291 AC
Third Person POV
Dragonhold
The first rays of dawn on the day of the Dragonhold Tourney did not merely illuminate the sky; they ignited a spark of electric anticipation across the sprawling grounds of the ancient castle. The air, usually crisp and quiet in the Riverlands, now thrummed with a vibrant energy, a symphony of waking sounds.
From countless pavilions, erected in a kaleidoscope of house banners, came the murmur of thousands stirring from sleep. The scent of woodsmoke, of roasting meats already being prepared for the grand midday meal, mingled with the fresh dew on the grass.
Dragonhold, usually a place of quiet study and disciplined training, had been utterly transformed. Its vast outer fields, meticulously prepared, now boasted grand jousting lists, archery ranges, and open grounds for various contests.
The stands, built from sturdy timber, rose in tiers, already beginning to fill with eager spectators. Common folk, who had traveled for days, even weeks, from distant villages, jostled for the best vantage points.
Nobles, their fine clothes rustling, took their places in reserved sections, their faces alight with a mixture of excitement and polite curiosity. The sheer scale of the gathering was breathtaking, a testament to the decades of peace and prosperity under Targaryen rule.
The sun climbed higher, casting a golden glow over the scene. The sounds intensified: the distant neighing of horses, the clatter of armor, the excited chatter of the crowds, the occasional roar of a dragon from its distant perch on the nearby hills.
By mid-morning, the main arena was a sea of faces. The stands overflowed, and thousands more lined the ropes, craning their necks for a glimpse of the spectacle. The banners of every major house in Westeros, from the direwolf of Stark to the lion of Lannister, the sunspear of Martell to the stag of Baratheon, fluttered proudly in the breeze.
A hush fell as a fanfare of trumpets blared, echoing across the grounds. All eyes turned to the grand pavilion, draped in the black and red of House Targaryen.
From within, the royal procession emerged, a dazzling display of power and unity. King Maekar Targaryen, austere and regal, walked beside Queen Rhaenys, her silver hair gleaming. Their sons, Prince Rhaegar and Prince Baelor, followed, radiating youthful strength.
Princess Elia Martell, Princess Cersei Lannister, Princess Rhaelle, and Lord Robert Baratheon completed the immediate royal family, a vibrant tapestry of alliances. Each member was attended by their Kingsguard, their white cloaks a stark, reassuring presence.
Then came the Stark royal family, walking with a quiet dignity that commanded equal respect. King Rickard Stark, with Queen Lyarra by his side, his face a mask of solemn pride. Their sons, Prince Brandon and Prince Eddard, with their wives and children, followed, a powerful contingent from the North.
The two royal families met at the center of the arena, a symbolic convergence. King Maekar and King Rickard exchanged a firm handshake, a silent reaffirmation of the unbreakable bond between Dragon and Wolf.
Queen Rhaenys and Queen Lyarra embraced, a warm, genuine gesture of friendship. The sight drew a roar of approval from the crowd, a clear message of unity echoing across the realm.
King Maekar stepped forward, his voice, though not loud, carried with powerful authority. "My lords, my ladies, good people of Westeros!" he boomed, his voice resonating through the arena. "Welcome! Welcome to Dragonhold! Welcome to this grand tourney!"
A cheer erupted, deafening in its intensity.
"For over a century," Maekar continued, "our realm has known peace, prosperity, and progress. We have built roads of stone and iron, tamed the seas, and brought unity to a once-divided land. This tourney is a celebration of that peace! A celebration of our unity! A celebration of the strength of the Seven Kingdoms!"
He gestured to the various fields. "Let the games begin! Let skill and valor be shown! Let the spirit of friendly competition bind us closer still! For the Crown! For the Realm! For the future!"
Another roar, even louder than before, filled the air. The tourney had officially begun.
The first major contest of the day was the Archery Contest, held on a vast, open range beyond the main arena. Targets, marked with concentric rings, were set at varying distances, from close range for the less experienced to extreme distances for the masters.
The competition drew a diverse crowd. Students from Dragonhold, their bows gleaming, stood alongside seasoned lords, their quivers filled with finely fletched arrows. Even some common folk, known for their hunting prowess, were permitted to enter, their simple longbows a stark contrast to the ornate weapons of the nobility.
