39 Ch. 8 Ours is the Fury

The Twelfth Day of the Second Moon, of the year 298 A.C.

I stand as unmoving as a tree in the center of the sparring circle. I ignore the few men around the edges of the training grounds as I look at the sand. I followed the morning sunlight slowly crawling across the terrain with my eyes. My mind was occupied on a single subject, my first squire.

King Robert was gracious enough to appoint the Crown Prince, Joffrey Baratheon, as my squire, without consulting with my prior to. Most knights would feel honored at such a task, but all I felt was annoyed. I am now responsible for turning the sadistic little shite into something that resembles a decent human being.

I have no delusions I will succeed. Joffrey's cruel nature and Cersei's elitist teachings have already made it impossible for the bastard prince to ever become a true knight. Knowing this, I've set my sights on teaching Joffrey to curb and limit his cruelties. He would never fully accept ridding himself of casting pain on others. Yet, hopefully, I can guide him to focus his tendencies to select targets.

Speaking of targets, I blame Melisandre for this. If not for her showing up at my tent, I would not have joined the melee. I would not have drawn Robert's attention, and I would not be waiting for an ungrateful little boy to show up to his first lesson.

Joffrey is nearly an hour late from the time he was instructed to arrive at the training grounds. It's hard to say for sure if his tardiness is due to Cersei or Joffrey himself trying to make a power play. Whatever the case, I'll be damned if I'll allow them to believe they can establish dominance over me.

My thoughts cease as I hear footsteps approaching. A glance to the side reveals a carefree and smug-looking Joffrey Baratheon. I'm not surprised to see that Joffrey isn't even wearing training armor as he steps into the sparring circle with me. Sandor Clegane, in his plate armor, looks like he's about to say something to the blonde ponce before he changes his mind and moves off to the side.

Let the games begin.

"You're late," I state in an emotionless voice. I absently make a note of the majority of the men and boys present, turning their attention to the little prince and myself.

"Yes," Joffrey cheerfully says with a smile as he looks around at the gathered men. "A prince has many duties..." Joffrey's words and breath instantly cease due to me swiftly striking his solar plex.

The boy prince hunches over and drops to his knees. My face is lacking concern as fear floods into Joffrey's eyes as he fails to regain his breath. I can't help but think of how pathetic he looks right now, on his knees with his mouth working like a fish out of water.

The sudden vacuum of air rushing into my squire's mouth sends a flash of relief over his face. As Joffrey is taking deep and greedy breaths of air, I begin my first lesson.

"Embrace the pain. Accept it for the gift that it is," I command my squire. "It will serve as a lesson of your mistakes and a reminder that you are still alive." I begin to slowly stalk around the shakily rising boy, the remembered fear still fresh on his face. "A warrior must become accustomed to feelings of fear and exhaustion, for those are the first foes you shall defeat."

Joffrey's already reddened face takes on a savage appearance. "You can not strike me," my squire bellowed in rage. "I am the Crown Prince..." His words die in his mouth as another fist drops him to his knees a second time. Tears instantly fall from his eyes as he's forced into a breathless state again. Fortunately, he is able to draw breath much faster than the first time I knocked the air from his lungs.

"Crown Prince?" I question aloud as I stare down at the recovering bastard. "Words on the breeze are supposed to give you power over me?" I ask the pretender as I bend over to stare into his eyes. "Why should I obey and follow you?"

Joffrey flinches back and covers his stomach with his arms as I lean closer towards him. When he realizes I'm waiting for an answer, he quickly scans the people observing us.

Already knowing what he's thinking, I let out a snort. "Do you think anyone here will heed your orders over my own?" I rhetorically ask. After a moment to allow doubt to seep into his thoughts, I repeat my first question. "Why should any of us obey and follow you?"

Mustering as much willpower as he could, Joffrey defiantly stares into my eyes. "I will be king one day," Joffrey said with building courage. "It is my birthright..."

"Birthright," I spit out before straitening up. I gesture with my hand for my squire to stand as well. "Every house, the great and the small, was founded by a peasant. A simple man rose to power and gathered a following of men based on the strength of his own arm and influence of his words," I loudly declare. I include all present at the training ground in my lesson. I pace around the edge of the sparring circle, looking into the eyes of each man present.

"House Lannister ruled the Westerlands, as kings, for nearly eight-thousand years," I declare with a tremendous amount of pride in my voice. "Our reign lasted until we were forced to surrender our crown to some minor house of Old Valyria because they had dragons.

"Orys Baratheon founded House Baratheon three-hundred years ago when he slew the Storm King and claimed Storm's End as his own. Today, House Baratheon rules the Seven Kingdoms, after ending another dynasty." My voice vibrates off the walls of the training ground.

I stop by the weapons rack beside the edge of the circle. I grab a modestly sized war hammer and a reinforced shield before turning to face Joffrey. The fool is standing tall with his shoulders pulled back. The pride on his face has pushed the majority of the fear and anger from sight.

"The men we choose to follow has nothing to do with their birthright, but what that man has forged with his own power," I stress to my squire. "Power that you are now being given an opportunity to claim," my voice drills into Joffrey as I toss the war hammer at his feet.

"Do you want to earn the respect of your men? Do you want to stand tall before your people and bask in their praises? Revel in the fear of your enemies as you stand triumphantly over their broken bodies?" I authoritatively ask as I cast a severe gaze into Joffrey's eyes.

"Or would you walk out of here and live a life dependent on the generosity of the strong and capable, to protect you?" My question was delivered with mockery as I strap the thick shield onto my left arm.

"The choice is yours, boy," I state as I make sure Joffrey can see I am without a weapon. "Runaway with your tail between your legs, or pick up that hammer and prove that yours is the fury. What will it be?"

Several of the men-at-arms shouted out in excitement, as Joffrey grabbed the war hammer and charged at me with a furious war cry. I just smirk as I ready the shield to take on the fury of the Crown Prince.

And so it begins.