First Kill

"Four hundred and ninety six....Four hundred and ninety seven...Four hundred and ninety eight, Four hundred and ninety nine...Five hundred...Fucking hell..." I huffed as I got up from my earlier position doing push-ups and wiped my body down with a bit of cloth.

I heard clapping from the side of the courtyard, followed quickly by a voice I knew all too well, "Well done, nephew. Your strength never ceases to astound me," the person said with a playfully sarcastic tone.

Turning my head toward them, I smiled when I saw that it was Tyrion, my actual uncle. Opposed to Jaime who was my uncle in name, yet actually my father.

"Uncle Tyrion," I happily said, walking toward him with a smile, "How are you? I hope you haven't spent too much time drinking wine and whoring about?" I teased back, and kneeling down and pulling my uncle in for a hug when I was close enough. I rarely ever saw the guy, mainly because my mother hated me speaking to him in such a amicable way.

She always tried to get me to hate him the same way she did, at first. But when I clearly wasn't taking to it, she settled for keeping us separate as much as possible.

Anyway, hearing what I said, Tyrion grinned, chuckling before walking over to a nearby table and pouring himself some wine, "You shouldn't speak so crass, nephew. People will never believe you're the eldest prince if you do," he quipped, playing along with me before taking a swig of his wine and looking back over to me, "And my day has been fine, thank you for asking. Only a few people scorned me today," he smirked, yet there seemed to be some real sadness behind what he said.

Smiling sadly, I went up behind him and pat him on the back, "No worries, uncle. They're all sheep anyway, us Lions shouldn't mind their gossip, now should we?" I joked with him, knowing that he'd know where I'd got that piece of wording from.

Laughing, Tyrion just shook his head before sitting down on one of the chairs put near the table, "Yes, yes, the aspiring words of a young Lannister~" he waved his cup of wine about in a gesture of mocking, before brought it back to his mouth and began to drink from it again. Once he'd finished the cup, he poured himself another while looking over to me, "Tell me, nephew; why do you train so much? You're only 10. You should be enjoying your childhood, not working yourself to the bone," his gaze was oddly serious for my uncle, as he was more likely to joke about and make snarky and sarcastic comments than to be overtly serious.

Sitting down on the opposite side of the table, I leaned back against my chair, moving my golden blond hair out of the way before smiling at my uncle, "Because strength will help me survive in such a world as this one. You know me, uncle, you've gotten me books when my tutors wouldn't, shown me maps when they wouldn't...you know that I'm not a simple-minded child. I know how horrible this world is, and I know what it does to people who aren't strong enough. I have the power of the Lannister and Baratheon Families - I'm a Prince, after all - but what if that fails me?" I paused, looking into my uncle's eyes which were slowly coming to a realization. Knowing that he'd figured it out, I smiled even more, "Exactly; I'd be dead. Relying on the power of your family, of your political and monetary connections...is a way to get killed in this world. Sorry for the offense," I quipped toward the end, trying to lighten up the mood.

"...I think I understand your thought process, nephew," Tyrion said, sipping from his wine, "It's different from mine, but it's as valid as any other, I would guess," he smiled, some respect in his tone.

"Your thought process? Drinking wine and whoring?" I said the same thing once again, lightening the mood as I began stretching my legs, getting ready for the running I'd be doing soon.

"Don't knock it until you try it, nephew," he teased, drinking his second cup empty.

Both of us had a little laugh over what he said and before anything else could be said, someone came into the courtyard.

Jaime, my father.

"Nephew," he nodded to me before looking to my right, "Little brother," he smiled, having none of the hatred my mother had for Tyrion. He looked back to me, still smiling, "We have to go now if we're to make it to your usual appointment, nephew," he said, though he looked a bit unsure on why I wanted to do what I was about to do.

I couldn't blame him. It was a weird request for a 10-year-old to make. Well, it was a weird request no matter the persons age, honestly.

Nodding, I stood up before slipping on a loose white dress shirt and following after my father.

Along the way, nothing much was said, yet he handed me my sword, and two daggers I'd had custom made. The sword was a claymore, big, thick, and quite heavy for a sword. While the two daggers were like everyday daggers, just made with better materials and techniques, and slightly more curved.

These were the things I trained in, alongside hand-to-hand. Claymore for one versus many situations, daggers for one on one or one on two situations, and hand-to-hand if my weapons are nowhere nearby. I'd even taken up a few lessons in archery just in case.

As we were nearing our destination, I looked over at Jaime, "When you go and fetch them, don't tell them who I am. That may cause them to hold back. All you need to do is tell them that if they can kill me, they're free. Okay?" I asked, knowing I was asking for a lot, I kept an innocent smile on my face. Jaime sighed.

"You know that if your mother finds out about this, we're both in some deep shit, right?" he asked with a tired voice, as if he could already hear the rant coming from my mother.

Shrugging, I gave a reply, "Then we've just got to make sure she doesn't find out," I said simply.

Jaime went quiet for a little while before speaking up again, "Why do you want to do this, Damien? I know you want to become strong, but why go to such extremes like this?" he asked a question ever so similar to Tyrion's, yet right now, it sounded slightly different. Laced with worry.

"Because if I want to grow as a fighter, I need to face real fights. Not just practice in mock spars against you and Ser Barristan," I answered simply, unlike the answer I gave Tyrion.

Jaime squinted his eyes for a few seconds before shaking his head and carrying on.

Before long we got to our destination; a courtyard near the dungeons. When we arrived, I sat down and lay my weapons down next to me, while Jaime went off to the dungeons to get me an opponent. This was what I was here for - to fight. To have a life and death battle. To help myself grow as a fighter.

