Quentyn II

"I've had 'em make you up this armor, lad," Quentyn slurred in a stupor, six mugs deep into his morning. "It's strong, but looks like a royal mess. Had 'em ffuckin' just mash old shit together." He grabbed the boy's shoulder tight to hold himself up from wobbling. "And now you'll look like shit enough for your mother to not know until it's too laay."

"Gods, man. What's wrong with you?"

"You see," Quentyn said, nearly spitting in his squire's face, grabbing the boy by his collar and pulling him down to eye level. "I'm a fighter! Like you! I'd rather be in there," he said pointing frantically, "by yer side, slashing them fucks along wit' ya. But I'm no more a teacher than a maester a master swordsman. I can't tell you what to do in this ffuckin' arena with these idiots. I can't predict what bafoonery will lead to dumb fuckery!"

"Sit, Q." Daemon had a grace and an air uncommon these days. The King's example rubbed off on the realm like the stench of fish at the market.

"Boy," Quentyn replied, desperately. "It's basically a decree that you're to do this, and I can't think it anything but wrong." The melee would be fourteen squires in total, seven against seven, charging first on horseback and later battling side against side.

Once one side was decisive, the remaining squires would have a free-for-all, and the last boy standing would be proclaimed the victor.

All the weapons would be blunted, but there would be no mercy passes, like Reece Fossaway had enjoyed. These boys were not boys at all. To look at the lists, all of them were near men, and many were nobodies, looking to make their name memorable enough to earn favor with one of the Lords in attendance. It was their best chance to ensure employment, with the likes of Timmen Bean, allegedly the descendant of the first to join Maegor in his trial by seven, Colbee Barn, the enormous son of the Stablemaster at Green Garden, seat of House Bushy of the Reach, who the Lord's younger brother Ser Primpton had taken as his squire for his size, Antersen Darkwood, the second son of a minor lord of the Crownlands, of an age of seven-and-ten, and most menacing of all, Gorman Peake, the future Lord of Starpike, who was as well trained as any among them would be, and near enough in size to Daemon to be considered a formidable foe to look out for.

That was the list before it was finalized, though, and Quentyn feared word had gotten out that the bastard would be taking part.

Some of the boys were none too pleased in the way Daemon had made a show of their demises, and he feared the Oakheart boy might enter just for a chance at revenge. It was a brute's display more than it was a show of skill, and luck was as integral to success as strength and training.

"I'll be fine, Q," Daemon said, reassuring his drunken mentor, rubbing his shoulders and finishing with a hard pat that jolted him nearly from his seat. "You've taught me well."

"I've taught you shit," Quentyn mumbled, his face in his hands, nearly weeping. "I have as much to do with you, Daemon, as a Dornish in matters of the Wall."

"At least you've always been there, Q. I cannot say that for many."

The boy alludes to his missing father. The father he wished he knew. That is, until he finds out who his sire truly is.

He's better off believing it to be the Warrior like the rumors muse.

"A melee is more about knowing your surroundings and making quick work of whoever you're in front of. It won't be nothing like the lists yesterday," Quentyn began to explain, like he was rushed, as if there was no time to finish even another thought. "Most of these boys will have all trained against blunted metal swords in full plate, so, there won't be no easy passes like you had against Moonton."

Quentyn remembered a moment of his first melee. It started on foot, not ahorse, as was the custom in some of the Westerlands, but it was still much more like war than a joust. Jousting was a game.

The melee was a battle.

"What weapon will you use?" Quentyn asked, his face flush with drink and drama.

"I've been leaning towards a greatsword. Use my length to my advantage," Daemon replied, fastening some of his armor he could reach, probably realizing Quentyn's hands would be too shaky for some.

"No shield?"

"I was going to use a small one."

"How are you going to have a greatsword and shield? You only have the two hands."

"I'll be fine holding the sword in the one," Daemon reached for the blunted greatsword hanging on the armory wall. It was a five-foot blade, wide as a man's hand, with a cross guard as long as his forearm. He pulled it from its pegs on the wall, and twirled it in his right hand like a dagger. "It's light enough. I've been practicing. It'll be hard to stop with the sword and the shield."

This is when a bastard blade would suit him better. "You'll tire too quickly."

