The Flamefall Tourney

Jace trained for as long as they would allow him. He remained in the lists past the midday sun, practicing with lance and shield until the organisers politely told him they needed the field cleared. The first knights were beginning to arrive, and everything had to be in place before the procession began. He accepted it with a nod, sweat clinging to his brow as he handed off his lance and rolled out his shoulder. An older man in green and white stepped forward and gave him a short bow. "If you'd like, Prince Jacaerys, I can escort you to your pavilion. Your tent has been prepared."

"Of course," Jace said, motioning to Ser Erryck to follow as he fell in beside the man.

They moved at a slow pace across the grounds, weaving between squires and stablehands, while men-at-arms polished banners and grooms checked the hooves of their horses. The air smelled of crushed grass, sweat, and the tang of oiled leather. Jace took in the place quietly before speaking.

"Do you know the lineup?" he asked. Hoping he might get a little info on his opponent.

The organiser stiffened slightly, his hands behind his back. "I do, but I'm afraid we're not to reveal the order until the tilts begin."

Jace offered him a charming smile and said, "And here I thought my station might buy me a little generosity."

The man hesitated, blinking once, and Ser Erryck, walking just behind them, let out a short sound that might have been a laugh before he cleared his throat loudly and made it a cough.

With a small sigh and the twitch of a reluctant grin, the organiser relented. "Very well, since you asked kindly. You've drawn the third joust of the day. Your opponent will be Ser Alan Tarly, of Horn Hill."

Jace lifted his hand to his chin, stroking it as he walked. "Alan Tarly..." he said thoughtfully. "Do you know anything about him, Ser Erryck?"

Erryck frowned slightly, his brow creasing in thought. "He's the second son of Lord Donald Tarly," he said. "Younger brother to Ser Luther. House Tarly has long served as the right hand of the Reach in war."

"So he's not the heir," Jace noted aloud.

The organiser gave him a puzzled look. "Why would that matter?"

Jace shrugged. "Heirs have little to prove, and more often than not they lean on their titles rather than their merit. But second sons... they need to be exceptional. They don't inherit lands or titles, so they make names with steel."

Ser Erryck nodded at that. "And the Tarlys are a militant house," he said. "Lord Donald made his sons drill from the time they could walk. Alan Tarly won't be a fool with a lance."

"Good," Jace said, smiling now. "It wouldn't be worth doing if it were easy."

They reached the pavilion soon after. The tent was large, made of cloth in red and black, with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen stitched in silver across the flaps. It was set a little apart from the others, positioned where the sun wouldn't scorch it in the afternoon. Inside, it was cooler, the air quite refreshing. There was a cot to the side, a table set with water and fruit, and a small rack with a polished mannequin upon which rested his armor. "If there is anything else you require, Prince Jacaerys," the organiser said with a short bow, "simply call for me. I shall be near."

"Thank you," Jace said, and the man departed quickly, leaving them alone.

He walked to the mannequin and looked at the armor he'd chosen. It wasn't elaborate. He didn't want elaborate. The plate was silvered steel, plain but finely made, shaped to fit him snug across the chest and shoulders. The helm was clean, no plume, only the simple sigil of House Targaryen on the brow—a three-headed dragon in black. Not gilded like his uncle Daemon's, not flared and feathered like those of the Reach or the Stormlands. It didn't shine for the sake of shine.

He stood there for a long moment, just breathing.

He wasn't afraid, not truly, but his chest rose and fell faster than it had before. He was excited. Nervous. Something in between. His hand tightened and loosened again at his side. He could do this. He had trained for it, thought of it. And now it was real.

He sat down and drank slowly from the water on the table, letting the minutes pass.

Time moved quickly after that. The sun crept further down the sky, and with each hour, the rumble of the crowd grew louder. First came the peasants from the city, boys climbing onto one another's shoulders to see over the fences, women with babes in arms shouting for them to get down. They filled the outer stands, pressing into every open space, laughing, cheering, yelling over one another.

Next came the merchants—clothed in fine silks and heavier velvets, their fingers thick with rings, their necks layered with chains. They carried parasols and servants and took their seats with all the pride of minor lords. They sipped wine and traded wagers, tossing coins and names around.

Then the highborn began to arrive.

Great lords and ladies from every corner of the realm stepped down from their carriages and palanquins, ushered to their tiered seats by guards. The banners flew higher then, and the crowd swelled louder still. You could hear the lords of the Westerlands talking over the shrill voices of the Valemen, while ladies from Oldtown and Highgarden fanned themselves and smiled as they looked at the numerous knights in the field.

