Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters and works; all other characters and worlds belong to their respective owners (in this case, George R.R. Martin). Enjoy.
Song of The Blessed
Chapter 05 – The Joust
~ Myrcella POV ~
The world was a symphony, and Myrcella was seated at its heart. From the velvet-draped royal box, the tourney grounds spread before her like a tapestry woven from silk, steel, and roaring adoration. The sun provided a welcomed warmth on her skin, chasing away the chill that so often lingered in the halls of the Red Keep during the months of winter. Banners snapped in the wind, a riot of colour against the brilliant blue sky, but it was the sea of black and gold, the crowned stags of her own house, that made her heart swell with a fierce, uncomplicated pride.
Princess Myrcella Baratheon felt the thunder of it in her very bones, a joyous vibration that made her heart swell with a fierce, uncomplicated pride. Every cheer, every gasp, every roar that washed over the tourney grounds was for him. For Draedon.
Her brother.
She leaned forward, her small hands gripping the velvet-draped balustrade, her gaze fixed on the figure in the center of the lists. He was a vision forged from a maiden’s prayer, clad in magnificent plate of black and burnished bronze, the crowned stag of his House a defiant crest upon his helm. He moved with a liquid grace that belied the sheer size and power of him, his stallion a mirror of its master’s disciplined energy.
The roar that followed his name was a thing of love. She knew the difference. When Joffrey’s name was announced at feasts or tourneys, a polite, thin applause would ripple through the court, brittle with fear. The commons were silent, their eyes downcast. They feared Joffrey, for he was cruelty given a crown, a petulant boy whose whims were whips and whose laughter was the prelude to pain. But they loved Draedon. They roared for him, their voices a single, unified wave of adoration that was more potent than any army. He was their prince, the hero from the songs made flesh, the warrior who had brought order and safety to their streets, the son who had honoured his father by becoming everything the King was not.
Every roar from the commons was a prayer answered. They stamped their feet until the very timbers of the stands seemed to shake, they threw flowers, and they chanted his name until their voices were raw. Drae-don! Drae-don! Drae-don! It was a wave of pure, unadulterated love, and it washed over her, a validation of everything she knew to be true in her heart.
Seated upon his great black destrier, he was a figure carved from legend. The sun glinted off his black plate armour, each piece a masterwork of gilded stags and intricate details. Even from this distance, she could see the easy confidence in his posture, the way he held the heavy lance as if it were a willow wand. He had just unhorsed Ser Andar Royce with a perfectly placed strike that had shattered the knight’s shield and sent him tumbling into the dust, and he offered his fallen opponent a gracious hand, a gesture of respect that only made the crowd love him more.
He did not need to posture or preen. His power was a simple, undeniable fact, like the heat of the sun.
“He is magnificent, isn’t he?” she whispered, her voice full of awe.
Beside her, Queen Cersei inclined her head, her smile as bright and hard as the diamonds at her throat. “He is a lion through and through, my sweetling. He was born to rule.” There was a possessive gleam in her mother’s green eyes, the fierce pride of a predator whose cub had grown to surpass all others.
But Myrcella knew it was more than that. She watched as Draedon trotted his charger along the tilt yard, his helmet tucked under his arm. His dark hair, a shade deeper than her uncles and father, was plastered to his brow with sweat, but his smile was genuine, a flash of white that reached his sapphire eyes. He was not just winning; he was commanding. Where Joffrey was petulant cruelty, Draedon was effortless authority. Where Joffrey demanded fear, Draedon inspired devotion.
She stole a glance at her younger brother, Tommen, who was leaning so far over the railing she feared he might tumble out, his face alight with hero-worship. He was a sweet, gentle boy, and the sight of Draedon’s strength filled him not with envy, but with awe. Joffrey, however, sat slumped in his chair, his face a thunderous mask of resentment. He picked at a loose thread on his doublet, his lip curled in a perpetual sneer. He hated this. He hated the cheers, hated the love, hated the brother who eclipsed him so completely. Myrcella felt a familiar pang of pity and disgust.
“The Knight of Flowers rides against him next,” her mother noted, her voice sharpening with interest. “The pride of Highgarden. They say he is peerless.”
