Advancing to the final: the outcome of the two dragons' showdown
The morning light of King's Landing, still carrying the lingering effects of last night's intoxication, had barely crossed the wooden railings of today's arena when it was warmed by the throngs of people.
Today is the final day of the sword competition. The central sword platform has been renovated, with a new scarlet silk cloth covering the surface and black silk curtains with three red dragons wrapped around the edges. The golden bells hanging from the silk curtains jingle softly in the morning breeze, as if playing the prelude to the upcoming ultimate showdown.
The stands were packed to capacity, and even the small boats in Blackwater Bay were filled with onlookers. Some held up wooden signs that read "The Two Mongols will surely win," while others held freshly baked wheat cakes. The air was filled with the aroma of ale, the cool scent of sword sheaths, and the sweet fragrance of honey cakes that Gael had specially prepared. All of these blended together to create the unique atmosphere of this grand event.
The atmosphere in the royal stands was more solemn than usual. King Jaehaerys wore a black robe embroidered with golden dragons, held a scepter inlaid with rubies, and tied his long silver hair with a golden crown. His gaze swept over the four mighty knights below the stands, with a hint of satisfaction in his eyes.
Queen Alysanne, draped in a white fox fur shawl, her pale white dress embroidered with the outline of Silverwing, held the old king's hand and whispered, "Last year in the jousting match, they were evenly matched; today's sword duel will likely be even more spectacular."
Viserys held Rhaenyra in his arms, Aemma leaned against him, and the little princess, dressed in a pale pink dress, glanced at the field from time to time, babbling as if trying to call out something;
Jocelyn held Rhaenys's hand, followed by Laena and Laenor. The two children held flower wreaths prepared for them. Of course, at Daemon's "uncle's" insistence, Laenor gave one to Daemon Targaryen, while Laena gave one to herself. However, this did not diminish the anticipation in the eyes of the two children.
"First semi-final! Daemon Targaryen versus Rupert Crabb!" As soon as Kingsguard Captain Lyan Redwyne announced the duel, a deafening cheer erupted from the central fencing arena.
Rupert, gripping his iron sword, Whisper walked onto the stage, the House Crabb "Marshland Marigold" inscription on the scabbard still gleaming in the morning light. He took a deep breath, grinned at Daemon below, revealing two rows of neat white teeth. "Your Big Daemon Damon, I won't hold back today! I'm looking forward to our Highness's final showdown!"
Daemon stood on the west side of the stands, waving and laughing, "You half- Wildlings boy, come on! But if you lose, don't come crying to our Little Daemon and say I bullied you!"
Daemon Targaryen, holding the Dark Sister in his hands, casually walked onto the stage, just like in the past few days. However, today he was not wearing the golden robes of the Capital Guard, but instead wore a royal Blackfyre outfit.
The hem of her red robe swept lightly across the silk on the table. She raised an eyebrow at Rupert: "Rupert, I heard you lost the spear to the Rose Field of Highgarden. Don't lose the sword fight today."
Rupert wasn't annoyed; his sword-drawing motion was swift and decisive. "Daemon, my sword is thirty percent faster than it was before the New Year!"
The horn sounded, and the two attacked simultaneously.
Rupert's swordplay today carried the ferocity of Crab Claw Peninsula Wildlings; his oak sword danced with tremendous force, each strike aimed directly at Daemon Targaryen's vitals, the power causing the silk on the table to tremble.
Daemon Targaryen remained calm and composed. The Dark Sister moved like shadows in his hands, sometimes parrying, sometimes counterattacking, always looking for Rupert's weaknesses.
"Great move!" Colin Celtigar, standing in the stands, was the first to applaud. Having competed daily, he naturally knew best about his friend's progress, and his eyes were full of satisfaction.
As for Borros Baratheon, he pounded the wooden board and shouted, "Rupert! Use that move you used to chop Colin down!"
Fifty rounds passed, and both were drenched in sweat. But then Rupert suddenly changed his attack, his iron sword Whisper down vertically, intending to send the Dark Sister flying.
This was a killing move he had practiced day and night, and since following Daemon, it had split the wooden shafts of countless spears.
But Daemon Targaryen seemed to have anticipated this, suddenly turning to the side. The Dark Sister slid past Whisper Sword, the blade gently stopping just before Rupert's throat.
"Huff—" Daemon Targaryen deliberately clutched his chest, panting heavily as if he had just survived a fierce battle. He walked over to Rupert and patted him on the shoulder. "Good grief, you almost knocked me off my horse! My old bones can't take this kind of torture."
Rupert paused for a moment, then burst into laughter. "Lord Daemon, stop pretending! I bet you could fight another thirty rounds! Besides, you're only a year or two older than me, aren't you?"
Daemon Targaryen chuckled, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "You've improved really fast, kid. Let's have another horse race sometime; I might not be able to beat you then."
Daemon then stepped off the stage, mimicking Daemon Targaryen and Myles, and patted Rupert on the back with a smile, "Well done, Rupert, you've made our ' Rogue Prince ' pretend to be out of breath. That's enough for you to brag about for half a year."
Rupert's face flushed instantly, and he scratched his head with an embarrassed smile, "Your Highness, I still lost."
Daemon shook his head, feigning seriousness, then laughed, "Don't worry, once I get to the finals, I'll avenge you. I'll use this move to disarm his Dark Sister."
Rupert's eyes lit up. "Really?"
Daemon nodded, his friendly voice full of seriousness. "Of course, and your swordplay today was noticeably more stable than before. I'll teach you a few more techniques to counter fast swords after the match tonight."
Rupert nodded emphatically upon hearing this, his eyes filled with gratitude, his previous disappointment vanishing completely.
The second semi-final match was between Daemon and Sir Lorent Marbrand.
