TGW: EPILOGUE: The Prince’s Tourney

EPILOGUE: The Prince’s Tourney

"No man is so accursed as the kinslayer."

―Eddard Stark

  …

Jeyne had spent much of her life in the austerity of the Eyrie, perched high above the clouds where the winds rattled the moon doors and courtyards. A place of clarity and isolation. Yet never had she felt so remote from ordinary life as she did now, seated on the dais at the Red Keep’s grand feast in King’s Landing. Every sparkle of torchlight, every clang of distant steel and ring of laughter, seemed amplified and yet strangely distant, as though she were observing it all through a pane of glass.

At her side sat her soon-to-be husband, Aemond—pale, sharp-featured, and possessed of a manner so cool it bordered on frost. This was their wedding feast, though it was a double one: Prince Daeron, Aemond’s younger brother, would wed Baela Targaryen as well, joining the king’s youngest brother to the last daughter of perhaps the greatest of his enemies. Strange how queer alliances take shape in the shadow of defeat, Jeyne thought, her gaze flicking over to the soon-to-be-newly wedded couple seated nearby.

King Aegon II presided at the center of the table, with Queen Helaena by his side—meek and lovely, though her attention was fixed on private conversation with her mother. Baela was to the right of Jeyne and Aemond, while Daeron sat between them and the king. Baela’s face was stone, though Jeyne, keenly aware of the slightest shift in posture, did not miss the tension in the younger woman’s shoulders. The newly minted princess seemed to seethe with every glance she cast at her new in-laws.

It is not for her alone, Jeyne thought to herself, gleaning Baela’s unspoken fury. To be forced to wed so soon after the ruin of her father’s branch must sting her pride—and heartbreak may well war with that anger. Jeyne could muster a shred of sympathy, though she dared not show it openly.

A wave of cheers rippled through the hall, and Jeyne realized the third course was being served: honeyed boar, roast capons stuffed with figs, and thick loaves of black bread. A hush followed as King Aegon rose, raising a jeweled goblet. “To Prince Aemond and my good sister, Lady Jeyne Arryn, and to Prince Daeron and Lady Baela,” he intoned, his voice tight from either wine or exertion. “May their unions strengthen this realm for generations to come.” He lifted the goblet higher, and the assembled lords and ladies echoed his words.

Beside Jeyne, Aemond lifted his own goblet in silent toast. Their eyes briefly met—his single violet eye calm, the sapphire set in his scarred socket glinting like ice. Jeyne mustered a polite smile. My husband, she reminded herself, fighting the twinge of unease that accompanied the thought.

...

By tradition, a grand melee followed the feast. It was held in the Tourney Grounds outside the King’s Gate, a stretch of packed earth ringed by ancient stone stands. Tapestries bearing the dragon sigil rippled from scaffolding, while trumpeters proclaimed the next events. The lords and ladies of the realm gathered, cloaked against a cool autumn breeze that swept in from Blackwater Bay.

From her seat of honor on the raised viewing platform—an open box richly draped with green silks—Jeyne surveyed the crowd. There was Lord Ormund Hightower of the Reach, leaning close to some of his sworn bannermen, the star of the Hightower prominent on his surcoat. Next to him loomed Lord Jason Lannister of the Westerlands, proud-chested in a tunic of crimson and gold. Lord Oscar Tully held court with a small cluster of Riverlords, his fish sigil resplendent. The battered remnants of Stormland nobility, newly cowed under Aemond’s subjugation, lingered somewhat apart—uncertain and wary. The war had not left them unscathed. Closer still, Jeyne saw Lord Cregan Stark standing tall and broad-shouldered, stark grey wool about his shoulders. Even from a distance, his expression seemed as cold as the winds of the North.

Her attention shifted. By Aemond’s side stood a slender man with dark eyes and sun-scorched cheeks—a representative from Dorne, or so she’d overheard. Jeyne sipped watered wine and tilted her head, straining to catch snatches of their conversation. The Dornishman’s voice was low yet urgent, his gestures animated.

“…the blockade in the Stepstones…” Jeyne heard. “…Prince Qoren Martell requests… Dornish trade suffers… Interests in Lys and Tyrosh…”

Aemond’s reply was too soft to make out fully, but Jeyne caught the hint of a cool arch of his brow. She recognized the look in his eye—disinterested, perhaps even amused, at another’s predicament. Food Shortages? Famine? The prince asked in a whisper. The Dornish envoy’s face blanched. He’s recognized Dorne’s desperate need. Jeyne had grown up in the Eyrie’s eyries of diplomacy; she could read a suitor’s body language at a glance. Their stances said it all: The Dornish needed Aemond’s leniency, and Aemond did not feel inclined to offer it.