"Nonsense. When have you ever seen me tire?"

The boy had a point. Since he'd filled out into his broad chest and shoulders, the Master-at-Arms couldn't recall a time he had to stop to give his pupil a break. "Yet, this will be different. Your strikes will be all the harder, as will theirs. This is no friendly spar. These boys mean to break you."

Especially if any of the boys you unhorsed look to join.

"I'd encourage another drink, but you may have had your fill already. Trust me, Q. I'll win this like I won yesterday."

"I don't think you see, boy," Q replied, worried of Daemon's overconfidence, and fearful of his potential failure. "Make sure he wins," the King had commanded Quentyn. "This will all be lost if he isn't the champion."

"There could be six to your one! Speed will take the day, not strength," he felt a burp bubble in his gut, "There's nothing to prove wielding a greatsword one-handed other than your ego." Quentyn felt, "ego," worked, but he didn't really even know what he was saying.

"It won't be that many. I have a plan."

"What plan?" Quentyn asked, both scared and curious. It should be my plan the boy is using, if it were I had one. Instead of helping this boy, I'm pissed drunk and wallowing in fear. Gods be good, Quentyn thought, then he looked up from his hands.

Like he had at the joust, he looked at him, for what he was.

All but twelve years, and yet more a man than many.

"You'll see," he said, smiling that devilish grin. "Trust me."

Quentyn let his grief go with a smirk of his own. His reddened face felt cooler. A tension in his shoulders softened. There was no reason not to trust the boy.

The man.

"Girl!" The same girl from the joust followed Quentyn around the arena of the Dragon Pit like he was spilling silvers from a hole in his breeches. In a way, he was, though each time a silver dropped, it wasn't from a tear in the fabric, but to fill the hole in his soul, one drop at a time.

"My Lord," she said, a freshly filled skin at the ready.

"What is this? Piss?" Quentyn asked, his voice as raspy as it was bubbled with the spittle of his slurs.

"Would you care if I told you it was?" When she answered him, he could tell she was gaining confidence enough to address him, almost as if she was his equal. I'm more a servant than Lord. In essence, we are.

"Not if it keeps working the way it ought to." Quentyn slowed his speech as if to slur less. She was fine to look at, for an ale wench, and old enough for Quentyn's tastes as well. Ball preferred women of an age with his wife, six-and-twenty or older, unlike many of the other men at the castle, who like girls more than women.

My former wife, that is. The woman's hair was auburn red, or so it looked in the beams of light that funneled through the cracks in the Dragon Pit's broken dome. Her skin and nails were dirtied by her labors. And likely from all the times I've had her pick up silver from the floor, but it made her all the more something for him to look at. I like a woman that works. Keeps 'em limber. And though her brown robe was as dull as the dirt of the arena floor, he could easily see her buxom body despite it.

"Here, love," he said, attempting his most charming nod of courtesy. "The rest of me silvers for the day. I can't count in the state I'm in, but juss keep 'em comin' when I call." He smiled, pleased with himself, until he realized how rude it would be to keep yelling, "Girl!" every time his tongue itched for a drink. "I'm sorry, m'Lady. What should I call you instead of screaming like an idiot?"

"Jessalynn," she answered, bending her legs in her best attempt at a curtsy. "And I'm no lady. Not at all."

"Aye," Quentyn smiled, blushing as red as his hair. "You can call me Quentyn. I'll shout for you when I'm ready."

"Ready for what, ser?" she mused. I like this one.

"You'll know." Quentyn had never struggled with women, though as he spent most of his time beside the beautiful bastard, he couldn't help but feel uglier with each passing day. It had been almost five years he had been training the boy. Three of them, since Quentyn set his wife aside.

Gods, I must be drunk. Quentyn had almost forgotten where he was, staring at the ale wench's chest and fair face, flush with the blood of his lusts and the zing in his drinks. The damn thing is about to begin.

Quentyn needed to be on the arena floor in case anything was to happen to the boy. Boy, boy, boy, I keep thinking he's a boy. He's no boy. He's a man.

