The morning light of King's Landing had barely dyed the tourney barriers gold and crimson before the roar of the crowd threatened to flip the arena upside down.
The second day of the sword competition was even livelier than the first. The stands were packed so tight that water couldn't seep through. Even the stone steps outside the Red Keep walls were crowded with smallfolk, some waving wooden placards painted with the sigils of their favored knights, others munching on freshly baked oatcakes.
Of course, these same goods were peddled to the noble lords in the stands, but today, even the air smelled different—a mix of rich ale and the metallic tang of polished steel. It was the unique scent of the tourney.
The three sword platforms were surrounded three-deep. The golden roses before the royal box swayed in the breeze. Queen Alysanne was whispering something to King Jaehaerys, pointing at the center platform.
Viserys held Rhaenyra, with Aemma leaning against him. The little princess clutched the toy Daemon had given her yesterday, clapping her hands at the flashing blades.
Gael, Mysaria, and Johanna sat in the western stands. Gael held a box of honey cakes, her eyes darting frequently to Daemon, afraid he might get hurt.
"First match! Rupert Crabb versus Colin Celtigar!"
As soon as Ser Ryam Redwyne announced the names, the Reach section erupted. Everyone remembered that at the Tourney of the Field of Roses, the "Blue Crab" Colin had won the joust. Rupert had clearly been stewing on that for half a year, and today, they would finally settle who had the better sword arm.
Rupert walked onto the platform gripping his oak-hilted longsword, the swamp marigold of House Crabb gleaming on his scabbard. He grinned at Colin. "Last time at the Field of Roses, you took the lance. I won't let you have the sword."
Colin smiled and drew his blade, the pale blue steel reflecting the cold light. "Let's see whose blade is faster."
The horn blew. Both moved instantly.
Colin's sword was a flash of lightning, aiming straight for Rupert's pauldron—the "Tidebreaker" strike he had practiced countless times since boyhood on Claw Isle, designed to shatter defenses.
But Rupert was ready. He sidestepped, his longsword sweeping horizontally, forcing Colin to retreat step after step.
The stands gasped. Borros Baratheon slammed the wooden railing, shouting, "Rupert! Use the move you used to split that boar at Griffin's Roost!"
Thirty exchanges passed. Both men were sweating.
Suddenly, Colin changed tactics. His blade swept low along the ground toward Rupert's legs.
Rupert leaped to avoid it and seized the opening. His blade scraped along Colin's scabbard with a crisp CLANG, knocking Colin's sword askew. In the next breath, Rupert tapped Colin's pauldron with his tip. By the rules—a touch is a win.
"I won!" Rupert raised his sword, voice thick with emotion.
Colin smiled, sheathing his blade. He walked over and patted Rupert's shoulder. "You got me this time. We'll settle the lance score again in a few days."
They walked off together to applause. Lord Bartimos Celtigar chuckled to his son Clement. "That boy Colin... he and that half-wildling from Crackclaw Point are like brothers."
Second Match: Lyonel Corbray versus his cousin, Gareth Corbray (Heir to Heart's Home).
As they stepped up, the Vale stands fell silent. All eyes fixed on the scabbard at Lord Corbray's waist—Lady Forlorn, the Valyrian steel heirloom.
Today, the winner would claim the right to wield her.
"Lyonel, don't cry when you lose," Gareth teased, drawing his plain but polished steel sword.
Lyonel drew his blade. Though blunted, it carried an air of authority. "Cousin, the loser isn't decided yet."
Their duel was less intense than the previous one, carrying a hint of playful familial rivalry.
Gareth feigned a stumble, letting Lyonel's blade graze his sleeve.
Lyonel didn't hesitate. As Gareth laughed, Lyonel's tip gently tapped his chest.
Gareth froze, then burst out laughing. "You rascal! Dared to trick me!"
He hugged Lyonel tight. "I feel safe leaving Lady Forlorn to you."
Lyonel's eyes reddened. He patted his cousin's back. "Rest assured. If anyone insults the glory of House Corbray, I'll be the one standing in front of you, you lazy oaf."
In the stands, Yorbert Royce smiled, and Lord Corbray nodded. The unity of the next generation was more important to the Vale than anything.
Third Match: Allan Redwyne versus Meryn Florent.
Friends since childhood, they clapped shoulders before starting.
Allan's short blade was agile; Meryn's rapier was elegant. Their clash looked like a dance from the Reach.
"Allan, that 'Arbor Spin' is getting old," Meryn laughed, dodging and thrusting for Allan's wrist.
Allan rolled away, but his short blade got tangled in Meryn's guard, locking him in place.
"I yield," Allan laughed, high-fiving Meryn. "You win. Later, I'm learning new moves from Rupert and Lyonel."
Meryn grinned. "Next time we're on the Arbor, you owe me the best vintage."
Fourth Match: Thomen Peake versus Soren Reyne (Heir to Castamere).
Thomen gripped his family sword, eyes steely. He had been mocked as the "Lord of the Ruined Castle" since childhood in the Reach. Today was about proof.
