Chapter six          𓃦          The tourney

                    The Tourney of 129 AC was the last tourney King Viserys, first of his name, ever organised. He didn't have the opportunity to enjoy it from the royal box, he rather stayed (was forced by the Hand and the Maesters) to remain in his chambers to rest. In the early morning, Rhaenyra and her family returned to what was once her home, bringing uneasiness in the Green side of the royal family. Despite the obvious tension, Daenys welcomed her older half-sister with open arms.

A sigh spilled from Rhaenyra's lips in a sign of content when Daenys held her arms around her, careful not to press her front on the growing baby bump underneath the cloak of Targaryen colours, "Nyke emagon missed ao terribly." (I have missed you terribly)

"Keskydoso, mandia," (likewise, sister) came the reply from the oldest Targaryen sibling, ring covered fingers squeezing the back of the Stark coloured dress her youngest sister wore before pulling back. Cold rings gently clashed with the warm cheeks of Daenys, "congratulations on the babes."

"Likewise," she smiled gently, sides reaching her eyes when Rhaenyra's youngest giggled in the lady in waiting's arms, "I do hope your labour goes well. Whenever it happens."

Rhaenyra smiled – gently, sweetly, reserved for her family only, "thank you, byka zaldrīzes." (little dragon)

Though love came easy for Rhaenyra, uneasiness was what she felt around her husband. A terrible feeling approaching in the near future, dreams and fates enclosing her mind like the plague. Daenys swallowed harshly, fingers reaching for her ring, "kēpus." (uncle)

"Niece," Daemon nodded and Daenys bit her tongue. All these years past and he still believed she was unworthy of the Valyrian language; that she still held too much of that viper Hightower blood.

"Uhm," Daenys straightened herself in hopes to not show her distress, "father is in his chambers. If you wish to visit him."

Rhaenyra nodded, fingers clasped around her wrist, "I saw the banners outside and the knights."

Her brows furrowed with a small shake of her head, "father wished to organise a tourney for Daella and Jon. I told him it's not necessary but you know father."

"I do, at least," Daemon hummed in vain, moving pass his niece, coldness washing over her; I do know him more than you ever will, he wanted to say.

The doors cracked open and he disappeared within the hallways, a nervous Lucerys padding after him like a scared duckling, the ladies following close behind. Daenys watched her nephew walk pass her nervously, fingers achingly tugging themselves together. Still, the thought of her words lingered in the back of his mind: I will have your eye, Lucerys, for what you did to my brother. But time passed and she changed. He didn't know that.

"Sodjisto," stepped forward her oldest nephew, a proud voice, something he learnt from his mother, no doubt, "Ziry iksos sȳz naejot ūndegon ao aril." (aunt, it is good to see you again)

Daenys smiled but her lips never reached her eyes, the dreadful thought of being around Daemon clasping her mind like a nightmare, "Ao hae sȳrī, nephew. Aōha valyrīha jiōraton sȳrkta hen se mōrī jēda nyke ūndan ao." (You as well, nephew. Your Valyrian got better from the last time I saw you)

Jacaerys smiled, chuckling through his nose, "Nyke istan nykeā riñnykeā arlī pār." (I was a child back then)

So was I, she wanted to argue back but decided to simply nod her head, "that you were."

                   The Queen's chambers were greater than she remembered from her first few years of living in the Keep. Her mother moved them across the building to the sunnier side, allowing the warmness to eclose around the usually barely lit chambers. Inside sat the green side of the family. Otto, the Hand, rested his hand on the table, fingers tapping against the wood, thinking. Near the fireplace sat her twin, eye watching the fire crackle, humming to whatever his mother was saying. Daenys didn't hear much, too focused on Jon laying on the green covers of his grandmother's bed. The older of the twins grew attached to his mother quickly, not being able to sleep without her presence.

"Are you listening?" rang her grandfather's voice.

Daenys stopped slowly drawing figures on Jon's belly to calm him. She looked from her son to her family, "apologies, I was distracted."

"You always are," her oldest brother chuckled, lips against the edge of the cup of Dornish red before gulping the liquid in one sip.

