Baelor I
Usually, Baelor Targaryen would be the one strapping up armor. A boy of twelve, Baelor had served as Ser Finnegan Crabb's squire since he was nine, learning from the Dragonstone Master at Arms in both the yard and on the road at times. Baelor's Lord father permitted his young son to travel, as long as the seasoned knight brought with him an escort fit for a Prince.
Baelor loved his father much, despite what little common ground they shared. He was a dutiful Lord, a pious and learned man, yet he did not share in Baelor's love for the more martial pursuits. Baelor joked with the other boys once in the training yard that he was probably already capable of defeating his father in combat, though he tried to take it back as soon as he said it.
"Prince Daeron is nothing like the Young Dragon. That's why he named you after the Septon King," he remembered Torren Dayne japing. Torren was a Dayne of High Hermitage sent to foster at Dragonstone. Baelor's mother Myriah had accepted her vassal's request before confirming with her Lord husband, so Baelor's father had to acquiesce. The Prince of Dragonstone had little time for his own sons, never mind another.
So, it was Baelor and his mentor Crabb who did most of the fostering.
"You know, Torren, I wish my father would allow us to truly tilt against each other," Baelor replied. "Better to break my lance against you than a straw filled dummy any day."
"That's if you keep your head out of your strike," the younger boy replied. "One of these days, someone will take it clean off."
"Not in the lists," Baelor responded. "Maybe a melee, but not in the lists."
Torren had become Baelor's closest friend. He wished he had come. If only to distract him with his foolery.
Today would be the first time Baelor rode against live lances. As the grandson of the King, it was forbidden to strike Baelor from horseback. When they trained in the yard with their practice blades, Crabb would let the boys go at it, but when he jousted, Baelor either rode against a straw dummy or a human target posing no threat.
Baelor hated that.
When he'd ride against other boys, he would lift his lance halfway down the rail to protest the rule. Crabb would knock his helm sideways with his walking stick, but the elder knight knew better than to cow to his complaints. "If anything were to happen to you, boy, they'd double it on me. I'm nothing, Baelor. You're everything."
Baelor didn't know what that meant. He knew what it meant to be royal, to be a Targaryen. He knew what it meant to be important, or seem so to others around. He knew he was somewhat of an outcast in his own home, looking as "Dornish" as he did on an isle of Valyrian heritage, surrounded by other boys with silver hair and purple eyes. Some of the servants looked more Targaryen than he did, even Dayne, whose sandy blonde hair and light green eyes looked "less Dornish" than Baelor's dark features and darker skin.
Baelor also knew history. He knew the man who had started his family's dynasty, embarking from the very castle he called home to conquer Westeros. He also knew who killed that same Conqueror's wife, and to hear the locals tell it, they'd looked like Baelor.
But he didn't know what it meant to be, "everything." To him, it meant nothing.
"How's it feel to strap me up, ser?" Baelor asked, looking back at Crabb over his shoulder.
"Like shit. My leg's shaking like a septon in a brothel," he grumbled under his breath. "Why don't you have your Guard do it. He has the two good legs."
"Then who would guard the Prince?" Baelor remarked, shooting a sarcastic grin to his mentor. "Without two good legs, what would you do if a catspaw made an attempt on my life?"
"More than your white knight would. Quicker at least. I've killed more men in a day than that man ever will. Those two good legs are wasted on him. That white cloak too."
Baelor respected Ser Adam Swann, even if most didn't. The Prince couldn't imagine replacing Aemon the Dragonknight, especially without the years it would take to craft a suitable reputation. Swann was good enough, they would say, but no Kingsguard, no Dragon Knight. He was assigned to the royal family that was participating in the tourney. It was only Baelor and Daena's bastard Daemon Waters, but King Aegon still assigned them Ser Swann. Ser Caswell was with his parents, so Swann stayed close to the legitimate Targaryen.
King's Landing didn't care for Balor's Dornish looks and heritage. Swann left Daemon alone.
Who cared about a bastard?
Once he was mostly suited, Baelor took to his horse as if to prepare himself for his first tilt. They were kept in a stable the builders had made converting one of the dragon's cages and with such little space, Baelor wanted to be the first in and out to avoid brushing elbows with his competition. Though he was royal, he did not know or feel comfortable with any of the older boys.
His horse was a fine destrier, young, but eager to tilt. When Baelor was gifted the horse on Dragonstone, he wanted to name it after a dragon, like Balerion, or Cannibal, for its body and mane were all black save a few unique white patches on its face and neck. Prince Daeron warned against it, though, fearing it would look like weakness to try and elevate such a lowly beast. "Should I name it Roach, as to demote it?" Baelor asked with adolescent attitude. He meant it more in jest, but feared his father took offense.
He studied his father's face. At first, Prince Daeron seemed to be angered. Baelor was already slightly taller than his father, yet to Baelor, he still seemed bigger, as all fathers did. Then a smile cracked across his father's usually solemn lips, "Or name him Aegon, after your grandsire. They probably weigh the same."
"Blackfish," Baelor said as they laughed together. "Like the black whale the sailors speak of with the white stripes. I'll call him Blackfish, and we'll both know it's after our whale of a King."
There were not many things Baelor and his father agreed on so simply since he'd grown from a small boy to a young man, but one thing they could agree on was the size of Aegon IV.
When Baelor reached Blackfish, he gave the horse an apple he bought before coming into the Dragon Pit that morning. Crabb always told him not to feed the horses before tilts, "It's better if they're hungry. They'll run angrier," he'd say, but Baelor didn't listen. Not everything the old man says is the truth of it. Part of his lessons are for me to use my own wits. How could a hungry horse run better than a healthy one? Just one apple won't turn him sloth.
Baelor hugged his horse's head and whispered to him, "Good boy," patting the side of his neck as Blackfish ate the apple from his other hand. "I need you fast today. And strong. Trust me and I'll trust you. Hug the rail. Get me close. I'll take care of the rest."
"You know they can't hear you?" another young man in armor said to him as he walked to his own horse. He was older than Baelor with the beginnings of an embarrassing mustache on his top lip. He wore a red apple sigil on the breastplate of his armor, and he swept his chestnut brown hair behind his ears as he strode by.
"They can hear. What I think you mean to say is they can't understand," Baelor responded.
"Well said," the Fossaway boy replied. "You must be Prince Baelor. I'm Reece Fossaway, Rickon Tarley's squire."
