The morning in King's Landing carried a perfect warmth. The tourney grounds on the west side of the Red Keep were gilded by the rising sun. The dew on the grass had not yet evaporated, soft underfoot, and the scent of damp earth and green grass permeated every corner.
Daemon held the hilt of Blackfyre, the tip of the blade resting lightly on the turf, his silver-gold hair fluttering against his neck in the breeze. Opposite him, Daemon Targaryen had, for a rare change, not dressed extravagantly. He wore the black ringmail and gold cloak of the City Watch. Dark Sister glinted coldly in the sunlight. He grinned, shifting his weight. "Little Daemon, you bested me by half a move yesterday. Don't hold back today!"
"Rest assured, I won't make your defeat look too ugly." The moment Daemon's voice fell, he moved, Blackfyre piercing forward with a sharp whistle as it cut the air.
Daemon Targaryen sidestepped, Dark Sister flicking up to parry at the wrist. The two Valyrian steel blades collided with a crisp clang, drawing cheers from the surrounding Gold Cloaks and Daemon's followers.
On the grass by the edge of the field, Gael sat on a wool blanket with Alicent, Mysaria, and Johanna.
Gael held Rhaenyra in her lap. The little princess, dressed in a small pale black gown, grabbed a handful of Gael's silver hair and giggled.
Alicent held a sewing basket, teaching Mysaria how to embroider a rose. Her platinum blonde curls hung over the cloth, her expression as serious as if she were undertaking a great task.
Johanna sat on the edge, clutching the dagger Daemon had given her. She absentmindedly ran her fingers over the sheath, drawing the blade slightly and clicking it back, though her eyes kept drifting to the figure in the center of the tourney grounds.
"Although I don't understand swordplay, Little Daemon's movements seem even cleaner than during the tourney last year," Gael said to Alicent with a smile, tickling Rhaenyra under the chin. "When Borros fought him at Storm's End, he was unhorsed in three passes. I fear Big Daemon won't last much longer this time."
Alicent looked up, her gaze falling on Daemon, her eyes full of admiration. "The Prince's skill was already unrivaled in the Seven Kingdoms. He has grown taller and more formidable this year. In a few years, I fear no one will be able to best him."
Mysaria nodded in agreement, nearly pricking her finger with the needle. "Last time on the Narrow Sea, I saw the Prince cleave a pirate in two with a single stroke. That was truly fearsome!"
Under the shade of a tree, Alys Rivers sat alone on a stone bench, holding a yellowed parchment scroll. Her green dress swayed gently in the wind.
Her eyes seemed fixed on the pages, but her peripheral vision frequently swept toward Daemon. Her fingertips unconsciously traced the edge of the parchment, as if tracing invisible patterns.
At the entrance to the grounds, Larys Strong leaned on his cane, the hem of his black robe sweeping the grass clippings on the ground. He leaned against the stone wall with Jarman Vikary. Jarman's single eye scanned the sparring match while he toyed with a fletched arrow in his hand. Harlan Hunter was nearby, instructing "The Slobberer" on how to hold a bow. The boy's archery was still clumsy, and his shyness often caused his arrows to veer off target, making the two mentors scratch their heads in frustration.
"Your father seems very busy lately," Jarman raised an eyebrow at Larys. "Since taking office as Master of Ships, he's been buried in Small Council meetings every day. I fear he's forgotten he even has a son."
Larys chuckled softly, a flash of understanding in his dark eyes. "My father is busy with more than just ships; he is busy with the King's mind. Look over there—" He pointed his cane at Rayford Rosby and Maester Bernard. "Rayford is learning, and Maester Bernard is willing to teach. It is the same principle."
Jarman looked where he pointed. Rayford was holding a book while Bernard stood beside him, using a small stick to draw diagrams in the dirt, patiently explaining something.
Not far away, Rupert Crabb and Lyonel Corbray were sparring. Rupert had a silver spoon hanging from his belt. He parried with the flat of his blade, shouting, "Your sword is too fast! But speed alone isn't enough!"
