Clouds pressed low over Braavos — another gray morning in the city where sunlight never lasted.
In the courtyard of the Red Door House, Viserys Targaryen, silver hair damp with sweat, gripped a blunted steel sword. His breath steamed in the chill air.
Before him stood Ser Roland Lych, broader and older, his chainmail hidden beneath a surcoat stitched with twin black hammers. He carried a practice spear.
Around them watched Syrio Forel, Moro, and a few house retainers, arms folded. This was no graceful water dance today — but the harsh, pounding rhythm of knights at war.
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"Your Grace," Roland said evenly. "This is knight's training in simpler form — sword, shield, spear work, and archery. Basic but vital."
"Then let's begin." Viserys nodded.
He needed no ceremony. Training masters were made for function, not pageantry. A great knight was built one bruise at a time.
Robert and Eddard had learned together once at the Eyrie, molded by years of work. But Eddard, though disciplined, had never been more than good. True knighthood demanded years of specialization — and a body willing to break and rebuild itself.
A warrior's education covered more than the sword: hunting, hawking, riding, command. Here in Braavos, they had no horses, no tourneys — only iron and will.
"Strength, endurance, speed — that is a knight's trinity," Ser Roland declared as the bout began. "Victory belongs to the steel that doesn't bend and the mind that never tires."
He thrust hard. The young prince met him with sword and shield, the impact shocking through his bones. No elegant footwork now — only steel, sweat, and grinding weight.
The water dancer fought by grace; the knight by attrition. Unarmored, Syrio's style was about precision and flow, each motion as clean as a wave. But armored warriors fought within their own thunder — their power forged in endurance, their movements heavy and costly.
Viserys swung his practice blade; the blows rang against Roland's spear, against his shield, the sound a storm of iron.
Roland pressed him hard. His reach was longer; his blows came from unexpected angles. Each flick of the spear stabbed at Viserys's armor like a snake strike.
The boy took his hits, gritting his teeth. He counted them under his breath: every impact a lesson, every pain a teacher. When the ratio of strikes taken to strikes returned shrunk, he knew he had grown stronger.
Sweat ran, hands numb. He blocked, sidestepped, spun. "Faster. Faster!" Syrio shouted. "Even in armor, you must dance."
Viserys retreated two steps, light as wind. Roland lunged, the spearhead whistling past his cheek. Viserys felt its motion before he saw it — his training in insight tingling through every sense.
"Perception," he murmured — The Way of Insight.
Feel with all five senses: eyes for movement, skin for pressure, ears for air, nostrils for sweat, tongue for fear.
Roland's next lunge was a feint — Viserys read it and moved the opposite way, blade ready.
"Not only insight," he thought, matching stroke for stroke. Balance. His greatest weapon was equilibrium — every stat synced, no weakness to exploit. He would out-speed knights and out-muscle dancers.
He fell into rhythm — deflect, wait, lure. Roland's attacks grew slower, the spear dragging with weight. Then Viserys struck: a rush forward, a shield-bash, a crash of metal.
Roland stumbled. Viserys caught him mid-motion and drove him back. The dull iron howled.
With a final swing he brought the flat of his sword down on the knight's chest. The older man grunted and fell to one knee, helmet skidding aside. He ripped it off, ears ringing, but he laughed.
"The Warrior bless you," Roland said hoarsely. "Remind me next time to yield early."
Viserys offered a hand and helped him up. The gesture was princely without arrogance — the mark of someone learning leadership through blows.
"Beautifully done," Roland said at last, collapsing onto a bench. "With those arms, I'd not have guessed you could hit like that. The gods gave you both speed and endurance. Never waste either."
"The battle goes to the one who endures," he continued. "Economy and patience. Make your enemy tire. Lure him. Outlast him. You'll be underestimated — too handsome, too young. Let them learn the cost."
"A beautiful dance," Syrio said softly. "A storm of steel. But tomorrow we push faster."
Viserys nodded, dropping shield and blunt sword to the stones. His arms throbbed with pain and satisfaction.
Swift as water, the Braavosi said. Unbreaking as iron, the knights believed.
"Do not think," Syrio told him quietly. "Observe. Your eyes will find answers before your mind asks them."
"I am the sum of my senses," Viserys replied. "My eyes. My nose. My tongue. My skin. My ears."
"Yes," Syrio said. "The sword is your body's extension. Let each sense see what the others cannot."
Roland spoke next, still catching breath. "You have the talent, Your Grace. Now add humility to strength. That is also knighthood."
He leaned forward. "I've seen champions fall to fools. Every man has limits. The trick is learning yours before they find them."
Viserys smiled thinly. "Then I shall simply surpass mine."
He flexed his aching hands, feeling the bruises turn to purpose. To go beyond limit was to forge legend. To forge legend — to become more than man.
And so the prince stood beneath gray clouds and vowed quietly what the others could not hear:
This is the Knight's Road — and mine will end in flame and steel.
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