“March my soldiers!” I commanded, waving a hand over the sun-baked dirt.
The group of soldiers obeyed instantly, marching forward in a ragged yet surprisingly straight line.
On the opposite side of the yard, the enemy general issued a shrill, cracking command of his own, and his little army broke into a chaotic charge, screaming bloody murder as they sprinted toward my lines.
Tch tch, a rookie mistake, but entirely expected from an inexperienced commander who probably learned his strategy from picture books rather than thousands of hours of campaign simulations on Hearts of Iron 4 and Crusaders Kings 3.
The enemy vanguard lunged at my boys like a pack of starving hounds chasing a three-legged rabbit, completely lacking coordination, spacing, or basic tactical awareness.
Naturally, because they were my soldiers and I had drilled them until their legs felt like lead, my center did not break.
Instead, the middle portion of my formation intentionally slouched backward, sliding into a neat, sweeping crescent shape on the bloodless dirt of the bailey.
Sensing total victory within his tiny grasp, the opposing general bellowed a triumphant cheer, goading his men into a manic, foaming frenzy.
They rushed headlong into the pocket.
Just when it looked like my center was about to snap under the pressure, my flank units slammed shut like a steel trap.
The boys at the ends pushed hard through their bewildered opponents, who were far too distracted by the illusion of breaking my center to notice the disaster unfolding behind them.
I smiled a wicked, terrifying grin, curling my hand into a tight fist.
Victory was securely in my pocket.
I am the Melon Lord, muahahahaha.
Eat dirt, you little peasant-brained shits.
I have spent countless hours hunched over glowing monitors mastering strategy mechanics, and you expect to match my sheer, unadulterated tactical POWER?
Please.
You are playing checkers in a sandbox while I am orchestrating the fall of empires.
Within seconds, the enemy forces were entirely encircled.
Before they could comprehend what had happened, completely blinded by their adolescent lust for battle, my boys caught them from behind with blunt training swords, tapping them out in a brutal rear-guard ambush.
“I win!” I declared, letting out a sharp, evil laugh that echoed off the stone barracks.
The annoying kid standing at the opposite end of the courtyard gritted his teeth so hard I thought his molars were going to shatter into powder.
This marked his tenth consecutive loss in a row.
Not a single victory against me all week.
That is right, folks.
I am better.
I am stronger.
I am smarter!
Please completely ignore the slight technicality that I older than anyone on this field.
“No!
I challenge you to single combat!
Fight me like a man if you are brave enough, Prince Maegor!” the boy shouted, his face bright red with adolescent rage as he raised his wooden training sword high into the air.
He had enough sense to still refer to me by prince however.
By this point, the defeated enemy forces had groaned and picked themselves up from the dirt, dusting off their wool tunics and staring blankly at their furious leader.
Well, calling them enemy forces was perhaps a bit too dramatic for a Tuesday afternoon scrimmage.
There were only five boys in his ragtag army and five in mine.
I slowly stood up from my makeshift seat.
The unfortunate kid I had been using as a living chair all afternoon let out a massive, wheezing sigh of relief, his spine snapping back straight as he collapsed forward into the dirt.
Maybe telling him that supporting my royal weight was great core conditioning wasn’t my finest motivational coaching moment.
Hey, it is not my fault that medieval children are completely gullible and easy to exploit!
“I accept your challenge!
May the old gods and the new pick the rightful winner on this sacred battlefield!” Reaching down, I picked up my blunt sword from the ground, patting my stomach over the heavily padded leather gambeson to ensure everything was snug.
The angry little lordling similarly stomped toward the center of the yard until we stood face to face, the afternoon sun beating down on our sweaty brows.
“My liege, let me fight in your stead,” a booming voice spoke up.
It was Davos Baratheon, stepping forward with a solemn bow and kneeling I walked past him.
I paused and wondered if it really was the best idea for him to call me that, eh, it’s not like anyone would care about some five and ten year olds right?
Looking back at my loyal little army, surveying the distinct expressions stamped across their varied faces.
