As I left the King's chambers, the hallway felt colder. The torches were burning low, casting long, distorted shadows against the tapestries of Aegon's Conquest.
A shadow detached itself from the wall.
It wasn't Bloodraven. It was Aegor Rivers. He was leaning against a suit of armor, his arms crossed, his face a mask of cold contempt. He had been waiting for me.
"A busy little spider, aren't you?" Bittersteel said. His voice was like a knife drawn across stone. "I saw you in the kitchens. I heard the rumors already flying through the servant's quarters. A 'Dornish shield' for the Golden Prince? You're desperate, young prince."
I didn't flinch. I stood my ground, my small hands clenched into fists at my sides. "I'm not desperate, Bittersteel. I'm prepared. You and your 'King' think that because you have a sword and a pretty face, the world belongs to you. You think strength is just muscle and steel."
Aegor stepped into the light. He was a man grown, a warrior of fearsome reputation, and I was a child. But the hatred between us felt equal. "Strength is steel. It's the blood of the dragon, unpolluted by the sands of the south. You're trying to cheat. You're trying to give Baelor a trick because you know that in a fair fight, Daemon will crush him like a grape."
"There is no such thing as a fair fight in a kingdom of traitors," I spat. "You talk of honor, but you whisper in corners. You talk of the 'True Dragon,' but you follow a man who would break his sister's heart for a crown. You are a bitter man, Aegor. It's in your name. You hate my father because he is everything you will never be—a son who is loved, a prince who is legitimate, and a man who doesn't need to beg for a throne."
Aegor's hand flew out, his fingers catching my shoulder in a grip that made me gasp. He leaned down, his breath smelling of sour wine and iron. "Listen to me, little princeling. You can give him a shield made of Valyrian steel. You can give him all the Dornish tricks in the world. But Daemon was born to rule. It's written in the stars, and it's forged in the blade he carries. Tomorrow, your father falls. And one day, I will be there to watch you fall with him."
He shoved me back. I stumbled, my back hitting the cold stone wall, but I didn't fall. I watched him walk away, his boots heavy and rhythmic.
I will kill you, I whispered into the empty hallway. I will kill you for that grip. I will kill you for that look. I will kill you because you are the poison in my family's blood.
But for killing I need to plan for future so that he will never escape to Essos with Blackfyre.
But before that there are many things I need to handle.
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After confronting Aegor I meet my father who was in the training yard.
"Father" I said as I goes toward him.
"Valarr what are you doing here." Baelor said
I am here to inform you to use Dornish shield for the tourney. Grandfather is already agreed to let you use it." I said
Father move his head with a surprise look. " How come father agreed to this. Is it your plan."
"Yes I have asked him to let you use that in the tourney. It will protect you from Daemon Blackfyre." I said
"You know how the lords of the realm will react to this." He said.
"Let them be we are the Blood of the Dragons their overlord. And when you defeat Daemon in the tourney all the problem will be solved." I said seriously.
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The Day of the Wedding Tourney
The morning of the wedding was a fever dream of color. The sun beat down on the Red Keep, turning the stone into an oven. The stands were a sea of competing banners—the gold of the Reach, the orange of Dorne, the red and black of the Crown.
The air was thick with the tension I had helped cultivate. The rumor of the shield had spread like wildfire. The Reach and lords of Stormlands sat in their sections, their faces grim, their hands hovering near the hilts of their decorative swords. They felt the shift in the wind. They felt the "Dornish influence" closing in around them.
When the horn sounded for the final tilt of the day—the match the entire realm had been waiting for—the silence was deafening.
Daemon Blackfyre rode out first. He was a vision in silver and gold, his armor etched with dragons that seemed to writhe in the sunlight. He carried the traditional heater shield, emblazoned with the black dragon on a red field. He looked invincible. He looked like the hero of every song ever sung in Westeros.
Then came my father.
Baelor Breakspear rode a white destrier, his armor dark and understated. But it was the shield that drew every eye. It wasn't the square, heavy board the lords expected. It was a smaller, rounded rondel, curved at the edges, made of dark, polished ironwood and rimmed with gleaming Dornish copper. In the center, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen was drawn.
A collective gasp went up from the Reachmen. A few hissed. I saw Lord Peake stand up, his face purple with rage, whispering urgently to Lord Bracken.
I stood at the front of the royal box, my hands gripping the railing so hard my knuckles were white. My grandfather was beside me, his face a mask of regal indifference, but I could see the twitch in his jaw.
Daemon saw the shield. He pulled up his horse, his visor open. He looked at Baelor, and for the first time, the easy, arrogant smile flickered. He recognized the challenge. He recognized that this wasn't just a tilt anymore—it was a declaration of a new world order.
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