"He's hurt. You should be able to take him with one pass," Quentyn told Daemon, who was more concerned with the crowd and finding a particularly lovely face than heeding the man that had taught him everything. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Where is she Q?"

"How in the hells should I know? She's neither my kin nor my charge, and she's a lady besides. A royal lady. 'Tis my job to teach swords, that's the end of it. Keep your head in the clouds, young man, and it'll likely stay there when the Prince comes charging at you."

"My cousin is a good rider, sure, but no one is a match for me today, Q. Not even the gods could knock me from this here horse." Daemon stroked his dapple gray's mane. He had named her Danny. He would claim it was a version of his mother's name. That was a lie. Quentyn knew. It was after the Princess.

Quentyn hoped the horse would be the only Dany he ever rode.

"He's proven fast, and strong. That Dondarrion boy was a formidable foe."

Daemon smiled with a confidence that made him such a pleasure to teach. "Dondarrion wore him out. He's nothing left."

"A true champion always has more, Daemon." Quentyn found his side of the discussion hard to keep up without feeling a liar. Everyone in the Dragon Pit, whether and expert or novice, knew how the championship match would end. They had seen what Daemon could do. And Gods, what the boy could do!

If Baelor was a bit older, he might have half a chance, but as young as he was, still filling out his twelve-year-old frame, he was too small against the monstrous bastard. The more Quentyn cautioned his squire, his shining pupil, the more he felt wrong for trying. Who am I kidding? The boy is a gift for the crowd to enjoy, not a novice in need of instruction.

"Fuck it," Quentyn said, throwing away conventional thought. "The last thing you need is to do anything different than you've already been doing. Charge fast and hard. Strike faster and harder. Give them a show and make your teacher proud."

"I don't even think I'll need your lessons for much longer, Q. You've taught me everything you know."

"I taught you what you need to know to defeat every other knight in the realm. The lessons you'd need to beat me, though," Quentyn stopped to smile and look back at his squire. "I've kept those to myself. In case you ever need to be humbled."

"I may need to be sooner than later," Daemon replied, grabbing his glossy black helm and handing it to his attendant. Before the man placed it on and fastened it, Daemon finished with, "I couldn't be more sure of victory than I am in this moment." The attendant twisted on his helm, and the boy was once again a demon.

"No need for a show. Don't embarrass your cousin. The king might not mind, but the king won't be king forever. They say the North remembers, but so does the Dragon. Even frail chubby ones more concerned with books than blades."

"Leave Prince Daeron alone," Daemon said loud enough to hear through his night black visor. He lifted it to finish. "For all the hate he receives from the commoners, surely us more civilized nobles can give him the respect he's due."

"Who said I was noble or civilized?" Quentyn japed, finishing his drink and tossing his chalice. "And what reason should you love him so? He's naught to you but distant kin"

"Should I not respect my kin? Is that your teaching Ser Knight of House Ball?"

"I started by saying don't embarrass your kin, that's respect enough. Leave me to my japes between the two of us. You more than anyone knows I've little to do with honor and chivalry. That you'll have to learn from the King." Quentyn chuckled to himself as the squire gave him a playful glare. The boy didn't know. Not yet.

"Any other wisdoms before I face the Prince?"

"Win."

As his squire readied his horse, Quentyn looked for an attendant to service his more basely needs. When he found a serving girl, he reached for her brown robe and pulled at it with as much courtesy as his drunk hands would allow. As the Master at Arms at the Red Keep, Quentyn had found remembering his courtesy harder with each passing day, and when it was a drink he needed, he found it hard to be calm enough to keep up with the charade.

I'm the Master at Arms, not some noble in silks. If more's expected of me, then I'll just have to disappoint. It wasn't like House Ball was some famed family his indiscretions would somehow besmirch, so who cared what a serving girl here and there might think.

"A mug of ale," he barked, his grip just a bit too tight on the wench's wool sleeve.

"There's no ale, My Lord. Just the wine," she replied, seemingly unphased by his brusqueness. The crowd must be getting raucous.

"Fine. Whatever you got. Just bring it quick." He tossed her a silver to ensure prompt delivery. Even though it was almost a certainty Daemon would defeat Baelor, Quentyn was still uneasy. There's more to fear now than just defeat. When a bastard tilts against the Third in Line, more can go wrong than right.

When she returned, the caller began to announce the records of each finalist, repeating each rider Daemon and Baelor defeated and how they were downed. Baelor's record was impressive, especially after taking that lance when he was allowing the Fossaway boy an honest go of it. That was almost as honorable as Daemon was unbelievable against Oakheart.

