Arya was not the least bit worried about hurting Viserys. She knew better than anyone that the Targaryen king before her was far more skilled than she was.
Ever since they had crossed swords, Viserys had accurately anticipated every change in her attacks. Never mind actually hurting him-she could not even touch him.
Only by giving it everything she had and exhausting all her killing moves could she discover how much she had improved lately and let Viserys point out the flaws that remained in her swordplay.
Sweat had already trickled down the back of Arya's neck and into her collar. The tremendous exertion left her skin prickling with a faint itch, but she still watched her opponent with unwavering concentration, trying to catch his next move.
Twenty exchanges passed in the blink of an eye. Viserys had yet to show his true skill, but neither did he underestimate Arya as he once had.
By the thirty-first exchange, Viserys could see that Arya was nearing her limit. An exchange did not mean a single strike, but a complete attack.
Each back-and-forth involved at least a dozen shifts between fast and slow moves. The sheer grit that had kept Arya going this long already outshone the spirit of many grown knights in the Seven Kingdoms.
So when Arya's all-out thrust missed once again, Viserys brought his blunted sword forward and slapped her across the back, catching her just as one burst of strength faded and before she could muster another.
Viserys did not strike hard, but it was enough to drain Arya's last reserves of strength. She stumbled forward two steps, her training sword fell from her hand, and she dropped to her knees. Viserys's sword came to rest lightly against her neck.
Arya braced both hands on her bent knees