Daeron III

Despite the constant tension between his wife and he, Daeron could not find himself apathetic to Myriah's sickness at sea. He had intended on riding through the Stormlands to avoid the sea the best they could, but Myriah was more interested in haste than comfort.

And likely forgot how bad her sickness could be.

Maester Mors was brought to help aid, providing tonics to drink that seemed to have no effect. Even mixtures intended to ease pain or promote sleep proved relatively useless, as day, night, afternoon, and each moment in between for the Princess of Dorne was spent bent over a bucket or the rail of their balcony off the stern, retching nothing but the spittle left in her mouth and the useless mixtures from the maester into the Narrow Sea.

In the moments he despised his wife, he wondered if he truly had love for her. The scorn he received daily paid a collective toll, but in her worst moments, at her weakest, Myriah Martell still showed her incredible strength of will. A quality Daeron had always admired.

Whether through the birthing of his four sons, which were each life threatening in their own way, Baelor causing her a bad bleed once he'd been born, Aerys coming into the world feet first, Rhaegel taking nearly three whole days to finally emerge, and Maekar, who came so quickly, the Maesters had not yet even prepared themselves, and missed the birth entirely; or through the countless and never ending slights and prejudices of her heritage, Myriah had never wavered in her steadfast determination to live on. Her beauty was that of more than just her appearance, and it was certainly not in her charms, but in the ferocity of her spirit, and the relentless brightness of the fire that burned within her.

More than anything, it was something he was thankful Baelor had inherited from her, for a future King would need it.

There was little Daeron could offer in the form of words, comfort, respite, or distraction, as the nausea never ceased, and the woman's mood never sweetened.

With a sympathetic hand to hold her hair as she leaned over whatever ledge helped support her as she vomited, the sound more a cough now than a gag, her stomach empty, her body exhausted, and her fiery spirit constantly tested. "Tarth is but mere moments away, my love. I can see it through the mists in the distance."

"Are you sure . . . it's not the coast of the Stormlands," Myriah struggled to ask, her mouth open and wet, her cheeks hanging down her haggard face, and the light in her dark eyes more pitiful than inspiring.

"I confirmed it with the captain before giving you false hope," Daeron replied softly, brushing the stray strands of dark hair from her face behind her ear. "I'm no sailor, as you well know."

"Nor am I," she said, and slowly a sarcastic grin stretched across her face, probably the first time she could even attempt a smile since they'd departed from Stonedance after House Massey had allowed them to resupply and sleep in their guest apartments. The trip from Dragonstone to the edge of Massey's Hook was little more than a day at sea. Myriah was able to manage that much.

Since, it had been nearly a week of rough seas, with the only break a windless day in which they made no headway. Both Daeron and Myriah had had enough of this torture. Myriah's sickness and Daeron's constant tending to the ornery woman had given them both good reason to wish for land.

"At least I've likely shed enough of my gut to fit in the dresses I packed for the ball."

"I would've preferred you stay exactly as you were without the fuss."

"My Prince," Myriah started, covering her mouth and clenching her jaws closed to catch whatever came up and compose herself, "surely this ordeal's been much more than just a fuss."

Daeron indeed did speak to soon, however, as the ship's course took them to Evenfall Hall, on the Western Coast of the middle of the island. Even after reaching Tarth, there was still a half day's journey remaining.

Myriah was none too pleased to hear that news.

It had been days since the Prince or his wife had spent any meaningful amount of time with their sons, and upon landing, it was good to have them all together again, and Myriah able to do more than empty her stomach.

Baelor had seemed to finally break his obsession of the loss in the tourney when they first set off, playing games with their ward Torren Dayne and his brothers. Daeron could never have hoped for a better son than his eldest, his heir, but he also feared the new defiance he had shown, and the hint of what the Prince of Dragonstone took as disgust whenever they would speak since.

Maester Mors said the mood change could be related to the injury to his head, but Daeron felt it more with the boy's age and Daeron's own frailty. The boy wanted to become a warrior, had the skill to do so, and would fight hard against every encouragement his father would give him to become more.

