Clashing blades, the final four

The morning light that King's Landing today carried a sharp edge, but as soon as it passed over the wooden railings, it was warmed by the cheers of the audience.

Today is the quarterfinals of the sword fighting competition. The sword fighting arenas are packed with people, and even the pheasants on the Red Keep's pheasant-butterfly stand watching the spectacle. They clutch wooden plaques painted with knightly emblems, waving them vigorously whenever a familiar nobleman appears. The paint on the plaques smears onto the stone walls, creating the unique "battle marks" of the arena.

The atmosphere in the royal stands was even more somber than yesterday. King Jaehaerys tightened his grip on his scepter slightly, his gaze sweeping over the eight knights below.

Rupert Crabb's Whisper, Lyonel Corbray's Lady Forlorn, Daemon Targaryen's Dark Sister, Mace Florent's Cunning Fox, Daemon's Blackfyre, and Cyren Reynes's Greatsword Lion's Tooth.

Borros Baratheon's Storm of Broadswords, Lorent Marbrand's Oathkeeper of the White Robe—eight swords gleamed coldly in the morning light, like eight bolts of lightning about to clash.

Ser Clymont Crabb discreetly patted the back of his old friend Lyan Redwyne's hand, his voice gentle. "They all look promising. Whoever wins, it will be a boon for the Seven Kingdoms."

"Match One! Rupert Crabb against Lyonel Corbray!" The Kingsguard Clymont Crabb barely finished speaking when a deafening roar erupted from the central fencing ring.

One is Daemon's most valiant "Crab Claw Sharp Blade," and the other is the "Rising Star of the Vale" wielding Lady Forlorn. Their duel has been the focus of discussion among the warlords since last night.

Rupert walked onto the stage, oak sword in hand. The House Crabb "Marshland Marigold" inscription on the scabbard gleamed in the morning light. He grinned at Lyonel, revealing two rows of neat white teeth. "Lyonel, Lady Forlorn may be sharp, but my sword has rarely followed Your Highness in cleaving through the shields of Wildlings!"

Lyonel smiled and drew his sword. The Valyrian steel sword of Lady Forlorn gleamed with a pale blue light, and the ancient patterns on the blade seemed to come alive. "Rupert, let's see if your swordsmanship is superior, or mine. I'm also interested in the title of the strongest under His Highness's command!"

The horn sounded, and the two attacked simultaneously. Lyonel's swordplay carried the elegance of Vale Knight, while Lady Forlorn moved like a snake in his hands, sometimes stabbing at Rupert's shoulder armor, sometimes sweeping towards his waist, each move precise and ruthless;

Rupert, however, remained calm and Whisper, wielding his iron sword with impressive speed and power, using the blade to directly block Lady Forlorn's attacks. The crisp clanging sounds were deafening.

Gasps of surprise erupted from the stands. Lyonel's cousin, Gareth, leaned forward, his fingers gripping the wooden railing tightly. "Lyonel, use the Corbray Spin!"

After thirty rounds, when both were sweating profusely, Lyonel suddenly changed tactics. Lady Forlorn swept her hand along the ground towards Rupert's leg, trying to force him to jump and create an opening.

But Rupert was prepared. Instead of jumping, he Whisper ducked and swept his foot across Lyonel's ankle.

Lyonel cried out in surprise and jumped back hastily, but Rupert seized the opportunity and pointed his sword at Leon's chest—clearly, according to the rules, the point was the final blow, Rupert won.

"I won!" Rupert raised his sword, his voice filled with excitement.

Lyonel smiled and sheathed his sword, then walked over and patted him on the shoulder. Lady Forlorn's scabbard gently bumped against Rupert's Whisper: "The boss is still the best. I'll also participate in the mounted duel this time. Let's have another match on horseback in a few days."

Rupert nodded emphatically and hugged Lyonel: "Alright! I'll show you then, our House Crabb's lances aren't just for show!"

The Vale lords in the stands applauded. Earl Corbray smiled and said to Yobert with relief, "Our Lyonel lost honorably, and this half- Wildlings boy from Crab Claw Peninsula won honorably. Both are commendable."

The second match was between Daemon Targaryen and Mace Florent.

