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Harrys Potter, Tourney Arena – Ashford

“What a fucking disgrace,” Lyonel said, watching as Baelor Targaryen rode toward them.

“You are absolutely right,” Harrys said, lifting his gaze toward the stands—more specifically, toward where his mother was.

His mother’s face remained impassive, but Harrys knew her far too well. He could notice the smallest details—the slight tension in her expression, the way her hands remained still upon her lap.

Lily Potter was worried. That much was evident.

And something inside Harrys told him it was not for him.

But that was not the strangest or most uncomfortable thing—beside his mother stood Gwyn and Daella, one on each side.

Both beautiful, but with very different expressions.

Daella looked toward her father with a frown, before focusing her amethyst gaze on Harrys, winking at him and blowing him a kiss with complete shamelessness, she was confident in his skill.

Gwyn, on the other hand, had her eyes completely fixed on Harrys, and when their gazes met, the beautiful young woman smiled radiantly, though it was more than evident that she was extremely nervous, if the constant movement of her hands was any indication.

“Two admirers, Harrys. Many would say you are a privileged man,” Lyonel said at his side with that characteristic mocking, yet well-intentioned tone.

Harrys rolled his eyes.

“If they knew the amount of stress they cause me, many would not think that way,” he said with amusement, making Lyonel laugh with him.

“You are right, our ladies are important, true, but it is always good to have our little secrets. That island girl is beautiful, pure seduction—I am sure you will keep her even when you inevitably settle down and marry one of those two,” Lyonel said with amusement and his characteristic laugh.

The laughing storm, indeed.

The pleasant conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Prince Baelor, clad in Valarr’s armor.

Harrys frowned.

“That armor suits you as well as a dress suits King Daeron,” Harrys said with complete seriousness, enjoying the slight tension in the prince’s expression.

Beside him, Lyonel burst into laughter, Duncan looked horrified toward Lord Harrys, while the rest of the knights did their best to ignore the uncomfortable moment.

“As eloquent as ever, Harrys, I had missed you, son” said the prince with his characteristic calm, looking him straight in the eyes.

Harrys did not bother to respond. He simply turned around and rode toward where the young Aegon stood, holding two lances and the helmets of both Duncan and himself.

“Your lance, Ser,” said the young prince, making Harrys smile softly as he took it.

“Thanks, brat. Go back to my mother and pay attention, you might learn something,” said the young Lord Potter.

Aegon nodded, though it was clear he was conflicted, as if debating whether or not he should say what was on his mind.

Harrys did not need Legilimency to understand the young prince’s concern.

“Relax, Egg. I will not kill your father nor Daeron,” Harrys said solemnly, intentionally leaving Aerion’s name out.

A small detail that both Baelor and Aegon noticed.

“May the Gods be on your side, Ser,” he said before running toward the stands, just as Baelor began giving a motivational speech to the team. Lyonel rolled his eyes, while the two knights he had brought nodded, almost entranced by the prince’s words.

Harrys paid little attention to the arrogant man’s speech, focusing instead on Duncan and Raymun, who looked terrified, completely pale.

“Hey, you two. Relax. Duncan, remember what I told you about your gauntlet, trust me” he said calmly, striking both on the back in a friendly gesture, trying to steady them.

The result?

Both Duncan and Raymun vomited from nerves, drawing laughter from the other knights and a look of disgust from Harrys.

“What do we do about the King’s Guard?” asked Ser Beesbury, unease evident in his voice.

Baelor simply looked toward Harrys, making the young knight roll his eyes.

“My brother’s orders were clear. The three of them have orders to focus their efforts on Harrys, so—”

At that moment, Harrys interrupted.

“So it would be smart to eliminate one or two of our opponents in the first charge. Fossoway is the weakest—I will have his neck kiss my lance first. Daeron is almost certainly drunk, so I do not think it will be difficult to remove him from the fight. With two enemies less, we can distribute the fighting on foot better,” Harrys said, studying the enemy formation and spacing with cold precision.

“I will take care of my brother,” said Baelor.

“I will take care of the drunk,” said Lyonel, making the prince frown.

“You speak of your prince, Lord Baratheon. Show more respect,” Baelor said with authority.

Against the Laughing Storm?

Completely useless.

“Prince or beggar, a drunk is a drunk, my prince,” said Lord Baratheon with an eye roll, placing his helmet and preparing for battle, the rest following suit.

When Harrys positioned himself before Steffon Fossoway, he lowered his visor and took his lance, ready for the charge.

For a moment, silence ruled the field.

No one spoke.

There was no need.

The tension was overwhelming.

Seconds that felt like an eternity.

And then…

The horn.

And everything around Harrys disappeared.

His entire focus locked onto the fight.

Always alert. Always anticipate your enemy. Always plan four moves ahead.

