The sunlight was thin in the training yard.
Two figures stood apart at the edge of the grounds with their arms folded, their gazes fixed on the lone figure at the center, who was practicing with a sword.
They had arrived late, yet carried themselves with full assurance.
Standing beside Aemond, who was in the midst of training, was Gared Lannister, who had already been there for some time.
This thirteen-year-old boy from the Westerlands bore the unmistakable traits of House Lannister—brilliant golden hair, blue eyes, and handsome features.
He was the youngest son of Lord Jason and had once served as a squire at Prince Aegon's side.
But after receiving the king's order that they squires were to serve Prince Aemond instead, he had appeared beneath Maegor's Holdfast the very next day, punctually awaiting summons.
At this moment, seeing the two colleagues who had arrived belatedly, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he stepped forward a few paces.
"Your Grace," Gared said with proper courtesy.
"It seems the two of them have finally recovered."
Aemond had just completed a set of thrusts. The tip of his sword halted in midair before he slowly drew it back.
He turned his head slightly, his calm gaze sweeping over the two figures by the field.
He did not insist that anyone serve as his squire—whether they came or not made no difference to him.
Yet in the end, the two had come today.
And more than twenty days had already passed since the order was issued.
The one on the left was Arrec Hightower, fourteen years old, the youngest son of the Lord of Oldtown.
He had inherited his house's hallmark dark brown hair. His frame was lean but solid, and the way he stood with his arms folded carried the pride of one raised amid family glory and indulgence.
He had once been Aegon's most capable and closest squire, accompanying the prince in drink and revelry, seeking amusement through the streets and alleys of King's Landing.
Now, as he met Aemond's gaze, his expression showed little change, though his chin lifted slightly.
To serve this second son, who had always been gloomy and solitary?
To him, it was nothing short of a demotion.
All the more so because the Prince Aegon he had served was now kept on Driftmark, and the cause lay precisely in the trouble stirred by the prince standing before him.
Standing at Arrec's side was Alyn Haver, thirteen years old, from House Haver of the Crownlands, the eldest son of Lord Haver.
Like Arrec, he belonged to Aegon's small circle. The difference was that he excelled at cleaning up after the prince's excessive mischief—quick-witted, flexible, and smooth in his dealings.
The two of them had used catching a chill and urgent family matters as excuses to delay for over half a month, already pushing their luck to the limit.
As squires sent by their houses to King's Landing to serve the royal family, they could resist only so far.
To provoke the king's displeasure any further would bring them nothing but bitter consequences.
Aemond had no interest in the twists and turns of their private thoughts.
His elder brother's indulgent, pleasure-seeking nature had, for the most part, been fostered by precisely these squires who excelled at flattery and amusement.
As for Gared Lannister…
At the very least, this one knew his place and carried himself accordingly.
Meanwhile, Arrec and Alyn were also appraising Aemond Targaryen at the center of the yard.
The prince wore nothing more than a plain black shirt without ornament, with light armor over it. He repeated the most basic movements over and over—vertical cuts, horizontal slashes, thrusts.
The rhythm was steady, his breathing even, not a trace of wasted force. Utterly monotonous.
Arrec let out a barely perceptible snort through his nose.
In a low voice, he said, "This level? And we're meant to spar with him?"
Hearing this, Alyn answered with a smooth smile.
"Arrec, I'd advise you to be careful. A prince is still a prince, after all."
Aemond finished his final thrust. The wooden sword traced a clean arc at his side as he brought it back in, then he turned to face them.
"Prince." Arrec and Alyn inclined their heads slightly, maintaining a veneer of courtesy.
Aemond's gaze passed over them. He neither questioned nor showed any interest in probing the fact that they had arrived nearly twenty days late.
"Take up swords," he said.
"Let me see what you can do."
The two exchanged a look, momentarily taken aback. That was it—starting just like that?
Seeing them hesitate, Aemond spoke coolly, "If you cannot take up a sword, that is fine as well."
He looked toward Gared, who stood nearby with his head lowered.
"Have two other squires brought to me."
"Ones who dare to swing a sword."
The words were delivered too casually to be a threat. It was a statement of fact—if they were unfit, they would be replaced.
The muscle in Arrec's cheek tightened; Alyn's smile vanished completely.
They might resent it inwardly, but if they were truly sent back for neglecting the prince, their houses would lose face, and they themselves would become a laughingstock.
Arrec moved first. He strode to the weapon rack with pent-up irritation, selecting the heavy two-handed training wooden sword he was accustomed to using.
Alyn followed close behind, choosing a lighter, more agile wooden arming sword.
The two stepped onto the field and came to a loose halt several dozen paces in front of Aemond, exchanging a glance.
There was the annoyance of being forced into it, and also a spark of impulse born from being so lightly dismissed—a desire to weigh the prince's true ability.
"Come at me," Aemond said, gripping his sword with both hands, one forward and one back, settling into a steady opening stance.
