The morning broke clean after three days of wind.
Sunlight lay across the yard in pale gold sheets, warming the stone where puddles had finally begun to recede. The air still tasted faintly of salt, and gulls wheeled beyond the outer walls, their cries sharp and distant. Storm's End did not glisten after a storm, it simply seemed to stand taller, as if the sea's failure amused it.
The yard had been cleared for spectacle.
A ring of sand had been spread across the central space to soften the blows of wooden practice blades. Banners hung newly fastened from the battlements, black stags bright against yellow cloth, snapping lightly in the gentler wind. Lords and household knights stood beneath the gallery arches, arms folded across breastplates or resting on sword pommels, watching.
Robert stood at the center of it all.
He had stripped down to a light training tunic, sleeves rolled high along thick forearms, boots planted wide in the sand. His hair, still damp from washing, caught the sunlight in dark strands, and there was an eagerness about him that seemed to hum in the air itself.
"Who's first?" he demanded, grinning.
A boy stepped forward, Tomas Fell, lean and quick, son of a minor banner house sworn to Storm's End. He saluted awkwardly before raising his blade.
The clash came hard and fast.
Robert moved with the natural ferocity of someone who trusted his body more than his mind. His swings were wide but not clumsy, heavy enough to force Tomas backward step by step. The sand sprayed beneath their boots as the two circled, and the watching knights murmured approval at Robert's aggression.
Tomas darted left, then right, attempting to find an opening beneath Robert's guard.
Robert did not give him one.
A heavy strike battered aside Tomas's shield, and the next caught him squarely across the chest. Tomas fell backward into the sand, breath driven from him in a sharp exhale.
The yard erupted.
Laughter, cheers, shouted praise.
"Well struck!"
"That's a Baratheon blow!"
Robert threw back his head and laughed with them, offering Tomas a hand to haul him upright.
"Again," Robert said.
Another stepped forward. Then another.
Each bout ended much the same, Robert advancing relentlessly, battering aside resistance until victory was clear. The knights along the archways nodded approvingly. One clapped him on the back between matches. Another called him a born warrior.
At the edge of the yard, Orys stood among the other boys waiting their turn.
His tunic was plain and dark, sleeves fitted close to the arm. His hair, cut short and even, did not stir much in the wind. He watched each bout without comment, his eyes moving not to Robert's blade, but to his feet.
Robert planted too heavily on the forward step.
He overcommitted to the right when swinging high.
He favored his left side when pressing.
Small things.
But they were there.
"Your turn, Orys," called Ser Harbert at last.
A hush fell—not full silence, but enough to mark the shift.
Robert wiped sweat from his brow and grinned at him.
Orys stepped into the ring and lifted his blade in salute.
The sand shifted softly beneath his boots as they began to circle.
Robert struck first, as always.
The first blow came high, testing. Orys met it and let it slide off his guard rather than stopping it outright. The second came low, sharper, and Orys pivoted, the edge of his shield catching Robert's blade and redirecting it just enough to throw him off balance.
A murmur rippled through the watching knights.
Robert pressed harder.
His strikes gained force, sand spraying around them as he drove forward. Orys yielded ground deliberately, step by measured step, letting Robert believe he had seized the rhythm.
The yard narrowed to breath and impact.
Robert's third heavy swing came with a grunt of effort, and Orys stepped inside it, close enough to feel the rush of displaced air. His blade tapped once against Robert's exposed side.
A clean touch.
The yard stilled.
Robert's grin faltered, not from anger, but from surprise. He adjusted at once, tightening his guard and shortening his swings. The next exchange came faster, more controlled. Wood cracked sharply against wood. Sand churned.
Robert feinted left and drove right.
Orys saw it coming.
He caught the feint not with sight alone but with weight, the subtle shift in Robert's hips before the motion fully committed. Orys shifted his own stance, letting Robert's blade slide past his shoulder, and brought his hilt forward into Robert's chest in a controlled strike.
Robert stumbled back a half step.
Ser Harbert raised his hand.
"Enough."
For a heartbeat, neither boy moved.
Then Robert laughed.
"You wait too long," he said, breathless but smiling. "You fight like you're afraid."
Orys lowered his blade. "I fight like I intend to win."
A few of the older knights exchanged glances.
Robert shrugged, clapping Orys once on the shoulder as though the bout had meant little. "You'd make a decent captain one day."
There was no malice in it.
But the words lingered.
A captain.
Not a lord.
Not a leader of banners.
The matches resumed quickly after that, Robert reclaiming the center of the yard, laughter rising once more in waves.
Orys stepped out of the ring and returned to the edge of the courtyard. No one clapped him on the back. No knight called his name.
The applause belonged to noise.
He bent to brush sand from his boots.
Above, along the stone gallery, Lord Steffon Baratheon stood watching.
He had not cheered.
His expression was thoughtful.
The bouts concluded before midday, and the boys dispersed toward the hall for water and rest. Robert was surrounded at once by younger lads eager to recount his strikes and praise his strength. He accepted it easily, basking in the warmth of it.
Orys walked alone.
He did not resent the cheers.
He measured them.
Applause came quickly in the yard, like thunder rolling across open water.
It faded just as quickly.
At the edge of the courtyard, near the low wall overlooking the sea, Stannis stood with arms folded.
"You held back," Stannis said without turning.
"No."
"You could have pressed him harder."
Orys followed Stannis's gaze toward the horizon, where the water lay dark and restless.
"He was already tiring."
"That's when you strike."
"That's when you wait."
Stannis considered that.
"You'll never win the yard that way."
"I don't need to win the yard."
Stannis's eyes shifted to him then, sharp and assessing.
"Then what do you mean to win?"
Orys did not answer at once.
Below, a wave struck the cliffs and broke into white foam.
"The storm," he said finally.
Stannis said nothing.
The yard behind them filled once more with Robert's laughter.
Orys watched the sea instead.
Applause was loud.
But stone endured.