96 AC
After years of slow growth and relentless effort, I finally turned ten—and with that, I was promoted to the rank of squire. I had hoped to earn that title earlier, but my mentor, Uncle Erryk, wouldn't allow it. According to him, noble blood counted more than talent. If I had been a noble's son, then perhaps with my sharp intellect and dominant fighting skills—especially when compared to other twelve-year-olds—I might have been knighted already. But even so, I earned the rank in the end. Yet, the System disagreed. Being a squire to an average knight like Erryk wasn't considered an "achievement" in Westeros.
Despite being only ten, I looked like a boy of twelve or thirteen. Years of intense training and following a body-building regimen inspired by Earth had begun to yield results. I had been training since I was three—starting with wooden legs—and now, after seven years, the effort was finally bearing fruit.
The duties of a squire are many, and unlike other boys my age, I approached them with the seriousness of a seasoned soldier:
Martial Training:
Weapon Practice: Daily sessions with swords, axes, lances, and daggers—both mounted and on foot.
Horsemanship: Cavalry charges, jousting drills, and mastering the warhorse.
Physical Conditioning: Endless hours of strength training, stamina drills, and agility routines.
Strategy: Studying battlefield formations, siege tactics, and warfare.
Armor and Weapon Maintenance:
Polishing, cleaning, and maintaining my knight's gear.
Repairing dents, sharpening blades, and preparing everything for war or tourneys.
Arming Sir Erryk piece by piece before every engagement.
Combat Support:
Carrying lances, shields, and backup weapons.
Managing his horse, offering replacements during jousts.
Assisting during battles, pulling him from danger, or fighting side-by-side.
Personal Duties:
Serving at table, running errands, and acting as a travel companion.
Sleeping outside his chamber for emergencies.
Learning Chivalry:
The code of knighthood, loyalty, honor, and nobility—all drilled into me daily.
Being a squire was exhausting. But I trained harder than anyone else. My early stamina made it bearable. Once, my uncle asked me, "Why do you push yourself so hard? Even if you have the strength of a knight now, you can't be knighted yet."
But I didn't waver. I knew what he didn't.
In 98 AC, a Grand Tourney would be held—celebrating King Jaehaerys's fifty years on the throne and fifty years of peace. And unlike lesser tourneys, this one would include a squire's competition. I knew it because I remembered it. Thanks to my adult soul and keen memory, I had read about it long ago.
Winning that tournament would grant me the rare opportunity to be knighted on the spot. I'd be only twelve by then, potentially the youngest knight in Westeros. But that alone could be dangerous—nobles wouldn't like such a record falling into a commoner's hands.
So, I trained harder than ever before. And seeing my dedication, Uncle Erryk finally allowed me to spend more time on combat training than the usual chores expected of a squire.
The path to knighthood was within sight. And I would seize it.