Chapter 9: Duel

Cersei:

"You know this is a fight not a feast," Jaime observed through his typical smile in lieu of a greeting.

Cersei ignored her brother's jape. Taking her seat, across from him and was careful to not ruffle her beautiful dress. She had spent much of the night before and this very morning fretting over what dress to wear for the duel today. After numerous changes and choices, she finally settled for the one she was currently wearing.

A red backless dress which was sleeveless. It had black laces sewn through it to offset the red, subtle hinting of the Targaryen's colors and the future she'd soon have wearing them. With a plunging neckline, while her lion-head gold collar dangled between her bosom.

How could Rhaegar resist me now? She had thought exultingly when she studied herself in the mirror in this dress. She knew the style was more the Reach than either the Westerlands or the Crownlands, and something she typically did not wear. If she had to wear more dresses styled in this way to win her prince's affection then she'd do it without hesitation.

Why should I hinder myself by conforming to one style?

"Morning to you too," Jaime replied to himself, undeterred by her silence.

"Morning," she decided it was better to respond to him then continue to hear him prattling on in self amusement. Despite her brother's earnestness at helping her with Rhaegar, he still hadn't stopped being his typical self in her presence. That meant japes, stupid smiles, and other annoyances that she had to persevere through in order to get his help.

He raised his glass in her direction before taking a sip, and then went back to his meal.

Cersei looked down at the spread of food, choosing carefully as to not wanting to get any spills or crumbs on her dress. She settled with some toast and bacon, with some eggs, washing it down with iced milk.

"You look lovely, sister."

"Thank you, brother," she replied in kind, looking up to see the sincerity in his expression. There was no lust or stirring beneath those green eyes like she had seen and use to long for when they were younger. He's been blinded by his princess.

"How is your betrothed?" she asked knowing how he'd adored talking about his future wife. She cared little about her future good sister, but it was easier to ply him out of more useful information when he was happy and distracted which he always when his betrothed was brought up.

Jaime was eating his porridge, prompting him to look up at her question. His spoon in his mouth, a look of surprised covered his face, but that went away swiftly when his thoughts settled towards the princess, a glazed hue in his eyes followed. He put down his spoon, to show a wistful smile. "She is well," he answered, "I've held back on writing to her until after the duel," looking and sounding put out by this supposed sacrifice on his part. "She and Oberyn are very interested on who will win."

They probably long for the spare to win, Cersei knew how close the Dornish Prince and Princess had been with him during their time in Casterly Rock. She kept that disapproval from showing in her expression, instead returning her brother's smile with one of understanding. "I'm sure she's waiting eagerly for it."

"Yes, she is," he nodded, "She will probably write a congratulatory letter to the victor," he revealed proudly.

Cersei perked up at that. Not liking the idea of this princess writing to her Rhaegar and offering some form of deceived sincerity of congratulations when he predictably triumphs over his younger brother.

She can't worm her way between me and Rhaegar, Cersei crumpled the piece of toast she had in her hand, turning it into crumbs that rained own her plate. Looking down at her hands and the ruined mess of her toast.

"Jealous?" Jaime correctly guessed her mood.

"No," she wanted to snap, wiping her hands with a napkin.

"Good," Jaime didn't sound fooled, "I mean it's not like Elia's letter is going to Rhaegar."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Cersei demanded, annoyed at her brother's smug tone.

"I thought it was pretty simple," he rolled his eyes. "It means she's going to be writing to Daeron not Rhaegar," he said slowly as if she was some lackwit.

Cersei wasn't sure what frustrated her more-her brother's antics or what he was implying. She settled for the latter, responding with a derisive laugh, "You think he can beat the crown prince?" She shook her head, disappointed in her brother. It seemed his friendship with the spare had diluted his senses.

Jaime frowned, "You think too little of Prince Daeron." Beneath his green eyes she could see he was insulted by her jab at his friend. "Daeron has squired for Ser Barristan for years," He began, "He trains and works hard every day," he listed, "There is no better swordsman I've fought that doesn't wear the cloak of the kingsguard." The beginning traces of a sneer forming on his face, "It's you who are mistaken, sister. Prince Daeron will beat Rhaegar. I have no doubt about that." He finished with a look that resembled a parent correcting their child.