"I am Baelor, yes. Good to meet you Reece," Baelor acknowledged, keeping courtesy despite knowing he'd soon be against the older boy. Fossaway wasn't much taller than Baelor, but he filled out his armor well. If he were to hazard a guess, he'd say the boy was six-or-seven-and ten, four or five years Baelor's elder. Rickon Tarley is known as a formidable warrior, one of the best swords in the Reach. This boy may be well trained, and he's confident enough to speak directly to a member of the royal family.
"Indeed. Though, if you think I'm going to let you beat me because of your family name, you'd be mistaken. A boy as young as you shouldn't be here if you don't possess the prowess. If you are across from me, take care. I will not concede. I'm not one of your grandsire's plants for you to advance."
Though it was blunt of him to say so, Baelor appreciated the sentiment. He didn't want any hollow victories. He was tired of riding at straw. He wanted a real challenge. He wanted to test his mettle, to see what stuff he was truly made of.
"I've been jousting at dummies, both straw and human, since I mounted a horse. I'm here for the challenge, Reece, and am glad to know at least one among you is brave enough to face me true."
The Fossaway didn't know how to respond. Initially, it seemed as if he meant to intimidate Baelor, keeping his courtesy, but testing the prince, pushing him around. His face changed then, hearing Baelor's reply. There was a respect in his nod. A straight line across his mouth, flexed cheeks, and a furrow to his brow. "I wish you well, your Grace. Win your tilts. I'll see you in the final."
"I will." As strong as he tried to seem, Baelor felt out of his element shoulder to shoulder with the other young men of the realm. When the boy turned away, Baelor let out a sigh. Blackfish had finished his apple and was ready to break the confines of his stall. "Easy, boy."
Another boy approached, striding through the entrance of the stables like he had lived there. At first, Baelor was more focused on his horse, securing its bridle and fastening the saddle. Then the young man's armor's clinks and clanks drew his eyes to him.
He was tall, broad, and handsome. It was hard for Baelor to think a man handsome, yet there was nothing to say about this young man but that. He had a strong jaw, long flowing silver hair, purple eyes, a smart brow, and impeccable symmetry. He was what Baelor wished he looked like.
His armor glimmered as he walked, black scales trimmed with gold edges, his shoulders flapping dragon wings dancing up and down with each long confident stride, as if he flew into view. It was the finest armor Baelor had ever seen, and the boy wore it with an uncomfortable ease. Baelor didn't recognize who it was until he smiled and approached Blackfish's stall.
"Baelor! Gods, it's been so long."
"Daemon," Baelor replied, recognizing the silly grin his distant bastard cousin would give him after japes years ago when Baelor still lived in the Red Keep.
"Who else, coz? You've grown," he said, taking Baelor by the shoulder as if to look upon him before an embrace.
"I've grown? You're as big as any man. We're but months apart in age. How are you a head and a half taller?"
"It's the water. The water here isn't the same as most places," Daemon said with that same smile.
"So, it's the shit then?"
With a hearty laugh, Daemon reached his long, muscled arms around Baelor, hugging him tightly, their steel armor scraping against each other with an unpleasant screech. "I've missed you, Baelor."
"And I you, Daemon." There had once been a closeness. When they were innocent youths playing knights in the alleys. When they played The Dance, flying dragon against dragon, they took turns playing Aemond One Eye. Everyone wanted to play the Rogue Prince. Baelor oft as not let the bastard play his namesake. It's just a game anyway. Neither of us are rebels.
But that seemed so long ago. Before his father warned him of bastards and their plots. Before he warned him of the nature of a bastard and what it meant to be one. Daemon, as good as he seemed, was someone to fear in his father's eyes. Though he was intimidating to be sure, taller, stronger, and better looking than Baelor at almost the same age, Baelor struggled to agree.
Part of my lesson is to use my own wits. Maybe Crabb's teachings extended to his royal father as well.
Blackfish was ready to mount, and anxious. The other horses or the other boys were beginning to unsettle him. Shoulder to shoulder more of the squires started to pile in, all of them wearing the sigils of major houses.
"Good luck today, coz. If its you against me, I promise not to kill you," he smiled and laughed, jesting as he always had. Though, when they'd been younger, they'd been smaller too. To hear a boy of six say those words was play. To hear them from the mouth of whatever he had grown to be was a whole other feeling all together.
"Me too," Baelor said, flustered. Feeling the embarrassment of his unintelligible response, he mounted Blackfish quickly and made his escape. He'd felt good after facing down the Fossaway. What is an apple to a dragon?
But after seeing his distant cousin, a threat to the realm to hear his father tell it, he didn't feel as sure anymore. When the dragon dances with dragons, though. . .
Baelor pulled Blackfish around, kicking him into a gallop out of his stall. Daemon had mounted his steed, a fine dapple gray with blue eyes and strong legs, and somehow caught up to him, galloping alongside him with a grace Baelor had never seen. His hair flowed as his horse galloped, like smooth ripples in a still pond, and he controlled the animal like it was an extension of his own person. "Does your father allow you to practice against live foes," Daemon asked, his posture the picture of perfect riding form.
"Only dummies," Baelor stuttered a moment, his mouth almost asking, "Yours?" Daemon didn't have a father, not one that would take credit anyway. And his mother refused to reveal who he was, even to Daemon. It was the biggest secret in the realm, leading to all manner of rumors. Baelor's favorite was that it was The Warrior himself that graced Daena with his seed, pleased with her skill at arms and her will to seek out conflict.
But he mouthed it wordlessly enough for Daemon to catch on. "That's the benefit of not having a father, I suppose. No one to tell you, 'No."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean offense."
"None taken. They say foul things of both of us, don't they? Let's show them it would be wise not to continue, coz. Today's our day. Let's silence those that would choose to despise us. Nothing shakes the smell off better than a bit of glory."
He looked as glorious a bastard had ever looked. His armor was something to behold. "Where did you come by such fine armor?" Baelor asked.
"It was the King's," the bastard replied. "When he was younger," he finished.
"Smaller," Baelor remarked, holding back a childish giggle.
"Much," Daemon replied, smirking himself.
"It's impressive to be sure."
"I know," Daemon replied, his cheeks reddening in what looked like shame. "Hopefully it works."
"Aye."
"Well, Fireball will have my hilt if I'm not within earshot of his bleatings in the next few moments. Good luck today, coz."
"And to you, coz." Baelor turned his horse towards Crabb. Daemon turned his toward Quentyn Ball, the Master of Arms at the Red Keep. It was the last time they'd speak that day. It was the last time they'd speak for years.
