11 Dancing With Wolves

Kings Landing.

King Robert sat in his royal office. The breeze blew through the balcony behind him, causing the lavish white curtains to flow like etheric ghosts.

"Yes, it's been a long time." Said King Robert, gazing deeply into his near-empty wine cup before looking to the man in his company, "but I still remember every face."

Ser Barriston Selmy stood guard at the door, engaged in conversation with the king.

Lancel Lannister stood behind the king, clutching a wine jug, trying his best to be invisible. His puckered face was as if he was holding in a fart. Would be poor form to pass wind in front of the king. . .

"You remember your first?" King Robert asked the great knight of Westeros.

This eased Ser Barriston, who now walked toward the king's desk and spoke casually to him, soldier to soldier, "Of course, your grace."

"Who was it?"

"A tyroshi," Ser Barriston said with a faintly proud smile, "never learned the name."

"Hmph," King Robert grunted. He knew that feeling all too well. A mountain of nameless fools had died by his hammer. "How'd you do it?"

"Lance through the heart."

"Quick one," exhaled the King as he placed his empty cup on the desk, "lucky for you. Mine was some Tarly boy at the Battle of Summerhall."

"…" Ser Barriston listened intently.

"My horse took an arrow, so I was on foot, slogging through the mud. He came running at me — this dumb highborn lad — thinking he could end the rebellion with a single swing of his sword."

"I knocked him down with a hammer. Gods, I was strong then! . . Caved in his breastplate. Probably shattered every rib he had. Stood over him, hammer in the air. Right before I brought it down he shouted 'WAIT! WAIT!' . ."

King Robert let out a wheezy laugh before turning serious, "They never tell you how they shit themselves. They don't put that part in the songs. . . Stupid boy. Now the Tarly's bend the knee like everyone else."

"He could have lingered on the edge of the battle with the smart boys, and today his wife would be making him miserable, his sons would be ingrates, and he'd be waking three times in the night to piss into a bowl."

Anger riled in the Kings soul, "Wine!" he commanded.

Lancel hastily got to pouring.

"Lancel. . . Gods, what a stupid name. 'Lancel Lannister'. Who named you, some half-wit with a stutter? Heh…"

The King would have enjoyed his antagonism more were it not for the near-empty wine cup on his desk. "What are you doing?" he spat with venom.

Lancel stood there like a dumbass, "It's empty, your grace."

"What do you mean it's empty?"

"There's no more wine-"

"IS THAT WHAT EMPTY MEANS? So get more!"

Lancel was glad to have been given an order rather than having to answer. Everything he said around the king made him sound like a fool. King Robert had truly done a number on his self-esteem.

As Lancel was leaving the royal office, King Robert raised another command.

"Tell your cousin to get in here. KINGSLAYER! Get in here!"

The handsome Jaime Lannister slowly did as his king commanded, looking like an awkward child sent to the principal's office but with no idea of what they did wrong.

"Surrounded by Lannisters. Every time I close my eyes, I see their blonde hair and their smug, satisfied faces. Must wound your pride, eh? Standing out there like a glorified sentry. Jaime Lannister: son of the *mighty* Tywin. Forced to mind the door while your king eats and drinks and shits and fucks."

Jaime grimaced.

"So come on," King Robert beckoned, "We're telling war stories. Who was your first kill, not counting old men."

Jaime searched for a memory still vivid as yesterday, "One of the outlaws from the brotherhood."

Ser Barriston eyed Jaime proudly, "I was there that day. You were only a squire. 16 years old."

Ser Barriston may have been spurring Jaime on to tell his story, but Jaime couldn't help but gush with praise at the legendary Ser Barriston of Westeros, "You killed Simon Toyne with a counter riposte. Best move I ever saw."

"He was a good fighter, Toyne. But he lacked stamina."

"Your outlaw," King Robert inquired, "Any last words?"

"I cut his head off, so no," Jaime replied.

"What about Joe Nix? Did you say your last words when his blade swung down at your neck?"

Ser Barriston's ears prickled with interest, "So the stories are true? One of Stark's boys bested you?"

"Bested?" chuckled King Robert, "You should have seen it, Barriston. You want to talk about stamina. . . He worked the kingslayer for over an hour without so much as a labored breath."

"It's true," said Jaime, "He took me into deep waters and let me drown. It was like a dance, the whole thing felt staged. I was but an unpaid actor."

"And what a show it was!" King Robert rejoiced, "I hadn't felt that riled up in years. The gods know I pray for a good fight."

Ser Barriston smiled, "He sounds like promising talent. A good man, Lord Stark. I hope to meet his son and witness his skills with my own eyes."

"I'd be careful," Jaime said, half joking, "Something tells me Ser Joe would leap at the chance at being the man who defeated *the* Ser Barriston Selmy."

To this, Ser Barriston laughed, feeling the hilt of his blade in the palm of his hands. The sword may as well have been part of his body after almost two lifetimes of being together.

"Let him try," the legendary knight said, "Beating the man who bested *the* Jaime Lannister? Doesn't sound bad at all."

The three shared a laugh after that, all laughing for different reasons.

***

Arya did not take long to settle into her new life in the capital.

The day was hot and the air muggy, so thick that it seemed to capture the smell of shit from the city, reluctant to release it.

Arya briskly walked through the Tower of the Hand. She and her Lord Father had a good one-to-one chat a few nights ago, and Arya felt closer to Lord Stark than ever.

Her instructions were to meet her new dancing master in the small hall.

"You are late, boy."

A short man with curly hair had his back toward Arya as he gazed out the balcony.

Arya instantly picked up his foreign accent and wondered where this man must originate. The two wooden swords in his hands poked at her interest.

The short man turned, "Tomorrow, you will be here at midday."

"Who are you?" asked Arya.

He smiled, his moustache and goatee moving with his facial muscles, "Your dancing master, Syrio Forel."

The eureka moment hit Arya with a jolt of glee, and Syrio could not help but feel endearment toward her.

He threw a wooden sword at her without warning, to which Arya reacted quickly as a cat, catching it.

Syrio gave an impressed smirk, "Hmm, not bad, boy. But that is not the way. It is not a great sword that is needing two hands to swing it."

Arya tried her hardest to hold the sword in one hand but gave up after a couple of seconds, "It's too heavy."

"It is heavy as it needs to be to make you strong."

This made Arya think back to when she tried to hold one of Joe's training swords. She couldn't even lift those from the ground.

Syrio had his training sword balanced on his finger, "Just so. One hand is all that is needed. Now you are standing all wrong. Turn your body sideface."

Arya did just so, and Syrio raised her chin to correct her posture, "You are skinny. That is good. The target is smaller. Now, the grip. Let me see it."

Arya held out her sword and showed her grip. It was a deft and delicate grip.

"Good. Very good! You hold a sword like a true water dancer!"

Her eyes sparkled, "My brother showed me, and he's good enough to beat the kingslayer."

"Nine years Syrio was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos. He knows these things. You must listen to me, boy; you too shall best slayers of kings."

"I'm a girl." Arya answered defiantly.

"Boy, girl— you are a sword," pointed Syrio, "That is all."

Arya liked the sound of that.

And so began her water dancing lessons with Syrio Forel.

Syrio would note that Arya was the most naturally talented youth he had ever seen. Whoever her brother was, her mere imitation of him had ensured Arya had sound footwork fundamentals.

Syrio Forel was dancing with wolves.