Chapter XVII: The Birth of Breakspear
The day of the final tilts dawned bright and merciless. The spring sun gleamed upon polished helms and gilded lances, and the banners of noble houses stirred in a brisk wind off Blackwater Bay. Beneath the royal pavilions, nobles from across the realm gathered in their silks and velvets to bear witness to the closing day of the tourney held in honor of the union between Dorne and the Crown.
Yet all knew the day belonged to two men.
Ser Daemon Blackfyre—once Daemon Waters, now knight, hero, and wielder of the Conqueror's sword—and his nephew, Prince Baelor Targaryen, firstborn son of King Daeron II and Queen Myriah Martell, stood unmatched in victory across three days of lists. Each had bested knights of renown and champions of far fame. The final match would not be one of strangers. It would be blood against blood, dragon against dragon.
Daemon rode onto the field to thunderous applause, clad in dark crimson plate chased with rubies, his helm crowned with black dragon wings. The sword Blackfyre hung at his hip, though it would not be drawn this day. A tourney tilt was fought with lance and honor, not steel and wrath.
Prince Baelor rode in black armor chased with red, his shield bearing the sigil of House Targaryen in its traditional form. He was only seventeen, yet already taller than most men, broad-shouldered and handsome in the way of kings. The Dornish had tempered him. His dark eyes and bronze complexion marked his mother's blood, but his bearing was his father's—measured, intelligent, unyielding.
Princess Daenerys sat amongst the ladies of the court beside Queen Myriah, her face unreadable, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She wore a gown of Martell orange and gold, but her hair remained unbound, her silver-blonde tresses falling loose upon her shoulders as they had in childhood. When Daemon glanced her way, it was but for the briefest of moments, a flicker, like the last breath of a dying fire.
The horns sounded. The joust began.
The first pass thundered. The two dragons met with lances shattering upon shields and breastplates, their destriers screaming beneath them, neither rider yielding.
The second pass saw Daemon's lance strike Baelor's shoulder, but the prince held firm, barely swaying in his saddle.
The third pass came like a tempest.
Baelor's lance struck true, exploding against Daemon's chest. The Black Dragon reeled, his body tilting sideways like a falling tower. He hit the earth in a crash of splintered wood and ringing metal.
A breathless silence fell over the crowd.
Daemon lay still for a heartbeat, then stirred. He pulled off his helm to reveal a crooked grin and bleeding lip. "Well struck, my Prince!," he called, loud enough for all to hear. "The realm shall be in good hands."
Prince Baelor dismounted and offered his uncle a hand, which Daemon took. The two men embraced before the watching crowd, dragon to dragon, blood to blood.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
In the royal box, King Daeron II allowed himself the faintest of smiles. "Baelor Breakspear," someone murmured, and the name stuck like spurs in hide.
Daemon turned to leave the field. But before he did, he looked up one last time toward the royal box.
His eyes found Daenerys.
She did not smile.
He gave her nothing, not even a nod. He simply turned, mounted his horse, and rode from the field.
She watched him go, her heart heavy in her chest, and did not speak for the rest of the day.