Otherwise I'd be no different from any other noble out there who had sword training as a boy - a paper tiger. Someone who looks and seems skilled, yet doesn't have an ounce of power in them.

This was a stepping stone for my growth.

Closing my eyes, I calmed myself and kept myself alert and finely tuned. I had to prepare myself as I was about to take another humans life.

Soon, however, my sensitive hearing picked up the footsteps of an armored man and the clinking of chains. Not too long after I heard them, Jaime returned with a chained man in tow. The chained man looked pretty ferocious. He was taller than Jaime and covered in scars, and despite having been kept in the dungeons for who knows how long, his body was still quite robust and rippling with muscles. Especially his arms.

Seems he used to be a bare-handed fighter of some kind. I know they're a favored betting past time for some gamblers who like to see blood sports and whatnot.

So this man...was just the opponent I needed.

"All I hav' to do is kill 'im?" the scarred-man smiled at Jaime, his yellow teeth showing and his ungodly breath leaking out. It was times like this where I cursed my enhanced senses. Oblivious to my troubles, Jaime nodded before bringing a key and unlocking the man's chains, though he kept wincing when he was so close to the smelly guy.

At least he knows some of my pain.

Once the chains came off, I stood up and picked up my two daggers. They were about the same size as an adults forearms, so they looked like short swords in my hands. Holding both of them in a reverse grip, I lowered my center of gravity and stalked toward the man in front of me, my eyes going into slits as my concentration reached a zenith.

"I'm gonna kill ya, little boyy!" his heavily accented voice rang out as he rushed towards me, his thickly muscled arms raised in a boxing guard.

Any other person would be petrified to see such a mini-giant running at them with such intent to kill flaring in his eyes. But me? I'm a Witcher. My genes and physiology make fighting my biggest and best talent.

Flexing my leg muscles, I shot off to meet the man but when we were about to collide, and as he brought back a fist to hit me, I ducked and dodged to his side, slicing his ribs with my left dagger.

Using the momentum from my left side, I let the arm carry me around in a spin, before I put more energy into my right arm and tried to stab the man in the chest with my right dagger. Seeing what I'd done, the big man panicked and put his arm in front of the dagger.

*Slice!*

"ARGHHH!" the man screamed as I tore my dagger from his arm and quickly backed away. I may have the body of a child, of a 10-year-old. But I'm still a Witcher. Even as a 10-year-old, I have the physical capabilities of a slightly above average man. Meaning that I wasn't too far off from this man in front of me in terms of overall capabilities.

Sure, he probably has much more brute strength than me, but I have more speed and quicker reaction times.

A Witcher plays to his strengths.

I stayed back and watched him with my golden eyes, the color in them seeming to brighten from what I could see in the reflection of his onyx black eyes. I stalked around him, my daggers raised, like some kind of predator.

All the arrogance and sadistic joy was gone from the man's face, replaced with seriousness. Despite the dagger that had cleanly went through his arm and nicked his chest, he kept his arms up in a guard and slowly moved toward me. When he was about a meter away from me, he tripped a little, and seeing this as my chance I sprung toward him.

But upon seeing him smile, I realized my mistake.

Though I realized my mistake, that didn't stop the uppercut the scarred man had sent me from colliding with my chin and sending me flying.

I collided with the floor a meter or two away from the man and felt some blood in my mouth. Sitting up, I spat it out before flipping myself up and dodging under the punch coming for my head. Just as I was about to attack, I saw another uppercut coming for me, so I pulled back. Once the uppercut had been thrown, I shot back into the man's range, and sliced his uninjured arm around where his elbow joint was. The result?

His arm fell uselessly to his side, not being able to rise back up.

But the sacrifice for this move was that I'd left myself open too close to the scarred man who backhanded me with the fist on his free arm.

What's a Witcher's best attribute? Strength? Speed? No. The answer is...

Endurance.

Witchers are meant to fight against monsters like Giants who can kill normal humans in a single hit, and other similarly herculean monsters. They're practically humans who can second as punching bags, while they wait for an opening to come for the killing blow.

So, despite being hit so viciously by someone much stronger and bigger than me...I was practically fine. Maybe a broken nose but nothing fatal and even the broken nose would probably heal by tonight.

Anyway, feeling my instincts scream, I flipped myself over backward and narrowly missed the stomp that had been aimed for my head.

Taking advantage of his missed attack, I lunged at him from below and stabbed my two daggers into his stomach, twisting them deeper as I wrapped legs around him and pulled myself and the daggers closer to him. Having a firm grip, I ripped the daggers out, horizontally, before stabbing them into his upper chest. All while staring into his wide eyes.

The eyes that had been filled with ferocity earlier...were now fading and becoming glassy.

Blood dribbled from the man's mouth as it opened and closed like a fish's mouth. I kept eye contact with him, watching him die. The man collapsed to his knees and I stood on my feet holding my dagger in his chest.

I saw the pleading in the man's eyes. The begging. The refusal and unwillingness of not wanting to die. I also saw hatred, self-pity, anger...and most of all I saw regret.

But I steeled myself.

And I tore my daggers upwards, ripping open his rib cage and splashing blood all over my face and my white dress shirt.

The man dropped to the ground and blood pooled around him. I looked down at my reflection in the blood. My yellow eyes were shining and the cat-pupil looked at threatening as ever. My face was splattered with blood. But that's not what got my notice. What got my notice was one thing:

I was smiling. A manic, twisted smile.

Closing my eyes, I turned away from the corpse and kept my face under control, and opened my eyes again. I walked over to the place where I was sitting before and just sat down. Finally I spoke up, "Uncle, can you please get someone to clean up the body? Then send another prisoner up to me, please," I asked politely.

But covered in blood, I wonder how polite I looked?