Game of thrones: A storm is coming

The day of the tourney was bright and sunny , as the Red Keep's outer fields transformed into a grand arena of churning excitement and boisterous celebration.

Banners of House Targaryen, House Velaryon, and other noble families fluttered in the gentle breeze, their colors bold and proud.

Trumpets blared, and the air thrummed with anticipation as knights, warriors, and opportunists alike gathered, each eager to seize glory on the lists.

The tourney was the talk of the realm—a festival of honor, valor, and the birth of a possible heir. Nobles in sumptuous attire milled about the stands, their laughter and whispered intrigues mixing with the clamor of the crowd.

At the center of it all, the lists were set: a long, dusted track bordered by low wooden barriers and lined with cheering smallfolk. Today's contest was not only a display of martial prowess but also a stage upon which alliances would be forged and rivalries stoked.

Among the many competitors was Daeron, whose reputation had grown in both fame and favor. He arrived with the Velaryons in fine style— wearing shining metal armour in black, with Black dragon with green eyes breathing green flames painted on front. His helmet looked like a dragon's head, with horns on both sides. FrostMourne hung at his waist, emitting it's usual chilly aura, a stark contrast to the hot weather.

Today, Daeron was set to compete in the joust—a challenge that pitted knight against knight in a contest of speed, riding skill, and precision . And this was not to be an ordinary ride.

Mounted on his new steed that he got as gift from Daena—a massive, blood-red horse that seemed carved from the very essence of fire. She found it while they were travelling to Pentos through the Vaes Dothrak. Daeron fell in love with the wild and unruly horse, so Daena offered it to him as a gift.

The horse had a different aura from other horses, much more fierce . He almost threw Daeon off. But a warning growl from Acnologia turned him obedient and tame. He named him 'Red King' much to Daena's protest .

The creature was a sight to behold: its coat shimmered like fire and blood in the sunlight, rippling over rippling of rippling muscle, and its eyes burned with a light as fierce as any dragon's. His hooves had fiery red fur that looked as if they were burning.

As the horse pawed at the ground, a low, guttural snort escaped its muzzle, sending a thrill of excitement through the gathered crowd.

The lists erupted in cheers as the herald announced, "On this day, in honor of our king's new heir and the glory of our realm, we present the joust! Warriors of renown and ambitious knights, come forth to test your mettle!"

One by one, knights advanced onto the lists, their lances polished to a mirror shine and their armor glinting in the sun. Some rode proudly on steeds of impeccable breeding, while others—less fortunate in fortune—mounted beasts that looked as if they'd seen more tavern brawls than royal parades.

The atmosphere was charged with both camaraderie and the bitter taste of rivalry.

When it came time for Daeron's turn, the crowd fell into a hush of expectancy.

Daeron climbed onto his bloody red mount with practiced ease, his dark hair sweeping back as he fastened his gleaming armor. His lance was a work of art, etched with the sigil of his family and balanced perfectly for his strong arm.

A murmur ran through the assembled throng—a mixture of admiration, envy, and the ever-present desire to witness something spectacular.

Daeron's eyes swept over the field, noting the colorful array of competitors. Among them, a particularly burly knight from House Connington, known as Ser Oswell "the Hammer" Osgrey, sneered confidently at the sight of the young prince.

"We'll see if your fancy red beast can best the might of true experience," the knight bellowed, his voice echoing over the field as he spurred his own mount forward.

The signal was given—a loud, resounding horn—and the joust began in a flurry of motion. Knights charged down the lists in a thunderous procession. The ground trembled under the combined hooves of hundreds of horses, and the air was punctuated with the sound of splintering lances and shouts of both triumph and defeat.

Daeron's heart pounded as he urged his steed into a full gallop. The red horse responded as if born for this moment, its powerful strides carrying them like a living arrow towards the appointed tilt. As he neared Ser Oswell, the world seemed to narrow to the clash of steel and the roar of the crowd. In that heartbeat of time, Daeron's mind was clear, focused solely on the challenge before him.

