A/N: Hey guys finally I am back on track so enjoy the chapter
---------------
As the squires ran out to tend the horses, the atmosphere in the royal box shifted. Daeron II—my grandfather—leaned forward, his bloated face unreadable. Beside him, Bloodraven watched with his red eyes.
I looked toward the shadows of the pillars. Aegor Rivers was there, his face twisted in a snarl. He was watching the Dornish shield as if it were a demon he intended to exorcise.
The third charge was the loudest. The horses were lathered in foam, their nostrils flared wide.
Daemon Blackfyre rode like a whirlwind. He dropped his center of gravity, lowering his lance at the last possible microsecond to catch the bottom edge of Baelor's shield, hoping to wrench the arm out of its socket.
Baelor didn't wait for the impact. He spurred his white destrier into a sudden, violent burst of speed, closing the distance faster than Daemon anticipated.
Instead of a standard tilt, Baelor leaned into the shield. The ironwood and copper met Daemon's lance not at the tip, but halfway down the shaft. The leverage was catastrophic. Daemon's lance didn't just break; it exploded.
The force of the shattered ash sent splinters flying like shrapnel. One jagged piece sliced across Daemon's thigh, drawing a line of crimson across the silver plate.
Baelor's lance, however, was true. It caught Daemon squarely in the throat-piece of his gorget.
The sound was like a hammer hitting an anvil.
Daemon's head snapped back. His beautiful, dragon-crested helm flew off, tumbling through the dirt. The Great Bastard, the man who carried the sword of kings, was lifted clean out of his saddle. He hit the ground with a sound that made every man in the front row winced—a heavy, metallic clack followed by the dull thud of a human body meeting the earth.
For three seconds, the world stopped breathing.
Daemon lay in the dust, his golden hair splayed out, his chest heaving. Baelor pulled his horse to a halt, the Dornish shield still strapped to his arm, unscarred save for a few streaks of ash.
I stood at the railing, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Look at him, I thought, glaring at the Reachmen who were loyal to the Blackfyres. Look at your king in the dirt.
My father dismounted. He didn't celebrate. He walked over to Daemon and offered a hand. It was the gesture of a prince, a brother, and a knight.
Daemon stared at the hand for a long moment. His face was pale, a bruise already forming along his jaw. He didn't take the hand. He rolled over and pushed himself up, his pride bleeding more than his leg.
He looked at Baelor, then at the shield, and finally at the royal box—straight at me. In his eyes, I didn't see defeat. I saw the birth of a war. He realized then that the "Dornish tricks" weren't just about a shield; they were a sign that the old ways of the brute and the "warrior-king" were being challenged by something more calculating.
The Reachmen began to hiss. Lord Peake's voice rose above the din: "Coward's wood! A mummer's shield!"
I leaned over the railing, my voice high and clear, cutting through the murmurs. "The victor is Prince Baelor! Unless the lords of the Reach believe that falling off a horse is now the mark of a King?"
The insult landed like a slap. Aegor Rivers took a step toward the lists, his hand on his sword, but the King's Guard moved to intercept.
My father walked back to his horse, ignoring the insults. He looked up at me and gave a small, solemn nod. He knew what I had done. He knew that today, we hadn't just won a tourney; we had drawn a line in the sand.
And that line will change everything as the lords of the realm understood that the heir to the throne is not a weak man despite having black hair. He is a true dragon birth from a rightful marriage.
But for the ambitious Houses like Peake and Bracken. This is just an opportunity to fuel the Daemon claim on iron throne. And prepare for a possible war.
I once again looked at Daemon who was surrounded by his loyal men.
The current year is 187 AC there are still a decade till the start of the rebellion.