Author's Note:
Hey everyone —
Sorry for the long delay. It's been almost four months since I last posted, and I want to thank all of you for your patience.
I had some health issues that forced me to take a break and focus on recovery. It took a few months, but I'm finally getting back on my feet and slowly finding my writing rhythm again.
Starting today, I'll be continuing this fanfic — and I'm excited to dive back in.
Thank you for sticking around, and thank you for the support.
Horcruz
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Maegor's Holdfast, 269 AC.
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The morning light was already too bright when Aemon opened his eyes.
He groaned, dragging the pillow over his face. His back ached, his jaw was tight from too much forced smiling, and his throat was dry—not from wine, but from talking. Too much talking.
He hadn't even drunk anything. And yet he felt like he'd run a small war council in his head while standing in a circle of strangers all night.
He shifted in the sheets, blinking up at the ceiling. The fire in the hearth had long gone cold, and the air in the chamber was sharp with that dry morning chill that clung to old stone.
His tunic from the feast lay half-folded on the chair across the room, collar askew. Someone—probably a servant—had cleaned up most of the leftovers, but a half-eaten fig sat on a plate near the windowsill. His boots were under the desk, one tipped over. His good cloak hung from the back of the chair like it had been dropped there and forgotten.
Aemon ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
He hadn't expected the feast to be so… exhausting.
Not loud or wild—just endless.
Aerys had been in rare form, raising his goblet every ten minutes to toast the "glorious child soon to be born of royal fire and grace." He cracked jokes—if they could even be called that. Mostly strange, drawn-out comments about dragons and legacy, twisted into punchlines that didn't land.
But the lords and ladies still laughed. Gods, did they laugh. Especially Lord Owen Merryweather—who might as well have been licking Aerys's boots. The man was practically howling at every awkward pause, clapping like a trained seal, and calling them "brilliant" with a goblet in hand and his head halfway up the king's ass.
There hadn't been anyone his age to talk to—not really. Only Rhaegar, who barely spoke all night, was more interested in staring out the window like the stars held better company than the feast. Halfway through, he muttered something about not feeling well and left, abandoning him alone in that pit.
"Traitor," Aemon muttered.
Because after that, it all got worse. Suddenly, everyone turned towards him. Compliments, questions, suggestions of betrothals— apparently, half the hall had a daughter. Or a niece. Or a "very eligible young ward." One lady even called him "the future heart of the realm." That was… uncomfortable.
His throat went dry from talking. His jaw ached from the fake smiles. The more he smiled, the more sour his face felt.
And worst of all? No wine.
The Queen's orders: no wine for princes under thirteen. Which meant juice. And water. And smiling through all of it. He'd stared at Lord Tywin's untouched goblet like a man dying in the desert.
"Oh gods," Aemon muttered into his pillow. "I should've faked a nosebleed. Or just thrown myself out the window."
He turned over with a groan.
From the corner of the room, a soft chime sounded.
S.E.R.A.'s voice came online, smooth and neutral.
[You greeted sixty-three individuals last night. Smiled convincingly at sixty-one. Gave agreeable answers to seventeen questions about succession. Deflected fifteen unsolicited marriage suggestions. Refused wine ten times.]
Aemon squinted at the ceiling. "You were counting?"
[Of course.]
He exhaled, rubbing his eyes. "Next time, remind me not to sit next to Lord Staunton. He kept breathing through his mouth."
[Noted.]
He sat up slowly, joints stiff. The castle outside was already awake—he could hear the clatter of hooves in the yard, the shouts of stablehands, and the clang of practice swords echoing faintly from the training ground.
And he was late.
Of course, he was late.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching until his spine cracked. He reached for the basin on the table, splashed cold water on his face, and muttered, "Alright. Let's get moving."
Just as he reached for a clean tunic, a thwack sounded at the door.
"Up!" came Ser Barristan's voice from the hall. "The yard waits for no prince."
Aemon winced. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Five minutes," Barristan said. "Or I'm coming in."
