Stepping through the heavy oak threshold into the outer corridor, I closed the door behind me and paused, letting my mind mull over the words my mother had just said to me.
Dark Sister.
It was a magnificent piece of art.
Back in my previous life, I had seen custom Damascus steel swords crafted by master smiths, but the Valyrian steel of Visenya’s longsword was on an entirely different level of dark, unnatural beauty.
The folded metal rippled with intricate, smoky whorls of dark grey and deep black, lighter than common iron yet far harder than any castle-forged steel.
It was fascinating to ponder the lost metallurgy of the Valyrian Freehold.
Modern maesters loved to speculate on the secrets of dragon-forged steel, but I was fairly certain the process required blood sacrifice, dark sorcery, and hot dragonfire to bind the metal.
Unlocking the secret to forging Valyrian steel once again would alter the entire geopolitical landscape of Westeros.
Unless I stumbled upon some forgotten, dust-covered grimoire hidden in a secret crevice deep beneath Dragonstone, however, figuring out the magical chemistry on my own would be impossible.
Perhaps I should organize a naval expedition to the Smoking Sea and the ruins of Ancient Valyria sometime in the future.
Surely my thick, main-character plot armor would protect me from the deadly, ash-choked sea hazards, right?
I certainly had zero intention of becoming a tragic, cautionary footnote in a archmaester’s history scroll warning young lords not to sail into the Doom.
Then again, if I were ever foolish enough to sail into those haunted, ruinous waters, I had better make sure I built a functional magnetic compass first.
Though if the magnetic poles of this planet were warped by some ancient eldritch sea monster dwelling beneath the waves, a simple needle wouldn’t do me much good anyway.
If my historical memory served me correctly, the original Maegor was gifted Dark Sister by Queen Visenya when he reached his thirteenth name day, right after he was knighted in a grand tourney.
Later in his life, his brother Aenys would hand over Blackfyre, the great hand-and-a-half bastard sword of the Conqueror, upon taking the Iron Throne.
Waiting until I turned thirteen to wield Dark Sister was acceptable enough, but I was damned if I was going to wait decades to get my hands on Blackfyre.
That blade belonged on my hip.
Turning away from my grand thoughts of magical swords, I spotted Ser Humfrey the Mummer standing post beside the stone archway, staring out through an iron portcullis at the muddy bustling courtyard below.
The moment he heard my leather boots scrape against the stone, the Kingsguard knight turned his head, offered me a crisp, formal nod, and smoothly fell into step behind my right shoulder.
“My mother should have already informed you of the morning’s arrangements, ser?” I asked, throwing a casual glance at him over my shoulder as we descended the wide stone stairs.
“She has, my prince,” Ser Humfrey replied softly, his long, auburn hair rustling over his broad shoulders.
His face was entirely relaxed, almost devoid of emotion.
What was it with this current generation of Kingsguard knights being such stone-faced, emotionless fucks?
Where was the joy?
Where was the colorful, dramatic flair?
“Tell me, ser,” I asked, keeping my eyes fixed on the muddy yard ahead, “how exactly did a warrior like you come to earn such a curious moniker?
The Mummer?” Ser Humfrey let out a quiet, raspy chuckle, a faint glimmer of warmth finally touching his brown eyes.
“Before the Queen raised me to the white, my prince, I was merely a landless bastard earning his bread in the traveling troupes.
I juggled flaming torches, tumbled on wooden stilts, and played the villain in cheap mummers’ farces across the Reach.
I was a foolish performer who picked up a steel broadsword to defend our troupe from road bandits, only to discover I was vastly better at cutting men down than making peasants laugh.” He paused, his voice softening into genuine reverence.
“When Queen Visenya held the grand melee to choose the royal guard after the Dornish ambushed the King, she cared nothing for my lack of noble blood or my foolish past.
She saw only my blade and my loyalty.
Her Grace pulled me out of the dirt and wrapped this silk cloak around my shoulders.
I owe her my life, my honor, and every breath I draw.” I nodded thoughtfully.
At the very least, my mother possessed an uncanny, razor-sharp eye for choosing fanatically loyal men for crucial positions.
