89 AC. The Red Keep
Dawn over King's Landing was cold, permeated by that grey, biting mist that seeps beneath any layer of clothing. At this hour, the Red Keep was silent, save for the occasional stray cry of the guards upon the walls and the dull thud of hooves from the stables.
I stepped onto the training grounds just as the sky over the sea began to pale, taking on a bruised, crimson tint. I wore a simple leather jerkin, reinforced with steel plates where they would not hinder my movement. No ornaments, no sigils. For what I intended to do, any extra weight was a liability.
Daeron was already waiting in the center of the yard. He stood motionless, eyes closed, and I watched the slow, deep rhythm of his breathing. Despite the chill, a light sheen of sweat covered his skin.
"How do you feel, brother?" I asked, approaching the weapon rack.
"As ready as ever for another attempt to best you," he replied, without opening his eyes. "We shall see what comes of it this time."
"I am glad to see you are full of such enthusiasm, Daeron," I smirked, anticipating his latest efforts to surpass me in a trial of blades.
I had personally overseen the martial education of my brothers since their earliest years, training them for the yard and the tourney field alike. In the saddle, they already outshone their peers—not without my guidance and instruction, of course. In my past life—details of which sometimes felt more vivid than my current reality—I had possessed a knowledge of human anatomy far greater than all the maesters of Oldtown combined. My brothers had even begun taking the strengthening draughts I brewed from ingredients gathered by my house-elves on my island. The concoction Daeron drank was a concentrated essence, balanced to grant a warrior a 15–20% advantage in reaction speed. In a duel where everything is decided in milliseconds, that was the chasm between life and death.
"Take up your steel," I commanded.
We began. Daeron lunged forward so quickly that an ordinary eye would have seen only a blurred shadow. His practice blade—a heavy length of blunted steel—whistled through the air. I caught the blow on the flat of my sword, feeling the vibration travel up into my shoulder.
He attacked in flurries. These were not the standard Westerosi forms taught to local lords. An ordinary man could not have sustained such a style, the speed and stamina required for such a tempo were beyond the reach of the common folk of this world. I had taught him the shortest paths, the use of an opponent's inertia, and the mastery of leverage. Daeron moved economically, with near-mathematical precision. His strikes were as sharp and heavy as a ram.
"You are collapsing onto your left leg during the deep thrust," I noted, easily sidestepping his attack and catching his knee with a light tap of my blade. "The center of gravity must remain stable. Imagine your spine is the axis around which everything else rotates."
Daeron grunted, spun on his heel, and attacked again. He was good—exceptionally so. His body, modified by my elixirs and years of purposeful training, had become a perfect instrument. I watched his progress, seeing him transform from a merely talented youth into something far more dangerous.
The din of our clash—the dry ring of steel on steel—began to draw eyes. Figures appeared on the gallery overlooking the yard. I did not turn, but from the change in the rhythm of footsteps and the specific clink of plate, I knew who watched us.
Prince Aemon Targaryen, the heir to the throne, always rose early. Beside him was Baelon. The "Spring Prince" looked spirited, his silver hair swept back carelessly, a glint of interest in his eyes that usually preceded a fight.
They were accompanied by two men in white cloaks. Ser Ryam Redwyne, whose face resembled an old, battle-scarred map, and Ser Gyles Morrigen. They stood slightly apart, assessing our movements with professional scrutiny.
"Enough," I said, raising a hand.
Daeron froze instantly. His breathing was heavy, but he recovered with startling speed—another effect of my draughts.
"A fine morning for a bout, Lord Corlys," Baelon said, vaulting over the low railing and dropping onto the sand of the yard. "I was watching your brother. He moves as if he knows where the blow will land before it is even struck. One does not often see the like."
"Reflexes and discipline, honed by long years of practice, my Prince," I replied, wiping the sweat from my brow. "We spend more time in the yard than one might imagine."
Baelon stepped closer. His hand rested on the hilt of Dark Sister. The ancient blade of Valyrian steel, which had once belonged to Visenya Targaryen herself, was a thing of legend, and Baelon carried it as befitted a true prince.
"Discipline is a dull thing," Baelon smirked, and there was something predatory in that grin. "I have seen you fight, Lord Corlys, and you seem far too composed. That happens when one fights the same opponent too often."
He drew his sword. The air seemed to grow colder as the Valyrian steel left its scabbard. The smoky ripples on the blade of Dark Sister appeared to shift like living things in the cold twilight of dawn.
"Yesterday in the Throne Room, I noticed you carried blades of your own, Lord Corlys." Baelon gave a practice flourish, and the sword sang—a thin, piercing note. "It is not often one gets the chance to test their mettle against another wielder of Valyrian steel. What say you? Shall we make this morning interesting?"
