Gorys Brun was half a year shy of fifteen—one of the eldest among the children.
He longed to fight for Viserys, but unfortunately, his skill with the sword was not yet up to standard.
Arthur, while instructing them, would often repeat a particular phrase: "What will you do on the battlefield if every enemy is like me?"
Poor Gorys didn't understand—how could a battlefield ever be filled with monsters like Ser Arthur Dayne, a man born once in a century?
Still, they all cherished Arthur's teachings, and so they trained hard.
That night, while Gorys was asleep and dreaming, strange images began to enter his mind.
He found himself training with a sword in unfamiliar places.
His clothes soaked with sweat, his body sore and aching. Soft palms blistered, the blisters burst, scabbed, and hardened into calluses.
He wasn't just training in those dreams—he was fighting.
His opponents were faceless, blurry, unrecognizable.
But he remembered vividly the feeling of blood splashing onto his face… or the thrilling rush when he drove his blade into someone's flesh.
In these dreams, he was always either fighting or training.
And he wasn't alone. The other boys all had similar dreams.
As a result, all twenty of them overslept.
When the sky began to brighten with the first light of dawn, Arthur's voice suddenly rang out from outside:
"You little brats! What the hell's going on today? Get up and start training!"
The Academy Guards shot awake, panicking—especially Gorys, who had been responsible for waking everyone up that day.
Under a hail of groggy complaints and blaming glances, they scrambled to throw on their clothes and rushed to the courtyard to assemble.
Arthur's icy stare made them all shiver more than the morning wind.
"You think I can't teach you anymore? You think you're done with training? If you don't want to train, I'll have His Grace put you on a ship and send you home!"
His words sent terror through the hearts of the boys.
They had been raised to believe that loyalty to the crown was sacred—and that desertion was shameful.
If they were sent home, their families wouldn't just be embarrassed. Some of them might not even be allowed back in the door.
"We don't want to go home! Please keep training us, Ser Arthur!"
"We don't want to go home!"
"Ser Arthur, we're staying!"
Looking at the red-cheeked faces in the cold morning air, Arthur's fury softened.
Maybe he'd trained them too hard lately, worn them out to the point they couldn't get out of bed.
Still, a lesson had to be taught.
He called Gorys forward—the boy in charge of waking the others—and ordered him to spar.
Standing in front of the tall, imposing Arthur Dayne, Gorys felt his throat go dry. Arthur's strength was one thing, but Gorys could also feel the man's simmering anger directed at him.
He braced himself for pain.
But what happened next stunned everyone.
Arthur stepped forward, preparing to sweep with his sword. Gorys, noticing the movement of Arthur's feet, barely dodged the blow.
A flicker of surprise flashed in Arthur's eyes.
He hadn't used even thirty percent of his strength, and yet… from his own estimation, that attack shouldn't have been dodged at all.
But the boy had predicted it.
Was it a coincidence?
Arthur's mind raced, but his body moved faster—he increased the tempo, speeding up both his swings and pressure.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
After barely evading three consecutive strikes, Gorys's sword was finally knocked flying.
Arthur lowered his blade, but his expression had changed.
There was potential in this boy.
He'd seen it—in Gorys's eyes, in the way he attacked. That look of determination, that faint killing intent.
Yes, he was a promising seedling.
Arthur decided he'd give Gorys extra lessons after today's training.
"Not bad. After training today, swing your sword three hundred more times—that'll be your punishment."
"As you command, Ser Arthur!"
Three hundred swings? That didn't sound so bad to Gorys.
Arthur sent Gorys back to the line and looked around, ready to pick another boy for sparring. He couldn't let this lesson end too lightly.
He pointed casually at a tall, long-limbed boy—someone built for swordsmanship.
"You. Attack me."
With a small beckoning gesture, Arthur invited the youth forward. The boy began circling him, looking for an opening.
But Arthur Dayne—the legendary Sword of the Morning—had no openings. And even if he did, a novice couldn't spot them.
Arthur deliberately left a tiny, barely noticeable gap.
To his surprise, the boy seized it.
He lunged forward like an arrow, but Arthur sidestepped cleanly.
Interesting. Another promising one.
Arthur was genuinely pleased.
As the greatest swordsman Westeros had seen in a hundred years, he had no jealousy in his heart. Quite the opposite—he was eager to find talented students.
After defeating the second boy, he picked a third.
And then a fourth.
What he discovered left him stunned—overnight, these boys had all improved dramatically.
Some of them were already more skilled than veteran soldiers with years of experience.
Arthur couldn't help but feel a rush of joy—like a gambler hitting jackpot after jackpot. By the time he had sparred with all twenty, his arms were numb, and his mind buzzing.
These children weren't just average trainees. They had potential real potential.
He needed to start teaching them more advanced techniques. And he needed to report this to Viserys immediately.
Any one of these boys could become a Kingsguard someday.
Just as he turned around, he saw Viserys standing at the edge of the courtyard. The king had been watching for some time.
"Your Grace, these children…"
"I saw everything. Train them however you see fit. If you need anything, just tell me."
Arthur looked at Viserys, and a realization struck him. The king had personally chosen every one of these children.
Could His Grace see talent at a glance?
Arthur's respect for Viserys deepened. And his confidence in their upcoming campaign in Gohor grew stronger than ever.
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