Rhaella – POV
"We have Ser Bonifer Hasty of the Stormlands, going up against the Knight of the Silver Flame!" the herald called, his voice ringing across the field.
Rhaella didn't need to ask. Her eyes had already found him.
The sunlight gleamed off his silver armor as if the flames of his namesake danced across every polished plate. She glanced toward the royal dais—her grandfather leaning forward, whispering to Uncle Duncan. They had recognized him, too. Of course, they had.
"Rhaella," Myriah murmured beside her, fanning herself lazily. "Isn't that the knight who asked for your favor this morning?"
Rhaella gave a single, silent nod.
"Well," Myriah said, smirking, "poor fool. He didn't realize the Princess had already chosen her champion."
She tried to smile, but something in her chest was twisting.
Her gaze drifted back to the field, to her knight, her other Half, her love—the one she had given her ribbon to in secret, just before the tilts began. But her breath caught when she saw the three ribbons fluttering from the crest of his helm.
One was hers—black and red silk.
Another, orange—that was Myriah's, given in jest, she hoped. It meant little.
But the third…
Crimson and gold. Lion colors. Joanna's colors.
Her eyes slid to the woman seated next to Myriah.
Joanna was watching the field with an air of casual triumph. She didn't look at Rhaella—she didn't need to. Her smirk said it all.
Another woman eager to spread her legs for my sweet brother.
The words flared like wildfire in Rhaella's mind, bitter and ugly.
She hated how her heart clenched. How her stomach twisted. How, despite everything, she still looked for some excuse—he didn't know, he didn't realize—as if that would dull the sting.
She had always been his. Since before they had names or titles or the weight of thrones on their backs. She had loved him with a loyalty so fierce it bordered on madness.
And now Joanna thought she could match that?
She sat straighter, her chin lifting.
Let her try.
===========================================
Daeron "The Steel" Targaryen – POV
"Don't look so scared, Erwin. We trained for this," Daeron said, tightening the leather of his gauntlet as he glanced at the anxious bastard beside him through the eye holes of his armor. "Just don't fumble the lances."
Erwin Hill—the bastard of Castamere—looked pale. "Do you even know what you're pulling me into, you mad bastard?" he hissed. "If my father finds out, he'll kill us both. And unlike you, I want to live a long life."
Daeron laughed under his breath. "Oh, come now, is this how you repay me? After everything I've done for you?"
He ticked it off with a gloved finger. "Remember when you chipped your father's sword and I took the blame—and then had to swim across the lake in the dead of night? Or when you couldn't keep it in your breeches with Lynora Hill, and I had to use my Maester's smarts to brew moon tea before the servants started whispering? Or—"
"Fine, fine," Erwin groaned, throwing up his hands. "I'll do it. Seven hells take you, Targaryen."
"Good." Daeron smiled—wolfish and victorious.
He turned to the black courser waiting nearby. "Your father swore he'd let Ser Duncan knight me if I proved myself worthy," he murmured, eyes gleaming. "Maybe this will be enough."
He stroked the horse's glossy mane, the obsidian strands catching sunlight like woven shadow. "What do you say, Myra? Are you ready?"
The horse neighed, stamping once, proud and strong.
Erwin approached with the lance. "One good tilt," he muttered. "Just don't die. I'm not explaining that to the Princess and the Two Ladies."
Daeron grinned as he mounted, silver hair whipping in the breeze. "Hold your tongue and pass me the next lance when I break this one."
With that, he took his place, the eyes of the crowd narrowing toward the Knight of the Silver Flame.
He spotted his sister in the royal box, seated beside their mother. Rhaella wore that serene, knowing smile—soft as spring, but sharp as Valyrian steel if one knew how to look. Ah, that smile, he would die as many times as it took to keep her smiling. He tightened his grip around the lance and adjusted the tilt of his helm. The Silver Flame did not flinch from fire.
The herald raised his voice.
"Ser Bonifer Hasty of the Stormlands, versus the Knight of the Silver Flame!"
The trumpet sounded.
The horses surged forward.
The wind roared past his ears, but Daeron's world narrowed to a single point—the shield of Ser Bonifer, emblazoned with Purple and white of House Hasty. His aim did not waver. As they met at the center of the lists, Daeron lowered the point of his lance with perfect timing.
CRACK. He moved just in time to avoid the Knight's lance.
The sound echoed like thunder as his lance shattered against Bonifer's shield, splinters exploding outward. Bonifer reeled—barely holding his saddle—while Daeron rode past him cleanly, already discarding the broken haft before his horse even slowed.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Cheers followed.
Erwin was already there with a fresh lance. "Try not to kill him," he muttered, though his grin betrayed no real concern.
Daeron didn't respond. He had already turned his mount and was returning to his mark.
The second pass was brutal.
This time, Daeron drove the lance upward—not just for show, but with calculation. The point struck Bonifer's breastplate just below the neck, lifting the Stormlander clean off his horse. The man slammed to the ground in a tangle of limbs and steel, dust flying as the crowd roared with awe and shock.
Bonifer didn't rise.
Daeron circled his horse slowly, deliberately, as Myra neighed and stomped triumphantly beneath him. He raised his broken lance in salute—not to the crowd, but to the royal box.
To her.
Rhaella had stood, her hands gripping the railing. Her smile was gone now, replaced by something deeper, scary.
The Knight of the Silver Flame dipped his helm to her. The tilt had been won, utterly and undeniably.
Ser Bonifer was being helped up, groaning, his pride more bruised than his body.
