The Braavosi Wanderer-Swordsman Sersa moved, his longblade wielded with elegant grace.
Sersa's style was neither brutal nor crude; rather, it resembled ballet beneath moonlight. Sersa offered the king a dance, and even the fool stopped capering—the hall had become his stage.
Swift as deer, silent as shadow, fast as serpent, still as water, strong as bear, fierce as wolf, immobile as stone—such are the Water Dancers of Braavos, who face foes sideways and favor the slender blade.
Braavosi assassins are flamboyant and quarrelsome, killing one another over courtesans; the Water Dancers have refined their art to perfection.
King Jaehaerys led the applause, thunderous as storm. Exotic and superb, to host such a Braavosi bladesman was an honor.
Yet the White Knights were unimpressed. Clad head-to-toe in plate—knees, throat, gauntlets, boots—they deemed this water-dance a Braavosi trifle, no match for Westeros's armored chargers. On the field, such frippery was scorned.
Rhaegar watched Sersa's every move—a swordsman of true steel. If he could be won, so much the better.
Free Cities like Braavos and Lys field no standing armies; they buy sellswords, slaves, lately even Dothraki.
The Free Cities lack Westeros's head-on knightly valor; instead the Faceless, Water Dancers, and Lysene poisons like the Tears flourish.
Rhaegar studied Sersa. "Water-dance and Westeros's heavy lance—just different branches of the same tree. A man so gifted—why still wandering?"
"Your memory is keen, yet you drift. Your blade, though short of the Sealord's First Sword, is not far behind." Jaehaerys II asked.
Rhaegar eyed the wanderer: dark garb, brows heavy with gloom. In Braavos, true swordsmen and highborn alike favor such umber cloth.
"Braavos ages a man—reminds him of uglier yesterdays." Sersa said no more; Jaehaerys asked no further. Braavosi bladesmen kill for courtesans; unless something grave calls, they seldom leave.
Both king and prince thought of buying him—rootless, ideal for a bodyguard. A Water Dancer: swift, lethal, and with few ties.
Rhaegar watched, amused; Jaehaerys read his mind. The king beckoned a page and whispered.
"Honored bladesman, your swordplay is sublime. His Grace has a beloved grandson, styled Lucky Rhaegar, whose wit is famed. If you would stay and tutor the prince, the Dragon shall reward you." The page declared when Sersa's dance ended.
Knights glared, envy and ire mixed. A foreigner handed the chance to court the Dragon—yet few dared test him; his art was sublime, Braavosi steel too quick for them to risk disgrace.
Refusal flickered across Sersa's face.
"I thank the Dragon's grace. A wanderer drifts with the wind; the prince is precious—how could he learn such paltry tricks? I am but a rootless wildling, fearing strict lessons might displease him." Sersa declined—tutoring princes is thankless toil.
Besides, nobles see their children through gilded lenses, praising paltry skill. He had seen it before; princes rarely matched the Sealord's heirs in grit, let alone dragon-spawn of Westeros.
"Bring me a wooden blade!" Rhaegar commanded.
Jaehaerys watched—his grandson loved arms; perhaps today he would steal the scene. For some reason the king felt sudden faith and nodded.
A page fetched a child-sized Wooden Sword, its core weighted with lead.
"A longer one." Rhaegar tested it, then ordered.
Sersa stared, skeptical. The prince was tall for his age, yet no child is born a warrior; skill comes only with sweat. Still, heir to the iron throne, bathed in applause—Sersa already framed gentle words to spare the boy's pride.
Rhaegar raised the squire's longer waster and bowed to the bladesman. Time to show the wanderer a taste of Westerosi wonder—Rhaegar was not merely gifted; he had a cheat.
He lifted the wood, and steel seemed to sing. Small in frame, yet his form was flawless.
Silver hair streamed; black coat and red dragon blazed—a fire that could melt all, daring thousands.
Though the Lysene shadow Dongo Ko was dead, his blade-light would walk again.
No flashy flourish—this was the bold sweep of mountains and rivers. The wooden blade rose, stabbed, chopped, thrust.
Connoisseurs soon saw the truth.
The prince's sword was not water's flow but fire's burn—not child's play, but calm borne of countless battles.
Charisma: Beloved Dragon-Scion (true dragon, Born-Warrior—you've won many hearts)
Barristan and Ser Gerold flinched; they had thought the prince merely proud. Yet here stood a born blade. Could another master hide in King's Landing?
"Impossible," Sersa mused. "Still a child, yet already bearing a craftsman's soul. Perhaps genius is born." He watched the wide, sweeping forms—ascending peaks, fording rivers—wild and free, far from Braavos's languid grace.
Sersa's face changed; disbelief yielded to awe. Rhaegar, though small, showed real mastery—fierce and direct, no toy for princes but steel to cleave mail.
Sersa bowed deep. "A crude wanderer failed to see heaven beyond heaven. If Your Grace permits, let us learn together—yet never call myself his master."
Rhaegar raised him. "Rise, sword-brother; your dance is elegance itself, and I would learn it."
"Fire-Dance!"
"Fire-Dance!"
When Rhaegar finished, applause doubled that given Sersa. Nobles and ladies cheered—an enchanting little warrior.
As if to boast: Braavosi skill holds no monopoly—our prince's flame can match it.