Dragonstone
The training yard of Dragonstone smelled of salt and sweat, the sea wind carrying neither warmth nor mercy across the stones. It was, Daeron thought, a fitting place for old men to embarrass themselves.
"You needn't coddle the grip, Ser Barristan," Daeron said pleasantly, rolling his shoulder as he settled into his stance. "A little more, and others might think you will break your oath of celibacy with that practice sword, Ser,"
Barristan Selmy did not smile. He had the look of a man who had decided that he would rather reply to Daeron with his sword than with words. He turned his practice sword once in his hand, a gesture so casual it bordered on insult. Daeron cannot help but do a gleeful dance in his mind, imagining the look on Barristan's face at the end of the spar. The Old Bold is in for a surprise if he thinks Daeron is an easy prey.
"You teased an old man," Barristan said. "You'll receive an old man's patience."
"I teased the old man," Daeron corrected. "There's a distinction. Any other grandfather with a sword, I'd have simply walked away."
Then Barristan moved, and Daeron stopped talking.
He came in like water finding a crack — not fast, not in the way that demanded the eye, but efficient in a manner that was somehow worse. Even more refined than Arthur if Daeron had to compare. The first strike came for the inside of Daeron's wrist, the second already waiting at the shoulder before the first had even landed. It was the kind of swordsmanship that had nothing left to prove to anyone, least of all itself.
Daeron turned the wrist cut aside by a margin that was, in truth, thinner than he'd intended. The shoulder blow he rolled under, feeling the air of it ghost across his ear.
There it is, he thought, something settling in his chest like a coal finding its heat. The real thing.
He reset, feet finding his footing with a surety that was trained habit that had been drilled into him since he was but a child. Barristan came again.
The old knight was a symphony. That was the only word Daeron's mind reached for and then discarded as insufficient. Each exchange was a sentence perfectly constructed — subject, verb, consequence — each feint an implication rather than a lie, each press a question to which he already knew the answer and was simply waiting for Daeron to catch up.
Daeron caught up.
Not fully. Not without cost. A rap across the knuckles that would have turned purple by evening if Daeron were as normal as humans can be in this world. A slide past his guard that stopped only because Daeron's absurd, ritual-granted reach threw off the geometry of it at the last instant. He was working; Daeron had to put in an effort, however mild, and he was honest enough to admit it in the privacy of his own skull.
But he was also measuring. Comparing the two greatest swordsman, legends in their own right, he is fortunate enough to spar with.
Arthur hit harder, he thought, ducking under a diagonal and stepping inside, forcing Barristan to pivot rather than press. Arthur was faster. Maybe old age has indeed dulled Barristan more than what the Old Knight knew himself.
Barristan breathed. Barristan was a man, old and extraordinary and entirely mortal, and somewhere in the third minute of the spar Daeron found the small seam of it — not a weakness, never that, but the narrow space between what the old knight was and what he had once been. A half-step where there had perhaps once been a full one. A guard held a breath longer before transition.
Daeron filed it away with the reverence it deserved.
He ended it on the next exchange.
Barristan came with a standard high-to-low combination — the kind that had probably opened a hundred lesser men over a lifetime of war — and Daeron let the first beat land against his own blade with enough give that it invited the follow-through. The moment Barristan's weight committed, Daeron shed the angle entirely, stepped off the line, and placed the flat of his practice sword with measured, unhurried precision against the back of the old knight's sword hand.
Not hard. Just enough.
There was a pause.
Barristan looked at his hand. Then at Daeron. He had the expression of a man doing arithmetic he did not entirely enjoy.
"Yield," Daeron said, and kept his voice as gentle as he could manage, which was perhaps not very gentle at all.
The old knight lowered his sword. He did not look diminished by it—that, at least, was something Daeron found close to relief. Men like Barristan Selmy did not diminish.
"Where did you learn that step?" Barristan asked, his voice measured and thoughtful. "Never mind, I know where you learned it… I am just still unable to accept it, I think." He added, looking past Daeron into the air behind him. "So you and he are sparring on a daily basis, I assume? I do not think he would relent until you gave him at least one spar a day. He always dreamed of serving a king better than him in the way of the sword. Though everyone thought it impossible, given how gifted he was."