Cersei scowled, stewing in anger at her brother's chiding of her. At how he spoke to her like some foolish little girl. She refused to acknowledge his points.

He's jealous, she reasoned, firmly grabbing onto the idea, his jealousy blinds him against the Crown Prince. Feeling her anger cooling as she saw through Jaime's flaws. He's friends with the wrong prince, she continued, That stupid loyalty causes him to go against Rhaegar e ven when he knows who's the better fighter.

"I'm sorry, Cersei," Jaime's apology broke through her thoughts. "I know how much you," he paused as if to find the right word, " Care for Prince Rhaegar," he finished, sounding contrite. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"All is forgiven, brother," she smiled, waving off his apology. How could she be angry with him? She saw through his attempts at trying to protect his friend, the spare prince. It was pity she felt towards her brother not annoyance.

He looked surprised whether it was her smile or her reaction to his apology, she wasn't sure, but he looked relieved that she wasn't mad with him. "Good," he smiled, "Besides if he does lose," he said delicately, "At least he'll have you to comfort him."

They arrived to a packed Great Hall. The room was buzzing as all of Court looked to be in attendance to witness this anticipated duel between the two princes. The cavernous hall almost felt cramped as she and her brother made their way through the throne room.

Remembering her mother's lessons, Cersei held her head high, chin lifted, her steps measured and dignified as she walked beside her brother. Feeling the eyes fall and linger on her as they cut through the rabble of the lower nobleman and towards where the dueling ring had been set up. Stands had been built and brought in forming a large circle and below that was a smaller circle, roped off where the fight would take place. The stands' two openings were on either side, one side the entrance for the nobles to gather and find their seats, the opposing side as to give the Iron Throne and the King who sat upon it a view of the duel.

To those who didn't have the luxury of being gifted seats, not wanting to fear missing such an event, so they settled on milling about in the shadows of the stands. Listening to the sounds and reactions of the spectators, while silently hoping to catch a glimpse of it as well as wanting to stay to shower praise on the victor or consolations to the loser.

Looking down on the proceedings were the skulls of the Targaryen dragons with the largest and most fearsome hanging closest to the Iron Throne. Now the empty eyes of these once proud and magnificent beasts watched their masters in silence.

"There you two are!" A booming voice greeted them.

Cersei looked away from the imposing dragon skulls to see the tall and muscular Robert Baratheon waving a large sized hand towards them as noblemen and women shrunk back as to avoid the towering stormlander who paid their annoyance and frosty glares no heed.

"Robert," Jaime led her over towards the Heir to Storm's End.

"Bout bloody time," he grumbled. He clapped Jaime on the back in greeting, a clap so forceful, Jaime's legs buckled.

Jaime recovered, still smiling, "I was blessed enough to have to wait and escort my sister," he gestured to her.

Robert turned to her for the first time. Standing straight, his large arms bulging, he bowed stiffly, more out of a lack of proper decorum then any sign of disrespect. His black hair, thick and messy, falling loosely over his temple. A bit of red seeped into his cheeks, making his handsome face look a bit flushed, and having heard stories about him through her brother, she knew wine was the cause of it.

"So this is Jaime's famed sister," he was grinning, his blue eyes shimmering. He elbowed Jaime. "You're a beauty, my lady."

Cersei rewarded his charm with a small smile, not missing how his eyes roamed over her partially exposed chest. She resisted the urge to shudder or to raise a hand to cover herself . If I have to endure a few lustful and lingering glances in this dress in order to win my prince's attention, then I do it gladly.

She held out her hand, knowing etiquette was to be observed, despite her initial thoughts on the man. Handsome he may be, she felt little in her chest at his sight, another pale imitation to try to rival her Rhaegar.

He took her hand in his much larger one and placed a surprisingly gentle kiss upon her knuckles. His eyes not leaving hers during the act.

"Enough, Robert," Jaime snorted, "My sister is clever enough to see through your charms, " Jaime stressed the last word.

Robert barked out a laugh, holding up his hands, "My apologies," he joked, "Wouldn't want to offend your father," he winked at her before turning back to Jaime. "We got you seats." He put his hand on Jaime's back, "best seats around." He boasted.

