Jaehaerys watched his opponent lunge forward. Daemon didn't ask if he was ready. His sword traced a fine arc. The sound of steel reverberated across the sand. The staff stopped the blow. The blow was powerful, but it barely moved him.
He had chosen the full staff over the staff divided into three sections. It's not that the staff wasn't lethal, but it was more controllable, which means less chances of killing his nephew. It was a weapon nearly seven feet tall and weighing nearly forty-five pounds. Useless to anyone but him. Its rough surface allowed for a good grip. The black steel glinted with purple specks in the midday sun.
The black-haired man took a step back, and Jaehaerys wasted no time. With one blow of his weapon, he bent the shield in his opponent's hands, who, his eyes wide with surprise, took steps backward while shifting his focus. Now he looked with more respect at the weapon in his hands.
'Fuck' He almost broke Daemon's hand.
The prince of scrolls let his hands run along the staff. He found a small notch.
'Valyrian steel is amazing,' he thought. The weapon had been struck before, but it had never been damaged.
Both men circled each other. The seconds seemed to drag on. Jaehaerys knew that a blow from the sword would be devastating. And his opponent was also afraid of the staff.
"Are you going to run away the whole time?" asked the white-haired prince.
"I could ask you the same thing," the rogue prince replied.
"You're the one who challenged me," he said, looking through Daemon's visor as his eyes hardened at his words.
Daemon approached, made the same strike as before, but changed direction at the last moment. The vertical strike became horizontal.
He took a step back to dodge it. He heard the air buzz as it was cut. He maneuvered his staff to hit him on the shoulder with one of its ends. The blow was dodged, unfortunately for him.
'Should I just throw myself at him?' he wondered. He dismissed the idea immediately. One bad blow and his nephew's brains would be scattered across the ground.
For a moment, he even thought about dropping the staff and punching him. But that would be too humiliating for his nephew.
He threw powerful but slow blows, hoping his nephew would lose his balance while dodging. But Daemon's stance was impeccable.
The duel progressed slowly. The spectators watched from the edge of their seats. It seemed even, but slow. Only the knights knew that one blow would be enough to end it all.
When Jaehaerys took the initiative, his opponent's shield was shattered, leaving him unprotected.
—--
When Daemon moved to dodge a blow, he watched the staff strike the ground. Pieces of earth broke off.
The rogue prince looked at his opponent. He had tried everything, cuts from all angles, feints, and he even hit him with his shield.
Jaehaerys was like a rock. His blows never reached him. It quickly became a duel of attrition, one he was losing. Beads of sweat dripped down his face. He discarded his shield. It was so mangled it was barely useful. His hand was numb from the blows. His uncle struck like Ser Gregor. And Daemon had already defeated the mountain.
It wouldn't be any different now. He looked at his face. The typical Valyrian features, unlike him, who was painted with Northern colors. His uncle's eyes were cold. And a feeling of unease would not leave his chest.
'He's holding back,' he thought.
He wanted to win. No, he needed to win.
Not for Daenerys. The sweet girl no longer looked at him or spoke to him the same way. It hurt to think about it, but she loved his brother, or at least she was starting to. She had begun to read and study with him. Couldn't she see what everyone else saw? Those weren't characteristics a princess should have. At least, they weren't the characteristics he wanted in a wife.
The need to win was only to heal his pride.
He pushed the girl out of his mind. He would deal with her later.
He took the bastard sword in both hands. He had to finish quickly. He lunged, not hastily, but with calculation. His sword struck the staff, sending sparks flying. He didn't strike hard; the recoil would be counterproductive. The steel danced as his uncle covered himself. He tried to aim for the hands holding the staff, but they always managed to dodge him.
'There it is,' throughout the fight, he had noticed a mistake his uncle made. When he raised the staff above his head to strike him, his right foot was on its toes, affecting his balance.
Taking a risk, he slashed at Jaehaerys' left foot, forcing him to move. He watched him fall backwards. 'You're mine,' he thought, striking him again, aiming for his head. He would finish him off.
His uncle's eyes were indifferent.
'Did he let himself fall?' Soon, the sky was in front of the Rogue Prince's eyes.
—--
As he let himself fall, Jaehaerys threw his staff aside, finding his nephew's sword in its path and deflecting it. He braced his hands on the ground as he swept his feet. His nephew's skill was incredible, but insufficient. He knocked his nephew down, grimacing when he hit the steel of the armor.
His nephew fell to the ground. With agility, Jaehaerys got up. With his feet, he picked up his staff and placed it on Daemon's chest.
Everyone remained silent.
"Surrender," he said. Not asking, ordering. He was not happy. Daemon's last blow was intended to split his head open. He had restrained himself; he could have easily broken his legs, but he did not want to be cruel. In this backward world, a broken bone could kill him.
'The stigma of a Kinslayer cannot be washed away,' he thought to calm himself.
He looked at the sword in Daemon's arm. Daemon moved, not to let go, but to launch one last desperate attack.
His leg held the arm in place. He pressed hard a bit more and he would break his arm. Daemon stifled a cry as the armor deformed around his arm.
"Are you so proud? Huh?" he asked. "Will you wish me to break your arms? I've held back long enough. I wouldn't mind honoring your wish," he twisted his foot, causing the rogue prince to grit his teeth.
"I surrender," he said finally.
Jaehaerys stepped back. He turned his back on him, secretly hoping that his nephew would want to play dirty. He gripped his staff tightly. The sun was behind him, so the shadows were cast in front of him. They would warn him if Daemon decided to make one last act of cowardice.
The blow did not come. It seemed that there was some honor left in Daemon.
"He made me sweat a little," he thought. It had been a long time since any opponent had done that.
-----
The crowd's cries were immediate. Everyone looked at Daemon lying on the ground, staring at the sky. His grip on his sword did not loosen. Several minutes passed before he got up on his own.
He walked among the mocking glances. He was not well-liked, only feared for his martial skills.
Apart from his wrist, he was uninjured, except for a few bruises. He had lost, even though his opponent had held back.
He felt terrible. It wasn't just the defeat. It hurt knowing that he had wanted to kill his opponent and that his uncle was holding back. He walked through the castle in his armor. His chambers would be his refuge.
Only when he arrived did he ask for a cold bath, or the closest thing to cold water that could be found. The maids made sure to prepare it. He took off his armor himself.
"I'll bathe myself," he said. His voice cut through the air, and the maids didn't dare to object.
He submerged himself in the water. The cold was welcome to his body. He wondered how cold Winterfell would be, considering that it would be his next destination.
It hurt. Not his body. Daenerys hurt him, not because she had been taken from him, but because she had chosen to leave. It hurt to lose. It hurt that his rival hadn't even fought seriously. He felt anger at the pity his uncle had shown him.
He didn't let the tears fall, even though his eyes stung. The silver whore and her stupid prince of scrolls didn't deserve them. He didn't scream or cry.
He just let the hatred simmer.