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Song of The Blessed
Chapter 06 – The Melee
~ Cersei POV ~
The noise was the first thing that assaulted the senses—a discordant, grinding roar of steel biting into steel, of distinct, agonized screams, and the bloodthirsty baying of forty thousand smallfolk. From the royal box, elevated above the dust and the stench of horse sweat, Queen Cersei Lannister watched the carnage with the bored, detached gaze of a lioness observing a herd of panicked gazelle. Such spectacles always felt like a test, a gauntlet thrown down by the gods to see who would flinch.
She never did.
The Grand Melee was not a contest of chivalry; it was war shrunk down to fit inside a wooden pen, a bloodsport for the masses, and a rather predictable demonstration of masculine idiocy. These men, preening in their polished steel, believed themselves heroes. In truth, they were merely pieces on a board, moved by the whims of brute force and the promise of fleeting glory.
She took a sip of Arbor gold, the condensation on the chalice cool against her fingers. Beside her, Robert was bellowing, his face flushed purple with wine and lust for the violence below. His massive hand, scarred and beefy, slammed onto the balustrade, the wood groaning faintly under the impact. He cheered like a starved dog as a knight from the Stormlands, distinguished by a lightning bolt emblazoned on his shield, took a mace full to the helm, collapsing in a heap of crumpled iron. The dull clang of metal on metal echoed even over the roar of the crowd, a sound of bone and brain giving way.
"Hit him! Gods, did you see that?" Robert roared, spraying a fine mist of wine and spittle. "That's how you hammer a man! Get up, you craven oaf, get up!" His voice was a thunderclap, barely heard above the cacophony but felt in the vibrations of the royal box itself.
Cersei ignored him, her green eyes sweeping the chaotic tapestry of the field. Robert’s vulgarity was as tiresome as it was predictable. He might as well be one of the smallfolk, howling for blood. The true game was played with cunning, not just with a warhammer. The melee was a mess of each kingdom's chosen wanting to one-up the others, much like the landscape of the Seven Kingdoms itself.
The organizers had divided the melee into regional teams this year, a recipe for disaster that delighted the mob and had Cersei wondering which fools she would have to deal with later, once their bruised egos and broken bones returned from the field.
To the west, the crimson plumes of the Westerlands knights, led by her own bannermen, were holding a defensive shield wall against the chaotic charge of the Riverlands. Lannister gold had bought the best steel, the finest destriers, and the most rigorous training. Their formation was a disciplined block, a bristling hedge of spears and shields, absorbing the shock of the Riverlander assault. The Riverlanders, a motley collection of leaping trout and twin towers, were a surging, uncoordinated mass, relying on numbers and sheer belligerence. A particularly large knight, his horse’s barding bearing the sigil of the Blackwoods, slammed into the shield wall, his sword a blur. He connected with a Lannister shield, the clang like a church bell, but the line held firm. Before he could pivot, two golden cloaks moved with practiced ease. One drove a spear into his horse’s flank; the beast screamed, rearing and throwing its rider. As the Riverlander hit the dirt, a second Lannister knight brought a warhammer down, ending the fight with brutal finality. The Lannister line pushed forward, a slow, inexorable grind, forcing the Riverlanders to yield ground, only to reform and crash against them again, a desperate tide against a golden rock. The stench of piss, sweat and fresh blood began to mingle in the rising dust.
To the south, the Reachmen were a swirling storm of green and gold, their numbers vast, their banners — a golden rose, a green hand — proudly displayed. They fought with a certain elegance, their lances long and their swords sharp, but they were being harried by the lightning-fast skirmishers of Dorne. The Dornish did not fight like knights in shining armour. They fought like vipers, striking from unexpected angles. A Reachman knight, gleaming in polished plate, was suddenly entangled in a net, thrown with surprising strength from a rider on a nimble sand steed. The knight’s horse stumbled, unable to move, and before he could free himself from the net, two more Dornishmen were upon him, their short, vicious spears finding the vulnerable gaps in his armour. Others aimed for the joints of armour, hamstringing horses with curved blades, using their agility and their nets to drag heavy men into the dirt where they could be given an opportunity to yield or be sent to the Stranger with a knife to the throat. They were a swarm of stinging insects, eroding the grand formations of the Reachmen, patiently waiting for their moment.
But Cersei’s eyes were drawn inevitably to the centre of the maelstrom, where the fighting was thickest and most desperate.
There, amidst the thunder and the chaos, was the team from the Crownlands. And at their head rode Draedon.
