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The cheers of the spectators penetrate into the tent where fourteen-year-old Zyre Blackpaw, the firstborn child of Prince Haoran Blackpaw and his lady wife Elora Blackpaw, is preparing for his first tournament. It is the Heir's Tournament, held to celebrate the impending birth of Viserys's son, Baelon. His squire, Lorcan, is helping him don his armor, piece by piece.

Zyre is a paragon of his lineage, the pride of Zhuyin and House Blackpaw. As the heir of a house grounded by a low-born merchant who rose to become the first ruler of Zhuyin, Zyre embodies the strength, honor, and fierce independence expected of him.

"Father must be going insane to make me step into this stinking city again," Zyre grumbles, his anger barely contained. It has been two days since his arrival in King's Landing. Even the King himself greeted them upon their arrival, but not once has Rhaenyra attempted to show her face or dared to see him.

Lorcan, fastening the last buckle, responds with a smirk, "It is you who wanted to join the tournament, my prince."

"I must show my worth, that I'm good enough," Zyre snaps, his frustration evident.

"Don't be angry, my Prince," Lorcan says as they walk out of the tent toward Zyre's horse, ready for the tournament. "Princess Rhaenyra must have a reason-"

"Am I angry? It is she who is angry with me. I don't dare to be angry with her," Zyre retorts as he mounts his horse. "Do you think that I am angry?"

"Not in the least," Lorcan teases, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

"Let us get this done," Zyre mutters, putting on his helmet and entering the lists with the other participants of the tournament.

The flag of House Blackpaw is set up as the first joust commences, pitting Zyre against Lord Boremund Baratheon. With swift precision, Zyre breaks one lance before unhorsing Lord Boremund, then bows before the King.

Riding up to the royal box, Zyre's eyes lock onto Rhaenyra's with a cold glare, a silent challenge hanging between them. He then turns his attention to Lady Alicent, offering her a charming smile as he requests her favor.

"Lady Alicent," Zyre begins, his voice smooth and confident, "would you do me the great honor of bestowing your favor upon my lance? Your token would surely guide me to victory."

Alicent blushes deeply, her heart fluttering at the young prince's request. Her admiration for him has been no secret, a fascination that has grown over time. "Of course, Prince Zyre," she replies, her voice soft and melodic. She delicately takes a wreath and places it on his lance. "May this token bring you the luck and skill you need," she adds, her eyes sparkling with both hope and admiration.

The tournament progresses, with thirteen knights of various Great Houses of Westeros riding into the arena and lining up before the royal box.

The Master of Revels announces that Prince Daemon will select his first opponent. Daemon rides forth, scrutinizes the knights briefly, and chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower, casting a smug glance at Gwayne's father, Otto.

Zyre wins every joust, bringing pride to his father seated next to the King. As Viserys hastens away from the tournament to attend to his wife in labor, the event descends into a brutal and bloody mêlée, resulting in the deaths of at least four knights amidst the chaos.

Zyre's turn comes to face Ser Criston of the minor House Cole, a knight who has also defeated every opponent thus far. The joust quickly evolves into a fierce duel, each clash of their swords a testament to their skill and determination. Zyre initially gains the upper hand, driving Criston back with powerful strikes. Their swords ring out in a cacophony of steel against steel, and the crowd watches with bated breath.

Criston, with relentless precision and surprising agility, begins to turn the tide. He dodges a heavy swing from Zyre, countering with a series of rapid strikes that force Zyre to yield ground. Zyre grits his teeth, his eyes blazing with determination as he fights back with all his might.

Their blades lock, and for a moment, they are eye to eye, the tension palpable. With a sudden, brutal twist, Criston disarms Zyre, sending his sword flying. In a flurry of blows, Criston defeats Zyre, forcing him to yield with a broken arm and wounds on his chest.

As Zyre is carried away, covered in blood and dirt, he bites his lip against the searing pain of his broken arm. Through the haze of agony, he catches sight of Rhaenyra, her face a portrait of concern and distress. Her usual composed demeanor is gone, replaced by a raw, unguarded fear. Her attention, once fixed on the spectacle of the tournament, is now entirely on him, her eyes filled with unspoken worry.

While the Seven Kingdoms mourn their late queen, Zyre is confined to his quarters in the Red Keep, his broken arm and injuries soothed only by the milk of the poppy. He finishes his supper with the help of his squire, unable to move his arm, when Rhaenyra walks into his quarters, fresh from the funeral of her late mother.

"Did I fight bravely at the tournament?" Zyre jests, attempting to lighten the mood.

"Indeed, you did," Rhaenyra replies, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite her grief.

"Then I shall feel assured," Zyre grins teasingly.

"Do not be so sure, I was merely being polite," Rhaenyra retorts, rolling her eyes. But her bravado crumbles as memories of her mother's death resurface, bringing fresh tears to her eyes.

Zyre's face falls as well. "I heard the news. I am deeply sorry for your loss."

Rhaenyra nods, wiping her tears, trying to offer a smile but failing as more tears stream down her cheeks. "Thank you."

"I have been told I give the finest hugs in the Seven Kingdoms. Should you require-" Zyre is cut off as Rhaenyra, without hesitation, leaps into his offered embrace. "-comfort."

Rhaenyra sobs into his shoulder, and Zyre holds her tightly, his broken arm and fresh injuries forgotten. All he wants is to offer her solace, to take away her pain. The grief over her mother and brother's loss is palpable, her sorrow a weight that presses down on both of them.

Zyre feels a surge of protectiveness, a fierce desire to be her anchor in this storm of emotions. As he holds her, he can sense the depth of her anguish, the raw, unfiltered pain of losing her mother and the brother she never got to meet. In that moment, his own pain and frustration melt away, replaced by a single-minded determination to be her rock, her support.

Rhaenyra's tears soak his tunic, each sob a knife in his heart. He wishes he could take away her sorrow, bear it himself if it meant she could be spared. The room is silent save for her cries, the world outside their small, shared space forgotten.

As the night wears on, Rhaenyra's sobs quiet to soft whimpers. Zyre continues to hold her, his unbroken arm a steadfast anchor. The bond between them, forged in shared trials and deepened by unspoken emotions, strengthens in the quiet darkness of the Red Keep. For now, they are just two young souls seeking solace in each other's presence, the weight of their destinies momentarily lifted.

In the depths of her grief, Rhaenyra finds comfort in Zyre's arms, a sense of safety that tempers the edge of her sorrow. Zyre's silent strength becomes her refuge, his embrace a reminder that even in her darkest moments, she is not alone. Together, they navigate the treacherous waters of loss and pain, their bond a flickering light in the oppressive gloom.

The night stretches on, and as Rhaenyra's tears finally cease, a fragile peace settles over them. Zyre's wounds throb with a dull ache, but he pays them no mind. His focus is entirely on Rhaenyra, on being the support she needs. The world beyond their embrace fades into insignificance, and in that quiet, shared moment, they find a connection that words could never capture.

As dawn breaks, casting a pale light into the room, Zyre and Rhaenyra remain entwined. The grief and pain of the previous day linger, but so too does the strength of their bond. They have found solace in each other, and in that solace, the promise of a future where they stand side by side, ready to face whatever comes next.