The "Rogue Prince," holding the hands of the Dark Sister, casually walked onto the stage, the hem of his golden robe sweeping across the sand on the stage. Countless Gold Cloaks, women from King's Landing, and spectators in the stands cheered as he appeared.

He raised an eyebrow at Mace: "Sir Mace, I've heard you've won quite a few knights in the Reach, don't come crying to me."

Mace wasn't annoyed. He gripped his rapier and bowed slightly. "Your Highness Big Daemon, my sword won't hold back just because of your status."

The two swordsmen were completely different – Daemon Targaryen's sword was as fast as a shooting star, and the Dark Sister were like shadows in his hands, always looking for Mace's weaknesses;

Mace's rapier, on the other hand, was elegant and steady, each move exuding the composure of Reach knight, like performing a meticulously choreographed sword dance.

"Lord Daemon, your Dark Blade attack looks just like the one from two days ago." Mace laughed as he dodged, his rapier aimed straight for Daemon's wrist;

Daemon dodged, but the Dark Sister suddenly changed direction, their blades grazing Mace's scabbard and lightly touching his shoulder armor.

"I lost." Mace smiled as he sheathed his sword, showing no sign of disappointment. "Your sword is still as fast as it was a few days ago. If that fellow Alyn had won yesterday, I'm afraid I wouldn't have been able to beat you today either."

Daemon Targaryen raised his chin smugly, but today he didn't forget his manners. "Your sword is quite good too. It's a blessing for the Reach Reach have a knight like you. Of course, it's also a blessing for Little Daemon to have a follower like you."

Mace bowed and walked off the stage, where he ran into Alyn Redwyne. The two high-fived and smiled, Alyn whispered in his friend's ear, "I'll compete against him next time."

Mace nodded in response, "I'm waiting to see you beat him."

The third match was between Daemon and Cyren Reynes.

Siren gripped his specially crafted greatsword, the Red Lion, its blade gleaming coldly. As he stepped onto the stage, cheers erupted from the Westerlands Quarter. His father, Earl Reynes, even stood up and shouted at him, "Siren! Don't disgrace the Westerlands!"

Siren nodded heavily, then turned and bowed to Daemon: "Your Highness, my greatsword has cleaved through many suits of armor; please be careful."

Daemon drew his sword, the Valyrian steel patterns on the Blackfyre gleaming with a dark gold luster in the morning light. He said softly, "Your courage is commendable. Go ahead and strike, swing your sword at me with all your might."

As the horn sounded, Siren made the first move, her greatsword slashing down on Daemon with immense force, the power seemingly shaking the entire stands.

Daemon remained calm and composed. With a light flick of his Blackfyre, he deflected the force of the heavy sword, then swept the blade horizontally, forcing Seren to retreat repeatedly.

Earl Reynes, watching from the Westerlands stands, clenched his fists, muttering, "Use that move—"

Upon hearing the shout, Siren suddenly changed her attack, slashing her greatsword vertically down in an attempt to deflect Daemon's sword.

But Daemon was prepared. The Blackfyre slid along the blade of the greatsword, and the blade lightly touched Siren's chest.

"I lost." Siren sheathed her sword, her face showing no resentment, but rather admiration. "Your Highness's swordsmanship is even more formidable than the legends suggest."

Daemon walked over and gently patted his shoulder encouragingly, saying, "You wield your greatsword very well. If you practice your techniques a bit more, you'll have few rivals in all of Westeros."

Siren nodded emphatically, turned and bowed to the Westerlands stands. Earl Reynes clapped with a smile, his voice full of satisfaction as he chatted with the Westerlands nobles beside him. "Our Reynes family can afford to lose. He didn't disgrace me this way."

The fourth match is between Borros Baratheon and Lorent Marbrand.

Borros, wielding a broadsword, strode aggressively onto the stage, his black and green battle robe billowing in the wind. He shouted at Lorent, "Sir! Brandon lost yesterday, and today I'll win for him!"

Lorent, dressed in the white robes of the Kingsguard and holding a white sword, spoke calmly, his face expressionless. "Young Master Borros, I advise you not to overexert yourself, lest you have to make excuses if you lose later."