He was a singularity of black steel with a helm shaped like his father's antlered one, a shadow moving with deadly intent. While other men flailed and hacked in a blind panic, driven by fear or a clumsy rage, Draedon moved with a terrifying, icy precision. He was not merely participating; he was showing his prowess to the 7 kingdoms. A Valeman, a broad-shouldered man in plain steel, swung a heavy axe at Draedon’s head. Draedon barely flinched, shifting his shield a mere inch, deflecting the blow with a metallic shriek that vibrated through the air. The axe glanced off, sending sparks. In the same fluid motion, Draedon’s own sword, a streak of pale steel, thrust forward, finding the narrow gap in the Valeman’s visor with sickening accuracy. The knight yielded, flailing and panicking, falling from his saddle with a muffled thud. Draedon was already turning, his black warhorse pivoting on a dime, its hooves trampling a sellsword who had dared approach his flank, expecting an easy kill.
Draedon engaged a trio of Reachmen, their green and gold standards fluttering around him like desperate butterflies. One charged with a lowered spear, but Draedon met it not with a block, but a sidestep, letting the spear harmlessly pass by his shoulder, its tip scratching his darkened pauldrons. As the Reachman rode past, Draedon’s sword flashed, a backhand cut that slashed the man’s arm at the elbow. The arm the lance flew into the air, a gush of blood following it. The knight screamed, a high-pitched sound of agony, dropping his reins. Draedon ignored him, turning to face the second Reachman, who now hesitated, seeing his comrade's fate. This moment of indecision was all Draedon needed. He drove his warhorse forward, slamming into the Reachman’s steed, knocking it off balance. As the Reachman struggled, Draedon's sword was already moving. A swift, brutal swing, and the second knight slumped unconscious, a slash across his chest sending him into the ground. The third Reachman, seeing this, turned his horse and fled, leaving his team’s flank exposed.
"Look at him," Cersei murmured, her voice lost under the crowd's roar, though she spoke only to herself. "He makes them look like children. Untrained puppies."
He was everything Robert had been, once—powerful, unstoppable, a god of war, before the wine and the whores had bloated him into a caricature of himself. But Draedon possessed something Robert never had, not truly: a mind. Robert fought with fury, a roaring beast; Draedon fought with calculus, a silent, deadly equation. He saw the weak points, the openings, the patterns, not just of his opponents but of the entire chaotic field. He moved like a master chess player, predicting moves before they were made, his presence a dark, implacable force that bent the melee to his will. He didn’t just fight; he orchestrated destruction.
She glanced to her left. Joffrey sat forward, his eyes wide, but there was no joy in his expression. His lips were pressed into a thin, white line, white around the edges. He watched his brother not with admiration, but with a covetous, festering jealousy, a venom that Cersei knew all too well. Joffrey liked to play at being a warrior, firing crossbows at helpless rabbits and tormenting stray cats with a miniature whip. But down there, in the mud and blood, amidst the clash of steel and the smell of death, was the reality of power, a raw, undeniable force. And Joffrey knew, deep in his core, that he could never equal it. His petty cruelty was a pale imitation of strength, a child's tantrum compared to Draedon's cold, effortless mastery. The boy hated Draedon for his very existence, for the way he embodied everything Joffrey wished he could be but would never attain.
"The Mountain!" Robert shouted suddenly, his thick finger pointing, momentarily distracting him from the Crownlands’ relentless leader. "Look at the size of the beast!"
Cersei followed his gaze, a flicker of genuine interest sparking within her. Ser Gregor Clegane was carving a path of ruin through the centre of the field, a walking catastrophe. He was a monster in a human body, his armour thick enough to stop a siege engine. He swung a six-foot greatsword with one hand, a slab of iron that shrieked as it cleaved through shields and armour alike. Men scrambled to get out of his way, their faces pale with terror. To face the Mountain was to court death, a fool's errand. A knight from the Vale, attempting to outflank him, was met with a backhand swing that snapped his horse’s neck with a wet crack. The beast went down, taking its rider with it, and Gregor merely stomped past, heedless. Another man, foolish enough to stand his ground, had his shield split lengthwise before the greatsword bit deep into his shoulder, a geyser of blood erupting as the man shrieked and fell. Gregor seemed immune to pain, to fatigue, to any human failing.