And finally, at the very height of the procession, the royal box filled.

Jace could hear the murmurs before the names were ever called, King Viserys, Queen Alicent, Princess Rhaenyra. Aegon and Aemond, Helaena, and his brothers. The names whispered across the arena like a current of wind, everyone shifting to look. Seeing a Targaryen in the flesh was an event in of itself, their ethereal beauty was unmatched by any in the seven kingdoms—especially the women—and peasants found joy in just looking at them.

Jace stood and placed one hand on his armor. It was nearly time.

However, before he could begin strapping the first piece onto his shoulder, the flap of his pavilion lifted, and four familiar figures stepped inside. His mother and father entered first, followed closely by Helaena and Daella, both girls hurrying ahead of the adults with their skirts gathered in their hands. They reached him in a few quick steps, both voices rising at once.

"Jace!" Daella said, her hands catching the edge of his sleeve.

"Are you hurt?" Helaena asked as she grabbed his other arm.

Jace laughed softly and shook his head. "I haven't even gone yet," he said, as he looked between them. "I'm fine."

He rested one hand gently on each of their heads, smoothing down Helaena's pale wavy hair and Daella's straighter hair. They looked up at him with matching expressions of worry, though Helaena's was quieter, her brow furrowed just slightly while Daella's eyes still flicked over him like she expected to find a wound he hadn't mentioned.

"We came to wish you luck," Helaena said as she reached into the folds of her sleeve and pulled out a ribbon of pale lavender silk.

Daella was already tugging something from beneath her belt—a red ribbon with gold trim, slightly wrinkled from her run.

"These are our favours," Helaena added as she held hers out to him.

Jace smiled, taking both in his hands, and without a word he tied one to each wrist, tightening the knots himself and flexing his fingers once to make sure they would hold. The lavender shimmered against the silver of his sleeve, and Daella's red caught the light with every small movement.

"Well," he said, looking down at them, "I can't lose now."

They giggled at that, stepping back as Rhaenyra came forward. She said nothing at first, only wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close. He let the embrace linger for a moment, resting his chin on her shoulder. When she finally stepped back, he looked past her and met his father's eyes.

"Where are Luke and Joffrey?" he asked.

Rhaenyra's expression softened. "I didn't want them watching today," she said quietly. "They're still a little shaken after the melee. Joffrey had a nightmare two nights ago. I thought it best they sit this one out."

Jace nodded. "I understand."

He glanced at his father, then at the empty space behind them. "What about Uncle Daemon?" he asked.

The question settled oddly in the room. Both Rhaenyra and Laenor exchanged a glance, and Jace saw the faintest crease form between his mother's brows. Laenor answered first. "My sister has taken a turn," he said. "The maester sent word in the night. A raven reached the Keep just before dawn, and Daemon flew out not long after. Caraxes carried him before the sun touched the towers."

Rhaenyra added, "Your Grandfather and Grandmother joined him. They left together not long after he did."

"I see," Jace said. He said nothing more, but the words settled deep in his chest. The guilt came slowly, not all at once, and it rooted itself beneath the surface of his thoughts like a nail buried in wood. It was his fault. He had forced her into that terrible place, he was the reason she was sick. If she died, it would be his doing. No matter what anyone said. He hadn't struck her, but he had wounded her all the same.

Rhaenyra stepped forward again and pulled him into another hug, gentler this time.

"Don't worry about it now," she whispered. "Focus on the joust. The first tilt is already beginning, and I believe you're third. Think only of that."

Jace nodded slowly. "I'll get ready now," he said.

Daella turned toward him again. "Can we stay with you until it starts?" she asked.

"I want to stay too," Helaena added, her voice softer.

Laenor stepped forward then, resting a hand lightly on both their shoulders. "It's better for his focus if he's alone now," he said. "Let him ready himself without distractions."

The girls looked disappointed, and Helaena hesitated a moment before she stepped in and hugged Jace tightly around the middle, her cheek pressing into his shoulder. Daella followed right after, wrapping her arms around his waist and clinging for just a moment longer than her cousin.

"I'll be fine," Jace said, smiling down at both of them. "I promise."

They stepped back reluctantly, and Laenor guided them toward the tent's exit, exchanging a final look with his son before slipping out into the sun.

The tent was quiet again.

