Chapter 24: Water and Fire
The Braavosi swordsman moved.
His blade was long and slender, a bravo's sword, light as a whisper and deadly as truth. He did not slash or hack—he flowed, stepping sideways, body angled, feet gliding across the marble floor as if the stones themselves carried him.
The hall fell silent.
Even the fool ceased his capering.
This was no common mummer's trick.
Swift as a deer, silent as a shadow, fast as a serpent, still as water—such were the Water Dancers of Braavos. They did not meet force with force, nor steel with steel, but slipped past blows like mist, killing with precision rather than fury.
Syrio Forel danced.
The thin blade traced arcs through the torchlight, flashing silver as it thrust, withdrew, turned, and struck again. His movements were beautiful, controlled, almost gentle—yet every lord present understood one truth:
This man could kill them all.
King Jaehaerys II began the applause, and the hall followed, thunder rolling beneath the vaulted ceiling. To host a Braavosi Water Dancer—especially one of this caliber—was no small honor.
The Kingsguard watched in silence.
Ser Gerold Hightower's eyes were sharp, his posture unmoving. Ser Barristan Selmy frowned slightly, studying footwork and timing. Heavy plate and greatswords ruled Westeros's battlefields, yet even they could not dismiss what they saw.
Armor mattered little if one never landed a blow.
Rhaegar watched without blinking.
He saw no frivolous display, no foreign vanity. He saw efficiency, discipline, and a lifetime carved into muscle and bone. This was no hired bravo.
A true master, Rhaegar thought.
The Free Cities did not raise knights. They bought sellswords, trained assassins, and perfected arts Westeros barely understood—Water Dancers, Faceless Men, poisoners of Lys. Where Westeros charged forward in steel and banners, Braavos killed quietly.
When the dance ended, Syrio Forel inclined his head, sword lowered.
"Exquisite," Jaehaerys II said warmly. "You honor my hall."
Syrio's dark eyes lifted. "Your Grace honors me."
Rhaegar leaned slightly forward. "Your blade is close to the standard of the Sealord's First Sword."
A flicker crossed Syrio's face—surprise, then guarded calm.
"High praise," he replied. "Few in Westeros know that title."
"Why wander?" Rhaegar asked. "A man of your skill could command gold anywhere."
Syrio did not answer at once. His voice, when it came, was quiet.
"Braavos remembers," he said. "And sometimes, it remembers too well."
Neither king nor prince pressed further.
Rootless men made the best guards—and the most dangerous enemies.
Jaehaerys II glanced at his grandson, reading the interest in his eyes, and gestured discreetly to a page.
When the page spoke, his voice rang clear.
"His Grace offers hospitality beyond this night. Should you wish to remain in King's Landing and instruct Prince Rhaegar in your art, the Iron Throne will reward you generously."
A ripple ran through the hall.
Foreign steel, teaching a dragon prince?
Some knights scowled.
Syrio hesitated.
"I am a wandering sword," he said carefully. "Princes deserve masters greater than I."
"Bring me a wooden sword," Rhaegar said.
The hall stirred.
Jaehaerys II studied his grandson for a long moment—then nodded.
A practice blade was brought. Rhaegar tested its weight, frowned, and shook his head.
"A longer one."
The second was heavier, balanced for an older squire.
Rhaegar took position and bowed.
Syrio blinked.
The boy was young—tall for his age, yes, but still a child. Skill came from blood and sweat, not crowns and applause. He prepared himself to go gently.
Then Rhaegar moved.
There was no flourish.
No childish excess.
The wooden blade cut the air in clean, decisive lines—thrust, sweep, cut, recover. His stance was firm, his balance flawless. Each motion followed the last as naturally as breath.
This was not water.
This was fire.
Controlled, focused, relentless.
Silver hair caught the torchlight. The black-and-red dragon upon his doublet seemed almost alive as he advanced, blade snapping forward with sudden, shocking speed.
The hall realized the truth at once.
This was not a prince playing at swordsmanship.
This was a warrior being born.
Ser Barristan straightened.
Ser Gerold's grip tightened on the pommel of his sword.
Syrio stared.
Impossible, he thought. A child—yet the soul of a craftsman already lives in him.
When Rhaegar finished, silence ruled for a heartbeat—
Then the hall erupted.
Lords shouted. Ladies clapped. Even hardened knights nodded with reluctant respect.
Syrio went to one knee.
"I was blind," he said simply. "If Your Grace permits, I will stay—not as a master, but as a man who learns beside a dragon."
Rhaegar extended a hand and pulled him up.
"Your dance is beautiful," he said. "And I would learn it."
Fire and water had met.
And neither yielded.
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