But Cersei saw something else, something that made her lips curve into a faint, predatory smile. She saw a lone rider, slim and agile, breaking away from the Dornish contingent. A figure on a sand-steed, armed not with a conventional sword or mace, but with a spear that glinted wickedly in the sun, its long shaft carved with intricate patterns. He was not running from the Mountain. He was hunting him. He moved like a shadow, weaving through the desperate skirmishes, his eyes fixed on the lumbering, unstoppable mass that was Clegane.
"Oberyn Martell," Cersei whispered, her eyes narrowing, her attention now solely on this impending clash. "The Red Viper."
A thrill, sharp and exhilarating, coursed through her. The petty politics of the realm, Robert’s bluster, Joffrey’s festering envy—all of it faded, suspended for this hour. Now, there was only the primal truth of blood, of skill against brute force, of vengeance against savagery. It was a dance of death, played out for all the world to see, and for the first time since the melee had begun, Cersei felt a spark of true, unfeigned anticipation.
~ Oberyn POV ~
The dust tasted of copper and horse dung. It was the perfume of death, and Oberyn Martell breathed it in deeply, a grim smile playing on his lips.
Around him, the melee was a blur of senseless violence. A knight from the Vale tried to intercept him, swinging a mace with clumsy intent. Oberyn didn't even slow his horse. He ducked under the swing, his body fluid as water, and lashed out with the butt of his spear. The wood connected with the knight's temple with a sickening crack, sending the man tumbling from his saddle.
Oberyn did not look back. His eyes were fixed on the behemoth tearing through the lines of the Riverlands.
Gregor Clegane.
The name was a curse that had lived in Oberyn’s heart for years. It was the bile in his throat, the fire in his veins. ‘Elia.’ The name of his sister was a scream in his mind. ‘Rhaenys. Aegon.’
"Clegane!" Oberyn shouted, his voice cutting through the din of battle.
The Mountain turned. Beneath the heavy helm, deep-set eyes found the Dornish prince. Clegane did not speak; he merely grunted, a sound like shifting tectonic plates, and turned his massive destrier toward Oberyn.
"You raped her," Oberyn chanted, his voice low and dangerous, audible only to himself and the ghosts that rode with him. He kicked his sand-steed into a gallop. "You murdered her. You killed her children."
The clash was not the thunderous impact of jousting. It was a dance of death. Clegane swung his massive sword, a blow meant to bisect horse and rider. Oberyn pulled his reins hard, his horse rearing and pivoting. The greatsword whistled through the empty air where Oberyn had been a heartbeat before.
‘Too slow, beast. You are too slow.’
Oberyn thrust his spear. The steel tip, sharp and poisoned with lethal amounts of Dorne's special, found the gap at the Mountain’s armpit. It didn't penetrate deep enough to kill, but it drew blood. Clegane roared in fury, a sound that shook the nearby combatants.
"Elia of Dorne!" Oberyn shouted, wheeling his horse around for another pass. "Say her name!"
He was winning. He could feel it. The Mountain was strong, yes, strong as a landslide, but he was clumsy, weighed down by his own monstrosity. Oberyn was the wind. He stung the giant again, piercing the mail at the knee. Clegane stumbled, his horse panicking under the erratic movements of its rider.
Oberyn laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound. He had him. He would pick him apart, piece by piece, until the monster was begging for the end. He would make him confess before the whole of Westeros.
He circled, preparing for the strike that would hamstring the Mountain’s horse and bring the giant to the ground. His eyes were locked on Clegane’s throat.
He did not see the shadow lunging from the right.
It was a cowardly, desperate move. Ser Amory Lorch, a Lannister lackey with a pig’s eyes and a soul to match, had been unhorsed nearby. Seeing the Mountain falter, he scrambled through the mud and thrust his own spear, not at Oberyn, but into the legs of Oberyn's sand-steed.
The horse screamed, a terrible shriek, and collapsed forward.
Oberyn was thrown. The world spun in a dizzying kaleidoscope of blue sky and brown earth. He hit the ground hard, the breath driven from his lungs. He rolled instinctively, years of training taking over, but the fall had been brutal. He scrambled to his knees, his spear lost in the mud.
A shadow fell over him.
Gregor Clegane loomed above, a tower of steel blotting out the sun. The Mountain was laughing now, a wet, rasping sound. He raised his greatsword high with both hands.
Oberyn stared up at the steel. He had no weapon. Lorch was scrambling to his feet nearby, grinning his rat’s grin. ‘So, this is it,’ Oberyn thought, a flash of bitter regret searing him. ‘I failed you, Elia.’
