Chapter One, The Heir's Tourney

         THERE WAS NO QUEEN AEMMA WITHOUT JOYCE BARATHEON.

   Aemma Arryn was never born to wear a crown, though one was still placed on her brow when her husband was named Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Before then, she'd been a simple lady of the Eyrie who'd fallen in love with a prince.

   She truly had no taste for playing the games of King's Landing. But luckily, she didn't have to.

   Her Lady Baratheon had sworn herself to Aemma when they were young girls, swapping secrets for lemon cakes while perched on high balconies overlooking the mountains of the Vale. Instead of a sword, Joyce had offered up her sowing needle and pledged to always protect her dearest friend.

   And while Aemma had giggled sweetly at what she thought was simply another joke amongst friends, Joyce had meant every word.

   Much like her husband, Queen Aemma struggled with the politicking that came with the iron chair Viserys now sat upon. Too kind-hearted and innocent to muddy her hands in the game of thrones. But Joyce wasn't blessed and cursed with the same naivete.

   She'd taken her oath to heart when she followed Aemma to court after Viserys' coronation, even though her fostering under the Arryns had long since passed. She stayed by her side, even after the tragic death of her betrothed. She'd remained and attended to Aemma — from courtly duties through all six of her pregnancies and labors.

   "I swear to the Seven, you're fussing more than Rhaenyra," the once-again pregnant queen moaned in complaint.

   "You exaggerate, your Grace," the Baratheon woman replied warmly. "Rhaenyra doesn't hold a candle to how much I can fuss."

   Aemma let out a light chuckle, a sound that had been so scarcely heard since the beginning of this interminable pregnancy of hers. It was a balm to Joyce's ever-worried soul.

   "Speaking of Rhaenyra, do you know where she's gotten off to?" the girl's mother muttered. "She said she would stop by before the small council meeting but—"

   Queen Aemma's words were cut off when the very aforementioned girl walked into the room, her companion, the Lady Laena, hanging off her arm. Standing there, the depiction of beauty and delight she'd been named for, the Princess's mother calling out to her in relief.

   The princess, freshly changed — though still reeking of dragon — approached the Queen. But as soon as her mother caught scent of her, she began chastising her daughter of four-and-ten. "You know I don't like you to go flying while I'm in this condition."

   Ever the dragonrider, Rhaenyra replied, "You don't like me to go flying whether you're in any condition." That comment earns her a glare from both her mother and Lady Baratheon, who'd moved behind the Queen and was assisting her in sitting up as one of the midwives passed her another cushion.

   "Your Grace." The soft voice of Laena Velaryon interrupted the family scabble. Joyce looked across the room to see the daughter of the Sea Snake — whose bright smile could rival even Rhaenyra's — standing there, giving a bow of her head in respect for their queen. 

   "Good morrow, Laena," Aemma nodded back in greeting as she lounged back upon her newly arranged pillows.

   Once settled, Rhaenyra took her place at the foot of her mother's loveseat. "Did you sleep?" the princess questioned.

   With a sigh, Aemma answered. "I slept."

   "How long?" Rhaenyra badgered.

   "I don't need mothering, Rhaenyra," Aemma insisted, glaring up at Joyce, who'd busied herself with folding towels and stacking them on a nearby stand. "Seven knows I get enough of it from Lady Baratheon."

   "At least Joyce has the right of it," Rhaenyra insisted, the lady smirking slightly. "Here you are, surrounded by attendants, all focused on the babe. Someone has to attend to you."

   Aemma nudged her daughter playfully with her foot. "You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the realm."

   Joyce caught herself biting her lip to keep her opinion to herself while in the presence of the maester and servants. She'd witnessed firsthand the many times Aemma had "served the realm". More often than not, it lead to the Stranger calling her name. Joyce knew it was a sacrifice that risked more than just discomfort, as the Queen had so lightly put it. It was a gamble she wished her friend would stop taking, but knew it was out of both their powers to control.