I looked toward Aemon. He stood leaning against the railing, and there was no objection in his gaze—only a cold curiosity. Ser Ryam Redwyne straightened, his full attention now locked upon us.
"If you insist, Prince Baelon," I replied, smiling.
I nodded to Adam, and he brought forth the two sheathed swords, Sea Foam and Stormbreaker. They did not possess the long history of the Targaryen blades, but they were Valyrian steel, forged and purified using knowledge from Valyria that would be considered divine revelation in this world. I had chosen to reforge two blades I had found in Valyria, crafting them with my own hands.
I took the hilts in my grip. They were an extension of my very being. At this moment, my senses were heightened to their limit. I could see the dust motes dancing in the mist and hear the thrumming of Baelon's heart as it began to quicken.
"Two swords?" Baelon narrowed his eyes. "A rare style for Westeros."
"The world is vast, my Prince. It holds many styles."
We faced one another. Baelon held Dark Sister in a two-handed grip—a classic, powerful stance designed for crushing blows and a formidable defense. I stood relaxed, my blades pointed down at forty-five-degree angles.
Baelon struck first. He did not waste time with feints, he struck with power, a downward cleave that carried the weight of his entire body. Dark Sister traced a shimmering arc through the air.
I did not meet the blow head-on. It would have been irrational to clash energy against energy. Instead, I shifted left, utilizing the rotational momentum, and caught his blade on the flat of my right sword at a glancing angle. Valyrian steel shrieked against Valyrian steel. The sound was crystal clear, a vibrating ring that struck the ears like a bell. Nothing compares to the sound of two Valyrian blades meeting.
The energy of Baelon's strike vanished into the void. I immediately loosed a short, stinging thrust with my left blade, aiming beneath his elbow. Baelon managed to recoil—his reaction time was magnificent—but I saw a flash of surprise in his eyes.
"Fast," he grunted.
He began to increase the pace. Baelon was a warrior of the old school—aggressive, relentless, utilizing the reach of his hand-and-a-half sword. He unleashed a series of hacking blows, transitioning the blade from horizontal to vertical planes with frightening speed.
I, however, worked in a mode of "economy." My movements were minimalist. Every step, every tilt of my head was calculated so that Baelon's blade passed mere centimeters from me. I used my two swords as a single system: one always parrying or redirecting his steel, while the second threatened a riposte in the same heartbeat.
On the gallery, Aemon spoke quietly to Redwyne.
"Do you see how he traps Prince Baelon, my Prince?" the Lord Commander's voice reached me. "Lord Velaryon does not merely swing his swords. He catches Prince Baelon's blade in the cross of his steel. He is robbing him of his space."
"Baelon opens himself too much on the backswing," Aemon replied. "He is used to his opponents fearing his steel. But Corlys... he does not fear it. His own blades are no less deadly."
They were right. I was analyzing. I saw the way Baelon's muscles tensed before a cleave. I saw the momentary hitch in his breath. Baelon was a superb combatant, perhaps one of the finest in Westeros, but he fought on instinct and talent. I fought using my inhuman strength, calculation, and a mastery that far surpassed his.
Baelon began to sweat. His strikes grew more furious. He was clearly unaccustomed to someone holding him on the defensive for so long, especially while wielding equally lethal steel.
"You are holding back, Corlys!" he shouted, throwing a wide lateral swing. "I see it! Fight me in earnest!"
He struck with such force that, had I been an ordinary man receiving the blow on a single sword, my wrist would have been shattered. I crossed my blades in a "lock," catching Dark Sister at the point of intersection. The vibration was so intense I felt it in my very bones. We froze there, locked eye-to-eye. Baelon's face was flushed, his breath rattling in his lungs. My own face remained a mask, and my pulse, though elevated from my physical augmentations, remained rhythmic.
"As you wish, my Prince," I said.
I abruptly shifted the vector of my pressure. Instead of pushing back, I allowed his sword to slide downward, simultaneously rotating both of my blades around his crossguard. It was a maneuver based on leverage—simple physics that few in this world gave thought to.
Baelon lost his balance. His own inertia pulled him forward. In that moment, I unleashed a series of rapid strikes with the flat of my blades against his arms and torso—snap, snap, snap. It did not wound him, but every hit jarred his rhythm, knocked the wind from him, and caused his muscles to spasm involuntarily.
I moved around him like a shadow. My blades blurred so fast they appeared as grey streaks. Baelon fought desperately to defend himself, Dark Sister darting back and forth, but he was always a fraction of a second too late.
