Chapter 24: The Melee & The Honor Duel

The morning of the second day of the tourney dawned bright and crisp, the air buzzing with excitement. The melee was always a spectacle, a brutal test of endurance and skill where the last man standing would claim victory. The crowds had grown even larger, eager to see more bloodshed, yet an underlying tension wove through the assembled nobility.

Daemon Lannister adjusted the fit of his armor as he strode toward the tourney grounds. The weight of his sword at his hip was familiar, grounding him in the reality of the day's challenges. Today was not just about winning—it was about proving his strength to the realm, solidifying his place in Westeros. He had fought for House Lannister yesterday, but today, he fought for something more.

Before the melee, he and his companions moved through the bustling stands that lined the tournament grounds. Margaery walked beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm as they perused the wares of merchants selling everything from gilded trinkets to freshly baked bread. Loras, Robb, Tyrion, and Garlan Tyrell followed, engaged in easy conversation, while Jaime lingered behind, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd.

Near the center of the marketplace, Joffrey Baratheon stood with Sandor Clegane at his side, a sneer already forming on his lips as he spotted Daemon and Margaery approaching. He made a show of loudly berating a merchant's wares before turning his attention toward them.

"Well, well," Joffrey drawled, his voice carrying through the chatter of the crowd. "The great tourney champion graces us with his presence. Tell me, Daemon, how does it feel to play the noble knight while pretending to be one of us?"

Daemon exhaled slowly, schooling his features into one of careful neutrality. "If you're looking for a fight, Joffrey, I suggest you join the melee," he said coolly. "Though I doubt you'd last long."

Joffrey's face flushed, but instead of answering Daemon directly, he let his gaze drift to Margaery. A smirk curled his lips. "It's amusing, really. How easily some women trade one man's bed for another. Tell me, Margaery, do you prefer your new lion to your previous suitors… company?"

Daemon's hand clenched at his side, but Margaery didn't flinch. "Some of us, Your Grace, choose our husbands with wisdom," she replied smoothly. "I see you've yet to learn the same."

Joffrey's eyes darkened at the thinly veiled insult, and his voice sharpened. "I wouldn't be so smug if I were you. You're nothing more than a dressed-up rose—pretty, but fragile. Or should I say, a common bitch paraded around for whatever fool will take you?"

The insult hung in the air like a blade unsheathed. The murmurs in the crowd fell to silence.

Daemon moved before he even realized it, stepping in front of Margaery, his voice dropping to a dangerous calm. "You will apologize," he said, his tone devoid of warmth.

Joffrey barked out a laugh. "To her? I think not."

Daemon's expression hardened. "Then you leave me no choice." He turned to the gathered nobles, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "I invoke the right of honor. An insult to my betrothed is an insult to my house, and I demand satisfaction."

A ripple of excitement passed through the spectators. An honor duel was rare, especially one called so publicly. Joffrey paled slightly, but quickly covered it with a scowl. "I'm a king! I don't need to lower myself to fight you."

"Then name a champion," Daemon countered. "Or admit to the assembled lords and ladies that your words are hollow."

Joffrey's lips curled in a sneer, but for a brief moment, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. The weight of the gathered nobles' gazes pressed down on him, and he realized retreating now would brand him a coward. He could not back down without appearing weak. "Fine. Ser Meryn Trant will put you in your place."

Ser Meryn stepped forward, expression impassive. "It will be my pleasure," he said, drawing his sword.

The duel was set.

The crowd formed a circle around the impromptu battlefield. Daemon drew his sword, the steel gleaming in the morning sun. Across from him, Ser Meryn Trant stood with his weapon in hand, the seasoned Kingsguard knight confident in his strength. But Daemon had no intention of merely winning—he intended to humiliate.

