Grudge match

Point of view: Daemon

I can't believe this is happening. My mind races, trying to identify the opponent who stands before me. [Cling, Clank, Clunk] Who is this bastard, parrying my blows and predicting my moves with such precision? He's not from the Kingsguard, nor a knight of any Great House of Westeros, or even a renowned warrior that I know of. [Clank, Clank] Each strike of my sword is met with his morning star or shield. His eyes, though obscured by his helm, are fixed on me, piercing through the darkness, judging me. Judging me!

"Heeeeyahhhhh!" I roar, swinging my blade diagonally to cleave him in two.

But the hedge knight effortlessly dodges, barely evading my strike. He retaliates, his morning star crashing into my left arm, denting my armor and sending me sprawling to the arena floor. The armor saved my ribs from shattering, but there's no time to recover. The knight presses his advantage, his weapon coming down at me. I roll in the dirt, narrowly escaping the crushing blow. Dust rises from the missed strike, leaving a small crater where his weapon struck.

A loud ROAR echoes in the distance, startling the birds, causing the hedge knight to momentarily halt in place. I seize the opportunity to rise, the disbelief of my struggle fueling my determination. Gasping for breath, I prepare for another round. 

Lifting my visor, I raise my arms, addressing the spectators and my foe with a smug smile.

"Why don't you stop hiding and tell us your name? Who are you, and who do we have the pleasure of witnessing die today?" I call out, masking my discomfort with bravado. "Has the Warrior himself graced us with his presence?" My mocking tone earns laughter from the crowd. "I admit, you're decent. So, reveal yourself."

The hedge knight pauses glancing at the crowd before dropping his morning star. He removes his helmet and reveals his face to the world.

His face is chiseled and rugged, with sharp cheekbones and piercing eyes that speak of experience and resilience. His expression remains stoic as he removes his helm, ignoring my taunts.

"I am Ser Criston Cole, a knight from Blackhaven. I have tested my steel in the Dornish Marches, forged by battle, and now seek a master worthy of my oath," he declares with humble grandeur.

"Are you hoping a Great House will pick you up like a lost puppy?" I mock. "Well, I do have need of a loyal dog, but first, I might have to beat it into submission."

Ser Criston Cole's face unfazed. His expression remains the same as he slowly puts back on his helm, ignoring my words.

He dares to scorn me, to make a mockery of me!

"Aren't you going to say anything? It seems your wit isn't as sharp as your skill with a morning star." I watch as his hand reaches for the weapon's handle.

"Very well," I mutter under my breath. "If it's a battle you want, then a battle you shall have."

A loud ROAR echoes once again, reigniting the battle.

I focused my gaze on Ser Criston, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. My grip tightened on Darksister, the Valyrian steel a familiar and comforting weight in my hand. I lunged forward, my blade seeking an opening in Criston's defenses. He blocked with his shield, the clash of metal reverberating through my bones.

This knight was no common opponent. His movements were precise, each step calculated. He met my strikes with equal force, his morning star swinging with deadly accuracy. I had to admit, he was skilled—infuriatingly so.

Criston's expression remained unreadable beneath his helm. He simply continued his relentless assault, his morning star a blur of motion. I barely managed to deflect it with Darksister, the impact jarring my arm.

I shouted, the rage building within me. I launched a fierce attack, driving him back a few steps. Yet, he stood his ground, his eyes never leaving mine.

I pressed the attack, forcing him to defend against a relentless onslaught. Each strike was met with a parry or a block, our weapons ringing out in a deadly symphony. Sweat dripped down my face, but I could see Criston was not untouched by the battle either. His breathing was heavy, his movements slightly slower.

But he was still standing.

With a roar, I swung Darksister in a powerful overhead strike. Criston dodged to the side, his morning star coming down toward me. I twisted, feeling the weapon graze my armor but not penetrate.

He's good, I thought, but I am better.

In a desperate move, I aimed a low swipe at his legs. He jumped back, losing his footing for just a moment. Seizing the opportunity, I followed up with a swift, calculated thrust. Criston barely managed to block, but the force of the blow sent him staggering.

Our eyes locked. For a brief moment, there was a mutual respect in his gaze. But this was not a duel of honor—it was a battle for dominance.

With renewed determination, I pressed forward, the tip of Darksister gleaming as I swung it with all the strength I could muster. This time, there would be no retreat for Ser Criston Cole.

I waited, for the moment when I knew my victory was assured….. But the moment never came. The battle continued. And, slowly I glimpsed the truth.

Ser Criston Cole's defense was impenetrable, each of my attacks met with a counter that kept me at bay. His skill was undeniable, his strikes precise and relentless. 

My frustration grew with each failed attempt to break through his guard.

As we circled each other, I saw a brief opening and lunged, but Criston anticipated the move. He sidestepped, bringing his morning star down with a force that sent a shockwave through my arm as I parried. The impact unbalanced me, and I stumbled.

Criston seized the opportunity. He swung his morning star in a wide arc, aiming for my midsection. I tried to dodge, but his weapon struck true, knocking the wind out of me and sending me sprawling to the ground.