Ser Lorent, dressed in the white robes of the Kingsguard and holding his white sword, stepped onto the stage. A cheer erupted from the stands of the Westerlands nobles. Jason Lannister and Tyland Lannister, heirs of Lord Taimond Lannister, led the way, rising to their feet and, with the Duke's tacit approval, shouting to him along with the lords of the Westerlands: "Go for it, Ser Lorent! Don't bring shame to your House Marbrand and to the Westerlands!"
Lorent nodded slightly to his former lord and brother in the stands, then turned and bowed to Daemon before him. "Your Highness, my sword will inspire you to give your all."
Daemon drew his sword, the Valyrian steel patterns on the Blackfyre gleaming with a dark gold luster in the morning light. He said softly, "I look forward to it too, Sir."
As soon as the horn sounded, Lorent made the first move. His swordplay was as steady as a mountain, each move precise and ruthless, carrying the discipline unique to the Kingsguard. This was a sword technique he had practiced countless times in the Red Keep training grounds, specifically designed to counter fast attacks and gain the upper hand.
Daemon, however, remained calm and unhurried. In his previous life, he had secretly learned a great deal of swordsmanship from Quentin, though he had also legitimately learned quite a bit himself.
At this moment, the Blackfyre wielded with agility and freedom, sometimes gliding past the blade of the White Robe Sword, and sometimes circling behind Lorent, searching for an opening.
"Little Daemon! Use your most ruthless move!" Brandon Stark shouted from the stands. He had lost to Lorent in the first round the day before and was burning with pent-up frustration. Now that Daemon had the upper hand, he was more excited than anyone else.
Borros Baratheon chimed in, "Yeah! Avenge me and that Brandon guy!"
After sixty rounds, even Lorent, the only glorious white-robed Kingsguard in the Seven Kingdoms, was sweating profusely as Prince Daemon grew stronger with each battle. The prince's superhuman strength and stamina, which were beyond his years, coupled with his upright posture, made him seem like a warrior descended to earth. His moves were endless, and his attacks were like a storm.
So he had no choice but to suddenly change tactics, just like Lyonel did to Rupert yesterday, sweeping his white-robed sword horizontally towards Daemon's side, devising a surprise move to force him to leap up and expose an opening;
Daemon was prepared. Instead of jumping, he suddenly ducked and swept his Blackfyre toward Lorent's ankle.
Lorent cried out in surprise and jumped back hastily, but Daemon seized the opportunity and lightly touched the Iron Guard's chest with his sword.
"I have lost." Sir Lorent sheathed his sword, his face showing not the slightest resentment, but rather a hint of admiration. "Little Daemon's martial arts are indeed worthy of being called a warrior descended to earth," the Black Dragon's reputation is well-deserved!
Daemon walked over and gestured to the knight, "Your swordsmanship is also very impressive, especially your last move. If I hadn't been prepared, I probably wouldn't have been able to defeat you."
Lorent bowed and stepped down from the stage, where he encountered Brandon and Borros. The two burly men, each with their henchmen, made faces at him in a provocative manner. Borros even laughed and said, "Our mighty Iron Guard, Sir Lorent, you've lost this time!"
Lorent wasn't annoyed; he simply smiled, turned his head, and said calmly, "Next time I challenge you two to a battle axe contest, I'll concede defeat to you two young masters." This drew laughter from the surrounding knights.
In the stands, Brandon and Borros led the cheers, waving wooden placards they'd bought from the commoners of King's Landing, their voices filled with excitement. "Little Daemon! Well done! You've avenged us!"
The young nobles who were on good terms with them also joined in the commotion, standing up and waving their arms, their cheers shaking the wooden railings of the stands.
Gael, still smiling, handed over her daily portion of honey cake, her pale purple eyes filled with pride. "I knew you could win."
Daemon took the honey cake, took a small bite, and felt the sweet aroma spread on his tongue, filling his heart with warmth.
The semi-finals had just ended, and the matchups for the afternoon sword duel finals were already prominently displayed on the central wooden board: Daemon Targaryen versus Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen.
The lords in the stands crowded around, discussing the "duel of two dragons" between the two cousins with the same name.
Even our Master of Laws, Otto Hightower, unusually took to the stands where the nobles of his homeland Reach, were gathered. He spoke with a smile to Duke Mathos Tyrell and his heir, Garlan Tyrell, saying, "Last year in the jousting tournament, Little Daemon won; today, I suppose the swordsmanship will be just as impressive."
Clearly, he despised his friend Viserys's dissolute younger brother far more than the Black Dragon who represented an unknown Storm. He would be more than happy to see his nemesis make a fool of himself today.
But it's not entirely Otto's fault. Daemon Targaryen, this "Rogue Prince," not only didn't get along with Otto Hightower, whose personality was the opposite of his, but he also didn't get along with Ser Leonno Strong. He disapproved of his brother Viserys ' two friends, as well as their families and even members of his clan.
As the sun gradually set in the west, it bathed the arena in a golden-red hue, and the final competition finally began.
Two Daemon walked onto the stage at the same time. Daemon Targaryen held the Dark Sister' hands, his red robes seemingly shimmering with gold in the twilight.
Daemon Blackfyre also gripped his Blackfyre, his black cloak billowing in the wind. The two exchanged a glance, their eyes devoid of any hostility that should accompany a contest, only displaying the mutual respect between knights.
"You won the spear duel last year, but today, I won't let you win the swordsmanship, Little Daemon!" Daemon Targaryen said with a smile, as the Dark Sister slowly spun around in his hand once more, pointing at Daemon.
Daemon looked helplessly at his great-grandfather "cousin" with the same name and laughed, "Then let's see whose sword is faster, cousin!"