After the first day, however, all Baelor and Dayne seemed to do was spar. Crabb kept it instructional, but the boys battled day and night. It seemed the hard knock of their wooden training swords, since even an accidental cut at sea could prove much more dangerous with a blunted steel blade, seemed the rhythmic percussion to Myriah's incessant retching.

His middle boys, Aerys and Rhaegal, were less than interested in sparring, like he, preferring books and prayers to training. He loved them, as all good fathers loved their sons, but their temperments were better suited for other pursuits than rule. Their youngest, Maekar, was simple to Daeron. It seemed prudent he follow his eldest brother to the yard to learn the ways of the sword and the lance. The boy was built for it, and there was little expected of a fourth son, so he would likely have the freedom to pursue what suited him best as he grew into a man.

Baelor's would be the toughest life among them, for an heir's existence was to be king, and a king's existence was to serve the realm.

Aerys, Rhaegal, and Maekar would likely never sit that cursed chair. And with so much of himself in each of them, Prince Daeron knew they'd all be better for it.

"Pass the bread," his youngest requested, his mouth nearly full with the last bite of cheese. Myriah seemed so relieved to be on solid ground, she let the young boy's lack of manners pass without rebuke. The Prince wished it was always that way. That quiet.

"Pass the lamprey, brother, if you please," Rhaegal requested from Baelor who ate the meal as if it'd be his last. "You can come up for air between chomps at that pheasant. It's not going to fly away."

"This pie may yet grow legs," Aerys sneered. "Something's turned in it. It's foul."

"I apologize, your grace, it is a gamey and fishy taste, sea dog. We will take note of that for future meals," the serving attendant replied to the young prince.

"I kinda like it," Maekar said, his mouth half full again. "Fatty."

"Like you," Rhaegal remarked, pleased with himself.

"Now, there will be none of that, son," Daeron barked. "Maekar is not at all portly. He's strong. If anyone's fatty around here, it's your Lord Father."

"Or his Grace, grandfather," Maekar mumbled through the rest of the pie.

The serving attendant let out the sound of a cough, spitting from his mouth and nose as he tried to catch himself from seeming disrespectful.

"My good man, among us, you are allowed to laugh at the obvious."

"Except for if it pertains to me," Myriah slipped in with a smile. She was still a bit pale, but the light had returned to her dark wide eyes. Of all her features, it was her eyes Daeron liked best. Among the features that were appropriate to consider at least. When they emoted her joy, passion, and especially lust, they made up for all the moments of blatant disrespect and palpable disdain.

Myriah was a complex woman.

"Noted, your Grace," the serving attendant replied. Daeron was still not yet sure if it were a young man or a tall woman. It mattered not however. There was little more to know of the staff of Evenfall Hall.

"Baelor, my son. You're awfully quiet," Daeron started, trying to engage with his son while the mood of the table was still mostly positive. "How do you find the food?"

"Better than the shit on the ship," he replied.

"Aren't you going to tell him to mind his tongue," Myriah asked her husband, without the familiar fire usually accompanied by such a request from his wife.

"We're fresh off a ship, my Princess. He's just getting that sailor's spirit out."

The table had been set for them in a meadow not far off the coast, but in a place before they'd have to make a short trek up the steep cobbled paths that led to the Hall proper. Tarth was a beautiful gem in the midst of the stormy Narrow Sea. It's greens were that of emeralds in moonlight, vibrant, but rich, dark even, so full of life. The smooth spherical stones stacked up the rocky cliffs looked like the gods chose to build this isle as a fortress from the rest of the dregs humanity had turned the known world into.

Falls cascaded down from pristine cliffs, draped on each side by dense forests of conifers and full leaved oaks. The water was such a clear blue, even as it fell in a foamy white mist, the deep color was that of the sapphires that gave the isle its monicker. Tarth appeared a refuge from the buzz of civility. A vision of nature isolated from the advancements of night soil-stained gutters and cloth-roofed fish markets.

With his wife, and his sons, the Prince was at peace, restless only with the knowledge of how fleeting a peace it would be.

