The Joust begins

The air was thick with anticipation as the herald's voice rang out across the jousting grounds. The crowd's murmur fell to a hush, all eyes fixed on the knights who were about to take their places. Viserys felt his heart pound in his chest, the tension palpable. Beside him, Aemma and Rhaenyra watched with wide-eyed excitement.

Daemon's gaze remained sharp despite the dull ache in his head, his attention unwavering as Ser Criston Cole and Ser Arryk Cargyll rode into the arena. Criston's white armor gleamed brilliantly, the black pellets of House Cole a stark contrast against the brightness. Opposite him, Ser Arryk's armor bore the red and black sigil of House Cargyll with the golden goose on top of the colors, his lance held steady as he prepared for the clash.

The trumpet sounded, and the two knights spurred their horses forward. Dust kicked up from the ground as they charged, their lances aimed with precision. Daemon's breath caught as the lances struck with a resounding crash. Both knights reeled from the impact, but Criston maintained his balance, his skill evident as he quickly regained control.

Viserys felt a surge of admiration for Criston's prowess. He had become a favorite among the smallfolk, and moments like this showed why. Ser Arryk, though valiant, struggled to recover, his lance wobbling slightly as he tried to steady himself. The second pass was even more decisive. Criston's lance struck true, unseating Ser Arryk and sending him tumbling to the ground. The crowd erupted in cheers, their voices a roar of approval.

Daemon's lips curled into a faint smile, despite the throbbing pain in his head. Criston was indeed formidable, but the joust was far from over. He turned his attention to the next pair of knights: Ser Erryk Cargyll and Ser Harwin Strong.

Ser Erryk, twin to Ser Arryk, rode into the arena with a determined expression, his armor identical to his brother's. Ser Harwin Strong, on the other hand, was a broad-shouldered figure, his pale, blue, red, and green on white armor glinting in the sunlight. The manticore sigil on his shield was a menacing sight, a testament to his reputation for brute strength.

The trumpet sounded again, and the two knights charged. The ground trembled under the weight of their steeds, the sound of hooves like thunder in the still air. Daemon leaned forward, his focus narrowing as the lances collided. The impact was tremendous, both knights rocking in their saddles. Ser Harwin's strength was evident, his lance striking with such force that it splintered upon contact with Ser Erryk's shield.

Ser Erryk struggled to remain upright, his grip on his lance faltering. The second pass was a test of endurance, both knights pushing their mounts to the limit. Daemon watched intently, his breath held as they closed the distance once more. This time, Ser Erryk's lance struck with unerring accuracy, unseating Ser Harwin and sending him crashing to the ground.

The crowd's cheers were deafening, a testament to the spectacle they had just witnessed. Viserys glanced at Daemon, noting the way his brother's eyes gleamed with interest. Despite the hangover, despite the tension, Daemon was in his element here, surrounded by the chaos and the thrill of the joust.

Aemma leaned in, her voice a soft murmur. "Ser Criston and Ser Erryk are truly remarkable."

Rhaenyra nodded eagerly. "They were incredible! Do you think Uncle Daemon will do even better?"

Viserys smiled at his daughter's enthusiasm, though his heart was heavy with a mixture of hope and anxiety. "I believe he will, Rhaenyra. Daemon has always had a way of surprising us all."

The crowd buzzed with anticipation as the next pair of knights prepared to joust. All eyes were on Daemon Targaryen as he rode into the arena, his silver armor gleaming like dragon scales under the midday sun. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen was etched boldly across his chest, a symbol of his heritage and his prowess.

Daemon's eyes scanned the crowd, his expression a mixture of arrogance and disdain. The hangover, from the drinking done the night before, still throbbed in his head, but he welcomed the pain—it kept him sharp, kept him focused. He had something to prove today, and not just to the court. This was personal.