The duel between the two was full of comedic elements. Borros started by using brute force, his broadsword slashing with great force, but Lorent's swordsmanship was as steady as a mountain, accurately deflecting Borros's attacks with every move.

"Come on, make a move! Stop just dodging!" Borros shouted anxiously, sweat streaming down his face.

Lorent remained calm, even taking the time to straighten the wrinkles in his white robe. "Young Master Borros, you are very strong, but your swordplay is too chaotic. If I wanted to win, I would have won long ago."

No sooner had he finished speaking than Lorent suddenly changed his move, lightly flicking his white-robed sword and knocking Borros's broadsword away.

Borros stood frozen on the stage, unable to react for a long time. It wasn't until laughter erupted from the stands that his face flushed red, and he picked up his sword, muttering, "You cheated! If you're so capable, let's have the match in a few days!"

Lorent smiled, sheathed his sword, walked over, and patted him on the shoulder. "I may not be as good as you in other areas, but in swordsmanship, you still need to practice for a few more years."

Although Borros was unwilling to accept defeat, he conceded. As he turned to leave the stage, he ran into Brandon. The two exchanged a glance and said in unison, "Next time, let's compete against him together!"

This caused the surrounding nobles and knights to burst into laughter.

As the sun gradually set in the west, the quarterfinals finally came to a close: Rupert Crabb, Daemon Targaryen, Daemon Blackfyre, and Lorent Marbrand advanced to the semifinals.

The attendants wrote the list of the four finalists in red paint on the central wooden board, and the onlookers gathered around to discuss the semi-final matchups for tomorrow.

Taimond Lannister smiled at Earl Marbrand, a rare occurrence for him, and said, "Your brother, Ser Lorent, has certainly given the Westerlands some face; he's really done the House Marbrand proud."

Earl Lorent chuckled in response, "That Black Dragon Daemon's swordsmanship is truly formidable. I witnessed it firsthand when he visited our Ashemark during his tour. Tomorrow's semi-final will likely be even more exciting."

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

Rhaenyra was awake, clutching Daemon's cloak in her small hands, glancing occasionally towards the final four list;

Gael handed Daemon a piece of honey cake, her pale purple eyes filled with worry. "You'd better be careful when you compete against that Big Daemon or Sir Lorent tomorrow."

Daemon smiled and nodded, reaching out to ruffle her hair. "Don't worry, I'll be fine. This year's martial arts tournament is unusually quiet, without any accidents."

But before he could finish speaking, Daemon Targaryen walked over, twirling a flask in his hand, the hem of his golden robe stained with some sand. "Little Daemon, we shouldn't meet too early in the semifinals tomorrow. I still want to have a good match with you."

Daemon smiled and nodded, "Alright, let's see who can go all the way." The two smiled at each other, their eyes filled with no hostility, only the mutual respect between knights.

In the distance, towards the Narrow Sea, the flagships of Corlys House Velaryon and the other lords remained anchored, their sails gleaming silver in the twilight.

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

Some of the young knights participating in the competition were trying to review the sword moves that had appeared in today's matches by the fencing ring; the sounds of swords clashing and the laughter of the boys mingled together.

The lords continued to King's Landing's Landing in twos and threes, discussing tomorrow's duel. Many had made a fortune from betting on the game today, while others had lost everything. Nevertheless, after the match, they helped each other up to the newly discovered tavern to drink their fill together.

Daemon carried Rhaenyra, with Gael, Jocelyn, and Jeyne following behind, as they slowly walked back. Rhaenyra's little hand gripped his fingers tightly, while Jeyne excitedly talked about cheering him on the next day. Gael and Jocelyn, one acting as his "aunt" and the other as his "mother," reminded him to be careful from time to time.

This night in the King's Landing is destined to be anything but peaceful. The four-way competition is like four sharp arrows about to clash, foreshadowing an even more intense Storm on the battlefield tomorrow.

Daemon, gripping the Blackfyre and feeling the slight warmth of the brand on his shoulder and neck, had only one thought in his mind—

No matter who the opponent is, he must win, not only for glory, but also to demonstrate his existence, to deal with future crises, and to make the Seven Kingdoms fully understand the existence of this "invincible" Black Dragon after his tour.