"Use whatever way you think can defeat me."
"So long as you beat me, I will not interfere with anything you do."
Off to the side, Gared folded his arms, clearly prepared to enjoy the spectacle.
Having served as a sparring partner these days, he knew all too well the prince's exceptional talent—and that this prince had been instructed by Ser Criston years ago.
Ser Criston—he was a Kingsguard who had claimed the championship of the tourney twice.
The corner of Arrec's mouth twitched into a cold sneer.
To be challenged so bluntly stung the pride befitting an heir of House Hightower.
He no longer hesitated. With a low shout, he stepped in hard, surging forward. The two-handed wooden sword cleaved the air with a rushing sound, driving straight for Aemond's left shoulder.
It was a textbook attack, carrying strength and speed—and a venting of pent-up anger.
Almost the instant he moved, Alyn moved as well.
He did not charge head-on like Arrec. His footwork was light as he swept toward Aemond's flank, sealing off Aemond's possible lines of evasion.
Though both harbored resentment, the tacit understanding forged through long association remained—one from the front, one from the side, a joint assault taking shape in an instant.
They meant to give this aloof prince a lesson, to make him understand that squires were not servants to be barked at.
Faced with the pincer, Aemond's choice surprised everyone.
He did not retreat. He did not parry. Instead, he stepped forward half a pace, straight toward Arrec.
At the very moment the aggressive wooden greatsword was about to strike the leather armor, Aemond's body rotated to the right by the smallest margin.
The blade of Arrec's full-force swing skimmed past Aemond's chest, the gust it raised fluttering his clothes.
And Aemond's left-hand sword moved.
Not a chop. Not a block. Precise, swift, and soundless—the tip slashed down, striking the inside of Arrec's right wrist, exposed by the committed swing!
Crack!
A sharp sound rang out, followed by a half-stifled cry of pain torn from Arrec by surprise.
His fingers instantly lost their strength. The heavy two-handed wooden sword nearly slipped free, and the ferocious offensive collapsed at once.
At the same time, Alyn, attacking from the side, saw the danger and accelerated his thrust, stabbing straight at the opening beneath Aemond's ribs revealed as he dealt with Arrec.
Aemond seemed to have eyes in the back of his head.
His right-hand sword made no large motion at all—his wrist merely turned, the blade catching and stopping the strike that came from behind.
Crack!
Another crisp clash. Alyn's thrust was firmly checked.
And in that moment, Aemond's left-hand sword had already withdrawn from Arrec's wrist, drawing back in one smooth motion to meet Alyn, who had stalled slightly after his attack was blocked.
Alyn's heart lurched. He instinctively stepped back half a pace, trying to reset his stance.
But as he lifted his eyes, he saw Aemond's face—close enough to touch.
Aemond's right foot slid forward, lightly hooking around Alyn's leading ankle, while his left shoulder drove in at the same time.
The movement was small in amplitude—borrowing force to counter force—executed with exquisite economy.
"Ah!"
Alyn cried out as he completely lost his balance, pitching backward and landing hard on the cold, solid sand, still damp with moisture. Dust coated him from head to toe, leaving him in a sorry state.
From start to finish, it had taken only a few breaths.
Arrec clutched his right wrist, which throbbed with sharp, numbing pain, frozen in place, disbelief written across his face.
He knew that Aemond had trained under Ser Criston since childhood, but in his memory, the prince had always practiced in silence.
When had he… developed such clean, decisive, almost battlefield-hard methods?
Alyn sat in the dust, forgetting to rise. The smooth smile he habitually wore had vanished without a trace, leaving only shock in his eyes.
What he excelled at was managing people and smoothing over trouble—not crossing blades in earnest.
Those few movements just now, so concise as to be cold, shattered the last shred of condescension he had held.
With the bout clearly over, Aemond casually handed the two training wooden swords to Gared, who waited at the side.
His gaze returned to the two of them.
"This is what you delayed for over twenty days to show me?"
He paused, his eyes moving from Arrec's rigid face to Alyn's dust-stained robes.
"Or is this what you learned while serving my brother—flashy but useless tricks, easy for someone to knock aside?"
Arrec's face flushed from white to red in an instant, shame and anger flaring like fire, heating his ears.
He opened his mouth, wanting to retort, to argue—but found that any words rang hollow in the face of that swift, decisive defeat.
Alyn had already scrambled to his feet, brushing dust from his clothes in hurried motions, his head bowed low.
Among the nobles of Westeros, the culture of the sword ran deep. Strength was the measure.
Able was able. Unable was unable.
Both of them lowered their heads.
"I will not make things difficult for you," Aemond said again.
"If you wish to stay, then follow the rules and train with me."
"If you feel aggrieved, you may turn around and leave now, each of you back to your own house."
He stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over their tightly pressed lips and clenched fists.
"If you are unwilling, that is fine as well."
"I will make you willing—until you are."
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