✓ | POOR JUDGMENT (A.FORRESTER)

Train Me. Chapter Twenty Eight.

Amya was only a few inches taller than Cynthia, with a shaved head, sharp facial features, and not a great deal stronger. She is a good fighter though, with a spear - Cynthia observed - she is unbeatable. The sellswords had arranged a small ring in the center of the deck where they would have small challenges, not to cause too much harm to one another, just to amuse themselves over the weeks they'd be at see. Cynthia often found herself watching these fights, as for her it as was an equally entertaining way to pass the time, only she didn't have to have her ass handed to her in front of a bunch of great fighters; who'd been trained since birth. Amya had often taken part in some of these fights, eager to please her men and show off in front of the small crowd formulating on the boat. She was the best to watch, in Cynthia's opinion, the Glover girl had been trained in many weapons but a spear was never one she'd experimented with - and watching Amya and her skill with said weapon made her wish she had.

When dawn arose on the first day of the second week, the sky turned Crimson at the first light of sun, which smeared the night's clouds Amber and overcast the previously indigo sky - leaving a golden, early morning glow to fall unto the deserted deck of the boat; on which they were still doomed to spend another week. All the Sellswords, even Asher and Beskha, still slept below, as dawn broke out and the day began; however, for whatever random reason it had been, Cynthia was awake as soon as the sun was, and decided, rather than coop up in the lower levels of the boat, she would venture up to stare off into the distance before company came and more entertaining things occupied her mind for the rest of the day. She had some books that Daenerys had given to her to keep her, somewhat, enthralled for the journey, but being the quick reader that she was meant Cynthia'd read all 5 books twice already and would rather swim home than read them again. They weren't exactly fantasy novels, either. So, being the imaginative person that she'd acknowledge herself to be, Cynthia thought watching the waves writhe beneath the boat for hours would be more entertaining than watching the Sellswords snore and rock in their hammocks, and staring at Asher until he awoke to keep her amused for a while.

However, whatever weird plan she'd formulated, to complete once above deck, disappeared when it came to light she would not be spending the morning alone. Up and training, weaving about with her trusted, wooden weapon, kart-wheeling and performing acrobatics around her spear, was Amya - already awake and giving her fighting practice her all at the break of day. She hadn't heard or noticed Cynthia arising from the hatch that lead below, nor did she appear overly bothered about checking for any present company, instead Amya seemed to be completely and utterly focused and trained upon her actions as she went about fulfilling them easily, with ease it seemed. How envious Cynthia was, at her skills with such a marvellous weapon, she could only dream of ever being so good; yet, if it came to long range or even sword fighting, Cynthia was sure it would be more of an even fight, though was not so confident about putting that theory to the test.

"Can you fight, girl?" The Sellsword sneered absentmindedly, clearly having been paying enough attention to, despite Cynthia's previous assumption, notice the Glover girl's arrival. "Not like you." Cynthia was quick to reply, crossing her legs in front of her as she perched atop a nearby crate, still observing Amya whirl around in a blinding flash of fury and untold power, which Cynthia would not like to be the one receiving in a fight. It was at the girl's words that Amya stopped, gently gliding down from her previously hoisted position, and holding her spear casually across her arm, before fixating her dark eyes on the young girl before her. In the tangerine light of early morning, Amya looked younger, less hardened and more youthful - had there not been a lethal weapon in her hand, Cynthia was sure she'd almost look like any other girl their age, simply without any hair. "You mean like a pit fighter?" Amya smirked, going about performing some smaller tricks, despite her new company. "It appears you fight differently in Essos - all I had to do is look at Asher to know that, but you, you all fight like--" "Animals?" Amya chuckled, once again twirling on her pike to look at the girl with an odd, distorting smile. "We weren't trained like you, Westerosi. We had no practice swords, or lessons, we learnt to fight off instinct, for survival more than entertainment." "Pit fighting was entertainment - just not for you." Cynthia said bravely, not knowing how far she was able to push Amya before she started to push back - with her spear. "People die jousting, people die duelling, people die pit fighting; it's all the same, only we do it by choice. And with a certain level of formality." Cynthia shrugged, hugging her legs up to her to protect herself from the unpredicted sea breeze that swept across the deck. Amya seemed, oddly, amused at Cynthia's comments, still smiling and not at all offended by what could have been taken as insults. "You have spirit, girl. I like that." Amya beamed, almost, looking at Cynthia with what could've been mistaken for pride. "Come, Westerosi, let me show you how to fight like a pit fighter."