16-20

Chapter 16: The Dornishman 

"You’re right, Ser." 

Rhaegar was at a loss for words, but that didn’t stop him from disliking the bloody tournaments.   

After saying “I’m hungry” to Rhaenyra, he got up and walked straight toward the feast area.   

The senseless slaughter had turned his stomach, and he desperately needed some fruit to cleanse his palate.   

Ser Erryk shrugged and followed behind him as his guard. 

 … 
After the jousting rounds, there were still archery contests, melees, and duels to come. 
After several rounds of bloody and thrilling matches, the competition moved on to the duels. 
The rules were simple: two combatants donned armor and fought with weapons until one either surrendered or died. 

 Commonly referred to as a "single combat." 
 
The first two duels were highly entertaining. The knights swung swords and flails, their weapons clashing with a metallic clang that thrilled the crowd. 

Thanks to the excellent protection offered by their armor, the worst injuries amounted to cuts and bruises. There were rarely cases of severe maiming or death. 

The combatants in the arena weren’t fools, either. 

They were here for honor and gold. Having already shown their skills before the kingdom’s noble lords, why fight to the death? As long as the fight was intense enough, the nobles would cheer and throw coin, unable to tell whether the duel was genuine or merely a performance. 
 
The third duel began shortly. 
 One fighter was Ser Barth the Iron Hammer, a knight from Ironoaks in the Vale. 
 This knight was a towering figure with a rugged appearance. He wore silvery-gray armor, wielding a war hammer in one hand and a shield in the other. 

His opponent was a young man with brown skin, clad in light armor and armed with a long spear. 

It was clear he hailed from Dorne.   

It’s worth mentioning:   

Although Aegon the Conqueror had unified the Seven Kingdoms, the Dornish never truly acknowledged the Targaryen dynasty’s rule and had been in near-constant rebellion for years. 

It wasn’t until the final years of Aegon I’s life that Prince Martell of Dorne sent representatives to negotiate peace. Only then did the long-standing conflict between the Targaryens and the Dornish come to an end 

Of course, while open war ceased, skirmishes and minor raids never truly stopped. 

The Dornish, known for their fierce and unruly ways, often raided neighboring territories, causing trouble for the realm.   

Watching the Dornishman in the arena, Rhaenyra, who had grown bored, finally found some interest.   

"Who would’ve thought a Dornish warrior would join the tournament this time?" 

 She glanced at Ser Criston Cole standing beside her and curiously asked, "Who do you think will win?"   

Ser Criston chuckled, "How could I know before the fight even starts?" 

“They say the Dornish are fierce and skilled in combat—savages who eat raw meat and drink blood. I wonder if it’s true?” 

Rhaenyra’s eyes gleamed with anticipation.   

The referee blew the horn, signaling the start of the duel. 

Barth hid his face behind his helm, swinging his war hammer as he cautiously advanced. He dared not let his guard down. 

He had heard tales of the Dornish—brutal and ruthless fighters. 

There was no room for carelessness; who knew how savage his opponent might be? 

 In contrast, the Dornish youth was relaxed, twirling his spear and pacing back and forth, taunting his opponent. 

"Big guy, why didn’t you stay in the forge hammering iron? Don’t waste that lousy hammer of yours." 

As he spoke, he dodged nimbly from side to side, adding psychological pressure on Barth. 

Barth, having never seen true battle, lacked the mental fortitude of a seasoned warrior. Provoked by the insults, he struggled to keep his temper in check. 

"Brown-skinned monkey! I hope your head is as hard as your mouth, or it’ll be crushed by my hammer!" 

Seizing a moment when the Dornishman leapt aside, Barth lunged forward and swung his war hammer in a horizontal arc, aiming to strike him at the waist. 

The audience watched with bated breath, their eyes wide with anticipation for a blood-soaked spectacle. 

“Fool. You’re too slow.” 

The Dornishman rolled on the ground, narrowly dodging the hammer’s blow. 

 Planting his feet to halt the roll, he thrust his spear into the weak joint of Barth’s leg armor, instantly drawing a spray of blood. 

 "Ah! Damn you, Dornishman!" 

The pain ignited Barth’s ferocity. Roaring in anger, he raised his war hammer for another strike, intent on smashing the Dornishman’s skull. 

 Unfortunately for him, the Dornishman was far too agile. 

 Rolling to the side like a donkey dodging a kick, he yanked the spear out of Barth’s leg and drove it into the vulnerable spot in his lower back. 

 *Schlick!* 

The spear pierced clean through. Barth staggered, dropping to his knees as blood seeped from his armor. 

With a single strike, the Dornish youth gained the upper hand, but instead of pressing his advantage, he circled the fallen Bart, scrutinizing him intently.

With a mocking expression, he sneered, “This knight from the Vale, you don’t seem very friendly toward us Dornish folk, do you?”

