Alicent Hightower (110 A.C. Third Moon)
King's Landing - Queen's chambers
Alicent smiled faintly as she studied herself in the mirror.
The gown had been worth the effort.
Deep green silk clung neatly to her figure before falling into heavy skirts around her feet, the fabric richly decorated with curling patterns of silver thread that caught the morning light whenever she moved. Upon her breast stood the Hightower of Oldtown, carefully stitched into the green, while upon each shoulder a red three-headed dragon had been embroidered into the cloth.
Her father's house upon her breast.
Her sons' blood upon her shoulders.
It was not an accident.
Nothing about what she wore today had been left to chance.
Alicent slowly turned before the mirror, watching the skirts move with her. Rhaenyra had always known how to command a room without appearing to try. Silver hair, violet eyes, the blood of Old Valyria written plainly across her features. Even when dressed simply, people looked at her. They always had.
Today, Alicent intended to make them look elsewhere.
Today, when she entered the throne room, she wanted every lord, knight, lady, and courtier to see the queen before they saw the princess.
She wanted Rhaenyra to see it as well.
Alicent placed one hand upon the swell of her belly, still small enough that the shape could be concealed beneath looser clothing, though the dress she had chosen made no attempt to hide it.
That, too, was deliberate.
She was with child again.
For once, the knowledge did not sit heavily upon her heart.
She had loved every one of her children from the moment they were placed in her arms, but the circumstances surrounding their births had always been more complicated. Duty had followed her into Viserys's bed from the beginning. Duty to her father, duty to her husband, duty to the realm, and duty to the children who depended upon her.
Yet this time she found herself grateful.
Another child.
Another brother or sister for Gaemon.
Another branch upon the tree she was determined to protect.
Her fingers spread gently over her stomach.
Gaemon was still young, but Alicent could already see a sharpness in him that filled her with pride. He seem to listen when adults assumed he was not listening, remembered things that surprised his tutors, and watched the world with a seriousness beyond his years. Perhaps every mother believed her son exceptional, but Alicent did not care.
She believed Gaemon would make a good king.
More importantly, she believed he had the right to become one.
Rhaenyra had been named heir before Viserys had a living son. That had been the truth of it, regardless of how often people pretended otherwise. Now the king had sons, yet the court was expected to behave as though nothing had changed.
Alicent could no longer accept that.
Not after everything that had happened between herself and Rhaenyra.
Not after the lies.
Not after the trust between them had been broken.
There had been a time when Alicent would have defended Rhaenyra without hesitation. She had loved her once as closely as one sister might love another. She had trusted her words and believed that whatever happened within the Red Keep, Rhaenyra would never willingly place Alicent or her children in danger.
She was no longer certain of that.
Worse, she did not trust the people who gathered around Rhaenyra.
Even if Rhaenyra herself never wished Gaemon harm, what of the men who wanted her securely upon the throne? What would they say when Viserys was dead and the realm was forced to choose between his named daughter and his eldest son?
Would they simply accept Gaemon's existence?
Would they allow him to grow to manhood, marry, have sons of his own, and remain forever as another possible king?
Alicent knew enough of history to understand how unlikely that was.
She would not place her children's lives in the hands of hope.
Her gaze returned to the mirror. "Bring me the tiara, the one with the emeralds and white quartz"
The maid bowed and crossed toward the carved wooden chest resting upon a side table.
Alicent smiled as she saw the tiara in the chest. A piece she rarely wore. It was an elaborate piece of silver and pale gold, rising higher than most of her other headpieces and shaped into delicate arches that intertwined above the brow. Emeralds sat between clusters of white gemstones, while several larger stones caught the light near the center. Fine chains of silver descended along the sides, disappearing partly into the careful arrangement of Alicent's auburn hair.
Her ladies gathered around her as the piece was lifted carefully from its velvet lining.
"Mind the hair," Alicent said.
They lowered the tiara onto her head and adjusted it until the central emerald rested directly above her brow.