The sword began its descent.
Then, a thunderbolt struck.
There was a flash of black and gold, a blur of motion so fast the eye could barely track it. A horse slammed into Amory Lorch, crushing the knight’s chest under iron-shod hooves before he could even scream.
In the same fluid motion, a rider launched himself from the saddle. He did not fall; he landed between Oberyn and the Mountain with the heavy, grounded impact of a monolith.
Clang.
Sparks showered over Oberyn’s face. He blinked, stunned.
Prince Draedon Baratheon stood there. He had caught the Mountain’s greatsword, literally halted it, on the cross-guard of his own bastard sword. The force of the blow would have driven a normal man into the ground, shattered his arms. Draedon’s knees were bent, his boots sunk inches into the mud, but he held the steel.
He shoved the Mountain back, a feat of strength that drew a gasp from the crowd.
Draedon did not look at Oberyn. His gaze was fixed on the two Lannister bannermen. Amory Lorch was writhing on the ground, coughing blood, his chest a ruin. Draedon stepped forward, his movement casual, and brought his heel down on Lorch’s throat. There was a wet crunch, and the pig-eyed knight lay still.
"One pest dead," Draedon said, his voice carrying an unnatural calm amidst the chaos. He turned his helmeted head toward the Mountain. "Now for the other."
Oberyn scrambled backward, finding his footing. "He is mine!" he rasped, though he knew he was in no condition to fight.
"He is a rabid dog, Prince Oberyn, one that has been left off his leash long enough," Draedon replied, not looking back. He rolled his shoulders, settling into a fighting stance. "And I intend to put him down."
~ Draedon POV ~
The world slowed. It always did when the adrenaline hit, when the connection to the God of War, Ares pulsed in his blood. To the crowd, this was a frenzied brawl. To Draedon, it was a chess match played in slow motion.
He felt the weight of the armour, the balance of the sword, the bouts of air going in and out of his body as his heart pulsed faster and faster with each passing second. He felt the eyes of the realm upon him. This was the moment. The script had been written in the stars, and he was the lead actor.
Gregor Clegane stared at him. The Mountain was confused. He was used to men cowering. He was not used to a Prince of the Blood standing before him, radiating a malice that eclipsed his own.
Time to begin.
He felt Ares work his magic, his divinity shrouding the arena, igniting the rage and thirst for violence in every single man there. Especially the beast he intended to get rid of today.
"Move, boy," Clegane growled, his voice thick with rage.
"Yield, Ser Gregor," Draedon said. His voice was not a shout, but it projected with the clarity of a temple bell. "Yield, and you may live to take the black."
Clegane roared and charged.
It was like fighting a landslide. The greatsword swept in a horizontal arc that would have decapitated a bull. Draedon didn't block it; he needed to save fuel. He ducked, the blade singing inches above his helm, the wind of its passage entering through the visor and rustled his hair.
Draedon stepped inside the guard. He slammed his shield into Clegane’s midsection, followed instantly by a pommel strike to the faceplate. The metal rang like a gong.
Clegane staggered back, more out of surprise than pain. He swung again, a vertical chop.
Draedon sidestepped, letting the blade bury itself in the mud. He brought his sword down on Clegane’s wrist, seeking the gap in the gauntlet. The blade bit deep. Clegane howled, dropping one hand from his hilt, but the beast was relentless. He punched out with his shield, catching Draedon in the shoulder.
It felt like being hit by a battering ram. Draedon slid back through the muck, gritting his teeth against the flare of pain. ‘Good,’ he thought. ‘Let them see the struggle. Let them see the blood.’
"Is that all?" Draedon taunted, raising his sword. "Is that all the Mountain is? A slow, lumbering ox?"
The crowd was screaming his name now. He could hear it, a rhythmic chant rising above the clash of steel.
‘Drae-don! Drae-don!’
Clegane abandoned his sword, which was stuck in the mud. He pulled a longsword from his belt, a weapon that looked like a skewer in his giant hand, and lunged. He wanted to grapple. He wanted to crush Draedon with his sheer mass.
Draedon dropped his shield. He needed speed. As Clegane grabbed for him, Draedon spun, his movement borrowing from Ares and Apollo's grace. He slashed the back of Clegane’s knee, severing the hamstring.
The Mountain fell, his helm hitting the ground, the sheer weight of it kicking up dust.
The ground shook with the impact. Clegane tried to rise, roaring in incoherent fury, but his leg was useless. He thrashed like a wounded bear.