Pulling the spear from Bart’s wound amid his cries of agony, he continued, “You call me a brown-skinned monkey, but what about you Vale people?”
 
“Hairless goats, perhaps?”

 Bart struggled to stand, but the youth kicked him back down. Humiliation filled Bart’s heart as he shouted, “You despicable Dornishman! If you have any guts, face me in a fair fight! Stop jumping around like a monkey!”

 “Hahaha! What a clever suggestion—demanding someone use their weakness to match your strength,” the Dornish youth taunted openly. “On a battlefield, do you expect your enemies to stand still for you, you Vale goat?”

“Damn you, bastard! Die!”

Having lost all reason, Bart gripped his warhammer tightly and swung it low, aiming to break the youth’s ankle while he was still talking.

But the Dornish youth had been on guard. With a light leap, he dodged Bart’s long-planned ambush. Then, with a downward thrust of his spear, he pierced Bart’s right hand, which gripped the hammer.

With a flick of the spear, Bart’s hand was severed, eliciting a blood-curdling scream.

*Thud—*

As the scream left Bart’s lips, the Dornish youth kneed him viciously in the chin, forcing him to swallow his cry. Without pause, he tore off Bart’s helmet, exposing the vulnerable head beneath.

Grinning cruelly, the Dornish youth kicked Bart in the mouth with brutal force.

Teeth, mixed with blood, poured from Bart’s mouth as he could only whimper in despair. With his head reeling from the blows, Bart collapsed to the ground, his body convulsing slightly.

 The Dornish youth planted the tip of his spear against Bart’s throat, turning to address the onlookers around the arena. “Look at this! Such a brave knight from the Vale, refusing to surrender even in the face of death!”

As he spoke, he pressed his heavy leather boot onto Bart’s face, grinding it back and forth.

 Seeing this, the audience’s expressions changed drastically. 

This was no longer a simple duel—it had turned into one-sided torture.

Knocking out Bart’s teeth to prevent surrender was nothing short of sadistic humiliation.

King Viserys’s face darkened with fury as he turned to his Hand of the King, Leonor, and bellowed, “Who is this Dornish savage? He has no honor or decency! Is this his way of flaunting his arrogance before everyone here?”

Leonor, dabbing at his sweatless forehead with a handkerchief, explained nervously, “Your Grace, the Dornishman in the arena is Digar Orléans. When he registered for the tournament, he expressed deep respect for you and said he wanted to put on an impressive show.”

“This is what you call an impressive show?”   

Viserys’s anger flared. “Dornishmen have never known gratitude. You should charge him with theft and lock him in the dungeons until he rots!”

 “My apologies, Your Grace,” Leonor replied, bowing his head in guilt. “All we can do now is hope he ends Sir Bart’s life quickly, minimizing any further negative impact.”

 “Do you think I need you to tell me that?”   

Viserys snorted coldly, dismissing him with a wave. 

In the arena, the Dornish youth continued his antics, leaping and shouting taunts. 

“I’ve heard the Vale boasts many warriors. How is it that this knight is so weak? Could someone have taken a bribe to let him in?”

---
(End of the chapter)

**Chapter 17: Stirring Public Fury**

Pointing at the dazed Bart, the Dornish youth mocked,
“This knight seems unfriendly toward me and holds clear prejudice against the people of Dorne.”

“This is unacceptable.”

With a quick slash, his spear sliced off one of Bart’s ears. The Dornish youth remarked,
“I’ve heard a saying that Vale women are less attractive than goats. Is that true?”

“Honestly, I haven’t had the chance to experience the allure of Vale women. I wouldn’t know if they really fall short compared to goats.”

He nudged Bart’s head with his boot, taunting,
“Hey, knight of the Vale, what’s your opinion? Give me some insight.”

Bart, bleeding profusely from multiple wounds, was dizzy and pale.

Despite his weakening state, Bart struggled to speak as the Dornish youth’s incessant jeers continued.

The youth squatted down, grabbed a fistful of Bart’s hair, and yanked his head up. With a wicked grin, he snarled,
“If you have something to say, spit it out loud.”

Coughing, Bart finally managed to rasp,
“You… bastard… Dornish… monkey…”

He spat two mouthfuls of clotted blood and followed it with a bloody glob of spit, hitting the youth square on his face. Laughing weakly, he continued to hurl insults.

“Ha! Damn Vale scum.”

The filthy insult enraged the Dornish youth, but he refrained from delivering a swift kill.

A quick death would be too merciful.

He wanted Bart to suffer.

His spear pierced Bart’s limbs one by one, twisting and grinding into the flesh each time, inflicting excruciating pain.

For ten agonizing minutes, the torture went on.

Only when Bart finally lost all strength did the youth drive his spear through Bart’s throat, ending his suffering.

“You vile Dornish scum, you’ll face retribution!”

