The Tournament

The dirt of the tourney field had been churned over and over by hooves, the scent of hay and sweat fermenting in the late summer heat into something wild.

At the highest point of the stands, beneath King Jaehaerys's gold-and-red tent, Queen Alysanne held Rhaenyra on her lap. The little girl's fist clutched a handkerchief embroidered with dragons—this was her first tournament, though her eyes could not yet focus on anything far away.

The opening horns had barely faded when two hundred knights rode into the field. Sunlight flashed off their armor like spilled gold: smiles hid behind House Hightower's lapis-blue visors, Manderly mermen rose and fell upon breastplates, Tyrell roses gleamed with sweat, and Baratheon stag antlers seemed ready to pierce the shadows beneath the tents.

"Watch the first day's jousts closely," Viserys said, holding Rhaenyra as his thumb brushed her soft cheek. "Back at Harrenhal, your grandfather Aemon unhorsed three challengers in a row with a single lance."

Aemma smiled beside him, though her face was still somewhat pale. "Don't keep bringing up Uncle Aemon. If I remember correctly, weren't you unhorsed three times by Ser Loras in your first tournament?"

The tips of Viserys's ears reddened slightly, but a burst of cheering interrupted him. Daemon Targaryen rode forth on his black warhorse, his crimson cloak spreading in the wind like Caraxes's wings. His armor was pitch-black, with a pair of dragon-wing ornaments on his helm. Its visor had been raised, revealing those defiant violet eyes.

"Daemon! The Rogue Prince! Daemon Targaryen!" The people in the stands screamed wildly. Even Borros Baratheon in the nobles' seats could not help whistling.

Daemon Blackfyre stood at the very end of the competitors' line. His armor was far less splendid than the other Daemon's—a simple dragon motif had been branded onto his silver-white breastplate, the silhouette of Glutton spreading its wings.

His warhorse was an Essosi breed gifted by Rhaenys, pure white from head to tail except for its black hooves, as though it walked upon storm clouds.

"Scared, Blackfyre boy?" a rough voice called from beside him. It was Lucas Tyrell, a knight of the Reach and Duke Mathos's legitimate nephew. Three layers of golden roses adorned his breastplate. "I hear you're good at riding dragons. But is the hand holding your lance steady enough?"

Daemon Blackfyre said nothing, merely adjusting the straps of his helm. On the battlefields of the Reach in his previous life, he had personally unhorsed seven knights of House Tyrell. One of them had worn rose armor nearly identical to this.

The horn for the first round sounded.

Lucas Tyrell's lance tore through the air first, stabbing straight at him with a gust of wind. Daemon Blackfyre sharply twisted aside, his dark iron armor screeching against the wooden lance. Using his horse's momentum, he spun and drove his own lance precisely into the other man's shoulder blade—Lucas fell like a dead leaf, his golden rose armor rolling far across the ground.

A low murmur of amazement rose from the stands. Queen Alysanne arched a brow slightly. "That lance work truly resembles Aemon in his youth."

Jaehaerys said nothing. His gaze rested on the other Daemon. At that moment, Daemon Targaryen was holding a lance snapped in two as he leisurely circled the field. His opponent—a Vale knight from a distant branch of House Arryn—was still struggling to remove his helm in the mud.

"All flash, no substance." Baelon gave his son a mercilessly quiet assessment, yet he could not help leaning forward, clearly drawn into the contest below.

Over the next two days, the tournament field became an arena for dragons and stags, lions and wolves.

Borros Baratheon split three opponents' shields with his massive axe, while the stag banners of the Stormlands waved madly in the stands;

Corlys Velaryon's nephew Vaemond rode a sea-blue warhorse and unhorsed four Riverlands knights in succession, the silver shell on his crest glittering under the sun;

Among Mathos Tyrell's bastards, one lanky youth unexpectedly fought his way into the final eight. His lance was as tricky as a snake, leaving many veteran knights humiliated.

Yet the most eye-catching figures were always the two Daemons.

Daemon Targaryen's style was like Caraxes's fire—swift and blazing.

He never dodged, always meeting his opponents head-on. The sharp crack of splintering lances and the muffled groans of falling riders became his loudest signature.

In the fourth round, he even deliberately let his opponent's lance tip graze his gorget. Amid the crowd's gasps, he backhandedly sent the man flying ten yards away.

"Madman." While Daemon Blackfyre wiped down his lance in the rest area, he heard Grover Tully's grandnephew curse under his breath.

He merely smiled faintly. Blood and fire from his previous life had taught him that victory in a tournament was never just about skill. The crowd needed legends, and Daemon Targaryen excelled at creating them.

When it was his turn, however, his style was entirely different. Facing Ser Leo of the Reach, known as "Longbow," he did not charge directly. Instead, he guided his horse in a small circle, then suddenly pulled the reins just as the enemy lance was about to strike—the horse reared, Leo's lance tip swept past its hooves, and Daemon's lance had already lightly touched the man's chest.

"Coward!" someone shouted from the stands.

Daemon Blackfyre removed his helm. His silver-white hair, soaked with sweat, clung to his cheeks. He looked toward the nobles' seats and met Jocelyn Baratheon's gaze. Her expression was complicated, as though she were looking at him and yet at someone else.

By the evening of the fifth day, the victors of the joust had finally emerged: Daemon Targaryen, Daemon Blackfyre, Borros Baratheon, Garlan Tyrell, and a young knight from the North, Brandon Stark—Duke Benjen's distant nephew, who had fought his way into the final five beneath the direwolf crest.

