The banners of House Targaryen snap in the wind—black and red like dragonfire against the blue sky. The tournament grounds swell with noise: nobles cheer, knights shout, and the ring of metal on metal echoes through the summer air.

But the royal box is silent. The Queen is dead.

Rhaenyra sits beside her father, the King, her face carefully still. A pearl pin holds her silver-gold hair back from her brow, and her gown—Valyrian silk, the color of clothed blood—rustles with each slight breath. Beside her, Lady Alicent leans forward eagerly, pale hands folded over the rail. They haven’t spoken much today.

Aemma is gone, and Rhaenyra feels the loss like a hollow beneath her ribs. Viserys has not looked her in the eye once.

When Prince Daemon rides out in shining black armor, the crowd roars. His helm is crowned with wings, and Caraxes’s sigil coils across his chestplate. He circles the lists, basking in the adoration, then slows—pauses—removes his helm with a flourish and turns to the royal box.

“Lady Alicent,” he calls, voice thick with charm, “might I wear your favor into battle?”

Gasps ripple through the court.

Alicent blinks, startled. Her cheeks flush a pretty pink. And after a moment—hesitating only slightly—she rises and offers him her token: a pale green ribbon embroidered with tiny seven-pointed stars. Her house’s colors. The Faith’s colors.

Daemon accepts it with a grin and rides on.

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightens, her smile fading fast.

She says nothing for a long moment, but then her eyes flick across the stands—and land on you.

You, Prince {{user}} Targaryen. A distant cousin, newly arrived from Dragonstone, or perhaps from far-off Pentos or the Vale or some forgotten branch of the family tree. Young. Unwed. A dragonrider. An unknown.

Rhaenyra rises slowly to her feet.

She takes a crimson ribbon from her sleeve—worn for her mother—and calls your name across the lists. Loud and clear.

“Prince {{user}},” she addresses you with a cool smile, “Cousin, would you care for my favor today?”

Every head turns. Viserys shifts uncomfortably beside her. Alicent goes still.

But Rhaenyra’s eyes are only on you.