New chapter is live.
Settle in, take your time, and let’s see what waits in the dark 🖤 ✦ “We shall see.” Syril clasped his hands behind his back, unconcerned.
Events soon proved that a master swordsman’s eye was sharp.
Within five minutes, Soren’s sword slowed dramatically.
He stopped wasting strength on pointless pursuit.
The Dornish youth grinned.
The moment to counterattack had come.
He used the same method he had used against Bart, circling Soren, changing position, keeping distance, and stabbing with the spear.
Soren lifted his sword to defend, but no defense was perfect.
Degar used a vicious feint to lure him into a strike.
At the instant the trap closed, the Dornishman snapped his spear back in a quick triple thrust and put out one of Soren’s eyes.
“Ah!
I yield.
Stop the duel!” Knowing the fight was lost, Soren endured the pain and shouted for an end, his will to continue broken.
Bart’s fate was too terrible.
He did not want to follow him.
With Soren’s surrender, Degar grew even more arrogant.
He strutted and mocked, as if no knight in the realm was worth his notice.
He had come here to humiliate these noble lords.
As for the consequences?
He would not have come if he had no protection.
On the high platform, Viserys stared at the Dornish youth beating his chest below.
His fingers whitened on the arms of his chair.
“Damn Dornishman.
Find a stronger knight and have him cut that wretch down.” He gave the order to Lyonel.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Lyonel did not dare say more.
He went behind the lists in search of a knight who could defeat the Dornishman.
Many men had registered for the tourney.
Degar would not be allowed to enjoy himself for long.
In a corner of the stands, Aelor turned away with an ugly expression.
He had no wish to watch the Dornishman boast like a trained ape.
“Do not be angry,” Syril said easily.
“The Dornish lad has skill, and he is clever enough.
Ordinary fighters will struggle against him.” “I know.
The realm has warriors beyond counting.
That man will lose sooner or later.” Aelor’s voice was firm.
“Yes.
Every powerful fighter has a method of his own.” Syril’s tone shifted.
“If I faced that Dornish lad, the best method would be to show weakness, offer him an opening, let him attack first, then catch him in the counter.” Aelor looked at him strangely.
“What, do you want to enter the field?” “A wandering swordsman does not draw his sword lightly, unless he finds a proper reason to draw it.” Syril’s mouth curved as he looked meaningfully at Aelor.
“And what do you want?
A position in the Red Keep as a dancing master?” Now that the man had revealed his hand, Aelor was not surprised.
Syril dropped to one knee.
“If the prince permits it, I can remain in the Red Keep as a dancing master.” “Why?” “No reason.
I wish it, so I do it.” Aelor raised an eyebrow.
“That answer will not do.
I will not keep a dangerous man in my home without reason.” Syril considered for a moment.
“You are the eldest son of King Viserys the First.
You have royal blood, a lawful claim, and great potential.
Your name and prospects make you worth serving.” “A better answer.
Still not enough sincerity.” Aelor did not trust him.
He warned, “And one more thing.
The heir to the Iron Throne is my sister.
I have no intention of fighting her for that seat, and no one should try to set us against each other.” With that, Aelor turned and left without looking at Syril again.
The man had appeared too suddenly and had approached him deliberately from the start.
Stealing pastries to show unusual skill.
Commenting on the duel to display a sharp eye.
Every move had been meant to show his value.
Unfortunately, he had revealed his purpose too early.
Did he truly think Aelor was a child who understood nothing?
Did he believe a prince only had to stand tall and men would kneel, weep, and offer loyalty?
“Crude methods, dangerous intentions.
If I see Syril again, throw him in the dungeons.” Aelor complained to Erryk as they walked toward Rhaenyra’s place.
“Yes, Prince.” Erryk nodded, though his expression held a trace of hesitation.
Aelor noticed.
“What is it, Ser?” “As the prince said, Syril’s methods were crude.
Too crude, perhaps, for a swordsman of such skill.” Aelor’s eyes sharpened.
“A good swordsman is not always a good scholar.” He said it, but he still paid the matter some attention.
Ever since word of his restored health had spread from who knew where, the winds in King’s Landing had shifted.
The court had gone from urging Princess Rhaenyra to marry to discussing how Aelor had been favored by the white hart, a symbol of kingship.
It would not take long before some lord lost patience and suggested the king set aside Rhaenyra’s rights and name his eldest son heir instead.
From Erryk, Aelor had learned that Viserys had confined him for half a year partly to protect him from too much talk.
The king did not want gossip to poison his judgment or leave him vulnerable to ambitious people.
Aelor had no complaint about that.
He understood his father’s intentions.
Perhaps he was too young.
The title of heir to the Iron Throne did not mean much to him.
Rhaenyra had been heir for years.
Why should he thrust himself into a struggle for something he did not value?
“Hss…
gah…” A strange cry came from far away.
Aelor lifted his head, and his expression changed.
A vast scarlet shape had appeared in the sky, drawing closer above the tourney grounds.
Sharp horns.
A long, serpentine neck.
Broad red wings full of strength.
“A dragon.” Aelor whispered without thinking and stared up at the flying beast.
He was not the only one to notice.
The dragon’s wings sent a powerful gust across the stands.
Hair whipped loose, and people raised their hands against the wind.
Skirts snapped, hats flew, and the field dissolved into chaos.
The crowd cried out and tried to flee the shadow falling over them.
“Quiet!
This is a dragon of House Targaryen.
The king is with you.
Do not panic.
Do not run.” A deep, forceful voice cut through the chaos.
It belonged to a powerful old knight with white hair and beard.
Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Beside him sat the king.
Viserys’s face was calm as he looked at the dragon, composed enough to remind everyone what a king should be.
Seeing him steadied the crowd.
After the first terror passed, reason slowly returned.
Some people finally recognized the dragon.
“That is Caraxes.
Prince Daemon’s dragon.” “It is Caraxes.
I once fought beside Prince Daemon.
I would know him anywhere.” “Look, someone is on the dragon’s back.
Prince Daemon…” At the sound of his name, Caraxes gave an excited roar and spat red flame laced with thick black smoke.
Before countless eyes, the dragon circled the tourney grounds three times.
Only when the figure on his back gave a command did he descend slowly into the dueling field.
As soon as Caraxes landed, he fixed a hungry gaze on the Dornish youth who had been so arrogant moments before.
The dragon stretched out his snake-like neck.
Hot air steamed from his nostrils.
“Honored…
Prince Daemon…” Standing before a dragon that looked ready to eat him, Degar nearly lost his mind.
He backed away, shaking, and stammered a greeting to the man on the dragon’s back.
✦ ✦ ✦ 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.