   "I'd rather serve as a knight," Rhaenyra replied stubbornly, "and ride to battle and glory."

   That got a laugh from both of the older ladies, the two sharing a look of amusement.

   "Don't laugh!" the girl protested. "Uncle Daemon was only two years older than I when he received his knighthood."

   "Yes, princess," Joyce had stiffened at the mention of the second-born prince, "But there is one great difference between you and Prince Daemon, isn't there?"

   Rhaenyra didn't have a response to that, and after a beat of silence, Aemma continued on, "We have royal wombs, you and I. The childbed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip."

   The princess, now looking downtrodden, lowered her head in slight submission to the lesson. Her mother was only able to manage a small smile. "Now take a bath. You stink of dragon."

   Rhaenyra obeyed, departing with a quick kiss on her mother's cheek. As she passed Joyce, the woman reached out and gently stroked the princess's arm, giving the girl a reassuring smile in the hopes it would lift her spirit. It did just that, Rhaenyra returning the smile in kind.

   "Hurry along," Aemma called after her, "your father is waiting for you."

   Rhaenyra nodded and took her leave, linking arms with her dear friend Laena as she did earlier and the two marched out of the Queen's solar.

   With a sigh, Joyce turned back towards Aemma, the two friends sharing a similar exasperated look.

   "That girl," the silver-haired woman muttered. "I swear she'll tear this house down herself."

   Joyce chuckled as she took a seat beside where her friend lounged, "She's young. She'll learn. We weren't much different at her age."

   "Hmm, perhaps you weren't," Aemma teased. "She has so much of your spirit, it's no wonder she looks up to you so."

   "Fire and fury are not so unalike," she replied with a shrug.

   "Where that fire comes from, I'm sure I do not know," the mother sighed, rubbing her palm across her swollen belly. "Certainly not from Viserys and I." Joyce can't help but chuckle at that.

   Aemma peered up at her friend's face, hesitant before asking, "Has Prince Daemon returned yet?"

   Once again, Lady Baratheon went rigid at the mention of his name. She peered across the room at the maester who sat at his desk, seemingly not paying attention to the two ladies. Or just very good at hiding his eavesdropping.

   "How should I know," she replied stiffly, busying her hands by taking hold of the embroidery piece she'd set aside earlier. "I'm sure he'll show his face eventually. He never could resist an opportunity to stoke his own ego against the usual band of summer knights."

   She perhaps stabbed her needle a bit too hard, making Aemma softly tut before reaching out her free hand and stilling her friend's movements. "You deserve to be happy, Joyce. I wouldn't judge you for finding it. Even if it was... unconventional."

   Joyce gave a glance at the others in the room, who still all seemed not to be paying attention to them. "It's not your judgment I'm concerned about." Aemma gave her a pitying look before she dropped her hand.

   "They'll start calling you an old maid if you remain in my service any longer," the Queen teased.

   "Good," Joyce smiled cheerfully back, ensuring it didn't sound as forced as it was. "That means I won't ever have to leave your side."

   "Did you hear that he's returned?" Rhaenyra asked, excitedly bouncing on Joyce's arm as the two walked the halls of the Red Keep, making their way toward the gardens.

   "Hmm," Joyce hummed in what she hoped sounded like nothing more than monotone. "So you've spoken with him?"

   Rhaenyra nodded, "He told me all about his travels to the Free Cities. You should see the jewels he brought back for me from Lys! They're the most beautiful I've ever seen!"

   "I'm sure they are," the lady's voice remained as even as she could manage. Hiding her true emotions was something she'd become quite proficient at in her years in court. "Trust him to show up—not to fulfill his duties as Commander of the City Watch—but to bask in the luxuries of the celebrations your father organizes."

   Rounding the last corner before their destination, the Gods seemed to curse Joyce as the very man in discussion stood before them, leaning against the nearest pillar. Unchanged in the months of his absence, the prince still sported the same long silver hair, sharp Valyrian features, and arrogant smile he seemed to have been born with.