Opposite him, Ser Hobert Hightower entered the arena, his silver armor adorned with the green torch of House Hightower. Hobert's face was set in a determined grimace, aware that this match was more than just a joust—it was a clash of wills between Daemon and Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. Hobert, Otto's cousin, was determined to defend his family's honor, but Daemon's eyes gleamed with a ruthless intensity that made it clear he saw Hobert as nothing more than a proxy for Otto.

Viserys watched from the stands, his heart heavy with a mix of anxiety and hope. Daemon's arrogance worried Viserys, but his skill was undeniable.

The herald's voice cut through the air, announcing the start of the joust. The trumpet sounded, and both knights spurred their horses into a charge. Dust flew up from the ground as they thundered towards each other, lances poised for impact.

Daemon's eyes narrowed as he focused on Hobert, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. The image of Otto's disapproving face flashed in his mind, fueling his aggression. With a fierce cry, he lowered his lance and braced for the clash.

The impact was bone-jarring. Hobert's lance struck Daemon's shield with tremendous force, but Daemon's superior skill and strength held firm. His own lance struck true, hitting Hobert squarely and sending him reeling. Hobert managed to stay in his saddle, but the blow had clearly rattled him.

Daemon let out a triumphant laugh, the sound carrying across the arena. "Is that all the Hightowers can muster?" he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. "Pathetic."

Viserys winced at his brother's arrogance, but Aemma and Rhaenyra watched with wide-eyed fascination. Daemon was a force of nature, and his confidence was infectious.

The knights prepared for the second pass, and Daemon's grin widened. He could see the uncertainty in Hobert's eyes, the doubt that had crept in after the first clash. This was where Daemon thrived—when his opponents were off-balance, unsure.

The trumpet sounded again, and they charged once more. Daemon's focus was razor-sharp, his anger and determination fueling his every move. The image of victory pushed him forward, and as they closed the distance, he aimed with deadly precision.

This time, Daemon's lance struck with devastating force. Hobert's shield shattered under the impact, and the knight was thrown from his horse, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. The crowd erupted in cheers, the noise almost deafening.

Daemon reined in his horse, his expression one of smug satisfaction. He glanced up at the royal box, his eyes locking with Otto Hightower's. The Hand of the King's face was a mask of controlled anger, his lips pressed into a thin line. Daemon's grin widened, his victory even sweeter for the frustration it had caused Otto.

Viserys let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Despite his brother's arrogance, he couldn't deny the sense of relief and pride that washed over him. Daemon had proven his worth, and for now, that was enough.

Aemma squeezed his hand gently. "He did it," she murmured, her voice filled with a mixture of admiration and concern.

Rhaenyra clapped excitedly, her eyes shining with hero worship. "Uncle Daemon is amazing!"

Daemon rode past the royal box, his head held high. He had made his point, both to the court and to himself. But as he left the arena, he knew that the real battles were still ahead. For now, though, he would savor this victory, reveling in the cheers and the knowledge that he had bested a Hightower.

As the next knights prepared to take the field, Viserys couldn't shake the feeling that this joust had been a prelude to something much larger. The tension between Daemon and Otto was far from resolved, and the days ahead would surely bring new challenges. But for now, Daemon had shown the realm what he was capable of, and that was a victory in itself.

.........…

In a secluded chamber off the main hall, away from the prying eyes of the court and the roaring crowd, Otto Hightower paced back and forth, his face a storm of fury and disappointment. The muffled sounds of the ongoing joust drifted through the stone walls, but they were distant, insignificant compared to the seething anger that consumed him.

Hobert Hightower stood before him, his helmet tucked under his arm, his expression one of shame and frustration. His armor bore the marks of his defeat, dents and scratches that told the tale of his clash with Daemon Targaryen.

"How could you lose to him?" Otto's voice was a harsh whisper, each word dripping with barely contained rage. "You knew what was at stake, Hobert. This wasn't just about the joust; it was about showing strength, about maintaining our family's honor."

Hobert clenched his jaw, his knuckles white as he gripped his helmet tighter. "I know, Otto. I fought with everything I had, but Daemon… he was relentless. It was as if he was possessed."