For a moment, Alicent said nothing.
She merely looked.
The green gown was magnificent. The silver thread shimmered across it like frost beneath sunlight, while the red dragons stood proudly against the darker fabric. The tiara drew the eye upward, framing her face with green and white gems until even Alicent had to admit that she looked striking.
Not merely beautiful.
Regal.
One of her ladies smiled. "You look beautiful, my queen."
Alicent's mouth curved slightly.
She knew.
That was the point.
She wanted there to be no question when she entered the throne room today.
Rhaenyra might be the Realm's Delight.
Alicent was the queen.
She stood, allowing her ladies to smooth the back of her skirts while another adjusted the sleeves and checked the fall of the silver embroidery.
Alicent drew in a slow breath.
This was more than a dress.
She knew what green meant to those raised in Oldtown.
When the Hightower called its banners to war, the beacon atop the tower burned green.
Some within the court would understand immediately. Others would hear before the day was finished. Court gossip moved faster than ravens when given something worth whispering about.
Let them whisper.
Alicent was finished hiding what she believed.
Rhaenyra had made her choice.
Now Alicent would make hers.
"I am ready," she said.
The doors of her chambers opened.
Ser Rickard and her household guards waited beyond, who would accompany her toward the throne room.
Ser Rickard looked upon the dress and smiled. "You look gracious my queen."
Alicent smiled. "Thank Ser."
She walked slowly through the Red Keep.
There was no need to hurry.
Her entrance mattered.
The long corridors were already crowded with courtiers making their way toward the throne room, servants carrying messages, knights waiting upon their lords, and petitioners hoping to gain the king's attention. As Alicent passed, conversations softened and then stopped altogether.
Men bowed.
Women curtsied.
Heads turned after her. Let talk. Let them talk of the queen.
As arrived at throneroom she heard her husband faintly speak. He was giving his speech most doubt. She smiled and walked into the center of the door.
The throne room quieted almost at once.
Hundreds of heads turned.
Alicent stood in the center of the doorway.
For a heartbeat, she did nothing. She simply allowed them to look.
The green silk fell around her in rich folds, silver embroidery glimmering beneath the torchlight. The emeralds and white quartz of her elaborate tiara shone above her auburn hair, while the red three-headed dragons upon her shoulders stood starkly against the green.
Then the Hightowers rose.
Those of her family who had come to King's Landing for the wedding stood first, followed quickly by several of the Reach lords seated near them. Chairs scraped softly against the stone as more men and women came to their feet.
Alicent saw the recognition pass among them.
They understood.
The beacon of the Hightower burned green when Oldtown called its banners.
No proclamation was needed. No herald had to explain the meaning of the color she had chosen.
Alicent began to walk.
Others rose as she passed, some because they understood the message and others simply because their queen had entered the hall. The movement spread outward until nearly every guest was standing.
The hall had grown so quiet that Alicent could hear the soft whisper of her skirts against the stone.
She did not look toward Viserys yet.
Instead, she looked at Rhaenyra.
The princess stood near the king, dressed magnificently for the occasion, her silver hair arranged with all the care expected of the Realm's Delight.
Alicent had known Rhaenyra would be beautiful.
She had prepared for it.
Yet now the eyes of the hall were no longer upon the princess.
They were upon the queen.
A small satisfaction warmed Alicent as she continued toward the royal dais.
Alicent walked through the center of the hall as the gathered lords remained standing around her.
Only when she had nearly reached the royal dais did she finally turn her attention to Viserys.
Her husband stared at her.
For several moments, he appeared to have forgotten entirely what he had been saying.
Alicent stopped before him and dipped into a graceful curtsy.
"My king."
"Alicent," Viserys said, surprise still plain in his voice.
Then Alicent turned toward Rhaenyra.
Their eyes met.
Whatever warmth had once existed between them did not return.
