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People love a good tourney, but they are utterly captivated by stories that exceed their expectations—the kind of legends bards sing about for generations. At this very moment, they were witnessing such a story unfold before their eyes.
A boy from the Iron Islands, a mere eleven years of age, had emerged as an unheralded dark horse in this grand tourney watched by all Seven Kingdoms. He had carved a path through seasoned knights, forcing his way into the semifinals.
Facing the legendary knight renowned throughout the realm, Barristan "The Bold" Selmy, he had shown no fear. He gave everything he had, fighting to the very last breath.
Though defeated, the tenacity and courage he displayed won the respect of all. It was a glorious defeat.
Even more moving was the scene that followed in the dust of the arena. There, amidst glory and grit, he stood hand-in-hand with his betrothed, the stunningly beautiful Ashara Dayne of the violet eyes. Under the cheers and gaze of thousands, they seemed no longer just a boy and a girl, but symbols of a living legend. The entire realm bore witness to a sincere and brave romance that began with a tourney but transcended victory or defeat.
Standing on the other side of the field, Ser Barristan watched this dramatic scene with a helpless, wry smile. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
I won the duel fair and square, he thought, yet looking at this crowd, you'd think I was just scenery, and the lad knocked into the dirt is the one who won all the glory.
Deep down, however, Barristan Selmy silently offered the young couple his most sincere blessings.
He, too, had once been captivated by Ashara Dayne's clear, amethyst eyes. Had he not worn the white cloak that bound him to vows of celibacy, he might well have been one of her many suitors. (The records say she was the Queen of Love and Beauty in his heart, though seeing it now feels strange—after all, he is a White Cloak, and the age gap is significant.)
But he had quickly realized the truth. While Ashara respected him and held him dear, she saw him only as a trusted brother, a kind elder. Her eyes held respect and warmth, but not a flicker of romantic love. The years between them were a chasm that made him understand his feelings were but a hopeless longing.
And so, with his characteristic knightly grace and restraint, Barristan had long since buried that vague affection, transforming it into a lasting, open guardianship—a pure, brotherly care.
Now, watching the young figures in the center of the field, bathed in cheers, he felt no bitterness, only an indescribable relief. He was glad to witness Ashara finding happiness and love in this way.
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The electrifying duel between Euron and Ser Barristan had pushed the atmosphere to a fever pitch. The boiling enthusiasm in the stands had not yet settled; the air still crackled with trembling excitement and anticipation.
The feast of lances was not over. The best was yet to come.
All eyes now turned to the ends of the lists, waiting for the true climax of the day—Prince Rhaegar Targaryen versus Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.
This was not merely a contest of martial skill. It was a collision of legends and destiny, enough to make the blood of any witness boil.
Prince Rhaegar sat atop his charger. His wife, the gentle Dornish princess Elia Martell, tied the favor to his arm with her own hands. Elia's movements were soft and focused, yet Rhaegar's gaze drifted past her shoulder. Unconsciously, uncontrollably, his eyes wandered to a specific spot in the stands, searching for a wild and bright figure—Lyanna Stark.
Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, watched his sister Ashara with a teasing smile. She stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Euron Greyjoy, their fingers interlaced, looking like a match made by the gods. Feeling her brother's gaze, Ashara blushed and released Euron's hand. She walked quickly to Arthur, tying a ribbon of victory to his lance with serious care, her eyes full of pride and encouragement.
The horn blared long and loud. The duel began.
First Tilt. Two riders charged like meteors. Lance tips crossed with precision, sparking a crisp crack before parting.
Second Tilt. Faster. Heavier. The wooden shafts groaned under the strain but did not break.
Third Tilt...
The audience in the stands was entranced, drunk on the spectacle. But the two men in the arena knew well that the moment of decision was still far off.
Rhaegar and Arthur were not just Prince and Kingsguard; they were the closest of friends. They trained together daily, sparring constantly. They knew each other's tactics, strengths, weaknesses, and even riding habits down to the bone. Every clash was like a dance in a mirror—magnificent and thrilling, yet underscored by a terrifying familiarity.
Ashara leaned close to Euron's ear, a trace of worry in her lowered voice. "Do you think... my brother will win?"
Euron's gaze never left the two figures clashing on the field. The corner of his mouth hooked up in a knowing arc. He whispered back, "They know each other too well, and their skills are evenly matched. You should know that better than anyone."