   "You paint such an inspiring picture of my character in front of my niece, my lady," Daemon Targaryen remarked as the two women came to a halt.

   Joyce bowed her head only slightly, muttering the greeting of, "My prince," through gritted teeth.

   "Princess, would you mind excusing Lady Baratheon and I for but a moment?" Daemon asked his niece with a lilt of suggestion to his voice that made Joyce want to draw one of the blades strapped to his waist and cut it from his throat.

   Rhaenyra looked between the two before nodding with her own echo of Daemon's sly smile. "Of course, uncle. Laena is awaiting me anyways," and with that, she untangled herself from Joyce's arm.

   With the princess's departure, the two had been left alone in the corridor together.

   Taking a few steps to close the space between them, Daemon let his usual flattery flutter from his lips. "Is it possible that you've grown more frigid since I've last seen you, Lady Baratheon?"

   "And yet you remained just as crass as you were before," Joyce let out her witty reply quickly, not bothering to stand on ceremony now that the two were unaccompanied. "Though I imagine change is a difficult concept that still continues to elude you, my prince." Slanderous as they were, her sharp words never seemed to anger the prince as she desired them to. Instead, Daemon would simply chuckle at her insults and return them to her in kind.

   "Oh, how I've missed you, my lady," he sighed, his tone sounded mockingly elated, and she didn't bother to hide how her eyes rolled. "I have something for you."

   She then suddenly took note of the bag slung across his chest when he reached for it. After he pulled out a small parcel wrapped in worn leather, the prince held it out to her expectantly. Joyce hesitated before reaching out and taking it from his grasp, careful not to make any contact with his hand as she did.

   Unwrapping it before him, the gift revealed itself to be a small tiara, only slightly bigger than the size of her palm. Silver steel inlaid with bright jade — jewels not native to Westeros — it glimmered in the light in an ethereal way. Aged but clearly well preserved and polished so thoroughly Joyce felt guilty for smudging it with her bare fingertips. It was so beautiful... and so clearly made for royalty.

   Which Lady Joyce was not.

   "Do you like it?" Prince Daemon had not removed his gaze from her face, studying her features closely for her reaction. He'd felt something akin to pride swell in his chest when she'd inhaled deeply upon her first glimpse and continued to watch hungrily as she ran her thumb along the jade centerpiece. "It was once the property of the Empress of Leng."

   "It's a gift fit for a princess," Joyce nodded in agreement before she carefully rewrapped the sparkling headpiece and held it back out to him. "Something that I am not."

   Daemon made no move to take it from her, instead opting to leave his palms resting atop the pommel of Dark Sister. "That could always change."

   Joyce let her eyes flutter close as she exhaled deeply. Still, Daemon's advances never failed to elicit frustration from her.  Ever since they'd first met all those years ago at a tourney, not unlike the one that was so closely approaching. In those earlier times, Joyce had once looked forward to the moments when she'd gotten to see the young and handsome prince. When he'd come to woo her with similarly elaborate gifts, whispers of devotion, and praises of her beauty. But circumstances had swiftly changed when they both had been promised to others.

   Now Prince Daemon was a married man — even if Joyce herself had never made it before the Septon with her own intended — and his further attempts to continue the courtship from their youths only furthered whispers and questions of Joyce's virtue and intentions.

   "You know it cannot," she snapped at him, her tone so sharp that any other person might have flinched at the sound. But Daemon had always found her severity more charming than intimidating. Like the true craven he was, he had been drawn to the danger he sensed lay beneath her softly pampered skin.

   "I would not be the first Targaryen to take more than one wife," he proposed.

   "More similarities to Maegor the Cruel is not something you should be seeking, Daemon," she countered. "Besides, only kings have been known to have more than one wife."

   "Did you miss the fact that we are here to celebrate my very future as king?"

   She snorted at that, unable to outlet her amusement in a more lady-like fashion. "The tourney is for the King's heir."

