(The Red Keep, 120 AC)
The training yard of the Red Keep was divided by an invisible line. On one side, the soil was churned by the aggressive, flashy footwork of Ser Criston Cole and his royal pupils. On the other, in a smaller, dustier circle, the earth was packed hard and flat by the immovable stance of House Royce.
Aeryn Royce-Targaryen, now seven years old, stood in the center of the Royce circle. He held a blunted steel sword, the leather grip worn smooth by hours of drills. He was sweating, his black hair plastered to his forehead, but his breathing was rhythmic and controlled.
"Again," Ser Vardis Egen commanded.
The old knight swung a heavy wooden waster at the boy's head. It was not a gentle tap. It was a blow meant to teach.
Aeryn didn't flinch. He didn't try to block the blow with force, which would have shattered his small wrist. Instead, he stepped diagonally—a precise, calculated movement of six inches. The waster whistled past his ear, missing him by a hair's breadth.
Before Vardis could recover, Aeryn stepped in. He didn't slash. He thrust the pommel of his sword into the gap in Vardis's armor, right at the hip joint.
"Dead," Vardis grunted, lowering his weapon. "Good. You moved the stone."
"The stone does not move," Aeryn recited, wiping sweat from his eyes. "The path moves around it."
"Aye," Vardis nodded, a flicker of pride in his eyes. "The Stormlanders fight like the wind—lots of noise, lots of motion. We fight like the mountain. Let them break themselves against you."
Across the yard, the clang of steel was louder.
Prince Aegon, now thirteen and filled with the hormonal rage of adolescence, was sparring with a straw dummy. He hacked at it with savage, uncoordinated fury, decapitating the straw man with a scream of frustration.
"Dead!" Aegon shouted, kicking the straw head across the yard.
"Sloppy," Ser Criston Cole observed coldly, leaning against a weapons rack. "You killed the dummy, my Prince, but you left your flank open three times. A Dornishman would have gutted you."
Aegon spat on the ground. "Dornishmen don't fight princes. They run."
He turned, looking for a new target to vent his boredom. His eyes landed on Aeryn.
The humiliation in the nursery weeks ago still burned in Aegon's gut. The way Aeryn had looked at him—like he was a math problem to be solved—gnawed at his pride.
"Hey!" Aegon called out, pointing his tourney sword at Aeryn. "Bronze Bitch!"
Ser Vardis stepped forward instantly, his hand on his hilt, but Aeryn raised a hand to stop him.
"Yes, Cousin?" Aeryn asked, his voice carrying clearly across the yard.
"You look ridiculous," Aegon sneered, walking over. The squires and stable boys stopped their work to watch. Even Prince Aemond paused his drills, watching with narrow eyes. "Dancing around like a crab. Why don't you fight a real opponent? Or are you afraid you'll chip your little rock?"
"I am training, Aegon," Aeryn said calmly. "Not playing."
"Training?" Aegon laughed. "You call that training? You haven't thrown a single attack. Cowardice isn't a fighting style, Royce."
Aegon stepped into the Royce circle, crossing the invisible line. "Come on. Show me what you've got. Unless you need your nursemaid Egen to hold your hand."
Ser Criston Cole pushed off the rack. He didn't stop Aegon. He watched with a curious, calculating expression. He wanted to see if the "Bronze Prince" had any iron in him.
"The Prince wishes to spar, Ser Vardis," Cole called out. "Let the boys play. It builds character."
Vardis looked at Aeryn. He saw the subtle nod from the boy.
"Very well," Vardis stepped back. "Blunted steel. First blood or yield."
Aegon grinned, spinning his sword with a flourish. He was six years older, twice as heavy, and had a longer reach. In his mind, this was already over.
"I'm going to hurt you," Aegon whispered as they circled. "And then I'm going to tell Father you cried."
Aeryn didn't speak. His eyes scanned Aegon.
Analysis:
Stance: Wide. Too wide. Center of gravity is off.