But Daeron was already riding away, lance lowered across his saddle, the sunlight flashing off his polished armor as the crowd chanted the name of a knight they did not yet know.
"The Silver Flame! The Silver Flame!"
"Sword!" exclaimed the landed knight, rising unsteadily to his feet, blood at the corner of his mouth.
The Herald blinked in surprise, then repeated more formally, "Ser Bonifer Hasty requests to continue the match… in a contest of arms!"
A low murmur rippled through the crowd. Most had expected the bout to end after such a devastating defeat. But Bonifer Hasty, bruised and limping, drew his long sword and raised it with trembling pride.
Daeron sighed.
Erwin rolled his eyes. "Why is he so persistent?"
"As if I would know," Daeron muttered as he dismounted with the ease of one who'd done it a thousand times.
He pulled the clasp on his belt and drew his weapon—not a longsword, not a knight's tourney blade, but his prized Valyrian steel dagger. Silver claw, Rhaella named it.
The crowd noticed. Gasps filled the air.
"A dagger?" someone whispered.
Erwin let out a short laugh. "Show-off."
Daeron didn't rise to the taunt. He walked to the center of the list calmly, Myra tossing her head behind him. His armor gleamed, unmarred. The dagger gleamed darker.
Bonifer charged with a yell, sword raised high in both hands, recklessly cleaving through the air.
Daeron stepped aside.
One simple motion.
Bonifer's sword struck nothing but dust.
Before the knight could recover, Daeron was behind him. The dagger kissed the back of Bonifer's thigh—just a graze to draw a few drops of blood, but deep enough to send the older knight stumbling forward with a grunt of pain.
The crowd groaned.
"Yield," Daeron said calmly.
Bonifer roared and came at him again, swinging wide.
Daeron ducked, slipped under the blade, and struck—a quick twist of the wrist, the dagger drawing a line across Bonifer's vambrace, slicing through the armor like silk, revealing his tunic. (Valyrian steel should be sharp enough to do that, or am I wrong?)
"Yield."
Bonifer responded with a howl, his swing wild, desperate.
Daeron side-stepped the arc and moved inside it. Fast. Precise.
The hilt of the dagger cracked hard against Bonifer's helm, caving a part of it in. The knight staggered. The dagger flashed again, carving a line across his intact breastplate. Not deep—Daeron was making a point.
"Yield."
Bonifer fell to one knee, gasping.
His sword dropped from his fingers and clattered to the dirt.
The Herald stepped forward. "Enough! Ser Bonifer can no longer continue. The victor—the Knight of the Silver Flame!"
The crowd erupted again—but louder this time. Not for the violence, but for the control. For the calm, ruthless elegance that separated true warriors from brutes.
Daeron turned his back on Bonifer and walked off the field, flipping the dagger once before sliding it back into its sheath.
Erwin was waiting, arms crossed.
"You just had to humiliate him with your dagger," he said with a smirk.
"His pride was already bruised," Daeron replied, "I made sure his bones weren't."
He looked up at the royal box.
At her.
Rhaella hadn't sat down. Her gaze met his across the field—
======================================
Rhaella-POV
She gasped as she saw Daeron, only drawing a Dagger, The Dagger, which she had pressed into his palm before he departed for Castamere to squire under Lord Roger. "That reckless fool."
If the Royal family wasn't sure about the Identity of the Knight of the Silver Flame, they were now.
"Hahaha," Aerys Boomed, slapping Tywin Lannister's back next to him, "My brother's a crazy bastard!" he declared, slapping Tywin Lannister's shoulder hard enough to jolt the man. Tywin's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
The King and His sons, Duncan and Jaehaerys, looked on silently, though a small smile found its way to her Father's face.
Her Aunt Jenny was prying off her Mother's Fingers as she seemed to grip her Hand too tightly.
"Easy, Shaera," Jenny whispered. "He's winning."
Her Grandmother, Queen Betha, did not look pleased. She sat rigid in her chair, lips pursed, eyes narrowed like a sword's edge. No doubt she would have words later—about propriety, recklessness, and how dare he reveal himself so publicly.
"He's in trouble for sure," Myriah murmured beside her, leaning closer with a grin. "But you should worry more about that Stormlander. He looks at you like a man looks at something he means to steal."
Rhaella turned to look at Bonifer Hasty, who had just been defeated. The knight was being led off the field, pride and body bruised. But even through the pain, his eyes found her. Hungry. Stubborn.
She felt disgusted.
Her gaze drifted back down to the silver-armored knight.To him.
Her Silver Flame.
He stood proud in the dust, unbothered by the gasps or cheers. His victory had been absolute—graceful, even. Something was terrifying in how easily he had dismantled a seasoned knight without even raising his voice.
And now, he turned his head.
Their eyes met.
He gave a small mocking bow of his head, just for her.
A flash of triumph.
Her chest tightened. Heat bloomed in her cheeks. Myriah snorted softly beside her.
"Oh, Rhaella… you're doomed."
And for once, she didn't deny it.
==============================
Joanna Lannister POV
She looked at how he signaled his twin. "My precious, precious sweet summer Prince. You will be mine, only mine, no matter who you like, you will always and only become mine."
She licked her lips as she felt her loins become hotter.
"Only Mine," she whispered, which did not go unnoticed.
=================================
How was the Chapter? I don't know the proper rules of Jousting, but managed to write something, point out any mistake, if you see it.
================================
OC Note
Erwin Hill- Bastard of Lord Roger Reyne and Lisa Farman. Became good friends with Daeron when he stayed in Castamere.
=================================