Battle of the Rogue’s

Maidenpool, 104 AC

Viserys clapped his hands together, a broad smile lighting up his face. "Magnificent! Truly splendid, wouldn't you say, Otto?" he exclaimed to his retinue, his eyes alight with amazement as he watched the tourney unfold before him.

Prince Daemon stood victorious before the roaring crowd, Darksister gleaming in his right hand as he raised it triumphantly toward the heavens. The sword, a masterwork of Valyrian steel, shimmered with its dark, rippling hues, a testament to its storied past and the fearsome prowess it represented. The blade's slender, curved form caught the light in such a way that it seemed almost alive, reflecting Daemon's own intense spirit. His foot was firmly planted on the chest of the defeated knight, Ser Arryk Cargyll. Clad in the traditional black armor of House Targaryen, Daemon appeared almost draconic, an imposing figure that seemed to embody the very essence of a dragon in human form.

The sunlight glinted off the dark scales of his armor, highlighting the intricate designs that adorned it, and casting an aura of otherworldly power around him. His silver hair flowed freely, catching the light, and his violet eyes blazed with a fierce, almost predatory intensity. The crowd's cheers and the king's praise only seemed to fuel his fire, making him stand even taller, a living symbol of Targaryen might and dominance. The sight of Darksister in his grasp, its black diamond pommel shimmering darkly, only added to the grandeur of the moment, symbolizing the martial prowess and formidable heritage that Daemon so effortlessly displayed.

"Yes, of course, Your Grace. Daemon has always been…" Otto paused, carefully choosing his words to avoid offending the king's brother, especially on this momentous day celebrating the king's accession to the throne. "…a rogue, particularly to those he happens to… bless with his encounters."

As Otto Hightower sat next to King Viserys, his appearance was every bit the image of a seasoned statesman. His robes were meticulously tailored, adorned with the sigil of the Hand of the King, a prominent badge resting on his chest. His hair, a distinguished shade of gray, was neatly combed, and his eyes, a sharp and calculating green, frequently flickered with a hint of disdain whenever they landed on Prince Daemon.

Otto's expression was one of restrained composure, though the subtle furrow in his brow revealed his minor dislike for the king's volatile brother. He maintained an air of calm authority, his posture straight and hands resting lightly on the arms of his chair, embodying the steadfast and prudent advisor he prided himself on being. Despite the celebratory atmosphere, Otto's vigilant gaze never wavered, always assessing, always wary, especially where Daemon was concerned.

Maidenpool was particularly enchanting this year, as if the very realm rejoiced in Viserys's ascent to the throne. Nestled along the tranquil waters of the Bay of Crabs, Maidenpool belonged to the lands of House Mooton. The town, with its cobblestone streets and charming, ivy-covered buildings, was a picturesque location known for its vibrant market and the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. The tourney for King Viserys I's accession took place in a grand field just outside the town. Colorful banners fluttered in the breeze, each representing the noble houses of Westeros. The air was filled with the sounds of trumpets and the cheers of the gathered crowds, who had come from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms to witness the spectacle.

Prince Daemon, still basking in the glory of his victory, glanced up at the royal stands. There, King Viserys sat proudly, surrounded by his family. Beside him was Queen Aemma Targaryen, their young daughter Princess Rhaenyra, and the formidable Lord Corlys Velaryon, who was accompanied by his ladywife, the 'Queen Who Never Was,' Rhaenys Targaryen. The stands also housed members of the small council and numerous nobles, each eager to curry favor with the newly crowned king. The royal stands were a vision of opulence, draped in rich fabrics and adorned with the Targaryen sigil. The nobles in attendance wore their finest attire, their eyes alight with anticipation and ambition. The atmosphere was electric, filled with a mix of celebration, rivalry, and the promise of new alliances under the reign of King Viserys I.

Daemon stared at Viserys, who was too busy grinning like a fool to notice his brother's intense gaze. Daemon felt a mix of pride and joy for his brother, yet there was an elusive emptiness, a sensation he couldn't quite comprehend. Before he could delve deeper into his thoughts, a shout erupted from behind him.

"Ahhhhh, Daemon!" bellowed the fearsome knight as he swung his mighty sword with both hands at the rogue prince.

Daemon quickly dodged, stepping over the defeated Ser Arryk Cargyll beneath his foot. "Well, if it isn't Ser Erryk Cargyll," he responded, seemingly unfazed by the attempted ambush.

"Here to retrieve your defeated brother and bring him to the maester, or are you—"

Before Daemon could finish his sentence, Ser Erryk swung his heavy sword again, sweat and blood dripping from his face, likely from a foe he had recently felled. This time, Daemon was ready. He parried effortlessly, their swords clashing with a force that echoed through the arena. The recoil sent both men a step back, but Ser Erryk did not relent. He swung again, this time from above.

Unfortunately for Ser Erryk, the prince was no weakling. Daemon caught the swing with his sword, clashing them together, and with his strength, pressed his advantage. It was now Ser Erryk looking up at Daemon, their swords vying for dominance.

"Or are you here to join him in the dirt?" Daemon said with a devilish smirk, looking down at the knight with a mix of form and condescension.

Ser Erryk's eyes burned with determination as he strained against Daemon's strength. "I won't let you dishonor my brother, Daemon."

Daemon's smirk widened. "Dishonor? I merely bested him in a fair fight. Perhaps it's your pride that can't accept his defeat."

Erryk growled, pushing harder. "You are a rogue, Daemon. Always have been, always will be. The realm would be better without—"

"Enough, Erryk!" a voice called out from behind them. Ser Arryk, still lying on the ground, raised a hand. "There is no need to avenge me. Daemon fought fair and square. I lost."