Alicent offered her the proper smile of a queen greeting a princess of the blood, courteous enough that no one in the hall could accuse her of insult, yet cold enough that Rhaenyra would understand perfectly.
"Stepdaughter."
The word lingered between them.
Rhaenyra's expression tightened almost imperceptibly.
Alicent continued before she could answer.
"My congratulations to you, Princess."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Rhaenyra replied.
There was the smallest pause before the title.
Alicent noticed.
She suspected Rhaenyra had noticed the green as well. Her eyes had already travelled over the gown, lingering upon the Hightower upon Alicent's breast and the red dragons upon her shoulders. Whether she understood its full meaning yet, Alicent could not say.
But she would.
Alicent turned back toward Viserys.
"There is one other matter, husband, before you continue."
Viserys raised his brows.
A murmur moved through the hall.
Alicent rested one hand against her stomach.
That was all it took.
She watched Viserys's eyes fall toward the slight swell beneath her gown, and his expression transformed.
"Alicent?"
She smiled.
"I had intended to tell you privately, but I thought today an appropriate occasion for the realm to share in our happiness."
The hall seemed to hold its breath.
"I am with child."
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then the room erupted.
Whispers broke out among the tables and gathered courtiers. Some smiled openly, while others immediately turned toward their neighbors. A few of the Reach lords began applauding, and within moments the sound spread through the hall.
Viserys stared at her, astonishment giving way to delight.
"You are certain?"
"I am."
A broad smile crossed his face.
"My love, that is wonderful news."
He stepped toward her, placing a hand carefully against her arm before looking down once more at her belly.
Another child of the king.
Perhaps another son.
Alicent could almost feel the calculations beginning around the hall.
She looked toward Rhaenyra again.
The princess had remained where she stood.
For all the applause and congratulations surrounding them, there was no mistaking the significance of what Alicent had just done. She had entered dressed in the colors of her own house, interrupted the king before the assembled realm, forced the entire hall to rise for her, and announced that another royal child was growing within her.
Another possible son.
Another sibling for Gaemon.
Another reminder that Viserys had male heirs of his own body.
Alicent met Rhaenyra's eyes and held them for a moment.
Then she turned back to Viserys with a pleasant smile.
"But I have interrupted you long enough, husband."
She stepped toward her place beside him, arranging the heavy green skirts as she settled herself.
"Please," Alicent said, her voice carrying just far enough for those closest to hear. "Go on with your speech."
Viserys looked at her for a moment, almost as though he understood that something had happened beneath the surface of the celebration but could not quite grasp what it was.
Then he smiled and turned back toward the assembled guests.
Alicent sat straight beside him, one hand resting lightly upon her stomach.
Across the hall, whispers continued.
The Hightowers had understood.
Soon the rest would as well.
Rhaenyra might still be Viserys's chosen heir.
But Alicent had made certain that no one in that hall could forget who had given the king his sons.
Nor who intended to fight for them.
Gaemon Targaryen (110 A.C. Third Moon)
King's Landing - Tourney Grounds, The Grand Melee
Gaemon sat upon his mother's lap and tried not to squirm.
It was a surprisingly difficult task.
There were indignities involved in being an adult trapped within the body of a small child that he had never properly appreciated until living through them. Being carried everywhere ranked highly among them. Having someone decide when he should sleep was worse. Sitting upon his mother's lap before half the nobility of Westeros while dressed in an embroidered little doublet might have been somewhere between the two.
At least Alicent was comfortable.
His mother had one arm wrapped loosely around his waist, keeping him securely against her as she watched the tourney grounds below. Every so often, her fingers moved absently through his pale hair, a gesture she seemed to perform without realizing it.
Gaemon tolerated it.
There were worse places to sit.
The stands surrounding the field were crowded with nobles, knights, ladies, merchants, household retainers, and anyone wealthy or fortunate enough to gain a place for the final day of the wedding celebrations. Banners stirred above them in the breeze, while the sand below had already been scarred by boots and churned beneath the feet of dozens of armored men.