"Aegon," hissed their mother, grabbing the cup from his hands and slamming it on the table, "there is no time for your jests."

He clicked his tongue, hands finding the edges of the table, gripping to not explode. Jon giggled when his aunt Helaena allowed one of her bugs to scratch itself across his belly. Naturally, Daenys removed her hand from his belly, not sharing the same interests in bugs like her sister. Turning slightly to face her family, she spoke again, "what were you saying, grandsire?"

"Why did you bring those bastards with you?" Otto asked again, calmly as she remembered him.

Suddenly she felt small at everyone's eyes on her; even Helaena's. Naturally, fingers ached and twisted the ring, "they're my lord husband's brothers. I thought it was appropriate."

"Appropriate," Otto scoffed quietly, shaking his head, "if we are not already swarmed with the plain featured sons of Rhaenyra, you must bring some from the North as well. Not to mention; sending one of them with our Grand Maester."

"Robb is a good child."

"Robb is a bastard," he pressed again, "nothing more, nothing less. I do not care if he is Rickard Stark reincarnated, he is a bastard. Do not allow him with Orwylle again."

He feared it, she thought, he feared this scenario and now that she gave him hope, she has to take it away from him again. Daenys nodded, looking back down at Jon, his fingers reaching for his mother's fingers. She offered him her pinky, "understood. I shall tell him."

Jon reached for the edge of her sleeve – dark green. Once again, she was inside the webs of the Hightower side of her family. Alicent ran her hands across her face, moving up and down her chambers, "and one of them is in the tourney."

Daenys' brows furrowed and she looked at her mother, "Theon is in the tourney?"

"He fights for House Stark," her mother replied bitterly, stopping her pacing when Aemond gently grasped her wrist to calm her nerves, his eye still watching the fire, "your husband must have permitted it. Otherwise he wouldn't be able to fight in Stark's name."

Daenys shook her head, "then it was my lord husband's doing, not mine. If you think about taking Theon off the tourney, speak to Cregan, not me. I had no saying in it."

"But you would allow it," Otto bit back again like a snake bites its prey, "would you not?"

She bit her tongue again, too harshly, letting blood prickle inside her mouth, "Theon is a good fighter. An honourable one as well. He fights with the men back in Winterfell. If he wished to attend the tourney, he should."

Alicent groaned in her hand that wasn't held by Aemond. He whispered against her arm gently to calm her. Her youngest daughter wasn't aware of the distress their mother was in recently. She couldn't – nobody replied to her letters, even when she was pleading for an answer. Sensing, she said something wrong, she turned back to the baby on the bed, fingers wriggling across his belly, causing him to let small giggles, fists pushing against his lips.

"Now you will say your servants are bastards as well," Otto scoffed once more but when the reply didn't come from her, he looked at her, "are they?"

"Not all," she shook her head, eyes finding comfort in Jon.

Alicent looked away from Aemond's hand clasped around her wrist to look at Daenys on her bed, "the girl that held the babes?"

"She came from Dorne," her daughter replied, not looking from her son, "a Sand."

Both Otto and Alicent sighed in defeat, her mother mutter, "Seven help me."

"If she is good, why should her birth determine her worth?" Daenys asked, helplessly, "she is a good girl, she helps me more than any of those vapid ladies do, who look at me like a monster. She is good."

Aegon snickered something again, both grandfather and mother screamed his name out. Otto continued, "if I must remind you of the servant girl, boy."

With those words, he shrunk again. Not from embarrassment or feeling bad for his actions but because his grandfather was pushing the wine goblet further away from him. Daenys' brows furrowed again, "what servant girl?"

The chambers grew silent; only Jon's soft breaths. She pressed again, "what servant girl?"

"Go on, Aegon," their mother spoke bitterly, "tell her. Since you are all so grown now."

Aegon stared at his mother, daggers buried deep inside her flesh. He didn't speak, reaching out for the wine again, Otto pushing it further away. Aegon cracked. He pushed the chair back, tilting it back. He grabbed the goblet and Daenys took Jon in his arms. The glass shattered against the wall behind Otto and near the bed where his sisters and nephew sat. Jon cried out at the cracked glass on the floor by his mother's feet. Otto, used to his grandson's rage fits, didn't flinch when the glass almost hit his head. His mother, used to his rage fits, still flinched, hands clasping her mouth when Aemond stood from the chair as it to shield him even when he knew Aegon wouldn't dare to throw it in anyone. Aegon breathed heavily before flinging the doors opened and slamming them behind.

