"Cerion, up here!" Ser Benedict's voice cut across the training yard.
Monty and Tyrion both clapped my shoulders as I stepped forward.
"You've got this," Tyrion whispered with a grin.
I exhaled slowly and picked up my sword.
Jaime waited for me in the center of the yard, lazily tapping the edge of his blade with a finger so that it chimed a faint metallic ping. The grin on his face was the same one I'd known since childhood—cocky, irritating, and entirely too confident.
Seven years older than me, broader in the shoulders, quicker in the hand—yet he still enjoyed taunting me as if he needed the advantage.
"Ready?" he asked, grin widening.
"I'd say the odds favour you already. Your face is so ghastly I can barely stand to look at it."
I shook my head and scoffed. Time apart and he was still as infuriating as ever.
When I didn't rise to the bait, Jaime straightened his posture and lifted his sword into a loose, comfortable guard. I mirrored him—my stance stiff and disciplined compared to his relaxed ease.
Ser Benedict stepped beside us, holding up a coin.
"Begin when the coin hits the ground."
The coin fell with a soft clink.
Neither of us moved.
We both knew Jaime could end this quickly if he wanted. But humiliating the young "heir of Casterly Rock" in front of the soldiers—and possibly Father watching from a window—was not on the day's schedule.
Eventually, Jaime initiated the fight, sweeping a diagonal cut toward me. I met it with steel.
Contrary to what tavern tales claimed, swords weren't heavy. My longsword—single-handed and a touch shorter than Jaime's bastard sword—moved quick enough. Instead of retreating to create space, I surged forward. Hesitation would only get me disarmed.
I pressed him with rapid slashes and stabs, mixing my rhythm so he couldn't predict the next angle. Jaime still parried each blow effortlessly, stepping backward, pivoting whenever he neared a wall or a bystander.
My only real hope was a risky one: seize the flat of his blade with my free hand and force his weapon aside long enough to put my point to his throat. A stupid tactic in a real duel—my hand would be severed—but here, the worst outcome was a sprained wrist.
Jaime raised his sword to block my overhead strike.
I lunged in, grabbed the flat of the blade, and shoved.
His sword tilted awkwardly in his grip—my blade almost reached his neck—when suddenly his hand clamped onto my sleeve. With a violent jerk, he yanked me forward and barreled his shoulder into my chest.
I hit the ground hard.
Gravel scraped across my cheek. Dust stung my eyes. But the pain sparked an idea. My fingers curled into the grit beside me, readying handfuls of stones—
I froze.
Cold steel touched the back of my neck.
His boot pinned my forearm before I could throw the gravel.
There was no escaping this one.
"I yield," I muttered.
Jaime lifted the blade and removed his foot. He grasped my wrist and hauled me back to my feet.
Leaning close, he spoke quietly so only I could hear:
"I saw what you were trying to do. It was clever—and one day it might save your life."
He paused, his tone shifting.
"But know when not to use it. Fighting dirty can be dishonourable. And honour… people expect it from a lord. It's a kind of trust—that you'll do what is right."
There was something distant in his eyes as he continued.
"But don't fool yourself into thinking honour is worth more than your life—or your family. One day you might have to break it for what you believe is right."
For a moment, Jaime looked far away from the training yard.
Then he clapped my shoulder, grin returning.
"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up. After that, show me these soldiers you've been drilling."
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