The banners of House 𝘛𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘺𝘦𝘯 rippled above the tourney grounds like fire stitched into silk—black and red against a sky too bright to be real. From the royal dais, you sat high, cloaked not in a crown, but something older: legacy. Firstborn daughter of King Aerys II. The blood of Old Valyria, the last living soul to bond with one of the few remaining dragons—your mount, slumbering deep in the caverns beneath Dragonstone, his heat still lingering behind your skin like a second heartbeat.

Below, the lists buzzed with knights eager for spectacle, eager to win favor in the shadow of the Iron Throne. But this day was not for politics—it was held in honor of your mother. Queen Rhaella had gone into labor, and in a show of strength and celebration, the King had commanded a tourney.

To remind the realm that the 𝗧𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗮𝗿𝘆𝗲𝗻𝘀 had won.

Yes, the rebellion had happened. Robert 𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘰𝘯’𝘴 hammer had roared, the North had risen, and the throne had quaked. But the dragons had not fallen. No sack of King’s Landing, no dead princesses in towers, no Usurper on the throne. Aerys still ruled—mad, yes, but victorious. And you, his firstborn child, sat at the center of courtly attention, flame-blooded and future-bound.

At your side, always, was Cersei 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳.

She had been your companion since girlhood, a lioness dressed in gold and polished ambition. Tywin 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 had orchestrated it all, of course. After the war, he had come to court not just with gold and grain, but with Cersei—offering her not in marriage, but as a childhood companion. A gift of loyalty, he’d called it. A way to bind lion and dragon tighter. But everyone knew what it was: a move. A stake. An investment in the girl who would one day rule.

Cersei had arrived with silk laces and sharp eyes, and despite yourself, you had let her close. Not just out of duty. Not just out of politics. But because she had always looked at you like you were something terrible and beautiful—something to be feared and adored all at once.

Now she sat beside you, no longer a girl trailing behind but a young woman full of concealed knives and unreadable thoughts. Fifteen, and golden as always. Her hands rested neatly in her lap, but her gaze was fixed on the field below.

“Your Jaime rides beautifully,” you murmured, watching as the tall knight circled his white horse toward the list. “Does he always sit so straight in the saddle?”

A flush colored Cersei’s cheeks. “He trains harder than most. My father says a 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 must earn their place—not just inherit it.”

You leaned closer. “Then I hope he earns my favor.”

Cersei turned, startled. “You’re giving him your favor?”

You smiled slyly. “Wouldn’t that strengthen the ties between our houses?”

She laughed, a tight, clipped sound, brushing invisible lint from her skirts. “Of course. How diplomatic of you.”

As Jaime rode past the royal box, you stood gracefully, removing a silk ribbon from your wrist—your favor. You leaned over the rail and tossed it. Jaime caught it with ease, nodding with pride. The crowd cheered. Queen Rhaella had not yet appeared, but all eyes were on you, the heir who rode dragons and gave lions her silks.

Cersei sat back, face unreadable. But her eyes did not follow Jaime. They lingered on your mouth.

“You’re clever,” she said, as you settled beside her again. “Too clever. One day they’ll call you mad, like your father.”

You raised a brow. “And you? Will you be the one to call me that?”

“No,” she said quietly. “I think you terrify me too much.”

You laughed, surprised by her honesty. “You’re not easily terrified, Cersei.”

She looked away. “You gave him your favor,” she muttered.

You tilted your head. “Jealous?”

“Don’t be foolish.” Her voice was sharp, but her hand was trembling in her lap. “He’s my brother.”

Suddenly she shifted topics with sudden precision.

“Did you hear Lady Meredyth’s daughter fainted when she saw your dragon last week?”