Helaena pushed herself further on the bed to help the stressed Daenys with the crying Jon in her arms, trying to calm him. Silence washed over them again, only Jon's cries heard. Knowing no one will answer her, Aemond spoke when their mother sighed, sitting on the chair that was once occupied by him, "a servant girl was seen fleeing his chambers. Mother gave her moon tea and some money to keep her quiet."

"What?" Daenys asked – hopelessly, tiredly. She knew of him sneaking out of the Keep to find a moment of bliss in the pleasure houses. She knew of the possible silver haired children roaming the Flea Bottom. But she wasn't aware of what he did in their home.

Before anyone could speak, Daenys shook her head, "he raped her? He raped a girl and all you did was give her moon tea and money to keep her quiet?"

Eyes were on her again. Alicent shook her head slightly in disbelief, "what was I supposed to do?"

"We send people like that to the Wall in Winterfell," she muttered, looking down as she still rocked Jon in her arms, "I believe you should start thinking of doing the same here."

"Hush, girl," Otto spoke; the calmness washed away, replaced by sternness, "he is the Heir."

"And now we leave bad people alone just because of our titles?" she spoke again, bitterly, nervously.

As if Jon sensed his mother's discomfort, his tears kept flowing. Alicent looked at the fireplace, chin tucked away by her hand. Just as Daenys stood to leave, her grandsire bit again, "perhaps the princess should worry about her own kin."

She bit back her words, swallowing her pride as she moved quickly to the doors and letting them slam behind her. Ser Criston nodded his head, "princess."

"What is the servant girls name?" Daenys asked with tears in her eyes, fingers clasping Jon's back, "the one that was fleeing Aegon's chambers?"

If he was surprised to know she was aware of the incident, he didn't show it, "Dyana, my princess."

Daenys nodded, shifting Jon in her arms, "and where can I find her?"

"My princess, I do not think it is wise to-"

"Just answer my question, Ser," she bit back irritable.

Criston poked the side of his cheek. He watched her grow up, he reminded himself, he is aware of her personality, "if she is not with princess Helaena's children, she is in the kitchen, my princess."

Daenys nodded and just as she was to move, she turned to face him but not meeting his eyes, rather staring at his hand on the hilt of the sword, "I apologize for my harsh reaction, Ser Criston. It was not my intention."

"I know, princess," he nodded, "do not fret, I'm not holding it against you."

Daenys nodded her head again before disappearing in the long hallways of the Red Keep. The ladies turned their heads when her shoes – dark green like her dress – clicked against the floor. They wore pity in their eyes, she sees it, she isn't blind: Jon is crying, screaming bloody murder in her arms, tears filling her own eyes. She moved quickly as the wind up the staircase and towards her chambers. Outside stood Ser Harrold Westerling; a man that was once a close knight to her older sister Rhaenyra.

His usually stern gaze seemed to falter whenever he was around the Targaryen princess', replaced by a primal father care, "princess? Are you alright?"

"Quite well, thank you, Ser Harrold," she sniffed, lying through her teeth, "is my lord husband inside?"

"No, my princess, he has left with his brother," he replied, shifting on his feet, Jon continued to cry, "princess, if there is anything I can do..."

"Robb? Aranna? Where are they?" she continued to ask, the discomfort and pain tearing apart any sense of calmness, rocking Jon to calm him.

"Lord Robb is with Grand Maester, princess," Ser Harrold replied, wishing to give his comfort to the girl, "and Aranna was with the princess Daella in the gardens. Grand Maester advised it."

"Find Robb and tell him to remove himself from Maester Orwylle and go to his chambers," she started, moments of Jon's crying, mixed with her own tore her apart slowly, "please, Jon – and send for Aranna and Daella, send them back. And, if you find my lord husband in the meantime, tell him to come back."

Ser Harrold nodded his head, "princess."

