Chapter 17

POV: Aeryon

The next day, I found myself in the stands, witnessing an incredible spectacle—the melee. There were far fewer renowned names here compared to the knightly tournament, but the audience's attention was fixed on a single person—Arthur Dayne.

The famous Sword of the Morning once again demonstrated why his name instills awe. Dayne moved with grace, yet with relentless precision. His swords, gleaming in the sun's rays, seemed like extensions of his arms. Each strike was precise, his defense impenetrable. He fought against several seasoned warriors at once, yet it seemed like he was playing with them, like a cat with mice, teasing them with deceptively light movements.

I could have marveled at the spectacle, but my thoughts were occupied elsewhere. After all, while all eyes were on the battlefield, there was an opportunity to make good use of conversations with important people sitting nearby. Mace Tyrell, young and fiery, beamed with enthusiasm and admiration, his eyes alight as if he himself dreamed of stepping onto the field.

"Your Highness, you were magnificent in yesterday's bout. It was a true display of the dragon's spirit!" he said respectfully, looking at me.

I nodded with a slight smile, responding to his compliment:

"Your words are indeed pleasant, Mace. But it seems to me that all the knights in the battle proved themselves more than worthy."

Luthor Tyrell, Mace's father, seemed more interested in stories of hunting than in battles. The old lord became animated when I shared my memories of hunting with Steffon Baratheon. The Lord of the Reach laughed, praised my skills and wit, clearly pleased with such company.

Then Olenna Tyrell, who could not be ignored, joined the conversation. Her eyes, sharp as daggers, pierced through me as if evaluating every gesture and word. She smiled, but it was a light, almost ghostly smile that could mean anything or nothing at all.

"A young dragon among the roses… quite a sight, my prince," she said in a deceptively soft voice. Her words sounded innocent, but everyone knew there was more behind them. "You must have heard about the misfortune that befell Prince Martell?"

"Of course, I heard, though I do not know the details," I replied calmly. "Dornishmen aren't truly welcomed in your lands."

"Who loves them, anyway?! Willful, wild, and lascivious barbarians!" Mace began his tirade, but under his mother's piercing gaze, he stumbled. Olenna, effortlessly picking up the thread of the conversation, continued:

"We do have quite a tense relationship with Dorne, but for such a bold and brazen attack on a noble and respected man—that is rare."

I pondered her words. Were her questions random, or was this a skillful test? Perhaps she knew of my indirect involvement in the attack on Martell? Or was she merely suspecting?

"To be honest, I myself was upset to hear about it," I said, remaining calm. "If Ser Lewyn had told me about it before our bout, we could have postponed the fight. As it turned out, it wasn't entirely fair."

"Oh, come on, Prince Aeryon, I'm sure you would have bested Martell any day!" Luthor chimed in with a good-natured smile.

I responded with a slight nod and met Olenna's gaze. It wasn't easy to understand what she was after. Was it merely curiosity or a test of my resilience?

Meanwhile, Arthur Dayne remained at the center of attention on the field. Three powerful warriors had lined up against him, each of them formidable. But Dayne was unfazed. His swords danced in the air, tracing intricate patterns, while he himself moved with terrifying ease, as if in a dance. He spun, blocked, countered, predicting every move of his opponents. It seemed as if he knew their intentions even before they did. When his enemies waited for him to make a mistake, Arthur, like an arrow, broke through their defense, leaving all three lying defeated in the dust.

Beside him, two burly, broad-shouldered warriors were fighting. One of them was my dear friend Qwelton, who decided to prove himself in the melee as well. With astonishing agility, he rained powerful blows with his battle-axe upon an opponent who was not inferior to him in size.

The second warrior seemed to be part of Tywin Lannister's retinue. They say he's even younger than me, but that's hard to believe. Wielding a two-handed sword, he effortlessly deflected Fell's attacks and even managed to counterattack. His inexperience was evident even to me: he clearly relied solely on brute strength and instincts. If he truly is that young, then a new monster is growing in the Seven Kingdoms. If not, he will be nothing more than another scarecrow.

Qwelton, turning to the young knight, smiled—though it was more of a snarl. The young warrior, tall and powerful, had already drawn the attention of the audience with his ferocity. His sword gleamed in the sun, and his movements seemed sharp and full of fury. However, after clashing with Rhaegar, Fell had learned that combat was not just about strength and speed, but also strategy, patience, and composure.

The Westerlander was the first to charge. His two-handed sword sliced through the air with a whistle, heading for Qwelton. But Qwelton didn't rush to respond; he dodged, and though the sword passed dangerously close, such a swing left the opponent vulnerable.

