Defeating two Kingsguard back-to-back sent the entire arena into a frenzy.
The herald banged the gong like a madman, spitting as he screamed, "Prince Daeron has defeated Prince Lewyn! That's the second Kingsguard down!"
Daeron didn't leave the field. instead, he raised his Obsidian Edge and pointed it once again at the spot where Rhaegar sat.
He was forcing Rhaegar's hand. He wanted a one-on-one duel.
The "Year of the False Spring"—that turning point in history—was anchored on Rhaegar's martial prowess, specifically him winning the tourney championship.
Daeron wanted to see: if he beat Rhaegar to the punch, how would he make his public declaration of love then?
No hidden agenda. He just wanted to test the inertia of history.
His gesture immediately triggered a massive reaction.
Cersei's face was flushed red. She yanked on Jaime's arm, practically screaming, "Did you see that? Did you see that?! Prince Daeron beat that Martell Prince!"
The Kingsguard under the Mad King weren't the watered-down knights of later generations; they were the absolute apex of knighthood in Westeros.
For Daeron to beat two in a row? That was godlike.
Jaime didn't say a word. He let his sister vent her excitement, but he couldn't hide the envy in his eyes.
He wanted to be down there. He wanted that glory.
But he knew the score. On his best day, he might tie with Ser Oswell, but beating Prince Lewyn? Not a chance.
"How is he that strong?"
Jaime's mind raced. He immediately thought of the technique Ser Barristan used—that manipulation of Vitality.
That strange state Daeron entered during the fight... it had to be that.
Jaime mulled it over. "That kind of high-level technique is probably a secret guarded by the Royals and the Kingsguard. If I..."
The thought barely formed before he shook it away.
He was the heir to Casterly Rock. He couldn't put on the white cloak just because he fanboyed over the knights.
---
In the Stands
Rhaegar stared at the glinting obsidian blade. His hand tightened around his own sword hilt several times, only to let go each time.
He was confident he could fight.
But he was here to boost his political capital, to invite the lords to strip his father of power.
If he went down there now... losing would destroy his prestige. Winning would just look like he was bullying his brother.
It would drag him down to the level of petty family squabbles, costing him the dignified aura of the Heir.
"My Prince...?"
Ser Arthur Dayne spoke up, wanting to take the burden for him.
Rhaegar waved him off.
"The Blackfish," Brynden Tully, had a sharp eye. He critiqued, "His sword is too fast. If you can't block that dual-wield combo, you're dead before you can draw your next breath."
Nearby, the heirs of the Eagle, the Stag, and the Wolf sat in a row.
"If I went down there, could I take him?"
Brandon Stark wiped down his sword, looking eager to try.
The Blackfish didn't give him an inch. With his trademark dark humor, he said, "On a battlefield? You'd be chopped into three pieces before you got a third swing in."
Brandon looked embarrassed.
Afraid he didn't believe it, the Blackfish added a friendly warning that was actually a brutal roast: "If you can't survive until his next breath, don't go down there and embarrass yourself."
He might be getting old, but his eyes were sharp.
When Daeron held his breath, his physical stats broke through human limits. Every swing had insane power and speed.
Prince Lewyn tried to tank those hits and paid the price.
Elbert Arryn watched for a while and said, "The kid is just trying to make a name for himself. No need for us to get in his way."
He was over forty, the nephew of Jon Arryn and the heir to the Eyrie. Sitting among these young bucks, he felt a bit out of place.
"I'm not going. Brandon can try," Ned Stark said. He was still young and nudged his big brother, wanting to see him make a fool of himself.
Brandon immediately put him in a headlock, treating Ned like a pony.
"Let go of Ned!"
Lyanna shouted, stopping the brothers' roughhousing.
She had intended to support the mood, but someone else decided to play the hero.
Robert Baratheon suddenly stood up. He was six-foot-five (198cm), a towering figure that looked like a giant among men.
Even more annoying was that young Robert was actually handsome.
Clean-shaven, bright-eyed, with a massive, muscular frame and calloused hands that screamed 'warrior.'
"Robert, you're going down there?"
Ned rubbed his neck, looking at his best friend in surprise.
Robert laughed loud and hard. He stole a glance at Lyanna to check her reaction, then slapped his buddy on the shoulder. "I am Robert Baratheon! The strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms!"
"That kid might be a dragonrider, but on the ground? The Stag is king."
Ignoring everyone's advice, he grabbed his warhammer and marched onto the field.
Ned looked helpless.
"Robert's hammer counters swords. He might actually win," Elbert Arryn noted, crossing his arms and playing along with the hype.
Lyanna just muttered coldly, "Idiot."
---
Daeron was waiting for Rhaegar, but he got a surprise instead.
He looked the newcomer up and down. "Robert Baratheon?"
"The one and only!"
Robert's voice boomed. He was hefting a long-handled warhammer.
Clad in silver-grey heavy armor with a yellow surcoat embroidered with a Stag, and wearing a helmet with massive antlers, he looked like a tank.
His entrance immediately drew cheers.
Robert Baratheon's reputation as a warrior was a household name in the Seven Kingdoms.
Daeron frowned. He glanced at the unmoving Rhaegar and said dryly, "You know I didn't pick you, right?"
He wanted to fight Rhaegar to delete the "False Spring."
You, a future cuckold, are rushing in to take the bullet for him?
"So what? I picked you!"
Robert laughed heartily, thinking he looked incredibly cool.
