Training

The sunlight was thin in the training yard.

Two figures stood some distance apart at the edge of the grounds, arms folded, their gazes fixed on the lone figure swinging his sword in the center.

They had arrived late, yet still carried themselves with all the airs.

Standing beside Aemond as he trained was Garth Lannister, who had been waiting here for some time.

This thirteen-year-old youth from the Westerlands had the Lannisters' signature gleaming golden hair, green eyes, and handsome features.

He was Lord Jason's youngest son and had once served as an attendant to Prince Aegon.

But after the King ordered all of those attendants to serve Prince Aemond, he had appeared beneath Maegor's Hold the very next day, waiting punctually to be summoned.

Now, upon seeing the two tardy attendants, Garth's lips curled into a faint smile as he stepped forward a few paces.

"Your Highness," Garth said with impeccable courtesy.

"It seems those two have finally recovered."

Aemond had just finished a set of thrusts. His sword point paused in midair before he slowly drew back his stance.

He turned his head, his calm gaze sweeping over the two figures at the edge of the yard.

He had no intention of forcing anyone to become his attendant. Whether they came or not made no difference to him.

Still, the two had finally shown up today.

More than twenty days had passed since the order was given.

The one on the left was Aleric Hightower, fourteen years old, the youngest son of Lord Hightower of Oldtown.

He had inherited his family's distinctive dark brown hair. Though lean, he was well-built, and the way he stood with his arms folded revealed the pride of someone raised on his family's glory and indulged since childhood.

He had once been Prince Aegon's most capable and closest attendant, accompanying the prince in drinking and revelry, seeking amusement in the streets and alleys of King's Landing.

Now, meeting Aemond's gaze, his face remained expressionless, but his chin lifted slightly.

He was supposed to serve this gloomy, withdrawn second son now?

To him, it was no different from a demotion.

What was more, Prince Aegon, whom he had served, was now stranded on Tidepool Island because of the trouble caused by the prince standing before him.

Beside Aleric stood Alyn Haigh, thirteen years old, from House Haigh of the Crownlands and the eldest son of Lord Haigh.

Like Aleric, he had belonged to Aegon's little circle. The difference was that he was better at cleaning up after the prince's outrageous mischief, quick-witted and smooth in his dealings.

The two had used colds and urgent family matters as excuses to put this off for more than half a month. They had already pushed it as far as they could.

They were attendants sent by their families to King's Landing to serve the royal family.

If they continued resisting and incurred the King's displeasure, there would be no good outcome for them.

Aemond could not be bothered with the twists and turns in their minds.

His elder brother's indulgent nature had most likely been spoiled by attendants like these, skilled at flattery and revelry.

As for Garth Lannister...

At least he was sensible and knew his place.

Aleric and Alyn were likewise studying Aemond Targaryen in the center of the grounds.

The prince wore only a plain black shirt beneath light armor, repeatedly practicing the most basic vertical chops, horizontal slashes, and thrusts.

His rhythm was steady, his breathing even. There was not the slightest wasteful expenditure of strength. It was exceedingly dull.

Aleric gave an almost imperceptible snort.

He said quietly, "At this level? And we're supposed to spar with him?"

Hearing this, Alyn smiled smoothly.

"Aleric, I advise you to be careful. A prince is still a prince."

Aemond completed his final thrust. The wooden sword traced a clean arc at his side before returning to rest beside him, and he turned to face them.

"Prince." Aleric and Alyn gave slight bows, maintaining a show of respectful courtesy.

Aemond's gaze passed over them. He neither questioned nor cared to investigate the fact that they had arrived nearly twenty days late.

"Take up your swords," he said.

"Let me see what you can do."

The two exchanged glances, somewhat taken aback. They were starting already?

When they did not move, Aemond said coldly, "If you cannot take up a sword, that is fine too."

He looked toward Garth, who stood nearby with his head lowered.

"Find me two new attendants."

"The kind who dare to swing a sword."

That had been said far too casually. It was not a threat, but a statement of fact—if they would not do, they would be replaced.

Alyck's cheek muscles tightened, while Alyn's smile vanished completely.

They could resent it inwardly, but if they were truly sent back for neglecting the Prince, their families would lose face, and they themselves would become a laughingstock.

Alyck moved first, striding toward the weapon rack with pent-up resentment. He selected the heavy two-handed training sword he was accustomed to using.

Alyn followed close behind and chose a lighter, swifter wooden straight sword.

The two entered the field and stopped loosely several dozen paces before Aemond, exchanging a glance.

There was irritation at being forced into this arrangement, but also the urge to test the other's true abilities after being so casually underestimated.

"Come at me." Aemond held a sword in both hands, one forward and one back, assuming a steady opening stance.

"Use whatever method you believe can defeat me."

"As long as you beat me, I will not interfere with anything you do."

Gard folded his arms at the side, looking eager to watch the show.