"Fuck, then. Fuck shit fart!" Maekar yelled.

Daeron feared his peace would soon end.

"Bitch, cunnie, arse," Myriah sounded, as if to call to the gods that had built such a place surrounded by the sea that made her so sick. "And fart again!"

The boys and Daeron fell quiet for the briefest of moments wondering what had become of the mother they'd always known. But the moment was brief enough, as they burst into a collective bout of shared laughter that could have split all of their bellies, the kind of laughter common folk must have come to know when with their kin, away from the pressures of rule and responsibility.

The Prince felt their brood grew closer hearing his wife's repugnant cussing. He found it both humorous and disheartening it would take a thing as that.

But one should never spit at a gift from the gods, regardless of the manner in which it is manifested.

Daeron felt he should have pondered eating before such a climb to the castle, but upon the horses, it wasn't much more than another bit of rocking. Myriah was content atop a horse, so there was no need to tend to her, but as he watched her from his, as she gazed into the beauty of the natural scene, calm and smiling, taking in more greens, more cliffs, and listening to the soothing babble of clear running water, Daeron couldn't help but smile himself.

The woman's hair was tangled and frayed. Her face seemed empty, as if the weight shed from the retching actually left her as less. And her garb was not nearly as ornate or flattering as she would ever allow herself to be seen in.

As she nearly beamed with content and relief, grinning from the view from the road, she was beautiful, and he was glad he loved her.

"My desert rose," Daeron called. His voice was soft, but as assertive as he could deliver it.

"Yes, my Prince," she replied, keeping her eyes on the scene before them as they rode side by side on substandard mounts.

"Once we're shown to our quarters, there are some needs of yours I'd like to attend to. After such treachery, the future Queen deserves a bit of special care from her King."

"If the King cares for the wishes of his Queen, he'll allow her the bed and the room for as long as it takes to clear these wretched bags from beneath my eyes. They're so heavy I can feel their weight on my face."

"As your Grace desires," Daeron limped out. He never treated his wife as a whore. If she did not desire him, there would be another moment for him to try.

The members of his household that made the journey had set off to make their rooms ready for their arrival, including the boy, Dayne, who would likely have wished to be seated with them. Daeron's ward was beneath a future king. He wasn't even of the ruling line of his namesake. He was a good enough lad and was nothing but a help to Daeron and his boys, but he did not wish to groom him into much more than a proper noble.

He had no place at the royal table.

When they reached the walls of the sturdy keep, the portcullis lowered to allow for them to cross an impressively wide moat. The rivers and streams that seemed to flow throughout the island's terrain made for a tactical natural barrier, and the ascending plane within the walls made for higher ground the further and further you traveled within it. Slate blue stone stacked high up each turret, to give the gray's of the rock a blue hue, and the pewter adornments to each plank and structural board made it clear the motif of the structure.

The blues were calming, though the evenings would not be. Daeron feared the politics he'd have to endure through the celebrations both invented and already planned in the upcoming days. The Year's Turn just happened to coincide within a day of their intended arrival, so upon hearing word the Prince of Dragonstone and his family would be gracing the halls of Evenfall, Lord Tarth had invited the nearby nobility to come celebrate the visit and transformed the short stop to recover into a grand stay of balls and feasts centered around the future King and Queen.

Daeron knew that meant every Stormlord within a month's journey would be in attendance, and likely would corner him with their proposals to, "mend the realm," posturing for petty positions at court like, Lord of Parchment and Ink, or Official Icemaster of the King. Daeron also knew that meant he would have to honor their proposals as graciously as he could to avoid creating malcontents among his subjects, which meant the promise of a mind-bending tedium that would turn any lively masquerade into torture.

Yet so was the life of a sovereign.

That first night was not near as bad as the next day would be. A feast for the nobles that arrived in time went smoothly enough. Daeron and his brood were given the high dais, flanked only by the Lord Hershel and his Lady Betrisha, leaving their young children to sup with their caretakers and aunts.