Yet Daena would have already been searching for him. By now, she'd likely have figured out Daemon was one of the taller entrants, and would be making her way to stop him from participating. He searched the crowd, from the arena level to the lords' boxes, all the way to the King's box, where she should have been. He couldn't see her, but even if she was there, his vision wasn't as clear as he would have hoped in finding a face among the raucous crowd. Everything began to blur.

Quentyn quickly scanned those around him, and when they were otherwise occupied, he punched himself in the face. The jolt shook his senses back, or so he imagined, and he took another deep breath to compose himself. The nerves of the melee had lessened after talking with Daemon in the armory.

But since he'd left to take his position, Quentyn's thoughts betrayed every hope into tragedy. Of all the thousands of outcomes he imagined waiting, his heart and mind poisoned by pessimistic doubt, only one was a happy one. The rest would all be his doom.

If he loses, will Aegon send me back? Will he dismiss me from my duties? Will he take back his promise of a cloak?

Yet, his own sacrifices were of little concern to Quentyn. His deepest concern was letting a twelve-year-old squire of noble blood take the floor with the likes of this collective of near scum. Their only chance maybe ever at glory, silver haired and waiting for a cheap strike that could end him.

And end me.

The boys formed up, most without any heraldry at all. He could see the Three Castles of House Peake near Daemon. Good. At least that monster will align with Daemon until there's less of them. He saw the three Ravens of Corbray alongside his squire as well. Shit, he unhorsed the Corbray. At least it isn't Oakheart. Gods what he did to that boy.

The Black and Brown Ebony Tree of House Darkwood was against him, alongside the Barn boy, who was the only among them taller than Daemon. The rest were all dressed in armor indiscernible from the others. Boys, soon to be men, all with a thirst for violence.

Quentyn didn't usually pray to the seven, but to the Warrior, he asked for forgiveness, and his favor for Daemon.

He was drunk, but he felt his prayer was heard.

All the attendants had left and the fourteen were gathering at their ends to begin the charge. The opposing side of boys all mindlessly trotted their horses to their end, and Quentyn tried to determine where each boy would be, lining them up to match who'd Daemon would face first, but then, he turned to look at Daemon's end.

His squire had his visor flipped up, speaking strongly to the group of horsed squires he'd ride alongside. Two were from major houses, yet they all looked upon him as if he were their superior. He was roaring, his mouth snarling as he raised his lance to point across to their foes, his blunted greatsword strapped to his back, and the brown destrier beneath him prancing side to side as he paced before his army of six.

What's he up to?

When he finished, Daemon flipped down his visor with a graceful jerk of his neck, and raised his lance to the near open sky, shouting something Quentyn couldn't make out through the noise of the crowd around. The rest of the boys followed his lead, in unison, all raising their lances and shouting the same.

Daemon turned his steed and took the front, at first, unflanked by any of his side. The rest of the squires all readied their horses for the charge, and the caller officially opened the melee with a mumbled shout, followed by the blast of brass horns, rattling the stones of the Dragon Pit as the crowd stood silent in waiting.

Daemon raised his lance, and the rest of the boys flanked him, forming a wedge, with Quentyn's bastard squire, the point of it. They charged, and as if they'd trained it, rushed their opposition with a battle-ready formation, led by a boy worthy of command at twelve.

Not a boy. A man.

The Barn boy was off to the side, a blessing for him and the wedge, as his enormous body might complicate the edge of their charge if he were found accidentally in the way. He was so large, he was hard to miss, but he knew not what to do, and charged wide, looking as if to avoid the wedge all together. The Darkwood boy was near the wedge's center, but he did not look to his right or left, and as the wedge charged, the boys on his side that flanked him, squeezed him behind, almost knocking him from his horse as they struggled to keep theirs from veering away from the charging bastard and his team.

Darkwood pulled his horse and ran away, darting to the side of the wedge, as it crashed into the middle of the opposing straight formation, knocking three from their horses, sending one falling shortly after, and leaving only Darkwood, Barn, and another young boy in blue. Daemon's side was all still on horseback, and they finished the charge to dismount at the edge of the ring.

When they did, two of the boys that fell from their horses were removed from the ring, dragged unconsciously to where maesters would treat their injuries. The two other boys returned to their feet, pulling their weapons and readying themselves, as was their right in the rules of this melee.

