Beneath the blades, the final eight

The morning light in King's Landing had just bathed the wooden railings of the arena in a golden-red hue when the roar of the crowd already shook the entire arena.

The second day of the sword fighting competition was even more lively than the day before. The stands were packed to capacity, and even the stone steps of the Red Keep were filled with King's Landing citizens. Some held up wooden signs with the knightly emblems of today's competition, while others watched and ate freshly baked biscuits.

Of course, these two items could also be sold to the noble gentlemen watching the competition, but today even the air was filled with the rich aroma of ale and the cool scent of polished sword sheaths, which together created an atmosphere unique to the martial arts tournament.

The three fencing platforms were surrounded by layers of people. The golden roses in front of the royal stands swayed gently in the morning breeze. Queen Alysanne was pointing at the central fencing platform and whispering something to Jaehaerys.

Viserys held Rhaenyra in his arms, Aemma leaned against him, and the little princess clutched the small gift Daemon had given her yesterday, clapping her hands at the swords waving in the arena;

Gael, Mysaria, and Johanna sat in the west wing. Gael held a box of honey cakes in her hands and kept glancing in Daemon's direction, as if afraid he might get hurt.

"Match One! Rupert Crabb vs. Colin Celtigar!"

As soon as Sir Lyan, captain of the Kingsguard, finished speaking, cheers erupted from the stands of the Lords of the Reach. They all remembered that at the Rose Field tournament this year, "Blue Crab" Colin had won the jousting with a spear on horseback. It seemed that Rupert had been holding back for half a year, and today they could finally see the two of them compete in swordsmanship.

Rupert walked onto the stage, oak-hilted longsword in hand, the House Crabb swamp marigold emblem on the scabbard gleaming. He grinned at Colin: "Last time at Rose Field, you won with the spear; this time, I won't let you win with the sword."

Colin smiled and drew his sword, its pale blue blade gleaming coldly. "Then let's see whose sword is faster."

The horn sounded, and the two attacked simultaneously. Colin's sword was as fast as lightning, aiming straight for Rupert's shoulder armor. It was the "Surging Tide Sword," which he had practiced countless times since his youth on his hometown, Crab Island, and which was specifically designed to break through the opponent's defense.

But Rupert was prepared. He dodged to the side and swept his longsword horizontally, forcing Colin to retreat repeatedly.

Gasps of surprise erupted from the stands. Borros pounded the wooden plank and shouted, "Rupert! Use that move you used to chop down your prey during the hunt at Griffin's Roost!"

After thirty rounds, both of them were sweating profusely.

Colin suddenly changed his move, sweeping his sword along the ground towards Rupert's leg, but Rupert leaped up to avoid it;

Rupert seized the opportunity to swing his sword, the blade grazing Colin's scabbard with a crisp "clang." Colin's sword wobbled, and Rupert immediately followed up with a strike to Colin's shoulder armor—according to the rules, it was a point-to-point stop, Rupert won.

"I won!" Rupert raised his sword, his voice filled with excitement. Colin smiled, sheathed his sword, walked over, and patted him on the shoulder. "You did well this time. Let's have a mounted spear match again in a few days."

The two walked off the stage side by side, drawing applause from the lords in the stands. Earl Bartimos Celtigar smiled at his eldest son, Clymont Celtigar, and said, "That lad Colin seems to be like a brother to that half- Wildlings boy from Crab Claw Peninsula."

The second match is between Lyonel Corbray and his cousin, Gareth Corbray, heir to the Earl Corbray.

As soon as the two stepped onto the stage, the Vale stands fell silent, everyone staring at the Lady Forlorn scabbard of the Valyrian steel sword at Earl Corbray's waist—

This heirloom of the House Corbray, it seems, will belong to the victor today.

"Lyonel, don't cry if you lose." Gareth laughed as he drew his sword, an ordinary steel sword that was polished to a gleaming shine.

Lyonel also drew his sword, its blade unsharpened yet exuding an air of authority. "Cousin, it's not certain who will win yet."