The wedding itself was done.
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Laenor Velaryon were married.
Gaemon looked toward his elder half-sister.
Rhaenyra sat close to her new husband, appearing far more relaxed than she had during some of the earlier festivities. Laenor leaned toward her as they spoke quietly, and whatever he said drew a smile from her.
Gaemon wondered how long that ease would last.
Their marriage was politically sensible. Perhaps more sensible than either of them appreciated. The Velaryons possessed wealth, ships, dragons, and Valyrian blood. Rhaenyra brought the Iron Throne.
On parchment, it was almost perfect.
Reality had a habit of being less cooperative.
And Gaemon knew better than most how badly reality could unravel.
He had known this story long before he had opened his eyes in this small body. Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon would marry, and then would come three boys who looked nothing like their supposed father. Jacaerys. Lucerys. Joffrey.
Strong boys.
Bastards, whatever courtly lies were wrapped around them.
At least, that was how the history he remembered had gone.
Gaemon studied Rhaenyra for a moment longer.
Would she still do it?
That question had been troubling him more often lately.
History had already changed in ways both small and large. People were not exactly as the chronicles had described them, and events did not always fall neatly into the places he remembered. Knowing what had happened once did not mean he knew what would happen now.
Perhaps Rhaenyra would surprise him.
Perhaps she and Laenor would manage to produce children of their own blood.
Yet Gaemon knew desire and reason rarely walked hand in hand.
Harwin Strong was still here.
That alone made him uneasy.
He wondered whether Rhaenyra would eventually seek him out, whether three dark-haired boys would still be born, and whether the realm would once again be expected to look upon them and pretend not to see what stood plainly before their eyes.
It had always struck Jon as one of Rhaenyra's greatest political mistakes.
Not that she had loved another man. Kings, princes, and lords had lovers enough throughout history. Few cared so long as the consequences remained private.
But heirs were never private.
The moment those children stood in line for the Iron Throne and Driftmark, their births became a matter for the entire realm.
Gaemon shifted slightly against his mother.
Perhaps Rhaenyra would learn.
That interested him almost as much as whether the boys would be born.
The histories he knew had never been kind to her rule. Even allowing for the hatred of maesters, enemies, and men uncomfortable with a woman upon the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra had made terrible decisions once King's Landing was hers. Grief had consumed her. Suspicion had poisoned her. By the end, whatever promise the young Realm's Delight had once possessed seemed almost entirely gone.
But that Rhaenyra had suffered through war.
She had lost children.
Friends.
Dragons.
Almost everything.
Gaemon knew well enough what grief could do to a person.
Jon Snow had not always made wise choices either.
That thought made him hesitate before judging her too harshly.
Perhaps the better question was not whether Rhaenyra would become the woman remembered by history.
Perhaps it was whether she could become someone else.
She was still young. She had years before Viserys died, if events followed anything close to the history Gaemon remembered. Years in which she could learn how to govern rather than merely expecting to inherit. Years to understand that being named heir and being accepted as queen were two very different things.
Would she listen to counsel?
Would she learn to compromise when compromise was necessary and stand firm when it was not?
Would she understand that ruling meant more than having the stronger claim?
Gaemon did not know.
Part of him wanted her to succeed.
She was his sister now, however strange that still felt.
Another part of him could not forget what her claim meant for him and his siblings.
Especially for him.
If Rhaenyra became queen and her position remained uncertain, every living son of Viserys would become a threat, whether they wished to be or not. He needed to see if he could align himself with her, perhaps even marry a daughter of hers if Laenor and Rhaenyra did their duty. If they did, perhaps it could even change the gender of one of the children he remembered from history.
He did not want to think about it, but he cared for Aegon, Helaena, and his mother. He would make damn sure they were protected. He would not lose them as he had lost his previous kin.
