The soil of the tourney grounds had been repeatedly trampled by hooves, mixing with the scent of hay and sweat, fermenting into a wild aroma in the hot wind of late summer.
At the highest point of the stands, under King Jaehaerys's gold and crimson pavilion, Rhaenyra was held on Queen Alysanne's lap. Her tiny fist clutched a silk handkerchief embroidered with a dragon—this was her first tourney, even though her eyes couldn't yet focus very far.
As the horn of the opening ceremony faded, two hundred knights rode into the arena. Sunlight reflected off their armor like spilled gold: hidden smiles beneath the lapis lazuli visors of House Hightower, mermen sigils rising and falling on the breastplates of the Manderlys, the roses of the Tyrells glistening with sweat, and the stag antlers of the Baratheons nearly piercing the shadows of the pavilion.
"You must watch the first day of the joust carefully," Viserys held Rhaenyra, his thumb brushing her soft cheek. "Years ago at Harrenhal, your Grandfather Aemon unhorsed three challengers in a row with a single lance."
Aemma beside him laughed, her face still somewhat pale. "Don't just talk about Uncle Aemon. I recall your first tourney—didn't Ser Loras knock you off your horse three times?"
Viserys's ears turned slightly red, but he was saved by a roar of cheers. Daemon Targaryen rode in on his black charger, his scarlet cloak unfolding in the wind like Caraxes's wings. His armor was jet black, the helmet adorned with twin dragon wings. His visor was raised, revealing those rebellious purple eyes.
"Daemon! The Rogue Prince! Daemon Targaryen!" The common folk in the stands screamed wildly, and even Borros Baratheon in the noble seats couldn't help but whistle.
Daemon Blackfyre stood at the end of the line of competitors. His armor was far less ornate than the other Daemon's—a silver-white breastplate bearing only a simple dragon crest, the silhouette of The Cannibal spreading its wings.
His warhorse was an Essosi breed gifted by Rhaenys, pure white except for four pitch-black hooves, as if treading on dark clouds.
"Scared, Blackfyre boy?" A rough voice came from beside him. It was Lucas Tyrell, a knight of the Reach and legitimate nephew of Duke Matthos. His breastplate was inlaid with three golden roses. "Heard you're good with a dragon, but is your hand steady enough with a lance?"
Daemon Blackfyre didn't speak, simply adjusting the strap of his helmet. In his past life on the battlefields of the Reach, he had personally unhorsed seven Tyrell knights, one of whom wore nearly identical rose armor.
The horn for the first round blew.
Lucas Tyrell's lance broke the air first, thrusting straight with fierce wind. Daemon Blackfyre swerved sharply. The dark iron armor scraped against the wooden lance with a harsh sound. Using the momentum of his horse, he spun, his lance striking precisely on the opponent's shoulder blade—Lucas fell like a leaf, his golden rose armor rolling far across the ground.
A low murmur of amazement rippled through the stands. Queen Alysanne raised an eyebrow slightly. "That lance work truly has the shadow of Aemon in his youth."
Jaehaerys said nothing, his gaze falling on the other Daemon. At this moment, Daemon Targaryen was carrying a lance broken in two, leisurely circling the field. His opponent—a Vale knight from a cadet branch of House Arryn—was still struggling in the mud to undo his helmet.
"Show-off," Baelon commented on his son in a low voice without hesitation, yet he couldn't help leaning forward, clearly drawn in by the contest.
For the next two days, the tourney grounds became an arena for dragons and stags, lions and wolves.
Borros Baratheon split the shields of three opponents with his blunted axe, the Stag banner of the Stormlands waving madly in the stands.
Corlys Velaryon's nephew, Vaemond, riding a sea-blue charger, unhorsed four Riverlands knights in a row, his silver shell sigil sparkling in the sun.
Among Matthos Tyrell's bastards, a tall, thin boy fought his way into the final eight. His lance work was as tricky as a snake, causing many veteran knights to lose face.
But the most eye-catching were always the two Daemons.
Daemon Targaryen's style was like Caraxes's fire, swift and scorching.
He never dodged, always meeting attacks head-on. The crack of breaking wooden lances and the thud of opponents hitting the ground became his loudest footnotes.
In the fourth round, he even deliberately let his opponent's lance tip graze his gorget, then, amidst the audience's gasps, backhanded the man three yards away.
"Madman," Daemon Blackfyre heard Grover Tully's grandnephew curse under his breath while wiping his lance in the rest area.
He just smiled faintly. The blood and fire of his past life had taught him that victory in the arena was never just about skill. The audience needed legends, and Daemon Targaryen was the best at creating them.
When it was his turn, his style was starkly different. Facing Ser Leo "Longthorn" of the Reach, he didn't charge directly. Instead, he made his horse trot in a detour. Just as the opponent's lance was about to strike, he suddenly pulled the reins—the horse reared up, Leo's lance tip grazing the hooves, while Daemon's lance gently tapped his chest.
"Coward!" someone shouted from the stands.
Daemon Blackfyre took off his helmet. His silver-white long hair was soaked with sweat, plastering to his cheeks. He looked toward the noble seats, meeting Jocelyn Baratheon's gaze. Her look was complex, as if looking at him, yet also at someone else.
On the evening of the fifth day, the winners of the joust were finally decided: Daemon Targaryen, Daemon Blackfyre, Borros Baratheon, Garlan Tyrell, and a young knight from the North, Brandon Stark—a distant nephew of Duke Benjen, who had fought his way into the top five with a Direwolf sigil.