Soren wielded a greatsword with immense power. Every strike carried the ferocity of the Westerlands, forcing Thomen back.
But Thomen didn't quit. Using nimble footwork, he dodged, even attempting counterattacks as Soren's blade grazed his arm.
Finally, Soren knocked Thomen's sword flying. No question—Thomen lost.
Thomen stood on the platform, face pale, but shed no tears.
Daemon walked up and patted his shoulder. "You are brave. Stronger than many your age."
Thomen looked up, eyes shining. He dropped to one knee, holding up his sword. "Your Highness, I said by the Mander I would serve you once my family affairs were settled! From now on, my sword is yours!"
Daemon took the sword and handed it back. "Rise. Your sword should be used to protect the future of Westeros."
Thomen nodded heavily, eyes full of gratitude.
Fifth Match: Daemon Targaryen versus William Royce.
The Rogue Prince, wielding Dark Sister, strolled onto the platform with nonchalance. William Royce held Lamentation (borrowed from Yorbert for the duel), expression stern.
Barely ten exchanges in, Daemon Targaryen flicked William's sword out of his hand. He deliberately raised an eyebrow at Rhea Royce in the stands, muttering loud enough to be heard, "The swords of House Royce... nothing special."
Rhea sat in the stands, glancing at him coldly, then turned to Yorbert. "Only knows cheap tricks. Some knight."
Seeing no reaction, the Rogue Prince pouted and walked off the stage.
Sixth Match: Daemon Blackfyre versus Roland Connington.
Roland gripped a newly forged longsword, his red hair flaming in the wind. "Your Highness, I won't hold back."
Daemon drew Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel ripples gleaming cold. "Come."
The duel was intense.
Roland fought with the ferocity of the Stormlands, every strike aiming for a vital point.
Daemon responded calmly, almost like he was instructing. Blackfyre seemed alive, parrying, then countering.
Fifty exchanges later, Daemon changed tactics. His blade slid along Roland's scabbard and tapped his chest.
"I lost. But thank you for the lesson, Your Highness!" Roland sheathed his sword and bowed. "Your swordsmanship lives up to the name! Truly the Warrior Incarnate!"
Daemon smiled awkwardly. "Your sword is fast. A few more years, and few in the Seven Kingdoms will match you."
Seventh Match: Borros Baratheon versus Lorent Grandison.
Borros stomped onto the stage with his broadsword. "Lorent! No sleeping today!"
Lorent yawned, his yellow tunic sweeping the floor. "Borros, be honest. My old man forced me here. Making it to the second round is enough face for him."
Before they had exchanged two blows, Lorent suddenly sheathed his sword. "I yield. You win. I'm going back to sleep."
Borros blinked, then roared with laughter. "You Sleeping Lion! Still so lazy! If you were afraid of losing to me, just say so!"
The lords laughed, though some muttered about match-fixing. Even Boremund Baratheon shook his head helplessly. "That Grandison boy... always so lazy."
Final Match: Brandon Stark versus Ser Lorent Marbrand of the Kingsguard.
Brandon's eyes burned with battle lust. He had longed to test himself against the White Cloaks.
Ser Lorent looked serious.
The duel lasted nearly a hundred exchanges. Brandon's style had the ruthless edge of the North but lacked finesse.
Ser Lorent was steady, every move precise.
Finally, Ser Lorent tapped Brandon's pauldron. Brandon lost.
"I don't accept it!" Brandon gripped his sword, face red.
Ser Lorent patted his shoulder. "You have great strength but lack discipline. Practice your technique, and next time you might beat me."
Brandon nodded. Though unhappy, he wasn't a sore loser.
---
The sun dipped west. Cheers still echoed over King's Landing.
The list of the final eight was posted:
Rupert Crabb, Lyonel Corbray, Meryn Florent, Soren Reyne, Daemon Targaryen, Daemon Blackfyre, Borros Baratheon, Lorent Marbrand.
Lords gathered to discuss the final matchups. Tymond Lannister smiled at Lord Reyne—a rare sight. "Your Soren didn't shame the West."
Lord Reyne smiled back. "That Peake boy wasn't bad either. Prince Daemon Blackfyre has an eye for people."
Daemon held Rhaenyra, surrounded by Gael and Jeyne.
Rhaenyra was asleep on his shoulder.
Jeyne tugged his cloak, chattering about the matches.
Gael offered him a honey cake, violet eyes smiling. "You won today too. Your reward."
Daemon took a bite. Sweetness spread across his tongue.
This lively arena, these family members... this was what he had crossed a hundred years to protect.
In the distance, the flagship of Corlys Velaryon still sat in the bay, sails shining silver in the twilight.
Daemon knew tomorrow's final duels were not just for glory, but a shadow play of the realm's powers.
And he had to grip Blackfyre tight, guarding this peace and everyone around him.
Night deepened. Torches lit the grounds like stars.
Lords walked back to the city in groups. Knights practiced by the platforms, steel ringing against steel.
Daemon stood in the center, looking at the Red Keep. He knew tomorrow's clash would be fiercer than imagined. But he was the invincible Black Dragon.