The next day.
The tourney proceeded as scheduled.
The noble lords took their seats early, their eyes glued to a specific spot in the sky. They were waiting for the Targaryen Dragonrider.
Skreee—!
A flash of red tore through the sky like a bolt of jagged lightning, speeding across the shimmering surface of the God's Eye.
Caraxes glided low, his serpent-like body reflected in the lake, the tip of his tail gently skimming the water. Daeron had noticed early on that the dragon loved soaring over water—fitting, given that his name was taken from the "God of the Sea" in Ancient Valyrian mythology.
Boom—
Caraxes circled three times before descending at his rider's command, his massive bulk kicking up a cloud of dust and grass.
Flanked by two Kingsguard, Daeron strode directly into the stands, swords at his hip.
Composed. Royal.
It was as if every word of praise had been invented just for him. The lords held their breath, their faces flushed with excitement. No matter how many times they saw it, the raw power of a dragon was soul-shaking. If not for the need to maintain dignity, they would have stood up and cheered for Daeron Targaryen right then and there.
"Still not enough," Daeron thought, taking it all in as he looked ahead.
He wasn't Daenerys. She had spent over a decade in exile, running for her life, and even after hatching dragons, her army consisted of Dothraki and Unsullied—foreigners that half of Westeros despised.
But the Targaryen Dynasty hadn't fallen yet. He was a Prince, standing in the spotlight. A Targaryen riding a dragon.
It might cause momentary panic, but that would quickly turn into prestige, reminding the Seven Kingdoms of the stability dragons once brought them.
"Prince, just as you predicted, a lot of people were looking for you last night," Davos reported in a low voice.
Daeron nodded. "Ignore them."
If the dragon was the bait for the lords, then the "Life Resonance" technique was the fatal lure for every knight who had mastered Vitality. He had to keep them hungry.
Daeron kept his primary goal clear: use this tourney to expand his influence and bring dragons back into the world's vision.
Returning to his seat, Daeron was met by some unexpected guests.
The Stark pack.
Led by Brandon "The Wild Wolf," the group included Ned, Lyanna, and Benjen—all four siblings were there. And trailing them was Howland Reed of Greywater Watch.
"Prince," Howland greeted him happily. He had run into his liege lords early that morning, and it turned out the Starks were looking for the Prince anyway.
Daeron nodded slightly. The Starks bowed in return.
Lyanna stepped forward. "Prince Daeron, thank you for saving my father's bannerman yesterday. House Stark will remember this favor."
It was their first meeting.
Daeron looked her over. Lyanna was striking, with flowing black hair. She wasn't wearing riding breeches today, but a long, Northern-style blue dress, with a garland of blue and white flowers on her wrist. She was graceful but natural—beauty mixed with a wild edge. A typical Northern girl.
Daeron was neither overly warm nor cold. "Don't mention it."
"No, the North remembers," Lyanna insisted, shaking her head. Northerners were used to being looked down upon by Southern nobles, so they cherished anyone who showed them respect.
Daeron smiled. "We can grab a drink after the matches today, then."
"Done," Lyanna agreed without hesitation, showing a boldness rare in Southern ladies.
With that, they said their goodbyes. Suddenly, Lyanna turned back, eyeing Daeron carefully. "Your dragon... it left a deep impression."
She then turned and followed her brothers.
Daeron watched the Starks retreat.
"Northern girls are famous for their fire. The rumors are true," Barristan commented appreciatively. Though, knowing she had a betrothed, he noted she wasn't a suitable target for the Prince.
Davos, however, had a different take. He whispered, "Prince, that Stark group is odd. The one calling the shots is the girl."
"Sharp eyes, Davos," Daeron chuckled.
He had noticed it too. While they were ostensibly led by Brandon, the "Wild Wolf," the one handling the communication was Lyanna. Northerners weren't exactly known for being humble; they wouldn't just hand over authority to a little sister just because they doted on her.
If Lyanna was speaking for the Starks, it meant both Brandon and Ned respected her lead.
"She's the Alpha," Daeron thought, getting a new perspective.