"Possessed?" Otto spat the word out, his eyes narrowing. "He is driven by arrogance and spite. And you let him humiliate you, humiliate our house, in front of the entire court!"

Hobert took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "I'm sorry, cousin. I didn't anticipate his ferocity. He fought as if he had nothing to lose."

"Because he doesn't," Otto snapped. "Daemon thrives on chaos and conflict. He's a wildfire, dangerous and unpredictable. And now, thanks to your failure, he'll be even more insufferable."

Hobert's face flushed with anger and shame. "I understand your disappointment, Otto, but you weren't the one facing him in the lists. You didn't see the look in his eyes. He was out for blood."

Otto stopped pacing, his eyes boring into Hobert's. "Do you think I care about his eyes? What I care about is the perception of strength. The court needed to see the Hightowers as a force to be reckoned with, not as a stepping stone for Daemon's ego."

Hobert opened his mouth to respond, but Otto cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Enough. What's done is done. We must focus on salvaging what we can from this debacle."

Hobert nodded, his expression grim. "What would you have me do?"

Otto took a deep breath, his mind racing. "For now, we maintain our composure. We congratulate the victors and show no outward sign of distress. We cannot afford to appear divided or weakened. But make no mistake, Hobert, we will find a way to bring Daemon to heel. This is not over."

Hobert straightened, determination hardening his features. "I won't let you down again, Otto."

Otto's gaze softened slightly, a flicker of familial loyalty breaking through his stern exterior. "See that you don't. Our family's future depends on it."

As they exited the chamber, the sounds of the joust grew louder, the cheers and cries of the crowd filling the air. But for Otto Hightower, the real battle was just beginning. Daemon's victory was a setback, but it was also a reminder of the dangers that lurked within the court. He would not rest until the threat of Daemon Targaryen was neutralized, one way or another.

The two Hightowers emerged into the sunlight, their faces masks of calm determination. The joust continued, but for Otto, the true contest of wills was far from over. And he was prepared to fight it with every ounce of cunning and resolve he possessed.

Otto Hightower emerged from the shadows of the secluded chamber, his composure restored, his expression schooled into a mask of calm professionalism. As he made his way back to the royal platform, the sounds of the joust grew louder, the cheers and laughter of the crowd blending into a cacophony of excitement.

Viserys sat at the center of the platform, flanked by his wife, Aemma, and their daughter, Rhaenyra. The king's face was alight with joy, his laughter ringing out as he shared a moment with his family. The sight of Viserys so at ease, so removed from the political machinations that churned beneath the surface, made Otto's task all the more pressing.

"Ah, Otto! There you are!" Viserys called out as he spotted the Hand of the King approaching. "You've missed quite the spectacle."

Otto inclined his head in a respectful bow. "My apologies, Your Grace. I was attending to a small matter."

Viserys waved a hand dismissively, his smile broad and welcoming. "No need to apologize, Otto. We all have our duties. Come, join us. You've missed a few duels already."

Otto took his place beside the king, his keen eyes scanning the jousting field. "Who claimed victory in my absence?" he asked, more out of courtesy than genuine curiosity.

"Lymond Mallister unseated Borros Baratheon," Viserys replied with a chuckle. "A fierce match, I must say. You would have enjoyed it."

Otto nodded, his mind already shifting gears. "Lord Mallister is a formidable knight. His victory is well-deserved."

As Viserys began to recount the details of the previous duels, Otto's attention remained focused, though part of his mind lingered on the encounter with Hobert. He knew better than to let his private frustrations spill into the public eye. For now, appearances had to be maintained.

Their conversation was interrupted by the herald's voice ringing out over the jousting grounds. "Next to face each other in the lists, Ser Criston Cole of Blackhaven versus Prince Daemon Targaryen!"

The crowd's excitement surged, a palpable wave of anticipation sweeping through the stands. Viserys's eyes lit up with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "This should be an interesting match," he remarked, glancing at Otto. "Criston Cole has gained quite the reputation. And Daemon... well, you know how he is."

