“Ser Jorah named Rhaegar the last dragon once. He had to have been a peerless warrior to be called that, surely?”
“Your Grace,” said Whitebeard, “the Prince of Dragonstone was a most puissant warrior, but…”
“Go on,” she urged. “You may speak freely to me.”
“As you command.” The old man leaned upon his hardwood staff, his brow furrowed. “A warrior without peer… those are fine words, Your Grace, but words win no battles.”
“Swords win battles,” Ser Jorah said bluntly. “And Prince Rhaegar knew how to use one.”
“He did, ser, but… I have seen a hundred tournaments and more wars than I would wish, and however strong or fast or skilled a knight may be, there are others who can match him. A man will win one tourney, and fall quickly in the next. A slick spot in the grass may mean defeat, or what you ate for supper the night before. A change in the wind may bring the gift of victory.” He glanced at Ser Jorah. “Or a lady’s favor knotted round an arm.”
....
He walked up to Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms, and said, ‘I will require sword and armor. It seems I must be a warrior.’”
“And he was!” said Dany, delighted.
“He was indeed.” Whitebeard bowed. “My pardons, Your Grace. We speak of warriors, and I see that Strong Belwas has arisen. I must attend him.”