Tournaments had always been a symbol of a kingdom's prosperity, and many nobles were passionate about them.
By the time Rhaegar arrived, the stands were already roaring with spectators.
He spotted his father on the raised platform at once and hurried over.
Only when he drew close did he realize that the seats around his father were full, too.
Viserys sat in the center, with Prime Minister Lyonel seated below him on the right and his uncle Daemon below him on the left.
Rhaenyra sat at the place of honor below Lyonel, befitting her status as heir.
Perhaps last night's feast had gone very well. Viserys wore a smile the whole time.
When he saw Rhaegar, he beckoned with a smile. "Come here. You went to bed early last night, so today you must spend some time with your father."
"The Maester said children need to go to bed early and get up early so they can grow quickly."
Rhaegar offered his excuse, though his feet were already carrying him over to Viserys.
Viserys gathered him into his arms, and Rhaegar settled onto his lap.
Rhaegar gladly basked in his father's affection and picked up a plate of fruit from the table.
Rhaenyra noticed his bare wrist and asked with a smile, "Where's that bracelet? You liked it so much."
"It was too big. It wasn't convenient to wear."
Rhaegar brushed the question off.
The bracelet was inconvenient to carry at its normal size, and shrinking it might invite suspicion.
He had hidden it in the incubator holding the Dragon egg, intending to find an excuse to use it again in a while.
No one paid the little matter any mind. They waited for the tournament to begin.
To make up for yesterday's humiliation, the jousting and melee events had been canceled.
They were going straight to the main event: the duels!
The two contestants entered the dueling grounds.
One of them was, naturally, the young Dornishman.
He was unquestionably the star of the day.
The other contestant, however, disappointed the spectators.
He was a short, curly-haired swordsman.
He wasn't even wearing armor, just a light leather jerkin.
"That's Syrio Forel!"
With his clear view, Rhaegar immediately recognized the curly-haired swordsman.
Viserys glanced at him curiously. "Rhaegar, have you met either of the swordsmen down there?"
Rhaegar nodded. "We had tea together yesterday. He's a capable wandering swordsman, and he even wanted to swear his loyalty to me."
At that, Rhaegar couldn't help smiling.
Viserys furrowed his brow ever so slightly and rubbed his chin. "Let me guess—you didn't accept?"
"Of course not. He's a dangerous man of unknown origins. I'd never trust him."
Rhaegar popped a red grape into his mouth and answered casually.
"You did the right thing. I learned something this morning that I can share with you."
Viserys ruffled Rhaegar's hair, then gave Lyonel a meaningful look.
Lyonel rose and took out a small slip of paper to read aloud.
"Syrio Forel came from a minor noble family in Braavos. After coming of age, he joined a certain religious organization and often carried out dangerous missions."
"Two months ago, he assassinated an important figure in Braavos and was wanted throughout the city. He smuggled himself to Westeros Continent before they could catch him."
"Half a month ago, he posed as a wandering dancer and won the trust of a Lord's daughter. He rode with her to King's Landing."
"Yesterday afternoon, while the feast was underway to celebrate Prince Daemon's return, he entered the tournament and specifically requested a duel with Dega Orleans."
After laying out Syrio's history in one breath, Lyonel took a sip of wine to moisten his throat and cast a discreet glance at Daemon across from him.
Daemon's expression remained calm, as if none of it concerned him.
Rhaegar listened in silence, sincerely impressed by Lord Lyonel's intelligence network.
Viserys saw how stunned his eldest son was and smiled broadly. "Let me teach you something: nothing in this world stays hidden forever. Honor and faith are what the strong should aspire to."
"I'll remember, Father."
Rhaegar obediently listened to his father's lesson.
Seeing how well his son listened, Viserys felt his vanity thoroughly gratified.
He decided he would often teach his eldest son how to conduct himself from then on.
"The duel is starting."
Rhaenyra's clear voice interrupted their conversation.
The two contestants took their places in the dueling ground.
At the referee's signal, the young Dornishman flourished his spear and circled Syrio, searching for an opening.
The young Dornishman was much quieter than the day before. Perhaps Caraxes had frightened him.
Syrio stood sideways, holding a one-handed sword and remaining perfectly still.
"Shorty, who sent you here to die?"
The young Dornishman fell back on his usual taunts, hoping to provoke Syrio.
With one hand behind his back, Syrio spoke as if making conversation. "All men must die. But I don't think my time has come yet."
"Is that so? Because I can see your death coming."
The young Dornishman slowly advanced with his spear.
"Speaking lightly of death invites it. Perhaps you're the one who'll die."
Syrio kept his sword raised in one hand.
"Little swordsman, I'll hack off your legs and make you a true half-man."
The young Dornishman struck first, making a probing thrust with his spear.
He moved quickly, his long spear darting like a snake.
But Syrio was faster.
Before the spearpoint could reach him, Syrio struck the shaft with his sword and knocked it off course.
Then he stepped forward with his right foot and slashed the young Dornishman's elbow.
After landing the blow, Syrio didn't follow up. He stepped back and resumed his stance.
Under the young Dornishman's furious glare, he said lightly,
"Short? Once your head's rolling on the ground, you'll see how tall I am."
The taunt enraged the young Dornishman, but caution held him back from acting rashly.
For a moment, the duel came to a standstill.
Syrio stood where he was. The young Dornishman circled him, afraid to attack.
The dull duel failed to win over the spectators, and, as expected, they began to jeer.
They urged the two of them to hurry up and fight.
Either the curly-haired swordsman should take the Dornishman's head,
or the Dornishman should kill the curly-haired swordsman quickly, so a better knight could take the Dornishman's head.
Hearing the uproar outside the arena, Syrio sighed. "I'd hoped to let you live a little longer, but life ebbs away as mercilessly as running water."
"Save your breath! I'm not afraid of a little man who isn't even as tall as a horse's back."
He cursed, but the young Dornishman still didn't attack.
Syrio gave a soft snort. "You're wrong. I'm taller than a horse's back. I measured."
Before the young Dornishman could react, Syrio was already moving.
His legs seemed to ride the wind as he closed the distance in an instant.
The young Dornishman paled and swept his spear across to force Syrio back.
Clang—
Syrio darted beyond the spear's reach and struck its shaft with the back of his sword, knocking the spearpoint into the ground with a short, sharp blow.
He stepped on the spearpoint and, taking advantage of the brief disarmament, swiftly thrust his sword into the young Dornishman's chest.
A spray of blood burst from the young Dornishman's mouth, and he instantly lost the ability to fight back.
He released his grip on the spear and stared at Syrio in disbelief, unable to understand how he had died so easily.
"You... cheap shot..."
The young Dornishman glared at Syrio in resentment, but Syrio kicked him to the ground.
Grabbing the young Dornishman by the hair and exposing his neck, Syrio looked regretful.
"Your teacher taught you technique, but never taught you to value your life."
With that, he raised his iron sword high and cut off the young Dornishman's head.
Thirty monthly passes now, and three hundred followers. I still owe two chapters.
Hmm...
The followers will probably pass five hundred the day after tomorrow. I'll make up all three chapters at once.
Thanks to Tian Shuang Jiang Lin for the 100-point tip.
Before you continue