The Gold Cloaks' Swordsmanship Instructor

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Winterfell.

Catelyn Tully sat beside the bed, her blue eyes brimming with tears.

Grief and self-reproach filled her faintly wrinkled features. She bitterly hated herself for failing to watch over this mischievous son of hers.

She reached out and gently stroked Bran's forehead. He looked so much like her.

The little boy who had once been so lively now lay quietly on the bed as though dead, and Catelyn's tears fell involuntarily once more.

"Oh, Cat."

The door opened, and a burly man with black hair and gray eyes appeared in the doorway.

Catelyn's husband, Eddard Stark, Duke of Winterfell, slowly entered the room. First, he gently embraced Catelyn and kissed her forehead.

Then he turned to look at their son, who still lay in bed, his eyes equally full of worry.

"You should get some rest, Cat."

Returning to his wife's side, he gently held the woman who had borne him five children. A rare look of tenderness appeared on Eddard's usually stern face.

"I have a bad feeling, Ned."

Rather than heed her husband's words, Catelyn merely wiped away her tears.

Too much had happened lately.

Her sister's husband, Eddard's foster father Jon Arryn, had died under mysterious circumstances. In her letter to Catelyn, Lysa had hinted that the queen had poisoned him.

Their family had been living perfectly well in Winterfell, far from King's Landing, yet the king had insisted on traveling all that way to ask Eddard to return to service.

The king had barely arrived in King's Landing when her son suffered this accident.

And, by such an unfortunate coincidence, the first person to discover Bran had been House Lannister's Kingsguard, the queen's younger brother, the infamous "Kingslayer."

It inevitably reminded Catelyn of the contents of her sister Lysa's letter.

This chain of events left even this resilient, courageous woman feeling stifled for a time.

"Go and tell Robert we're staying in Winterfell, that we're not going to King's Landing. Please?"

Before the husband with whom she had spent so many years, the strong-willed Catelyn finally revealed her vulnerable side.

Like a frightened little girl, she begged her husband through her tears not to leave her.

"You know, Cat."

Faced with his beloved's helpless plea, Eddard felt as though a thousand blades were cutting into his heart. How could he not wish to stay beside his family forever?

But he recalled what Robert had told him that day, and the sea of golden lions on red banners that had blotted out the sky above the king's procession as it entered the city.

Even he, with his poor sense for politics, had noticed that something was terribly wrong.

"Robert needs me."

He lowered his head in shame. The great Duke of Winterfell, Warden of the North, did not dare look his own wife in the eye.

"Robert needs you, but we need you too!"

Her husband's unhesitating refusal left Catelyn somewhat agitated.

That morning, Cersei had come under the pretext of visiting, but Catelyn kept feeling that she had wanted to confirm whether her son had awakened.

Her right hand trembled as she stroked Eddard's face. The unease in her heart grew stronger, as though once he left Winterfell, he would never return.

"We're your family, Ned."

She murmured softly into her husband's ear, hoping he would change his mind.

But Eddard had already made his decision.

With overwhelming guilt, he stroked Catelyn's back, his gray eyes fixed on her as he spoke in a slightly choked voice.

"You are my family, but Robert is my brother too."

"Robert told me that King's Landing has already been surrounded by the Lannisters."

"Especially that Lannister he recently appointed Commander of the City Watch. He's a man who can take on seven Kingsguard alone."

"Now, I'm afraid the only way I can help him is to go to King's Landing myself and serve as Hand of the King."

Gently easing his wife away, Eddard walked over to Bran, bent down, and kissed his forehead.

Looking at his son, who still seemed merely asleep, he murmured as though reassuring Catelyn, or perhaps himself.

"Don't worry. Maester Luwin said he isn't in serious danger. Soon this tough little fellow will be racing across the lands of the North again like a sturdy little pony."

With that, Eddard left without looking back.

Watching her husband's retreating figure, Catelyn's eyes flickered. There was no telling what she was thinking.

King's Landing.

"Hss..."

Lying in bed, Syrio slowly opened his eyes. Fierce pain assailed him from every part of his body, making him draw a sharp breath.

Arthas had thrown him with such force that he had remained unconscious for nearly a full day and night.

Perhaps someone had heard him stir, for two sets of hurried footsteps approached.