The two knights met with a tremendous impact—a collision of raw force. The tip of Daeron's lance struck Harwin's shield with a resounding crack, sending splinters of wood scattering across the lists.

The force was such that Oswell's mount reared briefly, its hooves tangling in the dust, before the knight was unseated with a thunderous crash. A cheer rose from the crowd as he tumbled to the ground, his armor clanging in disarray.

For a moment, Daeron remained still his steed, the echoes of the impact reverberating through his very bones. Then, as the contest resumed, he raised his lance high, determined to complete his run with the same precision and grace that had carried him thus far.

The tourney progressed with scenes of valor and mishaps alike. There were moments of triumph as knights unseated one another with dramatic flourishes, and moments of humorous absurdity—a young squire, attempting a noble charge, ended up entangled in his own lance, provoking a round of hearty laughter from the assembled smallfolk.

The field was a microcosm of ambition and bravado, where every collision of lances was both a statement of strength and an act of theatrical spectacle.

Between rounds, as competitors limped back to their tents or received minor first aid, Daeron took a moment to breathe. He surveyed the field: banners swayed in the breeze, noble families cheered and jeered in equal measure, and opportunists milled about, ready to pounce on any moment of weakness.

Yet amid all this chaos, the tourney maintained an air of festive honor—a celebration of martial prowess and the vibrant spirit of the realm.

When it came time for the next round, Daeron was called again. His eyes, still alight with the fire of competition, met those of his next opponent—a lithe knight from House Frey, known for his speed and cunning on the lists.

The young knight's steed was sleek and black as midnight, a stark contrast to Daeron's imposing red charger. The contrast only heightened the tension as the two lined up at the starting line.

A trumpet blast signaled the charge, and once more, the knights erupted from their starting positions like arrows loosed from a bow. The Frey knight, agile and determined, attempted a daring feint, his lance aimed to catch Daeron off balance.

But Daeron, his mind as sharp as his blade, parried the maneuver with a deft adjustment of his posture. Their lances met in a flash of splintered wood and ringing metal.

This time, Daeron's red steed, as if fueled by the very blood of its name, surged forward, and with a precise thrust, his lance found its mark.

The Frey knight's shield shattered, and he was unseated, sprawling onto the ground with a mixture of shock and admiration from the onlookers.

The crowd roared their approval, a sound so thunderous it seemed to shake the very stones of the Red Keep. Even the most reserved of nobles couldn't help but join in the exuberance. The air was alive with shouts of "Huzzah!" and "For the realm!"

The smallfolk, who had gathered at the edges of the lists, danced and cheered, their delight echoing far beyond the field.

Daeron dismounted gracefully after his victorious run, patting his mighty red steed as if to commend it in silence. His chest swelled with pride, but even as he allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction, his mind raced with the implications of each successful charge.

Every strike, every victory , was a stepping stone toward cementing his reputation not just as a kind prince or a patron of trade, but as a warrior in his own right.

Throughout the tourney, whispers and sideways glances spread among the assembled nobles. Some, particularly those whose daughters had been so brazenly flirtatious earlier in the feast, now looked upon Daeron with envy and awe.

His performance on the lists was more than a display of martial skill—it was a declaration that he could hold his own on the field of battle , despite the myriad distractions and opportunistic advances that had plagued him just hours before.

Even as the jousts unfolded, an undercurrent of humor flowed through the festivities. During one round, a particularly fat knight from House Baneforth, known for his love of rich food and heavy drink, attempted a valiant charge only to have his lance break off mid-stride, sending him sprawling onto a patch of soft mud.

The crowd erupted in laughter, and even his own squire couldn't stifle a chuckle as the knight struggled to extricate himself, muttering something about "a bad day for chivalry."

As the day wore on, Daeron's name became synonymous with success on the lists. His red steed—affectionately nicknamed "Red King " galloped like a living banner of fury, its hooves pounding the ground in a relentless rhythm.

Daeron himself was as focused as ever, his eyes never leaving the target until the final, decisive thrust sent his opponents tumbling and the roar of the crowd echoing in his ears.