Mys Rivers and Tybolt Crakehall were having a contest of strength, gripping a thick wooden pole between them, faces flushed red as the surrounding Gold Cloaks cheered them on.
Alyn Redwyne and Cullen Celtigar squatted on the grass, a nautical chart spread out between them. Alyn pointed to a route through Blackwater Bay. "Last time we took the inner channel to avoid the reefs. Next time we go to the Stormlands, we should try the outer channel. It could save half a day." Cullen nodded, the blue crab sigil on his silver armor glinting. "I hear the outer channel has been plagued by Ironborn longships. We'd need the Prince to bring the Cannibal along for peace of mind."
The Royce twins were practicing coordination, their movements synchronized as they lunged their longswords at a target simultaneously, drawing frequent glances from Mace Florent and Lucas Tyrell.
Mace, mounted on a horse and holding a lance, smiled at Lucas. "Shall we have a go? See whose lance work is better."
Lucas vaulted onto his horse, his silver-green armor shining. "You're on. The loser drinks three casks of ale!"
The Tarth siblings stood behind Gael and the ladies. Budaimir held the hilt of his sword, eyes scanning the perimeter vigilantly.
Brienne stood with arms crossed, her six-foot frame like a small mountain. Rhaenyra curiously reached out to touch her armor, drawing a rare, shy smile from the warrior woman.
Amidst this lively scene, Lyonel Strong appeared at the entrance. He wore the badge of the Master of Ships and a deep blue brocade robe. His bald head shone in the sun, and his cloak was slightly disheveled—clearly, he had come straight from a Small Council meeting.
"Prince Daemon," Lyonel walked to the center of the grounds, interrupting the duel between Daemon and the Rogue Prince. "His Grace instructed in the Small Council meeting to arrange positions for you and your followers. You may be asked to join the Small Council to assist the Hand and Crown Prince in administering the realm; or perhaps lead Rayford, Cullen, and the others in positions within the City Watch or the Royal Fleet."
Daemon sheathed Blackfyre and walked up to him. "What is my grandfather's intent?"
"The King wishes for you to familiarize yourself with governance as soon as possible," Lyonel unrolled a parchment, lowering his voice. "After all, your prestige now surpasses many great lords. Engaging with court affairs early will also settle the hearts of those who... speculate too much." He glanced at Larys. "I need Larys to help me organize the naval archives and verify some port ledgers."
Larys limped over with his cane, a glint of meaning in his dark eyes. His gaze lingered on Daemon's face for a moment—a look with ulterior motives.
Daemon understood immediately. He turned to Jarman. "Jarman, take Harlan and go with them. Help Lord Lyonel with his tasks, and... keep an eye on things. Protect Lord Lyonel and Larys."
Lyonel shook his head helplessly, clearly accustomed to his son's "little maneuvers" to get help, but nodded nonetheless. "Very well. With you there, I will be more at ease."
Jarman pocketed his arrow and patted Harlan on the shoulder. "Let's go. Before 'The Slobberer' takes the target apart." Harlan agreed with a smile, and they followed the two Strongs toward the Red Keep.
Daemon Targaryen sheathed his sword as well, calling out to Lyonel's retreating back with a roguish grin. "Lord Lyonel, remember to tell Larys not to just play around with his 'Clubfoot' tricks! Have him learn some proper work!" Lyonel turned to glare at him but said nothing.
Not long after, the sound of disciplined footsteps approached. Ser Robin Shaw, clad in the white armor and cloak of the Kingsguard, strode into the tourney grounds, followed by two white-cloaked squires.
His white armor gleamed in the sun, his expression stern. His gaze swept the field before settling on Daemon Targaryen. "Prince Daemon, His Grace summons you to the Small Council. There are urgent matters to discuss."
