The training yard of the Red Keep was packed.
Young squires, veteran guards, and idle onlookers formed a loose, noisy circle, cheering and shouting encouragement at the two fighters in the center.
Meanwhile, I was desperately trying not to lose my shit while my lunatic uncle rained down blow after blow.
Do you know what the word spar means, you absolute madman?
According to any encyclopedia.
Spar: to practice fighting in a non-serious way with light, controlled blows.
Or to argue playfully.
Or, you know, a strong pole on a ship.
The key word being non-serious.
The first round, Daemon had actually gone easy on me.
Then I got cocky and overestimated my reach, swung my wooden mace with a little too much enthusiasm, and caught him square in the face.
Now he was bleeding from a nostril.
So yeah, I understood the narrowed eyes and the pure fury radiating off him.
But did that really justify trying to rearrange my entire face with a dozen slashes?
Because I knew how petty he could be.
He was bleeding from one nostril, and I had a strong feeling he’d make damn sure I bled from all of them before this was over.
“It was a slight miscalculation, dear uncle,” I panted, barely dodging a vicious slash aimed at my chest before deflecting it outward with the mace.
“Must you show me this much hatred?”
“Your birth was a fucking miscalculation, you twat,” Daemon snarled, eyes blazing as he came at me again from above.
“Now, now,” I ducked left just in time, “We both have blood rushing to our heads. You may be losing a few drops from that nose, but let’s not let it drag us down to our basest instincts.” I grinned through the exhaustion.
“You don’t see me talking filth, do you?”
“I see you only talking!” he roared, pressing forward with a flurry of savage swings.
“Shut up and fight like a man!”
“You grow a beard and I’ll believe you are one,” I shot back without thinking.
Trust me, you do not want to start a trash-talk battle with me.
I buried my League and CoD days long before I died, let’s not make me drag out the ‘yo momma’ in front of the entire Red Keep.
Still, I had to give the man credit.
For all the creative profanities he hurled my way, Daemon was an absolute beast with a blade, relentless, precise, and terrifyingly fast.
He raised his sword high for a slash across my gut.
I parried it downward, but the move left me wide open in the center.
He exploited it instantly, driving his boot hard into my chest.
The kick sent me stumbling backward.
I spun awkwardly to the left, barely keeping my footing.
In that chaotic moment, instinct took over, my arm whipped around in a wild, heavy swing.
The mace connected solidly with his side.
Daemon came at me again without pause, wooden blade flashing in the sunlight.
I barely managed to raise my mace in time, the impact jarring all the way up my arms.
“You’re slow, boy,” he snarled, pressing the advantage.
“All that clever little tongue of yours and you still fight like a green squire.”
“And yet here I am,” I panted, stepping back, “still standing. Must be doing something right.”
He laughed, it was a sharp, mean sound and launched into another flurry.
I blocked one strike, then another, but each one came harder than the last.
My lungs felt like they were full of sand and screaming for a break.
Fuck.
I’m losing my footing already.
I was still young and still growing and Daemon had decades of real war and real blood behind him.
He had both the reach and the strength of a grown man.
He feinted left and I took the bait.
The sword cracked against my ribs, hard enough to knock the wind out of me.
I staggered but he didn’t let up, another blow to the shoulder.
Then a sharp kick to the side of my knee that nearly dropped me.
“Come on,” he taunted, circling me like a wolf.
“Where’s that silver tongue now?”
“Busy… trying not to puke,” I muttered, barely getting the words out.
One final, brutal exchange.
I swung the mace with everything I had left.
He sidestepped it easily and drove the hilt of his sword into my upper arm, a sharp, vicious crack that sent white-hot pain lancing through me.
I hit the dirt hard.
The yard went quiet for a second.
Then the cheers and murmurs started up again.
Daemon stood over me for a moment longer, breathing hard, one hand pressed to the side where my earlier blow had landed.
Blood still trickled from his nostril.