Daeron smirked. "Fine. You asked for it."
Don't regret this.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The herald screamed his lungs out, hyping this up as the duel of the century, forcing every eye in the stands to glue itself to the arena.
"Kid! You better watch out now that you're off that dragon!"
Robert roared and charged, swinging his hammer.
Daeron didn't dare underestimate him. He kept his feet moving, his two swords spiraling slowly in defense.
This wasn't a carpenter's hammer. It was a warhammer—one side a flat block like a seal, the other a sharp beak like a hook. It was designed to smash armor and puncture plate.
One hit from that thing and your bones were dust.
Robert took a massive step, twisted his waist, and swung the hammer in a horizontal sweep aimed at Daeron's ribs.
Daeron immediately backpedaled.
The same scene played out again and again.
Robert attacked. Daeron retreated.
After a while, Robert got annoyed. He bellowed, "Kid! Do you know anything besides running?"
"Moron."
Daeron looked at him with disdain.
That one word enraged Robert. He went berserk, spinning the massive warhammer like a whirlwind. The air hissed and roared around the weapon.
"Good lord, doesn't he get tired?"
Daeron kited him, backing away. It was the first time he'd met someone who fought with pure, unadulterated DPS output.
"Hahaha! Stop running!"
Robert laughed wildly, his voice deafening. He looked like a demon god of war.
The crowd went wild. Many older lords remembered the "Laughing Storm."
That was Robert's great-grandfather, Lyonel Baratheon.
He had fought in the famous Ashford Tourney and helped Ser Duncan the Tall in the Trial of Seven.
Later, when Prince Duncan the Small broke his betrothal to House Baratheon to marry Jenny of Oldstones, Lyonel declared himself the Storm King and rebelled.
The rebellion ended quickly. In a one-on-one duel, Ser Duncan the Tall defeated the Laughing Storm.
To mend fences, King Aegon V married his youngest daughter, Princess Rhaelle, to the Baratheon heir.
Robert was Princess Rhaelle's grandson.
Clang!
The hammer grazed Daeron's waist again. Daeron parried the shaft with one sword and slashed at Robert's neck with the Obsidian Edge.
"Huh!?"
Robert was shocked. His iron-tower body jerked backward instantly.
He barely dodged the blade, a drop of cold sweat rolling down his forehead.
That was close. He almost got his throat slit.
Whoosh!
The crowd gasped. They hadn't expected the tide to turn so fast. Daeron, who had been on the defensive, nearly ended it in one shot.
Daeron's eyes were cold now. He was locking onto vital points.
He stopped breathing.
He was engaging the second mode of the "Life Resonance."
Phase 1 was "Imbuing" the weapon. Phase 2 was "Body Surge."
The principle was simple: once you achieved Resonance, you compressed that active life energy inside your body, stimulating your cells to achieve a full-spectrum stat boost.
However, this technique was new and unstable compared to the weapon imbuement.
First, the longer you maintained it, the heavier the burden on your body.
Second, the Resonance relied on the special weapon as a medium. It was unanchored energy. Once compressed internally, the user couldn't breathe, or they would break the frequency and lose the buff.
"Let's go!"
Daeron growled internally and charged with both swords.
After the initial panic, Robert adjusted. His eyes went bloodshot, his breathing sounding like a broken bellows. He channeled his superhuman vitality into every inch of his muscles.
He didn't know "Resonance," but he had brute force that defied logic.
"Raaah!!"
Robert roared and swung his strongest hammer blow yet.
Daeron didn't back down. Left hand uppercut parry, right hand stab.
CLANG!
The hammer carried unstoppable force. It instantly shattered Daeron's standard steel sword. The massive recoil shook Daeron to the bone, splitting the skin between his thumb and finger. The broken sword flew out of his hand.
He only survived that exchange thanks to the +8 Defense from his Crabshell Ring and Firewalker Boots.
Otherwise, Robert's full-power smash would have turned his arm into jelly.
But the fight wasn't over.
Daeron's eyes blazed. Ignoring the pain in his left arm, he seized the split-second opening as the hammer fell. The Obsidian Edge, coated in a dark, ominous glow, thrust straight for Robert's throat.
He was going for the kill.
Accidents happened in tourneys all the time.
!!
Robert sensed fatal danger. Veteran instincts kicked in. He kicked Daeron hard in the stomach, using the force to throw his own body backward.
In the next instant.
The Obsidian Edge pierced the stag-embroidered surcoat, punched through the heavy plate, and went straight through his shoulder, coming out the back bloody.
Robert grunted. He was a tough son of a gun—he grabbed the sharp obsidian blade with his bare hand to prevent Daeron from ripping it sideways for secondary damage.
Daeron's eyes flickered. He decided to drop the idea of killing him under the guise of the tourney.
It wasn't that he missed; the guy was just too experienced.
Robert gritted his teeth and slowly pulled the obsidian sword out of his shoulder, panting like an ox. "Kid... you are ruthless."
That thrust was aimed at his throat.
Ruthless. He liked it!
Daeron raised his bleeding left hand and said calmly, "Right back at you."
That fight was actually exhilarating.
It gave him a lot of new ideas for developing the Life Resonance technique.
The duel ended with Robert conceding.
He had a through-and-through wound on his right shoulder. His entire right arm was useless. He needed a maester immediately.
Daeron, exhausted, won the match.
"Hold it!"
Suddenly, King Aerys stood up. His expression was ferocious as he shouted at his second son.