The Lady Alicent

Father?" Alicent said, as two of the household guards opened the doors to the solar. "The jousting is to begin soon, and the king has already departed for the stadium with Rhaenyra."

Sat amongst many the papers, parchments, and books covering his table, Ser Otto Hightower scratched away with his quill, and made a noise of acknowledgment. "I have not failed to notice." The Hand of the King wore a fine silk doublet, blue and black, with gold accents. The chain of his office, a necklace of linked golden hands, was prominent around his neck. Embroidered over his breast was the Hightower of House Hightower, a white tower with a crown of flames burning atop. "The business of the realm does not cease whenever knights joust, not even for princes of the realm."

"But this is the final four," she said. "If we do not make haste, we may miss the first tilts."

"Worry not, daughter. Prince Aegon is to tilt against the mystery knight after the match between Prince Daemon and Ser Jeffory Norcross. You shan't miss it."

A blush warmed her cheeks, and Alicent hid her smile when her father looked up from his writing. "That is not the sole reason I wish for us to make haste."

"Yes, but it is no doubt what many of the young ladies have come out to see." Her father finished his writing, set aside his quill, and rose from his seat. He was a tall man. "Come, the day's work can wait a few hours whilst we celebrate Prince Baelon's birth."

The Tower of the Hand was one of the tallest towers of the Red Keep, with room fit to house the Hand of the King and his entire household. One hundred men-at-arms made up the Hightower household guard, all quartered in the lower levels, along with stewards, servants, cooks, and more. It was more a home to Alicent than the Hightower in Oldtown was, and down the winding steps felt natural. Past the bedchambers of the Lord Hand and his kin, the private audience chamber, the Small Hall, and the lower rooms for the household.

The stables were behind the tower, and the groomsmen already had their horses saddled. Her brothers Triston and Gwayne were waiting for them, laughing at some jest one of the household knights had said. She saw how her elder brother still kept his sword arm closer to his chest and used his opposite to hold the reins of his horse. Ser Willam has a strong swing. They all bowed and nodded when Father made his presence known. "Let us ride," he said, taking the reins of his horse in hand. Alicent took Gwayne's hand as she mounted her palfrey, smoothing her dress out as she sat sidesaddle, as was proper of a lady.

King's Landing was alive with excitement, and many cheered as they rode by. The bells of the city were still ringing to herald Prince Baelon's birth, and the smallfolk were out in droves, the wine flowing. Young children ran alongside their horses, giggling up at them. Alicent blushed when she heard from Triston that the whores on the Street of Silk were laying with all who came, refusing coin, as thanks to the gods for the prince's birth, and she laughed when Gwayne asked just how he knew that. The septons were thanking the Mother Above, singers composing ballads, mummers entertaining onlookers with false swords and stuffed dragons.

Not even the gold cloaks could dampen the mood of the crowd, the fear the smallfolk had for their brutal methods momentarily forgotten, and Alicent saw that many of the City Watch of King's Landing were raising toasts to them as they passed, shouting, "Prince Baelon!" Others called the same, and the pavilions surrounding the stadium were filled with knights and squires, many raising tankards and cups as they made for the stables. The noise of the crowd was in the air, hundreds of voices all mingling together.

Alicent dismounted with the help of her father's hand and followed him as they entered. Torches sat in iron sconces, lining the way. Servants were about, and Targaryen men-at-arms stood at each corner stairway. In the hallway outside the royal box, they saw Lord Lyman Beesbury, the king's master of coin, speaking with a young blond-haired man richly dressed, a golden Arryn falcon embroidered over his breast and a sky-blue half cape draped over an arm. They both turned on their approach. "Pardon me, Isembard, I must have words with the Lord Hand."

"Of course," the blond said, his cape a flutter of sky-blue as he strode away.

"Lyman," Father said, as he took the steps up, Alicent and her brothers following behind.

"The matter of Dragonstone is concerning," said the master of coin. "I may need to visit the island myself and speak with the castellan and stewards of the castle, if only to make order of the accounts and ledgers. It has been many years since the realm had a Prince of Dragonstone."

"Nine years since the hundred and third year of Aegon's Conquest. Have we need to worry?"

"With the many years of neglect, I would say so. His Grace means to anoint Prince Baelon as the Prince of Dragonstone by the year's end. Many preparations need to be made for when he eventually takes up residence, taxes to address, castle staff and the nearby smallfolk to manage."

"We shall speak more on the matter during the next small council meeting, Lyman. For now, let us see if your wagers on Prince Aegon prove true."