Aemon grabbed the tunic and muttered under his breath, "Should've faked a broken leg."
He dressed quickly—no time for elegance. Just a clean training shirt, breeches, and the leather tunic that still smelled faintly of oil and old sweat. He tugged on his boots, half-laced them, and didn't bother grabbing his dagger. There would be plenty in the yard.
He splashed one last handful of water on his face and ran a hand through his hair to make it somewhat presentable.
Then he was out the door, half-jogging through the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast.
The halls were already buzzing—servants hurrying with baskets, guards making rounds, the usual hum of a castle that never really slept. Aemon moved quickly, boots thudding on the stone, one hand fixing the laces of his tunic as he weaved past a pair of startled maids.
Down the stairwell. Through the courtyard. Past the well.
The clang of metal grew louder.
By the time he reached the training yard, the morning sun had already climbed high enough to bathe the space in sharp light. Squads of squires and guards were already at work—sparring, stretching, grunting through drills. Steel rang against steel in quick, rhythmic beats.
Ser Barristan stood near the center, arms crossed, watching a pair of young guardsmen circle each other. He looked over as Aemon approached—winded, flushed, and still tying the last strap of his tunic.
"You're late," Barristan said flatly.
Aemon didn't break stride. "I survived hours of toasts and bad jokes. That should count for something."
Barristan raised an eyebrow. "And yet here you are, still breathing. Get five minutes to breathe properly. Then warm up. Sword lesson starts after."
Aemon gave a short, mock salute and dropped onto the edge of the bench near the rack of blunted training blades.
"Five minutes," he muttered, grabbing a waterskin. "He's merciful today. Must be the weather."
Barristan didn't smile. Just watched the next sparring match with the quiet intensity of a man who expected nothing but effort—no matter how tired you were.
Aemon stretched out his legs, rolled his shoulders, and took a deep breath.
Then he tilted his head back and muttered, "S.E.R.A."
A soft shimmer pulsed faintly at the edge of his vision like light catching on water.
[Yes?]
"Open my status panel."
"..."
Silence.
He blinked. "S.E.R.A. Status panel. Come on."
"..."
Another beat of silence.
Then her voice came again—dry, unimpressed.
[I am not a game interface. I am a Tactical Support and Analysis System. I don't do 'status panels.']
Aemon let out a quiet groan, rubbing his face.
" S.E.R.A., for the love of gods! Just. Okay. Just. Okay"
A long pause.
[…You are relentless.]
"Please. Just once. I need to know how I'm doing before Barristan turns me into soup. Please. Do it for me. Please… pleasee…"
A sigh. A soundless beat.
Then, reluctantly—like a babysitter giving in to a sugar-high child—
[Fine.]
A soft flicker lit across his vision, and translucent text unfolded neatly inside his brain.
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STATUS PANEL
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Name: Aemon Targaryen
Age: 10 years, 2 months, and 12 days
Title: Prince of the Realm, The Unburnt Prince
Mental Age: Debatable
Condition:Exhausted (politically, emotionally, spiritually)
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COMBAT PROFICIENCY
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Archery: [★★★★] Master
Hits bullseyes in his sleep. Probably.
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Dagger Mastery: [★★★★] Master
Quick hands. Deadlier than he looks.
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Swordsmanship: [★★★] Expert
Holding his own against knights twice his size.
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Shield Defense: [★★★] Expert
Solid. It will block your hopes and dreams.
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Unarmed Combat: [★★] Adept
Punches like a noble. Needs work.
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Mounted Combat: [★★★] Expert
Has a horse. Still negotiating the terms of the partnership.
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KNOWLEDGE & SPECIALTIES
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Runic Magic: [★★] Adept
Bleeds on rocks and calls it research.
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Warging: [★★] Adept
Accidentally bonded with a horse. It's fine.
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Tactical Analysis (via S.E.R.A.): ACTIVE
Brainy sidekick. Makes him look badass.
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Singing & Music: [★★★★★] Grandmaster
Charms crowds. Has a ukulele. Fear him.
