TRIGGER WARNING: Descriptions of violence (the tourney)

The Heir's Tourney

112 AC

CHILDREN BORN IN SUMMER KNOW NOT HOW TO TRULY APPRECIATE IT. They dance through life in ignorant bliss. Then they grow bored and desperate to take a title for their own. There is no glory in spring festivities. Bring the winter wars.

Yet when it comes, they are crushed beneath its weight. When dragons dance, there is no glory. There is no victor. There is only fire and blood.

But for now the only dragon in sight was Syrax, and the muddy–yellow dragon's only crime was distracting young Gael Targaryen from her lessons. Blocking out Septa Marlow's dull drone, she stared out the window, watching her sister as she circled above the capital.

They were learning about the Old King Jaehaerys, who had been Gael's great–grandsire. There were two other girls in her lessons, Barra Celtigar and Rosey Buckwell, who were two of a handful of girls who used their time in King's Landing to study with the princesses. Neither were of particularly high status themselves, but Gael was fond of them, and status hardly mattered when one was fond of someone.

At the moment the lesson had turned to a vigorous debate between Rosey and Septa Marlow. This was typical of them. Barra had adored hearing about Jaehaerys and Alysanne's great romance, but lost interest quickly when the discussion turned to politics. She enjoyed stories of the heroes of old rescuing their lady love, not of old men pushing pieces around maps.

And Gael; the Summer Child they called her, for the prosperous times she had been born into. Yet even at thirteen – even as a girl – she saw herself as a warrior. Gael cared only for stories of dragons and battles and bloodshed.

At the moment they discussed the Great Council of 101 AC, when her father King Viserys had been named heir, a story she already knew. A story that already bored her. So instead she watched Rhaenyra fly and wished she could have joined her. To a child's mind, politics were nothing compared to the pull of a dragon.

But Father had forbidden it. She would be in even more trouble, he had warned, if she did not stay in her lessons.

Gael had begun to imagine dying of boredom – and her father's great remorse when he learned of her fate – when the guard outside announced Alicent Hightower's arrival. At once she perked up. Alicent was her sister's friend, but she was still kind to Gael. She was a welcomed sight at any time.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Alicent said. Her eyes didn't rise from the floor. "I was going to meet Princess Rhaenyra at the Dragonpit, and I thought the girls might want to come with me."

"We were just –" Septa Marlow began.

Gael didn't hear the rest. She had already scrambled off her seat and ran to Alicent's side. Barra followed close behind her. In the end, only Rosey remained behind.

"We can study when you get back," she'd said with a sheepish smile. The two agreed, knowing they wouldn't.

A carriage waited outside the Red Keep. The Dragonpit was within walking distance, but it typically wasn't permitted. The direct path was through Flea Bottom, the dredges of King's Landing. Gael was convinced she could handle it – the blood of the dragon feared nothing – but their father disagreed. No one wanted to risk them to be harmed as revenge against their lordly fathers.

Throughout the ride, Gael prepared her argument to be allowed to see Valethar. His egg had hatched in her cradle. He was her dragon and big enough that Gael might have taken him on short flights around King's Landing. She was banned from flying him, however, as Father was convinced that Gael would do something foolish like attempting to push Valethar's limits. Gael resented the accusation, but was forced to admit he was right.

Rhaenyra had landed by the time the carriage came to a stop.

Dragon keepers surrounded Syrax, long spears in hand to keep the dragon at bay. Two approached as others helped Rhaenyra off the dragon's back. Ser Harrold Westerling, Rhaenyra's personal guard, watched from a distance.

"Dohaerās, Syraks!" ordered one of the Dragonkeeper elders. (Serve, Syrax.)

The elder turned towards the man next to him. An acolyte, Gael guessed from his nervous posture. Syrax senses his lack of confidence. She gave a low growl and shook her head.

"Umbas," the acolyte said. "Rȳbās!" (Wait, focus!)

Dragons required a firm hand, and the acolyte had finally managed it. Syrax stopped long enough for Rhaenyra to dismount. She patted the dragon's head before leaving the dragon in the Dragon keeper's care.

"Welcome back, Princess," Ser Harrold said, "I trust your ride was pleasant."

"Try not to look too relieved, Ser," Rhaenyra quipped as she passed the night."