Otto's lips curved into a tight smile. "Indeed, Your Grace. It promises to be a memorable duel."

Criston Cole, his armor gleaming in the midday sun, guided his horse with a steady hand towards the royal box. The melee had been fierce, but he emerged victorious, earning the coveted laurel. Now, he approached the most significant moment of the day, his heart pounding not from exertion but from anticipation.

The royal box was an impressive sight, draped in banners of House Targaryen. Viserys sat at the center, his expression a mix of pride and curiosity. Beside him, Queen Aemma held their daughter Rhaenyra, who looked down at the knights with wide, eager eyes. On the other side of the king sat Otto Hightower, his face a mask of unreadable calm, and across the field, Daemon Targaryen sat on his mount, his posture exuding an air of barely concealed irritation.

Criston halted his horse before the royal box and dismounted gracefully. He bowed low, presenting the victor's laurel with a flourish. "Your Graces," he began, his voice steady and respectful. "I have emerged victorious in the melee and wish to honor Princess Rhaenyra with this laurel."

He held the laurel aloft, and the crowd's murmurs of approval rippled through the stands. Rhaenyra's eyes sparkled with delight, and she glanced up at her father, who nodded with a smile.

"Princess Rhaenyra," Criston continued, his gaze unwavering, "may I have the honor of wearing your favor in the lists?"

Rhaenyra beamed, reaching for the laurel with a delicate hand. "Ser Criston, it would be my pleasure."

As she took the laurel, Daemon's expression darkened. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes narrowed as he watched the exchange. The Rogue Prince's frustration was palpable, a stark contrast to the lighthearted atmosphere of the moment.

Rhaenyra untied a ribbon from her sleeve, a beautiful piece of silk in the Targaryen colors. She leaned over the edge of the royal box and handed it to Criston, her fingers brushing his gauntleted hand. "Wear this in the lists, Ser Criston, and may it bring you luck."

Criston accepted the favor with a deep bow. "Thank you, Princess Rhaenyra. I will wear it with pride."

As he affixed the ribbon to his lance, the crowd erupted in cheers, their enthusiasm a testament to the young knight's growing popularity. Criston mounted his horse once more, casting a quick glance towards Daemon. The Rogue Prince's eyes burned with a mix of envy and contempt, a silent promise that this affront would not be forgotten.

Viserys, sensing the tension, leaned towards Otto and murmured, "It seems Ser Criston has captured the hearts of many today."

Otto nodded, his gaze flicking briefly to Daemon. "Indeed, Your Grace. Let us hope his favor brings him the luck he seeks."

As Criston Cole rode back to take his position, a sick twist churned in his stomach, the memory of his recent conversation with Otto Hightower gnawing at him.

After his first duel had concluded, Criston had walked to the infirmary tent to check on his injuries, resting for a short while before deciding to go to the armory to secure a new shield to replace his damaged one. On his way, he overheard people speaking in hushed tones. As he approached, the noise abruptly ceased, and then Hobert Hightower appeared out of nowhere, startling the knight with a sour expression on his face.

"Hmph," was all Hobert mustered as he brushed past Criston.

Criston decided to ignore the disgruntled knight and continue to the armory, but before he could take a step forward, Otto Hightower appeared before him.

"Ser Criston," Otto began a bit surprised, his tone measured and polite, "a moment of your time, if you will."

"Lord Hand," Criston replied, bowing slightly. "What can I do for you?"

Otto offered a congratulatory smile. "First, allow me to commend you on your victory in the melee. Your skill and prowess are most impressive."

"Thank you, my lord," Criston replied, a hint of pride in his voice.

Otto's smile grew warmer. "I have been observing your progress with great interest, Ser Criston. It is clear to me that you are a knight of exceptional talent. The realm needs men like you, men who can be counted upon in times of need."

Criston inclined his head, uncertain where this was leading. "You honor me with your words, my lord."