A small crowd of knights battered each other in the melee below, stirring dust and cheers. Greatswords and morningstars clanged on shields in a chaotic tumult. Now and then, a warrior fell, battered senseless or forced to yield. A swirl of capes and house sigils made for a colorful spectacle, but Jeyne could practically feel the political currents swirling behind the stands. Many lesser lords jockeyed for House Hightower’s favor or the ear of Lord Lannister—anything to secure the opportunities emerging with the fall of the Black loyalists. Scavengers at a corpse, she thought.

The last fight concluded to a roar of voices. A final, triumphant knight in a red serpent-lion surcoat wrested the last opponent to the ground. The Queen Dowager herself rose, offering mild applause. Jeyne clapped politely; so did Aemond, though she noticed his attention half-lingered on the Dornishman, observing him.

When the final victor took his bow, the herald stepped forward into the dusty yard. “My lords and ladies!” he cried, voice magnified by the hush that fell. “We have one more spectacle to present—by the decree of Prince Aemond Targaryen!”

A prickle of unease traced Jeyne’s spine. What now?

A wooden gate on the far side of the yard rattled. Out from the shadows walked four men-at-arms in red cloaks, leading a fifth figure by a chain collar. The captive’s hair shone silver-gold, though tangled and dull. He wore a flimsy shift, barefoot, wrists manacled. Jeyne’s lips parted in surprise. Prince Daemon. The Rogue Prince, once so notorious and proud. Now he was a wretched sight, but still carried himself with a certain dignity—spine unbowed, though his hands trembled faintly.

A hush fell over the stands, broken by the wind’s whistle. King Aegon stared from the dais, his lips pursed. Queen Helaena shrank behind a half-veil of embroidered lace. And on Jeyne’s left, Baela let out a sharp breath—something between a gasp and a hiss, her hands whitening around the edge of her seat. Jeyne glanced at Aemond, whose face revealed nothing but cool calculation. He arranged this.

The herald’s voice echoed again. “Prince Daemon, once of House Targaryen, stands accused of high treason against His Grace, King Aegon the Second, and the Crown. Brought here by Prince Aemond’s command, so that His Grace may pass final judgment.”

Jeyne’s stomach twisted. She saw King Aegon shift, uncertain, glancing from Daemon to Aemond. A flicker of disquiet marred the king’s brow as he said hesitantly, “Why is he brought here, brother?” in a voice too low for most to hear. 

Aemond rose, and the entire yard seemed to hold its breath. “Your Grace,” he said. “In the name of our new sister”—he inclined his head toward Baela with a slight smile—“I have decided upon a… boon.”

Baela’s mouth tightened with anger, but she did not speak. 

Aemond continued, his voice resonating. “Rather than summarily executing Daemon Targaryen for his treason, we grant him a chance to save his life—and spare what remains of his family. Should he defeat me in single combat, he shall be sentenced instead to the Wall, and Princess Rhaenyra and her sons may yet return to Westeros, to dwell at Bronzegate. They shall forsake the Targaryen name and be removed from the line of succession, but they and their descendants shall inherit the holdings of the now-deceased Lord Buckler.”

A low ripple of whispers swept the stands. Jeyne could see heads turning, lords blinking in disbelief. One or two voices cried out in protest—Stormlanders, perhaps, outraged that traitors might yet be given a strong castle—but none dared speak too loudly. It’s madness, Jeyne thought, but cunning. Aemond would rather keep Rhaenyra’s brood under watch in Westeros than see them stirring trouble in Essos, beyond his reach.

King Aegon hesitated. His mouth opened, then closed. The look he cast at Aemond was half questioning, half deferential. Then he cleared his throat. “If that is your will, dear brother, so be it.”

That look sealed Jeyne’s suspicion. She felt both awe and a twinge of apprehension. She had known the rumors—that the king was but a puppet and Aemond his puppetmaster. Now she saw it. She would have to be dishonest to claim the thought did not faintly terrify her. 

Meanwhile, Daemon was forced to his knees before the king. Baela’s eyes shone with something close to hatred as she watched Aemond. She must realize that he’s half mocking her father, half doing her an unwelcome kindness by sparing him from a common headsman.

