If you're enjoying these stories, visit my Pat** on at: CaveLeather
only for 9$
The morning light of King's Landing had never been so fierce.
The training grounds before the Red Keep had been expanded into an arena capable of holding ten thousand souls. Yellow sand shipped from Crackclaw Point was laid half a foot deep, the dew from the previous night clinging to the grains and glittering like scattered gold under the rising sun.
The stands rose layer upon layer around the field. At the very top was the gilded royal box, where the personal banners of King Jaehaerys I—the Bronze Dragon—and Queen Alysanne—Silverwing—snapped in the wind.
Below them sat the lords of the Seven Kingdoms: the Golden Lion of House Lannister, the Direwolf of House Stark, the Moon-and-Falcon of House Arryn, the Golden Rose of House Tyrell... a dense ocean of color.
The lowest tiers were packed with smallfolk. Bakers, smiths, and sailors waved crude wooden placards painted with crooked black dragons—their symbol for the "True Dragon Prince."
Of course, the denizens of Flea Bottom and the Street of Silk—gamblers, hedge knights, and drunks—waved red dragon placards for their "Rogue Prince" atop Caraxes.
From the direction of the Dragonpit, a low roar trembled the very sand of the arena.
The crowd erupted. "It's The Cannibal!" someone shouted, pointing at the towers.
A massive black dragon unfurled its wings like a moving storm cloud, gliding from the Dragonpit to hover over the arena. Its scales gleamed dark gold in the sunlight, and wisps of black flame escaped its jaws, scorching small patches of the distant ground.
Following close behind was Dreamfyre. Her pale blue wings brought a cool breeze as she swept over the crowd. Gael Targaryen sat upon her back, her pale violet dress fluttering. She looked down at the stands, her gaze finding the familiar black figure instantly, a smile touching her lips.
"Your Highness, time to armor up." Jarman of the Darkblade entered the tent, holding the armor with reverence.
It was a newly forged suit of black dragon-scale armor. Each scale had been collected from The Cannibal's lair on Dragonstone and tempered with steel powder by the smiths of King's Landing. It gleamed coldly in the morning light.
The three-headed dragon sigil on the chest was outlined in red gold, echoing the brand on Daemon's shoulder.
The pauldrons were shaped like The Cannibal's skull, fangs curved slightly in a silent threat.
At his waist hung Blackfyre, the ruby on its hilt polished to a shine, the scabbard wrapped in silver thread embroidered with the Targaryen sigil.
Daemon reached out, feeling a distinct warmth when his fingers touched the scales—the aura of The Cannibal, a bond beyond words.
"Are Colin and Lyonel ready?" he asked, buckling the belt.
"Colin is testing his lance outside; the tip is carved with the waves of Claw Isle. Ser Lyonel's armor is silver-inlaid with the corbies of House Corbray. Rupert, Meryn, Allan, Lucas... they all say they want a proper match with you," Jarman said with a grin. "Oh, and the Elder Prince Daemon... he was just seen throwing his cloak on the ground outside his tent, joking with the Gold Cloaks that today he'll show you who the true Targaryen knight is."
Daemon raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He could imagine the Rogue Prince: black armor studded with rubies, red cloak loosely tied to reveal a silk shirt embroidered with Caraxes, bells on his lance jingling—every inch the rake.
The tent flap lifted. Gael entered, holding a warm honey cake wrapped in oil paper.
"For you," she said, her eyes wide with admiration as she took in his armor. "This armor is beautiful. Even better than Brother Baelon's silver plate."
Daemon took a bite. Sweetness flooded his tongue—Beesbury honey, rich but not cloying.
"Afraid I'll get hungry during the joust?" he teased, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Gael blushed slightly, gripping his cuff. "I told Dreamfyre to cheer for you. And Mysaria, Johanna, Brienne... they're all watching."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Be careful. And don't hide this time, even if you win."
Daemon looked into her bright eyes, his heart swelling.
He took her hand, feeling her warmth. "I won't hide this time."