The Dragonhold students, trained in precision and discipline, performed admirably. Ser Gareth, a tall, earnest young man from the Riverlands, hit the bullseye at fifty paces with effortless grace, drawing polite applause. Lady Elara, a student from the Reach, showed surprising strength, her arrows finding their mark with consistent accuracy.
The Winterhold students, however, brought a different kind of skill. They were less about formal stance and more about raw, instinctive accuracy, honed by hunting in the unforgiving Northern wilds.
A young Winterhold student named Torrhen, his face grimly determined, used a heavier longbow, his arrows flying with a powerful thwack that seemed to pierce the very air. He consistently hit the inner rings at longer distances, drawing murmurs of appreciation from the crowd.
Among the common folk, a grizzled old hunter named Old Man Willow, his face a roadmap of wrinkles, drew a battered, ancient longbow. He was dismissed by some, but his first arrow, loosed with deceptive ease, split the very center of the furthest target.
A gasp went through the crowd. Old Man Willow merely offered a toothless grin, his eyes twinkling. He continued to shoot, his arrows finding their mark with uncanny consistency, proving that skill knew no social bounds.
Lord Rickard Stark watched with a keen eye, a faint smile touching his lips as the Northern archers performed. King Maekar, too, observed intently, impressed by the raw talent on display.
The final round pitted Torrhen, the Winterhold student, against Old Man Willow. The tension was palpable. Both were tied.
Torrhen, with a deep breath, loosed his arrow. It flew true, hitting the very edge of the bullseye. A cheer erupted.
Old Man Willow stepped forward, his bow seeming to sigh in his hands. He took his time, his gaze fixed on the target. Then, with a smooth, almost imperceptible movement, he released the string.
The arrow whistled through the air, a blur of fletching. It struck the target, not just hitting the bullseye, but splitting Torrhen's arrow clean in two, a feat of impossible precision.
A roar of astonishment and delight erupted from the crowd. Old Man Willow, the commoner, had won the archery contest. He merely bowed, a humble smile on his face, accepting the cheers of both commoners and nobles.
The afternoon saw the arena transformed for the Foot Races and Obstacle Course. This was a test of raw athleticism, speed, and endurance, designed to challenge the participants in different ways.
The course wound through the outer grounds, featuring low walls to vault, muddy pits to traverse, nets to crawl under, and even a short, steep climb up a specially constructed timber tower.
The Dragonhold students, trained for agility and quick bursts of speed, excelled in the initial sprints and vaulting sections. Their movements were fluid, almost practiced, reflecting their structured physical education.
Young Loras, a Dragonhold student from the Reach, was a blur of motion, his light frame seemingly flying over the obstacles. He took an early lead, his breathing even, his focus absolute.
The Winterhold students, however, possessed a different kind of endurance, a hardiness forged in the long, cold marches of the North. They might not have the initial burst of speed, but they were relentless.
A stocky Winterhold student named Alyn, his muscles thick and powerful, seemed to draw strength from the very ground. He powered through the muddy pits, his heavy boots churning, and scaled the timber tower with surprising speed, his grip unwavering.
The common folk, many of them laborers or farmers, brought their own brand of rugged strength. They were less refined, but their bodies were hardened by years of physical toil.
A young woman from a nearby village, known only as Elara, surprised many. She was small, but incredibly agile, weaving through the obstacles with a natural grace that belied her simple clothes. She moved with a quiet determination, her eyes fixed on the finish line.
The race was grueling. Competitors stumbled, fell, and gasped for breath. The crowd roared its encouragement, cheering on their favorites, marveling at the sheer athleticism on display.
In the end, it was a photo finish. Ser Loras, the Dragonhold student, pushed himself to his absolute limit, collapsing across the finish line just a hair's breadth ahead of Alyn, the Winterhold student. Elara, the commoner, came in a close third, her chest heaving, but a triumphant grin on her face.
King Maekar applauded heartily, impressed by the grit shown by all. King Rickard nodded, a look of approval in his eyes. The Northmen, though Alyn had lost, cheered his endurance, recognizing the strength of their own.