Cersei was left to trail behind them, as Robert had turned his attention and infectious charm towards her brother, the two conversing and laughing as they went. She glanced around for any sight of her beloved prince and disappointment deflated her heart when she could not spot the silver haired Rhaegar.

"Here we are," Robert's voice dragged her attention away from the dueling circle to see their empty seats. Though made of wood, the seats were cushioned on both the bottom and the back. She was pleased at that, not wanting to feel stiff and uncomfortable while watching her prince triumph.

"Told ya, I'd find them, Ned," Robert greeted the two who were sitting next to the empty seats.

It was then that Cersei spotted the man who could only be Eddard Stark. The northerner dressed in dull greys and browns, he was shorter then Robert by more than a head. His long face and grey eyes set him apart from his handsome friend, but in the wrong ways, she thought. He seems more fitting as a mouse than a wolf, she wryly observed at the quiet, unassuming second son.

"Lady Cersei," he stepped forward when his eyes met hers, "It is an honor to meet you." He bowed his head, his form more practiced and refined then Robert's.

"You as well," she smiled towards him, "Jaime speaks highly of you." She added, knowing how men liked to be complimented, and was proven right by the sheepish look he gave in response.

Men can be so simple.

"As well he should," a female voice more than happily agreed.

Cersei should've noticed her first, but had been distracted by the Northman's drabby appearance. She didn't need an introduction to know of the woman who was standing beside Eddard. The name came to her at once-Ashara Dayne.

Much to Cersei's disappointment the rumors of her beauty were not unfounded. Begrudgingly seeing it with her tall and slender form, her long curly black hair, but her most striking feature were her violent eyes. An envious trait that was found mostly of those with valyrian blood and one that Cersei couldn't deny its beauty, having been enthralled by her beloved Rhaegar's eyes for so long.

The Dornish beauty was dressed in a violet, sleeveless dress, with a more conservative cut. Silver thread skillfully woven into the fabric to make the style look simple, but on Ashara it accentuated her beauty rather well, Cersei noted to her chagrin. Spotting a white sword crossing a fallen star silver pin that was placed upon the collar of her dress.

"Lady Ashara, I presume?" Cersei was all smiles to the woman who she thought was to be her biggest rival, only to learn that her eyes were set on a second son instead of the crown prince. Her poor judgment is my victory.

"You presume correctly." Her Dornish accent lilting her words in an effortless way that made her tone sultrier.

"Well met," Cersei greeted, seeing how Ashara's praise had turned Eddard's cheeks flushed. "I love your pin," she complimented.

Ashara smiled, one of her long fingers gently brushing up against the falling star part. "Thank you," she responded, "A gift from my brother, Arthur, from when I arrived here." She sounded happy when discussing her famous brother, "He wanted me to not forget where we come from."

They moved to sit down then. Cersei sitting down beside her brother, who sat on Robert's left while Eddard sat to Robert's right with Ashara taking the seat beside him.

"Sound advice," Eddard put in. The color having returned to his cheeks.

Ashara rewarded his response with a dazzling smile, before brushing her hands against one of his. "Indeed it is," aware of the affect her touch was having on him, "Though that doesn't mean I haven't eyed a different sigil for a new pin," she emphasized her meaning by tapping the grey sprinting direwolf that was sewn upon Eddard's tunic.

Robert laughed, a thunderous noise that drew the attention of several onlookers. "I'm not sure what will make him faint first, my lady," he joked, "This heat or you."

Ned sent his friend an annoyed look at the teasing, but Ashara put a hand on his arm, "Don't be angry, Ned," She comforted him, "Robert's simply jealous since the best look he's gotten while he's been here was from the roasted boar we supped on last night."

Cersei couldn't contain the laugh that slipped from her lips at that. Ned and Jaime's laughter joined hers and even Robert didn't seem bothered by it. His laughter easily drowning theirs out before shaking his head and wagging his finger at Lady Ashara.

"I'm bout to be a few dragons richer," Robert bragged, once their laughter subsided.

"You've been placing bets on the duel," Eddard observed in dismay, before a resigned look settled over his plain features as if he shouldn't have been.

