99 AC
After ten months serving as Prince Baelon's squire, I had grown used to the rhythm of life in the Red Keep. Duties, drills, and discipline shaped my days. In the training yard, my improvement had become impossible to ignore. I made sure to hold back just enough—pretending my growth was natural, the result of hard work and royal instruction. But the truth was far more impressive: I was combining my own knowledge with the eleven years of sword experience I had absorbed from Yorgon Royce. Altogether, I now fought like someone with nearly nineteen years of experience in the blade.
At first, Prince Baelon watched me with interest. He sparred with me twice, offered advice, then got busy with matters of state. I didn't mind. My real focus was on refining my skills under the eyes of those who mattered. After nearly a year, it was time to make a statement.
So I requested permission to spar with Prince Daemon.
I made the request through Prince Baelon, out of respect. The last thing I wanted was to overstep my station and appear arrogant. Still, I could tell it annoyed Daemon. He was eighteen now—two years older than me, newly married, and famously frustrated with the King's slow-moving plans for him. He'd been knighted at sixteen and took pride in his swordwork. And he still didn't have Caraxes, which meant his dragon-sized temper had fewer outlets.
So when I challenged him, he didn't hesitate.
The courtyard was cleared. The royal squires and a few curious knights gathered around. Prince Baelon stood at the side, arms crossed, impassive but watchful.
Daemon entered in light sparring armor, Dark Sister sheathed at his side. He drew the Valyrian steel blade with practiced ease—it shimmered like shadowed moonlight. The crowd murmured. I felt the pressure, but also the fire.
We began.
His strikes were fast, light, and vicious. Valyrian steel was no joke. It cut through air faster than expected, and I struggled in the opening exchanges. But after twenty, then thirty exchanges, I began to adapt. His rhythm became readable. My training—and Royce's—kicked in. My sword parried with confidence, my footwork grew sharper.
For two full minutes, we dueled as equals.
The crowd murmured louder now. Even Baelon leaned forward. But that's when I let the edge slip—not dramatically, just enough. I mistimed a counter. Daemon disarmed me and kicked me to the ground.
The match was over.
I lay there grinning. Bruised, yes, but not broken.
My goal hadn't been to defeat Daemon—it was to prove I could stand toe-to-toe with him. And I had.
Prince Baelon said nothing at first. But later that evening, he handed me a new training blade—hardened steel, not tourney-grade.
"Next time, don't hold back," he said.
I bowed. "Yes, Your Grace."