With the charisma Lyanna displayed, it was hard to say if Rhaegar abducted her, or if she abducted Rhaegar. After all, his big brother Rhaegar had always been a repressed, brooding type. In Daeron's past life, he would have been the introverted engineering student who wouldn't dare approach a girl unless forced.
Daeron smirked. "Interesting."
In a corner Daeron couldn't see, Rhaegar was comforting his pregnant wife, Elia. He glanced sideways and saw the Starks walking by. He saw Lyanna's waist-length black hair and the blue dress that gave her a unique flair.
"Ice and Fire..."
Rhaegar stared blankly until Elia called him back to reality.
---
The tourney continued, with knight after knight engaging in duels.
Lord Whent was shrewd. Noticing how popular the duel between the two Kingsguard had been the previous day, he temporarily scrapped the melee in favor of one-on-one combat.
After the jousting warmed up the crowd, the duels began.
Clang, clang, clang!
The herald struck the gong, announcing that the next fighter would be a Kingsguard.
"Here we go," Daeron straightened up.
Soon, Oswell Whent, clad in white armor, took the field to challenge one of his own nephews.
The tourney had an unwritten rule: The host's daughter was the "Queen of Love and Beauty," and her male relatives would act as champions to defend her title. A challenger who defeated a champion could take the title.
Usually, no one challenged on the first day. But Oswell stepping down was the signal that the games were truly open.
"Prince, let me handle this," Ser Jon offered, eager to fight.
Daeron stopped him. He glanced at his father, King Aerys, who looked like he was daydreaming, and decided to go down himself.
If he wanted fame, he needed to make a splash.
He went down to armor up without hesitation.
On the field, Oswell quickly dispatched his nephew, becoming the defender, waiting for the next challenger.
Clang, clang, clang!
The herald, looking excited, banged the gong and shouted, "Ladies and Lords! Please welcome our next challenger—the Dragonrider, Prince Daeron Targaryen!"
Any Targaryen entering the lists caused a stir. A Targaryen who rode a dragon? That was the stuff of legend.
Oswell froze. He hadn't expected his next opponent to be Daeron.
Clang, clang, clang!
Amidst the furious gonging, Daeron walked slowly onto the field, wearing silver armor and a purple cloak, holding two swords.
"Prince, I won't go easy on you," Oswell said grimly. He couldn't forget the miserable death of his friend, Jon Connington.
Daeron replied calmly, "I expect nothing less."
The fight exploded instantly. Oswell roared and charged, swinging his sword.
Clang!
Daeron drew his Obsidian Edge, easily blocking the ferocious strike.
Applause erupted from the stands. Westeros worshipped individual heroism, and martial prowess was the quickest way to their hearts.
"How?" Oswell couldn't believe it. He pressed down with all his strength, but his blade wouldn't budge. Even Arthur Dayne wouldn't dare catch a full-force swing like that.
Daeron smirked. He drew a second standard sword with his left hand and slashed at Oswell's waist while pivoting.
Oswell retreated rapidly.
"Gotcha."
Daeron spun quickly, bringing the Obsidian Edge in his right hand down in a heavy chop.
Oswell raised his sword to block.
Snap!
The steel shattered. The force of the blow cracked the web of Oswell's hand. Daeron followed through, stepping in and placing his second sword against the Kingsguard's throat.
"You lose, Ser."
Oswell was speechless, staring at his broken sword, his mind a blank slate.
Why?
Before he could get an answer, thunderous applause and cheers washed over the arena.
What had they just witnessed? Prince Daeron, dual-wielding, had defeated a Kingsguard in two moves.
No one suspected the fight was rigged. The Kingsguard lived for honor; they wouldn't stain their white cloaks. And that sword—the one that had just defeated young Whent—had been snapped in half by the Prince's strange black blade.
You couldn't fake that.
Oswell couldn't figure it out. "Prince, you—"
Daeron ignored him. He turned to face Rhaegar's section of the stands and shouted: "Next!"
---
In the stands.
Rhaegar frowned. "It's that strange weapon again."
Arthur Dayne explained what he had seen. Yesterday, Barristan had used a strange weapon against him. He couldn't identify the material—it didn't look sharp or flexible—but it was indestructible. Even the greatsword Dawn had been at a disadvantage against it.