Myrcella’s gaze shifted to the other end of the field, where Ser Loras Tyrell was being handed his shield, a beautiful creation of green and gold adorned with three golden roses. He was handsome, she supposed, in a way that was almost too perfect, like a finely painted doll. But next to the raw, authoritative power of her brother, he seemed… delicate.
“He will not beat Draedon,” Myrcella said, her faith absolute. “No one will.”
She clasped her hands together, a silent prayer forming on her lips. A prayer to the Warrior, for strength and victory. A prayer to the Maiden, for his protection. It was a child’s prayer, pure and simple, for a hero she adored without reservation. She saw the bright banners and the gallant knights, she heard the songs of glory and the cheers of the crowd, and to her, it was all a perfect, beautiful story, with her brother as the flawless, triumphant hero.
~ Margaery POV ~
From the Tyrell pavilion, a tent of green and gold silk that smelled of summer wine and roses, Margaery Tyrell watched the same man and saw no hero. A hero was a simple thing, a creature of song and selfless deed. What she saw was infinitely more complex, and terrifyingly more alluring. She saw a predator in his natural habitat and the tourney field was his hunting ground. She saw the living embodiment of the forbidden fantasies that had consumed her nights since her brother Garlan’s letters had first begun to arrive from court.
Her grandmother, the Queen of Thorns, sat beside her, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “Your brother is preening,” Olenna Tyrell observed dryly, watching as Loras accepted his helmet with a theatrical flourish that charmed the ladies in the nearby stands. Well, if only they knew. “He believes his own legend. A dangerous pastime.”
Margaery didn’t reply. Her focus was entirely on the other end of the grounds. On Prince Draedon. He had dismounted and was speaking quietly with a stable hand, his expression calm, analytical. Garlan’s words from Highgarden echoed in her mind: He is the board, the pieces, and the player. She felt a familiar, coiling heat low in her belly. It was not the fluttering of a maiden’s crush. It was a deeper, darker thing, a recognition of power that resonated with a secret, hungry part of her own soul.
“Loras has a trick up his sleeve, of course,” her father, Mace Tyrell, boomed from behind them, his voice thick with misplaced confidence. “The boy is as clever as he is comely. The Prince’s stallion will be… unruly.”
Margaery’s eyes narrowed. She had heard the whispers in their camp. Loras’s own mount was a stallion, but the horse he had chosen for this tilt, a beautiful white palfrey, was a mare. A mare in heat. It was a cheap, clever trick, designed to distract and unnerve an opponent’s stallion, making it difficult to control. It was a stratagem for a lesser opponent, a gambit to level the playing field.
A horn blew, signaling the riders to mount. Loras swung into his saddle with practiced grace. At the far end, Draedon gave the stable hand a final instruction. The boy nodded and led the Prince’s massive black destrier away. Margaery felt a knot of confusion. What was he doing? Forfeiting?
Then another horse was led out. A gelding. Solid, powerful, but utterly unremarkable next to the magnificent warhorse it was replacing. Draedon swung himself into the saddle in a swift fluid movement. He took his shield and a new, heavy lance from his squire, his expression unreadable.
Olenna Tyrell let out a soft, appreciative chuckle. “Oh, the clever, clever boy.”
Mace Tyrell looked baffled. “What is it? What’s happened?”
Margaery’s breath caught in her throat. He knew. Somehow, he had known. There had been no spies, no gossip. Loras had kept his plan a close secret. Yet, the Prince had anticipated it with chilling precision. He had not just countered the move; he had exposed it, neutered it before it was even made.
Margaery felt a shiver trace its way down her spine. He had seen Loras’s childish ploy for what it was and had neutralized it with the casual, almost bored efficiency of a man swatting an insect.
The two knights took their positions. The herald’s trumpet sang out. They charged.
It wasn't a contest. It was a dissection.
Loras, his primary strategy undone, seemed frustrated. His charge lacked its usual fire. Draedon on the other hand, was a force of nature, a thunderbolt of black and gold. He didn't aim for the shield, the traditional target. His lance struck Loras square in the chest, just below the gorget. It wasn't a glancing blow designed to score points; it was a hammer strike meant to shatter.
The sound was a sickening crunch of splintering wood and dented steel. Loras was lifted from his saddle as if by an invisible hand, flying backwards through the air to land in the dirt with a heavy, final thud.
