Bonus 150 Stones
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The Royal Box.
Inside the royal box, Aegon stood frozen, as if he had finally been jolted awake.
He looked at his wife, a girl younger than him, yet far more mature.
With her silver hair and blue eyes, she possessed a startling beauty, but it was her mind that truly shone.
She had used the Rogare fortune to secure courtiers and her wit to navigate the treacherous waters of King's Landing on his behalf.
"Aelyn..." Aegon said, his voice tinged with guilt.
"I don't need you to become a master overnight," Aelyn said softly.
"But I need you to stand up. Just once. Even if it's just for show, let the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms see that the Greens have more than just Aemond. Let them see the eldest son, Aegon Targaryen, their future King."
She paused, then added:
"I've arranged everything for you. You will enter the lists against a minor knight from the Westerlands. He will lose to you at exactly the right moment, but the display will look spectacular. You only need to... sit on your horse, grip the lance, and stay in the saddle."
Aegon remained silent for a long time.
He watched the field, where two knights were currently charging, lances clashing, wood splinters flying.
The cheers rose and fell like the tide.
"Fine," he said with sudden resolve.
Aelyn's eyes lit up. She stood on her tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.
"Go get ready. I've had your armor brought, the set made of Qohorik silver-steel. It's light and offers the best protection. You will look... very handsome."
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Prince Aemond's Pavilion.
In the rest area on the east side of the field, temporary silk pavilions divided the space into private quarters.
Aemond's pavilion was the largest, carpeted and laid out with fruit, cheese, and wine.
He had just removed his breastplate and sat in his quilted gambeson, wiping his face with a damp cloth.
Squires were busy checking his armor and tack to ensure nothing would fail in the next tilt.
The curtain was pulled aside, and Helaena walked in.
She had changed into a lighter silver-blue gown, her hair in a simple braid over her shoulder.
She carried a silver tray with a cup of chilled lemon water and a few almond biscuits.
"Mother sent me," she said softly.
"She said you were sweating a lot and needed to drink some water."
Aemond took the cup and drained it in one go.
He picked up a biscuit, snapped it in half, and handed one piece to Helaena.
"Eat with me."
Helaena took it, nibbling at the edge. Her eyes never left Aemond's face.
"You were very impressive just now."
"It was alright. Lances aren't my specialty."
"The people were cheering for you."
"People love a spectacle," Aemond replied.
"They cheer for me today because I won. If someone were to beat me, they would cheer for them instead. People are naturally drawn to power."
Helaena smiled sweetly, her voice full of pride.
"That's different. In my heart, you will always be the strongest. No one can compare to you."
Just then, a squire's voice came from outside.
"Your Grace, the Hand, Lord Tyland, seeks an audience."
Aemond and Helaena shared a look. Helaena rose immediately.
"I'll head back to the box. Mother needs help looking after Baleon and Daena."
As she left, Tyland Lannister entered.
The younger brother of the Lord of Casterly Rock and the current Hand of the King wore a crimson robe embroidered with golden lions.
He bowed slightly.
"Your Grace, I hope I'm not disturbing your rest."
"Not at all, Lord Hand," Aemond gestured to the chair opposite him.
"Business?"
Tyland sat and unfurled a thick roll of parchment.
It was covered in names, Houses, and brief annotations.
"This is the roster for the future Royal Guard," Tyland said.
"Per your request, we have only admitted noble sons between the ages of eighteen and thirty who are healthy and have basic military training. We have received over a thousand applications from across the Seven Kingdoms, though the distribution is somewhat... uneven."
Aemond took the list, scanning the names.
"Very few from the North," he noted, tapping the sparse sections for the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands.
"The Riverlands aren't too bad, at least the Brackens and Vances have sent men," Tyland noted diplomatically.
"But the Vale and the North... not a single one. Traditionally, they are more sympathetic to Princess Rhaenyra. Their current stance is ambiguous."
"Ambiguous?" Aemond chuckled.
"It doesn't matter. As long as we consolidate the South."
His finger traced the dense lists from the Reach, the Westerlands, the Stormlands, and the Crownlands.
"The Tyrells sent no one?"
"The old Lord Tyrell sent a messenger saying he is unwell. He sent his well wishes for the tourney but said his family members prefer to remain in service to Highgarden." Tyland's voice held a hint of mockery.
"However, his vassals, the Redwynes, Hightowers, Peakes, Rowans, they are all here. And they've sent heirs or high-ranking scions."
"And the Baratheons?"
"Lord Borros himself did not come, though many of his vassals did. As for the Lord himself..." Tyland paused.
"Word is he has been frequently receiving messengers from Dragonstone lately."
A cold light flickered in Aemond's eye, but he said nothing. Suddenly, his finger stopped.
"What is this?"
Tyland leaned in. Aemond was pointing to five names at the very end of the list, all marked as members of House Velaryon.
"Ah, those," Tyland explained.
"They are the family members of Vaemond Velaryon, the ones the King ordered to have their tongues removed but their lives spared. They have voluntarily applied to join the Royal Guard."
Aemond stared at the five names. He remembered the stubborn old man, Vaemond.
If the "Sea Snake's" direct line was to be purged, these "Silent Five" could be used to inherit House Velaryon as puppets.
Tyland bowed and took his leave.
Aemond sat alone, re-reading the list. Each name was a statement.
Those who sent heirs were betting everything on the Greens. Those who sent second sons were merely hedging their bets.
He looked at the Reach again. If the Tyrells remained indecisive, he would use the post-war settlement to carve up their lands, dividing the Reach into East and West, giving a portion to the loyal Hightowers and annexing the rest into the Crownlands.
Suddenly, Captain Hal pulled back the curtain.
"Your Grace, Prince Aegon has entered the lists. He... he won?"
Aemond raised an eyebrow and set down the list.
Out on the field, Aegon Targaryen sat atop a white destrier, a pristine lance in his hand.
His opponent, a minor Westerman, had been unhorsed in the very first pass.
The knight scrambled up, removed his helm, bowed to the Prince, and conceded to the judges.
Aegon raised his lance, saluting the crowd. The sunlight glinted off his Qohorik silver-steel armor, and his silver hair flowed from beneath his helm.
From a distance, he looked every bit the heroic warrior.
The cheers followed. The commoners screamed "Aegon!" while the nobles clapped with polite enthusiasm.
Most of the knights saw through the easy victory; it was a choreographed tilt, but they had the decency not to say it aloud.
In the royal box, Aelyn Rogar stood with her hands clasped to her chest, her face full of undisguised pride.
Beside her, Queen Alicent and King Viserys also rose to applaud their eldest son.
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