Chapter 24: Syrio’s Swordsmanship  

The tournament had always been a symbol of the kingdom's prosperity, beloved by many nobles. 

When Rhaegar arrived at the scene, the audience stands were already a sea of excitement and chatter. 

At a glance, he saw his father seated on the high platform and approached with light, quick steps. 

As he drew closer, he noticed that his father was surrounded by others. 

Viserys sat at the head seat, with Prime Minister Lyonel seated to his right and his uncle Daemon to his left. 

Rhaenyra occupied the first seat below Lyonel, a position befitting her status as the heir. 

Perhaps due to the success of last night's banquet, Viserys wore a constant smile. 

Upon seeing Rhaegar approach, he waved warmly. "Come here! You retired early last night, so you owe your father some company today." 

"The maester said children should sleep early and rise early to grow strong," Rhaegar retorted, but his steps were obedient, carrying him quickly to Viserys' side. 

Viserys pulled him onto his lap, holding him affectionately. 

Comfortably basking in his father's love, Rhaegar reached for a plate of fruit on the table. 

Noticing his bare wrist, Rhaenyra teased with a smile, "Where's that bracelet you liked so much? Don't tell me you've lost it!" 

"It's too big; it's inconvenient to wear," Rhaegar replied casually. 

The bracelet was impractical in its normal size and too suspicious when shrunk. He had hidden it in the container where the dragon egg was incubating, planning to retrieve it later when he could justify its use. 

The minor exchange went unnoticed as the crowd eagerly awaited the tournament to begin. 

To make up for the grudge from the previous day, this session excluded archery and melee events, diving straight into the main event: **duels!** 

Two contestants entered the arena. 

One, naturally, was the Dornish youth—today's indisputable star. 

The other, however, drew collective disappointment from the crowd: a short, curly-haired swordsman. 

He wasn't even wearing armor, dressed only in light leather gear. 

"It's Syrio Forel!" 

From his vantage point, Rhaegar immediately identified the curly-haired swordsman. 

Viserys turned a curious gaze toward him. "Rhaegar, do you know this swordsman?" 

Rhaegar nodded. "We had tea together yesterday. He's a skilled wandering swordsman who even offered his service to me." 

At this, Rhaegar couldn't help but chuckle. 

Viserys raised an imperceptible eyebrow, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Let me guess—you didn't accept his offer?" 

"Of course not. He's a dangerous stranger with an unknown past. I wouldn't trust someone like that." 

Rhaegar casually popped a grape into his mouth. 

"You did the right thing. I learned something this morning that might interest you," Viserys said, ruffling Rhaegar's hair before signaling Lyonel with a glance. 

Lyonel stood and pulled out a small note, reading aloud: 

"Syrio Forel, born into a minor noble family in Braavos. Upon coming of age, he joined a certain religious order, often tasked with dangerous missions. 

Two months ago, he assassinated a prominent figure in Braavos, earning a bounty and being declared a fugitive. He fled to Westeros ahead of his capture. 

Half a month ago, he disguised himself as a wandering performer, gaining the trust of a lord's daughter and hitching a ride to King's Landing. 

Yesterday afternoon, during Prince Daemon's welcome banquet, he registered for the tournament and specifically requested to duel Degar Orlen." 

Finishing his detailed report, Lyonel sipped his wine, discreetly glancing at Daemon across the table. 

Daemon remained indifferent, as if the matter had nothing to do with him. 

Rhaegar listened silently, marveling at Lyonel's incredible intelligence network. 

Seeing his son's amazement, Viserys chuckled in satisfaction. "Here's a lesson for you: no secret can remain hidden forever. Honor and faith are the true paths of the strong." 

"I'll remember that, Father," Rhaegar replied dutifully. 

Pleased with his son's obedience, Viserys felt a surge of pride, resolving to impart more life lessons to him in the future. 

"The duel is starting!" 

Rhaenyra's crisp voice interrupted their conversation. 

In the arena, the two contestants took their positions. 

As the referee blew the horn, the Dornish youth twirled his spear and began circling Syrio, searching for an opening. 

Compared to the day before, the youth seemed unusually silent—perhaps still shaken by Corak's display. 

Syrio stood sideways, gripping a single-handed sword, unmoving as he watched his opponent. 

"Hey, shorty! Who sent you to die?" the Dornish youth taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. 

Syrio rested one hand behind his back, his tone conversational. "Everyone dies eventually. But I think my time hasn't come just yet." 

"Oh, really? Because I can already see your death." 

The youth advanced slowly, spear in hand. 

"Speaking of death invites it. Perhaps it's you who should worry." 

Syrio maintained his stance, his single sword unwavering. 

"Little swordsman, I'm going to chop off your legs and make you a true half-man."

The Dornish youth made the first move, thrusting his spear in a probing attack. 

He was fast—his spear seemed like a swift, striking serpent. 

However, Sireu was faster. 

Before the spearhead could get close, Sireu struck the shaft with his sword, forcing the spear off its trajectory. 

Immediately after, he took a large step forward with his right foot and swung his sword, slashing at the Dornish youth's elbow. 

Having landed a clean hit, Sireu did not pursue further. He withdrew his foot and returned to his upright stance. 

Amid the Dornish youth's furious glare, Sireu remarked indifferently, 

"Short? When your head rolls on the ground, you'll see how tall I truly am." 

Provoked by the taunt, the Dornish youth was seething with anger. Yet, caution held him back, preventing him from acting rashly. 

For a moment, the dueling ground fell into a stalemate. 

Sireu stood motionless while the Dornish youth hesitated to attack, circling cautiously to the side. 

Such a dull duel failed to capture the audience's approval, unsurprisingly drawing boos and jeers. 

The crowd urged the two to act swiftly. 

Either the curly-haired swordsman should take the Dornishman's head... 

Or the Dornishman should hurry and kill the curly-haired swordsman, paving the way for a better knight to take his place and decapitate the Dornishman. 

Hearing the commotion outside the arena, Sireu sighed. "I intended to let you live a bit longer. But life fades away like a merciless stream." 

"Cut the nonsense. I won't fear a little runt who isn't taller than a horse's back!" 

Though he retorted, the Dornish youth still refrained from attacking first. 

Sireu sneered. "You're wrong. I'm taller than a horse's back—I've measured." 

As his words fell, the Dornish youth hadn't yet reacted when Sireu moved. 

His legs seemed carried by the wind as he closed the distance between himself and the Dornish youth. 

The sudden approach startled the youth. He swung his spear in a wide arc, aiming to push Sireu back with a sweeping blow. 

*Clang!* 

Sireu deftly retreated just beyond the spear's range. With the back of his sword, he struck the spear shaft, using focused force to drive its tip into the ground. 

Stepping on the spear tip, Sireu exploited the brief moment of disarmament, swiftly thrusting his sword into the Dornish youth's chest. 

*Thud.* 

A spurt of blood burst forth. The Dornish youth instantly lost the ability to fight back. 

Releasing his grip on the spear, he stared at Sireu in disbelief, unable to fathom how he had fallen so easily. 

"You... you ambushed me..." 

The Dornish youth glared at Sireu with resentment, but Sireu silenced him with a swift kick, knocking him to the ground. 

Grabbing the youth's hair to expose his neck, Sireu lamented, 

"Your teacher taught you technique but never how to value your life." 

With that, he raised his iron sword high and struck, severing the Dornish youth's head. 

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