They entered the royal box, Father and Lord Lyman making for their seats beside the king, and Alicent led her brothers to the front where Rhaenyra already sat. Past the many favored lords and ladies and their children. "I thought Prince Baelon was already the Prince of Dragonstone." Gwayne whispered, as they passed the richly dressed Princess Rhaenys, her black hair streaked grey. Alicent shook her head and explained, "The king appoints his heir, who just happens to be his eldest son. It's been the precedent since King Jaehaerys."

"Does the formality matter if the king's heir is always going to be his eldest son?"

"It does."

When they reached the front, Rhaenyra greeted her with a hug and kisses to both cheeks, and Alicent introduced her brothers to the princess with a blush riding up her neck. Triston and Gwayne bowed as was proper a Reachman's chivalry. No sooner had they all taken their seats did Rhaenyra take her hand in her own. "I heard something curious from Alysanne Tyrell," she said.

"Oh?"

"One of her cousins swore that she saw Johanna Reyne sneaking from the castle before dawn."

"Sneaking where?"

The herald emerged with his flamboyant Targaryen colors and baton, and Rhaenyra shrugged as he announced with his booming voice the first two knights. From the left came Ser Jeffory Norcross, the one called Neveryield, shining bright in his armor. White as snow, the steel plate was polished to a mirror shine, and his white cloak flowed through the wind as he rode down the length of the lists with his lance raised skyward. His smile was handsome from behind his raised visor and the crowd went mad for him. As he reined up his charger before the king, he bowed in his saddle, and made for his corner as his opponent came. Prince Daemon Targaryen was a vision in his black plate shaped like a dragon's scales with red filigree, his helm open-faced with its dragon shape, revealing a smirking visage. Alicent could only think back to that encounter in the royal sept as the crowds cheered for him. … bronze bitch of a mother… She felt her cheeks heat at even the memory of such crude language, in reference to the lady mother of his own son. Yet the commons cheered for him as he rode by on his destrier, the king clapped for his brother with a smile on his face, and Alicent saw more of why her father misliked the prince so, and why Aegon despised him.

The rogue prince saluted the king, rode for his corner of the lists, and couched his lance. Ser Jeffory lowered his visor, took up his plain white shield, and suddenly it began. Neveryield's charger raced forth, smooth like silk, while Daemon's destrier broke into a thundering gallop, kicking up sand. Both knights maneuvered their shields while aiming their lances, and wooden shattered in impact, spraying splinters every which way. Neither lost their seats and Alicent saw the way Daemon was grinning as he tossed aside his broken lance, snatching up a fresh one from his squire. Ser Jeffory rounded the tilt barrier at a hard gallop. Daemon rode to meet him. This time, the prince shifted in his seat first, Neveryield following. Both lances exploded once more, and by the time the splinters had settled, the squires were grabbing at the reins of a riderless charger.

Cheers burst from the smallfolk and nobles alike. Alicent watched as Daemon rode a victory lap around the lists, as Ser Jeffory was helped to his feet, removing his white helm. She listened as her brothers bickered about the showing, while the king laughed with his counselors, and noble lords grumbled at their losses, while others hid smiles behind their wine glasses. The herald declared it a brilliant match, as the field was cleared of broken wood and defeat, calling forth the next two of the final four.

"The tilt was always going to be his," Rhaenyra said, and Alicent saw the guarded look on her friend's face.

"He does ride well."

"And any knight of the Kingsguard would never dare strike too high."

By then Prince Aegon Targaryen had made his entrance. His armor was bronzed steel plate, with runes of the First Men engraved on the breastplate, and his black warhelm was the only piece of his armor that denoted his Targaryen ancestry. The dragon wings flanked either side, hugging and rising high, and a 'T' slit for his eyes. Alicent's eyes did not miss the lady's honor knotted around his arm, blue silk stark against bronze. Aegon rode one of the king's chargers, his shield bearing the quartered arms of House Targaryen and Royce. In his corner were the Vale knights he had traveled with: Corbray, Hardyng, Hunter, Redfort, Royce, Woodhull, and Royce again. His opponent was the mystery knight loved of the commons, called the Knight of the Black Cat, and he thundered into the lists on a black stallion. Armored in black plate with a black cat dancing on a red field of his shield. The commons roared their approval at them both.