"It is impossible," whispered Ser Gyles Morrigen. "He is simply faster. It is as if he knows where Prince Baelon's hand will be a moment before it gets there."
"Not merely faster," Redwyne corrected, his eyes never leaving us. "He is more precise. Look at his feet. He is always in the perfect position to strike. Not a single wasted step. Not a single wasted motion."
Baelon roared. His dragon blood had reached its boiling point. He cast aside all caution and launched a suicidal assault, hoping to reach me through sheer ferocity. It was a cascade of blows capable of crushing a small company. But I had already read the pattern.
I waited for his most powerful thrust—a lunge into which he poured everything he had left. I did not step aside. I stepped into him.
My left sword slid along his blade, guiding the point of Dark Sister away from my body, while with my right, I struck the flat of my blade against his knuckles, forcing his grip to slacken for a heartbeat. In the same motion, I spun, ending up behind him, and crossed my swords before his face.
One blade touched his throat—a mere whisper of contact, the barest hint of cold metal. The second locked his right arm, depriving him of the chance to turn Dark Sister.
Everything stopped.
Baelon's breathing was heavy and ragged. His heart hammered so hard I felt the vibration through the sword at his throat. We stood motionless for several seconds. The clouds had finally broken, and the rays of the sun, piercing through the mist, gilded the hilt of Dark Sister, which hung powerless toward the earth.
I slowly withdrew my swords. One by one. First the one at his throat, then the one locking his arm. I took a step back and returned the blades to their sheaths. The sharp, dry click of the catches sounded in the silence of the yard like a period at the end of a sentence.
I felt no triumph. I felt only the beginning of a dull ache in my muscles—the price of a forced metabolism without preparation.
Baelon stood with his back to me for a moment longer. Then, he turned slowly. His face was drenched, hair plastered to his forehead. He looked at his right hand, which was still trembling slightly, then at me.
"Seven hells, Lord Corlys..." he exhaled, trying to steady the tremor in his overworked muscles. "I simply couldn't touch you. You were always half a step ahead, no matter where I struck. It was as if you knew every swing before I made it."
He sheathed Dark Sister. The sound was heavy and resonant. In turn, I waited until my pulse slowed and adjusted my blades.
"You have a heavy hand, Prince Baelon," I replied, keeping my voice level. "And Dark Sister moves faster in your grip than any other blade I have seen in Westeros. Had you caught me but once, I would not be standing. Your technique is excellent, I am simply accustomed to a different rhythm of combat."
I looked at my palms, feeling the tension drain away.
"My advantage is not in strength," I lied to him without hesitation. "I simply watch how you distribute your weight. Your shoulder betrays the direction of the strike a heartbeat before the arm begins to move. In a real fray, in harness and the heat of battle, such things would matter less. But here on the sand, I could afford to simply observe and wait. You are a fine warrior, Prince Baelon."
Baelon smirked, clearly satisfied that I had not belittled his skill. He wiped the sweat from his brow and nodded.
"Fair enough. We shall say I paid for a lesson in alertness today."
Prince Aemon descended from the gallery, followed by the Kingsguard. Ser Ryam Redwyne's face remained a mask, but in his eyes as he looked at me, I saw what I had been seeking. It was not mere recognition of strength. It was the acknowledgement that I might very well be his equal.
"A clean victory, Lord Corlys," Aemon said, approaching us. "Though I am certain my brother will want a rematch."
"Oh, most certainly!" Baelon confirmed, wiping his face with the edge of his cloak. "But not today. Today I need something stronger than water and a chance to figure out how he did it."
Daeron stood a short distance away, leaning against a wooden fence post. His breathing had already leveled out, but his skin still glistened with sweat. He did not interfere in the conversation with the princes, observing the proper etiquette, but I saw the way he looked at me.
There was no surprise in his eyes—he had seen what I was capable of in the yard at Driftmark too many times. There was something else: a deep, almost fanatical satisfaction. He was the only one on this ground who understood that my victory was not mere luck or "talent," but the result of training and the enhancement of the body.
As Aemon and Baelon headed for the exit, escorted by the guards, Daeron approached me. He did not shower me with praise—in our family, such things were not the custom.
"Did you see Redwyne's face?" he asked quietly, his eyes fixed on my blade. "I think today was the first time in a long age he felt that his white cloak and his mastery were no guarantee of victory against you."
He finally looked at me, and in that gaze was a pride he did not even try to hide. To Daeron, I was not merely an elder brother or the head of the House after our father's death, I had taken that place for my brothers. I was the man who had brought back knowledge from his travels that set us above all these lords who relied on the old rules.
"Come," I said, securing my swords. "We must change before we head to the port."
The duel was over. But the real game was only beginning.
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A/N
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