Suddenly, a voice cursed from the stands, followed by a flying empty wine cup.

The cup landed with a clatter in the muddy arena.

The single insult seemed to ignite a wave of outrage.

More spectators rose, hurling verbal abuse at the Dornish youth and pelting him with objects.

Wine cups, apples, plates…

Even several pairs of women’s high-heeled shoes.

Rhaenyra stood among the crowd, her expression cold as she watched the Dornish youth dodge and laugh arrogantly amidst the chaos.

As a princess of the realm, she already harbored no fondness for the Dornish people.

Moreover, her mother, Aemma Arryn, was from the Vale’s ruling family.

The Dornish youth had not only brutally killed a knight loyal to the Vale but also openly mocked the women of the region.

This only fueled Rhaenyra’s desire for revenge.

“Ser Criston, go down there and challenge him to a duel. Kill him for me!”

Rhaenyra turned and gave the order to Ser Criston Cole.

Ser Criston hesitated, visibly troubled.
“I’d gladly serve the princess, and that Dornish man is indeed detestable.”

“But as a Kingsguard, I cannot engage in combat without the king’s command.”

“Then I’ll find someone who can give the order.”

Rhaenyra stormed away from Ser Criston and approached King Viserys, speaking in a low voice,
“Father, that man is too arrogant. He’s disgracing the realm.”

“I can have Ser Criston take action. He’ll avenge Ser Bart.”

Viserys, already fuming with anger, found himself agreeing with her sentiment. However, he reasoned calmly,
“Hold on. The kingdom has many brave knights. The Kingsguard cannot act impulsively. Let this be an opportunity for the younger generation to prove themselves.”

His words made sense. Rhaenyra nearly retorted but ultimately swallowed her arguments.

The tournament continued.

Laenor Velaryon stepped in to pacify the crowd, silencing their jeers and stopping the barrage of objects aimed at the Dornish youth.

Standing proudly in the arena, the Dornish youth brazenly declared,
“Knights of the Vale are pathetic! Is there no one stronger? I crave a real opponent, not these cowards and weaklings.”

He burst into laughter, as arrogant as ever.

“I’ll fight!”

Such a hateful figure quickly drew the ire of many contestants.

A middle-aged knight in silver-gray armor stepped forward.

He walked confidently to the center of the arena, gripping a longsword, and said sternly,
“I am Ser Saul Barrow, from the Stormlands. Let me teach you that arrogance has consequences.”

The Dornish youth smirked playfully.
“Oh? I hope you’re as impressive as you sound, knight of the Stormlands.”

...

Meanwhile, at the banquet area:

Lavish dishes lined the long tables, where noblewomen and young ladies gathered, chatting like it was a tea party.

Rhaegar sat alone at one table, having cleared a large section in front of him to focus on a single dessert.

The name of the dish had yet to be announced.

It resembled a chocolate cookie but was shaped like an egg tart, offering a sweet, chewy texture.

“This is delicious. Who came up with this?”

Rega ate with big bites, his eyes curving into joyful crescents. He couldn’t be happier.

“No, I have to ask Alison when I get back. Which chef made this? I’ll make sure they focus solely on desserts for me from now on.”

Such were Rega’s thoughts.

As he enjoyed his treat, a figure suddenly sat down beside him.

Under Rega’s puzzled gaze, the newcomer took a plate of chocolate pastries, started chewing, and appeared utterly enraptured.

“Where did this person come from? And why are they eating my pastries?”

Rega silently grumbled but didn’t say much. After all, there were still several plates left.

However, reality soon taught Rega a valuable lesson:

When something displeases you and you don’t stop it, it’ll only get worse.

Rega had barely taken a few more bites before the other person began wolfing down the pastries.

In no time, one plate was completely emptied.

“These are amazing. Truly the work of a dedicated chef,” the stranger mumbled.

Before Rega could react, the person reached for another plate of pastries.

Then the third, the fourth...

When only the final plate remained, Rega couldn’t hold back any longer.

He shot up from his chair, shielding the last plate of pastries with his arms, and demanded loudly:

“Do you even know who I am? How dare you steal my pastries? Are you always this bold?”

Though his words carried an air of authority, he was still too young.

His voice was childlike, and his increasingly rounded cheeks made him look more like a child throwing a tantrum than a figure to be feared.

The stranger scratched his curly hair awkwardly and said with a sheepish smile, “You’re the prince, but aren’t these pastries placed here for the guests?”

Rega grew even angrier. “You know I’m the prince, yet you’re still stealing my pastries?”

“You’re not even sparing the last plate. Competing with a child for food—don’t you have any shame?”

“Uh…”

“There’s no age limit when it comes to good food. Besides, Prince, you’re a kid. Too many sweets will give you cavities.”

“You can’t handle this, so just leave the pastries to me. I’m not afraid of cavities.”