From my knowledge of the future, out of the seven original Kingsguard knights chosen by Visenya, two would eventually give their lives defending King Aegon from assassins, while the rest served the royal family with unyielding, selfless devotion until the day they died.
Finding men of such absolute, unbroken integrity was nearly impossible in a treacherous medieval world.
Soon enough, our boots were squelching through the thick, churned brown mud of the lower training yards.
The courtyard was a hive of chaotic martial activity.
Dozens of squires, armored knights, and local men-at-arms were loitering around the weapon racks, mending leather doublets, sharpening iron spearheads, and clashing dulled steel swords.
Under normal circumstances, a five-year-old highborn prince would be assigned some low-ranking castle master-at-arms to teach him how to hold a wooden shield, but Visenya demanded the absolute pinnacle of martial instruction for her son.
Who was I to complain about getting personal sword lessons from a sworn brother of the Kingsguard?
To be entirely fair, it had always baffled my mind why so many modern self-insert stories featured main characters who actively avoided or whined about martial training.
Refusing to master the sword in a brutal medieval realm like the Seven Kingdoms was mind-bogglingly stupid.
Martial prowess was the primary currency of nobility in Westeros.
It was the fastest, most effective way to command the respect of the lords, intimidate your rivals, and ensure that when some bitter enemy challenged you to a trial by combat, you didn’t end up with your skull caved in by a warhammer.
Naturally, not everyone was born with the natural physical talent to be a legendary swordsman, but practicing the fundamentals every single day was basic survival logic.
Ser Humfrey slipped away toward the armory racks while I was lost in my internal monologue, his leather boots clacking against the muddy gravel.
He returned a moment later holding a stout, carved wooden practice sword in his right gauntlet.
“This is where your journey begins, my prince,” Ser Humfrey said, stepping backward and offering the hilt of the wooden blade to me pommel-first.
He raised a dark eyebrow in subtle surprise when I silently took the weapon without a single word of complaint.
He had clearly expected a pampered five-year-old prince to throw a childish tantrum, demanding a real, shiny steel blade or throwing a fit about starting with simple wooden toys.
But while I thoroughly enjoyed acting like an unhinged, dramatic chaotic demon for my own personal amusement, I was not an idiot.
I wrapped my fingers around the carved grip, shifting the weight and testing the balance of the wooden sword.
It was considerably heavier than it looked, weighted with lead inserts near the crossguard to mimic the feel of actual castle-forged iron.
Fortunately, the blade length was perfectly proportioned for my oversized, five-year-old frame.
“The true essence of any fight, whether it takes place in a grand tourney ring or a bloody alleyway, is your balance and your footwork,” Ser Humfrey said, stepping in close and circling around me like a hawk.
“Raw physical strength means nothing, my prince.
Lightning speed means nothing if your feet slip in the mud and you fall upon your own blade.” He reached out with his gloved hands, gently adjusting my fingers on the leather grip, ensuring my thumb was rested properly against the guard.
Then he tapped the back of my knees, forcing me to lower my stance until my center of gravity was low to the mud, my broad feet spaced apart to anchor my heavy frame firmly to the earth.
Satisfied with my initial position, Ser Humfrey stepped back three paces and held out his bare hand.
“Hand me the blade for a moment, my prince.” I handed the wooden sword back to him without hesitation.
Rotating the blade in his fingers so that the heavy wooden pommel was pointed directly at my chest, the Kingsguard knight suddenly lunged forward, thrusting the pommel straight into my left shoulder to knock me off balance.
Now this was actually quite fun.
While I was certainly no legendary sword prodigy yet, my years of life experience had given me a thorough, intuitive understanding of human weight distribution, martial arts mechanics, and physical leverage.
All those late-night hours spent watching MMA breakdowns, boxing tutorials, and historical fencing videos on YouTube back in my previous life were actually paying massive dividends!
The moment I saw his shoulder move, I shifted my weight onto my rear right foot, engaged my core muscles, and absorbed the force of his thrust without giving up an inch of ground.
Ser Humfrey blinked in genuine admiration, stepping backward as he realized my feet remained rooted into the churned mud.
He ran a gloved hand through his long, auburn hair, a warm smile breaking across his face.