Daemon Targaryen paused, then shrugged. "What is it now? Am I to be lectured on the discipline of the Gold Cloaks again?" He patted Daemon on the shoulder. "Wait until I get back. We'll finish this, and I'll win this time!" With that, he followed Robin Shaw toward the Red Keep, the white cloaks disappearing from view.
Rupert Crabb lowered his sword, watching Robin Shaw's retreating figure with envy. "So majestic... the white cloak of the Kingsguard looks better than any armor! If I could become a Kingsguard like my uncle, my father would roll out every wine barrel on Claw Isle to celebrate!"
Lyonel Corbray nodded in agreement. "To swear oaths to take no wife, hold no lands, and protect the royal family for a lifetime—only a knight with such noble resolve is a true knight!" Several of Daemon's other followers and young Gold Cloaks murmured in agreement, their eyes full of longing.
"If you want to be a Kingsguard, you must first master your sword," came a deep, steady voice.
Everyone turned to see Ser Harrold Westerling standing behind them. He, too, wore the white cloak, the seven-pointed star on his breastplate shining. Aside from Robin Shaw and Ryam Redwyne, he was one of the most seasoned knights in the order, his swordsmanship solid and steady. He had escorted the King many times.
"Ser Harrold!" Rupert stepped forward excitedly, nearly tripping. "Could you teach us a few moves? We want to be white cloaks like you!"
Harrold chuckled softly, his gaze sweeping over them before landing on Mys Rivers. Mys had just beaten Tybolt and was wiping sweat from his brow. Seeing Harrold look at him, he scratched his head. "Ser, I have no interest in the Kingsguard. I just want to charge into battle with the Prince."
"No interest, no matter," Harrold walked to the center of the field and picked up a wooden training sword. "Why don't we have a match? Let them see how a true knight strikes."
Mys's eyes lit up. He immediately grabbed the training axe his mentor, the Dustin guard, had made for him. "Alright! I won't go easy on you!"
Daemon smiled and walked to the edge of the field. Gael quickly made room on the cushion. Rhaenyra reached out a tiny hand, grabbing a lock of Daemon's silver hair and refusing to let go.
Daemon sat on the cushion. Behind him, he felt a soft touch—Grey Ghost had sneaked over at some point. The dragon's pale grey-white scales shimmered as he lay docilely behind Daemon like a giant, plush cushion.
"Is he comfortable to lean on?" Gael laughed, reaching out to stroke Grey Ghost's neck. The timid dragon, for Daemon's sake, gently nuzzled her hand, his golden eyes full of submission.
Daemon leaned back against Grey Ghost, feeling the coolness of the scales, and watched the spar.
Mys gripped his training axe and chopped fiercely at Harrold, his movements fast and brutal. Harrold merely sidestepped, his wooden sword tapping lightly on Mys's wrist. The axe wavered, nearly flying from Mys's grip.
"Too hasty with the axe. Your strength is all on the surface," Harrold's voice was steady. "True power must be hidden in the wrist, released and retracted at will, like a dragon's breath." He dodged Mys's second swing, his wooden sword sweeping across Mys's knee. Mys stumbled, nearly falling.
"Though I am not a master of the axe, the principles of weaponry are often the same. You have a good teacher, but he must have told you not to use brute force without technique." Harrold turned, flicking his wooden sword up, lightly tapping Mys's back.
The onlookers were stunned. Tybolt Crakehall whispered in amazement, "Mys is so strong, how is he struggling so much against the Ser?"
Rupert laughed and shook his head. "Ser Harrold is a Kingsguard. His swordsmanship is leagues above ours. Mys is finished. My uncle says that among them, Ser Harrold is the most likely to succeed Ryam Redwyne as Lord Commander."
Daemon watched Harrold toy with Mys, the corners of his mouth lifting.
Grey Ghost shook his head gently, his golden eyes reflecting the sunlight, looking exceptionally docile.
The distant bells of the Red Keep rang out, weaving together with the laughter and the clash of training weapons in the yard. It was a warm morning song—the peace of King's Landing, perhaps rare, but enough to make one cherish the beauty of the moment.