NOVEL NEXT Chapter 13: The First Lesson In Justice
A Grand Welcome for Crowned Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen
Aegon the third POV
The realm is abuzz with excitement. Crowned Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen has returned, and though I've yet to meet her, I've been preoccupied with my equipment, which arrived with my grandfather just yesterday. Today, however, is different. I'm preparing for my first lesson, and my thoughts turn to Ser Criston Cole—a man who embodies arrogance and ambition rather than loyalty. Unlike the other Kingsguard, who carry loyalty in their very aura, Cole is driven by a grudge and a hunger for power. Given the rumors about him and the princess, making him my target was an easy decision.
I intend to make an example of him. The practice of trial by combat—a tool of the nobles to evade justice or dispose of enemies—must be brought to an end. I will show them what true justice looks like, and perhaps instill enough fear to discourage this unjust system.
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Rhaenyra Targaryen's POV
To see a winged man is shocking enough, but an armored Dragon Knight? That is a sight to behold. The design of his armor is magnificent—a black suit with crimson highlights, a vibrant red cape, and a dragon helm topped with a mane of red horsehair. Standing in the arena, he faces none other than Ser Criston Cole, the well-known knight of the Kingsguard.
My gaze shifts to the boy—no older than ten-and-one name days—yet wielding a sword nearly as tall as he is. It's baffling. Why would Daemon and the Velaryons allow someone so young to face Cole? But when I look at them, I see pride in their eyes, as though watching a beloved grandchild perform.
"Watch him closely," Daemon murmurs beside me. "If he takes a liking to you, you might just become the first queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
"What do you mean?" I ask, confused. But Daemon only gestures toward the boy, a vicious smile playing on his lips. "He's performing again today," he adds, as the Hand of the King explains the cause of the duel. I wonder what could have driven this boy to disrespect a renowned knight like Cole. But I suppose we shall soon find out.
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Third Person POV
The arena is packed with nobles and wealthy commoners, all eagerly watching the two combatants. On one side stands Ser Criston Cole, famed for his skill and ruthless demeanor. Opposite him, a mysterious knight clad in black armor with a billowing red cape and a massive sword plunged into the ground before him.
Gasps ripple through the crowd as the knight dramatically sweeps off his cape, revealing enormous, leathery wings that unfurl before retracting behind him. The sight leaves many in the crowd stunned, some whispering about demons, others too shocked to speak. The Hand of the King steps forward, signaling the start of the duel.
Aegon the third POV
Fighting has never been my favorite skill. Taking a life is never something to be relished, but today, I'm here to make a statement. Using Criston Cole as my sacrifice is simply a bonus.
"Let it begin," I declare, raising my sword high above my head and charging straight at him. Cole, ever the seasoned warrior, waits for me to close the distance before sidestepping to flank me. But people tend to forget my most obvious feature—not the wings, but the tail.
As he swings his flail, aiming to end the fight with one strike, he doesn't anticipate the thick slab of muscle that is my tail. It slams into his shield and torso, sending him flying across the arena, crashing near the royal dais where Princess Rhaenyra and her kin are seated. I catch glimpses of new faces—my nephews, or perhaps uncles and cousins. The Targaryen lineage can be rather confusing.
Cole groans, struggling to rise, only to be met with the flat of my sword, snapping his flail in half and throwing him even closer to the royal family. With two quick strides, I close the gap, kicking him square in the helm. His head snaps back, teeth and blood spraying from his mouth as he collapses, unconscious.
Grabbing him by the hair, I lift his limp body, parading his bloodied face for all to see. Silence falls over the crowd as I slowly turn, ensuring every lord and lady witnesses the fallen knight's disgrace. Dragging him back to my sword, I slam it into the ground beside him. Removing my helm, I reveal my horns gleaming in the sunlight, my white hair cascading down—part dragon, part man.
Without hesitation, I raise my sword and sever his arm at the elbow, eliciting a blood-curdling scream from the once-proud knight. "Ladies and lords of the court," I call out, my voice carrying across the arena, "are we not a civilized people? Do we not all bleed the same red? Look at him, whimpering like a child from a mere wound. Is this the justice we uphold?"
The queen and her father are pale with horror, while murmurs ripple through the small council. "These so-called trials by combat leave men maimed or dead, all to protect noble privilege. My king, hear my plea for change. If any maiden's honor is stolen, if any injustice is done, I will be your champion. Send for me, and I will fly to your aid, for I believe in true justice."
The women in the crowd begin to cheer, hope rekindled by my declaration. I turn to the nobles, lifting my sword to the sky, and deliver the words that will echo for years to come:
"Blessed be those who suffer, and cursed be those who think themselves above suffering."
As I lower my sword, my eyes lock onto the Hightowers. The last thing they see before I turn away are my pupils, slitted like a dragon's, promising retribution.
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Daemon's POV
"Quite the performer, isn't he?" I whisper to Rhaenyra, who sits in stunned silence. Her sons, on their feet, repeat Eagon's words with fervor, their eyes shining with admiration. I wonder how he will view them when they finally meet.
With a satisfied grin, I rise and make my way toward my son, the harbinger of a new age of justice and fear.