The morning light of King's Landing still carried the lingering haze of last night's revelry. As it spilled over the wooden barriers of the tourney grounds, it was immediately heated by the surging crowds.
Today was the final day of the sword competition. The central platform had been refurbished, draped in fresh scarlet silk and edged with black banners bearing the three-headed red dragon. Golden bells sewn into the hem chimed softly in the breeze, an overture to the impending clash of titans.
The stands were packed beyond capacity. Even the small boats in Blackwater Bay were crowded with spectators, some waving wooden placards painted with "Victory to the Two Daemons," others munching on freshly baked oatcakes. The air was thick with the scent of rich ale, the cold tang of polished steel, and the sweet aroma of honey cakes Gael had ordered, blending into a smell unique to this grand festival.
The atmosphere in the royal box was more solemn than usual. King Jaehaerys wore a black robe embroidered with golden dragons, his silver-white hair bound by a golden crown. Leaning on his ruby-encrusted scepter, his gaze swept over the final four knights with a hint of relief.
Queen Alysanne, wrapped in a white fox shawl, wore a pale gown embroidered with the silhouette of Silverwing. She held the Old King's hand, whispering, "Last year at the joust, they were evenly matched. Today's duel of swords might be even more spectacular."
Viserys held Rhaenyra, with Aemma leaning against him. The little princess, dressed in pale pink, watched the field intently, babbling something incoherent.
Jocelyn held Rhaenys's hand, followed by Laena and Laenor. The children carried flower wreaths prepared for the champions. At the strong insistence of "Uncle" Daemon, Laenor held the one for Daemon Targaryen, while Laena held the one for herself—though their eyes were filled with nothing but excitement.
"First Semifinal! Daemon Targaryen versus Rupert Crabb!"
As Ser Ryam Redwyne's voice faded, the central platform erupted in deafening cheers.
Rupert walked slowly onto the stage, gripping his iron sword Whisper. The swamp marigolds on his scabbard gleamed in the morning light. He took a deep breath and grinned at Daemon Targaryen, flashing two rows of white teeth. "Prince Daemon, I won't hold back today! I'm waiting to meet my Prince in the final!"
From the western stands, Daemon Blackfyre waved and laughed. "Come on then, you half-wildling! But when you lose, don't go crying to Little Daemon that I bullied you!"
Daemon Targaryen held Dark Sister, strolling onto the stage with his usual nonchalance. Today, however, he had shed the gold cloak of the City Watch for the black and red of House Targaryen.
The hem of his red cloak swept the silk-covered stage as he raised an eyebrow at Rupert. "Rupert, I heard you lost the joust at Highgarden. Don't lose the sword today too."
Rupert didn't take the bait. He drew his sword cleanly. "My Lord, my blade is thirty percent faster than it was a year ago!"
The horn blew. Both moved instantly.
Rupert's style carried the raw ferocity of Crackclaw Point. His oak-hilted sword roared through the air, every strike aiming for vital points with power that shook the silk beneath their feet.
Daemon Targaryen remained unhurried. Dark Sister was a black shadow in his hands, parrying, countering, picking at Rupert's defenses.
"Good move!" Colin Celtigar applauded first from the stands. Having sparred daily, he knew his friend's progress best.
Borros Baratheon slammed the railing. "Rupert! Use the move you used to split Colin!"
Fifty exchanges passed. Both men were drenched in sweat. Suddenly, Rupert changed tactics. Whisper came down vertically, a killing blow meant to knock Dark Sister aside—a move he had practiced countless nights, one that had shattered many spear shafts.
But Daemon Targaryen seemed to expect it. He sidestepped sharply, Dark Sister sliding along the flat of Whisper to stop gently at Rupert's throat.
"Phew—" Daemon Targaryen clutched his chest dramatically, panting as if he had just fought a war. He walked over and patted Rupert's shoulder. "Good lad, you nearly unhorsed me! My old bones can't take that kind of beating."
Rupert blinked, then burst out laughing. "My Lord, stop pretending! You could go another thirty rounds! And you're only a year or two older than me!"
Daemon Targaryen laughed, ruffling Rupert's hair. "You improve fast. Next time on horseback, I might not win."
Daemon Blackfyre walked down to the stage, mimicking the Rogue Prince's gesture to Myles earlier. "Not bad, Rupert. You forced the 'Rogue Prince' to fake losing his breath. That's enough to brag about for six months."
Rupert turned red, scratching his head. "Your Highness, I still lost."
Daemon shook his head with mock seriousness, then smiled. "Don't worry. When I get to the final, I'll avenge you. I'll use that move to disarm Dark Sister."
Rupert's eyes lit up. "Really?"
