"Since it is an invitation from the Sealord's son, naturally I cannot refuse. However, this gift of yours is indeed too precious," Rhaegar said.
The massive purple-hulled ship, crafted from gold and adorned with jewels and pearls, was of exquisite workmanship. Anyone could see it was a beloved treasure of Master Fergo. Braavos was famed for its purple dye made from sea snails and its superior seafaring technology.
Rhaegar usually wouldn't be so cautious with an ordinary Sealord's son, but Fergo's family held immense power in Braavos. House Antaryon and House Prestayn were not upstarts elected after years of incense-burning, but ancient dynastic families. And Fergo himself would one day become the Sealord of Braavos.
"It matters not; even if I lose to the Prince, I do so willingly. However, I am a few years older than the Prince, so if I win, Prince Rhaegar, please do not say I bullied a younger brother," Fergo laughed heartily.
"How can a duel between the son of the Sealord of Braavos and the Silver Prince of the Dragonlords be without wagers?" Lord Tyrell walked over with his son Mace, ordering men to bring a three-foot-tall golden cup.
Ser Mace looked handsome in a dark green velvet robe with a golden rose on his chest, but Rhaegar always felt he was simple-minded and posed no threat in combat.
The Tyrell golden cup stood three feet high, cast with eight facets, each encrusted with countless gems, and featured two beautifully decorated handles.
"These eight facets represent the eight great regions loyal to His Majesty Jaehaerys," Lord Tyrell explained to the crowd. Painted on the cup were the sigils of the eight Great Houses of these regions: Ruby Lion, Emerald Rose, Onyx Stag, Silver Trout, Sapphire Falcon, Opal Sun, Pearl Direwolf, and Topaz Kraken.
"I must drink a toast from this golden cup with Master Fergo first; otherwise, if I lose, I won't get to see such a beautiful cup and ship again," Rhaegar admired, noting that the Tyrells were indeed wealthy. However, if he actually lost the golden cup, Rhaegar would be heartbroken. My money.
The others laughed heartily and placed their bets on the upcoming duel. The lords of King's Landing naturally bet on Prince Rhaegar to win. But for the Free Cities, the choice was more open.
The Braavosi delegation stationed in King's Landing and the vassals of the Secret City were not to be outdone, betting heavily on Fergo. Would the distinguished son of the respected Sealord of Braavos lose? They wagered gold, jewelry, jade pendants, and even Braavosi purple brocade.
The beautiful maiden from Tyrosh with blue-green hair smiled at Rhaegar and placed a Tyroshi golden statue beside him, ignoring the anger in her brother's eyes as the siblings chose opposing sides. Rhaegar once again marveled at her wealth and generosity, and the maiden's figure was indeed graceful.
Roberta placed a beautiful golden crowned doe before Rhaegar, then turned to Robert. "Where is your golden stag? Bring it out too."
Robert Baratheon reluctantly took a golden crowned stag from his bosom and handed it to his sister.
King Jaehaerys personally poured golden wine into the golden cup, then presented ruby goblets to the two of them.
Rhaegar and Fergo toasted, then walked toward the dueling grounds.
The jousting was paused, and everyone was buzzing with excitement.
Whether spectators in the stands or commoners of King's Landing, everyone was filled with excitement, anticipation, and joy. Even the knights whose matches were paused found excellent viewing spots; such an opportunity was rare.
This was a duel unmatched in its time: two young swordsmen of noble birth dedicating a brilliant match with exquisite swordsmanship. What could be more spectacular?
The people of King's Landing knew of Braavos's wealth, power, strength, and arrogance. They were eager to see the Braavosi taken down a peg.
The herald shouted excitedly: "Next, the noble Silver Prince of House Targaryen, Rhaegar, and the equally noble son of the Sealord of Braavos, Master Fergo, will bring everyone a splendid sword duel!"
The two dismounted to fight. Braavos was a maritime power, its culture distinct from the knightly culture of Westeros. The two swordsmen stood on flat ground, facing each other.
Rhaegar and Fergo held blunted silver swords with metal-capped tips. The blades and tips were deeply dyed with red paint, leaving marks only upon forceful thrusts or strikes to the body.
The only difference was that Fergo's blade was thinner, like a Braavosi Water Dancer's sword, while Rhaegar's was slightly broader, requiring more strength to wield.
Neither used any fancy moves; sword light began to flash.
Slash, thrust, stab, chop—Fergo's swordsmanship was indeed exquisite. This man was deeper than Rhaegar had imagined. His style blended the essence of multiple schools, combining flexibility, coldness, and ferocity.