"This doesn't feel much like a squires' tourney as much as it feels like a real one," Crabb mumbled, fastening Baelor's extended pauldron just below his left shoulder. The castle forged steel was sloped to help deflect any direct connection from an opposing lance, a comfort well-funded participants were afforded. Based on the list of entrants, each and every one would qualify.
"Your first tilt isn't until some of the rabble knock each other out," Crabb informed Baelor, who found walking in full plate harder than he had imagined. "Mind your neck, lad. It don't turn like you'd think it should. You have to sort of swing your whole torso around to see left or right."
"Good thing I only have to look straight ahead," Baelor replied, his voice muffled by his great helm, its crest three black dragon heads snarling.
"Aye. If you mean to wake tomorrow with nothing broken, that's what I'd suggest."
"Without wisdom like that, what would I do, Ser?"
"Probably fall even more than your bound to," the grizzled knight replied, failing to show even the smallest of smirks.
"Probably," Baelor agreed as a nervous smile spread beneath his visor.
"You can remove the helm, then. Watch some of the first few tilts. We'll see who can really ride and whose here because their Lord father wished it so," Crabb suggested in the tone of an order.
"Yes, Ser," Baelor responded like a good squire. He was glad to remove his helm.
They stood to the side, protected from the roped off crowd by Ser Swann. Without his heraldry and helm, Baelor's armor was hard to identify as Targaryen, so the commoners paid little attention to the armored squire.
When they announced the first two combatants, a chill ran down Baelor's spine. A raucous crowd from floor to ceiling roared in anticipation, as the two squires trotted out to their sides of the rail. Each rode with the heraldry of their house flowing from tall banners on each side of them. The first two were Orson Oakheart, nephew to the Green Oak, Olyvar Oakheart, one of the Young Dragon's Kingsguard that perished with him in Dorne, who was draped in the Green and Gold of his house, and Wesley Costayne of Three Towers, dressed in the silver, yellow, and black of his house.
The rabble behind Baelor and Ser Crabb began to argue over who they thought would win as the two combatants greeted each other at the rail as was customary for an amateur match. "The Oak Knight'll take this one on 'is first pass, I'd say," one man declared behind him.
"It's the ones with no story that be the ones to watch," another replied. "I'd bet the silver one, if I had me any coin."
It was amusing to hear what the commoners thought. If Baelor, the third in line to the throne, knew little to nothing about each combatant, there was little chance these commoners knew any better. He wished he could hear what they said about him, as he first thought about it. Then he imagined what they'd say and realized it better not to know.
To look at them, Baelor could tell no difference between the two. Crabb immediately noticed something though, and pointed it out to his squire. "See the Green one, there," he said, pointing to Oakheart. "See his stance? Notice anything?"
"I don't see anything really, not from here," Baelor replied honestly, hurrying Crabb to his point.
"He's on his toes in his stirrups. With his weight forward, he can lunge out further and quicker at that last moment," Crabb explained. "You do that against the bags, but against the other boys, you sit back."
"I never lower my lance to the others," Baelor replied.
"Well, you better start today. Just watch his feet. You'll hear the lance break."
The arena quieted as the two jousters took their positions. Baelor and Crabb were standing on Oakheart's side of the rail, allowing Baelor a close look at the position of the squire's toes. The horses charged and the crowd erupted.
Each steed stormed down the rail, kicking up a thick trail of dust in their wakes. Both squires seemed steady, carefully lowering and aiming their lances. It all happened in an instant, steel, shards, cracks, and cheers, all mixed in the mere moment it took each combatant to reach the other.
Crabb had the right of it though. Baelor watched closely, and right before the squires met, Oakheart lunged into Costayne, sending the Silver squire to the dirt ground to the jubilation of the crowd.
"Mind your stance. And mind your head," Crabb repeated. "Your faster than both of those were. Maybe stronger too. You may not have the Targaryen colors, but you have the shoulders. Just do what you've been taught, lean into your lance, and you'll win more than you lose."
"Are you going to bet on me, Ser?"
"Your father don't pay near enough for me to be gamblin' it on the likes of you," Crabb said, wheezing as he laughed. "Stay here for the next few, and then we'll saddle you up. I think you face the winner of the next tilt."
Baelor made no reply. He was solely focused on the two riders entering the arena.
"Good lad," Crabb remarked to see his zeal.
The next match pinned a seven and ten year old Arlo Stokeworth and a five and ten year old Ryam Redding on each side of the lists. Arlo's white lamb on a green field banner waved over him as if it meant to surrender, but the rider atop his horse looked more stalwart than his sigil suggested. Redding across from him looked flashy in his burgundy armor, though, his horse seemed to prance in place as if it was agitated.
"See anything?" Crabb asked Baelor.
"Redding's horse. Its spooked."
"Aye. It'll shutter at the last second and its rider will suffer for it. The boy looks nice in his shiny armor, but his stance betrays a weak seat. His shoulders are too tight and his legs are too loose. He'll be on his back for sure." Baelor impressed himself noticing the horse, and after hearing Crabb tell it, he could see the things the limping knight was mentioning. Baelor was a quick study. I'll need to be against the better riders.
When the crowd quieted, the jousters charged. Stokeworth's lance shattered into a hundred tiny sharp pieces, and the burgundy knight fell hard to the dirt. The crowd roared, then quieted to see the fallen squire motionless on the arena floor. After a long moment, he rolled to his knees and pulled himself up the rail to his feet. He removed his helm and waved to the crowd, eliciting another exciting cheer. Even in defeat there is honor in getting back up.
"Stokeworth's slower than you too. If you lose, it's because you didn't listen to me."
Baelor hung on every word the old knight said.
After this next tilt, we'll get you up in the saddle. Is your back loose? Did you stretch like I showed you?"
"Yes, Ser. I stretched. Just this last tilt."
"Aye. Keep watching. You'll learn more from these flashes of action than you ever did at Dragonstone."
Crabb had the truth of it. He learned form and theory. He knew the weight of a lance and the feel for his horse. He knew he could thread the eye of a needle with his lance on any stationary stuffed straw target. His father wouldn't have allowed him to participate if Crabb hadn't convinced Prince Daeron of Baelor's exceptional skill.
Riding against a foe though was more than just form and theory. Its more about courage, he thought. I need to trust myself.
"Now entering for the next tilt," a caller yelled from a raised dais, "Erich Dondarrion of Blackhaven and Leopold Marbrand of Asheford."