The stranger shamelessly retorted.

“You scoundrel! You’re trying to trick me? Do you think I’m a three-year-old?”

Pointing at the man, Rega instructed Sir Elick, “Sir, teach him a lesson for me. Make him remember this so he won’t act so shamelessly again.”

Elick hesitated but eventually responded, “…Yes, Prince.”

Although he was reluctant to cause a scene at the banquet, it was his duty to defend the young prince’s dignity.

Elick didn’t draw his sword. Instead, he strode behind the man and extended a large hand to grab his shoulder.

“No, no, no, honorable White Knight, I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” the man protested nervously.

“That’s none of my concern. If you provoke someone you shouldn’t, you’ll have to face the consequences.”

Elick had no patience for discussion. Grabbing the man’s shoulder, he prepared to throw him down.

*Smack!*

In a flash, a shadow struck the back of Elick’s hand with a crisp, precise hit.

The sharp pain made Elick instinctively let go, revealing a bruised mark on the back of his hand.

**Chapter 18: The Wandering Swordsman**

Elick was stunned by the sudden and swift attack.

Looking up, he saw the person who had just been subdued sitting leisurely on a chair, holding a silver chopstick in one hand.

"White Knight, I mean no harm. I'm just a poor, hungry soul looking for some appetizing food."

Seeing this, Rega silently put down his plate and hid behind Elick.

Judging by the speed of that strike, it was clear this was a skilled fighter.

Rega's small stature couldn't afford to provoke someone like that.

"You are truly generous, Your Highness," the stranger said.

When presented with a plate of pastries, the man beamed with joy and gave a bow of thanks to Rega.

He truly seemed to mean no harm.

Taking the opportunity, Rega finally observed the man more closely.

He had brown curly hair, brown eyes, and a weathered face that bore the marks of a hard life, yet he kept a constant, cheerful expression.

He was very short—no taller than 160 centimeters.

Among ordinary people, this height was unremarkable, but compared to knights skilled in martial arts, it made him look quite small.

Noticing Rega's gaze, the man chuckled. "I know who you are, but it seems you don't yet know who I am."

"And who are you?" Rega asked.

"A nobody," the man replied.

Rega: ...

He felt a surge of irritation.

Rega's fists clenched.

He felt as though he was being mocked.

Before Rega could lose his temper, the man handed over the plate and said softly, "Sireu Frillier, a wandering swordsman from Braavos, at your service. I humbly offer to share this food with you, my prince."

Rega locked eyes with him. The man's dark pupils were calm and inscrutable.

Rega glanced back at Elick, silently seeking his opinion.

Elick gave a slight nod, signaling that everything was fine.

After all, they were in the Red Keep, and no one would dare openly assassinate the king's eldest son here.

Rega picked up a piece of pastry and smiled. "I gladly accept, Sireu Frillier."

Sireu's ever-present smile widened. "You may call me Sireu, though I am no noble and currently out of work."

"Oh? What did you do before? Your swordsmanship is exceptional."

Intrigued by the man's impressive skills and his background in the free cities, Rega was curious.

"We can talk while we eat," Sireu suggested.

"That suits me perfectly."

The two sat back down, the earlier tension dissipating as they ate and chatted.

Through their conversation, Rega learned that:

Sireu had been a knight's squire in his youth, learning swordsmanship from an early age—and excelling at it.

However, his dream was always to become a graceful dancer.

He had worked hard to achieve this ambition.

As an adult, he was hired by a wealthy Braavosi merchant as a personal dancer.

It seemed like his fortunes were turning.

But within a few years, the merchant was assassinated.

At the time of the murder, Sireu had been performing for the merchant, making him an obvious suspect.

To escape capture, he smuggled himself to Westeros.

Later, a noblewoman took a liking to him and brought him to the Red Keep to attend banquets.

Rega listened intently, engrossed in Sireu's story and sympathizing with his misfortunes.

Sireu alternated between devouring food and lamenting his fate.

For a moment, it seemed as though the two shared a deep connection and understanding.

At least, that was Elick's perspective.

In reality, while Rega appeared attentive, he was inwardly full of doubt.

"A Braavosi dancer with natural talent for swordsmanship? Unlikely!"

Rega scrutinized Sireu's appearance.

The man had the height and skills of a swordsman, but his looks...

How blind must that Braavosi merchant have been to hire such a short, unattractive man as his personal dancer? A peculiar taste, perhaps?

"He's lying through his teeth. I wouldn't be surprised if he sweet-talked some gullible noblewoman and weaseled his way into the Red Keep to freeload."

Rhaegar smiled without saying a word, quietly watching him fabricate stories.

After chatting for a while, the chocolate pastries on the nearby tables were all eaten, and Sireu regretfully stopped indulging.

Out of the blue, he brought up the dueling tournament outside.