Having served as a sparring partner these past days, he knew all too well how gifted this Prince was. And several years ago, the Prince had begun receiving instruction from Ser Cole.

Ser Cole was a Kingsguard knight who had won the tourney championship twice.

Alyck's lips curled into a cold sneer.

His pride as an heir of House Hightower had been stung by such a blunt invitation to fight.

He hesitated no longer. With a low shout, he stepped forward and charged, his two-handed wooden sword cleaving through the air with a whistle as it struck straight for Aemond's left shoulder.

It was a standard attack, carrying both force and speed—as well as the fury of pent-up frustration.

Almost the instant he moved, Alyn moved as well.

Rather than charging head-on like Alyck, he moved lightly toward Aemond's flank, cutting off the routes by which Aemond might evade.

Though the two were displeased, the tacit understanding forged through years together remained. One from the front and one from the side, their combined attack took shape in an instant.

They intended to teach this arrogant Prince a lesson, to make him understand that attendants were not servants for him to order about at will.

Faced with their pincer attack, Aemond's choice caught everyone by surprise.

He did not retreat. He did not block. Instead, he stepped half a pace forward, straight toward Alyck.

At the very instant the fierce wooden two-handed sword was about to touch his leather armor, Aemond turned his body slightly to the right.

The blade of Alyck's full-force strike barely skimmed past Aemond's chest, the wind it stirred fluttering his tunic.

Then the hand-and-a-half wooden sword in Aemond's left hand moved.

It was neither a slash nor a parry—precise, swift, and silent. The tip snapped out and struck the inside of Alyck's right wrist, exposed by his full swing!

"Smack!"

A crisp crack rang out, accompanied by Alyck's abrupt half-cry of pain.

His fingers instantly went limp. The heavy two-handed wooden sword nearly slipped from his grasp, and his fierce offensive collapsed at once.

At the same time, seeing the situation turn unfavorable, Alyn accelerated his thrust from the side, aiming straight for the opening beneath Aemond's ribs exposed as he dealt with Alyck.

It was as though Aemond had eyes in the back of his head.

The sword in his right hand did not make any large movement. With only a turn of his wrist, he brought the blade up to block the sword coming from behind.

"Smack!"

Another sharp clash rang out. Alyn's thrust was firmly blocked.

By then, Aemond's left-hand sword had already withdrawn from Alyck's wrist. It swept back in one smooth motion to meet Alyn, who had paused slightly after his attack was stopped.

Alyn's heart jolted. He instinctively stepped back half a pace, trying to reset his stance.

But when he lifted his eyes, he saw Aemond's face right before him.

Aemond extended his right foot and lightly hooked it around Alyn's front ankle. At the same time, he drove his left shoulder forward and leaned into him.

The movement was small, borrowing force against force with exquisite skill.

"Ah!"

Alyn cried out and lost his balance completely, falling backward onto the cold, hard, damp sand. Dust coated his entire body, leaving him in a thoroughly sorry state.

From beginning to end, only a few breaths had passed.

Alyck clutched his painfully numb right wrist and stood frozen in place, disbelief written across his face.

He knew Aemond had trained under Ser Cole since childhood, but in his memory, the Prince had always practiced in silence.

Since when... had he acquired such clean, ruthless, near-combat techniques?

Alyn sat amid the dust, forgetting to rise. The polished smile he usually wore had vanished without a trace, leaving only shock in his eyes.

He was skilled at dealing with people and smoothing over trouble, not fighting with real blades.

Aemond's few movements just now, simple to the point of cruelty, had utterly shattered the last trace of disdain in his heart.

With the fight over, Aemond casually handed the two training swords in his hands to Gard, who had been waiting nearby.

Aemond's gaze settled on the two men again.

"Is this what you spent over twenty days delaying to prepare for me?"

He paused, his eyes moving from Arelk's stiff face to Ailin's dust-covered robes.

"Or was this the sort of flashy but useless trickery you learned while serving my brother, so anyone could easily knock you down?"

Arelk's face instantly went from pale to red. Humiliation and indignation burned like fire, scorching his ears hot.

He opened his mouth, wanting to refute him, wanting to argue, but found that any words were powerless before his decisive defeat just now.

Ailin had already climbed to his feet, hurriedly brushing the dust from his robes with his head lowered.

Among the nobles of Westeros, the culture of dueling ran deep in their bones. Strength was the only measure.

If you could do it, you could do it. If you couldn't, you couldn't.

Both men lowered their heads.

"I won't make things difficult for you."

Aemond spoke again.

"If you want to stay, then follow the rules and train with me."

"If you feel wronged, you can turn around and leave now. Each of you can go back where you came from."

He took a step forward, his gaze sweeping over their tightly pressed lips and clenched fists.

"If you're unconvinced, that's fine."

"I'll make you submit, one way or another."