But Daemon was not Arlo Stokeworth. He wasn't Reece Fossaway. He wasn't Erich Dondarrion. He was the Warrior in mortal form, if Daemon was even mortal. He was as natural a lance as Quentyn had ever seen, and that much better with the sword. He had mastered the spear, the mace, the longsword, the greatsword, and even the morningstar. The only weapon he refused to learn was the bastard blade, saying it was useless to learn a one and a half-handed weapon when he had already mastered one handed and two.

But Quentyn knew not to even suggest it. If it were a hazard blade, or a plaster blade, or a blade of any other name, Daemon would have mastered its use in a day. It was unnecessary to force that upon him. Even if it was just a name.

With a shaking hand, he grabbed for the pitcher the serving girl brought, and flicked another silver in her direction. "I'll need all of it."

She made no reply, only fetching the fallen coin from the dirt floor and slipping away back through the crowd to continue her duties. Quentyn drank straight from the pitcher, downing half of the bitter wine in his first attempt. Daemon's horse began to trot to his position on the rail, which meant Quentyn would have to attend to his corner. With another four quick swigs, he finished the wine he'd taken from her and tossed the empty metal pitcher to the dirt.

After a dubious burp, he hobbled over to his squire. "Don't kill him," was all he could think to say, reaching Daemon just in time.

"I promised him I wouldn't," Daemon replied through his black helm. It was a wonder Quentyn could even hear his proud booming voice through the steel. "These lances are just wood anyway. I doubt I could if I tried."

"Well, try not to."

Daemon nodded. At this point, he has little use for me anymore, Quentyn admitted to himself. The young bastard Targaryen had already surpassed him.

Gleaming atop his horse, the bastard kicked Danny into a spin and made off for the crowd, rounding the arena instead of meeting his kin at the rail. Quentyn stepped back, to see what Prince Baelor was doing as Daemon received his adoration. The boy looked formidable in his Targaryen armor, though the Prince was dressed less fine than the bastard that would oppose him. If they only knew, Quentyn thought, thinking of how not only the crowd, but the entire realm knew nothing of the true implications of this tilt. They knew nothing of the young man they cheered for.

Not yet.

Baelor turned back to his end and Quentyn could only imagine what the boy was thinking. Quentyn had been where Baelor was now. Hurt from a previous tilt and facing a much larger, stronger, better opponent. He remembered the only time he had ever unhorsed The Dragonknight, the finest jouster Quentyn had ever seen.

It was years ago, when Quentyn had just earned his spurs. A tournament in Lannisport was held for the wedding of some Lannister to another. In a hard match, Quentyn had bested Uthor Bulwer, who was now a Kingsguard, and ate four lances, like Baelor just had against Dondarrion.

Or was it five the Prince just took?

His next match was against Aemon Targaryen, and his body was hurting badly. He made The Dragonknight miss. Aemon never missed, but he did that day. Quentyn avoided Aemon's lance and lunged in through the pain for a counter, knocking the White Knight to the dirt to a deafening silence that surprised even Quentyn himself.

I still wonder if he let me beat him. Aemon Targaryen had been killed in service of his brother and King. It was a retaliation for the execution of the Kingsguard Ser Terrance Toyne, who the fat king found abed with his second of the Bracken broads.

One of those cloaks should have been mine.

The next cloak, Aegon IV had promised would be his. Quentyn was yet a married man when Aemon had died, and the King thought it would be in ill taste to appoint him while he still was. Two cloaks were awarded at that time, one for the executed Toyne, and one for the king's slain brother, and neither went to Quentyn Ball.

Since, Quentyn had set aside his wife, as they had no children and he would have her taken care of until she remarried. It was a loveless marriage she was ready to be rid of anyway, and Quentyn had always been more fond of his sword than her.

When the next cloak was available, it would be his, especially since he had trained Daemon so well. Or at least I will take credit for what was already a gods given certainty. The King had promised.

But Daemon was not Aemon. He would not let this opportunity slip. Quentyn knew he had his own reasons for winning, but they were deeper than the crush he had on the Princess. He wanted the love of the crowd, the realm, and he'd have it if he won.

So, with each pass, each tilt, each victory, those in attendance gave him what he had been waiting for his whole life. Acceptance. Approval.

Love.

Baelor was the only thing left in the way of his coronation, and another ceremonial coronation King Aegon had said would take place, despite the tournament an amateur squires' tourney.

Daemon would crown Danaerys Queen of Love and Beauty, and if the gods were good, the two of them would let it end there.