There was Davos, built like an absolute brick outhouse, easily towering over most kids his age, with the tip of his wooden sword planted firmly into the dirt as he bowed his head.
Standing to his immediate left was Daemon Velaryon, the future lord of Driftmark, whose silver hair clung to his sweaty forehead.
To his right stood Tristan Strong, the brawny son of the Hand of the King, nodding along in fierce agreement with Davos’s chivalrous offer.
The fourth member of my personal vanguard, Edwell Celtigar, the future lord of House Celtigar, stepped forward with a grim, serious expression to hand me my thick leather gloves.
Finally, sitting slumped against a stone pillar near the back with a totally winded expression was Stefon Darklyn, nephew of Ser Robin Darklyn.
They were all strong, capable kids, and every single one of them was older than me by at least a few years.
Yet somehow, through a combination of brutal physical training, tactical dominance, and sheer psychological warfare, I had earned their respect.
All my previous statements about earning respect might have been a little exaggerated.
All I had to do was beat them up a few times.
But this was my army, and I was not about to let them down in front of a challenger.
“Davos, my brother, do you have absolute trust in the powers of your liege?” I asked him, tucking my wooden sword securely under my armpit as I jammed my fingers into the stiff leather fighting gloves.
Hesitating for a second, the young Baratheon blinked, looking up with a confused frown before responding, “Of course I do, my liege, but—” “Then say no more, Davos.
Have complete trust in me.” Reaching out, I took the heavy iron great helm from the hands of Edwell Celtigar, pulling it down over my head.
The thick, wool-stuffed interior padding pressed snugly against my ears, designed specifically to prevent brain-rattling concussions for highborn squires during melee training.
A moment passed before the Baratheon finally relented, shaking his head with a deep scowl.
Yet he did not object further, merely raising his armored forearm for a crisp, synchronized dap-up.
I returned the gesture without missing a beat, and we both slammed our fists together and patted each other firmly on the back like seasoned mercenaries on campaign.
The exact same ceremony was repeated with Daemon, Tristan, Edwell, and Stefon, each of them offering muttered words of encouragement and loyalty before I turned my back and marched toward the challenger, who was leaning heavily on his sword and waiting for my arrival with a sneer.
Who in their right mind would have ever guessed that aristocratic boys, even in a brutal medieval shithole like Westeros, desperately wanted to cosplay as legendary warriors and knights?
Throw in a few structured beatings, tactical pep talks, and modern customs like the dap-up, and you can turn a bunch of spoiled noble brats into your fiercely loyal personal servants, I mean, lifelong friends.
“Let the gods decide the fate of our houses,” the challenger sneered, raising his wooden blade.
“Then so it shall be,” I responded smoothly, catching my grip and readying my sword as the squire opposite me mirrored my stance.
With a sudden war cry that sounded more like a choked goose, the boy lunged forward, swinging his blunt sword in a wild, unpolished arc aimed directly at my collarbone.
Step to the left, pivot on the heel, parry with a sharp crack.
The impact rattled straight up my forearms, but I didn’t even flinch.
Before he could recover his balance, I stepped inside his clumsy guard and went entirely on the offensive.
I channeled my inner berserker, raining down a relentless, rhythmic series of brutal overhead strikes.
Bam!
Bam!
Bam!
Each blow hammered down relentlessly against his iron kettle helm, sending hollow, deafening clangs echoing across the stone courtyard that made him stagger backward like a drunken sailor.
He raised his sword in a pathetic attempt to block, but I swiped it aside with a savage downward hook, smashing my weapon squarely into the thick quilted padding of his gambeson.
The boy gasped, the wind rushing out of his lungs in a sharp wheeze.
I didn’t give him a single second to recover.
I pivoted on my heel and brought my sword around in a vicious horizontal swipe, catching him squarely on the hardened leather gorget guarding his throat.
He stumbled hard, his boots tangling in the dirt.
I followed up instantly, raining a flurry of blows down upon his stiffened cuirbouilli leather breastplate, pounding away at him like a blacksmith hammering a white-hot horseshoe on an anvil.