Draedon stepped in, kicking the dirk from Clegane’s hand. He placed the tip of his sword against the slit of the Mountain’s visor.
"Yield!" Draedon commanded.
The silence that fell over the arena was absolute. Even the other fighting seemed to pause, knights lowering their weapons to watch the impossible. The Monster of the West, the unkillable beast, was on his back, a prince’s boot on his chest.
Clegane’s breathing was a ragged rasp. "I... yield," he grunted, the words choking him.
Draedon nodded. He stepped back, lifting his sword in victory. He turned to the Royal Box, raising his arms to his father, to the crowd. He had done it. He had defeated the monster.
"Victory!" King Robert’s voice boomed, the sheer pride and love evident in the man's voice at his son's feat.
And then, the warning scream came. It was Oberyn. "Behind you!"
Draedon felt the shift in the air. Apollo’s sight flared—a warning of treachery, bright and searing. He knew it was coming. He allowed it to come.
He turned, but he made sure to turn a fraction of a second too slow.
Gregor Clegane, fuelled by a madness that transcended pain, had surged up on one knee. He had scooped up his fallen greatsword. There was no honour in the Mountain, only hate. He wished repatriation for this humiliation and wished nothing but suffering and agony on the one who caused it.
The blade plunged.
It entered Draedon’s back, piercing the backplate, shearing through muscle and lung, and emerging from his chest in a spray of bright red arterial blood.
The crowd gasped—a collective intake of breath that sucked the air from the world.
Draedon staggered. The pain was blinding, white-hot and absolute. He tasted copper. He felt the cold steel inside him, an intruder in his divine flesh. He fell to his knees, blood pouring from his mouth, staining his black armour crimson.
Clegane laughed, his mind succumbing to rage and madness. He stood behind the crown prince, ready to pull his weapon back and land a final blow.
Draedon’s hand moved.
It was not the movement of a dying man. It was the strike of a cobra.
With a guttural roar, Draedon surged upward, driving his body off the impaling blade. He spun, his own sword slashing one last, desperate time.
The blade caught Clegane in the neck.
Star-metal met bone. There was a wet, shearing sound.
Gregor Clegane’s head separated from his shoulders. It spun through the air, trailing a ribbon of black blood, and landed with a hollow thud in the mud. The massive body stood for a second longer, a fountain of gore erupting from the neck, before toppling backward like a felled tree.
Draedon stood swaying. The greatsword lay in the mud. The hole in his chest was a ruin. He looked up at the Royal Box. He saw his mother screaming. He saw Myrcella covering her mouth.
He smiled, his teeth now stained red.
And then the darkness took him. He collapsed face-first into the dirt, lying still beside the corpse of the monster he had slain.
~ Myrcella POV ~
The scream that tore from Myrcella’s throat felt like it shredded her soul.
"DRAEDON!"
She didn't wait for permission. She didn't wait for the guards. She hiked up her skirts and ran. She scrambled over the railing of the box, dropping to the lower tier, ignoring the hands that tried to catch her. Her mother was already running, shoving aside a Kingsguard, her face a mask of terror that Myrcella had never seen before.
They reached the field together. The Kingsguard were forming a perimeter, pushing back the stunned silent crowd, but they let the family through.
Draedon lay in a pool of his own blood. It was so much blood. It soaked the thirsty earth, turning the dust to a dark, horrific mud.
Robert was there, barking orders at everyone in desperation, his face pale. "Get the Grandmaester!" he bellowed, his voice cracking. "Pycelle! Get him here now! Move, you damn fools!"
Cersei threw herself onto the ground, not caring for the filth that ruined her gown. She pulled Draedon’s head into her lap. She was sobbing, a raw, ugly sound. "No, no, no," she chanted, smoothing the hair back from his sweaty, pale forehead. "My son. My lion. Open your eyes. Please."
Myrcella fell beside her, grabbing Draedon’s cold, gauntleted hand. "Draedon," she wept. "Please don't go. You promised. You promised you'd always be here."
Tommen was wailing, clinging to Jaime's leg, their uncle looking at the scene with complete shock.
Through her tears, Myrcella looked up. Joffrey was standing just outside the circle. He wasn't crying. He was staring at Draedon’s body, and for a fleeting second, before he composed his face into a mask of faux-concern, Myrcella saw it.
A smile. A small, cruel twisting of his lips.
A spike of hatred, hot and pure, drove through her grief. 'He’s glad,' she realized with horror. 'He wanted this.' She wanted to scream at him, to claw his eyes out, but the grief was a heavy blanket that smothered her fury.