Otto leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I have a proposition for you, Ser Criston. How would you like to secure a place at court, serving as a knight in the royal household?"

Criston's eyes widened in surprise. "A place at court, my lord? That is a great honor."

"Indeed," Otto continued smoothly. "However, such honors come with responsibilities. I have a task for you, one that requires both your skill and your discretion."

"What would you have me do, my lord?" Criston asked, his curiosity piqued.

Otto's expression grew serious. "Prince Daemon has been... troublesome of late. His arrogance and recklessness are a danger to the realm. We need to remind him of his place. I propose that you, Ser Criston, present your victor's laurel to Princess Rhaenyra and request her favor in the upcoming joust."

Criston hesitated, unsure of the political implications. "My lord, I am a knight, not a politician. I do not wish to involve myself in court intrigues."

Otto's smile returned, though it was colder now. "This is not mere intrigue, Ser Criston. It is a matter of ensuring the stability and future of the realm. The favor of Princess Rhaenyra will not only honor her but will also send a message to Prince Daemon."

Criston considered Otto's words carefully. He was a knight who valued honor and duty above all else, and the promise of a position at court was tempting. Yet, he was wary of the hidden machinations that often accompanied such offers. But Otto's demeanor was persuasive, and Criston found himself nodding slowly.

"Very well, my lord. I will do as you ask," Criston said finally.

Otto's smile broadened, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "Excellent, Ser Criston. You will not regret this. The realm will be grateful for your service."

As the trumpets blared and the crowd's roar swelled to a crescendo, Ser Criston Cole and Prince Daemon Targaryen prepared for their joust. The lists were bustling with activity, the ground vibrating with the energy of thousands of spectators eager for the match. The sun hung high in the sky, casting sharp shadows over the arena and glinting off the polished armor of the two knights.

Criston sat astride his horse, his grip firm on the reins, his mind focused. He could still feel the weight of Otto Hightower's words and the princess's favor tied to his arm, a silken token of her grace and charm. He glanced at Daemon, who was a picture of arrogance and confidence, his silver hair gleaming like a crown in the sunlight. Daemon's dragon helm was fearsome, and his armor, black and red, bore the unmistakable sigil of House Targaryen.

"Ready to taste the dirt, hedge knight?" Daemon called out, his voice carrying a mocking lilt.

Criston remained calm, his voice steady as he replied, "The only dirt I'll taste is the dust left behind by your retreat, my prince."

Daemon's eyes flashed with a mixture of amusement and irritation. He spurred his horse forward slightly, the beast snorting and pawing at the ground. "Bold words for a man who'll be eating them soon enough."

The herald raised his hand, signaling for the knights to take their positions. Criston adjusted his grip on his lance, the weight familiar and reassuring. He locked eyes with Daemon one last time before the joust, seeing the fierce determination in the prince's gaze.

As they lined up at opposite ends of the lists, the tension in the air was palpable. The spectators fell into a hushed silence, leaning forward in their seats, anticipation hanging heavy in the air. The horses snorted and stamped, sensing the adrenaline of their riders.

A drumroll echoed through the arena, and the herald's voice boomed, "Lords and ladies, the next joust: Ser Criston Cole versus Prince Daemon Targaryen! May the gods favor the bold!"

With a final breath, Criston lowered his visor, shutting out the world except for the narrow slit that framed his opponent. His heart pounded, but his mind was clear. He thought of Rhaenyra's favor, the feel of her eyes on him, and the promise he had made to Otto.

The trumpet sounded, sharp and decisive. Both knights spurred their horses into motion, the beasts surging forward with powerful strides. The ground thundered beneath them as they closed the distance, lances leveled and aimed true.

In those final moments, as the world blurred into a tunnel of speed and focus, Criston felt an unshakable resolve. He could sense Daemon's fierce intent, the prince's need to dominate, but Criston had something Daemon did not—a cause beyond pride.

The clash was inevitable, the outcome almost certain.

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Next Chapter we will be going back to MC POV