Daemon and his collective of squires kept together. The crowd roared, and the bastard turned to order his men, forming a shield wall, with him, once again at its front. The rest of the opposing squires looked around as if to receive orders from someone, but none among them thought of much more than their own fates, as Darkwood nearly trampled over his own man, trying to test the edge of the shield wall.

On Daemon's right flank, against a shorter boy in plain matte steel, Darkwood began hacking away, swinging a mace with a black barbed head in thundering blows that began to shatter the squire's wooden shield. Daemon called to the boys on his left and right to close the wall, and as he stepped out of formation, they pinched in, as if it had been drilled, keeping the three boys in front of them from collapsing the shield wall, as they pressed further toward them, crossing the arena floor so their opponents' backs were near the edge of the ring.

Daemon came to the aid of his compatriot, whose shield was little more than loose twigs, and whose posture was more of fear than defense. Daemon caught a savage strike from the mace with a deft slash of the greatsword. Darkwood's helm turned in what looked like horror.

Daemon spun into him, smashing the steel point in the center of his rounded shield into Darkwood's chest plate, forcing the boy nearly onto his ass. Darkwood stumbled back, wide and awkward.

With impeccable footwork, Daemon turned once full around to build momentum, then continued his whirl into a full extended swing of the greatsword, crushing the side of the black helm of his opponent, the ring of steel deafening and echoing through the Dragon Pit like the lost roars of its former tenants. The boy fell to his knee. Daemon lifted his visor. Then, his sword.

"Yield!" he ordered, and the Darkwood squire lifted his gauntleted hand in mercy.

Daemon flipped his visor back down and turned to the remaining foes. They all began to retreat. Even Barn.

Gwayne Corbray broke from formation, launching a surprise attack on a hedge squire near the edge of the ring. As quickly as his succession of strikes flew from his perfect stance, it was a wonder even one of them were knocked away by his target, but after four than five hit the boy, he fell out of the ring to the roar of the crowd. Impressive, Gwayne. That was a good show.

Daemon ordered to his men, and the remaining three boys were split between the remaining five left in the shield wall. Three surrounded Barn, who swung his morningstar wildly in defense, holding a shield and whipping the steel chained balls around him like a windmill in a hurricane. Gormon Peake dropped his shield, sheathed his longsword, and grabbed one of his teammates by the hips.

The three of them were facing Barn, all hesitant to launch an attack at the larger foe with the savage weapon and shield. Many feared the morningstar, and if a man were strong enough to keep it spinning, very few dared to tempt a fate against it.

Peake created a path, heaving his own man into Barn like a catapult launching a boulder. It looked to be Timmen Bean, the smallest among them, parallel to the ground and headlong into the Barn boy's shield like a battering ram, knocking the enormous boy off balance enough to cause him to lower the spinning morningstar to a halt. As it rested, the Barn boy catching his feet from tripping as the Bean boy rolled head over heels from the ring, Peake charged him, crashing his steel shoulder into Barn's shield and forcing him off of his feet, falling flat on his back onto Bean.

An interesting tactic. Dirty, but effective. Eventually, he would have had to fight Bean. Better to take him out unawares and easy, I suppose. Though, in front of all these Lords and Ladies, a bit dishonorable for a future Lord.

But who could blame the boy? As big as he was, he was still in a battle against the larger foe. And when the boy fell, the crowd erupted in a shout that rang out to the gods.

The two remaining squires Daemon and his team of five faced were easy enough to defeat. Surrounded, they stood in as defensive a stance they could, slowly backing away from each forward attempt of their opponents until their back foot was against the white powder of the edge.

"Aside," Daemon called to two of his teammates, and as he roared, they listened, stepping away from their foe to allow for Daemon's approach.

He tossed his shield to one of his teammates, and ran with the sword in both hands at the single combatant. He wore simple red plate, and no defining marks, holding a longsword and shield like a turtle's shell, hoping it would save him from what was to come.

Daemon planted, feigning a two-handed back hand slash. When the boy moved his shield to block him, bracing for impact, Daemon jerked the fake slash back, turning his stance and the sword over his head, launching an immediate overhead forehand strike to the boy's helm, turning his hips and shoulders into the swing like a Qohorik lumberjack to a tree.