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Instrument Crafting: [★★★] Expert
Built his own gear. Artisan in progress.
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SOCIAL SKILLS
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Court Etiquette: [★★] Adept
Can bow, curtsy, and play politely. Resent all three.
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Diplomacy: [✩ ] Noob
Survives court talk by channeling sarcasm.
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Charm (Passive): [★★★★★] Grandmaster.
Has no idea it is working. Everyone else does.
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Public Speaking: [★★] Adept
If there is music involved, he's confident.
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Aemon stared at the glowing panel hovering before him, arms crossed and chin tilted up, like a smug young general surveying his battlefield.
"That's what I'm talking about," he muttered, a faint grin tugging at his mouth.
Then he started reading.
Dagger Mastery: [★★★★] Master.
Quick hands. Deadlier than he looks.
"…Nice."
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Swordsmanship: [★★★] Expert.
Holding his own against knights twice his size.
"Could be four stars by next month."
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Shield Defense: [★★★] Expert.
Solid. It will block your hopes and dreams.
"… a bit much, but I'll allow it."
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Mounted Combat: [★★★] Expert.
Still negotiating terms with his horse.
He scowled. "Balerion started it."
Then his eyes flicked down to:
Diplomacy: [✩] Noob.
Survives court talk by channeling sarcasm.
"Oh, come on—"
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Charm (Passive): [★★★★★] Grandmaster.
Has no idea it is working. Everyone else does.
He groaned. "That's not even a real skill."
S.E.R.A.'s voice chimed in, dry as ever.
[It's the only reason you're still alive in court, statistically speaking.]
Aemon sighed and dragged a hand down his face. "This whole thing is rigged."
[Welcome to royalty,] S.E.R.A. replied.
Aemon stared at the sky, the transparent status panel still hovering faintly in his vision. His eyes flicked between his stats, muttering under his breath.
"Maybe if I bump swordsmanship up by next month… and diplomacy—ugh, that's hopeless. Might as well invest in punching."
From across the yard, Ser Barristan's voice cut through like a whipcrack.
"Aemon! Are you training or negotiating with clouds?"
Aemon jolted like he'd been jabbed with a training spear. "What? No—I was—uh, focusing."
"Warm up. Now."
No room for debate in that voice.
Aemon lightly slapped his cheeks, shook out his arms, and broke into a jog around the yard's perimeter. His boots thudded against packed dirt as he weaved between sparring squires and clanking guards. A few glanced his way—some with raised brows—but most returned to their drills.
He picked up the pace.
"S.E.R.A.," he said between breaths, "what's the training quota for today?"
[Calculating… Based on sleep hours, recovery rate, and baseline fatigue—]
A pause.
[Recommended workload: 5 sets of the following—
5 sets of 50 push-ups
5 sets of 50 Crunches
5 sets of 50 Pull-ups
100 seconds of calisthenics between each set.(mix of squat jumps, high knees, and burpees)]
Aemon groaned. "I hate how precise you are."
[You'll thank me when your heart doesn't give out in your twenties.]
He slowed his jog, stopped near the edge of the yard, and dropped straight into position without breaking stride.
Pushups first.
He didn't bother catching his breath. He dropped down, palms flat, back straight, and started moving. One. Two. Three. Each rep is steady.
Quick, controlled. Down. Up. Down. Up.
He finished the pushups, turned onto his back, and started crunches. Elbows tight. Core burning by twenty.
[Twenty-seven… twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty...fifty]
The count ticked upward in his ear, S.E.R.A.'s voice flat and clinical.
Up again. Over to the pull-up bar. He grabbed it, hands chalked from dirt, and pulled and started his reps.
One. Two. Three.
His arms shook in the second set.
[Focus. Engage the core. Don't swing.]
He grimaced but kept moving. Forty-nine. Fifty. Drop.
Some squires off to the side glanced over.
"There he goes again," one muttered.
One elbowed another. "He's doing the weird thing again."
"He always does this," the other whispered. "Last week, he was upside-down against a wall."
