Blood of Dragons

White Harbor roared with life, as the heart of the city was overtaken by a spectacle not seen in years: a grand horse race through its cobbled streets. Organised at the behest of Princess Daena the Defiant herself, the event saw the nobility of North and South alike thundering through snowy lanes, cheered by packed crowds from Fishfoot Yard to the outer alleys. Ten laps were declared through the course, those placing being marked until the overall victor was decided. By the end of it, the very stones of White Harbor rang with hoofbeats and thunderous acclaim.

Snow drifted from a pale sky as the race began, and the riders spilled forth: banners streaming, manes flying, breath misting from steed and rider alike. At their head rode Princess Daena, her courser a shining ghost of white beneath her, her laughter wild and free. The Princess made a sport of the whole affair, darting through the streets. Matching her pace and spirit stride for stride was Lady Kera, daughter to the Lord of White Harbor, who immediately began as the favorite of the smallfolk and northeners alike. From the first lap she proved a rider of formidable composure and talent, and many remarked that they could not have a thought she had such skill, while others noted Borian was a born horseman himself, even if age and fat had begun to reduce his time in the saddle, and had insisted all of his children learn from one of the North’s most famed masters of horses.

In the end, with each round, her grey steed carved out another length of lead, and the cries of “White Harbor!” grew ever louder. Her every move was watched with breathless hope by the crowds that thronged the snow-dusted rooftops and cobbled corners. Not far behind them both, challenging them, was Lady Mariah Flint, daughter of Lord Cregan Stark and Black Aly Blackwood, riding like a storm on the wing. The snow clung to her black cloak and lashes, but her focus never wavered, her black gelding devouring the course with elegant power. By the midpoint, she had firmly claimed the third position, a shadow ever closing on the leaders.

Alongside these peerless women rode men of renown. Ser Jon Roxton, astride a sleek grey courser bred for war and wind alike, proved himself no less fierce in a race than on the battlefield. Ser Otho Royce, now kin-by-marriage to the Manderlys, and Ser Omrys Baratheon, riding his piebald palfrey, showed grit and pride despite the snow’s slippery bite. And amidst them all, Ser Bryar Mooton, steady and good-humored, gave a strong showing that honored his house and kin.

Yet for some, the boldest rider was Lady Buckwell’s lady-in-waiting, Joanna Mooton. The young noblewoman rode with more boldness than skill, soon far outpaced by her betters, yet she was rsolved to complete the race. Yet in the final lap (but one, it would soon transpire), her mare slipped dangerously during the final stretch. The hooves skidded perilously close to the crowd, the mare careening and slipping, in the start of panic that could have ended in tragedy. But she did not fall. A northern lordling caught at the horse’s bridle as it passed, hauling it to a halt with the help of several men with the mailed badge of House Glover of Deepwood Motte on their chests. It transpired that this was Galbart, the heir to Deepwood, with some of his family’s men, and he helped guide her safely across the finish line. Yet when a final lap was declared, Joanna did not take part: frightened, mayhaps, by the experience… but also counselled by the young lord to take the fact that the last lap was more of a lark to heart, and not try her fate.

Round by round, the race unfolded like a storybook: the princess surging, the Manderly girl holding firm, the Wolf’s daughter gaining. By the penultimate rounds, it seemed the women were destined to sweep the field—until that last, surprise eleventh lap of the course was called. It was in that round that the tide turned, if only briefly. The snow deepened, the path turned treacherous, and the southron knights surged. Ser Jon, Ser Otho, and Ser Bryar all seized the moment, their steeds biting into the ground with renewed vigor. For the first time, the women’s lead was broken—Kera and Daena found themselves flanked and matched. Fishfoot Yard rang with astonishment, and for a heartbeat the crowd could not decide whose name to chant.

Kera, eyes burning with resolve, redoubled her pace. Daena, laughing even as her courser slipped, pressed on like the fire made flesh she was born to be. And Mariah, tireless and silent, carved her way forward through sleet and cheer alike. As the finish line drew near, it was these three who rose once more above the fray, but the men challenged them: Jon riding alongside Kera, stride for stride; Daena and Otho locked in their own fierce duel, the Princess flashing grins even as she rode like lightning through the gates; Mariah, still steady, still hunting.

In the end, it was inevitable who would be the victor: “For her unyielding manner, and for prevailing in more rounds than any other, we declare as victor: Lady Kera Manderly!” The square erupted in triumph, the people’s joy as fierce as their Lady’s ride. Second place, fittingly, went to Princess Daena, who bowed with theatrical grace from the saddle.