Baelor knew the family names, but not the boys who rode out. The Dondarrions were Marcher Lords whose lands bordered Dorne, and the Marbrands were a house from the Westerlands. As much as Baelor studied the lands he might someday inherit as King, he had visited few. In many ways, this tournament was his first exposure to the rest of the realm.
"What do you see?" Crabb asked again.
"Dondarrion is stronger in his seat, but Marbrand is longer. It's tough for me to say, but I'd say Marbrand lands his lance, but won't hold his seat when Dondarrion hits him half a heartbeat later."
"You must have had a good teacher," Crabb remarked with a slight smirk. "Must've been a genius to get through that thick Dornish skull you have."
"My skull is Targaryen. It's only my hair that's Dornish."
And as he said, the tilt went, Dondarrion absorbed Marbrand's lance and delivered a stronger thrust of his own, sending the squire from Ashemark to his seat.
"None of the other riders so far look to have real experience," Crabb admitted. "It's not just your father that refuses to let his heir joust live in the yard. That boy, though, Dondarrion. That's not the first lance he's eaten. No. That's not even the hundredth."
"You think I could hold my seat, Ser?" Baelor asked, wishing he hadn't as soon as the words slipped.
"I'd say avoid 'em if you can. C'mon now. Let's suit you up. You've got that Stokeworth lamb to slaughter."
Once his helm was fastened and locked, Baelor couldn't hear the crowd. He focused on Blackfish. His breathing was steady and smooth. Good boy, Baelor thought. He's as ready as I am.
Time slowed as his horse trotted to the center of the rail to greet his foe. Inside his gorget, he could feel his neck pulsing, the heavy steel tight against his skin and small clothes. He wore a light mail underneath his armor, and as he squinted through the thin slit of his visor at Arlo Stokeworth, he could hear the soft murmur of it crunching together in high pitched clinks, exciting Baelor all the more.
Despite the weight of his armor and the eyes of the realm, Baelor sat strong in his seat. A part of him, the small boy that hid inside him, was frightened. It was all so much, and it meant so much.
But another part of him, something he always hoped would be there when he needed, rose to meet the challenge. Arlo Stokeworth was five years his elder, as much a man grown as any squire he'd face. Though Crabb was convinced Baelor was faster than Stokeworth, the Prince didn't know if it were the truth or a convenient lie. I'll soon find out for myself.
When he reached the center, Baelor reigned in Blackfish to a halt. Stokeworth trotted up moments later, and flipped up his visor.
Though he was older, he looked smaller, somehow. The boys long face paled under his helm, his eyes shifting away from Baelor's eye slit. It's almost as if he is frightened even more than me.
"Well met, your Grace," the lamb squire mumbled. He hesitated, waiting for Baelor's reply. The Prince was confused. None of the other combatants had lifted their visors to speak. As intense as he was just moments earlier, he felt oddly at ease, hearing the slight quiver in the boy's words, and seeing the apparent fear on his haunted face.
Baelor replied with his visor down, the sound of his voice answering, "Well met, Arlo of House Stokeworth," echoing loudly inside the steel helm like the ring of a bell.
"What did you say, your Grace?"
Baelor raised his gaunleted hand to lift up his visor. "Well met, Arlo of House Stokeworth." After replying, Baelor didn't know what to do next. The Stokeworth squire remained awkwardly silent. "What is it, Arlo?" Baelor sensed the squire meant to say more than he thought he could.
"Should I just lose on purpose, or should I make a show of it?"
"What?"
"You're royal. I can't unhorse you? Can I?"
"I'd like to see your honest try," Baelor said. "Honor my house and yours by jousting me as your equal. My father never lets me truly tilt, so all I ask is you give me what I came here for. A match."
The Stokeworth boy relaxed, smiled, then sneered at the Prince. "When you lose," he replied, "tell your kin I offered to concede." Before he rode back to his end of the rail, the lamb squire looked back at Baelor, realizing what had just taken place. "Thank you, your grace. I thought my tourney was ended without a chance."
"Don't thank me yet," Baelor replied, himself at ease as well. "Your tourney still might yet end, Arlo."
Both squires lowered their visors and rode to their starting points. Baelor squeezed his stance in his saddle and readied for Blackfish's charge. His body tensed in position as Ser Swan handed him a six foot lance of fire hardened ash. It felt lighter somehow in front of so many people. This is what I came here to do.
Baelor waited until he saw Stokeworth move. Then he charged, kicking Blackfish into a full gallop within three strides. The destrier raced inches from the rail, confident and angry. Baelor lowered his lance, stood on his toes, focused on his mark, and lunged.
His body knew exactly how to move, every instinct he had was proven true by the sound of the shattering lance, like a crack of lightning, jolting force through his shoulder to the tips of his toes like a pulse of equal ecstasy and agony. But it was the sweetest kind of pain. Victory.
Stokeworth fell instantly, his own lance missing Baelor completely. Crabb was right. Baelor was twice as quick to the spot as Stokeworth proved, and he fell for it. Seeing how handedly Baelor won, some of the crowd would say it had been decided in the unconventional meeting beforehand, but he and Stokeworth knew the truth of it, and to Baelor, that was enough.
When he heard the crowd, he thought to wave. Not yet, he thought. I'll wait until they seem more impressed.
From atop Blackfish, Baelor looked for his mother and father. He thought they would be in the King's box, high above the fray, but Ser Swann told him they had moved to a lower box for a better view. He didn't know which one though. Through his eye slit, he searched, faces of lords and commoners all fixed on him, until he saw them. His father was elated, jumping up and down in the box like a lunatic. His mother looked more relieved than excited, curled into her seat like she had just been shielding her eyes with her dress. He was glad to see them. He was gladder he had made them proud.
As Blackfish trotted over to Crabb, the old man smiled as big as Baelor had ever seen him. "I wish I could kill you with things you should've did, but that was perfect, Baelor. That was perfect."
The Prince dismounted, gesturing to Crabb to remove his helm. "We need to keep watching the other riders. Who went while I was getting ready before?"
All he could think of was watching the next tilt, getting a read on any potential opponents, watching the tilts after that, and getting back onto his horse to put another squire on their ass. Baelor never felt so alive in his entire twelve years of life. He felt like he never wanted to do anything else again.
Crabb informed him of the rest of the bracket. He had defeated Stokeworth, so he would face the winner of Fossaway, who unhorsed a squire named Tristan Redfort from the Vale, and Garth Manderly, the only participant from the North, who unhorsed a lanky lad from Sow's Horn Horace Hogg, who fell so hard he had broken an arm. It was the first time the maester was required that day. Baelor hoped it would be the last.