Aemon ignored them. His breath came steady through gritted teeth.
[Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three…]
By the time he hit fifty, his arms were trembling. No break. Straight into crunches.
Back flat, knees bent. Elbows to knees. Tight motion, no flailing.
[Thirteen. Fourteen. Adjust your angle. Engage your core.]
He grunted, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and kept going.
When crunches were done, his arms were shaking, and his breathing ragged.
He rolled his shoulders out, shook out his legs, and dropped into his first calisthenics circuit.
Burpees. Full jump. Down. Push-up. Up again.
Knee tucks. Squat jumps. Planks.
He burned through it. No shortcuts.
Sweat ran down his face, soaking into his collar. His legs started to cramp halfway through the second set, but he kept going.
[You're halfway through the final circuit. One minute remaining. Keep your knees up.]
Aemon grunted, pushed through another squat jump, and cursed under his breath.
"Gods, I hate knee tucks."
[Efficient for building lower-body explosiveness. Very knightly.]
"Shut up."
[Time: ninety seconds left. Finish strong.]
He slammed through the last round, then collapsed onto the training yard dirt, staring at the sky, chest heaving.
His arms were shaking. His shirt stuck to him. His hair was soaked.
But he got it done.
Grinding. Every damn day.
[Congratulations,] S.E.R.A. chimed in, crisp and maddeningly chipper.
[Full set completed in 19 minutes and 52 seconds. That's your fastest yet.]
Aemon squinted at the sun and gasped, "S.E.R.A…just fuck off."
[Noted. Logging emotional feedback as: spirited.]
He didn't move, didn't even lift his head. Just let his limbs sprawl where they dropped and let the packed dirt soak into his back.
Footsteps crunched near him.
A shadow blocked the sun.
Ser Barristan looked down at him like a man examining a particularly confused turtle flipped on its back.
Without a word, he handed Aemon a waterskin.
Aemon took it and chugged like a man who had crossed a desert.
"You looked like you were dying," Barristan said flatly. "But it was a good warm-up."
Aemon coughed between gulps. "That was the warm-up?"
Barristan just nodded. "You have ten minutes. After that, meet me at the dueling ring. Bring your sword this time."
And with that, the white knight turned and walked off.
Aemon groaned into the dirt. "I hate my life."
He sat on the bench by the weapon rack, chest still rising and falling from the grind. The sweat on his back had cooled into a damp chill. He took one last sip from the waterskin, then wiped his face with the back of his sleeve.
Then he stood.
He walked to the rack and picked up the heavy wooden bastard sword—the one with the worn grip and old training nicks. It lacked the balance of a real blade, but it got the job done.
Sword in hand, he stepped into the dueling ring.
Ser Barristan was already waiting at the center, his wooden blade resting over one shoulder. He nodded once when Aemon approached.
"You're learning to fight," Barristan said evenly, "not to dance or show off. I don't care for Braavosi water-dancing or those spinning Reach flourishes they love to show off at tourneys."
He turned to face Aemon fully now, his tone flat but firm.
"Some sword techniques are practical. Others are just for show—pretty, elaborate, and useless the moment someone tries to take your head off. I've seen more than a few fine knights die because they thought style mattered more than steel."
He pointed at Aemon's sword.
"That one won't save you because it looks good. Only the fundamentals will. And since you've already drilled footwork and stances last week, we move forward today."
Aemon adjusted his grip slightly, listening.
Barristan continued, stepping into a basic ready stance. His form was clean and sharp, without a wasted movement.
"What I'll teach you today is mine," he said. "My sword. Or what some call a style."
He looked Aemon in the eyes.
"It's nothing fancy. Just basic form, honed to the point of perfection. You take every cut, every block, every step, and refine it until it becomes part of you. That's how you stay alive. Not by spinning around or trying to impress a crowd."
He lifted the sword slightly, then dropped into a low guard.
Aemon gave a slight nod and shifted his grip on the hilt.
"Good," Barristan said, stepping into a stance. "Then let's start with the form. Watch closely."