“Your Highness, the duels outside are quite exciting. Don’t you want to take a look?”

Rhaegar shook his head. “No, I’m still too young. I’m not used to seeing bloodshed.”

Sireu chuckled. “That’s true. But the dueling arena is in utter chaos—so much so that even the king is furious.”

“For what reason?”

Rhaegar frowned, sensing that there was hidden meaning in Sireu words.

“A Dornishman brutally killed his opponent and arrogantly bragged about it, acting completely insolent.”

Sireu took a small sip of wine. “That Dornishman will continue to challenge others. The second duel should be starting right about now.”

“Let’s go and take a look,” Rhaegar said, standing up immediately and walking briskly toward the tournament grounds with Elric in tow.

Sireu smiled and followed them.

When the three arrived at the arena, they found the crowd in the stands loudly cheering for one person.

Rhaegar found a spot close to the railing and stood there to observe.

Inside the arena, a knight clad in silver-gray armor wielded a sword with both hands. Each swing carried tremendous force, driving a dark-skinned young man into constant retreat.

Every time the greatsword grazed the opponent, the spectators would cheer and urge the knight to finish him off.

After watching for a moment, Elric whispered, “The one with the advantage is Ser Silon of the Stormlands. His opponent is a Dornishman—a despicable and dishonorable man.”

Rhaegar nodded and focused on the duel.

Ser Silon’s attacks were ferocious, employing a classic frontal assault style.

His moves were swift, precise, and relentless, leaving no opportunity for the opponent to counterattack.

The Dornishman, however, seemed to notice this pattern. Taking advantage of his light armor, he darted left and right, dodging each attack.

The spear in his hands became a makeshift shield, deflecting the greatsword’s strikes with a series of loud clangs that echoed across the arena.

Just as the fight was heating up, Sireu suddenly said, “The outcome is decided. The tide of the battle will soon turn.”

Rhaegar looked at him doubtfully and asked, “Why do you say that? Ser Silon is very strong.”

“On the battlefield, he’s indeed a one-man army. But the Dornishman is avoiding a direct fight. All he has to do is drag this out until Ser Silon’s stamina wanes, and he’ll win.”

Rhaegar turned his gaze back to the arena.

Looking closely, he noticed that Ser Silon was indeed starting to show signs of fatigue after repeated attacks. His sword strikes were no longer landing as close to the opponent as before.

In contrast, the Dornishman still seemed to have plenty of energy and continued to fight while retreating.

He even taunted, “Oh, mighty knight, if you were mounted on your warhorse, I would certainly avoid you. But alas, you’re stuck here in the mud on your own two feet.”

“Ha! Even without my horse, I can still take your head,” Ser Silon retorted in a hoarse voice, his tone dripping with disdain. But the sweat on his forehead betrayed his condition.

Rhaegar tugged on Elric’s sleeve. “Ser, is Ser Silon really going to lose?”

Elric’s expression grew serious. “It’s hard to say. The cunning Dornishman isn’t giving Silon a chance to engage in close combat.”

“Silon’s armor is very heavy. The longer this drags on, the worse it will be for him.”

Sireu interjected at the right moment. “Armor can save its wearer’s life in critical moments, but it also limits agility and flexibility.”

“Take the Dothraki across the sea, for example. They never wear armor and believe that quick, nimble movements are the key to victory on the battlefield.”

“Let’s keep watching. I believe in Ser Silon.”

Rhaegar frowned slightly, his small face serious as he silently cheered for Ser Silon.

---
Sireu is an original character created by the author, inspired by Syrio Forel, Arya Stark’s dancing instructor in *Game of Thrones*.

He’s a mysterious, elegant, and highly skilled swordsman.

(End of Chapter)

**Chapter 19: The Ranger Prince - Daemon**

“Just wait and see.”

Sireu crossed his arms nonchalantly behind his back.

As it turned out, the sharp eye of a skilled swordsman was indeed piercing.

In less than five minutes, Xilong’s sword strikes became noticeably less frequent, and his futile attempts at chasing his opponent came to a halt.

The young Dornishman grinned, knowing his moment to counterattack had arrived.

Using the same tactics he employed against Bart in the previous duel, he maneuvered around Sireu, shifting his position and maintaining distance while stabbing with his spear.

Sireu defended with his sword, but even the most vigilant guard has its lapses.

Feigning an opening, the Dornishman baited Sireu into attacking.

The moment he was about to strike, the Dornishman executed a deceptive move—a swift reverse thrust nicknamed "Golden Rooster Nods Thrice," blinding Sireu in one eye.

“Ah! I surrender! Stop the duel!”

Knowing the tide had turned irreversibly against him, Sireu gritted his teeth through the excruciating pain and yelled out his concession, humiliated and unwilling to fight any longer.

Bart’s grim fate served as too stark a warning—he had no intention of following in his footsteps.