Prince Lewyn Martell crossed his arms. "Prince, have you ever seen an obsidian weapon that can shatter steel?"
Other nobles might miss it, but as Kingsguard who spent time on Dragonstone, they recognized dragonglass. It was rare, but usually considered brittle and low-value. Obsidian knives were sharp, sure, but they were glass—they shattered on impact.
"Now isn't the time to worry about the weapon. He's challenging us," Rhaegar said calmly. "I noticed something. When Daeron fights, he holds his breath. He doesn't exhale until he wins."
Arthur Dayne's eyes narrowed. "It's a new form of Life Resonance. Barristan and I project the frequency into our weapons. Prince Daeron internalizes the frequency within his body."
"Can we copy it?" Lewyn cut to the chase.
Last night, they had all tried to replicate the resonance using Dawn, but failed. The sword rejected anyone but Arthur.
Arthur shook his head. "Resonating with a weapon is one thing. Compressing that volatile energy inside your own body? That's dangerous. One slip up and you'd tear your muscles apart or burst a vessel."
Essentially, Vitality was compressed life force. Projecting it into an object was safe; the energy could be replenished. But keeping that high-frequency vibration inside the body changed the fundamental rules of biology. It was a gamble with death.
Arthur wasn't stupid. He realized that it wasn't Barristan who discovered this technique—it was the Prince, who had already mastered it.
"I'll go test the waters," Lewyn Martell said, grabbing his sword.
"Watch out for that blade," Rhaegar warned.
"Don't worry. I won't make the same mistake Oswell did." Lewyn was proud, but confident in his skills.
Clang, clang, clang!
The herald banged the gong, announcing the next Kingsguard.
Daeron smiled when he saw who it was. "Prince Lewyn. We meet again."
"I didn't expect you to challenge us directly, undermining Prince Rhaegar's authority like this," Lewyn said, his nose in the air. He thought Oswell was just a careless fool; it didn't mean Daeron was actually a threat.
Daeron's smile vanished. "Let's find out."
Just as the words left his mouth, a noise came from outside the arena.
Skreee—!
Caraxes, who had been lying by the lake, suddenly rose up. He climbed a small hill, his molten-gold eyes locking onto the little insects in the arena.
Lewyn froze.
For the first time, he felt the primal terror of being targeted by a dragon. The hair on his neck stood up; his blood ran cold.
"Dragon!"
"It's Prince Daeron's dragon—!"
The dragon's movement caused immediate panic among the lords.
Daeron didn't look away. He pointed the Obsidian Edge at Lewyn. "You're not on a horse, so I won't be on a dragon."
He paused, then added half-jokingly, "Unless you want me to be."
Lewyn's face turned several shades of purple. Unless I have a death wish, you mean. It was a naked threat.
Clang!
The gong sounded.
Lewyn dropped into a stance. He didn't rush in; he chose to fight methodically.
Rhaegar's analysis had been sound. If Daeron held his breath, it meant this "internal resonance" was for burst damage, not endurance. If Lewyn didn't give him an opening for a quick kill, he could drag the fight out. With his decades of accumulated Vitality, he would outlast the boy.
Clang! Clang!
Daeron attacked—right hand standard grip, left hand reverse grip. He became a whirlwind of steel, aggressive as fire, relentless and fluid.
Barely ten seconds later.
Lewyn was still parrying when his expensive, ornate sword snapped with a sharp crack.
The glint of the flying shard blinded him for a split second. His mind went blank, leaving only muscle memory to swing a useless hilt.
Cold steel pressed against his neck.
"You lose, Prince."
Same situation, same words. But Daeron's eyes were mocking. Before Lewyn could react, Daeron kicked him hard in the shin.
"Argh!"
Lewyn grunted, involuntarily dropping to his knees.
Daeron flowed into a smooth combo—an elbow smash to the face, knocking Lewyn's head back. Then, channeling his Vitality into his leg, he delivered a massive kick to the chest.
Lewyn went airborne.
He flew fifteen feet through the air before crashing heavily into the muddy track, twitching twice before planting his face in the dirt.
"Whew. That felt good."
Daeron turned his back, unable to suppress the grin on his face.
I've wanted to beat that guy up for a long time.