Morning. The Flowstone Yard.
This was where the soldiers and knights of Harrenhal drilled, and where their squires cleaned their weapons and polished their armor.
The yard's surface was uneven and rugged, situated near the base of the Wailing Tower. An enclosed stone gallery ran along the upper level of the yard, accessed via a massive archway directly opposite the training grounds.
Arthur's daily schedule was packed tight. As the heir, his education extended far beyond swordsmanship.
However, Arthur made it a strict habit to reserve his mornings exclusively for combat and equestrian training.
The essence of being a warrior lay in the grind. Much like a modern Olympic athlete, true mastery required years of relentless, repetitive refinement.
Strength, speed, and endurance—the holy trinity of an elite warrior.
The agonizing, monotonous process was all for the sake of a single, explosive moment of victory.
Arthur realized he actually enjoyed the combat. Perhaps it was simply in his nature to fight.
Furthermore, his [Greenhand] class provided massive, passive buffs to his physical attributes. The core essence of the Greenhand was "Vitality."
These buffs manifested directly in his stamina, sensory perception, and recovery rate. When these amplified stats were poured into strength, speed, and endurance, Arthur became a walking stat monster.
Arthur was no longer sparring one-on-one with his companions, Wylis Wode and Lucas Roote. Emulating the training methods of Garlan Tyrell, Arthur now fought them simultaneously.
This kind of asymmetrical sparring not only better simulated the chaotic reality of a battlefield, but honestly, fighting them one-on-one was no longer a challenge for Arthur.
Arthur hefted his shield and wooden practice sword. He wore padded leather armor, and his shield bore the nine black bats of House Whent.
Wylis's shield displayed a hedgehog, while Lucas Roote's shield bore a brown, two-headed horse on a field of green waves.
Wylis Wode hailed from a family of landed knights sworn directly to Harrenhal.
Lucas Roote was the heir to House Roote of Lord Harroway's Town. Though the family had declined in power, their geographic location controlling the Ruby Ford was strategically vital, and they remained steadfastly loyal to House Whent.
(In the original timeline, with House Whent's total collapse, Lucas Roote had fallen so far that he ended up serving as a lowly squire to a landed knight sworn to House Frey. Had House Whent retained its power, he never would have sunk to that level).
In Westeros, swords generally fell into three categories: arming swords (longswords), bastard swords (hand-and-a-half swords), and greatswords. The first two were by far the most common, and standard knightly training relied on blunted or wooden versions of them.
Two-handed greatswords were a niche weapon. Famous examples included House Dayne's Dawn, House Stark's Ice, and House Lannister's lost ancestral blade, Brightroar.
"Faster! Stronger! Put your weight into it! Do not hesitate, but stay sharp! When you strike your enemy, you must ensure you aren't leaving yourself open to a thrust. A deep puncture wound in the field means infection and fever, and that means death!" Ser Lucas Dayne barked, his sharp eyes tracking every movement in the yard.
Unlike supernatural classes such as the [Greenhand], [Skinchanger], [Faceless Man], [Elementalist], [Undying], or [Woods Witch], the vast majority of people in the world of Ice and Fire were entirely mundane, bound by mundane limits.
Standard warriors operated in a low-magic setting. There were no "knightly breathing techniques" or magical "battle aura."
Just like modern athletes, knights relied entirely on muscle mass, reaction speed, and raw experience.
This required a combination of innate talent, premium nutrition, brutal sparring, and careful physical therapy. They were entirely vulnerable to disease, aging, and simple bad luck.
The mighty Aegon the Conqueror died of a stroke. A physical god like Khal Drogo died because a minor flesh wound got infected, exacerbated by medical malpractice. Even King Robert being killed by a mundane boar wasn't entirely surprising.
Boosted by his [Greenhand] class, Arthur completely dominated his opponents.
He attacked relentlessly, a blur of sword and shield.
His heightened senses seemed to map the exact trajectory of the wind and the subtle shifts in his opponents' balance. Compared to his own speed, Wylis and Lucas looked sluggish and clumsy.
Wylis and Lucas moved in together, attempting to flank him. Fighting two-on-one was incredibly difficult.
But Arthur was simply too fast. He unleashed a flurry of spinning slashes, seamlessly integrating brutal shield bashes into his combinations.
Arthur slipped past Wylis's guard and slammed his shield directly into the older boy's chest, knocking him flat on his back.
Seeing an opening, Lucas Roote lunged low, aiming for Arthur's legs. But Arthur's reaction time was unnatural. He sidestepped the thrust entirely, bypassed Lucas's shield, and brought his wooden sword down hard on Lucas's leather armor.
Lucas felt his ears ring. He stumbled, his vision blurring, and collapsed onto the dirt. The bout was over.
"I yield!"
"Me too. I yield!"
The boys from House Wode and House Roote gasped simultaneously. They had sparred with Arthur enough times to accept the brutal truth: the heir to Harrenhal was an absolute freak of nature.
Arthur reached down and hauled his dusty, bruised followers to their feet. Building a loyal retinue had to start young. Both boys were tied to the Harrenhal domain; their loyalty was baked in. If Harrenhal fell, they would be eating dirt right alongside him.
In the original timeline, these two had peaked as second-rate knights. But now, training alongside a prodigy like Arthur and backed by premium resources, they had a real shot at reaching the first tier.
"Well fought, young master!"