His defense completely shattered under the sheer weight of my assault.
With a desperate, choked cry, his knees buckled, and he crashed hard onto his back in the dirt, kicking up a thick cloud of dust.
In a fraction of a second, I closed the remaining distance, planting my heavy boot squarely beside his ribs and thrusting the blunt tip of my sword straight down until it rested flush against his throat.
“Yield,” I commanded, my voice cold, calm, and dripping with absolute authority.
The boy stared up at the wooden point hovering over his windpipe, his chest heaving violently as sweat poured down his flushed face.
He looked around the courtyard, saw his friends watching in stunned silence, and let out a defeated sigh.
“I yield,” he choked out, his shoulders slumping completely.
To prove his absolute surrender, he took his sword and tossed it carelessly aside into the dust.
The moment the weapon left his hand, I lowered my guard, letting out a triumphant sigh.
But before I could even celebrate my flawless victory, my entire army of adoring teenage boys broke formation and sprinted toward me like a pack of wild wolves.
“Our liege!” someone screamed.
Before I could brace myself, a hundred pounds of teenage meat crashed into me from all sides.
I went down hard, tumbling into the dirt as Davos, Daemon, Tristan, Edwell, and Stefon all dogpiled directly on top of me in a chaotic, victorious pile of limbs, laughing and shouting like drunken fools.
“Get off me, you heavy bitches!
I am suffocating!” I muffled into the dirt, struggling beneath the mountain of highborn flesh.
“What the Seven Hells are you squires doing in the dirt!” a booming, gravelly voice echoed across the courtyard, cutting through the celebration like a battle-axe.
Ser Humfrey strode into the training yard, his heavy steel plate armor clacking noisily with every heavy step he took.
He paused, his weathered face twisted into a look of bewilderment as he sratched his head and let out a sigh.
“We leave the yard for a while, and this is what the future of the realm amounts to?
Rolling around in the mud like a litter of pigs?” Immediately, the crushing pressure bearing down on my back vanished.
Everyone scrambled off me in a blind panic.
Before I could even push myself up from the dirt and wipe the dust off my face, I looked around and realized that every single one of my trusted brothers-in-arms had abandoned me to face the final boss alone.
Those traitorous little bitches actually ran away.
Cowards and cravens, every last one of them.
Ser Humfrey shook his massive head, running a scarred, calloused hand through his thick grey-streaked beard in sheer exasperation.
He looked down at me, his sharp eyes narrowing.
“How do you manage to accomplish something like that every single time I turn my back, my prince?” I pushed myself up onto my knees, dusting off my leather gambeson with an innocent, angelic blink.
“I honestly have no idea what you are talking about, Ser Humfrey.
We were merely engaging in a peaceful, highly educational diplomatic seminar on regional defense strategy.” That caused the veteran knight to click his teeth in annoyance, though I was certain that half of my words didn’t even make sense to him, before he let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
I peeked up through my silver hair, suddenly remembering a crucial administrative detail that had been bugging me all week.
“Wait.
It has been around a full week since you started training me every morning, Ser.
Does that official status mean I am finally your recognized squire?” The old knight paused, falling silent for a long moment as he hummed thoughtfully to himself, his gaze drifting over the scattered training weapons.
“You are, I suppose, technically my squire now,” Ser Humfrey muttered gruffly, scratching his jaw.
“I have never laid eyes on another boy with even half your unnatural talent when it comes to steel, footwork, and sheer stubborn violence.” He shook his head firmly to snap himself back on point.
“There is not much in the way of formal ceremony that we follow to declare someone a squire in the royal household, but yes, by the old codes, you are mine.
Though do not go thinking this means you will be scrubbing my mail shirts or polishing my boots like the common lads do.” The knight muttered something else under his breath, his voice trailing off into an unintelligible rumble.
But this time, my sharp ears managed to catch a faint, muttered reference to my mother.
Ws in the chat for my mother, come on guys.
Stepping up from the shadows yet again, wielding her terrifying queenly aura to ensure her favorite five-year-old warlord didn’t have to waste time doing menial peasant chores.