"I am relieved. Every time that golden beast brings you back unspoiled, it save's my head from a spike."

Stairs were brought to the carriage entrance. Gael ignored them, pushing past a descending Alicent to leap to the ground. She stumbled, but managed to regain her footing and sprint to Rhaenyra's side.

"Valethar and I could have been back twice as fast as you were," Gael boasted.

"I doubt it." Rheanyra bumped against her sister's shoulder.

Gael tried to tackle Rhaenyra. She only managed to wrap her arms around the older girl's waist. At the same time, Rhaenyra pulled her into a headlock and ruffled her hair. They both laughed as Gael squirmed out of her grip. Septa Marlow and other ladies of the court often fretted over such physical interactions. They worried the princesses would harm each other, or at the very least make themselves look unlady–like. 

That never stopped them. They were sisters, after all, and it is rare sisterhood exists without a scuffle or two. Or three. Or four.

In truth, despite how often she was reminded of her status, few would name Gael royal. The dress she currently wore was the only one she owned in good condition (though, as Gael looked down at the dirt that had collected on the hem, it seemed she no longer had that one, either.) In contrast to Rhaenyra – and perhaps all living Targaryan – her hair barely reached her jaw. Gael had sawed it off in protest of something that had seemed horrible at the time, but which she could no longer remember.

Then there was the scar. The long, jagged scar that ran from her chin, across the middle of her mouth, and ended just below her eye. Gael had attacked a squire two years older than her who had taken to mocking Rosey for her "common" looks. Stronger and larger than her, it had taken little effort for him to simply shove the blade back into her face.

Maester Mellos said Gael was lucky to not lose an eye or part of her nose. He had also said the paralysis and aching left on the side of her face would have been temporary, though, and had been wrong on that front. Gael was confident to say he was wrong about that, too.

"Syrax has gotten very big," Barra said, interrupting the sister.

Gael turned to see the girl peering out of the carriage behind Alicent. In a flash of irritation (jealousy, really, that her friend's attention was not on her dragon) she was tempted to remind Barra that Syrax was hardly the largest dragon the Targaryens had ever flown. In fact, she was not even the largest alive. Vhargar still lived somewhere out on Dragonstone. But Barra didn't care about size, not really. Her eyes were one the shimmer of the dragon's scales.

Instead, Gael said, "Valethar is much prettier, I think."

"They are both very nice," Alicent scolded, sensing a competition brewing.

Personally, Gael disagreed. Valethar had spring–green scales, which seemed to have a copper sheen in some lights. He was not the most perfect dragon, she supposed, but he was certainly more attractive than Syrax. But Gael supposed Alicent did have to be fair. The mere thought of displeasing someone was enough to get her picking at her nails.

"Do you think I might claim a dragon?" Barra asked.

"I suppose you could," Alicent said. "But then you would have to feed it."

That killed any interest Barra had. She enjoyed the dragon's beaty, but not the bloody aspects like their feeding.

It was better that she didn't. House Celtigar had the blood of Valyria, which meant she might have been able to claim a dragon, but the Targaryens guarded them jealously. Even their children could be denied eggs, if their father was of a different house.

"You don't need a dragon. You had Valethar and I," Gael decided.

"Are you even allowed near Valethar?" Rhaenyra asked with mock innocence.

Barra giggled as Gael flew at her sister again. Rhaenyra dodged her with ease and danced towards Alicent.

"Syrax will soon be as large as Caraxes," she said. "That's almost large enough to saddle two."

Caraxes, called the Blood Wyrm, was the dragon of their uncle, Prince Daemon. He was a strange dragon. A deformity in his egg has left him with an extended neck and a high, squealing call. Gael was fond of him. More fond than she was of Daemon, at least.

"I believe I'm quite content as a spectator, thank you," Alicent replied.

Then she turned and coaxed Barra back into the carriage. Gael watched as Rhaenyra's face fell.

˱ 𓈒 𓈊 ┈ 𓈒 ˲

RHAENYRA WENT TO VISIT THEIR MOTHER. Despite her offer, Gael did not join her. Once again Aemma was pregnant, and Gael hated seeing their mother when she was pregnant. Aside from the sisters, every pregnancy had failed. Some miscarried. Others died soon after birth. Every time it left her weak and sickly, looking as if she was dying.