Daemon kicked his horse into a gallop. He either said, "Go, Danny," or, "For Dany," and the horse roared into a fierce charge. Daemon would sometimes play on approach, shifting in his saddle or toying with his lance, but his posture was perfect, as if for once he took his opponent seriously. That, or he's too anxious to see his princess upon victory. Quentyn felt the urge for another drink, but couldn't take his eyes off his squire.

Baelor charged as hard and as fast as Daemon, his own posture seemingly unaffected by the beating he had already taken. He crouched low into his huge black horse, a tactic Quentyn used in his days riding when he was shorter than his opponent. He's as wise as he is brave, but it makes no matter. These are six-foot squires' lances. Too short to hope to confuse. Especially in his opponent's hands. Especially today.

Daemon's reach was near twice as long when he lunged from his stirrups, and his stronger arms forced a devastating strike to the prince's exposed shoulder, though his posture absorbed the impact, and he returned with an upward thrust of his lance to Daemon, lifting the boy in his saddle for the first time. . . ever.

The crowd enjoyed the pass thoroughly, going as far as to throw what little they had onto the arena floor in celebration. Both boys landed hard strikes and both remained ahorse.

As I suspected. The boy still has some fight left. When Daemon turned to ride back to his side of the rail, Quentyn kept his eyes on Baelor, looking to see how the impact affected him. He sat straight, determined, reaching for a new lance and readying his horse before Daemon even returned to his end.

The bastard lifted his black visor, fuming with anger. "How'd he sit through that? That was the hardest I hit anyone all day."

"He's staying low. He knows you'll strike first. He's holding on with all his life, all his heart, and it's a big one for sure. What do you have in here, lad?" Quentyn asked, punching his own chest since he couldn't reach Daemon's. "This won't be like the others. That's a true foe. Beat him with what's inside you. Beat him with how bad you want it, not how skilled you are." Quentyn was yelling through the noise of the crowd and felt he might heave up that last pitcher.

The boy's face calmed to a steely somewhat frightening stare. Without reply, he flipped his visor down with a quick nod of his head, which made Quentyn think, Every movement of the boys body is impressive, and caught the lance as the attendant boy tossed it to him.

"For Dany!" he yelled, kicking the horse into a charge.

Daemon rode as long and strong as he was, leaning so far out over his horse, Quentyn feared the beast might stumble. Baelor crouched even lower, as if to hide from the monster's wooden reach, and they converged into each other with all the fervor and rage of war.

Daemon! No!

The boy's lance was too high, and his arms were as still as frozen water. Based on where he was aiming, Quentyn feared his heart was as cold too.

Daemon's lance shattered into the crown of Baelor's helm, slaying all three dragons that roared above it. Baelor landed a glancing blow, as his head jerked back from Daemon's strike, and both boys remained in their saddles. Neither reached the end of the rail before reigning their horses back to their end, Baelor almost pulling his destrier into a rear, angrily, it seemed, by his demeanor under all that armor.

You fool, Quentyn thought. That's an attack on your house. An obvious and intentional one.

It seemed the boy had things to learn after all.

When his horse returned, Ball scolded him as quickly as he could. "You dumb fuck."

"I know. I only meant to scare him from riding so low. I don't think I hurt him," Daemon wasn't angry, he was tactical. So, he intentionally hit the boy just hard enough to teach him not to stick his head in the way. Maybe I've to learn from him.

"If he rides low again, don't go teaching no more. You're a doer, not a teacher."

"Aye, Ser," he replied. "But he won't last this pass."

Quentyn was scared to see why the boy was so confident. Nay, he's no boy no more. That's a man grown.

When he flipped down his visor, Quentyn studied him in a near drunken stupor. He looked upon him as he was, not who he had always been to his mentor. What was once the uncoordinated lumbering frame of a child was now the nearly six-and-a-half foot shadow of a monster, and he was still but twelve. Larger than nearly any man, already, he was shaped from the stuff the Old King had the septons preaching about.

Exceptionalism.

The boy was proof of the difference in Targaryen blood, if there was any, and if not, maybe the rumors were true. Though he knew the truth of it, maybe Daena was graced by the Warrior, and Daemon was the Warrior's Son.

As he rode off, Quentyn didn't fear the boy could ever lose. He only feared how his opponent would feel as soon as the match was decided, and the young Prince would return to his father who was already said to dislike the bastard. Now he's like to hate him.

Daemon was right, though. When Baelor kicked his horse into its charge, he sat higher and straighter in his saddle. It was the right play, Quentyn thought. Though these people won't understand the nuance, it was the best way for him to open up Baelor's stance.