   The humorous glimmer in his eye did not deter as his smirk remained. Daemon leaned in slightly, as if he were to whisper a great secret with his now hushed tone. "As I said."

   "Don't tell your brother that," Joyce scoffed. "He is more than determined this next child is a boy. Aemma and I have tried our best to remind him that no amount of saying it so will make the babe grow a cock between their legs, but..."

   "I wonder who's at fault for such determination," Daemon mused bitterly, Lady Baratheon giving him the very look that statement deserved. Without speaking his name, the two were well-versed enough with the man they'd both alluded to.

   "It's all of them on that council," they kept their voices low, the two hovering closer to the wall as they began drifting nearer. Both lived in the capital long enough to know that the stones of King's Landing spontaneously grew ears at the most unfortunate of times. "At least Lord Corlys has grown too busy playing with his pirates to join the fray of lords telling the King what he should be doing with his own wife."

   As invigorating as their verbal sparring was, Daemon much preferred Joyce as she was now. Somewhat more at ease and no longer mincing her words now that she was sure the eyes of the Red Keep had turned away from them.

   "Rhaenyra's mentioned something similar," Daemon replied. "She's worried about her... as it seems are you."

   The Lady Baratheon just sighed at that, and for a moment, Daemon could see all the emotions she'd kept bottled in, starting to shine through her eyes. The stress of them was so evident, it was a wonder she hadn't trembled under their weight.

   "I'm always worried about her."

   That was the essence of her honorific; the Dutiful Lady. The true Dutiful Lady. Her dedication to her queen went beyond words, and beyond actions. It was embedded in her very bones. Prince Daemon was just jealous of it as he admired it — for he knew he'd never have her devotion while Aemma still breathed. And while envy breathed ugliness into every creature, he was not foolish enough to think him strong enough to break that bond.

   Looking down at the tiara in her hand, she hadn't realized she'd unwrapped it as they spoke. Joyce ran the pad of her thumb across the foreign feeling of jade once more before letting out a sigh and looking back up at the Prince.

   "I should return," she muttered softly, however, their proximity to one another remained unchanged. Daemon continued to look down at her as she extended the jeweled crown back to him.

   "It was a gift, truly," he insisted, not lifting a finger. "It's for you."

   The softness in his voice made her blood run hot, as it always seemed to whenever he was near. It made her feel something so akin to anger in a way she didn't understand. And whatever it was, it broke the fragile peace the two had been sharing.

   "Well, I don't want it," she growled.

   Any of it, she wanted to add. In these moments, Joyce had felt the least sure of herself. She'd never felt so lost and yet so grounded at the same time. It was Daemon's small kindnesses and sharp words contradicting each other that made her head spin.

   Since arriving at King's Landing, Joyce has had to become very good at the game. Of understanding others' motives. Of learning their plans, their decisions, and their intentions. No one was ever simple, no one was ever sincere. But Joyce had learned to read through it all. Took to it as a bright young student might have taken to a book assigned by their maesters. And she was very good.

   And yet, he was still so unknown to her. She was still so unsure of what he truly want.

   "It will grow on you," Daemon shot back, smug attitude returning in full force. He'd clearly sensed her change in mood.

   With flared nostrils, Joyce closed the limited space between them to shove the tiara into his chest. His hand had instinctively reached up to cup hers — and the crown — to his tunic. Only then did she realize her mistake.

   Looking up into his eyes, there was an intensity she'd learned to expect, yet still failed to understand. And with his hand still holding hers, the space between them had been all but eliminated.

   Get out, her rational mind screamed at her.

   Someone could see them. Someone could walk by. She could already begin to hear the whispers of her dutifulness that would spread at the welcome feast. She could picture her fellow ladies muttering behind manicured fingers and through painted lips. But still, she hadn't pulled away. As if trapped in his downward gaze, she couldn't bring herself to move a muscle.

   That was, until distant footsteps echoed in the air. They cut through the heavy atmosphere as a freshly sharpened knife would through soft butter.

