Illyric was stunned by the sudden, lightning-fast attack.
He looked up to see the man who had just been restrained sitting leisurely in a chair, holding a silver chopstick between his fingers.
"White Knight, I mean no harm. I'm just a poor, hungry man looking for something tasty to eat."
Seeing this, Rhaegar quietly set down his plate and hid behind Illyric.
Judging by the speed of that move, the man was clearly a master.
A little kid like him couldn't afford to provoke someone like that.
"You are most generous, Your Highness."
At the sight of the pastries, the man beamed and bowed to Rhaegar.
He didn't seem to mean any harm.
Only then did Rhaegar take a proper look at him.
He had brown, curly hair and brown eyes, and his face looked weathered by time. He wore a constant, amiable smile.
He was very short, no more than 160 centimeters tall.
That was fairly ordinary among common folk, but beside the skilled knights, he looked far too small.
Noticing Rhaegar's gaze, the man chuckled. "I know who you are, but you don't seem to know who I am."
"Who are you?"
Rhaegar asked.
"Just a nobody."
Rhaegar: ...
His fists clenched.
Rhaegar felt himself being made a fool of.
Before he could lose his temper, the man offered him the plate and said softly, "Syrio Forel, a wandering swordsman from Braavos. I'd be glad to share a meal with the prince."
Rhaegar stared into his eyes. His black pupils were as calm as still water, giving nothing away.
He glanced back at Illyric, silently asking for his opinion.
Illyric gave a slight nod, signaling that it was fine to go ahead.
They were in the Red Keep. No one would be bold enough to try to assassinate the king's eldest son in public.
Rhaegar picked up a pastry and smiled. "I'd be glad to share with you, Syrio Forel."
Syrio seemed to smile all the time. "You can call me Syrio. I'm no nobleman, though, and I'm temporarily out of work."
"Oh? What did you do before? You're quite skilled with a sword."
The man had impressive skills, and his home was a city across the sea. Rhaegar found him intriguing.
"We can talk while we eat."
"Just what I had in mind."
The boy and the man returned to their seats. The tension of a moment ago vanished as they chatted over the pastries.
As they talked, Rhaegar learned that when Syrio was young, he had served as a knight's squire. He had learned to wield a sword as a child, and he was very good at it.
But he had always dreamed of becoming an elegant dancer.
He had worked hard to make that dream come true.
When he came of age, a wealthy merchant from Braavos took a liking to him and hired him as a private dancer.
He thought his good days had finally begun.
But within a few years, the merchant was assassinated.
Syrio had been dancing for him at the time, so naturally he became a suspect.
To escape capture, he had stowed away to the Westeros Continent.
There, a noblewoman had taken a liking to him and brought him to the Red Keep for a feast.
Rhaegar listened, spellbound, as if he had been swept up in Syrio's story.
Every so often, he even voiced sympathy for the man's misfortunes.
Syrio ate and drank heartily, lamenting how unfair fate had been to him.
For a while, the two seemed to understand each other perfectly, as if they were kindred spirits.
Of course, that was only Illyric's personal impression.
In reality, Rhaegar listened attentively on the outside, while grumbling to himself inside.
What a remarkable dancer from Braavos! To master the sword through sheer talent alone—now that's something!
Then there was Syrio's appearance.
When it came to height, he had swordsmanship; when it came to looks, he had swordsmanship...
Just how blind had that wealthy man from Braavos been to hire such a short, ugly little fellow to dance for him?
Or did he have peculiar tastes?
He's lying through his teeth. He probably tricked some noblewoman's silly daughter and snuck into the Red Keep to eat and drink for free.
Rhaegar said nothing, just smiling as he watched Syrio spin his yarn.
After they had talked for a while, the chocolate pastries at the nearby table were all gone. Syrio reluctantly stopped eating.
Out of the blue, he brought up the tournament outside.
"Your Highness, the duels out there 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 blood."
Syrio smiled. "That's true, but the tournament grounds are in an uproar. Even the king is angry."
"Why?"
Rhaegar frowned, sensing that Syrio's words had a hidden meaning.
"A Dornishman brutally killed his opponent and then ran his mouth, boasting like he owned the place."
Syrio took a small sip of wine. "The Dornishman is going to keep fighting. His second duel should be starting right about now."
"Come on, let's go take a look."
Rhaegar jumped to his feet and hurried toward the tournament grounds with Illyric.
Syrio smiled and followed them.
When the three of them reached the tournament grounds, they found the spectators cheering on one man.
Rhaegar found a spot nearby and watched from behind the railing.
A knight in silver-gray armor gripped his sword with both hands. It whooshed through the air as he drove a brown-skinned young man backward, step by step.
Whenever the greatsword came close to striking his opponent, the crowd roared and urged him to kill the man.
After watching for a while, Illyric said quietly, "The one with the advantage is Ser Xylon from the Stormlands. His opponent is a Dornishman, a despicable scoundrel."
Rhaegar nodded and focused on the duel.
Ser Xylon's attacks were fierce, a classic charge-and-overwhelm style.
He struck fast and true, relentlessly suppressing his opponent and leaving no room for a counterattack.
The Dornish youth clearly saw what he was doing. Taking advantage of his light armor, he darted back and forth, dodging every attack.
His spear served as a shield against the longsword, clanging around the tournament grounds.
Just as Rhaegar was getting caught up in the fight, Syrio suddenly said, "The outcome's already decided. It won't be long before the tide turns."
Rhaegar looked at him suspiciously. "Why do you say that? Ser Xylon is very good."
"He'd be worth ten men on a battlefield, but the Dornish lad is avoiding a direct fight. He only has to stall until Ser Xylon tires, and then he'll win."
Rhaegar looked back at the tournament grounds.
If he watched closely, Ser Xylon was indeed beginning to breathe harder after one attack after another. His sword could no longer get close to his opponent.
The Dornish youth, on the other hand, still seemed to have plenty of strength left. He fought while retreating.
He didn't forget to taunt Ser Xylon, either. "My lord knight, if you were on horseback, I'd never dare face you. Too bad you have to stand with both feet in the mud."
"Heh. I don't need a horse to take your head."
Ser Xylon's voice was hoarse, and his words dripped with contempt, but the sweat on his brow betrayed his condition.
Rhaegar tugged at Illyric's sleeve. "Ser, is Ser Xylon really going to lose?"
Illyric's expression was grave. "It's hard to say. The cunning Dornishman won't let Ser Xylon get close."
"Ser Xylon's armor is heavy. The longer this drags on, the worse it is for him."
Syrio cut in at the right moment. "Armor can save its wearer's life at a crucial moment, but it also limits the body's nimbleness."
"Take the Dothraki across the sea, for instance. They never wear armor. They believe that agility is what wins battles."
"Let's keep watching. I believe in Ser Xylon."
Rhaegar put on a serious face and silently cheered Ser Xylon on.
Thanks to the readers who sent in monthly tickets. The author promised, and today there'll be another bonus chapter!
Taking the readers' suggestions into account, I made a few changes to the end of the previous chapter to reveal a little more about Syrio.
Syrio is an original character created by the author, inspired by Syrio, Arya's dancing instructor in Game of Thrones.
A mysterious, elegant, and highly skilled swordsman.
Before you continue