He began slowly, breaking down the essentials with direct, deliberate motion.
"Your stance—always grounded. Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees slightly bent. Sword centerline. From here, we build."
Aemon mirrored the stance, correcting his weight shift without being told.
He called quietly, "S.E.R.A., copy everything. Muscle movements, visual capture. Lock it in."
[Recording and mapping,] she responded calmly.
Barristan demonstrated the attacks in order, explaining each as he moved:
"Thrusting—point of the blade, aimed clean and direct."
He stabbed forward, precise and measured.
"Chopping—come down with the edge, quick and committed."
A downward arc.
"Slicing—angled cuts. Less brute, more control."
He swept the blade sideways, letting the air whistle as it cut through.
"Striking—use the hilt. At close range, every part of the weapon is a tool."
He rotated, mimicking a blunt strike with the guard.
Barristan continued without pause, shifting to defense.
"Parries—redirect, don't just stop the blade. Deflect."
He moved the sword laterally.
"Evasion—step. Shift. Get off the line."
He sidestepped smoothly.
"Blocking—last resort. Takes more force. Throws you off balance."
He absorbed an imaginary blow, bracing hard.
"Now, on to footwork."
He advanced and retreated.
"Step forward. Step back. Rotate the circle. Keep your blade between you and the threat. No wasted movement."
Aemon followed, copying the transitions.
Barristan stopped and turned to him.
"Pick up the sword. Follow my lead. We do it again—this time together."
They moved in tandem—attack, defend, reposition. Step by step, strike by strike. Aemon fell into a rhythm. The motions weren't new, but Barristan's form had a kind of stripped-down efficiency. No flair. Just control.
Barristan stepped back, watching Aemon finish the last rotation of footwork and strike combinations.
"Good," the old knight said. "You've got the hang of it."
Aemon flicked his nose and replied smugly, "I'm a genius. It's easy."
Ser Barristan chuckled softly and gave him a light nod, then gestured toward the armor stand by the wall.
"Now suit up. We're going to duel."
Aemon let out a quiet breath, already feeling the tightness in his arms—but he didn't argue. He turned and walked over to the armor stand where a training set waited—steel plates dulled with age, dented from a hundred old drills.
With Barristan's help, he started suiting up. The chestplate went on first, then the armguards, greaves, and the rest. The old knight strapped each piece tight with the kind of practiced motion that didn't waste a second.
Aemon grunted under the growing weight.
"This thing weighs a ton."
"That's the point," Barristan said. "If you can move in this, you can move in anything."
By the time the helmet was set beside him, Aemon was breathing harder. He rolled his shoulders, testing the armor—stiff but manageable.
Barristan pointed again, this time to the rack nearby.
"Grab a shield, too. You'll need it."
Aemon strapped a worn but sturdy wooden shield to his left arm, then grabbed the heavy wooden bastard sword and gave it a few test swings—slower than before, but solid.
Fully suited, he stepped into the ring—shield on his left, sword on his right, armor creaking with each step.
Barristan stood across from him, already in position.
Aemon adjusted his stance and gave a short nod.
"I'm ready."
"Good," Barristan said, raising his own sword.
Before Aemon could settle fully into his stance, Ser Barristan raised a hand, stopping him.
"No holding back," the old knight said plainly. "Not today."
Aemon blinked. "I've been showing everything I've got."
Barristan gave a faint smile. "No, you haven't."
He stepped forward at a pace, the sword resting across his shoulder.
"I've known you ten years, Aemon. Been training you for four. I've seen every strike, every dodge, every time you pull your blade just short of landing."
He met Aemon's eyes evenly.
"I know when you're holding back—and you do it more than you think. This isn't one of your drills. This isn't a show for the yard. Today, I need to see what you really have. All of it."
Aemon hesitated. His shield dipped slightly. He didn't have an answer at first.
Then, quietly, he nodded. "You want me at full force, old man?"
Aemon shifted his stance again—lower, tighter, focused. "I think you've finally got it."
Barristan's smile grew up just a little, and he stepped back into position.