The pain of Robb's death and that of his uncle still ached in his heart. Even the deaths of his mother, father, and half-siblings left a faint ache, despite the fact that he had never truly known them.
He would even take the crown if Rhaenyra gave him enough reason to.
He sighed as his attention shifted toward his father when Viserys rose. Not that he saw the man as one. That was the title his uncle held; even Rhaegar he held higher in that regard. Viserys was a man he didn't like, and did not spend time with, and only seemed to use his mother for sex. Viserys was a fool who didn't see what was happening with his family.
The noise surrounding the tourney grounds gradually faded.
"My lords, my ladies, people of the Seven Kingdoms," the king began, his voice carrying across the stands. "I welcome you today to the final day of my daughter's wedding celebrations. Princess Rhaenyra, your future queen, is now joined to Ser Laenor Velaryon, heir to Driftmark."
Gaemon watched the crowd.
Most listened respectfully.
Some smiled.
Others were already looking toward the melee grounds, clearly more interested in violence than speeches.
Gaemon could hardly blame them.
"May their union be fruitful and happy," Viserys continued, "and may it bring forth many children of the blood of Old Valyria."
That drew applause.
Gaemon glanced toward Rhaenyra.
Her smile faltered for only a moment.
Interesting.
He wondered whether anyone else had noticed.
Probably not.
He had learned quickly that adults rarely expected children to observe anything of importance. It was one of the few advantages his present condition afforded him. Lords discussed politics within earshot of him. Ladies whispered about affairs, marriages, and rivalries while he played nearby. Servants ignored him altogether.
After all, what could a little prince understand?
Quite a lot, as it happened.
Viserys raised his cup.
"Now, let us end this happy occasion with the Grand Melee!"
The cheering began almost before he finished.
Gaemon winced.
His ears had not yet learned to appreciate several hundred grown men roaring at once.
Alicent felt him move and glanced down.
"Too loud?"
Gaemon shook his head.
"No."
The word came out softer and less dignified than he intended.
His mother smiled and kissed the crown of his head.
Wonderful.
A grown man in the body of a toddler, being kissed because loud noises might frighten him.
Gaemon looked back toward the field before his expression betrayed his irritation.
Beside Rhaenyra, Laenor kissed her hand.
"Did you give our champion our favor?" Rhaenyra asked.
"Of course. One of our joined colors," Laenor replied before pressing another kiss against her fingers. "Thank you."
"No need to thank me. We are to be a family, and we have to look out for one another."
Rhaenyra leaned over and kissed his cheek.
Gaemon watched them carefully.
There was genuine affection there.
Not the sort expected between husband and wife, perhaps, but affection nonetheless.
That might prove more valuable.
Below them, steel began to clash.
The grand melee had begun.
Men rushed toward one another across the sand in a chaos of shields, swords, axes, maces, and blunted weapons. The first collisions sent several knights sprawling almost immediately.
Gaemon leaned forward despite himself.
Now this was considerably more interesting.
His mother tightened her arm slightly around him.
"Careful."
Gaemon settled back against her.
On the field, one knight immediately drew his attention.
Ser Joffrey Lonmouth.
The Knight of Kisses wore a helmet crowned with yellow plumes, with engravings of a skull and lips worked into either cheekpiece. Beneath it, he wore plate and mail, along with a surcoat displaying the colors of House Velaryon.
Laenor's champion.
And considerably more than that, if the rumors Gaemon had heard and read about were true.
Joffrey met his first opponent near the edge of the fighting.
House Darry.
Gaemon recognized the black plowman upon brown almost immediately.
The Darry knight struck first, bringing his sword down toward Joffrey's shoulder. Joffrey caught the blow upon his shield, twisted his body, and shoved the shield violently outward.
The movement forced the Darry knight's sword arm aside.
Joffrey struck at once.
His blade slammed into the side of the man's helmet with enough force to send him stumbling several steps to his left. Before the knight could recover, Joffrey drove a boot into his chest.
The Darry knight fell heavily onto his back.