Jace let out a long breath, one hand moving to his chest and the other to the edge of the cot for balance. He stood there for a few seconds, listening to the distant sounds of hooves and cheering, the clash of lance on shield from the opening tilt, and the drumbeat of his own heart. Then he turned to the armor. He began to unfasten the straps, starting with the chest piece, fitting it over his tunic and tightening the cords along the sides. He moved slowly, buckling the greaves, pulling the gauntlets tight, fastening the gorget.

After a few ministers he was adjusting the final strap of his bracer when the flap of the tent opened behind him. He didn't look up. "Helaena," he said, keeping his eyes on the buckle, "you should get to the royal box. My tilt's nearly up."

"And how excited I am to witness it."

The voice wasn't Helaena's.

His hand froze on the strap, his brow furrowing slightly as he turned. His breath caught in his throat when he saw her. Princess Aliandra stood alone at the threshold, the curtain falling closed behind her. She moved without hesitation, one foot already stepping further inside, as if the tent—and everything in it—belonged to her. She held her chin high and her smile wide, and there was nothing timid about her gaze as it swept across the room to meet his.

Jace stiffened slightly and swallowed. "Princess," he said. "Are you lost?" But even as he said it, he already knew better. She was right where she wanted to be.

Aliandra tilted her head, her smile deepening as if she could hear the thought before he'd spoken it. "I am right where I want to be," she said smoothly.

She began to move then, letting her fingers trail over the back of the nearby chair as she circled the edge of the tent. Her gown was golden silk with a plunging neckline and long sleeves that danced with every step. The fabric clung to her hips and shifted like water around her thighs. She wore her hair long and loosely curled, framing her face and trailing down her back, with a thin red ribbon braided along one side.

Jace followed her movement for a moment before turning away, adjusting the buckles on his greaves with more force than was needed.

"I was told you were to give my father and me an apology for the blood melee," she said as she glanced over her shoulder at him. "I was rather disappointed not to see you yesterday."

Jace rolled his eyes as he fastened the strap tighter. "You'll have your apology," he said. "Both of you will. Even though you practically forced yourself to the arena with me."

She giggled, and began to step toward him now, not circling but closing the space between them. "You avoid me," she said, her voice dropping into a soft pout. "That makes me sad." She was close now, her eyes locked on his as she moved to stand just a breath away. Her hand rose, not quite touching him, hovering near his shoulder as she tilted her head slightly. "We are to be married, you know," she said. "You ought to treat your future queen with more affection."

Jace didn't smile. His mouth tightened instead. "The betrothal hasn't been announced yet."

She smirked at him and slid behind him slowly, her fingers brushing along the back of his neck as she reached for the clasp on his shoulder. "It will be," she said. "When the tournament is over, I imagine. Think of all the jealous little maidens who'll have their hearts broken when the most handsome prince in the realm is taken." She leaned in then, her lips just behind his ear, her breath warm against his skin.

"The sight will be... delicious," she whispered.

Jace pulled away from her and walked to the table, grabbing the silver cup he had set there earlier. He drank deeply before lowering it with a faint clink.

"I already have someone I plan to marry," he said as he set the cup down. "And it isn't you."

Aliandra moved beside him, brushing against his arm as she leaned closer. "That beautiful little princess," she said with a faint sneer, though the curl of her lips didn't falter. "Pale skin. Violet eyes. Silver hair. A classic Targaryen gem." Her voice dipped, her tone turning sharp around the edges. "There isn't a man in the realm who wouldn't want to fuck her."

Jace's jaw clenched.

Aliandra's hand found his arm again, tracing up to his shoulder. "But if you stay with me," she said, her voice dropping to a sultry murmur, "perhaps I'll let you keep her."

Then she leaned in and bit gently at the edge of his ear.

The cup slammed down hard against the table.

Jace turned before the sound finished echoing. His hand shot forward and wrapped around her throat. His fingers pressed against her skin as he pushed her back until she nearly stumbled, her heels scraping against the rug. She gasped, her hands grabbing his wrist as she struggled, her mouth open in silent shock.

She tried to cry out, but he clamped his other hand over her mouth.

"Shut up," he said through his teeth. "And listen."

She stopped moving, her breath hot against his palm, and her eyes locked on his. There was nothing playful in his stare now. No warmth. No humor. No restraint. His eyes were cold and dead as they stared at her making her shiver.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asked. "To anger me?"

He held her still as she blinked up at him, her chest rising and falling quickly, and her pulse thudding against his grip.

"Well done," he said. "You've managed it."

He pulled her closer until their faces were inches apart. "Take your victory, however small it is, because it's the only one you'll ever get."

"You can play your games. Try to trap me in whatever marriage you want. Try to bait me with teasing words and wandering hands. But hear this."