Few chose to petition the Prince on the first night, save a few minor lords simply introducing themselves as Daeron was likely to never see or hear from them again. As he should, Daeron smiled and greeted every introduction with the enthusiastic compassion of a proper future King. Since his father ascended the throne, Daeron knew his life was on display for the realm to judge, but with Baelor so close to him, and with little else to distract his heir, Daeron made sure to impress.

Baelor needed to learn about more than becoming a tourney knight to win over the nobility of the realm, and Daeron felt it best to educate by example.

But to be judged by near landless lords was one thing. His son's judgement was another thing entirely.

Myriah ate her plate of pheasant and buttered shellfish, drank two tall tankards of Dornish wine, and retired early to their chambers, the guest master suite Hershel constantly reminded them was remodeled specifically for their visit to accommodate such prestigious guests. In fact, those were the exact choice of words each time he reminded them.

Daeron stayed to perform his duties as the honored guest, and had Crabb and some of his attendants shuffle the younger boys to bed. He was going to allow Baelor to stay awake and drink some ale with the men, but he declined and wished to retire as well.

"Sure, son," Daeron said. He couldn't really say what he felt. It was unbecoming of a father and king. "It was a tiring journey here. Best to be rested for the events on the morrow."

"Based on what I've heard, your Grace," Hershel said to Baleor before he was able to get up from the table. "You'll quite enjoy what we have planned for the early afternoon."

"And what is that, Lord Tarth?" Daeron asked. "I thought there was another feast and a ball for the Year's Turn later on in the evening."

"Aye, your grace. Yet there's more!" The man seemed excited to break news that would only further add to the long list of obligations Daeron would near unwillingly have to attend and engage in. "I am hosting a tourney in your honor, Prince Daeron. Only a few jousts to crown a champion, but a tourney all the same."

"If you'll excuse me, my Lord," Baelor said, bowing to Lord Tarth, "Father," he said after turning, bowing again. "I'll see you on the morrow. Thank you completely for the meal and the warm and generous welcome you have shown our family. Tarth indeed is a great house and beautiful isle."

"Your words touch me, young Prince, and I am honored to have been given such and honorable opportunity to do so."

As the night and its revelries wore on, Daeron found himself settling a difference between two drunk lords over which was better, dark or light-hair on a woman. Daeron explained it a non-issue, for each woman was suited for a hair color the gods felt best, a lesson in the book of the maiden, which of course was horse shit. Daeron hoped they all knew but wasn't sure, but continued declaring that in the event a choice must be made between a woman of dark hair or a woman of light hair that was near impossible to decide:

"Choose the one with the bigger tits!"

When the entire hall roared with approval, including the serving girls whose own breasts were at risk of gropes from the well aled men among them, Daeron felt no more victories could be won, and gracefully faded into the halls that led to his room.

Myriah was laid half dressed, stretched across their bed, taking up as much space as she possibly could.

Daeron made an advance, gently sliding his hand up her bare leg, only to have to avoid the donkey kick from his wife to shoo him away.

He was thankful at least that she rolled to one side, allowing him a place in the bed beside her.

The Prince usually didn't partake in drinking, but for show, he felt it best to indulge a little. Four tankards of wine made sleep easy, and the warm bed saw him off to a comfortable rest.

He woke to his wife dressing in a suitable red satin morning gown powdering her face and nose as if to leave the room. "What hour is it?" Daeron asked, feeling the pounding of his heartbeat in his temples, clenching his jaw and squinting as if to relieve the pressure.

"Later than you'd assume. The staff applauded your performance. They all said you were amusing, which amused me," Myriah said, attaching the gold pins and jewelry to the arrangement she'd break her fast in. "Funny, was what one woman kept calling you. How funny were you, my husband?"

"Are you making an accusation? Or are you that surprised to hear people enjoyed my presence?"

She turned from the mirrored glass to look on him with slanted eyes. She had already painted them the way Dornish women did, with the hard dark edge, making them look like the eyes of a serpent.

Myriah swayed towards him, almost slithering, her eyes fixed on his. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you're mine."