Those had been the words of Ser Daemon Blackfyre, his master, still echoing in his mind before every fight, the man who had been like a father to him.

He still remembered those times… when Harrys had been squire to the infamous Black Dragon, the training with Aegon and Aemon, letting Alyssane braid his hair, all under the warm and watchful gaze of his master.

Happy times, times that would never return.

Daemon Blackfyre was dead, brought down in a cowardly act, but again… in war there is no honor. The Bloodraven had shown just how far he was willing to go, the Black Dragon was gone, many of his sons dead and others missing.

But that did not matter now.

Harrys refocused on the fight.

Aerion galloped with speed and precision toward a brave but foolish Ser Steffon, who charged at full speed toward him atop his horse.

The impact came—

Both lances shattered into pieces upon collision.

Steffon’s strike hit Harrys directly in the body, at full speed and with all the force of the charge, yet it did not move him even a single inch thanks to the enchantments Harrys had embedded into the metal during its forging.

But Ser Steffon—

The rotten apple of Cider Hall was thrown backward off his horse with a heavy impact that left him stunned for a few moments, as the massacre began around them.

Harrys observed that Beesbury was dead, Ser Willem Wylde’s lance had pierced through his throat and his body had fallen like a sack of potatoes into the dirty mud.

Lyonel had unhorsed Daeron, and Baelor had unhorsed Maekar, only to get off his damned horse and fight on foot.

Stupid arrogant idiot, Harrys thought, as he took his own lance and rode back toward where the idiot Fossoway was still trying to catch his breath.

With complete indifference, Harrys looked down at the now terrified and traitor apple knight.

“No, no, no, wait, wait, I...AGHHHH”

The knight’s words were cut short the moment Harrys, with absolute precision, drove a strike straight through Ser Steffon’s heel.

The cut was extremely precise and carried a single purpose.

To end the warrior’s life of Steffon Fossoway.

After all, there was one thing Harrys despised above all else.

“If there is something I hate more than anything, it is betrayal. Enjoy the rest of your pathetic life… cripple,” Harrys said coldly, as he left the pathetic man on the ground, making sure Arion’s hoof crushed Steffon’s right hand in the process.

The pathetic man whimpered as he tried to stand, only to fall back to the ground, unable to support himself on his own legs.

He would keep his life—

But he would never be a warrior again.

The very thing the arrogant and stupid man had been most proud of.

That was punishment enough, in Harrys’ opinion.

Lord Potter completely forgot about the pathetic Steffon Fossoway and focused on the rest of the fight.

Ser Donnel was fighting Ser Robyn Rhysling, and although it was evident that the Kings guard was the better warrior, the old man was giving him a run for his money.

Baelor and Lyonel were fighting Maekar, who was fully living up to his title—the Anvil.

The Prince of Summerhall fought with ferocity and agility, managing to hold off two experienced warriors like Baelor and Lyonel.

Duncan had been knocked down by Aerion, who was now galloping back toward him, murderous intent and bloodlust more than evident in his gaze.

Harrys watched as Duncan adjusted his new gauntlet with determination, looking nervously as the mad prince approached.

When Aerion reached Duncan, sword in hand and lethal intent in every movement, Duncan did something unthinkable to every Lord present at the tourney.

“RAGHHHH!”

Duncan roared in fury as he drove his fist directly into the skull of the horse that was charging at full speed toward him.

The result?

The gauntlet’s magic activated, stopping the horse with a brutal impact.

The armor protecting the animal crumpled completely, killing it instantly, while the skull shattered into pieces.

Sending Aerion flying like a rag doll several meters into the air as he screamed, clearly terrified, before crashing violently into the mud of the arena.

The sheer force of the impact echoed across the field, a moment of stunned silence spreading before the reactions exploded.

The gasps and shouts from the stands were immediate, as Lords and knights looked at Duncan with both respect and absolute terror, while some Ladies watched him with intrigue… and something close to desire.

Even Duncan looked completely shocked, staring at the gauntlet in disbelief, momentarily distracted from the fight—to Harrys’ annoyance.

“DUNCAN! DON’T GET DISTRACTED AND KILL HIM ALREADY!” Harrys shouted, his voice cutting sharply through the chaos of battle, losing focus of his own fight.

A mistake.

And one that would cost him.

So distracted was the young Lord by Duncan’s feat that he did not notice Ser Rolland Crakehall had killed Ser Hardyng and was charging at full speed from his flank.

“For House Targaryen!” the knight roared as he struck a surprised Harrys with his sword.

The young Potter raised his hand on instinct, his armor receiving the blow, and although the enchantments mitigated all lethal damage, the surprise attack startled Arion, who reared on his hind legs and threw Harrys to the ground.

The impact disoriented him, but old instincts surfaced immediately.

Rolland Crakehall prepared to strike again, the lethality of his movements undeniable.