Instead, Gael headed to the training yard.

Women were not made to learn to fight. It was unbecoming of them, men believed, including their father. His daughters would be raised properly, and that included not practicing the sword. However, one thing Gael had learned about his father is that he was unlikely to enforce such a declaration. So, between the fight with the squire and attempting to steal Blackfyre, Gael had made her father's choices clear: either he would have her professionally trained or she would attempt to train herself.

Admittedly, Ser Oswyn Bar Emmon may have had a part in that.

Ser Oswyn was the master-at-arms for the Red Keep. If Viserys had any sons, he would be their trainer. Except there were no princes, so he spent most of his time caring for weapons that no one would use. He was the one who pointed out that Gael would not be giving up any time soon, and that it was likely denying her would result in serious injury as she tried to practice alone.

Their meetings were not exactly consistent. Gael knew her father had hoped she would get distracted with something else. That was how he dealt with all of his issues – ignored them until they went away. Even if they never went away.

This was one of those problems that never left. She took any moment to drag Ser Oswyn into the training yard. It helped that he was often there already, as he was when Gael arrived.

Unlike others, the knight did not believe that being a girl made Gael unable to fight. It only meant that she would have to fight differently than a man would. As such, much of their training involved attempting to find weapons that suited her build.

At first they had begun with archery. It never caught on, as she became irritated with the aiming.

"Being fast won't help you one bit if you are shooting a mile above your target," Ser Oswyn had scolded her, after she over shot for the fifth time and threw down the bow in frustration.

Mainly she trained with a smallsword. A light, one–handed sword, it was designed for thrusting and weighed much less than those typically used in battle. Gael was good enough with a dagger, but it shrank her range significantly, something that Ser Oswyn believed she should save at all costs.

Which led them to spears. Ser Oswyn warned they would be unwieldy, but it did make up for the height difference between the two. Today would be their first actual attempt at it.

Once Gael had changed into proper training clothes — including trousers! Septa Marlow would have perished from shame — they had taken up arms. Ser Oswyn with a wood training sword and Gael with the untipped pole of a spear. Neither of them had made much progress. No matter how Gael danced around the knight, he always seemed to parry her blows away.

"Light on your feet," Ser Oswyn ordered.

Gael lunged at what she thought was a blind spot. Ser Oswyn whipped around in seconds and slapped the pole away with the flat of his blade. He lowered his sword and stood. Gael followed his lead.

"You're projecting your attacks."

"What does that mean?" Gael asked.

"You look where you are going to attack, and your body starts to move before you do. It makes you easy to counter."

"I thought I was supposed to think through my attacks," Gael protested.

That was one of the first things Ser Oswyn had taught her. When they began, Gael had thought fighting was only about swinging a sword as hard as you could. She had been corrected on that the moment it had landed her on her ass.

Some could use such a tactic, Ser Oswyn had explained, but she lacked the strength and size to do so. Her strength instead would be in quick and well timed attacks.

"Think them through here." Ser Oswyn tapped the side of her head, then nodded to the pole grasped in her hand. "Not here."

"Right. Understood."

Ser Oswyn raised an eyebrow. Gael bounced foot to foot, ready to go again. To her disappointment, the knight simply took the pole from her and headed back to the weapon's rack.

"Are we doing something else?" Gael asked as she scrambled after him. "What about mace? You could show me how to use one."

"And you let you take your head off? I happen to be quite fond of living, princess," Ser Oswyn scoffed. "Unfortunately for you, I have a tourney to prepare for."

"Tourney?"

Ser Oswyn paused. He studied her, as if looking for humor in her face. He found none. Gael had heard nothing of a tourney, especially not one that needed to be prepared for now.

"I presume his grace has told you about the tourney for his heir?" he asked.

"Daemon?" Gael made a face. "My uncle isn't worthy of a tourney."

Nor worthy of interrupting her rare training sessions. Just another way Daemon was determined to be a nuisance.

"His new heir," Ser Oswyn corrected. "Apparently he is confident the new babe is to be a boy."

Gael nodded slightly, but she couldn't hide her scowl. Her father said that during every pregnancy. Sometimes he was right. Not when it mattered, of course, because they always died before they could be the new heir. Could Viserys not see how their mother suffered?