The two swordplays were no longer as intense as before, but rather carried a playful air. Gareth deliberately created an opening, letting Lyonel's sword graze his sleeve;

Lyonel didn't hesitate either; while Gareth was laughing, he lightly touched Gareth's chest with the blade.

Gareth paused for a moment, then burst into laughter. "You little rascal, you dare to lie to me!"

He reached out and hugged Lyonel, his voice full of relief. "I'm at ease entrusting Lady Forlorn to you."

Lyonel's eyes were slightly red as he patted his cousin on the back. "Don't worry, you rascal. From now on, if anyone offends the honor of the House Corbray, I'll be the one to protect you from trouble."

Yobert House Royce smiled from the stands, and Earl Corbray nodded in agreement. The unity of the next generation of the House Corbray was of utmost importance to the Vale at this moment.

The third match is between Alyn Redwyne and Mace Florent.

The two are childhood friends, and they patted each other on the shoulder as they went on stage.

Alyn's short blade was agile, Mace's rapier was elegant; when their swordplay intertwined, it was like a dance in the Reach.

"Alyn, your ' Arbor Spin ' move is still the same as always." Mace laughed as she dodged, her rapier aimed straight for Alyn's wrist;

Alyn dodged, but his short blade was entangled in Mace's sword and he couldn't move it.

"I lost." Alyn chuckled, conceding defeat and giving Mace a high five. "You're the best. I'm definitely going to learn some new tricks from Rupert and Lyonel later."

Mace laughed, "Then next time Arbor, you'll have to treat us to the best wine."

The fourth match was between Tommen House Peake and Earl Reynes, the only son of Earl Reynes.

Tommen gripped the steel sword passed down through his family, his eyes resolute—he had been mocked as "the Young Master Broken Castle" since childhood in the Reach, and this time he was determined to prove himself.

Seren's greatsword was incredibly powerful, each strike carrying the ferocity of a Westerlands, forcing Tommen to retreat repeatedly.

Tommen didn't give up, dodging the attacks with his agile footwork, and even trying to counterattack when Seren's sword grazed his arm.

In the end, Seren knocked his sword away with a single strike, and without a doubt, Tommen lost.

Tommen stood on the stage, his face pale, but he didn't shed a tear.

Daemon stepped forward and patted him on the shoulder. "You're very brave, much braver than many of your peers."

Tommen looked up sharply, his eyes gleaming. He suddenly knelt on one knee, holding his sword with both hands. "Your Highness, I said it when we were on the Manderly River: once I had settled my family affairs, I would serve you! From now on, my sword is your sword!"

Daemon took the sword, then handed it back to him. "Rise, your sword is meant to protect the future of Westeros."

Tommen nodded emphatically, his eyes filled with gratitude.

In the fifth match, Daemon Targaryen will face William House Royce.

The "Rogue Prince," holding the Dark Sister, casually walked onto the stage, while William House Royce, holding the rune sword, looked serious.

But after only a dozen or so exchanges, Daemon Targaryen deflected William's sword with a single strike, then deliberately raised an eyebrow in Rhea House Royce's direction, muttering, "The House Royce's swords are nothing special."

Rhea, sitting in the stands, gave him a cold glance, then turned to Yobert House Royce and said, "What kind of knight is someone who only knows how to play petty tricks?"

Seeing that she didn't react, Daemon Targaryen pursed his lips and walked off the stage dejectedly.

The sixth match was naturally between Daemon and Roland Clinton.

Roland gripped the newly forged longsword, his red hair fluttering in the wind. "Your Highness, I will show no mercy."

Daemon drew his sword, the Valyrian steel patterns on the Blackfyre gleaming coldly in the sunlight. "Bring it on."

The duel between the two was exceptionally intense.

Roland's swordplay carried the unique ferocity of the Stormlands people, each strike aimed directly at a vital point;

Daemon responded calmly, as if giving guidance. The Blackfyre seemed to come alive, sometimes parrying, sometimes counterattacking.

Fifty rounds later, Daemon suddenly changed his move, his blade grazing Roland's scabbard before striking him in the chest.

