New chapter is live.
Settle in, take your time, and let’s see what waits in the dark 🖤 ✦ Erryk was startled by the sudden, swift strike.
He looked up and saw the man he had just seized still sitting comfortably in his chair, a slender silver skewer pinched between his fingers.
“White cloak, I mean no malice,” the man said.
“Only appetite.
I am a poor hungry soul looking for food that suits my taste.” Aelor silently lowered the plate and hid behind Erryk.
That speed marked the man as an expert.
Aelor was too small to risk provoking him directly.
“How generous you are, Prince.” At the sight of the pastries, the man smiled broadly and bowed to Aelor.
He truly did not seem hostile.
Only then did Aelor study his appearance.
Brown curls.
Brown eyes.
A weathered face that still wore a smiling expression.
He was short, a little over five feet tall.
Ordinary men might not have called him tiny, but beside trained knights, he seemed far too small.
Noticing Aelor’s gaze, the man smiled.
“I know who you are, but you do not seem to know who I am.” “Who are you?” “A nobody.” Aelor stared.
His fist tightened.
He felt he had been mocked.
Before he could lose his temper, the man offered back the plate and said softly, “Syril Frell, a wandering swordsman from Braavos.
I would be honored to share food with the prince.” Aelor looked into his eyes.
The man’s dark pupils were calm as still water.
Aelor could not read what lay beneath them.
He glanced back at Erryk.
Erryk gave a slight nod, leaving the decision to him.
They were inside the Red Keep.
No one should be bold enough to assassinate the king’s eldest son in public.
Aelor took one pastry and smiled.
“Then I will share with you, Syril Frell.” Syril’s smile seemed permanent.
“You may call me Syril.
I am no noble, and for now, I find myself without a patron.” “What did you do before?
Your swordsmanship seems excellent.” The man’s skill and his home across the Narrow Sea both interested Aelor.
“We can eat while we talk.” “Exactly what I wanted.” The adult and the child sat again.
The tension from moments before vanished as they spoke over pastries.
In their conversation, Aelor learned Syril’s story.
As a boy, he had been a knight’s page and had learned the sword early.
He was good at it, very good.
Yet his true dream had always been to become an elegant dancer.
He had worked hard for it.
As an adult, a wealthy Braavosi merchant noticed him and hired him as a private dancer.
Syril thought his good days had finally come.
Instead, only a few years later, the merchant was murdered.
Syril had been dancing for him at the time and naturally became a suspect.
To avoid arrest, he had himself smuggled into Westeros.
There, a noble lady took a liking to him and brought him into the Red Keep for the feast.
Aelor listened as if entirely absorbed in the injustice of Syril’s tale.
From time to time, he expressed indignation on the man’s behalf.
Syril ate heartily and sighed over the unfairness of fate.
For a moment, each seemed to have found a kindred spirit in the other.
Of course, that was only how Erryk saw it.
In truth, Aelor appeared to listen seriously while his thoughts complained without pause.
‘A Braavosi dancer with swordsmanship like that, all by chance?
How remarkable.’ Then Aelor looked at Syril again.
‘Height?
Unremarkable.
Looks?
Worse.
Swordsmanship?
Exceptional.’ ‘How blind would a Braavosi merchant have to be to hire this little man as a dancer?
Did he have a very particular taste?’ ‘He lies with a perfectly straight face.
More likely he tricked some foolish noble girl and slipped into the Red Keep for free food.’ Aelor smiled and said nothing, calmly watching him weave nonsense.
After they had talked for a while, the nearby pastries were gone.
Syril stopped with regret.
Then he brought up the tourney outside.
“Prince, the duels are quite lively.
Do you not want to watch?” Aelor shook his head.
“No.
I am still too young to be comfortable with blood.” “That is fair.” Syril smiled.
“But the field is in an uproar.
The king himself is angry.” “Over what?” Aelor frowned, hearing something hidden in the words.
“A Dornishman butchered his opponent and is boasting shamelessly.
He will keep challenging.
The next duel should be starting now.” “Come.
We will see.” Aelor rose at once and hurried toward the field with Erryk.
Syril smiled and followed.
The three reached the dueling ground and found the stands roaring encouragement for one man.
Aelor found a place near the rail and watched.
On the field, a knight in silver-gray armor wielded a longsword in both hands.
Each swing came with fierce force, driving a brown-skinned young man back step by step.
Whenever the greatsword passed close to the Dornishman’s body, the crowd cheered and urged the knight to kill him.
After watching for a moment, Erryk said quietly, “The one with the advantage is Ser Soren Barrott from the Stormlands.
His opponent is the Dornishman, a shameless brute.” Aelor nodded and kept watching.
Soren’s attack was fierce, the kind of approach suited to charging into battle.
His strikes were fast, heavy, and accurate, pressing the Dornishman so hard that there was little room to counter.
The Dornish youth clearly understood the danger.
Using the freedom of light armor, he darted left and right, avoiding every blow.
His spear served as shield as much as weapon, ringing against the sword again and again across the field.
Just as Aelor grew absorbed, Syril said, “This is already decided.
It will not be long before the hunter becomes the hunted.” Aelor looked at him doubtfully.
“Why?
Ser Soren looks strong.” “On a battlefield, perhaps strong enough to face ten men.
But the Dornish boy refuses to engage directly.
He only needs to delay until Soren’s strength drops.” Aelor looked back to the field.
If he watched closely, Soren was indeed beginning to breathe harder with every attack.
His sword no longer came as close to his opponent.
The Dornishman, by contrast, still seemed to have strength left, retreating while taunting.
“Sir knight, if you were on horseback, I would never cross you.
A shame you are standing in the mud with the rest of us.” “Even without a horse,” Soren rasped, “I can take your head.” His tone was scornful, but sweat betrayed him.
Aelor tugged Erryk’s cloak.
“Ser, is Ser Soren truly going to lose?” Erryk’s gaze was grave.
“Hard to say.
The Dornishman is too slippery and will not let Soren close.” “Soren’s armor is heavy,” Syril added at the right moment.
“The longer it drags on, the worse it becomes for him.” “Armor can save a man’s life at the critical moment,” Syril said, “but it also limits the finer movements of the body.” “Across the Narrow Sea, the Dothraki never wear armor.
They believe agility brings victory in battle.” Aelor set his little face in a stern line.
“Keep watching.
I believe in Ser Soren.” Silently, he cheered the storm knight on.
✦ ✦ ✦ Want to keep going?
I hope this chapter gave you another reason to stay with the story.
There’s still plenty ahead, and things are only starting to unfold.