Just as he was to move, Daenys wrapped her fingers around his wrist, "thank you, Ser Harrold."

The man twisted his wrist to squeeze her fingers with his own, "it's no issue, princess," before disappearing in the hallway.

Daenys pushed the doors open and slammed them behind. She rocked Jon, sniffling, crying, "dear Seven, why are you crying, byka zokla? (little wolf) Please, Jon, please, I cann – I cannot take it, please."

He felt it: he was aware of his mother's discomfort but he was a babe that didn't know better. His mother was crying, making him cry with her. Daenys placed Jon in the crib by the end of her bed before her fingers clasped around the collar of the dark green gown, tearing the fabric apart, chest heaving, trying to regain her regular breathing. Her hand slid under the torn fabric, shaky fingers clasped across the sweaty skin of her chest, the pain coming across. Daenys leaned on the palm of her hand on the edge of the bed, trying to find her pattern of breathing.

The doors opened, heavy boots clicking on the floor. Without looking up, she knew it was Cregan. She'd recognize him everywhere – in reality, in dreams, in visions. She'd recognize him in another life, in a completely different timeline. His fingers curled around her waist, soft whispers, "hey, hey, hey, Dany – Dany, look at me, hey, I'm here."

Jon continued to cry when his mother slid on the floor by the bed; breathless, shaking, crying. Cregan was right there with her, fingers clasping the hand on her chest, slowly moving it in comforting motions across her heart, whispering gentle words, "Dany, look at me, come on, love, it's alright."

"I cannot breathe," she wheezed out, shaking her head.

Cregan looked over the bed quickly before calling over his shoulder, "Trevas!"

Trevas – ever the loyal man of Cregan – followed the Starks to King's Landing on his horse, arriving a day after, holding the Stark banners high and proud. In moments like these, Cregan was happy to have him here. Trevas rushed in the chambers, heavy boots clicking, his sword hitting his thigh with every step he took, "what? Gods-"

"Open the balcony!" Cregan called over his shoulder again when Daenys turned her back on the bed's edge.

Trevas quickly walked pass the bed and the crying Jon in the crib, grabbing the balcony doors and swinging them open widely. He pushed the curtains over the doors, allowing the wind to blow inside. On the other side of the bed, Cregan continued to whisper, "in through your nose, out through the mouth, yeah? You are doing so good, Dany, come on, just like that, yes."

Her head fell back against the bed, shutting her eyes to prevent herself from becoming dizzy. She did as he asked her to while he continued to hold her hand, gently tracing it across the exposed skin of her chest. Cregan kept talking to her softly, "you are doing so good, Dany, really."

Without hesitation, Trevas picked Jon gently in his arms, moving across the chambers and out on the balcony, trying to calm him and far from Daenys who tried to calm herself down. Cregan was beyond thankful for Trevas.

"Get the dress off me," Daenys begged through sob, "I cann – I cannot."

Questions formed in his mind but he didn't care about them just get. He released her hand, fingers gently tugging the buttons and ribbons apart until the dress slid off her shoulders. He helped her scoop up to pull the dress down her legs. While he stood to bring her another dress, Daenys pushed the shoes off, letting them fall far from her aching body. Blood still pooled in her underwear, leaving small marks on the floor beneath her. When Cregan returned, her helped her slide on a dress she made a few moons ago: Stark colours, dragons sewed on the shoulder parts. He sat down next to her again and she pushed her face in the skin of his neck. She wished to bury herself deep inside him, in his ribcage, close to his heart and stay there forever.

His arm wrapped around her, fingers squeezing the exposed skin of her arms. He whispered gently as always, "better?"

She nodded her head in his neck – ashamed. He squeezed her arm again. She was alright.

                   Despite the last-minute organisation of the Tourney, grand Houses visited the capitol – Baratheon's, Lannister's, Greyjoy's, even House Arryn. The Dragon and the Wolf were the last to attend the royal box, missing half of the speech the Hand gave the visitors and competitors, the paper given to him by the King. With a hand on her aching belly, Daenys moved to the two last free seats – first row; reserved for her and her husband, next to Rhaenyra and an empty chair where Daemon was supposed to sit. Cregan held her left elbow to help her take a step to the chairs. She thanked him with a squeeze of his fingers before she planted herself on the brown chair. She pushed the pillow on her lower back, teeth biting her lower lip in the process.