He spat a mouthful of it into the dust, then tossed the sword aside like it disgusted him.
Without another word, he turned and walked away, still holding his ribs.
I stayed down, chest heaving, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Every part of me hurts.
And somebody please block this fiery ball of torture from my eyes.
Then a shadow fell across my face, blocking the sun.
…God?
Can you hear me?
Nah.
I looked up and a cascade of black hair framed a sharp face.
She seemed a few years older as she stood above me, a pale-haired toddler balanced on her hip.
The child cooed softly, tiny fingers tangled in her dress.
“Quite a fight, good brother,” she said, a small, amused smile playing on her lips.
“You nearly had the Rogue Prince.”
I let out a breathless, humorless laugh and slowly pushed myself up onto my elbows.
“I’m sure I would have been handed my guts in my arms if it had been a real fight, Lady Cassandra” I replied, wincing as I sat up fully.
“The Rogue Prince isn’t known for his mercy. But alas… it was not a fight.”
“Ma… ma,” the little boy mumbled, reaching toward his mother’s face with chubby fingers.
“Oh my, he speaks!” I exclaimed, jolting upright so fast that dust cascaded off my back.
I dropped to one knee to meet his pale-haired gaze at eye level.
Cassandra gave a polite, almost fond smile.
“You have a prodigy in your arms, good sister,” I said, gently poking the tip of his nose.
The boy broke into a wide smile and immediately hid his face against her shoulder.
“Where is my dear niece, Visenya?”
“With my lady-in-waiting. She managed to spoil her garments again,” Cassandra replied, rocking Orys lightly until the child let out a soft chuckle.
“I brought many gifts for my nephew and niece, some of them my own making. I’ll have them sent to their chambers.”
“That is very kind of you, good brother. I thank you.”
I brushed more dust from my clothes.
“What brings you to the yard this morning?”
“Word of your spar has already spread through the Red Keep,” she said with a small, knowing smile.
“Storm’s End was a solemn place, yet it still had its own quiet joys. The Red Keep… seems to thrive more on gossip than festivity. I simply wished to witness a proper bout. Alas, I only caught the end.”
“Do you practice yourself, my lady?”
Cassandra blinked, then followed my gesture toward the practice weapons resting nearby.
Her eyes widened slightly in understanding before she shook her head.
“Oh gods, no. My father would never have allowed such… fickle desires of mine to take root. But I am versed with a bow,” she added, her gaze turning distant for a moment, as if remembering something long buried.
“I truly hope you raise Visenya like her namesake,” I said.
“The Kingsguard would not exist without her, after all.”
“That remains in the hands of her father,” she answered, a quiet dismissal in her tone.
“What a pitiful sight, brother.”
Aegon’s voice cut through the moment.
He strode toward us, wineskin dangling from one hand, already wearing that familiar lazy smirk.
“Looks like our uncle kicked your arse.”
“Husband,” Cassandra said.
The word was polite, nothing more.
“Begone now, wife,” Aegon waved her off without looking.
“The yard is no place for a woman.”
Cassandra’s eyes narrowed.
She gave me a brief, silent nod, which I returned, then turned and walked away with quiet dignity, Orys still balanced on her hip.
The moment she was out of earshot, Aegon shoved the wineskin into my chest and threw an arm around my shoulders, pulling me down to his height.
“Has a fucking horseface, that one,” he whispered, then chuckled at his own joke, “but the ears of a shadowcat.”
I smiled thinly.
“That is your lady wife, brother. If she is horsefaced, and you are the one fucking her… what does that make you? A horse fucker?”
Aegon’s arm dropped.
He glared up at me, the height difference making the whole thing almost comical.
The glare held for a few seconds… then slowly melted into a crooked grin.
“Well,” he said, “the whores do say I’m hung like a steed.”
They’re whores, brother.
They’d say anything.
“Anyway,” he continued, already brightening, “how about we go visit a few of them now?”
My brother, everyone.
The man I was apparently supposed to fight a war to put on the throne.