He lowered his hand from her mouth, and she didn't speak.

"I have seen things that would make you piss yourself," he said. "I've fought men who eat the dead and sleep in the earth. I've lived on the edge of death so long that I still wake up with a blade under my pillow. I've walked alone through places you wouldn't dare step into with a hundred guards. Ive seen true monsters, ones that exist only in nightmares."

He leaned closer.

"You are not a threat."

His grip loosened, and he let her go. She stumbled back, her hands flying to her neck, breathing hard as she stared at him, wide-eyed.

"I have shown your kingdom respect. I've played nice, offered courtesy, done what was expected."

He turned and grabbed his helmet from the stand beside the cot.

"Provoke me again," he said as he stepped toward the tent's opening, "and I'll drop you in the Narrow Sea from the back of my dragon."

Then he left without another word, pushing through the flap and vanishing into the bright roar of the tourney grounds.

Aliandra stood frozen in place. Her chest still rose and fell with the force of her breath. Her neck ached faintly where his fingers had pressed, and her skin was flushed with the rush of it all. She hadn't expected him to grab her. She hadn't expected to see that look in his eyes. That coldness. That stillness. That shadow of something worse than violence—indifference.

And yet... she had never been so aroused in her life. Her thighs were soaked, her juices were dripping down her thighs even when he had her by the throat. She had even orgasmed when she looked into his eyes, the utter look of indifference, the lack of care he showed her gave her one of the best orgasms she'd had in her life.

"Jace... you are the one..." she said as her fingers traced down her body to her groin.

...

Jace stepped out into the sun with a hard breath in his chest. He'd instantly regretted losing his cool against the Princess, he was supposed to be more mature than that; what he'd done was childish and could bring more problems than it would solve. He blinked against the light, adjusting to the brightness. Behind him, the flap closed slowly, leaving the tent and all that had transpired inside sealed behind thick canvas. The sound of the crowd rose like a tide beyond the outer wall, distant cheers and calls weaving into the crashing thuds of hooves and iron. As he moved forward, Ser Erryck fell in step beside him.

"Is everything alright?" Erryck asked, his eyes flicking back toward the tent as they walked.

"I'm fine," Jace said, and his tone allowed no room for further question.

They walked across the packed dirt toward the main jousting lane, where horses had already been brought out and squires hurried to adjust harnesses and check straps. Flags fluttered from every corner, and the stands had grown loud with excitement, filled now from the lowest peasants to the highest lords. Sunlight gleamed off polished helms and glittering silks, and the roar of the arena grew louder with each passing moment. This was the height of spectacle, and it was all eyes now upon the list.

Jace approached his steed. The horse was already fitted with silver barding trimmed in red, matching the colors of House Targaryen. It snorted once as Jace neared but didn't shy from his touch.

"This is Goren," Ser Erryck said, nodding toward the boy beside the horse. "Your squire for the day."

The lad, no older than twelve, stood stiffly and gave a jerking bow. "My prince," he said, voice wavering slightly.

Jace offered him a kind smile, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you, Goren. I appreciate you helping me today."

The boy's chest swelled just slightly with pride as he stepped back, eyes wide as he watched Jace move toward the mounting block. Before climbing into the saddle, Jace looked up toward the royal box.

Most of his family had already taken their seats. He saw Helaena at the front, flanked by Daella and their mother, Rhaenyra. Laenor stood behind them with arms crossed, while Viserys sat near the center beneath a canopy of crimson and gold. Helaena spotted him first and waved eagerly. Daella followed, bouncing slightly on her toes with both hands pressed to the rail. Jace raised a hand in return and gave them a smile, letting it linger just long enough to settle their nerves. Then he turned, climbed into the saddle, and adjusted his grip on the reins.

The announcer's voice rang out across the arena.

"In the third tilt of the day, we have His Highness, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon of House Targaryen, riding against Ser Alan Tarly of Horn Hill!"

A fresh cheer rose from the crowd as trumpets blared and the competitors were announced on either side. Jace tightened his grip on the lance and gave his horse a soft kick, guiding it forward toward the waiting point. He let the sounds fade as he focused on the rhythm of his breathing.

Meanwhile, in the royal box, Helaena leaned in close to Rhaenyra, her voice filled with tension. "He's going to be alright, isn't he?"

Before Rhaenyra could answer, Aegon snorted from his seat near the wine tray. "He's going to get crushed," he muttered. "Alan Tarly's twice his size."

