The sun hung high over the King's Landing tourney grounds, a merciless golden eye watching the collision of two eras. The air was a thick soup of dust, horse sweat, and the metallic tang of anticipation. Thousands of spectators sat in a silence so brittle it felt as though a single shout might shatter the foundations of the Red Keep itself.
On one end of the lists sat Daemon Blackfyre. He was more than a man in that moment; he was a living legend even I sometimes charmed by him. His destrier, a massive stallion of midnight black, tossed its head, sensing the hunger of its rider. Daemon's armor was a masterpiece of the smith's craft, reflecting the sun with such intensity that it blinded those who looked too long. He held the sword Blackfyre—not for the tilt, but sheathed at his hip—a constant reminder of the King's favor.
On the other end sat my father, Baelor. He was the "Dornish" Prince to the haters in the stands, a man whose blood was seen as a dilution of the dragon's purity. But as he sat atop his white destrier, the dark, polished ironwood of the Dornish rondel shield strapped to his arm, he looked like a wall of obsidian.
The herald stepped forward, his voice cracking the silence. "The final tilt! Prince Baelor of House Targaryen! Daemon of House Blackfyre!"
The horns sounded. A low, guttural moan rose from the crowd—a sound of primal excitement.
For the smallfolks this is rare moment of seeing dragons fight against each other.
For the Nobles it is opportunity to test which side is stronger.
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The two riders spurred their mounts simultaneously. The ground groaned under the rhythmic thunder of hooves. As they neared the center of the lists, Daemon leveled his lance with the grace of a dancer. He aimed for the center of Baelor's chest, the traditional point of impact meant to unhorse a man through sheer kinetic force.
My father did not brace for the impact in the traditional way. As Daemon's lance-tip neared, Baelor gave a subtle tug on the reins and shifted his weight. Instead of meeting the lance head-on, he angled the rounded Dornish shield.
The impact was a sharp, screeching crack.
Because of the shield's curvature and the copper rim, Daemon's lance didn't find purchase. It skidded across the dark ironwood, redirected harmlessly into the air. The crowd let out a shocked "Ooh!" Daemon, used to the dead-stop impact of a heater shield, swayed in his saddle, his momentum momentarily betrayed by the lack of resistance.
Baelor's own lance struck Daemon's shoulder, a solid hit that shattered the wood into a thousand splinters, but the Black Dragon kept his seat, his core strength as formidable as the myths claimed.
They passed one another, wheeling their horses at the far ends of the lists.
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The Second Tilt
"He's angry now," I whispered, my voice lost in the roar.
I could see it in the way Daemon handled his horse. The easy arrogance had vanished, replaced by a cold, focused lethalness. He took a fresh lance from his squire—a heavy, thick shaft of ash.
They charged again.
This time, Daemon didn't aim for the shield. He aimed for Baelor's helmet, a "high-risk" move intended to snap the neck back or daze the opponent. It was a killer's aim.
My father saw the tip rising. He didn't duck. Instead, he used the lightness of the rondel to punch upward. It was a maneuver learned from the sands of the Red Mountains—using the shield as a weapon of deflection rather than a wall.
The copper rim caught the underside of Daemon's lance just as it reached Baelor's visor. The lance was jerked upward, flying over Baelor's head. But Daemon was fast—terrifyingly fast. As his lance was deflected, he threw his shoulder into the pass. The two horses slammed together with a sickening thud of horseflesh and plate armor.
Baelor reeled. His left stirrup snapped. For a heart-stopping second, he hovered on the edge of the saddle, the white horse whinnying in distress. The Reachmen loyal to Daemon's faction surged to their feet, cheering quietly for the fall.
But my father was a man of the Marches. He gripped the horse's mane with his free hand, his thighs locking like iron bands around the animal's ribs. He stayed upright.
The silence that followed was heavy with the realization that the "Golden Prince" had failed to end it in two passes.
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Hey Sorry for irregular updates as I am busy in my exams. I have very little time to write something. So please be patient I'll be back on schedule by the end of the next week.
Thanks for reading this chapter