Daeron ignited to those eyes. He slid to the edge of the bed and stood, stared back at her deeply, and said, "You're mine."

It wasn't meant in jest, and his tone didn't evoke humor. He pulled her into him forcefully and kissed her deeply. "And I am yours."

"A shame I'm already dressed," she whispered.

"I'll buy you another." Daeron tore the dress and threw his wife on the bed.

She was more than pleased.

Daeron made his rounds during the breakfast hours to the main gate, joining Lord Tarth in greeting the remaining guests as they entered the keep proper. Not one sigil was from outside of the Stormlands, which seemed strange, but not out of the ordinary. Stormlanders and Dornish rarely ever mixed well, and the members of the Crownlands likely didn't see it as any big occasion to see the Prince of Dragonstone.

Through the pain in his head, he glad handed every minor Lord and Lady, lost in thought of what happened earlier that morning.

Through the haze of his drunk and the lingering effects, the Prince nearly forgot he'd have to attend a makeshift tournament.

Maybe I should indulge in drink again, and so early as this no less.

Daeron thought of his father.

Though he wasn't pleased with the fact that a tournament had been added to his duties, he was pleased to see how comfortably he'd be accommodated.

The stands erected for the occasion sat few enough people he'd have protection from the lowest of lords at least. Within the large training yard, the Lord's carpenters built seats enough for two rows within a stone's throw of the jousting, with a third row for the Lord's box above them, while the rest of the guests interested could stand at ground level around the wooden structures or against the crenelations of the stone walk that overlooked the yard from the second floor of the castle. Lord Tarth and Lady Betrisha led Myriah and Daeron to their seats. After spending her morning with the Lady of Tarth, Myriah hadn't yet lost the glow of their morning, or by some miracle she was enjoying herself in the Stormlands. When their eyes met, they nearly giggled like youths, managing to compose themselves enough to maintain their courtesies.

"Where are the boys?" Daeron asked, expecting to see his sons with his wife.

"They asked to go exploring. I sent Crabb and some guards with them. I feel they should be fine on an island."

"What of Baelor?"

"I assume he's not yet over the last time he was at a tourney. I made nothing of it."

Daeron found it odd that Baelor wouldn't want to attend, but mayhaps it was a good sign? If his head were clear, Daeron could have thought more deeply on the subject, but it was still yet noon, and his morning had already been so full. His mind was ready to sit and just watch.

It didn't hurt that Lord Tarth's servants were always ready with another pour.

And what better way to ease the pain of the previous night with more of the same poison?

To allow for the shortened window of time, only eight jousters made up the lists in a true single elimination tournament. Eight would become four which would become two, and the winner was to receive gold and esteem as the Year's End Champion, which Lord Tarth's caller repeated as if it were a fabled title of lore.

Their host claimed to have scoured the Stormlands for the finest of jousters, true professionals of their craft, to put on a show for the heir and his family befitting their status and prestige. Mere second sons of Lords bribing their way to easy victories would be a poor display of our region's prowess, the man explained, especially to the valiant and talented young Prince Baelor, whose strength of will and supernatural grit were now famous amongst both the nobles and the small folk of the Stormlands after his victory over the young Dondarrion in the Squire's Tournament.

"Where is the young lad?" Lord Tarth asked once the caller had announced the first match of the afternoon.

Daeron avoided the question.

The first to ride was Ser Lucius Morrigen of Crow's Nest, or as the locals called him, The Carrion King. Daeron thought the name too close to "Vulture King", which, for Stormlanders, would not be a positive, but maybe he gave them too much credit to connect the two. Dressed in all black armor, his helm's visor was shaped like the beak of a crow with a plume of black feathers down the crest to where his long dark hair flowed from the back. Even his destrier's saddle was leather branded in a mock pattern of feathers.

He would ride against Stalky Pate Cornfield, a lean and lanky knight of no house, whose armor was fine indeed for a hedge knight. It lacked the finish of a Lord's son, but glinted as if it were new steel, silvery and glossy from even a distance.