Though the crowd was enthralled with the action, the third pass ended anticlimactically. With all Baelor was against: his battered body telling him to quit, his smaller frame easier to unhorse, his shorter legs further from a strike, his weaker arms unable to match his opponent's force, and the elite skill Daemon possessed, Baelor was no match. The Prince had proven he was as fine a jouster as any squire in the realm, even at twelve. He proved he was as tough a person, even as the son of Daeron. He proved honorable, and extremely skilled. His day would be a day to remember, a coronation, a celebration, if it had ended against any other boy, maybe even in history.

But today would not be that day for Baelor Targaryen. Today, he had faced the only boy of twelve ever better than Maegor the Cruel. Today, the Prince faced a God.

And he lost, taking a strike to the chest and falling off his horse as all the boys before. When he landed, his helm jerked back against the dirt, and he stayed motionless flat on his back. As Daemon rode down the rail, he kept his lance down, Thank the Gods, Quentyn thought. He turned his dapple gray around and jumped from his saddle as if to rush to his cousin. The Maester and some other men and women had all crowded around him, and as the spectators murmured in confusion and dread, Daemon tried to fight his way to his cousin.

Quentyn rushed for a closer view, but the arena floor became as crowded as the erected stands, and Goldcloaks filtered in to keep the crowd from breaking the barricade.

Baelor was impossible to see, but Daemon wasn't, nearly taller than everyone else in the crowd. Most were rushing towards or forming protection around the Prince, but it seemed Daemon could see him from where he stood, his face wrought with guilt and fear. The second pass looked to be dirty to the common eye, but the third was as clean a joust as could be seen. Daemon even landed the blow in a place Baelor wasn't already favoring. If he hit the left shoulder again, that could be seen as more cruel, but the truth of it was, these were squires with six-foot lances. For Daemon, it was too easy to control. He could strike his opponent anywhere he wished, evidenced by the strike to the dragons, but these tilts were more than just sport.

They were a statement to the realm, and whether he meant to say it or not, Daemon had just provoked The Prince of Dragonstone and his heir.

For what was planned to come, this could not be any the worse.

Once the arena was finally cleared, Baelor lifted his hand to the crowd, still on his back, but with his helm off and his eyes open. The boy's head had rung pretty good, but he'd be fine with rest and ice.

Daemon tried with all he could to make it to the Prince, but the White Knight kept them apart. The spectacle of it all would be the talk of the commoners for weeks, adding layers of rumor and lies to each moment of the tournament to satiate the boredom of their useless existences. Yet to see the boy's face, Quentyn's squire was far from victorious, more concerned with his cousin than his crown.

As big a moment as it was, Quentyn thought only of the King.

What will he do now?

Only The Master-at-Arms knew of his plan. Quentyn would occompany King Aegon some nights, along with one or two Goldcloaks, and a Kingsguard, into the city for his brothel visits. He liked to randomly select one on a whim, to keep his rotation of girls a mystery to even himself, for Aegon had the rule of four.

As Aegon IV, he gave the madame or owner of each brothel a golden dragon monthly, paying for four girls to be kept untouched for four weeks, so that he could continue his whoring without another bad case of pox. Four for four. The rule of four, and each brothel kept them at the ready, for not even the King knew which establishment he would visit until the night he would choose.

Ball wouldn't always come, but he did the night before the tournament. After a round with one of the four, the king requested a meet, dismissing his girl to fetch Quentyn from balls deep in his own woman.

Quentyn hated that.

The King was drunk, and played off the power he had whenever he could. After finishing before Quentyn, it seemed, he wanted to rob him of his pleasure, if only because he could. That was what Quentyn thought at least when he wandered through the brothel's halls to the upper floor, which was usually where the madame lived, but would always be converted into the King's private chambers.

As drunk as they both were, King Aegon only wanted to explain his grand plan for the tourney, and needed Quentyn's help in making it so. Though, with what happened against Prince Baelor, he was unsure if the King should go on with it. He probably will anyways if just to further shame his trueborn son.

Normally the King would have nothing to do with a Squires' Tournament like this, especially not gracing the arena floor with his bloated feet to crown the champion himself. But he did, and for all the effort it took, Quentyn was surprised the King wasn't red faced and panting. Beside him, was his newest prize, the sorceress from Lys, and to his other, was his daughter Danaerys, a sight for Daemon that shifted his guilt to pride almost as quickly as his victory had been soured from the fall of the Prince.

The Princess looked uneasy, standing off away from her father as if the smell of him was too wretched, but when her face met Daemon's gaze, a smile as bright as the sun in Dorne shone across her face.