Cheers erupted outside. Colin's voice rang out. "Your Highness! Time to enter!"
Daemon released her hand and picked up his lance—ash wood, hard and flexible, tipped with a steel head carved with dragonglass to cut the air.
"Wait for me," he said, turning to leave.
On the field, the knights were assembling.
Colin Celtigar rode a brown destrier, wearing the white armor of Claw Isle etched with waves and crabs. A small seashell hung from his lance tip—a memento from the day he left home to follow Daemon.
Lyonel Corbray rode a white Vale courser, silver armor etched with ravens and hearts. Lady Forlorn hung by his saddle, the moonstone on its pommel flashing.
Daemon Targaryen rode a black stallion. His armor was studded with rubies, his red cloak snapping in the wind. He waved deliberately at the Tully box as he passed, making Lysa blush, while Rhea Royce in the Vale box turned to ice.
When Daemon Blackfyre rode in, the arena fell silent for a heartbeat, then exploded.
"The Black Dragon Prince!" "Prince Daemon!" Smallfolk pushed forward with their placards. Lords stood to get a better look at the "Warrior Incarnate."
The Cannibal roared from the sky, black wings spreading like a shield. Dreamfyre answered, blue flame tracing an arc across the heavens.
Daemon reined in his horse, scanning the stands.
He saw Baelon in the royal box, violet eyes full of expectation.
Jocelyn Baratheon dabbed her eyes, clutching Prince Aemon's old cloak.
Rhaenys smiled, holding her children.
Gael stood by the landed Dreamfyre, clutching a white handkerchief, her eyes locked on him.
"First Round: Prince Daemon Targaryen versus Ser Harlan Hunter!" the herald announced.
Harlan rode a chestnut horse in plain steel armor etched with the Hunter sigil. He gripped his lance tight. "Your Highness, I won't hold back today!"
Daemon Targaryen nodded. The horn blew.
Harlan charged, lance aimed at the Prince's chest. The crowd held its breath.
But Daemon Targaryen merely leaned slightly, used his lance shaft to parry Harlan's thrust, and pushed.
Harlan's lance went wide, his horse lost balance, and he tumbled into the sand. Unhurt, thanks to the Prince's mercy.
"Well fought, Harlan," Daemon said, looking down.
Harlan stood and bowed. "Your strength remains unmatched, Your Highness. I yield."
Cheers erupted again. A baker woman nudged a smith. "See that? The Prince didn't even sweat! Last year he hid; this year he shines!"
The rounds continued.
Colin Celtigar used a sailor's agility to defeat a Westerlands knight.
Lyonel Corbray knocked the helmet off a Reach knight with precision.
Daemon Targaryen was ferocious, unhorsing his opponent with a brutal collision that made the crowd gasp and Rhea Royce's face darken further.
Semifinals: Daemon Blackfyre versus Lyonel Corbray.
Lyonel rode up, Lady Forlorn gleaming. "Your Highness. Last year you won but didn't crown anyone. This year..." He glanced at Gael. "On behalf of the brothers who follow you... you can't hide again."
Daemon smiled. "Rest assured. I won't."
The horn blew. Lyonel charged, aiming for the gap in Daemon's pauldron.
Daemon leaned forward, bringing his lance across his body to block.
CLANG! Sparks flew.
Lyonel tried to push through, but Daemon's arm was immovable stone. In a split second, Daemon twisted his lance, flicking Lyonel's tip upward. Lyonel lost balance, nearly falling, but Daemon grabbed his belt and steadied him.
"You lost, Lyonel."
Lyonel exhaled and bowed. "Strong and merciful. I concede."
Baelon smiled at Jaehaerys. "Father, look at him. He grows more like Aemon every day."
Jaehaerys nodded, silver hair shining. "He is steadier than Aemon was at that age. He understands duty."
The Final: The Duel of Dragons.