Fossaway and Maderly would go in three or four tilts. Dondarrion would face Wilson Beesbury, which was the other match within his bracket, and the other tilts Crabb said he missed.
"What about my cousin Daemon?" Baelor asked.
The old knight shifted his weight onto his good leg as he put down his walking staff. "I didn't see his match, but he defeated some riverlands boy with some fish or another. It wasn't the Tully trout, but you know all them houses are all fishes or dolphins or something. I don't even remember the colors."
"I thought you said you didn't see his match."
"I didn't. It ended that fast."
"Give Blackfish an apple," Baelor ordered, forgetting his place. When he remembered, he almost blushed, adding a half-hearted, "ser," to finish his previous statement off properly.
"I thought I told you not to feed the beasts before tilts."
"You also taught me to think for myself. Why do you think he rode so well on his first pass?"
The old knight smiled again. It was the most Baelor had ever seen his teeth.
The Prince took a long drink from a water skin, and let the rest of its contents drip down his face into his armor. When he looked back to the lists, he saw Daemon's dapple gray trot out to meet his opponent. On top of his horse, Aegon IV's armor never looked better, glistening black and gold with an all black helm to match. It wasn't the King's, but it was expensive and castle forged. It had no form of heraldry, no wings or water for his bastard name. It was just menacingly black, backed up with the imposingly large form that held it up.
Daemon was set to go against Edmont Crane, who had won his match against a Winstyn Keath of the Riverlands. Crane was much older than Daemon, but tiny in comparison as they sat their horses side by side. Crane's horse stood taller than Daemon's, but Daemon was that much bigger, looking down through his visor to nod at the squire in pale blue and gold.
For the first time, Crabb was silent. He made no remark of either combatant, and didn't ask Baelor for his opinion. The elder knight just silently watched. Baelor followed his example.
When both squires took position, it was Daemon who charged first. The lance looked smaller somehow in his grasp, and moved swifter. As soon as his horse opened into a gallop, Daemon's lance was already pointed down the rail at Crane, whose own lance was still lowering into position.
Daemon kicked into his horse, sending the speeding steed even faster down the rail. His distant cousin moved in the saddle like he was standing on the ground, nearly jumping into Crane's seat as his lance struck him, sending the Reachman almost into the crowd. Daemon raised his broken lance in the air as his horse finished its charge down the rail, circling the arena with his gaunleted fist pumping in the air. They love him, Baelor thought, hearing how much louder it was when it was Daemon in the center.
I'll make them love me.
"Erich Dondarrion of Blackhaven and Wilson Beesbury of Honeyholt, make your way to the lists for the next match," a caller cried. Baelor was already in position to study the bout.
Baelor had seen Dondarrion withstand a lance and keep his seat. He rode strong, steady, but he wasn't fast. He hadn't yet seen Beesbury, though he looked wispy in his armor. Again, Dondarrion's foe would have the length, but would he have the strength to unhorse him?
The Marcher Lord wore black plate, speckled with crystals that shone like stars in his armor. Across his chest plate, a purple forked bolt of lighting stretched from his shoulder pauldron to the bottom of his plackart at the top of his other hip. The crest of his helm was a bolt of gleaming purple lightning, striking at his foe as he rode, his neck sunk down into his broad shoulders to brace for impact.
Beesbury charged first, his chestnut warhorse surefooted, but slow, galloping heavily and hard. The Honey squire was dressed in striped armor, black and amber, and his helm and cuirass were etched with the pattern of a honey comb, visible from even the King's box in the sky.
Dondarrion kicked his steed into a run, and as the two horses raced at each other from each side of the rail, each squire readied their stance for the collision.
Both lances found their mark, sending both squires off of their saddles. Beesbury was the aggressor, like the Marbrand squire before him, and lunged to strike first. Dondarrion was moved, but not enough, and he kept his seat, thrusting his lance into the off-balance squire from Honeyholt. Beesbury almost caught himself, struggling to squeeze his legs enough to stay in his saddle as his horse continued to gallop. He couldn't though, and slipped out almost gracefully to the ground.
The Striped squire struck the dirt with the handle of his broken lance, frustrated at the outcome of the match. He flipped up the visor of his helm, shouting words to himself no one could hear through the cheers from the crowd, as Dondarrion made his way back to his starting point, handed the broken lance to his attending knight, and slid out of his saddle in a forced stiff posture that looked like pain.
The Marcher squire flipped up his visor, but instead of words, spit blood and bile from a retching mouth, struggling to breathe on his hands and knees as those around him helped remove his helm and chest plate.
A maester and some Silent Sisters rushed over to the Dondarrion huddle, but when they had finally crossed over the arena floor, Erich had made it back to his feet. He gave the crowd a wave, spitting one more foul streak of red, and the spectators roared louder than anything Baelor had ever heard. Baelor himself cheered. Who could see such a display and not?
Even Beesbury, who had already composed himself during the commotion, walked over still in his full suit of plate, helm still fastened, and extended an arm out to Dondarrion as a show of good sport.
When the two shook hands, Dondarrion was further endeared to the crowd, as they seemed to coo before erupting in another surge of excitement. Baelor heard some of the commoners behind him, saying, "Such an honorable young Lord. I'd fight for a man like that any day."
Crabb looked to Baelor and poked his chest with his walking stick. "The next one is who you'll face. Either the Apple or the Mermaid. You better not lose to neither."
"Yes, ser." Baelor said reflexively. He was too focused on Dondarrion. He was walking with a hitch in his step, as if he winced each time his one foot hit the floor. I hope he can continue. It would be a shame if he cannot.
"The boy'll be fine," Crabb said, seeing Baelor's concern with the Lightning squire. "He just can't breathe yet."
"Can't breathe?" Baelor asked.
"Aye," Crabb replied. "A hit like that's sure to knock the wind from even a grown man. It's going to take a lot to unhorse that kid."
Baelor turned his attention to the upcoming match. Fossaway against Manderly.
Reece rode confidently, just like he had composed himself in the stables, even engaging the crowd, riding back and forth along the roped off section of commoners who roared to see it. He even went as far as throwing apples to them. Cute enough, but would it matter? Was he a show or the real steel?
Garth Manderly looked all Baelor thought a knight of the North should. He was large from head to toe, in simple matte steel, the armor solid enough to trust, but adorned with no mermaids or colors of his house. It was almost the better that way, Baelor thought. He's here for one thing and one thing only. To joust.