Joffrey stepped onto his sword before he could lift it again and lowered his own blade toward the knight's throat.
He said something.
Gaemon could not hear it over the clattering of armor and the shouting of the crowd.
Whatever the words were, the Darry knight released his weapon.
One defeated.
Gaemon smiled faintly.
Efficient.
Not brilliant, perhaps, but efficient.
His attention was drawn elsewhere by the crash of metal.
Ser Criston Cole, the man his mother had apparently given her favor to, was a surprise. To many, Ser Criston was still Rhaenyra's sworn shield. Yet when Gaemon saw the man, his smile vanished.
The smile vanished from Gaemon's face.
There was something wrong with him.
Criston moved through the melee with a morningstar in hand, and unlike most of the knights below, he did not seem to be enjoying himself.
He was angry.
No.
Angry was too mild.
He looked furious.
Gaemon watched as Criston swung the weapon into the side of another knight. The heavy head crashed against armor with enough force to throw the man sideways. He struck the ground and remained there, clutching his ribs.
Even from the royal stands, Gaemon could see the violence behind the blow.
This was supposed to be sport.
Men would be injured. Bones would break. Perhaps someone would even die through accident or stupidity. That was the nature of these events.
But Criston was fighting as if every man before him had personally wronged him.
Gaemon followed him with his eyes.
Something had happened.
His gaze moved toward Rhaenyra.
The princess was watching Criston as well.
There.
That was interesting.
Gaemon did not know everything that had passed between his sister and the Kingsguard knight, but he knew enough to understand there had been something between them, especially if he went by the text he remembered. Either Ser Criston had spurned Rhaenyra or Rhaenyra had spurned him, and caused him to fall out of favor with each other.
A roar from the crowd drew his attention back toward Joffrey.
The Knight of Kisses had found another opponent.
This one was difficult to miss.
The man was enormous, broad across the shoulders, and wielded a great axe with both hands. The white sunburst upon black and the presence of the Stark direwolf among his decorations marked him clearly enough as a Karstark.
Rhaenyra laughed softly.
"A Northman, my love. Will Joffrey win against a big Karstark like that?"
"Of course, dear," Laenor replied confidently.
Gaemon was less certain.
The Karstark swung.
Joffrey moved.
The great axe cut through empty air where he had stood a heartbeat earlier. Joffrey rolled aside and rose with his sword already prepared.
Gaemon found himself impressed.
Fast.
The Karstark roared and charged.
Joffrey waited until the final moment before stepping aside. His sword flashed across the Northman's back as the larger man stumbled past.
The blow did little against the armor, but that was not its purpose.
It irritated him.
The Karstark spun around with a growl and brought his axe down.
Joffrey caught it upon his shield.
The impact drove him backward through the sand.
Gaemon felt Alicent tense beneath him.
His mother did not much care for melees.
He had noticed that already.
The Karstark attacked again.
Joffrey gave ground, circling rather than meeting strength with strength. The larger man followed him, growing increasingly frustrated as each heavy swing either struck shield or empty air.
Then Joffrey feinted.
The Karstark took the bait.
His axe swept outward in a broad horizontal strike.
Joffrey slipped inside his reach and slammed the flat of his sword against the Northman's ribs.
The Karstark grunted and dropped to one knee.
Joffrey's sword was at his throat before he could rise.
"Yield."
The Northman glared at him.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then the Karstark dropped his axe.
The crowd erupted.
"Knight of Kisses!"
"Knight of Kisses!"
"Knight of Kisses!"
Gaemon heard Laenor cheering beside Rhaenyra.
Joffrey lifted his sword toward the royal stands.
Then something changed.
Gaemon saw Criston walking toward him.
Not rushing.
Not charging.
Walking.
His morningstar hung loosely from one hand.
The expression upon his face made Gaemon straighten.
Oh, no.
Even with an adult mind, there were moments when being trapped inside the body of a child became particularly frustrating.