“By the Seven, you have the balance of a mountain goat, my prince,” Ser Humfrey marveled.
“Most boys your age tumble headfirst into the dirt the moment I touch their shoulder.
Very well, if your footing is already sound, we shall move directly to the next stage of your instruction.” Motioning for me to follow him, the Kingsguard knight led me toward a thick, scarred wooden post planted deep into the mud near the far wall of the courtyard.
The wood of the pell was gouged, splintered, and stained dark from years of receiving blows from steel and oak.
Ser Humfrey handed my wooden sword back to me, stepped aside, and crossed his arms over his white cloak.
“Strike the pell six times, Prince Maegor,” Ser Humfrey instructed firmly.
“Deliver three strikes with every ounce of physical strength in your arms, and deliver the remaining three with absolute precision, aiming for the carved red line near the top.
Keep the low guard I showed you, and do not let your grip loosen upon the hilt.” I took a deep breath, rolled my broad shoulders to stretch my muscles, and adjusted my grip on the leather handle.
Settling into my low, rooted stance, I swung the wooden sword with all the explosive force my broad five-year-old chest could muster, slamming the oak edge directly against the solid post.
The impact rang out through the training yard like a thunderclap.
The sudden, violent shockwave traveled straight up the wooden blade, through my wrists, and rattled the bones in my shoulders.
My fingers instantly went numb, and the wooden sword nearly twisted out of my hands, flying into the mud.
Ser Humfrey nodded sagely, stepping forward to adjust my forearms.
“Do not fight the impact, my prince.
Squeeze the grip at the exact moment of contact, but keep your wrists flexible to absorb the vibration.” I gritted my teeth, reset my feet, and delivered another furious blow.
This time, I tightened my grip at the instant of impact, letting my core absorb the shock.
The wooden blade hit the post with a satisfying, deep thud, remaining firmly locked in my hands.
Hours bled away into the late afternoon as I stood in the muddy yard, relentlessly hacking, slashing, and thrusting at the wooden pell without uttering a single word of complaint.
I had already known from my previous life that physical exercise and hitting heavy bags was a fantastic way to relieve mental stress, but I hadn’t realized how therapeutic chopping a wooden post could be.
By the time the sun began to dip behind the timber towers of the Aegonfort, my small arms felt like raw, burning noodles, and my woolen tunic was completely drenched in cold sweat.
Just as my forearms were about to give out entirely, Ser Humphrey stepped forward and gently caught the flat of my wooden blade, bringing my training to a halt.
A look of deep, profound respect shone in his brown eyes.
He took the wooden sword from my trembling fingers, allowing me to finally lower my arms to my sides.
I let out a long, ragged exhale, suddenly realizing that my throat was as dry as desert sand.
“You possess a remarkable, terrifying work ethic, Prince Maegor,” Ser Humfrey said, placing a heavy, gloved hand on my shoulder as I stood there panting.
I shook out my aching arms, standing tall to see that the Kingsguard knight was gesturing toward another knight who was watching us from the edge of the yard.
The second knight was clad in gleaming, unadorned steel armor, a dark blue cloak wrapped around his shoulders.
“After observing your natural balance and your absolute refusal to yield to exhaustion,” Ser Humfrey said, his voice solemn and formal, “we have decided that it would be vastly more beneficial for you to experience a true sparring match against a living opponent.
A warrior never truly learns the art of steel by beating a silent wooden post.
It is only in the chaos of a bout that your instincts are forged.” I narrowed my dark purple eyes.
Was this veteran knight trying to humble my five-year-old arrogance by putting me in my place?
Eh, it was of zero concern to me regardless!
All I cared about was the glorious prospect of smacking an actual person with a wooden sword to test my newly acquired skills.
The blue-cloaked knight beckoned to a young boy standing beside the armory racks.
The boy trotted over, holding a wooden sword and a small leather shield.
He looked to be roughly eight or nine years of age, slender but tall, with an arrogant, snub-nosed face and dark hair.
He was clearly a highborn squire who had spent the last two years practicing his swordplay under proper castle tutors.
Ser Humfrey stepped between us, holding up his gauntleted hand to establish the rules.
“This will be a gentle, controlled bout.
No thrusts to the throat or face are permitted.
