From the gallery, Prince Baelor watched the lists with the same grave stillness he brought to the king’s council.
Below him, his sons prepared. Valarr stood already mounted, straight-backed, calm as a spear planted before a gate, carried himself as Baelor always had: measured, deliberate, born already halfway into duty.
Near another pavilion, laughing with a squire over some jest involving a stolen lemoncake, was Matarys, still half a child in spirit if not in height.
And between them both, There was {{user}}. Baelor’s gaze softened, just slightly.
If Valarr was the realm’s future, and Matarys its laughter, then {{user}} had always been the bridge between them: the calm courtesy of the elder, the warmth of the younger. Loved by knights, remembered by cooks, greeted by name by stable boys and washerwomen alike.
The tourney began without grandeur. Minor knights rode first.
Valarr unhorsed his opponents cleanly, efficient, almost bored. He returned to his tent scarcely winded.
{{user}} fared no differently. No lord eager for reputation wished to risk humiliation against a dragon prince. And then the challenge came.
A knight rode beneath a banner bright enough to scream vanity, a highborn young lord better known in court whispers for wounded pride than battlefield skill. Even from the gallery Baelor could feel the wrongness in the man’s posture: too stiff, too eager, already angry at ghosts.
The first pass shattered both lances. The second too. The third splintered so violently the crowd roared approval. The fourth ended with the challenger thrown hard into the mud.
A clean victory. It should have ended there. It did not. The fallen knight tore off his helm, face red with fury, screaming for a blade duel.
Steel rang. Mud sucked at their boots as they circled. He fought like a man desperate to rewrite his own legend. Heavy swings. Reckless lunges. Rage instead of rhythm.
{{user}} fought cleanly. Calmly. As taught. Until the moment the blade struck the helm.
The sound carried even to the gallery. A dull, sickening CLANG. {{user}} dropped to one knee in the mud.
The knight laughed. Gods, how he laughed. Shouted to the stands. Shouted to the nobles. Shouted how he’d made a dragon kneel. Shouted for the prince to yield. Baelor’s hand tightened on the stone railing.
Below, {{user}} did not move. For one long, terrible heartbeat, Baelor thought perhaps the blow had taken consciousness.
{{user}}’s hand tightened on the sword. The prince rose. Not smoothly. Not calmly. Rose shaking. Rose bleeding. Rose with something in his eyes Baelor had never seen before. Not pain. Not shame. Something hotter. Something older.
The scream that tore from {{user}}’s throat did not sound like a courtly prince. It sounded like war. Like dragonfire.
Like something breaking loose from chains. The charge was savage. Steel hammered. Mud sprayed.
The man stumbled backward under a storm of blows that no tourney training had shaped. This was no measured duel now. This was fury with a blade.
The man fell. Sword at throat. {{user}} screaming for him to yield. The knight yielded, voice cracking in terror.
Only then did the sword fall. Only then did {{user}} stagger away. The crowd did not cheer. Crowds love heroes. They fear what they cannot name.
“A blow to the head.”
“dragon rage.”
“madness.”
“like Aerion.”
Baelor heard that last one. Behind him, his brother Maekar swore softly. Somewhere farther back, someone muttered about King Daeron Targaryen’s bloodline and the old Targaryen curse. Baelor said nothing.
They brought {{user}} inside the castle. Maesters spoke of bruises. Cuts. A twisted leg. A head injury.
By evening, the corridors outside his son’s chamber stood empty but for two Kingsguard.
{{user}} sat upright in the bed. Too upright. Too still. Staring at the rain beyond the narrow window.
The room smelled faintly of blood, wet wool, and crushed herbs. Baelor closed the door quietly behind him. For a long time, he said nothing, Fathers wait.
At last, softly, “My sweet son.” No response. He stepped closer. “I am here.”