They made a show enough for the Prince, bowing and proclaiming their love for his family and the Targaryen line. Daeron wondered what they would say if they could really bare their truth. Could Stormlanders truly have love for he and his father? Could they care any less?

The show of a tournament bored Daeron nearly to death. As a boy, he had once dreamt, as so many wrongfully do, he'd become a knight and win tourneys. It was the thing from stories that actually came true. There were no more dragons, and the wars had ended long ago, but there would always be knights and jousts and fair maidens. It was the pursuit of boys and children.

He had seen his uncle Aemon's prowess, his precise movements and constant victories. As young as Daeron could remember, he thought jousting was easy based on how his uncle made it seem. As a Targaryen, the young Daeron mounted a horse eager to learn what jousting was really like.

After failure, pain, and stagnancy, he found little value in pursuing it further, and focused on his studies and faith. Things he could use as a future King more than the use of a long stick to poke another from a horse.

Yet the Blessed King Baelor admired knights and even tourney jousters. When Daeron's father was still exiled, and he was under the tutelage of the Septon King, Daeron asked King Baelor why the seven had a facet of the warrior.

As he watched the two knights ready themselves for the inevitable pointless charge, he remembered the King's words.

A young Prince Daeron asked, "Your grace, why would the seven faces of god include the warrior? Their pursuits are either to kill or perform, and they're just as likely evil as good."

"Young Prince," King Baelor began, "there is no facet of the seven more necessary than the warrior. The warrior is the most closely tied to faith, trust, service. A warrior fights not for his own wishes, but the wishes of his lord. We too, as the gods' servants, must be willing to fight for the cause of our greatest lord. Before a battle, men pray to the warrior, but as warriors, they also pray to the father for counsel, the mother for grace, the crone for guidance, and the smith for fortitude. The warrior even prays to the stranger, for he is the closest of all to Death and its Messenger."

"Then what of the tourney knights and hedge knights, fighting for glory and gold?"

"What glory is there in fighting for yourself? What knight do we remember with no name? There's no glory or gold in the life of a landless knight, young Prince. Many either starve or turn robber. So among us, the Tourney and Hedge Knights are sometimes the most pious of all. For they often times live match to match, trusting in the seven faces of god to provide their next opportunity, and for enough victories to eat and survive. Those that remain honorable through the toughest of times without falling to the temptations of their armor and strength, remaining loyal servants to the realm and the gods, those men my Prince, are some of the most faithful among us."

Faithful or not, Daeron still felt their games pointless, and the risks far too high for someone as important as his heir. He was glad the boy decided not to come.

The knights charged and the crowd cheered. When they crashed against each other, Daeron feigned his own amusement, and rose with the crowd to congratulate the winning knight. For all Lord Tarth had promised of honest jousting, it seemed too fitting Stalky Pate would fall after the first pass against a Lord's son. The Carrion King moved on.

The second match was between a Ser Moorwyn Peasebury of Poddingfield and Ser Errick Musgood. Daeron had never heard of those house names before and felt ignorant. They made a show of it, battling back and forth, each withstanding the other's lance twice. Ser Errick eventually outlasted Ser Moorwyn, but the Knight of Peas still received cheers from the crowd after his loss. Even in defeat they are applauded. Wish it were as easy for those that rule.

The third match was interrupted by the servant refilling their party's tankards. Myriah and Betrisha were cackling in their cups of Dornish Red, which seemed a thoughtful gesture by the Tarths, while Hershel and Daeron shared a strong wheat ale. By the time the servant had finished pouring the last drop, the women were already in need of more, and the merriment of their wives only indicated the husbands were permitted to enjoy themselves as well. "Hurry back, my good man," Lord Tarth decreed. "Keep them laughing and our own tankards full. Such a joy to have you hear, your Grace."

"Indeed, Lord Tarth. I must admit I'm enjoying the visit to your grand isle and household."

Daeron wasn't sure if he sounded official and royal enough, but at a certain point, he began to quit caring as much of decorum. The tankards Lord Tarth used were large, it turned out. Vast, even.

