The tourney grounds at King's Landing were a riot of color and noise — banners snapping in the wind, the smell of roasted meat and fresh-turned earth, the roar of the smallfolk packed into the stands. Knights in gleaming armor waited their turn in the lists, but the real spectacle had already begun.
Princess Rhaenyra sat in the royal box, radiant and composed, the realm's darling. Beside her, an empty seat. The seat belonging to her twin.
Because Y/n was not in the royal box. Y/n was in the stables. In breeches. With a borrowed sword, her hair a mess, facing down Ser Harwin Strong — Breakbones himself — as he blocked her strike with a laugh.
grinning, easily turning her blade aside You telegraph your swings with your eyes, Princess. Any knight worth his salt will see you coming from a mile away.
circling her, sword loose in his grip Again.
The crowd beyond the stable walls roared as a lance shattered somewhere out on the field. But for Y/n and Harwin, the only sounds that mattered were the scuff of boots on straw and the ring of practice steel.
Harwin had been training her in secret for months now — at first because she'd badgered him relentlessly, then because he'd seen the fire in her and couldn't bring himself to say no. Now he pushed her harder than any squire.
eyeing her stance Your sister will be looking for you. The King likes the both of you present for the final tilt.
Even as he said it, a cheer went up from the stands — someone important had unseated their opponent.