"Fast, but too predictable," Qwelton commented, parrying the next strike and then ducking under the young knight's arm, striking him in the side with his shield. The blow wasn't very strong, but accurate enough to unsettle the opponent's balance.

The young man, unwilling to yield, turned with a new attack. His face contorted with tension, and every swing of his sword was filled with determination, but there was no real danger in those blows. Fell, step by step, evaded the attacks, carefully assessing the opponent's movements. When the Westerland knight opened up in another attack, Qwelton managed to hook his leg with his axe and then brought the blade to his face, forcing his opponent to surrender.

My friend, smiling, turned to face his next opponent, only to find that it was Arthur Dayne himself. The Sword of the Morning stood calmly, gazing at Qwelton. Their eyes met, and Fell felt that dangerous confidence that distinguished Arthur from the others.

Dayne allowed his opponent to prepare, giving due respect to his bout. Qwelton knew that the clash with Dayne would be entirely different. When both opponents closed in, their weapons clashed with a resounding clang. Fell tried to overpower his foe with his strength, followed by a sudden maneuver.

However, his famed opponent parried the blows with surprising ease. The fight continued for several minutes, during which Dayne allowed Qwelton to show all his skills. The warriors exchanged a series of quick attacks, and Qwelton put everything he had into trying to land a blow on Arthur.

But the Sword of the Morning was relentless: his blades moved too quickly for Fell's bulky axe, deflecting attacks and exposing more and more vulnerabilities in his opponent. It soon became clear that my friend, unfortunately, had exhausted his strength. Dayne, holding back his blow, delivered a swift and precise strike, knocking Qwelton's weapon aside.

In one motion, Arthur was behind his opponent, thrusting his sword through the air and stopping it just at his opponent's neck to demonstrate the end of the fight.

"Good work, Ser Qwelton," Dayne said, raising his sword as a sign of victory in the melee. Qwelton, breathing heavily, nodded in agreement and, getting up, left the field. The crowd erupted in applause, recognizing the skill of both fighters but clearly showing who the real victor was.

A few hours later, it was time for the archery competition. I decided to stay in the stands and watch the contest. The archers lined up, and it became clear in the first few minutes that some of them were merely testing their luck.

However, by the third round, there were some who stood out in a positive light. One of them was a tall, bearded man covered in scars; if I understood correctly, he seemed to be from the Iron Islands.

The second was a knight from the Riverlands, slender and calm; it seemed that every movement of his bow and arrow was perfected. They were evenly matched, arrow after arrow hitting the targets with surprising accuracy. The crowd, initially not very interested, turned its attention to the arena and began to follow every shot.

The Ironborn shot confidently, as if challenging each new opponent to battle. His arrows pierced the air with force and whistle, striking the center of the target precisely.

"Look at this Ironborn," I noted, slightly leaning toward Stannis, who had approached. "He has not only a sharp eye but also the right temperament."

"Looks like he's used to aiming for heads rather than targets," Stannis responded grimly, but I could hear a hint of respect in his voice. We had already discussed the possibility of recruiting mercenaries for the new Stormlands fleet, and such an archer could be a valuable addition, especially considering his place of birth.

The competition continued, and the tension was growing. The last few shots would determine the winner. The Riverman, unwilling to concede, increased the distance and released an arrow; it landed very close to the center of the target. The crowd murmured in approval.

But the Ironborn did not falter. He took a deep breath, slowly drew the bowstring, and fired. His arrow cut through the air and landed right in the center of the target, securing his victory.

"Perhaps we should get to know this man better," I said to Stannis as I stood up. "I think he might be interested in our proposals."

We descended and I headed towards the Ironborn, who was standing surrounded by a couple of his comrades. As we approached, they fell silent, and I saw a mix of wariness and curiosity in his eyes.

"Impressive skill," I began as I got closer. "Your eye and hand are precise. What's your name, archer?"

"Beric Pyke, Your Highness," he replied, his keen gaze still on me. "Do you need something from me?"

"Perhaps, Beric. Stannis and I are discussing an interesting venture at sea, and we need men with your skills to bring some trouble to our enemies and reliability to our friends. I think you could be of use in the new fleet of the Stormlands. The job will be well rewarded. What do you say?"

Beric looked at me, then at Stannis, and a smile crossed his lips.

"They say Targaryens know how to fight and keep their word. I might be interested in your offer. But, Prince, is there an opportunity for an Ironborn in your company to do what he does best? And that, as you know, is to raid and kill."

"Don't worry; I can find a use for any talent," I replied with a slight smile.

He nodded, so Stannis and I moved aside, content with our new acquisition. This day had brought us not only a remarkable spectacle but also a valuable ally.