"Of course," Robert happily declared, "Just supporting my friend," he defended, ignoring Eddard rolling his eyes or Jaime shaking his head, "Largest one came from Lonmouth."

"Rhaegar's squire?" Jaime guessed.

"Aye," Robert answered, "He seemed confident that the Crown Prince would win," he snorted, conveying his opinion on the matter.

Cersei ignored Robert's lack of respect towards the Crown Prince. She knew in current company they called the second son a friend. Like Jaime, they were all tied to loyalty not sense and would be proven the ere of that when her Rhaegar bested his younger brother in front of them.

After that, Cersei paid little attention to their conversation. Robert and his personality dominating it, but he was quick to be quiet when any of the other three spoke up. Cersei let them have their trivial talks as she looked around the stands, spotting familiar and unfamiliar faces having gathered, including the seats across from theirs on the other side of the dueling circle.

It was the Tyrell party. Dressed in green and gold, she recognized the heir of Highgarden in Mace Tyrell. A handsome enough man with curly brown hair, and a well-trimmed beard, the golden rose brooch upon his green doublet. He sat beside his silver haired wife, Lady Alerie formerly of House Hightower, who looked pretty and poised in her dress. Beside her, Cersei guessed to be Mace's sisters, Janna and Mina, both of which were presumed suitors for Rhaegar.

Janna dressed in a sleeveless green gown with gold trimming that would catch eyes before leading their attention downards towards her plunging neckline with gold bordering, showing off her ample breast and buxom form. Her dark hair pinned up to show her small neck, the pins in her hair were embedded with gold and emeralds.

Beside her sat the youngest Tyrell, Mina. Her dress much more conservative in cut and did little to accentuate her petite form. Her hair was done in a similar style as her sister but without the ornate pins and jewels. She looked bored at the events around her, and also a bit annoyed, and Cersei spotted the reason.

On the other side of Mina Tyrell, sat her mother, Lady Olenna Tyrell. Cersei had learned and heard much about the woman dubbed the Queen of Thorns. She hardly looks intimidating, Cersei thought, studying the old woman across from her who seemed to be whispering into Mina's ear, advice that her youngest didn't seem keen on hearing. She was short with greying hair, garbed in the green of House Tyrell, long sleeved and layered dress, a golden rose pin was nestled at her collar. Her eyes didn't rest, even as she talked to her daughter they moved about the hall, soon landing on Cersei.

Cersei's first instinct was to look away, as if embarrassed at being caught, but she ignored that notion. She met the inquisitive stare of the Tyrell matriarch. A lioness doesn't cower to a rose, she reminded herself, hoping to convey her confidence and power in her look. That's right, this is the face of your future Queen.

Her stare got her nothing other than an amused smile that slowly spread on Olenna's face. Murmuring from the crowd broke out drawing both their attention away and towards the dueling ring where a herald had emerged.

It was time to begin, her heart was racing.

Barely hearing what the herald was saying, bits of it that stuck told her that he was going over the rules of the duel. When he finished he then announced the Small Council, each lord earning a different volume of applause. When her father was announced as Hand, Cersei was proud to observe he earned the loudest ovation. Regardless, Tywin Lannister ignored the noise and took his seat at the Small Council table positioned beneath the Iron Throne.

Next the herald announced the king, Aerys the Second, who looked ghoulish. His white hair a tangled, matted mess that had grown long and untamed, falling over his eyes like a silvery curtain. His nails were yellow and long. She had heard rumors that the king forbade any of his servants to clip them since Duskendale. Even in his haggard appearance, he stood before the Iron Throne, soaking in the applause that was directed towards him, the loudest coming from Mace Tyrell and the members of the Reach.

It seemed lost on him that their reaction was out of fear not love. When it ended, he smiled, showing yellow teeth through a crusty silver beard before he made his ascent up the steps of the Iron Throne.

A baffling sight, she thought, at seeing such a man sitting on the imposing Iron Throne. He looked more fitting on the streets of the city then sitting on the most impressive seat in all of Westeros. An observation, she made quietly and dared not share even to her brother beside her. Aware of the wroth it could bring if it was brought to his ears. He was still their king.