“Bring him arms,” Aemond commanded. The gates rattled again as two squires bustled forth, carrying Dark Sister, the fabled Valyrian steel blade that Daemon once wielded, and a battered set of blackened steel armor etched with faint dragons. The yard erupted in astonished murmurs: never had they expected Aemond to hand Daemon his own sword, nor grant him a proper harness for single combat.

Daemon himself stared with open disbelief. But soon enough, that disbelief twisted into dark amusement. Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet. “Do you fancy yourself so unstoppable, nephew?” he rasped, as the squires fumbled with his chains and began strapping his armor to him. “You beat me once in the sky… thrice, perhaps, at sea. But not like this. Sword to sword, it might be I who kills you.”

Aemond’s thin lips curled at the corners. “I have ever been curious,” he laughed, “who was the better swordsman. Let us find out.”

Shock greeted his words, but no one dared gainsay him. This battle would be had today.

...

 All around the yard, the lords and knights and ladies fell silent as Daemon’s armor was buckled into place, piece by piece. Jeyne could not help her quickening pulse. Will Aemond truly fight him himself?

Jeyne watched him step onto the dusty field in his court attire—dark green velvet, no breastplate, no helmet. At the edge of the ring, he drew a steel longsword from a baffled guard’s hips, tested its weight in one hand, and nodded.

Dark Sister glimmered in Daemon’s grip—Valyrian steel so sharp it could split most lesser blades. And Daemon wore a full suit of plate. Jeyne’s mouth went dry. “He’s mad,” she whispered under her breath. 

She could see Baela glaring daggers from her seat. On Baela’s other side, Prince Daeron watched with tightly controlled composure, though his hand slid to the pommel of his own sword, as if ready to leap into the fray should matters turn sour.

The herald looked uncertain, but he cleared his throat and declared: “Prince Aemond Targaryen has entered the field! Let the gods judge the righteous cause.”

A bell rang. Daemon surged forward at once, spinning Dark Sister in a vicious cut aimed at Aemond’s midsection. Jeyne’s heart lurched, but Aemond twisted aside with preternatural speed—almost as if he’d known exactly where Daemon would strike. It’s as though he’s dancing. The move reminded her of something she had read in a dusty Braavosi manual on the Water Dance, yet it was sharper, more primal.

Their swords gleamed in the sunlight. Aemond gave ground, letting Daemon press the attack. Despite wearing no armor, he showed not a flicker of fear. Every slash or thrust Daemon unleashed was met with a sidestep, a half-parry, or a sudden pivot that allowed Aemond to rap his steel blade against the plates of Daemon’s armor—ping, ping, ping—yet always avoiding a direct clash, for that could snap his sword like a twig against Valyrian steel. Aemond’s expression was impassive, almost bored.

Daemon, by contrast, seethed. Furious slashes made the onlookers flinch, but none found their mark. In the stands, Jeyne felt an odd flush of relief with each near-miss. She realized, with a start, that she was frightened for the fool.

Then, abruptly, something changed in Aemond’s posture—he stilled. The next time Daemon lunged, Aemond stepped inside the blow with a sudden lethal grace. His left hand wrenched Daemon’s sword arm up and back, forcing the older man to pivot. Aemond’s steel found a gap in the armor just above Daemon’s armpit and slid in with a spray of blood.

Daemon gasped. His grip spasmed, and Dark Sister clattered to the ground. A ragged cry arose from the crowd—Baela half-rose in alarm, face white.

But Aemond did not stop. Fluidly, he twisted free, following Daemon’s stumbling retreat. Daemon tried to raise an arm in defense, but Aemond’s next thrust took him in the inner thigh, finding another gap. The prince—the rogue—buckled to his knees. Blood ran in a dark rivulet down his leg.

For a long, tense heartbeat, Aemond stood there, sword poised at Daemon’s visor slit. One thrust forward and it would all be over. Silence smothered the yard like a heavy cloak. Jeyne could almost see the final blow forming in Aemond’s mind. Do it! Kill him now!

Finally, Aemond withdrew with a flourish. He turned from his wounded uncle without so much as a backward glance, tossing the borrowed sword back to its owner. Daemon slumped to the dirt, choking on muffled curses.

Aemond strode back toward the dais. In the hush, each footstep seemed to echo. He climbed the steps and reclaimed his seat beside Jeyne, drawing a goblet of wine to his lips. Only then did the crowd exhale. The yard erupted into confused chatter: some cried out in shock at Daemon’s downfall, others roared triumph for the Greens.

Aemond raised his cup in a salute to Baela. His voice cut across the tumult, loud enough for all nearby to hear: “A gift for you, my lady—your father’s life. Let him keep it. He shall take the black.”

