The morning light of King's Landing carried a sharp edge today, barely cresting the wooden barriers of the tourney grounds before being boiled alive by the cheers of the crowd.
It was the Quarterfinals of the Sword. The platforms were surrounded by a crush of bodies so dense not even water could seep through. Squires clung to the battlements of the Red Keep like gargoyles, waving wooden placards painted with knightly sigils. When a familiar noble scion took the field, they waved furiously, the cheap paint rubbing off on the stone walls to form the unique "battle scars" of the tourney.
The atmosphere in the royal box was heavier than yesterday. King Jaehaerys gripped his scepter tighter, his gaze sweeping over the eight knights below.
Rupert Crabb's iron sword Whisper, Lyonel Corbray's Lady Forlorn, Daemon Targaryen's Dark Sister, Meryn Florent's rapier Fox, Daemon Blackfyre's Blackfyre, Soren Reyne's greatsword Lion's Tooth, Borros Baratheon's broadsword Storm, and Ser Lorent Marbrand's white steel Oathkeeper.
Eight blades gleamed coldly in the morning light like eight bolts of lightning waiting to strike.
Ser Clement Crabb secretly patted the back of his old friend Ser Ryam Redwyne's hand, whispering, "They all look promising. Whoever wins, it is a blessing for the Seven Kingdoms."
"First Match! Rupert Crabb versus Lyonel Corbray!"
As soon as Ser Clement announced the names, the central platform erupted in deafening cheers.
One was Daemon's fiercest "Blade of Crackclaw Point," the other the "Rising Star of the Vale" wielding Lady Forlorn. Their matchup had been the talk of every lord since last night.
Rupert walked onto the stage gripping his oak-hilted sword, the swamp marigolds of House Crabb shining on his scabbard. He grinned at Lyonel, revealing two rows of white teeth. "Lyonel, Lady Forlorn is sharp, but my blade has split wildling shields alongside the Prince!"
Lyonel smiled and drew his sword. The Valyrian steel of Lady Forlorn glowed with a pale blue sheen, the ancient ripples seeming to come alive. "Rupert, then let's see whose sword is sharper. I'm quite interested in the title of the Prince's strongest blade myself!"
The horn blew. Both moved instantly.
Lyonel's style carried the elegance of a Vale knight. Lady Forlorn moved like a striking snake in his hands, thrusting at Rupert's pauldron one moment, sweeping at his side the next. Every strike was precise and lethal.
Rupert didn't panic. He wielded Whisper with raw power, meeting Lady Forlorn head-on. CLANG-CLANG-CLANG! The crisp sound vibrated in the eardrums of the crowd.
Gasps rippled through the stands. Lyonel's cousin Gareth leaned forward, gripping the railing until his knuckles turned white. "Lyonel! Use the 'Corbray Spiral'!"
After thirty rounds, both men were sweating heavily. Lyonel suddenly changed tactics. Lady Forlorn swept low along the ground toward Rupert's legs, trying to force a jump that would expose an opening.
But Rupert was ready. Instead of jumping, he dropped low, sweeping Whisper toward Lyonel's ankles.
Lyonel yelped and leaped back, but Rupert seized the moment, tapping his chest with the tip of his blade.
By the rules—a touch is a win. Rupert had won.
"I won!" Rupert raised his sword, voice thick with emotion.
Lyonel smiled, sheathing his blade. He walked over and patted Rupert's shoulder, Lady Forlorn's scabbard gently clinking against Whisper. "The boss is still the best. I'm in the joust too; we'll settle this on horseback in a few days."
Rupert nodded heavily, hugging Lyonel. "Deal! I'll show you that Crabb lances aren't just for decoration!"
The Vale lords applauded. Lord Corbray smiled at Yorbert Royce, exhaling in relief. "Our Lyonel lost with honor, and that half-wildling boy won fair and square. Good lads, both."
Second Match: Daemon Targaryen versus Meryn Florent.
The "Rogue Prince" strolled onto the stage with Dark Sister in hand, nonchalant as ever. The hem of his gold cloak swept the sand. His entrance drew cheers from the Gold Cloaks, the women of King's Landing, and the spectators in the stands.
He raised an eyebrow at Meryn. "Ser Meryn, I hear you've beaten many knights in the Reach. Don't go crying when you lose here."
Meryn wasn't provoked. He bowed slightly, gripping his rapier. "Prince Daemon, my sword won't soften because of your title."
Their styles were polar opposites. Daemon Targaryen's blade was fast as a meteor, Dark Sister a blur of black steel seeking weaknesses. Meryn's rapier was elegant and steady, every move exuding the composure of a Reach knight, like a carefully choreographed dance.
"Lord Daemon, that 'Dark Blade' move... looks just like yesterday's," Meryn laughed, dodging a thrust and aiming for Daemon's wrist.
Daemon rolled away, but Dark Sister suddenly changed direction. The blade scraped along Meryn's scabbard and gently tapped his pauldron.
"I yield." Meryn smiled and sheathed his sword, eyes clear of disappointment. "Your sword is as fast as ever. If Allan had won yesterday and faced you today, he wouldn't have stood a chance either."
Daemon Targaryen lifted his chin smugly, though today he remembered his manners. "Your sword isn't bad. The Reach is lucky to have a knight like you. And Little Daemon is lucky to have you as a follower."