The sword connected and the boy's limp body soared from the impact, spinning until his armored form crashed to the ground. The crowd gasped, hearing the steel screaming, the walls still echoing with the ring of Daemon's menacing blow as the boy fell. The grace from the attack sent pride through his heart, as Quentyn watched on in as much awe as any commoner of the crowd. Yet, the force of the strike, and the savage ease in which the boy unleashed it, sent a cold shiver down his spine.

I was worried for the wrong boys.

Among them, he's a man.

As Daemon finished one of the opponents, his teammates finished the other, though in much less savage and flashy a fashion. The boy tripped, his eyes on Daemon's attack, likely startled by the jolting sound of crashing steel that shook through the earth like a tremor. When he fell, the two unknown members of Daemon's side forced him to yield.

And it is down to six.

Daemon turned, facing the two boys he ordered to step aside, and readied his stance against them. The one holding his shield threw it at him, as if to catch him unawares, but Daemon caught it with his left hand and held it tight against his body as he planted his back foot and began to swing the greatsword.

He moved like a dancer, a mix of grace and brutality, crashing the long, wide blade against shield and sword, pushing both squires back as if they meant to run, turning each forehand to a backhand, backhand to a parry, progressing one deft movement into another like his mastery was as simple as drawing breath.

Seeing Daemon against his foes, Corbray and Peake sized up the squire closest to them, standing awkwardly between two well trained sons of major Lords. Peake was the bigger, but Corbray had shown his quickness, and Quentyn thought what he'd do in the boy's place. Neither's a good option.

So, without a good choice, he chose nothing, and waited to see which foe would move first. The boy, dressed in faint black steel, readied his pointed wooden shield and his longsword, his back to the edge of the arena, and the lordlings on each side.

Daemon continued to rush the two boys he faced, each too small to push the advancing greatsword away, even as Daemon swung it with only one hand. When they could give no more ground, one of the boys opened his stance to deliver a slash with his longsword, but even as it found its mark, he was no match for what came.

With the first hack, Daemon struck down onto the boy's shoulder, forcing him to his one knee and denting his shoulder pauldron. With the next hack, the boy fell from his knee to his chest. The third and fourth hacks came down in rapid succession, nearly sheering through the seam of the fallen boy's back plate, keeping the boy near permanently in place on the arena floor.

When Daemon turned to engage the other boy, it was the one he'd given his shield to.

Daemon inexplicably threw his shield up in the air in a high arcing path to the squire he faced.

Reflexively, the boy reached to catch it, and with the unconventional tactic, the boy was all but looking up as Daemon tackled him to the dirt. The boy's hands dropped his sword and shield, and as Daemon's huge frame pommeled him into the ground, the bastard popped up onto his knees to finish him.

He balled his fists onto the handle of the greatsword and crashed its pommel down hard into the boy's visor. Then, with pommel's edge, he flicked the visor up, ordering, "Yield!"

The boy raised his arms to comply.

Quentyn needed a drink. He thought of what the wench's name was. He turned from the fight to look for her in the moments the crowds roar died down after Daemon forced the latest one to yield.

Jezabelle? Jennafer? Jennalynne?

"Jessalynn!" Quentyn screamed, his throat dry from the dramatic performance of his squire.

When he turned back to the melee, he saw that Corbray had engaged the outnumbered squire, and was facing him on his own, ringing his steel longsword against every bit of armor the boy was wearing, causing a full-fledged retreat away from the lightning-fast Vale squire.

Where's Peake?

Gormon Peake was rushing Daemon, who was helping the last squire up to his feet, his back turned to the enormous foe that charged him. No! Just what I feared.

Peake raised his blunted blade and struck down at Daemon's near leg. It sent his squire to his knee, striking his right leg in an awkward angle. The armor deflected it away, mostly, but the boy wasn't prepared for it. Too busy playing the gallant hero to survive a war.

Daemon was quick enough to turn and catch the second strike from Peake with his shield, but the broad future Lord had mostly saved his energy, and let it all out on the bastard, swinging savage downward strike after savage downward strike into Daemon's ringing wooden shield, singing with the glancing crashes of its steel rim against his opponents slashing blade.