...

Aegon tried not to look at his uncle's bleeding form. Instead, his gaze flickered to Aemond, stepping away from Daemon without so much as a backward glance. Gods, he moves like some desert viper, Aegon thought, swallowing hard. There was a smugness in the tilt of Aemond’s shoulders, a detachment in that single pale eye.

When at last Aemond settled beside his bride-to-be and spoke his words to Baela, he glanced sidelong at the king. The prince’s brow rose fractionally—the faintest arch above his good eye. That… that was the signal. Aegon felt his lips go dry. That is it, is it not?  

For one breathless beat, Aegon forgot what it meant. Cold sweat broke along the back of his neck. The speech—he wants me to speak.

He clenched his hands on the carved arms of his seat and forced himself to stand, ignoring the protest from his guts to find a corner to curl into. For the love the realm bears its king… get on with it.

He lifted the goblet he held. The yard quieted again, expectant, and Aegon forced a smile he did not feel. “My lords,” he called, surprised at how thin his voice sounded in his own ears. He cleared his throat and tried again. “My lords, let us toast Prince Aemond, whose victory here—” He swallowed the dryness in his throat, remembering the words he’d rehearsed under Aemond’s watchful eye. “—proves that the valor and skill of our noble house remain second to none.”

A murmur of assent rose from the stands, punctuated by a few scattered cheers. Aemond gave an infinitesimal nod, urging him onward. Aegon cleared his throat.

“In days past, none dared meddle in our affairs. Yet of late, there are those… fools…” He paused, mind racing to recall the speech’s exact phrasing. “Essosi meddling in our affairs, believing they may shape the fate of Westeros to their whim.”

A wave of agreement rippled through the lords. 

Aegon wet his lips. Go on, Aegon. Go on.

“And who were chief among them?” he demanded, forcing some steel into his voice. “Braavos—the so-called Hundred Isles. Braavos, who dared grant coin and succor to the traitor Rhaenyra. Braavos, who harbored her fellow traitors and financed her ruse of queenship.”

There was a scattered rumbling of anger. Aegon seized upon it. He had practiced this, almost parrot-like, under Aemond’s supervision. You are a king, damn it. Speak like one.

“They would see us divided, my lords. They sponsor rebels, buy our traitors into our midst, feed illusions that Rhaenyra Targaryen—” He nearly spat the name. “—could remain a queen in exile, nurturing illegitimate princes to lay claim to my rightful throne!”

A sharper growl of discontent rose, and Aegon sensed his own rising fervor. He risked a sidelong glance at Aemond, saw his brother’s solemn mien, and took it as encouragement.

“This will not stand,” Aegon said, each word trembling ever so slightly as he forced it out. “Westeros will not endure another brood of traitors. Think on it—Rhaenyra and her brood, skulking in Essos, with their young dragons, growing… Freed to raise another army to raze our lands!”

He heard Baela faintly gasp beside to his right, half in fury, half in heartbreak, but he did not stop. 

Aegon took a deep breath. His voice rose higher. “Let the Nine Free Cities and the lords of all the world know that we of Westeros do not bow to foreign meddlers. If Braavos thinks to harbor Rhaenyra and her bastards, to help them gather the strength to sow discord in our land—then they have declared themselves our enemy.”

The lords in the stands erupted in assent, some cheering, others beating mailed fists on wooden railings. Aegon’s heart pounded. He stammered, momentarily losing his place in the memorized lines. He cast a quick, panicked look at Aemond.

His brother nodded, calmly, as though to say: Press on.

So Aegon squared his shoulders, drawing what little pride he had left. “Henceforth,” he proclaimed, “by the grace of the Seven and in defense of our realm, I, Aegon of the House Targaryen, Second of His Name—” He paused, swallowing again. “—do hereby declare… war on Braavos!”

The words rang out over the yard and a thunderous roar arose in response—some lords leapt to their feet in excitement, others murmured to one another in uncertainty, and still others seemed shocked. But many cheered, especially those who scented spoils or craved further glory.

Aegon forced a triumphant look, though inside, his stomach churned anew. War on Braavos. The mightiest of the Free Cities, famed for its fleets and wealth. A terrible foe indeed.

Suddenly, he was seized by the urge to sit down, to rest the weight of his battered body. But he remained standing a moment longer, because Aemond had taught him that kings do not slump in the face of their own pronouncements. Only after the crowd’s shouting reached its fever pitch did Aemond nod slightly, gently gesturing for him to retake his seat.

Aegon did. Gladly.