The Sealord's son, like Rhaegar, came from one of the most powerful families on two continents. Scions of the Sealord were born to luxury and wealth, so one who had undergone such hardships was rare. The Sealord's family had also produced prodigals. Rhaegar remembered that his ancestor, Prince Daemon, had killed a prodigal son of a late Sealord in a duel for Laena Velaryon, the Sea Snake's daughter.
"You are much stronger than I imagined!" Rhaegar said.
"As are you, Your Highness," Fergo retorted, his tone showing no weakness, though his heart was filled with surprise and shock. His swordsmanship was far more than just Water Dancing. Fergo had studied under many masters and was confident he had no equal in Braavos. Yet, this young Prince before him was absolutely a formidable opponent in his lifetime.
Water Dancers were common in Braavos, but the Sealord's son had the means to hire different tutors: the First Sword of Braavos, exiled Westerosi knights, Lysene poisoners, Meereenese assassins, and even nomadic Khals of the Great Grass Sea.
Fergo's sword light began to accelerate, like a scarlet viper baring its fangs. Exquisite swordplay emerged endlessly; his speed was fierce and lethal, aiming straight for Rhaegar's vitals.
Rhaegar had no time to wipe his sweat, his silver hair glistening in the light. He raised his broadsword, first parrying the fatal attacks, then countering again.
The two swordsmen turned into two masses of black fire, silver sword light falling like rain. Their swordplay became indistinguishable; only countless silver lights dancing madly could be seen.
Sealord and Dragonlord danced together, playing a song of ice and fire (or rather, Sea and Fire).
"Go, Prince Rhaegar!" shouted Thersa from Tyrosh. (Note: Text says "Shilin" / 希琳, but context implies the Tyroshi girl. I'm using Thersa for consistency). That dark-haired girl (Roberta) was just a little girl, nothing to worry about.
"Go, Rhaegar!" Roberta shouted. The two "roses" exchanged a glance, neither acknowledging the other.
"Good!" Thunderous applause erupted from the crowd. The young men's swordsmanship was indeed masterful.
"Truly thrilling!" Rhaegar fought more and more bravely; he had never met such a strong opponent. Fergo had learned from many masters, his technique exquisite and varied.
As they entangled longer and victory remained elusive, expressions of unease began to appear on the faces of Fergo's guards.
Rhaegar felt a raging fire burn within him. Agile as an eagle, he easily dodged several of Fergo's fierce attacks. Then, Rhaegar's sword light became even faster and sharper, as if countless heavy hammers were striking the blade simultaneously.
Fergo gradually found himself unable to parry. How could his opponent be so inhuman? The human body has limits and cannot sustain such combat for long; fierce, brutal battles are often fleeting.
Fergo's face grew pale, his expression twitching slightly.
Fergo thrust his longsword at an astonishing angle, sweeping upward straight for Rhaegar's abdomen.
As Fergo's sword thrust in, Rhaegar used his momentum (or Force) to generate his own strike, raising his longsword simultaneously.
The blades left red marks on both of them at the same time.
"I lost!" Fergo said dejectedly. To lose to a boy several years his junior—even a gifted one—was unacceptable.
Rhaegar's sword rested against his throat, while Fergo's longsword, deflected by gravity (and parry?), only grazed Rhaegar's abdomen. Had this been a battlefield, he would be dead.
Rhaegar looked at Fergo's pale face. He likely had internal injuries that only showed under extreme stress. Rhaegar wondered if the injury was congenital or caused by long-term overexertion.
"Prince Rhaegar wins!" the herald ran over shouting excitedly, accompanied by horns and trumpets.
Rhaegar and Fergo threw down their swords. Rhaegar took Fergo's hand, and they bowed to the audience together, then embraced warmly.
"Long live the Iron Throne! Long live the Sealord!"
"Long live Braavos! Long live Westeros!"
"Long live Prince Rhaegar! Long live Master Fergo!"
The scene instantly reached a climax, with laughter, applause, and cheers interweaving.
Everyone thanked the two handsome youths for their magnificent dance in the Dragonpit. Their performance was so excellent, so perfect. The audience immersed themselves in the brief friendship between Braavos and the Iron Throne of King's Landing.
When they returned to the ceremonial platform, Fergo suddenly whispered to Rhaegar: "Prince Rhaegar, you know, good fortune does not always favor you. If you face failure in the future, or meet with misfortune, you can come to Braavos and seek my sanctuary. I can protect you from death."
"The same to you, noble Titan Prince," Rhaegar said, looking at Fergo's black eyes and dark clothes, an involuntary sense of unease rising in his heart.
Perhaps, the Sea and the Fire would eventually clash.
Crown Prince Aerys was ecstatic. Although he hadn't made the Titan kneel, his son had defeated the Titan's son. Roughly speaking, he had won a great victory.