, and bring true peace to every corner of Westeros.
Gael leaned on his shoulder and whispered, "It's so nice."
Daemon lowered his head and gently kissed her forehead. "It will be better."
In the distance, towards the hills, the Glutton, having returned to their "territory," let out another dragon roar. Their jet-black wings unfurled in the sunlight, as if blessing them and making an eternal promise for the future of this land.