Grip: White-knuckled. He is tense.
Pattern: Aegon always starts with a high overhead swing. He believes strength solves everything.
Aeryn lowered his sword tip, adopting a guard that looked almost lazy. It was an invitation.
Aegon took the bait. With a roar, he charged. He raised his sword for a crushing vertical strike, exactly as Aeryn had predicted.
It was a move that would have cleaved a shield in two. But Aeryn wasn't there.
Aeryn didn't block. He didn't run. He pivoted.
As Aegon brought the sword down with all his weight, Aeryn stepped to the left. He moved with the fluidity of water, slipping inside Aegon's guard.
Aegon's sword hit the dirt with a heavy thud, the momentum carrying him forward. He stumbled, off-balance.
Aeryn didn't strike him with the blade. Instead, he simply extended his leg and hooked his boot behind Aegon's ankle.
It was a small trip. A nudge.
Aegon, already falling forward, crashed face-first into the mud.
The sound was wet and heavy. Splat.
The training yard went silent.
Aegon scrambled up, his face caked in brown muck, his nose bleeding slightly from the impact. He looked around, wild-eyed, and saw the stable boys covering their mouths to hide their giggles. He saw Aemond smirking.
"You... you tripped me!" Aegon screamed, spitting mud. "That's not fighting! That's cheating!"
"It is gravity," Aeryn said simply, standing untouched in his clean grey tunic. "You overextended. I just helped you finish the movement."
"Fight me!" Aegon roared, raising his sword again, blind with rage. He rushed forward, abandoning all form. He swung wildly—left, right, left.
Aeryn dodged. Step back.
Aeryn ducked. Bend knee.
Aeryn side-stepped. Pivot.
He flowed around Aegon's anger like a ghost. He remembered every flaw in Ser Criston's training that Aegon had failed to correct. To Aeryn, this wasn't a fight; it was a dance he had memorized by watching from the sidelines for years.
Finally, Aegon swung so hard he spun himself around, exposing his back.
Aeryn didn't stab him. He raised his boot and kicked Aegon square in the buttocks.
It wasn't a damaging blow. It was a humiliating one.
Aegon sprawled into the dust again, his sword flying from his hand.
Aeryn stood over him, looking down. He didn't gloat. He didn't smile.
"You fight with fire, Aegon," Aeryn said, his voice echoing in the silence. "Fire burns fast. But stone... stone waits."
Ser Criston Cole stepped forward, his face unreadable but his eyes sharp. "Enough."
He looked at Aeryn. For the first time, he didn't see a "Strong" bastard or a political pawn. He saw a warrior. A strange one, yes, but a warrior.
"The bout goes to Prince Aeryn," Cole announced dryly.
Aegon pounded the ground with his fist, tears of rage mixing with the mud. He refused to look at anyone.
Before Aeryn could sheath his sword, the bells of the Red Keep began to toll.
It was a deep, mournful sound. Gong. Gong. Gong.
Everyone froze. The rivalry in the yard evaporated instantly.
The doors to the Keep opened, and a herald stepped out, wearing black.
"My Lords! My Princes!" the herald cried out. "Sad news from Driftmark! The Lady Laena Velaryon... the Lady Laena is dead."
Aeryn lowered his sword. He looked at the sky, which was turning a bruised purple.
Laena, his mind recorded. Daemon's wife. The rider of Vhagar.
He looked at Aemond. The younger boy's eyes were wide, and for a second, Aeryn saw a flash of hunger there. Laena was dead. Vhagar was free.
Aeryn touched the ring on his thumb. He felt the hum in his blood again, stronger than ever.
The game of wooden swords and mud was over. The real game—the game of dragons—was about to begin.
"Pack your steel, Aeryn," Ser Vardis whispered, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "We sail for the tides."
Aeryn nodded. He looked at Aegon one last time, shivering in the mud, and turned away. He was ready for the sea. He was ready for the mountain of fire that waited on the other side of the water.