Chapter 22: Some Worse, Some Better ​I

Gods it was good to be back in the training yard. Yes, my mother was potentially dying somewhere under the tender ministration of a Grand Maester whom I did not even trust to keep his smut out of his professional library.

Yes, Aemon might have caused our mother's sudden collapse in a fit of astounding idiocy motivated by… what, spite? Pettiness?

But by the Seven, it was hard to worry about that when my blood sang such a wondrous song as it raced through my veins. I could practically feel how my limbs would ache the next morning, but I could not find it within myself to care. For now, all that mattered bringing down the next squire.

A boy with the red salmon of House Mooton on his shield stepped up to face me, appearing confident that he would meet a different end than the dozen boys who had preceded him. Sword and shield, that oh so common combination.

I let him come.

His opening was solid, it had to be said, his body turned and allowing the shield to cover much of his torso and conveniently obscured his sword from view. Given a chance, the sword could slam into any target of his choosing.

Naturally, I refused to let him have that choice.

Given an attack, you could block it to try and stop the blow, parry it to try and redirect the blow, or my personal favorite: step into it. Getting hit by a padded arm was far more pleasant than a sword.

The Mooton boy, unfortunately for him, had not swung his sword: he had thrust. Credit where it was due, the blow would have been painful no matter where it would have landed, thanks to the small area of contact. If it had landed.

I was inside his reach by that point and the attack slid harmlessly past me. He backed up, raising his shield to stop a feint coming from above. He was admirably quick on his feet, I had to admit, and even quicker after I slammed my shield into his guts. He stumbled backward, going faster and faster as he lost his balance before he landed flat on his back. There he stayed even as I leveled my sword at his helmeted head.

"I yield, your Grace." The boy's voice was reedy from having the wind driven from his lungs. "Well fought."

"Indeed it was," I agreed, helping the other squire to his feet. "Try and stay mobile. That way, even if you overcommit to an attack, it won't see you brought low."

I was not sure if the squire had heard me, or even if he had managed to say something next, as something far more important caught my attention.

"For the fairest princess of them all!" a youthful voice called out with all the bluster of a youth riding the feeling of invincibility that only hard-earned victory would bring. "For the Princess Saera! It is to her I dedicate this victory!"

I turned on the spot to focus my gaze squarely on the poor fool who shouted his affection in the presence of the lady's older brother.

There, a youth in Beesbury colors. He was too busy saluting the figures of my sisters as they stood atop the walls to notice my approach. From the distance, I could just barely see a happy smile on Saera's face.

Oh, how she relished the attention.

There were worse ways to declare your affection for a noble lady, to be honest. Part of me wanted to step back and see how the event would play out. At least, that was until I saw the hammer in his hand. The hammer that had been mysteriously missing from the practice rack ever since my return from Duskendale.

I shot a glance over the Maegelle, hovering protectively in the middle of our little sisters, and met her gaze quickly. She gave me a brief nod, and I grinned beneath my helmet. To enjoy this would be wrong, but I could hardly be right all the time.

The boy looked as though he were about to begin some grand proclamation, all puffed out chest and youthful arrogance, swinging that hammer in lazy arcs. I would have been all too willing to bet good silver that he was grinning beneath that helmet.

"May my luck with this hammer be-" Whatever he was about to say was cut off as I clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. The Beesbury boy turned his head, only to freeze as he saw the dragon on my breast. His eyes tracked up and up, ever so slowly, inching his way up until he finally locked eyes with me.

"May it ever be what?" I asked genially of the boy who was no doubt several years younger and most definitely several inches shorter.

"Your Grace- How- I…" The boy swallowed heavily, seemingly shrinking in on himself. Already, his shoulders were rounded like a scholar's, his head downcast like a begging brother. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough," I answered easily, all but dragging him to the center of the training yard, and I could feel the dread seeping into him. "Now come, I wish to get your measure with that hammer."

"I-if you wish, your Grace" the boy stammered, managing to stay on his feet when I let go of him. I took up my position opposite of him and immediately despaired. No confidence in that stance of his, the boy stood like an awkward fencepost. A strong gust of wind could have knocked him over, let alone a concerted blow.

"By the Warrior, what is that stance?" I asked, clamping down on the temptation to demonstrate the idiocy of standing with your feet in line. "I wish to get your measure, not swing at a particularly squishy quintain."

That seemed to motivate him.

Well, motivate him enough to get him into a passable opening stance.

"Much better," I said. "Now come, let's see your luck with that hammer."

The boy swung his hammer, but there was no spirit in it. Almost entirely the work of the arm, the barest hint from the shoulder. Nothing at all from the waist or the legs. I did not even bother retreating from the blow, did not even bother twisting to take it on my shield. Bringing up my sword, the hammer's shaft rang against the middle of the wooden blade, my arm not shifting an inch.

My shield's next strike was not so easily blocked. It slammed into his shield, knocking the boy off balance and into the hard-packed dirt.

An embarrassing performance, but certainly a starting point.

"On your feet, Beesbury," I instructed, offering a hand to the boy. Thankfully, he was not too proud to accept it. "Where does your strength come from?"

"From… my muscles… your Grace?" He seemed slightly confused at my question. Honestly, it was like he had the bare minimum of understanding how to fight. Still, it was something I could fix.

"Then why don't you use them?" I asked. "You swing with your arm. Use your shoulder, your waist, your legs to add strength."

"I understand," he said, but I did not believe him.

"Prove it," I countered, and took up my stance once again, inviting him to do the same.

This time, the boy's blows actually had some force behind them. He still swung from the same angle, still swung for the same target, and was still stopped by the same static block from the sword. Not exactly the performance you would expect from an up-and-coming warrior of renown, but certainly a welcome change.

He still went down in a single strike, from my sword to his head this time, but it was an improvement.

"Better," I allowed. "Now go practice against the quintains. Make those powerful strikes a habit."

My sage advice having been given, I turned away from the boy to look back at my audience. Maegelle looked pleased with the result, though little Saera looked disappointed. Perhaps she had enjoyed the attention?

Almost certainly, but my attention was taken by a new presence in the training yard. I heard him first, the footfalls far too heavy to be that of a squire. At first, I had thought it to be Corlys, looking to have a chat, or Baelon, looking to spend time with his brother. Instead, it was worse. Far worse.

"Aemon," I greeted my brother with no small amount of forced cheer. "Here to find an opponent closer to your level of skill?"

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