The crowd erupted. But Margaery was silent. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, roaring silence in her ears. It wasn't the victory that transfixed her. It was the sheer, terrifying competence of it. The foresight. The calm, brutal efficiency. The absolute dominance.
He hadn't just defeated her brother. He had dismissed him.
As squires rushed to Loras’s side, Draedon reined his gelding to a halt in the center of the field. He didn't look toward the felled knight or the cheering crowd. He turned his head, just slightly, and his gaze swept over the Tyrell pavilion. For a fleeting, heart-stopping second, his blue eyes met Margaery’s through the gaps of his helmet.
There was no triumph in them. No arrogance. There was only a cold, knowing intelligence. It was a look that stripped away her silks and smiles, that saw the churning, wanting darkness within her and was utterly unimpressed by it. He saw her, and in that moment, she felt more naked than if she had been stripped bare in the center of the lists.
A wave of heat, so intense it was dizzying, washed through her, pooling between her legs in a slick, undeniable rush of arousal. Her breath hitched, and she had to place a hand on her stomach to still her trembling. This was the man from her fantasies. No, he was more. The fantasy was a pale, weak thing compared to the reality of him. Her fantasies had been of a brute, a creature of carnal dominance. But this man… his dominance was of the mind as well as the body. He did not just conquer; he understood. He controlled the very reality of the battlefield before the first blow was ever struck.
He was not a man. He was a force, beyond the petty games of mortal men. And as the roar of the smallfolk washed over her, Margaery Tyrell felt her dark fascination fanned into a raging, all-consuming fire. She did not wish to just be his queen. She wanted to be his prized conquest. The object upon which such terrifying, absolute competence was focused. The focus of his desires and passions.
The world swam back into focus. Her father was sputtering about bad luck, her grandmother was watching her with a shrewd, calculating expression. But Margaery could only feel the ghost of that gaze, a brand seared onto her soul. He was real. And he was more powerful, more dangerous, and more desirable than anything her imagination could have ever conceived.
She wanted to be unmade by him, just as he had unmade her brother.
~ Draedon POV ~
The sun bled crimson and gold across the western sky, casting the long shadows of the champions across the tourney grounds. The final joust. The air was thick with a tension that was almost a physical presence. In the southern tilt-yard, Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, sat astride his white courser. He was an icon, a living piece of history, his white armor and cloak a symbol of a lifetime of valor. Barristan the Bold. The greatest living swordsman and jouster in the Seven Kingdoms.
At the northern end, his challenger. Prince Draedon Baratheon, the heir apparent, his stygian colored armor now seeming to drink the fading light.
Youth versus experience.
Draedon settled his helm over his head, the world narrowing to the thin slit of his visor. The roar of the crowd faded to a distant hum. There was only the feel of the heavy lance in the gauntlet covering his arm, the solid muscle of the warhorse between his legs, and the white figure at the far end of the lists. Apollo’s sight gave him glimpses, flashes of potential futures—a splintered lance, the jarring impact, the taste of his own blood. But against this man, the paths were clouded, chaotic. Ser Barristan’s skill was so profound, his reactions so honed, that he was a force of nature in his own right. This would not be won with foresight alone.
The King dropped his favour, signalling the start of the joust.
The horses exploded forward, charging like herculean beasts. The ground trembled. The noise of their meeting was a physical blow, a brutal, earsplitting crack of wood and clang of steel that echoed off the walls of the Red Keep. Lances shattered into nothingness, their tips vaporized against the unyielding shields of their targets. Both men held their seats, immovable as mountains.
A roar of appreciation shook the stands. This was what they had come for.
They took new lances. They charged again. And again. Each pass was an even match. Lances broke, shields groaned under the titanic impacts, but neither man gave an inch. They were perfectly matched, two masters at the absolute apex of their craft.
By the fifth pass, the physical toll was becoming apparent. The horses were lathered, their breaths coming in great, steaming clouds in the cooling air. Through the steel of his helm, Draedon could hear the harsh rasp of his own breathing. His shoulder ached, a deep, throbbing complaint from the repeated, brutal impacts. He could see the slight slump in Ser Barristan’s posture, the aged knight feeling the drain in his old bones. The old knight’s skill was flawless, his spirit unbreakable, but his body was mortal.
