189 AC , kingsLanding
Its been two years since the tourney and from that day my father is known as Baelor Breakspear.
Though winning the tourney help us to show the realm that we are the legimate ruler. But Daemon was still a problem to the Targaryen.
I entered the hall of small council The air in the Small Council chamber was thick with the scent of old parchment, beeswax, and the underlying tension that had become a permanent resident of the Red Keep since the wedding tourney. Sunlight slanted through the narrow windows, illuminating dust motes that danced over the Great Table like tiny, chaotic armies.
My grandfather, King Daeron II, sat at the head. He looked tired. The "bloat" people whispered about was less of gluttony and more the heavy swelling of a man burdened by a crown that felt heavier with every passing moon. To his right sat my father, Baelor—now universally called Breakspear—his dark hair silvering slightly at the temples, his face a mask of Dornish stoicism.
Opposite them sat Brynden Rivers, known as Bloodraven. His pale skin and the stark red raven's feather birthmark on his neck made him look more like a ghost than a man. His one red eye was fixed on a pile of reports.
"He won at Lannisport," Bloodraven said, his voice a dry rasp that commanded immediate silence. "Three days ago. He unhorsed Lord Lannister's prized champion and three Frey knights. Before that, it was Highgarden. Before that, Bitterbridge."
"He is a knight, Brynden," the King said, rubbing his temples. "It is the nature of knights to joust. Daemon has always loved the tilt."
"He isn't just jousting, Your Grace," I interrupted, leaning forward. My voice had dropped an octave in the two years since the tourney, gaining a resonance that demanded attention. "He is campaigning. Every time he drops a knight in the dirt, he isn't just winning a purse of gold. He's winning a soul. He's showing them the 'Warrior' made flesh, while we sit here in the shadows of the Red Keep dealing with tax decrees and grain riots."
Lord Hayford, the Master of Laws, cleared his throat. He was a man of high collars and narrow mindsets. "Prince Valarr is young, but he is not wrong. The whispers in the street have changed. They don't talk about the 'Dornish Shield' anymore. They talk about the 'King Who Bore the Sword.' They say your victory, Prince Baelor, was a fluke of 'Southron sorcery,' while Daemon's streak of victories is a sign of divine favor."
Baelor Breakspear's hand tightened on the table. "A fluke? I broke his lance and his pride. If they wish to call a solid tilt 'sorcery,' let them. But Daemon's influence is growing, that much I concede."
"It's more than influence," Bloodraven snapped, flicking a parchment across the table toward the King. "Look at the guest lists for his victory feasts. Lord Peake is always at his right hand. Eustace Osgrey is whispering in his ear. Even the Brackens are sending 'gifts' of fine horses. Aegor Rivers is the architect. He's traveling the realm, stitching together a shroud to bury us in."
The room grew colder. The name Aegor Rivers—Bittersteel—always had that effect.
"We should forbid him from entering further tourneys," I suggested. "Limit his movement. Assert the Royal Prerogative."
"And make him a martyr?" My father shook his head. "No, Valarr. To ban the 'hero of the commons' from the lists is to admit we fear him. A King who fears his subject has already lost his crown."
"Then we must overshadow him," I countered. "We need more than just one 'Breakspear.' We need the realm to see that the Targaryen line is fertile, strong, and growing. My mother has given birth to my brother, Matarys. The line is secure."
Lord Hayford smiled thinly, trying to pivot the conversation to lighter ground. "Indeed, a joyous occasion, Prince Baelor. And speaking of fertility... the scrolls from the Great Bastard's holdings suggest that Daemon's wife, Rohanne of Tyrosh, is once again heavy with child. Her seventh, I believe. The man breeds dragons as fast as he wins tourneys."
The King sighed, a sound of genuine exhaustion. "Seven. Gods. He has a brood that could fill a garrison."
"And every son he has is another reason for the lords to rally," Bloodraven noted, his red eye glinting. "Every boy is a potential 'Prince' in the eyes of the dissidents. They see a sprawling family of silver-haired warriors and compare it to... well..."
He didn't finish the sentence, but his gaze drifted to the King's scholarly appearance and my own dark hair. The "Dornish" look was a stain in the eyes of the Reach and the Stormlands, one they used to justify their simmering treason.