In the hall.
Oswell blocked his Kingsguard brother and sneered, 'Between king and crown prince you picked some green boy—tell me, was that a choice you made while half-asleep?'
'Oswell, watch your tongue,'
Ser Jon said in a low voice.
Oswell snorted.'So you've finally mastered Life Force. Did your master shower you with those special crops again, generous as he was yesterday?'
The brothers of the Kingsguard were close.
Yet before that, House Darry and House Rivers had been rival powers of the Riverlands.
Each knew the other's secrets.
Bang!
Ser Jon exploded, grabbing Oswell by the collar. 'I'll let your insults slide for the sake of our brotherhood.'
'But if you slight Prince Daeron again, I won't hesitate to draw steel.'
Oswell smiled coldly. 'Try it, then.'
'You—'
Furious, Ser Jon shoved him hard and drew his sword.
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'Ser Jon!'
Before either could move, Daeron's voice rang from upstairs.
Oswell and Ser Jon looked up to see Daeron at the head of the stairs.
He was watching with keen interest.
'Your Highness!' Ser Jon started forward.
'You have defended my honor, ser.'
Daeron praised him, then glanced at Oswell's uncertain scowl.
'Is he really this stupid?'
A Kingsguard openly declaring his allegiance and courting trouble—daring to offend a prince.
Why?
Daeron couldn't fathom it; someone had to be pulling strings.
'What, does Your Highness mean to stop Jon from showing his mettle?'
'Or do you think a grant of land and title from the king lets you strut about Dragonstone?'
Oswell puffed up again, voice thick with resentment.
'No.'
Daeron shook his head. 'I fully approve of Ser Jon's decision—your words were reckless.'
He unstrapped the neptune greatsword from his back and flung it down.
'Ser, take this blade and beat him.'
Ser Jon caught the weapon, drew the blue steel, his eyes flashing.
Oswell's face darkened. 'Jon Darry, do you truly want this fight?'
'I warned you—insult the prince and I draw.'
Ser Jon set his stance, giving his foe time to ready.
'Then there's nothing more to say.'
Oswell drew as well, a sharp aura rolling off him.
In the other's place he too would never forgive a slight against Prince Rhaegar.
So be it.
'Aah!!'
Both roared and charged, blades meeting in full fury.
Daeron watched calmly, counting the moments.
From quarrel to duel, the clamor would echo through Stone Drum Tower.
He would see who came running.
Clang! Clang!
Below, the two white knights fought for blood.
Oswell and Ser Jon were near equals, having mastered Life Force within days of each other—perfectly matched.
Yet Ser Jon held one edge.
'Rivers, kneel and apologize to Prince Daeron!'
With a shout he flooded his arms with Life Force and swung the neptune greatsword.
Clang!
Oswell raised his blade to parry; the longsword shattered into shards.
A sliver grazed his cheek.
Thud!
Ser Jon kicked him down. 'Kneel and beg pardon, Rivers!'
'Impossible!'
Oswell gaped, unable to believe a brother had beaten him so easily, struggling to rise.
Ser Jon gave no chance—kicked him in the head, tore off his white cloak and threw it down.
'Well struck, ser!'
Daeron cheered aloud, delighted.
He had long wanted to teach Oswell Whent a lesson.
Before Rhaegar said a word this fool had played the braggart.
Truly the emperor wasn't anxious but the eunuch was.
Ser Jon redoubled his efforts, every kick and punch demanding a kneeling apology.
Oswell, caught off-guard, could only sprawl and take the beating.
Each attempt to rise ended in a brutal knock-down.
'Shouldn't someone come?'
Daeron watched eagerly, glancing toward the study.
Its door stayed shut; whoever was inside had no intention of interfering.
So it wasn't on Rhaegar's orders.
Suddenly a voice rang from a corner.
'Enough, Jon!'
A great two-hander of milk-white steel rose to meet the neptune blade, forcing both sword and wielder back.
'Ser Arthur.'
Still furious, Ser Jon demanded, 'Are you with him?'
Ser Arthur shook his head. 'I'm only here to stop the duel.'
He cared nothing for their quarrel.
'Then who?'
Daeron leaned on the rail and asked at once.
From the direction Arthur Dayne had come.
Elia Martell hurried in, supported by Ashara.
Behind the two Dornish beauties walked a middle-aged kinsman.
'Prince Lewyn?'
Daeron spotted him at once.
Lewyn Martell, handsome and elegant, about forty, a dashing golden-skinned man.
He wore a Kingsguard breastplate and white cloak; his right calf was splinted and bandaged, a crutch under one arm.
The injury hampered him but not his princely grace.
Prince Lewyn surveyed the scene, frown deepening.
Before he could speak Elia asked, 'What happened? Why bare steel in the hall?'
Ser Jon looked to Daeron, unsure who to trust.
Oswell lay battered, feigning death.
Ser Arthur spoke plainly: 'Oswell provoked him; Jon taught him manners.'
'Is that so?'
Elia too turned to Daeron.
Daeron tilted his head. 'More than Oswell's folly, I'd love to know who put him up to it.'
At those words Prince Lewyn's frown grew heavier.
Given the people present, the answer was obvious.
Daeron studied the room.
Oswell was Rhaegar's man; if not by his order, someone had pushed him.
Arthur Dayne had only stopped the beating, saying nothing.
Likely still Rhaegar's.
Elia had rushed in bewildered—clearly unaware.
Which left only one candidate.
When Prince Lewyn stayed silent, Daeron smiled. 'Prince Lewyn, big brother said you were badly hurt, yet you seem much improved.'
Broken bones need a hundred days.
Even for a top knight with Life Force, such injuries take time.
That Lewyn could walk meant he was healing fast.
Daeron glanced at the flustered Elia, eyes narrowing.
Only top-grade crops could speed recovery that much.
No doubt the Dornishwoman had given his golden-star strawberries to Prince Lewyn.
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