"Good," he said, lifting his sword. "Now get ready."
A beat passed.
"Begin."
The duel started.
They began to circle each other.
Aemon's boots crunched against the packed dirt of the dueling ring, the weight of the heavy armor pressing down on his shoulders and thighs with every step. His left arm bore the thick wooden shield, his right gripped the training bastard sword — heavier than steel, deliberately so.
Across from him, Ser Barristan moved with the ease of a man decades older and still faster than most half his age. He wore only light mail over his tunic, a wooden longsword in hand, balanced and fluid.
"Circling won't win you the bout," Barristan said calmly. "You'll have to come in eventually."
Aemon didn't reply. He adjusted his footing slightly, and his shield closed, blade angled low.
Then, in his mind—
[S.E.R.A. Combat System: Ready. Advanced Predictive Mode: Standby. Activating—]
"No," Aemon muttered under his breath.
There was a pause.
[Clarify command.]
"I'm fighting on my own today. No guidance, no overlays, but record everything."
Another pause. Then—
[Understood. Combat assist disabled. Recording in passive mode. All movements will be logged for future analysis.]
"Good," he whispered.
His eyes stayed locked on Ser Barristan's.
He could feel the sweat starting under the armor. The stiffness creeps into his arms. The heat settled in his chest. This wasn't a drill. This wasn't some sparring match for court amusement.
This was real practice. And Ser Barristan wasn't going to go easy on him.
Barristan raised his blade slightly.
"You ready, Prince?"
Aemon nodded once.
"Then let's see what you've learned."
And just like that — the old knight moved first.
It wasn't a feint or a test—it was a direct strike. Clean. Fast. Deadly. The kind that could end a fight in seconds if not blocked. Aemon barely got his shield up in time. The wooden blade crashed into it with enough force to jolt his entire arm.
Another came. Then another.
Barristan was everywhere. Slashing from the right, twisting in with a thrust, pivoting to the side, and coming down in a heavy overhead chop. Aemon staggered, forced to rely on instinct and the shield alone. The heavy bastard sword in his hand felt slow—clumsy.
"Come on!" Barristan barked. "React!"
Aemon gritted his teeth and lowered his stance. His breath came fast, armor already heating under the sun. He was getting boxed in, and every block was taking more out of him.
He had to think.
No—he had to stop thinking.
He focused on the rhythm instead—the movement, the familiar weight of the blade, the stance drills, the footwork—everything burned into his muscles from years of repetition.
He stepped back, exhaled, and let the panic bleed out.
When Barristan came in again, Aemon met him—not just with his shield, but with a slash. Then a thrust. He turned the block into a deflection and countered.
Barristan's blade still hit hard—but now Aemon was hitting back.
The old knight adjusted, testing him again with a tighter series of attacks—quick cuts aimed at his legs and shoulder. Aemon took a few—he couldn't avoid them all. But he stayed upright. Sweat poured down his neck. His arms trembled under the weight. His lungs burned.
But his eyes were sharp now.
He was in it.
Steel clashed. Shield cracked.
The dull sound of wood-on-wood echoed through the yard. Aemon ducked low under a sweeping strike and drove forward with a short bash of his shield, forcing Barristan a step back.
It wasn't much—but it was something.
Around the ring, a few knights and squires had stopped to watch. The crowd grew quietly, drawn in by the sound and the intensity. This wasn't a boy play-fighting with a master. This was a real duel. Brutal. Precise. Raw.
Aemon pressed forward again. His blade grazed Barristan's tunic—just cloth, no real damage—but it was a hit. Another came moments later. Barristan deflected both, of course, with ease. But his eyes narrowed slightly. And then—
A small smile.
The old knight was proud.
Just for a second.
Then, the pace picked up again.
Barristan tested him harder and faster, his blade coming from unpredictable angles. But Aemon kept moving. He used his shield to parry, to absorb the force. He let muscle memory guide him—strike, step, rotate, block. Slash, recover, press. Even when Barristan landed blows—hard hits to his side, shoulder, and ribs—Aemon didn't fall.