"I've never seen this boy," Crabb said, pointing to the squire of the White Knife. "I like his style."
"That he has none?" Baelor quipped.
"Aye. Colors don't make the man. The metal does."
"You have a read on it?" Baelor asked, as the crowd quieted anticipating the charge.
"Nope. The Apple boy's flashier, but that don't make him any the lesser. It takes skill for confidence like that, especially from a smaller house. If he were to make a fool of himself, the more they'll taunt his name for his peacock's display. He sits straight enough. He's more filled out than you. But does he have the heart?"
We'll soon see, Baelor thought.
Reece charged first. Instead of a crest on his helm, two thick sashes of red and green whipped in the wind as his horse gained speed. He seemed to lean into his horse as if to present a smaller target as he rode down the rail. Manderly sat as straight as a spear, almost unaffected by his opponent's charge. He casually kicked his horse into a trot, and lowered his lance in an instant, like it was a twig in his steel armored fingers.
Fossaway was more than halfway down the rail when Manderly's horse reached full speed. The Northern squire still seemed unaffected, and postured his lance in position. Baelor kept a close eye on impact, as Manderly lunged from his seat, meaning to take Reece off guard.
He was slow playing it, crashing in at the last moment with surprising quickness. But Fossaway was that much quicker, dodging the oncoming lance with a deft shift of his weight, while maintaining his line with his own. He caught Garth Manderly's left shoulder with a straight, true thrust that launched the large squire clean off his horse and onto his right shoulder. Baelor heard a snap, like the crack of a whip, but wet, and he knew the Northern squire was injured badly.
With his right arm hanging, Garth climbed to his feet. He limped over to his attendants as they were already rushing him. He didn't make a scene of it. Baelor understood why. But he also didn't receive his due from the crowd for getting up so quickly from what looked to be such a hard and painful fall.
Some men must only care of the outcome.
Reece surprisingly was already off his horse and making his way to Manderly. Baelor half expected the Apple squire to parade around the arena again victoriously, but he was pleased to see the same show of good sport as Beesbury the match before. Fossaway fought through some of Manderly's attendants, and reached out to shake the boy's good arm. Garth quickly offered his in return, but immediately went back to being attended to. His helm was already off by then and his face was red with pain and shame.
Baelor hoped his day wouldn't end like that.
The Prince could feel eyes on him, and as he turned to look, he saw his mother glaring at him from their box. He knew what she was saying with her deep brown stare without even mouthing a word. "Don't you go and get hurt like that. I'll kill you!"
Crab's gruff voice interrupted him, "Looks like it's the Fossaway boy, then. Go, get dressed. You'll be on soon enough."
Baelor rode out to meet Fossaway like he did Stokeworth, yet this time he was all confidence. Nothing needed to be said. He'd seen the Apple squire tilt. He spoke with him in the stables. There was no need for words. Only lances.
When Reece reached him, he nodded. Baelor nodded back. He could hear his heartbeat echo in his helm. Blackfish instinctively knew to turn and trot back to their end of the rail.
The Dragon and the Apple. It's time for the crowd to love me.
Baelor kicked Blackfish first. He wanted to be the aggressor. He had seen Reece's approach, ducking into his horse to stay hidden, but Baelor had already sized him up, and if Crabb had taught him anything, it was better to stay coiled and launch into a strike when it was time, than to move his lance into position beforehand, anticipating where the target would be. "Just hit it when it's there, Baelor. You'll never miss if you hit it when it's there. Try and hit where it's gonna be, well, only if you can see what's to come."
Fossaway kicked into his horse, and it sped into a gallop. Baelor focused on Reece's helm as they thundered toward each other. Every powerful push of the horses' legs shook the ground in a pleasing tremor that sent him further into focus. Each moment seemed just a beat slower, as his gaze was fixed on the red and green sashes, the silver steel chamfron on the white horse's snarling face, and the rail which was inches from his foe's legs.
Suddenly, Fossaway's horse stumbled and the stallion ran its rider's leg into the rail. There was little time, and Baelor had been taught to allow for one Mercy Pass in public competitions. More than one was on the rider, but in certain circumstances, it was the honorable thing to do the once.
But Baelor had never ridden against a live rider before Stokeworth, and didn't know the etiquette.
Should I give him a Mercy Pass?
If I unhorse him, will the crowd hate me for it? Will the realm forever label me, "Baelor the Cheat." "Baelor Badsport?"
It was too quick to think, so Baelor raised his lance, seeing the Fossaway squire struggle with his horse, looking more at the reigns and the rail than Baelor.
Within another gallop, Reece was back on course and quickly lowered his lance. Both combatants recognized what the other was doing too late, and as the horses galloped again, Reece's lance crashed into Baelor, who only had the time to brace for the impact.
A sudden powerful burst battered into his upper chest, like all seven of the gods, and the warrior twice, converged on him with all their might at once. His vision flashed white, then the pale yellow of the shards of broken Ash splintered and filling the air through his eye slit. With his left gaunleted hand, he pulled Blackfish's reigns with all he could, as his torso folded back on impact. Every muscle on his lower half flexed, squeezing from saddle to stirrups, holding onto Blackfish's ribs.
He couldn't breathe. He could barely see. And the pain in his shoulder was felt from his skin to his soul.
Then he realized as he felt the pain throttle with each additional gallop from his destrier. I kept my seat.
Crabb, Swann, and some general attendants rushed to him as he struggled to turn his horse around to gallop back to his end of the rail. Baelor kept opening and closing his jaw, as if to draw breath, but he couldn't manage to get more than half a whisper with each pull.
He had dropped the lance when he was hit, so with his right hand, he gripped at his chest plate as if to summon his breathing to start with a bump. It felt much longer than it had been, but as his horse reached his end, he gulped a gallon of dusty brimstone air, and thought it delicious.
"You kept your seat," Crabb said.
Baelor flipped up his visor. "No . . . fucking . . . shit," he said, panting like a dog in Dorne. "Water," Baelor forced out, his breathing erratic but satisfying. Crabb harassed an attendant until one appeared and tossed it to the Prince.
"What the fuck did you do that for?" Crabb asked.
Baelor struggled to breathe, talk, and drink all at once, so he alternated. He took a big breath in, then gulped the water skin until it was half dry. "A mercy pass," was all Baelor was able to spit out, before another big breath, and the rest of the skin, allowing a quarter of what was left to drip down to his small clothes.
"The other rider has to ask for one first, you idiot."