Aemond chuckled. "And twice as skilled."

"Shut up," Helaena snapped, turning to glare at both of them.

Alicent narrowed her eyes but kept her voice quiet. "That's enough, all of you. This is a royal tournament. Conduct yourselves like royals." Though her gaze lingered more on Helaena than her sons, as she didn't quite disagree with them.

"Come now, Aegon," Viserys said from his seat. "You should support your nephew. He's doing something truly great. Bring great honour to our house."

"Indeed," Rhaenyra added with pride in her voice. "He carries our house with him onto the field."

Helaena and Daella leaned forward as Jace adjusted his shield and lance, both of them still watching with anxious eyes. Laenor moved to stand between them, placing a calming hand on each of their shoulders.

"Don't worry Princess," he said. "You've seen him train. He'll be fine."

Before any reply could come, a commotion stirred at the edge of the royal box as one of the dragonkeepers arrived, his cloak half-wrapped around his arms and his boots marked with soot. He bowed quickly and stepped toward Laenor. "Zaldrīzo se Ānogrose vestris, ñuha āeksio. Issa drējī."

(Seasmoke is frantic again, my lord. He's thrashing.)

Laenor frowned. "Arlī? Skoros gaomagon ao ūndegon iā rhaenagon syt hen māzis?"

(Again? What did you do to him after I left this morning?)

The keeper shook his head quickly. "Daorun skoros, āeksio. Issa ēdruta, ēza, hēn kostōba, yn gōntan—māzis gevives."

(Nothing, my lord. He was calm, fed, resting. But now—he is worse.)

Laenor sighed and straightened. He looked down at Jace once more before turning to Rhaenyra with a nod. "I wanted to watch him ride," he said softly, "but this needs my attention. I'll return soon."

Rhaenyra smiled and placed a hand on his arm. "It's alright. Go."

He squeezed her fingers once and left with the dragonkeeper, disappearing down the stairs behind the box.

A few moments later, the horns blew. The joust was about to begin.

Just as they faded, the Dornish delegation arrived, stepping into the royal box. Prince Qoren Martell entered first, followed by Princess Aliandra. King Viserys rose slightly from his seat, extending a hand in welcome.

"Prince Qoren, Princess Aliandra," he said, smiling as they approached. "It brings me great joy that you've chosen to join us especially after the unfortunat events of the blood melee."

Qoren gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable. "Truthfully, I considered not attending," he said plainly. "But I deemed the likelihood of another incident to be low."

"Indeed," Viserys said, nodding quickly. "And I can assure you it will not happen again." He paused. "And I trust Prince Jacaerys has apologised for his part?"

Qoren hesitated. "I'm afraid not, Your Grace. I've not seen him."

Viserys's jaw clenched. "Unacceptable. You have my sincerest apologies—"

"Actually," Aliandra interrupted smoothly, stepping forward with an easy smile. "He did apologise. Quite sincerely, in fact. He even gave me a gift to make amends."

Qoren looked at her, one brow raised. "I see. Then I suppose the matter is settled. It was, after all, my daughter who was placed in harm's way."

"I am grateful you feel that way," Viserys said, exhaling slowly. He turned to Aliandra. "And to you, Princess, I offer my apologies for the danger you faced."

She bowed her head just slightly, her smile still lingering. "Please, Your Grace, think nothing of it. If I am to become family, I hope to build good relations with everyone here."

Helaena's expression soured at that, and Daella's lips tightened.

"Yes. Yes. Very good," Viserys said, waving his hand toward the field. "Let us all enjoy the joust."

Below, Jace lowered his visor and raised his lance.

The tilt had begun.

___________________________

The stench of ash, old blood, and burned straw hung thick in the air as Laenor stepped into the mouth of the Dragonpit, his boots echoing against the black stone floor as he followed the keeper deeper inside. Torches lined the path with flickering orange light, casting long shadows that danced across the walls like ghosts. The heat was palpable here, not only from the torches but from the heavy breath of the creatures within. It was always warm in the pit.

"Skoros morghūljagon?" Laenor asked, his voice calm but edged with concern. (What is he doing now?)

The keeper, walking two steps ahead, glanced over his shoulder. "Iā sȳndror, āeksio," he said. "Sesīr udra. Bē ziry, ēza īlva, tolī naejot gō." (He's thrashing, my lord. Snapping at the others. Pacing, growling. He's unlike himself.)

Laenor nodded without slowing his pace, his mind already moving ahead to the dragon he knew better than any man alive. "Seasmoke is proud, but not violent," he muttered more to himself than the keeper. "Sȳrkta kostilus." (He can be temperamental.)

