"Arrogant whelp!"
Kevan Lannister roared and charged, sword flashing.
Daeron's eyes hardened. At the moment Kevan closed the distance, the boy prince lifted his left blade to parry, pivoted smoothly on his heels, and in the same breath slid to the older man's flank.
Shing!
The right‑hand sword sliced clean across the weak seam between waist and armor. A shallow cut — precise, deliberate.
Kevan winced, instinctively twisting to retaliate, but Daeron was already gone, feet light as a dancer's.
"Too slow," he said flatly.
Flushed with anger, Kevan pressed again with a roar, striking broad and heavy. The prince met him coolly, blade for blade.
Sparks sprayed into the air like small stars.
Kevan swung in a vicious arc, aiming to cut the boy in half. Daeron raised his left sword to block — then drove his right upward, stabbing directly between breastplate and shoulder guard.
A splatter of blood bloomed scarlet against the gold armor.
"Ha! Splendid!" King Aerys shouted from the throne, clapping his hands like a mad child.
Tywin's brow furrowed. His composure remained, but his jaw tightened.
Beside him, Tygett grumbled, "I should've fought him."
Tywin's sharp, icy glance said otherwise — you'd be dead in seconds.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Steel crashed again and again. Daeron pressed forward now — faster, cleaner each time. In the span of breaths, he'd given Kevan three full chances to strike back. Each ended the same: parried, disarmed, outmatched.
"Your life force isn't stable," Daeron murmured.
He caught the next blow, twisted it aside, and slammed his boot square into Kevan's chest. The man staggered backward, gasping, only to find two swords now hovering inches from his face — one at his brow, one just below his throat.
Kevan froze, sweat dripping down his neck.
"Again," Daeron said quietly.
The words stunned him. But Daeron stepped back, lowering his blades, giving space — an invitation.
Too few exchanges wouldn't be enough to impress, after all.
"Don't mock me!" Kevan roared and swung wildly, fighting no longer with form, only pride.
The prince's calm drained away; his focus deepened.
Something in him shifted. His breathing slowed, his movements blurred into a rhythm neither timed nor human. Life energy rolled through his body like molten silver, rippling through every muscle until it peaked in a single pulse.
At that level, the world seemed slower — his opponent heavier.
That was the truth of life force: absolute harmony between strength and intent, when the body became the weapon and the soul the forge.
And to one who mastered it, everything weaker bent beneath its will.
The fight began again — truly this time.
A flash of silver.
Kevan barely saw the movement. His gorget split open, blood bright against gold. Armor joints sliced, one after another, faster than his eyes could follow.
He swung blindly, too late, too slow. Every motion he made left another wound.
"How…" he gasped, stumbling. "How can you move so fast?"
His own heart pounded loud enough to drown reason. Sweat mixed with blood, soaking his tunic beneath the plate.
Daeron closed the distance once more, body turning with impossible grace, then —
Shhhk!
Both swords crossed again — one above, one below — a hair's breadth from killing blows.
"Yield," the prince said softly.
Kevan's breath hitched — and he lunged again anyway. "Hear me roar!" he bellowed, trying for one last desperate strike.
Daeron didn't hesitate. His right blade surged upward, filled with an aura that cracked the air like thunder.
CRANG!
The impact hit like a dragon's charge. Kevan's sword shattered. The recoil split his palm; the hilt flew spinning skyward before clattering to the black stone floor with a dying ring.
He stared at it, stunned. The difference between them was a gulf — not just of age, but of power itself.
Daeron planted one sword upright in the floor and laid the other lightly across Kevan's shoulder. His expression was calm again, almost gentle.
"You've lost."
The whisper was soft — and the most crushing sound Kevan had ever heard.
He bowed his head. "I yield," he said hoarsely. Then his body gave out and dropped like a felled tree.
The hall erupted.
"Magnificent!" someone shouted.
"What a duel!" another cried.
The roar of a hundred voices filled the vaulted space, nobles on their feet, banners waving. Even Tywin's stone‑cold face twitched faintly as he recognized mastery when he saw it.
Kevan closed his eyes in defeat.
Then, unexpectedly, a hand touched his shoulder.
"Up," said a calm voice.
He looked up, bewildered. Daeron stood there — smiling, not cruelly now, but with a warmth that disarmed him more than any sword strike.
"Someone once taught me," the prince said quietly, "that when challenged, I must answer with iron and fire — but when the challenger kneels, I must offer my hand."
Kevan blinked, confused — then turned, almost reflexively, toward Tywin.
The older brother hesitated… then gave a single, imperceptible nod.
Kevan understood.
He bowed low before Daeron. "Your Grace," he said, voice rough with exhaustion. "Your skill humbles me. Your mercy, even more so."
Daeron laughed softly and clasped his arms, lifting him up. "Then don't make me help you twice, my lord."
The gesture echoed like thunder.
Cheers exploded anew — wilder, louder than before.
The boy prince had not only won by strength but by character.
He had earned both victory and reverence.
In the galleries above, the lords shouted his name. "Daeron! Daeron! Daeron!"
Aerys trembled with manic delight atop his throne, convinced the cheers were for him. "Marvelous! Marvelous!" he cried, slamming his palms together.
For once, no one corrected him.
When the crowd finally dispersed, night had fallen.
The King was shaking with fatigue, his sedative still coursing through him, half‑asleep as Barristan and Gerold escorted him away.
Only a few remained in the chamber: the prince, the Hand, and the brothers of House Lannister.
Daeron lingered near the fallen stretchers at the edge of the floor. His fame was sealed, his legend born. But his expression hardened again when he turned toward the Lannister soldier who had first accused him — still standing there, trembling.
"Mercy, Your Grace," the man stammered, looking for any escape.
He got none.
Without a word, Daeron drew the Valyrian steel dagger at his side and drove it clean through the man's left eye. There was a faint crunch, a muffled gasp — and silence.
When he pulled the blade free, the soldier collapsed, his fear still frozen on his face.
Tywin waved a hand, disgusted. "Take my brother home," he told his guards coldly. "And feed the carcass to the dogs."
The soldiers moved quickly.
For a moment, only Tywin and Daeron remained, eyes locked across the black floor.
The older man broke first. His lips curved in something between pride and threat. "You've learned well."
Daeron smiled faintly. "It's because you taught me well."
Tywin's step faltered just once as he turned to leave — then quickened.
Alone again, Daeron sheathed the dagger and exhaled.
"No one will dare touch me for a while," he murmured to himself.
The plan had worked — though barely.
Kevan was courageous but not extraordinary; his grasp of life force still crude. Against Daeron's refined control, there had been no contest.
Dominance of vitality over weakness — that was the simplest, purest form of supremacy.
Still, what chilled him most wasn't the duel but his father's unpredictable appearance.
If Aerys had truly unleashed Barristan, one small misstep could have rewritten history.
And worse — it would have rewritten his.
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