Draedon’s was not.
He felt the power of Ares surge within him, a fire in his blood that burned away fatigue, that turned the ache in his muscles to a fuel for his rage. He felt Athena’s guidance, showing him the subtle shift in the angle of Barristan’s shield, the way the old knight favored his left side after the last impact. He felt the cold, clear sight of Apollo, showing him the one, perfect line of victory.
They took their lances for the sixth time. The sun was a dying ember on the horizon. This would be the last pass of the day.
Slightly tilting his head, Draedon spoke to his beloved Radahn, "This is it, boy. The final one. You can rest easy after this."
Adjusting himself into the saddle, Draedon urged his horse into a charge, pushing the exhausted beast to its absolute limit. He narrowed his entire existence down to a single point of intention: the upper-right corner of the white shield. He saw it not as it was, but as it would be in ten seconds, adjusting his aim for the horse’s stride, the wind’s breath, the sag of a tired man’s arm.
Barristan met his charge with the same unwavering courage he had shown his entire life. He was the perfect knight, to the very last.
But perfection was not enough.
Draedon’s lance struck with a force that was beyond human. The absolute meteoric force behind the blow would be enough to shatter the bones of a lesser knight. The sound was not a crack, but a deafening boom. The reinforced oak and steel of Barristan’s shield did not just splinter; it disintegrated. The lance drove through, its steel coronel punching a fist-sized dent in the Lord Commander’s breastplate before shattering.
With a cry of pain and effort, the old knight was torn from his saddle. He landed heavily, his white cloak settling around him in the dust like a shroud.
For a moment, there was utter silence. And then, the roar. It was a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of King’s Landing, a release of tension and an outpouring of ecstatic worship for the victor.
Draedon threw his shattered lance to the ground and expertly reined in his destrier, which pranced and tossed its head, agitated by the violence of the final pass. He dismounted immediately, pulling off his helm and rushing to Ser Barristan’s side, helping the dazed knight to his feet with a show of deference and respect that was as politically masterful as his jousting.
The old warrior clasped the Prince’s arm, his voice rough but clear enough for those nearby to hear. “A fine tilt, Your Grace. The finest. The gods have given you a strong arm.”
Draedon smiled, a gesture that held no gloating, only a serene confidence. “They have been generous, Ser.”
He slowly reached up and removed his helm. His dark hair, dark with sweat, was plastered to his brow. His face was grim, his jaw set, but his blue eyes burned with a cold, triumphant fire. A page ran forward, presenting him with the victor’s laurels, a simple, elegant wreath woven from bright blue winter roses.
He accepted it, his head bowed for a moment as if in prayer, before mounting his horse once more. The pageant was not yet over. There was still a queen to crown.
He began his ride down the length of the field, the crowd’s adoration following him like a physical force. He was the sun, and they were all flowers turning to face his light. Margaery watched him approach, her hands gripping the railing of the pavilion so tightly her knuckles were white. Her heart was a wild bird beating against the cage of her ribs. This was the moment. The political necessity. The alliance made manifest. To crown her, the Rose of Highgarden, would be to declare his intentions, to bind the Reach to his side. It was the only logical move.
He drew nearer, the black destrier’s gait a powerful, rhythmic beat. She could see the glint of his sapphire eyes, the sculpted line of his jaw. He looked directly at her, and the world seemed to narrow to the space between them. She offered him a small, perfect smile, a silent invitation. A promise.
He held her gaze for a long moment, a moment that stretched into an eternity. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod, he rode past.
Margaery’s smile froze on her face. The blood drained from her cheeks, leaving her cold. He… he passed her.
A collective gasp went through the highborn ladies in the stands. A ripple of shock and confusion spread through the court. Margaery’s smile did not falter, but a glacial cold entered her eyes.
Draedon ignored them all. He rode past the Tyrell pavilion, past the daughters of the great lords of the realm, past every logical and political choice. He continued down the line, his destination becoming impossibly clear. He rode directly to the royal box, reining his horse to a halt before his own family. The crowd, confused for a moment, fell silent, watching.
