…Chapter Start
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(Daemon Pov)
The roar of the crowd which often seemed immutable, faded as Daemon left the arena, no longer could their endless jeers and taunts be heard, still like a trick of the mind, he'd often hear an illusioned storming whispers of patronizing words. The incorporeal thoughts brought about by the shame that throbbed in the back of his skull. They felt so real that he did not even notice his name being called upon by the announcer, instead he drowned in a sea of his inner thoughts—a world of condemnation, applause and praise.
"The Winner of the Melee—Daemon Waters!"
He had won.
But did he feel as if he hadn't?
The cheers he received–fake and real–clattered off his armor, as if they were arrows, unable to pierce the humiliation that came with the victory.
How could he?
Courtesy of his good friend Lyn Cobray (For the truest friend could be found on the battlefield) who saved him from being gutted like a sheep by the Mountain.
Daemon stumbled, the throbbing pain he felt was a reminder that the mental pain that tormented him was no worse than the physical pain he endured. He grunted with each step, the pain did not cause him to falter, rather he was even more eager to make it to his tent. Though in his haste he'd forgotten his own footwork and had it not been for a squire catching him he would have fallen. He groaned in pain as he felt slim arms wrapping around his torso, his body halfway to the earth.
"Are you alright Ser?" A boy not that much younger than him would ask.
"I'm fine and thanks," Daemon muttered, pulling away from the boy's hold. He paid no notice to being addressed by a false title, instead, speeding off like a fleeing rabbit, towards the tent that his Uncle Tyrion had prepared for him.
The area wasn't extravagant, it was unimpressive even. A padded chair, a old spruce table with chipped ends, upon it—wine and bread, and to the far left was a basin of water but he didn't indulge in any of it, only making for the chair and plopping himself on it. His hands would immediately go towards his armor to unfasten it.
Beyond his deep groans of bodily discomfort, the sound of plated armor hitting the ground would have been heard in his tent.
"I faced the Mountain and survived."
Won, he corrected himself. But in his heart, Daemon knew the truth—he had been moments away from death. Moments away from losing everything he had trained for. It was only Lyn's intervention that saved him. Not strength. Not strategy. Not himself.
The anger that overcame him was sudden as he stood up and made his way over to a wooden pillar, slamming his hand into it repeatedly eventually causing blood to trickle down his muscles.
"You beat the Mountain Daemon, You should be proud." Daemon froze, his hand falling back to his side.
His father, Jamie Lannister stood inside his tent, the kingsguard armour gleaming under the afternoon sun, he leaned casually against one of the pillars, a sly smile decorating his face. He did not appear as though he had almost witnessed the death of his own seed by his father's lapdog.
"Didn't look like a win to me," Daemon replied bitterly.
"You bested him, He didn't. Not many can say they faced the mountain and lived to tell the tale."
As if that made him feel any better
"He yielded." The word came out like poison. "Lyn yielded. He gave me the victory."
Jaime's eyes narrowed slightly, the smug ease replaced by something colder—harder as he stared intensely at Daemon.
"And what exactly do you think a Melee is? A game where one can casually wave around their sword and win every battle with a single stroke? Do you think your opponents want to worship and praise you on their knees when a sword is inches from their neck?" Jaime's words grew more intense, stepping closer. "He yielded and you lived. Call it what you want, but in the eyes of the crowd, of the lords, of the king, fucking hell, even the Gods!"
He exhaled deeply, resting a hand on Daemon's shoulder.
"You won."
"I didn't earn it," Daemon snapped.
"No," His father said plainly. "But it seems this title you aren't yet capable of bearing."
Daemon said nothing. The anger had nowhere to go. It just burned—quietly, hotly. His father's words held more meaning than just a won tourney.
Jamie stared at him for a moment, then turned to leave. He paused just before exiting and glanced over his shoulder.
"Your next steps will matter more than the ones you took in the arena. Choose wisely, Daemon. People remember victors—and they'll certainly remember you."
Then he was gone.
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…Later that evening
The feast in the Great Hall would have been a spectacle: Laughter, the singing of bards and clinking goblets.
The royal family sat at the main table as various lords and ladies would approach, bearing gifts for princess Myrcella's, dresses, gems, jewelry and silk of all kinds, laced with hidden meanings that were often involved in court politics that plagues even moments like these.
Daemon stood and watched this—his mouth curved upwards in a smirk as he watched his Myrcella—his cousin smiled and giggled probably from something his uncle said in jest.
Unlike those of the Royal Family, he wasn't at the main table, instead placed amongst knights and squires which he couldn't help but prefer. Here he was amongst those who fought true on the battlefield, down here, there were no false pleasantries and hidden jabs disguised as compliments.
He rubbed his cheek, wincing quietly as he accidentally applied too much pressure on it. Maester Pycelle had examined his body for damage and coated him with salve to ease the pain of the bruises and cuts he had.
His eyes searched out idly, around he would have spotted Lyn laughing at the high table that was filled with mainly lords and few knights. No one mentioned that he had yielded. Or at least they didn't say it in his presence.
Daemon's hand clenched around his goblet until his knuckles went white. He turned away—only to find someone standing there. A woman.
"You don't drink, Ser Daemon?" she asked, her voice light, curious.
He blinked, taken aback. She was tall, cloaked in midnight blue, with auburn hair and clever eyes. She wasn't the most beautiful woman he had met but he could say she was fairly cute.
"I don't know you," he said bluntly.
"Not yet. But you will," she said, "The Queen wishes to speak with you. Privately, after the feast."
Daemon's eyes narrowed. "Why?" the unknown lady quickly responded as she was getting unnerved staring at him, "Your victory has…intrigued her." She stated.
