The Protector

Chapter 1

Authors note: I'm in the process of editing this story and so the chapter numbering may be slightly off as I chop and change things to make for a better read. Currently I am up to chapter 7 with the edit! :)

Update: thank you to those of you who have taken the time to give me some constructive feedback. I have really tried to take your comments on board to improve this chapter and subsequent chapters. Any more advice or thoughts are still very much appreciated.

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To hesitate is to die.

The first rule of combat.

I chant the tenet of combat to myself as I circle my opponent, giving myself precious time to gather my thoughts and alter my grip on my sword. Assessing my challenger the whole time, I watch the deep, rapid movement of his chest and the sheen of sweat coating his naked torso, the only betrayal of his fatigue. I may be almost half his size and not as strong, but my agility will allow me to win this.

I crouch and allow him to circle me as I watch for a weak spot.

Don't waste your energy.

The second rule of combat.

One breath, two, three; he is biding his time, time I can't let him have. When I spot the tell-tale sign, the tensing of his left arm, I don't hesitate. I dart to my right, slip under his attacking arm and come up behind him. My unexpected movement causes him to lose balance, and I help him over by kicking him to the floor in one fluid movement.

I swipe my sword around and press it to my challenger's throat, his neck stretching, an attempt to put some distance between himself and my blade.

Breathing heavily I wait a few breaths before addressing my opponent. Do you yield?' I ask, making sure the point of my sword is pressed firmly against his bare . I watch as his Adam's apple bobs as he probably considers how few options he has. After a few more seconds and a much harsher jab into his throat than in intended, he opens his mouth to speak.

'I yield,' he confirms.

I retract my sword and step back a pace, allowing him space to recover and stand .

'You're a force to be reckoned with, ma'am. Reckon I'd 'ave been dead had that been a proper fight. I thought the rumours were just that, rumours. Ye have a talent, I'll give ye that!' he says, and hands his wooden sparing sword to one of the boys on hand. I just drop mine beside me, crouching and placing my hands into the sand, using the grains to draw away the stickiness of my palms and wiping them clean on my breeches.

'Thank you.' I smile, unsure how to take the complement. It was rare, most men just huffed, preferring to pretend the whole encounter never existed. 'You're a good competitor.'

'I would 'ope so. I'm to take the place of maester at arms 'ere. Me? Were shocked to 'ear. Maester to the 'ouse of Artt! Best learn to speak proper now.'

I smile at him as he rambles on about how proud he is to serve my father and the realm, all too aware I can't just walk away. We haven't finished our sparring. Protocols, as per tradition, still need to be performed. Thankfully, his continuous chat is interrupted by a young maid inching into the training arena, a nervous look on her slim face. I watch as she lifts her skirts, exposing her ankles before approaching me at a fast paced walk. She bobs a quick curtsy before addressing me. I smile at her timing, glad to have an excuse to finish up quickly. As much as I loved sparring, I disliked the conversation that came with it. They were always surprised that I could best them or not convinced that I had won fairly, wanted to know how I had cheated. I enjoyed the challenge though and the practise was always welcome. The larger to opponent the better.