Couching their lances, both knights saluted the king, and then turned to face one another. The stallion stamped at the sands, shaking his head, while the charger snorted. As one, they charged down the length of the lists, hugging the tilt barrier as close as they could. Lances slammed into shields, and both kept their seats. Alicent watched with bated breath as the two knights faced again, and again, to no result. She heard Rhaenyra curse under her breath when a particularly hard thrust nearly knocked Aegon from his seat. It was returned in kind that had the mystery knight fighting his reins. Yet he kept his seat, a fresh lance retrieved, and the jousting went on.

On the turn of the ninth tilt, fresh lances in hand, the two met again. Alicent saw strength sagging from the mystery knight, struggling with his lance, and then Aegon was on him, placing the point of his lance right at the heart of the black cat, and in the blink of an eye the Knight of the Black Cat was falling amidst splintered wood. He went with a crash, and Aegon threw his ruined lance aside, riding up to the fallen knight as squires hurried to capture the riderless stallion.

The crowd cheered, while Aegon dismounted, and from her side Triston said, "He's going to unmask the mystery knight." As one, those of the royal box leaned closer, and the smallfolk hushed as Aegon removed his own helm and helped the Knight of the Black Cat to his feet. "One of the finest jousters I've yet faced," he said. "And as the victor, I would bid you remove your helm, ser, so that the realm may know of you."

Yet when the black helm was removed, it was no knight underneath, but a woman. "Lady Johanna?" Alicent said, her voice joining many. The younger niece of Lord Robert Reyne stood as tall as Aegon, black mane of hair braided back, looking all a warrior dressed in plate. She looked so unlike the rest of the Reynes with their blond hair and lion heraldry.

"A fine showing, my lady," she heard Aegon say over the noise.

"And you, my prince."

"I shall take that as high praise. Come, you may very well be the next Jonquil Darke."

The crowd cheered as Prince Aegon mounted up, riding to his corner, while Lady Johanna left the lists on foot with her black helm in hand. Triston was laughing beside her, ribbing Gwayne with his good arm, and Alicent saw the surprise of many of those in the royal box. "The day is full of surprises," the king said with a chuckle, while Rhaenyra watched the Lady Reyne go with a curious gaze, utterly taken.

"AND FOR THE FINAL MATCH," boomed the herald wielding his baton, "PRINCE AEGON TARGARYEN WILL NOW TILT AGAINST HIS FATHER, PRINCE DAEMON TARGARYEN, PRINCE OF THE CITY!"

Thunderous was the crowd, and Alicent felt her heart pounding in her chest as the two princes entered the lists ahorse, sitting on her hands to keep still. Daemon's armor was freshly cleaned and pristine, his shield had the full Targaryen arms, while Aegon had chosen a shield devoid of any such markings and only the bronze field ringed in runes remaining. On her left, Alicent heard Rhaenyra muttering a prayer to the Warrior, while on her right Triston and Gwayne were wagering on the younger prince to win it all. She closed her eyes and beseeched the gods in silent prayer.

Gods be merciful and let no harm come to either. Please. Do not mar such a brilliant day with violence and hatred. Let them both hold honor in their hearts as true knights.

Prince Aegon spoke final words with his gathered corner, couched the lance his squire offered, and rode to the end of the lists. Daemon had no corner, only a squire, and the prince took up his lance and made for his position without a word to the boy. The drums were beaten, the horns blasting, and then the horses were off. Sand rumbled and flew with each stride, the crowd quieting as the two grew near, and exploded with cheer as two lances glanced off two shields, shearing paint as they went.

Thrice they tilted and thrice they remained ahorse. The son's lance was rock steady in each pass, finding its target in the father's shield, bursting asunder with each thrust. The father returned as he received, never once reeling from a blow. The destrier and charger both pawed at the ground as they rounded for another pass, princes raising their lances, and again wood shattered and splinters flew, yet no knight was unhorsed. Alicent could scarcely watch each successive blow, as shields were ruined, and spurs bloodied.

On their seventh tilt, Aegon shifted in his saddle just right, and suddenly Daemon was thrown back. He scraped against the tilt barrier as his destrier carried him back to his corner, and then he fell in a clatter of steel amidst the sands, the crowd roaring as he went. Alicent had gasped with the rest, not believing her eyes, but it was true. Aegon won… Yet it was not over. Squires ran out to help Daemon to his feet, and the prince pushed their hands away, rising on his own. "Sword!" he shouted, and his squire came running.

"PRINCE DAEMON TARGARYEN WISHES TO CONTINUE IN A CONTEST OF ARMS!"