"And for the final match of the first round, the Lords and Ladies are in for a surprise," the caller yelled as the winning knight from the third match trotted away with his green flag waving the sigil of two white rearing stallions, and the losing knight being unceremoniously scraped off the yard floor like discarded scraps of Maekar's sea dog pie. He must not have lost well enough for applause, or the loser's appreciation was so brief it was nearly inaudible.

"A most puissant knight of the Stormlands, Ser Whigham Wagstaff, will ride against the Mystery Knight donning a Shield with the standard of Flames!"

"Ser Fireball!" a noble below them shouted. Could it be? Could Quentyn Ball be in the Stormlands?

It couldn't be Ser Ball. Currently, the King's Landing Master-at-Arms was supporting the Kingsguard on the ranging to find justice in the Riverlands.

"A mystery knight," Lady Betrisha said pleased. "It's a shame there aren't more these days. Its fun to root for a man with no name."

"Until he proves nameless and talentless," Lord Tarth sneered. "Wish it were that you sat up in your seat when my name was announced all those years ago."

Don't do it, woman, Daeron thought. Myriah remained ears to listen and not a mouth to humiliate.

"Let's see what the young man can do," was all Myriah said.

"Who's to say he's young?" Betrisha asked coyly. "He could be an old hound, refusing to learn any new tricks. This would be something my husband would pull to compete and hide it from me."

Daeron stopped to think on her words, and the riders charged. "Myriah, you sent Crabb with the boys, yes?"

"Not now, my love," she said, shooing his words away with a swat of her hand. No sooner did she finish, than the crack of a lance and thunder of clanging steel shook him nearly out of his seat. The Fire Knight was still atop his horse by the time Daeron turned back to the action, and the opponent fell flat to his arse.

"And an IMPRESSIVE first ride from the Knight of FIRE!" the caller yelled emphatically. The crowd roared, and the knight rose what was left of the broken lance to the air. He wore simple armor. Broad, shoulders wore simple steel without an intricate pauldron, covered in rivets, as if the pieces had been repaired. The steel was matte gray, but polished smooth, though the knight's squire must not have ever used grease or whatever it was that made the metal shine. He was drab, almost too drab to be a knight among them. Only honored guests would have been able to afford the fare for such a frivolous trip to Tarth.

His hosts and wife joined the crowd in their amusement. The large tankards had clearly taken their toll. Myriah hated jousting.

A small band of performers, an acrobatics act of dwarves and limber young women in motley ran past the action to occupy the center of the lists while the second round of jousts was prepared for. Wood splinters were swept. New lances were stocked at each starting end, and the patrons were allowed time to consume more of their beverages. Daeron followed the mystery knight as he rode passed the commotion to his end, where he dismounted, and lifted the visor of his helm. A young man in a roughspun cloak, its hood above his head, poured water from a pitcher directly into the knights open mouth.

He tried to see who it was, but a crowd of servants huddled around them.

A mystery indeed, the Prince thought, starting to feel the effects of the drink, but uneasy, as if something somewhere was amiss.

"Were they supposed to drop that small man like that at the end?" Betrisha asked them all, directing the question to none of them in particular.

"Is it horrid of me to say that I liked that part best?" Myriah said to Betrisha, locking eyes with her before bursting into another shared cackling fit.

With all the performers unharmed, the bustle left a freshly cleaned stage for the second round of matches. Ser Errick Musgood faced the Carrion King in the first match of the second round. As they readied for the charge, the quartered sigil of pavilions and laurels, and simple etched steel armor paled in comparison to the foreboding aspect of the Crow Knight, black and feathered like the harbinger of dark words.

Daeron didn't know the words of these very minor houses, but Morrigen's could be, "Death at your Door," and he would find it befitting. At least when it came to Ser Lucius in full plate.

Daeron refused another pour from the servant, as the two knights charged. The rumble from the hooves of the galloping destriers shook the whole of the wooden structure they all rose from, the collective group of their party atop the three storied stands in their private box, along with all the other nobles granted a seat below them in the other two stories, all drunk, jumping, and cheering for men they'd never spoken to, like their battle would decide a conflict of great import.

