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Game of Thrones: Griffin Keep
Game of Thrones: The Unearther Lord of Lonehill
Game of Thrones: Dragons Dance
Game of Thrones: Dwarf Become King
Game of Thrones: Nero King of Knight
Children in this world came into their growth early.
Baratheons came large besides.
Boremund was sixteen.
A few years had been enough to make a bull of him.
He had heard Rhaegar from inside the castle, put his head out a window, and seen a boy who had not yet caught him in height.
The grin on him then was a clean thing.
He was older.
He had always been taller.
He had never taken a bout off Rhaegar in his life.
If the boy grew, the chance died with the inches.
That would sit in him until he did.
The hammers hummed in the air.
He had that much decency: they were wood.
He shouted and threw the first.
Rhaegar had no plate.
Wood would still leave a mark.
He stepped and beat it aside with the practice sword.
He had no time to set his feet.
The second hammer came.
A hammer breaks a line by weight.
One hand or two.
Two at once you cannot put your back into.
Rhaegar had looked for one throw.
He had not looked for both.
A known face had made him soft.
The second hammer left the sword and Boremund was already there.
A bull in the chest.
That was the feel of it.
The shoulder was coming in to break him.
Boremund lifted the arm and turned the hit into a shove.
Body and run together put Rhaegar off the dirt.
He had not moved.
The chest closed on the lungs.
Blood went to the head.
The sky turned.
“He isn’t dead.
He’s up.”
He did not know how far he had traveled or how long it had taken.
He sat.
There were watchers.
Princess Alyssa Targaryen had done the shouting—Baelon’s sister.
A fight between children did not pull a court.
A fight with the Lord of Storm’s End did.
Boremund had a voice that carried.
The grown came at a decent walk.
The small ones ran.
He had one wooden hammer left.
He crouched in front of Rhaegar.
“How do we call it?”
“Yours, my lord.” Rhaegar sat in the dust and slapped it off his shirt.
“Muscle takes the day.” Boremund laughed and hauled him up.
The man was built like an ox and trained every morning the way Rhaegar did.
This was not a killing.
There was no true edge.
With a blunt sword and a fist, Rhaegar was not sure he had him.
The ring kept growing.
He would not put the cheat in a yard full of eyes.
Let Boremund have one.
A training-ground bout was not a war.
“Glory to Baratheon.” Hands came together.
There was always one of those.
How the two of them fought was no old man’s business.
Rhaegar flicked a look, found a stranger with a ruined face, and let him drop.
The line soured Boremund’s mouth for a breath.
The smile stayed.
He had been Lord of Storm’s End long enough to know the breed.
He left the man there and told Rhaegar the year instead.
Alyssa folded her arms.
“Baelon.
He’s nothing.
You and Aemon talk as if he were a knight.”
“It isn’t like that.”
“I’ll take him.” She started for the yard.
She hated the needle, the page, and the song her mother put in her day.
She wanted a horse and a sword and a field, the way her father took them.
She had worn the household down.
This year she trained with the brothers.
She had heard them spend Rhaegar’s name.
In her head he was the quiet one who hid at a feast and ate.
“Don’t.”
She pointed at the sand.
“You first, then.”
Baelon looked both ways and found no meaning.
Him against Rhaegar: he did not have Boremund’s size.
He would be put in the dirt.
Him against Alyssa: lose and look small; win and she would cry, and Jaehaerys would take it out of his hide.
She made a sound in her throat and walked onto the yard.
A practice sword came off the rack.
“Hardbar Rhaegar.
Jaehaerys had filled a table with children.
Rhaegar did not know this one.
Thin arms.
Thin legs.
He did not see the right in the challenge and did not take it at once.
Baelon came close and kept it low.
“That’s her.
If you refuse she will live on you.
Let her have some of it.”
“I know.” He rubbed the ache in his chest and looked at her properly.
Seven or eight, and only a little shorter than he was.
Narrow breeches, a scrap of leather vest: a boy’s kit.
By Targaryen measure she was not a beauty.
She was a problem of another kind.
Long face, big ears, a mouth that pulled left when she grinned.
Hair a rough red-gold.
The eyes did not match: one violet, one green.
One Targaryen eye in the whole of her.
He wondered, not for the first time about this family, whose child she truly was.
The sword said a few months of work.
“This one I have.”
Jaehaerys came with a knot of men.
Someone had already put the yard in his ear.
He nodded at Alyssa to put heart in her.
Then he called, “Rhaegar.
All of it.”
The order meant the other thing.
Rhaegar cursed him anyway.
A fool who took the words as written would put the girl in the ground.
He took a round shield and left the sword.
No one would say he had hunted her.
“Alyssa.
You hit my body, you win.”
“You said it.” She cut left and right, thrust, lifted on a slant.
The shield took the noise.
Every blow started in the foot and told on the hip and the shoulder before it arrived.
He read it.
The shield was on the line each time.
“Not bad.” Jaehaerys rubbed a chin that had no beard.
It was not clear who he meant.
“Courage in her,” Ser Ryam said, and that was fair.
Boremund circled.
“Feet.
Stop kissing the shield.
His eyes.
His kidneys.”
Harrenhal had gotten into his mouth.
Years had not taken it out.
CaveLeather (9$) Game of Thrones: Red Dragon Game of Thrones: Griffin Keep Game of Thrones: The Unearther Lord of Lonehill Game of Thrones: Dragons Dance Game of Thrones: Dwarf Become King Game of Thrones: Nero King of Knight