"I lost, but I still thank Your Highness for your guidance!" Roland sheathed his sword and bowed to Daemon: "Your Highness's swordsmanship is truly legendary! A warrior descended to earth is indeed worthy of such praise!"

Daemon smiled awkwardly and nodded, "Your sword is very fast. With a few more years of training, few in the Seven Kingdoms will be able to rival you."

The seventh match is between Borros Baratheon and Lorent Grandson.

Borros, gripping his broadsword, strode aggressively onto the stage. "Lorent, you're not getting any sleep tonight!"

Lorent yawned, the hem of his yellow robe with black lion patterns sweeping across the table. "Borros, to tell you the truth, I was forced here by my old man. Making it to the second stage is already giving him enough face."

But no sooner had he finished speaking than, and the two had barely exchanged a few blows, Lorent suddenly sheathed his sword. "I concede. You win. I'm going back to catch up on my sleep."

Borros paused for a moment, then burst into laughter. "You Sleeping Lion, still so lazy! If you were afraid of losing face by being ousted by me, the boss, you should have said so earlier!"

The lords in the stands laughed, but many also speculated about a rigged affair. Even Lord Boremund Baratheon, the Lord of Stormlands, shook his head helplessly at the sight, saying, "The Grandson lads are still as lazy as ever."

The final match was between Brandon Stark and Lorent Marbrand, a member of the Kingsguard. Brandon gripped his longsword, his eyes blazing with fighting spirit—he had long wanted to test his skills against these renowned White Guards of the Seven Kingdoms.

Sir Lorent gripped the Kingsguard's longsword, his expression serious.

The duel between the two lasted for nearly a hundred rounds. Brandon's swordplay carried the ruthlessness of a the North, but lacked some finesse.

Sir Lorent's swordsmanship was steady, each move perfectly timed.

In the end, Sir Lorent struck Brandon's shoulder armor with his sword, and Brandon lost.

"I refuse to accept this!" Brandon gripped his sword, his face flushed red.

Sir Lorent walked over and patted him on the shoulder. "You're very strong, but you lack technique. Practice your skills more, and you'll beat me next time."

Brandon nodded, though he was unconvinced, he wasn't the type to refuse to admit defeat.

As the sun gradually set in the west, the cheers from the arena still echoed over King's Landing's Landing.

The list of those who advanced was posted on the central wooden board: Rupert Crabb, Lyonel Corbray, Mace Florent, Cyren Reynes, Daemon Targaryen, Daemon Blackfyre, Borros Baratheon, and Lorent Marbrand.

The lords gathered to discuss tomorrow's final showdown. Taimond Lannister, unusually, smiled at Earl Reynes beside him and said, "Your Cyren hasn't disgraced the Westerlands."

Earl Reynes chuckled, "That lad House Peake is not bad either; that Prince Daemon Blackfyre certainly knows how to judge people."

Daemon held Rhaenyra in his arms, with Gael and Jeyne surrounding them.

Rhaenyra was already asleep, her little head resting on his shoulder;

Jeyne tugged at his cloak, excitedly recounting the match that had just taken place;

Gael handed over a piece of honey cake, her pale purple eyes full of laughter. "You won again today, here's a reward for you."

Daemon took the honey cake, took a bite, and the sweet aroma spread on his tongue. This lively arena, and the family beside him, were the things he most wanted to protect after traveling through a hundred years.

In the distance, towards the Narrow Sea, Corlys House Velaryon's flagship still lay anchored, its sails gleaming silver in the twilight.

Daemon knew that tomorrow's final showdown was not only a battle for the knights' honor, but also perhaps a covert contest between the Seven Kingdoms.

He must grip the Blackfyre tightly, protect this peace, and protect everyone around him.

As night deepened, the torches in the arena lit up, like stars scattered on the ground.

The lords King's Landing's Landing in twos and threes, discussing tomorrow's duel; the participating knights reviewed their swordplay by the fencing ring, the sounds of swords clashing and laughter mingling together, setting the stage for tomorrow's quarterfinals.