His gaze softened, the cold fire in his eyes replaced by a warmth that no one but she had ever seen. He looked at his sister, Myrcella. She stared back, her eyes wide with confusion and adoration, tears of pride still glistening on her cheeks.
Seated on his warhorse, the victorious prince used his lance to gently placed the crown of blue winter roses upon his sister’s golden hair.
“For my little sister,” his voice, amplified by the sudden silence, rang out across the grounds, clear and strong. “The only true Queen of Love and Beauty in the Seven Kingdoms.”
Myrcella’s hands flew to her mouth, a sob of pure, unadulterated joy escaping her. The gesture was so unexpected, so sweet that the crowd erupted. The cheer was ten times louder than the one for his victory, a deafening, soul-shaking roar of approval for their perfect, noble prince.
As the sun finally set on the first day of his pageant, Draedon stood not as a victor celebrating his martial skill, but as a king reviewing a successful battle. The game was his. It had always been his.
~ Draedon POV ~
The roar of the crowd was a distant, irrelevant thing, a sound from another world. Here, in the quiet solitude of his chambers, the tourney was over. The battle, however, was just beginning.
Draedon stood before the hearth, the firelight casting flickering shadows on the cold stone walls. He had stripped off his armour, sitting bare as he looked at the map of Westeros stretched on his table.
A large, ugly bruise was purpling on his ribs, a memento from Barristan’s final, defiant blow. It throbbed with a dull, insistent pain, a reminder of the limits of the mortal flesh he wore. A limit he would eventually shatter.
But his mind was not on the jousts, nor the laurels, nor the Tyrells.
Closing his eyes, he shut it all out—the pain, the cheering crowds, the silent disapproval of the court—and turned his focus inward, sinking into the vast, star-strewn mindscape that was his true throne room.
He did not have to wait long.
The god’s form was blinding, a being of pure, golden light and perfect form. His voice was the music of the spheres, a sound that bypassed the ear and resonated directly in the soul.
“Exquisite performance,” Apollo sang, his voice a chorus of approval, “You have crafted your own legend. The hero who bested the greatest knight of the realm. The brother who honours his sister. The people are enchanted.”
“The Rose of Highgarden could barely keep it in her dress when you gazed at her with your eyes,” a sultry, feminine voice purred. Aphrodite filling him in on the information about different maidens and their reactions to him. "Good that I warned you against crowning her. We will not be narrowing our options so soon. Let's make her work for it, shall we?"
Draedon smirked at her statement but his own thoughts were sharp, cold points of data. “Enchantment is fleeting. I require devotion. A devotion that supplants their current faith.”
“And so you shall have it,” Apollo affirmed. “The stage is set for the second act. The melee tomorrow. The plan is… audacious. Are you certain? The pain will be real.”
“Pain is a tool,” Draedon countered, his mental voice devoid of emotion. “My victory today has established my martial supremacy in the eyes of the nobility. The crowning of my sister has reinforced the image of a noble, familial prince to the public. They see a perfect man. Tomorrow, they must see something more. They must witness a miracle.”
He conjured a table in front of him, multiple figures spread out on the surface, as they reviewed the strategy for the melee. It was a piece of theatre on a grand scale, written in blood and desperation, designed to forge a myth.
“A miracle,” Apollo whispered, the word itself a promise. “An undeniable, public display of divine favor. A blessing for the Chosen One.”
“They will see a man blessed by a god,” Draedon corrected, his ambition a chilling, absolute thing. “They will see a Prince favoured by a power far greater than Great Houses. The religion of the Seven will forever be in the palm of my hands, and with that, the Faith of the people.”
The communion ended. Draedon opened his eyes, returning to the cold stone and flickering candlelight of his chambers. The weight of his mortal flesh settled back upon him. He looked down at his hands, strong and calloused.
Tomorrow, he would bleed.
It was a small price to pay for the soul of a kingdom. He was not merely a prince seeking a crown. He was a man forging a new religion, with himself as its first and greatest prophet. The tourney was not a game; it was a sermon. The joust was a parable of his power. The melee would be his first miracle. And by the time he was done, the people of Westeros would not just bend the knee.
They would pray.
Author's Notes
Chapter 5 is up. The next chapter will see Draedon use unethical and methods of sheer insanity to increase his patrons influence and establish himself as the Blessed one.
See you soon.