Then a white-bearded old man roughly grabbed his head, forcibly pried open his eyelids, and leaned closer.

"You're fine now. Another day's rest should probably do it."

The decrepit Pycelle examined him conscientiously for a while before finally delivering that verdict.

"Hey, how are you feeling?"

After seeing off Pycelle, who trembled so much that he seemed barely able to walk, Lancel leaned his head close to Syrio's face, his pale green eyes full of excitement.

Seeing Syrio's blank gaze, the blond boy began gesticulating excitedly, regardless of whether he had recovered his wits.

"That was incredible! Do you know your name has spread all over King's Landing?"

"You actually matched Lord Arthas evenly in swordsmanship, and even wounded him."

"You really opened all our eyes!"

"Matched him evenly...?"

Listening to Lancel's praise, Syrio showed not the slightest joy. Instead, a trace of desolation entered his voice.

Had his opponent not suddenly fallen into a daze at the critical moment, he probably would not even have touched the hem of his clothes.

"I wonder how he's doing?"

Syrio shook his head, carefully recalling how, before he lost consciousness, his slender sword had pierced a vital spot in his opponent's chest with precision. An ordinary person would probably have died already.

But recalling that utterly irresistible strength, and seeing Lancel's relaxed expression, he felt somewhat certain that Arthas was probably unharmed.

"That strength, that distinctive aura."

Staring blankly at the ceiling, Syrio finally remembered why Arthas had given him such a sense of familiarity.

Before he had boarded a ship for Westeros, he had felt a similar aura when Kuiluo Valentine was defeated.

"Jaina Targaryen..."

"Arthas Lannister..."

Murmuring their names, Syrio kept feeling that there seemed to be some kind of connection between the two.

"Lord Arthas!"

While his thoughts wandered, Lancel suddenly straightened beside him and gave a proper knightly salute toward the doorway.

"How are you feeling, First Sword of Braavos?"

Clad in a red robe, Arthas strolled into the room and waved at Lancel, indicating that there was no need for ceremony.

Forcing himself to sit up despite the pain, Syrio looked at the blond youth before him, who had defeated him so effortlessly.

His complexion was rosy and his steps steady, as though he had never been wounded at all.

"I feel..."

"As though the swordsmanship I've taken pride in all these years is nothing but a joke before you."

Giving a bitter smile, Syrio questioned his own strength for the first time in his life.

"No, no, Syrio."

Arthas gently shook his head and warmly patted Syrio's shoulder.

The gentle smile on his face always seemed able to dissolve the unease and doubts in others' hearts.

"You're a genius."

His firm, forceful words were unstinting in their appreciation and recognition of Syrio's swordsmanship.

"Your swordsmanship stands at the very pinnacle of all Westeros."

"Unfortunately, you met me."

Crossing his hands behind his back, Arthas revealed a hint of pride on his gentle face.

Such conflicting qualities nevertheless blended naturally in him, as though this was simply how he was born to be.

"The world never lacks geniuses of every kind, Syrio."

"But being a genius is merely the threshold for challenging me."

Against his long golden hair, that supremely commanding declaration seemed so dazzling in Syrio's eyes.

"Rest well, First Sword of Braavos."

Seeing that he was not seriously hurt, Arthas turned to leave.

"My City Watch still needs a swordsmanship instructor!"

"A swordsmanship instructor?"

Hearing Arthas's unquestionable arrangement, Syrio hurriedly rose and called after him.

"With all due respect, Lord Arthas."

"A Water Dancer's swordsmanship isn't suited to an army."

"Besides, I still want to travel and challenge more of Westeros's master swordsmen!"

Hearing his somewhat resistant words, Arthas, who had already reached the doorway, turned his head.

"Rest assured, Syrio."

"I don't need you to teach them swordsmanship. Those fools probably couldn't learn it anyway."

A flash of mockery passed through his golden eyes before he continued his explanation.

"I merely need someone strong enough to supervise them and make sure they train properly."

"You've already proven your strength. You're a very suitable choice."

"Besides, the king's tournament is already on the schedule."

"The most famous knights of the Seven Kingdoms will all come to King's Landing."

"When the time comes, I'm sure you won't be disappointed."