   Ripping her hand away and backpedaling two steps, Joyce seemed to break her from her stupor. Although their gazes still did not break, and Daemon gripped the package she'd returned so tightly, she swore he could've bent the thin silver under his palm.

   No further words were exchanged between the two. Joyce was the first to collect herself, gathering her skirts before making a brisk getaway past the Prince. And as their arms brushed as she passed, Daemon spun around to watch her march off, jaw clenched and wishing she would have just taken his gift with her.

   Joyce despised leaving Aemma's side, especially so close to her labors, but the Queen had all but ordered her away, insisting she attended the tourney. Aemma seemed to have the notion that Joyce did not take the time to enjoy the splendors of court, and no amount of Joyce's assurances and promises seemed to change her mindset.

   So partially against her own will, Joyce sat in the royal box as the King addressed the crowd who'd packed the seats of the jousting arena.

   "This day has been made more auspicious," the good King Viserys announced to the crowd, "by the news that I am happy to share." His eyes caught onto his daughter, who was attempting not to bring attention to her tardiness by quietly ducking into her seat between Laena and Joyce. But she had ultimately failed. "Queen Aemma has begun her labors!"

   That statement is met with heavy applause, and Lady Baratheon was quick to look up at where the silver-haired king stood, shocked by the news. While trying to earn Viserys's attention, her eyes crossed that of Otto Hightower's unfortunate gaze, which had already seemed to have fixed on her. As if he was predicting her next move, the Hand gave a slight shake of the head that told her that she was not to rush to her queen's side. Beside him sat his elder daughter, Alicent, who seemed oblivious to the exchange.

   Infuriated, but left with little choice, Joyce turned back around in her seat, catching herself gnawing at the inside of her cheek to keep her frustration reigned. She'd been present for every one of Aemma's labors prior to this, and she dreaded the fact of her being barred from them now.

   "May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!" King Viserys declared, bringing to an end his opening speech. A joyous uproar from the crowd rose in response as the tourney began.

   When it was her father's turn to joust, Joyce watched carefully as he approached the royal box, calling out for her cousin, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen — daughter of the former Crown Prince Aemon.

   "I would humbly ask for your favor," Boremund Baratheon called up, Joyce looking to see the wife of the Sea Snake rise from her seat. "The Queen Who Never Was," he called up to her, and Joyce's eyes widened at his bold proclamation.

   With a quick glance back to see the King's reaction, fear began to nip at her gut. Fortunetly, Viserys's face seemed unbothered, only exhibiting the slightest bit of awkward amusement. The lady let out a slight breath of relief, in moments like this, Joyce was thankful for Viserys's soft temper — even if the realm might prove to be in need of the opposite.

   Placing her favor on his lance, the dark-haired Targaryen called out, "Good fortune to you, uncle."

   To which Joyce's father ever so cockily replied, "I'll gladly take it if I thought I needed it," before spurring his horse on. As he passed his daughter, he gave a warm nod up to her, Joyce responding with the most encouraging smile she could muster.

   Beside her, she heard Rhaenyra and Laena beginning to gossip about some minor lady's betrothal to some inconsequential squire or other. The older woman, however, found herself barely paying them any mind. Her focus was fixed upon her aging father, whose time of participating in tourneys had long since passed and any true reasoning for remaining atop his mount must be chalked up to personal disillusionment.

   Boar-headedness had always been a dominant Baratheon trait.

   And Joyce's worries were proven correct when the knight her father had been facing — from some small house called Cole, she believed — struck him off his horse with one well-placed blow on the first round.

   Joyce inhaled sharply, fear spiking through her blood as the sound of her father's armor clashing roughly with the ground filled her ears. She didn't let herself exhale until she saw her father finally move on the ground as the young squires quickly rushed to his side to help him to his feet. She felt Rhaenyra gently touch her arm, bringing Joyce back to her senses as she reached over to squeeze the Princess's hand in return. An assurance that she would be alright.