By custom, they had to choose a Queen of Love and Beauty. Daemon Targaryen barely hesitated before walking straight to Rhaenys and placing a red rose in her hair. "Other than a Targaryen princess, who else deserves this title?"

Rhaenys accepted the rose with a smile, but her eyes passed over him and turned toward Daemon Blackfyre standing in the shadows.

When the final match began, even the air seemed to freeze.

Daemon Targaryen's black armor swallowed the last light of the setting sun. Caraxes's roar came from the distant Dragonpit, as if cheering him on. Daemon Blackfyre's dark iron armor gleamed with the sunset's radiance, while only the dragon on his breastplate faintly shone in the twilight.

"Boy," Daemon Targaryen's voice came through his visor, touched with amusement, "don't cry when you lose. Your grandfather's sword isn't something just anyone can wield."

Daemon Blackfyre tightened his grip on his lance. Its shaft was made of ashwood, with a familiar curve—almost identical to the one he had used for twenty years in his previous life.

The horn tore through the dusk.

The two warhorses charged at one another like arrows loosed from bows, their lances whistling through the air like dragon roars. In the first pass, their lance tips struck each other's shoulder plates at the same time. The tremendous impact made both riders sway in their saddles, but neither fell.

"Again!" Daemon Targaryen roared, wheeling his horse around.

On the second pass, he changed tactics, aiming his lance straight at Daemon Blackfyre's horse.

But Daemon Blackfyre had anticipated it. He jerked his reins hard and swept his lance sideways at the same time—the shaft scraped beneath the black armor's ribs with an ear-splitting screech.

Daemon Targaryen's horse reared violently in fright, yet he used that force to drive his lance almost flush past Blackfyre's helm.

Viserys had already risen in the stands. Rhaenyra began crying from the tense atmosphere, and Aemma hurriedly covered her ears.

On the third pass, neither held back. Their lances pierced each other's shields at once. Amid the scattering wood chips, Daemon Blackfyre's lance tip struck precisely in the center of Daemon Targaryen's breastplate—at the heart of the dragon motif.

The black-armored knight's body jerked sharply backward. In the end, he could not keep his balance and crashed heavily into the mud.

The entire field fell silent.

Daemon Targaryen pulled off his helm and threw it to the ground. Yet there was no anger in his violet eyes; instead, he burst out laughing. "You bastard!" He pointed at Blackfyre still mounted on his horse. "You clearly held back on that last strike!"

Daemon Blackfyre dismounted and tossed his lance aside. Beneath his silver helm, his smile was somewhat indistinct. "There's no need for real weapons against family."

Those words abruptly cut off the laughter. Jaehaerys slowly rose. The shadow of the gold-and-red tent fell across his face, half bright and half dark. "By my command," his voice carried across the silent tournament field, "the champion of the joust is Daemon Blackfyre!"

When the old king personally placed the victor's crown—a circlet woven from red roses and black thorns—upon Blackfyre's head, he suddenly asked in a low voice, "What reward do you desire? Land? A castle? Or...?"

Daemon Blackfyre's gaze swept across the crowd, settling on Rhaenys and Queen Alysanne before turning to Jocelyn standing in the shadows. "I want only one thing," he said. "A name."

Understanding flickered in Jaehaerys's eyes. He raised a hand, signaling for silence. "Today, besides celebrating the birth of Princess Rhaenyra, there is another matter to announce." He turned to Blackfyre, his voice solemn as an oath. "Daemon, you have proven the Targaryen blood through courage and won the respect of the Seven Kingdoms with your lance. From this day forth, you are no longer a so-called bastard, but a child legitimized by the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms—your king, your grandfather—and a member of House Targaryen. Today, I grant you the Targaryen name."

He accepted a longsword from the guard behind him. Its blade was black as night, yet silver light flowed across it beneath the moonlight. It was Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel sword and heirloom of House Targaryen.

"This sword once belonged to Aegon the Conqueror and witnessed countless rises and falls of our house." Jaehaerys pressed the hilt into Blackfyre's hand. "Now it belongs to you. May you use it one day to protect the future of the family."

At the same time, Prince Baelon walked before Daemon Targaryen and handed him another sword. Its blade was slender yet sharp as ice, its hilt set with rubies—it was Dark Sister, once Queen Visenya's sword, treasured by the strongest knights throughout the generations.

"At sixteen, you're worthy of knighthood." Baelon's tone was unusually gentle. "Don't let it gather dust."

Daemon Targaryen took Dark Sister and suddenly laughed. He slapped Blackfyre on the shoulder hard enough to nearly shatter bone. "Did you hear that, Daemon Targaryen? Hold back again next time, and I'll let Dark Sister have a taste of your neck! Though calling you by my own name is bloody strange too!"

"Then call me Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen. I want to keep Blackfyre as my middle name."

Blackfyre gripped the hilt of Blackfyre. The cold touch of metal spread through his palm, as though all the blood and fire of his previous life had gathered in that instant.

He looked toward Rhaenyra in the stands. His great-grandmother, the little princess, had somehow fallen asleep. Her violet eyes were closed like two gems hidden within flower petals.

In the distance, the dragon roars of Glutton and Caraxes intertwined, shaking the flags around the tournament field until they snapped in the wind.

Under the moonlight, the two Daemons cast long shadows. One held Blackfyre, the other carried Dark Sister, like two swords about to leave their sheaths, reflecting the future of House Targaryen.

And the crown of red roses and black thorns rested quietly in Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen's arms, like an unfinished prophecy of love and beauty.