The Dance of Steel and Silk

'' What's the point of wearing armor if I don't plan on getting struck?''-Aerys Targaryen-

~~~(Location:Dragonstone,Westeros)~~~

~~~(Date:22AC)~~~

Ser Gawen grits his teeth whenever he hears the prince's infuriating words echo across the training yard once more: "What use armor never struck?" The boy was surely sent by the gods to torment him.

At six, Aerys had begun besting men twice his age with ease. By eight, even Gawen found himself on his back in the dust, much to the prince's delight. Worse, the lad loved flaunting his victory in the finest silks and jewels.

Surrounding the training grounds were the seven ornate pleasure barges Aerys had imported from Lys, now fully under his ownership since his brother Maegor rejected the women's company. From their decks, the women clapped and cheered joyously at Aerys' displays of skill and prowess. Their clapping and delighted laughter only served to further inflame Gawen's irritation.

"It seems our prince enjoys the pretty colors more than the fight," Gawen grumbled to his men. Meanwhile, Aerys preened like a peacock amidst a rainbow of black and red silk. "Mayhaps I'll take up sewing instead!" said aerys infuriating Gawen more.

Day after day, Gawen threw all his skill and strength against the prince to show him his mistakes and stupidity, only to end up in the dirt once more. "How furious you look, old man!" Aerys cackled. "I'd offer you my hand, but it seems you'd rather have my boot!"

Day after day within the training yards, Ser Gawen Corbray threw the full fury of his battle-honed skill and strength against Prince Aerys, seeking any opening or advantage to turn the tide. But for all his decades of experience, the prince parried each blow with catlike reflexes and an instinct beyond his years.

Time and again Gawen found the dirt beneath him, Aerys's practice blade hovering before his visor in a mocking echo of past victories. It galled the master-at-arms to admit defeat at the hands of one so young, no matter their lineage. Aerys was still an unseasoned boy who should know his place, not some prodigy rising above his betters!

Yet for all Gawen's silent fuming, he could not land a single touch on the lithe dragon prince. Aerys wove glimpses of openings into ornate dances, pulling back at the last breath only to counter with blinding speed. What seemed mistakes were cunning baits, fooling even the most wary of veterans. Each bout left Gawen further colored by dust and shame, while Aerys emerged in his silks and gems as pristine as at the day's start.

Each defeat only deepened Gawen's scowl beneath his helm. It was not merely lost prestige that galled him so, but seeing a prince display such arrogance and foolishness and go unpunished.

Aerys paraded about the yards in his silks and jewels as if war were mere performance, not the brutal reality Gawen had witnessed for decades. What games would the boy play when steel met steel in earnest, without plot armor to shield mistakes?

Gawen redoubled his efforts, intent on finally exposing the flaws in Aerys's precarious style. He would plant doubt where now smugness reigned, prove to the prince and crowds that favoring pageantry over protection was a folly that would see him dead on fields far from friendly smiles and cheers.

But for all his rage and strategy, Gawen could not breach Aerys's liquid defenses. Time and again he was reminded of the dragon's might beneath silks lighter than summer air. There were no weaknesses to exploit, no errors that even depth of experience could exploit.

Aerys danced as light and deadly as any wraith, while Gawen found himself further diminished - by a boy who seemed less warrior than mocking phantom come solely to haunt the master's pride.

The men on Dragonstone began calling their master "Ser Sulky" for his perpetual scowl. Only the promise of a flagon of ale kept Gawen from tossing his sword into the sea. Instead, he consoled himself that someday, by all the gods old and new, he'd have the last laugh over the arrogant prince and his infuriating words.

Prince Aerys had already dispatched his master in the training yard amid colorful silks, crowing in victory. Word spread quickly of his latest success.

A crowd began gathering elsewhere to witness a different challenge - a dozen knights came forth, wishing to test their arms against Prince Maegor. Despite his youth, the serious-minded prince accepted without hesitation.

Steel rang as the prince parried an early thrust, slipping within his foe's guard to slam an armored fist into the visor. One knight stumbled away, dazed. Maegor spun, blunted longsword whistling death.

By strategy and strength honed beyond their years, he felled two more rapid blows. The knights converged, thinking to overwhelm, yet Maegor met each attack with focused, economical precision.

Sweat filmed his brow but his breath remained steady. Three more opponents hit dust before a rumor drew the crowd to witness what none thought possible - the youngest son of King and Queen facing a dozen in full plate alone and besting them all.

When the final man crashed down, Maegor turned without fanfare. There would be no prideful gloat, only dedication to constant improvement. His stern example began cementing respect for the serious task of rulership he someday would bear.

Maegor had witnessed Aerys's terrifying power firsthand, though his brother made even the most harrowing acts seem a casual affair.

Aerys remained bedecked in silks and gems as always as they encountered bandits. Dismounting casually, he offered terror-struck bandits a choice - face him in combat and have a chance to live, or refuse and burn where they stood.

Maegor saw the madness hidden behind Aerys's easy smiles that day. Faced with such a foe, he knew even he would beg for Dragonfire rather than steel. Though Aerys made sport of war, his skills far outstripped any, requiring no effort at all.

In the training yards of Dragonstone, Ser Gawen was once more on his back in the dust, Aerys's blade at his throat. The women in the pleasure barges cheered and clapped for the victorious prince.

Just then, a servant entered the yards in a hurry. "Prince Aerys, Prince Maegor," he called. "Your mother the Queen requires you make preparations. You are expected to depart soon for Driftmark, to attend the royal wedding of King Aenys and Lady Alyssa at Hull."

Aerys flashed a mocking smile down at his fallen master. "It seems our fun must end for now, old man. But fear not, there will be other days to taste the dirt!" With that, he spun gracefully and took his leave, silk flashing in the sun.