   After dropping her touch, Rhaenyra turned in her seat and beckoned over her sworn shield — Ser Westerling of the Kingsguard — who kneeled behind her. "What do you know about this Ser Criston Cole, Ser Harrold?" she asked him curiously.

   "I'm told Ser Criston is a common-born son of Lord Dondarrion's steward," Westerling answered. "But other than that, and the fact that he's just unhorsed both of the Baratheon lads, I really couldn't say."

   The next to enter, with great fanfare added, was of course Prince Daemon himself. All the trepidation that had been filling Joyce began to be replaced with something akin to buzzing anticipation.

   Before his entrance, all the knights of the lists had lined themselves along the arena facing the royal box, adorned in brightly colored sigils being displayed proudly on the armor and shields. The crowd only grew louder as their prince was announced.

   "Prince Daemon of House Targaryen! The Prince of the City will now choose his first opponent!"

   Daemon galloped past the box, wearing onyx-colored armor that blended with his black steed. Helmet fashioned in the style of a dragon, he indeed looked the part of the son of a conqueror and ever the role of a true prince. Even a bitter Joyce could not deny him that.

   Slowing down to parade himself before his fellow knights, he circled back around only to choose the knight wearing the bright green sigil of the Tower of Oldtown.

   "For his first challenge, Prince Daemon Targaryen chooses Ser Gwayen Hightower of Oldtown! Eldest son of the Hand of the King!"

   Joyce couldn't help but glance up at Lord Hightower, who hid his anger behind fierce eyes and a clenched jaw. Even if she did not wish to root for Daemon, she couldn't help but chuckle at the idea of Prince Daemon being so petty as to purposely embarrass his courtly nemesis by unseating his eldest son.

   The tension did not go unnoticed by anyone else in the box, filled with Small Council members who'd all bore witness to the rivalry between the Prince and the Hand. It certainly wasn't lost on any of them when Daemon peered from his place in the arena to send his signature smirk towards Otto.

   And with that, the drumming ended and the knights charged.

   The first hit didn't bode well in the Targaryen's favor. A good strike from Ser Gwayne's lance sent Daemon bending backward, nearly unseating him. Joyce felt her heart leap in anticipation and wasn't exactly a fan of how rapidly it beat against her chest. She didn't care if he won this or not. Or more accurately, she wouldn't allow herself to care.

   Daemon quickly righted himself, grabbing a new lance before charging back in for his second pass. But this time, he assured his win by jabbing his lance downward into the knees of Ser Gwayne's horse, sending the mare hurtling toward the ground, its rider along with it.

   The crowd was nearly as shocked by the dishonorable move as Lady Alicent was, who Joyce could hear gasp behind her at the sight of her brother being sent into the dirt. Lady Joyce let out a disappointed tut under her breath but wasn't nearly as surprised, the move seeming perfectly in Daemon's nature.

   The moment had brought her back to the first tourney she'd witnessed him in, hearing the cry of Sir Royce as his mount had collapsed atop him. The image of his leg bent in the wrong direction when they'd finally gotten the beast off him would remain in her memory forever.

   There was a mixture of reactions from the arena. A series of both cheers and boos greeted the Prince, who couldn't seem to care less what the masses of King's Landing thought of him.

   Luckily Ser Gwayne began to stir on the ground and his horse quickly rose to its feet. A thunderous cheer filled the air in response as admiration swept the crowd for the young knight who survived.

   As Prince Daemon approached the royal box, Joyce watched as both a young Rhaenyra and Laena shot eagerly to their feet to offer him their compliments.

   "Thank you, Princess," Joyce heard Daemon reply to his niece. She pondered to herself if perhaps Daemon would further humiliate Otto Hightower by requesting the favor of his daughter after unseating her brother. The girl was now eight-and-ten, and still unmarried, most believing the reason to be that her father had a fondness for her, Joyce believed otherwise. However Daemon did not call for her, she should have known him better than that by now.

