Strong | Jacaerys Velaryon

03

" This is what you teach, Cole?  Cruelty... to the weaker opponent?"

" Your interest in the princeling's training is quite unusual, Commander.  Most men would only have that kind of devotion toward a cousin... or a brother... or a son."

The implication sends Harwin into a fit of rage, where he strikes Ser Criston on the cheek for daring to call Prince Jacaerys a bastard... and his own bastard, at that.

" Say it again!  Say it again!"

As the three knights hold back her father, little Annabelle runs forward into the training yard, where she uses not a wooden sword, but one made of steel that she points at Ser Criston.

" Is that meant to be a threat, my lady?" Ser Criston asks.

" Only if you're smart," Annabelle quips.

Ser Criston simply laughs off the little girl, thinking nothing of her, and that fuels her fire. Annabelle brings the sword to Criston's neck, as if to warn him, as if to provoke him.

" Lady Annabelle--" He starts.

" What, Ser Criston? Afraid you'll lose?" Annabelle quips as well.

Ser Criston's amusement fades, replaced by a cold, calculating look. He draws his own sword, the steel glinting in the sunlight as he faces her.

Annabelle's heart races as she steps back, her grip tightening on the hilt of her sword. She knows she is skilled, trained by her father, but Ser Criston is a seasoned knight, his skills honed through years of battle and experience.

They circle each other, their eyes locked in a silent challenge. Annabelle strikes first, her sword flashing through the air as she aims for Ser Criston's side. He parries the blow with ease, his movements fluid and precise as he counters with a strike of his own.

Annabelle barely manages to block his attack, the force of it sending a jolt through her arms. She grits her teeth, her determination unwavering as she presses forward, her attacks swift and relentless. She fights with everything she has, her every move a testament to her training and her will.

But Ser Criston is relentless, his skill and experience evident in every parry, every strike. He counters her attacks with ease, his movements a dance of deadly precision. Annabelle struggles to keep up, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she fights to hold her ground.

With a final, powerful strike, Ser Criston disarms her, sending her sword flying from her hand. He steps forward, his own sword pressed against her throat as he looks down at her, his eyes cold and unforgiving.

"Yield, my lady," He says, his voice low.

Annabelle's chest heaves with exertion, her heart pounding in her ears. She knows she is beaten, her skills no match for his experience and strength. But she refuses to show fear, refuses to give him the satisfaction of seeing her defeated.

"I yield," She says, her voice steady despite the defeat in her eyes.

Ser Criston lowers his sword, his expression unreadable as he steps back. The tension in the training yard is palpable, the knights watching in stunned silence as Annabelle retrieves her sword, her head held high despite her defeat.

Harwin, still restrained by the knights, watches his daughter with a mixture of pride and concern.

Annabelle walks over to her father, her steps steady despite the ache in her muscles. She stands before him, her eyes meeting his with a silent promise: she will not give up.

Beneath the ancient and gnarled Weirwood Tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, the late afternoon sun casts dappled shadows on the ground. The faces carved into the trunk seem to watch over the two children seated beneath it, their white bark stark against the red leaves. Annabelle and Jacaerys sit side by side, their backs resting against the thick trunk, the serene atmosphere of the Godswood providing a peaceful refuge from the bustle of the castle.