With Sireu surrender, the Dornishman’s arrogance grew even more pronounced. He strutted about, taunting wildly, showing no respect for the other knights.

He had come here to humiliate these noble lords, plain and simple.

As for the consequences?

Ha! If he dared to show up, it meant he had something to rely on.

From his high seat, King Viserys glared menacingly at the Dornishman pounding his chest. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the armrest of his chair.

“Damn Dornishmen! Find a strong knight to take him down!”

He barked the order to Leonor.

“Understood, Your Grace,” Leonor replied without hesitation, heading backstage to find a knight capable of defeating the Dornishman.

There were plenty of participants in this tournament, and the Dornishman’s triumph wouldn’t last long.

…

In a corner of the arena, Rhaegar turned away with a grim expression, unwilling to watch the Dornishman’s provocative antics any longer.

“Don’t let it bother you. That Dornish youth is not only skilled but also cunning. Most people wouldn’t stand a chance against him,” Sireu remarked casually.

“I know. The kingdom has no shortage of warriors. That man won’t remain undefeated for long,” Rhaegar replied firmly.

“Exactly. Every great warrior has their unique way of fighting,” Sireu said before changing the subject. “If I were to face that Dornish youth, the best strategy would be to feign weakness, bait him into attacking, and then seize the opportunity to counter.”

Rhaegar glanced at him with a strange look. “What, are you planning to step into the arena?”

“A wandering swordsman doesn’t draw his blade lightly, unless he finds a worthy reason to do so,” Sireu replied with a sly smile, his gaze meaningful as it settled on Rhaegar.

“Let me guess—you want to be hired as the Red Keep’s dance instructor?”

Rhaegar wasn’t surprised to see the fox’s tail revealed.

Dropping to one knee, Sireu said sincerely, “If Your Highness wishes it, Sireu would gladly remain in the Red Keep as a dance instructor.”

“Why?”

“No reason. I simply wish to do so.”

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a good enough reason. I wouldn’t dare keep a dangerous man in my household.”

Hearing this, Sireu fell silent for a moment before responding, “You are the eldest son of King Viserys I, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Your status and potential are worthy of my loyalty.”

“Not bad, but it still lacks sincerity,” Rhaegar replied, his distrust evident. “One more thing—the Iron Throne’s heir is my sister. I have no intention of competing with her for it, and no one should attempt to sow discord between us.”

With that, Rhaegar turned and walked away without sparing Sireu another glance.

This man had appeared too abruptly, deliberately trying to get close to him from the start.

First, he demonstrated extraordinary skill by snatching pastries, then impressed with his sharp insights during the duel.

Every move seemed calculated to showcase his value.

But unfortunately for him, he revealed his intentions too soon.

Did he really think Rhaegar was some naive child?

That a lofty display of charisma would make people bow down and swear fealty?

“Low-level tricks and malicious intent. If I see Sireu again, have him thrown into the dungeon,” Rhaegar muttered angrily to Ser Erryk as he headed toward Rhaenyra’s seat.

“Yes, my prince,” Ser Erryk nodded, though there was a trace of hesitation on his face.

Noticing his reluctance, Rhaegar asked curiously, “What is it, Ser?”

“As the prince said, Syrios’ methods are too crude and lack the wisdom befitting a master swordsman,” Elric voiced his doubts.

Rhaegar's eyes flickered. “A good swordsman is not necessarily a good scholar.”

Even so, he remained slightly vigilant.

Ever since news of his recovery had mysteriously spread, the atmosphere in King's Landing had shifted.

The focus had moved from urging Princess Rhaenyra to marry to discussions about Rhaegar being favored by the white hart, a symbol of kingship, and having the qualities of a ruler.

It wouldn’t be long before an impatient courtier would suggest to the king that Rhaenyra’s status as heir be revoked in favor of Rhaegar, the eldest son.

From Elric, Rhaegar learned that the reason Viserys had confined him for half a year was to shield him from excessive gossip, which could unsettle his mind and leave him vulnerable to manipulation.

Rhaegar didn’t object, choosing to accept his father’s good intentions.

Perhaps he was still too young.

Rhaegar wasn’t particularly interested in the Iron Throne.

Rhaenyra had been the named heir for years. Why should he interfere and take something he didn’t value?

“Hiss… screech…”

Suddenly, a strange roar echoed from afar.

Rhaegar looked up, and his expression immediately changed.

A massive crimson figure appeared in the sky, moving swiftly toward the tournament grounds.

Sharp horns, a serpentine neck, broad and powerful red wings…

“It’s a dragon!”

Rhaegar instinctively gasped, his eyes fixed on the flying beast.

The arrival of the dragon didn’t escape the notice of others.

The spectators were caught in a whirlwind of powerful winds stirred by the dragon’s wings, tossing their hair and forcing their eyes shut.

