Chapter 87: A Dance of Sea and Fire
"Since it's an invitation from the Sealord's son, I naturally can't refuse. However, this gift of yours is indeed a bit too valuable," Prince Rhaegar Targaryen said.
The large purple sailboat, crafted from gold and adorned with jewels and pearls, was exquisitely made. Anyone could tell it was a cherished possession of Young Master Fergo Antaryon. Braavos had risen to prominence through its famous purple dye, made from sea snails, and through its unmatched seafaring power.
Rhaegar would not normally be cautious with an ordinary Sealord's son, but Fergo's family was different. The Antaryon and Freyga families were not newly elevated houses chosen after years of incense-burning and political maneuvering—they were ancient noble bloodlines of Braavos. Fergo himself was widely regarded as the future Sealord of Braavos.
"It's no matter. Even if I lose to the Prince, I'll do so willingly," Fergo laughed heartily. "However, I am a few years older than you, Prince Rhaegar. If I happen to win, please don't say I bullied the younger."
"How can a duel between the Sealord of Braavos's son and the Silver Prince of House Targaryen not have a wager?" Lord Tyrell of Highgarden said with a laugh, stepping forward with his son Ser Mace Tyrell. He gestured, and a magnificent golden cup was brought forth.
Ser Mace looked tall and robust, dressed in dark green velvet embroidered with golden roses. Though handsome, Rhaegar privately felt the young knight lacked sharpness of mind and posed little threat in true combat.
The golden cup stood three feet tall, cast with eight facets, each inlaid with countless jewels. Two exquisitely worked handles curved outward from its sides.
"The eight facets represent the eight great kingdoms that bent the knee to His Grace King Jaehaerys II Targaryen," Lord Tyrell announced. Each facet bore a sigil: a ruby lion, an emerald rose, an onyx stag, a silver trout, a sapphire falcon, an opal sun, a pearl direwolf, and a yellow jade kraken.
"I shall drink from this cup with Young Master Fergo first," Rhaegar said with a smile. "Otherwise, if I lose, I won't even get to admire such a splendid golden cup and sailboat."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Lords and ladies eagerly placed wagers. The nobles of King's Landing naturally favored Prince Rhaegar, while envoys from the Free Cities showed greater diversity in their bets.
The Braavosi delegation and representatives of the Secret City wagered heavily on Fergo—gold, jewels, jade pendants, and bolts of Braavosi purple silk piled high.
A richly dressed Tyroshi noblewoman with blue-green hair smiled faintly as she placed a golden Tyroshi statue on Rhaegar's side, completely ignoring her brother's scowl as he wagered against her.
Lyanna Stark stepped forward and placed a finely crafted silver direwolf among Rhaegar's wagers. She glanced sideways and said, "Robert, where's your stag? Don't tell me you came unprepared."
Robert Baratheon grumbled before pulling a golden crowned stag from his pouch and tossing it onto the pile.
King Jaehaerys II personally poured golden wine into the great cup, then handed ruby goblets to the two young men.
After a formal toast, Rhaegar and Fergo walked toward the dueling grounds.
The knightly tournament halted completely. From the high stands to the crowded streets of King's Landing, excitement surged. Even seasoned knights abandoned their matches to secure a good view.
This was no ordinary duel—it was a meeting of sea and dragonfire, of Braavos and Westeros.
The master of ceremonies cried out, "Next—Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the Silver Prince of the Dragonlords, and Young Master Fergo Antaryon, son of the Sealord of Braavos, shall present a duel of blades!"
The two dismounted and faced one another on level ground.
Both wielded silver blunted swords, their tips dotted with metal studs and coated in red dye to mark true strikes. Fergo's blade was slender, shaped like a Braavosi water dancer's sword, while Rhaegar's was broader and heavier.
Steel flashed.
Fergo's swordsmanship was exquisite—thrusts and slashes flowed seamlessly, flexible yet ruthless. His style bore traces of countless schools, refined through years of relentless training.
The Sealord's son had been taught by Braavos's finest: the First Swords, exiled Westerosi knights, Myrish duelists, and mercenaries from the Dothraki Sea.
"You're stronger than I expected," Rhaegar said between exchanges.
"And you, Prince," Fergo replied, eyes sharp with astonishment.
The tempo quickened. Fergo's blade struck like a crimson viper, swift and lethal, aiming for vital points. Sweat gleamed on Rhaegar's silver hair as he parried, countered, and pressed forward.
The two seemed to dissolve into motion—silver light clashing again and again, sparks and red marks blooming across armor and skin.
Sea and fire danced together.
"Go, Prince Rhaegar!" a Tyroshi girl cried out.
"Go, Rhaegar!" Lyanna Stark shouted, fists clenched.
Cheers thundered from the crowd.
Time dragged on. Fergo's guards exchanged uneasy glances. No duel should last this long.
Rhaegar felt the dragonfire within him surge. His strikes grew heavier, faster, relentless. Fergo's breathing faltered.
At last, Fergo lunged at a sharp upward angle, aiming for Rhaegar's abdomen.
Rhaegar met the attack head-on.
Both blades struck.
Red marks bloomed—but Rhaegar's sword rested at Fergo's throat.
"I lost," Fergo said hoarsely.
"Prince Rhaegar wins!" the herald shouted as horns blared.
The two dropped their swords, clasped hands, bowed to the crowd, and embraced.
"Long live the Iron Throne!"
"Long live Braavos!"
As they returned, Fergo leaned in and whispered, "If fate ever turns against you, Prince Rhaegar—come to Braavos. I will shield you from death."
"And if the sea ever burns," Rhaegar replied softly, "you may seek refuge beneath the dragon's wings."
From the stands, Prince Aerys Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, smiled broadly.
Though the Titan had not bowed, House Targaryen had won.
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