At one point between rounds, as he wiped the sweat and dust from his brow, Daeron allowed himself a moment of lighthearted banter with a fellow competitor.

"You fight as if your lance were an extension of your soul," remarked Sir Beren of House Marbrand, a knight known for his chivalry and honorable manner..

Daeron grinned. "I only wish my opponents were as forgiving as your shield was that day—when it decided to crumble before my charge."

The remark elicited laughter from nearby knights, and even Sir Beren gave a hearty laugh in return. It was moments like these that reminded Daeron that, despite the high stakes and political machinations, honor and camaraderie still held sway over the battlefield.

As the final round of the joust approached, Daeron was declared the champion of his division. The final match was scheduled to be a demonstration of both strength and chivalry—a contest to crown the day's hero.

With the crowd assembled and the trumpets sounding, Daeron mounted Red King one last time. His heart pounded, not with anxiety, but with the exhilaration of combat and the promise of victory. Across the lists, his final opponent—a tall, formidable knight with a steely gaze—raised his lance in salute.

The person was someone Daeron remembered from the story, Cryston Cole, The future lover of Rhaenyra and her nemesis. The guy who just unhorsed Daemon in last round. Someone who will later become a kingsguard and eventually lead them.

In that split second before the charge, Daeron caught a glimpse of the assembled nobles and the rapt faces of the smallfolk in the stands.

In that moment, all the politics, all the whispered rumors, and even the scandalous advances of earlier seemed to vanish. There was only the thrill of the contest, the honor of winning the joust, and the raw, unadulterated joy of proving one's worth.

Then the horn sounded, and the two knights charged. Daeron swerved right at the last moment, and reeled back his hand to deliver a precise blow. The impact was thunderous. Lances shattered on contact, armor clanged, and for a moment, time seemed to slow as the two warriors were knocked back.

When the dust finally settled, Daeron's opponent Cryston Cole was unseated, sprawling to the ground with a mix of shock and reluctant admiration. Daeron smirked and nodded, " You are better than most Ser Cryston."

The man took off his helmet and bowed, " I'm honored by your words, my prince. Atleast you are better than the other prince I was unfortunate to encounter." He added with a smirk.

Daeron returned the smirk, " If you want, you can come to work for me in future. I can use a talent like yours." Cryston bowed politely, "It'd be my honor, my prince."

The crowd erupted in a cacophony of cheers and applause. Daeron dismounted with grace and dignity, raising his hand to acknowledge the adoration . King Viserys and the royal booth were all clapping. Rhaenyra was cheering while Alicent clapped with a smile.

Rhaenys had a proud smile as she clapped gracefully. Corlys was smiling as he gathered his winnings from the bets , while Lanor and Laena jumped in excitement.

Even among the boisterous celebrations, there were murmurs of awe and humorous asides about his "bloody red beast" and his seemingly mysterious strength .

Some remarked in jest that The 'Red King' mane looked like burning flames , while others compared Daeron's performance to that of a legendary dragon knight .

King Viserys smiled and said , " As the tourney winner, you have proven yourself worthy of calling a warrior prince, no, a knight." He climbed down from the podium and came near Daeron . "Kneel, Prince Daeron."

Daeron followed as a smile formed on his face . It's every boy's childhood dream to be a knight.

Viserys spoke loudly, " In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave"

 "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just"

 "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent"

 "Arise, Prince Daeron , a knight of the Seven Kingdoms." He smiled and added, " Daeron the dragon knight."

Everyone cheered loudly as Daeron arose. He smiled and said, " Thank you for the honour your grace. I'll strive to be worthy of the title." He had become the youngest knight in history.

Later, as the sun dipped low and cast a warm glow over the Red Keep's ancient stones, Daeron allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection. He stood beside his red steed, now calm and content, and brushed his mane.

He knew what was about to happen, he had been waiting for this for a long time . He wished he could do more, but he had to be content with his current progress. Soon , chaos would ensue , and Daeron would use that to climb through , for chaos was indeed a ladder.

The true game of thrones was about to unfold.