"Would ziry daor sagon sȳrkta naejot rest?" came a whisper from her right, from Rhaenyra (would it not be better to rest?)

With a small but grateful smile, Daenys shook her head, "Nyke olvie sȳrī. Besides, nyke jeldan naejot ūndegon issa sȳz lēkia isse se tourney." (I am quite well. Besides, I wished to see my good brother in the tourney.)

The horses moved across the tourney ground, ten black pellets on scarlet shinned in the warm day of King's Landing. Daenys' brows furrowed at the familiar coat of arms. She leaned on her left to Cregan, mumbling, "I hope Theon is good enough."

Cregan turned his head away from the Stark coat and to his wife, "why?"

"I believe Ser Criston is participating," she whispered back like a secret, "the Cole's coat is on his armour. And he has the Morningstar. That is Ser Criston."

She could hear him sigh, nervous glances down at the ground. It wasn't her intention to make him nervous of doubt his brother's ability in winning this tourney but they both knew about Ser Criston's shared feeling with her mother about bastards. And this bastard now proudly wore the colours of House Stark, fighting in its name. Daenys squeezed his aching hand, "it will be alright. Theon is capable of this."

Feet padded on the balcony as the first two started the tourney – the knight of House Mallister decides to take it upon the knight of House Lefford – and soon Robb moved across. Otto was the first to beam, "the box is only for the family, boy."

"Well, he is my brother, lord Hightower," Cregan replied with no missing beat, "and I shall worry about my own kin."

His words to his granddaughter came haunting him. Otto poked the side of his cheek, flames to burst from his nose. Daenys smiled at Robb who already nervously picked on his fingers. He lowered himself to Cregan, whispering, "I can leave – if – if the Hand does not want me here."

"I want you here," came the replies at the same time from Cregan and Daenys.

"Come here," Daenys whispered gently, pulling the pillow from her lower back and placing it on the floor by her feet, no seats available no more.

Robb glanced up at the angry Otto and Alicent before quickly lowering his gaze and sitting by Daenys' feet. She gently brushed the brown mop of curls on his hair. The realization slowly creeped up the Queen's spine – her beloved daughter was lost.

Robb leaned in her touch, forehead tilted back to look up at her while the swords crashed down on the ground and people gasped, "are you alright?"

Daenys nodded without a moment passing, "quite fine, thank you."

His eyes squint, "you look nervous."

She shrugged her shoulders and Cregan's fingers slithered to her free hand, "just worried for Theon."

The knight of House Mallister won, earning the cheers of the public; a favourite in their eyes, the stories of his victories known to many. Daenys squeezed Cregan's fingers when they started twitching, watching Theon from where he stood by the side – the helmet prompted on his hip, the Stark's crest on his chest. Cregan wondered if his father is cursing him from his afterlife for allowing his bastard son to proudly wear the Stark's sigil and fight in their name. House Lannister loses its knight in the next round, his body pulled from the ground, a trail of blood following. Daenys' stomach twisted at the sight, lunch forcing itself up, only being held down by her will. Robb turned his head from it, eyes darting everywhere – Rhaenyra's legs by his side, the floor covered in dirt, Helaena's leg bouncing in a nervous act.

Gwayne Hightower – unaware of the sudden turbulence between his niece and sister – rides his horse up to the royal balcony, "if I may ask for my niece's favour?"

Daenys smiles down at her uncle. Cregan squeezes her hand once more before she moves around Robb on the floor to take the flower bracelet from the side table. In the early morning, her sister Helaena made some alongside some servants. She wrapped her fingers around the crown decorated with winter rose, brought to the court when the Starks arrived. Daenys moved pass the family and to the front of the royal box, letting the bracelet fall down, caught by Gwayne's lance. She smiled brightly down at her uncle, fingers clasped around the railing, "I do wish you luck, uncle."

"Thank you, niece," he replied with the same smile before hoisting his horse back and away from the balcony and the people's cheers.