When he was settled upon his throne, he waved for the herald to continued, who did so but not before bowing low in his direction. "I present to you, the challenger, Prince Daeron Targaryen." The herald's announcement brought with it a smattering of applause. The loudest coming from where she sat, as she ducked her heard in embarrassment at the raucous cheers that Robert bellowed down in show of support for his friend.

Entering the dueling circle, Daeron Targaryen, was dressed in gold and black plate armor. The three headed dragon etched on his breastplate, a shimmering golden silhouette.

"Those are the Young Dragon's colors," Jaime informed her, sounding proud at the selection his friend had made.

Cersei didn't find it in her to care who or why he chose said colors. She was more pleased that she'd be able to tell the difference between the spare and her prince when the fighting started.

Walking beside Daeron was Ser Gwayne Gaunt of the kingsguard, dressed in the pale enameled armor of his brotherhood. The knight carried Daeron's sword and helmet. The latter was carved to resemble a dragon's head, with the flap opening to signify the dragon's maw when roaring or billowing flames. Done in black, except for the dragon's eyes, where two golden pieces had been placed into the helm.

The Herald acknowledged the prince's presence with a bow, sharing a few whispered words which the prince took with a nod before stepping away. The Herald then cleared his throat, "The Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaegar Targaryen."

Cersei had jumped to her seat to applaud. The stands broke into a fury of noise and cheers with others coming to their feet to welcome him. Her heart was pounding into her chest while her eyes raked in the handsome crown prince who stepped into view. He was dressed in midnight black plate armor. His chest plate wrought with rubies that formed the three headed dragon of House Targaryen.

His beauty was beyond compare, she drank in the appearance of the man she would one day call husband. She ignored the looks of her brother and friends while she continued in her applause. However, she remained mindful to remain poised in her support, knowing she had her reputation and that of her family's to maintain.

Accompanying the crown prince was his friend and confidant, Ser Arthur Dayne, The Sword in the morning, his famous sword, Dawn sheathed and holstered on the knight's back. The Kingsguard knight carried the prince's sword and helmet, the latter being black with a three headed dragon crowned at the top.

The herald greeted the Crown prince just like with Daeron before, with a bow and a whispered exchange. When it broke, Rhaegar walked away and towards Ser Arthur who presented his prince with his sword and helmet. He took them graciously, before turning to face his brother who had been flicking his sword back and forth, practicing.

He seemed to sense his brother's stare since he stopped, and looked to meet Rhaegar's eyes. The two exchanged nothing. No words or gesture was made between them, they simply stared at the other in silence.

"My sons," Aerys announced.

The King's greeting was unplanned since the herald had looked ready to announce the beginning of the duel, but instead he stepped aside to defer to the king.

Daeron broke eye contact first, turning to face his father, where he was quick to fall to one knee. Rhaegar followed his brother's movement, kneeling from his side.

Aerys who stood above them, looked pleased upon seeing his two sons kneeling before him. "You fight for the honor to wield Dark Sister," he began, "May this bout of skill decide who is worthy to carry our family heirloom." He raised one of his hands, showing scabs and scars from where the Throne had pricked him. "Let this be a show of my affection towards my blood at such a gift." He finished in his ramblings, sitting down, where he was quick to fidget from the Iron Throne's embrace.

The Herald waited a few seconds of silence to make sure the king was done before signaling to Ser Barristan Selmy who stood just outside of the dueling circle and who would act as judge. While his brethren, Ser Jonothor Darry and the Lord Commander, Gerold Hightower stood at the base of the Iron Throne. Only two of the fabled knights were missing from the Great Hall, Ser Oswell Whent and the newest member of their brotherhood, Ser Alliser Thorne.

Cersei suspected they had drawn the unenviable task at protecting the Queen and the youngest prince, Viserys. They were both absent from the Great Hall. But Before she could wonder about their absence, the herald announced the duel would begin, and the queen and prince were abandoned as Cersei's eyes fell on Rhaegar, her heart and mind focused solely on him.

Daeron:

"Begin!" The herald announced before scurrying out of the ring.

Daeron remained where he stood, looking to see his brother before him. His sword in hand, but his footing betrayed his intentions, he looked prepared to defend not attack.