He gritted through it.
And struck back.
It kept going. Minute after minute. Neither of them was giving any ground.
From the edge of the ring, squires stared open-mouthed. A few guards murmured under their breath. Some couldn't believe what they were seeing—a ten-year-old keeping pace with Ser Barristan Selmy.
Not winning. But not folding either.
One of them whispered, "Gods… he's still going."
Another added, "He landed two clean hits on Ser Barristan."
Inside the ring, Aemon didn't hear any of it.
He was locked in—breath heaving, muscles burning, eyes fixed on his opponent.
Grinding. Learning. Surviving.
And loving every second of it.
The duel raged on. Each swing of Aemon's sword felt heavier, every breath shorter. The training armor clung to him like lead, weighing down every movement, but he pushed through. Gritted his teeth. Stayed focused.
Then Barristan moved.
A sharp step forward, a twist of his hips, and his sword slammed into the edge of Aemon's shield with a loud crack. The impact ripped the shield from Aemon's grip and sent it skidding across the yard.
THUD.
Aemon staggered but kept his footing. No time to think—only react. With the shield gone, he shifted his grip on the bastard sword. No defense left, but he was lighter and faster.
He shifted his stance.
And lunged.
The crowd let out a murmur as the pace shifted. With less weight to manage, Aemon's movements sharpened. He slashed and thrust, moving faster than before, pushing Barristan harder now. The old knight held firm, parrying the flurry with tight, controlled movements, but for the first time, he had to back up.
Ten minutes turned into fifteen.
Then twenty.
Aemon's legs started to wobble. His breathing turned ragged. But still, he moved. Still, he fought. Sweat poured from his face, soaking into his collar and dripping off his chin. His vision blurred for a second.
"That's all you've got?" Barristan called, his voice rough but steady.
Aemon smirked between gasps. "I can do this all day."
For a moment, it was true.
Adrenaline surged through him. His muscles burned, but he pushed past it.
He charged, blade flashing, feet driving forward, striking again and again.
Barristan shifted into a defensive rhythm—absorbing the hits, stepping, turning, and parrying with smooth efficiency.
Aemon almost broke through.
Almost.
But Ser Barristan Selmy was no ordinary man. And he had seen a hundred charges like this before.
He waited.
Let the storm pass.
And when Aemon's adrenaline finally dipped and the fire drained from his limbs, his steps slowed. His sword arm sagged. He swung late. Blocked slowly. His body was simply out of fuel.
Barristan saw the moment.
In one clean motion, he stepped in, deflected the sluggish strike, twisted Aemon's sword from his grip, and brought the flat of his blade down hard across the boy's shoulder.
SMACK!!
Aemon staggered back a step.
Then another.
His sword clattered to the dirt. His knees buckled.
The world tilted and spun around him, a blur of sunlight and shadow.
He gasped for breath, lungs clawing for air that wouldn't come.
His arms felt numb. His legs refused to listen. His vision tunneled.
He hit the ground hard—armor scraping dirt—barely feeling the impact.
For a heartbeat, he lay there, blinking up at the sky, trying to will his body to move.
And then everything went black.
The yard fell silent.
Barristan lowered his sword slowly, his chest rising and falling, the duel leaving even him heavier of breath. The duel had pushed even him—not to exhaustion, but close enough to feel it.
He looked down at Aemon—collapsed in the dirt, armor scuffed, face pale under the sweat and grime. Ten years old. And he'd fought like a true knight.
For a long moment, Barristan simply stood there, the sword resting against the ground, watching the boy.
Pride stirred in his chest—quiet, hard-earned.
"Well fought," he muttered, voice low but honest.
He gave a faint nod, almost more to himself than to the unconscious boy at his feet.
Aemon had bled for every inch of ground. And he had earned it.
Around them, the squires and knights stood frozen, stunned.
Not just because Aemon had held his own against Ser Barristan Selmy.
But because—for a heartbeat—they believed he might defeat him.
.
.
.
.
Author's Note:
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