𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐄 ~ aemond targaryen (discontinued)

10 ~ Princeling ~ 10

Once realising where I planned to visit next, Helaena retired from our walk to attend her two baby twins, telling me it was time for their feed but inviting me to come visit the little prince and princess soon. It was still jarring that my sister was now a mother and I was an Aunt to children she and Aegon produced.

It made me realise that only two of the five children of the king (if I could even consider myself as such) were without any heirs. The youngest two. The prince and I.

Dread curdled my insides as I realised I would soon need to face the man down and see him again.

It had been six entire years since I had seen the youngest prince. Six years since I had spoken to him last, and I couldn't forget how unpleasant our final exchange was, trapped on that torturous journey back from Driftmark.

There had been two life changing moments which occurred on that cursed ship. Rhaenyra's invitation to runaway to Dragonstone and start anew, the more pleasant of the two. And Aemond proving himself a nasty scoundrel who thought himself above everything else but the throne.

I forced away the building dismay of having to see him again and prayed instead I would perhaps miss him completely before I needing to leave again and return to my duties. There was also the slim but possible chance he was not at the Keep at all, attending to some other, princely business far from King's Landing; it was a small but bright hope.

For now, the Prince Aemond, my previous best friend, was out of sight and out of mind.

The training yard was smaller than I remembered. Busier now too.

The zing and clash of steel awoke a familiar yet unquenchable thrill inside me. It was perhaps a little barbaric to find violence exciting, but that was simply who I was. Combat and the art of the sword and shield; it was weaved into the very fabric of my being. I would forfeit brandishing a sewing needle or milk bottle over a sword even if I faced the possibility of execution for it. If I could not live, was I truly alive anyways?

The training yard was bustling with guards and soldiers sparring and crashing fists. Utter bliss. A shame I couldn't enjoy it as freely as they were allowed.

Swiping a battered yet sturdy, silver helm from one of the straw dummies, I slipped it over my head. It was a little big and roomy, swivelling as I turned but I didn't need it to protect my head. Only to mask my face.

I stepped through the courtyard of dueling men, sliding back as a blade came barreling down, all too close to chopping off my foot.

"Watch it, boy!" The guardsman hollered.

I grinned.

For the very first time, I could walk freely through the training yard without fear of being dragged away to embroider beside Helaena or pratice my posture by balancing books on my head- though that little skill had proven useful at times, especially during my days of sparring with Daemon. Posture and balance were both a vital essence of swordplay. A talent most of these brutes could learn a little about. Or a lot, I decided as I watched a stocky man swing too hard and fall over from the sheer force of his strength.

Posture and form kept movements fluid and attacks flexible. Whilst stuck in the tension of battle, life-threatening decisions were owed in the blink of mere seconds, advances being destroyed by an unpredictable stake calling for a swift parry to avoid death. By knowing how to hold and model and shift the vessel that carried the sword, the consideration of what a weapon was would not be merely limit to the pitiful shaft of silver, but the entire machine that swings the silver itself. Here, the men trained their swords rather than themselves, delegating all of their trust to a hunk of sharpened metal, without any wits of its own. To achieve true victory in combat, complete trust must be placed in oneself. The blade was simply an ornament of the true threat that wielded it.