"You stand before destiny, little brother," Rhaegar's voice was muffled by the helm, but it couldn't stifle his brother's melancholic tone. "I've seen the future and you are but a bump along my path to fulfill my destiny in saving the Seven Kingdoms."

Daeron ignored his brother's words. He didn't care about his talk of prophecies, he moved forward, sword raised, but his movement remained methodical. Daeron didn't rush himself or charge forward. He moved in slowly, a wary predator. His brother was taller and had the greater reach, so Daeron was careful with his steps. He initiated the duel when he was in range with a simple sword thrust which Rhaegar deflected. The clash of swords, brought a roar of approval from the crowd.

Undeterred, he continued, thrust and poking, looking for weaknesses in his brother's stance while watching his form. Rhaegar skillfully blocked each one, and acted inclined to stay on the defense, not looking or trying to offer any form of counter attack.

"Be thankful that this burden hasn't fallen on you," Rhaegar's tone held a touch of sadness to it, harrowingly echoing out from his helm.

Daeron wondered for just a second if the crowd could hear the exchange between brothers, before deciding they probably could not judging by the noise emanating from the stands.

"Am I suppose to forgive you?" He had no disposition to do so. His sword going low in a jab that Rhaegar deftly swatted aside.

"No," his brother answered, "Nor do I ask you to understand." That was when he changed his technique, relying on his reach, Rhaegar moved his sword in a swift cutting arc which brought a loud reaction from the audience-their support clear and deafening.

He ignored the noise, focusing on his brother's blade while chiding himself for letting him be lulled into Rhaegar's conversation. He met Rhaegar's blade, absorbing the strength from the blow. A discomforting strum went up his arm. Daeron then sidestepped to try to free their locked blades.

A move Rhaegar predicted since his sword came rushing to meet him, slicing downwards and Daeron dodged the blade the best he could. Hearing the air ripple from the blade which missed him by mere inches, earning gasps and groans from the audience.

Daeron recovered, watching Rhaegar coming back towards him, unleashing a series of cuts and thrusts that Daeron dodged and deflected. Each one his brother's blade, crept closer and closer towards him. He bit back a huff when the last one nearly scraped his armor, but then Rhaegar changed his position, stepping to his side and throwing up his elbow which connected to the side of Daeron's head.

Pain exploded from the spot, wincing and cursing. His head rattled beneath his helm. He stumbled, but kept his sword up, swinging it back and forth to wade off another attack from his brother while Daeron tried to regain his balance. His vision blurred. He tasted blood in his mouth.

"Prince?" Ser Barristan's voice could barely be heard over the excitement of the crowd, who chanted and cheered for their crown prince. "Do you yield?"

Daeron couldn't pinpoint Barristan's voice or where the knight was standing to the circle. "No," he lifted up his helm's visor, spitting out blood much to the delight of the crowd. "I can continue." He was thankful that this wasn't a fight to first blood.

His eyes on Rhaegar whose helm remained on, poised for another attack. He was also closer to Daeron then he realized, for as soon as he said, he'd fight, Rhaegar moved to cut the distance. Relying on his reach to keep Daeron off balance, so that he exploit Daeron's defenses, while being far enough back so as Daeron couldn't threaten him.

Daeron kept visor up, allowing him unobstructed view of his brother and his style. You've been learning from your friend, he realized, seeing techniques his brother was using that Daeron had watched Ser Arthur perform flawlessly in the training yard. Thankfully, he wasn't fighting the Sword in the Morning, but his brother.

Undeterred, by this setback, Daeron settled in his defensive stance. Deflecting and rarely absorbing his brother's hits, instead sending them to the left and right of him, avoiding taking any of the impact fully. He didn't want to overexert himself on the defense with Rhaegar trying to sap his energy with each flurry of attacks.

It was in blocking Rhaegar's latest effort that Daeron had decided he had given enough ground. Instead of deflecting this one, he planted his feet and embraced the attack full force. He ignored the discomfort that climbed up his arms, focused on their blades which were locked together. Until Daeron pushed Rhaegar's aside, and with a flick of his wrist, brought his sword towards Rhaegar's suddenly exposed front. He thrust forward, the blade slashing Rhaegar's chest plate.