Daemon nodded, his voice warm and sincere. "Of course. And your technique today was much steadier. Tonight, I'll teach you a few tricks to break fast blades."
Rupert nodded vigorously, gratitude washing away his disappointment.
Second Semifinal: Daemon Blackfyre versus Ser Lorent Marbrand.
Ser Lorent wore the white armor of the Kingsguard, holding his white steel sword Oathkeeper. As he stepped up, the Westerlands stands erupted. Jason and Tyland Lannister, heirs to Casterly Rock, stood up with Lord Tymond's permission, leading the cheers. "Go, Ser Lorent! Don't shame House Marbrand or the West!"
Lorent nodded to his former liege and brother, then bowed to Daemon. "Your Highness. My sword will demand your full strength."
Daemon drew Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel glowing dark gold. "I expect nothing less, Ser."
The horn blew. Lorent attacked first. His style was steady as a mountain, every move precise and lethal, carrying the rigorous discipline of a Kingsguard—techniques honed in the Red Keep specifically to counter speed and seize the initiative.
Daemon didn't panic. In his previous life, he had "stolen" plenty of moves from the Kingsguard (and learned them legitimately in this one).
Blackfyre danced agilely, sometimes sliding along the white blade, sometimes circling behind Lorent to find an opening.
"Little Daemon! Use your hardest hit!" Brandon Stark shouted from the stands. Still smarting from his loss to Lorent in the first round, he was more invested than anyone.
Borros Baratheon joined in. "Yes! Avenge me and Brandon!"
After sixty rounds, even Ser Lorent—one of the few glorious White Cloaks in the realm—was sweating profusely. Facing the Prince, whose stamina and strength seemed supernatural for his age, Lorent felt like he was fighting the Warrior Incarnate. The attacks came like a relentless storm.
Forced to gamble, Lorent changed tactics. Like Lyonel against Rupert yesterday, his sword swept horizontally toward Daemon's waist, hoping to force a jump.
But Daemon was ready. Instead of jumping, he dropped low, Blackfyre sweeping toward Lorent's ankles.
Lorent gasped and leaped back, but Daemon seized the moment, tapping the Kingsguard's chest with his tip.
"I lost." Ser Lorent sheathed his sword. There was no resentment, only admiration. "Prince Daemon's skill truly earns the title 'Warrior Incarnate.' The name of the Black Dragon is well deserved!"
Daemon nodded respectfully. "Your swordsmanship is formidable, Ser. Especially that last move—if I hadn't been prepared, I wouldn't have won."
Lorent bowed and walked off stage, running straight into Brandon and Borros. The two large men made faces at him. Borros laughed. "Our mighty Ser Lorent, you lost this time!"
Lorent wasn't angry. He smiled faintly over his shoulder. "Next time we compete with axes, my lords, I will yield in advance."
The surrounding knights roared with laughter.
In the stands, Brandon and Borros led the cheers, waving wooden signs bought from smallfolk. "Little Daemon! Well done! You avenged us!"
Their young noble friends joined in, the cheers shaking the railings.
Gael offered a honey cake as usual, her violet eyes full of pride. "I knew you would win."
Daemon took a bite, sweetness spreading on his tongue, warmth filling his heart.
Shortly after the semifinals, the matchup for the final was posted on the central board:
Daemon Targaryen versus Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen.
Lords gathered to discuss the "Duel of Dragons" between the namesake cousins.
Even Otto Hightower, the Master of Laws, walked over to the Reach section. He smiled at Mathos and Garlan Tyrell. "Last year at the joust, Little Daemon won. Today with the sword, I suspect it will be the same."
Clearly, compared to the unknown storm represented by the Black Dragon, he despised the dissolute brother of his friend Viserys even more. He would be happy to see his nemesis embarrassed.
It wasn't entirely Otto's fault; the "Rogue Prince" clashed not only with the stern Otto but also with Lyonel Strong. He seemed to have a personal vendetta against anyone close to Viserys.
The sun dipped low, dyeing the arena gold and red. The final officially began.
Two Daemons walked onto the stage simultaneously.
Daemon Targaryen held Dark Sister, his red cloak seemingly glowing gold in the twilight.
Daemon Blackfyre held Blackfyre, his black cloak billowing in the wind.
They looked at each other. There was no hostility, only the mutual respect of knights.
"Last year you took the lance. Today with the sword, Brother won't let you win, Little Daemon!" Daemon Targaryen laughed, spinning Dark Sister once before pointing it at his cousin.
Daemon Blackfyre smiled helplessly at his namesake "cousin" (and great-grandfather). "Then let's see whose sword is faster, Cousin!"