Peake tried circling Daemon, stepping around as if to flank him, but Daemon followed, sending each successive strike away as his shield dwindled in size with each blow he caught with it. C'mon, kid! You're going to run out of that shield. Just toss it! Just get back up and go on the offensive.

Peake left no opening, though, raining down another strike with every breath. Quentyn could hear the crowd begin to jeer at the boy, whose entire melee had been dishonorable so far, and could eventually force Daemon to yield if he didn't tire before the shield shattered to nothing.

But from behind the towering future lord, Corbray struck Peake with a hard slash to the back of his helm, jolting Gormon's swings to a halt, long enough for Daemon to turn the tide.

He tossed the shield at Peake's eyeslit, blinding him for long enough to rise and spin into a full turn and twohanded forehand slash to the left side of his helm, sending the boy down like a crumbling stone tower, until he was naught but rubble on the Dragon Pit floor.

The crowd erupted, and Daemon raised his greatsword to the elation of his constituents, for in this arena, he was all but its King.

Then, he turned to Corbray, and bowed, thanking him for his aid against Peake.

Corbray returned the courtesy, and quickly launched his attack, his shield tight against his armor, and his longsword as quick as any squire Quentyn could remember.

The Vale boy had good reason to enter the melee, for his form and tenacity were of an elite level. The boy was nearly seven-and-ten, like many of the squires present, but was much smaller than Daemon, and gave up too long of a reach to the greatsword to do anything but press his opponent.

In a flash, he was too close for Daemon to strike with his lumbering blade, for a five-foot blade is hard to maneuver inside of three feet. Corbray's longsword was deft and nimble that close, and he began peppering Quentyn's squire with so many blows he could hear them ping off his armor better than he could see them hit.

Daemon braced the flat edge of his blade with his other hand, and used the greatsword more like a spear, beginning to parry some of Corbray's strikes with one hand on the long handle and the other flat against the broad side of the steel.

When Daemon caught an overhand attempt, he held Corbray's sword long enough to connect with a blow, launching his matte steel helm into Corbray's decorative one, knocking the Vale squire back enough to begin his own display of offense.

Once the lumbering greatsword started to swing, there was no stopping it, crashing into Corbray's wild attempts at parries and blocks with both his sword and shield, all as he had to constantly flee from the force of the bastard's blows. Quentyn could hear the low hum of the whirring blade cutting through the air, followed each time with the ringing sing of his favorite song.

"My Lord Quentyn," a voice from behind him yelled through the raucous crowd, and the drunk Master-at-Arms jumped, startled, and nearly pissed his breeches.

"Jessalynn! You beautiful ffuckin' wench!" Quentyn grabbed the skin with both hands and finished it as quickly as he could. As he closed his eyes and savored the piss poor flavor of whatever she kept giving him, he continued to hear the song of steel, and it sounded sweet, as if it were the ringings of his squire's soaring greatsword denting and crashing into all that protected Corbray, hopefully getting down to the end of it.

I can hardly bear to watch another blow.

When his eyes opened, Corbray had shifted back into the attacking position, closing the distance and throwing dart like stabs at Daemon to interrupt his greatsword's momentum.

But then, Daemon parried, timing his strike near perfectly, and catching the swift sword with all his might, knocking Corbray's weapon nearly into the roaring crowd. He didn't hesitate, and continued with strike after strike, forcing Corbray into the same position Daemon was in before against Peake, though this display was not earned with treachery, but with skill, determination, and a demon like strength only Maegor the Cruel could have ever matched.

"Yield!" Daemon continued to yell with each strike, as Corbray's shield became little more than bark with each crashing blow.

"Never!" Corbray yelled in return, as stalwart in his defense as any man could be.

Daemon kicked under the shield, crashing his armored foot into Corbray's chestplate, knocking the squire onto his back. Daemon tossed the sword behind him and jumped on top of his opponent, wrestling the shield from his desperate grasp, and slamming it into his chest over and over.

After enough smashes, the squire stilled, and Daemon climbed off of him to his feet.

Its over. And by the Gods, he's done it. He's ffuckin' done it!

"Jessalynn!"