Some women’s skirts were accidentally blown upward, much to the delight of nearby gentlemen.

The scene quickly descended into chaos as the crowd screamed and scrambled to escape the dragon's shadow.

“Silence! This is a Targaryen dragon! The king is with you. Do not panic or run!”

At that moment, a commanding voice rang out, quelling the crowd’s fear.

It came from a burly old man with white hair and a white beard.

Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Beside him sat the king, unperturbed on his high seat.

Viserys remained calm, gazing at the dragon with composure, exuding the presence of a true king.

Seeing the king reassured the crowd, and the chaos began to subside.

As the initial fear dissipated, reason returned to the onlookers.

Many recognized the dragon and exclaimed in shock.

“That’s Caraxes, Prince Daemon’s dragon!”

“Yes, it’s Caraxes! I once fought alongside Prince Daemon—I wouldn’t mistake it.”

“Look! There’s someone on the dragon’s back—it’s Prince Daemon…”

Hearing its name, Caraxes roared excitedly, spewing fiery red flames mixed with thick black smoke from its maw.

Under countless watchful eyes, Caraxes circled the tournament grounds three times.

Finally, at the command of its rider, the dragon slowly descended into the dueling arena.

Once Caraxes landed, it cast a greedy gaze toward the Dornish youth who had been so boastful moments before.

The dragon extended its snake-like neck, exhaling hot breath through its nostrils.

“Your… your esteemed… Prince Daemon…”

Facing a dragon capable of devouring him whole, the Dornish youth was nearly paralyzed with fear.

He trembled as he stumbled backward, stammering as he bowed to the figure on the dragon’s back.

---
*Note: Daemon's entrance must be impressive—it wouldn’t do to downplay this rogue prince.*

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 20: The King of the Stepstones Archipelago

In the distance, Rhaegar observed the arena, catching sight of the dragonrider.

The man bore the hallmark features of House Targaryen: silvery-golden hair and violet eyes akin to amethysts.

Upon closer inspection, his face was cold and stern, with a high-bridged nose and a defiant gaze that mirrored the imposing demeanor of the dragon beneath him.

Rhaegar had already heard whispers among the crowd and knew who he was.

It was his uncle, Daemon Targaryen.

A rogue prince who dared to traverse the continent on dragonback in his youth, leading his followers in campaigns against outlaws.

It was said that his exploits were so legendary that some had written books about him.

“Look! A dragon—a real, living dragon! It’s so huge!”

Rhaegar, driven by the excitement of a child, cared little about who his uncle was. His eyes were fixed entirely on the terrifying, crimson-scaled beast.

Tugging eagerly at the hand of Ser Erryk, Rhaegar exclaimed with delight, “Someday, I’ll ride a dragon just as mighty!”

“No! Even mightier and more majestic! This one’s too skinny!”

The young boy spoke his thoughts openly and without reservation.

Ser Erryk, on the other hand, was far too focused on ensuring the prince’s safety. With his hand tightly gripping the hilt of his sword, he scanned the surroundings cautiously, ready to intervene should anyone in the crowd rush toward the prince in panic.

---

Within the arena, the Dornish youth was cornered by Caraxes, pressed against the wall in terror, drenched in sweat.

Fear of the dragon consumed him. Just as the last shreds of his resolve were about to crumble, a steady voice broke through the tension like a divine melody.

“Caraxes, behave.”

“Skreeee!”

Caraxes let out a roar, seemingly acknowledging his master’s command.

The dragon slowly raised its head, no longer paying attention to the helpless Dornish youth, and obediently lay down.

As the immediate danger faded, the youth’s legs gave out, and he collapsed to the ground with a thud, cold sweat dripping from his face like a torrent.

Daemon dismounted from his dragon with a swift leap and strode purposefully toward the viewing platform, ignoring everyone in his path.

No one dared obstruct his advance. Step by step, he approached Viserys’ throne.

“Stop! No one is allowed to offend the dignity of the king!”

Ser Harrold, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, drew his sword, the blade’s tip pointed directly at Daemon’s chest.

Daemon cast him a sidelong glance but said nothing, his expression indifferent.

Viserys remained motionless, his deep-set eyes fixed on his younger brother, scrutinizing him.

Daemon stared back, and neither spoke, creating an atmosphere of palpable tension.

The lords and nobles nearby exchanged uneasy glances, unsure how the estranged brothers would reunite.

After a brief silence, Daemon stepped back on his own, easing Ser Harrold’s tension.

Then, from his waist, Daemon drew a double-edged axe and tossed it before Viserys, lifting his chin defiantly.

“Add it to the Iron Throne!”

Viserys remained unmoved, his gaze shifting to the crown on Daemon’s head. His voice was calm yet firm.

“You wear a crown. Do you call yourself a king?”