The crowd voiced their displeasure at the turn of events in the form of shouts and curses. All of which were directed towards Daeron.

The crown prince stumbled backwards, sword flailing in his hand, but Daeron avoided the careless strikes. He moved his sword downwards in a brutal cut which hit Rhaegar's shoulder. The impact of sword against armor let out a loud thud and he could hear his brother's groan. Rhaegar's free arm sagged. He raised his sword towards Daeron to try to fend him off, as he backed away, his back going up against the ropes of the dueling ring.

"Rhaegar?" Barristan's voice rang above the restless noise of the crowd, "Do you yield?"

He answered with a mute shake of his head, and that was all Daeron needed to move forward. He swatted Rhaegar's sword away, his brother's strength was wilting. When their swords met, he changed the angle of his blade, grabbing the bare steel by his armored gloves and flipping it in one fluid motion where he then directed a thunderous pommel strike to the front of Rhaegar's helmet.

Rhaegar nearly fell over the roped rings from the strength behind the blow.

The crowd's buzzing grew louder like a swarm of angry insects as they watched their beloved prince getting bludgeoned by Daeron.

He didn't mind, he enjoyed it, savoring the sound of their discomfort and frustration as he went about showing their damaged perfect prince. He rushed towards Rhaegar ready to end this duel, but his brother regained his footing, and threw up his sword to deflect his charged strike. Daeron's sword bounced off Rhaegar's defense, and he took a step back, not wanting to be careless this close to victory.

I will not have this triumph taken from me, taking a breath, sword poised. His heart thundered against his ribs, a war drum beneath his chest plate.

Rhaegar seized the brief respite to remove his helmet to the gasps of his adorning subjects to reveal his face was a bloody mess. His nose was broken with blood pouring out from the wound.

Daeron smirked.

"MY prince?" Barristan sounded dismayed at seeing the heir in such a state, "Do you yield?"

Rhaegar answered by tossing his helmet aside. His face marred in anger, blood smeared across his mouth and chin. His indifference crumbling beneath a snarl that would've made the dragon skulls above them proud, he lashed out with his sword.

Daeron met his brother's rage. Their blades clashed, their faces inches apart. His breathing was labored, and he could hear Rhaegar's heavy breaths as well as the wheezing coming from his broken nose.

While Rhaegar had unleashed his rage, Daeron kept his contained,. Feeding it slowly, the anger stirred in his chest like a hungry chained beast. Funneling through his body, relieving his tired muscles, subsiding the discomfort and pain that had been seeping through.

His strength buoyed as the battle song coursed through his blood. Daeron's rage, his fire was stoked and carefully preserved, controlled so that he could use it.

Draw on it, but never drown in it.

This was the Blood of the Dragon. The rage of their ancestors that brought them glory and triumphs as they conquered Westeros. A fury that swept across the kingdoms only sated by Fire and Blood. Their opponents fell one by one to the wrath of the dragon.

This was the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, the Young Dragon, Aemon Dragonknight, some of the greatest warriors Westeros had ever seen.

This is my blood too.

Rhaegar had let his rage consume him, a costly folly, that Daeron would exploit.

Their attacks brought them within inches from each other, only steel separating the fighting dragons. "You thought destiny was a shield, brother," Daeron growled, low and menacing. The dragon stirred within him, chained, but angry. "It's nothing more than a blindfold!"

He loosened his posture, his sword dropping as the shift in stance and lack of resistance led Rhaegar to stumble forward. His sword flailing like a damaged wing, but Daeron deftly avoided it. Bringing his pommel up and delivering a brutal strike on the back of his brother's head to the disappointment of the crowd, save for a loud cheer which he knew came from his cousin.

The blow sent Rhaegar reeling, falling to the ground face first in an armored heap, body sprawled out, sword out of reach.

Daeron stalked him, wary of any sign of deception, feeding off the rage that burned within. When he was close, he kicked aside Rhaegar's sword. He then stepped on Rhaegar's arm, pinning it the ground, and pressed his sword to the back of Rhaegar's exposed neck.

Barristan rushed over to their side of the dueling ring, "Rhaegar?" His voice wrought with worry. "Do you yield?"