She could fight now. Rhaenyra was clever as they came. Both of them were as determined as any man. (And Daemon...was there, Gael supposed.) Were they not enough?

"Do you hope for a brother?" Ser Oswyn asked.

"No," Gael said stiffly. "Then you will train him instead, and father will forget about Rhaenyra and me."

Ser Oswyn sighed.

"I suppose that is fair. I will say, brothers are not as excited as they seem." With a wry smile, he added, "And certainly not as exciting as you have been."

Something in his voice said that was not entirely a compliment. Gael beamed despite it.

˱ 𓈒 𓈊 ┈ 𓈒 ˲

THE WEEK OF THE TOURNEY WAS AN EVENTFUL ONE. Knights came from all around the Seven Kingdoms to complete. Lords and ladies did the same to watch. There had been various tests of skill and strength.

None of which Gael had been allowed to participate in. Of course. Being a viewer was just as thrilling. It also meant that Gael was safe to complain about how poor the combatants did without having to prove herself better.

At the end of the week was a joust. Was it given importance due to ending the festivities, or did it end the festivities because of its importance? Gael could not tell you. But she had been assured it would come with plenty of excitement.

Well, Ser Oswyn's exact words had been "wanton bloodshed." Despite being a knight himself, he had no interest in the tourney. Even after Gael had pleaded with him so she might have a preferred knight in the competition, he had summarily rejected it. Foolish, he called, made for the amusement of green knights.

Gael sat up in the royal seats with her family. This included her immediate family, but also the Velaryons. Among them were her cousins, Laena and Laenor, who were close to her age and made wonderful friends. Otto Hightower was there because he was the Hand of the king, and Alicent was a guest for both her father and Rhaenyra.

Her friends were invited as well, on account of their connection, but Rosey refused. It seemed she was also against the idea of knights brutally beating each other into the dust.

At least Gael had managed to coax Barra in with the promise her betrothed would be there. Perhaps it was a bit deceptive. She had failed to mention that Laswell Hightower wouldn't be jousting, but squiring for his cousin Gwayne.

"Perhaps it's for the best," Barra admitted. "Rosey says jousting is very dangerous."

"It makes it interesting," Gael said.

Barra gave her a reluctant look. Between the two, she was more inclined to believe Rosey. The two fell silent as King Viserys stood for his beginning speech.

"Be welcome!" He announced. "I know many of you have traveled long leagues to be at these games. But I promise, you will not be disappointed. When I look at the fine knights in these lists, I see a group without equal in our histories."

"Except me, that is," Leanor whispered to Gael.

"You? You can't even stay on your horse," Gael teased.

The two laughed, and Rhaenys leaded forwards to shush them. Gael turned to look at the empty seat between here and Alicent. Rhaenyra was going to be late.

"I think you would make a very dashing knight," Barra said, lowering her voice even further to avoid another reprimand.

Leanor smiled and preened his doublet, ego sufficiently satisfied.

"And this great day has been made more auspicious by the news..." Viserys's voice trailed off as Rhaenyra ran past him to get to her seat. "That I am happy to share. Queen Aemma has begun her labors!"

The crowd applauded.

"May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!"

The cheers grew as the first jousters rode towards each other. Gael leaned forwards and squinted at their shields. It was hard to get a good look until one was unhorse and the other rode to the side to bow to the crowd. The one on the ground had a green field with a red archer, the other a red field with ten black pellets.

"A mystery knight?" Rhaenyra asked of the winner.

"No, a Cole," Alicent corrected. "Of the Stormlands."

"I've never heard of House Cole."

"Septa Marlow told us about them, remember?" Gael said. "I always remember because their sigil is boring."

"It is," Barra sighed. "They would all be easier to remember if people did something interesting with them."

The Cole stayed on the field as a new jouster was produced. He was easy to recognize: A Baratheon. The black stag on a yellow field. At once the knight rode up to the royal box and held his lance up to the royal box.

"Princess Rhaenys Targaryen," the Baratheon said. "I would humbly ask for the favor of the Queen Who Never Was."