Aegon IV graced the Dragon Pit floor once again with his enormous presence, and as he stepped to the kneeling bastard, his fat face couldn't have been wider with a bright white smile. Daena, who was none too pleased to be next to the King, was seemingly still sour from Daemon's defiance, but accompanied the King as was his original plan.

Notably absent was Princess Daenarys, whom Aegon must have held back from the ceremony in light of the events of the previous crowning, but this was not to be about love or beauty.

"These past few days, Daemon Waters, you have shown the realm not only your prowess, but your exceptionalism. What we were blessed to have witnessed, was little short of miraculous, and I speak for every man woman and child in attendance when I say that none have ever seen such a perfect display, an effortless mastery, of the martial arts, as we have seen in the joust and this melee."

The crowd roared as Quentyn shivered in his boots, both sick from lack of drink and fear of what followed.

"As you've grown up in these halls, I've watched you, from the babe on Daena's breast to the image of our greatest King, a vision of Aegon the First of His Name, and by the Gods, you fought as good or better than him."

"With the realm here to witness what you've proven to be true in deed, I, the King of The Andals, The Rhoynar, and The First Men, Protector of the Realm, and Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, I will prove in name. My boy, it is known that your parentage has been kept secret from the realm. This was always your mother's wish, as she did not want anything more than the life you chose for yourself thrust into your path."

The crowd became as silent as thousands could, most still unable to connect his words to the truth.

"But the time has come for you, and the world to know the truth, Daemon."

He paused to a deafening, cold silence. All present waited and Aegon reveled in making them, even if for but a few more moments.

"It was I who found your mother in the Maidenvault. I am your father, Daemon. You are the son of the King!"

At first, the crowd knew not how to respond. The questions they asked themselves were almost audible in the echoing chamber of the Dragon Pit. Until the first cheer sounded, then they all cheered.

"And as Son of the King, it has been proven today that you are no mere squire. Though no one as young as you has ever been, I, Aegon IV Targaryen, knight you, Ser Daemon!"

The crowd erupted, swooning and singing of the bastard and his prize. To be a knight of the seven kingdoms was among the greatest honors a man could earn in life, and to become the youngest to ever earn his spurs was even greater. "In the name of the Warrior," the King continued.

Quentyn remembered his own ceremony. Keegan Lannister knighted him upon his fifteenth nameday, and he thought that was early.

"In the name of the Maid,"

Yet this was not all of it, not yet. Even being named as the son of the King was prize enough. In two days, Daemon had won the joust, crowned Daenerys Queen of Love and Beauty, won the melee, won the hearts of the crowd, learned the truth of his father, and became a knight.

That was not the end of it.

"I ask you, Daemon, will you vow to do all this and more, to protect your realm, to protect your kin, and to protect the world from the evils that haunt it?"

"I will."

The king lifted his sword, the Sword of Kings, Blackfyre, from one shoulder to the other. "Now, Rise, Ser Daemon, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms!"

He stood and watched as the crowd shouted cheers of love to him, throwing bouquets of flowers, pitchers of ale, and all manner of various clothing and favors, flooding the air of the Dragon Pit with a rain of adoration for the Champion and shining star of the tournament.

"As my son," the King continued, raising his heavy arms and silencing the love for their champion. "There is but one more thing. You are the son of Targaryens, myself and your mother, Daena, and are no mere bastard. The name, Waters, is beneath you. Yet, it is a bastard's name, much like this sword. A bastard sword."

The King lifted Blackfyre and held it in both of his hands, reaching out as if he meant to pass it on.

He did.

"You look like you need another," Jessalyn broke in, bumping her shoulder into Quentyn's and nearly knocking him onto his face. He was unprepared but thankful for both the drink and the way she leaned her bawdy frame into his, her chest pressed onto him and nearly distracting him from the climax of the King's presentation.

"Give me a moment, love, and I'll be all eyes on you."

Quentyn gripped the skin in his balled fist, squeezing it until some of its contents seeped through a popped seam.

"So I grant you this sword, the sword of a true warrior, and name you Ser Daemon of House Blackfyre, son of the King, and Lord of your new House!"

Blackfyre was indeed a bastard blade, and though Daemon would now be legitimate, the name of his house and the style of his sword would always be a reminder.

Though a bastard never looked so glorious.