Daeron pressed his blunted blade harder onto the neck of his brother. Applying more and more force in hopes of making sure Rhaegar didn't have any foolish notion to continue this fight.

"I yield." He conceded, face in the ground.

The crowd let out a collective gasp, groans followed.

Daeron removed his sword from his brother's neck, and stepped away from the bleeding and injured Rhaegar. Pycelle had hobbled down from the Small Council table to check on the Crown Prince. He was quickly assisted by some of his acolytes. They brought bandages to try to sop up the blood as the Grand Maester assured him he could fix the injury.

Relishing the rush of victory, Daeron removed his helm, welcoming the air that greeted him with such a sweet caress.

"My prince."

He turned to see his sworn shield, Ser Gaunt standing before him. His face impassive, but he handed Daeron a towel which he took gratefully. He used it to wipe away the layer of sweat that had coated his face.

"You fought well, my prince."

"Thank you, Ser Gwayne," His heartbeat was beginning to settle as the dragon calmed in its lair. Its strength weaning while the soreness and exhaustion began to creep back into his bones and muscles.

"What a fight!" Robert made his way down from the stands, cutting a path through the audience which remained in a state of dismay upon viewing their perfect prince get bested.

The thought of their disappointment made his victory all the sweeter, Daeron smiled. "Cousin," he greeted his friend, clapping him on the shoulder.

"You won me good coin!" Robert bragged.

"I'm glad my good fortune turned into your good fortune," Daeron joked.

"Well fought!" Jaime was next to offer his congratulations, "I noticed that counter you used against him," he was smiling. "You can thank me for teaching you that."

Daeron laughed, shaking his head.

"Congratulations, my prince," Eddard's was more tempered then Robert and Jaime's, but just as sincere.

"Thank you," Daeron smiled, knowing the action revealed blood stained teeth.

His friends' conversation was cut off as clapping echoed across the Great Hall. A single smattering of sound that brought everyone's attention to the Iron Throne where his father was sitting.

"My son, you have earned your victory."

Daeron stepped forward, noticing his brother was still being treated by Maester Pycelle. A cloth applied to his broken nose while Pycelle was applying a salve to the area around the wound. A gaggle of his friends and squires hovered nervously around their crown prince. He saw the glare that Jon Connington sent his way, and Daeron responded with his red smile.

When he was at the edge of the dueling circle, he knelt, lowering his head. "Thank you, my king."

"Well?" Aerys stood from his seat, eyes roaming the stands of nobility. "What do you have to say for my son's victory? Your prince?" His prodding brought with it a hesitant reaction from the crowd as they clapped halfheartedly with their congratulations.

"You showed the might of the dragon today, my son!" Aerys sounded giddy. He carefully climbed down the steps. "Come forward, child," he beckoned him closer when he reached the dais of his throne.

Daeron stood from his kneeling position, climbing out of the ring and up the steps to where his father was waiting for him, and beside him there was a servant holding onto a red velvet cushion where Dark Sister rested.

"The sword of Aemon the Dragonknight has found a worthy heir."

"You honor me, Your Grace," Daeron ducked his head to his father while shooting a glance to the famous family sword that he had just earned.

"Yes, I do," Aerys agreed happily, "I am a good king!" He proclaimed, His eyes darting around the room, his mouth pursed in a suspicious frown, as if expecting dissidents to speak up and challenge his claim. "So witness my generosity," he raised his arms to draw attention from the crowd. "Take it, my son."

Daeron reached for the sheathed valyrian longsword, his fingers carefully wrapping around the pommel before he lifted it from the pillow.

"Your winner!" Aerys the Second declared, putting his hand on Daeron's shoulder where they were met with applause from a frazzled audience.

Daeron stood awkwardly not wanting the attention of these strangers. It was the sword he had valued not the adoration of the fickle court. Regardless, he knew what was expected him, and stood quietly beside his father, looking down towards everyone who stood below them. His friends' were the loudest and sincerest in their support.

"Remember this, my son," His father's soft voice brushed against his ear, "My gift to you, Dark Sister."

"Use it to protect your king against his enemies," His father tightened his grip on Daeron's shoulder. "From both outside our family." His father's attention flickered towards the injured Rhaegar, "And from within."