The duel began with a careful exchange of blows, each warrior testing the other's defenses. Ser Meryn Trant struck first, his blade coming down in a powerful arc, but Daemon sidestepped gracefully, letting the Kingsguard's momentum work against him. Steel clashed, sparks flying as Daemon deflected each heavy strike with precision, forcing Meryn to adjust. With each step, Daemon studied his opponent, searching for weaknesses, waiting for the moment to strike. Meryn swung heavily, expecting Daemon to falter, but Daemon danced around the blows, forcing the Kingsguard to overextend. With each clash of steel, Daemon moved faster, pushing Meryn back step by step. The crowd gasped as Daemon feinted left, then spun, delivering a swift strike that sent Trant's sword flying from his grip. In one fluid motion, he brought his blade to Meryn's throat.

Silence fell.

Daemon leaned in, his voice just loud enough for Joffrey and the assembled lords to hear. "Your champion is unworthy of his post, just as you are unworthy of your crown."

Then, in a final display of dominance, he stepped back and lowered his sword. "I will not take the life of a man so unworthy. Let him carry this shame instead."

The crowd erupted in cheers, while Joffrey's face turned an apoplectic shade of red. His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles whitening as he struggled to maintain his composure. His gaze darted toward the assembled nobles, catching glimpses of amused smirks and whispers that only deepened his humiliation. His jaw tightened, his lips twisting in barely contained fury. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though he might lash out, but instead, he turned sharply on his heel, storming away with Sandor Clegane following in his wake.

The melee began shortly after, and the chaos of battle swallowed the field. Daemon fought with precision, cutting through opponents with calculated skill. But he remained alert. He knew Cersei's schemes were not to be underestimated.

Then, it happened. A knight bearing the sigil of an obscure Reach house lunged at him, blade angled for a lethal strike. But before the blow could land, Jaime Lannister intercepted it, knocking the knight aside. The assassin struggled, but within moments, the Kingsguard had him restrained.

"Who sent you?" Jaime demanded, his voice low and deadly.

The knight spat blood. "The queen."

Gasps rang out. The tournament grounds stilled as the implications of the words settled over them.

Tywin's gaze was unreadable, but the tightening of his jaw was unmistakable. A flicker of something cold passed through his eyes—disappointment, perhaps, or the slow calculation of consequences. He had long tolerated Cersei's excesses, but today she had gone too far, and the weight of that realization settled heavily upon him. Without a word, he turned and walked away, heading toward the royal stands where Cersei sat.

The queen's days of unchecked power were over.

That night, as the feast roared with celebration, Daemon sat with Margaery at his side, his hand resting lightly over hers. The hall was filled with the rich scent of roasted meats and spiced wine, the laughter of lords and ladies mingling with the music of minstrels. Servants bustled between tables, refilling goblets and placing platters of delicacies before the guests.

Tyrion raised a toast in Daemon's honor, his sharp wit drawing laughter from some and narrowed eyes from others. "To our victorious lion, who proves that skill and honor are greater than mere titles. May the realm take note."

Loras and Garlan Tyrell exchanged knowing glances, their expressions pleased. The Reach had staked their claim on Daemon, and with the day's events, their backing seemed an even wiser investment.

Robb Stark, seated nearby, smirked. "If you keep this up, Daemon, we may have to name a tournament after you."

Daemon chuckled, lifting his goblet to Robb. "Only if you promise to enter it, Stark. I'd enjoy seeing if you fight, as well as you command."

Nearby, Cersei sat stiffly, her goblet untouched. The shadows beneath her eyes betrayed her fury, but for the first time in years, she held her tongue. Tywin's silence throughout the evening spoke louder than words, his disapproval weighing heavily over her. The unspoken message was clear—her reckless games would no longer go unchecked.

As the evening wore on, Margaery leaned closer to Daemon. "Today, you showed them who you are."

Daemon glanced at her, a small smile touching his lips. "And I've only just begun." Across the hall, Cersei sat stiffly, her position next to Robert seemingly more precarious than before. Tywin had not spoken to her since the melee, but the tension in his posture was clear.

Margaery leaned closer to Daemon. "Today, you showed them who you are."

Daemon glanced at her, a small smile touching his lips. "And I've only just begun."