   "Lady Baratheon!" he called out to her, gaze fixing on her for the first time since he'd entered the arena. Joyce looked away, debating with herself for a moment before finally rising from her seat. She felt the eyes of all the nobility upon her as she stood.

   The Dutiful Lady, they would be sneering soon. A compliment they'd once heaped upon her now turned sour. Daemon's constant displays and complete lack of discretion were what has led to it all.

   But she was still a lady of House Baratheon, with Valyrian blood still in her veins. She would not bow her head to the mutterings of lesser lords and ladies.

   Looking down at him, she gave him an obligatory, "Congratulations, my prince," which of course only made his sly grin grow wider.

   "Thank you, my lady," he replied. "I find that I must humbly request your favor. I find that I have never been unseated while I carry it, and I know that at this moment, it would all but ensure my victory today."

   Joyce let out an unimpressed hum and gave him an equally unimpressed look. Yet still, she had turned around and took hold of the favor she had hung from the arm of her seat before crossing over to where Rhaenyra and Laena stood. The young girls parted for Lady Baratheon to place her favor on the Prince's lance.

   Daemon didn't exaggerate, he rarely was unseated during these tournaments, and never before has he been unhorsed while parading around her favor.

   "Kirimvose, ñuha dōna," he winked up at her, knowing how it frustrated her when he spoke in High Valyrian, words she could not understand.

   She watched for a moment as he turned his horse about and trotted away before returning to her seat. While doing so, she noticed the Hand lean over and whisper something in the ear of Viserys, a maester who was meant to be assisting with Aemma's labors standing behind them both.

   And with that, all the worries that Daemon's presence had pushed from her mind surged back. Her stomach churned like the Narrow Sea on a thundering night at Storm's End. She watched as the King excused himself, Joyce herself then moved to rise as well and follow after him when she felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder. Kept in her seat, she turned to see it belonged to Otto Hightower himself.

   "Your presence is not needed," he insisted in a low voice so only she could hear.

   "But was it requested?" she shot back. Joyce knew Aemma better than anyone, and she knew she wouldn't wish to bear any struggles alone. That constant clawing need to be at her side tightened around the dark-haired woman's throat. "I should go to her."

   She began to rise again, but Hightower's grip was stronger than she'd thought. He subtly forced her back into her seat.

   "The Queen told you to enjoy the festivities," Otto reminded her firmly, Joyce looking out over the joust — which had begun growing uglier by the minute. "You should follow her orders."

   When he released her, she hesitated for a moment before reluctantly resting back in her chair. Joyce was not unwise enough to push the matter further with such a firm warning from the Hand himself.

   Fiddling endlessly with the seam of her gown, she found it difficult to focus on any of the wanton violence occurring in front of her. Her mind was a whirlwind of anxiety over her friend's condition. She cursed herself for not pushing the matter when Aemma had requested she leave her side in the first place. She should have insisted more forcefully, refused to leave unless she was to be dragged out by white cloaks. Now, she's left on the outside, powerless to fulfill her oath.

   "Ser Criston Cole will now tilt against Ser Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City!"

   Of course had been his name that finally drew her from her own tormenting thoughts.

   She watched as Daemon hefted his lance, her ringlet of hemlock and weirwood leaves bright against the black steel.

   Ser Criston was quite the match for Prince Daemon. The two went against one another for three rounds without unhorsing the other. Despite the ever-present worries for her queen that plagued her, Joyce found herself on the edge of her seat in anticipation, wondering which knight would win.

   The blow finally came on the fourth run, Cole's successful hit sent Daemon off balance, the Prince's armor hooking itself onto the barrier between them. The scraping of metal was all that could be heard as his steed dragged him along until the rail finally ended and Daemon fell to the ground.

   A squire rushed to the Prince's aid but was aggressively shoved aside by an angered Daemon, who drew himself up to his own feet before calling out for his sword.

   "Prince Daemon Targaryen wishes to continue in a contest of arms!"