He could see what was happening.
He could understand what was happening.
And there was very little he could do about it.
Rhaenyra seemed to realize it as well.
She was no longer smiling.
Joffrey turned toward Criston.
For whatever reason, he smiled.
"Ser Criston," he called. "Shall we dance?"
Criston did not answer.
Gaemon stared at the Kingsguard.
Walk away, you fool, as you knew Ser Joffrey would not survive this clash.
Criston lunged.
The morningstar swept outward in a savage arc.
Joffrey barely managed to raise his shield before the weapon struck.
The impact drove him backward.
Gaemon heard several people gasp.
Joffrey recovered quickly and lifted his sword.
Criston attacked again.
And again.
There was no hesitation in him.
No restraint.
The morningstar battered against Joffrey's shield with enough force that the other man could barely keep his footing.
Gaemon's stomach tightened.
This was not a melee anymore.
Everyone could see it.
The crowd was quieter now.
Rhaenyra leaned forward. "Stop it!"
Criston ignored her.
Joffrey tried to move around him, but Criston struck with his shield and sent him stumbling backward. Before Joffrey could properly recover, the morningstar crashed into his side.
Joffrey cried out.
Gaemon saw Laenor rise halfway from his seat.
Criston struck him again.
The blow landed against the opposite side of Joffrey's armor with a sickening sound.
The Knight of Kisses collapsed onto the sand.
For several heartbeats, nobody moved.
Gaemon stared.
Why was no one stopping this?
There were Kingsguard nearby. Household knights. Guards.
Perhaps the confusion of the melee had delayed them.
Perhaps no one quite understood what they were seeing.
Or perhaps the white cloak protected Criston even now.
Joffrey tried to push himself upward.
Criston stepped closer.
Rhaenyra rose. "Ser Criston, enough!"
Gaemon felt his mother suddenly shift beneath him.
Alicent sat straighter, one arm tightening protectively around him as the mood of the entire tourney ground changed.
Criston lifted the morningstar again.
Gaemon knew where it would land before the weapon began to descend.
It crashed into Joffrey's shoulder. "Aagh!"
His scream carried even above the noise of the crowd.
Laenor surged to his feet. "He's down, stop the fight!"
Gaemon looked toward Viserys.
Whom had risen as well.
The king's face had hardened.
"In the name of the king, Ser Criston, lay down your arms!"
That finally reached him.
Criston froze.
For several seconds, Gaemon wondered whether the knight might actually ignore the king.
Then the morningstar slowly lowered.
Joffrey remained sprawled upon the sand, gasping for breath. Blood had begun to stain the ground beneath him, and one arm lay strangely beside his body.
Gaemon watched Criston.
The fury seemed to drain from the knight almost as suddenly as it had appeared.
Criston stared down at Joffrey.
Then at the weapon in his own hand.
It was the expression of a man waking from a nightmare only to discover that everything he remembered doing in the dream had actually happened.
Around them, the tourney grounds had fallen nearly silent.
Gaemon felt his mother's fingers tighten against him.
Laenor was already pushing past those seated beside him, desperate to reach Joffrey. Rhaenyra stood pale and rigid, staring down at the wounded man before her gaze shifted slowly toward Criston.
Gaemon followed it.
Ser Criston Cole stood alone amid the sand and scattered fighters, his white cloak hanging behind him and his morningstar lowered at his side.
Gaemon had seen anger before.
He had seen men lose control before.
This had been something different.
Something personal.
His gaze moved from Criston to Rhaenyra and then toward Joffrey.
There were pieces here he did not yet possess.
But he understood one thing perfectly well.
Whatever had happened between his sister, Ser Criston, and the Knight of Kisses had just ceased to be a private matter.
Half the realm had seen the consequences.
Gaemon leaned back against his mother and remained very still.
For once, no one would think anything strange of a little boy silently watching the adults around him.
That suited him just fine.
He had much to think about.