Before he could ask more, she was gone—vanishing into the swirl of bodies and music. Daemon twirled his cup in his hands wondering what his aunt would want this time around. Daemon eventually lost himself in his own thoughts that he hadn't even noticed when someone came up to him and started to speak.
"Beautiful night, isn't it?" came a voice from behind. Daemon turned slightly. Lyn Corbray stood in the path, wearing the colors of his house looking ever like an established lord, his hair untied resting on his neck.
"I suppose," Daemon replied, turning back to the jester who was making jokes.
"You don't look happy," Lyn noted.
"I'm not." Daemon replied Lyn stood beside him, uninvited.
"You won…Be happy."
Daemon scoffed. "I didn't win. You gave it to me."
Lyn looked away for a moment, then back. "You think it was a pity?"
"It was." Daemon replied
"No," Lyn said simply. "It was a choice."
Daemon looked at him, confused.
"You fought the Mountain. Won, even if only just. And when he tried to kill you after yielding, you didn't break. You got up. I watched it all. The way you stood, the look in your eyes—you weren't done, just broken. And even broken things can still kill." Lyn stated
Daemon was silent.
"I yielded not because I pitied you," Lyn continued, "but because I saw something I hadn't in years. Fire. You're young. Angry. Dangerous. And the realm will try to twist that. But you…" he paused, smirking, "You remind me of… well—me."
"That supposed to make me feel better?" Daemon muttered.
Lyn chuckled. "No. But you'll think about it."
They sat in silence for a while. Then Lyn stood. "There's a storm coming, Waters. Be ready for it." He walked off, his figure swallowed by the horde of people within the great hall leaving Daemon to himself but before he could start his brooding—a booming voice would have been heard through the Great Hall causing everyone to fall into a still silence.
"Quiet!" King Robert bellowed.
The room would fall to a still at the behest of the King's command.
King Robert sat slumped at the head of the High Table, his great chair draped in river-god blue. The remnants of the feast lay piled before him—half‐eaten venison, empty flagons of Arbor gold, and the carcass of a fat goose.
King Robert blinked his heavy lids, blinked again, and then, with surprising clarity, leaned forward, speaking again.
"Bring me Daemon Waters!" His voice was like thunder.
All eyes would then turn to Daemon who placed down his cup as he stared at the king in confusion before he started to make way over to the high table: lords and ladies made their way, parting like waves as Daemon made his way towards the king, his head held high.
"My king," Daemon said before curtsying.
"You fought like a lion among hounds. You bested the Mountain, endured his blows, and rose again."
A ripple of murmurs ran through the hall. Some doubted; others whispered of the boy's valor. But none dared interrupt.
Robert waved a hand, dismissing the minor courtiers who had begun to rise.
"Step forward."
Daemon advanced, each step measured, Jaime Lannister rose from his seat, visibly torn between pride and worry. Cersei watched from her dais, face impassive but eyes sharp, calculating.
The eyes of those in the hall followed the boy to the foot of the dais. Robert swung his empty goblet down to the floor.
Daemon didn't hesitate. He approached the king with steady steps. Every eye in the hall followed him. He could feel their stares—some curious, some impressed, some jealous. But all fixated.
"Kneel." King Robert said.
He knelt at the base of the dais, the bruised side of his face catching the torchlight. The room, for a moment, stilled once more.
Robert reached down and drew a sword—not his warhammer, but a ceremonial longsword, the blade gleaming like starfire beneath the chandeliers and placing it on Daemon's shoulder.
"Do you swear," Robert began, his voice solemn now, "to protect the innocent, to stand against darkness, and to serve the realm?"
"I swear it," Daemon answered, clear and without hesitation.
"Do you swear to uphold justice, to face danger without fear, and to wear your knighthood with pride?"
"I do, Your Grace." Daemon responded just as quickly
Robert smiled—one of those rare, genuine smiles that softened the age and revealed the man he once was.
"Then rise," the King said, "a knight of the Seven Kingdoms."
With the flat of the sword, Robert tapped Daemon lightly on each shoulder.
"I name you Ser Daemon Waters, Knight of the Realm."
Applause erupted, loud and unrestrained. Cups were lifted, boots stomped, the Lords and Ladies of the Reach, the Westerlands, the Vale, the Stormlands—all cried out in approval. Some cheered; some stomped their feet. The cheers washed over Daemon like a wave, leaving his heart pounding and his breath ragged.
"Rise, Ser Daemon," the King said gruffly. "As one of the truest knights in the realm."
Daemon stood slowly, bowing first to the King and then to the Queen.
Cersei Lannister, seated beside Robert, said nothing—but her green eyes held him longer than necessary, gleaming with approval... or something close to it. She raised her goblet toward him, subtle, measured, and sipped. It was not affection. It was recognition.
His father stood off to the side, arms folded, face unreadable. When Daemon glanced his way, Jaime gave a small, tight nod.
That was all.
As Daemon turned to face the rest of the hall, he was approached by a knight bearing a freshly polished sword—one finer than what he had used in the melee. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, the pommel shaped like a stag's head.
"By the King's command," the knight said, offering the blade, "your first sword as a knight."
Daemon took it with both hands and raised it high. The crowd roared again, echoing with chants of his name, or what they believed it to be.
"Long live Ser Daemon!"
"The Champion of King's Landing!"
"The Mountain-Slayer!"
The titles rolled off drunken tongues like wildfire. But for Daemon, each word struck differently.
He had been knighted. Given a sword. Given a name.
But beneath the smiles, beneath the oaths and the ceremony, he still remembered the sensation of the Mountain's fist against his helm, the helplessness in that final moment.
Still—tonight, that didn't matter.
Tonight, he stood.
And the realm had no choice but to see him.
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…Chapter End