"Well how," Baelor responded, then took another breath. His breathing was beginning to regulate, "was I supposed to know? I," he breathed again, "never rode against a live rider before."
"Because if you were smart enough to know you could do a bloody Mercy Pass, then you should at least know the proper way it's done."
"In theory," Baelor tried to reply.
"Even in bloody theory!" Crabb ripped at his curled gray hair. "Well, it don't matter none, you kept your bloody seat. The crowd loved you for it."
From behind him, he heard a horse's trot. Baelor turned his head to see over the shoulder that took the blow, remembering too late that turning his head would not turn his eye slit.
"Turn the whole damn horse if you wish to see," Crabb scolded. "It's the Apple boy."
Baelor heard Fossaway's visor clank up, then he heard him say, "Prince Baelor," in a worried apologetic tone.
"Yes, Reece," Baelor said, not really knowing what to say again.
"I saw it too late. I didn't know you would do that. I'm sorry. Are you okay? I know my horse was off, but, I still, I mean, I'm . . .," Reece mumbled and rushed every word as if they were meant to be said all at once.
"No need. It's done. It was honest of both of us. Let us continue," Baelor stated, trying not to seem phased by the devastating hit he'd just taken.
"Are you sure? I'll concede. I should have seen your lance up. I don't want to look the villain."
"Concede? You promised you wouldn't. You can't concede. I don't want to look the coward."
Reece nodded. He gave that same look from the stables. "This time, you fall." He smiled. "Your Grace."
Baelor could only nod back. When the Apple squire returned to his end, Baelor grunted at Crabb from atop his horse. "My lance."
Though his mind wanted to race with the distractions of triumph and anger and fear and pride, he quieted his thoughts and listened to Blackfish breathe. Baelor closed his eyes and began to breathe in sync with his beast, and a calm soothed even his screaming shoulder, and the moment almost stilled.
When he opened them, there was naught but the rail and his opponent. Baelor kicked Blackfish again, this time without thinking, and he lowered his lance with no intent to allow for the six feet of ash to stay intact.
Blackfish seemed faster but time seemed almost still. Baelor knew with a sure confidence he'd win. He enjoyed each bound of his horse as Reece drew nearer, his heart fluttering in anticipation for his chance to strike. When Fossaway's lance inched near him, Baelor danced in the saddle away, and turned into his lance as he lunged.
Fossaway's missed, leaning too early.
Baelor's landed. Reece went airbourne.
The roar from the crowd was a mere mumble in the background, until his mind had enough time to process everything that happened all in such a brief moment. Baelor pulled on the reigns to slow Blackfish to a trot, and with the handle of his broken lance, he reached high into the air.
The crowd's cheer rose with his arm, as loud and as proud as he could have ever hoped. He flipped up his visor to gaze at them. He drank it in, his dark brown eyes wide with the taste of such splendid affection.
They love me! If only for this moment!
Baelor returned to Crabb, who seemed like he was holding back his own excitement. "I wouldn't get too full of that shit, you've Dondarrion next."
I better get some ice on my shoulder.
Crabb quickly pulled off some of Baelor's armor from his upper body and laid a frozen rag on the shoulder that took the blow. It pulsed underneath the cold wet rag, and he wondered if he could keep hold of the reigns through the pain that continued to mount with each passing breath since his victory. Crabb set up a seat for him to watch the next tilt, Daemon's, against the squire Orson Oakheart. If Daemon won, he'd have made the last four, and face Gwayne Cobray from the Vale.
And I'll face Dondarrion.
"Good show, young Prince," a voice from the crowd yelled, as there was no hiding from them now. Another voice yelled, "And we thought your matches would be fixed. We cheer for you, now! Well rode, your Grace. Well rode."
Baelor couldn't help but smile. Though it pained him far more than he could have ever guessed, his Mercy Pass may have been the best move of his day. Without it, every win would be bought and any loss that much more embarrassing, but as the pain throbbed again he thought, Reece could have landed a mere glancing blow though. That would have been that much the better.
When Daemon reached his end of the rail, he lifted his lance to summon the crowd's fervor. They obliged, and soon started to chant something. It was definitely two syllables, but Baelor couldn't tell if it was either, "Waters, Waters," or, "Daemon, Daemon," for the crowd had timed them poorly and the chants were all muffled together noise.
Or was it, "Bastard, Bastard?"
With a slight tap of his heel, Daemon sent his dapple gray soaring down the rail, standing nearly upright in his stirrups. His long, broad, imposing form looked more monster than man, and the threat was only matched by the glamor of his beautiful armor, his dragon wings flapping as his horse gained speed. Baelor couldn't keep his eyes off him. He didn't even see the green squire, until Daemon's lance struck him, folding his upper body against his horse like parchment. Oakheart dropped his lance, but kept his seat, and slowly pulled himself back upright in his saddle.
Daemon reared back to his end, standing in his stirrups and punching at the crowd. What Fossaway intended to do with his flair, Daemon embodied, becoming an instant favorite for a spectacle as gaudy in the tilts as before them. The chants continued, increasing in vigor and bawdiness.
Baelor still couldn't manage to distinguish the words. With each chant, his shoulder throbbed in pain.
A maester hobbled in front of Oakheart's galloping horse to check the squire's eyes before allowing another pass. Orson flipped up his visor to show the gray robed old man he was well enough to continue, and when the maester raised his hand with his thumb up, the crowd cheered again. Oakheart angrily slammed his visor shut, and trotted his horse to his end of the rail. It was so loud, Baelor couldn't even hear the commoners behind him apart from the larger collective roars.
Daemon leaned in to his second pass the same as the first, lifting his lance and charging. Orson seemed to hesitate, almost a full heartbeat and a half until he kicked his horse to run. Maybe he wishes he'd fallen.
Baelor couldn't imagine a pain that would keep him from wanting another chance at victory.
The crowd quieted as each horse reached it speed. Those moments seemed both too long and too short, and with a trail of dust behind them, they converged. Daemon pulled his right shoulder back, almost waiting for Oakheart's attempt. The green squire pushed his lance at Daemon, but it was a weak attempt.
What was normally a crash, turned to a snap, and Baelor as well as the crowd grew silent. It happened so fast it was hard to fathom, but it looked like Daemon had caught Oakheart's lance in his left elbow and broke it in half against his armor as Orson passed. In that first moment, no one who'd seen it knew what to do. For that brief bit, the whole world had stilled to silence.