"Arthur!" The surrounding squires and men-at-arms cheered. The boys were young, but the technical skill on display was undeniable.
Once the bout ended, the onlookers dispersed back to their duties, leaving only the master-at-arms and his three bruised students in the yard.
Ser Lucas's mind raced as he replayed Arthur's movements. His talent is terrifying. It was time to drastically increase the intensity of Arthur's training. He needed to push the boy to the same extreme limits he had once pushed the Sword of the Morning.
"Well done, lads," Ser Lucas said. "Lucas, Wylis, do not be discouraged. Arthur's natural gifts are simply exceptional. You both fought well. You will never truly improve by fighting ordinary men; you only grow stronger by facing opponents who outclass you."
"It's incredible, Arthur," Ser Lucas continued, turning to his prized pupil. "Most knights who possess great strength and size sacrifice agility. But you are both powerful and blindingly fast. And your stamina is entirely unnatural. The Gods have truly blessed you. Fighting with sword and shield is exhausting; victory usually goes to the man who can endure the longest."
Arthur nodded. The Seven Kingdoms had no shortage of men with freakish natural gifts, but the truly legendary warriors were almost always perfectly balanced, all-around monsters.
"You rely heavily on overwhelming speed and aggression, but you also need to master the art of the lure," Ser Lucas advised. "Combat requires caution. You must learn to conserve your stamina while baiting your opponent into wasting theirs. Many knights suffer from excessive pride. They are terrified of being called cowards, of looking weak in front of women or squires, and that pride makes them reckless. Use that against them."
Arthur absorbed the lesson carefully. Veteran masters-at-arms possessed invaluable combat wisdom. (Even Brienne of Tarth's seemingly unremarkable master-at-arms back on her home island had been a master at tailoring his instruction to his student's unique physical traits).
A master could show you the door, but you still had to walk through it yourself.
"Ser Lucas, do you truly believe Arthur could become a legendary knight? Someone like the Sword of the Morning?" Wylis asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.
"Yes," Ser Lucas nodded, his expression dead serious. "A first-rate knight can be forged through endless resources and grueling training. But to reach the realm of legend? That requires something you cannot teach: divine talent. And Arthur's raw instinct for the blade is something I have rarely seen."
Arthur smiled faintly. "I'll take that as the highest compliment."
Ser Lucas clenched his fists and offered them a cold, analytical breakdown of what it took to be a legend. "Do you know why the title 'Sword of the Morning' is not passed down continuously? Why there are decades, sometimes generations, where the title remains dormant?"
"Why?" Lucas Roote asked, equally fascinated.
"House Dayne has never lacked for brave, disciplined, and hardworking warriors. But men with true, generational genius are incredibly rare. Without that genius, no amount of training will allow a man to wield Dawn," Ser Lucas explained bitterly. "In our generation, only Arthur Dayne was worthy of awakening the blade. If you look back across the entire history of the Seven Kingdoms, the number of men who successfully claimed the title 'Sword of the Morning' is shockingly small."
There was King Samwell Dayne, the "Starfire," who sacked Oldtown.
There was Vorian Dayne, the "Sword of the Evening," the greatest knight in Dorne who was defeated and exiled to the Wall by Princess Nymeria.
There was Davos Dayne, the third husband of Princess Nymeria.
There was Ser Ulrick Dayne, the Sword of the Morning during the First Blackfyre Rebellion, renowned as one of the greatest warriors of his era alongside legends like Daemon Blackfyre and Bittersteel.
And finally, the most recent Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne, who had just died at the Tower of Joy.
Arthur completely understood the logic. It was purely scientific.
The gap between a first-rate fighter and a transcendent legend came down entirely to innate talent and combat instinct.
Major noble houses had endless resources. They could buy the best armor, the finest horses, the most nutritious food, and the most elite instructors. They could easily brute-force a mediocre son into becoming a solid, competent knight.
But in an era without genetic engineering, when two men trained with equal intensity and equal resources, the final victor was determined entirely by the genetic lottery they won at birth.
House Lannister possessed infinite wealth. Tywin Lannister had trained relentlessly in his youth, but his absolute peak was being a slightly above-average, competent fighter. Yet his son, Jaime, was a terrifying combat prodigy, praised even by Barristan Selmy for his unmatched natural talent.
The same applied to House Stark. Eddard was a competent but unspectacular swordsman; the true monster in the family had been his older brother, the "Wild Wolf," Brandon.
The names that echoed through history—Cregan Stark, the "Old Man of the North"; Artos the Implacable; Prince Aemon the Dragonknight; Leo "Longthorn" Tyrell; Lyonel Baratheon, the "Laughing Storm."
Or the monsters of the current era: Robert the Usurper, the Kingslayer, Barristan the Bold.
Every single one of them possessed a naturally blessed, overpowered physical vessel. And every single great warrior elevated their family's prestige to unimaginable heights.
The more Arthur displayed his terrifying natural gifts, the deeper Ser Lucas's reverence for the boy became.
These were stats that rivaled the Sword of the Morning himself. Once this boy fully matured, his power would be unimaginable.
A truly legendary warrior could single-handedly elevate a house's standing in the realm.
Ser Lucas had originally thought Ser Oswell Whent was the absolute peak of House Whent's martial history. Now, he realized Arthur was the true hope of the family.
Arthur chuckled inwardly. Praise the stat buffs.