As they turned the corner into the larger chamber, the full sound of the pit greeted them like a thunderclap. Deep roars echoed through the stone like the earth itself was bellowing, and Laenor raised his hand instinctively to block the sudden gust of heated air that swept across his face. At the far end of the chamber, Seasmoke stood on his haunches, tail whipping the floor with violent swings. His silver-grey scales shimmered in the firelight, and his eyes, usually calm, intelligent, were wild now, dilated, unfocused. A dozen dragonkeepers stood around him in a loose semicircle, their long poles used more to guide than restrain, though it was clear none of them dared get too close.

Nearer to the entrance, Vermax paced in tight circles, the smaller green dragon letting out snarls that bounced off the walls and seemed to make Seasmoke worse. The two beasts glared at each other with flashes of teeth, and Vermax let out a piercing cry.

"Vermax... nykeā daor. Joreli." (Vermax... no. Enough.) Laenor said with a slight edge, stepping forward as he passed the dragon.

"Ziry ēdruta yn ēza gō," the nearest keeper said quickly, sweat visible on his brow. (He was calm, but now he is enraged.)

Laenor strode past him and raised his hand slowly toward Seasmoke. "Zaldrīzes, ēdruta," he said softly. (My friend, calm.) His voice was quiet. "Ao kostagon sȳrkta. Issa nyke." (You can calm yourself. It is me.)

Seasmoke let out a warning rumble but didn't lunge. He turned his head to face Laenor and released a guttural snort that sent a puff of smoke rolling out from his nostrils. His claws scraped the stone floor as his wings shifted and twitched.

"Laehurlion ao, sȳrkta." (I'm here, calm.) Laenor took another step. "Skoros iksan? Skoriot āeksio sȳndror?" (What is it? Why are you upset?)

The dragon let out a low sound that was almost a growl, his massive eyes blinking once, then again. Behind Laenor, Vermax let out a defiant screech and flapped his wings once, shuffling toward the side.

"Joreli iā gēlenkon." Laenor turned to the keepers. "Nagesiot Vermax hen dōre. Nyk skanāre syt ziry." (Take Vermax deeper. He's making it worse.)

The keepers hesitated only a moment before nodding and moving toward the green dragon, trying to steer him away. Vermax reared back slightly and let out a challenging roar, then took off with a powerful flap of his wings, flying through one of the arched exits and disappearing into the sky. Laenor didn't flinch. He kept his gaze on Seasmoke, who now began to breathe slower, though his tail still beat the stone with agitation.

"Ziry kostagon sȳrkta," Laenor said aloud. (He can be soothed.) "Iksan ziry." (He is okay.)

He stepped close enough now to press one hand to the side of the dragon's thick neck. He could feel the pulse beneath the warm scales, and he moved slowly, whispering. "Drējī sȳrkta. Issa iā gēlenkon. Iksan ao." (Calm, calm. It's just me.)

Seasmoke's breathing slowed further, and Laenor nodded to the keepers. "Rūkestragon ziry. Tolī se īlva. Iā ōrbar iksis skorion ēza." (Saddle him. A ride will settle him.)

The keepers moved swiftly now, some moving to the tack while others kept watch in case the dragon turned wild again. Within minutes, the saddle was fastened, and Laenor climbed up, gripping the old leather with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times over. He settled himself in, tightened the straps across his thighs and chest, then leaned down and patted Seasmoke just behind the ear. "Sōvēs. Pār sagon bē." (Fly. Let us be wind.)

Seasmoke growled once, then turned and began to move toward the wide opening at the far end of the chamber.

With a beat of his wings that sent dust and straw swirling in every direction, Seasmoke leapt into the air and disappeared through the open gate.

___________________________

The horns had sounded, and the crowd fell into an eager hush. Jace sat mounted atop his destrier, the lance balanced in his right hand, his shield strapped tightly to his left. The weight of his armour had settled on him completely now, no longer just a burden on his shoulders but part of him, pressing against his skin through the padded underlayers. The horse beneath him shifted slightly, snorting and stamping as if it could feel his tension. He tightened his grip on the reins and exhaled slowly, steadying the beast with a quiet tug. Ser Erryck gave him a firm nod from beside the tilt, arms crossed over his chest.