Daemon Targaryen rode up to Daemon Blackfyre. His eyes burned with faux annoyance. "Little Daemon. Last year you won the joust. This year, I won't let you! Show me your full strength! Don't let me catch you holding back!"
Daemon didn't speak. He adjusted his grip.
He felt The Cannibal's gaze, saw Gael's nervousness. He couldn't lose. Not for Baelon, but for the Winter Child waiting for him.
The horn blew. Daemon Targaryen charged.
He was fast, lance aimed at the chest, red cloak burning like fire.
Daemon met him. CRACK! The lances collided with a deafening boom.
Daemon Targaryen was strong today; Daemon's arm went numb, but he held on.
Both passed without falling.
Second pass. Daemon Targaryen changed tactics, aiming for the horse.
Daemon anticipated it. He pulled the reins; his horse reared, dodging the lance. Daemon Targaryen missed and nearly fell.
Otto Hightower frowned in the stands. "This Black Dragon is getting harder to control." Lyonel Strong said nothing, eyes fixed on the field.
Third pass. The Rogue Prince was getting impatient. His lance wavered.
Daemon saw the opening. He drew Blackfyre. The ruby on the hilt caught the sun, flashing a beam of light into Daemon Targaryen's eyes.
The Rogue Prince blinked. In that instant, Daemon's lance tip was pressed against his pauldron.
"Brother. You lost." Daemon's voice was quiet but absolute.
Daemon Targaryen stopped his horse, looking at the lance. His face flushed, but he nodded. "I lost. Didn't expect you to be this good..."
The arena exploded. Flowers and hats rained down.
The Cannibal roared, black flame painting the sky. Dreamfyre answered, blue wings sweeping over the crowd.
Daemon dismounted. He took the laurel wreath from the herald—woven of golden roses and northern bluebells, strung with pearls.
He walked toward the pale violet figure.
Gael stood there, clutching her handkerchief, tears in her eyes.
The crowd parted. Rhaenys smiled. Jocelyn wiped her eyes. "If Aemon could see this..."
Daemon knelt before Gael. He looked up into her red-rimmed eyes.
"Aunt Gael. I didn't hide this time."
Gael's tears fell. She touched his cheek.
Daemon placed the crown gently on her head. The golden petals brushed her face.
Cheers erupted. Baelon nodded. Jaehaerys stood, beaming.
"My Little Aunt, my Winter Child," Daemon whispered. "From now on, I will always be with you."
Gael nodded, choking back a sob. "I know."
Then, King Jaehaerys's voice boomed across the field, amplified by horns.
The Old King stood at the railing, leaning on his cane.
"My people! My lords! My family!"
Silence fell.
"Today's contest is not just a sport, but a witness. We have seen the honor of knights, the power of dragons, and the future of Westeros."
He paused, his gaze sharp. "Fifty years I have ruled. Rebellion, plague, famine... I never gave up. Because we Targaryens are not just dragonriders, but protectors of this land."
"My son Aemon died for peace. My son Baelon works day and night for stability. My grandson Little Daemon tours the realm to quell unrest. They guard Westeros in their own ways."
"Nobles and smallfolk, we all wish for peace."
He looked at Daemon and Gael. "Today, my grandson crowns my daughter the Queen of Love and Beauty. This is not just affection, but a promise—to protect each other, and this land."
"May the Dragon's fire guard us forever!"
The dragons roared in unison—Vermithor, Silverwing, The Cannibal, Dreamfyre, Caraxes, Meleys. The sound shook the earth and stirred the blood.
"Long live the King! Long live the True Dragon! Long live House Targaryen!" the crowd screamed.
Daemon held Gael's hand, looking up at the sky.
Sunlight, dragon song, cheers.
He knew this was just the beginning. He would protect Gael, House Targaryen, and this land. He would stop the Dance, fight the Others, and bring true peace.
Gael leaned on his shoulder. "It's wonderful."
Daemon kissed her forehead. "It will get better."
From the hills, The Cannibal roared again, wings spread wide—a blessing, and an eternal promise to the future.