Pain radiated through my body, but I forced myself to rise, refusing to be bested. Yet, as I got to my feet, Criston was already upon me. He delivered a swift, crushing blow to my sword arm, Darksister falling from my grasp.

I gasped, the crowd gasped, as Darksister fell to the ground.

I staggered back, defenseless, and Criston advanced. He raised his morning star high, ready to deliver the final blow. I glared at him, defiance burning in my eyes.

But Criston paused, his gaze steady and unyielding. He lowered his weapon slightly, giving me a chance to surrender with some semblance of dignity.

"Yield, Prince Daemon," he said, his voice calm yet authoritative.

I clenched my fists, my pride warring with the reality of my defeat. The crowd's noise seemed distant, a reminder of the spectacle this battle had become. I glanced at the royal stands, seeing Viserys's concerned expression.

With a deep breath, I nodded. "I yield."

Criston stepped back, his victory clear. He offered me a hand, and for a brief moment, I considered it, my hand inching toward his. But pride won over. I swiped his offer away and stood on my own. Removing my helm, I noticed the crowd's silence. To salvage the moment, I smiled, grasped Criston's arm, and raised it high, his morning star in hand. The arena erupted in applause, celebrating the knight who bested a prince.

I walked into the shadows of the arena, clutching my wounded arm. As I glanced back, the crowd's deafening cheers for the man who defeated me echoed through the arena. A smirk formed on my lips, followed by a soft, bitter laugh. The emptiness I'd felt staring at Viserys resurfaced, mirrored in the adulation for my victor. The laughter grew as I realized the truth. It wasn't just the defeat—it was something more, something I had known but hidden within. With each step deeper into the darkness, the understanding solidified, only laughter could be heard in the deep darkness of the corridor…

Royal Stands

"Well, Otto, that certainly was entertaining," Viserys laughed, popping a grape into his mouth, clearly delighted by the spectacle.

"I agree, Your Grace. While Daemon put on a good show, Ser Criston Cole displayed valor befitting a knight of the Seven Kingdoms," Otto replied, his face stoic as ever.

"Are you suggesting Daemon was lacking in his effort?" Maester Runciter interjected, seated behind both the king and the Hand. "Though Daemon didn't win, he certainly demonstrated the prowess of House Targaryen. Wouldn't you agree, sire?"

"Most definitely. I must admit, my brother is the greater warrior. Blackfyre has seen better days. Perhaps it's a call to train once more," Viserys replied with a charismatic yet sarcastic tone.

Otto shut his eyes briefly, then faced the Grand Maester and the king. "Surely you jest, Your Grace. While showcasing one's skill has merit, the true strength of House Targaryen lies in its dragons, not its swordsmanship.

Moreover, when evaluating the knights of the Seven Kingdoms, prowess isn't the only factor. Ser Criston Cole embodies gallantry and nobility. Daemon, however, indulges in showboating and humiliating his opponents, which, of course, ultimately led to his defeat," Otto finished, his words putting even the wise Maester in his place.

"Well, whatever you might believe on the matter, the truth is Daemon fought bravely. Although he didn't win, I still think you should reward him." Aemma, Viserys' wife, turned to her husband, placing her gentle hand on top of his. "If not as a king, then at the very least as his brother."

Aemma and Rhaenyra were truly Viserys' weaknesses. The King always looked upon them with love and care. If Aemma were a more callous woman, some might have called her the true monarch of the Seven Kingdoms, ruling through her husband as his puppetmaster. Instead, Aemma was the perfect wife—caring, loving, and devoted to her family, often aiding in the reconciliation between her husband and his brother.

"What a wonderful idea, dear. You know Daemon has been asking me to place him on the Small Council. This is a perfect opportunity. Grand Maester Runcitor, have you any suggestions?" Viserys replied, turning his gaze to the old man behind him.

"Well, perhaps we should—" the Grand Maester began, but was interrupted.

"Your Grace, I thought we had already agreed that Daemon should not have a seat on the council," Otto Hightower interjected sternly, trying to prevent Daemon's rise to power.

"We haven't agreed to anything of the sort. I listened to your concerns about Daemon's threat to the realm and told you I would think about the matter. Now I have thought of it and believe your fantasies are just that—fantasies," Viserys said in a grumpy tone.

"At the very least, we should consider it once more before—" Otto tried to state.

"Daemon is my blood, my brother. He deserves a place beside his family, beside me. It is within his right to ask such a thing," Viserys said, almost unsure, but harsh nevertheless.

"You would put the stability of the realm in danger should you give Daemon any more power. And should he covet…" Otto paused.

The royal court went quiet, realizing the conversation between the King and his Hand.

"Well, what? Should he covet what?" Viserys demanded angrily.

"I only mean to safeguard the realm, Your Grace." Otto paused, choosing his next words carefully. Determined to reveal the true nature of Daemon, he braced himself for any potential punishment he might receive for insulting a member of the royal family. He opened his mouth to speak.

"Daemon is…" Otto stopped, locking eyes with the man standing at the entrance.

"Go ahead, Hand, finish what you were about to say. I, above all people, am most interested in your thoughts about me." The Rogue Prince stood there, his signature smirk gone, replaced by a frown.

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