Pycelle shuffled into the circle, his chains rattling. He knelt, his hands shaking as he examined the wound. He looked at the hole in the chest, the blood bubbling with each shallow, rattling breath.
The Grandmaester looked up at the King, his watery eyes filled with fear. "Your Grace... the lung is pierced. The heart... it is grazed. The blood loss... I... there is nothing..."
"Do something!" Cersei shrieked, striking the old man across the face. "He is your Prince! Save him!"
"I cannot, Your Grace," Pycelle whimpered. "He is with the Stranger now."
A heavy silence descended on the tourney grounds. Over a few hundred people watched as their beloved prince died in the arena. The wind seemed to die. The birds stopped singing, as if the realm itself was mourning the loss.
Myrcella squeezed his hand, burying her face in his armor. "Please," she prayed to anyone who would listen. To the Warrior, to the Father, to the Mother. "Don't take him. He is good. He is the best of us. Please."
Then, she felt it.
Warmth.
Not the warmth of the sun, but a heat radiating from the hand she held. It started as a tingle, then grew to a gentle vibration.
"Mother?" Myrcella whispered, lifting her head.
Cersei gasped. "What...?"
A light was beginning to seep from Draedon’s wound. It wasn't the red of blood, but the gold of morning sunlight. It spilled from the rent in his armour, piercing the gloom of the gathered crowd. It grew brighter, intense but not blinding, warm and comforting like a hearth in winter.
The crowd gasped. Knights fell to their knees. Pycelle scrambled backward, shielding his eyes.
The light enveloped Draedon’s body, lifting the blood from his skin, turning the gore into golden motes of dust that drifted away on an invisible breeze.
And then, a sound.
It was not a single voice, but a chorus. It seemed to come from the sky, from the earth, from the very air they breathed. It echoed in the bones of every man, woman, and child in King’s Landing. The voices contained absolute authority, ancient and undeniable.
"OUR CHAMPION."
The words hung in the air, vibrating with power.
The light flared one last time, brilliant and pure, washing over the Royal Family. Myrcella felt a wave of peace wash through her, chasing away the cold terror.
And then, it faded.
Draedon gasped.
It was a deep, hungry intake of breath, like a man surfacing after being held underwater. His eyes snapped open. They were not just blue; for a moment, they shone with an inner, starry light before settling back into sapphire.
He sat up.
Cersei screamed, but this time in shock. She pulled back, staring at his chest.
The armour was still rent, the steel twisted and broken. But beneath it...
The skin was smooth. Unblemished. There was no wound. No scar. Not even a bruise.
Draedon looked around, blinking as if waking from a long sleep. He looked at his hands, then at his mother, then at Myrcella. He reached out and wiped a tear from Myrcella’s cheek.
"Why are you crying, little sister?" he asked, his voice strong and clear, showing no sign of the injury that should have killed him.
"You... you were dead," Oberyn stammered, staring at the man who had slain the beast that haunted his dreams since his sister perished, as if he were a ghost. "I saw it. The sword went through you."
Draedon stood up. He rose effortlessly, the heavy armour seeming to weigh nothing. He looked down at the hole in his breastplate, then out at the silent, stunned crowd.
He raised his hand, his fingers balled up into a fist.
"The Gods are not done with me yet," he proclaimed.
The silence held for a heartbeat longer, a fragile thing stretched to its limit.
Then, the world exploded.
It started with a single cry from the commons. "The Chosen One!"
Then another. "A miracle! The Warrior lives!"
Then it became a roar, a wall of sound that dwarfed anything that had come before. People were weeping, hugging, pointing at the sky. They surged against the barriers, desperate to get closer to the miracle. They weren't cheering for a winner anymore; they were worshipping a saviour.
Myrcella stood, her legs shaking. She watched her brother. He stood amidst the adulation, calm and golden, accepting the worship with a serene grace.
Joffrey stood to the side, his face pale as milk, fear replacing the malice in his eyes. He knew. Everyone knew. The game had changed.
Myrcella ran to Draedon, burying her face in his side again, sobbing with relief. He wrapped his arm around her, holding her tight. He was warm. He was alive. He was safe.
But as she looked up at him, she saw him glancing toward the sun, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. And for the first time, Myrcella wondered if the brother she loved was something more than just a man.
He was their Champion. And Westeros would never be the same.
Author’s Notes
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See you soon.