"Yes, he does drag me daily for at least one spar. And now I know why he smiles like a man who has gotten everything he ever wanted every damn time I defeat him." Daeron had even entertained the thought that perhaps Arthur was a masochist because of how he smiled when Daeron won their bout. That smile of his was filled with nothing but joy and excitement for the next bout.
"You are able to defeat him as well? Him, of all people? It seems even Arthur fucking Dayne cannot remain the greatest swordsman in the face of time. Old age must have caught up with him, as it has already caught up with me," Barristan said with a chuckle.
"I would have you know that it is not just age, but my own skill as well. In fact, Arthur himself admits that I was born more talented than he in the art of swordsmanship," Daeron said, slightly offended that the old knight thought he could only defeat Arthur because the man had grown old.
"Forgive me if I offended you by my words, Your Grace. But you must understand, Arthur Dayne was in a league of his own when it came to the sword. However, if he himself claims that you possess greater talent, then I must request more sparring with you while you remain here on Dragonstone," Barristan said, setting aside the practice steel sword as he donned his helmet.
"Why not now?" Daeron asked, both confused and curious.
"Because you have guests, Your Grace," Barristan replied, gesturing behind him.
Daeron turned to see whom he meant. There, beside a servant, stood Princess Arianne Martell—dressed as boldly as ever.
Daeron bid farewell to Ser Barristan and made his way toward the servant, who held out a towel. Though he had not sweated much in the cold wind, he still took it and gave her a nod of thanks.
"That was quite the display, King Daeron. A dragon. A claim to the throne. Power… and now a master of the sword as well. Is there anything you cannot do?"
Daeron lowered the towel from his face just in time to see her approaching, her hips swaying in a way that drew his gaze despite himself.
"There is one thing, Princess," Daeron replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I cannot seem to find a reason behind this sudden praise."
Not even a full day had passed, and yet the lady before him already seemed intent on shifting her allegiance in his direction.
"Ah, the Northern bluntness," Arianne said, a twitch of her lips forming something that could almost be mistaken for a sensual smile. "The reason is simple—power attracts me. And I do prefer to remain on the winning side, if I have a choice."
"Too late to defect, is it not, Princess Arianne? And I do not think your father, the ruling Prince of Dorne, would agree with your inclination toward joining the winning side, as you put it," Daeron replied carefully. It was no secret that Princess Arianne did not share a particularly warm relationship with her father, Doran Martell. And though she could become a valuable ally, the question lingered in Daeron's mind—is it worth it?
"It would hardly be called defecting, considering I never pledged loyalty in the first place, King Daeron. As for my father… perhaps he will reconsider once he hears what transpired yesterday—and once certain proof of Aegon's ancestry—his true ancestry—is presented to him. And if even then he refuses… well, the lords of Dorne and I can only do so much."
With that, she turned and left, though not before casting him one final glance accompanied by a sultry smile. Did Daeron mention the extra sway of her hips?
Daeron felt another gaze settle upon his back and turned toward it. Daenerys stood upon the balcony overlooking the training yard, watching him with a single raised eyebrow, her face otherwise unreadable.
Elsewhere in Dragonstone
Aegon was ready. He pushed open the doors of his chamber and stepped out, intent on finding his aunt and speaking with her in private. He had to convince her to side with him—otherwise, his chances of reclaiming his family's throne would diminish greatly.
Two guards flanked him, while behind him walked the Sand Snakes—his cousins. They had chosen to remain at his side while Arianne went off to explore the ancient stronghold of the Dragonlords.
The guards ahead of him suddenly halted, forcing Aegon from his thoughts. He looked up to see what had stopped them.
A man stood in their path—a bald, unmistakably familiar figure. One Aegon had heard much about, yet had never met until the day before.
"What a pleasure. My savior-turned-traitor graces me with his presence. To what do I owe this interruption, Lord Varys?" Aegon asked, his tone laced with sarcasm.
Varys's face tightened at Aegon's choice of words, but he bowed nonetheless before opening his mouth to speak.