When the King reached the arena's center, Daena entered the pit escorted by two kingsguard and led to the side of the Lady Serenei. This was part of Aegon's plan. She needed to be there.

Quentyn was uneasy again. He needed another drink. "Girl!" he screamed hoping one would appear. They usually did.

The King looked to his party, flanked by the Goldcloaks in formation around them, with the two kingsguard that took his place standing behind the King in resplendid white. Then, he lifted his huge arms to quiet the crowd. Heavy as they were, when they rose to the spectators of both lords and rabble, they had the power still to quiet all of them.

"Upon a glorious day for all that participated, let me first thank all the Lords, Ladies, Knights, and subjects of the realm for making this day a day to remember!" The King's booming voice rang to the sound of exaltation. For as vile his reputation, his tongue was as silver as his hair.

"Let us show our gratitude for the great young squires from all the houses represented here today!" The crowd again interrupted, obliging the King with cheers upon request.

"Let us celebrate my kin, and my grandson, Baelor Targaryen, for his performance today! Truly a fine show he gave us, and a fine display for House Targaryen!" All cheered even louder. The King raised his arms again and the crowd quieted. "Prince Baelor is in good health and only took a hard fall is all. I think I speak for us all when I say he's earned a bit of rest." The crowd agreed with another roar of approval.

"But today was a competition. It was a chance for the realm to see the knights of tomorrow, and to crown a champion among them. Today, that young man was immaculate. So, as the best among them, a name we can expect to hear from in the days to come, Daemon Waters, I crown you Champion of this Tournament."

The King placed a sash of red and black roses around the kneeling bastard. Quentyn feared what was next. He feared what both the King might do and what Daemon was sure to. Daemon's turn would come first.

"And with these roses," Daemon proclaimed in a booming voice that matched the king's, "I crown, ye, Princess Danaerys Targaryen, the Queen of Love and Beauty."

The crowd cooed and whispered in a rush of fun and salacious gossip. The tournament was surely the price of admission.

When the Champion stepped over to the Princess, the King looked none too pleased. He refrained from stopping it or stepping in, but the fat of his jowls twitched as the boy crowned the King's daughter within arm's reach of him.

Then, his eyes flared when his daughter rose on her toes to plant a soft kiss on the Champion's cheek. Daemon blushed Targaryen red, and the realm erupted for it.

'Tis but a small moment compared to what's to come.

Quentyn looked to the King's face. What is he going to do?

"Ser," a girl yelled behind him, startling the knight to nearly soil his breeches.

"What?"

"I assumed you wanted a drink. A skin's all I got. Another silver?"

"Here, sweetling," he said smiling, referring more to the drink than the girl. It was the same girl as before and it seemed like as not she took this skin from another than pouring it from a pitcher. He cared little for how it got to him, but thanked the gods as he gulped it down for its presence.

I don't think I could have made it through this without shaking if it wasn't for you, girl.

If the King did what he said, the realm would see it an attack on his son, not the more gentle encouraging nudge he wanted to give them against him. His plan was not to crush his son, but to gently undermine him until the time came. To do it today, would be to fray feelings already strained, and Quentyn feared the King's gall more than his decadent tastes.

When he saw the King's face, he noticed him returning his gaze. In the moment, the realm was more concerned with the beautiful young silver haired champion and queen of love and beauty, and Aegon shook his head from side to side, as if to confirm he would not continue as was discussed in the brothel.

Quentyn sighed, slumping down into a more calm drunk. Thank the gods.

As the King shook the boy's hand, intent on returning to whatever bed his huge body had just left, he forced his way to Quentyn, as if to shake the hand of the man who trained such a fine warrior. When he reached him, Quentyn accepted the fat hand and grasped it as the king's huge body leaned into his. "A word," was all he whispered, and Quentyn feared he had a long night ahead.

"I've already decided, I'm entering," Daemon said. Quentyn was meant to convince him to enter anyway, despite the clear refusal from his mother. "Royals need not enter the melee," she said, "and I will not have my son the victim to some random hedge squire's errant blow."

But Daena was the Defiant. What did she expect from her son?

King Aegon's private word was briefer than Quentyn had expected. "Not today. But tomorrow. When he wins the melee."

"But, your Grace, his mother forbids it. He was not supposed to be in the melee. Too many rabble. Too little experience. He's like as not to be an accident than the champion."

"Well, you will ensure he wins it, then. Are you not the teacher he needs?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Convince him to enter. Coach him to win. Tomorrow we will do what should have been done today. I will have it on my hip."

"Yes, your Grace. Tomorrow it is."