Erryk's frown deepened, his pride stinging at his brother's words. Unwilling to accept the loss, he glanced over at Arryk, who was struggling to rise, one hand clutching his stomach and the other using his sword for support.

"Ahhh," Erryk growled in frustration, pulling back but still keeping his sword pointed at Daemon. The rogue prince stood with Dark Sister in one hand, a smug smirk playing on his lips, clearly enjoying the moment.

Erryk's grip tightened on his weapon, but the weight of the situation and his brother's plea finally sank in. Reluctantly, he lowered his sword, his gaze still burning with resentment.

"Forgive me, Prince Daemon. My brash demeanor was unbefitting of a knight."

Daemon relaxed his stance, sheathing Dark Sister with a flourish. "Apology accepted, Erryk. Though I must say, your passion does you credit. It's not every day a knight rushes headlong into a fight he's already lost."

Erryk nodded, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "I let my emotions get the better of me."

"But this battle isn't over. You've bested my brother, but if you wish to claim victory in the melee, you'll have to defeat me as well," Erryk declared with a devilish smile.

Daemon's expression darkened with annoyance. "I defeated your brother with ease, yet you still believe you can best me? It seems I was mistaken; it's not passion that drives you but sheer idiocy."

With that, Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister and charged at the knight, ready to end the fight once and for all.

Prince Daemon charged at Ser Erryk, Dark Sister gleaming under the midday sun. The crowd roared in anticipation, the air thick with the scent of sweat and blood. Erryk raised his sword to meet Daemon's attack, their blades clashing with a resounding ring that echoed across the arena.

From the royal stands, King Viserys leaned forward, his smile fading into a look of concern. Beside him, Queen Aemma gripped the arms of her chair, her knuckles white. Princess Rhaenyra watched with wide eyes, her youthful excitement tempered by worry for her uncle. Lord Corlys Velaryon and Lady Rhaenys Targaryen observed with a mix of intrigue and apprehension, the Sea Snake's keen eyes assessing every move.

"Daemon is reckless," Otto Hightower muttered to himself, his tone disapproving. As Hand of the King, he held little affection for the rogue prince, seeing him as a constant source of potential trouble.

Lord Corlys nodded slightly. "Reckless, yes, but also skilled. It's a dangerous combination."

In the arena, Daemon pressed his advantage once more, his strikes swift and precise. Erryk struggled to keep up, each block and parry becoming more desperate. "You fight well," Daemon taunted, "but you're out of your depth."

Erryk snarled, pushing back with a powerful strike that Daemon barely dodged. "You underestimate me, Prince. That will be your downfall."

As the fight raged on, the spectators in the stands couldn't tear their eyes away. "Father, will Uncle Daemon win?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice a mix of hope and fear.

Viserys glanced at her, trying to reassure her with a smile. "Daemon is a formidable warrior. Have faith in him."

Queen Aemma, however, couldn't hide her concern. "These melees are dangerous, Viserys. Even for Daemon."

On the field, Daemon's movements were fluid, almost dance-like, as he swung Dark Sister with lethal precision. Erryk, though valiant, was clearly tiring. The strain showed in his labored breaths and slower reactions.

With a swift feint and a powerful downward slash, Daemon disarmed Erryk, sending his sword clattering to the ground. The rogue prince placed the tip of Dark Sister at Erryk's throat. "Yield," Daemon commanded, his voice cold and unwavering.

Erryk, panting and beaten, finally nodded. "I yield," he said through gritted teeth.

The crowd erupted in cheers, the noise deafening. In the stands, Viserys let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "There, you see? Daemon always finds a way."

Otto Hightower's lips tightened into a thin line. "Today, perhaps. But such recklessness will catch up with him eventually."

Daemon pulled Dark Sister away and extended a hand to help Erryk up. "You fought bravely," he acknowledged, surprising the knight. "But bravery alone doesn't win battles."

Erryk accepted the hand, rising to his feet. "Nor does arrogance," he replied, though without the earlier hostility.

But before Daemon could revel in his victory, a roar of cheers erupted from the other side of the arena. There stood a knight, holding a morning star aloft in triumph, his presence commanding the attention of all.

The unknown knight was a sight to behold. Clad in gleaming, silver armor that caught the sunlight, he seemed every bit the noble knight. His helm was adorned with a plume of dark feathers, and his black surcoat bore the sigil of an unknown House. The morning star in his hand, its deadly spikes glinting menacingly, was a testament to his strength and skill in battle. He exuded an aura of calm confidence, his movements fluid and precise, a stark contrast to the brutish nature of his weapon.

The knight surveyed the crowd, starting with the smallfolk, who cheered the loudest. Their adoration was palpable, their voices a wave of approval that washed over him. He then turned slightly to acknowledge the minor nobles, who clapped with a measured nobility and grace. Finally, his gaze shifted to the royal stands, where he made brief eye contact with the assembled dignitaries. Their whispers were indistinct, leaving him uncertain whether they were words of approval or mere commentary on the spectacle.

His eyes locked onto Prince Daemon, who stood with Dark Sister's tip embedded in the ground, both hands resting on the pommel, staring daggers at the knight. The intensity between them crackled like electricity, a palpable tension that gripped the arena.

No words were exchanged. Instead, a silent understanding passed between them. With a simple, synchronized gesture, both men lowered the visors of their helms, their eyes hidden but their determination clear. They picked up their weapons, the clang of steel echoing through the arena, and without further hesitation, charged at one another.

The crowd's cheers reached a fever pitch as Prince Daemon and this new challenger clashed in the center of the arena, the battle promising to be a fierce contest of skill and will.

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