As the lance cracked on the Musgood Knight's breastplate, the crowd roared, as they always did, satisfied with the violence, and incited by the prospect for more.

Ser Errick kept his seat.

Which meant for another round of violence.

Daeron was beginning to grow tired of the show Lord Tarth was so pleased by. As heir, it was his duty to refrain from becoming an offensive guest, so he performed his duty the best he could, rising with the crowd and joining the applauses, despite how irked he was by both the overall concept, and each moment as it passed.

He feared what more drink could bring out of him.

The Carrion King continued to pepper Ser Errick with lance after lance, each ride ending nearly the same. In some tournaments, enough broken lances would mean defeat by default, regardless of whether a knight kept his seat.

Lord Tarth explained that this was not one of those tourneys.

From the caller's grating yells, to even his wife's oos and ahs, Daeron felt flooded with the noise and the energy. It was loud, pointless, and reminiscent of some hard days in his own distant childhood. The drink had started to make his head whirl, and the action around him with each pass only added to the internal chaos that inexplicably ambushed him almost suddenly, as the joust turned from annoyance to assailant as quickly as each horse galloped down the rail.

"And the Carrion King rules again! Great showing from the valiant Ser Errick Musgood, but it will be Ser Lucius Morrigen in the final match between the victor of our next joust," the caller yelled as the knight in black reared his dark steed.

Servants shuffled over the floor of the yard to collect stray splinters of broken lance, smoothing out the trampled ground, and made the lists ready for the next exhausting display of meaningless training and superficial skill.

"Water, please, my lady," Daeron shouted down towards a woman he thought was a servant. It wasn't, yet Myriah held him close as if to make it seem he didn't just order a Stormlander noblewoman to serve him.

"That ale's caught up to you, my love," she whispered. "That's why I always stick to wine. Sit. I'll bring you some water and bread. Just smile and cheer with the rest of them."

Daeron quite liked Myriah after she'd gained perspective from her seasickness. In a drunken wish, he nearly prayed it would last out loud. The Prince fought with everything he could to stay upright in his seat, and smiling, like he too was a combatant in this game, yet all he fought was the drink, and he was not nearly man enough to keep his seat.

His shoulders swayed, back and forth, without his consent, and each attempt to stop only led to swaying in the other direction.

"You all right, your Grace? That ale'll get you if you're not careful."

"Consider me gottened," the Prince slurred, and laughed. "Normally I don't drink before noon."

"Normally I'm where you are by sun up," Lord Tarth said. "As beautiful as this isle can be, it's a well colored prison at times. My wife's only good for so many amusements," he chuckled. His wife swatted at his bulky shoulder in his blue satin doublet. "Oh wait, here comes the mystery knight."

The attention of the private box shifted to the jousting, as Ser Alexander Cafferen of Fawnton prepared himself to face the mysterious combatant in reworked armor.

"They're fawns," Prince Daeron mumbled. "Not stallions. They're fawns. What kind of house puts a fuggin fawn?" Daeron tried to hold his tongue, but the question was too obvious to hold back.

"I've always asked the same, your Grace," Betrisha chimed in innocently. "Nothing fearsome about an infant deer."

"Love," Myriah's calm but out of breath voice whispered. "Drink and eat. You'll be fine by the end of the final match."

"Thank you," he managed to say without sounding too incoherent.

He lifted the piece of warm bread to his mouth, and in a near stupor, looked back at the Mystery Knight's end of the rail. The hooded squire lifted the lance, handing it to the Fire Knight.

The roughspun hood fell off the boy's head to reveal long, sandy blond, disheveled hair, a young but attractive face, and a smile that soured Daeron's belly worse than any drink ever could.

Dayne? Daeron thought.

Baelor!

A/N

Its been a while. Sorry for the delay. I have been both giving myself excuses, and having legitimate ones, so just know, I'll never abandon these works, even Ghosts of Yeen. I'll be back again soon. This one was tough but got me back into the groove hopefully. As always, thank you for reading, and let me know what you think. It helps keep me going more than any self-motivation I could ever muster.