Across the lists, Aegon's charger reared beneath him as he reined up at his corner, looking the image of a conquering knight. He dismounted and his squire ran him his sword. Castle-forged steel was drawn, as on the other side of the lists, Dark Sister screamed from her scabbard. "Gods be good," came Gwayne, and Alicent could only agree as the two princes advanced. Dark Sister was a longsword of Valyrian steel, lighter and stronger than any of its castle-forged cousins, for the blade itself had been shaped for a woman's hand. It would be nigh unstoppable in the hand of a man such Daemon. The duel is unfair, Alicent thought, yet the crowd roared as the two princes met and not a knight stepped in to stop them as blades kissed.

Aegon met each blow of his father's sword with his own, turning each away. When he returned with attacks of his own, Daemon caught them all with his own. For what seemed like an eternity, father and son hammered away at each other, to the shouts of the crowd. Twice Alicent saw Daemon aim savage blows for the head, yet not on either attempt did Aegon return in kind. Then Aegon's sword was wretched from his grip, Daemon stumbled back from a shield to the face, and fell to a knee when it was thrown at him.

"Aegon!" came a shout, and all eyes turned to the young prince's corner.

Valyrian steel scraped against the scabbard of Ser Willam Royce. It flashed through the air as it flew, and Aegon caught it with his right hand, bringing his left to meet it as he touched the sands again. Lamentation was a hand-and-a-half longsword, and Aegon favored a two-handed grip of the blade. Daemon was on his feet by then, the ruin of his own shield discarded, and he advanced with a shout.

The blades clashed, Valyrian steel on both sides, and the sound was half a song and half a scream. Alicent grimaced with each blow, shied away from each piercing cry of Valyrian steel, and could not bear to watch when killing arcs were swung with strength behind them. But none found purchase, and in one particularly fierce blow, the two separated with distance, their breastplates heaving with each breath.

"Come on, boy," Daemon shouted, pointing Dark Sister at him. "Is that all there is to the knights of the Vale? Empty words of honor with nothing to show for it."

Aegon barked out a laugh. "I will not be lectured by you on matters of honor."

"Then come teach me."

They met again and again, raining down blows. It seemed to never end, and with the rise of the crowd, came the fall of the combat. The lulls grew heavy with words, and the heights towered with strikes and swings. Alicent watched as they danced around each other, traded insults, dealt blows. Whenever one came too close, she looked away, and she saw how Rhaenyra watched on with worry. But on they went, and soon blows found purchase, steel plate crunching under such force. Aegon cried out when his guard failed to stop Dark Sister falling to his shoulder, and Daemon spat blood after taking a mailed fish to his face. Still, neither yielded.

It was the king's voice that put an end to it. "That is enough!" he shouted, and the two princes separated from each other. At the balustrade, the king looked down at them both, as Aegon handed Lamentation off to his cousin, and Daemon sent Dark Sister off with his squire. "This contest is at an end! To see more is meaningless, for you both are acclaimed swordsmen, and this joust has already been decided. Prince Aegon Targaryen unhorsed his opponent. He is our champion!"

The crowd exploded with cheer, the nobles talked, and Alicent went to the balustrade with Rhaenyra. Below, Aegon was surrounded by the knights of the Vale with riotous laughter, though he looked more tired than anything else, eyes finding the sky. Watching on was Daemon, his face a mask, though Alicent thought she caught a hint of a smile pulling at his lips. He went with his head held high, his helm in hand.

Later, after the cheers of celebration calmed down, and the field cleared and ordered, Aegon returned to the lists ahorse. Armored for all but his helm, he rode forth bearing a white lance, a wreath of white flowers alighting its tip. A hush fell over all as Aegon rode past, the many noble ladies watching it go by with crestfallen faces. When it neared the royal box, Alicent looked to Rhaenyra, feeling nothing but trepidation. The princess held her breath as the wreath neared, and it hitched when Aegon did not stop, and gasped when he came before no one at all.

"Your Grace," he called up to the royal box. "Though she remains at the Red Keep, she is still the most deserving of this crown, and honor. I would name Queen Aemma Arryn, the mother to the next lord of these seven kingdoms, as my queen of love and beauty!"

The cheers were thunderous, with many an eye wet with tears, and Alicent paid none of it any mind, her eyes for Rhaenyra alone. She took her best friend's hand in her own, and when those amethyst eyes met her gaze, Alicent saw them wet with tears, as a smile gracing her lips. "Rhaenyra?" she said, so loud were the cheers that only the princess could hear.

"I…" Rhaenyra squeezed her hand, as the commons reveled, and Aegon rode for the Red Keep with a wreath of white flowers atop a white lance, blue silk fluttering as he went. "I love him, Alicent, but I cannot have him."