Across the field stood Ser Alan Tarly sat unmoving atop his black courser. His armour was steel-grey, unadorned save for a red band across the pauldron and the crest of his house painted starkly upon his kite shield. Jace studied him, noting the ease with which he held his lance, the calm in his posture, the way his eyes never wandered from the tilt ahead. This was not a man full of bluster. There was no posturing or bravado. Tarly had come to win. He wouldn't be giving Jace any special treatment, nor for his age, or his title.

A trumpet called out the start of the match. The herald announced the stakes of the match: four passes unless one man was unhorsed, with points given for solid strikes and broken lances. Jace adjusted his helm, sliding it fully into place before locking it down. His world narrowed to the visor slit and the path ahead.

He raised his shield.

The first pass began with the clatter of hooves and the scrape of armour, the tilt rail blurring beside him as he charged forward. He leaned into the gallop, angling his shield slightly outward to catch the blow. His lance tip sought the centre of Alan's shield, but the man moved subtly at the last instant, a minor lean that adjusted the angle of the strike. Jace's lance glanced off with only a partial break, a splinter shooting out behind him. Alan's lance struck true, catching the top edge of Jace's shield and snapping with a sharp crack. The force jolted through Jace's shoulder and left his arm throbbing.

They thundered past one another, wheeling around at either end of the list. The herald declared one point to Prince Jacaerys for a glancing blow, two to Ser Alan Tarly for a solid strike and broken lance.

Jace flexed his fingers inside the gauntlet and cursed under his breath. The man was more precise than he had anticipated, not merely strong but quick-eyed and able to read movement mid-pass. Jace had leaned too far forward and given him too much shield to aim for. He lowered the next lance into position, waited for the signal, and charged again.

This time he kept his shield tighter to his chest and shifted slightly left just before they crossed. The adjustment paid off. Alan's lance hit too high, glancing off the top edge and failing to break. Jace's own strike was truer; the lance tip struck just right of Alan's crest, splitting against the steel and sending a crack echoing across the field. Alan barely shifted in his saddle, but the point went to Jace.

The herald called it: one broken lance each. The score stood even.

Back in the stands, Rhaenyra leaned forward, lips pressed together. Daella sat beside her, clutching the edge of her seat with pale fingers while Helaena watched in tense silence. Viserys gave a quiet murmur of approval, and even Aemond's smirk had faded. Only Aegon chuckled slightly as he leaned toward Alicent and said something she didn't quite respond to.

On the field, Ser Alan turned for the third tilt.

Jace steadied himself again. This was the one that would likely decide it. If they both struck well, they would go to sudden death. If one was unhorsed, the tilt would be over.

The horn blew.

They galloped.

Jace counted the strides as they closed, timing his breath with each beat of the hooves. The first pass had taught him Alan preferred a high strike. The second had confirmed he adjusted for tilt angles quickly. So this time Jace gave him the high line again, only to dip the shield low just as Alan's lance came in. The feint worked—Alan struck off-centre and missed the core. But Jace had overcorrected and misjudged the recoil of his own lance. His aim landed too far to the left, hitting the edge of Alan's shield instead of centre-mass. Both lances cracked but neither broke fully, and both men passed without gaining clear advantage.

The herald hesitated before declaring no point.

Jace cursed under his breath. Sweat clung to his hairline under the helmet, and he could feel the ache spreading through his right shoulder where the lance had kicked back. His grip was starting to tire, and his timing was off by a fraction.

They rearmed. The next pass would be decisive.

On the sidelines, Erryck called out, "Mind his tilt! He'll bait you left!"

Jace gave a quick nod, barely glancing at him.

The announcer stepped forward and addressed the crowd. "As the score stands even, we move to sudden death! Should a lance break, or a knight fall, the match is decided!"

The crowd roared in anticipation.

Jace exhaled and whispered to himself, he could do it he knew he could, he would prove to everyone here that he was who he was because of his skill not because of his title. He would prove that there was no one else like him in this world.

They thundered forward again.

Alan leaned in sooner this time, going for a more aggressive line. Jace recognized it too late. The older knight had shifted his lance hand higher and angled for Jace's breastplate, intending to bypass the shield entirely. Jace's instincts kicked in and he tilted his upper body backward, pulling the shield tighter against his chest just as the lance struck.

The blow cracked against the shield and jerked him hard to the side. For a moment he thought he'd go flying. His grip slipped on the reins and the saddle groaned under his weight, but he held on. His own lance, already misaligned from the recoil, struck Alan's helmet and shattered in a spectacular spray of splinters.

They galloped past each other.

Both men reined in hard at the ends of the tilt. Alan turned sharply, seemingly ready to argue a helmet strike was against the rules. But before he could speak, the herald declared: "Lance strike to helm not counted—null point!"