Meryn bowed. As he stepped down, he met Allan Redwyne. They high-fived, and Allan whispered, "Next time, I'll beat him."
Meryn nodded. "I'll be watching."
Third Match: Daemon Blackfyre versus Soren Reyne.
Soren gripped his custom greatsword Lion's Tooth, the blade glinting coldly. As he stepped up, the Westerlands stands erupted. Lord Reyne stood up and shouted, "Soren! Don't shame the West!"
Soren nodded heavily, turning to bow to Daemon. "Your Highness, my greatsword has split iron armor. Be careful."
Daemon drew Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel ripples glowing dark gold in the morning light. He spoke softly. "Your courage is commendable. Strike freely."
The horn blew. Soren attacked first, his greatsword cleaving down with the force of a mountain falling. The impact seemed to shake the stands.
Daemon didn't panic. Blackfyre flicked up gently, deflecting the massive force, then swept horizontally, forcing Soren back step by step.
Lord Reyne clenched his fists in the stands, muttering, "Use that move..."
Hearing the shout, Soren changed tactics. He brought the greatsword down vertically, intending to smash Daemon's blade aside.
But Daemon was ready. Blackfyre slid along the flat of the greatsword, the tip gently tapping Soren's chest.
"I lost." Soren sheathed his sword. There was no resentment on his face, only respect. "Your Highness's skill... is even greater than the legends."
Daemon walked over and patted his shoulder encouragingly. "You handle the greatsword well. With more technique, few in Westeros will be able to match you."
Soren nodded deeply, bowing to the Westerlands stand. Lord Reyne applauded, telling the lords around him with pride, "House Reyne can afford to lose. He didn't shame me."
Fourth Match: Borros Baratheon versus Ser Lorent Marbrand.
Borros stormed onto the stage with his broadsword, his black-and-green surcoat puffing in the wind. He shouted at Lorent, "Ser! Brandon lost yesterday, so today I win it back for him!"
Lorent, in his white Kingsguard armor, held Oathkeeper loosely. His expression was blank. "Master Borros, I advise you not to use too much strength. Or you'll just make excuses when you lose."
The duel was a comedy. Borros attacked with brute force, his broadsword whistling through the air. But Lorent was as steady as a rock, parrying every blow with precision.
"Fight back! Don't just dodge!" Borros yelled, sweat streaming down his face.
Lorent remained calm, even finding time to adjust a fold in his white cloak. "Master Borros, you have great strength, but your technique is messy. If I wanted to win, I would have won already."
As the words fell, Lorent changed tactics. Oathkeeper flicked out, knocking Borros's broadsword into the air.
Borros stood stunned on the platform. Only when the crowd roared with laughter did he turn red, picking up his sword and muttering, "You cheated! Fight me on horseback in a few days if you have the guts!"
Lorent smiled, sheathing his sword and patting Borros's shoulder. "I might not match you in other things, but in swordsmanship, you need a few more years."
Borros huffed but accepted the loss. Stepping down, he met Brandon. They looked at each other and said in unison, "Next time, we fight him together!"
The surrounding knights burst into laughter.
---
As the sun dipped west, the dust settled on the Quarterfinals.
Rupert Crabb, Daemon Targaryen, Daemon Blackfyre, Lorent Marbrand. The Final Four had emerged.
Squires painted the names in red on the central board. Lords gathered to discuss the semifinals.
Tymond Lannister smiled rare praise at Lord Marbrand. "Your brother Ser Lorent saved some face for the West. He did House Marbrand proud."
Lord Marbrand smiled back. "Prince Daemon Blackfyre's skill is the truly terrifying thing. I saw it when he visited Ashemark. Tomorrow's semifinals will be spectacular."
Daemon held Rhaenyra, surrounded by Gael and Jocelyn.
Rhaenyra had woken up, clutching Daemon's cloak and looking at the board.
Gael offered him a honey cake, violet eyes full of worry. "Be careful tomorrow against Big Daemon or Ser Lorent."
Daemon smiled and ruffled her hair. "Don't worry. I'll be fine. This year's tourney has been surprisingly accident-free."
But before he finished, Daemon Targaryen walked over, shaking his wine flask, sand on his gold cloak. "Little Daemon. Let's not meet too early in the semis. I want a proper fight with you in the final."
Daemon nodded. "Ideally. Let's see who makes it to the end."
They smiled at each other—no hostility, only the mutual respect of knights.
In the distance, the flagship of Corlys Velaryon and the other lords still sat in the bay, sails shining silver in the twilight.
Night deepened. Torches lit the grounds like stars.
Young knights replayed the day's moves by the platforms, the clash of steel mixing with laughter. Lords walked back to the city in groups, discussing bets—some richer, some broke, but all helping each other toward the nearest tavern.
Daemon walked back slowly with Rhaenyra, Gael, Jocelyn, and Jeyne. Rhaenyra gripped his finger tight. Jeyne chattered about cheering for him. Gael and Jocelyn, "Aunt" and "Mother," fussed over his safety.
King's Landing would not sleep tonight. The four finalists were like four arrows nocked on the string. Tomorrow's arena would see a storm fiercer than any yet.
Daemon gripped Blackfyre, feeling the brand on his neck warm. He had one thought.
Whoever the opponent, he had to win. Not just for glory, but to stamp his existence onto the realm, to prepare for the crises to come. To let the Seven Kingdoms know, after his tour, that the "Invincible Black Dragon" was real.