The Training Yard
The sun was rare, filtering weakly through the high walls of the training yard.
Two figures stood apart, arms crossed, their gaze fixed on the figure holding a sword alone in the center of the field. They had arrived late, but their posture was composed and confident.
By the king's command, their households were to serve Prince Aemond, and so they had appeared the next day at Maegor's Tower, awaiting his summons.
Aemond noticed the two latecomers, a faint smile tugging at his lips, and stepped forward.
"Your Highness," one said politely.
This was Gared, who inherited the dark chestnut hair of his house. Lean but solid, his crossed-arm stance radiated pride—pride in the family's fame and his position as eldest son from childhood. For him, being ordered by the prince was almost an indignity.
Beside him stood Alin Haver, thirteen, eldest son of Lord Haver from the royal territory. Like Gared, he belonged to Aegon's inner circle but possessed a livelier mind and fluid wrists, better equipped to handle the prince's unpredictable temperament.
Both had avoided training for over half a month, thanks to wind, cold, and family crises. As household scions sent to King's Landing to serve the crown, resistance was ill-advised. Aemond ignored the turmoil in their hearts.
Gared's hedonistic nature was accustomed to servants flattering and amusing themselves, but Aemond… he observed silently.
Aemond himself stood in the center, clad only in a black shirt and light armor, repeatedly performing simple vertical thrusts, horizontal cuts, and swings. His rhythm was steady, his breathing calm. There was no wasted force—no flourish. Boring, almost.
Gared snorted quietly, barely audible.
"This level? Do you want us to spar?"
Alin smiled lightly.
"Careful, Gared. He is a prince."
Aemond finished the last thrust, the wooden sword slicing cleanly through the air at his side. He stepped sideways, turned toward them.
"Take up a sword," he said. "Show me your skill."
They exchanged glances, slightly taken aback. This was the beginning?
Seeing them hesitate, Aemond's voice chilled.
"It matters not if you cannot hold a sword."
Gared tilted his head. Alec's cheeks tightened. Alin's smile vanished.
Alec moved first, striding to the weapon rack, selecting the heavy wooden sword he was accustomed to training with. Alin followed, picking a lighter wooden sword, faster and more agile.
They stepped onto the arena, standing tens of paces from Aemond, exchanging tense glances.
"Attack," Aemond said, gripping his sword with one hand forward, the other back. He moved with measured calm.
"Show me how you think you can best me."
"Until you defeat me, I care not what you do," Alec muttered.
Gared watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, observing the display. He knew well the prince had been trained for years by Ser Criston Cole, the Iron Guard champion of the Imperial Forest, twice victor of the dueling crown.
Alec's lips twitched, a sneer forming. His pride, tied to the Hightower legacy, was stung. He advanced, wooden sword whistling through the air toward Aemond's left shoulder. They wanted to teach the prince a lesson: servants were not to be shouted at.
But Aemond's defense surpassed all expectation.
Alec's heavy strike brushed his chest; the wind fluttered his tunic. Not a single block or counter was wasted. The sword tip hit the inside of Alec's right wrist, forcing the weapon out of control.
Click!
Pain shot through Alec's fingers. The heavy wooden sword nearly slipped from his grasp, and his furious advance collapsed.
Aemond's right hand barely moved. His left wrist subtly twisted, redirecting the sword's weight, and in one swift motion, disarmed Alin, who froze mid-attack.
Alin's heart sank. His stance faltered; his right foot caught lightly on the ground as Aemond's shoulder nudged him. Balance lost, he stumbled, landing hard on the cold, dusty sand.
From beginning to end, only a few breaths passed. Aemond's simple, precise movements extinguished all their contempt.
"This is what you've been holding back for twenty days and now call a demonstration?" Aemond said, glancing from Alec's strained face to Alin's dust-streaked tunic.
Alec's face turned red with shame and anger. Words failed him. Alin pushed himself up, brushing dust from his robe, bowing his head low.
In Westeros, a realm where knightly duels are culture in bone and marrow, strength was the measure. If it works—it works. If not—it does not.
Both lowered their heads.
"You need not be embarrassed," Aemond said softly.
"It is of no consequence if you are unconvinced. I will allow you the time to be convinced."