“When the Kingdom of the Three Daughters fell, they named me King of the Narrow Sea,” Daemon declared, recounting his triumphs. He paused before continuing. “But I know, Your Grace, that there is only one king under heaven.”

With those words, Daemon knelt on one knee, removed the woven vine crown from his head, and bowed low.

“My crown and the Stepstones are yours.”

This gesture caught everyone by surprise.

Who would have expected the ever-proud Prince Daemon to yield so readily, offering his brother the respect and deference due to a king?

Viserys, looking down at his newly submissive brother, remained composed.

He asked, “Where is Lord Corlys Velaryon?”

“He has sailed back to Driftmark,” Daemon replied truthfully.

Viserys continued, “And who now holds the Stepstones?”

“The tides, the crabs, and the two thousand Triarchy pirates nailed to the beaches as a warning,” Daemon answered in a low voice.

He knew this question carried great weight for his brother.

Though Viserys seemed dissatisfied with the response, he gave a small nod after a moment of reflection.

Rising from his seat, Viserys stepped forward and accepted the vine crown Daemon offered.

After a cursory glance, he handed it to Ser Harrold, clearly unimpressed by the symbol of the so-called King of the Narrow Sea.

Noticing the reactions of the surrounding lords and nobles, Viserys’ eyes flickered with subtle calculation as he spoke in a measured tone.

“Rise.”

Daemon, looking up expectantly at his brother, understood the signal of forgiveness and slowly straightened to his full height.

The icy detachment in Viserys’ expression melted into a warm smile.

“Welcome home, brother.”

Without hesitation, Daemon embraced Viserys.

Before the eyes of the assembled crowd, the bloodline of Prince Baelon the Spring Prince was reunited once more.

The observant among them knew this act was more than a reunion—it was a deliberate message from the king.

He welcomed his younger brother Daemon's return, but that didn’t mean some people could take the opportunity to stir up trouble.

Daemon understood this well.

Thus, his attitude remained respectful from start to finish, a stark contrast to his former carefree ways.

Rhaenyra stood before the crowd, observing this intricate power play up close, her eyes betraying an uncontainable joy.

Her clear yet naive violet eyes still struggled to distinguish truth from falsehood.

She was simply overjoyed that her uncle had come home.

"Big sister~"

At some point, Rhaegar squeezed through the crowd and came to Rhaenyra's side, taking her small hand in his.

Hearing his call, Rhaenyra finally noticed Rhaegar's presence and smiled faintly. "Uncle Daemon is back. He was always so good to me when I was little."

"That's right. He certainly looks quite dashing."

Seeing his sister’s happiness, Rhaegar forced a smile and played along, praising Daemon's handsome face.

But deep down, he truly didn’t know which of Daemon’s supposed “admirable qualities” to acknowledge.

Even though he rarely heard outside news, he knew the title "The King for a Day" came from his uncle's own lips.

This was a man who once wished for Rhaegar's untimely death to claim the Iron Throne from Viserys.

How could Rhaegar possibly like him?

...

With Daemon arriving on dragonback and the two brothers reconciling, the jousting tournament of the day was hastily concluded.

The court moved to the banquet hall to host a welcoming feast for Daemon.

As for a certain young Dornishman, whose trousers were soaked through, he was "politely" escorted by Hand of the King Lyonel to a high-end inn within the city.

Not only was his lodging fee paid, but a personal guard was assigned to ensure his comfort, lest he felt out of place.

The arrangements were lavish, attracting the curiosity of many.

The explanation was unanimous:

The King admired this brave Dornish warrior who had traveled so far. However, today’s priority was to celebrate the return of his brother Daemon.

The jousting tournament would resume the next day, and the warrior was invited to continue participating in the duels.

Refusal was not an option!

...

The banquet was prepared and ready. Viserys walked side by side with Daemon, followed by a procession of courtiers, invited nobles, and lords.

One had to admit, Alicent was truly an understanding queen.

Upon hearing the news of Daemon’s return, she immediately ordered the servants to clear away the used dishes and replace them with carefully preserved dishes from the royal kitchen.

By the time Viserys led everyone to the banquet hall, everything was perfectly arranged, with no sign of last-minute preparation.

Viserys was deeply moved and publicly praised Alicent as his capable partner, always helping to shoulder the burdens of the realm.

Alicent, unruffled, held Viserys's arm and gently said, “You’re already so busy with state affairs. You shouldn’t have to worry about trivial matters.”

Holding the queen’s slender, fair hand, Viserys’s eyes were full of gratitude. “Thanks to you, my life doesn’t feel so lonely.”

"Enough, if you keep this up, the courtiers will laugh at us. Hurry and lead everyone to the feast."

A blush spread across Alicent’s cheeks as her shy demeanor became even more captivating.

The Stepstones remained a land of turmoil, fraught with power struggles.

(End of Chapter)