Barra giggled. Gael only rolled her eyes. Ever since her father had been chosen over Rhaenys, some had referred to the woman as "The Queen Who Never Was." Some believed it was a sign of respect, showing they would have supported her as a better ruler. Others used it to mock her loss. Given the man in front of them was a Baratheon — of whom Rhaenys's mother was kin — it was likely to be the first.

Either way, it was stupid. The name would not suddenly change the results.

The two turned to watch as Rhaenys' favor was brought to her. All of the women had them, rings of flowers which could be given to knights they liked. Barra had spent all night weaving hers together — and then all day getting Gael's in shape. Not that anyone was going to ask for theirs. It was often a romantic gesture and, while Barra was betrothed, neither would be marrying for years.

"Good fortune to you, cousin," Rhaenys said as she dropped her favor onto Baratheon's lance.

"I would gladly take it, if I thought I needed it," Baratheon said.

The drums started up as he rode back out onto the field.

"Lord Stokeworth's daughter is promised to that young Tarly squire," Rhaenyra said.

"Lord Massey's son?" Alicent asked.

"Mhm. They're to be married as soon as he wins his knighthood."

"Best get on with it. I heard that Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress."

"Really?" Barra looked at the girls with wide eyes.

Seconds later, Baratheon was slammed right off his horse. Ser Harrold bent next to Rhaenyra. They spoke of Cole, but Gael ignored all but the fact that he was named Criston. Instead she was focused on the next event.

As expected, Daemon would be riding in the joust, and they made quite the event of it. Instead of simply sending out a knight, a line of them was made for him to choose from. At once Gael's eyes went to one in particular. Even without the sigil on his shield, Gael could tell Gwayne Hightower from the tower detailing atop his helm. Daemon was no better with his dragon wings, but at least they looked less silly.

His poor fashion aside, Gwayne was the obvious opponent. He was the son of Otto Hightower, only recently knighted. Daemon despised all of the Hightowers, but Otto the most, and was likely to take the moment to shame him through his upstart son.

Daemon chose him. From the corner of her eyes, Gael saw Alicent begin to chew at her nail.

The two rode to the ends of the arena. Behind her, Gael could hear people placing bets. Her uncle was the favored choice. She tried to think who she would bet on. Daemon would win, but she knew he would take any betting on him as a compliment, even if it was only strategic. Then again, did she like Otto Hightower any better?

Gael turned to look at the Hand, who was sitting next to her father. No. No, she did not.

Daemon started off first. They met in the middle of the tilt. Both lances broke, and her uncle was knocked backwards. Neither fell, though, so when they reached the end they were rearmed and started anew.

This time Daemon didn't aim for Gwayne's chest plate. He swung his lance low, knocking the horse's legs out from under it. Both horse and rider fell forwards. Gwayne's helmet flew off as he was thrown to the ground, and he barely avoided being crushed by his horse. As Daemon came up to the royal box, Laswell and some other knights ran out to help Gwayne off the field.

"He cheated!" Barra protested.

"So?" Gael said.

They watched as Daemon asked for Alicent's favor. Another slight against Otto.

"He can't win like that," Barra said. "It's not fair."

Gael shrugged. She had not wanted Daemon to win, but a success was a success. They could not take that from him, however he did it.

Gwayne's injury was only to be the first of many. As if a damp had been broken, violence washed over the jousts. Falls became worse. One man, after being unhorsed, dragged his opponent from his seat. Soon enough they were kicking their helmets off and beating each other with anything in reach. One man's face was taken off with an ax. Another's head was caved in with his own helmet.

Finally, Barra let out a sob and fled the box. As tempting as it was to stay — the final match was between Daemon and Ser Criston Cole — Gael followed her. She found the girl huddled outside of the arena. Gael silently sat down next to her.

"It was...different from what I expected," Barra said.

"Indeed," Gael admitted. "All they did was beat each other."

"And cheat..."

"Now we're sitting in the mud."

Barra sniffled and picked at her dress. They were, in fact, sitting in mud.

"Oh...this is the worst day ever," Barra declared.

Gael would have disagreed. She thought the joust had been exciting. That was not what Barra meant, though, and Gael knew it. If she was honest, Gael had not expected the joust to be as violent as it was, either. She has never seen a man die before. Her father had said she would never have to.

Little did she know, the day was about to get much, much worse.