Bonus - 100 stones
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The sunlight was thin over the yard of the Red Keep.
Two figures stood not far apart, arms folded at the edge of the training ground, eyes fixed on the lone swordsman drilling at its center.
They had arrived late, yet their bearing was impeccable, arrogant, even.
Training beside Aemond was Garth Lannister, who had been there since dawn.
The thirteen-year-old Westerman had the Lannister trademark, bright gold hair and emerald eyes, his looks almost pretty.
He was the youngest son of Lord Jason Lannister and had once been a page to Prince Aegon.
But the day after the King commanded all those pages to serve Prince Aemond, Garth had been waiting beneath Maegor's Holdfast for the summons.
Now, seeing those two tardy comrades, he curved a faint smile and stepped forward.
"Your Highness," Garth said with perfect courtesy.
"It seems those two have finally recovered."
Aemond had just finished a set of thrusts; the tip of his blade hung in the air before he slowly lowered it.
He turned his head, gaze sweeping calmly over the pair at the edge.
He had never demanded anyone attend him; come or stay away, it was all the same.
Today, they had finally come. More than twenty days had passed since the order was given.
On the left stood Alec Hightower, fourteen, the youngest son of the Lord of Oldtown.
He bore the family's deep-brown hair, thin but wiry, and the arms-folded stance of a boy raised on Hightower pride.
He had been Prince Aegon's closest, most useful page, sharing wine, women, and mischief through the alleys of King's Landing.
Now, meeting Aemond's gaze, he showed no expression, only his chin lifted a fraction.
'He was to attend this brooding second son?'
To him, it felt like exile.
Worse, the Prince he had served was stuck on Driftmark because of the very man before him.
Beside Alec stood Elrin Haigh, thirteen, the eldest son of House Haigh of the Crownlands.
Like Alec, he had run with Aegon's circle, though his talent lay in smoothing over the Prince's wilder pranks; he was clever and quick-handed.
They had begged off for half a month, colds, urgent family business, until they could delay no more.
As pages sent to court to serve the Crown, further refusal risked royal displeasure, and that never ended well.
Aemond cared nothing for their excuses.
His elder brother's taste for pleasure had been nursed by fawning pages just like these.
As for Garth Lannister, at least the boy knew his place.
Alec and Elrin studied Aemond Targaryen in the center of the yard.
The Prince wore only a plain black shirt under light mail, repeating the simplest cuts, vertical, horizontal, thrust.
Steady rhythm, even breath, no wasted force. Monotonous.
Alec gave an almost soundless snort.
He murmured, "This level? And we're to drill with him?"
Elrin answered with his smooth smile.
"Alec, I'd be careful. A Prince is still a Prince."
Aemond finished the last thrust, brought the wooden blade in a clean arc to his side, and turned to them.
"Your Highness," Alec and Elrin murmured, bowing just enough for courtesy.
Aemond's eyes swept over them; he asked nothing about the twenty-day delay, and he did not care.
"Take swords," he said.
"Show me what you can do."
The two exchanged a startled glance.
'So soon?'
When they hesitated, Aemond said coolly, "If you can't hold a blade, it matters not."
He glanced at Garth, who stood with lowered eyes.
"Garth, find me two other pages. The kind who'll swing a sword."
The words were spoken lightly, not a threat, a simple statement: fail, and be replaced.
Alec's jaw tightened; Elrin's smile vanished.
They might resent him, but to be sent home for shirking would shame their Houses and make them laughingstocks.
Alec moved first, striding to the rack in ill temper and choosing the heavy two-handed practice sword he favored.
Elrin followed, selecting a lighter, quicker blade.
They walked onto the ground, halted some twenty paces from Aemond, and traded a look. Annoyed at being forced, yet itching to test this Prince who so easily dismissed them.
"Come," Aemond said, his feet and hands settling into a solid guard.
"Use whatever you think will beat me. Win, and I'll not meddle in anything you do."
Garth folded his arms, clearly enjoying the spectacle.
After sparring with him these past days, he knew too well how gifted the Prince was; years ago, he had already begun training under Ser Criston Cole, twice champion of tourneys and a Kingsguard.
Alec's lips curled into a cold smile. The open challenge stung the pride of House Hightower.
Without hesitation, he barked a low cry, stepped forward, and swept his wooden greatsword through the air, aiming straight for Aemond's left shoulder.
It was textbook aggression, powerful, fast, and fueled by anger.
The instant he moved, Elrin moved too. Instead of a head-on assault like Alec, he glided lightly toward Aemond's flank, cutting off any escape route.
Though both were angry, long hours together had bred instinct; in a heartbeat, they formed a perfect pincer.
They meant to teach this haughty Prince a lesson, to show him pages were not servants to be ordered about.
Against their combined attack, Aemond's choice shocked everyone.
He did not retreat or parry; he stepped half a pace toward Alec.
As the great wooden blade thundered down, Aemond twisted a hair's breadth to the right.
Alec's full-force edge whistled past his chest, stirring his jerkin.
Aemond's sword moved.
Not a cut, not a block, precise, swift, silent, the point whipped in and struck the inside of Alec's exposed wrist.
Crack!
A sharp sound and a startled cry. Fingers went numb; the heavy practice sword nearly flew from his grip, the fierce attack collapsing instantly.
At the same instant, Elrin, seeing the opening, lunged faster, aiming for Aemond's ribs left bare by the maneuver.
Aemond might have had eyes in the back of his head.
His blade barely shifted; a flick of the wrist caught the strike from behind.
Clack!
Another sharp clash, Elrin's thrust was stopped cold.
Already, Aemond's sword had slipped from Alec's wrist; it swept back to meet the momentarily checked Elrin.
Elrin's heart jumped, and he stepped back, trying to reset.
But as he looked up, Aemond's face was inches away.
Aemond's right foot hooked lightly behind Elrin's leading ankle, his left shoulder nudged forward.
Small motions, perfect leverage.
"Ah!"
With a yelp, Elrin lost balance and thumped onto the cold, damp sand, dust billowing over him in disgrace.
From start to finish, only a few breaths had passed.
Alec stood frozen, clutching his throbbing wrist, disbelief on his face.
He knew Aemond had trained with Ser Criston since childhood, but the Prince had always seemed merely quiet in practice.
When had he become so ruthlessly efficient, as sharp as true battle?
Elrin sat in the dirt, forgetting to rise; his usual slick smile was gone, replaced by shock.
He excelled at courtly maneuvering, at smoothing trouble, not at steel on steel.
Aemond's cold, economical moves had shattered every scrap of contempt.
When it was over, Aemond casually handed his practice sword to Garth.
His gaze returned to the two boys.
"Is this what you spent twenty days preparing to show me?"
He paused, looking from Alec's stricken face to Elrin's dust-covered tunic.
"Or is this the pretty fluff you learned while serving my brother, good only for being knocked down?"
Alec's face flushed scarlet; shame burned in his ears. He opened his mouth to retort, but no words could stand against such a clean defeat.
Elrin scrambled up, brushing frantically at his clothes, eyes lowered.
In Westeros nobility, the yard is the measure of a man. Skill is skill; failure is failure.
Both lowered their heads.
"I won't make it hard for you," Aemond said again.
"Stay, and train with me by the rules. If you feel wronged, turn and leave, go home."
He stepped closer, studying their tight lips and clenched fists.
"If you're not convinced, that's fine. I'll keep at it until you are."
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