Jace could see Alan's jaw clench, but he said nothing.

Both men were given new lances.

Jace's chest was pounding now. His arms ached from the repeated bracing, and his fingers were beginning to go numb from the tension. He steadied himself again and glanced up, just for a moment, to the royal box.

His mother's eyes were locked on him. His sisters leaned forward, both visibly anxious. Even Helaena looked like she was on the verge of standing.

He turned back toward the rail.

It would have to end now.

One more pass.

They rode.

Jace no longer tried to trick Alan. He let instinct take hold. The first stride he measured his balance, the second he adjusted for the weight of the lance, and by the third he had locked in fully. Alan came in with controlled force, but Jace leaned inward, let the momentum carry him closer, and thrust the lance forward with all his strength.

There was no subtlety this time—just weight, speed, and brute force.

Alan struck Jace's shield again, but too wide. The lance splintered without momentum. Jace's own blow struck Alan directly in the chest, dead centre of the shield, with enough force to lift him from the saddle. Alan tumbled backward, arms flailing once before he hit the ground with a clang of steel on packed earth.

The crowd exploded.

Jace reined in and turned back, panting hard beneath his helmet. The herald raised his arms and shouted to the stands.

"Victory to Prince Jacaerys of House Targaryen!"

Jace removed his helmet and raised it high as the sound of the crowd swelled into a deafening wave, rising in tempo like a storm rolling over the sea. He turned toward the royal box and saw Daella and Helaena standing with wide eyes and open mouths, their hands clapping furiously as they called his name. Rhaenyra sat just behind them with her hands folded in her lap, smiling with pride, and beside her, King Viserys gave a small but unmistakable nod of approval. The simple gesture, restrained yet unmistakably pleased, struck something deep in Jace's chest. He exhaled slowly, the heat in his lungs mixing with the tension he hadn't realised he had been holding in his spine, and allowed Ser Erryck to help him down from his saddle.

His hands were shaking slightly, and his shoulders ached from the repeated impacts, but he didn't care. He had done what they thought he could not. He had faced a true knight, a seasoned second son of a militant house, and emerged the victor. He had stood beneath the gaze of his family and half the realm and proved his mettle. For that moment, at least, he had become something more than a boy holding a sword.

But the triumph did not last long.

*ROAAAAAAARRRRR*

A sudden, ear-splitting roar tore through the sky above them, so raw and savage that it seemed to shake the very bones of the earth. The cheers faltered at once. The crowd began to go quiet in a ripple of confusion and unease, and then silence fell as every head turned upward. Jace felt the sound vibrate through the ground beneath his boots, and he froze where he stood, his brows drawing together. He looked up just in time to hear the second roar, louder and even more unnatural than the first, a shriek so piercing and warped that it made the hairs rise on his arms. The sky above the arena darkened as thick clouds churned and twisted against the sunlight, and then something broke through them like a falling star tearing the heavens apart.

It was Seasmoke.

The dragon emerged from the clouds with wings spread wide and his silver scales catching the light like streaks of molten steel. He descended fast, diving through the sky in a clean arc that took him out over the rooftops beyond the city walls. Jace's chest tightened, but his lips curved upward despite himself. What was his father up to now?

But then Jace frowned.

Something was wrong.

Seasmoke's flight was too erratic. His wings beat with uneven strokes, and his tail jerked with unnatural spasms as he twisted and pitched in the air. He moved like a beast in pain, not one answering a command. He angled lower toward the buildings outside the city, something primal clawed at the back of Jace's mind.

And then, without warning, Seasmoke opened his jaws wide and released a torrent of flame.

The fire roared like a furnace being ripped open. The stream of flame struck the outer edge of the city and swept across a row of homes and market stalls, setting everything it touched alight in an instant. Screams rang out faintly from below, swallowed quickly by the roar of the fire as it consumed timber, cloth, and flesh alike. A column of smoke erupted from the outskirts and began rising fast, curling upward in a thick black plume that blotted out the sun. Jace stood still as the first cries of alarm echoed through the arena. He could not move. He could not speak. He could only stare at the silver blur in the sky as his heart sank and his victory turned to ash.

Seasmoke roared again.

(AN: So here we are gang. One of the last chapters of this arc, the next one might be the last one or it might be the second last depending on how much I get done. But yeah this has been the climax as well as setting up future villains for Jace to face and maybe some people capable of causing the dance of dragons.... Who knows. Anyway hope you enjoyed the chapter.)

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