"I know..." Ashara admitted softly, her eyes tracking Arthur's figure, which seemed to shimmer with the pale light of dawn. "But I can't help worrying."
Euron chuckled, a sound full of insight into the unfolding battle. "My dear, you're worrying too early." He lifted his chin toward the intensifying duel. "See that? They're just trading blows right now, purely testing stamina and spirit, waiting for the other to reveal a flaw. The real show..." He paused, his tone thick with anticipation. "...is still to come."
By the end of the Thirteenth Tilt, both men reined in their horses heavily. Their arms gripping the lances trembled uncontrollably; beneath the steel plate, muscles were screaming past their limits.
After the charge of the Fourteenth Tilt, even through their heavy visors, their harsh, exhausted gasps were audible. White steam hissed from the vents of their helms; sweat soaked their padding.
The Decisive Fifteenth Tilt!
The horn seemed to carry a note of finality. The two divine steeds accelerated once more, pouring every last drop of strength into carrying their masters. The lance tips became two shooting stars, carrying the remaining will and power of both men, crashing together!
BOOM!
After the massive sound, there was a suffocating silence.
Prince Rhaegar swayed violently in his saddle. He lurched forward, fighting desperately to control his nearly lost balance. Finally, with stubborn grit, he steadied himself. He remained on his horse.
On the other side, Ser Arthur Dayne was completely shaken by the final, compounded impact. His magnificent frame could no longer hold its posture. He was ripped from his stirrups and slammed heavily onto the cold sand, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Victory and defeat were decided.
When Ashara and Euron rushed down from the stands and pushed through the crowd to the sideline, they found Arthur Dayne already standing. He was casually dusting off his pristine white cloak, moving with ease—clearly uninjured by the fall.
The defeated Sword of the Morning showed no sign of annoyance or dejection. Instead, seeing his sister's anxious expression, a glint of mischief flashed in his violet eyes—eyes so like hers. He winked at Ashara, opened his arms wide, and laughed loudly.
"What? You only have eyes for others? Won't you come give your defeated brother a consoling hug?"
His tone was light, as if the peak duel that had drained them both was merely a friendly spar. Seeing him in the mood to joke, Ashara's heart settled instantly. But being teased in public like this made her cheeks burn red. She stomped her foot in a mix of shyness and annoyance, drawing a low chuckle from Euron beside her.
It was a magnificent duel, one for the songs. Yet, Euron had caught a detail in that final tilt that most would have missed.
In the split second before the ultimate collision, the tip of Arthur Dayne's lance—which had been rock-steady and full of power—had a microscopic hesitation. He held back a fraction of his strength.
It was this withheld fraction that gave Prince Rhaegar the crucial buffer needed to absorb the impact and steady himself. And it was this same withheld fraction that allowed Arthur, when blasted from his saddle by the recoil, to retain enough control to land safely, unhurt.
This was not fatigue, nor was it a mistake. It was a deep, dual consideration. Because Rhaegar was his brother in all but blood, and because Rhaegar was his Prince, and he the subject.
This loyalty and friendship, etched into his bones, led Arthur to choose a more dignified, comprehensive way to end this legendary duel right at the edge of victory and defeat.
In the stands, the cheers and applause for Prince Rhaegar's victory were like a raging ocean, wave after wave, never ceasing.
"RHAEGAR! RHAEGAR! RHAEGAR!"
Thousands upon thousands of commoners and nobles alike chanted the Prince's name in a frenzy. The sound was deafening, threatening to lift the roof off Harrenhal.
This glorious roar was a tribute to Rhaegar, but to Aerys II, it was a thousand poisoned daggers stabbing into his heart.
Perched high on his iron seat, the face of Aerys II twisted as the cheers grew louder. Every word of praise for Rhaegar, every clap of thunderous applause, felt like a burning slap across his face—as a King, and as a father. His withered fingers clawed at the cold iron spikes of the throne, as if trying to crush them.
Boundless jealousy gnawed at Aerys's entrails like a viper.
He was jealous of Rhaegar. Jealous of his own son!
Jealous that Rhaegar had so easily won the heartfelt love and fanaticism of the people—while all that glory, all those cheers, should have belonged to him alone! To the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms! To Aerys Targaryen the Second! He was the true dragon the people should look up to and sing about!
In the Mad King's eyes, burning with insanity and resentment, his son was no longer an heir. He was a hateful usurper, waiting impatiently to steal everything that rightfully belonged to the King.