The first fighter to land a clean, decisive touch of his blade upon his opponent’s torso shall be declared the victor.” The snub-nosed squire looked down as I sneered.
It would be for the best if I destroyed all his hopes of beating me before the fight even began.
Hell yeah get that right, I was a best your puny ass to the ground even though I started learning like five hours ago.
However, everyone knew that the only thing that mattered at the end of the day was talent.
Yup, definitely.
Well, well, well.
How delightfully cliché.
I had read this exact same web-novel trope a thousand times in my past life: the arrogant, highborn young master looks down on the protagonist, expecting an easy victory, only to get thoroughly humiliated in front of the entire crowd.
Except in this particular story, I was the terrifying, broad-shouldered royal young master.
Time to break the script and deliver a thorough beatdown!
Ser Humphrey stepped back, raising his hand into the air.
“Begin!” The squire didn’t hesitate for a single second.
Eager to end the match swiftly and impress the watching Kingsguard, he lunged forward with a loud, aggressive battle cry, swinging his wooden sword in a broad, sloppy overhead arc aimed directly at my shoulder.
He was moving fast for an eight-year-old, but his weight distribution was a complete disaster.
He was leaning far too far forward, his feet crossed in the thick mud, leaving his midsection completely exposed.
To my eyes, his dramatic overhead swing looked like it was moving in slow motion.
Instead of trying to block the heavy blow with my own sword, which would have shattered my sore, exhausted arm muscles, I utilized basic footwork.
I pivoted on my left foot, slipping beneath his wooden blade as it whistled uselessly through the empty air where my head had been a second before.
The squire’s eyes went wide with sudden, blind panic as his own momentum dragged him off balance, his feet sliding helplessly through the slick brown mud.
Before he could recover his balance or raise his leather shield, I stepped inside his guard, shifted my weight onto my rear leg, and drove the flat of my wooden blade directly into his exposed ribs with every ounce of physical strength remaining in my five-year-old body.
THWACK!
The crack of wood against his leather doublet rang through the quiet yard.
The sheer kinetic force of my short, heavy blow knocked the breath entirely out of the squire’s lungs.
He let out a pathetic, high-pitched squeak, his knees buckling beneath him as he tumbled sideways into the thick, wet mud, rolling over twice before coming to a halt at Ser Humfrey’s boots.
The knight looked at the boy on the ground, groaning as he picked himself up, before turning his head towards me, respect in his gaze.
I stood over the fallen boy, breathing steadily, holding my wooden blade in a relaxed, low guard as I wiped a speck of mud from my cheek.
Ser Humfrey stood motionless for moment before he stepped forward, placed his heavy gloved hand on top of my silver-haired head, and let out a booming laugh that echoed off the stone walls.
“Yield!
Match to Prince Maegor!” Ser Humfrey proclaimed loudly, his voice filled with overwhelming pride.
He turned to look at the blue-cloaked knight, who was staring at me as if he had just witnessed a five-year-old boy tame a wild shadowcat with his bare hands.
“By the Warrior’s sword, Ser Harry, the boy didn’t just land a touch, he nearly broke the lad’s ribs with a single pivot!
A magnificent, brilliant strike, my prince!” I offered Ser Humfrey a modest, polite nod, though internally I was strutting around like a king.
“A lucky strike, ser,” I said smoothly, handing my wooden blade back to him.
“He left his footing in the mud.” “Nonsense!” Ser Humphrey laughed, clapping me on the shoulder so hard I nearly stumbled.
“That was not luck, that was pure, martial instinct!
Come, Prince Maegor.
You have earned your wash and your wine today.
Let us get you cleaned up before Queen Visenya hears that her five-year-old son is already knocking squires into the dirt.” As I walked out of the training yard beside the white-cloaked knight, leaving the muddy, bruised squire to be helped up by his master, a cold, satisfied smile spread across my face.
One day, I thought to myself, those wooden blades will be forged of dark Valyrian steel, and those muddy squires will be rival kings.
And I will crush them all the exact same way.
Wait, that sounded a little too emo.
Can we dial that down a little?
Also, what was Ser Humfrey yapping about wine, I would never drink something like that in a world like this!