It was impossible. A shiver shook through Baelor as if he'd seen a religious miracle. In fact, the whole of the Dragon Pit seemed to be in a celestial stupor, as if The Warrior himself had graced the arena with his majesty. In the silence, they must have all wondered if it could even be true. Once the impossible was confirmed, though, happening right before their eyes, the eruption of noise could only be described as worship. It wasn't only like something they had never seen. It was something they couldn't even imagine. From the commoners to the King's box, all saw, all were witness, and all were in love and awe.
Daemon didn't even drop his lance. The half he'd snapped with pressure from his elbow couter dropped to the floor after a few gallops, and the half still in Oakheart's hand was thrown down, the green squire embarrassed and enraged by the pageantry he fell victim to.
"Have you ever seen that?" Baelor asked Crabb, whose own jaw was so low it looked to be locked in place.
"Even the gods ain't never seen that."
Daemon hurried back for the third pass, still holding his lance from the second. Oakheart had to retrieve a new one, and trotted slowly back to his end of the rail. Baelor thought he might concede, but after a long ride to his place, he looked to want one more go of it. For that's all I think Daemon will allow.
When it started, the outcome seemed fixed. The third pass came and went to the same eruption of cheers, but every member of the crowd knew as well as Baelor how it would end. Daemon launched a fierce strike into Oakheart, the green squire fell, and Daemon celebrated.
The chants continued to a deafening level of noise. With each chant, Baelor's shoulder sang back with a furious shot of pain. A yellow bruise began to form, and his skin felt almost hot under the dripping melting rag. A dragon's flame has nothing to fear.
But the Waters was a Dragon too.
"There's time but not much until your next tilt, Baelor. Leave the rag if you want, but the armor's gotta get back on. You're not done yet."
Far from it.
Before Crabb fastened his helm, Baelor took a long drink of water. As he drank, Crabb was preaching to him all manners of instructions Baelor wished not to focus on. The old knight usually just repeated the thirteen things he had always said, so if Baelor was missing something new, he'd be surprised. Baelor only focused on one thing. Knocking the stars from the squire of Blackhaven's armor.
When the old man reached up to place Baelor's helm, he fell into the Prince. Baelor caught him with his left shoulder, the one that had taken the blow, and winced, trying not to yelp from the pain.
Crabb gathered himself and urged Baelor to reach for his walking stick. He tried to bend over in his armor, grabbing the stick with his right arm, but feeling a rush of pain in his shoulder as blood flowed to it when he leaned over.
"Hurts, huh?" Crabb asked.
"A little bit."
"Pains just a thing, Baelor. It's just a foe. It's not dangerous on its own, though. Leave it be. It's only a threat when it distracts you from another. Focus on the foe that can hurt you, not the one that already has."
Baelor had never heard that one, but Baelor had never been in so much pain before.
"Now get on that fish of yours and let's see what you're made of?"
"You think I can win?" Baelor asked.
"You're faster, but don't be. He's gonna hit you. Just hit him back. He's hurting too."
Each clop of Blackfish's hooves sent another shot of pain through Baelor, and after nodding to the similarly stiff Dondarrion, Baelor wondered what type of match the two of them could put on for the crowd.
He closed his eyes as his horse turned, breathing in rhythm with his destrier. Pain is not my foe. Erich is. And he will fall.
Baelor opened his eyes and kicked into his horse. Crabb had told him to sit back, but Baelor wanted to attack. As his eye slit rose and fell in front of his vision to the beat of his horse's gait, his mind cleared and all he could see were the stars. The bright gleaming crystals the marcher squire had placed into his cuirass to pay homage to his house. Baelor gritted his teeth, wanting only to knock them out of his sky.
It wasn't his form or his knowledge that struck Erich, it was his will, the fire in his heart that forced his hardened hand to thrust. Baelor roared angrily as the lance hit, knowing what was next, and through the return blow from Dondarrion, he throttled his yell all the louder.
He kept screaming, spittle spilling from his lips and into his eye slit. He screamed still as his horse rounded the rail to return to his end. He had stayed on. Through the force. Through the pain. Through it all.
Remembering he couldn't turn his head to see, and knowing the pain it would cause if he tried, he waited until Blackfish turned to see what his foe's fate had been. He knew he hit Dondarrion. He knew not if he fell.
With the crowd's uproar so loud it almost knocked him aback, Blackfish turned to see Dondarrion riding passed.
So another, then. Good.
Baelor kicked Blackfish into a gallup, hurrying to beat Dondarrion to his end of the rail. I'll win to the spot. I'll win to the center. And I'll win.
I'm going to win this joust.
The pain was naught but an incessant hinderance. A gnat to his dragon.
The second pass went as the first. And the third. And the fourth.
Both riders were heavy in their saddle. The weights of their lances thrice that as whence they began. The crowd could not keep their vigor, but not a seat in the house was sat. All in attendance were engulfed in the match before them. Two warriors with no will to back down or concede.
Crabb rushed to Baelor upon the fifth pass, holding him before he could get Blackfish to charge. "Your mother and father call to stop this. I'm here to try and stop you."
"You won't succeed. Not with those legs," Baelor replied, kicking Blackfish into a run, almost brushing against his mentor as he rode passed.
This is it, Baelor thought. This is the one. I'll hit him with everything!
He thought of what to yell in his charge. Fire and Blood? For House Targaryen? For Dragonstone.
He wasn't riding for them anymore. Not in this tilt.
He was riding for himself. As he pushed up from his stirrups, approaching the lightning squire, he thought to himself, for me! For Baelor Targaryen!
Both lances found their targets, and the crash had become a familiar sound at that point. The strike was no longer the war Baelor fought. It was to keep his seat. He fought with every ounce of his life, through the agony and exhaustion, just to sit.
He didn't fall.
When Blackfish turned, he could barely breathe. He could barely see. Tears were as much his vision as the sawdust and shadow of his eye slit. His shoulder felt apart from his body. He felt it had fallen in shards like the lance he had just destroyed. But he was still sitting his horse.
Dondarrion was not.
Baelor fell into Blackfish's mane, holding his partner in an embrace of victory and defeat.
Though he had won, he'd spent everything. Dondarrion was a foe to respect, and a young man to admire.
But as soon as his steel armor hit the first grain of dust of the arena floor, Baelor was already onto the championship round in his head. The crowd must have been roaring behind him, around him, for he could feel the Dragon Pit shaking beneath his feet.
But he couldn't hear them, not yet. His mind had a still image of a monster in his mind. He was solely focused on that. And though he knew there was still another tilt that needed to be decided, he could only think of one thing.
Daemon.