By custom, they needed to choose a "Queen of Love and Beauty." Daemon Targaryen hesitated barely a moment before walking straight to Rhaenys and pinning a red rose in her hair. "Who else but a Targaryen princess deserves this title?"
Rhaenys accepted the rose with a smile, but her gaze looked past him to Daemon Blackfyre standing in the shadows.
When it came to the final showdown, even the air seemed to freeze.
Daemon Targaryen's black armor absorbed the last rays of the setting sun. Caraxes's roar came from the distant Dragonpit, as if cheering for him. Daemon Blackfyre's dark iron armor reflected the twilight glow; only the dragon crest on his breastplate shone faintly in the dusk.
"Kid," Daemon Targaryen's voice came through his visor, laced with laughter, "don't cry if you lose. Your grandfather's sword isn't for just anyone to hold."
Daemon Blackfyre tightened his grip on the lance. The shaft was made of ash wood, with a familiar curve—almost exactly like the one he had used for twenty years in his past life.
The horn tore through the dusk.
Two warhorses charged like arrows from a bow, the sound of lances breaking the air like a dragon's roar. In the first round, their lance tips struck each other's pauldrons simultaneously. The massive impact shook both men in their saddles, but neither fell.
"Again!" Daemon Targaryen roared, turning his horse.
In the second round, he changed tactics, aiming his lance straight at Daemon Blackfyre's horse.
But Blackfyre had anticipated this. He yanked the reins sharply while sweeping his lance horizontally—the shaft scraped under the ribs of the black armor with a harsh grating sound.
Daemon Targaryen's horse was startled, but he used the momentum, his lance passing almost flush against Blackfyre's helmet.
Viserys stood up in the stands. Rhaenyra, frightened by the tension, began to cry, and Aemma hurried to cover her ears.
In the third round, neither held back. Their lances pierced each other's shields simultaneously. Amidst flying splinters, Daemon Blackfyre's lance tip crashed precisely into the center of Daemon Targaryen's breastplate—right at the heart of the dragon crest.
The black-armored knight's body leaned back violently. He couldn't stabilize and fell heavily into the mud.
Dead silence filled the arena.
Daemon Targaryen took off his helmet and threw it on the ground. There was no anger in his purple eyes; instead, he burst into laughter. "You bastard!" He pointed at Blackfyre on the horse. "That last strike, you clearly pulled your punch!"
Daemon Blackfyre dismounted and tossed his lance aside. Under the silver helmet, his smile was somewhat blurry. "Against family, I don't use real blades."
This sentence stopped the laughter abruptly. Jaehaerys slowly stood up. The shadow of the gold and crimson tent fell across his face, half bright, half obscure. "Hear my command," his voice rang through the silent arena. "The Champion of the Joust is Daemon Blackfyre!"
When the old King personally placed the victor's crown—a circlet woven of red roses and black thorns—on Blackfyre's head, he suddenly asked in a low voice, "What reward do you desire? Lands? A castle? Or...?"
Daemon Blackfyre's gaze swept over the crowd, landing on Rhaenys and Queen Alysanne, then on Jocelyn standing in the shadows. "I only want one thing," he said. "A name."
A flicker of understanding passed through Jaehaerys's eyes. He raised his hand, signaling for silence. "Today, besides celebrating the birth of Princess Rhaenyra, there is one more matter to declare." He turned to Blackfyre, his voice solemn as an oath. "Daemon, you have proven your Targaryen blood with courage and won the respect of the Seven Kingdoms with your lance. From this day forth, you are no longer a so-called 'bastard,' but a child legitimized by the Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, your King, your Grandfather—a member of House Targaryen. Today, I grant you the Targaryen surname."
He took a longsword from the guard behind him. The blade was pitch black as night but flowed with bright silver luster under the moonlight. It was the ancestral heirloom of House Targaryen, the Valyrian steel sword Blackfyre.
"This sword once belonged to Aegon the Conqueror and has witnessed the rise and fall of our House countless times." Jaehaerys pressed the hilt into Blackfyre's hand. "Now, it belongs to you. May you use it to guard the future of our House."
At the same time, Prince Baelon walked up to Daemon Targaryen and handed him another sword. The blade was slender but sharp as ice, its hilt inlaid with a ruby—it was Dark Sister, once the sword of Queen Visenya, cherished by the fiercest knights of every generation.
"Sixteen is old enough to be a knight." Baelon's tone was rarely gentle. "Don't let it gather dust."
Daemon Targaryen took Dark Sister and laughed loudly. He slapped Blackfyre's shoulder hard enough to nearly break bone. "Hear that? Daemon Targaryen? If you go easy next time, I'll let Dark Sister taste your neck! Though calling my own name feels weird!"
"Then call me Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen. I wish to keep Blackfyre as my middle name."
Blackfyre gripped the hilt of the sword. The cold metal touch spread through his palm, as if the blood and fire of his past life were condensed in this instant.
He looked at Rhaenyra in the stands. His great-grandmother, the little princess, had fallen asleep at some point, her violet eyes closed like two gems hidden in petals.
In the distance, the roars of The Cannibal and Caraxes intertwined, shaking the banners of the tourney grounds.
Under the moonlight, the shadows of the two Daemons were stretched long. One holding Blackfyre, the other holding Dark Sister—like two swords about to be unsheathed, reflecting the future of House Targaryen.
And that crown of red roses and black thorns lay quietly in the crook of Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen's arm, like an unfinished prophecy about love and beauty.
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