(Long ass author note in the comments!)
Back at the tournament, Rhaenyra watched with a glint in her eyes as knights clashed against each other.
It didn't take long for chivalry and sportsmanship to give way to barbarity and savagery. Maces made minced meat out of someone's cranium. Axes were embedded into the faces of once proud knights. One had his throat ripped clean off by a sword strike.
The mood turned into a mixture of somberness and excitement. The crowd roared louder as more and more blood was spilled.
Rhaenys Targaryen, the 'Queen Who Never Was', japed at her husband's ear. Joking about how such a spectacle hadn't yet turned into full-out war. Her hair, a mixture of Baratheon black and Targaryen silver, danced softly with the wind. Her violet eyes gleamed with indifference for the numerous deaths and amusement at the pitiful attempt of the noble houses' show of strength.
Alicent, by Rhaenyra's side, couldn't help but feel queasy at the gore being spilled for the entertainment of the crowd. She grew even more disgusted as she turned back and saw her father, lord Otto, betting a handful of golden dragons against lord Beesbury.
This whole day had been nothing but repulsive in the eyes of the young Hightower.
Out of habit, she started picking at the corners of her nails, ripping flesh out, and turning them bloody.
A sign of nervousness that she couldn't get rid of, no matter how long she had tried. And it most certainly wasn't for the lack of scolding coming from her father, who thought such things unbecoming of a lady.
As more and more knights were either disqualified or outright killed, the tournament came down to a fight between two of its most prominent participants.
Prince Daemon Targaryen and Ser Criston Cole.
A prince, clad in dark armor, proudly celebrating his family's draconic heritage, atop his dark horse, neighed in restrained fury. Rode against a commoner knight, wearing a simplistic yet effective suit of armor, riding atop a white steed.
The pride of the dragon against the symbol of chivalry.
Or at least that is what the common masses would sing about this clash.
Daemon arrogantly spurred his horse, while Criston Cole merely downed his helmet's visor. Hooves lifted dirt in heaps as each knight rode against his opponent.
The two pointed their wooden lances at their foe, aiming to get a win as fast as possible.
Wood exploded upon contact with the shields, and though they shifted in their saddles, neither fell from their horse.
Spurring their horses, they circled the arena, grabbing new lances. Ser Cole was far more graceful as he picked up his new weapon without much trouble, while Prince Daemon had sent the squire flying after he crashed his horse against the poor man.
Daemon smirked excitedly.
This time, though, Ser Cole proved to be the more skilled rider, as he remained saddled, while Prince Daemon was dragged shamefully across the railing, until he finally fell from the saddle.
The Rogue Prince punched the ground in irritation. He gestured for the squire to bring his Valyrian steel sword, Dark Sister, a blade well known across the realms.
"Prince Daemon Targaryen wishes to continue in a contest of arms!" the herald shouted, making the crowd roar in excitement.
Ser Cole chose a flail as his weapon of choice.
The clash between them was brutal, yet a sight to see. They maneuvered around each other. Muscles coiled and ready to erupt in explosive strength. Weapons are ready for a quick response at all times.
Daemon flashed a cocky grin beneath his dark helmet. Ser Cole, though, had a more focused expression, appearing to be taking this fight more seriously than his opponent.
Daemon jumped forward, delivering a series of blows against Cole, his offensive style startling the knight for a split second, before he, too, responded in kind.
His flail flew around, tearing chunks off Daemon's shield.
The two moved as if they were possessed. At that very moment, nothing else mattered other than to win against their opponent.
Daemon twirled around the flail and got under Cole's guard, swinging Dark Sister ruthlessly. Sparks flew as the sword cut and dragged against the metal of the armor, almost as if it were a hot knife cutting through butter. The Prince smirked and kicked the knight in the chest, sending him tumbling down.
Not wishing to let go of the advantage, Daemon pressed on, swinging his sword again and again. At times, he banged the sword's pommel against the helmet of his foe. In other instances, Daemon wrapped his sword in the chains of the flail, rendering the weapon useless and forcing a closer confrontation.
Ser Cole saw his weapon wrapped against the sword, and with a mighty pull, he threw the sword away, leaving Daemon unarmed.
The Prince, not one to back down easily, picked up the remains of his shield and threw them at Cole, making him fall. Daemon followed up with a kick that knocked the wind out of Ser Cole's lungs.
Daemon, through a show of vicious skill, managed to bring down Ser Cole, but due to his arrogance, he turned to the crowd without finishing the fight. He roared proudly, arms spread wide.
Criston Cole gritted his teeth in unwillingness. Not wishing to let it end like this. And in a move, some would consider cowardly, and others would consider fair—as it was only possible due to Daemon himself strutting around like a proud peacock. Ser Cole struck the prince from behind.
Daemon tried to turn the situation around but failed to do so.
"Yield," Cole shouted.
Daemon looked at him hatefully; his eyes were a promise of anything but a happy and healthy life.
Ser Cole swallowed dryly and offered a hand, a manner to placate the Prince, as well as show the honor of a knight. Easy to say Daemon wasn't keen on accepting it, and indeed, he didn't. As the Rogue Prince decided to get up on his own, pushing Cole away.
Cole shook his head and turned back to the stands, to a particular silver-haired princess, actually. His eyes shone with a hidden glint.
He strutted towards where the princess stood, beside her friend of House Hightower.
"I was hoping to ask for the princess's favor." He said, making Rhaenyra chuckle at the display of boldness.
But the moment she turned to grab it, lord Hightower was there, his eyes carried regretfulness and a hint of sympathy.
He leaned closer to the young princess, carrying news no man wanted to announce to one so young, full of life, and innocent vigor.
Rhaenyra's eyes widened and turned moist.