   Ser Criston dismounted his own horse and was handed his weapon as the two men slowly prowled closer to one another. Joyce's eyes fixed themselves on Dark Sister as Daemon pointed it leeringly at his opponent, the Valyrian steel shimmering ominously in the sun.

   When the two clashed weapons, it was every bit as brutal as the fights before. Joyce could feel the rage radiating from the Prince the longer the fight dragged on. Something about Ser Criston irked Daemon in a way Joyce had yet to have seen. Whether it was his common birth or perhaps even as simple as having bested him, Daemon's fury was palpable.

   It only grew when Dark Sister was knocked from Daemon's hand and he was kicked to the ground. Barely avoiding the swings of Cole's flail, Daemon's fingers wrapped around a broken piece of his shield, using it to defend from a coming blow before tossing it up in the knight's face. It had successfully thrown him off balance, sending him to the ground.

   A sharp kick to the stomach from a risen Daemon was enough to send Ser Criston flat onto his stomach. Thinking the fight was his, Daemon looked out to the crowd cheering on his victory. His battle cry only ramped up the cries of his name by the people. Joyce allowed herself to join in the applause, for, after all, he had been wearing her favor.

   The victory was short-lived when Ser Criston suddenly struck the Prince while his back was turned, sending him into the dirt. A cry of surprise reverberated across the arena at the unexpected move, and Joyce herself felt a sour feeling in her stomach at a move so blatantly dishonorable. Even with the irony of his opponent being Daemon Targaryen himself — who was by no means the example of honor — it was rather telling of Cole's character.

   In a vain attempt to fight back, Daemon drew his dagger, only to have the arm pinned under Ser Criston's metal boot, flail held high and waiting to strike.

   A moment passed when the two knights looked at each other and unheard words were exchanged. Daemon seemed to have realized that he'd lost, and released his blade, yielding to the younger knight.

   Dropping his weapon as well, Ser Criston extended his arm out to his prince, but it was knocked aside in favor of Daemon hauling himself to his own feet.

   His eyes found Joyce's almost immediately, the look of disappointment on his face was clearly evident. Joyce didn't seem to notice Rhaenyra and Laena returning to the railing as Ser Criston approached the box. Her gaze remained stuck on Daemon as he pulled off his helmet, releasing his long silver hair and tucking the helm under his arm.

   Sick with her worry for Aemma and not feeling especially cruel, Joyce only gave him a slight smile and the barest of nods as she continued to clap along with the crowd. It was enough for Daemon, who returned the smallest them in kind before exiting, displeased expression softened, but not unchanged.

   Her attention was drawn back to Rhaenyra, who was returning to her seat only to fetch her favor before turning and heading back to the edge of the box to throw it down to the awaiting Ser Criston.

   "I wish you luck, Ser Criston," Rhaenyra called down to the knight, a hint of a smitten smile on her lips.

   However, whatever thoughts Joyce was having in response to that were shortly ended. For at that moment, Otto had returned — Joyce having not noticed he'd left to begin with — and had begun whispering into the ears of all the members of the Small Council, all of who quickly began taking their leave after.

   Fear lashed at her ribs once again as Joyce stood to her feet, eyes catching hold of her cousin, Princess Rhaenys. She held a sorrowful look in her eye as soon as her husband had whispered in her ear. And when their gazes met, there was a look of pity that made Joyce's stomach drop. Something was wrong.

   Without a word, the Lady Baratheon scooped up the skirt of her gown and rushed out of the box, panicked and determined to return to her queen. She need to discover what might have befallen her during her absence herself, to know if she'd broken her oath after all these years.

   And she had.

   Aemma was gone.

author's note. shout out to the fabulous svperboy for taking the time to beta read for me you are amazing tysm ❤️❤️ edit: i have changed a few things with the story, i replaced laena with alicent as rhaenyra's childhood companion and made alicent the age she was in the book. i kinda want to write the whole stepmother/stepdaughter thing for alicent&rhaenyra so yeah sorry show alicent you're gone