With Daenys' favour, Gwayne Hightower defeated Lord Boremund Baratheon. His niece clapped with a smile when the man was dragged off the tourney ground, his sword long discarded by Gwayne. Ser Criston rode to the balcony, asking for the favour from Helaena who threw the flower crown to him with a beaming smile. Her favour helped him as well, Ser Borros Baratheon falling in the joust. Cregan's fingers slithered around Daenys' once more when Gwayne fell in a joust against Ser Criston in the next round. Both mother and daughters gasped from their seats on the balcony – one for her brother, the other two for their uncle. Aemond showed no emotion; he never truly did, while Aegon shook his head, dreadfully wishing to have wine in his hands.

Ser Criston Cole chose to fight Theon Snow – a scenario all three on the royal balcony expected. Daenys glanced back at her mother and grandsire: both pleased to know Ser Criston is about to deal with the Northern bastard. Theon rode up to the royal balcony; still mad Gwayne took Daenys' favour, "if I may humbly ask for princess Rhaenyra's favour? I truly believe your favour can help me, princess."

If shocked by his request, Rhaenyra didn't show it. She slowly nodded and pulled herself from her seat as Robb moved his knees up to his chest to let her pass freely, a hand on her belly. Theon didn't want to look up at his family, a dreadful feeling it may be the last time he sees them. Still, he looked up – Robb's big eyes staring down in fear, Daenys' fingers circling her husband's skin on his hands and Cregan watching him. Despite what he says or does, Cregan cared deeply for Theon; always has and always will. Between them all, he was the most nervous as he watched Rhaenyra lowering the bracelet to Theon's white lance, wishing him luck. Theon rode off to the ground without looking back at his family. It was for the better, he thought – before they know it, his skull could be split open by Criston's Morningstar, skin of his face shattered across the tourney's ground.

And while Ser Criston pushed the helmet on the front of his face, fingers twisting the Morningstar, he half expected that the bastard will use some poor excuse of a sword, something he probably stole in Winterfell. But to his demise, Theon brought the Stark's ancestral Ice; dark and smoky with deep rippling. Aemond shifted in his seat, head pushed up and forward to see it from the second row of chairs he sat in, his one remaining eye trained on the sword that was half Theon's height.

Daenys turned her head to the side to Cregan whose eyes never met hers, rather focused on his brother, "you let him take Ice? Since when can Theon use Ice?"

"Since he took it from our chambers in Winterfell and brought it here," he explained, voice strangled with sudden anger, "he wanted to swoon the ladies in King's Landing. Or Flee Bottom, for that matter."

Ser Harrold Westerling's boots clicked on the floor as he ascended the royal balcony from the back. Crouching down near Daenys' chair, he whispered, "my princess, prince Jon cannot find sleep. Aranna has tried everything but the boy will not stop fussing."

Ser Criston swung the Morningstar and Cregan sucked in a breath when it hit just pass his brother's foot. Daenys looked at the Kingsguard, "is he ill?"

Another swing and another dodge of Theon before he almost lost the grip on Ice and the audience beamed. Ser Harrold shook his head, "he is well, princess, but Aranna seems to think he missed his mother's presence."

Aegon laughed quietly behind his hand when Theon fell on the ground, head almost crashed with the Morningstar. Cregan squeezed her hand. Daenys' eyes flickered from the tourney ground and to Ser Harrold; she'll either be here to see Theon be slaughtered for the crowd's laughter or she'll be in the chambers, soothing her children, expecting for Cregan to return and start organising a true Stark funeral for his brother. She chose the latter.

She pressed a kiss on Cregan's cheek – her husband far too scared for his brother to even notice Ser Harrold was already helping his wife stand and move pass Robb on the floor. Cregan looked up at her with pleading eyes, fingers squeezing hers – do not go, do not leave, do not allow me to see this alone. Daenys squeezed his fingers and whispered, "the children need me. And Theon will win. He will not get hurt."

But her mind was, of course, telling her different. So, as Daenys walked off the royal balcony and away from the shouting crowd and the scatters of Ice and Morningstar below, she prayed to the Seven to show mercy to both Ser Criston and Theon and for the Stranger to not visit the Keep just yet.