Realizing the precarious position he was in, the fallen Lord grabbed the first weapon he could find—the abandoned sword of Ser Fossoway.

He rose quickly, without hesitation, preparing his counterattack.

Ser Crakehall raised his lance as he charged toward Harrys—

And the young Potter did not hesitate.

He took the sword in a particular way.

A unique style.

One created by a very particular warrior.

Harrys was completely focused in the moment, skillfully evading the lethal strike of the Kingsguard, only to respond by severing the front leg of the horse.

Causing the knight to collapse disgracefully to the ground, however the fight was not over.

Harrys did not hesitate.

Ser Daemon always said that hesitation and losing focus in battle was the worst mistake a warrior could make.

So...

Calm.

Calculated.

Focused.

He took his stance.

Efficient and lethal, infamous across Westeros.

The Black Guard of House Blackfyre.

Harrys watched as the knight hesitated, his hand trembling slightly as he looked at him.

“You wanted to play, you fool? you took the life of a good man thanks to your prince's stupidity, Then let’s play,” he spat, launching himself with ferocity and lethal intent toward the knight.

The gloves were off.

House Targaryen wanted a fight.

Then a fight they would have.

Maekar Targaryen, Tourney Arena – Ashford.

Maekar roared in fury as he kicked the idiot Baratheon, sending him to the ground, while delivering a devastating blow with his mace to the head of an enemy behind him with all his strength, without even realizing who it was.

He didn’t have time for this. Aerion needed him.

“Aerion!!” he shouted out of his mind, as he began running toward where his son was, who was being held by the giant knight with a single hand, only to be slammed against the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Ser Donnel fought against the Fossoway boy and Ser Rhysling with skill, keeping both at bay, fully focused on his fight.

Steffon Fossoway had been neutralized at the hands of Harrys Potter, and his son Daeron was nowhere to be seen, which filled him with concern.

But that didn’t matter. Ser Duncan had taken Aerion in his hands again only to slam him once more, this time against the wooden defenses of the arena.

Both were a mess, covered in filth and blood. Aerion was having trouble with the commoner.

“My son! My son!” he shouted, running to aid his boy.

However, before reaching them, a disturbing scene caught his attention.

The stands gasped loudly, as shouts and murmurs began to spread throughout the place.

Maekar lifted his agitated gaze toward the stands, seeing that all the attention of the Lords and Ladies was focused on a particular point in the arena.

Maekar did the same, freezing at what his eyes beheld.

Harrys Potter, in his black armor, wielding a sword with a mastery that Maekar had not seen in many years.

Since the Battle of Red grass Field.

It was like seeing Daemon Blackfyre return from the grave—the same movements, the same precision, and the same lethality.

Ser Crakehall was lost.

The Kingsguard made three attacks with his sword, precise and skillful cuts that, against a common knight, would have been more than effective.

Against Harrys Potter?

They were nothing more than the opportunity he needed to end the fight.

Harrys waited for the right moment, and the instant the third strike failed and left Ser Crakehall’s shoulder exposed, he attacked with the lethality and ferocity of a dragon.

A lateral movement, the sword at the precise angle, and a lethal thrust entering through Ser Willem’s armpit.

And the fight was over.

The blade emerged from the Kingsguard’s body stained with the bright crimson characteristic of blood, as the knight collapsed at Harrys Potter’s feet, his normally immaculate white cloak now stained with mud and blood.

“An eye for an eye, fucker” Lord Harrys spat, before fixing his gaze directly on Maekar.

For a few moments, neither said anything, both evaluating each other—skilled warriors, considering whether they were willing to cross the line.

Maekar did not hesitate. His son needed him, and if Harrys Potter wanted to stand between him and Aerion…

So be it.

Harrys, for his part, released the sword stained with the fallen knight’s blood and simply picked up his lance, taking a counterattack stance. Harrys was in no hurry; from what it seemed, Duncan was giving Aerion the beating of his life.

Both rivals looked at each other for a moment. Maekar seemed like a caged dragon, evaluating his final obstacle before going to aid his son.

“All this for a fucking hedge knight? A nobody?” the Prince of Summerhall spat.

Harrys did not yield, but responded with the same acidic tone.

“All this for a simple play? For a paper dragon and a puppeteer?”

The prince did not respond. He knew perfectly well that Harrys was right.

This whole fucking circus of blood could have been avoided easily, but Targaryen pride had to be avenged.

And people—good people—had died on both fucking sides.

The moment broke at the sound of Aerion’s scream. Duncan had driven his sword into his leg, and the prince had fallen to the ground.

And seeing his son on the ground…

Made the dragon inside Maekar awaken.

“AERION!!!” he shouted in desperation, and with a roar more beast than man, he hurled himself with ferocity toward Harrys, who awaited him with determination.

This was only just beginning. His son—his little Aerion, son of his beloved Dyanna—needed him.

And he would go through anyone, one way or another.